The World Is Ugly

by StevMarie

It was just a mission. That was how it started. It wasn't pain, it wasn't agony, it wasn't Laxus in a rage of lightning and Gajeel helpless in his wake. Feelings weren't supposed to be hurt, blood wasn't supposed to be spilled; now the world is spinning out of control and they're plummeting to the ground unable to stop it. What can be said? The world Is ugly.

144. Chapter 144

Author's Notes:

"I looked up and saw a horse whose color was pale green. Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed behind him. They were given authority over one-fourth of the earth, to kill with the sword and famine and disease and wild animals."

TW: Death
Body Horror
Gore

---

Chapter 144:

The limestone rumbled. A deep reverberation that started somewhere below before spreading upward, out, and around, as if the rock itself were a drum that had just been struck. This didn't bother Sam who was quite used to this occurrence by now. They were all quite used to it. They were soft rock miners. Soft rock miners know the tremor from a blast when they feel it. And for the fuse runner, this was preferred, since that meant it would be quite a while before his job needed done again.

Sam let out a sour sigh and itched for a cigarette. He was not a fuse runner. He was a sounder, and he could already tell today was going to be interesting. He could feel it in his bones, and in his damp clothes. The damp which released the sweat of too many days working and not enough water to take proper showers… a problem which should be remedied since it was, in fact, raining.

Sam hated anything interesting, almost as much as he hated his job.

"Maybe we'll get out early," he heard someone say, "Tunnels will start floodin'."

The lift was filled to capacity at twenty-five men, all of whom mumbled and rattled the contraption with their boots as they shifted on their feet. The metal cage groaned as it lowered them all down into the dark embrace of the Rock Bottom Mine, owned and operated by the infamous Crystal Graniteworks Company; the largest limestone mine on this side of Fiore.

"T'sa desert, Tom. This place ain't seen that much rain since b'fore the Dreadwoods turned ta stone."

The lift made a wretched screeching noise and stopped in the middle of the shaft. The men all made their normal sounds of disapproval. Swears and boots kicking metal echoed all around as they waited for the thing to start back up again. It always got stuck here, and yet every day someone always acted as if it were the first time. The only time Sam ever felt the need to kick the ancient lift was when it was bringing them back up. He hated the damn mine and hated anything that got in his way of leaving it.

That wasn't to say he was bad at his job. Sam was good at his job. Very good. It was a running joke around the mine that as long as Sam was on point, no man would have a stray rock fall on their head. Miners are superstitious folk. Over the years he had been here, it became accepted as fact that one did not go into a newly blasted area unless Sam and his twenty-foot-long sounding pole had gone first.

"If the mine floods, then Verbena's been washed off the map."

Sam counted the levels as they jittered past, not particularly interested in the conversation. Anything that might imply Sam had to do more work was something he simply wasn't interested in. And rain in the desert meant a hell of a lot of it.

Verbena was, gently put, halfway between civilization and hell. The sand dunes rolled for miles. The only rain that ever came was what scraped past the tops of the mountains on the far side of Dreadwood Valley. Even during their so-called "rainy season", Verbena didn't get so much as a sixteenth of an inch of rain. But when the rain did come, it was usually a downpour. The sand, so dry from the sun that it thirsted almost as much as the people that lived there, gorged itself once a year and ran in quicksand mudflows, upending entire shacks and dragging them hundreds of feet askew like so many dried leaves turned by running water. Occasionally, the water would seep down through the limestone, bringing back to life old cavern rivers from dry beds to minuscule trickles. Maybe there would be a puddle here or there. But other than making things a little damp for a meager handful of hours and giving them more work when their shift was over, rain was little consequence.

Except that it dampened the long fuses used during detonation, making Sam's job that much more difficult.

He scowled to no one except himself and wondered – not for the first time – if maybe after all these years Sal wasn't watching him anymore and he could finally get high in peace. He reminded himself again that the risk wasn't worth it and it was better to be sober. And then he thought about just letting a rock fall on his head.

There are pros and cons to everything if you look hard enough.

Level twenty was the deepest level in the Rock Bottom Mine, and the freshest. Every other level had been well fortified and was relatively safe. Twenty, though, was being freshly blasted. The limestone here was the most vibrant white, and the highest quality. Sounding the mine was a job entirely too fraught for him to care about how pretty the rocks were, though. He was much more preoccupied with looking above him to the ever-distant ceiling.

Miners weren't exactly known for their creativity, and had eloquently called this place The Big Room. Lit by lamps and lacrimas alike, the light was dim to be sure no one was blinded by it reflecting off the stone. Looming up from the ground were huge pillars that both aided in keeping up the ceiling as well as served their material. Sam pulled on his respirator and walked into the chilly depths, nodding to a few other miners covered in fine, white dust. A shout echoed out from the darkness and a shadow sprinted from the mouth of a large cavern.

"Fire in the hole!"

The explosion shook the pillars and the walls and the ground beneath their feet. Fine chalk showered down from above.

"Sam! Just on time, ain't ye?"

A man near the blast zone called to him, hard hat in hand. Sam didn't tip his hat to the foreman, a strait-laced man by the name of Marcelo Browning. Instead, he stared dead eyed as he approached. A boy was with him, looking hardly old enough to shave, and probably greener than the hills in the east. Did they even have age restrictions for these jobs anymore?

"Couldn't keep you boys waitin'." Sam replied and grabbed a metal pole that he had left there the day prior. It was heavier than one would expect, and that was because it was telescoping. It needed to be able to reach the tall ceilings and be sturdy enough to knock any loose rock down.

"This here is Preston. You know, Gadget's boy?" Marcelo drawled, slapping the lad on his back and pushing him forward, "He's our new sounder. Show him the ropes."

Preston must have at least been a recent local, because his face paled at the word sounder.

The boy was thin. The definition of wiry. He was in fact so slim and fragile-looking that Sam wondered how the boy even bore the weight of the hat on his head, let alone pound on the roof of a mine with a twenty-foot pole. The last boy they'd stuck him with, a blonde kid by the name of Mason Hayes, had been sounding the roof with him not more than two weeks prior when a particularly large chunk of rock dropped from the ceiling. Hard hats were mandatory, but there was only so much one could do against one hundred pounds of hard rock falling over two-dozen feet and colliding with your skull. And of course, he had been in front of Sam when it had happened. He remembered the look on the others' faces when he had come out alone, blood splattered across his jeans and boots. It had been messy, and there was still a bloodstain.

"C'mon, lad." Sam said, needing no further direction, "Time ta get yer boots wet."

Preston didn't say anything but slouched quietly behind him as they made their way into the gaping maw of the most recent hole.

They were about halfway down the tunnel, Sam tapping steadily along, sluggishly sidestepping falling rock here and there, when he heard Preston call his name. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy, narrowing his eyes.

"Um… sir?"

The boy was standing in front of a dark puddle. Sam approached and frowned. Water.

"Don't touch it," Sam instructed, "Could be pink water."

"Pink water?" Preston asked.

"From the blasting," Sam explained, "It's toxic."

The boy peered down at the puddle, "Just looks like water to me."

"It will, without sunlight." Sam replied, "Should be fine. Just don't go steppin' in-"

A drop fell from the ceiling. The echo of it ricochetted in the quiet. Sam turned his head upward and squinted, making out a glittering rivulet of water. It sloped down to the lowest point of the ceiling, forming into a swollen bead before dripping down again. Water… all the way here at level twenty?

"Everything ok down there?" a call echoed from the safe zone.

His eyes traced the trickle of water, following the glistening trail deeper into the darkness.

