Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater, as Atsushi Ōkubo is the rightful creator and owner.

A/N: Finally back with some Soul Eater! And let me start of by saying that this is completely different than my other two stories. First of all, it's manga based, and it's going to be a lot darker than anything I've done to date, I do believe. Now, I don't really read the manga, but I follow along with the scans, and when I saw the latest chapter (110 at the time I wrote this), it just called to me; I have no idea how the mangaka is going to continue with the story, but this idea just came to me as a possible outcome. This is the first chapter of a two-part story, and I'll try to begin working on the next one ASAP.

The title for this story comes from John Donne's poem "Death Be Not Proud", as do the chapter titles.

***Re-updated as of 6/28/14***

StarKatt427

For Maka, the pain didn't register at first.

Since becoming a Meister for the Academy, she had partaken in many fights, faced numerous opponents and demented souls, and had received injuries that left her body riddled with scars, reminders of the battles she'd participated in, badges of honor that told the world she had survived. She'd felt the pain of a twisted ankle, the sharp snap and ache of a broken bone, the burning slice of a chainsaw and countless other weapons tearing into her flesh. Yet in the few years she had become accustomed to combat and the wounds that came along with it, Maka had never felt true shock; not surprise, but the pure lack of awareness, of not being able to feel anything whatsoever.

Until now.

It was as if her soul had been sheared from her body, like time had stopped and she had fallen away from her center, lost outside herself. There was a lack of control, of not being able to move her limbs like she wanted, which sent a stultified spike of fear to her addled mind as she tried to grasp at what had happened, what was happening then, in that moment, but there was nothing she could latch onto. Nothing except the fact that something was wrong.

And then Maka's vision, blurred into an amalgamation of vibrant color and black and white light, cleared long enough for her to snap back to herself.

Asura stared directly into her, his three-eyed gaze maddened and emanating satisfaction, grin twisting into a demented caricature. She tried to blink, to shut out the Kishin's expression and the sickened aura of his insanity, but her eyelids refused to move; all there was to do was look away, and when her eyes slipped from him, it was only for them to land on the arm that had just ripped through her chest, his elbow between her breasts and hand protruding from her back.

No way. No…

Then came the screaming, though not her own.

"Maka!"

"Maka, no!"

"Maka!"

"M-Maka? Maka!"

She recognized their voices, each of her friends, with perfect clarity: Kid, who was usually so composed, alarmed; Liz and Patty simultaneously, the sisters' voices reflecting the same fear; Tsubaki, shrill and piercing, terrified; and Black Star, disbelieving at first, then distressed. There was an inkling of pain, a light throbbing in her very core, as if their cries cut into her.

But they were nothing compared to the scream that sounded just below, hoarse with horror and dangerously tremulous, the most out of control she had ever hear her Soul Eater sound before: "MAKA!"

Asura smirked, then without warning, snatched his arm away so that it tore from her back and out her chest with a sickening squelch that elicited a startled, garbled sound from Maka's throat as she hovered in the air, still balanced on Soul's handle where he flew in Weapon form.

But it was impossible to stay airborne.

She felt herself fall back, back, back into the air, the first true suggestions of pain jolting through her chest, her stomach, sending flashes of pulsing heat to her brain. Even as she descended, dropping rapidly and far too stunned to even consider finding a way to slow herself down, Maka distantly knew that if she was not in such a state, if her consciousness wasn't so dulled and she could actually feel the entirety of her body, the pain would be much, much worse: unbearable.

Arms circled around her, pulling her tight to a firm, familiar body, and then they met the ground, although Maka felt nothing of the impact, both the stupor she was losing herself to and the person cradling her blocking out the pain she should have felt. She knew those arms, that solid chest she was being held against, the hands on her back and the sound of his breath, gaspy and shaken.

Soul laid her down, eyes wide and wild, pupils black pinpricks in pools of crimson blood as his fingers fumbled at her chest, trembling to put pressure on the gaping wound. She felt it, the weight of him atop her, and yet she didn't; a contradiction she couldn't wrap her mind around, but even so, she must have made a sound, because Soul was staring into her eyes again, one of his hands, stained with warm, sticky blood—her blood—touching over her face.

"Just hang on, Maka. You're going to be fine."

