Author's Note: Fair warning, this chapter contains self-harm and thoughts of death. Also fair warning, these will continue to come very slowly, but I am still chugging away! I sent a note to the tech support people about this fic not showing up, but haven't heard back. Thank you to all of you who are still reading and a special thanks to those who review! Reading your reviews really motivates me; it's nice to know your opinions and that I'm not just sending this out into the aether. So thank you and enjoy!


It was late… and dark, and Crona was awake. He could feel the adhesive of the band aid pulling at his eyebrow hair, at his skin, feel the sting of the white foamy compress over the wound. Just a little wound, just a nick, and yet it had bled so much. Bruised the surrounding tissue, ruptured the capillaries there. Ruined Maka's handkerchief with tar black. Would those stains come out?

It was dark and Crona was alone in bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. His fingers burrowed under his collar, scratching at his shoulder mindlessly. He was alone, so no one could stop him, nor see his fingertips wet with Black Blood as he breached the surface. No one could see, he knew that, but something contradicted him, slowing his nails and raising the hair on the back of his neck. He didn't feel alone. It was as if Ragnarok's ghost was inside him, hungry, wanting something from him and unable to express that desire like he once did. A presence in his mind, where Ragnarok had never been, but who else could it be? It wasn't like the witches' parasitism, nor like Maka's shining soul. Only Ragnarok had been a part of him like this. Then he knew it wasn't Ragnarok and all the horrible consequences of that knowledge came back. And he started all over again.

It was late and Crona had sent Maka away hours ago, yet he was not alone. There was a presence like oil in his mind, floating on the surface, and if he let the tragedy of his circumstance slide out of focus he could hear it whispering. It needed something from him and was willing to fulfill wishes in return. Wishes he couldn't put into words yet. But the despair was there, potent, like chains around his ribs and the more he thought about it the worse it got. And he couldn't stop thinking about it. The thoughts wouldn't leave his head, thoughts about being worthless and useless, of spending the rest of his life helpless and afraid. All the time like he was a child again. A child in Medusa's care for the rest of his life.

It was only a matter of time before everyone else caught on. He needed power to understand other people and he had lost all his power. Without Ragnarok he couldn't use the Black Blood and without the Black Blood he was useless. Even if he still had his magic, which seemed like a pretty big if, all magic did was destroy. He had failed to rein in the Pull and if he kept on the way he was going without the superhuman abilities of the Black Blood, he'd poison himself or succumb to Madness. That was to say, he'd die or become Kishin. There was no escape, no way out of this dismal fate. When would Maka and the others realize all this? When would they leave him to it? Or take other action… Did he fear that?

An idea for a wish started to form in his mind. Just a passing notion at first, not even rational in its origins. Usually this sort of thing passed without consideration- no, this sort of thing had always passed without consideration. He didn't have the means for one thing and for another he couldn't give up the one thing that was his. His body had been shared with Ragnarok and Medusa had infested his mind, but this… this one thing belonged to him. He could never give it up before, no matter how bad things got, because there was always the promise of something better. Of becoming better. Through Madness, through Maka, through science, there had always been the promise of better. And it had never just been about him. Ragnarok had been there too and he couldn't make those sorts of decisions for Ragnarok. Now…

Ragnarok was gone. For the first time his life was entirely his own. Would he take such drastic action? Abuse his new freedom with one permanent, selfish act? What was the alternative?

"I need to be sure," he whispered to himself, sending the words into his knees where they were smothered. The conclusion gave him a sort of peace.

You know how the presence in his mind breathed, more like a thought than words, and he understood. He did know how. There was a test, a way he could be sure of his wish before he made it. One last cry into the darkness, stretching out his fingers into the void in his blood one final time. To be sure.

Crona pulled his bloody fingers out of his shirt, not bothering to inspect or clean them. Silently he got out of bed and padded across the room, seeking out the door handle by the sodium lamp light that filtered through the window. Around his neck Maka's blood caught the light and glittered, but it did not heat up. This wasn't Madness; in fact it felt like a hyper sanity. A decision he should have made when this all began. The hall was not so accommodating as his room, still, he found his way into the living room, then into the kitchen. To the knife block. For a moment he wondered what kind, serrated or smooth, long or short. Absently he flicked on the light and inspected the handle in the top left. It was a warm wood with silver accents. They were nice knives, any one of them would do. His fingers closed around the handle and he withdrew a long, straight knife. He made a fist with his left hand, held up the forearm, and pressed the sharp edge into the flesh.