"Boy," Sam said, "Get the foreman."

"The foreman?"

"Be quick about it, lad." he replied.

Sam listened as the boy ran back towards the opening of the tunnel. He listened to the echoes of quick conversation and then those same footsteps racing away again. Beyond the sound of voices and shuffling behind him, Sam picked out a disconcerting noise. In the darkness, amplified so that it seemed as if it were right beside him, Sam heard an uneven rhythm. The delicate yet unceasing tapping of fingers on stone, drops which were quickly becoming a hurried series of drips as water found a fissure to explore. The faint mineral smell in the air bloomed with damp.

Sam turned towards the freshly blasted stone and walked deeper in, following the sounds of water. Water, in the desert. In stone that hadn't tasted but the barest of sips in centuries. He kept his face skyward as he walked, his stomach beginning to worry itself into a knot. Because he wasn't watching his footing, he was startled when he stepped into a puddle that lacked the high-pitched slash of shallow water. He froze and looked at his feet.

Water pooled around his boots and slipped around them, like a river parting around a tree. Water, moving water, coming from somewhere ahead. He watched it quietly, his mind unable to comprehend what it meant that water was now slipping silently down the tunnel. He continued on, mind blank as the rivulet widened. As wide as a man, and then two, then several meters. He was sloshing up to his ankles as he came to a wall jagged from fresh blasting and stained black with soot. Here, the water from the ceiling wasn't just dripping, not trickling, but falling in a small waterfall. There was a shelf of some sort, a gaping darkness in a fissure that ran across the bottom. He pulled a light from his pocket, turned it on, and dipped down to gaze inside.

"What's goin' on, Sam?"

Marcelo was sloshing up behind him, a sharpness to his tone that said he didn't like what he was seeing.

"Th'mine's flooding." Sam said.

"I didn't… what did you say?"

Sam stepped back from the light, revealing the fissure and what was inside. An underground river was churning just a few feet below them, frothing with dark water that had sifted through rock and now was raging.

"How bad did y'say it was rainin', Browning?" Sam asked.

The man's eyes widened. They stood listening to the water and Sam realized it was now up to the lip of his boots. Marcelo's look became frantic.

"There's sixty-three men on this level alone."

"That lift sticks." Sam said as the water damped his shins.

"Shit."

"Tell the boys we hit groundwater," Sam said, "We hit groundwater and we're evacuating as a precaution."

"That would get 'em up a floor, not topside."

"It's a lot of groundwater."

"Goddammit." Marcelo swore, "Let's get a move on."

By the time they had all the men in level twenty rounded up and in line for the lift, the water was nearly to their knees. The first round had gone before it was filled to capacity, and so there were still fifty of them waiting. Sam elbowed his way to the front of the line just as the grate was rolled back and shoved Preston inside.

"S-Sam…!" he objected, but Sam had already stepped back.

Bodies packed themselves tightly inside, shoving and bumping as they tried to hurry and remain orderly at the same time. Sam walked to the back of the line with Marcelo and a few other men close to retirement age.

"Damn water had to be cold on top of it," one of them griped as the light of the lift faded away.

"Shoulda brought my hip-waders," another joked sarcastically, "Shame I left them back east."

Marcelo crossed his arms, "Any of you boys know how to swim?"

"Course," Sam replied crossly, "It's the breathin' underwater bit that I never picked up."

"Your skinny ass woulda fit with Preston. Both a' you make one man put together."

Sam waved his hand dismissively, "I got out of a cave-in. I'll get outta this, too."

"Didn't ya know, Browning? Sam's our good luck charm. Ain't never had a rock fall on our heads with him ahead of us."

"Well then," Marcelo sighed, "Don't that make me feel much better."

By the time the lift came back down again, the water was to their waist.

---

The sound of receiver activating cut through the quiet peace, but Hajime didn't pay it any mind. His heels were resting against the porch and in his hand his cigarette was smoldering ever closer to the filter. He let out a deep sigh of smoke, letting it shift through his teeth.

It was a rare day for the Kaiyus. The bar was closed, a sign posted on the door stating Closed for Holiday. It wasn't a particularly special occasion. It was simply that Lorelai adored the mountains this time of year, and so they always took a day to simply go out to the back of their little shop and sit on the porch swing as the day came to an end, watching the sunset light up the western side of the mountains before it slipped beneath the peaks. When it was all said and done, Lorelai would make some of her delicious pottage stew, while he and Maia warmed up with cocoa. They'd all retire after Hajime had filled the space with stories of being a mercenary, adding flavor here and there that his daughter would point out as being different from the last time he told the story, and she'd give her own rendition before her mother would shoo her off to bed. It was a little ritual, and one that warmed his heart immensely. It was one of those days that made him wonder how in Earthland he had gotten so lucky.

Hajime had made a little fire, and Maia was sitting on the ground with a marshmallow drooping on the end of a stick. It was her favorite time of year as well, given her favorite manner of dress. She had on a jean jacket covered in patches of her favorite bands and some swears which Hajime had helped her sew on before her mother could stop them. Her combat boots were mud covered, and she had recently shaved the sides of her head and dyed the top a bright yellow. Without styling, her curls lay in a rather disheveled mop to the side of her head instead of the mohawk of her desires. Her instructor had almost kicked her out of school when she turned up like that. Hajime had, of course, charmed him with an argument about how allowing his daughter to dress this way kept her from rebelling in other ways, and truly it wasn't that distracting. His daughter had been over the moon.

Lorelai rested her head on Hajime's shoulder and stared out dreamily at the mountains set ablaze with sunset. The fall leaves turned with each delicate card of the wind down the slopes of the mountains, trembling with vibrant color. The sound of a receiver again drifted to his ears. He ignored it until it stopped.

"This new?" Hajime asked, stroking Lorelai's sleeve.

"Hm? No, Haj," she said, her tone lacking the heart of true exasperation, "I wore this just last week and you know it."

"Ah, and yet ye still be a marvel to the eye," he said against her hair and felt her quiet laugh. "You're beautiful."

"Dad," Maia called, "How do you want yours done?"

"However yens see fit."

Again, the sound of the receiver.

"That must be important," Lorelai murmured.

"Aye," Hajime sighed, stamping out the end of his cigarette. "Make yer mother's first, wee rascal."

"Make me." Maia said, flashing him a grin.

Hajime lumbered inside and was immediately struck by the chill. Walking through the kitchen and towards where the receiver was kept, he glanced into the bar and noticed that the hearth was dark. He furrowed his brow at this, wondering if he hadn't put enough wood on the fire or if they'd been outside for quite a bit longer than he'd thought.

Again, the high keen of the receiver started. Hajime grabbed it and activated it, thoroughly surprised by the image that appeared before him.

"Titan! It's about time ye answered me."

"Sal?"

A pit in his stomach opened and twisted. Hajime schooled the surprised expression he knew was plastered across his face.

"What are ye callin' about, old friend?" he asked, "Not like you to reach out, is it?"

"Aye, well…" Sal said, eyes darting to the side before he found words again, "Some strange things been happenin' 'round the Casraines."

Hajime grunted and crouched by the hearth. He blinked, confused by what he was looking at. There was indeed wood left, but not only was the fire out, the wood was cold. There weren't even embers waning on the undersides of the logs when he flipped them over. It was as if it had been doused in water, except everything was exceptionally dry. He glanced up the chimney, sure the register was open. Oxygen wasn't the issue. Why had it gone out?

"Strange things?" Hajime asked, "And that pertains ta me…?"

"You, no… but I'm thinkin' that boy of yers might have somethin' ta do with it."

