Author's Note: Hello all! First off, thank you for coming back and reading. It's been a long time and, unfortunately, it's going to continue to be a long time between updates. I'm in my first year of teaching high school while trying to get the license at the same time and it's all a bit much. But I am still writing where I can and I will keep pressing forward with this. Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy the chapter!
The world around him was pitch black and… fuzzy. Velvety in texture, like the walls were close to him, pressing in. A cage he couldn't see. That should've unnerved him, but it didn't. He didn't investigate, didn't so much as try to move, because what was the point in moving? There was nowhere to go, no other place he wanted to be. No place he wanted to be at all, in fact. So here was as good as anywhere, in this warm, unrelenting darkness. This place where, even if he did try, there was nowhere else to go and no reason to leave. His circular thoughts wound around and around, feeding on each other in a lethargic exercise of self-pity as the darkness both encroached and remained stagnate. Always coming back to the same conclusion: that here was better than anywhere else. Here the past hadn't happened and his mind was free to spiral into oblivion without the threat of pain. Here was the only place it didn't hurt. But he wasn't alone.
A light pierced- no, punctured the darkness in front of him, brilliant and yellow and painful. He brought up his arms to shield his eyes, but the light paid them little mind, cutting through his flesh like it cut through the soft blackness. It brought with it a series of ratcheting clicks, slow at first, then faster and faster. Louder and louder. Until it was a low horn so overwhelming it rivaled the light. He flinched away, dropping to the ground and pressing his hands over his ears. His face screwed up into a pinched knot and he bowed his head, tucking his chin into his chest and arching his spine. Anything to get away from the light and sound. It didn't matter; this noise, this thing, whatever it was, it was as unrelenting as the darkness. More so.
"Stop it," he shouted, though his voice couldn't so much as whisper above the sound. "Stop!"
The thing ignored him, blaring down like a siren- even louder. A rebuke to his protest. There was something about it, something intentional, though he couldn't define it. Like the feeling of being watched in an empty room. He knew something was there, could sense a desire in the onslaught, but what that was or why he was subject to it were beyond him. All he could feel was discomfort- mind-numbing discomfort. The sensation of having his thoughts budged out by this force that drilled into him. Punctured him like it had punctured the darkness. Bright and loud and unbearable. Even as he wished it away it pressed onward, drowning him until he became accustomed to the water. Until he could hear…
Inside the light and beneath the wailing there was a will. He sensed it with sharpening clarity, could see it's shapeless gaze behind his own eyes as he tried to hide. Could hear its tongueless voice in the storm of sound from which he sought shelter. Something was there, inside him, something not himself. Something else. It gnawed at him, biting into him through his eyes and screaming in his ear. But he couldn't understand. He couldn't-
"Hear me."
Now he was past discomfort. Now he thought he was going to be sick. Dropping his hands from their useless positions over his ears, he grabbed his stomach and retched. His body convulsed out of control, but the something persisted. It burrowed inside him, insistent and inescapable.
"Hear me. Give me your blood."
Crona woke with a gasp, his fists curled in the blanket and his heart racing. The sodium lamp light illuminated his small room, casting thin shadows over the walls and floor. Over the place Maka used to be, before he had sent her away. Why was that? He let out the breath he'd been holding and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and returning to reality. He'd done it because he wanted to be alone with his solitude. Because when these nightmares had started it was too much to have her there, to have her where for so many years someone else had been. Because if he was going to wake up alone, to live alone, he'd rather just be alone. They hadn't liked that answer, but it was true. He had to be alone, he had to get used to it, had to sort out what it meant.
Maka couldn't fill the space inside him, the place where Ragnarok used to be, and he couldn't stand her trying. He still loved her, he still wanted to be with her, but… not now. Now he had to wake up in the middle of the night and experience the silence he'd have to live with for the rest of his life. He had to try and understand that sometimes he liked the silence, liked that no one was coming to punish him for waking. He had to feel the guilt that came with that and the hollow emptiness. This space where another soul had been, the second mouth that had brought survival to his body if not fullness to his stomach, the power and pain of having a weapon inside him. The void of now, waking up without fear of retribution. Crona felt like he could lose his mind thinking about it, like he'd go crazy if he talked about it, and like his whole world had to change to reflect this catechism that had happened inside his body. Maka didn't understand that, but she was helping him by staying away. So when he woke up now he was truly alone with his nightmare. The one in his dreams and the one he was living.
