Summary: The action is over, but the remaining followers of Kira still have hope. One devotee, however, has much more than simple prayers to offer her fallen God. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note, blah de blah.
A/N: If you haven't read the manga, this will make no sense to you (might not anyway, on second thought). At the end of the last chapter of the manga, we see a bunch of Kira followers going up a mountain in the middle of the night, with a young woman leading them. Everyone always thinks that she's Misa, though even the authors themselves have said that she's not. Here, I've purposely twisted that scene around to include Misa, so please don't assume this to be canon. (I don't do canon at 4 AM, people.) It's just some weird poetic thing inspired by the Haggard song of the same title.
Speaking of poetry, there's a reference to a famous line from the Aeneid in here, so cookies for whoever recognizes it! :D
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In A Full Moon Procession
They march up the mountain in a moonlight procession, looking like an order of monks in their black hooded robes. On and on they march, led on by the call of the full moon beckoning them to the summit, their path dotted by the candles they hold.
Their line stretches up and up the slope, the strong young ones pushing the sky as the older and slower pilgrims extend their ranks toward the bottom of the winding path. The night stretches along with them, midnight turning to two and three, but still they walk on silently. They have their reasons, every one of them, but none find it necessary to voice them now. Some had seen justice done for wrongs the law had overlooked; some are merely grateful to live in a world with less crime and violence. Others cannot put into words why they feel so strongly; perhaps they had simply been comforted by the presence of a God who responded to man's plight. The results of Kira's actions were not nearly so important as the fact that He had acted – it was certainly more than any traditional god had ever done for them.
Their humanly vessels, heavy laden with unspoken burdens, continue faithfully up the mount like a fleet driven by prosperous winds; a woman leads. She is draped in the simple fineries of a priestess and carries her single candle over her breast, grasping it with both hands as if the flame itself is some fragile sacrifice to the savior she steadfastly holds in her heart.
Their ascent is complete. The woman smiles, kneeling at the top of the mountain as her followers fan out reverently behind her. She sets the white candle on the ground, smiling with a sad hope at the full moon that has been with them all night, unhindered by the clouds and rain that plunder Tokyo below. From their height, it seems as if the sky has not changed at all since they began their nightly journey. She offers up a silent prayer of thanks for these small favors, but does not move from the spot even as the others begin to move, leaving their small offerings all around her and mumbling their little graces before heading back down the mountain again. No one speaks to her; they know that she will remain until they all have finished, until the moon fades away and gives reign to the sun once more. For as long as they have been gathering here, she has always done exactly that. They do not know why this woman, practically still just a girl, is so deeply devoted, but they dare not disturb her meditation with such base curiosity.
When the first tinges of pink enter the sky, she is at last completely alone on the mountain. A tear slides down her cheek, and her hopeful smile fades away. The sun is coming to usher in another new day, to chase away the moon and breathe life into the world again.
It does not matter. This is no longer the world nor the life she desires; today's sunrise only marks this truth more painfully.
Today is Saint Valentine's Day, and it is the first time in many years that she has so lamented its arrival. For Kira was not only her vengeance, her savior, her God incarnate – he was her Light, the unearthly glow of the now fading moon, her guiding beacon in night's darkest shadow.
She rises upon her dainty feet, stepping over the waxen remains of spent candles left lying about on the precipice. She stands with her toes dangling over the edge, looking out at the romantic colors that dance across the sky.
The crisp morning air whirls around her, spinning her loose robes like the folds of a ball gown, and for these last glorious seconds of her life, she is dancing with Him in midair.