0o0o0o0o0o Are people born wicked, or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them? 0o0o0o0o0o

It almost seemed blasphemy. Such joy, in such a place.

The figure shown bright as a unicorn against the sweet melancholy grays of the winter dawn. Like hounds to their master, the clouds of snowflakes milled before his head, singing tribute with their frolic. Even the ring of cold iron bars behind its passage, a sound no creature that knows loneliness can bear, did not serve to dampen the moment's wonder. Neither the snowflakes nor the figure knew such a thing. One might say the scene was much like Venus rising from the ocean. White and shining against seas of snowdrifts, this one too might very well have been born out of nothing.

The snow whirled and skittered around their kin, snapping at one another's heels in a mad race to nowhere. Several came to rest on the pale one's flesh; they did not melt, but nestled there as though to offer company, or else find it. How helpless they were, and he did not brush them away. The boy came to be shrouded in a powder veil; with the pale winter sun shining softly through the cascades, it seemed to be the only attire proper for such an occasion.

Out dripped the words on a slow woosh of breath, like a miser's finger scraping over bills hard-sought. "At last," came the cold hiss, weary and smiling. It spoke for the lips, icy and flexible that had forgotten smiles. "Got you at last." But there was no pleasure in it.

In this reverie of ashen grays and whites, the rose clasped between pudgy, childish fingers was an enigma. Low and flushing, the petals hung their heads as though ashamed of their state. The roots, entombed within a packet of soil in which nothing could ever grow again, cried useless pleas against the paper walls of their prison. Again and again, the flower's stem bit weakly at the fingers enclosing it, each attempt as futile as the last. The thorns had been removed.

"I know you would think roses are cliché," Listless, his gaze drifted and came to perch on the tip of a stray bud, its fragile stem shuttering against the breeze. The bud had never opened. He was glad of it. "But I didn't really care." With that, the iron bars parted, and the red fell to become only a drop of blood amidst an ocean.

For a moment longer the figure stood, its gray eyes those of the lamb, of the android in armor; just as sweet as without mercy. Only the snow and the silence seemed to look back at him with any understanding.

"I thought you might not want to die alone."

With that, the figure's footprints filled, and silence reigned in the Valley of Death.

Its petals crusting white to wash the blood away, the rose screamed until the bitter end.

And then there was only snow.

And snow.

And snow.

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Author's Note: As some of you might already know, the line in italics at the top is from the musical Wicked, in a song called (surprise surprise) No One Mourns The Wicked. I said this fic was an AU because this is written supposing that Near wins, and Kira (Light) dies. Supposing, because I will be pissed off if that doesn't happen. Actually, though, what'd be even better would be Near winning and Light losing the notebook and forgetting he'd ever been Kira; that'd be ironic. Either way, this would work. I wrote this meant to be set in a graveyard, but I never actually SAID graveyard or grave, so it could easily work for the 2nd scenario (which I thought up all of 30 seconds ago, when I was typing this note). And yes, I know Venus was not actually born out of nothing, but the line worked and I'd rather not go into the detail of what Venus actually was born out of.