A/N: I apologize for the delay in posting a couple of these recent chapters. It's not that I don't have them written (I have everything but the last part of chapter 75 finished already), so you don't have to worry about me totally flaking out. I've just been editing these final chapters an extra time before publishing them, to make sure everything runs smoothly into the ending. So, I've been editing (particularly Sange and Gajeel's fight), while traveling for the summer, and fighting illness the past couple of weeks. Hence the delay! Thank you for being patient with me, friends!

Chapter 66: And Then There Were Three

"Do you scream like Rosy?"

Resmond advanced. Macbeth braced himself to fight, muscles tensing in anticipation—but Dreamer held up her hands.

"Wait!" she cried out.

Resmond paused. He blinked at her, some curiosity etched onto his features.

"I…" she tried to meet his eyes, but… All she could see were slicing yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness—unremorseful, uncaring—as she held the body of her sister in her arms. "I just want to know why…" Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I want to know why you did it? Why you killed her!"

He blinked again, his face giving away no emotion.

"Are you sure you want to know, Dreamer?" The black magic circles still shone in his palms. "You won't like my answer."

"I need to hear it!" She clenched her fists, tightening her grip on Macbeth's hand, to stop her own from shaking. The fact that he was still there, holding onto her, supporting her, gave her the boost of courage to continue. "I need to know!"

Resmond gave a heavy sigh, as if it was a true burden to answer her. "It's not complicated." Long, dark eyelashes fluttered for a moment in thought. "I just… wanted to."

"You… wanted to?" She stared down at the toes of his perfectly polished boots.

"Yes. I woke up one morning and I wanted to know what it would feel like to kill her."

She bit her lip and choked on a sob. Beside her, Macbeth was completely still, his eyes focused on the other man. He said nothing. This was Dreamer's fight. He merely held her hand to remind her that she was not alone, and that—on her cue, he would leap into action. Not a moment sooner. Not until she got the closure she needed.

"Why…" Her voice trembled. She couldn't control her body's violent shaking. "Why did you marry her in the first place? Why did you make her think you loved her?"

Rosy had been so convinced. The way she smiled when she talked about him. About the charming man she'd met. About how it was love at first sight. How kind and compassionate he was. How gentle. How tender.

He wasn't tender when he cut her open.

"For the same reason I killed her, little sister. I wanted to." He brushed the yellow streak of hair behind his shoulder. "I was curious about what it would be like to have a family. I pretended to love her because families are founded on love, aren't they?" This was a legitimate question—as if he didn't know the first thing about families or love.

"If it's any consolation to you," he continued, as casually as ever, "I do regret killing her at times." He frowned. "When Rosy screamed… It was the first time I felt something. The look of terror in her pink eyes when she looked up at me…" Now, he glanced at Macbeth. "You know that feeling, don't you Macbeth? Is it not exhilarating when innocent, cherry blossom eyes look at you in fear?"

Macbeth's jaw clenched.

Dreamer wiped her cheeks as offensive tears rolled continually down them. "And what about Syllestra? Does she mean nothing to you, too?"

"She means a lot to me," his frown deepened.

"You have her tied up to a machine that's killing her! She's your daughter! Your using your daughter to power a machine like… like some kind of battery!"

"It's because she's my daughter that I'm using her," he said, condescendingly. "I am… a bit surprised at you, Dreamer. Did you not do your homework on Diamant Blanc? You always did so well in school…" Yet another sigh.

"Diamant Blanc were the founders of Diamond Make magic. That is the magic Syllestra and I use," he said this with a patronizing look, as if he were explaining simple math to a child. "They also created the Nikolana Device—that's the device you passed on your way up the stairs. They were also the ones who sealed the device away in enchanted white diamond.

The diamond they used can only be cut by pure diamond magic, which is highly unfortunate, considering by the time I knew about this device, I had already begun practicing dark magic. Therefore, I had no other choice but to find a pure Diamond Make wizard to cut through the white diamond. Conveniently, my daughter inherited my magical abilities."

"Conveniently…" Dreamer gritted her teeth. "You're sick."

"Hm." He tilted his head slightly. "People say that a lot. Are we done talking?" He glanced at the magic circle still spinning in his hand.

"I have one more question." She took a deep breath. "Why are you doing this? Why do you want to use the Nikolana Device?"

Resmond didn't answer right away, so she looked up at him. He met her gaze with ease, before giving a noncommittal shrug.