No, Soul. I'm not. I'm not.

Even with her senses diminishing, she was aware that everything was beginning to slip away: her vision, her hearing, her life. The pain was there in the yawning hole of her chest, but it was distant, more like the memory of pain; it was most assuredly real, though, torn right into her and rapidly sapping her of life, her heart pounding frantically as it both tried to sustain her and began to succumb to impending death. She struggled with the air in her lungs, fought to force it out around the wetness pooling within, and with each second that passed, each moment of watching Soul linger over her, her sight was dimming, blurring around the edges so that every color seemed to blend together until barely anything was discernable.

Except for Soul. She could still see him with a startling lucidity: the white of his hair, the broad shoulders beneath his jacket, the deep red eyes and his dearly familiar face.

But it wouldn't be for much longer.

Maka swallowed thickly, something warm sticking in her throat, and her fingers twitched as she opened her mouth, attempting to form his name.

"Shhh, don't try to talk," he ordered quickly, harshly, voice nothing near gentle; his, fingers, however, brushed the hair out of her eyes with a swift tenderness that betrayed his tone before he returned to pressing his hands onto the wound, and she didn't have to look to know that he was stained past the wrists with her blood. He jerked his head away briefly, yelling over his shoulder, but his voice was growing muffled, her ears steadily becoming deaf with each agonizing beat of her heart.

The crease between his eyebrows…the frantic glow in his eyes…the pallor to his tanned cheeks…Maka wanted to wipe all of it away, to raise her hand and smooth out those tortured lines, brush color back into his face. Soul was always worrying over her, though she knew he would never admit it, but for him to be subjected to this was cruel, and she hated herself for not being quick enough to get out of Asura's reach, for causing such a look of torment to settle on her partner's face.

She tried to say his name again, just managing to lift her hand off the ground, but something went wrong.

Heat crawled up her throat, scorching and choking, and she gagged, coughing up coppery blood that stained her lips and chin, and with it came a fresh wash of pain that had her gasping in excruciating, sobbing breaths, hands clenching into fists. Soul swore, voice cracking, and pressed down harder on her chest, his hands shaking.

The expression on his face was the only conformation she needed.

His teeth were clenched, mouth pulled into an angle that had once, long ago, unsettled Maka, that many would have called ugly; but now, it was one she knew meant he was calling upon every ounce of willpower so that he did not lose hold of his composure, a look she had seen only a handful times since she'd met him. His eyebrows were harsh lines over his eyes, which were large and fear-glazed and swirling erratically, and his hands did not shy away from the blood pumping out between his fingers.

She coughed again, almost an astounded laugh, and more blood shot up her throat.

I'm dying. I'm really dying.

"Don't you even think that crap, Maka!" Soul yelled, fierce and resolute, able to see the thought reflected in her eyes; it didn't surprise her that he could. "You're not gonna die! You're gonna be fine!"

Was he trying to convince her…or himself?

Soul.

"Shut up!" Soul turned away from her, looking over his shoulder. "Kid! Kid!" His words faded off, her vision tunneling out before snapping back, and then she was fighting for breath again, trying to keep him in her sight, to stay awake, fingers thrashing spastically at her sides.

She was fading; Maka knew that, knew she shouldn't feel the cold spreading down her legs and arms, should instead feel the hot blood soaking into her clothes. And for the first time since she realized she's been impaled, she was terrified: of dying, of leaving things unsaid and undone, of leaving people behind who were counting on her, waiting for her.

She didn't have much strength, she knew that, but she put everything she had into forcing movement down her arm, a painstakingly sluggish action of her hand lifting off the ground as she willed it to move, even as the appendage threatened to fall back to the ground below. She focused all that was left of her into that one action, focusing on Soul's face as she reached for him, watching his eyes flicker to her approaching fingertips.

Maka pressed her gloved hand to his cheek, the only thing she could do.

A silent goodbye.

His face contorted, misery swimming in his eyes, catching on his lips, as her hand dropped limply to her side, devoid of any further movement. And yet she could still see him, and that was all that mattered: he was with her.

He leaned over her, pressing his sweat slicked forehead to hers, eyes pleading and lashes fluttering spasmodically with a forlornness that did not befit him. "Maka." The word came low and shattered, all fight gone from him, his voice a quivering breath that was nearly a sob.

