Sometime on the twenty-second of December, not before the sky first promised snow and not after it finally delivered, a friend of a friend tells you the news.
Akemi Homura is dead.
"Oh," you say distantly, as delicately as though you are walking through broken glass. "That's a shame."
There must have been some sort of conversation that followed, but you do not recall it; you can only bring to mind the walk through the not-yet-snow, your slender ringlets of golden hair catching the flakes as they descend, as you ponder the meaning of the emotion that has risen unbidden in your deepest hearts of hearts, the place that you have long since kept locked and empty.
Akemi Homura.
You had never liked her. Not her face, her dark smile, nor her earring - illegal by the student dress code, though none of the teachers ever seemed to notice. All of it stank of arrogance. And to you, for whom detachment is a necessity, rather than a luxury, have always despised, in your politeness, those who wore arrogance as easily as they might a second face, when your own poise and grace is so very difficult to maintain. But perhaps there was more to your dislike than petty jealousy.
Perhaps you feared the dark-haired girl with demons lurking in her eyes.
But no, that was impossible. You would not likely be afraid of Akemi Homura. Fear was attachment, of a sort, and that she would not permit.
Eh?
You extend a hand, snap it closed, and after a moment of bewilderment, tell yourself that it was to catch a snowflake, not the idea that zipped away from you like a fly avoiding its premature death, flitting about you, briefly, before it is gone.
You blink once, pass a hand before your golden eyes - but the snow is still white, and the sky still grey, so you sight, drop your hand, and walk on.
Akemi Homura.
You visited her apartment, once, for a group project for which you cannot remember the topic, for a class you cannot quite recall. It must have been important - you do not visit students' houses except in times of dire need - but the occasion merits no memory of lingering thought.
You had expected blank whiteness, shadows and starlight, a scythe of a pendulum on a wall and a hundred images of text and maps and old photographs, blinking in and out of focus like wishes in a well -
But her apartment is nothing like that.
She had greeted you cordially, of course - manners are important - but she had bowed her head gracefully without once taking leave of the smirk and showed you a small, beautiful apartment, the style quaint and simple, as artful as it was practical. It is, you remember, not dissimilar to your own flat. Sweet. Cluttered. Lovely. Clean. And - most of all -
Empty.
As empty as its owner, you think rebelliously - but that thought too escapes you before you can grip it fully in your mind.
She had sat you at the table courteously enough, even as nutcrackers stared blankly from the mantelpiece; she had poured you wine - or was it tea? - though you do not ever remember the sight of her leaving the thronelike chair where she lounges gracefully on one elbow. You remember her watching you, hungrily, with all of the glowering patience and silence of a gargoyle; you remember fighting the urge to fidget as the emptiness beneath the glass table gnawed at your slippered feet.
You must have spoken, though, because you can remember when she cut you off with nothing more than a slight quirk of a finger. "Kaname Madoka," the demon had said, her voice caressing the name. "Do you know of her?"
Of course! you had answered, but you did not know her well; she had only just transferred, not two days before - or was it longer? - but regardless, you would not want to burden the girl with one more name to remember -
The demon had grimaced and waved a languid hand, and suddenly, that is the last thing that you can bring to mind of Akemi Homura. You are vaguely disgusted with your behaviour, you realize, but it never had occurred to you then why that might be so.
But it is hardly your fault. You cannot be blamed. She did not wish for you to remember, and that was all. The matter was closed. You had no choice in the matter.
Or perhaps you did.
But even if such a thing were so, she had taken it away long ago.
Her funeral was last night.
You had briefly entertained attending, but there always seemed to be something else to do, and before you can quite remember what those things had been, you find yourself distracted by something. You cannot remember what. You never can.
It is not jealousy, you decide firmly, that gives the girl staying power in your mind. No, you are not jealous of the girl. You do not envy her the emptiness that is - was her own. Was, of course, not is, because she is dead now, of course.
Can a demon die?
Eh?
A demon?
Where, you wonder, had that thought come from?
But it is too late, your moment of surprise has distracted you, and like oil on water, the thought slides away from you. You grasp for it, fleetingly, but it is lost to the ocean that booms in the distant reaches of your mind as it crashes against your heart of hearts, that you have locked and left empty for time immaterium.
You decide to visit her apartment the next day.
