Chapter 73:

Cold, white light flooded the room and Davian winced, blinking at the harshness. A hiss he wasn't aware was dredging itself up his throat tumbled into the air. He flicked out his tongue, startled to find it running past sharpened teeth and quickly pulled it back in again. His body jolted straight and stiff to the smell and taste of stale blood, raw meat, and rubbing alcohol. His stomach pressed against his spine and whined at him greedily. His skin was too hot, too warm, and his palms itched…

"Ah…! Major Bishop?"

His eyes felt dry, rubbery, as if he'd been staring for an incredibly long amount of time. They were unfocussed and he was blinking rapidly to wipe out the shades of bleach that coated everything, to see shapes, tables… forms… bodies… bodies?!

Ice shot down his spine as his vision finally cleared and he realized he was standing in the prison morgue where a body had been laid onto the autopsy table, ready to be examined. In fact, he was at the edge of the table staring into the glossed-over eyes of a man he didn't seem to want to recognize because at the forefront of his mind he aware of cold, and crimson, and raw meat, and hunger

"M-Major…?" Davian shuddered at the voice, "What are you doing… down here…?"

His eyes snapped to the young cadet in the doorway whose hand was still poised on the light switch from where he'd just flipped it. He visibly jumped at the motion that was too quick and eyes that were too wide, too animal. Davian swallowed and it was rough, pushing past his swollen tongue and down his closed esophagus. He tasted every trace of blood and death in the place. His mind blurred.

What are you doing down here?

"I… I don't rightly know…" he focused pointedly on the words, on turning his head around him in an act of confusion, of unstiffening joints that hadn't moved in hours – hours?– and on breathing through his nose.

"You don't know, sir?" the cadet took a step forward and to the side, giving him a wide berth and Davian felt like a snake coiled in the grass watching a mouse inch its way past.

He could strike… if he wanted to…

He flinched, forcing his eyes to the floor. What. Was. That?Why would he want that? What was he doing? Why was he in the morgue? What was he doing down here?

"Are you alright? …sir?" the cadet, Ashby – Ashby… he knew Ashby…! Upright young man, graduated just under Serrill. They'd been working together for months now. Had he… had he really just…? – was in the morgue with him now, no longer hovering in the doorway.

If Davian was quick, he could walk straight past him without even touching him.

"I'm not sure, if I'm honest," he forced himself to chuckle, rubbed at his eye, and started talking too quickly, "I was worrying about my report to Colonel Ansel, I think, and must have fallen asleep in my office… stress makes people do absolutely absurd things, wouldn't you agree? I may have slept walk, I'm afraid, happens from time to time. I don't believe I have fallen asleep at work before, though. Quite a nightmare, this is. I'll be going, yes? Perhaps I'll go home? Right… as you were, cadet."

He might as well have been running up the stairs, every inch of his skin crawling as he stepped too quietly through the doorway and nearly knocked over the pathologist who had just gotten his supplies together. And that wasn't good. Not only because the he was a grudge-holding man who'd probably assault the hospital staff with questions about justwhy had the Major been in the autopsy room before himbut also because it meant it was early morning, nearly six o'clock to be exact, and Davian didn't remember ever going home. He didn't even remember leaving his office or going to sleep and his mind was a murky pottage of iron wire, electrical static, and the scent of burning flesh. He could hardly think, feeling less like a sentient being and more akin to the inside of a dead tree that had been burned hollow and whose rotting shell was left charred and stuffed with bugs or corpses, or both.

Davian had been prone to trances before but never without some sort of outside influence… a ritual enacted or a prayer. Just how longhad he been down there? Hours? Truly, it couldn't have been hours? But he could feel the stiffness in his limbs and filling the gaps in his joints. His knees ached from standing. His feet were sore. Why hadn't his alarm awakened him? It was set to the doses of his sedative. Two and a half hours, on the dot. Everytwo and a half hours, it went off. So why…?

He glared at his wrist and then stopped in his tracks. His heart was suddenly in his throat. He gripped his wrist to be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, ran his fingers up and down his sleeve, pulled the fabric back. Where was his watch? What had…? Had he taken it off? Why had he taken it off? When? And where was it now?!

He could feel the itching in his skin spreading sharply, the pricks of needles and pins and other small sharp things digging in, rooting around, making him uncomfortable in his flesh. His eyes widened at the hue of shimmering blue his skin was taking, the pressure searching outwards, threatening to break through, and he was suddenly veering off the hallway he was on and searching for another, one less prone to activity. He could smell blood in the air, living blood, hot blood, and his stomach was empty andloud and he was craving something to eat.

He searched his pockets as he walked, coming up empty. He'd misplaced the tablets as well? He pushed down the feeling of his gut turning inside out and struck onward through the infirmary. He had spares in his office, there was no need to get upset for misplacing the ones he'd had. If he was lucky, he'd set them down somewhere with his watch and they'd be returned to him once someone stumbled into them. Aside from some sort of explanation for the medication, he didn't see how this could pose a problem.

He took in a slow breath.

Yes, not a problem. Actually, it would be good to say it was a sleep aid. Sedative, sleep aid, it was all cut from the same cloth, after all. No need to mention thatthe specific type he ingested could easily kill two men in a single dosage, and he took them regularly. As long as no one did anything outrageously stupid, like take one, there shouldn't be a problem at all. Andif people started thinking he was taking a sleep aid of some sort, then finding him in odd places due to sleep walking would make sense. Losing the tablets may turn out to be a good thing, after all. Yes, it would all be sorted out.

The receptionist didn't even notice him as he entered the room, as he strode in simmering panic across the floor, and he had no desire to alert her to his presence. After a critical glance to ensure she hadn't seen him, he didhave half a mind to tell her to fix her uniform or she'd be sent home immediately. As it turned out, though, he'd run his tongue against the backs of his teeth to find them still sharp, which was… agitating… because they shouldn't be… because he was absolutely calm and in control.

Absolutely. Calm. And. In. Control.

And yet, as he slunk inside the partially open door of his office, his heart beat harder.

The first thing that he noticed as he stepped inside was that the lights were on. The second, that all the paperwork he had gotten in order for his report to Colonel Ansel was sitting neatly in a pile on his desk. It took him a long moment to process that, because Davian never left the light on when he left his office and he certainlywould have put away confidential documents. Or, at the very least, not leave them in the middle of his desk with the door unlocked and visible for anyone who passed by to see. The office was… exactly the way he'd remembered it being… which was to say, his last memory was here, in this office, with everything exactly in their current places. Except, there was one thing different. There, on the corner of his desk, was his watch and bottle of tablets sitting as if he'd simply laid them there. And that… well, that simply wasn't what he remembered.

