Good grief. I sincerely apologise for the lack of updates. The good news is, I've bullied myself into finishing this. It will be done! And soon! I just needed to make sure that I wasn't becoming too repetetive with all this depressing description of Shinigamiland. :P
Thanks, as always, for all the kind words and favourites.
For a second, Light Yagami remembered what death was like.
After what seemed like forever, the unlikely gathering of the living dead had reached where they wanted to be. The gaping black pit stretched before them dizzyingly; some long forgotten distance enticing anyone who came near to throw themselves into its depths, and for that moment, Light wondered why on Earth anyone would want to be here. They had stopped only for a moment at the top of the winding staircase which was to be their next path, but Light could already feel his feet beginning to tangle themselves into the ground beneath him. Making the mistake of looking down, he saw what was left of them; two crusted, peeling, feet-shaped slabs which looked as though they were made from some sort of surreal concrete. Beyond that was just darkness, and the more he looked at it, the more he seemed to feel the threads holding him to the Shinigami World shift, as though pulling him further towards its edge.
He took a brief glance at L, who, naturally, was giving the new surroundings an intrigued and calculating inspection without much of a care for the wings that had once again implanted themselves grotesquely into his back.
Behind them both, Ryuk was upright again, bobbing up and down as if to a beat, which Light could tell was the Shinigami version of somewhere between excitement and glee.
Everywhere he looked there were charred rocks, remains, things that were once trees, and, of course, the pit and its tributaries; those terrifying cracks nearly twice the size of any images of earthquakes he had seen while he was alive. But Light was starting to care less and less about all this. Everything here was dead; even the ground itself. More than afraid of it, he was sick of it. The very sight of it in every direction repulsed him, and all he wanted was to be rid of it.
His right foot moved more easily than he had expected it to.
Light wobbled, trying to regain his balance. He wasn't falling, but wasn't quite stable either; an in between situation that fit the Shinigami World perfectly. Suddenly, feeling an excruciating tug on his right shoulder like it was being dislocated, he managed to step backwards. He took a breath.
Dust, or an equivalent substance that seemed to be hanging in the air, had been disrupted around him, and he felt it grate in his throat as though he was wandering a desert, which was disconcerting combined with the – Light excused himself for the pun – deathly chill of this world.
The only place on his body he could feel remote warmth was his shoulder, now recovering from the pain of whatever foul piece of metal or bone had just made its appearance known. Light exhaled, and did a double take as he realised.
It was a hand.
Light turned to face L, scolding himself for how much his skills of perception had diminished in the little time that he'd been here. But why had he saved him from the fall? Surely, being dead already, it wouldn't have caused too much of a problem, and, indeed, even so, the detective's own dilemma would have solved almost instantaneously. With eyes as wide as ever, L simply nodded to him once, and, with some effort, dislodged his hand from Light's shoulder.
He wasn't entirely sure of what to say. Had he just saved him from some nasty experience beyond death? As much as Light had started to get used to the fact that L wanted to help get him out of this place, he still found it difficult to believe that anybody would want to spare him from any possibly painful accidents along the way.
Before Light could organise his thoughts enough to ask, L turned for the staircase and began his descent, and he was forced, for now, to accept it was another astonishing example of the detective's eerily peaceful demeanour. Putting his own foot to the first step, he begrudgingly followed.
As it turned out, the endless staircase was not endless. Its conclusion hovered just a few hundred metres from where they had stepped onto it.
It did not take a genius to realise that the landscape had changed. Chains, wooden beams, chunks of what were once large statues and cogs stuck out from the dirt and rock strata of the walls; a collection of remnants from past ages of Earth. The temperature was increasing despite the bitter wind, and, more importantly, Light's perceptions of distance and time were returning. The steps were decisively stone, and the further down Light and L walked, there less their feet clung to them. Light felt the spikes in his back and arms peel, crack and disintegrate. About fifty metres from the end of the stairs, L's wings fell off, dropping into the black abyss their path was suspended above. They were reverting to their human forms.
As L stretched a little, relishing the freedom his back had suddenly gained, Light watched as the remains of his own anatomical additions followed his companion's into the gaping hole beneath their feet.
He started to wonder if he'd preferred the staircase as endless.