Sound to her right, another set of hands touching her face, but when Maka tried to see who the newcomer was, she found she couldn't will her eyes to move. In fact, keeping them open was too much effort now; the cold was everywhere, clinging to her, its blackness ready to devourer her. Voices were calling her name, speaking to her frantically, voices that were not Soul's but ones her ears could no longer recognize…

I'm sorry.

Maka closed her eyes.

The world returned to her lethargically, the way it did when waking from a deep dream, and Maka's eyelids lifted, grogginess and disorientation still upon her but no longer as heavy. She didn't feel right though; she was almost certain she had just died, so for the afterlife to seem so…normal…was not something she had anticipated. But soon, everything settled back into place, and Maka was staring up at the anxious face of her Weapon partner, emotion written rough and raw across his features. "S…Soul?"

He breathed out a sigh of relief, one that involved both his chest and abdomen, and gave a weary, closed-mouth smile. His hand brushed along her face, a warm, solid touch that she leaned into unconsciously. "Yeah. Welcome back."

She stared at him, confused, then gingerly lifted up on her elbow, the action causing her to wince. Soul's hands pushed on her shoulders gently, urging her back down where she half lay against him, and she complied, still too bewildered to put up much of a fight. "What…what happened?"

He looked from her to the other individual Maka had not yet noticed until then. "I want to know that too. Kid, think you can explain?"

Death the Kid stood over them, a full fledged Death God, his pupils still gold but now the skulls of Lord Death, signifying his newfound status. His face was drawn, the skin around his eyes pinched tight as his eyes landed on her. "I was able to call you two inside my soul. Black Star's holding for us, and the girls are just outside, but we have to move quickly."

Maka looked to Soul, silently asking for help, and he had an arm around her shoulders instantly, lifting her into more of a sitting position. She looked around them, unable to see anything outside the bright blue light that was Kid's soul, the soft glow of it shimmering and reflecting off of his and Soul's faces.

With the last bit of bewilderment fading, the fact that moving and talking and breathing should be impossible hit Maka hard enough to nearly steal the air from her lungs, and she looked down at her chest, fingers trembling slightly as she began to unbutton the snaps of her trench coat. She gasped. "What happened to me?"

The wound was completely gone, the only evidence of its existence being the large blossom of blood that still wetted her shirt, coat, and skirt. She pressed on her chest and was able to register a very faint soreness, looking from her torso to the two boys on either side of her, unable to comprehend how an injury that severe could have healed so quickly, healed at all.

"Kid patched you up," Soul answered, looking down to the blood still covering her, then to the same red substance that painted his hands, a profound ache flashing briefly across his face that made Maka want to pull him close, hold him to her so that he could feel her heartbeat, her chest rise and fall with each breath; so he could feel the life in her.

Kid met Maka's gaze, his expression wane and exhausted. "I was able to use my powers to close the wound, heal the damaged organs and tissue."

Maka sighed out in relief, relaxing into Soul, and she felt his hand squeeze her shoulder. She was actually alive?

Then why was Kid acting so formal?

A solid mass of dread settled in her stomach, and the wound seemed to throb afresh. "What's wrong, Kid?"

Death Incarnate took a deep breath, then came to her other side and knelt beside her, eyebrows pulled down and face unusually open, exposed even, emotion flaring behind his eyes. "This will hold for a while, but…once the power that I transferred into you runs out, the wound will reopen."

Maka's breath exited her parted lips in a soft wheeze, heart hammering as renewed fear swelled inside her, expanding in her belly. Kid looked away, hand clenched on his knee so that his knuckles stood out white against his pale skin.

Maka sunk back against Soul.

This was only temporary.

She was going to die.

Against her, Soul had gone still, but now seemed to regain himself; his hand was tight where he held her, grip almost painful, but not entirely in a bad way. "Then we have to get her back to Death City. Take her to your old man, the dispensary, anything."

Maka looked up at him, heart overcome with a sudden, aching sorrow: his jaw was tight, eyes steady and determined, ready to do anything needed.

Oh, Soul.

He didn't understand.