In an act to steady himself, he crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate, to dredge up his memories of the past thirty-six hours. After putting Laxus to sleep and the subsequent ordering of the prisoners, the cleanup had been absolutely horrendous and Davian had found himself literally and figuratively elbows-deep in it. The entire courtyard would need to be tilled and reseeded if they ever wanted to grow grass again, and he would be damned to have to walk on black soot for the rest of the summer. (In white pants? How many weeks prisoner's pay would need to be docked for that cleaning bill someone would pay and it certainly wouldn't be him!) The property damage was even worse. The entire cafeteria would need reconstructed, tables replaced, and even the basement had an entire area scorched where that blasted fire mage – what was his name? … what was… it doesn't matter– had felt the need to go under the building to prove some ridiculous point. Mages, Mages, were so obsessed with being the strongest and why? Was there some trophy Davian wasn't privy to? Even the Grand Magic Council had a hierarchy. The whole thing was capricious, nonsensical, garish. Weren't mages supposed to help people? Weren't they supposed to be good? And yet how many times had he dragged them to jail, prison, deathkicking and screaming because of some half-witted self-contrived pageant contest of who had the quickest way to SUBJUGATE THEIR PEERS OR EXTINGUISH THEM ENTIRELY?!

By Oros's teeth, Davian, breathe!

Walls had been split, metal twisted and melted, an entire cellblock destroyed. Everywhere Davian turned there was wanton destruction. What hadn't been nailed down seemed to have been upended. Everything that had once been order was now chaos. They had to section off entire cellblocks, force already feral men into even more cramped and dreary conditions, and it wouldn't be a just a few days these men would be like this. No, this would be weeks, possibly even monthsof work.

Ooohhhhand the paperwork. The telegrams. The calls. And the Colonel? Well, of course he was furious.

"How could you allow this to happen? Because of your little field trip, half of Ember Island Prison will need to be totally reconstructed! What do you have to say for yourself?!"

"Half, Colonel? Please, don't skew the facts, sir. It's hardly more than twenty percent," he'd growled, back straight and throat tight, at the likeness of his superior displayed like a hologram in the middle of the floor. His face turned red but Davian, after over twenty-four hours without sleep, had been quite dry and hollow and unwilling to accept whatever accusation was to follow, "My deepest apologies, sir, but truly the staff were more than capable of handling this prison in my absence. If fault is being placed, I would hazard it more suitable to be held by the person who authorized the transfer of a Class S Criminal into a Class A Facility… oh, but, wouldn't that be you, Colonel?"

Davian was beyond pensive, had far surpassed angry. Something had settled in his heart and he couldn't shake it. It gripped like a tick and sucked insatiably the life from him, vile and infective. He was… agitated. He was agitated and he was volatile. He was volatile like white phosphorus, potassium, lithium, left on a table in a tiny room with a broken heater, the nob turned up to the highest setting and somehow the fail-safes disabled, and now the minutes were ticking by. Maybe when he'd first been placed in the tiny room he'd known there was limited time but now he was waiting seconds, milliseconds, constantly losing count, and any moment now he'd be alight in flame reacting with oxygen, with heat, and that made him agitated. It made him agitated because he had known he'd been set up for failure. Why else put him in such a room with no windows, no door, no timer, no way to diffuse this chemical reaction?

And, quite suddenly, Davian felt he was the gram of phosphorus on the table, laying, waiting, a time-bomb set into motion and destined to explode. But he had no time for breakdowns, he had work to do. All he could do was push down that effervescent heat in his blood, bully the tick into biting a little less harshly, administer a generous dose of sedative, and pretend he didn't feel his palms itching. Colonel Ansel's reply to his oppugnancy? He opened his mouth to shout what Davian was sure to be a demand of his formal resignation except that his brow furrowed deeply just before his mouth snapped shut once again. Was it worry that flashed across his face or merely question? He had leaned into the receiver, his face screwing into one of concern.

"Major… are you well?"

He'd felt a tickle at his top lip that raced down his chin. On instinct, swiped his knuckles across his mouth and pulled back to examine the black liquid sitting in swollen dewdrops on his glove. His heartbeat had been in his ears then, too.

"You'll have my formal report before the week's end…" he remembered stating the words but they didn't sound sincere. If Colonel Ansel had replied it was lost to him. It was after he'd shut down the receiver that the dizziness hit him, "Lieutenant Se-…"

The world had tilted until he was sprawled across the ground. He didn't feel the impact but his gums were sore as if his teeth had knocked together.

Oh yes… that was right…

There was no one in the office with him.

It was blaring white light that snapped him back to reality… the morgue, yes. He'd awoken… in the morgue…

Davian suddenly realized he didn't want to think about this anymore.

As before and so too now, he had work to do. Blacking out for over twelve hours meant simply that there was even more to be done that he had neglected. He picked up his watch, picked up his bottle, put them on their rightful places on his person, and as calmly as he could, he exited.

"Major?" the receptionist stopped him as he walked past. He hardly looked her in the eye, "Is that… is that what you wore yesterday?"

"Yes, it is," he didn't stop moving, "First two buttons of the uniform are to be fastened, Ms. Darla. Don't let me catch you breaking dress code a second time."

"Yes sir."

Daylight was filtering through the windowpanes of the eastern rooms and tumbled the penumbra of sunrise across the floors large, darkened pluses that crossed his path. The sounds of people working and bodies milling about filled the quiet with wonderful, simple noise. Across the streets the ramparts of the prison struck skyward and were singed in several places from lightning. Knights were already escorting prisoners around to work on the damage. The dissonant rapping of hammers drifted blissfully up along with men shouting orders. Just like the stagnant air of the morgue, Davian felt unsettlingly cold and filled to the brim with white and black static, the reminder that not all was as it seemed.

As he approached, one of the prisoners working at the wall was staring at him, his lips moving and gaining the attention of the man next to him until the handful of them were all staring. There was a look in their eyes that he knew innately but couldn't place the meaning. One of the Rune Knights started yelling but none of them turned back to their duties. Instead, the rest of them stopped and turned, all staring at him and none speaking. He drifted slowly to a halt before them, the sound of gravel beneath his feet coming to an abrupt halt. For a moment, he was lost, directionless, and empty, almost like he wasn't really there, like he was a ghost. The stuttered excuses of the cadet were lost on him as he stared unblinkingly into the prisoner's eyes.

"How's Kurogane?" he asked at length and Davian had trouble pulling together his words.

"Stable, but not conscious," he stated simply, "I have yet to go to the infirmary… I'll be headed there shortly."

A long pause, "A few men died these past few days… we were wonderin' if… if ye had plans for… burial."

"Oh," it was a stupid noise, "Regulation mandates reaching out to their immediate families. If the bodies go unclaimed for thirty days, their remains will be cremated and-"

"Major," the cadet interrupted him quietly, eyes jolting towards the prisoners and back to his commanding officer, "they want to have funerals."

"Funerals," his mind stopped working and he swallowed as he tried to pull up something that would make an ounce of sense. Despite having memorized pages of protocol and rules and regulations, none of these were what came to mind. It was, in fact, Laxus's words that filtered through the soup of misplaced concern and lack of true feeling that his fried brain had become, "I am sorry… for your loss… and you should be able to grieve properly."

