Somewhere, a bell was tolling. All over the world, criminals were dying.
A few months earlier, Light had taken the mantle of the world's greatest detective and promised to catch Kira to Ryuzaki's corpse. And what busy months those were. Kira was back in full swing, passing righteous judgement, sentencing those Higuchi had pardoned out of sheer apathy, and leading the taskforce on wild goose chases.
He had won. Prometheus was free from his chains, and offering a warm light to mankind once more. And yet, his victory left behind the taste of a shinigami's ashes.
Ryuzaki was dead, his titles lived on. That alone should have given Light enough to rejoice, and indeed, he'd been glad; he'd smiled at L's dying face, he'd laughed at his grave.
At the time, he revelled in his victory. But something was missing. The enemy had died too easily. Not that Light expected anything more from Rem, a heart attack was by far the quickest way to go, Kira's trademark, the power of a God holding lives at his fingertips, ink and blood dripping down on blank parchment. And yet, when he saw Ryuzaki collapse, it seemed far too easy. All the data deleted, the evidence of his and Misa's detainment gone, just like that.
That suffocating boredom that permeated Light's existence was back. There were only so many criminals to kill in a day; and so he walked through the city (his city), and sometimes ended up at L's grave.
From the cemetery, he could see the former headquarters in the distance. He ought to sell them someday. The taskforce had relocated to his new apartment last month. New L, new location, new leads. Sometimes, Light could barely stand them and their inane suggestions. There was no more game, no more thrill. He would sit pensive, twirling a pen in his fingers, surveying their reflections on the array of monitors; watching them out of habit.
Sometimes, he almost wished they would suspect him again, question the 13-day rule, think up something useful for once. But no, they were children chasing after lost voices, and someday, someday not far from now, he would write their names down and watch them die. Loose ends and all that.
Light knew Rem would kill L. After all, he'd planned for it, and it all went without a hitch. And yet, he kept coming back to L's grave weeks after weeks, dwelling on these months spent in the taskforce headquarters, driven by an impulse he himself had trouble understanding.
"This, this is what happens to those who stand up against me, against the God of the new world," he'd gloat thinking back on L, Rem's ashes, and Watari's corpse lying somewhere, but the words rang hollow.
L's grave didn't do him justice. "Rue Ryuzaki", no decorations, no gothic statues. The man who thought himself a letter, who dared to impersonate Justice. So many names, trophies from fallen enemies. Would he have called himself Light Yagami had he won?
No, that's impossible. He lost, he's dead now, and I'm free.
L died too suddenly, too easily. Surely, there should have been an omen of some sorts, a burning bush, a flock of geese, anything to bide his time and hold out hope.
"Bells," Ryuzaki'd said. "Bells tolling for him; well that had to count for something", Light supposed.
Of course, L's days had been numbered, not that it was anything new; really since becoming the world's greatest detective (but not greatest man), Ryuzaki had lived on borrowed time. Still, Light didn't expect him to die so soon.
On his slowest days, he cursed Rem for having been too quick to kill. There was no urgency; the 13-day rule would not have been tested for quite some time yet, what with all the formalities to observe, the test subjects to pick.
A few weeks more, a few weeks less. What was time to a god of death? And yet, Rem had rushed to pass judgement and save Misa, who wasn't even worth it at the end of all things. Misa, cleared of all suspicions; Misa the dumb model; Misa, his devoted girlfriend; Misa, with the rotting corpses of two gods at her feet.
God. At first, it had been a mere word, a simplified attempt to define his essence. Wielding the power to take lives with ink and a piece of paper, he was Prometheus, offering fire and salvation to blissful mortals. He was the prophet, ushering humanity into a new golden age, he was Justice. In picking up the notebook fallen from the skies, he rose above humanity.
So many faces, so many roles. How easy it had been to believe in these names, to revel in the adoration of the masses, to get lost in this myth of his own making.
"Saviour," they whispered, and he smiled, a fountain pen tapping idly against his black notebook.
"Killer," they yelled, and he laughed.
"I am that I am," Light would say and banish the image of Rem's dust glistening in a trash bag from his mind.
A gothic N, a kidnapping, and the promise of a confrontation. The intermission had ended, and the second act began. In some ways, Light was thankful to Near – Nate Rivers – the boy who tried but would never be L's equal. In his doomed attempt at revenge (it always came down to revenge and pride, never justice), he had woken up the great beast from its slumber.
"A challenger is near," Kira grinned, as he planned and plotted in rooms filled with computer screens and shadows.