Title: The Hour
Author: RanMouri82
Disclaimer: Death Note is owned by Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi, whose names rhyme so much better than mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Episode 25
Characters: L (Ryuzaki) and Light
Notes: As that hour looms close, the bell's toll shakes my very bones. [Originally published on LiveJournal 5/4/2008.]

The Hour

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls.

"Hmmn. Who wrote that?" I mumble. A tiny raindrop falls on my cracked lips, enough to moisten but not enough to drink. Not that I have long to wait, because a shushing sound swirls in the darkness here on the roof. It rises to drown all noises, except one, from the massive city below and isolates this artificial mountain peak. At such a time in my life as this, forgetting who wrote "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls" is more than a little embarrassing.

Then again, if I go by the strict definition, someone else would have to be here to embarrass me, right?

Ah, there it is again. That heavy dong, dong, dong is rather close. It's ringing in my ears, insistent like a child crying for attention. I'd say, "Alright, already. I hear you," if that would make it stop, but I doubt saying that would do anything but make it ring louder.

I wonder what it's like to die. Bending over, I stare at my feet on the ground. Droplets surround them, like tears, but I'm not crying. Maybe I forgot how somewhere along the way. No, I realized it does nothing but drain you.

Suddenly, a presence—that presence—comes toward me, just off to the side behind the door. Must be nice and warm in there, but a desire swells inside me to stay longer and hear the bell. I'm not sure why.

Light says something. Never send— The rain's become so loud I can't hear anything except it and the bell. Cupping my ear, I prod him to speak up over the rain, the noisy bell, my thoughts, the bump, bump, da-bump of my—

Of course he can't speak loud enough to let me hear him over all that. Not even Kira could manage that one, I suppose. So instead, he steps out into the rain with me. It's nice to have a little company right now, and ironically, he might be the only person who can understand my predicament.

Funny. I didn't notice how badly the rain permeated my clothes until he stepped outside and let the rain soak him, too.

"What are you doing, Ryuzaki?" Light says with a deep frown, not a little annoyed at getting drenched for my sake. Or now that I think about it, for his.

There's no point in trying to hide the truth. "Oh, I'm not doing anything in particular, it's just—I hear the bell."

"The bell?"

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It would've been nice to buy a quote book when I had the chance; from now on, I won't have a free moment to do so much as an Internet search, and I have no desire to ask Light, who can't hear the bell at all. Hindsight is 20-20. I'm sure it's a line from a poem or essay about the interconnectedness of man, but the name of the author escapes me. "Really? You can't hear it? It's been ringing nonstop all day. I find it very distracting. I wonder if it's a church, maybe a wedding, or perhaps—"

. . . It tolls for thee.

Oh, right, that's how it ends.

For a moment, Light strains his ear into the wind. "What are you getting at, Ryuzaki? Cut it out, let's get back inside."

I sigh. "I'm sorry. Nothing I say makes any sense anyway. If I were you, I wouldn't believe any of it."

In fact, I'm sure I wouldn't believe a single word. From as far back as I can remember, I explored the land beyond the looking glass, full of mad hatters and logic-twisting twins. And yet, there's always been truth beneath the tangle. It rings in my eardrums. Light fairly concludes that taking me seriously would cause him no end of trouble, and I agree. Alice always did harass the red queen. "But," I reply, "I could say the same about you."

That makes him pause. I hear him rack through his mental filing cabinets. Let me see if he's got a file on this.

"Tell me, Light, from the moment you were born, have you ever told the truth?"

Dead silence falls.

Light starts, then glares at me. He clenches his fists for a second, then eases his fingers down and formulates a response he knows will work; in essence, "Everybody lies, so no one can be expected to always tell the truth." His so-called ignorant masses would accept that, I suppose, even though he knows I won't. Still, he never answers my real question. He takes "Have you ever told the truth?" to mean "Have you ever lied?" and answers that instead. On top of that, he's lying to me again, but not entirely. Just a little.

I can't blame him too much. If he's never been straightforward up to this point, why start now?

His words echo beneath the roof's grate, falling into the gap between us. That's when I see it in his eyes again, not in his pupils exactly, but just behind them: a flash of red. This red light behind his eyes starts to pulse with every toll of that bell. It pulses with pure hate.

That blood-red blackness will suck me in and destroy me like a black hole destroys everything that draws near. But wasn't that what I swore I would do from the beginning? Yes and no. I only swore, as he did, to dismantle his thoughts and actions and destroy him first. But in this last hour—do I have an hour?—I'm aware of a far greater longing.

I want to reach him. If I do, maybe the price I'm paying won't seem so high.

The rain keeps pouring, sinking into my skin. I don't mind the feeling, though my fingertips and toes are beginning to prune. It's the growing numbness I mind. My lips are puffed with water now, but not trembling, and I lick them. They taste sour.

That's when I realize Light is still staring. Water spills over his shoes, and it occurs to me that he must be twice as soaked. Away from this rooftop, I know it's much warmer and drier, even though its doorway opens into a tomb. At any rate, there's no avoiding it, so I say, "Let's go back inside."

He goes his way and I go mine—at first. Meeting him on the stairwell a few minutes later with a towel draped over my head, I have to admit, "Well, that was certainly an unpleasant outing."

In a puddle by his side are his shoes. Painstakingly rubbing his head dry, he says, "It's your own fault. I mean, what did you expect?"

I apologize. Though I say nothing about it, many troubles could've been prevented if Light had only resisted the allure of that notebook.

As he stretches and dabs at his saturated shirt, I catch a glimpse of how the rain glistens on him. My skin is far too pale and the rest too dark to strike such a profile, though that's never bothered me. But he, disgruntled as he is, manages to veil himself with absolute serenity. The moment he was born, his father and mother must have looked on him and believed with every fiber of their being that they were cradling an angel.

