Homeward Hours

By CrimsonStarbird

Chapter Twenty – Two Responsible Adults

Zeref was fully expecting Warrod not to show up the next day.

That was how the game was played, after all. He was trying to convince Zeref to do something he didn't want to do, but he had no leverage, just like Lucy didn't. So, instead, he would create some – trick Zeref into wanting something, like watching the rest of the Grand Magic Games, and then withhold it from him. It didn't matter how trivial it was. It was the thought, the act, the simple fact of getting under his skin that counted.

But it seemed that Warrod did not care for the game's unspoken rules.

He just turned up and resumed watching the Grand Magic Games from the gazebo.

Hadn't even brought any extra furniture to annoy him with.

Zeref did end up watching some of the Games with him, remaining stubbornly silent as Warrod gasped, booed, and cheered shamelessly for Fairy Tail – and for anyone else he found entertaining. Warrod was an insightful commentator, as would be expected for someone who had been practising magic for over a hundred years, occasionally even noticing things Zeref didn't. The fact that Zeref was ignoring him didn't curb his enthusiasm in the slightest.

The day passed faster than any Zeref had endured since waking up in this new prison.

Well.

Friend or enemy, in person or via a screen, he could appreciate a good display of magic when he saw one.

And when it was over, Warrod stretched with the strain of a forest bowing in a storm and remarked, "Last day tomorrow."

"Mm."

Fairy Tail were sat in a disappointing third place, after some particularly unfortunate matchups on the fourth day. Still, they'd come back from worse. The real question was, did Zeref want Fairy Tail to win? A good mood in the guild tended to feed back to him, with Lucy and the others more likely to be generous and less likely to deliberately cause him trouble, and it was generally in his interests to wish Fairy Tail well these days. On the other hand, a stronger sense of guild solidarity would only make Lucy less tolerant of his continued refusal to become more involved with them. On balance, it would probably be best if Crime Sorcière continued to hold that top spot.

Heedless to his dilemma, Warrod continued, "So, as this is probably the last chance I'll get for a while, I think I'll go visit Makarov again tonight. Do you want to come?"

"Why?" The sharp word cut through Zeref's lips before he could stop it.

"Why?" Warrod echoed, questioning the question.

"Just- what's the point? He's dead. Why would you want to gawk like a tourist at his gravestone?"

Warrod frowned. He wasn't pretending to think, Zeref realized, or coming up with some sort of ill-timed joke. He was genuinely considering his answer. For some reason, that left Zeref with an uncomfortable feeling in his gut.

"I think it's different for everyone," Warrod said, at last. "Some people go because it helps them feel closer to their departed loved ones. Even though they no longer have a physical presence, that solid point of connection can focus thoughts and awaken memories. Some people find that they can speak things to the dead that they cannot admit to the living, cannot even admit to themselves. Others go because it's a routine, and routine can help where fortitude fails."

The old Wizard Saint shrugged. "Me, I'm going to pay my respects so that I'm covered in case his vengeful ghost ever returns to this world. But, ultimately, the reason doesn't matter. It's okay to not want to go, too. Everyone copes with death differently."

"And some of us refuse to cope with it at all," Zeref murmured. How he wished Warrod had given him an entirely flippant answer; how he wished the old mage hadn't got to him so deeply with so few words. His fists clenched, and then relaxed again. "I want to come with you."

"Okay," Warrod said. "No problem at all."

With a swipe of his hand, the Fairy Sphere disintegrated. No threats made, no promises extracted, just entirely unearned trust. The tree mage set off without another word, and Zeref trailed along behind.

He wondered why he felt more nervous about this trip than Warrod did.

It occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he had been to a graveyard, if indeed he ever had. Why would he? Once dead, his servants were useless to him. No one in Alvarez thought it odd that their emperor – immortal, ageless, far beyond such petty things as death – did not attend state funerals. It wasn't as though he had ever cared about any of them enough to…

To what?

To walk soundlessly behind Warrod as though he were a ghost himself, the old man's steady presence the only thing tethering him to reality, not needing the curious looks of others thrown the way of the immortal man in archaic robes to know that he didn't belong here.