"Boy of mine? Gajeel?" Hajime said, straightening. He pulled flint from his pocket and struck it. Sparks flittered and caught tinder. The fire started and immediately died. Hajime frowned.

"Did he tell ya he was comin' out here a couple weeks ago now? Brought his boyfriend with him. Askin' for Vitalis Powder."

Hajime's lip twitched. As far as he knew, the last time Gajeel had used Vitalis Powder was when they'd fought years ago. Could he and Laxus have been fighting? That didn't seem likely. Gajeel was a hot-headed ass on occasion, but Hajime had never known him to lash out with fists at a partner… unless they tried to kill him first. If he had, Hajime would have dog-walked the lad to be sure he never did it again. Why in Earthland did he need Vitalis Powder?

"Me and the lad ain't that close," Hajime replied, "If he's got a fight with someone, he ain't necessarily lettin' me in on it."

"He spoke to The Ladies while he was here."

Hajime struck flint again. Again, the fire didn't stay. He checked the tinder to ensure it wasn't damp. Thoroughly confused, he gave up.

"Listen, Sal, if yer fishin' fer somethin', I don't think I have it. And I wouldn't be in the mind ta give it to ya anyhow. I'm havin' a day with my girls."

"Now, Haj, would I be callin' you like this if it weren't important?"

Hajime's stomach wrung tighter, so many eels trapped in a bucket. He finally gave Sal his full attention, meeting the man's eyes. The hair he kept in braids appeared windswept, with flyaways striking out here and there. His stormy eyes were dark with worry. His lips were set in a firm line.

"Aw, hell… now ya got me nervous."

"I heard you were out lookin' for Krew a while back. That right?"

"Krew…" Hajime paused, trying to remember. They had been out doing… something. It was all so fuzzy now, though. It was something to do with Gajeel, something about a father or… he gave up. "My age must be catchin' up ta me. We were out lookin' fer someone but I don't remember-"

"Why were you looking for him?" Sal interrupted.

"Why are you needin' ta know?" Hajime countered, "Impartin' information with you is always a racket."

"It ain't a racket," Sal frowned, agitated. He switched gears, "Did ye find it?"

"Find what?"

"Find what ye were out lookin' for?"

"What makes ye think we were lookin' fer something?" Hajime snapped. Sal gave him a look and Hajime bristled. "You want me to talk? Give me good faith, then."

Sal blinked at him. His face twisted as if he'd just tasted something sour, but he relented.

"Nyx left."

"Nyx left?" Hajime said, floored, "I didn't know she could leave."

"Her sisters left with her. Said something real cryptic about Gajeel and that Dreyar lad, I'm thinkin', and then headed south. That's where you went, wasn't it? South?"

"What did she say?" Hajime asked.

"Aw, Haj, it's all riddles ta me…"

"LeSalle Bastille, you have a memory like a steel trap," Hajime snarled, "You tell me what that woman said about those lads. Now."

Sal gave him a hopeless look, "Somethin' about hands that steady the balance are withdrawing. A new light behind a veil and the dawn will be red hot with ash and blood. Somethin' about a sacrifice that has to be stopped or the world will be swallowed in its first cry. You know the ladies. They're, well, it's hard ta concentrate around 'em."

"Hmph…" Hajime grunted, "Why yer wife stays is beyond me."

"Is now the time ta be disapprovin' on my affairs?" Sal snapped, "Not all 'a us married for love."

"I will always disapprove." Hajime said, though it lacked bluster.

He was trying to think hard on what had happened when he, Juvia, and Gajeel had travelled south. Gajeel had said someone was out to get him, but what did that have to do with Laxus? The harder he thought, the more the memories shifted into focus.

"All the people out there were believers. We went to this ruin… a temple. Ran inta this thing, a chameleon. He said somethin' 'bout feeding gods. Gajeel threatened to jump so Father couldn't use him as a sacrifice. He knocked Gajeel back from the ledge, I think to keep him from doin' it."

"Gods… what the hell is with all this talk of gods?" Sal growled.

"Don't Nyx and her sisters believe in that sort of thing?" Hajime asked.

"They do." Sal replied, his eyes darkening as he thought.

"Dad!" Maia called from the doorway. She held a stick in her hand, an uncooked marshmallow on the end.

"Hm? What is it, lass?"

"Something is wrong with the fire."

Hajime didn't respond, which made Maia's expression turn into one of concern. Hajime patted her shoulder as he walked by her, paying no heed to the pleasantries she and Sal exchanged as he made his way outside. He handed the receiver off to Lorelai whose brows rose in question. She stuttered something about holding while Hajime helped his daughter.

Hajime looked down at the meager campfire, noting that the logs were dark. Lorelai shrieked when he thrust his hand into the pile and began turning logs over. One by one, each was revealed to not just be without flame or heat, but as if there had never been a fire at all. Hajime's stomach writhed as he struck flint against steel, watched sparks scatter and catch, and immediately dwindle and die. When he touched his hand to the logs, they were cold.

"Daddy…" Maia began.

A chatter began from the mountain, growing in a discordant symphony. Birds were cawing in alarm, screaming, and taking flight. A few at first, and then hundreds, thousands. They took to the skies en masse, blotting out the sun with the sheer amount of them. Churning in hordes and running into each other. Maia screamed as one fell, wings broken from collision, and then another. A deer broke from the trees, mouth frothing from its terror as it, and several more, stampeded by. Hajime lunged for Maia, gathering her into his arms.

"Haj!" Lorelai cried out, running to the edge of the porch.

"Stand back now!" Hajime commanded, shielding his daughter in his arms as a stag bolted with head down. He summoned lighting, red tendrils slithering around him and startling the animal to another direction. "Run for ye mother, Mai. Go!"

Maia ran with Hajime at her heels. He heard wood snapping, and suddenly the ground beneath them wasn't right. A tremor unsteadied his feet. Breaking like brontide, a deep rumble began. Hajime felt it in his chest as much as he did the soles of his boots. He had never lived through an earthquake before, but he knew what it was the moment he felt it. Terror bloomed in his chest as he activated his magic. Lorelai stretched her arms out and caught her daughter. She staggered back, headed for the door.

"The street! The street!" Hajime bellowed, and before either of them could correct their course, he scattered into red lightning. He grabbed his wife and daughter and blazed through the doorway, through two walls, and was out the other side.

Maia fell to the ground, unable to stand from how the world shook, and Lorelai fell with her to shield her with her own body. Hajime stood over his family and turned, reaching a hand towards the tavern as he called to his weapon. The buzz of static filled the air as he felt the tug of it, a shiver at first, and then rapidly approaching in a blaze of scarlet. His axe reached his hand.

That's when the screaming began. People in the street were dropping to the ground, shielding each other while crying for the world to stop shaking around them. Dogs were baying in the distance. He heard the terrible sound of bricks coming apart, of wood splintering. An awning collapsed nearby. A food cart fell over, spilling harvest spoils onto the ground. He nearly fell to his knee as the shaking turned to lurching, and the ground fissured somewhere nearby. And then he heard a sound which made his heart stop. Glass shattered, followed by the teeth-grinding sound of bricks scraping against each other and falling to the ground. There was a thunderous crash, and then another. Metal girders screamed as they twisted.

Beneath the noise, Hajime became startlingly aware of rumbling. It grew rapidly, turning into a roar as if a freight train were hurtling towards him. He looked up in horror as trees swayed and fell, adding to the chaos the sounds of snapping matchsticks and tumbling rocks. Hajime looked wildly around him, but the road was littered with bodies and buildings falling. They wouldn't be able to run fast enough, and Hajime couldn't carry his wife and daughter more than a few feet when he embodied lightning.

