Was it a terrible thing for Homura to admit, even now, that she had waited for this moment since they had last said their goodbyes? How many times had she dreamed of seeing Madoka again, only to be reminded when the morning sun rose that it wouldn’t happen?

It had been hard, so hard to live in a world where no one knew of Madoka. They didn’t remember her cheerful smile, her sweet words, her gentle touch. It was like living in a world where the sun rose every morning, but Homura could never feel the sunshine on her skin or the warmth of its caress.

Is it even possible to really live without those things?

Unfortunately, Homura knew it was possible—she had lived it, day in and day out, for long enough that part of her sometimes would wake and question whether or not Madoka had just been a wild dream, an exquisitely painful dream of something that never was and never would be.

But she remembered the promise, the promise to protect a world that hadn’t ever deserved it. She had fought with everything in her, taught other magical girls to do the same, and in the end, she was taken down not by the wraiths that now inhabited the planet, but instead by disease.

It was almost funny, in some sort of sick and twisted way. She had survived a thousand-thousand timelines, survived through the death and misery of the witches, only to be attacked by her own body.

She had grown weak and feeble, lost all of her energy and the drive to live. Her hair had begun to fall out, and so the doctors had allowed her to wrap the ribbon, her ribbon, around her wrist. It had worked until her wrist had become bony, until the soft fabric began to bite into too-tender flesh.

All of the battles, all of the fighting, all of the loss, and this was how she would go. Not in a bang, but a whimper.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

Homura knew that she couldn’t save Madoka. Even if she wanted to, even if she tried, there was nothing that could happen, nothing that would change the fact that Madoka was gone and with her…

A little part of Homura died, too.

A little part of Homura died every day that Madoka was gone, every day that she didn’t see Madoka’s smile, hear Madoka’s voice or feel her touch, every day that she lived and Madoka…

Madoka didn’t.

It hurt. Every morning hurt, every night hurt, and near the end, every breath was labored and pained.

But there was always a little piece of Madoka inside of Homura, urging her on, telling her not to give up. It wasn’t her time, she wasn’t ready, until…

Until it was.

It hurt because of course it did, but death was a soothing balm to an aching, stinging wound. It felt almost ridiculous, Homura knew, but the absence of pain was better than any pleasure.

It felt…

“Homura, you were so brave.”

Homura opened her eyes (did she even have eyes?) and the world was different. It reminded her of all those days and nights of fighting against the witches, all of the worlds she had seen and yet never kept.

It was a field of flowers.

And Madoka…

Madoka was beautiful.

“Come here. Sit.” Madoka raised her hand out from where she sat, the lilies and daisies radiating from around her. She tilted her head to the side, just ever so slightly, and Homura knew that soft, sweet smile. She knew that voice.

Homura reached out, the distance between them closing, as if by magic. She looked down at her hand, expecting the wires and the tubes, but they were gone.

In this bright world, where the sky was so blue and the ground was lush and soft under her toes, there wasn’t any need for them. Not anymore.

“Ma—”

“You kept your promise. You did everything you could to protect everyone.” Madoka’s voice was soft like spring rain. “You didn’t forget me, either.”

“But… I couldn’t save you.”

Madoka shook her head, her pale pink hair falling around her ears. Without her ribbons, she looked…

“You weren’t supposed to save me, silly. Don’t blame yourself for that.” She looked away, out into the wide vastness of the fields of flowers and the ocean of sky above. “I only wish you had more time.”

But…

“I didn’t want it.” It felt like such a horrible thing to admit, and her voice broke at the admission. It had been a secret held inside her, hidden from others. She had wanted to die, wanted to give up.

“But you didn’t give up,” Madoka whispered. “Even when it hurt, you kept going. I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from the pain, but I promise I was there.” Madoka lowered her hand to the flowers next to her. “I never left your side. Not even once.”

Homura slipped to her knees, a sob making its way up her throat. “Madoka… I was so scared.”

“Shhh. I know you were.” Madoka pulled one of the lilies from the ground before turning toward Homura, slipping it behind her ear. “But you were strong. You’ve always been strong. That’s why you’re here.”

“What is here?” Homura asked as she leaned into Madoka’s touch. It felt… real.

“A place where we’ll be safe.” There was something wistful about Madoka’s voice, and her hand cupped Homura’s cheek just as she always had. Time may have passed, but they were the same. Madoka was always the same.

“You won’t ever leave me again?”

If Homura’s voice trembled, Madoka didn't let on.

“Never again. I promise.” Her smile was so earnest that Homura knew it couldn’t be a lie.

Homura reached up to the bow wrapped around her wrist, the one that she had clung to in those last days, pulling at the ends. They came undone in her hands.

“Oh, you don’t have to give them back—” Madoka began, but Homura shook her head.

“Just… watch.”

Homura twined her hand with Madoka’s, wrapping the ribbon around their wrists.

“So we don’t lose each other again,” Homura said after a moment of silence. “We’ll always be together. Promise.”

Madoka's smile widened. “Of course. Promise.”







