Godforsaken

After Phantom was disbanded, Gajeel wandered.

He was a loose cannon, with nothing to fight for and his entire world turned upside down by his defeat, and he drifted aimlessly with nowhere to go and nothing to do. He tried to find Phantom's branch houses, scattered in small towns nearby, but he was equal parts infuriated and baffled after the fourth branch house he visited was in the same state as the three before, empty wrecks of broken furniture and shuttered windows.

They were all gone, he realized dizzily after his fifth search turned up the same results. Someone had systematically gone after every Phantom branch and taken them out, and now with their Master gone and their official Guild status retracted by the Magic Council itself, there was no incentive to repair the branch houses. He was hit with a sudden, awful revelation.

He was truly, utterly alone.

He wouldn't go so far as to call the dump of the Phantom Guild Hall a home, but it had been the closest thing to a place he could reliably return to, with people he could tolerate occasionally. Now, he had nothing to think about except how the Guild he'd spent years and years of his life with was taken apart in a few days by those ridiculous, friendship-toting, frolicking Fairy Tail mages. He gritted his teeth and sank a fist into the sagging doorframe of the deserted building in a cacophony of splintering wood. It felt so good that he did it again, and again and again, and when he finally surfaced from the haze of fury that had descended over his mind, he was the eye of a self-made cyclone of destruction that was all that remained of the branch building.

He looked at his fist, shaking slightly from the combination of anger and adrenaline that still burned through his veins, and snarled at the unfamiliar sight of skinned knuckles and the slow upwell of blood that had smeared thick and red across the back of his hand. A few days into his defeat and he was already getting soft. Any other time, his steel scales would have instinctively protected him from any physical damage, but now…

Now he gathered the remnants of anything useful to him and fled, leaving only ruins behind.

The money he had on reserve dwindled steadily, spent on bare necessities like food and shelter, and soon he was prowling the streets, wondering where the hell he was going to stay when he didn't even have enough to afford the cheap, squalid hotels in the seedy little towns he was forced to stay at now. People turned away from him on sight, his appearance alone enough to cause them to hastily cross the street and avert their eyes. A few paused, hesitant before asking if he needed help. He gritted his teeth and ignored them. It was the principle of the matter.

With no one to take him in and Gajeel wanting nothing to do with the world, he wandered until he reached a ghost town near the desert provinces of Rodempka. He frowned darkly, taking in the empty streets and run-down buildings that were the only remnants of the flourishing bazaar that had been here mere years ago. He walked the empty streets until the cool tang of metal caught his nose, and he drifted towards it, drawn. His mouth set into a grim line as he came upon the scrap-metal dump, but he threw his bag down on the ground and started taking his few possessions out. He told himself that he was just doing this to get stronger so he could defeat Salamander, but he looked at the rust-covered pipes and flimsy sheet metal and the lie was so paper-thin that even he could see right through it. Still, he crammed the first thing he saw into his mouth and relaxed blankly at the taste of the cheap steel. It was something, and something was better than nothing. Plus, now he didn't have to pay for food or lodging. He overlooked the fact that he was essentially homeless, reminding himself that he was doing this out of choice, not necessity.

The daily meals of cheap metal didn't take away from the fact that all he was left with in the wake of his defeat was his anger and guilt. They alternated within him, warring with each other and leaving him exhausted in the wake of the emotional battlefield. I attacked Fairy Tail and all I got was this lousy sense of guilt and self-justice, he thought, and nearly laughed. Oh how far he'd fallen.

On bad days, he would get up and pace, rage churning in sick waves through his stomach, making his heart race. He'd stalk like a panther trapped in a too-small iron cage, pacing close and fast against a row of invisible bars, lines of anger tightening his shoulders into tense knots, his body on autopilot while his thoughts turned to play out his loss at Salamander's fists on endless repeat. He would circle about, wheeling in sharp, predictable turns as his anger ate him up from the inside, so that when he finally came to his senses at the end of his mental defeat, he'd worn a trail into the loose dirt of the junkyard, like the telltale track of some elusive predator.