"Because I can."

She closed her eyes and breathed a shaky breath. She had always known this was who Resmond was. She didn't know what she was expecting by asking him these things. Regret? Remorse? Was she hoping he would have some kind of reason for the atrocities he'd caused, even if it was a horrible one?

"A diamond encased device used by ancient diamond makers. I figured it was such a fun coincidence that I should take on the challenge myself. That's all, really."

She didn't know what she'd wanted to hear, but for some reason, she felt a strange sense of serenity settle over her. Resmond had proved it—that there was never anything redeemable inside of him. That, down to his hollow core, there was nothing but evil void.

Now she could kill him without anything holding her back.

"Ah. I can see it in your eyes. Now, you want to fight." He held his arms open wide. "Come to me, little sister. Remind me of her."

Dreamer squeezed Macbeth's hand. He glanced at her, expectantly, as if he'd been waiting for her cue all along. She gave a tiny nod.

"Finally."

He released her hand, just to raise it into the air, as his signature, sadistic smirk touched his lips.

"Spiral Pain!"

Near the Wall

Sânge approached Gajeel's unmoving form. He ran his tongue over his lips in desire.

"Did you see, Kobolse?" Trembling with excitement. "I spilled the blood of another slayer. Am I strong enough now?" He cast his red gaze toward the open sky. "Will you return to me?" Even with the distortion in his voice, this question was a whimper. He stared up at the moon for a splintering moment, as if expecting the silhouette of a purple dragon to eclipse it. But there was nothing, save for the silvery trail of a cloud as it brushed across the sky. He dropped his head to look down at Gajeel once more.

He stood over his opponent, and raised his hand to gather the iron-slayer's blood into his palm. He had to finish it. Only when he'd consumed the other man's blood could he consider himself the champion, worthy of his mother's return.

Suddenly, an iron grip snapped around his ankle like a bear-trap.

The iron-slayer's body was still limp, face on the dirt, black hair splayed across the ground, and yet… The muscles in his left arm strained tightly, as he clutched Sânge's ankle.

"You still have fight left in you, Black-Steel?!" he laughed out loud, and lifted his foot to stomp down.

Gajeel slowly raised his head and opened his mouth wide. Sânge paused, frozen by the shock of the other man's tenacity. He watched in mute horror and astonishment as Gajeel took a deep breath. Blood mist swirled around the two of them, speckling everything with red.

He began to drink.

"Wha—What are you doing?!" Sânge tried to take a step back but Gajeel didn't release his ankle. He opened his mouth wider, lungs breathing in the blood mist that surrounded them.

"Y-You are an iron-eater! How dare you ingest my blood?! Disgusting! You foul creature! Let me go at once!"

This time, Gajeel did. He remained hunched on the ground, shoulders shaking. He coughed up globs of blood, then put his head in his hands and roared in pain.

"Fool!" Sânge laughed, though his eyes were still wide with disgust and terror. "Your body was not designed to ingest blood! Now your death will be agonizing!"

Gajeel's roar deepened. His body began to change. His iron-scales sharpened into spikes and began to take on a deep-red hue. There was a sickening tearing sound as wings forced themselves from under his shoulder blades—wings of red steel.

"Impossible!" Sânge stumbled back.

Gajeel began to stand. His eyes were now as red as Sânge's—no whites, no pupils. He bared fangs and canines, dripping with blood. His nails grew into sharp, metal claws. A gray mist shrouded him.

"That was the most disgusting iron I've ever tasted," he growled, as he wiped his mouth.

"No…" Sânge's voice quavered. Iron… Iron was in blood. He'd never considered that Gajeel might do something like this. It was incomprehensible. It was disgusting. He sprouted his own bloody wings, panic evident in his entire form. "Get away from me, Black-Steel!"

"Guess I'm not Black-Steel anymore." He bared his claws.

Sânge jumped into the sky to flee.

"Where are you going, coward?!" Gajeel clenched a fist. "Blood-Steel Barrage!" He used the same attack that Sânge had used against him, turning Sânge's blood into projectiles that tore him apart from the inside. Only this attack was a thousand times worse than the other, because the blood Gajeel used was akin to bullets.

Sânge shrieked and fell to the ground. Gajeel met him with a series of punches. It was Sânge's turn to defend, pushed farther and farther back by the renewed strength and vigor of Gajeel's new form.

He took to the sky again, but Gajeel was right behind him.