Kid met his gaze, barely hidden anguish flickering through his eyes as he shook his head. "There's no way we could get back to the city in time, and even if we did, there's nothing my father could do, nothing anyone can do for a wound of that magnitude."

When the realization finally settled over Soul, Maka was almost surprised by the level of grief it caused her, like it was in itself a wound burrowing into her body. His eyes widened, lips parting as the breath rushed out of his lungs, and the worst part was that he didn't make a sound, was silent in the midst of his suffering. Utter incredulity, agony and panic fought for dominance, before his features tightened and shifted, eyes narrowing and mouth pulling into a snarl so vicious she wondered how Kid kept from flinching at it.

"So that's it?" he spat, voice snapping with fire. "She's just going to…to die? And you're just going to let her, not even try?"

"Soul—" Maka started, lifting a hand to touch his arm, but he pulled out of her reach, not looking away from Kid.

"I did try," Kid answered resignedly. "That's the reason Maka's still here. But my abilities are limited, and there's only so much I can do."

Soul rebelled against that, entire body on edge; Maka could feel the rage vibrating from his frame into hers, the tension burning through him. He glared at Kid, teeth flashing bright and sharp in a glower Maka could not remember ever seeing, not once since he first became her partner. "You a Grim Reaper! You, of all people, should be able to do something!"

Even as he asked this, Maka knew there was nothing Kid—or anyone—could do to stop the wound from splitting open again, to save her life. She sat between them, silent and lost in her thoughts, still adjusting to the fact that she was without a doubt going to die. It had been a rigid realization at first, a slap to the face, but it had begun to give into something she could tolerate, and after the first initial moments of distress and fear, Maka's breaths became even.

She could handle dying. She had been ready, and though she couldn't imagine it now, she knew that she was willing to walk into death once more if it meant everyone else would survive, if she was able to help destroy the Kishin. She wouldn't say that she was not entirely unafraid, but it wasn't for what was ahead: it was for what—who—she was leaving behind.

She met Kid's eyes, unnaturally calm. "How long do I have?"

Soul let out a sound at her side that was somewhere between a growl and a scream, then pulled away so swiftly that Maka nearly fell over; she caught herself in time to see him get to his feet and walk to the farthest edge of the soul barrier, hands grasping brutally at his hair and cursing loudly. She swallowed down the guilt that washed over her for causing him so much pain, even as her heart cracked, and turned quickly back to Kid before her eyes filled and she lost control of herself.

Kid's gaze was intense but shadowed by sorrow and dread. "An hour. That's all can give you. Yes, I'm a Grim Reaper, and it'll be my job to collect the souls of the deceased, to monitor the line between life and death. But I can't undo death; not even my dad can do that. You have one hour, Maka, but know that when that hour is up, the wound will reopen, and if you're meant to die today, I cannot stop it."

Maka took a deep breath, giving herself a few precious moments, seconds she didn't have time to waste, for herself to adjust to knowing that as soon as she left this instant, as soon as they exited Kid's soul and resumed fighting, she would only have sixty minutes to live. It was no where near enough time, but she had to accept that it was hers.

But that didn't mean she would go down easily. She would take that bastard Asura with her, and when the time came for her to go, she would do so gracefully.

That's what she told herself.

She wasn't sure she believed it.

Maka nodded, determination lining her backbone like steel, replacing the hollow knowledge that she would never again fall asleep at night and wake the following morning, never have another birthday, celebrate another holiday, see her mother again. This was all she had. "I understand."

She knew without looking that Soul was glaring at her, his gaze hot and piercing, but she managed to keep her eyes off of him; it hurt enough already, knowing that she would be gone soon, and to see it written so clearly on his face would be excruciating. She would have to face him, but for now, she couldn't let herself.

Maka made it to her feet, staring up into the blue of Kid's soul, aware that somewhere above them, Blake Star and Tsubaki were holding off the Kishin, Liz and Patty guarding the three of them. Her legs were strong beneath her, the pulse of her blood pounding steady through her veins; hard to believe that once she rejoined the battle, she would be dying. But for this moment, she was healthy: lungs, heart, limbs and mind, all working together, all doing their damndest to ensure she remained alive.

Because she was alive, and had never felt more so.

"Alright. Let's go."