I have returned! :D Have fun with this one, folks!

XI: The Strength To Face Yourself

Strength: Inner Focus, Bravery, Compassion, Focus

Reversed Strength: Self Doubt, Weakness, Insecurity

It hurts.

He's drowning again, spluttering on his own blood as he sinks further and further into oblivion. The moon seems so much bigger like this, like it's there to mock him.

Joke's on it. He succeeded.

He saved a life.

Voices from all around him, but none of them are too sharp. It's like hearing people talk while he's underwater (he would know, it's happened before), and there's pain all over, spots of soreness he could barely point at. Pressures are put on them. He thinks — he was… shot. The pressures (the hands) are probably there to stop the bleeding.

It takes him a moment to realize that the voices are pretty frantic. Yukari's unmistakeable, even through this haze. He tries to breathe, but the blood in his lung's making it impossible. Reflexes kick in, and he's coughing, his body trying to expel the liquid out of his chest. Gasping is painful. Breathing even more so. Each gulp of air is a struggle, and it gets harder every time he tries. So he stops trying and lets his body decides when and how to breathe.

A hand's grabbing his, gently. It's trembling, unsure. He couldn't move or feel his index and middle finger, so he curls the rest as much as his body would allow. A hole in his hand, his mind supplies. Right. He's been shot. Four—no, five times, counting the one in his knee. He thinks his patella's shattered, too.

He cracks his eyes open. Aragaki looks like he wants to cry — he's never taken the man as the type who'd do that. But then again, he doesn't seem like the type to cook, either. Yukari's on his right, and he thinks he sees his hand in hers as she presses it against her chest. Her other hand is somewhere else he couldn't see. He thinks maybe on his wounds. The greenish glow is mostly hers to use, anyways.

He then hears clinking of chains and a puff of air.

Death.

He ignores it and looks up at the moon again. He thinks he sees something at the edge of his vision, but… he isn't sure. He's so damn tired, and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes. Sleeping now would mean he'd die, but…

…Isn't that what he deserves, anyway?

"Makoto, stay awake," He hears her voice cutting through the thick, cold fog. His eyes slowly trail towards her. He couldn't make a sound, so he does what he could and squeezes her hand weakly.

"His abdomen's fine. At least the bullets didn't hit any major vessels, or they did but not enough to bleed him dry," Someone else says, but the hand (or hands) on his stomach doesn't leave. "The only thing we should be focusing on now is that one."

"I'm on it," Yukari says. Her voice is broken. Soft. Trembling. She's afraid. "Damnit, I wish I didn't get knocked out cold, or I could've done this much faster than…"

"You're doing your best," Aragaki murmurs. He then feels his other hand being held in a rougher, larger one, and the older boy inhales. "Yuuki, if you so much as not come outta this in one piece, I'mma fucking kill you."

His mind couldn't process all of that, too slow and too hurt and too exhausted. So he just ignores it and focuses on the moon above as it creeps ever closer, the yellow light illuminating the green sky softly.

Breathing is starting to hurt more. He tries not to make a sound, as that would make him cough, and it would hurt. He's cold. So cold. Held in arms of death, so close to hell, yet too far away still. Coils of blood and broken bones and curses slither around his arms and legs like serpents, and it's so damn cold he wants to wriggle away.

"Come on, please be over already, Dark Hour…!" She says, the hand in his tightens its grip. It hurts a little, but he doesn't pull away.

Everything hurts. He just wants it all to stop.

"Are you giving up?"

He looks up to see those bright blue eyes that look like the shimmering ocean in summer, mysterious but soft. White and black strips. And that smile.

Pharos.

He couldn't say a word, so he hopes that his mind is loud enough. The boy looks at him in the eyes, then somewhere else, then back at his eyes again.

"To throw yourself into Death's arms and embrace it like that… not many people would be willing to do it for someone they barely know, you know."

He's important. Aragaki is important.

"Yes, but so are you."

I'm not. I'm just a murderer.

"Why do you think so?" Pharos questions, tilting his head to the side. "Their deaths are not your fault. Well, except for one, but it's an accident."

