Author's Note: I have officially all but caught up to myself, but I figured it was more important to keep posting than to maintain my lead. Rather a lot has been going on and I'm learning things about disability leave that I never wanted to know, but with luck I'll get some quality recovery time soon. It's a frustrating position, to know what you want to say yet be entirely unable to communicate it, but my own insanity informs my writing and I'm hoping that if I can just stop cycling that writing will pick up again. But no matter how long the time in between, you can always know that I am woking to bring you the best story I can! And with that, I'll get off the soap box and let you enjoy chapter 6. Thank you all for reading!
The table was silent, the air was thick, and Crona's omelet was getting cold. Which was a real shame because Maka had thought it looked like a masterpiece on the menu, goat cheese and bell peppers and a little green onion for hardly anything at all. And garlic roasted potatoes on the side. Crona had been attempting to build up his hellebore serum levels again and thus had a large thermos of the tea open, so maybe that was the problem? The stench was certainly enough to ruin the uninitiated's appetite, but Crona had never been bothered by it, Maka had a tolerance, and they were early enough that no one got close enough to complain excepting the waiter, who wrinkled his nose without a word in an admirable display of commitment to duty. Maka's pancakes were long gone, as was her coffee, and her water, and the ice in her water, and the decorative fruit and mint leaves that had adorned her plate. She'd done everything but lick up the excess syrup to avoid disturbing the pink haired meister, to convince herself that if she was patient he'd tell her what was bothering him. Correction, she knew what was bothering him, she wanted him to discuss it with her so she could offer her insight and help problem solve. It unnerved her to see him like this, silent and simmering and scheming, and she wanted desperately to be what brought him back to his usual self. After tragedy things don't just return to the way they were, she knew that, just as she knew that no matter how painful it might be, especially following a tragedy, you still have to move forward.
Peeking her tongue between her lips with an impish thought, Maka decided to disregard subtlety and try something a little more direct to both get his attention and lighten the mood. Crona had agreed to come here with her and have breakfast before class, so there had to be some part of him that wanted to engage. Stealthily, she planted her fork on the table between them tines down (germs be damned) then slowly walked it towards Crona's plate, like it was tiptoeing. He didn't notice, much too enthralled with the brick wall across the cobblestone street to pay her any mind. His hands were laced tightly in his lap and his face was carefully neutral in its arrangement. Pale blue eyes betrayed him. Counting on his continuing disinterest, Maka leaned all the way across the table and cut a little triangle from the omelet with the side of her fork, spearing it and carefully lifting it upward
"Look it's an airplane," she exclaimed, weaving the bite through the air in front of his face as one might in an attempt to coax a child into eating.
"An airplane? But I don't hear anything," he responded, looking up and then down at her. He started when he saw the fork in his face, leaning back to get a better look.
"Looks like this airplane wants to land… in your mouth!"
Again she made the fork do some flying maneuvers, wiggling it up and down for emphasis. It was unclear even to Maka what she was expecting, though she was pretty sure it wasn't skepticism. Nor was it Crona refusing to open his mouth and let her feed him.
"Maka, how could an airplane land in my mouth, regardless of what it wants? And what are you doing with that fork?"
"Trying to be cute," she sighed, deflating and setting the omelet back on Crona's plate, returning to her side of the table with folded arms. "Just don't let that go to waste, okay? At least let Ragnarok eat it."
"I gave Ragnarok a dozen eggs this morning before we came so he wouldn't bother you while you were trying to eat."
"It was supposed to be while we were trying to eat," she snapped before she could stop, noticing Crona's flinch and kicking herself for the outburst. "I'm sorry, this was a terrible idea. You've only been out of the hospital a few days and already I want to force you into public when I know how much you hate it."
"I don't hate it, not anymore. And you didn't force me to do anything. I thought it was a good idea."
"It was insensitive at best. I just wanted to distract you, just for a little, but clearly you don't want to be distracted. I should've just dropped it but since I'm incapable of that here we are and I'm sorry."
Crona gave her a sad look, though that was all she could make out for sure in the whirlwind of intentions passing over his features. Then his gaze dropped to the plate and, keeping one hand tightly clenched in his lap, he grasped Maka's fork with the egg still clinging to it. Decisively he brought it to his lips and put it in his mouth, chewing maybe a little more than was absolutely necessary and checking Maka's response. She scowled at him.
