DEATH'S OTHER KINGDOM

My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow, but never die
I can fly, my friends!

-The Show Must Go On, Queen

Apples. When the world went up in smoke, they forgot about the shiny apples. Why was Ryuk the only one who could remember them? Even the king forgot the apples. Everyone was too busy dying to notice the orchards left forgotten. They all screamed 'help me, help me' when all their delicious fruits were dying.

That's part of the reason Ryuk would never understand humans. They didn't care about the apples.

Love, death, ambition, power—they were all, in actuality, far inferior to apples. The Shinigami surrounding him were woefully ignorant of this as the humans donned the masks, striking the gods out of their gambling habits. By thwarting their notebooks, diminishing their life spans, those thin veils of plastic condemned all Shinigami to death; they were far too busy fretting and dying to listen when he tried to tell them about the apples.

It was entirely Sidoh's fault, all of it, and Ryuk would never forgive him.

About every one hundred years or so, the Shinigami King came up with a name to help keep the human population in check. Ryuk wasn't allowed to keep the population in check because last time, he had accidently started the Bubonic Plague and killed so many Europeans that the whole racial diversity thing got out of whack again (or was it the economy? Ryuk couldn't remember, now; the yelling and punishment were the only memories on his mind). As a result, Ryuk was forbidden to go into the human world unless he had two Death Notes—and when was that going to happen?

The King picked Sidoh, so Ryuk decided to pick Sidoh, too. After all, Ryuk wanted to have some fun if he couldn't have any apples. So he told Sidoh what he would have done if he had been chosen: he'd get the humans to kill each other. It was brilliant. Genius. Worthy of the shiniest of apples.

He'd drop the notebook in a human's way, a human who would use it thoroughly—not one that was too afraid or too meek. Not like the other times he had accidentally dropped someone's notebook; this time would be different. This time, he would have watched for them, picked one out. One that would be more lethal than all the Shinigami combined.

Sidoh nodded his head and rushed after a Notebook easily taken. If someone tried to steal a Notebook (which Ryuk had, and more than once), there was only one Shinigmami to consult—that weird little humanoid who annoyed the King too much. Said perpetual irritation meant that his Notebook was free game. Besides being short, weak, and ultimately useless, the King would look the other way if someone went harassing the white-haired little Shinigami.

Because he was vertically challenged, and puny, and really, really fragile-looking, like a dust devil might knock him over, he just missed his Notebook as it fell down into the human world. Swearing in Greek and half-hopping after Sidoh, the look of sadness in his unusually big blue eyes was priceless—almost as bittersweet as a Pink Lady apple.

The boy had stood shaking with rage, looking after his fallen Notebook with an expressionless face. It almost reminded Ryuk of the masks all the humans wore now, that pale white face.

The Shinigami had laughed it off even as they gambled away their life spans, watching idly as the scorned Shinigami marched stiffly off into the desert, his eyes never turning back as he walked away and the bandages wrapped around his feet dragging limply behind him.

The apples died because of Adessi, Nealan Adessi.

Ryuk had never heard of the guy before, but now, his name was everywhere. It was the only name posted in big capital letters, the only one that kept repeating. It was like they were waiting for him to die. All of them. (And he would be dead, he really would—someone would have hunted down a photo of him, enlarged it to epic proportions, and pasted it to the side of a blimp until the rotten journalist dropped dead, hands clutching his heart. He would be dead, that is, if there were any pictures to find. Which there weren't.)

All the humans blamed the reporter, Adessi. They blamed his documentary; they blamed him for finding the Notebook and testing it. They didn't want to know—the Shinigami didn't want them to know—but now, none of them could undo what he did with a simple video camera.

Ryuk hadn't expected his idea to take that fatal turn. All he had wanted was a little fun, a little entertainment to pass eternity. Was that so wrong?

And then the masks started, and all the Shinigami began to realize how serious the humans were. It started with Justin, who panicked and written too many heart attacks too fast, too soon after the reporter spoke. If he had been later, if he hadn't killed so many, it might have been passed off as false. But too many died, and the rioting began.