What was he doing here? Why had he agreed to come; what was the point?

A physical place to focus thoughts and awaken memories, Warrod had said, and maybe there were those who had died recently that he cared about more than he should – those from Alvarez who had not survived the final battle, who had given their lives for a dream he hadn't been able to see through to the end – but he didn't want to think about them. Indeed, he had been forcing himself not to think about them since the war had ended. Why would he subject himself to-?

"Are you alright?" Warrod was glancing back at him with concern.

"Yes," he snapped, clenching his fists to stop the trembling.

"Okay."

No questions.

Just an understanding that made him so incredibly uneasy.

Why was this affecting him so much? He never should have agreed to this. It served no purpose except to throw him off his game; it exposed a huge vulnerability right as time was running short for Warrod to win him over. He should just go home and…

And he had left it too late. They were already here. Of all the barely indistinguishable gravestones scattered around the cemetery, the one in front of them bore Makarov's name.

All those unquiet thoughts fell away, leaving him with nothing.

Not anger. Not sadness. Not irritation. Just… nothing.

He asked, "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Whatever feels right to you, I suppose," Warrod shrugged. "Anything. Nothing. Like I said, it's different for everyone."

It would have to be, Zeref thought, for other people to see some sort of point in this. There was nothing of any meaning here. No lingering magical presence, no unearthly breeze, no convenient ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Just one headstone amongst countless others. A neatly trimmed lawn concealing what used to be a person decomposing somewhere below.

Warrod didn't seem to be waiting for him to reach some great epiphany, though. In fact, the old mage was not paying him any attention as he struggled to get his bark-hardened joints to adopt a cross-legged position on the ground. It was ridiculous, almost farcical; easier to look at than anything else in this place.

Once he was comfortable, Warrod spoke up again. "You know, I was there when he was born. I was there in the hospital, too, when he died."

It took Zeref a moment to realize that the old mage wasn't talking to his departed friend, but to him. Was this what they were supposed to do? Gossip about the man whose name was inscribed on that still-unweathered headstone? It felt like more than a waste of time – it felt wrong.

But Warrod continued nonetheless. "To many people, I think that's a scary thought. They say there is no worse fate for a parent than to bury their own child, and Makarov was as good as to me… but all I feel is blessed, that I got to be a part of his incredible life, from the beginning to the end."

Zeref said nothing, trying not to think about how he'd not been far away either when Makarov had been born, and yet he'd only known him for a few months at the very end. Fate and misfortune had pushed him one way, but he could have chosen another.

"He was the last, you know?" Warrod spoke wistfully. "The last of my old friends and family. I've outlived them all. Oh, I have friends, colleagues, sure. But I've been an old Wizard Saint for most of my life – for more years than most people get in total. There's no one left who knows me as anything but old and respected. Except, perhaps, for you, if you remember four young and foolish kids who were beyond blessed to meet you when we did."

The nails striving to draw crescents of blood from his ever-healing palms spoke more than Zeref did.

"It's strange, knowing that there's no one else who remembers, any more," Warrod ruminated. "It feels like that part of me is gone for good."

"So what?" Zeref snarled, unable to remain silent any longer. "Are you expecting me to feel sorry for you? You chose this! You're not cursed like me; you chose to become one with your magic, knowing it would preclude you from ever having a family of your own, knowing it would draw out your lifespan beyond that of your friends, knowing it would make you into something not human before your time was up – you brought this on yourself! How dare you complain about it to me?"

"Oh, no, not complaining." Warrod didn't bat an eyelid at this outburst in the middle of the graveyard. "Just curious as to whether you saw things the same way as I did. Living for so long gives you countless opportunities to try new things and meet new people. Whether it's through tragedy, time, or the natural course of life, losing everything gives you a chance to start over. No one in Fairy Tail knows you, not really."

He snorted in disbelief. "The fact that I tried to destroy them is all they need to know."

"That was ages ago. What have you done since then to change that?" The Wizard Saint gave another shrug. "Really, Makarov and Lucy have been babying you."

