Something is wrong with me.
In some roundabout way, the blame had fallen on Sting.
Ever since the Grand Magic Games, something had been off about Rogue; an extra carefulness and a nearly imperceptible reluctance to use his magic. He hadn't talked about it with Sting or Lector. Sting wasn't sure if Rogue had even mentioned it to Frosch. The only thing he knew was that Natsu-san had told Rogue to be careful of something happening in the future. Something involving Frosch.
Whatever it was, Rogue had promised that it wouldn't happen.
Then there were other things that had happened at the Games during the final day. Rogue didn't ever discuss that with him either but Sting knew about it from watching the replays of the match and through word-of-mouth of his fellow guild mates. There had been a strange occurrence with Rogue's magic while he had battled Gajeel-san. Lector had managed to get it out of Frosch that Rogue hadn't acted like himself but no one knew anything beyond that.
All these things were strange and added up to something being wrong. Sting really should have seen it coming.
But he hadn't.
He didn't until each shadowed punch had pounded into him, stabbing like knives into his heart. Repeatedly they told him that he had missed something important. Something he didn't understand but knew was the cause for his friend snapping.
For Rogue blaming him for Frosch's death.
The breath left Sting's lungs as another of Rogue's powerful attacks hit him square in the chest. He had tried to avoid the blows at first but he had never been able to keep up with Rogue's speed. Eventually the Shadow Dragon Slayer, deaf to the words of reason Sting shouted at him, landed a hit. Once that happened, it hadn't taken long for Sting to slow down and then become unable to dodge at all.
Sting didn't once try to strike Rogue back during all this, never tried to retaliate. It was a bad idea on his part but Sting knew he could never seriously attack his friend. Yet, Rogue—the man consumed with shadows, the man who was no longer friends of anyone—could see no problem attacking him. Would no longer see a problem with attacking him. No, the attacks kept coming and coming. Soon Sting couldn't even move, let alone speak. He just lay there, accepting each strike.
Now Sting's vision began to blur from the pain and lack of blood—his own blood that was all over him and on the ground, pooling around him. He watched another hit land, no longer feeling the pain, and he vaguely wondered what would have happened if he had just realized things sooner. If he had forced Rogue to talk to him about it. If he had helped Rogue instead of letting him shoulder this demon all alone. If in doing so, he could have stopped all this, stopped Frosch's death and, soon, his own.
Sting wondered, as Rogue launched the final blow, if it was really all his fault.