Chapter Four: Sacrifice

"Isn't there anything I can do?" he asked, downtrodden, speaking softly, his huge eyes staring resolutely at the floor. "Is there nothing?"

"I'm sorry, L. But we have no effect on the living. Once a person is dead, they drop out of the human frame of existence for good." What about Near? Was he smart enough to handle Kira, and not get himself killed? Near was the only family L had had in those last years of his life, a person he hadn't even known about until the kid was dragged into Wammy's House, crying and screaming and fighting, wanting his mother. Near found out later that his mother had been L's older half-sister; his father's daughter from a previous marriage, and made it his personal goal to bother L as much as possible, trying to get L to play with him and his ever-growing collection of toys. But L had never known that half-sister, had never even heard of her or her death; his father had died beside his mother, never revealing anything about another life.

L had been pretty cold to Near, N, as he coined himself. By the time Near had arrived, L was already involved in police work, and it engulfed most of his time, until, a year after Near's arrival, L left for good. He set up a trust fund for his nephew. Had it been enough? No, it hadn't, because if Kira was not caught, Near would be the next detective to take the case over. He'd let Light kill him; put himself at risk, having too much faith that Light was probably innocent, too much faith that the rest of the team would understand what L's death meant with regard to the Kira case and Light. He'd had . . . too much faith. And now Near was likely to suffer the same fate as he did.

He stood there, lost in thought. The Director began waving his hands at L, his mouth moving silently, fuzzy, irritating, like a fly in someone's peripheral vision. But in the background of L's mind, ideas churned.

"You're wrong," he said at last, looking up to acknowledge this annoying person. "There is a way for me to help."

"Oh? And just what do you think that is?" the man teased, probably thinking L must be a fruitcake. Cake. Mmm.

"Get me some cake!" he ordered the other man, and kicked him in the chest. He sat on top of the altar, knees under chin, thumb against lip, in complete sacrilege, but his eyes wide with excitement. The ghost of a very faint smile formed on his lips, hinting at through amusement.

"Cake?" the man asked weakly, picking himself up. He was confused. What was going on here? Director Hansel Richman was used to bossing people around; he did it a lot, and had done so for a very long time. As a result, he'd gotten very good at being bossy; for example, he knew good and well what looks to put on his face if he wanted to make an underling tremble at having brought him cold coffee, and he had a good vocabulary of threatening words to be used on those he interrogated. But this was something different. This man simply wandered in here, and started demanding cake. And worse still, he seemed to think there was some way to get back to the human world, in spite of the fact that he was dead. Just what was he thinking, anyways? "First, tell me–what are you thinking of?!" the man blurted. Oh god, he'd said first, hadn't he. That implied that this would be followed with cake.

"Shi. Ni. Ga. Mi," L said slowly, haltingly. The dark shadows around his eyes gave this man the willies, so he took off at a brisk pace, and went to check the office fridge to see if they had any left, which they no doubt did.

"Ryuuzaki," he sobbed, gently, into his pillow. He'd awoken just a few seconds before, or perhaps you could say he was still waking up. At any rate his pillow was damp with several hour's worth of tears. He sat up, and looked himself in the mirror. He was the same Light. He had not transformed into something monstrous. He was still fighting for the good of the world, and had simply been doing all that he could to prevent that good from being negated. He allowed himself to cry a little longer–he had to get all this emotion out, and get over it. L had lived the saddest life, and experienced the saddest death, that he could think of: an orphan, murdered by his first and only friend, who deceived him for the entire span of their friendship. And in the end, Light had confessed that he not only admired Misa for her devotion, but that he might very well love her. The look on L's face had been classic disgust, his eyes shading a little darker, and his voice had sounded hostile, fed-up. Those feelings had been his undoing. L had been unable to look at this twist of fate objectively, no doubt. He probably just thought Light was dumping him, that he'd been used for sex. He was too hurt to realize that Light's proclaimed devotion to Misa happened only after Higuchi's death–after the cuffs had come off–and had been followed up by the reappearance of the Kira killings.