"You dare-?"

"It's the truth. The two of them went to extraordinary lengths to connect with you, after you did everything in your power to push them away. And it's ruined you. You're like a spoilt child, expecting that kind of treatment from everyone, never once appreciating just how rare and remarkable those two are."

Zeref tried to interrupt, but Warrod was a Wizard Saint who looked his age, even more used to respect from those he met than the wandering emperor had been. Though his tone was gently insistent, he would brook no argument.

"You seem to think that, just because no one else from the guild is willing to put in the crazy level of effort those two did to get to know you, they don't want anything to do with you. You're wrong. All it means is that some of the effort has to come from your end, this time."

A harsh, cold laugh, that didn't sound like him at all. "You're talking as though I want anything to do with them."

"It's more fun having someone to cheer for than not," Warrod responded calmly. And then, unbidden: "Makarov knew that. That's what he wanted for you."

"Forgetting, in the process, all the bad blood that exists between his guild and me."

"They are young; they forgive easily." Warrod waved his hand easily. "Not like us, hmm? If we want to be better people, we have to strive for it." He glanced at the gravestone once more, tall and sombre before the setting sun, and, unwillingly, Zeref's gaze followed. "Even so, he thought you could do it. We were in communication until the end of his life, you know? He never resented you. No, he had as much hope for you as for his guild. I think you know that."

With the creak of old wood, Warrod got back to his feet.

"We're leaving already?" Zeref asked sharply.

"I just thought I'd give you some space. That okay with you?"

It was a silly word to pick. Nothing was okay about being here or having this conversation or even the old mage's presence in his life.

But he gave a jerky nod anyway. Warrod's footsteps and presence faded, and Zeref was left alone in the cemetery.

After that, he didn't know how it happened.

There was no ghostly presence that might have triggered it, no unexplained phenomenon, not even an overactive imagination. He was no closer to a departed soul here than anywhere else on the planet; there was nothing he knew standing in front of that chiselled lump of rock that he hadn't known back behind the Fairy Sphere.

But his control just… vanished.

Tears were sliding down his cheeks. Invisible hands clawed at his throat, strangling him with the words he'd never said. He fell to his knees amidst a flood of black magic as all his walls collapsed.

It didn't matter. The only people nearby were already beyond his curse's reach. The only person it could hurt was him, and it was not merciful, punishing him for every month he had refused to acknowledge his grief, and by doing so, let it build beyond measure. He couldn't stop it any more than he could stop the thoughts screaming in his mind.

I'm sorry.

I didn't want this.

I will do better.

Everything he couldn't admit to himself, but somehow could to the silent dead.

So, so many regrets. That he had resisted Makarov's overtures of friendship until the last few months of his life. That he had forced him to use the spell that had ultimately claimed his life. That he had put him and his guild through so much, all for the sake of obtaining a power he hadn't even had the courage to use.

Even in his final days, Makarov had been looking out for him just as he had the rest of the guild, having to hope that Zeref would have the courage and humility to accept it, for he had not demonstrated that he was mature enough for either while Makarov was alive.

I will do better.

Zeref slowly became aware of a prickling underneath his knuckles. He blinked away the last half-formed tears to see little specks of emerald bursting through the ground all around him. Within moments, all the dead grass smothering the graveyard had regrown in vibrant green.

Numbly, he said, "I will only kill it again."

"Then I'll just restore it again," Warrod spoke calmly from behind him. "You'll run out of power long before I do. Destroying things seems to take a lot out of you."

"Mm."

"Ready to go home?"

A nod.

"Do you want a hand?"

Zeref shook his head. On his second attempt, he managed to get to his feet, breathing slow and steady. His magic wasn't back under control so much as it had burnt itself out for the time being, his emotions entirely drained. Step by step, focussing on nothing more than getting one foot down in front of the other, he trailed along behind Warrod until the familiar walls of his home loomed before him.

He watched without reaction – not despair, not relief – as Warrod restored the Fairy Sphere. All he wanted to do was hide away and sleep for a year.