Ryuk distantly remembered the suffocation of infants as their parents frantically pulled bags over their heads in an effort to hide their faces from sight. He remembered the bodies trampled underneath the frightened mobs.

All the while, the Shinigami started their own brawls. They each crowded about the pools, trying to find someone left to kill. The panic caused more and more humans to die. It was too obvious; there were too many corpses, too many heart attacks. There were fewer and fewer faces left. Soon it became photos, videos, tabloid magazines and milk cartons—anything for a name, anything for a face. Soon, even those disappeared, drifted away on the smoke of bonfires and apartment buildings.

He remembered their fear, their panic, their horror… but what struck Ryuk the most was the scent of burning apples.

"Failure. How is it that humans are capable of such failure." The white-haired god spoke solemnly as he stared over his dutiful subjects, daring them to oppose his invisible (unseen as a shadow in the might; always unseen) power as he stood beside the retired reporter, his hands clenching his Death Note with the temptation to kill them all. His blue eyes turned from the mass of people to his loyal, if somewhat dishonest, figurehead.

"They always disappoint me, and I can not understand why. It should not be this difficult to break a man. It should not be this difficult to keep one alive and out of my hair. And yet, they always manage to surprise me."

Of course, Nealan ignored him, even as he spoke. Achos wasn't one to waste words—and yet, sometimes, he felt the wind paid more attention to him than the reporter.

"He flails against the fates; he smiles up at them even as he tears their tapestry to pieces. It is both amusing and horrifying to watch. It is why I can not see him. How am I to see him if he cannot see himself? If he refuses to see himself, I can only spot him through others. His ambition is endless. He is a challenge, an advisory, an unknown rival." His pale, bandaged hands moved away from the Notebook to rest upon the edge of the balcony in an almost human gesture—but as always, the all-seeing eyes betrayed him. (The blue eyes that could see past distance, past cloth and plastic, past lies, past minds—past everything but time; it was those blue eyes that frightened the reporter so much.)

"She failed me. How could she possibly fail me? She is not incompetent. Far from it—her cunning marks her as a true power among the world. She would fare well against even the great detective, L. She might even beat him in a game or two. What is a boy to her? A young, angry, boy whom everyone abhors? Nothing." The shinigami did not move, but continued to lean against the railing as he spoke, his blue eyes searching his own thoughts for some flaw, some mistake within his planning process. They explored the crooks and crannies of the labyrinth of his own mind and saw nothing, nothing amiss. Nothing that should have gone wrong.

"Perhaps it is simply his nature to reject the gods and their prophets. Perhaps he can see past their blind priestesses. Perhaps he could see past mine, and see my eyes through hers. Is that what love is—a series of lies and deceit so thick that one can no longer see through their web? He must have sharp eyes; eyes as sharp as his hatred for all mankind, no doubt. Almost as sharp as his hatred for me. Oh, yes, sometimes I believe that this one puny mortal can see exactly what I am."

The Shinigami paused, looking to the reporter, appearing more like a demon than he ever had. As his lips twisted into a ruthless smile—the smile he donned when he drove L Lawliet to suicide with his whispers, when he tortured Misa Amane through forgotten dreams. The bloodthirsty grin was never accompanied by a human emotion, but simply an unnamable drive—pure ambition and hatred, untainted by human nature.

And what would that be? A monster, a demon, the Devil himself?

"He sees me as you do not; as my subjects do not; as Misa Amane does not; as the great detective L does not. And he hates me for it, just as I hate him for it—just as I love him for it. Yes, this is love. Love is hatred, love is the chase; love is the victory at the end of a battle. Love is his blood scattered and lost among the blood of so many—his body left rotting in the earth like so many corpses." The smile faded once more as the congregation eased.

Nealan made to leave the great hall before the Shinigami could add another word. He was unsurprised when the Shinigami uttered one last line in before Nealan could escape his jagged, child-like eyes.

"She did not love him. Not like she should have. That was my error."

"Come on, take off the mask—or are you scared?" asks one of the giggling teenagers as they stand in front of the bathroom mirror. The girls all squeeze into the room with some difficulty, attempting to compact themselves in and allow a view of the poor victim.

