XXIV.
Madoka dies.
It's beautiful. It's ugly. It's bright and beautiful and wrong.
She does not go down fighting. She goes down after winning. Her magic bursts out in arrow after arrow as they hold back an uncountable amount of familiars.
But the sky clears, Walphurghis Nacht's laughter fades and they're all alive.
Even Madoka is alive for a moment. She watches them approach her, warily, watching for the crunch and twist of a grief seed. Homura expects the tiny red ribbon tied on the top. It doesn't show, the soul gem is cracked and oozing pink powder.
Her shield feels lighter. It digs into her fingers as she approaches. Madoka's breathing is slow, laboured, but her expression is frighteningly peaceful.
Homura drags the apathy back into her body, but it's too late. All of her insides are raw and swollen. Her heart has not pained her in a long long time.
"Madoka," she says quietly.
Madoka smiles. "You don't have to save me."
The black ribbons are muddy in the water.
"Yes," Homura says, refusing to cry. "Yes I do."
And she turns her shield.