The prisoner seemed at first startled and then quite something else… something Davian didn't think he'd ever truly expected to see on an inmate. It made the striking frown on the man's face soften slightly and his hands came up from their stiff position at his sides to cross in front of his stomach. It was genuine and Davian felt strange for having caused it.

"Autopsies will have to be performed but in the meantime, I'll look into delegating someone to prepare something… something formal. If you or someone close to them has any requests, please, write them down and I'll have them collected… tomorrow morning… at roll call."

"Thank you, Major,"

Davian felt almost struck with those words and hardly knew how to respond, "Of course… now, if you'll excuse me… I have some things to attend to before the day is started."

He walked away, feeling as stiff as a day-old corpse, chains fused with rust, a mother's disapproving frown.

The nurses were in the middle of switching their shifts when he finally made it to the infirmary. Most were young women just starting their careers and many of them were babbling away about certain inmates and cadets that had come in and they quite suddenly got silent when he approached, waving and smiling in that sheepish way that told him they were definitely discussing something he wouldn't care to hear.

It had been shortly after Davian had been appointed the new prison warden that he'd ended integrating prisoner volunteers with the paid nurses, as well as instituting a uniform. Although technicallythe hospital operated of its own accord, it was still on prison grounds and not a civilian hospital and so it fell under his jurisdiction. And upon hearing and reviewing the startling amount of misconduct and assault cases that the prior warden had never addressed, he'd decided change was a necessity. Maybe the men who ended up here on occasion enjoyed nurses that worked in heels and skirts, and it came with no small surprise on his part when he received pushback from some of the veteran knights. It ended up mattering little. Davian felt all the better in his functionality over fashion conquest when there was a sudden drop in reports and some heartfelt thank yous from the female staff. He'd gotten a commendation from one of his peers over that, like it was some novel thing for employees to prefer suitable work conditions that didn't pander to perverse men. This was a hospital, not a misogynistic fantasy.

Come to think of it, their gratitude hadn't made him nearly as uneasy as the inmate's gratitude just moments before. Because, that was what that was earlier, gratitude, and… a sort of hopefulness. And Davian felt silly to have been derailed so easily. Murderers, these were murderers, and they were requesting funerals… for murderers. It wasn't an out of line request it just… well he hadn't expected it. Who grieves those who commits anathematic crimes? Those excommunicated from society who too wish to be grieved one day? Or does it go deeper than that? Had the men who had passed gained some sort of redemption? Had they done something that they meant more to others than just bodies filling up space? Criminals existing in the same vicinity? But he'd seen these types of men before easily turning on each other, slaying those that they claimed were allies. Zahir – Zahir! That was his name! How had he forgotten? – had even killed his own men. Or, one of them. The larger one had been found in a cell somewhere bleeding to death. He'd survived… somehow… but it was by fending for himself, not with Zahir's help. And that's how they all were, how they all acted. They all devoured each other when given the chance. Animals.

But then… he was one to talk, wasn't he? Who was it again who'd found himself rapacious while staring a dead man in the face? Was he no better than the lot of them, then?

Of course, you are. You're a Major, for Oros's sakes, you haven't strayed from right and wrong, have you?

"Davian Bishop!" Davian jumped at the sudden intrusion into his thoughts from a voice that sliced into him from down the hall. Of course, the head nurse Marjorie was still here, always one to take extra shifts when there was a large number of prisoners injured. The plump woman had a wizened look and silver intertwined with long black locks that were tied into a tight bun on her head. She snuffed as she rolled up her sleeves and he could have sworn the disapproval was as carved into her expression as the canyon lines that settled in an age-worn map across her face and creasing her brow. Her skin was a few shades darker than his own and despite the sharpness of tone there was a kindness that never left her eyes. Davian, if he were honest, had sort of wondered if he'd ever met his maternal grandmother if she'd look like her. It was probably that sordid bit of sentiment that allowed her the title of the only personnel on the compound with the privilege to address him as anything less than Major. And she was there at the nurse's station as Davian approached, a couple other nurses dawdling about her as if she hadn't just called him out from nearly fifty feet away, plucking at medical supplies and murmuring about pain scales and how much witch-hazel they had on hand and which inmates they thought were truly in need of pain killers and which ones were just there to flirt with the female nurses.

"Ye had better be walkin' in here wearin' those clothes because ye missed laundry day and not why I'm thinking ye are!"

He pulled on something that resembled a smile, "There's work to be done, darling."

"There's work to be done, he says!" she put her hands on her hips, "Ya won't be gettin' any work done if ya work yourself into an early grave, Mr. Bishop!"

The two nurses were staring now and he was sure he heard one of them mutter, "He's in for it now."

Marjorie shot them a look over her shoulder and they busied themselves, "Come on, child, walk with Marjorie. I got some questions for ye."

"Can't it wait, dear?" he didn't try to hide the tiredness he so deeply felt, knowing the objection was falling on deaf ears. She was already coming around the station, "I had hoped to get a few things done before…"

"Oh, young men just don't want to listen to old women, I know. Ye don't have to be so kind about it."

He sighed heavily, "You know very well that's not what I meant."

"Ah, but sayin' it gets ye ta shuttup, doesn't it?" she grinned and it was a bit mischievous.

"You're such a cruel one, Marjorie."

She laughed at that and the hearty sound dashed away the shadows of the infirmary. And then, as suddenly as the conversation had started, her tone shifted dramatically. Her frown was once again emblazoned across her face.

"Davian, what is this I'm hearin' about you scaring the daylights out of your cadets?"

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're referencing."

"Almost knocked over Dr. Woolf this morning. Right down the stairs, he says."

"Dr. Woolf?"

"The dead man's doctor, dear," she snapped, knowing very well he knew exactly who she was talking about.

"What suitable name for such a dog."

"Davian!"

"The door swings outward, Marjorie, the only direction I could possibly knock him is flat on the floor," he countered as coolly as he could, refusing to glance at her, "Besides, I'm sure he deserved it."

"Are you dodging me, Mr. Bishop?" she said keenly and he was sure her eyes were flashing, "Think you can fool an old woman inta forgetting what she set out for? Well, I'm not a crazy old spinster yet, now. What in heaven's name were ye doin' down there in the dark with no lights on? And before you say a thing, I'll tell ye now, I checkedto be sure those lights were off after the good doctor left yesterday and checked them again this morning."

"Why are we checking the morgue so frequently? Afraid the dead will rise, darling?"

"Oh, laugh all you like. That's how me youngest sister died, you know. Back then we didn't have ways to check and be sure. Stuck a pin right up her big toe, we did, and not a noise or breath came out of her. Wasn't 'til my mum passed an' we went to bury her that we found out."

"How dreadful."

"T'was years ago, now. More than thirty, anyways. At any rate, Davian…"

"I was sleep walking, Marjorie. Think, dear, how nightmarish it must have been for me to wake up staring down at a dead body."