This reminds me of one of my earliest instructions. "Take care never to confuse beauty with goodness. The devil himself was once beautiful and can still appear as an angel of light."

How true that is.

The bell throbs in my head and shakes my bones to their core. Quickly, I shake it off and amble toward Light. I can't forget that he will live past this hour and, with a little more exposure, he could catch cold. So I do what anyone in my position would do and, crouching low, I reach for his foot.

He recoils. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I might help you out. You were busy wiping yourself off, anyway," I explain. With my free towel, I could offer him some warmth. "I could give you a massage as well. It's the least I could do to atone for my sins." Besides, the bell won't stop ringing. Maybe it'll let me be for awhile. I add, "I'm actually pretty good at this."

He scowls. As his enigma, I must really be beginning to piss him off. "Fine, do what you want."

So I start by digging my thumb into his arch.

It's too vigorous for his taste, and he immediately jerks back. "Hey!"

"You'll get used to it," I reply, though I do make sure to go a little easier on him. After another minute I feel his muscles begin to ease, but never fully relax. This may be a tacky observation, but he could be suffering from overwork and stress. The same could be said for me and then some, but I carry my tension in my shoulders.

What is this for? Not the foot rubbing, though I must say something pleased me about his reaction. Not what I'm about to do—or endure. Not even my work. My whole life.

Never send to know . . . It tolls for thee.

While I'm doing this, rainwater seeps through my hair and clouds my vision. Two lonely drops drip onto Light's foot. More tears I don't cry.

He doesn't jump this time. Instead, he leans closer with his towel and wipes my forehead with the air of a beneficent lord. The towel scrapes my skin. My sight clears a bit, but I dare not move an inch or look at him. There is something about his touch that's deadly, and it saddens me. I weakly mumble another apology.

Though I was set on this path by my parentless status and my capacity for all the rigorous studies and training, in a deeper way I chose this path. Even now, I could turn aside from it. Light seems more comfortable now that I'm not dripping on him. It would be so easy. Right now, I could say the word, tell him I quit. He can go ahead and be the god of his utopia, he can kill as many people as he wants, and I will accept his lordship as long as he lets me live. Would he believe me? Would he still kill me? Probably. He can be just that paranoid.

"It'll be lonely, won't it?" I ask, wishing his feet would take longer to dry. The game we've been playing is almost over. Check, then checkmate. It's my final move, but I've already lost. And his is a soul beyond saving, isn't it? Still, I ask.

"Hmm?" Light asks in return.

What is this for? It's my last chance to ask this question, and in the stale air, I hear an answer.

Justice.

In Latin, justitia, meaning "righteousness, equity", from justus, meaning "upright, just". According to Merriam-Webster's Dictionary of Law, first "the quality of being just, impartial, or fair", second "the administration of law". So "administration of the law" comes second.

My answer. No matter how hard I work for justice, I myself am not justice. The damp foot of my killer rests in my hands, but we are both weak. I will die. So will he. Justice cannot.

"You and I will be parting ways soon," I tell my best friend and worst enemy. Remember my face, Light. Remember my voice telling you this. This is also . . . .

My knees shake from where I'm crouched on the stairs, but thankfully, he doesn't notice. The sour flavor in my mouth turns bittersweet. He and his grand delusion will be stopped someday, not by me, but because of me. And that is enough.

When my cell phone rings, I rise with my remaining strength and turn away, leaving Light gaping at me, confused and overly suspicious. Taking the call, it turns out that my phone might as well have tolled.

. . . for thee.

Hanging up, I remember the source: John Donne's "Meditation XVII".

That helps.

"Come on, let's go, Light," I say, keeping my back to him. My shoulders feel tighter than ever, but my heart is still beating. "It seems like it's all worked out."

He follows me. It's time.

Omake: Death Note Drabbles in Bad Taste

The First: How to Use It

Now, what will happen? Light thought, after scrawling the name of Shibuimaru Takuo for his second test of the Death Note. 40 seconds ticked by, and then as soon as Shibutaku, as he was called, revved his motorcycle, out of nowhere sped a truck—

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—CRASH!

Shibutaku was instant roadkill.

"T-that's impossible!" Light spluttered. Quickly, Light glanced over his written entry in shock. I didn't specify a cause of death, so it should've been a heart attack. Otherwise, the notebook worked perfectly! Why the hell was he run over by a truck?!

Light flipped the notebook closed and reread its title. Then, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and frustration, he tossed the notebook in the garbage and stepped into the night, alone.

"Figures I'd find a Badfic Note."

The Second: How to Abuse It

In the little time Yagami Light had between regular classes and cram school, he shut himself in his room to write as many names as possible in the Death Note. Today, however, a unique distraction was driving Light insane.

He wrote down the name of the next criminal on his Kill List™ and heard it again.

"Mmm, whatcha say," sang a low, raspy female voice, "mmm, that you only meant well—"

Light paused, then finished writing the next name—

"Mmm, whatcha say—"

Then the next—

"Mmm, whatcha—"

Light slammed the notebook on his desk, furious. "Dammit, Ryuk, would you cut that out?"

The shinigami who was splayed on Light's bed looked up, munched another apple, and rewound the Imogen Heap tape in his handheld player. "But I like this song!"

This was my first foray into serious Death Note fanfiction. Back then, I had just watched Episode 25 on [adult swim] but, being certifiable, dared to take on first-person L. That scene touched my heart with a deep, spiritual meaning that would not leave me alone until I wrote this fic. Of course, after all that dark monologue, some crack drabbles were in order. Hope you enjoyed it!