A/N: Well here's your epic chapter, that's... probably not that epic. Whoopsie...

Chapter IV

Maka's glaring eyes haven't left the direction of where small hiccups and loud sniffles are coming from. One hand is still holding onto her blood soaked coat, pressing it firmly against the wound that had spontaneously erupted through the boy's shoulder blade while the other grips the boy's thin arm. Though her grip is firm, she feels herself trembling, her mouth is pressed in a tight line as she struggles to somehow pierce through the darkness and look upon her captive's face. There is still anger and rage fuming in her, boiling, but despite the situation she knows she can't leave him like this. She can feel the sticky liquid bleed through the thick fabric and spread into the tips and palm of her dirtied white gloves. No matter how much she wants to, no matter how much or how hot her own blood bubbles in a blinding rage, something is telling her not to forsake the boy.

Why?

The questioning word crosses through her mind before she even thinks about it. She blinks at the silent word, calculating; thinking and wondering. Why can't she leave him like this? She could have very easily pushed him aside and be outside and on her way back home. She could be free, she could get away from this horrible, wretched place. She could very well be waiting outside Soul's door, waiting for him to heal and be well again. She would be safe. Instead, she's still sitting next to him, the Swordsman, the one who struck her friend with one fluid stroke of the Demon Sword. Cold and merciless, almost as if he was blinded to what he was doing. It wouldn't surprise her if he was also the one who kidnapped her, but of that she can't be certain yet. The point is she's helping him, and for what, because he helped her? Because he stopped that mind numbing, awful pain twisting in her gut? She wondered, was it perhaps guilt that made her stop? The thought makes her grit her teeth and further tighten her hold on both her coat and his arm, but he doesn't seem to notice and she almost doesn't seem to care. She hears him whimper softly, his hands slowly rising to try and hold his arms, probably trying to bear the pain he feels from his injury. The tips of his fingers faintly press into her gloved hand and she gasps. Even through cloth, tattered and worn, she can feel his frosty, cold skin pierce through and chill her. He was hurting alot.

He was still crying softly, his body still shook and trembled and though he was quiet, or at least trying to be, she could hear him clearly. His soft voice echoed and bounced off the cramped space. A curious sound left her as she decided to take notice of his frame to distract from her begrudging and mournful thoughts. From what she remembered, he was awfully slim and frail-looking. At just a glance, he didn't look like much. Her eyes drifted from where she thought his head was to where her hand was, on his arm. They softened, almost looking sorrowful by the way her eyebrows furrowed and how her pursed lips moved to make a small, disapproving frown.

A grimace distorts her face as she recalls the events of that crippling fight; looks were horribly decieving.

She grunts, shoving her shoulder as if shoving away some nagging person talking in her ear.

The movement, however, disturbs the wound and Crona lets out a small yelp, cowering away from her suddenly painful grip and threatening movements. An apology escapes her before she can stop herself which makes the boy calm down a little and ease back against the saturated cloth. Maka sighs, her head is throbbing and still feels a little feverish. Her mouth felt dry and her throat constricted painfully when she swallowed. Her head throbbed and a wave of dizziness jarred her, making her sway a little, to and fro. Her strength was starting to leave her again. Great, now how was she supposed to escape?

"Hey..." she calls and Crona flinches at her seemingly loud and hoarse voice. "How did this happen?" She doesn't want to say she's worried about him, but she still has no idea how it happened. Injuries just don't make themselves out of thin air. Besides, it doesn't look like she'll be getting out anytime soon with the way things are and she'd much rather stay awake.

Crona doesn't say anything at first, he doesn't even turn his head in her direction, but he does look at her through the corner of his eye. Wide, pained and almost mad looking, he watches her, waiting and breathes ever so carefully as he tries to gauge what she's planning to do. What she wants and why she even wants to know how this happened. She can't do anything about this, no one can. It's his blood, his life and his curse. His eyes dart around, confused. He shifts a little uncomfortably as a puff of air leaves him in a small, childish huff.

Why does she want to know? Or more importantly, why does it matter? It didn't matter to him and it's his own body!

He whimpers as he tries to speak, his shoulders quivering doing nothing to ease the pain. "Uh... T-the b-blood..." he stutters and fumbles over his voice until another wave pain makes him tense and close in on himself. The nausea and throbs caused by his wound and panic make it seem like his own body is punishing him for speaking and he recoils away from her. He stammers as he turns his head and attempts to pull away. "I-I don't k-know..." he quickly says, eyes terrified and mouth watering in a very unpleasant way as he swallows nervously.