Marjorie fell into an uncomfortable silence at that and Davian glanced over at her, noticing immediately the thoughtful expression on her face.

"What is it?"

"They were all put up, Davian, every one of 'em. Now you're tellin' me in your sleep you just… got 'em out? Laid 'em on the table?"

Davian's heart stuttered and he stopped walking. His throat was tight again, "I… I must have."

She stopped and took a deep breath, looking very much like she was about to say something before choosing against it.

"Marjorie, what's wrong?"

"There's something dark following you, Mr. Bishop, I seen it, I did."

Davian froze, "I… I'm sure you're mistaken."

She averted her eyes from his for a moment, a noise bubbled from her throat that was a clear tone of distress, "You'll think I've lost it, you will, think it's time for ol' Marjorie to retire. But, dear boy, I promise you, I wouldn't lie."

"But, you… you're not a mage, Marjorie, dear. You say so yourself."

She was silent for a moment and then suddenly turned to enter the room they had been standing in front of, "Oh, Mr. Redfox, you have a visitor, sir."

The figure in the bed stirred slightly but didn't sit up.

"Well, I'll let you two talk, now…" she smiled gently down at him before making her way to the door, "Davian, dear, please get some sleep… and be safe."

"…of course…"

Davian stepped slowly into the room, glancing to the bed. It was a while before he could shake off Marjorie's words enough to actually stride to the bedside. Mr. Redfox was there, but why Marjorie had addressed him was sort of lost on him. He was asleep, or at least, he seemed that way. The man's face was pallid and his hair fanned out beneath him, stuck to his forehead from sweat, and trickled off of white pillows. His arms were bandaged until they disappeared beneath a clean and pressed shirt. Davian noted the veins on his neck had receded, no longer pronounced and black against his skin. He eyed the bandage at his throat and the smudges of yellow and green blurred fingerprints in his skin.

The curtains were drawn, blocking out any natural light from the place. Probably for the best, though, the man needed his rest. His recovery over the past couple of days had been nothing short of remarkable. Dragon Slayers, he decided, must be cut from some better stock than any other humans. But then, he shouldn't be surprised anymore, should he? Aeleora's notes had reflected as much. And true, too, hadn't he regained enough strength in just one day to rip free from his bonds at her hands and wreak utter terror? He supposed Laxus helped, slightly. Gajeel hadn't quite been able to break down the door, had he? …or had he?

He'd have to look into that later.

What a mess this man had caused… what a mess seemed to follow. One man, one man, surrounded by so much destruction. Davian wasn't so kind as to think it a curse. After all, he'd sort of started all this himself, hadn't he? Well… that was to say, he didn't ask to be abducted by Aeleora, had he? The mad woman she was… what was it she'd wanted? He hadn't had time to go through what he and Laxus had stumbled into in those caves although the notes he had read had been lurid to say the least, fascinating and revealing in all its gruesome detail. They strayed particularly towards something with the man's physical makeup. He supposed he'd find out sooner or later. He'd have to go through all the trouble to transcribe it, after all, if there was any hope of getting the man absolved of his crimes…

Absolved of his crimes. Absolved of some crimes. The only ones he didn't commit.

It wasn't really fair, was it? A criminal was about to walk free again, forever riding those famous coattails of evidence and probable cause and double jeopardy. Davian couldn't really wrap his head around it all. Laxus seemed such an upright man, subscribing to so many things most upright men do. He'd said so himself, didn't he? He'd do anything to help one of his friends, his family? He wouldn't outright kill a woman, no matter what hell she'd put him through. He seemed to have a rather northern-facing moral compass. Sort of a bleeding heart at times, Davian supposed, in his own way. He certainly had taken some great strains to understand him, which was… odd. Davian was the man who'd put his lover behind bars, after all, and unfairly at that.

Unfairly but not wrong.

Gajeel Redfox was a bad man. There was no questioning that…

…a bad man that had risked his life saving him.

But what did that matter? So what he'd literally thrown himself in harm's way in order to keep Davian safe? It was a foolish thing on his part, really, and something Davian hadn't affected in the least. It was fully and totally his own mind and body that chose those actions. Mr. Redfox had known full well that without Serrill's help his chances were slim at best…

Serrill…

Davian actually shuddered. At the mere thought of Lieutenant Serril… his heart… his heart hurt.

Serrill…

Serrill was currently in critical condition. That whip of fire or whatever contrived name Zahir had given it, it had struck him in the chest, dead center. It had caused extensive second and third degree burns to his chest and the trauma to his heart had weakened him severely. If it hadn't been for the quick work of a nearby inmate, one who stillno one had seemed able to get the name of, he would have already been dead. It was in his formal report to Colonel Ansel that he had written words that had made his hands quake slightly, although at the time he'd told himself it was from fatigue, that Serrill would most likely never be able to serve on the force again… if he even survived his first year of recovery…

And that… well… that was Davian'sfault, wasn't it? After all, Serrill would not be in this situation if not for him, would he? Davian had killed Unaven, framing Mr. Redfox for the crime, and when Serrill had stumbled upon him he'd given him full credit for the find. It was, in fact, he who had written the recommendation and hand delivered it to the Colonel for Serrill's promotion. If it weren't for him, the lieutenant would still be a cadet striking his own path in some unknown direction. He would have never been transferred alongside Davian to the prison, would have never found himself here during the prison riot or felt the responsibility to subdue Zahir, or possibly he would. Serrill was rigid in his desire to help his companions. At the first sign of trouble, no doubt the man would have stepped forward to help in whatever way possible no matter his position. Serrill was a good man, loyal, trustworthy, kind… and he was dying… and it was Davian's fault.

But how was he to have known? He couldn't see the future! At least, not without some divine intervention. He'd had toframe Mr. Redfox, he didn't have a choice. At the time, instilling in Serrill that he'd found the evidence they'd needed was just a good justification for manipulating Serrill. How was he to know that in a few short months it would cause the Lieutenant's demise? And, truly, what else was he supposed to do? Father had been clear in the instruction to get Aeleora's killer behind bars. He was just doing the bare minimum he had to! He was following orders! It wasn't as if some tree of vision were floating constantly overhead showing him the consequences to his actions. Certainly, he would have chosen another way if he had known. And… well… if it came down to disobeying Father and Serrill's life… well… what, truly would he have chosen?

What… what was he thinking…?

