Abandoned

.

"…Why, oh why, my God above
have you abandoned me
in my sobriety?
Behind the old façade
I'm your bewildered child,
so take me cross the river wide…"

- "Abandoned" - Kamelot

.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Despite what anyone would say - and he knew they'd have a mouthful - Light Yagami never intended for things to go this far: his loved ones lost, his friends as foes, and five bullet holes in his hand and shoulder.

The harbour that stretched to the pastel sunset around him was silent. It was as though the world as a whole were watching him, holding its breath as they awaited the conclusion to this, the final act of the play. And truth be told that's what his life had become; a play, a soap opera, full of carefully constructed masks and intricately woven lies. A game of cat and mouse.

But it was over. He knew that much. Every step had been carefully placed, so as to remain precariously perched atop a tightrope, but he could no longer fight against something with no body, against something that could not, would not, die, no matter how many times his name was written within that poisoned book.

He had become too confident, too sure that the other side of the gap which he was walking across, the gap that led to peace, was within his grasp. He'd hurried, excited by the world in which, by his hand, awaited him. But haste made waste, as the old saying goes, for in his overconfidence, he'd stumbled, and the cautiously spun web of lies and thoroughly constructed plans shattered like a glass upon the concrete. He had lost.

The back road he was running across seemed to warp and twist as though he were on a severe high, but he knew that was merely an optical illusion created by the river of sticky red flowing from the right side of his body. Damn him, that thick-skulled man who brought disgrace to the name of Japanese police. Never once had he shown an inkling of bravery until today. No, rather, his actions mere moments ago in the warehouse had not been out of valour, but out of cowardice and rage. Funny how heightened emotions could influence the precision of a gunshot.

He knew his attempts at escape were futile. In his state, it was only a matter of time before his body became too weak to continue, and with every step across the hard concrete, he felt that fatigue settle in. But he had come so far, eluded every police force in the world, for years; he could not wither away in prison now, awaiting his execution like a common criminal. And so, when Mikami had created a grand spectacle of crimson as he turned an ordinary fountain pen into a weapon by driving it into his own heart, Light bolted through the window of opportunity that had so briefly formed, knowing full well that within moments the police would be dispatched to retrieve him.

His name and his face were known now: Kira was dead and only Light Yagami remained. Even as he ran, Light shook his head. To the police, to Aizawa and Near and Matsuda, there was no Kira, and never was. All there was was a sadistic little boy who'd used the world as his playthings, whose lips sprouted nothing but lies and stories. Even if he spoke truth now, admitted that what he had done was wrong, but for the right reasons - an end-justifies-the-means kind of situation - who would believe him?

So, gathering what little sanity he'd retained throughout this, with one hand upon his shoulder in an attempt to stop the bleeding, Light ran. He ran until he no longer knew where he was, nor where he was going. He ran until his knees ached and his lungs burned, and suddenly, through the rays of setting sunlight, the road which had, only moment ago, been deserted to all but he, was no longer so.

Just up ahead, where the twilight and shadows mixed to form a sort of hazy, iron gray, the colour the sky took on just before a storm, a young boy, no older than seventeen or so, appeared. His hair neatly combed and a book bag draped across his shoulder, he looked as though he were just returning from class. But there was no school around here, no clinic or educational facility of any kind.

Light attempted to shout to the boy, ask him for help - he would make an excuse for his injuries later - before it became apparent that there was no need. Even should he have the strength to so much as whisper, the boy would never hear him. He would not see him as he ran by - though it had nothing to do with the fact that his face was buried in a leather-bound book. The boy himself was instead an apparition, a trick of the evening light combined with Light's own guilt, both that of his actions and of getting caught, for to blurring eyes, the book appeared familiar, and not a moment later, he knew. The boy was him, or, who he had once been; a memory from long ago of someone with a noble heart, who was unsatisfied - and perhaps a little bored - with a world in which the righteous suffered and sinners lay in wealth and power, a world where to be alone was fearful and unimaginable crimes were dealt with with a slap on the wrist and a few years in a prison to which their every need was met.

The Light of the past, walked on by without so much as a glance upwards, fading away into the shadows he had sprung from, for when the Light of the present glanced back, he was gone, and only a cold, barren road lay behind him, a splatter of blood here and there in the dust to say that anyone had come this way at all.

The police were wrong; it was not Kira who had never been, but perhaps, it was the other way. Light Yagami's life ended the afternoon he picked up the Death Note. Surely a boy such as he, who strived for top marks and justice would never have spilt the blood of innocents, even to hide his own trail. Light Yagami would have wept for the father who taught him what goodness was, for the sister who admired him, and for the mother who wished only happiness for him. Light Yagami would have cherished the girl who, though silly, and certainly not his type, loved him so dearly, and the woman who saw him for what he was and threw her life, her safety and freedom, away for him. Light Yagami would have embraced a friend who had no others, rather than dancing upon his grave.

