Ch. 02: Myth Intertwines with Reality

In the distance, fire ingested a generations-old house in the eye of a flurry of corn and wheat fields. Smoke polluted the sky, screening the pursuing bird that hovers over me, searching lights zigzagging from the left to the right.
Evasion was top priority, especially since I had reservations on the international most wanted list. I was being tailed, and had been for never-ending amounts of days.

To this day, that alias of mine is known for assassination and making people disappear off the face of the Earth.

That time, I dropped an advocate for a coalition planning to place claymore traps around the perimeter of the opposite party's building. It's not that I was defending one side from the other because I believed in their morals—one party offered a more appeasing reward for my work to do a job that required less elbow grease. I wasn't sure what my morals were supposed to be… I didn't care.

I'd done a public service, right? All my kills were necessary sacrifices to complete the task I was given. What's wrong with that? The front door needed a state spokesperson's cornea for entry, so I got the key. What's the damage in trying to get inside a building? All I did was ask for assistance. My mindset back then was all in the wrong—selfish, deceiving, and ruthless towards those who crossed me, ally or enemy. It didn't matter. I had no limits, no restraint. All I saw was red. Gushing red. It was necessary for my own survival; my tendency to accept that as an excuse validates that ugly, heinous side of my personality. Something I take extra care not to show anyone, especially the women in my life, and will continue to do so until my dying day. I will never have any pride for what I did back then.

I slid under a fallen tree that was lit by the storm of bullets whizzing over my head. Right then, it ignited in flame, a sheet catching my leg. The burn dismantled my pants and sizzled my skin, emitting blood, but there was no time to stop. I limped my way to a seemingly abandoned dilapidated stack of snapping wood where a house once stood. I threw my body through an opening close to the floor leading to a hole. A makeshift shelter. I crashed down hard on my shoulder, my bloody face in the dirt, in front of a cowering family of five people: an elderly couple, a middle-aged man and woman, and a man around twenty. All staring at me in shock. They knew who brought the helicopters, who brought the rain of bullets, who brought the torch that set the crops ablaze.

After I blinked hard to clear the dirt from my eyes, there was a double-barrel in my face. I dodged swiftly when I saw the old man's trigger finger twitch and, out of instinct or panic, summoned shadow stalagmites to emerge from the ground. The ignition from the force of my magic blasted most of what remained of the barn away, leaving us open to the smoke-covered sky. The helicopter propellers could be heard drawing nearer.

Appalled, I bit down guilt and stood to take off again only to see my pursuer—a fellow mage, though my line of work required no spells—stagnant behind me, gray eyes wide. He dropped to his knees, silently. Our eyes met for what seemed like an eternity. A bitter, remorseful eternity. He was the picture of heartbreak, and I was terrified. When I saw his magic boost, yellow highlighting his bones and pulsating under his skin, I shifted into a shadow and vanished quickly. At the very moment I became tangible a great distance away, a single, yellow shard-like blade fragment of magic grazed my arm. And it stung worse than any scrap.

~~~~~~~~end flashback~~~~~~~~~

-a week later-

I sit up in a loud gasp, cold sweat running down my neck and pricking at my back. Claws emerged and ready for blood. I steady my breathing and swipe a hand down my face. My skin shines in the moonlight. The chill in the dense air creeps up on me like a stealthy predator lurking in the dark. When fear grips me, I hold myself so close I'm almost crushed. What I did that night, the blood I spilled, is unforgivable. I was different then—I was a child, mindful of my own survival—but even that is an invalid excuse.

I retract my claws, disgusted at the very sight of them, wincing at the burn of already-shredded skin. When I shift to get up, I feel a small weight on my bed. I look down towards it to find Frosch cuddled up close to me. Moving as little and quietly as possible, I slither out of bed and wrap him in the comforter. I throw on a jacket and leave for a before-dawn stroll. I have to walk this off, store it away in my memory for another day, prepare a strong face that can last at least twenty hours.

And, well, it's always kind of fun to bend curfew every now and then, anyway.

It's around 4 a.m. now, so I should be able to get back before anyone wakes up. My trudge carries on around the town perimeter and down one-way streets. I never thought the east side would be so structurally abstract—meaning it's intriguing in a terrible way. Buildings are lodged up over other buildings that turn out to be an indoor villa. The last thing I need is strange, but who am I to criticize Magnolia? When I come back to Fairy Tail, making my way upstairs, I hear voices from the lower end of the west wing. Voices—hushed and hasty in pattern.

