All the air was sucked from her lungs, a tumultuous unraveling of reality that left her reeling even after her feet hit some kind of ground. It was blood-soaked tatami mats that croaked under her steps. What had been a shadowy recess of nothing was suddenly alight, bathed in a dim glow of tōrō lanterns that floated without anchor, filled with fox-fire. The walls were expanses of flowing kimonos, tones of deep scarlet and ruby painting the room.

"You like it?"

Maka jumped, wheeling to find a crimson-skinned oni no bigger than a child grinning with jagged teeth. "Where am I?"

"I brought you here." The little demon waved at the surroundings, fluttering some of the kimonos in the breeze of the motion. "You wanted to save him, didn't you?"

She bristled. "Where's Soul?"

Disgusting taloned fingers snapped and the lanterns flared.

"Maka?"

She whirled again, now finding Soul kneeling at a giant koto, his fingers poised on the strings as if about to play. "Soul, is that really you?"

His hair was smoothed back, the half-mask clearing the bangs that usually obstructed his face as it sat against his head. His kosode was bathed in the same hue as the walls, but his hakama and haori were an onyx so deep it swallowed the night. "Should ask you the same thing…" The softness in his eyes disappeared as he glared at the beast behind her. "What trick are you tryin' to pull?"

"What?" Suddenly the oni was leaning at the corner of the koto, picking at a horn innocently as it batted lids without lashes at Soul.

"It's one thing to torture me with the talkin' but to– to pretend to be her–" his voice broke as desperate eyes tore back to Maka.

"I'm real," Maka insisted.

A bitter chuckle erupted from him as he motioned up and down. "Lookin' like that?"

While Maka had only seen a bride once or twice in her life, the garb was entirely identifiable. There were only two things out of place: the deep ebony hue of each layer of divine cloth and the idea that she should be wearing any of it. Her hands fell to the silken obi just to solidify the reality of it. "I-I've never worn this in my life."

"But isn't she your little bride-to-be?" the oni chirped.

Soul stood swiftly from the koto, fists balling at his side as he barked at the creature: "Stop tryin' to trick me and just–"

"No tricks," the oni sang. "Go see her if you don't trust me. She asked for this, after all."

Resolve set the tempo of his steps, cutting across the room filled with tōrō to stand before her. "It's all just a lie…" he seemed to mutter only to himself as he reached a hand for her.

Maka took one more step, putting herself easily within his reach. The warmth of his hand reminded her of the fever she'd left him with. "Soul–" The name clipped off her tongue as his fingers pinched into the swell of her cheek. "Ow!" She was instantly batting his hand away, one hand pushing firmly to his chest. "You jerk!"

"Maka?" His voice was even more desperate than before, a tremble to the timbre that shot to her core. "Is it– it's really you?" His fingers clutched hers, pressing the connection she'd made into the collar of his kosode. "How did you get here?"

"I asked, I think…" Maka glanced from the oni to Soul. "But what is this place?"

"It's… where I dream." Displeasure painted another wrinkle in his brow. "That demon always shows me things—dreams I guess—that I can't escape. But just how the hell did you get here?"

"I told you– I asked." The steady thump of his heart under her fingers drew away her mind. He's alive. He's alright and alive here which means… he has to be outside of here too, right? "I was worried you were… you stopped breathing and I…"

Soul's glance fell to her fingers as he squeezed her hand, sighing softly. "Sorry."

"No, it's"—she gently shook the fabric in her grip—"something you had to do. And I think this might be something I have to do."

"Oh, what a brave little girlie…" The oni was suddenly at their feet, admiring gaze hitting Maka.

"Shut up," Soul hissed as he prodded the thing away with his foot. "If bringin' her here hurts her at all–"

"Soul," Maka chided, watching as scarlet orbs shot wide. "He brought me here because I asked. So let me do whatever it is I'm supposed to do here." She dropped her glare to the imp. "This place isn't just about dreams is it?"

"Oh, no, no, no, girlie…" A crooked finger pitched back and forth. "What a smart little thing you are to figure that out so quickly."

Maka swallowed whatever pride that might have offered. "I asked for him to live– to save him, so what do I have to do?"

One by one, lanterns started to snuff out, the darkness creeping up behind them. "His fear"—the little imp started to dim as each bit of glow disappeared—"keeps him from the power I can give him. Make him give in– give up– let the madness swallow him whole." All that was left was two glowing yellow eyes bobbing in the darkness.

"Soul…" Even in the pitch she knew his outline, her free hand reaching to softly touch his cheek. "Show me your fear."


Fear had always been an inky creature, emerging from dark corners and warm hearts alike, but it always died at the first look from his mother. Spiderwebbed cracks from all the horrors that the world had to give him tried incessantly to make a home in his heart. They thrived on the maids' whispers or the pages' snickers when Soul walked past, but there was enough of a salve in his mother's love to start the healing almost as soon as they blossomed.

