I shiver. My shallow breath forms small clouds above my face. I'm lying on my back and the cold of the ground has long since crept through the ragged and tainted Exorcist's uniform. That doesn't really bother me that much, though. It is just another uniform I have traded for the one before. There would be another new one. Maybe. Probably not.
I try to smile; my sight, facing the wide snow-grey sky, unable to move around like usually and forced to stay still, must be hilarious. But the smile won't come.
Or so I guess since I can't feel my mouth that well; the sliced lip and the dried blood – flowing and cuffed up – prevent me from obvious facial expressions. That doesn't really bother me that much, either.
I'm so tired. The cold seems to crystallise throughout my numb body, which, on the one hand, eases the pain from the wounds, but on the other hand stands in the way of me moving fast enough to survive.
I force my fingers to stretch.
Where is my hammer?
Where is my weapon?
Where is my Innocence?
My innocence...
For a second I believe to feel something warm on my cheeks, before that fleeting impression vanishes. Leaving me to wonder why I would cry.
There, it's there again.
Why would there be tears? In a wave of incomprehension, frustration and anger I bite on my crusted lip which reopens and stretch my fingers again, willing my arm to extend only a few centimetres more.
An electric sensation, followed by a spreading warmth engulfes firstly my hand and consequently my whole frozen body. There it is. My Innocence, my weapon, my hammer.
I smile.
This is all just a farce, a costume for the ones who discarded their own identity in order to be able to wander through history without being chained down by drowing emotions, pasts, connections, subjectiveness.
And yet it's a costume, a disguise I don't mind to wear. Especially if it might just save my life. It's my responsibility to stay alive. Doesn't matter if I want to, doesn't matter if I lost interest in humans and wars. My opinion doesn't matter. I'm not even supposed to develop a personal opinion. Being able to read people and situations, react accordingly and foretell the outcome is enough for a Bookman.
My bones gnash, my muscles and flesh scream as I force my body into a cowering but nearly standing position, gripping my hammer so tight that my frozen fingers feel like standing on fire suddenly. I grind my teeth at the pain and after I hear the gurgling in my lungs, I cough up a new gush of blood.
The akuma grins.
Death wears a laughing face.
Lavi grins, his face contorted with pain.
The Bookman's apprentice wears the mask of a laughing face.
This time.
Lavi has so many questions.
I have but one.
He asks me, why do their deaths not matter?, why can't I comprehend their actions driven by emotions?, why do they trust me at all, just because of a fake smile?, why does she see through my fake smile and why does she hate it so much?, why do they mourn for their fallen ones, other humans are always only a risk, a potential next akuma?
I only ask myself, from time to time, what if all the other aliases are more real than I?
The akuma laughs.
Death is a cruel monster created by humans.
Lavi fights for his life, time and again.