Because I'm here now, and they're not. But it won't matter. They'll judge me soon.

"So, you're giving up," Pharos concludes, a glint in his eyes, unreadable. The boy crouches down and touches his forehead with his cold finger. "You, who make people love you and care for you, are giving up on living because you're not seeing the truth."

I…

"You're giving up because it's easier that way, right? Because it hurts to remember, isn't it?"

No, I… I just…

"Then, let's revisit those warped memories of yours, one at a time. Tell me your answers again when we're done."

Before he could say anything, his consciousness is dragged away into the darkest, deepest corner of his soul.

…It doesn't hurt.

He looks down to see himself still in the Gekkoukan's uniform, three distinct holes on his torso; one in his chest, two in his stomach. His shirt is dyed red, the blood dried up and cracked. There's also a hole in his hand, but he can move his fingers just fine. His right knee and pant leg also have a hole.

"Am I dead?" He questions to the deafening silence around him. The only immediate reply is the sound of water dropping into the endless dish of darkness that expands from under his feet.

"You're on the edge."

He turns around to see Pharos there, hands clasped behind his back, that cryptic smile on his face. But it looks a bit sadder than usual.

"The edge?" He repeats, looking down at his torso again. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're right in between being alive and being dead," Pharos explains, walking a bit closer and taking his right hand into his own. His hands are so tiny, and they're cold. He unconsciously curls his own fingers around them. "Whether you live or die half depends on what they'd do out there to save you."

"…And the other half?"

"Depends on what you want to do," He says as he pulls Makoto forward. He doesn't resist.

He… isn't sure…?

Oh.

"You're still undecided. Rather, you think you do not deserve a life surrounded by people who you love and people who love you, but you want to," Pharos says quietly, a sad smile gracing his lips again as he's pulled to a door, the number 1999 scratched on the woods. "Let us recall everything one more time… and see if your answer changes."

"I don't want to," He croaks out, pulling his hand away and looking at the floor, seeing his own bloodied reflection in it. "I don't want to remember. It hurts."

"I know," Pharos says, touching his hand again. "But you have to. For their sakes, and for your own."

For their sakes, huh…

"Fine," He murmurs as he stands before the wooden door. He inhales, and pushes it open—

—To see the Moonlight Bridge, with cars and bodies and flame covering its road.

"…What the—"

"Moonlight Bridge, ten years ago," Pharos says. "I have been with you for the longest of time. This is my memories of you, from back then."

He thinks he should be questioning it, but he doesn't — he couldn't. He barely remembers anything from the crash, only that he watched and watched while his mom burned without doing a damn thing to help, when he should, when he could.

He clenches his fists tight. He wants to look away, but Pharos is watching. He can't.

Then he sees—himself, a child back then, screaming and crying.

"I don't remember doing that…?" He questions to no one in particular, his head getting heavy. He only remembers a little, but he—he didn't scream like that, did he? "What…?"

"Dissociative Amnesia," Pharos responds as he looks at the scene from years long past. He sees himself on the verge of being hysterical as he tries to pry the car door open. "You block out many memories from your mind, because it hurts. I understand. But now you have to see that none of it is your fault. You tried your best."

Then there's a small explosion, not enough to kill him, but it sent him flying. The child him gasps and coughs on the ground, a hole in his shirt, right where the scar on his chest is. His hand reaches up to touch the redden, deformed flesh as it stings. He winces, looking up as the past him is trying to desperately do something.

"You were just a child. There's nothing you could've done."

His head hurts, and he grips it, trying to ground himself somewhat. The memories are crashing. He isn't sure which one is real anymore.

"Their deaths are unfortunate, but neither is yours to shoulder. You tried your best."

"I don't know," He whimpers, falling down to his knees. None of this makes any senses to him, and trying to make head and tail out of it hurts. "I don't know anymore."

"Live, Makoto."

It all snaps to clarity, and he looks up, to see his mother's smile as she whispers those words, so soft and gentle and warm.

"What did she say?"

