A/N: I said I'd get to 50k by the end of the month, and gosh darn it I'm gonna try.
Enter, Laxus, chased by a bear.
Well, maybe not, but still.
I'm so grateful you've stuck around this long. It's not the most popular idea in the fanfic universe, but I really feel that new characters should have time to be developed properly before the expected pops up. Or else why would you care? Fanfics are silly and fun (and sometimes *steamy*) but that doesn't mean there shouldn't be an attempt at decent writing. Not sure I quite hit the "decent" mark, but Imma try. I think once we get in post-Tenrou side quests, I'll be able to write a little prettier. But for now, plot and dialogue-driven it is.
Guest: Ah, my love! You've returned to me! I was kinda worried I'd lost you-glad I didn't. And oh god, I've had SoA sitting on my bookshelf for two years now, uncracked, because i'm terrified of how gutted I'm going to be. Ugh but Miller's writing is so lovely. I've got a couple side quest chapters and one is a little more romantically written (. . . and maybe also has some watered down lemonade. . . shhhh), so hopefully I'll be able to play with more interesting descriptors and styles. And I'm really surprised that I haven't gotten more Lily-hate! I swear, it's not a long-term thing. I just dislike it when new characters are *magically* accepted by everyone immediately. And i kinda chose Lily because he's untarnishable. And I'm sorry, but your instinct about Hades is wrong! Morrigan doesn't know Hades. Well, at least not that one ;)
After lots of battles, here's a chapter of people just talking. Woo. God, I'm rusty at dialogue. It's not my forte, but I try to be entertaining. As you'll all realize soon (if not in this chapter), I really love mythology and that is going to bleed heavily into this fic. So hang on for a wacky ride. I love hearing y'all's theories and prognostications in my reviews/inbox, so keep 'em comin'.
And buckle up, because Acnologia ain't far off.
Freed and Bickslow heaved Laxus's large frame up onto their shoulders.
"It's good to see you guys," Laxus said painfully. His whole body ached, and the lack of magic power was making him a bit dizzy. He was grateful to have his friends to bear on.
"Things just aren't the same without you around," chimed Bickslow.
"That's definitely true. Though, I don't think we'll be the only ones happy to see you," added Freed. Laxus's eyebrow quirked in dubious curiosity as they scrambled off the remnants of Grimoire Heart's ship and back onto Tenrou. The sand was soft beneath his feet, and he was glad for the cushion considering Bickslow almost dropped him.
"I don't know about that, guys," Laxus's voice was melancholy, "I'm still not a part of this guild. And I don't think that just helping with this one fight is really gonna change that." He barely caught the quick hint of a smile across Freed's face.
"I choose to be optimistic," said the scribe.
They hobbled through the forest and back to basecamp, tattered as it was. Weighed down by Laxus's large frame, the Thunder Legion was one of the last groups back. Freed and Bickslow promptly headed for the infirmary tent. A shush came from Mira.
"A number of people are settling down for some rest," she hissed, "Try to keep your ruckus to a minimum." She winked, which confused Laxus. Why do I feel like I'm missing something?
Bickslow parted the tent flap and stepped inside. It was cool and dark, the sleeping mats laid out in neat rows. Lucy, Natsu, and Elfman were settling down into their respective spots, but something in the far corner caught Laxus's eye.
Freed felt him hesitate; a small smile came to his lips. "I'm not sure you'll want to wake her."
"Is she hurt?"
Laxus's voice was more tense with that question than after his own beating. Freed gave him a reassuring smile. "No, I don't believe so. Just tired. She was our examiner before those brutes from Grimoire Heart came along, and the combination of the three fights wore through her endurance of focus."
Laxus raised an eyebrow, "You two fought her? How'd that go?"
Bickslow laughed: "Worse than you'd expect, and not for lack of trying."
"Come," urged Freed, "We'll settle you down on the cot next to her so you two can catch up after you rest a bit." They proceeded to hobble over to the far corner of the tent.
Freed and Bickslow lowered Laxus onto the cot with some difficulty—he was a large guy, after all. He eventually settled onto the mat and shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position.