That was when Ryuk appeared. Technically, shinigami are supposed to keep watch over the human who has possession of their notebook at all times, but Ryuk was getting less and less consistent with this habit lately. It was all fine, when Light was doing something–particularly when he was killing someone. But watching someone sleep for eight hours straight, that can get pretty dull. And excitement was the reason why Ryuk had come to the human world in the first place. He swept through the window, a curious look plastered to his pale, ghastly face, a monster with golden eyes. The shinigami looked curiously at Light, who was shaking in bed, making small, choking sounds as tears streamed from his closed eyes, partially shielded by his hand. This looked pretty boring. So he left again.

Light had noted his presence, and realized suddenly that he had done no more to L than L had done to himself. He chose his life, not me, Light decided. Yet Light had taken from L the only thing he really ever had: his confidence, his intelligence, his sense of judgment. Light had fucked his body, done everything to him he could think of, and, running out of ways to fuck L, had fucked with his mind. He didn't even understand if on some level it was intentional or not. Had he been punishing L, for ruining what could have been a beautiful union with his incessant desire to know secrets? Yes, that's what he had done, he had dealt justice on L for breaking his heart, before he ever even had a chance to, because he knew that's exactly what he would have done if Light had been revealed as Kira. The way he lived and died . . . was his own fault, and it was a great disappointment. I destroyed him, he thought. I loved him, and then I destroyed him. But he played a hand in destroying himself.

Besides, he would have done the same to me, he decided. If I had been caught, I would be the one dead, and L would be the one crying his eyes out.

He arose, and turned on the hot water tap in the shower. L was dead now, buried ten days ago in a secret funeral only he, Matsuda, and his father had attended. Now it was time to end the grieving process, to get back on his feet and keep remolding the world to suit him. He was already dropping subtle sentences into everyone's ears, whenever he got a chance, which would make him seem like the best choice to replace L. The detectives he worked with would arrive at this conclusion on their own, and in doing so, Light would have control of the police force. He dried his hair and smoothed it out, making sure nothing stuck up oddly. His shirt was neatly pressed, free of wrinkles. Light walked downstairs, but it felt like he was ascending some ladder into the sky, at the top resting the position of God. He had gained the foothold, he had won this game of chess, so brilliantly. He smiled, and greeted his father, Matsuda, Mogi, Ide, and Aizawa, who were back to fill in the gaps left by L and Watari, if only while their jobs with the police force permitted it. Naturally, they would appoint him as L on their own. A warm feeling began to fill Light. This was the true beginning of his new world.

"This is really good!" he shrieked, his mouth full of pink cake with strawberry icing. It was a cake made by the Richman's wife, to celebrate his recent success on a case–a cake that no one but that ditzy blond out front would even try, and she'd wound up practically bouncing off the walls.

Apparently Richman's wife hadn't realized that cake batter (and frosting) come with sugar, and had added some extra. A lot extra. "Your wife has talent. It's a shame she's here in this world, when she could have been a great chef on Earth. Wait, that's a wrong thing to say. If she was a great chef on Earth, I wouldn't be eating this right now." The Director and his assistants looked on nervously, unsure of what to do.

"Now, tell us, tell us! What is this business about shinigamis?" Director Richman practically shouted, unable to wait patiently any longer.

"I was wondering if I could get an application." The three men exchanged skeptical glances; one of them shrugged. "Perhaps I'm being too vague," he pondered, looking at the ceiling, fork held daintily in hand. "Let me start over. I was wondering if I could get an application to be a shinigami. If possible, as a temporary position."

"What are you talking about?" the director complained, a look of complete confusion on his face. He had no idea what L was talking about, meaning the shinigami system probably did not work in this manner. Even if there was still a way, this was most likely a dead end.

"Oh," L sighed, and looked solemn again, the vague glint in his eyes having gone out. "Well, I suppose that was a pretty far stretch. I just, sort of hoped. But yes, it makes sense that I wouldn't be able to become a shinigami."

"Yes, that is only granted to the dead in the most dire of circumstances," one of the other two men noted.

"Exactly!" Richman piped up. "Now would you please get off the altar? We've got some spying to do, we need to put the mirror up!"

"Wait, you mean that it is possible?" L asked casually.

"It is possible to take on that role, but why would you want to? Everyone dies eventually. Our work in this world is what counts," his assistant continued.

"How do I go about it?"

"Well, you have to enquire with God himself. And I really doubt you'll get an affirmative."

"Tell me how to do this. Where do I go?"