"It's the final of the Grand Magic Games tomorrow," Warrod reminded him unexpectedly. "Want to watch it with me?"

"…I suppose I might as well."

After their visit to the graveyard, Zeref thought he was past the worst of spending time with Warrod.

He was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

He stepped out of his house mid-afternoon to see forty rainbow-coloured shot glasses lounging in the shade of the gazebo, which Warrod was cheerfully filling from a combination of dubious-looking bottles.

"What the hell are those?" Zeref demanded, in place of a greeting.

"Since this is our last day together, I thought we might spice up the finale of the Games a little!" Warrod's eyes twinkled. "Eight teams with five mages per team – that's forty competitors in a big old-fashioned battle royale. You take four guilds, I take the other four, and every time one of our mages gets knocked out, we do a shot."

"You are out of your mind."

"Nope! I was brainstorming ways of getting you to care about the outcome of the fights more, and this sounded like the most fun."

Zeref closed his eyes, rubbing tiredly at his temples. He knew getting out of bed this morning had been a mistake. "We are both far too old for this."

"Speak for yourself," Warrod pouted.

"You're supposed to be a respectable Wizard Saint." Zeref gestured lamely towards the glittering multicoloured weapons spread out on his picnic bench. "I think this would kill a normal man."

"Good job neither of us are normal, then," the old mage beamed. "I don't get to have fun like this any more. Like I said yesterday, all my still-living friends only know me as this wise, peculiar old guy; I always get missed when they're sending out the party invites. Figured you'd appreciate that. Besides, we're both adults. If it gets too much, you can stop."

"One would be too much," Zeref muttered, giving the picnic bench a distrustful glare.

It was the most disappointed Warrod had sounded since they'd met in this place. "You don't drink?"

"Given that not killing everything around me requires the constant preservation of an extremely delicate mental balance, I do try to avoid it where I can."

"Hum. Of course, you're safely behind the Fairy Sphere now. Why not live a little?"

Zeref glowered at him half-heartedly. Not that he didn't deserve a full glower, but he had long since learnt that he would be wasting his energy.

"Of course," Warrod continued idly, "it would be quite improper for you to take over as Fairy Tail's unofficial Guild Master and advisor without having ever got blind drunk celebrating their success. And since you can't attend their normal parties…"

His eyes narrowed. "I haven't decided if I'm going to do it yet. And even if I do, if they refuse to go along with Lucy's plan, there's nothing I can do."

"Of course," came the amicable response.

After as long a moment as he could make it, Zeref settled into his usual place on the bench, in his half of the Fairy Sphere. "Eight teams competing," he mused. "Which of us gets Fairy Tail?"

"Me, naturally. I'm the one with the guild mark, and you're still having doubts over whether to help them, so I don't believe there's any uncertainty there. You pick the next one."

Zeref considered this for a moment, wishing he'd paid more attention to the earlier rounds. "Crime Sorcière. They've basically got this competition sewn up, anyway."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Warrod returned gleefully. "They're only in the lead because they're a wild card. It's their first time competing; very few of their opponents knew their specialisms and their fighting styles beforehand. But their rivals have had four days to get used to them…"

"No. Jellal's smarter than that. He'll have had them hold back in preparation for the big showdown… I hope."

"Suit yourself. I'll have Mermaid Heel for my second."

"That's a high-risk strategy, no?"

"Well, I suspect I'll lose three or four quite quickly," Warrod mused, eyeing the gaudy shot glasses lined up like soldiers before him. "But I think Kagura has a good chance of being the last one standing. She's come on a long way these past two years. She's a shoo-in for that vacant Wizard Saint spot come the next round of nominations."

"I don't think it's very fair for you to use your insider knowledge like that."

"It's hardly a secret. Not my fault you don't bother to keep up with the Weekly Sorcerer," Warrod lectured him. "You'll probably have to change that when you're responsible for Fairy Tail."

"I already told you, I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say. Come on, pick your second guild, they're about to start…"

Someone had replaced his communication lacrima with a chainsaw.

That was the most logical explanation for the buzzing agony that was systematically slicing his brain into a thousand pieces.

