He was a man of no purpose. No future. A vagrant drifting across society's waves. He rolled with the troubles, the obstacles. He had nothing, owned nothing. He stood amongst the rubble of his guild. No, not his guild any more. Just another scrap heap.
He turned over a plaster slab, large enough that he recognized it as a piece of the wall. He dug through the gravel beneath it with his bare foot until he uncovered the polished floor of the main hall.
He released the slab with an irritated sigh, letting it fall and crack under its own weight. He allowed his irritation to fester in his heart, giving way to outright anger. He smashed the remaining pieces of smooth slab with the heel of his foot, reducing it to coarse dust.
It didn't matter. There was still nothing left for him here. Every day, he would tell himself there was something, an indescribable something that tied him to this garbage heap. At first, it was the remnants of his possessions. Then, it became a search for anything of value. When the money from the valuables became scant, it was all he could do to find enough nails to make a single meal.
He turned away, stalking across the hills that made up the ruins. He walked with no destination in his mind, but he found himself headed towards his hovel. He hesitated for a moment, considering what it was that awaited him there. A mealy pallet, a lantern, and the last of the wrought iron, but certainly nothing that was worth the breath it would take to walk there. He stopped completely now. He caught sight of his reflection in a broken window pane.
Wild black hair fell around him in a tangled mass that more closely resembled a mane than actual hair. His dark skin was dirty, smudged with grime from his hand wiping sweat off his brow during the heat of the day. His mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust as he finally caught sight of his eyes. He saw bitterness and hatred plainly shining back at him. Before, there had always been someone to blame, someone to pour his cruelty into. But now, there was only himself.
His anger gave way to despair. The full weight of his actions came crashing into him like a steaming locomotive. He had done terrible things. Hurt people. Good, kind people. And he hurt inside. He placed his hand over his chest where it pained him most, trying to ease the sorrow that suddenly clawed at him.
Empathy. Feeling for others. A lesson he had forgotten somewhere in his past. Even now, he could not recall the details. But he could hear the voices. His voice. The voice that banished his fears. The voice that shook the earth with its power. The voice that he so often condemned to the darkest corner of his mind. He had buried it for so long, he physically lurched when it spoke so clear; so strong.
Mend your mistakes.
A command. No room for exceptions or negotiations. He was well known for such things. But it rang true. Instantly, his mind flashed to the little girl with blue hair. No. Not a girl. She was a woman. A woman with bright, sensitive eyes and a heart that beat only for her friends. He flinched as the memory of her torture crossed before his eyes. Her screams and her tears scorched him; he could still see her blood on his skin, smell her burning flesh. Despite his best efforts, his heart still plummeted at the depths of his inhumanity.
He shook his head to dispel the voice that echoed around him. No force on Earthland could fix his depravity. He broke every natural law known. And still, the voice insisted.
Mend your mistakes.
He was disgusted with himself. There was no way he could right every single wrong. It would take time.
Mend your mistakes.
It would take the rest of his life. He looked away from his reflection to the trash piled high around him. There was nothing for him here. Despair and tragedy haunted this desolate ground. It was cursed.
A fleeting glimmer of hope skittered through his thoughts and he snatched at it desperately. He could have purpose again. It skirted the edges of his mind, playing havoc with his memories. He remembered his father and the lessons renewed themselves as though a light descended upon them. Pride and honor. Compassion and justice. Kindness and love.
He stumbled over the last thought. No, he would forbid himself from love. As penance, he would enact all, except for love. His heart beat inside a rotten hide, too eaten with malice to love anymore. He would redraw the lines. Start anew. Fresh.
As if Earthland herself could hear his internal revelation, the cloudy sky released a single wave of rain. It fell in great round drops, pelting his skin with crystal clear water. He inhaled the moist air, filling his lungs until he thought he would burst. For the first time since Metalicana left him, he felt good. Yes. Purpose was good.
"Gajeel."
It took him many moments to realize this was a different voice, one with a body; an external source. When the clouds broke and the rain let up, he turned to find the short old man from Fairy Tail standing under a broken doorframe.
Almost instantly, he reverted to his old ways. Brush him off, send him packing. Never let them know you. Never again. But the voice in his head chastised him.
Listen.
He refused, but still the man spoke. He talked about his guild; his code of honor. He droned on about things Gajeel had already realized. The old man offered a bed, shelter, work, and food. Such menial things. Things that had started to feel more like a luxury than a basic living standard. His mind may not have listened, but the rest of him did. His body yearned for decent rest and proper nourishment. They were simple things, very small things. But they resembled something much bigger than what he ever hoped for. A future. Was it too much to believe? The voice answered him.
Listen.
"It won't be easy."
No. It certainly wouldn't. Forgiveness was too much to ask for. Love even more so. He decided he would settle for their tolerance and take the days as they came.
Mend your mistakes.
He had nothing, owned nothing. But that only meant he had nothing to lose. It would be hard, impossible, at first. It would take time.
It would become his life's mission.
The man awaited an answer. His wrinkled hands were crammed inside his coat pockets, curled together to stave off the unusual cold that blew through the town. Gajeel could see the magic stamp peeking out from the old man's coat.
He was stunned. The old man actually had hope.
Hope.
It was a strange feeling. An awkward swelling in his chest that made him believe in good things; in a future beyond what he had resigned himself to.
No. Hope was dangerous. It made the fall that much harder. It crushed him once as a child, but he wouldn't let it get the better of him this time. He would tread carefully, with more reserve. Trust no one. Love no one. And mend your mistakes.
This man knew many things and Gajeel could tell he would not make this offer to anyone who would not be useful.
He offered the old man what he hoped was a nod. He didn't trust his voice to answer confidently. One of the first lessons he learned as a child was to show no weakness. Become the iron and it will protect you.
The man beckoned for him to kneel and he did so. His old Phantom Lord insignia had fizzled out long ago, permanently disintegrated from his right shoulder. He offered the man the opposite arm. A new limb for a new emblem to start his new life.
The old man pressed the flat end of the polished knob into his muscle. It felt warm, pleasantly so. Not at all like his Phantom Lord insignia – that had burned for many hours. He looked down at the new guild mark. It was black, the same as before, but somehow it felt different. He felt light and almost like smiling, but that was ridiculous. He would not smile. He grunted his approval and followed the old man out of the cursed ruins of the Phantom Lord guild hall.