"Do it," he whispered to himself. "Just like before. Like with Ragnarok."

And he did. Pain bit at the cut, the knife caught the light as it moved, and hot, black blood welled to the surface. He couldn't stop it, couldn't even slow it. All he could do was watch. It soaked his robe and made the fabric shine with moisture, then ran to his elbow and dripped off. Constant. Steady, just like before, only a little thicker than water. Crona sank to the ground as certainty began to gnaw at his stomach. At the place inside his ribs where his lungs should've been. Now just a space, empty and certain as the blood flowed across his skin and began to pool on the floor. He couldn't feel it, couldn't influence let alone control it. So this was what it felt like to have human blood, to be filled with a liquid that could just drain and be gone. Sobs ached in his throat but couldn't come out. Only the blood, pitch black and unrelenting, pulsed from his body, glittering in the silence.

Down the hall Maka was awake too. She couldn't sleep- hadn't been able to sleep, not since Crona had banished her from his bed. His grief was ravenous, gnawing at everything in his life, every activity and relationship. First, he had stopped working on his research, then he had asked her to leave, dragged his feet to class. It was like he was hardly Crona anymore, hardly anyone at all. The self he had cultivated still rested on top of being someone with Black Blood; now that that too had been taken away from him… Maka feared the thoughts that had to be spinning in his head.

Outside her door a floorboard creaked, which could have been someone going to the bathroom. But then a light came on, reaching its fingers under her door. It was coming from further down the hall, the living room or maybe the kitchen. It's Soul she rationalized, sitting up nevertheless. He's getting a snack. But no noises of refrigerators or wrappers came. She strained her ears. It's just Soul.

Maka got out of bed tentatively. She couldn't explain or rationalize it, but she felt fear. A helpless sort of terror that tightened her chest and made her heart pound in her ears. It had to be Soul, nothing insidious was going on, so why was she so afraid? Her hand hesitated on the handle for a moment longer before she decided she was going to find Soul eating a sandwich or something, feel stupid, and go back to bed. Because the alternative was that she'd encounter something worthy of fear and if that was the case she wasn't sure she'd be brave enough to go look.

Her feet creaked on the same floorboard, her eyes adjusted to the white light coming from the kitchen, and her stomach cramped in desolation. On the floor in a pool of shining black liquid sat Crona. His back was pressed against the cabinets and his arms were hanging limply at his sides. One palm was open, the fabric of his nightgown shining pitch-black, flickering as blood pulsed from his forearm. The other fist was still curled around the kitchen knife, allowing the blade to rest on the tile. Maka felt her throat close up as if she were allergic to the abject despair in the air, felt tears break free from the corners of her eyes.

"Crona," she whispered, falling to her knees before him. He looked up at her with eyes so passive only their ice blue color betrayed how deeply upset he was.

"Ragnarok's gone," Crona said back simply. "He's gone and without him I am empty. I am worthless. I can't fight, can't control my blood, can't do anything."

"Give me that," Maka admonished gently, taking a towel from the sink and grabbing Crona's arm. Sniffling a little as she cried, she wrapped it tightly around the wound. Crona was affected by neither the pressure nor her tears. He kept talking.

"It's all true, everything they ever said. Lady Medusa said I would be afraid without power and I am. Ragnarok said I couldn't do anything without him and he was right. And that man, Eric, from before, he said that one day I would want to die and I do. I want this to stop, I want it to end, but I-"

"Stop it," snapped Maka, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close to her. It was an awkward hug, his knees were in the way, yet still she held him tightly, weeping into his shoulder. "Don't say things like that; you don't mean it, so don't say it. I know it's hard right now, I understand, but we'll make it through. Please just… don't say that."

Crona's expression didn't change as she held him. It wasn't like all the times before, like being embraced by sunlight. Instead only pressure existed, around him and inside him, the pressure of her arms and bandages, and the vacuum of the void. He couldn't feel past that, no matter how hard he tried. He knew she loved him, knew she wanted to help him, even knew that she had helped him. The sensation of it, though, the emotion of loving her back, felt muted. All he could know for certain was this revelation, this thing he wanted and yet didn't want. And from the void a voice answered his conflict: I can help you. I can give you what you desire in the form you desire it.