"Heads down now," Hajime commanded, "You keep your heads down."

Lorelai hugged Maia into her chest. He stepped away from her, dropping his axe handle into the ground to remain steady. He pulled lightning from the well of his soul, shaping power before him in brilliant tendrils of red. It had been decades since he last had to utter the words of a spell, but in the face of a mountain falling atop of them, he found he must. Electricity buzzed, crackling the air and turning the interstices of the atmosphere keen. Hajime focused on a barrier, ignoring the chaos around him. Arcs of scarlet pulsed around him, shaping into a sphere of light. The edges flickered erratically, stretching outwards. He couldn't save everyone, but he could try. As energy churned into a swirling vortex around him, he held out his hands as if to catch the force of nature coming.

He felt collision and the world hissed as rocks and mud struck his barrier. Screams became loud and then fewer, sparser. Earth and debris disintegrated or burst into steam and smoke. As the weight of a mountain bore down on him, Hajime staggered.

"Dad!" he heard Maia sob, "Dad, where are you going? Dad!"

"Maia, hush…" Loralai's voice was warm, strong, but shaking.

"I'm here, my girl. I'm here," Hajime tried not to sound strained. His heart was like a sledgehammer in his chest. He felt his strength like the trickle of sand through his fingers. He was too old to do this type of thing anymore. "I'm here… my girls…"

"See? Daddy's here." Lorelai soothed her, "Let him focus, now, hush…"

Pressure bore down on him and he fell to his knee. The world wasn't shaking beneath him, only around him now. With limbs beginning to tremble, he held to his axe as if it was holding the sky up above them.

"I'm here, my girls…" Hajime muttered nonsensically. It was an instinctual response, his brain unable to think past comfort strung together whatever felt right despite knowing nothing would. But he was a father and a husband and prided himself in one thing above all others: keeping his girls safe, "Ye'll be safe. I'm here. Ye'll be safe…"

Hajime watched as a wall of earth tore over his tavern, rising like a tidal wave over them. As the immense weight fell upon them, he braced himself. His shield crackled and flickered. All around them, screams of horror rose like red mist.

---

Sal stared at his receiver, dead now that the one it was linked to had been destroyed. He'd watched as Lorelai had dropped it to the ground, had witnessed Hajime's flight to save his wife and daughter, and then he'd witnessed the mountain break as rocks, ground, and trees fell. Now he stood in silence as the words Nyx had imparted to him before she left rang in his ears:

You walk blind to a world beyond yours, Sal.

"Sal!" Mitzi burst into his office breathless, "Sal, come quick! The Casraines…! They're… They're on fire!"

Sal felt numb as he walked through his empire. The warehouse was buzzing as people milled about, not doing much of anything. The nervousness in the air was enough to make a weaker man choke, but Sal followed Mitzi outside as if nothing were amiss. As he walked, a group of men followed, growing in size until he was at the mezzanine. Here, Sal turned and held aloft his massive hands.

"There's no need to be alarmed. We're safe here."

"What about my wife?" someone called out. As soon as he did, another shouted, "My kids are out there!" Still another, "I need to check on my ma."

"The Sable Iris will keep the women and children safe…" Sal began.

"The Ladies are gone!" another shouted, "They left!"

"The Ladies are gone?"

"They knew something was coming and they left!"

"Belay that!" Sal's voice boomed and the warehouse fell silent again. He took in a deep breath and let it out, "Those of you with family, take them to The Sable Iris. There are underground tunnels that connect us to them. Take them there. Quickly."

Men began flooding from the warehouse.

"Sir… we can't let them all go…" Mitzi began nervously.

Sal's reply was stony, "They won't be workin' fer us if their families are dead, Mitz."

"And if they're dead?"

The hands that steadied the balance are withdrawing, and the weight will fall unchecked.

The metal door to the outside world was standing wide open and there were figures crowded in the doorway. Rat was muttering something, his voice trembling. At Sal's approach, the man made a noise comparable to a squeak and scurried back along with the others. He caught their worried expressions as Mitzi explained to them they could leave if they wanted, and where to go.

An animalistic shriek echoed from somewhere in the distance, coming from the Casraines.

Sal stood in the street surrounded by others. Confused junkies were counting up the hours since their last hit, wondering if this was some drug-induced hallucination. Children were clutched to their mother's sides. Mothers were paused in their tasks. Workers from the nearby shops, taverns, bars, and factories were all standing still clad in aprons or uniform. Hundreds of people stood in the streets, all staring towards the Casraines.

The wind had stopped, and it brought with it an eerie silence. There was a stench in the air of sulfur, ozone, and electrical fire. The sky was dark, as if somehow the sun had dimmed. The stagnant dusk made his skin buzz and birds were circling as if to go to roost. The haunting scream of an elk, far louder than anything Sal had ever heard, sifted up in the air. The entire world felt as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something.

A new light burns beyond the veil. It aims to consume life and death alike. Without the sun to guide the day, the dawn will not be red with hope, but with ash and blood.

A strange, grey-green mist began creeping over the shoulders of the mountain. Movement far above him caught his eye. Something flittered down from the heavens. Soon, others joined it, drifting lazily down to the earth. If Sal hadn't known better, he would have thought it was snow. He held open his hand and caught one, seeing what it was but not understanding. Ash was raining down from the sky. The sickly green hue on the horizon deepened.

"What an eventful day this is turning into, hm?"

"Angel," Sal said, not even glancing at him.

Whispers spread of a sacrifice. I must go to try and stop it, or see the world swallowed in its first cry.

Sal was trying to think through every legend he had ever heard about the Casraines. Loggers always spoke of peeking shadows, of demons that flew through the massive trees. Gajeel had told him once he had never seen such things, but then, he also claimed to have been raised by a dragon. And now, looking at the mist that was beginning to slink closer to the edge of Oak Town, he saw something rising up from it. Birds, perhaps, but larger than any he had ever seen. Their feathers glinted strangely in the light, appearing almost metallic.

"Do you know what demons are, Sal?" Angel said beside him.

"Zeref's demons?" Sal replied numbly, "A'course, I do."

"Come now, Sleeping Giant, you know that's not what I mean."

Sal heard the clink of metal on metal. He looked over to the youngest grandson of the Montaine dynasty and noticed that his form was shivering in an unnatural way. His eyes had taken on a faint glow, shifting in and out of a cold, midnight blue. A soft, ethereal haze carried a hum which made the air around him almost appear to glow. Angel Montaine had the chamber of his gun open, and the gleaming, oily surface of the grip was oozing into his hand and mixing into his skin. His skin twitched, and Sal realized it was shifting with patterns of swirling clouds. He'd been using his gun and was now reloading it.

"Ancient demons," Sal said, "don't exist."

"Hm, yes, and neither do Baku. And yet…" he closed the chamber and cocked the gun. When he did, light began to wrap around his arms like veins. A jittering, echoing whisper began from the weapon and the shadows around Angel began to warp. Fragments of dreams – or nightmares – flickered around his edges like a mirage. Small, curved horns began pushing through his skin and slicked-back hair. The fingers of his free hand were elongated and pointed with claws.

"What have you been fighting, Angel?" Sal asked.

He pointed his clawed finger skyward, "Demons. Metal demons."

"Metal demons?"

You knew, didn't you, that my sisters and I have been in this place since long before wizards settled at the edges of this wilderness? Our mother could not keep you safe forever.