"Narzhan, darling…" On these trips she always wore her hair down, the adornments his father insisted on packed away. "Did you like the time we spent at your Uncle Erasyl's?"

"It was just a week, Momma," Soul muttered back, toying with a bit of his horse's mane.

"It did feel too short, didn't it?" As a wistful sigh left her lips, she picked at the collar of her midnight blue kimono. "But… being away from the house, your father, your brother– it wasn't too hard, was it, darling?"

"No, but…" Soul's brow wrinkled as he studied the trepidation that was slowly smoothing out the curve of his mother's smile.

One of those delicate, long fingered hands cupped her own lips for a moment before falling away to display renewed joy. "I think you got along with him well, and there's so little you know about that side of the family that maybe–"

A rough cry broke, making both swivel their head to the train of men behind them. One was just toppling from his horse, an arrow cleanly piercing through his neck. Next, it was Soul's horse that screamed violently, pitching over and tossing him into the dust of the road. From his back, the azure sky was the only calm around him. The rest was a tumult of voices, layers of screams and the snap of arrows. He tried to force air back into his chest to add to the sound but all of him was still seized in a knot.

"Narzhan!" His mother now hovered over him, her gentle, cool hands running over his cheeks. In an instant, her tenderness disappeared, yanking him to sit up and finally catch the sight of the bloodbath around him. "Darling, get up. You have to run!"

"Momma," Soul managed to squeak. Any more sound was snapped from his mouth as another set of hands stole him from his mother's and to his feet.

"No!" His mother's refusal meant nothing as two more men appeared behind her, grimy, violent hands raking across the fine silk of her kimono.

Now, Soul's fear was a fissure rumbling to life in his heart, too wide to be filled especially as the look his mother had was no longer sweet but endlessly dark. He tried to turn his head, but a calloused hand grabbed under his chin, clutching his throat to bring his face back towards the display.

That's what the men were making it– purposefully posing her in front of her son as they ripped at her collar and obi. "Close your eyes," her voice twittered with desperation. "No matter what you hear, close your eyes."

His lids shut, burning with tears.

"C'mon, boy!" Raucous laughs started as the hand on his throat tightened. "What a little monster they all pretend you are, but really you're a mouse!"

"Narzhan," his mother tried to plead over the man.

"Open your eyes, little mouse," a gritty voice rattled in his ear.

"Momma," he warbled as he tried to press his lids tighter. Dirty fingers dug into them, catching him near the eyelashes to yank him painfully back to sight. His tears distorted the picture but it was there all the same, bringing the desperate cry up from his throat: "Momma!"

Bodies were meant to be private things, but hers was before him as her fine clothes laid in tatters. The men around her were grabbing, pulling at skin as if she were theirs to hold. One man had a foot in the flesh of her thigh while the other grabbed at her knee.

What had been a fissure was now a canyon, vast and empty in his chest. Love had sheltered him– had started to mold his control and let him feel at home in a body that sometimes felt less than human. In a blazing second, it all melted away, and Soul felt the first agonizing splits of skin. Blades that were no longer his had started to sprout, a madness so dark and deep that his own blood ran black.


The night was back, the plain tatami lit by the faint glow of the lantern. The tears that dripped from her cheeks to his were like rain, refreshingly pulling him back from the memory he always wished was a dream. "Th-they–" Her hoarse whisper started but caught in a sob.

Soul's hands trembled, muscles limp and soggy, but he forced them to reach anyway. His palms touched her cheeks, catching the liquid and keeping it from falling. "It only took me killin' the first man before they slit her throat," he murmured as if the agony of it didn't exist in his heart anymore. Soul barely swallowed. "I killed the rest after."

"You deserved to!" The entirety of her being shook with anger in his hands.

The weakness in his arms only allowed for one more swipe of his fingers before he brought them back to rest on his chest.

"How could they?" she hissed, still shaking as she brought her attention back to the basin and the cloth. Maka rang it again, taking out her frustration on the folds of cloth before bringing it to his forehead to smooth the cold liquid over his feverish skin. "What they did to her… and in front of you! A child– a little boy!"

"Maka," he whispered, a weak smile starting on his face. "Maybe I was a boy, but I was old enough to save her if I had just-"

"What?" That struck with even more violence than her accusations against the others, her glare now narrowing at him. "Are you telling me you think any of this is your fault?"

A breath barely had time to escape between his lips.

She yanked the cloth away before sweeping his bangs up with her hand to make sure his eyes were on her. "Children cannot– should not have to save their parents."

While the force of her words struck him, he watched it whiplash back with another blink before tears filled her eyes again. "Maka…"

A flighty, bitter laugh parted her trembling lips before she shot to her feet. "I-I should refill the basin." Maka started a dash as soon as she had her hands around the bowl, leaving a few splashes in her wake.