"…can you…do this?!"

I creep closer. I know I shouldn't be eavesdropping, but who wouldn't when people are talking away the night? An orange candle illuminates the stone tile, getting brighter the closer I come to the room, the voices increasing in volume. I peek around the corner to see Makarov and a hooded woman with that heavy drinker…Cana, standing before them, face in her hands, tears distorting her voice. "It was a mistake, I know…! I'm sorry, but you have to understand, Master!"

"I can't see where I should have to do anything other than what is in order."

"Laxus was confronted first! It was self-defense!"

Laxus. That makeshift dragon-slayer who manipulates lightning magic. Hell of tall and not a very approachable person, either, though I have no idea why I'm talking about that sort of thing. I freeze when I see the mystery woman extract a knife from her box of tools in the corner. All this witchcraft equipment. Makarov shakes his head. "You two know better."

Cana retracts with, "He had to fight!"

"No. There is always another way to resolve conflict without harming a civilian!" Makarov argues. "You blinded him with your shuriken cards!"

She sobs quietly, the kind of weeping that automatically makes me yearn to comfort her. But how? I step back into the shadows. "I'm sorry! Please don't kick us out!" The guildmaster drops his head. "At least not Laxus! Please!"

"It was reckless of you two to utilize your magic for a simple street fight." The woman crosses her arms, impatiently.

Makarov adds, "Especially after curfew." I thought I smelt something funny earlier. I assumed it was the blood I was dreaming of for the twelfth time this month. But it was just the fluctuating magic energy of a second-gen.

The woman under the hood…I can't place my finger on it. She seems…no, she smells familiar. Where have I encountered this scent before? It's no perfume. "Laxus is a dragon-slayer. The Reassurance Act still applies to him. You could've gotten him detained." Cana drops her head and continues crying. She looks like she needs a drink right now. "Now, come." The other woman holds out her hand. "You must repent. Let the spirits determine your penalty."

Penalty? Memories of Sabertooth immediately invade my mind with too heavy a force to be stopped. My heart pounds when I see her slit Cana's finger, warm blood emerging from the skin, and bleed it over the fire. Then, I stifle a gasp when the color of the flame changes to onyx—the common hue of a common mage's blood, if I remember correctly. Brother taught me about these blood-flame rituals how each color signifies a certain type of mage.

Cana is reduced to sniffles as she watches her blood vaporize in the fire of the somehow clear wax candle. A votive candle. I get closer, lurking in the shadows, crouching in the other corner to see better. The woman whispers to the ceiling, "This child has committed a crime amongst our kind and offers her blood as penance for his sight."

The dark-colored mist engulfs the three in a circle. Makarov uncrosses his arms and draws close to Cana when it fades. "You've been heard," he states, making her kneel. "Never again, Cana." Her sobs crack through a teary thank-you as he wipes her face. "If you or anyone brings attention to Sting or Rogue, I will have no choice but to address this to the Council. It's a matter of safety."

"We can't risk their safety." The woman comes over and stands next to them. "They can't be harmed." Harmed? What did this have to do with us? I frown, only dropping it when she slips a glance over her shoulder that slices easily through my core. We hold each other's gazes for what seems like an eternity. Where have I seen such eyes before? Her gaze is too ponderous, so I slam my eyes shut.

When I open them, the spacious room has faded to a dull gray and the temperature drops quickly, proof of my mental entanglement. Everyone's just…gone. I place a hand over my heart, as if that can calm it, then turn back to head to the stairs, wanting to avoid magic and rituals and the subject of our safety being at stake. A flicker of a handheld lighter makes me halt at the next corner from my room. A blue flame glows on Laxus's disdainful face—it's being held so close to my face, it burns my cheek. He smiles wickedly at the way I recoil. "Enjoy the show?" he asks, nose almost touching mine. I inch into the wall, even after my head rubs against the stone. I've never been alone with him like this. I hunch my shoulders out of natural instinct. "Is it true that third-gens can withstand higher temperatures than a normal person?" If anyone, that'd be Natsu. People come up with all kinds of crazy stories about Sting and me, the new breed of dragon-slayer.