Crona pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, narrowing his eyes as his heart rate slowed. When Lady Medusa had died he'd had nightmares, but they weren't of her death. No, he'd dreamed of his own, of her arrow through his gut and Black Blood pooling around him. Or he'd dreamed she was still alive, that she'd found him and was punishing him for his betrayal. Opening him up and putting her will back inside. He'd so rarely experienced anxiety that she was gone, which he felt intermittently guilty about. She had been his world, but by the time she was gone he'd already transitioned to a new world. He'd learned to live without her before she'd left; he'd even known her death was inevitable.
He had not expected there would ever come a time when he'd live without Ragnarok. It hadn't seemed possible, why even consider it? Yet here he was and he was so confused. Empty yet, like with Lady Medusa, relieved. How could he feel like that? Ragnarok's life was gone, what did it mean that he was comforted by that knowledge? And he was. He wouldn't miss getting beaten over the head, or having his food stolen, or having his work interrupted, or having to endure his barging in on intimate moments with Maka. Ragnarok was cruel and crude and difficult, there was very little that anyone liked about him. There was so little to miss. Even so, he had been Crona's partner, Crona's blood. To be free of him was… not freedom. It was emptiness. Crona didn't know what to feel.
He didn't know what to make of these dreams either. On the surface they seemed textbook manifestations of his trauma. And he did remember the trauma now, the frantic, blind struggle as Ragnarok tried to direct him to victory. The fungal tendrils coiling around him anyway, dragging him into the tunnels depths. The pressure on his stomach as something tried to burrow in and then nothing but the light. Nothing until waking up in the infirmary. Just thinking about it made him sick, how helpless he'd been in the end. And so obviously these dreams about being consumed by that light were just nightmares. They would go away with time, as he processed the experience. That's what everyone said, especially Maka. That's what he wanted to believe too.
Yet they were getting worse, not better. At first it had just been the darkness, then the presence, then the light. After two weeks the sound came in, louder each night, until it was unbearable. There had been no sound in the cave, just his own plaintive cries and he prayed for help that came too late. They said he could be pulling from a suppressed portion of his memory; maybe there was a sound while he'd been pinned. Crona disagreed. He was so sure of the silence, of the overwhelming presence of the light which shut out every other sense and stilled his very thoughts. The noise in the dreams was new and tonight, for the first time, it had spoken. What, exactly, had been said had already faded from his mind, but the fact that there were words, that the thing that hunted him in his dreams had an intelligence, unnerved him. It wasn't textbook PTSD, it wasn't like before. This was new no matter what anyone else said. And it was getting worse.
The thought hit in stride with a powerful wave of nausea. Crona scrambled, throwing off the covers and stumbling to the door. He tried to be quiet, but as his body prepared itself to vomit he had to confess to having other priorities. Making it to the toilet, he lifted the lid and kneeled, preemptively hugging the porcelain. Sure enough another pulse of unpleasantness shot through his body and he retched, just as he had in his dream, but nothing came up. Again his stomach and ribs contracted and again nothing was released. The sickness just stirred in his gut, churning maliciously. Unfortunately, like the dreams, he was getting used to this. Whenever he woke up and thought about his nightmares, whenever he let himself consider there might be another presence in his mind, this happened. But who could connect the two? He'd been feeling terrible since they'd gotten back; what made more sense, there was something in his mind that was controlling his thoughts by making him sick or he was genuinely sick after having had contact with an unknown magical entity? The former seemed paranoid, but as he hugged the toilet for what felt like the second dozenth time in the past three weeks Crona was seriously starting to wonder.