You find yourself standing beside the mirror, inside the mirror, staring back at the crowd with a vague feeling of guilt. You know how this is going to end; you've seen this room before; you've seen these girls before, in a thousand different masks, in a thousand different places. They never change—it is only you who becomes wiser, weaker….

The girl has blonde, curling hair held back in a ponytail; she looks at her masked reflection in terror, green eyes growing wider by the minute. She is a child, a simple child. It would be such a pity to end her life.

And yet you know it will end by the end of the night—within a few moments, it will all end for her. And what will she have? Her life is made of such a fine thread, so easily broken.

(The morgue is still stuffed with bodies, cold, frozen bodies—bodies of children, foolish children.)

"No. If you take off your mask, the death gods kill you." She turns, trying to leave while she still can, but the crowd pushes her forward. It is nothing but a game to them, a rumor. They are too young—they don't remember the dead; they don't remember the streets filled with cadavers.

You remember.

"Please, death gods? It's just a story. If you weren't such a chicken, you'd know that. It's a fairy tale, I mean, it's never been scientifically proven, or anything. Take off the mask." The ringleader is cruel as she forces the girl to stare at her own reflection, to stare at you. There are tears in her eyes. Perhaps, deep down, she realizes she's about to die.

You want to tell her it's not worth it, that you're sorry for what you've done to her, you're sorry you killed her. No one ever told you that you would kill them all, all those children.

"There's no such thing as death gods," she whispers, her hands moving to the front of her mask so that she can rip it off her face in one fell swoop, so that she might see her pale reflection.

You want to tell her you've seen them, you've seen the worst one of them all. You've seen his pale blue eyes (you have? When? In dreams, you think, dreams like this, like the one before this, and the one before… before...) as he sentences girls like her to death without a moment's hesitation. He has no guilt, he has no conscience; he would kill this girl just as fast. He wouldn't even deem it a sacrifice because he simply can't tell the difference between a child and a criminal. That is a Shinigami. That is what she would give herself over to so easily.

"There's no such thing as death gods."

You want to tell her that it makes no difference if she repeats it: If she takes off that mask, she will die. They have no mercy for children.

Without saying it a third time, she rips off the mask and stares at you, her eyes filled with stunned tears as her heart gives one final thump. She falls, her head bashing into the bathroom sink, blood streaming from the gash on her forehead. Her body hits the floor and the screaming starts.

You hate the screaming. What did they expect? Did they expect her to live? Did they really think Gods of Death don't exist? Sometimes, human stupidity amazes you. You can't ever see yourself giving up to them.

But in that one instant when you saw that poor, tragic face, you felt her thrust a knife through your heart.

You wake up.

The demon stood above the reporter, his bandaged hands clasped together as he leaned over him, face to face, his blue eyes twinkling in merriment. Nealan couldn't help but think he was humoring the thing.

He rolled over.

Still, the creature that masqueraded as a boy stared down at him, his pale lips stretched into a twisted smile.

The reporter wished desperately that he didn't have to sleep, because he could never be safe when he slept. Not with the demon standing above his bed.

"And you know what happens if you kill a human?" whispered Ryuk conspiratorially to the newly-forming Shinigami, hardly containing the snicker from his voice. Of course, they didn't answer. They had no mouths as of yet—they were just sacks, bulbous lumps of membrane and rock and bone and blood and Lord knows what else. But they did have ears.

"Light Yagami will find you, and he'll kill you. Because he can do that, and he will do that, if he finds out you've been killing off his people." Ryuk couldn't help it. He started to cackle madly. Really, the King made it too easy to have fun.

Ryuk had never really gotten over the fact that Achos was out wreaking havoc on the human world while he himself was stuck with the few Shinigami left. So far, it was down to him and Sidoh. Then, the King decided to make new Shinigami—ones that could see through things. Things like masks. Sounded like a good idea. But then, Ryuk was bored and needed some good entertainment. Killing off the Shinigami race sounded like very good entertainment.