He'd killed at Father's bequest before, criminals, trash, the scourge of the earth, and he'd done it without objection. Men who acted like rabid animals deserved a fate befitting rabid animals. And wasn't that how Davian had been raised? Hadn't he been instilled with that divine right? He was above them, above those that slunk in the shadow and rode on the coattails of the law and hid in grey areas. Father wouldn't request something of him that didn't befit a purpose, be it preservation or divine wrath or something else he didn't understand. Father was above him, was above all. It alone spoke to Oros and brought about the God's will. He couldn't… he wouldn't go against Father…

But Serrill wasn't an evil man. He wasn't even a bad man. He was good and kind and loyal and innocent. A bystander. Collateral damage. And Davian shouldn't feel responsible for collateral damage. He'd only done what he'd thought was good, what he'd thought was right. His moral compass wasn't skewed. It was pointing north, aligned with a magnetic pole far stronger than any other force in his life. He was set to bring about Father's will. To not stray. To be good and right and divine…

But what kind of good destroys those other things that are good? And what kind of evil lets live something that is righteous? Because, that was what Mr. Redfox had done, wasn't it? Davian would be dead if it weren't for him. He hadn't had to. Davian didn't ask for help. In fact, of all the people to save Davian's life, why would he do it? Why save him? Surely he knew, didn't he? That Davian had framed him? Surely he had some sort of inkling? Or possibly he didn't, but still he would know that Davian had pinned him with a crime with no intentions of ever properly investigating it? And at that, Davian had pushed for the Ulrich case to be reopened and for those charges previously dropped to be evaluated once more with fresher, more biased eyes, and solidify his condemnation. So why save him? Why when he knew Zahir could easily burn him to death did he jump, literally jump, in harm's way to preserve his life? What sort of evilcreature does that?

Because what had Davian done in his eyes that merited saving?

"I'm going to tell you a story, Davian, are you willing to listen?"

This was ridiculous. Why was he doubting himself now? Why was he questioning his decisions? He'd done nothing wrong! He'd only done what he was told! Father asked this of him! And Gajeel… Gajeel was a criminal!

"Men have their breaking points, Davian. When you look at Gajeel you see a man who's cold and ruthless and a killer. I see a man who's been forced to break over and over again and was told it was his fault."

Davian's agitation hitched upwards, turning feral, lashing, angry.

"If you really are a better man than those bastards in prison, Davian, you'll figure out what the truth is before you're broken, too."

Davian. Wasn't. Broken! He wouldn't be broken! Yes, he'd worked outside the law but how else do you deal with creatures outside of the law? He'd committed murder but at what point was it unjustified? These people were criminals, these people were murderers, these people… well, they weren't hardly people, were they? If one is willing to take a life one must accept that their life could be taken in return. And Davian shouldn't, no, he didn't feel guilty for it! Never once had he ever felt guilty for it! And he wouldn't start now! He had done this for Father. He was doing this for Father. It had Its reasons for asking this of him! It didn't require sacrifice if not for good cause! And, no, Davian didn't know what it was but he didn't need to. It wasn't his fault that sometimes the north of his pole swayed more towards east or west in his own eyes. His vision was limited. Just because he thought he saw the moon through the trees didn't mean it was actually there…

But wasn't that why you left?

No, he'd left because he was a coward. He'd left because his brother had changedand it was scary. He was young. Perhaps if he'd been older it would have been different. Perhaps if he'd been a man he wouldn't have been scared. Perhaps if he'd just been colder, if he'd just been more bloodthirsty, if he just wasn't so mawkish, it would have been different. But he wasn't. His brother terrified him. His mother was gone. He could still hear it in the blackness of night, the voice that had told him to kneel, to be silent, don't look. Your mother was good, wasn't she? She taught you the value of prayer…

Stop it.

Wasn't that why you left?

No, he'd left because he was a coward. Because he was young.Too young. What sort of god asks that of someone so young? How was he to know? They'd told him it was good. They'd told him it was righteous. They'd told him he'd been called by Oros himself. Father was going to be there and you must stand tall, you must not cry, you must not show weakness to Father. Not even when your flesh starts to peel and the molten gold is poured into the trenches dug with black claws no one could see but you and you can hear your brother praying but you can't recite the Rites because you're trying too hard not to scream and beg for it to stop, it to STOP, AND THE VOICE THAT WASN'T YOUR OWN ECHOED TO EAT AND

STOP IT!

Wasn't that why you left?

No! He'd left because he was a coward! Because admitting he was a coward was easier, was better, was saferthan admitting it was because the whole place smelled of blood and death and he couldn't take it anymore! Because he was child and he'd seen so much blood and death and it was terrifying. Because his brother was kindand goodand loyaland suddenly he wasn't anymore! He was cruel and malicious and hungry! He was sharp teeth and blue scales and feathers! And Davian was a coward because that wasn't what he wanted to be! He took the Rite of Service! He wanted to help people, to help his people! But Father was saying things and it didn't make sense anymore. It called it sacrifice but it sounded like holocaust and freedom sounded like shackles. He left because he was a coward and Oros didn't answer cowards, didn't hear a coward's prayer in the middle of the night that if this was right, if this was good, then why? Why did so many have to die? Why did they have to hide? Why did Father require so much blood? And why, whydid that blood have to human, have to be his?

Because that was what Davian was. He. Was. Human. Half human, yes, but human. He wasn't cold like the others. He wasn't cruel. He was soft and warm and mawkish, and what was wrong with being mawkish? Why couldn't he be? Why was it wrong to miss his mother? To miss the brother that was gone? Why was it wrong to not want to change?

"What if they made you hurt someone dear to you?"

Davian had been so happy. He'd had a life for himself, made by himself, influenced by no one. He'd found Irena, and she him. Their relationship was odd, yes. He called her his partner but never had they shared a bed. How could they? He wasn't human, after all. And she was so beautiful, both in body and in spirit. And she was strong. He'd always adored it when she'd wear her vibrant makeup, lipstick in daring colors like blue and violet and gold. He'd loved the way she'd point out his accent or how she'd make fun of him for being too rigid, using words that weren't quite right when he was tired and had forgotten their meaning. His last memory of her now? Skin that should have been the vivacious hue of forest till was greyed and lurid. Striking eyes that chilled his soul stared up over his shoulder at something that didn't exist. He'd been so sure he'd killed her and in that moment of pure horror he'd nearly turned to quaking dust right there. But she'd blinked. A wan smile pulled on her lips.

"There you are…" she'd whispered softly and he'd heard her speak that way before. He'd watched her tame in seconds a cougar in the woods, trapped in a hunter's cruel trap and leg shredded to ribbons. She'd spoken the same way, then, and with the same lack of fear in her face when she placed a hand on his cheek, "…you're alright, darling… you're alright…"

He'd broken one arm in four places. The other, his claws had done enough damage that she'd be scarred for life. She'd lost enough blood that for a while they weren't sure they could save her. The cause? A vicious animal attack. It was while she'd been recovering in the hospital that he'd packed up and left, not giving her a single word, and only for the second time he laid his bare hands on her soft skin. This time, though, he'd altered her memories. She would awake with a deep-seated fear of him. Every memory tainted with it. Any time she'd think of him, dread would sink into her bones. And that was for the best, because it would keep her away. And if he had to choose between living a life without her and living a life where she was killed by his hands, then of course the choice was obvious, wasn't it?

And honestly, what had he expected? What had he hoped to accomplish? He wasn't human.

"You take after me. Blood brings out the beast."

He was shaking. Why was he shaking?

"You always have a choice, Major. Whether you choose to acknowledge it is what determines your faults."