"Gotta say, it's nice to have wings!" He clutched Sânge's wrist and pulled him into another hit, straight to the jaw.

Sânge fought back with claws, like a feral cat trying desperately to escape the grip of a dog. He cried out in surprise and pain when his claws struck the red steel.

"I—I can't penetrate his armor anymore…"

Gajeel head-butted him with full force, splitting skin.

They continued to fight, diving and dodging in the night sky. No matter how hard Sânge tried, he couldn't cut through Gajeel's new armor. He took hit after hit, until the iron-slayer had had enough. He grabbed Sânge by the throat and dove with him, slamming him hard against the ground.

Sânge hissed before grabbing Gajeel's face with his bloody palm. There was an acidic steam as Sânge's blood worked to melt the steel.

Gajeel rolled to get away, but his opponent mounted him, now holding his head to the ground with a burning palm. "I can still win this," he said, in a deranged cry. "I will prove my strength to her, no matter the cost!"

Gajeel cursed in pain. Dread shot through him. Shit, he found a way to beat me, and I ain't got anything left! I gotta think fast! What the hell did Pops say? Lesser Sea? Something about his heart?

He looked at the blood-slayer's chest. He got a close-up view of the lacrima pulsing in the mess of internal flesh and veins there. Every pulse made Sânge's blood glow—and Gajeel could feel the heat scarring his face in the same rhythm.

It was an impulse. He shoved his hand into Sânge's chest cavity, felt the sickening squish of flesh and blood around his fingers, felt the hard edges of the magical stone. His fingers closed around the lacrima.

Sânge's hand lifted from Gajeel's face, his eyes wide in horror. His lips mouthed the silent plea.

No.

Gajeel pulled. He ripped the lacrima from the other man's chest, yanking and severing tendrils of flesh in the process. In the same move, he rolled the blood-slayer off him and stood, hoisting the makeshift heart above his head, pulsing red against a starless sky.

Sânge's form immediately began to revert to normal. His horns receded, scaled flaked away, pupils emerged. Now, the signs of the battle were obvious on his skin. Gashes, bruises, bloodshot eyes, and an empty hole in his chest. He stared up at Gajeel's demonic face, pale lips trembling.

"H-How?" Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. "That lacrima… It was supposed to make me strong. How can I still be so weak?"

"You really thought some stupid rock was going to make you strong?" Gajeel's teeth were still bared, his red eyes locked hard on Sânge's. "You don't even know what strength is."

Sânge coughed up blood. Tears began to fall from the corners of his eyes, following a trail around his ears until they fell into the blood-stained earth.

Gajeel stood proudly, the victor outlined by moonlight, his trophy clutched in his hand. He bared his teeth and glared down at the blood-slayer. "Strength doesn't come from a lacrima! You could have a million of these and you'd still be weak! Strength comes from protecting the people you love! It comes from helping those who need it, even when fighting for them puts your own life in danger! When you only think about yourself, you can never be strong. Trust me, I've been there." There was passion in his tone. His eyes bore into Sânge's as he continued. "I thought I was tough-shit too, until I found Fairy Tail. They taught me that I was really just some weak-ass punk who beat people up so I could feel better about myself. But I got stronger, because those idiots stood by my side. They fought for me until I decided to fight for them too."

Gajeel smiled widely as he went on. "You were never going to beat me in a fight, because I'm here fighting for Beth and Dreamer and Syllestra, which makes me a thousand times stronger than you and this stupid rock!"

Sânge could only stare in awe, speechless at this declaration. Broken. Humbled.

"And I don't know about this Kobolse, but I kind of find it hard to believe that a dragon who takes in a weakling human would think hurting the innocent makes you strong. Why don't you try following her example? Find someone you want to protect, and fight for them! Fight with everything you've got! Protect them the way your old lady protected you. Maybe then you can call yourself strong."

Sânge inhaled sharply at these words. For a moment, he was a child again…

It is dark and snowing. Kobolse is curled on the ground, as elegant and grand as always. Sânge is several feet away, huddling under a small blanket, trying to keep his little body warm.

"What are you doing?" She grumbles at him, a glowing red eye cast in his direction. "Stop that. Stop that human shaking or whatever your body is doing. It is disturbing."

"I am s-sorry, Mother K-Kobolse… I'm s-so c-c-cold."

"Have you not yet learned how to regulate your body temperature by heating your blood? I have only explained it to you a hundred times." She taps a claw on the ground in annoyance.