"Good to see you finally grew out of those ridiculous animal prints," came a sleepy voice beside him. He turned his head toward her and was met with a pair of groggy green eyes. "Though, looks like you grew out of shirts in general."
Laxus gave a huff of a laugh—he was in rather a state of undress after his fight with Prect.
"I thought I . . . recognized your lightning," she mumbled as her eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep.
"Good to see you too, Tal," he said quietly. Her hair was haphazardly spread around her—all over her pillow, her shoulder, and her neck. It had gotten longer since he last saw her, and she was paler than he remembered. But it was nice to see her peaceful for once. Images of her panic-stricken and scared had haunted him for far too long.
The quiet sounds of shuffling fabric and low voices were calming as he shifted under the blanket Freed had given him. He was back and surrounded by his friends, his family, his Fairy Tail.
Except it wasn't his. And he couldn't forget that.
Talia woke slowly, the light pressure of a small hand on her bare shoulder and a sweet voice calling her name. Her bleary eyes blinked away the haze of sleep, and she was met with the wide blue eyes of a little one. What was her name? "Wendy?"
"Hey there. Would you like me to heal your injuries?" her voice was almost too sweet—like cotton candy first thing in the morning. Talia shook her head, still not quite awake.
"I'm ok, thanks. That one probably needs you more, anyway," she gestured to Laxus.
Laxus woke groggily, and he sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep-sand from the corners of his eyes.
"Are you sure?" Wendy's eyes were worried now. That didn't seem right—worry had no place on that sweet little face. Talia gave a slight smile and nodded.
"Yeah, I'm good. I don't think I have any real injuries; just tired."
Wendy nodded, determination settling onto her little face. She turned to Laxus, "Where should I start on you, Laxus?" He pulled the blanket down and used his hand to help lift his left leg out of the bunching fabric. Wendy nodded and set to work.
Talia watched them, the world slowly coming back into full focus. Once in a while, Laxus winced, and she watched the lines on his brow furrow, the lightning-shaped scar over his right eye warping with the twinge of pain.
"So what chewed you up and spit you back out?" she asked quietly.
The blue eye under the lightning bolt shifted to her.
"An Amaterasu Formula, among other things." Talia's brows raised in surprise. That was not what she was expecting.
"Laxus was amazing," came Wendy's twinkling voice, "I don't know how we would've survived if you hadn't shown up." Laxus hummed in acknowledgement. Talia smiled and hugged her knees into her chest.
"And you always said you weren't the hero type."
"I'm not," he said coarsely, "I got lucky. And I wasn't about to let these guys get demolished by Master Prect."
"Wasn't that risky, though?" asked Wendy, "Giving Natsu all your magic power before being hit with such a massive attack?"
"You took an Amaterasu Formula without any defense?" Talia asked sternly.
Laxus shook his head. "No, that was after the Amaterasu Formula."
"You kept fighting?" horror was evident in her voice, and he didn't like it.
"Not really any choice. Prect's assault was on Fairy Tail. Only someone who belongs to the guild had the right to take him out. I was just a glorified battery pack for Natsu."
Talia laughed; the sound ringing and humming with the memories inside his head. He hadn't heard that laugh in so long. He felt his stubbornness subside and a smile prick at his lips.
"You are ridiculous," the words bounced along her laugh and her eyes were warm.
"Yeah, well. You knew that already." He winced as Wendy worked on a particularly painful spot. "And what about you? Freed and Bix mentioned that you were their examiner. You wind up in the infirmary from sparring with them?" his voice was teasing. As much as he loved his Thunder Legion, none of them stood a chance against her in a real fight.
"No, though they've both improved greatly," she said with a laugh, "Just some Grimoire Heart lackies who didn't want to respect proper battle etiquette." Her eyes held a mischievous spark, "So I had to convince them that when you get put down, you stay down."
Laxus chuckled. "Did you escort them the full six feet?"
"Nah, just three and a half or so," her eyes sparkled with mirth and her smile widened. Their banter hadn't faded a day. She knew she had missed him, but she didn't realize just how different Fairy Tail was without him. With him back, it was like sliding down a frozen hill and falling into a nest of warm blankets—cozy, comfortable, and safe. Even battered and bruised, everything was fine. Everything would always be fine. Because she had her Fairy Tail.