Nyx had told him before that there were ancient powers of destruction and chaos tied to this land. Sal had always heard talk of wild magic, but he had never seen it with his own eyes. He knew that loggers refused to shelter in caves during storms because they echoed with strange, otherworldly noises. But men who spend so much time isolated in the wilderness were also backward and prone to superstition.

Even still, Hajime remembered of the many late-night conversations he and Nyx had shared. When she had told him that there was dormant power in the veins of ore. The mountains pulsed with life. She had told him that long ago these mountains had been home to another whose very breath created the magic wizards used today. She had spoken of dragons and gods and demons. She had told him that the lamia had been devouring men for centuries to keep the spirits of this land satisfied. He hadn't really believed it, not truly, not until a boy had stumbled out of those cursed mountains with green magic and sharp teeth and eyes like a demon's, speaking in the tongue of dragons.

And then just a few nights ago, the lamia had left, and Sal realized he was alone to face whatever it was the lamia had kept at bay. For the first time since the fall of Phantom Lord, he wished Jose hadn't been put in jail. A Wizard Saint would be very useful right now.

The metal birds circled in the sky, aglow with wild, green magic. White steam burst from the side of a mountain, and something black emerged from the rockface. As it tumbled from the chasm, something within it sparked with crimson light. Another piercing cry broke through the sky as the mist tarnished first with yellow, and then orange, and then agonizing red. A blaze was running through the darkened valley, lighting trees in a vicious race towards the edge of the wood. Something twisted and black swayed through the timbers, an aberration of massive proportion. The wild magic had twisted the veins of ore into a facsimile of life. A golem of steel and flame rose above the trees, and from its shoulders more of the metal birds emerged. Even from the great distance, Sal could hear the low, metallic groans of their movements. The sharp, deafening crackle of molten metal cooling and melting again.

When the crowd saw what was coming, chaos erupted. People began fleeing, screaming as they ran. Men were shouting orders, clearing the streets.

"The rest of yer family comin'?" Sal asked.

"From what I hear, they have their own problems." Angel replied, "Your men?"

"They are mercenaries," Sal said practically, "I pay 'em to fight, to smuggle goods. I don't pay 'em to die for me."

"It seems we are in the same boat, then."

Sal pulled free his hammer, hefting its familiar weight in his hand. Blue tendrils of lightning hissed and popped around his knuckles.

"A question, if I may, old boy?" Angel asked, his tone bleeding with the condescending tone of the capital's accent.

"Aye?"

"Why do they call you the Sleeping Giant? Don't tell me it's for temper."

"It was the name I had when I worked for Jose," Sal said, "Once my storm starts, it becomes virtually unstoppable… like a giant waking."

He looked to Angel whose body was beginning to glow faintly, casting stark shadows across his features. He looked grotesque, his mouth distorting as he exhaled. His shadow was growing massive, twisting into something with tusks and glowing eyes. When Angel turned his head to look at him, it mimicked the motion.

"Disappointing." Angel frowned, "But expected."

"Disappointing?" Sal asked.

"Well… gigantism is indicative of, well, more," he waved his free hand dismissively, "It would be helpful."

"And you?" Sal prompted, "How long b'fore that thing eats yer soul?"

Angel lifted his weapon towards the sky and strode towards the golem without glancing back to him, "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Sleeping Giant."

As ash began falling from the sky like snow, off in the Casraines, another scream echoed. And another. And another.

---

Close to the Sonoyta River, in the center of Chuparosa, an old merchant was closing down their tiny, thatch-roofed shop. Their name was Mixtli, and they were a craftsperson of beaded works. Since Papá Ohmara and Teiyah had left, headed to a place that for many decades the elders had denied the existence of, they had been made defacto shaman. Unfortunately, Mixtli knew only what they had observed of the practice in passing and felt extremely underqualified. Equally as unfortunate was the fact that didn't matter when you lived a life of sacred balance. Because inherently it was believed they were spiritually inclined… despite how Mixtli quite fervently believed otherwise and loudly announced as such.

At this moment, they were heading towards the shaman's house to finish up their duties before the equinox. The corn had been brought in, as had the peppers and beans and wheat. The altar had been made before Papá had left, and the women of the village had been hard at work preparing feast and candles. Wood had been gathered for a bonfire, and the jumping of the flames had been prepared. What was left was to gather flowers, and possibly a goat or two for sacrifice to Ulo in thanks for the rain. And chickens, but those weren't for Ulo. They were for the anak. Did the ceremonial regalia need to be cleaned before tomorrow? Who would be dancing since Teiyah was gone? Not Aapo. Perhaps Kisin? He was old enough now, wasn't he?

It was while Mixtli was deep in thought that they nearly missed the giant lizard that stepped into their path. They froze, clumsily bowing at the waist as the animal passed. They huffed a breath and went to continue their journey when another reared its large head. A third, and then a fourth, all crossed their path. Mixtli frowned. That was… strange. The anak do not travel in groups unless they all were following the scent of something dead. And if that were the case, they would be hunting. These lizards did not appear to be hunting, but they were all certainly travelling together. And that was very, very strange.

There was a lot to prepare. They didn't have time to follow a group of massive monitor lizards out into the wasteland… but they were also defacto shaman. Would Papá have followed them with so much work that needed done? Mixtli's shoulders fell as they concluded quite regrettably that yes, yes, he would. They kicked the dust and hurried after the lizards.

It was so strange. A humid wind was picking up despite the fact that the rainy season had ended ages ago. They narrowed their eyes at the sky but found not a single cloud in sight, just some early stars twinkling overhead. The palms were swaying. The sussurus hiss of the fronds sounded like whispers in the darkness, though Mixtli pretended such a thing was just their own silly imaginings. They realized belatedly that they were walking towards the river path, headed for the ruins. Their nose prickled as a stench drifted towards them, something dreadfully close to the smell of decay.

The scent of the lizards made Mixtli grimace especially when entwined with the sweet, coppery smell that now pervaded everything. Mixtli would have thought they would run into a dead goat any minute now, from the noisomeness of it. Their eyes now watered, and they were forced to cover their mouth and nose. It made them consider that perhaps the anak had been after a carcass after all and maybe they had merely mistaken the procession as something other than the beasts hunting for whatever dead thing was making such a foul odor.

Movement in the tall grass let Mixtli know they were still headed in the right direction. One of the anak was on the path ahead, its dark scales appearing like polished obsidian in the twilight. Its head was held high, appearing to examine something ahead. As Mixtli got closer to it, they realized the trees were becoming sparse. They passed the large boulder which marked the beginning to the ruins. Immediately, as if they had just crossed some invisible barrier, Mixtli felt the warmth drain from their body. Limbs tingled; scalp prickled. A haze spread across their vision. On instinct, Mixtli removed their glasses and attempted to wipe them clean, though it made little difference.

Nebulous shapes moved in silken motion, shadows against the shades of night. Dark scales appeared sleek as oil, rippling with twitching muscle that moved beneath it. Mixtli staggered to the side when one of the giant creatures slunk by them, walking towards where the haze culminated in a deep, black smear.

Mixtli coughed, their breathing immediately becoming labored. In their youth, they had been asthmatic, and as age had now crept into the wrinkles of their face and the grey in their hair, it settled again in their lungs on days when the wind brought with it more dust than usual. They hacked, they struggled to bring in air, and watched the anak gather in a volume they knew the beasts had never done before. One by one they turned, an ocean of broad mouths curved with subtle grins leering at the ruins of Oragathol'i.

The columns of red stone stood stark against the deep, navy blue of night. The old ruin itself appeared carved afresh, like the refurbishing of an old relief. Each point, curve, and smiling skull upon the columns held a waiting malice that Mixtli had never associated with it before, despite rumors of those that went missing in their youth near its boundary. They remembered those rumors now, remembered Papá Ohmara's only daughter, and for the first time in decades felt fear, genuine fear, creep into their heart about the place.