"I-I'm trying, Mother, b-but…" he lets out a puff of air. "That spell is t-too hard f-f-for me…"

"Hmph. 'Raise a human child,' he said. 'It will be fun,' he said. What a joke." She turns her head away from the shivering child. "Master the spell or freeze."

He tries. He tries so hard. But his body is so small, and he doesn't have much blood to keep warm, and it's hard to cast spells when he's shaking so badly.

The dragon looks back over her shoulder at him. She stares, unblinking, for a long time. Then, she growls and rolls onto her side. "Sânge. Come here."

"Yes, Ma'am." He stands, and crosses the clearing to her.

"That is enough." She lifts her purple wings.

"B-but I… If I don't m-master the s-spell, I'll f-f-freeze."

"You will not freeze tonight." She raises a massive, clawed hand, and scoops him up in it. She tucks him against her chest and wraps her wings around them, shielding him from the oppressive cold.

She's so warm. Her scales so much softer than they appear. Her heart beats loudly next to his ear.

"If you drool, or cough, or do that disgusting thing where you humans expel mucous from your nasal passages, I will leave you in the snow to become an icicle, do you understand? Keep your filth off me, and I shall keep you warm."

"Yes, Mother Kobolse. No germs," he recites. Already, her warmth and closeness, her comfort, is lulling him to sleep.

"Hm… Then, goodnight… my son."

Sânge closed his eyes as fresh tears poured down his cheeks at the memory. Kobolse… his mother had protected him when he was small and weak—and there was no being in the universe more powerful than Kobolse, so… Was that the example then, of true strength? Was Gajeel right? Did strength come from protecting the helpless, the way Kobolse protected him?

He opened his eyes, and looked up at the iron-slayer. He supposed he would never know the answer, because he would die tonight, bested by a far stronger dragon-slayer than him.

But instead of landing a final blow, Gajeel dropped his hand, and began to revert to normal. He too was covered in scratches and bruises, and nursed what looked like a broken rib. He winced, and looked down at Sânge with a smirk.

"Y-You are not going to kill me?"

"Nah. Wouldn't want your old lady coming to kick my ass later."

Then, to Sânge's utter astonishment, he tossed the blood-lacrima back to him.

He caught it, but his eyes never parted from the other man. He blinked again and again through tears, uncomprehending.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Gajeel grunted in pain before limping away. "I smell a dying snake who could use some help. You're gonna owe me for this, Erik."

"Black-Steel…" Sânge tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest was unbearable, and he was too exhausted.

"Yo, just call me Gajeel. I ain't the weakling who used ta go by that name anymore."

"Gajeel…" Sânge blinked. "I am sorry."

Gajeel looked back with a sheepish grin. "Don't be. Just stop looking for strength in all the wrong places." He gave him a thumbs-up. "Later, Sânge."

With this, he limped away, toward the basement where Erik had fought Giseld.

Sânge managed to sit up and lean against the wall. He touched his chest and winced. If it weren't for the fact he was a blood-dragon slayer, he'd be dead. With no heart and no lacrima in his chest, the only thing keeping him alive was his magic, pumping the blood through his veins.

He mulled over what Gajeel had said. About strength. About protecting the innocent. About Kobolse… And he wept, as he realized how wrong he'd been. Kidnapping Syllest, deceiving Dreamer, all for this rock. If it was true strength he had desired, he would have protected them, the way Macbeth and Gajeel and the others were doing right now.

He thought of his dance with Dreamer—the trust in her pink eyes that he had deceived in his pursuit of false power. The memory of her face wrecked him even further, and he huddled into a ball, much the way he had as a child in the snow.

"Mother…" he cried. "Help me find true strength."

Pantherlily soared with Syllestra back out to the fighting crowd in the courtyard. He looked down for a face he recognized. He caught sight of Jezran's brother and flew down to meet him.

"Exceed! How goes your mission? We have pushed back enemy forces here. Most slaves are running for the hills."

"We've rescued Syllestra." Pantherlily showed him the tender package in his arms. "She needs to be escorted out of here immediately.

"And what of my brother?"

"I'm… going back for him." Pantherlily remembered his limp form on the walkway with a grimace. You must send a messenger, as well. The Nikolana Device has been activated."

The man's eyes shot open in shock, then grim realization. "I understand." He took Syllestra from Pantherlily's arms.

The exceed gave a nod and then took the air again, to go back for Jezran.