I stare at him, but my mind wanders. I wish I could ask Master Makarov the truth about everything. If this is all true, whatever it is they're afraid of Sting and I encountering. If we are going to be harshly bound by laws and restrictions for the good of the majority. Since the Massacre and the shift of justices in the Council, there have been more regulations. More intervention than needed. But I never suspected it would affect us in daily life. Why am I thinking about that now as I have another problem to deal with? He's been talking the whole time, and I've been daydreaming.

"…so you can just forget about that ever happening. You may be sleeping here at night, but you're not off the hook for what your guild did during the Grand Magic Games. And you certainly have no business eavesdropping on a conversation between Gramps and Cana."

I blink hard. "I didn't see you do anything to help her." We frown at the same time. "Cana was defending you more than herself." While you were planning to corner me, you should have been defending your family. "You aren't very…" No, don't invite a confrontation when you don't need to. He's known her longer than I have, so there's probably a reason. It's none of my business.

Laxus's eyes slit. "Your guild kicks out a young girl for losing a battle and you're talking to me about defending a comrade?" Guilt slams into me. Yes, Yuki and I already cleared things up and put every aspect of Jiemma in the past, but there is truth in his words. I couldn't find it in myself to defend her. So where do I get off saying such cruel things to him? He gets closer to my face as I stare at my shoes. "You talk like you know all about friendship, so why don't you go in there and make things right?"

I open my mouth, but say nothing.

"If you aren't going to help anyone, what use is standing around like a wallflower?"

With nothing to say in return, choosing to ignore Laxus and the lighter scorching my face, I step around him. He doesn't budge until I make my way down the hall to my room, walking at my heels. To get away from him, I walk into my room and shut the door with my back. He stops it with his foot, grunting in pain, and then brings the lighter and his face close to my neck. I refuse to look at him.

"I'm going to say this once," he whispers so low I have to strain to hear. "Mirajane is mine. Believe me, I will fight for her." I turn and meet his eyes in the dark. His nose curls up in a harder grimace. "You don't stand a chance, what with your…instabilities—"

"Your willingness to fight for others…it's admirable."

He blinks a few times. "Mark my words, hybrid-mutt."

"There's nothing going on between me and MJ." But I loved her first, and I've loved her years before she even knew I existed. The sizzling noise of my hair burning—and my neck—makes me flinch away. I see my shadow's glare on the floor where I keep staring. "You should leave," I say louder, stronger than I expected. Laxus snarls and closes the lighter, prowling away like nothing just happened. I stand there, door closed now, withstanding the temperature decline in a dark room in silence with the blood ritual and Laxus still heavy on my mind.
I touch my neck to find it sensitive and stinging. Love is such a beautiful, euphoric thing, but what it makes people do sometimes…it's terrifying. I shiver and hold my arms to my body, sinking to the floor while shriveled against the door. My shadow's face is the last I see that night.

##

The structure of DNA is rather simple—it is a copolymer that is made up of four similar and simpler units. These simpler monomeric units are called nucleotides. They are: adenosine monophosphate, thymidine monophosphate, guanosine monophosphate, and cytidine monophos—

"Ryos."

I look up at Brother, a bit annoyed to be interrupted and to hear such an unfitting name. We frown at each other as he taps a pencil on his books and papers with sketches of cartoons. He's aiming to be a videogame designer. A suitable job, I suppose: he's got a wacky imagination and knows his way around a sketchpad. A lot of mages aim for dual employment—can't fight forever, y'know? That's what some say. "What?" I ask, removing my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose.

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Reading out loud." He rolls his eyes. "And at rapid speed."

"Listen to music." I don't read out loud particularly well, but when I do it unconsciously I can go at rocket speed, sometimes without taking a breath. "Sorry. It's kind of a habit." I place my glasses on my nose and frown at my book. Guanosine monophosphate, cytidine monophosphate—

"Well, I don't want to hear about biology while I'm trying to introduce a new character." I groan and leer at him. He shows me a penciled-in outline of this morbidly interesting creature. Half anteater, half elephant, I think. "You see me working here, don't you? So shut it."

I squint at it, then nod in silence slowly, kind of confused. How did that happen? There's a story that needs telling. I sigh. "I'm sorry, Brother. I'll try to be quiet." Cytidine monophosphate…AMP, TMP, GMP, and CMP make up DNA, sometimes abbreviated by single letters, A, T, G, and C, for simplicity. Each nucleotide in turn is comprised of 3 components, a phosphoric acid moiety, a pentose sugar—

"Ryos."

