Disclaimer: I do not own DanMachi or any of the Omori's original characters, nor do I make any profit off of my writing.


Bile rose in his throat as he leaned against the metal fence. One of his hands clenched the cool, steel bars tightly as the other rubbed at his throat. Softly at first, like he was trying to work away the discomfort, before the itchy sensation spread underneath his skin.

He was scratching at his neck fiercely, the skin robbing raw until the point where small streaks of blood ran down the side of his neck. He paid it no mind; his attention too far drawn away into the deep recesses of his mind.

He tried to breathe but he couldn't, his breath catching in his throat.

It was the dead of the night, and he was alone. Nobody would be there to watch as he suffocated on nothing but his own grief. The same grief that he'd let pile up for years, slowly getting to a point where he was already six feet under.

Just like

He shook his head and swallowed the bile back down, swiping a sleeve across his dry lips and gritting his teeth. He held it in his hands, desperately trying to work the headache that was splitting his forehead.

No!

He refused to think about them.

He'd been just fine without it. He didn't want it. He didn't need it.

He took another tentative step forward. His leg shook as he balanced on top of it, threatening to give away under the minimal pressure. He scowled at his useless limbs.

Weak, they screamed.

Failure.

Murderer.

His claws extended and ripped through his pant leg as he sunk them into his thigh, forcing it to cooperate. He'd be damned before he let his own body give out on him.

Strength was all that mattered, he reminded himself.

The stars twinkled overhead across the purple sky. Shining and glimmering as if nothing was wrong in the world.

That in and of itself was wrong.

Nothing was right.

Luna was dead.

Reene was dead.

Selenia was dead.

Lena was–

Lena's alive, he reminded himself.

Alive. Not dead.

Weak. Alive.

She was fine.

Her death wasn't real. Not like– not like the others.

Lena was alive.

His leg stopped shaking and he swallowed again. With a grunt he pulled his claws back out from his leg, wiping the blood off on his pant leg. The fabric was burned, horribly even, from his earlier use of his magic.

Hati.

He hated that spell.

This always happened.

He hated that spell.

He hated remembering.

He hated all of this bullshit.

Why couldn't he just forget?

Forget the lives he left behind. The corpses that followed behind him wherever he went.

Was he doomed to repeat the same thing again?

Was everybody around him going to be too weak to live on? Again?

He scowled up at the moon. The all too familiar strength it provided to members of his race doing nothing to quell his weakness.

It gave him strength, so why? Why does he feel anything but?

And then he remembered the corpses.

His mother.

His father.

His sister.

His uncle.

His cousin.

His friend.

And Reene.

Sweet, sweet Reene.

She was weak. Just like him.

He swore to protect her.

She died.

The image of her corpse flashed across his eyes as he curled in on himself, dropping to one knee and abandoning the support of the metal fence. He dry heaved as he tried to push both the bile and the images away.

He didn't want it.

He didn't want it.

He just wanted to forget.

Was that too much to ask?

To forget that corpse? To forget the way her beautiful golden hair was dyed red in the blood of his family? To forget the fact that he buried her without her legs?

To forget that he couldn't keep her safe? That he couldn't even do the bare minimum and give her a proper burial?

Was it too much?

Apparently, because all he could see as saliva pooled in his mouth and his jaw locked up was the way her body hung limply in his arms. One of her arms torn from her shoulder and her legs nowhere in sight.

The image spun around his head, not giving him a moment to breathe. He tried to make it stop. He wanted to make it stop.

He couldn't.

He reached his tipping point as his stomach roiled and churned, bile and acid spilled out of his throat as his eyes watered. He coughed and he hacked and he spat. He hoped and he prayed and he wished on whatever shooting star would pass overhead that that was the end of it.

That he could go home and live his life in peace now.

It wasn't.

He knew that.

There were too many lives he left in his wake for that to be the end of it. Too much blood on his hands.

A cold, bitter breeze swept through the city. It rushed the exterior walls, climbing up, up, up, and then coming crashing down. It swirled and whirled around buildings. Snaking its way through the rubble of Daedalus street, connecting with other streams before diverging once again.

The winds bit at his skin, nipping at his ears and forcing the memories back into his head because of course, it did. The world was against him, it always had been. It always would be.

It wouldn't let him forget his roots. That would be far too kind.

The world was cruel. Only the strong survived.

He just didn't understand how it was him who made it this far. He wasn't strong no matter what those damned words scrawled across his back said.

Level six or not, his words stand true. The weak would always be weak. The strong would always be strong.

He never said he was strong, quite the opposite. He was weak, weaker than anybody he'd ever known. Why else would he be so useless, so incapable of protecting everything he holds dear?

The wind bit at his skin, nipping at his ears.

He was a wolf. A wolf of the Loga tribe. That was who he was.

It's who he is.