Oragatohl'i, the place Aowas slept. The old god that devoured.

They watched as a wet darkness gathered near the base of the stone structure. It looked like a spillage, or perhaps a sudden wellspring, which now flowed upwards from the ground. It slithered, unctuous and unnatural, over the dust and sand. Where it touched brush and bramble, Mixtli watched it jitter with sudden life before disappearing into the earth.

Mixtli was confused by what they bore witness to. They thought it was black water, but then, how could it move in such a way? The anak waded into it, faces still upturned to the ruins, and all else around them dissolved away. Mixtli narrowed their eyes as a long, thin tendril of it slipped closer like some sightless worm feeling its way across the dirt. It spilled over leaves near their feet, and Mixtli's breath caught as ashen mushrooms, the likes of which they had never seen, blossomed and died into more of that black slick.

Their skin crawled and they backed away, watching as it crawled up one of the palms, blooming as it went. The tree creaked and groaned. It swayed in the humid wind and then fell heavily, immediately overtaken. That was all Mixtli had to witness before they turned and fled, chest heaving with strangled breaths.

They ran, berating themselves for their lack of fitness in their age, and horrified when glancing behind brought with it the revelation that not only was the strange, black liquid moving, but it was moving swiftly. The sounds of falling palms and wiry underbrush being eaten followed them like a hound on the hunt.

When they saw the lights of their village, the figures milling about the stakewall, they felt a mix of relief and alarm. Cizin, Alom, Xipil, and Kinich, young men who were no doubt shirking their duties of preparation for the celebration, were gathered laughing and sharing spirits. Mixtli could see the weak embers from cigarettes, the wan, orange glow lighting the frame of smiling faces.

"Run!" Mixtli cried out as best they could, chest rattling and limbs growing weak and dumb from exhaustion and lack of air. "We need to run!"

Cizin appeared alarmed, rushing towards them with knife in hand to aid them. Mixtli shook their head, waving their arms to ward him to stop. No.

"Aowas! Aowas is coming!"

"Papá," the formality made them simmer, "Papá what is coming? What is wrong?"

"Oragathol'i!" they gasped. Their vision was spotting now, blotching with black and white. "Aowas…! We must… we have to…!"

A scream pierced the air. Mixtli turned their head and watched in horror as Kinich fell backwards. A dark tendril had lurched and stuttered its way up his boot, now blooming with grey mushrooms. He was trying to kick it off as the scream of alarm quickly morphed into one of pain. His companions were dragging him back, aiding him in removing the boot and sock beneath. In seconds, the items were overcome and reduced to black slime. The men turned and ran, screaming into every house they came across to get out and run.

"What is that? Papá, what do we do?" Cizin asked, his voice pitching upwards with panic.

Mixtli's mind buzzed. They weren't a shaman. They couldn't draw a protective circle or bless or heal or summon spirits. For a dreadful moment, Mixtli was overcome by their inadequacies as the younger man practically dragged them onward, refusing to let them falter even though their lungs had betrayed them both. As Mixtli watched one of the thatched huts being overtaken by what they could only assume was some cursed blight, they realized the stone remained.

"The ancestors…" Mixtli gasped, "…we go to our ancestors! Hurry!"

The flight of the Auré from Chuparosa was frantic and filled with the cries of children, the fearful assurances of mothers, and men attempting to keep a force at bay which held neither thought, nor reason, nor fear. Some climbed atop buildings in desperation to get away when running wasn't feasible, only to be overwhelmed by the black slick and scream as flesh was eaten, and then muscle, sinew, and bone. Cut-off screams rang out across the compound. Mules brayed, unable to get free from their posts, and then went silent somewhere in the darkness. As they ran down the gravel path, more than once Mixtli was made to press onward when those too weak to move in haste were left behind them. Blurred faces of panic staggered along justhas harried as they were, while Cizin kept them both moving. Every few moments, a new scream would punctuate the darkness behind them, and panic would whip itself into an even higher intensity.

Finally, after what felt like the longest run of Mixtli's life, the bluffs loomed about them. They passed the stone marker, the crematory hut, and finally saw the open mouth of the necropolis with torches lit. The screams of those lost to the blight were growing closer. Names were being called out. Tears were being shed. Mixtli sent up a prayer to the ancestors that they hadn't just led what was left of the village to their death as they crossed into the sacred burial ground. Cizin held them steady near the entrance, ushering people through as they sprinted into the cavern.

"Aapo!" Cizin yelled. "Nelli!"

Mixtli squinted their eyes, making out the broad figure of the young man who led their dances. His wife's arm was slung over his shoulder. Swollen with child, she winced as she hurried alongside him, though it was clear her strength was failing.

The black slime was close to their heels, slipping past headstones and markers. They could hear it now, the wet snapping and squelching as it moved, growing closer.

"Run! Run Aapo!" Cizin called.

"You have to go faster, Nelli!" a voice rang out behind them, "Please! You must!"

Nelli cried out in pain, clutching her stomach.

"Behind you!" Cizin was at the edge of the necropolis now, arm outstretched as if to pull them inside himself, "Oh, Red Sun above! Behind you! Please! Run!"

Aapo's hair whipped around his face as he looked back behind them. He moved swiftly and suddenly, lifting his wife into his arms and over his shoulder. She screamed, jostling painfully as he did his best to run them up the gravel hill. Mixtli could make out the whites of his eyes when his face contorted. Black slick spilled over his boots, tangling up his legs. Screams erupted behind them as Cizin and several others surged forward. Aapo bared his teeth and refused to stop even as the mushrooms bloomed up his knees, his thighs. With one massive heave, he threw Nelli as far as he could. The men at the entrance caught her and pulled her inside just as Aapo stumbled.

Cizin let loose and enraged scream and leapt from the necropolis. He grabbed Aapo's outstretched arms and dragged them both back inside. More screams as the two fell against the earthen floor. For a horrible moment, the two men gasped on the ground as what remained of the Auré scattered back from them, unsure of their safety. The black ooze sizzled and popped, turning into a fetid dark smoke which smelled like burning grease as it shriveled away. The wet sound of what lay outside eased as the ground became coated but wasn't able to lurch its way into their ancestors' sacred resting place.

Upon seeing it recede, Mixtli dropped to Aapo's side and began stripping back leather and cloth to reveal a pattern that resembled black burns across the young man's flesh. Open wounds bled, revealing deep layers of skin, yellow fat, but not muscle. Nelli fell to her knees beside her husband and cradled his face into her chest, sobbing her thanks to him in one breath and damning him in the next for attempting such a reckless sacrifice on her behalf.

In pain and possibly in some sort of shock, the man looked to Mixtli.

"Will I still be able to dance, Papá?" he asked.

"Yes…" Mixtli choked, "Yes, I think you will."

---

Makarov Dreyar had felt like a hand had clenched around his heart when Evergreen had thrown open the doors to the guild. The little bundle of black fur in her arms, still whimpering from pain, had aided her in telling the story of what had happened. Upon hearing that his grandson, Laxus, of all people, had been taken, the entire guild fell into a smothering silence. In the silence, eyes had turned towards him. Beseeching, concerned, horrified. Who could have overwhelmed Laxus? And how could any of them stop it?