Maka raises a confused, irritated eyebrow. "You don't know how this happened?"

Crona groans and makes an uncertain sound. He can feel her eyes on him and he isn't sure he likes it.

"Come here." She pulls on his arm. He had pulled away from the pressure she held with her coat, so she tries to bring him back so she can cover it back up. He hisses at the contact, her fingers firmly gripping onto his back as she tries to stop the blood flow, but it isn't working. Her coat, soaked with so much blood now feels heavy and is actually starting to hurt her hand and wrist from her holding it in place for some time. "I guess it doesn't really matter..." she mutters under her breath.

"Okay then," she looks back at his arm. He's shaking so much, if she could she would check his forehead, but she doesn't feel safe doing that. It sounds like he's having enough trouble talking and letting her help at all. He keeps on wanting to move from her, as if he thinks she'll hurt him. Her eyes squint again, trying in vain to see. She has to calm him down some way, his soul is starting to become alarmingly unstable. "Then will you talk with me?"

Crona looks at her, confused. Maka takes his momentary silence as a 'go ahead'. "Why is it so dark here?" she asks while rubbing her hand up and down his arm, trying to calm his nerves. "You said before that this is your room and it's always dark. Why is that?" She softens her voice, hoping that'll make him cooperate.

He doesn't respond for a while. His eyes, weeping silently, are watching her. His mouth is hung open in a sort of awe. He's not sure how to respond.

Maka looks around blindly for a second, trying, still, to find his face and failing. The coat is heavy and her aching hand feels like it's being covered in thick paint. Her eyes dart nervously to where her hand is, covering that gash and she instinctively scoots herself closer. There's so much of it, she can feel it starting to seep through her skirt, making her shudder fearfully. How was it already pooling on the floor? He shouldn't be able to hold himself up at this point, hell he should be unconscious right now. She moves a little more, her hand gripping his arm moving on to his shoulder as she moves the other...

"Ah!" Crona jerks again, his hand coming up to push her away.

"Stop!"

She puts her weight on him, her arm looping in his own, stopping his attempts. "I have to put more weight on it, you can't lose anymore or else you'll die from blood loss!" Crona still struggles. Seriously, it's like she's dealing with a child.

"Just talk to me, okay? It can be like a game."

Crona lifts his head, his eyes shifting from the floor to the walls and back on the floor. "A g-game...?" he mumbles lowly as if the word was foreign and strange.

"Yes a game, I'll ask a question and you answer, simple as that." She's still looking at her hand and hoping she's doing something to at least slow the blood.

He flinches and hisses at her movements, but does nothing else. "C-can I pass if I want?" he whispers, his eyes lifting to stare at her, his sharp watery eyes unreadable, not like she could see him anyway, and his voice neutral.

"Of course. As long as you just talk to me."

Maka's hands are shaking still and her heart rate is beginning to increase. She's so close to him and just as before, back in that church when he had suddenly appeared before her with his face so close to hers, her hair rises and cold sweat beads over the back of her neck. Her limbs jerk only to stiffen painfully, stopping short from retreating. Her instincts are telling her to get away. She couldn't fight him, she couldn't hurt him, he had almost killed Soul.

It's almost like that feeling she got when they were all fooled into fighting Professor Stein, that horrible feeling of hopelessness. That moment where they were sure to lose. She dared even considered to feel fear. Fear, because there are so many things this boy could do to her, his blood allowed him that and with so much of it seeping out of him...

Well, there was just no way for her to tell if it would act up and move. His very blood was alive, it talked and moved even if it was separated from the main source. Like it or not, Maka was in a very dangerous situation, if she persisted on helping him, she risked getting hurt. She could be stabbed and with a small puddle leisurely making its way underneath her body...

She gulped nervously. 'If he could, he would've already done it.' she reasons with herself. Steeling her resolve, she returns her blind gaze over to Crona's direction. "W-why do you stay in this dark room?"

"Pass."

It was automatic, mechanical, his voice saying it without him noticing or even thinking about it. Maka didn't seemed put off by it though, he's talking and that's all that matters right now. She continued adding pressure to the wound and resumed with the next random question that popped in her head.

"Why are you so skinny?"

"Pass."

"Why is your blood black?"

"Pass."

"Does it hurt?"

"Pass."

"Does it bother you?"

"Pass."

"How old are you?"

"Pass."

"Are you younger than me?"

"Pass."

"Older than me?"

"Pass."