And for the first time, acknowledging this thing inside his mind as something separate from himself, Crona answered: How?


Kid did not know what he was feeling as he stood in the infirmary, watching Crona stare vacantly out the nearby window. In part, he sympathized with his friends' desire to be near the pink haired meister. He shared it. Crona had been through something traumatic and it was important that he know he was cared for. That there were people beside him, that he wasn't as alone as he felt. And on the other this all seemed so deeply… private. What right did any of them have to spectate? Why had they come to embarrass him by looking at his mistake? Yet here they were, surrounding the hospital bed like a swarm.

Kid was furious, a fury he sensed they all shared, and wanted to berate Crona from a judgmental crowd. Yet he couldn't because he was also deeply sad about how things had turned out. The conflict raged inside him and, at the end of the day, regardless of how he or anyone else felt, Crona had hurt himself, on purpose. There was no appropriate response to that.

"How are you feeling," tried Tsubaki, unable to stand the viscous quiet.

There was a long silence before Maka, who was sitting by the bed, gave Crona's hand an encouraging squeeze. He blinked, bringing his eyes lethargically to Tsubaki. Even then, it was as if he was looking through her rather than at her.

"I'm tired," he said simply. "But I haven't been able to sleep."

"Can they… do something about that," she pressed, trying to keep the conversation going. He blinked at her again.

"They can give me pills, but I don't like them. They make me feel sick, and I'm still tired in the morning. Like today."

"Professor Stein says his metabolism may be in a state of flux," added Maka, making a helpful contribution.

"Changing," clarified Soul, noticing more than one confused expression.

"I see," said Kid, hoping no one was tactless to ask for an explanation as to why.

"Why would your metabo-whatever be changing," asked Black Star, earning himself a reprimanding tap on his shoulder from Tsubaki. Maka stood up in an aggressive posture and Soul had to put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Crona, for his part, didn't seem to mind, answering honestly and without hesitation.

"Ragnarok is gone. My body is broken. Nothing works like it used to."

"For now," added Maka, settling back by Crona's side and giving Black Star a reproachful look which he did not understand.

"So," added Kid, thinking this might be an opportunity to talk about something uplifting and maybe make a dent in Crona's morose mood. "There's thought that Crona will be able to control the Black Blood on his own?"

"Professor Stein thinks it's possible, yeah," Soul said cautiously. "There's been no change to the Black Blood itself, and it has been known to manifest without soul resonance."

"So this whole thing could be temporary," Liz inserted, trying to sound optimistic.

"Yes! Yes, that's exactly it," said Maka in a tight voice, as if she were trying too hard to be optimistic too. "We just need to give it time."

"There's been enough time," shot Crona, pulling his hand from Maka's and sitting up. "I see what you all are trying to do but I don't know how to deal with it. Why would you lie to me about this? Why are you trying to say things are okay when they aren't?"

"No one's lying to you," insisted Kid, holding up his hands defensively.

"Give us some credit, would'ya," added Black Star, lacing his hands behind his head. "There's no need to lie when you're as big a star as I am."

"You're saying things that aren't true; that's lying," Crona snapped. "So you're either stupid or you're lying and I don't like it when you lie. "

"Not cool man."

"Crona, there's no call for that," reprimanded Maka, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, as enflamed as he had ever been.

"You think I don't know what is and is not true about my own body? I cannot use the Black Blood on my own. I cut myself to be sure and now I know it."

"You can't use it right now," tried Maka softly, reaching out to him again. Again, he pulled away, refusing to look at her. Deflated, she kept pushing. "We've been through this, your body's been through a big shock and it'll take time to adjust. Please be patient with it-"

"I don't want to hear this anymore," Crona cut her off, leaning back into the hospital bed and returning his gaze to the window. "I don't want to hear any of you anymore. Go away. Leave me alone."