Weak! They were all weak! Resentment hummed like electricity through his veins, made him lash out in fitful bursts of spite as he shadowboxed against invisible enemies, spearing rusted pipes through with unnecessary force and tearing through thin sheets of metal with violent swipes of his silver claws. How dare a Guild as weak as Fairy Tail be the cause of his defeat? He owed no special allegiance to Phantom, didn't chain himself to any foolish ideals of Guild pride or solidarity, but it killed him that Fairy Tail, of all Guilds, had to be the one to knock them down. To knock him down, he acknowledged with an earsplitting roar as he crushed the savaged remnants of a practice dummy into the ground. Even more than his anger though, he was left with a resounding sense of guilt that haunted his every move, dogged his thoughts like a shadow he couldn't shake.

Metalicana hadn't been one to really give a shit about things like table manners, or interpersonal communication, or societal standards. These were things that Gajeel had picked up by himself, and chosen to ignore because they didn't fit with his experience of how the world worked. But then again, the world wasn't powered by friendship and sunshine and rainbows, but somehow, those Fairy Tail dipshits had managed to make it so. And it had worked for them. Somehow. Now he didn't know what to think anymore. He knew there were things you did and didn't do to girls, and beating on them mercilessly was one of the more definite don'ts, but he was more interested in the glorious swirl of his unrestrained power as he cut loose, the fear in his opponents' eyes as they realized he wouldn't go easy on them because of something as stupid as gender difference, and he enjoyed making people hurt when they got in his way. But now…Now he shook his head and wondered just how the hell his world and his ideals had been so thoroughly uprooted.

He'd never encountered chicks like those Fairy Tail girls, and it had shaken him down to his core. The Heartfilia girl, with her plucky defiance and unshakeable faith, despite the scorn he'd heaped on her and the thorough defeat she'd suffered at his hands. He scowled viciously because he shouldn't be thinking about his enemies and feeling regretful, but he winced anyways as he recalled his vicious kick to her side. It was sure to leave a bruise.

Then his thoughts turned to bruises spreading purple across slender cheekbones and blue hair falling disheveled over sharp brown eyes and his jaw went stiff with a sudden, visceral, indescribable emotion and he instantly stuffed a thick iron pipe that was way too large to take on comfortably into his mouth and set about chewing it far too vigorously for his own good. A jagged edge cut the roof of his mouth and he cursed through the bulky mouthful and spat out the pulped metal shards, reached his thumb into his mouth and drew it out smeared with a thin layer of watery blood. He stared at it, haunted, and then swallowed tightly, face blank as the distinct, metallic taste of blood slid thick and oily down his throat. Mechanically, he reached down for another thick pipe and crammed it into his mouth, chewing monotonously past the pain, trying to blank his mind and let the sharp, shrilling protest of the irritated cut take his mind off things, but that night his uneasy dreams were shot through with steel and fire and bloodstained blue hair splayed loose and drifting across the ground.

After the first few weeks, he acknowledged it, a concession made in one of his weaker moments that he strove to forget ever afterward.

He was lonely.

Far lonelier than he'd care to admit, and there were only so many times he could demolish the steel Natsu-dummies he made before he had to stop, panting with exhaustion and rage. His daytime routine consisted of doing anything he could to keep his mind off things, which usually meant training, so he did sit-ups and push-ups until his muscles strained with weariness, pushed himself to run and stretch and fight until his entire body protested at the lactic-acid burn of muscle fatigue. Despite all his efforts, at night when he lay bone-weary with exhaustion from his forced physical regime, he was inevitably unable to fall asleep as all the thoughts he'd tried to push away during the day surfaced slowly, slipping easily through the chinks in his mental armor to torment him.

Igneel's brat had been able to crush him, despite his defensive advantage over the idiot dragon's flames…did that mean that everything he'd trained and fought for until now was meaningless if he was so easily defeated? He was a sick bastard who enjoyed inflicting pain on others and he deserved whatever was coming to him because karma was a bitch and there was no way that he wouldn't pay for what he'd done. He closed his eyes and rolled over to press his face to the ground as the darkest sore of all opened up.

Metalicana had left him.

No matter what kind of optimistic blather Salamander had spouted about his precious Igneel, Gajeel knew. He knew that Metalicana wouldn't have just…left. There was no way in hell that selfish-ass dragon would have done anything that wasn't on his time or agenda. He ignored the hopeful spark that had twitched to life in his chest at the possibility and put a hand over his face to try and sleep away the pain, telling himself that he was being a sentimental idiot and that it was his entire goddamn body that was aching, not his black, shriveled heart.