"You do not understand…" he whispered, "I am held to a higher standard…"

"How do you tell, I wonder, when that line has been crossed?"

"If you have to ask, I think ya already know. A good place to start, though, is when you notice things stopped being about making you better and turned into forcing you to be something you're not."

What was he?

Not a human, certainly. Not lizardfolk. Not Father and he was too much of a coward to be his brother. He'd left it all behind him to become something else, something different. The halfbreed, the flawed one, the failure. He'd straddled the line of his family and his job for so long, forcing himself into a precut stencil that never really suited his outline. And in the end what had it gained him? He was a murderer. He was a Major. He was a prison warden. He was… he was something. He was something he didn't care to look at or think about. He was a worn-out book at his waist filled with scriptures and rites and religion that he wasn't sure he even believed in anymore. He was memorized protocols and a pressed white uniform and cool, calm, calculation. He was the literal definition without emotion, an office park without trees, corporate and cold. He craved blood and it disgusted him. He found himself cruel without thought. He was angry and he was empty and directionless. He was the captain of a ship eating rations packed in lead-lined cans, slowly losing his sanity in an unforgiving place. He was burnt phosphorus, potassium, lithium; reduced to ash and worthless. And now, after all of this muddled thought, he was the frayed end of a snapped string. Microscopic feathers of thread struck this way and that, no longer a synergic unit but instead something fighting to remain in one piece, rolled and rerolled between the fingers of an anxious seamstress too busy to cut the dead end despite knowing with much less effort she'd finally thread the needle. Inadequate. Unraveled. Nearly useless.

He gazed down at Mr. Redfox as he lay, restless and fighting to heal, not noticing the Major as he stood over him cloaked in silent despair. He was invisible and unnoticeable and his heart hurt.

Who was this man to change him? Who was this man to make him think? A murderer and so was he, both of them were cold blooded and killers. Or truly was this how the world was? All devoured and devouring? And he was one to talk; he who found himself rapacious while staring a dead man in the face, no better than the man on the table, the men in the prison, and this man in the bed. What does those who commit anathematic crimes do to gain redemption? Or does one seek redemption at all? There was something to be said about all of the Phantom Lord mercenaries. Not a single one of them dared to seek to produce light to cancel all their darkness. That didn't stop them from producing, though. Maybe it was their moral compass that was flawed. Maybe it pointed north but meant south. Maybe it took calibration to finally realize they'd been reading it wrong all along. Maybe they'd travelled that path, dark and twisted with thorns, for so long they no longer knew what the sun looked like. The sun, or maybe the moon, had peeked on the horizon and they knew they were wrong but had no way to turn around now. They were too trapped, too ensnared in this path they'd chosen to follow. How was one to get out?

Gajeel had help. He had a hand reach through the bushes and say, "Come this way. We have another direction for you." He'd had to claw himself free. He'd had to decide to abandon that thing in his hands, that broken contraption, and say he'd go on in the dark alone. He'd trust what a stranger had told him and see for himself this better way. Blind faith, the kind that comes when night is its darkest and there is no moonlight to guide by, isn't it the most terrifying thing of all? How does one trust they won't be led astray again? Davian supposed that there must be one thing to be said about animals. When left to their own devices, they tended to have good instincts.

"…N' gonna turn green next. Cut it clean off. Then where will ye be, eh? Not so fine then, hm?"

Davian blinked at the sound of voices approaching, dredged himself up from the murk of his mind, and let out a heavy sigh.

"M'sorry, what?"

"Not even listenin' to old Marjorie, are we? Think me a crone who doesn't know her years? Well I'll tell you right proper! 'Been doin' this fine work thirty-eight years! Saved as many lives as any mage, I have! Don't matter me worth a damn ye criminal or not. My mother told me when I was just a lass, she did, 'Marjorie, love, ya got a gift. Help people.' she said. Oh, but men don't help themselves, they don't. And I'll be damned you go 'round spreadin' infection in myinfirmary, Mr. Tall Glass. You want to be walkin' 'round with ye arms bleedin' and oozin', do ya? Well, you best do it at home! Don't care if you did save the poor knights out there, you hear me? Myrules in my ward, Mr. Tall, you understand?"

Oh dear, Majorie was letting some fool have it, wasn't she?

"Tall glass? What?"

"Fixated on that, eh? Think you're all that and a bag a' fancy chips? Vanity is a sin, boy, a sin."

Davian glanced over his shoulder to the doorway where Marjorie finally came into view. Close at her side Laxus stood, arms exposed and raw with burns. Davian had nearly forgotten he'd had him taken here. Damn him, he didn't pay attention to anything anymore, did he? He should have made sure to be in his room when he woke up…

Marjorie huffed and shoved a roll of gauze into Laxus's hand, "Healers get in at ten. Wrap yeself back up unless yen want a staph infection."

She bustled off, gathering her skirts as she went. From down the hall Davian could hear her voice echoing around as she shooed some doctors back to their rounds. Laxus took a hesitant step towards the doorway, eyes immediately falling to the bed. Davian stepped slightly to the side as Laxus approached, not quite surprised the Lightning Mage didn't notice him. Maybe he'd been looking for him, but surely at the sight of his lover laying in such distress on the bed he'd forgotten. Davian remembered seeing Irena that way, how suddenly everything which had meaning before suddenly turned meaningless. So, for a moment he remained silent and still, watching Laxus curl his nose as his eyes fell to injuries, the way his brow furrowed deeply in worry, how he pursed his lips and snarled.

"Gettin' sick of seein' you in hospital beds…" he sounded strange, almost sad despite the fierceness in his look, "I'm sorry…I tried to get here in time…"

"Fairly good time for travelling halfway across the country," Laxus's spine suddenly went rigid and despite all that was going on Davian had to stifle a chuckle at nearly scaring the man out of his skin, "How exactly did you manage it? The only thing I remember is you descending from the sky like some old, fable god."

He hesitated a moment as if double-thinking revealing some well-kept secret, "Lightning Body."

"And what is that?"

"It's ah… I make my body… into lightning?"

"And you can use it to travel distance? Why ever would you ride a train, then? Or climb a mountain?"

"You're not exactly supposed to use it to jump almost half the country. A city, maybe, but not tens of miles…." Laxus narrowed his eyes at him, "How did you get here?"

"Oh… I ran."

"You what?"

"Yes well… it was quite a blur," he replied dumbly. If he were honest, he hardly remembered it. He'd felt possessed, as if his body were moving and he were simply there to witness what unfolded afterward. He'd run faster than he'd ever had to run before barring one instance, when he'd taken Irena to the hospital.

Suddenly, he didn't want to talk about running anymore.

"He's actually doing quite well, you know, given his injuries," he muttered and walked pointedly around the bed to stand opposite Laxus, "Heals quickly… but, um, of course, you know this. The, ah… magic, ss'mostly gone, now. The body burns through it. Quite the extraordinary machine."

Laxus suddenly seemed alarmed, "His magic is gone?"

