Welcome! I am DemonHeart42 with a brand new story for you. Please R&R and I shall see you at the bottom of the page and I hope you all enjoy.

POV: Natsu

Disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail or the idea of this story. I'm just the writer.


A story written for a friend by a friend.


The room is quiet. The only sounds emanating within the small space is the nearby chirping of birds coming from the open window. The soft scratching of a pencil on paper does little to break the heavy silence along with the occasional light strumming of an acoustic guitar. The gentle notes are sweet and comforting, but the air is thick with a tension so sharp it could pop a balloon on touch.

Just walking into the room could send uncomfortable chills running up and down your spine making you want to retreat as soon as possible.

"You're muttering again," a smooth melodic voice mutters from somewhere nearby sounding indifferent and annoyed. It's mostly because it is already the fourth time she's said this in the past hour, "Seriously," she continues with a heavy sigh, chocolate brown eyes never leaving the withered pages of her book, "If you can't think of anything to write right now you should take a break and work on it later."

I huff, loud enough for her to hear me, as I try not to snap back at her knowing well that once I open my mouth nothing good is bound to lead from there. Instead I take in a deep breath and gently put down my pencil and paper onto the nearby coffee table before un-strapping my guitar and placing it down in its case.

Once my things are out of my hands, I rub my face, clearly exhausted, as I then look around the small cluttered room we use as a makeshift library, office, and music room. Bookshelves encompass most of the walls reaching from the floor all the way to the ceiling and filled to the brim with old musty books. The parts of the wall near the door that aren't covered with bookshelves are obscured with picture frames and various paintings that serve as a reminder of our past.

A small wooden desk, that hardly any of us use, sits at the far back of the room in front of the large bay window with papers scattered all over it. A few armchairs, where we are sitting, are placed in front of the desk with a small coffee table between us with my collection of guitars and baby-grand piano sitting on the outskirts of the crowded room.

Looking at the mess, as I usually tend to do while thinking, I realize how hard it is sometimes to move around. You probably can't go more than two feet without stubbing your toe on something or knocking papers over, and yet we hardly ever tend to leave this room.

"We should really get a bigger room," I sigh while leaning back into my chair feeling what little energy I had completely evaporate, "This room has gotten too crowded. It's hard to think when there's so much mess smothering me." It isn't long for me to realize that I'd regret, once again, opening my fat mouth.

"You do know that more than seventy-five percent of this mess is yours, right?" she asks, her chocolate eyes glaring at me from under long curling lashes, "If you took the time to clean it up or even try and remodel it you wouldn't have to complain about the space, now would you?" Her question is dry and her eyes cold. I'm more than relieved when she turns her angry gaze back on her book showing that she doesn't want to continue the argument.

Biting my tongue to keep me from saying something stupid, I look over the wall at the very first picture we ever took together. It had been around the year 1843, three years after the first actual self-photograph had been taken. It had been such a big deal back then with people from all over the continent, including us, heading toward France to go see the strange new contraption that created an image that did not require a painter, but now it was simply an old memory and a faded picture that has surprisingly never disintegrated no matter how many years have already passed. If you were to go out on the street and talk about a picture, much less a camera, you'd probably get strange looks from the passing people.

How times have changed.

Tearing my eyes away from the old photograph, I seek out my fuming wife who is sitting across from me reading. Her hands are clutching her worn down book with the missing spine and yellowed down pages as if she is afraid that someone might come and snatch it out of her delicate hands. Her long sun-kissed hair is tied in two side pony tails that cascade down her thin shoulders in golden waves.

Her clear skin glows under the dim lighting of the room and her eyes, which still hold a childish glint to them no matter how much time passes, linger on the fading words of her book. Slight angry lines scrunch up around her eyebrows showing her annoyance and I know well that it's my fault that they're there in the first place. If I were to say something, no matter how innocent it may be, I'm sure she'd snap and bite my head off within seconds.

We've been like that for a while now. The tension between us is always uncomfortable and occasionally we'll bicker with each other until one of us leaves the room in an angry rampage. It usually begins with one of us saying the first thing to get the other one angry making it near impossible to be in the same room for more than a short while.

At times we get tired of each other's presence and the bickering can sometimes even lead to shouting leaving us both dead tired by the end of the day. I guess being married with the same person for millions of years can get pretty tiring, but no matter how much we fight we always end up finding a way to stay together and make amends with one another. I suppose that's the beauty of marriage. No matter how annoyed you are with each other you can never seem to ever stop loving one another.

"Lucy," I whisper, feeling the rush of her name fill me like the first breath of life just like it had the very first time I ever uttered her name. She's owned many names in her lifetime, as have I, and no matter which name she chooses when we restart our life Lucy has always been the name that excites me the most. It was her first name, a name I had given her do to the resemblance her hair had to the sun. Even now, watching her, she glows as brightly as the first day we met.