"Hey," came a soft voice. Maka slid her hand between his shoulder blades and kneeled behind him, her breath coming in slow, tight pants through her nose as she tried to conceal how upset she was.
"Maka," Crona coughed into the toilet, arching his spine into her palm. "You didn't have to get up."
"It's okay, I don't mind," she whispered reassuringly. "I want to help if I can. Do you need anything?"
"No, I-" he retched again, lurching forward and sputtering.
He was about to send her away when his dream suddenly resurfaced like an intrusive thought. Hear me. It murmured across his mind, sending shivers through his body. Something was there, with him when he was alone, something else. No one believed him, or maybe the better phrase was no one would believe him, but more and more he sensed it was true. And it scared him. Fear settled over his nausea, blanketing it and tamping it back into his stomach. No less unpleasant, but at least he didn't need the toilet anymore. Shivering, he flushed and leaned back into Maka, turning a little so he could rest his cheek on her chest. She was warm and strong, like always, and as their contact was prolonged Crona started to feel safe again.
"Will you stay with me," he asked, closing his eyes and sighing in exhaustion. "For the rest of the night?"
"Of course," she answered, smiling and stroking his hair. "Of course I'll stay. We'll go see Professor Stein in the morning, see if he has anything for this damn dry heaving."
Crona nodded, snuggling into her and allowing himself to just feel okay, just for a moment.
"When did you say this happened," asked Professor Stein, bending over Crona and running his fingers firmly down the sides of his neck.
"About 3 a.m., just like last time," Maka answered before Crona could open his mouth, standing off to the side of the makeshift exam room with her arms folded. Beside her, Soul placed a cautioning hand on her shoulder, indicating that she should let Crona speak. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her flush.
"I had a nightmare," Crona explained, elevating his chin as Stein started again from his jawline and wincing at the pressure. "About the light. It was more intense this time, like it wanted to say something-"
"I'm not surprised by the nightmares," Stein cut him off, straightening and placing the cigarette that had been resting in the tray back between his lips. "Or by the nausea, for that matter. You've been through something that has traumatized your body and mind Crona; it will take time to heal. What concerns me are these lymph nodes. How long have they been swollen like this?"
"I don't know," Crona answered, blinking. "Maybe a week? They've hurt since we… got back."
"Why didn't you mention it?"
"Because everything hurt. It didn't seem out of place. But you're saying it's bad?"
"They're very swollen, which is abnormal for you. Usually the Black Blood is impervious to infection but if your immune system was compromised when Ragnarok was removed, that could have serious consequences for you."
"How serious," interjected Maka, unable to keep quiet.
"We have no way of knowing at present. It's possible Crona just has a stomach bug and his body doesn't know how to react. We'll try some antibiotics and go from there."
"And if," Crona swallowed, bracing himself. "It's not a stomach bug?"
"Such conclusions are unsubstantiated at this point," Stein chided, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning back just a little. The light caught his glasses just right, obscuring his eyes. "We're in uncharted territory, true, but as of now all symptoms point to a simple infection. We treat the infection and the problem is solved."
"The problem is solved…" repeated Crona in an undertone, hanging his head.
"Is there anything we should do," interjected Soul, noticing Crona's dejected body language. "At home, I mean."
"Nothing special. Plenty of fluids, plenty of rest, all the usual prescriptions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another engagement."
"Of course," said Maka, shrugging off Soul and moving to help Crona stand. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"I will get those antibiotics called into the pharmacy. Come by if anything changes."
And before Crona could blink he, Soul, and Maka were standing on the cobblestone on their way back to the apartment. His dull, storm cloud eyes looked blankly down, allowing the crevices between the stone to swirl together and rush past him as he walked. The problem is solved… he knew full well the problem would not be solved. The problem was more complicated than an infection and the problem was more deeply imbedded into his very nature than anyone wanted to admit. Ragnarok was horrible but he was still Crona's weapon partner, his blood, and the only one who was ever there with him in the dark. No one else knew the full extent of his experience, no one else could recant the details of his personal tragedies. No one else shared his guilt, the blood on his hands. No two souls had ever been closer; they'd shared a body. This was a loss, not a problem, and it wasn't going to get better with antibiotics.