Maka sighs, slowly relaxing as she now has a firm hold of the injury. Her fingers move around the edges, finding that the flow was not as fast as before as it began to dry a bit. She didn't seem to mind that he continually passed and avoided her questions, but it was still a bit annoying.

"Do you live alone?" she continued.

Crona froze, his breathing hitching and it didn't go unnoticed from the girl. She blinked and waited, her confused eyes still straining to picture his face.

"P-pass..." he murmured quietly.

She took that as a 'yes' and though she would like to hear who, she thought it better, and smarter, not to pry too deep. 'Maybe it was that witch...' she ponders, shuddering at the memory of feeling a real Witch's soul. He was still shaking a little, but he was calming down somewhat. She at least hoped he was just calming down. He wasn't fighting anymore.

"Do you have friends?"

"Pass."

His voice was composed again, monotone.

She tended to the wound, her other hand reaching to feel around at the cloth. She felt the tears, stretched and jagged from being pulled and drenched in the sickly liquid.

Then it came to her. She wasn't sure she caught his name yet.

"Hey," she called softly, her fingers still playing with the torn fabric of his clothes. A small little "Hm?" was all she got and she barely even heard it.

"What's your name?"

Crona turned his head, his expression still hidden in the darkness, but he felt safer looking away from her. His tears were starting to dry up, the trails feeling cold on his cheeks. "M-my name?" he asked. A short dizzy spell makes him wobble a little, but Maka's hand catches and steadies him.

"Are you okay?"

The boy feels his mouth water. Swallowing it down, he feels his stomach tense as he ponders over her question. "M-my... n-name..."

"Hey." she grips his shoulder and tries to make him face her, but she can't let go of her coat. "What's wrong?" Her fingers find his chin and she tries to make him face her.

His eyes swirl to meet her own frantic ones. When he meets her worried gaze, he flinches. His body stiffens when he notices her hands touching him, a foreboding sensation overcomes him. He feels he must get away from her, but he's not sure why. The pain flaring at his back intensifies a little and he groans, nausea churning his stomach. He can't look at her anymore, his breathing begins to get ragged as he looks around nervously.

Crona swallows again, his mouth trembling as another merciless wave of nausea makes his head spin. He hears her call out, but all he wants is to go and sit against a corner. His trembling, cold and clammy hands try to break away from her, but he feels so weak. The strength he held not long ago is drained, his hands can't even muster enough force to push her away. That disgusting sensation of one mere seconds away from vomiting overcomes him and he can do nothing but rely on this girl to hold him up.

Maka pulls his face closer, biting off her glove and touching his face. Her eyes narrow at the cold sweat that's dripping from him, and despite the impenetrable darkness she could easily guess his face being pale.

'He's lost too much!'

He suddenly feels hot and a very, very uncomfortable sensation washes over him. It's familiar, but he's so disoriented that he can't quite name it. He feels Maka begin to pull the fabric away, her coat, but he notes the way she's moving so slowly. His vision is getting bad, but he can still see parts of her clearly. It looks like she's trying to move him, but it's like time is beginning to slow down everything except for him.

It's almost like watching someone getting hit at full force by a frieght train.

Like water freezing by the breath of winter's presence, his blood stiffens and collects from its liquidy substance. In less than a second it pierces through the coat and digs deeply into Maka's hand and partly in her arm.

Even he feels the hardening of his blood vessels painfully prick and break more of his irritated and torn flesh. He gasps quietly, but stays motionless as all the blood that had been leaking away from him now solidifies and forms itself into long spears of black.

Just as fast as it had struck her, Maka tears her hand away, abandoning the coat with a startled and pained shriek. Still, she is too slow. Amongst all the spears, a flood of blood lashes out, a large hand grabs her throat and her head becomes jarred and confused as the hand pulls her back. Her forehead collides painfully against something made of bone making her cry out.

The force of moving blood makes Crona dizzy, but he miraculously keeps himself from slumping forward.

For a moment, Maka remains still, her mind still trying to figure out what was happening. Her breath hitches suddenly and her eyes are wide with unknown fear. There's something crawling from her neck, seeping out of the hand that constricts over her throat, and trailing up, over her jaw and on her cheeks. More of it trails down into her clothes crawling over her skin, smooth and warm and it scares her. Channels of what feels like tendrils of liquid expand more and more over her body and her clothes at an unbearable slow rate. The light, almost gentle flow of whatever is touching her moves along unhurried, awaking all the nerves to prick and pull at her skin. They're moving everywhere, under and over cloth and then slipping through gaps to touch and trail her bare flesh. Creating a map of their own blood stream over her skin.