It took Davian a moment to process that and he rubbed at his eye for a moment before it dawned on him what he'd said wrong, "Anti-magic… theanti-magic is mostly gone, now. Apologies."

It was then that Laxus looked him up and down and before Davian could stop him he was already jumping to conclusions, "You've been here, haven't you? This whole time? When was the last time you slept?"

How does one explain they trance-slept for twelve hours and awoke in the morgue?

"You said you'd watch him for me… that's why you stayed, isn't it? You kept your word?"

Davian's eyes widened and he felt his loss of control over his glamour, "Of course not. I had other things to attend to. Paperwork, of course, I completed… A formal report and I had to catalogue, um, record the… ah…" he was fidgeting under that strange soft awe in Laxus's gaze. Why was he so impressed? He straightened his glasses, paused, and huffed, "That wasn't why I stayed. Just sort of lost track of time."

Laxus smirked, "Well, thank you… for making sure he was safe."

"Well, I suppose I owed him, you, both of you, a debt of… gratitude. I have doubts Zahir would have been reigned in without your intervention. And Mr. Redfox…" his eyes snapped over to where Gajeel lay, having not moved an inch aside from his ribcage that dutifully expanded and contracted, "Well… I suppose I would be dead, wouldn't I?"

"Eh?" Laxus frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Ah, you weren't there yet, were you?" Davian scratched at his wrist and his tongue flickered out quickly as he glanced at the door. As he spoke, his gaze became distant, "I didn't realize Lieutenant Serrill was helping him, that without him Mr. Redfox was actually in duress… distress… ah, he had a difficult time. I was cornered. I'm not much good, you see, unless I can get close. Zahir's heat alone made that quite challenging… He saved me. Quite literally shielded me from fire when he knew it would spell the end of him… He almost laid down his life… for the man who put him behind bars…"

He should be dead, shouldn't he? And perhaps the world would be better for it. Certainly, a lot of people would benefit from it, if in ways they didn't currently know. And what was this supposed to be? His second lot in life? Was he supposed to have some revelation and find a new self-worth, self-meaning? Forsake Father completely and forge a new path somehow? What a ridiculous thought. Father would kill him in an instant, or worse, drag him back.

How long had Laxus decided he'd allow him to just stand there staring through him? Davian snapped himself back from his reverie and cleared his throat, literally shaking himself, "Anyway, um… oh, ah, yes, you're probably hungry, aren't you?"

In one instant, Laxus looked ready to jump at the thought of food. It had been over thirty-six hours since he'd eaten, hadn't it? And Davian… when was the last time he'd eaten? But when Davian turned for the door he quickly found Laxus didn't follow. He was instead looking over his shoulder at Gajeel, a look of anxious concern plastered across his face.

"I just got back to him…" he muttered and Davian's jaw tightened.

"He won't be waking up anytime soon, if that alleviates some of your…" he waved his hand, dropping the sentence. Emotion wasn't something he felt in the mood to talk about at the moment. He was quite through with them, actually. That didn't mean he missed the way Laxus ran his eyes over Gajeel's figure. Again, he cleared his throat and for some reason felt the need to scuff his boot across the floor, "I can assure you he's not going anywhere… even when he wakes… which won't be for quite some time… probably."

Still, Laxus remained rooted in place. Davian quickly became impatient.

"You can't just stay."

"The hell I can't."

"Even having you in this hospital is a violation of at least four guidelines that I can think of… more than that, I'm sure, but I'm too tired to remember."

Laxus gritted his teeth, "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

"And risk your temper for no good reason? Hardly," Davian bit back a hiss threatening to slip past him just as he turned it into a sigh, "Just… come along. We'll talk… maybe I can come to an arrangement."

"Still haven't paid up on our last arrangement," Laxus muttered.

"A time and a place... but for now, we're both hungry and that poses major problems for one of us."

Laxus raised an eyebrow at him but he didn't elaborate farther. He was glancing down the hall, eyes shifting from behind his glasses, with arms and legs crossed. Davian was sure he looked as miserable as Laxus probably felt. He flickered out his tongue unabashedly this time, quite sure only Laxus was there to witness it. It was becoming too easy to be comfortable around him. So long it had been that he couldn't be himself, always pretending to be something he wasn't, and he hated how refreshed he felt for being near someone who didn't search for chinks in his armor… or, maybe that wasn't correct. Laxus was constantly searching for chinks in his armor, but more in ways to help himself, no out Davian as some halfbreed freak of nature. Maybe that was why he found the need to accommodate him, to keep him happy. And so, he caved in the only real way he knew to… with protocol.

"Civilians can't stay on prison grounds… but, perhaps a contractor helping to repair the damage could?" he snuffed and found himself fidgeting again, "Lodging would be another matter. Couldn't have you staying in the barracks, could we?"

He paused, thinking, and found it hard not to bite his tongue as he continued, "You can stay at my place, if it's not too unsettling… I come in quite early and often stay late so I'd hardly be around. At any rate, it's a very large house. I can keep my distance…"

"Davian…" he snapped his eyes up to meet Laxus's, whose were thankful in a way he didn't appreciate because it made him uncomfortable again, like he was doing something he really shouldn't.

"Please, don't thank me yet. I am quite awful to live with."

Laxus scoffed, his smile disappearing as he gave Gajeel one more glance, and then followed Davian out into the hall. Their exit wasn't as fast or as peaceful as Davian had hoped. There was a small huddle of doctors outside a room down the hall. He could hear muttering and see solemn eyes peeking up at him from pale coats. Davian felt his heart start to race in a way hauntingly familiar. And as Davian watched, two doctors quickly dispersed and headed to the nurse's station while the other stood writing something down on a clipboard before silently placing it in its holder beside the door. Davian knew he needed to keep walking, to stop would spell some sort of end of him, but he didn't. He knew that was Serrill's room and he knew what serious eyes and quiet voices meant. That didn't stop the shock from stopping his breath as he read the words.

"Davian?" Laxus questioned and in reply he simply handed him the sheets strapped to wood, the meaningless inscriptions. He pretended not to feel the man's stare as he entered the room and stood quietly at the foot of the bed.

"Major…"

"Please, Serrill, don't sit up."

He let out a sigh and sank further into his pillows. Several of them propped him up, keeping him comfortable. It was all anyone was worried about, after all, keeping him comfortable.

"Come to say goodbye?" the corner of his lip quirked up slightly but his tone was bitter.

"Of course not," Davian tutted, pulling up from somewhere inside of him a shadow of disdain, "I'd never think to coddle you, dear."

"Dear?" the laugh was a wheeze cut off by a cough. It made them both wince.

"Don't tell Marjorie. She'll be quite offended."

"I'll take it to the grave, then," the smile was more genuine now and it brought with it the seriousness of a last memory. The silence that settled was heavy and thick. Davian didn't want to break it, "Keirin Serrill."

"Hm?"