"He'll smile as he reaches through the pool and slits your throat with a… ball point pen…." Ryuk trailed off, trying to think of something else to add to his horror story, tainting the minds of new, innocent Death Gods before they could even open their eyes.

At first, Light Yagami had been a fable, a face in a crowd of millions, before the whole Shinigami crisis—one name that he had managed to remember, but forgotten to write down. Well, alright, Ryuk forgot what he looked like. It was the name that was needed, anyway, not the face. And the name did sound threatening, menacing—almost like the name of some dead human god.

And so, Light Yagami, the Killer of Gods was born: A mythical human with the power to see through the boundaries of worlds, who could kill with a single glance from his (brown, blue, green?) eyes. Sometimes, Ryuk wondered what this human really looked like—what he really acted like, whether he was anything close to a god killer.

But it was the name Ryuk wanted, not the human. The name was much more fun than another boring human, a single face among millions now hidden behind a dull mask. Ryuk was much more infatuated with the name.

"And then he'll eat the sand that flows through your veins like it's a bushel of apples—shiny red apples." Ryuk felt the metaphor was off, but he couldn't think of anything better. Besides, he was pretty sure the dull sacks of lifeless bodies got the idea.

"Then he steals your Death Note, and burns it! With magical fire! Watching as the smoke rises through the air, singing his crimson eyes." There, crimson was better than a normal color, anyway. His Light Yagami was going to have red eyes, like the apples Ryuk craved so much.

"Then he skulks back to the shadows of human existence, waiting patiently for his next victim. His next meal…."

Achos might have the fun of terrorizing the entire human population, but at least Ryuk got the fun of messing with the unborn Shinigami population. Sometimes, he wondered why it was so easy to trick the king.

Yes, Light Yagami was definitely the best invention Ryuk had concocted.

Misa stared straight ahead, her brown eyes dull as she woke up. She stumbled forward until she was sitting in front of a mirror. In sleep, her mask had skewed to the point of near suicide. Slow and shaking, her fingers moved and readjusted the mask to cover all but the bottom of her nose and her mouth.

Sayu stared at her through the open doorway, watching the blonde model touch a small idol of the first Kira—the savior, the messiah, the Kira that was supposed to come back. The one that was supposed to save humanity from itself. The one that hadn't come back. Wouldn't come back.

Misa didn't turn away, even as she held the golden figure between her fingers, staring at nothing but her own reflection. Even to Sayu, she looked wrong, broken—a soulless doll. She wasn't the bouncy model that had visited Light; she wasn't the mischievous girl that had stuffed their mailbox with spam. She wasn't anything in that moment, more a piece of furniture than her heavily decorated bed or her wardrobe.

"Kira," she mouthed, her lips barely moving, her eyes growing more glazed by the minute. On her desk, Sayu could make out a blue check, enscribed with a dollar sign more numbers than Sayu wanted to see. Numbers she didn't need to see. What was she doing? What did she think she was doing? What would Light do when he saw that the whole thing had been for waste?

"Have mercy on my soul," she mouthed again, closing those empty brown eyes as she dropped the figurine and turned away from the mirror, taking the check with her, taking Light's money with her. Sayu wanted to stop her, ask her where she thought she was going, what she would do with it.

Sayu stepped aside to make room for the new Misa, the dead Misa, the corpse-like Misa. Was this why Light hated her so much? Could he see this dead thing through her mask, through the emotional makeup? Sayu didn't say anything as her sister-in-law passed by, not even glancing in her direction, just moving forward and out the door.

Sayu didn't know, but that was not the first check to float from Misa's hands and into the church of Kira. Sayu only knew that it would not be the last.

Scourge's Note: And here I am, left once again with the Author's Note because Carni hates doing it as much as I do, but has the advantage of not having the edited, titled, and song-lyric'd documents on her computer. Damn her. And I do suck at them. Er, so, Achos. Confusion. It... should be clearing up. A bit. I hope.

A huge thanks to those of you who've reviewed-especially Gravefire/The Crimson Musician, who's been impressively regular (which is supposed to be a compliment, but sounds rather mechanical /end me being suckage at complimenting and gratitude-ing). We love you all. :D