…a pentose sugar—deoxyribose, and a heterocyclic amine of which there are four kinds: the bicyclic purine base, adenine and guanine—

"Ryos."

…and the single-ringed pyrimidine base; thymine is replaced by uracil—

"RYOS!"

I slam my fist into the book. "Can I get through one paragraph?! Damn it!" I blurt out, fed up. He falls dangerously silent, indicating boundaries have been crossed. I sigh, dismissing that awkward moment. "What is it?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm studying," I say, clearly missing whatever it is he's getting at. I give him a face as if to say duh. "Sorry, but my major requires more than just drawing circles."

"Yeah, keep being a smart-ass." He nods intently to the mirror door of my closet. I glance at myself, even more annoyed and wanting to get his game over with at first, then in confusion the second time. My eyes are bloodshot, near gushing.

I hide my shock by dropping my head and putting back on my usual nonchalant face. "So I haven't brushed my hair in a while, and maybe I'm a little tired. So, what?"

"Then go to bed," Gajeel orders, simply. The way he used to when I was under his tutelage. It ended…terribly. He found and took me in after I killed Skiadrum, trained me a bit in physical stamina, which was hell. He disappeared a few days short of two months together. "Hey, are you even listenin'?"

I blink. "Uh," No. "Yeah, yeah. I'm listening to you." I must've been staring again. I have a tendency to do that at the worse given time, and it only makes me even more awkward. "I'm just thinking about a lot right now." It's not a lie.

"Then go to bed," he repeats. From what I remember, he doesn't like doing that often. Back when he was training me, for every time he had to tell me to do something a second time, it merited me a mile run.

I shrug and flip the page to the next chapter. "I'm fine."

"Go to bed, Ryos." That'd be two miles.

"It's 7 o'clock."

"Yeah, and you're droolin' on your book."

"I don't drool."

"So you say."

"I don't."

"How would ya know, pipsqueak?"

I growl at him, but give in. He closes my book, "I didn't save the page," and takes my notebook and pen, tossing them on the desk. "That's not where they go." They slide off the end onto the floor, sprawled across the carpet. "Great," I say.

"Oops." I scowl hard because he doesn't sound apologetic. "Night." He nudges me in the stomach and leaves with his stuff.

I pick up the books and neatly stack them back on the desk. "Good night," I mutter. I'm alone in the room, staring at my hands on my desk, closing my eyes. The thought of last night brings a shiver down my spine. I couldn't look Makarov in the eye. That woman disappeared into the night, masking her addicting scent without a single trace. I can't get the ritual out of my head; the mirror image of wizards at work that haunts children's dreams at night. The blood, the slight breeze blowing their hair, the change in temperature and candlelight. Cana, though, was her normal self as if nothing happened only a few hours ago. Her eyes were still puffy, but she took care to cover it with a mask of booze.

When I get enough gumption to go downstairs, I ladle soup into a bowl to take upstairs, and because I have the best luck, Laxus enters soon after. He grabs a bowl and slams the cabinet door above me, cocking an eyebrow when I jump and almost spill. I slam my eyes shut to calm down. Why did I jump when I could smell his scent before he appeared out of nowhere? His little stunt last night pried at my self-control. I should have at least told to get the hell out of my face. Part of me wanted to drown him in an eternity of darkness, to seclude him in a prison of his worst nightmare for a decade.

Words of a killer.

I hold my breath until my head begins to drift. I don't owe it to him to give my word or to refrain from speaking to MJ to save his chance with her. I don't reserve spaces or warm seats, and I definitely don't kiss asses. Besides, as nice as it sounds to get closer to her, I have a girlfriend. Laxus's voice rains down from above, "Move, shorty. You're blocking the pot." I say nothing, ducking under him, evading to the stairs. He has nothing to say, thankfully. I'm in no mood to deal with his blabbering. MJ's at the bar tonight, pouring drinks, chatting, laughing. I stare at her, observing how gracefully she moves, how her singsong voice dances like bubbles through the air. She looks in my direction and waves with a bright smile. My face heats up and I give the smallest wave back.

"Mira! What's up? I'm back from my job early!" Lucy sprints passed me, bumping my shoulder, to the bar. She spins around immediately. "Oh! Sorry…Rogue, right?" I stare at her, preferring not to move or speak. My face continues to reach the temperature of the sun. "Whoa, you okay? Your face is turning…" Her voice drags off. Say something, anything…just talk. Come on. I blink. "U-uh, okay. See ya around, Rogue!" She spins on her heel and hurries to the bar, leaving me to stand in the middle of the room alone. She sits at the stool in front of Mirajane, says a few things to her behind a hand. MJ's big blue eyes switch to me, along with two others who are also being served. But she's the only one who smiles kindly.