"You don't have to try and appease me because I got you caught up in my bad decision," she scolded, keeping her arms tucked against her chest. "I'd rather you just spit out whatever it is that's been bothering you. I understand you've just been through something horrible, I know you have a friend in a coma because of it, and I can see you're upset about it. I'm not mad at you Crona; I want you to do whatever you have to to get through this. I just- I just wish you'd talk to me. I wish you'd let me help."
He didn't answer her, at least, not verbally and not right away. For a long moment he just stared at her, head tilted ever so slightly to the right, eyes narrow but relaxed, the grey visibly encircling the blue as his dilated pupils pushed out to meet it. When his lips parted Maka felt herself tense in preparation, though she was quickly disappointed. One breath, then another, then he blinked, cut off another piece of omelet using the fork he still had in his hand, and put it in his mouth. Perhaps buying himself time to think.
"I don't want to upset you," he finally answered, swallowing and focusing on the plate.
"I'm already upset." For emphasis she threw her hands up in the air, as if to indicate the multitude of things that were upsetting her. "And besides, how am I supposed to know how to help if you won't tell me anything?"
Crona flicked his eyes up to her, then back down to the plate, working diligently to cut away a piece that was just the right size and shape this time and putting it between his teeth. He slid the fork through his lips slowly, removing any residual cheese with excessive thoroughness. The care he was taking with his phrasing exacerbated Maka's anxiety, making it difficult to maintain her patience. Still she waited, pushing her hands into her lap and making fists under the table.
"Maka, I'm the one who should apologize to you," he started slowly, setting the fork down with a small clink and addressing the tablecloth. "You wanted to do something nice together and I've been… I did want to come here and have a meal with you, and I do still want that, I just can't stop thinking. I can't find a way around it, especially after what happened. The truth that I keep coming back to is that I-I'm at the end of what the resources I have can give me. So I need new libraries and to find new libraries I need…"
He stopped again, pursing his lips as if to hold in the confession. Maka did the same, except over a spray of demands. The longer he waited the worse her imaginings became, until she thought she might literally burst. When he looked her in the eye she felt her heart shudder with fear.
"I have to consult my mother's journals."
"Crona you can't!"
The last part came out a little choked as she tried to take the words back while they were still leaving her mouth, causing her to cough a little.
"This is why I didn't want to say anything," he sighed, slouching backwards in the chair and looking dejected. Which was something; given his recent behavior, any reaction was better than nothing. "I knew you wouldn't approve."
Again her first response pressed against her teeth, but Maka restrained it this time, swallowing hard and folding her hands in front of her on the table. Still, her emerald eyes caught the early morning light at such an angle as to make them appear truly crystalline.
"As long as you honor your deal with Lord Death," she said in an even voice. "You don't need my approval to do anything."
"Still I-" he broke off, eyes darting to the street where people were starting to bustle. "I want it. I want your… permission. I know how you feel about them and I didn't want to do this behind your back. There isn't another way, I've tried and tried to find one but my body rejected the hellebore when it mattered and my Madness denatured your Anti-Magic Wavelength. Vera's lost on the astral plane and I don't know how I'm supposed to bring her back. Without Lady Medusa I can't even know what to look for next, never mind what to do when I find it. So I have to do it. Can you… can you understand that? Even if you won't allow it, can you at least understand?"
"Is this why you've been so distant," she asked coolly, avoiding the question. "Not because you're sad or hurt, but because you're worried about what I'll think?"
"A little." Crona twisted his fingers, bringing them to his chest and pulling the joints at odd angles. "I know I promised I would do this for myself, just because I want to, but so often it's only my desire to stay with you that keeps me from giving up. I can't lose you and even now I'm afraid doing something you don't want me to do will result in just that. Even though I know that's just Lady Medusa inside my head, I'm still afraid. Mostly, though, I've felt… so trapped."
"Crona," Maka sighed, dropping her gaze and shaking her head so that her pigtails flicked in gentle oscillations. "What happened was a perfect storm. The odds of you having to confront a situation that's even remotely similar are, well, it's really unlikely. If you discount it then you've been doing so much better than even just six months ago. Can't you be satisfied with that?"