Freed watched them quietly from the corner of the infirmary tent as he filled a cup with water. There was something different now that Laxus was back—he brought a steady assuredness wherever he went, and that stability was sorely needed now. Even with the camp still mostly in shreds and half his guildmates injured, Freed felt confident. Laxus was here. Talia was here. Everything would be all right. He felt the tent flap shift behind him, but didn't turn.
"Careful, Freed," whispered Mira with a sly smile, "You might be encroaching on my Matchmaker status."
"I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about," came his response, a thinly veiled smile behind the words. Mira gave a high hum in light acknowledgement. So she wouldn't be in this alone after all. Though, she knew it wasn't easy for Freed—he was the self-appointed head of Laxus's personal protection squad (or so he claimed, not that Laxus really needed any extra protection) and had loved him for years. His adoration for the lightning mage was no secret; he either played everything close to the chest or wore his heart proudly on his sleeve—there was no in-between.
"How was she in Magnolia?" he asked, still quietly watching the two in the corner as they caught up, Talia's smile becoming more frequent and the low rumble of Laxus's words just out of his range of hearing.
"It was hard for her," Mira responded quietly. Freed sipped his water and nodded. "She went to the house, but didn't ask for her box of things. I think she's still processing some of the day-to-day reminders."
"That makes sense," he said, and turned toward the white-haired mage, "She has no memory of his death; I don't know if she's subconsciously blocked it or if she truly doesn't know."
"Do you think it has something to do with the Old One?"
Freed's brows furrowed in thought. The Old One had always seemed to be kind from what Talia told him; kind and steady, as if she just had to wait for the inevitable, never act into it. "No, not the Old One, but—" Freed studied the ceramic mug in his hand, "She spoke of another presence who has come to light within that same space. I think. . . that improbable theory we all laughed at those years ago might actually be true."
Mira's lips pressed into a hard line, "Best to keep that theory within the guild, then," her voice was steady and strong, weighing their options and extrapolating potential outcomes. "The last thing she needs right now are glory hunters looking to best the ultimate challenge."
Freed nodded. If they were right. . . heaven couldn't help them, but something close might.
"So how are those sound pods holding up? I bet that enchantment is in need of a tune-up," Talia said lightly as Wendy continued working on Laxus's numerous injuries. She saw him reach for his pocket with his right hand, but he froze suddenly.
His head tilted back and he closed his eyes in defeat. "Fuck," he groaned, "Pretty sure they took a hit from one of Prect's attacks." Indeed, the frayed edge of a cord hung out of the pocket he had reached toward. Those sound pods were long gone and entirely irreparable.
Talia feigned shock, "What? You mean a decade-old set of sound pods finally kicked the bucket? Heaven forfend."
"Hey now, I liked those," he pouted slightly as he looked back to her, and it just made her giggle more. Some combination of his size, his skill, and his usual dry sarcasm made the whole situation seem even more ridiculous. Laxus, the Lightning Dragon Slayer, S-Class wizard of the strongest guild in Fiore, was pouting over a pair of old sound pods.
"Well, tell you what—whenever you get a suitable replacement pair, I'll enchant them just the same," she smiled.
"You better," he griped back, "None of the store-bought ones sound half as good."
She smiled to him before stretching out, her shoulders and arms popping slightly. But it was only now that her hair slid away from her neck. She felt Laxus's eyes before she saw them. And by the time she turned back to him, his entire body language and demeanor had changed.
As much as he wished to, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her scars. Those long white lines down the length of her throat, they looked so neat now. But the sight of those lacerations as he pulled her from the rubble of her crumbled life scared the shit out of him. He had no idea how deep they were. Is she going to bleed out in my arms? There was so much blood. It stained her skin and clothes, and both were already in tatters. He had scrubbed his fingers raw that night—the idea of her blood on him made him feel sick. But no matter how much he scrubbed, he could still see it: thick, sticky coagulations clotting and clinging by thin-stretched arms. He scrubbed harder.