You could not, if asked, explain why, precisely, you had decided to go there. Impulse would be the closest to an explanation that you could give, but you are not an impulsive person, and impulse is not nearly strong enough a word to describe it.
Perhaps she willed you to come.
Perhaps you willed yourself.
It is the same thing, really.
No.
It is not.
Somehow, you are not surprised when you arrives and find the building far bigger that it was before. It is grimmer. More foreboding. Shadows tuck themselves neatly into the arches and pillars of the massive frame, but they only shadows, not evil; merely the absence of light, not the presence of darkness. On impulse, you try the handle of the door.
It is unlocked. You hesitate for only an instant.
You think that you remember wooden boards and dim rooms, lit by computer screens; you remember a little girl with glasses who squints determinedly at the words and the images, as though deciphering ancient text spelling out wondrous philosophy. But that is an ill-placed memory; surely you are remembering something else besides Akemi Homura. No, her apartment should be like your own, bright and intricate beauty interwoven with the empty afternoons -
But somehow, you remember a white space, stretching to infinity, the couches in the center arranged like hands on a clock, and a great pendulum that archs scythelike across the walls, holograms of flickering texts and maps and subway trains -
The living room is dark and unlit. Images play soundlessly on the walls. They are pale. Faint. Flickering. And yet they are there.
And so is she.
The dark-haired demon is elegantly sprawled on the ground, watching the soundless holograms that you cannot quite see. Her back is to you, but you can somehow sense the dead liveliness on her face, an empty smile painted across porcelain skin, eyes dangerously listless, and you can see, even with her back turned, how she toys with a cracked earring that is cradled beneath her left earlobe.
Somehow, you are unable to muster surprise.
"Tomoe Mami-san," says the demon-girl simply. "Good evening."
"Akemi-san." You dip a polite curtsy. "If I may?"
She looks at you over one shoulder, her mouth carving a cunning furrow across her face, her left hand descends, with sudden life, to rest gently on the ground, her fingers just barely brushing the floorboards.
You take it as a sign of acceptance and sit where you are, crosslegged, back straight.
She watches you.
You look at her, but a hologram flickers and catches your attention, drawing it away like a fish on a string. It is a soundless video of a golden-haired girl, twitching and writhing as her head is chewed contentedly off of her neck by a great worm, surrounded by cupcakes and merry colors.
"That's…" You trail off, unable fo finish the sentence.
"Indeed." Akemi is behind you, suddenly, seated at a table you did not quite realize was there, pouring thick liquid into a pair of crystal glasses. "That is your death. Yet, somehow, you are alive." She is standing in front of the table, but you never saw her move; she bows, elegantly, one hand held wide, the other across her chest. "You should thank me. Rather - you should be thanking Madoka."
"Madoka?" you echo.
"Oh. That's right. You don't remember." The words should be bitter, but they are triumphant instead, victorious. The demon savors the taste of its words. "I'm the only one that remembers her."
"I'm sure you are," you say politely.
The demon is suddenly seated in front of the holograms again, leaning back on one hand, her legs arranged elegantly in front of her. "You're mocking me, of course," the demon says, faintly amused. "That's all right. It's nothing new. You've always hated me, Mami-san. Always. Ever since… since a long, long time ago, now. Yes. A long time."
"I've never hated you, Akemi-san," you say quietly. "I don't know you. How could I hate you?"
"Of course you hate me." The demon laughs. "Of course you've hated me. Of course you will hate me. I've saved you, I've saved you all - all of you - over and over again, always failing, never - never quite -" The demon draws a shuddering breath. Its eyes do not flinch fron the holograms. "You'll never feel it again, Mami. She'll save you. She - no, I will. I'll save you." A sort of peace descends on the demon, and the tension in her shoulders relaxes. "I'll save you. She doesn't have to."
You are left speechless.
"No," says the demon. "I died, didn't I? I killed myself. That's what she would have wanted. She'll go back to nowhere, and -". Akemi Homura draws a deep breath, and turns to face you with accusation burning in her eyes. "You."
You draw breath to speak, to defend yourself, but you have no idea what words would be of any sort of use.