It's both cold and warm, making her skin crawl and her pulse quicken. Whatever it is, Maka feels it's somewhat akin to hovering over a bear trap. Both her hands grab and claw at the shackled wrist of the abomination now staring angrily at her.

She can't see it, but oh, how heavy that glare holds her frightened stare, as if directing her own eyes exactly where they should look at; right into the bulging X-shaped pupils glowering hatefully into emerald depths.

It's silent for a moment. That small moment, that second where nothing but silence and terror reigned over that small cramped room was a moment Maka wished she never knew. Nothing but that thickening blood is moving. Maka's breath is caught in her throat and not a muscle dares to move. Claw-like fingers tighten and prick at her throat through thick gloves and she lets out a strangled sound, her mouth opening hopelessly as the creature just chokes her, slowly.

Only his head is sticking out from the center of Crona's back and his arm is coming out from the wound. Physically, it's impossible for him to sweat, but if he could, he'd be in no better shape than his host. His blood is still hardening over the surface and keeping more from bleeding out. The strange liquid working its way into replenishing the lost cells and accelerating the healing process. Whatever hold he has on the blood that's still fresh, he slowly brings back. The spears sticking out and cutting at Maka stays, poking and prodding into her legs and torso painfully. One has already pierced through her shoulder from his appearance, but the pain hasn't registered on her face as their gazes remain locked, stopping her struggle momentarily.

Not a gust of breath hits her as he speaks, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The blood crawling over and under clothes makes her squirm, moving and flowing to tease at her flesh, but nothing more. Her hands tighten over his wrist and even through there, more little trails of blood crawl over and up her arms. It's warm, wet and sticky.

"I was trying to help your Meister." she growls through clenched teeth. His hand grips tighter and the blood dancing over her does the same, making her cry out in alarm. She is literally in his hands, one little push and her body will be pierced with holes.

"Help?" he asks, almost sounding appalled. "You think we need your help?" The tense room seems to rumble with his dry laughter. "You're pretty stupid to think that."

Maka gasps, she can't find her voice. A strangled, panicked sound escapes her as Ragnarok chokes her. She scratches at his hand frantically. "Listen up, girlie. We don't need you or your help. But..." His pause makes her freeze as an odd slurping sound reaches her ears.

A large puff of warm air wafted around her, a metallic smell violating her nose. "If you insist on helping so much..."

His tongue rolls out of his gaping mouth to lick the side of her face and a partial part of her front. "You could let me eat your soul." he murmurs.

The creature laughs at her disgusted response, watching as she tried in vain to pull away from him, grunting and gasping from the effort. He tightens his hold again, strangling her voice and pulling her closer. The spear of blood pulls out, it missed the bone and was relatively small, but it didn't stop the girl from grunting at the pain it left with the gaping hole.

"How long do you think you'll last before you rot away in here, girl?"

Maka shivered as his tongue slowly slithered away from her, the tip flicking upwards at her cheek as he closes his mouth. The thick film of drool dripping from her makes her want to gag, the force of his painful grip being the only thing restraining her from doing so. She gasped longingly for breath, his hold hurt, but it still allowed some air to pass into her desperate lungs.

Ragnarok grumbles but is sounds like a demonic growl with how low and harsh it is. He's still hurting, still healing, and here is a soul, live and ripe for picking. And he's not allowed to eat it. His eyes roll over to glare at his Meister. "What a waste, Crona..." he growls at the boy still trying to recover from his appearance. He grunts, indifferent to his Meister's pain.

The blood running all over her body rushes through her skin, she squirms and whimpers when she feels the body of those tendrils spike. "It's be so easy..." he continues, his eyes staring straight at her chest. The warm substance slowly turns cold and hard. His teeth are bared and gritting together in a horrifying grimace. He can practically feel her soul fluttering in her, as loud and pitiful as the heart that beats frantically beneath her breast. He drools, hungry and spiteful.

"You want to get out of here?" he asks suddenly. "Do you?" he prodded, Maka was sure he was smiling, despite being unable to see. If she were granted sight, she'd be able to see Ragnarok look over at the exit, his face smirking with mirth. "The door's unlocked you know. It's always unlocked and you can just waltz right on outta here."

Ragnarok lets go, the trails of flowing blood pulls back, rushing through her with a subtle whoosh of air. She sucks in a mouthful of air as she falls, only to cough and suck in more. He's still smiling as he slowly retreats back into Crona's trembling body bringing the rest of the blood with him to heal.

"If you really want to, you can." he added as he closed up the wound, using the blood to bring Crona's skin back together.