Makarov had no such thoughts. The fist around his heart clenched tightly, balling into a cold, jagged fist. Nausea twisted and curled in his belly, climbing up as far as the back of his throat and holding there. Waiting. And then, beneath it all, a warmth had begun to simmer. It was quiet at first, patient, and well known to him in his age. It drew its beginnings from somewhere around his diaphragm and threatened reason. Spreading, aching like a heart-attack, through his extremities and up his throat, and exuding blistering light behind his eyes. Magic blazed in his mouth, in his skull, radiant and white as he gazed down upon Evergreen. His influence clawed across the guild, bowing wooden beams and causing the entire building to groan in dread.

"Tell me again, my child… who took my grandson?"

There weren't many of them. Team Natsu was still on a mission, and Mirajane hadn't been able to reach them. And then, as they were readying to leave the guild and head south, calls began reaching them. Runners from nearby cities came in breathless, speaking of natural disasters and apocalypse. People were dying, and they were calling on the guild to help however they could. Makarov was torn in two between saving hundreds of strangers or his one and only grandson.

The fist around his heart tightened, squeezing not only his pulse but his very lungs. His thoughts plunged into turmoil, playing on repeat behind his eyes their last argument… the last time they had really talked to each other.

This is my life! Everything I've built!

And you would rather no life at all?!

Makarov, desperate to save his grandson from his own mistakes, had made decisions for him. And Laxus, enraged and hurt, let him glimpse through angry words the fragility he hid so well. Laxus's strength was everything to him, and when this was threatened he had reached out to him in desperation. For help. And Makarov, in his fear and his guilt, had insisted on doing something drastic. Take out the lacrima. Finally be rid of this thing Makarov could only associate with pain. Even if it reduced Laxus to simply a man, despite knowing how his grandson couldn't envision a life that way. Despite knowing it might break his spirit.

All he had needed was his grandfather's support… and Makarov had failed him.

He wouldn't do so again.

They'd split into teams. Those who would go and aid anyone they could, and those who would make a rescue attempt for Laxus and Gajeel. Team Shadow Gear, Evergreen, Mirajane, Juvia, and himself would travel south. There wasn't many of them, but that did little in the way of disparaging them. Makarov led the charge to the train station and waited in furious, agonizing silence as the train screeched and shuttered its way across the countryside towards Chia.

They disembarked quickly. Levy's brow had furrowed sharply over her round, doe eyes as she began engineering a way to cross the desert swiftly when Juvia had turned her head. It was an action like a bird that had been startled, gaze training to something out across the horizon.

"What is it, Juvia?" Makarov asked.

"Juvia feels… rain."

She pointed to the distance where a haze had settled. Stillness had fallen, broken only by the nervous sound of horses and camels pawing and groaning, fighting against reigns and even bolting when given the chance. An odd chill sheeted from the dunes, prickling his aged skin. The sky was a roiling battleship grey fissured with a sicken green pallor. The air appeared sharp, white-silver and puter. To Makarov it felt like a thin line separated them from the passage to another world and time. He had the distinct feeling that the universe was no longer infinite. It was a cage, and something had begun rattling the bars.

"Master?" Mira asked timidly.

He raised one, aged hand to silence her.

It could have been a trick of his old eyes making shapes out of shadows, and yet Makarov was sure he saw a figure taking form from the haze. The low swoop of wingbeats sounded as a giant, dark bird moved above them, making one wide arc before turning in a lazy sweep off towards the desert. Another appeared, silent and massive, and then another. And another. Massive black birds with the distinctive throat of carrion-feeders punctured through the dark clouds like shark fins cutting water, circling the lone shape. A sharp cry sounded. A coyote screamed an alarm to its kin, followed then by an innumerous cacophony. They didn't just howl, but chortled, snarled, and cackled in the distance, growing loud though they didn't see any approaching.

"Illusion magic?" Levy guessed.

"It is not magic." Makarov said.

Makarov was old, and age brings with it experience. He knew this energy that he felt growing around them, the conflict of nature and the shape of something approaching from the desert. He had encountered it before, recognized it as something beyond the depth of the wizards with him now. They could stand and fight what was approaching, but it would steal valuable time. He didn't know how much of it Laxus and Gajeel had, and he couldn't afford to take any chances. Whatever was coming would block the desert to them, he knew. There would be no circumventing it unless it was kept here.

"Is there another way around the desert?" Makarov asked, glancing to Levy.

"We could approach from further south. There's a pass we could use through the mountains…"

"The Dreadwood Forest… there are cenotes," Juvia said sternly, "Juvia can move us through the water."

Makarov nodded an affirmation, "Go then."

"Go?" Mirajane asked, the widening of her eyes betraying alarm.

"I will meet you." Makarov replied.

"But Master…" Evergreen said, a tremble to her voice that was foreign to him. She hid fear so well. Seeing her lips quiver as she fought to maintain her composure brought an unsettling understanding to the surface for them all, "…we need you."

We can't do this without you.

Makarov smiled at her encouragingly, then swept his gaze to each of his children. Levy stood under Jet's arm; intelligent eyes dark with worry. Droy fidgeted where he stood. Evergreen and Mirajane were uncharacteristically close, eyes misty with worry for their friends, for him, and for the disasters that now plagued Fiore. Juvia had opened her umbrella, her face blank as she desperately tried to hide her own emotions. A coping mechanism she still reverted back to in times of great distress.

"Save Gajeel," Makarov said, "Save my grandson."

Makarov set his jaw and grinned at them, lifting his hand to the sky. His finger pointed upward, his thumb out, his three fingers curled against his palm. Their signal, their symbol, that they were Fairy Tail wizards, and no matter what lay ahead they would prevail. They responded to him in kind, even as a single tear streaked down Juvia's cheek.

"Aye sir!" they responded in unison, and immediately scattered, rushing in the direction where Juvia led them.

For a long while, Makarov watched them leave until their silhouettes were obscured by the growing mist and his pride melted into something that pitted in his chest. He turned to face the approaching force and began walking out to meet it. A dread wind was growing, kicking up red sand and threatening to blind him. It bit into his aged skin like pieces of glass. Occasionally, forms would coalesce in it, inciting shapes of scavengers that would collapse once Makarov trained his attention to them. A royal jade glow began to permeate through the atmosphere, greying out the ruby color of the desert and tinting the world in unsettling shades of green.

A woman stepped towards him, above her the black shapes of condors circling. In one second, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. There was a primordial edge to the power which flowed from her like skeins of smoke drifting off a pyre. Images of barbary, of bloodletting, of practices long since outlawed and left in the dust of the past whisked through his mind's eye and he found it to be enchanting, even arousing. It flowed through him, backlit by flickers of firelight and shrilling with songs in languages he had never heard. The crone with jade-colored eyes stood cloaked in black, the sound of hollow bones following her every movement. When she smiled, Makarov felt a hook lance his heart and pull. It wasn't physical, and yet he staggered.

A feeling of dread seeped into his bones. Makarov Dreyar, his youth having long since left him, did not fear death. But now, it was manifested before him. A premonition of dread, approaching with the slow confidence that knew this encounter could only culminate in one kind of conclusion.

She smiled and Makarov felt his heart snare in the irregular skip-beat pattern of death. When she spoke, he heard not just a woman's voice, but overlayed was that of a man. The words struck him like the deep, reverberating beat of a drum.

"Do you feel it?" they said, jade crawling across the woman's face and down her throat, "Do you feel the call to run, to flee the coming ruin, running up your spine?"

"What coming ruin?" Makarov demanded, clenching his fists.