"I'd imagine I'll get a memorial, won't I? The Keirin Serrill Memorial? I want it to be an odd shape. Bring in an artist… not a normal one either. Make it one of those that hides a political statement in everything."

"Oh, of course. Would you like satin or velvet for the ribbon-cutting ceremony?"

"Don't care so long as it's cut with golden scissors."

"Quite demanding, aren't we?"

"Well, it is my death bed. You can't exactly tell me no, can you?"

"I suppose not," Davian's smile faded, "This is all my fault, isn't it?"

Serrill's look was sharp, "Oh, absolutely. If you hadn't pushed me to work so hard, I'm sure I'd never be in this mess."

"No, my dear, I'm afraid it's quite worse than that…" Davian tried to take a breath but found it caught in his throat, almost like a sob. He swallowed, "No… no, this is all my fault."

Again, silence settled between them. Maybe Serrill understood or maybe he didn't. Davian wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that he hadn't been dismissed and so he had no intentions to leave, at least, not for now. For now, he found himself grasping at time and the lack of it he had. He found himself cursing fate and his brother for choosing the Rite of Healing, himself for never studying the right thing. Serrill, for all his levelheadedness even in the face of death, seemed to sag where he lay. Laxus waited patiently by the door, not wanting to disturb.

"You're not a wizard," Serrill said quietly. Davian couldn't bring himself to look him in the eyes.

"No."

"What are you then?" he wasn't angry or curt. He seemed tired and maybe just a bit resigned.

"I was a holy man, I guess you could say… was, not so much anymore."

"You don't seem the pious type."

"You know, you're not the only one to say that," he itched at his wrist before noticing Serrill watching him. He glanced down to his hands for a moment before making an odd decision. He took off his gloves. His nails were black.

"Who was your god?"

"Oros."

"I don't think I've heard of him. What does he preside over?"

"Creation out of Destruction, Rebirth, Divine Wrath… among other things," as he spoke he found himself taking off his glasses and staring down at them. He resisted the urge to push at the bridge of his nose, to straighten the thing that wasn't there.

"…other things?"

When Davian found it in him to finally meet Serrill's eyes again, he knew his own were stripped and bare, yellow and large, with pupils blown wide in the dim light. If Serrill was startled, he didn't show it, although his jaw clenched slightly.

"Lizardfolk… and blood sacrifice."

"Oh."

"Quite."

To Davian's surprise, when Serrill broke his gaze it wasn't a hasty thing. There was no fear there in his blue eyes. It was reflective.

"…I really am dying, aren't I?"

"Not necessarily. You could still pull through. Defy the odds."

"And what exactly are the odds? Low enough you'd answer my questions?" the words were accusing but his tone wasn't. Again, he just sounded tired, "And what would it mean to pull through? I'd live the rest of my life unable to run, the stress of almost any physical activity enough to give me a heart attack? I'll just… sit around and get fat until a heart attack takes me in my sleep."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be quite that bad."

"I'd have to leave the force."

Davian itched at his palm, "Yes."

"Live out the rest of my days miserable… an accountant or something equally dreary. I'd rather just die, I think."

"Don't say that," he itched harder.

Damn him. Damn him, this was all his fault…

Serrill finally started to sound bitter, "It's best to go now, don't you think? While there's still no one around to miss me?"

"Are you insinuating I wouldn't miss you, Serrill?" he wasn't sure where the outrage boiled up from, but it came fiercely. He felt a snap in is soul, a spark left from his burning chemicals, still barely alive.

Serrill blinked at him, obviously trying to hide behind some sort of pretense before ultimately dropping it, "I… didn't think so."

"Please, I'm not heartless," Davian hissed and it sounded like an animal. Serrill's lip twitched slightly.

"I guess you're not…" he replied quietly, "…is that why you left?"

"Hm?"

"Is that why you left… wherever you're from? You weren't kind enough?"

"You may find it hard to believe, but it was actually the opposite."

"You're right, that's hard to believe."

Why did Davian's heart hurt so much? Did he even have a right?

"Do… do you pray?"

"More often lately than I have in a while."

"…you think you could pray for me?"

Davian blinked slowly, "Whatever for?"

"You said he's a God of Rebirth, didn't you? Could you ask him not to let me be reborn as something ridiculous?" Serrill's blue eyes were distant.

"Any requests?"

"No squirrels… or rats. Always hated rats. Don't really like snakes, either," his eyes shot over to Davian, "No offense."

"I am not a snake," Davian found himself smiling, "Too many limbs."

"Same family?"

"Technically, not a reptile. I don't have cold blood."

"What you're telling me is, everything I know is a lie."

"I won't hold it against you."

Serrill laughed at that and it was a wonderful sound that Davian found himself clinging to. He'd never really heard Serrill laugh genuinely before. Everything had always been carefully hidden under the veneer of formality and now more than ever Davian felt robbed. How much of Serrill's laughter would go unheard, filled now with only emptiness? He desperately wished there was something he could do…

"I wish I could have learned more about you, Major," Serrill's laughter faded and turned into a thoughtful hum, "I'd give my right eye, you know, for just a little more time."

Davian's eyes snapped wide and he froze.

"Major? Is something wrong?"

He furrowed his brow as he thought, those words having sparked a memory from long ago, from before he'd left to join the academy. At its remembrance, Davian's heart suddenly started to beat faster. His tongued flicked out quickly and his hand dipped to his waist and pulled free a hand-bound leather book with pages yellowed with age and covered in an ancient language. Davian flipped open to a specific page and scanned the words. His whole body felt suddenly warm, a blinding flash of white phosphorus aflame, brilliant and hopeful.

"Serrill… how desperately do you want to make a full recovery? I suppose, that is to say, with how prosthetics are nowadays…"

"I… I don't understand."

"Keirin Serrill," Davian glanced up at him and narrowed his eyes, "If it meant saving your life, what would you be willing to sacrifice?"

Author's Note:

Well, I was going to hold off until next Monday to post but I thought that would be a little cruel. Happy early Halloween, everybody! You get an entire chapter of Davian having a crisis! I know, I know, such a gift.

I'm going to be honest, work has been insane lately and we just heard things are going to be even more insane until around April of next year. I'm going to try my hardest to get back into the swing of things, but at this point I can't really make any promises. I'm going to be stressed out and tired for the foreseeable future and unfortunately it's going to affect my writing. (you can probably already see it here... or at least I can. It's a lot more bitter than usual to me) Slightly related: fuck rich white guys. I will give you zero context for that, but I had to get that out of my system before I died in a brilliant fire of white phosphorus. I relate to Davian as I, too, am going through a crisis.

Anyway, keep on keepin' on beautiful beans! And whatever life throws at you, remember: All things work together for good. Whether you believe that in a religious, spiritual, or just good-vibe-y way, keep it in mind. When the horizon is obscured by clouds and things seem desolate and treacherous, remember that even Columbus had no goddamn idea where he was going but he sure as hell landed somewhere.

You're all lovely. Have a wonderful week and a Happy Halloween.