At the end of the day, he'd always be that scared little boy standing in the center of a slaughterhouse. The bodies of his beloved family decorating the fields of their encampment. He would always be that boy. The one who survived for no reason other than chance. He would always be that kid who couldn't protect his family or the girl he loved.

His only use was crying over their still-warm corpses.

Because he was always just too late. Just close enough to reach out a hand, but never close enough to make a difference. Never close enough to save a life.

He pulled himself upright, this time his arms shaking instead of his legs. He ignored the pallor of his hands as they both reached out.

He fell forward into the fence, grasping pathetically at two bars. He looked through them, his eyes barely picking up what lay inside.

Headstones.

The adventurer's graveyard.

Because, of course. Of course, that is where he would end up.

He couldn't remember a damn thing since his familia had done their whole 'dramatic reveal' bullshit after he spilled his guts out to Aiz. He was there and then he was here.

He scowled, phlegm lining his teeth as he glared at the graves as if they personally offended him. They weren't the reason his life was so shit.

He was.

He knew that, but it was easier to blame the graves.

Graves needed to be filled, he just didn't understand why it was always him filling them.

He shakily rose back to his feet, running a hand along his tail to quiet the raised fur before returning to scratching at his neck. He hissed in pain and clamped a palm over his neck as his claws bit into his skin.

He'd forgotten he extended them.

A coppery smell flooded his senses as the blood leaked out between his fingers, spilling out over the back of his hand, and running down the length of his arm. Some stuck to his hand, slipping down his sickly, pale skin until it pooled around his elbow inside his sleeve. Most ran along the outside, trickling down and dripping into the dark soil underfoot.

A growl resonated from deep in his chest before he pushed himself up and away from the fence with one arm. The pain in his neck and the soft trickle of his own blood grounding him in reality for however brief of a time that the world would allow.

He knew it wasn't permanent, he was given a break and life would come back searching for its dues. It was just how things worked for him.

He began walking, it didn't matter to him where exactly he was going. Just so long as he didn't have to see these damn graves.

The cobblestone street was uneven because of course. Some stones were raised unnecessarily high and some stones were missing entirely. He was near Daedalus after all so of course, nobody bothered to maintain the streets.

Much of the masonry that made up the road was broken down too, unlike the beautiful mosaic of stone slabs that made up the other three main streets of Orario, this street was little more than a gravel pathway. There was an occasional dip where the stones went missing or the occasional bump where they weren't broken down at all.

It was a perfect path for a man fading in and out of alertness.

Bete stumbled constantly, his ashen boots catching on the stones and sending him sprawling.

The gravel crunched underfoot and was sent scattering as he collapsed down into it, breathing hard. He caught himself with his one free arm and grunted with discomfort as the clots that had formed against the palm of his other hand were ripped open again during the impact.

He scowled at the ground, the dirt, dust, and stones luring him to embrace them. To just give in.

He pushed himself up and swiped a clawed hand through it, sending a cloud of dust up as the stones skittered away. He followed the stones as they skipped and bounded and bounced, each one mindlessly following the path the world set out for them.

He guessed he wasn't too much different.

He had no control over what happened to him.

Which is exactly how he found himself where he was.

Beaten, tired, bloody, and glaring at fucking rocks as he crouched beneath the entrance to the graveyard.

Naturally, he'd collapse in front of the entrance. It only made sense. It was just another middle finger from life to add to the list.

His scowl deepened as the words practically beamed down on him, the faint light provided by the distant (flickering) magic crystal lamp illuminating the white words enough for him to see.

"Adventurer's Graveyard.'

He already knew what it was, but he hated it all the more than he had the confirmation. He didn't want to be here, he would take anywhere else. Hell, he'd even be happy to go back to his office in Vidar's manor and do paperwork as opposed to this.

Adventurer's Graveyard.

The words taunted them as the light continued to flicker behind him. He was on his knees, leaning back onto his feet and glaring up at the words.

He hated that damn spell.

Why couldn't he get some weak spell like that rabbit?

His sister's body flashed into view in front of him; her dull, lifeless eyes staring him down from the shadows of the cemetery.

'The first wound, Gelgja.'

Reene was next, the all too familiar phantom pains that streaked down his face accompanying both faces.

The permanent reminder of his failures, of the claw that slit his skin, marring his face forever.

They glared him down from the shadows before turning back and leaving him behind.

It wasn't them.

His shoulders shook and his body trembled as he opened his mouth to call after them only for nothing to come out. No words to yell, no apologies to give. He could only watch as they left, their backs disappearing further and further into the shadows as he watched.

It wasn't them.

He tried to remind himself that.

They were dead.

They'd been dead so long.

It was impossible.

He buried them.

He remembered it, he buried them all. His entire family was laid to rest in that field.

It wasn't them.

But even as his brain pleaded with him to remember, to recall that vital information. His heart yearned for them, to see them again. Just one smile, just one word even if it was only a farewell.

All he got were the cold glares and the turned back.

Alone.

He was always alone.

'The second wound, Gjoll.'