My heart stops for an instant, and I can't breathe, so I turn and quickly leave the area. Cana and Lisanna enter the dining hall together, walking shoulder-to-shoulder. I sink against the threshold to let them pass, watching Cana the entire time. Should I say something to her? I take a step, and almost trip over my foot. "I—" Lisanna hears me, but not Cana. She turns to me, but before we can connect eyes, I wheel around and head towards the hallway to ascend the stairs. I wonder why Master treated Cana harsher than he'd treated Sting and me. Those Sabertooth jerks who taunted their guild. Our presence is worth about ten times the punishment she got. And what were they talking about us getting hurt? Then that whole thing with the candle and blood happened. The fact that Laxus was ready to fight me to the death for MJ's attention.

Lord, I can't even think of her right now. I can't believe I did something so stupid in front of everyone.

Honestly, I'm trying to get my own relationship with Kagura straight; and that being said, I need to focus on that. Our wonderful disaster. Still, I love her. Somewhere deep inside, I know she still loves me, too. It's taunting to be under such an assumption when she yearns for more than what I am. But in the dreadful pit of rejection resurfaces a beautiful gem of acceptance—something I thought I lost a few months back. That's MJ. A woman so beautiful that it's almost terrifying, so kind that it makes me crazy. A perfect body with a clever mind. If I could describe her demeanor in limited terms—sophisticated grace. Beauty and purity. A queen. She does things to me that even Kagura—who I've loved for two years—can't. With just a glance from her, I feel safe, vulnerable, and strong, yet fragile. Free, yet captive, and I haven't swooned in pleasure of just holding her hand. "Rogue?" I startle at the wondrous voice of Juvia, who smiles widely at me. "You're smiling. Did something good happen?"

I blink slowly. "I closed the door in your face the other day."

"You—" She squints. "Oh, it's fine. You were in a hurry, right?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, really." Her blue hair winds up in a loose bun and her eyes light up. "Hey, by the way, have you seen Mirajane? I need to borrow her hair curler."

I shake my head, and she says something else as she leaves. My jeans get tighter the more MJ roams my mind, so I hurry to my room and shut the door. We barely speak, and she drives me absolutely crazy. What Laxus doesn't know is that I am capable of putting mercy on hold. It's not something I prefer to do, but it doesn't mean I won't. It's not because I'm fighting for MJ's hand; I'd be fighting for her respect. But without a mission objective and without my façade, what's the possibility she'll love—and accept—who I really am?

That's where Kagura falls into the suitable role. She's seen everything, done everything to me, knows almost everything about me. My flaws, my mistakes, a fraction of the blood on my hands. When I expected her to run with her tail between her legs, she'd force my hips against hers without a single thought. She'd tell me that dangerous men like me are sexy.

I'm brought back hours later by my own recollection of where I am. I lift my head from my desk in a gasp, a pen sticking to my cheek, and blink hard to fend off sleep. I nearly jump from the chair when the pen falls on the desk. I close my eyes to calm down and rub my eyes. Right then, Cana comes with food and, again, caught off guard, I leapt to my feet. "Jesus," I hold a hand to my heart. "Cana, you scared me."

"Never thought anyone could sneak up on the Shadow Dragon." She holds out the plate to me. Seeing only one plate reminds me that Sting left for home this morning. "You hungry?" She's as cheerful as ever, as if nothing happened last night. She rushes to me, pushes me to sit on the bed, and puts a cup of fruit in my lap.

"Thanks, but," I stare at the fruit. "I'm not hungry. I actually just ate." I slip my eyes to the untouched bowl of cold soup on the desk.

"You call that eating?"

"I don't eat much," I lie.

Cana smirks, "What, you have a girl's stomach?" I swallow my pride, but say nothing. Her thin eyebrows draw down when my stomach grumbles in spite. I let out a long, silent sigh. "Snack time," she asserts, making me feel like I'm five. It's an order. Excusing my short nap, I got minimal sleep because of what I saw. The questions and confusion kept up me up most of the night. She senses my mood and stares directly through me. "Bad night?" She thumbs the pen mark on my face.