With his eyes still screwed shut, he fumbled for the lacrima on his bedside table. A lamp tumbled to the ground with a thud that shook the earth, and two books followed it like thunderclaps. Then, at last, his fingers closed around the crystal.

There was a moment of blessed, blessed silence.

"Hey, Zeref. We're back from the Games."

Far too cheerful, far too bright, far too not-silent.

An agonized moan escaped his lips. So much pain pressed at the inside of his skull that he was sure his whole head was going to explode. In four hundred years of forced immortality, he had never wanted to die as much as he did right now.

Entirely oblivious to his torment, Lucy continued, "Can I come over and talk to you about the Hundred Year Quest? We're running out of time to make a decision, and I had a thought that might help-"

"Lucy," he rasped. "I will do literally anything you want if you can just not call me, not talk to me, and not come anywhere near my house for the next twenty-four hours."

"Uh… okay?"

He pushed the lacrima off the bed, huddled back under the covers, and tried very hard not to throw up.

"…Huh," Lucy remarked, staring at the dormant lacrima in her hand.

"What did he say?" Warrod prompted.

"That he would do anything I wanted if I left him alone for a bit," she answered, baffled. "Is he okay? What did you do to him?"

Warrod gave a shrug. "Personally, I blame Jellal."

"What? Why?"

"For not telling his guild to hold back enough during the first four days of the Games."

Lucy stared. "I don't think I want to know what happened while I was away."

"That's probably for the best," Warrod agreed.

Because he'd sounded so desperate, Lucy made no attempt to contact Zeref for the rest of the day, but truth be told, she wasn't expecting him to even remember what he'd said, let alone act on it.

So she was rather surprised when he called her the next day, once again sounding like himself as he cut through her worried pleasantries without preamble: "I am considering it, but I have three conditions which must be met first."

"…Go on," Lucy responded, trying not to sound too excited.

"First, I want to see you, Mira, Laxus, Macao, and anyone else who could possibly have a claim to authority in your absence, all at once. Given the guild's situation, this will be impractical for anyone to attempt alone – it will have to be a team effort. Therefore, I want to talk about how this is going to work before committing to helping them. If any of them are not on board with the idea, I won't go through with it. I'm not like you, Lucy. I accept that some of the effort has to come from me this time, but I'm also not willing to throw myself in at the deep end without any proof that they will be receptive."

"Seems fair," she agreed. One step at a time. Besides, if he thought she had discussed anything else with her guild over the last month, he was in for a surprise. "Next?"

"I want Warrod to stay for at least the first month."

"Oh? Made a friend, did you?"

"Oh, no." She could hear his scowl reverberating through the lacrima, and had to fight back a smile. "The only reason why he's still breathing is because I have yet to devise a revenge proportionate to what he deserves. However… he gets it, Lucy. What it's like to live with my curse. You came to understand it a little on your own, but there's no guarantee your friends will do the same, or that they will do so quickly. I need him here, at least at the start, to show them how to deal with me."

"Understood. I'll ask him; I can't imagine he'll say no. What's the third condition?"

"I want a shed."

"A… shed? Are you thinking of taking up gardening?"

"Not that kind of shed. A fancy one. I'll show you the catalogue next time you're up here. They even custom-make them these days; I've drawn up some architectural plans."

"…Okay, sure, you can have a shed, no problem."

"Alright then," he said. "Have fun on your Hundred Year Quest."

A/N: Hi all! This chapter marks the end of Part 3 of this story (out of four parts). Going into the final part, the story will start skipping forward in time a lot more – sometimes jumping forward years between scenes in a single chapter. The other thing to note is that major character death that I flagged in the first chapter. (No, we've not had it yet. When I say major, I mean it.) It won't be next chapter. It probably won't be the chapter after. But it will happen, and if you don't want to read about that and the fallout (which will make up a big chunk of the remaining story) then this, at the end of Part 3, with Zeref accepting that he wants to become more involved with the guild and open up to them going forward, is a pretty good place to stop.

To those of you who are here come what may – see you next week! ~CS