"Where are you going?"
Maka's voice brought him back and Crona looked up, his neck straining as if the weight of his head was some great burden. Soul turned around with a confident grin and his hands in his pockets. Their eyes locked
"Vera's shop," he said casually, as if such an action didn't have incredible significance. "She's been gone a while and I thought someone should clean it up a little. Just do a little dusting, you know."
"She hasn't been gone she's in a coma," Crona corrected morosely. "Because of me."
"It's not- Look, I've been meaning to go over and figured it would be convenient while we were out. You two just head home without me and I'll be back when I'm back."
"I wish you'd told us you were planning this," Maka huffed, shaking her head. "I thought cool guys didn't change plans at the last minute."
"Come on, what were we going to do at home anyway?"
"I want to go too," Crona cut the pair off, still staring intently at Soul. "I want to help. I want to be useful."
"Crona, you don't have to do this," Maka said gently, placing a palm on his shoulder.
"Please let me come," now his voice was plaintive. "Please let me do something, anything. I can't help Vera with her coma. At least let me help her with the shop."
"We'll all go then," Maka invited herself after a moment of quiet. "It'll be faster with the three of us."
Crimson eyes swept from Crona over to Maka, then flicked back to Crona. His face was still confident, grinning casually, but those eyes were cautious. Vera's shop needed tending to, that was a fact. And Crona needed something to do, that was also a fact. He just wasn't sure how those two facts would mix, if Crona, in his miserable state, was ready to face an empty room his actions had made vacant. No one blamed Crona but Crona, but did that matter? In the end it wasn't up to him and his shoulders sagged just a little as his smile faded. With a nod he turned and led them in more of the viscous silence within which they'd lived.
Crona's eyes returned to the cobblestone and he walked as if asleep, slow, moving intentionally forward but without precision. Maka held his arm at the elbow, a gesture of affection to the outside world, but Crona could feel her fingers digging into his flesh as he wobbled across the uneven surface. She tolerated the silence, the distance, because she respected Crona's wishes, though it was hard for her to get behind the ones she didn't agree with. The strain was beginning to show, in her tight features and the tension in her fingertips as she tried to be gentle. In her forced tone when she validated the acrid void between herself and the person she loved. Who could say, maybe doing something was exactly what they needed.
A month or so without attention hadn't seemed to alter the shop much or do it any harm, but they all agreed it couldn't hurt to clean up anyway. Get the dust off the books, off the shelves. Seeing to that secret room in the back where they weren't allowed to go with a solid pack that they'd all forget what they'd seen when done. Crona lingered near the door, gazing at the book he'd placed in the display stand back when things had been right in the world. Shameful historical fiction, he remembered. Because she wasn't making enough on commentaries and biographies. There was something else he'd remembered, and he went back to the door, ran his fingers over the top of the frame. A piece of candy rested on the left side, hard and wrapped in amber plastic that shimmered in the light.
Crona took a steadying breath, put the candy back. It wasn't his to take, wasn't anyone's anymore. That candy had to stay there, a moment in time, a picture from when things were right. If he took it now, if he did anything to disturb the scene, it was an admission that Ragnarok wasn't coming for the candy. He knew that rationally, had even accepted it rationally. And still the action seemed… Ragnarok would not have approved. It was an act of desecration. The hole inside him yawned with an impenetrable darkness, an expression of the terrible unknown only he could experience. And just as he was beginning to feel the fear rise in his chest he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Crona," Maka inquired, catching his eye with an overly compassionate green stare. "We found some dusters. Do you still want to help?"
"Yes," he answered quickly, breaking his connection with the door and turning to face her fully. "Yes, I do. Where should I start?"
Maka blinked as if she found the question odd, then smiled and gestured to the display area.
"Why not right here?"