"What're you doing?" I ask quickly. She takes her hand back slowly. "Sorry. That was rude." When I look at her again, her eyes order me to explain why it is I couldn't sleep, to talk about my thoughts. To be honest. "I saw what happened…between you and Makarov," I say, hiding how uncomfortable I am with this physical contact.

"I'm sorry we were so loud." Cana gives me a serene smile, back to looking like everyone's trouble-making big sister. She's been that way since we first showed up at Fairy Tail's doorstep. She, MJ, and Yukino nursed us back to health from our weeks living like stranded souls in the wild. It was after Jiemma fell at Sting's magic. We drew the short end of the stick and had to drag ourselves back to the guild. A mission gone terribly, horribly wrong. The others get kind of jealous of the way she treats us like her children. She says it's because she see we need the most affection, being victims of Jiemma's reign of terror.

I am grateful for her hospitality. But deeper in the trenches of my soul, all I see is pity.

"What did Makarov mean when he said he didn't want Sting and me getting harmed?" I ask, frowning. She gestures to the strawberries. So I roll my eyes and start eating. "What are you keeping from us?" I try again, face stuffed with fruit.

"Honestly, I didn't think it'd be you to ask this question." Her eyes are pained, worried. "Oh, by that he meant…upset. Emotionally harmed." What? I stare at her. "Don't listen to anyone when they are cruel to you." She takes my hand, but when I pull, she only holds on harder. So I stop. "There's no danger coming."

No, by that, you mean you don't want me to get angry. You've heard of what I can do when I lose my head. I'm a monster. Destructive and disastrous. She wants to protect everyone from me. "I want to do it," I blurt out.

"Whoa, Cheney," she retracts. "I may be a drunk, but I'm not an easy catch!"

"No, no. I wasn't—… No. You seem knowledgeable in rituals and spells."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She leans back on a hand and flips her hair. "So what's your question?"

I bite down my pride. "Is there a way I can…stop my magic?"

Cana looks amused at me. "With a cleansing?"

I shut my eyes to keep from rolling them again. "You know that's not what I mean entirely. I want to do that, too, but…" I squeeze my hands together, but I can't will those pathetic words up my throat. I can't do this anymore. My magic cannot be controlled. I failed Skiadrum.

But she chuckles, shocking me, the kind of chuckle someone who witnessed a puppy's clumsiness would do. I stare at her. "You don't need it. You haven't done anything terribly wrong. Nothing against the Act."

"I know you've heard what I can do," I argue. "That's why you came all those years ago. You've seen plenty." During my first year at Sabertooth, I almost killed Rufus, Minerva, and everyone in the area for the taunting they'd put me through. They shoved me into a puddle of animal blood and ordered me to do a séance. Tried to make me drink it. Without any consideration for anyone's safety, I went into my Force to obliterate them when Cana and some other mages of assisting guilds came to stop me. Shadows spread like ink on the floor beneath them just as she appeared in a breath of sparkling smoke, a hand on my head. I never lost control, and that's what truly terrified me. I don't remember how she stopped me. But I do remember crying when the others were escorted from the room. She watched me at first before wrapping her arms around me quietly. It was shameful; I'm well beyond that. I should have composed myself better, but that's in the past. This ritual, my lack of self-control, is now.

Again, she mocks me with a hearty laugh. "I only came because the pay was good!" I blink. "Master's seen what you've done and what you haven't done, more importantly." I sit here, dumbstruck and bemused. She sighs off the laughter and gazes intently at me. "He says you may have thought of brutalizing people with devastating magic, but you've held back almost completely."

"Well, that's compared to what I've—"

"No," she cuts in quickly.

I squint. "No…what?"

"You stopped yourself. That's what's important."

"This isn't the direction I planned our conversation to—"

"You have a heart." I draw back when she touches my chest. "A very big one, at that. You just needed help. Everyone does." I want to say more, to argue for my own penance. But she brings a finger up to silence me. "Your job is to cheer up and enjoy life while you're here with us."

"Actually, I was called by Master Makarov for a few joint missions."

Cana flicks my forehead. "Don't interrupt me. Mine is to make sure you and your brother are indeed happy."

"Cana—"

"Now, let's get to sleep." I stare at her. With each hand, she takes the plate and brushes back my hair, and then I smell something powdery in her palm. My eyelids flutter before I can protest. If she wants me to be quiet about the topic, she doesn't…have…to…

##

It's Friday now and nearly ten at night.