"Please don't look at me like that," she said quietly, a hand delicately going to her neck, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the base where her collarbones met.
"I'm sorry," he said. But to what? I'm sorry you were hurt? I'm sorry I stared? I'm sorry that I wasn't there? I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner? He didn't know, and he didn't want to think about it.
"Talia," the Master's voice was direct, and she turned to him dutifully, "I need to speak with you." She nodded and rose from her cot. Laxus looked to her with curiosity, but she smiled slightly in reassurance. She had been expecting this. They walked out of the infirmary tent, the sounds of happy chatter fading behind the trunks of trees.
Makarov stopped but did not turn to her.
"Freed tells me your power has grown immensely," his voice was even, and its flatness brought a tinge of worry to Talia's mind. "And that you and your Old One are no longer alone." He turned to her now, his eyes guarded, "Have you come to understand the nature of your magic?"
Talia turned her face skyward, watching the new sunlight filter through the shivering tree leaves. She exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
"Are you still comfortable in this binding?" his voice was protective now, and it made her smile slightly. He had barely survived one fight and he was ready to jump into another to protect his children. That protectiveness warmed her heart. She nodded and looked back down to him.
"It's different than I expected," she said quietly, "powerful and ageless and still so. . . human." She huffed a laugh, "You'd like how stubborn she is."
She expected this to settle him, but his guard was still up. But she didn't think it was toward her, he was bracing against something that wasn't physical.
"I have always believed," he began, his eyes moved off of her and became unfocused, "That magic is an energy; able to be dark or light, good or cruel depending on the will of the wielder." His fists were clenched. "But all of this. . . Master Prect spoke of Zeref and his Grand Magic World, and his belief that the beginnings of magic lie in darkness." He looked back to her, and she thought she almost saw fear in his eyes. "You are part of a magic whose expanse far exceeds any that I know. Has she. . . has she said anything toward the nature of magic? Not just hers, but all of it. Mine, yours, hers, Prect's, Zeref's."
Talia shook her head. "No, we've never discussed it directly like that. But—" a smile played at her lips, "would you like to ask her?"
This visibly startled Makarov. "How would I-?" He couldn't even fathom where to begin.
Talia's smile grew. "I think it should work. I know it's definitely possible, considering the Old One has played tricks on me before; a note here, a slightly askew chair there." She strode over to a nearby tree and sat among its roots, her back to the wide trunk. She patted the earth before her: "Sit with me."
Makarov wasn't entirely sure what to expect. This was all so different than Talia's understanding of her magic before she left. And to talk so casually about powers such as these. . .
"It might take me a few moments, the way is. . . convoluted," she said as he sat beside her. He nodded; he had waited decades with these questions, and the idea that they might truly be answered made a few extra moments seem a silly price.
He watched as her eyes closed, and studied her stillness. He remembered how hard it had been to teach her to meditate. She was always bouncing along to some odd rhythm. But here she sat, still, quiet, peaceful, assured in her self. She hadn't solely grown in power this past year, she had grown so much as a person. He could see the snippets of change—it wasn't just the scars, but the poise of her shoulders, the even angles of her resting arms. A prayer with no cathedral.
She had finally grown into herself. He smiled, both proud and melancholy. The pain she had endured had surely led to some of her growth, but the rest of the work was her own. She exuded a certainty, a self-assurance that she didn't have when he left.
"So you are the man she calls 'Master'."
His eyes met hers, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find that they were red. Her voice was slightly lower than Talia's, and the sounds seemed wider, the echoes deeper. As if those sounds would carry on into eternity after the rest of the world crumbled away; carrying on into the nothingness.
"I am Makarov, Master of the Fairy Tail Guild," his voice was steady, "To whom do I speak?"
She tilted her head up and away from him slightly, scrutinizing the small man. "I am Morrigan."
"Morrigan—" the name felt odd on his tongue, each syllable carrying its own heaviness, "did Talia pose to you my questions?" She nodded.
"The origin of magic and the nature therein. Light and dark. Good, evil, negligence." She rested her head back onto the tree as she spoke. From afar, it would have seemed like any other conversation between the two mages, but these words held power. Makarov nodded. She hummed in thought.