"You started everything. It's your fault. If you weren't there, you would never have been there, you would never have been the temptation, the ideal, the standard for her - she wouldn't have tried so hard, she, she - she would have been happy!" The demon lunges towards you, on hands and knees, snarling, "You were the first! The golden one, the pretty one - you made us feel powerful! You made us feel like we could do something, be something - and - "
The girl is standing, arm raised at a bold angle. The gleam of metal sheen reflects your image back to you, shocked and shaken, in the muzzle of the automatic pistol she is pointing towards your head. Her voice is toneless. "I even believed that until you put a bullet in Sakura Kyouko, then very nearly killed me, and therefore her." For the first time, she meets your eyes. Your golden orbs against her iridescent black that blaze with cold fury.
And then the girl is gone.
The demon sips at her wine from the table behind you again.
"That was not what I wanted to say," says the dark-haired girl. She bows her head, smirking slightly. "You have my apologies, Tomoe-san," she says through her bow.
There is a cup of tea in front of you. Chamomile, you can tell by the smell, perhaps with a hint of peppermint. You inspect the teacup, lifting it to eye level, and look at the girl perched on her bench, swirling her wineglass. "What are you, Akemi-san?" you ask with quiet wonder.
"A girl. A witch. A god. A demon. Both. Neither. All of them." The demon shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I won't trouble you for much longer, Mami-san."
"Akemi-san?" Despite yourself, concern touches your voice. You remember something that you had heard, once, about Akemi Homura. Something that you had forgotten, told to you by a friend of a friend.
Ah.
That was it.
Akemi Homura had died three days ago.
"Don't worry," she says, smiling faintly. "You won't remember this. It will never have happened. I can do that much for you, I suppose." She laughs, drinks at her wine. "I'm lying, of course. It isn't for you."
"Akemi-san, what are you talking about?" You rise to your feet, still inanely clutching at your teacup. "What's going on?"
"It's not for you at all, Mami-san. Not even Nagisa. I just wanted all of you… happy. Away. It was the easiest way - to bring Miki-san out of the cycle, to make Kyouko-chan forget. It was the simples way." She laughs again, dryly. "It wouldn't ever have worked, of course. Even the caged bird must go free in time. At least this one does. I would not have it die in its cage." She laughs again, very softly. It is like the sound of broken chimes.
"Akemi-san," you say again, more urgently.
"It wasn't ever any use," she says tonelessly. "She would never have loved me, would she? My children made sure of that. I made sure of that."
Someone laughs, a high-pitched giggle. Violet light plays flares on the walls. The pale holograms are drowned out by the violence of the color
"Akemi-san!" you shout, lunging to your feet.
"It's fine," says the girl, her eyes closed. The chaos swirls around her, but she seems unaffected, eternal in its midst"This is far enough for me, Mami. No more pride. No more bitterness. No more. No more." Homura opens her eyes and looks at you, with eyes too old. Her mouth is still smiling slightly. "Farewell, Tomoe-san. But - will you do me a favor?"
"Of course." The words are a courtesy. An empty gesture. They slip out before you can even think about them.
The chaos stills. The violet lights blink out. The chatter of high-pitches voices is gone, as though it never was.
There is a moment of pure silence.
"Remember me," she says softly, distantly. She is breathing slowly and deeply, as if in great pain. "Just... a little bit. That's all. Just remember me."
Your mouth opens, but you have no words prepared for this occasion, no instinctive reassuring smile, no sudden comfort for this demon. You gape for a moment, fishlike, blowing bubbles in the air, trying desperately to bring to mind something, anything, that will not be a lie.
But you can find nothing.
There is a great sighing noise, like the last breath before you go to sleep, and then everything is still, and you are alone in a great cavernous room, empty and grey, sitting on one of a circle of faded couches. There is a table in the middle of them, a lifeless projector screen setup behind the desks. A pendulum hangs heavy on the wall, dark and motionless. You never did see it move.
You are alone.
There is a thought, bright and pure, that flits past your golden hair. You try and clap your hands around it, but it is gone - and for an instant, in your heart of hearts, long since locked away, there is a flicker. Of memory. Of love, perhaps.
But then it is gone.
Akemi Homura is dead, you are told. She died three days previous.
"Oh," you say delicately, as though walking through broken glass. You might offend them, after all, if you are too callous or too intense. "That's a shame."
They agree, perhaps, or joke - or perhaps they say nothing at all - and you smile and walk away.
You do not know why, but there are tears welling in your eyes.