Word travels that Kurogane Gajeel had no master, and like flies to honey, all the headhunters of the various minor dark guilds drew close to him, attracted by the stench of his raw, undirected power. He ignored them all, and sent the persistent ones packing by force because did they really think that a dragon could be owned or tamed?

It wasn't until a dark man who reeked of power and influence dropped by his scrap-metal heap and offered him revenge and absolution that he started paying attention. Ivan was seduction and charisma and power in his swirling black robes, and his ravens trailed after him like tattered scraps of cloth as he extended one long hand. Gajeel looked at the proferred hand and thought of power and blood and bright blue hair and turned his head away, but as Ivan turned to leave, Gajeel called out after him, voice rusty with disuse.

"I'll think about it," he muttered grudgingly, and to his horror, he actually found himself entertaining the idea. Ivan smiled, a smug, triumphant smile and nodded once. He snapped his fingers and a paper shikigami fluttered into existence, drifting towards Gajeel, who caught it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

"When you're ready, you use that shikigami to contact me. I'll be seeing you soon then, Gajeel-chan," Ivan called back, singsong, before disappearing on the spot in a fluttering swirl of paper.

Gajeel shuddered with disgust and went to train.

Days passed and he agonized. With no money and nowhere to go, the promise of power and revenge was so terribly tempting, but no matter how he tried to think his way through it, he couldn't actually go through with it. Every time he thought about picking up the paper doll, his thoughts would turn to kneeling on bended knee before another heartless man, reduced again to a pawn, albeit a powerful one, and forced to pull dirty missions like – and his throat would lock up and he'd storm away to train, but at night, the guilt would inevitably creep back. It trapped him, held him so that he was unable to move forward without resolving it, but how the fuck could he resolve it when he knew he wouldn't be forgiven?

Even more than the corrosive mix of guilt and anger that ate at his heart was the terrible, resigned understanding that all Ivan offered was empty vindication. He was a false messiah whose half-promises and whispered lies were as thin as the paper slaves he created, clever words painted over with a shiny, polished veneer just thick enough to mask the servitude that the shikigami stood for. Still, with every passing day, as he grew more and more uncertain, those words bloomed into poisonous slivers of influence that sank their roots into Gajeel's wavering heart, and he hated it, hated having to even consider this last-resort chance of acceptance, hated that Fairy Tail had forced him into this position in the first place.

On the fifth day, he decided, to hell with it, he'd just do it. He reached for the paper doll and…swerved to the right a few inches, fingers landing on a thick iron axle. He'd do it right after he finished this meal, that was. He was hungry, goddammit and this wasn't a decision to be made on an empty stomach. He turned away from the scrap of paper to try and pretend that he wasn't scared shitless of handing his life over to a stranger again, that he wasn't indecisive as hell, and as he took a petulant bite out of the rusted iron bar and slouched down aimlessly at the top of his steel tower, he was jolted sharply out of his thoughts by a sudden cheerful greeting.

"Yo! You up there! Is iron really that tasty?"

He turned and caught a flicker of movement low in the corner of his eye that resolved itself into the telltale shape of a fur-trimmed cloak and a familiar white mustache. Her words whisped across his mind, fire and guilt and remorse - No matter where you run… - and the blood drained straight out of his face as he saw who it was. Silently in his mind, he resigned himself to death because here was the old man himself, come to take his revenge, just like that chick promised.

Goddamnit, he thought wearily. Of all the ways to go out, he hadn't expected this, but he should have, and it stung.

What he didn't expect was for the old man to clamber up the uneven tower of steel and wave a hand in obvious greeting at him. He knew that Makarov could crush him like a fly if he wanted to, and after what he'd done to those Fairies, he couldn't claim not to deserve it, but the old guy looked more like he was here to sit down have some tea than take his bloody revenge, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

"Juvia entered the Guild yesterday," Makarov continued conversationally, seating himself next to Gajeel, and Gajeel inched away, bristling.

"What the hell was that stupid woman thinking?" He snarled, more for his own benefit than the old man's. Makarov just nodded jovially, brushing an invisible speck of dust off of his Guild Master's cloak.

"She was really worried about you too," he said, and Gajeel snorted at that bit of nonsense as his thoughts abruptly turned sour. Where the hell had she been all this time if she was so worried then, huh?