"If something can happen, it will. This much I've learned the hard way, again and again. It won't stop. What is it that Kid said? That by my very nature I make achieving balance impossible? And he's not wrong; I can feel that inside me, the Pull that gets stronger with every step I take in the other direction."
"I don't think that's a very fair assessment," she whispered, tucking her chin towards her left shoulder and scowling at the street. The air around her radiated with a directionless venom. "I don't think you're considering any of the progress you've been making on your own. All the work you did without that witch's help."
"Maka I'm not discounting that." For the first time true frustration slid into Crona's voice and he curled his hands into white knuckled fists which dug into his sternum. "I know I've accomplished things and overcome challenges. I just-I've wanted so desperately to stop hurting people, ever since I knew that was an option and every time I let myself think I've gotten better something like this happens and I feel I haven't made any real progress at all. I feel I'm getting worse. More than that, though, I'm tired of being taken advantage of and used. There has to be a way to end this, it has to exist somewhere. I know you hate my mother but she was a brilliant scientist who knew many things. And since I share her flesh and magic her journals have no choice but to help me. I must seek her guidance, I must make this proposal to Lord Death, and I came with you here so I could tell you that but I don't know how to explain it so that you'll understand and I don't know how to deal with you not understanding."
She stood abruptly, causing her chair to make an awful scraping noise and Crona to flinch, though she made no apology for either. For a moment he thought she was just going to leave without a word, that his fears were being actualized and the abandonment he'd nearly convinced himself was impossible was in fact imminent. The mere thought pricked at his eyes and constricted his chest, emotions he'd thought adequately suppressed hissing through the cracks of his resolve. But when she moved it was not away from him. Instead she came around behind him, then leaned over, sliding her hands down his chest and resting her chin on his shoulder in a soft embrace. At first he tensed, an old response to unexpected tenderness. Then he remembered that, at least from Maka, all tenderness could be expected. Crona relaxed against her, leaning his head against hers and interlacing their fingers.
"It's okay that I don't understand," she said in a low tone that rumbled against the back of his neck. "It's okay, really. You know why? Because I trust you. It's true that I despise Medusa, and I'm not sorry for it, but nothing changes the fact that she's someone with information that you need. If you don't think there's a way around consulting her journals- consulting her, and you think whatever information she can provide is worth the risk, then you need to do it. I trust you not to do anything that would endanger yourself or the people you've sworn to protect, so it's okay. I promise."
"I…" he trailed off, staring at the water glass before him, through the polymer of silicon and oxygen and past the order and disorder of the ice water into a place of memory and emotion. "I'm scared. I told Kid I wasn't, and I didn't lie to him, but still… whenever I think about it I get so scared. Will Vera comeback or have I damned her like I damned so many others? Can I ever become human or is there ultimately no way to avoid the things I'm designed to do? If I became human what would happen to Ragnarok?"
"Shhh," Maka soothed, turning her head a little and pressing her lips softly into his cheek. "You don't have to deal with all that right now. Let's go to class, try to focus there, then you can start preparing a proposal for Lord Death. Convince him that you need to read Medusa's journals like you've convinced me. That's all you need to do for now. That's all you need to think about."
"Okay," Crona breathed with a shaky sigh, gathering his composure. "Okay."
They don't insert a feeding tube immediately; the process is so traumatic to the body that it's better to wait and make sure the damn thing is absolutely necessary before putting someone through that. Even if they don't know what it is they're experiencing, even if they won't remember the pain, it's still better to wait. Until it's really, truly needed. For the average Joe that timeframe is a handful of days. For Vera… for Vera the jury was still out. Professor Stein had rambled on about magic and Black Blood and the astral plane and Soul had done his best to pay attention. His mind wouldn't allow him to focus though, at least not on Stein's low, drawling voice. Besides, his own observations were more informative and, as far as he could tell, equally as accurate. Vera was in more of a torpor than a coma, a stasis of sorts in which everything within her was still healthy and functioning, it was just doing so at an incredibly lethargic pace. The first twelve hours had been terrifying as her heart rate plummeted and the Black Blood thickened through her body. Then, for Vera, time stopped.