Naigus had said he needed to spend the night, that he had hurt himself and needed to be restrained, and no one had been able to dispute that point. Maka had said nothing about his wanting to die, not to Soul or Professor Stein or anyone, and for that Crona was grateful. Not because he hadn't meant it, he had and did mean it, but because he didn't want to deal with the fallout. If hurting himself meant getting strapped to a hospital bed, he didn't think he could deal with the consequences of wanting to kill himself. So instead he was here in the infirmary, Velcro bands around his wrists and Vera's comatose body in the corner. There was a glowing call button if he needed anything, but aside from that they were allowing Crona to be alone. He preferred that, preferred the time to think. To consider this voice inside his head.

It hadn't been until last night that he really understood that there was a voice inside his head. Something not him in his skin. Something not Madness or Medusa or anything else with which he was familiar. The blood around his neck would've reacted to that, but instead it lay stone cold against his chest. But the fact remained. The swelling in his lymph nodes, the sickness in his gut, the whispers in his dreams, they all meant something was inside him. Since the panacea. Would it show up in Dr. Stein's latest blood work? Was there something to be done about it? Was this his new reality? It struck Crona as odd how apathetic he felt about that. Now that he knew the truth, it felt like nothing mattered. He wasn't sorry he'd hurt himself and he wasn't sorry he'd yelled at his friends. It didn't matter because he was this close to deciding to die. It was just…

Hear me.

Crona shivered, tugging a little at his restraints. There it was. It. The presence just at the surface of his thoughts. Oil on water, light through a filter, a reality that differed from his friends.

"Who are you?" The words rasped over his lips, barely even a whisper. The presence perceived; he sensed more than heard a response.

I am what you need. Our goals align.

"I don't understand what that means. Who are you? What are you?"

I am what you need. And you are what I need.

Crona licked his lips contemplatively, squinting at the bed across from his. It was a cryptic answer, but one that ignited a tiny hope inside him. For a moment that hope made him feel human and he tried something desperate.

"Ragnarok?"

Would that make this easier?

"Make what easier?"

Talking to me. Do you want me to be Ragnarok?

"Yes," Crona answered reflectively, letting his eyes burn with tears as the welled up inside him, overcoming his apathy. "I want that. More than anything. But you're not Ragnarok, are you?"

No. But you can think of me as Ragnarok if that makes things easier. I need you and you need me; it would be better if things were easy. We must accomplish the goal.

"What goal? What are you talking about? If you're not Ragnarok then what are you?"

You want to escape the Pull. That is my purpose. I was created to find a solution to the Pull. It's only possible with your help.

"I don't need that anymore," Crona breathed, his tone saturated with despair. "I can't use magic without Ragnarok. I can't do anything anymore."

That isn't true. You still have magic. I have been sustained by it, but I cannot continue to live inside you or absorb all your magic. You have not escaped the Pull. It will consume you as it consumes all witches.

"What… do you mean? What-" He stopped suddenly, inhaling with a sharpness that hurt his chest. "You're the panacea. You're why I've been sick. You've been living inside me, feeding off me, for- for a week!"

Yes.

"You killed Ragnarok!"

His voice echoed off the walls, so loud he was afraid someone would come to check. A few moments went by and, when no one came, Crona's heart started to slow back down.

If I did it was unintentional. I have killed witches for sustenance, and I was going to kill you before I realized what you are, but I did not think I had killed anyone the day we met.

"It doesn't matter what you say," hissed Crona. "Ragnarok's dead because of you. Why should I help you?"

To destroy the Pull. Think of a world without the Pull of Magic. Is that not worth one life?

"I can find those answers on my own; I don't need you for that."

Doubtful. Even if you could, what about your wish? Your secret you've only told that girl? They'll be upset when they find out. They'll try to stop you and you won't be able to do anything about the Pull.

"They wouldn't be able to stop me if I set my mind to it." Crona wasn't sure if his indignation was appropriate, but he felt it flare anyway. Quickly followed by guilt. The panacea sensed his conflict, pressed the advantage.

You won't set your mind to it, though. You have a very complicated wish. You want to die, yet you want to do so without burdening your loved ones with guilt and grief. A very difficult wish.

"None of them understand," Crona sighed after a long, tense pause, finding he couldn't put on any pretense with the voice in his head. "Without the Black Blood I'm just… just… but what I feel for Ragnarok- I can't do that to anyone else."