"You know…there's no need to enter that darkness," the old man said, glancing casually at the paper shikigami placed close by Gajeel's hand, and Gajeel jumped. How did-? Makarov's stern eyes flickered back up to meet Gajeel's, and despite himself, Gajeel found himself sweating, barely able to hold that serious gaze. Then the old man smiled at him, a wry, real smile and his next words forced the breath straight out of Gajeel.

"So how about it, will you come join our Guild?"

Gajeel surged to his feet, a rush of conflicting emotions whirling to life within him as he roared his response, rage and defiance and fear forcing the words out of him.

"Don't you fuck with me, old man! How the hell can you honestly be asking me that? Why the fuck do you think I'd want to join your shitty little Guild anyways?"

His chest was heaving with a combination of anger and disbelief as he stared at the aging Guild Master. He should have left. Should've stormed away that very instant despite the death hanging over his head. He should have.

But he didn't.

Instead, he faced the old man, throat tight with a million other things he wanted to shout, but he forced them all back, swallowing his profanity and half-hopes and bottling it into a tight, bitter ball next to his heart. Makarov seemed to actually be thinking about his question, and Gajeel wanted nothing more than for the stupid old man to take back his equally-stupid offer, to do anything except stand there and ignite this irrational, shameful hope within him, only to snatch it away again the moment it mattered.

He wouldn't be hurt again.

Then the old man looked up at him again and spoke, voice grave and deliberate. "There are those in this world who like being alone, but there isn't a single person in the world who can bear being lonely."

Gajeel gaped shamelessly as the old man's simple words cut straight into him, tearing right through his iron façade to rip into his bleeding heart. His lip wobbled shamefully and he jerked his head away to compose himself.

"I destroyed your guild," he finally managed. Why was he looking for excuses out of this? Oh yeah, he didn't want this. He didn't.

Cheerfully, calmly, "I don't care about that anymore."

The words struck him like stones and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, setting his mouth into a tight line before speaking again as guilt twisted wretchedly in his gut. This was it. This was the deal-breaker.

"I…I hurt your Guild members…"

Power swirled threateningly at his back, lifting his hair, and an instinctive shiver rolled through him at the unnecessary reminder of the holy-level power contained in the old man's unassuming form. He flinched instinctively as the Master's voice rang out behind him like divine judgment, with the implacable finality of a death knell.

"You hurt them. And whatever happens, I will never forgive you for that."

Gajeel closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable blow, but then the terrifying surge of magic died down and despite himself, despite all the resentment that had built up during his self-imposed exile, he found himself trembling as he forced himself to keep his back turned, hoping traitorously, helplessly for a but, hoping for anything that meant that he wasn't as far gone as he thought he was. And just like that, because he knew that fairies were idiotic and trusting to a fault and because the old man was honestly as good as the rumors made him out to be, Makarov threw him his rope.

"But…if I stood by and watched a young man fall into darkness, I probably wouldn't be able to forgive myself even more."

He was shaking. Despite himself, he turned to look because there was no way that this could be real, no way in hell that he was actually considering this. Makarov met his guilty glance with a stern look before extending his hand, and Gajeel stared at the outstretched fingers, baffled, confusion and desperation and treacherous hope swirling in his chest.

"I'm not saving you," Makarov said bluntly. "This is simply a path to tomorrow."

Unlike Ivan, there were no half-promises, no whispered contracts of false hope and dark binding. Gajeel looked again into the old man's eyes and saw only honesty as he continued to speak, hand still outstretched.

"Whether you stop dead right now or keep moving…it's your choice."

Gajeel jolted with surprise at the last word. Choice. That was what Makarov was really offering him. Ivan didn't give options. He gave ultimatums, and honestly, he was tired of living under someone else's thumb, forced to live his life according to their whims. He shut his mouth to stop the minute chattering of his teeth as a growing resolve started to warm his heart. For once, just this once, he wanted to make his own damn decisions.

What the hell do I have to lose, he thought, and trembling, he finally reached out to accept that hand of friendship and allowed the old man to pull him forward into a new future.

A/N – Gajeel really owes Makarov a big one for offering him this chance to redeem himself. The old man is a good guy. Also urgh I didn't like having to use word-for-word dialogue from the scanlations here but felt it was necessary.