Maka coughs, hugging herself as she curls into a fetal position. She could feel her eyes blur with her throbbing head as she tries to stay awake. Panting, she forces herself to get up using her right arm, the one that hadn't been hurt, and lets the other hang limp on her side.

"You... bastard..." she growled lowly.

Crona remained silent throughout the whole encounter. He had fallen to his knees, his breathing quiet but ragged as he tried to endure the pain. Ragnarok had finally stopped and closed the wound, but it still hurt like hell whenever he came out. He was being particularly cruel this time around, sharpening his blood so fine, it felt like the tips of pin needles were crawling through his body. It wouldn't matter if he did a little damage, he would patch it back up.

"I... t-told you..." he murmurs to his partner, because he doesn't know how to confront the girl. Maka looked to where his shaking voice came from. "Y-you're not suppose to come out..." She hears his breathing pick up rapidly. There was a dry heaving sound as Crona gagged. She flinched at the painful sound, but did nothing else. She didn't feel that she could get back up on her feet just yet. She hears him retching more, but nothing is coming out, only an excessive amount of saliva dripping uselessly onto the ground.

It's disgusting to hear this sound being pulled from him. It's pathetic, tortured, hopeless and incredibly sad. He's gasping in an effort to calm himself, his whimpers trembling. This boy is different from his weapon. With what little strength she has left, she focuses on his soul, solely on his.

"Small..." she mumbles and she is right. Crona's soul almost isn't there at all. "Hey..." she calls weakly, her throat aches.

Crona doesn't turn his head, but he's at least calmed down enough to hear her.

Maka only stares in the direction she believes he's in. Her breathing begins to slow as the light, fluttering image of his soul blurs along with her sight. She's angry at this boy. He's nothing like his weapon at all, he isn't looking to take her soul, not at all. In fact he doesn't even want to be near her and she in turn, doesn't want to be near him. But here they are, stuck in a room together and practically being tortured to death.

What angers Maka the most, however, is the fact that he doesn't seem to have a problem with it. He complains a little, but he's still here in this room, unquestioning. Unaffected by the darkness and acting as if it was normal to be here like a caged animal.

Her eyes narrow in defiance and anger.

No, this was worse than an animal. With nothing here but darkness, it was like he was just a monster. Maka falls, her arms landing limply in front of her, her head sounding a dull thud. She continues to stare past heavy eyelids, glaring weakly.

If only she could see him as a monster, but he confuses her. Not wanting to kill her, not wanting to talk nor touch or socialize in any way; it's almost like he doesn't want to deal with anything. If he were like his partner, she'd wouldn't even lift a finger to help him, she'd have been home free...

Or lying dead.

"Y... y-you haven't told me... your n-name..." Her eyes can no longer stay open and she sighs. Against her will, her consciousness succumbs to her exhaustion.

Crona only falls back and brings up his knees, wiping his dirtied face with the back of his hand. His back is still throbbing, an unbearable heat spreading throughout his body and he shivers. He still feels sick, but he forces himself to keep from gagging again, his stomach is cramping from all the strain of it. He finally allows his tired eyes to look at the girl, her question echoing in his mind.

Despite the rawness and irritation the gash on his back brings he leans against the wall. He sighs, tucking his head into his arms as he silently watches her, his eyes haunting and dull. He doesn't feel sleepy. His back hurts, his stomach and head also ache, but sleep... He doesn't feel like he can. Not with her here. Not with her blood slowly seeping out of her shoulder and mingling with the black. He stares at it.

It's red.

Bright red, lively, healthy red like everyone else. He can't help but look, can't help that gnawing feeling he feels deep in his chest. His hand uncurls over his knee and lightly touches what little blood has dripped onto the floor. It's sticky like his own, but lighter, harmless.

How many times has someone else's blood splattered all over him? Drenching his clothes and staining his face when they've tried to flee or jump away, how many times has he felt that light liquid? Light and thin like water, bright and alarmingly beautiful; the red hue always shining be in day or moonlight. He rubs his fingers together, feeling it mesh around and paint his skin.

His blood isn't like that, it's not bright. It's wet and warm, but thicker and it gets colder and colder the more it becomes exposed to air. It hurts when it hardens and holds his insides where they should be, not like hers. He trails back to her wound, his index and thumb closed together. Her blood is still flowing, warm and cooling, but not hardening and not healing. He wonders then as he grabs her fallen coat, what would it be like if he had blood that wasn't black?

He entertains the thought as he tightly binds the dirtied fabric over her shoulder.