It was like some kind of goddamn fairy tale and the only up side was that she wouldn't have to endure any foreign objects being shoved into her vacant body. Not so much as a needle was going to breech her skin. Even assuming it could; the crystalline Black Blood had her set into a rigor that made it impossible to reposition her body, let alone stick her with anything. So there she'd stay, pale and pristine, like some kind of princess waiting for a kiss. Knowing that she'd punch him for thinking that made Soul smile and wonder if she'd wake up just to hurt him for trying. Could be worth a shot…
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here," breathed a soft voice from the infirmary doorway. "I'll come back-"
"No Crona," Soul cut him off without looking back, standing and pushing his hands into the pockets of his burgundy pants. "I was just heading out anyway. Gotta study for those upcoming exams, you know."
"That's not like you." Crona's voice was a little more confident this time, his robe rustling as he came up beside Soul. His head tilted and he tried to make eye contact, but Soul kept his crimson gaze fixed on Vera and his face composed.
"What, cool guys like me can't study?"
"I think "can't" is the wrong word. But usually you don't."
"You got me there," Soul snorted with false amusement. "First time for everything though."
He turned and started for the door, careful to hunch at just the right angle so as to look normal and avoid Crona's eye. At first the swordsman held himself still and Soul thought he'd successfully dodged any further interaction. Then, just as he'd reached the door himself, Crona spun around and called after him:
"Soul please wait! Are you upset with me? I'd understand if you are; this is all my fault. Everything was better- things were supposed to be better but instead I've made it worse. It gets worse every time and I'm sorry. I am, I'm sorry, so please don't be angry. I- I don't know if I can deal with you being angry. I don't know-"
"Stop," he said curtly, reaching one hand towards the doorframe and running his fingers over the wood. Buying himself time to think before he looked back over his shoulder and met the meister's imploring grey gaze. "Just stop. Can we not talk about this right now?"
"So I'm right," Crona whispered, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Even though I'm sorry."
"I didn't say that," Soul snapped. Crona flinched and he sighed, licking his lips and turning fully, pressing his back to the wall and folding his arms. "Look, you're right that I'm angry, just not with you. Hell, I'm angry with everything except for you. I'm angry that Maka didn't vet the caterers better and that I didn't even give the party plans a once over and that Kid didn't set up some kind of security for his own Manor. I'm outright furious that I was so distracted by Vera in her party dress I didn't notice anything was wrong, and that, when it came down to it, I was completely useless."
"It's not your fault… they weren't after you. And more than that, if it had been you and not me, you would've been strong enough. No one would've needed to save you. Instead… You haven't spoken to me since it happened, you know."
There was a moment of silence into which Crona's gaze fell, drifting like a dead leaf to the floor as he made fists in his robe.
"Then it should be me apologizing to you," Soul finally said into the stillness, softly now and with a sad grin. "I didn't realize… Guess you're not the only one who gets stuck in your own head, huh? Not cool at all."
Now Crona was avoiding his eye, reversing their positions and chewing on his lower lip.
"Look I can't absolve you of whatever responsibility you feel any more than you can absolve me. Sometimes the crap gets on everyone and we each have to deal with it in our own way. I didn't mean to guilt you, cool guys don't do that sort of thing. I just can't seem to sort through things yet. So I'm sorry for that. Now if I tell you some things will you believe me?"
"I don't know," Crona confessed after a few seconds, willing himself to meet Soul's crimson eyes again. "I don't know what's real and what's people saying whatever they think will make me feel better because they're afraid of what I'll do if I… I can't tell anymore. But I'll try to believe you."
"Close enough," he affirmed with a nod and a warmer grin. "Kay, I don't blame you even a little bit. Vera told Maka she doesn't regret helping you despite the consequences, so I'm pretty sure she doesn't blame you. And there is no one alive who could've done better than you did under the same set of circumstances. Not me, not Maka, no one. That said, there's no sense freaking out about it now. You have to move forward, understand?"
"Yes I know. And… I know what I have to do."
"So Lord Death approved your plan?"
"He did. Lord Death thinks any treatment for the Black Blood might help all of us, maybe even restore Vera, and a solution for Madness could render the DWMA obsolete. So I have permission to use my mother's journals and follow any leads she might reveal. I came to tell her…"
"Then I'll let you get to it," Soul said with a nod and a wave, turning back towards the exit.