"…Live," He repeats slowly. "She's… she didn't… she didn't blame me."

She never did. She told him to live, and never did say that he caused her death. She never said such a thing. How could he have forgotten something so simple? That his mother was too kind to say something crude and vile to him?

"Of course she didn't," Pharos laughs softly. "She loved you, you know. And it was an accident. Why would anyone blame their own child for an accident that's not preventable?"

And as he watches flame engulfing the car, and the scenery shifting to a soup of gray smoke and black water, he thinks…

That maybe, just maybe… he might have the right to live, after all.

It's weird seeing himself from the third person point of view.

It's weirder when Pharos is here with him and, to his dismay, is narrating over every goddamn thing the kid him is doing.

"Seriously, why are you so talkative?" He groans, arms on his knees as he watches the kid him watching the other kids play. He knows his life sucks, thanks, could you please not replay it again? "I don't need you to reiterate everything kid me was – is – doing, y'know."

"Oh, I know. But it's fun, so why not?" Pharos says with a soft laughter that rings like wind chime.

"Fuck off," He mutters, with no real bite behind it. He remembers this memory. It's when he choked a boy — that one boy that's poking past him with a fucking stick — to death. He sighs and buries his face into his own hands.

"Why do you think he tried to drown you?" Pharos asks, a finger on his chin.

"Who knows," He mutters. "Curiosity?"

"I think," The boy says, a bit too jovial. "Inferiority complex."

"…Excuse you what."

"You're pretty socially awkward (says the boy who wakes him up during the Dark Hour to chat), so I'll tell you. You might not've thought of them much, but you are way too smart and too talented with many things. People of… less self-confidence would often lash out at people like you, you know."

He chews on his lip a little, deep in thoughts. He… is he really like that? He shakes his head; he doesn't know. He's not good at anything except surviving and living day-by-day. That's all there is to it, really; he's just surviving.

"You know," Pharos begins. "I don't think I've seen you smile to anyone else before you came to Port Island."

"Because I have no reason to," He says quietly, ignoring the memories that are resurfacing. He puts his hands over his ears to cut out the sound of the boys pushing and forcing his head underwater, to cut out the sound of him choking and kicking the air, to cut out the sound of their laughters as they cheer and cheer for him to die.

"Look up," Pharos orders, a hand under his chin, forcing his face up. He flinches when he sees the kid him's hands flailing about uselessly. "Understand that you wanted to live then. You didn't mean to kill him. It's survival instinct kicking in."

"That doesn't mean killing him is the right thing to do," He says, quietly. He sees his hands flailing, before the kid him grabs the boy's neck and squeezes like there is no tomorrow. He looks away. "There should have been some other way to survive."

"You were suffocating to death," Pharos says. "And you were weaker than him physically. What else could you have done?"

He isn't given time to dwell on it as he hears cursing and yelling. The past him looks so out of it, eyes hazed and unfocused, the hands on the boy's neck cramped and shaken. The kid him's coughing out water and gasping for air. He presses his lips into a thin line as he's forced to watch, from the outside view.

"You didn't even know what you were doing until he's dead," Pharos murmurs. "And you were even trying to gasp for breath then. How could you blame yourself for something like this?"

He grips his own arms, curling into himself. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to think.

"Hey," Pharos calls, and forces him to look at those piercing blue as they bore straight into his soul. They are not condemning him, however. "It's not all your fault. You wanted to live, and he wanted to kill you. All you did was without thoughts."

"Not having a thought behind an action doesn't mean I won't be responsible for it," He hisses, looking up again to see the adults checking on the boy and beating him with sticks and feet and everything else they had. "I killed him, and I'm still here."

"It's true," Pharos hums. "But don't you think living to atone for it is better to die for it? You told Aragaki Shinjirou this yourself, didn't you?"

His breath hitches.

"Don't be a hypocrite. Everything you say has reasons behind them. So listen to yourself sometimes. Live, for the sake of those you love, and for those you've wronged."

Living hurts.

He just wants to run away.

Hearing Akari's screams when she's burnt to ashes hurts.