Soul stared at the ceiling, his mind perseverating on her tears that still clung to his fingertips. Children cannot save their parents. He pulled in a slow breath, the fever still fogging over the rest of his will. I need to get up. I need to– to do somethin' for her when she gets back. Rolling over bought him a wave of nausea but he resisted it, getting far enough onto his elbow that his head could hang.

"You idiot," she hissed, and he could do nothing but laugh weakly. The basin was sloshing into view next before her hands were trying to force down his shoulders. "Soul, you almost died! You stopped breathing! Doing anything other than laying down–"

With the last bit of his strength, he pinned her hand against his shoulder, lifting his aching head to look her in the eyes. "If you're gonna force me to forgive myself, I can't let you get away with the same thing."

Her weak attempt to tug her hand back only made it tremble between his fingers.

"I can't get in your head like you got into mine–" He had to pause for a groan, the fever finally catching up with him and bringing him back to the mat. Maka softened the blow, her hand swiftly cupping his head to ease him against the bedding. "But I wish you'd tell me what your fear is."

"Secret for a secret?" she barely whispered back.

"Somethin' like that." As she withdrew, her fingers tickled at the side of his neck, leaving Soul breathless as he stared up at her. Those green eyes were boring down on him, but he knew even blinking would give her an excuse. "Who couldn't you save?"

The tender touch that had just left him dug into the top of her thighs. "In the beginning, I remember thinking that they– our mothers were the one thing that we had in common. While yours was a surprise, mine wasn't, and that's"—the memory choked her momentarily—"that's what I can't let go. If I had prepared more–"

"How old were you?"

That brought her pause but Soul waited in it, trying to steady his breathing and keep the fever from taking him under. In a small voice—as if she'd reverted to the age itself—she murmured: "I was ten, just like you."

"You were probably stronger than me then, but… I think you're right. Ten's too young to do much of anythin'." He groaned again, a throb in his skull threatening to crack it.

"Here." Her hand was slipping under his head again, and before he could argue, his head was back against her thighs. She wrung the cloth before he had time to blink and laid it softly over his forehead and eyes. The cool fabric brought a chill down his spine but her smooth, warm hand seemed to catch the buzz as her fingers angled his chin. "Open up."

He obeyed, and instantly frigid water dripped over his tongue. It was fresh rain in a desert and Soul lapped it up, hungry for more until her fingertip pressed his lips shut.

"If you drink too much, you'll get sick. Let that settle."

He grunted, his hand weakly reaching up to lift the cloth off one eye. She met the half-glare he gave her. "Too easy to change the subject."

She sighed before flicking the cloth back to block his sight. His hand threatened to wrestle against her, but his weakened state easily left him pinned as her palm pressed his wrist to the mat. "All I'll say is I think we both can agree that it doesn't feel that way. I wanted to save Mama just as much as you wanted to save yours."

Soul hummed out an unsteady affirmative. His fingers tried to grasp, but ended up only feebly tickling at her hand. "So that's the only way we're alike."

A throaty giggle finally escaped her, letting just a little joy into the room. "Well, I'm definitely not as lazy, I actually read and study in my free time, and I bet I can knock you senseless into the dirt in about five strikes."

He snickered.

"But…" Her hand slipped into his, palm pressing palm. "We made sacrifices for the people we love. We carry their memories even if… even if it's a heavy burden. We're both strong."

"You had me until the last one." It was as if he could feel the zap of her disagreement straight through her skin– an instantaneous yell in some deep connection that had started between their hands. That's just the fever talkin'. No way there's somethin' like that. Where a touch could–

"I think you are." Rather than break the connection, her other hand cleared the cloth from his face to plop it back into the basin. "Maybe that was part of tonight, Soul– part of being in that room. You're scared of what happened– of being too weak when you want to protect something, but I think you're scared of being strong, too. You're pulling yourself apart and I think that's the real reason you haven't been able to control your transformations."

"Then what should I do?" The question was the most honest he'd ever asked, his heart breaking at the yearning in his own voice.

Maka's forehead wrinkled in thought as she bought time by rinsing the cloth. "I don't have an answer for everything, but…"

His world went black again, the cool cloth bathing his eyes and forehead. He wanted to resist, anxious to see the evolution of thought on her face. "Maka…"

As if she knew, her other hand drifted from his to the cloth, pinning it there safely and keeping him in the dark. "Do you think you could let me help you?"

Her hands moving softly to his cheeks was enough to only let the question come out as a stuttering whisper: "Help me?"

"You have to trust me," her cautious murmur drifted so closely to his ear, "and I think you do since I was allowed in the room in the first place. If you let me, I want to try to help you transform. The right way."

"Do you really even know what I am?" he whispered.

"I do. So do you trust me?"

He thought of her at his mother's gravesite, mourning in a way that he never believed he could. He thought of her as she soothed Reina, offering love so freely to those who needed it. He thought of her as she stood in that black wedding kimono in his dreams, promising to take on his fears. "Yes."