"To the azure doors," he said.

It had sounded so bland coming from that boring man's lips, but it was something else entirely to see it. Huge columns with flames at the top lined an entry-way made for a giant, the two doors and everything else around cast in a bright blue light. He placed his palm casually against the crack between the two doors, each one like a skyscraper itself, and the doors opened up, liquid light and ethers spilling out to reveal inside a coupling of blinding silence, and the power to kill L's soul. Rising high on a wave of this bright, weightless water sat a series of eyes, thousands of different eyes, and in them the vague forms of the faces they had belonged to in life. Nobody said anything, the doors still only cracked open a bit compared to their potential. Perhaps it was his turn to speak.

"I've come here to ask for your help," was all he could say. No voice spoke back, but the eyes seemed to be surveying him, considering where he was going with this. "I want to become a shinigami, if only for a while." Suddenly red began to spill out from the center of the writhing mass of eyes, their brows shading with irritation, the doors coming closed. L sprang to his feet, and grabbed the cracked marble edge of the door to his right, as if he thought he could stop it. "Wait!" he begged. The eyes continued to watch him, the red retreating ever so slightly. "Please. I want to save someone's life." Dissatisfaction flickered in countless shiny orbs, so he continued. "I want to try to save . . . someone else's soul, as well. I don't even want a notebook. I am content to die as a shinigami, without taking a single human's lifespan. Only . . . I feel . . . that I want to accomplish this first, if possible."

He had nothing else to say, so he stood very still, and hunched, in his baggy, wrinkled clothes. A part of him seriously wondered why he was here, and an even larger part of him wondered why he'd said the part about 'trying to save someone else's soul.' At last a voice finally spoke, and it wasn't a loud, powerful boom like he had been expecting. It was a cacophony of whispers–in fact, it was the same series of whispering voices he had heard on the wind when he had first materialized in this world, or rather, when this world had first materialized for him.

"You should understand what will happen first, first happen, first," the voices cooed. L felt a shiver of electricity creeping up his spine. "You will be stripped of life, of life. Of humanity. Do not make this choice lightly lee, lightly, Light." He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Light.

"You're right, I should think about this first." He sat down, hunched up in his usual pose, and considered what this could mean. He wondered if the voices were going to keep being vague in what they were describing would occur, or if he could get specifics out of them. It's just like questioning the shinigami Rem, he realized, with an amused uplifting, barely perceptible, at the corners of his lips. I just have to see what is left intentionally blank. "Is it possible," he asked, "for me to save a person's life as a shinigami?"

"Yesss," the voices hushed.

"Another question. If a person has used a Death Note, the rules in the front of the book claim that a human who uses the notebook, can go to neither Heaven nor Hell. Do you know this rule to be true?"

"Again, yes."

"What happens to that person, a user of the Death Note?" he wondered.

"I cannot not not-can tell yooou," the voices echoed, rippling into his ears.

He frowned–the voice was hard to follow, but that sounded like a refusal to elaborate. Well, it didn't matter what their final destination was; he could assume it wasn't anything good. Perhaps their soul was, in the end, destroyed, or perhaps it went into a state of limbo, bound to earth. Or perhaps Light would become a shinigami as well. He supposed he wouldn't mind being a shinigami himself, provided there was dessert . . . dessert . . . and a chance to speak to Light again. I wonder if death gods like ice cream, he pondered. Or cheesecake. He supposed he should be worrying about his own state in this matter as well. It wouldn't do any good, for example, if he became a shinigami, but in doing so his memories of Light and what he intended to do were erased. He decided upon one final question, and recited it from his mind as he chewed on his thumb.

"Will I keep the same memories I have now? Will I still be myself?"

The voice paused, considering. "In short, yesss."

"I want to do it," he said, his spirit and voice fully committed to every syllable he had just uttered, looking up into so many eyes, his own eyes wide and innocent while feelings of fear pulsed terribly inside him.

"It is a long process," the voices told him. "You our soul will be deconstruct con constructed. It will take five years."

"Five years?" he said, looking down. His eyes were very sad. "But . . . that may not be in time."

"It is a complex process. This is all I can offer."

"Then do it," he gasped quietly, and watched as tendrils of light wrapped around his wrists, and pulled him, screaming, into the void.