"Akari-san…" He whimpers as he curls up into himself, Pharos closely beside him, his small hand on his shoulder as if to reassure him that he'll always be there.

He's forced to watch as fire engulfs her whole, again, and again, and again. What's new to him, however, is that kid him's… held back by the adults that set the whole damn house on fire. Just let me go, I have to save her, I've got to save her.

"If you'd gone in there, you would've been dead," Pharos says, sitting down beside him as fire dances and rises to the sky above, dying it crimson. "There's nothing you could've done."

"I'm older," He whispers. "There should've been something. I should've been able to do something. She doesn't deserve this. I should've just left when I've had the chance."

He shouldn't have clung to the aspect of having someone who loved him and stayed. If he hadn't, they wouldn't have tried to sabotage her, she wouldn't have been in there, and she wouldn't have been dead like she is. It's all his fault.

"I think," Pharos says, leaning slightly forward. "You helped her too, you know."

"…What?"

"She's a widower, losing both husband and child in an accident, right?" Pharos asks. When Makoto nods, a bit numb, he continues. "I saw the look on her face. She's alone, with no reason left to live. You are her reason. Her light. You give her hope."

"What kind of light burns everything around it?" He whispers.

Pharos smiles sadly and pats his head. Reminds him of Aragaki's consistent head pat. "You didn't. This all happened because of unfortunate circumstances, that is all. I don't think she regretted staying with you."

"How could you have known something only the dead could answer?"

His smile turns cryptic. "I just do."

He's sitting on a blue couch, his wounds and the blood still on him, but now he's just sitting there with Pharos humming a tune he knows all too well beside him as he kicks his legs leisurely.

There's so much to think about, but thinking hurts so badly he just wants to disappear. But his mother told him to live, so he's got no choice but to actually put his mind into contemplating everything, just one more time.

Thinking is painful. Living is painful. But… that's not all there is to it, is there? He closes his eyes, and recalls all of his living moments he could've thought off. Getting beaten, getting booted out, walking around in the streets… and then, he came here, to Port Island, to Iwatodai.

Being loved. Being cared. Having someone he wants to be close to, having someone he cares about dearly, having someone he loves (his sun). They're all irreplaceable moments he wouldn't have traded for anything. He looks down at his hands. They have stopped shaking a long time go.

"What do you think life is?" Pharos says.

"…Bonds," He says, a small smile on his lips as he closes his eyes and tilts his head up. "Before, I have no one. I'm empty. No friends or family. Everyday is just gray and monotonous."

"And it's different now, isn't it?"

"Yeah," He says with a chuckle. "It is."

Everything has colors, now, dim as they may be. The SEES, the people around him… they give his life some kind of meaning. He looks forward to seeing them the next day. He wants to stay with them. He loves all of them, dearly so. He thinks…

"I think… to live, is to connect to others," He voices his thoughts aloud as he opens his eyes. "With those connections, those bonds… you give yourself and your life meaning. And in turn, you give the person you're connected to a part of you, and you're given a part of them."

"…You know," Pharos begins with a cryptic smile, yet again. "I think… you might've already arrived at it… at the Answer."

"The Answer?" He questions, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes. To Life's greatest question. The Answer to Life."

Pharos looks up at the endless dark that expands beyond the scope of their senses – or at least, his – with his legs still kicking the air slowly. His smile softens, and so does his eyes. Makoto looks at him a while longer before looking down at the thin film of water that reflects his image. Pharos, however, has no such reflection.

"You know, you're pretty damn interesting," Pharos says, looking at him again. "Most people would've given up trying to make sense of things by now, or given their sanity up to the cruel world. You did neither. You're still here, you're still you… so kind, so gentle."

"I digress," He says with a small laughter. "I'm neither kind nor gentle. I just don't want to see people suffer the way I did."

"That, in and of itself, is the confirmation to my statement," Pharos says before he hops down from the couch. And then, suddenly, there's a long road made from dark red bricks being laid down before him, with the film of reflecting water disappearing into black smokes that embrace both sides of the path.