"What," she asks, her voice steely and eyes still glued to her book.

"I love you," I murmur with all the sincerity of my heart.

Her eyes snap up away from her book and she stares at me seeming to scrutinize my comment before her eyes begin to soften a bit. After a few seconds of silence she closes her book with a heavy sigh and places it down on the coffee table while rolling her gorgeous eyes, "You're an idiot," she mutters while standing up and making her way towards me.

I open my arms in a warm welcome as she settles down on my lap by wrapping her thin arms around my shoulders and tucking in her knees so that I can cradle her in my arms. I hug her close to me enjoying the way her head fits perfectly at the crook of my neck and how her slender body just molds itself along my own.

She sighs again, sounding awfully tired as she murmurs, "You're such a dummy," sounding stern like a scolding parent. I duck my head in shame making her giggle and I swear it's like bells in Christmas. Its music to my ears that make my heart flutter as fast as hummingbird wings, even when she places a soft kiss on my warm cheek, "But you're my dummy and I love you that way."

After giving me another kiss she snuggles closer to me and within seconds I can hear her breathing slow down making it a clear sign that she is asleep. I hug her closer, as close as I can, feeling that sense of fear I've felt many times before. It's a fear that overtakes every inch of my body and mind filling me with anxiety and dread with the thought that I might one day lose her. I'm not afraid to admit that I am terrified of such a fate of losing her and even when there are idiotic times when I wish I could leave and start somewhere new I can't ever bear the idea of actually being separated from her.

Not once in the millions of years that we've been together have we ever been apart for more than a day or two. Not even when war and famine broke out forcing us to join the ever changing world we swore to never meddle in. Hours were the only absence between us from when the sun rose to when it descended. It also didn't matter how far away we were from one another because by the end of the day we'd always head back to each other no matter how much our higher ups would threaten our lives. We knew that there was nothing more important in this world than for us to stay together.

Looking down at Lucy, I brush a strand of hair behind her ear when a dreadful thought blooms in my head like a poisonous plant. Through the poison I hear distressing screams and see the room painted red in thick crimson blood bathing everything it touches, including my shaking hands. I close my eyes quickly and when I open them again the image is gone leaving the room back to its original state with my wife sleeping soundly in my arms. My mouth is dry and perspiration has already begun to form around my face from the fear that always comes with that horrendous memory.

My eyes burn with oncoming tears, but I blink them away for fear that Lucy might wake up and see me this way. She'll ask what's wrong, like many times before, and I'll evade the question so that she herself won't remember those dreadful times.

Even though I'm shaken from that horrible memory, I can't help but feel relieved that that's all it is, a stupid memory. None of that nightmare matters because in the end we're both safe, wrapped in each other's comforting arms protecting one another from the savage world outside our peaceful bubble. This is how we've always been even when we witnessed our first storm, the first raid of our once peaceful village, when we were caught and turned into slaves along with the two greatest wars with world has ever seen. In countless situations we've been wrapped in each other's arms and this is how I want it to always be, within each other's arms until the day comes when our creator, whoever he may be, decides to take us back from whence we came from.

Wherever that may be it doesn't matter to me, as long as I have the light of my life by my side.

As long as I always have Lucy.


{Take my hand and we'll make it – I swear}

– Best of Bon Jovi – Jon Bon Jovi


I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of my new story which is based on a dream my friend had almost a year ago and I've been working on the blueprints to this story since he told me his dream. I literally bawled my eyes out for months after my friend told me about his dream and because I have such a wonderful mind and I like torturing my readers (those who've read Another understand what I mean) I decided to write the dream into a whole story with him because it's just something that the whole world should know.

Fair warning, so that you won't chase me with pitchforks later and screaming that I didn't warn you, this story will be a pulls-your-heart-out-of-your-chest-smashes-it-into-a-thousand-pieces-and-shoves-broken-shards-back-into-your-chest kind of story. There will be happy, fluffy, romantic moments, but there will also be pulls-your-heart-out-of-your-chest-smashes-it-into-a-thousand-pieces-and-shoves-broken-shards-back-into-your-chest moments, but that's what makes this story beautiful.

Also this story may end up being an M rated story due to some graphic content later on upon request of the owner of the idea of the story, but there will be no smut, just hints of lemon. This is just a precaution I'm taking just in case something inappropriate for younger readers comes out so look out for that.

You've been warned.

Also, check out my other new story Setting the Stars On Fire and my recently finished story Another if you so desire.

Anywho, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and hopefully I've caught your interest to keep on reading this story.

Until next time my lovely readers.