Crona nodded with some small amount of resignation, not overly enthusiastic to linger here but resigned to it. They each picked an edge and got to work dusting. It soon became apparent that the dust was a little thicker than originally suspected and they propped the door open. Maka took up a position fanning the dust out the door and Soul and Crona worked their way inwards, towards the bookshelves. Until the reached the very center, the shelve Vera had been stocking when Crona had been there last. She'd unloaded the contents, heavy volumes of Dreadnaught with sleek hard covers, onto the floor and other shelves. There was one volume in particular stashed on the top of the book case, rather close to the edge. It was closer to Crona's side, but Soul had fixated on it and was reaching out with his duster.
"Come on, come on," Soul groaned as if he could coax the book to his side, flailing his duster. His body pressed against the shelves, his arm stretched, but the book would not oblige him.
"Soul, what are you-" Maka cut herself off, abandoning her mission and coming around to his side. She assessed the situation, then came to the logical conclusion that she needed to take over. "Give me that."
"Cool guys like me don't need help! Especially not dusting," he shot, pulling away from her.
"I could just… push it over to you," offered Crona, reaching his long fingers up to touch the book to show he could before withdrawing his hand to his chest.
"Cool guys accept help when they need it," rebuffed Maka, so caught up in some normal interaction she didn't even hear his offer.
She pressed up against Soul, reaching for the duster. He jerked away to keep it out of her outstretched hand, ramming into the shelf. Offended by the contact the shelf leaned away, teetering for just a second before settling again. Just long enough that the Dreadnaught slipped from the top. Crona, who wasn't expecting this exchange and had removed his attention from the book, was caught completely by surprise when its corner struck him just at the edge of his eye socket. He didn't even hear the thud of the tome hitting the ground, didn't see Maka and Soul cease their bickering and come over to his side. For an instant his ears closed up, his vision went dark.
"Hear me Crona. Give me your blood and we will destroy the Pull."
And next he knew he was kneeling on the ground looking up into two absolutely shocked faces. Something wet was on his face and he didn't know which was more puzzling, the wet or the shocked expressions. It was warm but distinctly wet, running down his cheek like a tear. A tear that wouldn't stop, that kept running down his face, collecting at his chin. Dripping off his chin. Maka and Soul were saying something, he could see their lips moving and could hear sound coming into his ear, but none of it made sense. Tentatively he reached up, probing the wetness, and his fingers came away black. Like his blood. But that couldn't be.
"Crona, please say something, are you alright," Maka's sharp voice cut through the air as she fell to her knees before Crona, grasping his shoulders.
He was bleeding. A lot. Which was normal for minor head-wounds but not for Crona.
"I can't…" he started, swallowing hard as if his mouth had gone dry. "I can't make it stop. I can't… Why won't it stop?"
"Relax guys; you got a bump on the head and it's bleeding," said Soul, as if he were trying to convince himself. "This is normal."
"But I'm not," snapped Crona, standing up and leaning against the bookshelf. "I'm not normal! I can never be normal! This shouldn't be happening! What's happening!"
"Ragnarok's gone," rationalized Soul, staring boldly into Crona's wild blue gaze. "We have to expect some changes."
"What are you saying? Ragnarok's gone and now I can't use the Black Blood? Ragnarok's gone and now I'm-"
"Enough," Maka hissed, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to Crona's eye. Her tone changed when he didn't resist and she soothed: "We'll talk about this later, I promise we will, but right now we have to stop the bleeding and make sure you don't have a concussion."
He didn't have the strength to argue with her. Not while he fought the inevitable conclusions the blood pulsing down his face was thrusting upon him. Not when he was battling the inescapable fact that Soul had so eloquently voiced. Ragnarok was gone, he was dead, his soul was no longer inside Crona's body. And with him, it seemed, all of Crona's strength, that which made him him, was also gone. Medusa's legacy, perfected and now in shambles. Was he even a meister anymore? Could he still use magic? Would he be able to harden the Black Blood on his own? Or was he truly helpless now.
Ragnarok was gone, he thought as Maka held pressure on his eye socket, and now Crona was everything Ragnarok had said he was.