"No wait! You don't have to go!"
"It's fine, Crona, I'll see you at home. You can help me with dinner and we'll talk more then. Sound good?"
"Alright," Crona mumbled, a little morose but resigned. "Then I'll see you… later."
The turnaround from receiving approval to continue his research on the Black Blood and the DWMA building him his own little lab outside the city walls (and all their anti-magic wards) had been a little shocking. So shocking, in fact, that Crona was still hesitant to call it "his lab," even though that was the building's explicit purpose. Though to be fair, "building" might've been too generous a term. "Shed" was a little more accurate, a single room encased entirely in cold iron and honeycomb clay, more of a containment barrier for the magic and Madness produced within than anything else. The design was a combination of crude and elegant, allowing the power diverted from the city to be directed to the electronics in its entirety. Crona's discomfort didn't matter; it hadn't been a factor in the construction, much to Ragnarok's displeasure. His instrumentation, however, was sensitive, and likely to degrade in the iron cook box. Thus the clay. Its high surface area meant the evaporative cooling from even small amounts of water could effectively frost the room, assuming the recirculating irrigation system held. So the hut remained chilled in the day. At night it was downright frigid.
For some reason he felt acutely aware of that fact now, of the biting cold that insulated something else, that pressed in around him. He hadn't hesitated when he'd left the apartment to come here, nor at any point during the spiraling descent out of the city. When he'd reached the door and pushed past it there had been no trace of uncertainty or concern in his frame or movements. But now, standing inside in the enhanced chill of a desert night, the full weight of what he was about to do sagged around him. Decisions made in desperation were never good and this one, in particular, had not turned out well for him historically. Necessary as it was, then and now, it was not wise to venture so close to her, even in death. No- especially in death. Especially in this form where she had only her words to use against him, where she could not hurt him nor lie to him. In the white pages where he had not wandered since…
"Shit! Does it have to be so cold in here?"
"We've talked about this Ragnarok," Crona sighed, attempting to work up the resolve to move forward a little more quickly. "It does. For the instruments. Besides, I thought you didn't mind the cold. It's better than being too hot, isn't it?"
"Don't patronize me," Ragnarok snapped back, delivering a decisive blow to the back of Crona's head hard enough to send a spray of lights winking across his vision. "Just because I can help you put up with it doesn't mean I like it. Get this over with so we can go home; I wanna eat the leftovers."
"I know…"
Crona slipped his fingers under the delicate but robust silver chain around his neck, spreading them wide and lifting it over his head. The quartz glittered in the half-light, large and heavy with a fresh aliquot of Maka's blood. Like oil in a car, the blood, and the crystal, had to be changed out at a rate proportional to the stress to which it was exposed. It had not been long after its creation that this had become apparent, and although the resulting streamlining of the process was of net benefit, it meant he had to risk losing control every time he conducted a magical experiment. The pendant had to be removed and kept away from him to avoid burning it out. He had not realized how literal that assertion was, nor had he fully disclosed how catastrophic the consequences of a burnout were. When the Anti-Magic Wavelength was close to his soul and blood, resting against his flesh, Crona felt it like an all-encompassing pressure, like wearing a suit that was just a squeeze tight. Before that had been a comfort. Now it was too tight, too restricting, even when he wasn't doing anything. Now it reprimanded him for little more than hungering to do something, and the hunger wouldn't go away. Even though he wanted it gone, even though he'd never asked for it to begin with, the hunger was swelling up from somewhere inside him, his blood trying to expand past the boundaries of Maka's. It had to be stopped. And whether he or anyone else liked it or not, she was their best chance of stopping it.
The journals quivered in anticipation, sensing his intentions even before he'd formulated the question properly. Or had committed to it… But they knew it was imminent, that he'd come with a purpose and they would soon be able to fulfill their function. They, like himself, ached for that, though unlike Crona they had neither the ability nor desire to pretend otherwise. And Crona felt himself losing that desire, questioning his own understanding of that function and, in a secret, dark part of himself, rationalizing it. That couldn't be allowed to happen. Steeling himself, Crona focused on his requirements and held out a hand palm up. The shivering pile responded, shuffled, and spat out an entry from the lower left corner of the mass. It levitated to him, settled itself in his palm, and opened to an early page.