Part of me wants to be upset with Cana for knocking me out cold, but another part can't stay mad at her for more than a minute. But the biggest part is that she didn't cuff me to the bed. I place my ear to the door, waiting to hear screams of terror, bangs on my door. Nothing. I thought Laxus would be there, ready to pounce on me for saying hello to MJ earlier. But I'll deal with him later if he confronts me. Right now I have other things to worry about. One of them being Cana unwillingness to help me with the cleansing ritual.
Well…it's not like I haven't done a ritual on my own. She never said that I can't do one, especially if everyone can benefit from. This could be a way to at least make amends with the spirits so they'd bring me good karma. I need boatloads with what I'm dealing with. With the strength of Goliath, I force my body out of the warmth and comfort of my bed and melt to the floor.

If I'm going to try this out, the time is now. Everyone except a select few—to my knowledge—are out to see a traveling circus march through town.

I take the same clear candle form atop the highest shelf in the wall. Cana must have convinced Makarov to let her have protective candles in everyone's room. I see oil on the wall where my door usually covers when open and, squinting to see better, I can make out her penmanship:

May the spirits allow him insight.

Wait…I snatch the note Cana left on my nightstand on the first night. It says: Breakfast is ready. Come down if you want! Of course, I didn't. I jerk my head back to the oily words; the penmanship doesn't match. May the spirits allow him insight? I already have enough information on myself. My psychopathic, unsteady self. I'm a third-generation dragon-slayer, an English major in college, an estranged member of Sabertooth hiding behind the master I should be standing in front of. What more can I be missing? I set the candle on a book on the floor and sit before it, legs crossed, after locking the door. I remember how the woman had her hands around the flame, feeling the heat, so I imitate her, taking a deep breath. I've tried this before, years back. Got too emotional to really seek help and ended up burning my hand. But this time is different. I'm no longer hiding from my guildmates' lashing tongues behind a door that barely holds back the banging.

I dredge up my sins to confess—all of them, even the worst ones. I can't believe I'm going to do this, but I need to. Badly. I tentatively lift only my eyes to the ceiling, unlike the hooded woman, who raised her head like she was in church. "Uh…hi…?" Way to start off sounding unsure. I take another calming breath and stare into the flame. "I want to be rid of my sins: every time I had to kill or hurt someone with my magic." My shoulders drop at the sound of my shameful wrongdoings. "This time I almost killed my guildmates in the chapel." I think of a particularly darker moment. "And last night when I wanted to possess Laxus to stab himself." Even deeper down the abysmal list of my past compulsions to rage, "And all the times I was tempted to let my other side take over and hear everyone being tortured to death."

I go through my long list of violent desires. Dramatic ones. Grotesque ones. Ones directed towards one person. Ones intended for mass destruction. Ones I've planned for myself.

In a matter of seconds, I'm apologizing for the smallest things like not putting the soap on the right side of the sink in the bathroom. I wait now for something to happen, some indication that I've been heard. Nothing happens.
The first thought in my mind is that I'm too disgusting to be forgiven; the second is that I forgot to draw my blood. I take a knife from under my mattress and press it to my thumb, heart thudding against my chest. I'm not so good around sharp things, really, when it comes to my own body.

Taking one long breath, I press harder against the skin. It stings only for a bit. The red liquid emerges, warm with magic. My heart stammers in the torturous silence of the room, and when the red hits the flame, the drops pool the wick. I wait for a harsh red hue to dance in the thin air.

A synergy of colors bursts from the flame, sizzling loudly. Every color across the spectrum, every solid color, every in-between tint and fade intertwine with each other. See, it has been a myth that third-gens give the rarest blood that can give any color at will. I didn't do anything but slice my finger. It's supposed to be a myth…!

I sit here, completely dumbstruck. I've never tested my blood before. Sting and I always assumed we'd have red like first-gens, even though we're the only third-gens in the world. We assumed we'd have one specific color smoke. To further prove to myself that this is reality, I cut my arm up to re-test my blood over and over again. I do this until the blood running under my flows cold through the carpet and stains my shirt. My head…is heavy. I end up on my side, collapsed on the floor.

I'm trapped in a distant trance, staring at my blood, at the candle, at the knife, when Gajeel's voice barges in. Thick-sounding and reverberating from each wall. He snatches my arm and hoists me up. It only takes one hard jolt to my feet for me to lose consciousness.