"It is a wrong question," she said simply, as if that answered everything. She watched his brows furrow in irritation.
"I thought the Old One was supposed to be the cryptic one," he snipped, half-jokingly. A slight smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.
"Light can burn and darkness can soothe. Core elements of the world such as these hold no natural leaning toward good or evil; it is humans who have imbued them as such. The creation of the world and of magic—" she paused, "depend on whom you ask. I am a creation of a human idea. I have no need to know how the world was begun for it was not my place." That ghost of a smile returned for a moment. "I rather enjoy one of my cousin's thoughts on the matter, though: before anything there was. . . everything. Chaos. And then slowly it organized. From that coalescence came the first gods. And from them came everything else. Magic is simply a part of that."
"Then what of this Grand Magic World, of Zeref's books and demons?" he prodded.
She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "That child thought too highly of himself. Four hundred years and people replace all mythos with this singular phenomenon. It is short-sighted, and he was smited in balance with his lack of foresight." She looked over to the small man. "This Grand Magic World he describes is likely just another pocket—of time, of space, of magic, of energy. But it is simply a manufactured attempt at mimicking the gods' work."
She opened her palms and studied them, flexing and stretching her fingers. Her hands were dirty and nails broken, but she followed the ridges of tendons and blue vein branches underneath the pale skin.
"I've always thought hands to be one of the most fascinating parts of human evolution," she mused, tracing an index finger overt the lines of her open palm. "Would you say a hand is innately good because it can caress a child? Or innately wicked because it can couch a blade into a beating heart? It is integral to survival for most, and yet it can be broken, beaten, even removed completely without catastrophic damage to the rest of the body. Such finesse, such power. They're lovely little things."
"And what of your magic?" he said shortly, "From what I've read, you wielded enough power to strike fear across a dozen seas; and your followers came to you at their most ravenous. Is your view of magic a twisting of validation for your own power?" It was a ballsy question, he knew, but he asked it nonetheless.
One eyebrow raised on her pale face, and she looked to him out of the corner of her eye. Aside from Talia's infrequent snippets of irritation, it had been a long while since someone had spoken so accusatorily toward her, much less question the worthiness of the very essence she embodied. Her teeth bared in a smile. I like this one.
"People fear uncertainty, and they fear the fact that I embody the side of uncertainty they wish to avoid. But the origins of conflict, the origins of war," her face and voice grew soft, "they do not lie in a wonton need for violence. They lie in desperation. The people whose energy called me into being did so because they had something they cherished. Their families were starving or needed protection. They wanted strength to protect what was precious to them and the skill to see the next dawn. And to do so, they had to reconcile with the risks." She turned to him fully. "Darkness and light are each shades of the other. In many beliefs, I am wicked. In many, I am good. There is no true good-bad dichotomy in the world. You know this to be true; you have seen it in your children."
Makarov nodded, his arms crossed over his chest and face pensive. On one hand, he was glad to know that Prect was wrong, that magic did not come out of 'darkness' and into 'light', but that the shades between those two idea could blur and twist.
"The Morrigan," he said quietly, feeling out the word. "When we first theorized that you were who she was bound to, there was a great deal of concern. So much power wedged into such a young child, I was worried that it would burn through her."
Morrigan hummed in recognition. "Well," her voice was dark and teasing, "we're not technically The Morrigan yet." She saw the question in his eyes, "This power can, and will, burn through most. But I have a way to temper it—a series of safeguards or barriers between her soul and mine. I will lift them as she grows, as I have lifted some already, but I have no want to see my Tithes suffer from my power." She glared at a memory skittering amidst the grass, "Some view their human bindings as a cage or a vehicle to be used and discarded, but I have seen enough pain and joy and built enough bonds to know better." She smiled warmly at the small man beside her. "In so much as I can help it, she will not suffer from my power."
"You better not," he grumbled, but a smile eeked out from behind his paternal glower, "Lost magic or no, I'll find a way to box those pretty ears of yours if anything happens to her."
Morrigan's smile broadened as she tiled her face skyward and closed her eyes: "I'd like to see you try."