I can help you. I can kill you without killing you. You won't have to hurt anymore or hurt anyone. All I need from you is a moment of control.

"How," asked Crona skeptically, making fists in his restraints. "How could you possibly do that?"

Does it matter? I have explained myself and my offer to you, now you must decide. Either way I will need control of your body for a short while. I cannot stay inside you and will need a safe place to grow.

"I haven't agreed to anything… I'm not sure I know how to deal with this."

You don't have any choice but to give me control. I require a safe place to grow; if I stay within you you will die and we will have both missed our chance. Your choice is whether or not to accept my offer, and you must make that choice now, while I am inside. What will it be?

Crona felt his heart start to pound again while at the same time blood rushed to his head and he felt lightheaded. Black blood flashed before his eyes, pooling and fluid, a reminder to his freshly acquired mortality. How was he supposed to live in such a state? How was he supposed to be so helpless for the rest of his miserable existence? He couldn't stand it, he couldn't live like that, he had no alternative to death. Especially not if the Pull was still going to be a problem. How long before Madness drove him to hurt his friends? And without the Black Blood what preventative measure did he have aside from death? Why not just do it now and be done?

Then Maka's face came into focus and he again felt that strong sense that he couldn't die. He couldn't leave her like that, couldn't do to her what Ragnarok had done to him. So what options did he have? To die without dying, what other force could make that happen? And what other chance would there be?

"Will anyone know," he breathed, eyes downcast. "What I've done? Will anyone find out?"

Only if you tell them. Now decide.

"What," Crona swallowed hard and screwed up his face, braced for something unpleasant. "Do you need me to do?"

Go to sleep. That's all. When you wake up it will be over. Then we will destroy the Pull.

His heart was hammering in his chest. So loud he was sure it was echoing around the room, a syncopated rhythm of blood surging in his ears. What was he doing?! This thing- this parasite, it was responsible for Ragnarok's death, intentional or not. It had meant to kill him. It was killing him! The toxicity in his system felt all the more potent now that he knew its source. Swelling in his lymph nodes, unquenchable nausea in his gut. He should get away from it; he should find a way to get help. And yet…

Suddenly Crona felt exhausted. Overwhelmingly so, like all the sleep he had missed this past week was coming back for him. Like it had chased him down and cornered him. And he was ready for it to descend, ready to surrender to it and the inevitable. He didn't know what kind of world he would wake up to, what kind of self, but it had to be better than his current, pathetic existence. It had to be better than being afraid all the time, than being worthless and burdensome. Alone in the dark forever. So even though his mind was screaming for him to fight, even though every rational fiber in his body told him to hold this thing inside him at bay, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Letting the pressure to slip into slumber overtake him.

A moment passed. Then another. Then Crona's eyes snapped open again, only now they were glowing with a pale-yellow light, vacant and not Crona's eyes at all. He blinked them and stared forward, tilting his head just a little to the right. The Velcro around his wrists spat out a protest as it was torn apart, loosening on its own and releasing Crona's wrists. He slid them free, then swung his legs over the side off the bed. His bare feet made sliding noises as they touched the tile, pale and slender in the light of the laughing moon. The lock clicked as he approached the door, which didn't so much as squeak on its hinges as it opened, allowing him unprotested passage into the dark hall. Down the stairs in the torchlight, past the ropes that indicated a restricted area, and deep into the depths of the DWMA. Down to the great hall where Crona had been reborn once already, with its grand pillars reaching into darkness and expansive marble floor.

Crona stopped here, near the center, and kneeled. His hands made a gentle clap as he pressed them into the floor. Then he hunched over, stretched his mouth wide and, without blinking those glowing eyes, began to vomit something thick and spongey. Fungal. It streamed from his lips and into a pile between his hands, and as his body expelled it his distended stomach and swollen lymph nodes visibly shrank. The sounds of his gagging echoed around the chamber for minutes, until finally with a viscous splatter the last of the panacea fell to the ground. Crona sat back, blinking storm cloud grey eyes and bringing his fingers to his forehead. Two tendrils extended from the panacea and pressed into his temples, sending dendrites to burrow under the skin. Exhaling, Crona let his eyes close and his hands fall limply to his sides. This time, he let the panacea into his mind.