"Uhg," Ragnarok let out a shiver of his own. "I hate when you do that. Makes me feel weird."
"I know. I'll be fast."
"Tell the bitch hi from me!"
Crona didn't dignify that with a response. He didn't even sit down. Curling his fingers around the top edge of the book to secure it against his inner forearm, he looked down into the blank white page. And then he allowed his mind to dissolve into it. To reform on the other side, in the whiteness, like a physical body in another dimension accessible only to him. The only place outside of his mind where she still lived, though even that was debatable. Her eyes were golden and reptilian, chilling him deeper than any cold ever had, her grin equally so. Meticulously painted nails glinted yellow and coiling tattoos beguiled a malicious intent. Even her hair, uniquely twisted under her chin, was absolutely perfect. A perfect ghost.
"Hello my child," she greeted, crossing her arms and popping out a hip.
"Lady Medusa," he responded, reaching across his chest and grasping his arm above the elbow. He was able to look at her for only an instant before reawakened fear dropped his gaze. Her smile widened in amusement.
"It's been awhile," Medusa pressed conversationally, not bothering to hide her eagerness. "How have you been? You seemed most upset by our last conversation-"
"Don't! Don't talk about that," Crona snapped, angry blue eyes swinging up to meet hers as indignation emboldened him. "I don't ever want to hear such things from you. Never again. That's not why I'm here."
"I see," said Medusa, feigning surprise and offense. "What, then, can I help you with? It must be an interesting question if you're consulting such an early entry."
"It's a necessary question. One that concerns your early designs for the Black Blood. You must've been concerned that someone, the DWMA or another witch, would eventually disarm your weapon. Without my Madness and magic there's no way I could become Kishin. How could this be accomplished? How can I be free of both?"
"You already asked me that, my child. And though I disagree with the goal, futile as it may be, I was impressed with your project. Has it not worked out?"
She was mocking him, tapping one finger against her bicep and tilting her head. Basking in a perceived victory. Crona felt his simmering anger start to froth, and he couldn't restrain himself. Gripping his arm so hard his knuckles went white, he took the bait.
"We've completed that project and it works well. It requires supplementation is all."
"Something's happened." She let the observation hang between them for a moment before continuing. "Now you're truly beginning to understand what's in your blood and it terrifies you. As your mother, I must caution you-"
"You are not my mother. My mother died almost one year ago. She died so I could live and I wouldn't take it back even if I could."
The resolve in his voice didn't communicate to the rest of his body, which trembled with learned fear. Speaking to her in such a manner- he knew punishment was both inevitable and impossible. His eyes squeezed shut, braced for the retribution his wild tongue was bound to bring, his spine curling him forward ever so slightly. Still he continued, incapable of restraining himself any longer, of forgiving her for the consequences of that last conversation she'd so shrewdly referenced. She couldn't know what her confession had initiated or how her hallucinated counterpart had poisoned him. Yet he blamed her nevertheless. Whispered words can still wield great force, and even as he cowered before her his mind strained to reject submission.
"You're not her, you're just a representation of her that serves to index these journals; you cannot hurt me and you cannot lie to me. I won't let you confuse me again, so stop trying. Just answer my question, that's all I want from you."
"That's rather cruel, isn't it," Medusa commented, the nature of her smile darkening. "To reject my concern even though you know it to be genuine. As if no trace of Medusa still thrives in her work. Yet I sense that no longer bothers you. Look at you, you're so afraid of what you could become you haven't thought to be scared of what you're becoming. There was a time when I myself was no different, so desperate to stave off one undesirable fate that I fell right into another. A time when I, too, sought to use magic to free myself from its Pull. There can be no doubt that you are, indeed, my child. As if more evidence was required."
"You're lying," breathed Crona, panting as he forced his eyes to open and lifted them to meet her hard gaze. "There's no way… It's never been your goal to be free of the Pull- it can't have been your goal because- because… How can you be lying to me?"