"What is this?" He asks, reluctantly standing up. He feels strangely cold.

"I told you, whether you live or die half depends on what you're going to do, right?" Pharos states. When he nods in confirmation, the boy continues. "If you want to relinquish your life, you can just sit down. I'll stay with you until the end. But if you want to return—"

"—I'll have to take this path," He stays and walks over, standing before the path of red. He could feel it—if he walks down this road, there's going to be so much suffering. "Living is painful. Dying is easy."

"Yes," Pharos says. "And it's your life, your death… the choice is yours. I'll stay by you, like a good friend would do."

He works his jaw again. His death would mean little to the world. The final Full Moon Shadow could be easily handled by the rest of the team. They're strong, and he trusts them. They'll get the job done. At the same time, living… might bring them more pain and more burden. He's not going to make it out from being shot in most of his vital organs unscathed. And the others will be stuck taking care of him.

Living is hard, trying to live is painful, and he's going to become a burden. And yet…

"I want to live."

For the first time, he realizes that he wants to live. Not from the rational part of him, but an emotional part of him that has always been passive and uncaring whether he lives or dies… it tells him that he wants to live. He wants to enjoy life just a little longer. To love and be loved just a bit more. To connect to people and to give them a part of him, as they have a part of them to him before.

He wants to continue living, and experiencing its magnificence, just a little longer.

"Then let's go," Pharos says, leading the way. "Come on. Time never waits, and the longer you waste it staying here, the harder it is to return."

He nods, and follows the mysterious boy closely.

The sounds of his shoes clapping against the hard surface of the brick and his breathing (he couldn't hear Pharos', for some reason) the only things that ricochet through the boundless space. The road is long and nearly endless, but he could see that small drop of light there at the end. He'll live, even if it hurts. He needs to. He wants to.

The longer he walks, the harder it is to breathe. He feels his heart beating a bit faster. There's some tingling in his hands and legs, and his vision is starting to get hazy. He shakes his head to clear it as he keeps focus on walking, one step at a time.

"The closer we are, the closer to your true physical state becomes," Pharos cautions, looking at him with a sad, sad smile. "It'll hurt a lot."

"I know," He nods, dragging his body forward a little at a time. This is his decision, and he will not fail it, no matter what. "But I chose to live. So I won't back down now."

He can't take the easy way out every time. He has to fight.

"I see," Pharos says. "You're interesting, as always."

After maybe a hundred steps, when he could finally see a single wooden door at the end of the long road, he collapses.

Blood is flooding his left lung, and he sees blood pooling under him. He tries to catch his breath, and is failing with only one lung not filled to the brim with his own blood. His stomach hurts, and red keeps pouring out in torrents. His right leg is useless, as the pain is back and his knee refuses to move.

He groans and decides to slowly drag himself forward, leaving trail of red and bloodied handprint on the already crimson red path. Pharos doesn't say anything, but he's watching. He keeps his focus mostly on the present – one second, one step (or rather, one crawl) at a time.

It feels like chains are dragging him back, pulling his limps down towards the floor. Each lift of his arms and legs are getting harder. Each breath is a battle in itself. Drawing even a small puff of air makes him cough, his left lung all but useless, and his right won't last if this keeps up. But it has to. He has to fight. Just a little more—

He falls to the ground, unable to push himself off it, the gravity working against him. In this place, where he's standing between life and death, gravity is working against him. He tries to get up, again, and again, and again, but his body is screaming at him, and his lungs are burning.

But he can't give up. Only a bit more, and he would've reached that damn door.

He only needs a bit more strength.

"Are you going to give up?"

Pharos is standing in front of him. He looks up, and this time, the boy is offering him his small, cold hand, with a smile on his face. He wills himself to draw in another breath, and with a groan, he takes Pharos' hand with his bloodied, injured one.

"No."

"Good," Pharos says as he pulls him towards the burning light. "Then, continue fighting to the best of your abilities. I'll be watching."

And then, all he could see is white.

Eesh! That's done with! See you next week, folks!