Two tired eyes turned upward to the sign that taunted him.

Adventurer's Graveyard.

He closed his eyes as he let the strength leave his body with a shaky breath. He tried to take another in, to inhale and steady himself, but it was weak at best.

It was only right, after all.

He knew where he was meant to go, but he couldn't. His body was just as weak as his mind.

He didn't want to open that wound too.

The third– the third should stay closed.

He swallowed thickly and shook his head.

If the ghosts of his past were so insistent on tearing him apart then they could come for him. He would not seek them out.

He sucked in another weak breath before exhaling. His head was bowed to the ground as he waited, one hand clenched tightly in his lap while the other pressed firmly against his neck. Dried and cracked crimson blood decorated the skin across his knuckles and palm.

The wind brushed against him again as he released another shaking breath. This time it wasn't the cold, bitter, piercing winds that they were before. It was gentle, almost embracing him and comforting him in his grief.

That should have been the first sign that something wasn't right.

The world wasn't kind like that. It didn't just give and give and give without ever taking (even though it seemed perfectly happy to take and take and take). The world didn't work that way.

But he was tired.

And he was exhausted.

And he was done.

So, he let the winds embrace him, ruffling his grimy hair and drying his sweat-soaked skin.

It was comforting, freeing.

It was too bad the winds brought whispers of the past.

".. it's okay to allow yourself to grieve, Bete.. "

Selenia..

He could picture her as clear as the day he left. She was smiling brightly at him from just inside the western gate as he turned and waved back. Her hair danced around as a gentle breeze swept from behind her, ruffling her short brown hair and sweeping a few stray locks in front of her cheeks. Her amber eyes regarded him lovingly as they parted.

That was the last time he had ever seen her.

He didn't know if she should be happy or sad about that.

At least– at least with the others he had something to bury. He had nothing for Selenia.

His memories of her were untainted, only her smiling face and joyful eyes remaining even as Luna's and Reene's eyes turned lifeless in his memories.

'The third wound, Pviti.'

'The ravenous slayer, your only hope.'

A lie. A damned lie.

'May it form a river, mixing in the tide of blood, to wash away your tears.'

The tide of blood came. So, why did the tears still fall?

Why did his shoulders still tremble, and his lips still quiver?

Why can't he be free of the pain like he was promised?

'Never forget those irreparable wounds.'

Luna. Reene. Selenia. Lune. Reene. Selenia. Luna Reene Selenia. LunaReeneSelenia. Lunareenelunalunareeneseleniaselenialunaselenialunaselenia.

'This rage and hatred, thine infirmity and incandescence.'

'Denounce the world, acknowledge fate, and dry thy tears.'

He's trying!

Bete bellowed into the void of the graveyard in front of him, because damnit he is trying! He's trying so gods damned hard but.. The. Tears. Won't. Stop.

Why won't they?

It's in the spell, so why not?

He's done everything it asked of him.

He never forgot no matter how much he wanted to.

He never forgot the faces of those he lost, he never forgot the pain of losing them.

He never forgot the rage and the joy striking down the monster that killed his family brought him.

Nor did he forget the emptiness.

Nor did he forget the heartbreak of returning home and finding his familia decimated, taking Selenia with them to the afterlife.

Leaving him behind.

What was the point of being so gods damned fast if he couldn't keep up? Why was he always being left behind?

"May the pain become your fangs– '

Bete roared into the night.

HE DID THAT TOO!

He's done everything it asked!

He had that fucking fang tattoed on his face, so why! Why couldn't it just be done with?

Tears brimmed his eyes as he pounded his free hand into the gravel path, his knuckles burned just as harshly as his eyes, and blood pooled beneath his fist, but he ignored it. He only grit his teeth and pushed on through the pain.

The pain was nothing in the end.

' –and your lost companions your strength.'

Bete was tired. So tired.

They all stood before him now.

The Loga clan with Luna and Reene in front.

The Vidar familia with Selenia at its head.

The others that came and went over the years led by a short-haired with a smiling, bespeckled face.

Ah.

That's right.

Line.

Another one.

'Free yourself of the chains that bind you.'

Don't they know he's tried? That he's given his everything and the chains have held strong? That no matter what he does nothing will break those chains?

Chains are meant to hold something in place. Chains aren't meant to be broken.

It was beginning to feel like his may never be broken.

Bete screamed into the night, not caring for the birds as they flew from their branches, nor for the people he was disturbing because he was just so.. done.

He screamed and he yelled and he cried.

But none of them were coming back. This wasn't some shitty story where everything was alright in the end.

Nothing was alright now, and it never had been.

The world was fucked and he was finally coming to realize it always would be.


Author Notes:

I didn't tear up while writing this one like I have with other chapters so let me know if it was sad enough because honestly I have no idea!

Bete is perfect and I will (as always) accept no criticisms.

Just a nice and joyful one-shot about the aftermath of Bete's Hati because the boy needs to let out some of his pain.