"Did you think you were the first? The only young witch to strain against the fate that's in your blood? Or even alone in your desire to rid yourself of Madness? My sisters and I were born relatively close together, for witches. Close enough that I can still remember Arachne taking on the role of mother when our own abandoned us in the pursuit of a power she never achieved. If you have met my sister it is doubtful that you would describe her as kind or nurturing, and yet once it was those two words that defined her. I watched magic twist her inside out and vowed never to allow myself to distort in that way. At first it was that desire that drove me to leave my younger sister as our mother had done before me and to seek knowledge which would allow me to defy the Pull. As you might surmise, my efforts were in vain, and ultimately I determined nothing that I'd researched in that time could threaten the destiny I had designed for you. Nevertheless, you are correct that I had my concerns."
"You… you weren't always like this?"
Fresh fear oozed up inside him, swallowing the anger and rebellion as he straightened fully. Medusa narrowed her eyes and tilted her head in the opposite direction, fingering her hair. She was no longer smiling.
"Don't be naive, Crona," she scolded. "Despite the mandate of the DWMA, we live in a world that changes. You would not recognize the me from over 8,000 years ago, nor would you recognize the Death of that time. But such things are of little consequence; the gentle me from then is long dead. Just as the gentle you from now will die."
"No," he cried out, wincing back as his stomach clenched. "No I- I won't let that happen."
"Indeed," Medusa laughed, serpentine smile back in place. "I will be interested to hear your ideas on the matter. Alas the information you seek is not within these pages, I know only of a reference. You will need to find the journals of my youth, in the archives of my lab."
"But your lab was destroyed!"
Crona all but sobbed, disoriented and sick as his mind tried to run away from this artificial place and hold itself still at the same time. Every time he came here his emotions spun wildly out of control, why had he expected now to be any different? Why had he thought he could remain composed before her, extract the information he required as if from any other tome? Clicking her tongue in disapproval, Medusa approached him, stretching a hand towards his face. He shuddered, instinctually flinching, but she didn't strike him. Her fingers pushed hair from his eyes, tucking the longer strands behind his ear, then she pressed her palm to the back of his skull and forced him to look her in the eye. Her touch calmed him- no, that wasn't the right word. It exhausted him, pushing him to a place past fear and despair, into a sort of derealization.
"I had many labs," she said in a low, even voice. "Perhaps they've all blended together in your mind, but I'm sure you'll recognize it once you see it. These journals were not kept with my most recent work, but in a smaller station tunneled into the mountains to the East, across the salt flats. My magic will guide you there and will grant you access. There is no indexing system like with these journals; you will need to conduct your research the old fashioned way. Look for anything referencing an alchemical universal curative or a panacea."
"I understand," affirmed Crona with a nod, feeling at once a deep unease and an incredible relief at being so close to her, listening as he used to to mission requirements. Except this was a mission of his choosing, a connection he'd initiated. Even the words, the response programmed into him, felt more natural than invasive. She released him and took a step back, readying herself for his departure.
"Be careful my child," she cautioned, narrowing her gaze. "As much as I despise your goals, I must admire your unending defiance in the face of the order I set out for you, and take pride in your accomplishments. Perhaps that defiance will allow you to succeed where even I failed, but do not underestimate the will of a powerful, magical artifact. The panacea may not be so easily manipulated."
"Even so," he said, maintaining an unblinking eye contact through blurring vision. "I don't have a choice anymore. I have to try. I have to… to thank you, Lady Medusa."
"Thank me with success," Medusa said with a wry grin. "Now go. There are people waiting for you."
Crona nodded, one single, lethargic dip of his chin, and then the white that had engulfed him began to shrivel back into reality. Darkness and color, like nails tearing holes in cloth, followed by fingers which stretched and tore the white to shreds. Scraps and then nothing but his own lab. Again she'd left him alone on the dark, aching and trembling; yet this time was so infinitely different from what had come before he could barely compare them. This task he feared so much was of his own choosing, just as he had chosen to leave the white light of her presence and return to this dark reality. Even the pain inside him, dull and devouring, was a result of his own desires, not any derivative of her punishment. He could not blame Lady Medusa for his current discomfort. In fact he owed her gratitude. More than that, he…
The blurring in his vision grew heavy and, though his blue eyes remained wide, fell. It bypassed his cheeks and nose and hit the white page of Medusa's journal with a whispered thud. First one, then another, then Crona closed the book and with little more than a reluctant thought, sent it back to join its brethren.