He wasn't exactly sure how he arrived inside the warehouse that smelt of salt, filled with cardboard boxes of unused machinery and rusty hooks and wires dangling from the ceiling. It was quite likely he'd lost all ability to think rationally now; his sanity had deserted him long ago, it was only logical that soon the rest of his mind would follow suit. Whatever the case, he succumbed to the agony that tore his muscles apart and sat down on a set of aluminium steps. Just for a moment, he told himself, fighting the urge to vomit. He would sit for a moment and catch his breath and then he would continue on before the police closed in.

But even as his brain told his body to rise again, it did not. He'd lost the will to fight any longer, and knew that this warehouse would be his tomb. Sunlight filtered in through the windows above, likely broken by naughty little children looking for some fun, and illuminated the floating dust particles like diamonds. It was beautiful, in a nostalgic sense.

Suddenly, the simple act of breathing, though laborious before, had become nearly impossible. It felt as though a giant beast were seated upon his chest, and his heart within that beast's hand. His arms grew numb as if from cold, and his mind raced with a thousand possibilities as to the cause of his attack until all fell away to make room for a memory, a pact made so very long ago.

"When you die I'll be the one writing your name in my notebook."

So, Ryuk was serious; he'd been seated in the front row of this play the whole way, and now the play was over. Time to get that which he was entitled - the remaining years of Light's life, had he not taken such a gamble and just left the Death Note be - and go home like all the other spectators.

Just as Mikami had looked to him as a god, Light looked to his own God - was it not said that He was in Heaven above? - and closed his eyes. Why, he wondered, have you abandoned me, God? I was only doing what you would have done; creating a world where the good have nothing to fear, an Eden from this Hell.

But though his intentions were noble, inspirational even, his eyes had long since lost sight of that. He had transformed into a Devil, created a Hell of his own, and now Heaven's doors were closed to him. He knew not of where he would go, but he knew that he would more so choose to burn in the pits of Hell, if only to feel something, to know that he was still human enough to be damned.

The warehouse was growing black and his heart had begun to slow. He would never have guessed that this was how he was to die. So very alone, and without anyone to mourn his passing. Likely they would cheer, for Kira was gone and the magic that had given him such power would be destroyed. The world would wither away to the chaos it had been, the name of Kira a mere legend lost in time.

Where would he go now? Would he go mad and become a wandering spirit? Would he feel nothing at all and remain in eternal darkness? The time was approaching and for the first time in his life, Light Yagami was afraid.

Perhaps it was his imagination, the last of his consciousness fooling him once again, but suddenly, the light above intensified, which was strange since all else had gone so dark. Rolling in their sockets, Light's eyes attempted valiantly to focus on the light, watching as it flickered and deepened to a royal blue and pure white, a pair of denim jeans and t-shirt. Even in such a dirty place, pools of moisture coagulating on the cement floor littered with scuff marks, dust and rat dropping, the figure's feet were characteristically bare, and his back was hunched in a lazy sort of fashion, ignorant to the damage it could be doing to his spinal cord.

Surely it could not be him; of all people, he would be one to celebrate this moment most. Perhaps this was his way of gloating, of proving that even in death, it was he who would succeed, that it was he who was true justice.

But he did not gloat. He did not snicker or beam in that idiotic way he had when he'd stolen Misa's cell phone, expecting Light to call it once their first meeting had concluded. His face, half hidden behind thick, black bangs, expressionless eyes surrounded by permanent bags, was of sobriety, perhaps even sorrow.

Things change, people change, and while the goal remained the same - that being to stop the needless slaughter of criminals, though deserve it, many did - it had never been his intention for it to end this way. To execute Light, as villainous as he had become but in truth a victim in his own right, would have made them, the police, no different than Kira. His threat had been but a bluff, the gentle hand to coax a trembling animal from its cage, or smoke a monster from its den.

Or, it could very well have originally been spoken with the utmost degree of sincerity. Even L himself knew not of his own intentions. However, whatever his initial desires had been, they had somewhere along the crumbling road changed. Light was his friend, though in name only, and even if that friendship had been built on lies and secret hopes that the other would fall, he had come to love him in a way. No longer an orphan living in solitude, here was a boy, not yet a man at that point, who thought and felt as L did, be it on the other side of the spectrum. Opposites attract, was it? He no longer denied that.

But love or not, neither of them had ended up the way they thought, nor hoped. Two lives cut short, made old before their time. Two men, heroes in their own way, crippled by their own undoing, their own confidence. Could then they not, who fought together, against each other, pass on with one another?

Confused and frightened, Light stared at the hand before him, the soft fingers that held little else than sugary sweets, before exhaling for the final time, a trace of a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. When Aizawa and the others arrived, they'd find nothing more than the bloody, beaten body of a god turned man, whose mortal soul had already departed to a world full of the same light as he.

.

Disclaimer: Light and L are property of Tsugumi Ohba.