His magic activated, banishing the creeping mist with tendrils of dazzling white light. Power rippled throughout his body, and there, amidst it all, there was something. A foreign ache he couldn't place, a deep-seeded terror denied only by a belief of impossibility. Makarov did not fear death… but in an intrinsic and atavistic way, he felt his mortality like an ailment. The woman before him smiled with teeth the color of green sea glass smoothed by the ocean and time. Behind her, inside her, around her, Makarov saw the figure of a man.

"Even if there is but a morsel left, the ancestral need of gods to flee their inevitable end is alive inside of you…"

The woman's form vanished inside the growing form of something else. Black rivulets turned into locks adorned with a copper crown. Flesh the color alabaster colored with the sickening navy and purple hues of those long dead. Massive black wings unfurled behind him and the empty eyes of a skull stared down on Makarov as the man grew larger, larger, towering above him with power that rippled the sands around them as if it were a placid lake.

Makarov flinched from a visage that burned his eyes and threatened to blind him.

"…long have I awaited this day," the old god's voice echoed through the heavens, "Yours will be but only the first blood to wet my thirst."

"You will not leave this place," Makarov said, his voice powerful despite the wind. He called on his magic, the gigantism which forced his bones to lengthen and fortify and pushed him up to stand nearly eye-to-eye with the God of Death before him. He no longer had to avert his gaze, meeting him steadfastly, solid and refusing to be drowned in the god's shadow, "You will remain here where you belong."

The old god's laugh punctuated the air between them like a sharp pin striking out. Again, Makarov had no choice but to flinch in the wake of it.

"And you will keep me here?"

"If I must," Makarov snarled.

The god smiled, his hand reaching outward to his side. The desert, summoned to his immutable call, materialized a polished spine of jade topped with a heavy mace the shape of a condor's skull. Hollowed, it rattled with the one experimental swing the god gave, an ominous sound of clattering bones or the last death throws of a corpse. The weight of inevitability and the haunting emptiness of the desert manifest.

"Then I shall delight in your bloodletting,"

The old god lunged.

---

Dr. Woolf made a disgruntled noise as he studied the body on the table. His arms were bloodied to his elbows, his apron stained. He didn't even look up at Marjorie as she came down the stairs and crossed the frigid basement. Dead bodies didn't bother her. They hadn't bothered her for decades now. And even if Dr. Woolf was poor tempered and prone to lashing out, he had enough respect for Marjorie that he didn't dare to bother her when she made her way to the door at the farthest end of the room, past where the bodies were kept. The old utility closet that he never used.

Marjorie kept her head down until she'd stepped inside and closed the tiny door behind her. It was a snug fit, but she made do. She didn't need much space, anyway. It was a small, portable altar, after all. Nothing elaborate.

The altar consisted of a shelf with a wooden box sitting on it. She'd removed one of the other shelves and placed it higher up in order to make space for when she lifted the lid and exposed the elements inside. A small, hand broom. A chalice. A small bat figuring carved from old, dark wood and stained red. Bandages, a scalpel, and what remained of healing potions. A small wreath of yarrow, thyme and lavender also sat on the shelf alongside a notepad and pen. She took out a match and lit a candle of intermixed red and black wax.

With care and consideration, she wrote down the names of those who had died during the night. A recent inmate who had been jumped the day before, a suicide, and an elderly prisoner who had died in his sleep. She reverently recorded their names, and then beneath she wrote the names of those who were injured that might need a little help in the healing process. Just a nudge from the Goddess to remain on this plane a little longer. When she was finished, she rolled the paper and held it above the flame. It caught and she laid it down on a small saucer for just this occasion.

Majorie bent her head down and whispered a prayer.

Vilra, Goddess of Blood and Spirit, hear me. Grant me the strength to mend what can be saved and release what cannot. Guide me to draw from the river of life without fear, and to honor the spirits that flow to your embrace. May my work be a conduit for your will, and may their spirits find peace in your crimson tide. To the spirit, I offer; to the blood, I vow.

With her morning properly started, she snuffed out the candles and backed out of the closet. She rubbed her hands together as she made past Dr. Woolf and towards the stairs, pausing when she noticed he was still staring down at the body laid bare on the table, a sharp frown pulling down his features.

"Ye keep sighin' like that, and I'll begin thinkin' ye have female troubles, me good doctor," Marjorie said lightly, attempting to bring him into better spirits before any of his aids came in, "Come now, what's got ye lookin' so dour this early in the mornin'?"

Dr. Woolf waived his hand over the body, exasperated, "It's all wrong."

"Well, I wouldn't call bein' dead wrong, good doctor…"

Dr. Woolf snuffed and picked up a vile which had been resting on the tray beside the body. He swirled it a couple of times before extending his hand out to her. When she reached to grab it, he snatched it away and gave her a look-don't-touch glare. Marjorie replied with her own exasperated look before leaning in towards it and squinting her eyes.

"It's not coagulating," he replied as rigidly as the prison's blank, concrete walls, "None of it is."

Majorie felt her heart give an anxious squeeze, "Is it… have ye made sure he's really gone, sir?"

"Well, his heart certainly wasn't beating when I opened him up to look around," he replied rasped, scowling.

"Perhaps a blood disorder, then? Something which made him bleed easily?" Marjorie suggested.

"Not in his medical file," Dr. Woolf said, his inflection telling her he found the question superfluous at best, degrading at most, "And no anticoagulant medicines."

"Ye've tested for it already?"

"No," Dr. Woolf huffed, "But how could he get his hands on medication unless it is from this infirmary?"

"We audit what's been used and what's on hand, doctor, every week's end," Marjorie replied, "Double signatures an' everything. And I give it personally to the Major."

"Magic then," Woolf said, continuing his thoughts, "Which would mean all those new wards the Major has dumped his money into is doing no good."

"Makin' a mighty big assumption there." Majorie stared at the body on the table, "And what even could do such a thing as that? Blood Magic? Illusory Blood, a mimicry? An enchantment of the circulation? For what ends?"

"Oh, any number of reasons," Dr. Woolf said with a deep sigh that, had it become any deeper, might have taken on its own personality and rolled its eyes at her stupid question, "Transforming the blood would make it difficult to pinpoint poisons. Obscure the actual time of death, perhaps, even to frame another inmate for the murder. To send me in circles, maybe."

"A severing of spiritual ties?" Majorie murmured, and when the doctor gave her a prompting look she rushed to hide her blunder, "Wasn't it the lad from the capital who sent him here? The Wayfare Killer, or whatever fancy names the papers gave to 'im?"

"Thoroughfare."

Marjorie looked to the good doctor who was beginning to draw thick surgical thread through the eye of his wickedly curved needle. She studied it cautiously, always put off by the sight of the thing. It was silly. She was used to sutures. She was a nurse, after all, and had been for decades.

"Beggin' your pardon, Dr. Woolf?"

"He was called the Thoroughfare Killer. Not the Wayfare Killer."

He pressed needle to flesh, and just as surely as if the man were still alive, a scarlet bead welled up and slipped free.

"Of course…" she said, her voice as pallid as she felt.

He is dead as anything, she thought, and yet he looks alive enough to open his eyes and accuse the doctor of disturbing his sleep.

Scarlet smeared across pale flesh marbled with sickly purple veins. The needle punctured skin, and Marjorie found herself turning over another silent prayer that the soul go in peace. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Marjorie had come from a small village and she'd known of a witchdoctor whom her family occasionally called upon when they were young and sick. She worshipped a goddess. None of this meant she was some powerful spiritual being, and she definitely wasn't magically gifted. She did see shadows from time to time and felt that she knew when her goddess listened to her prayers. She could spot evil; she could discern good. She knew, for instance, that Major Bishop was far more gifted than he let on. Incredibly so. It was in the blood that she knew. She felt it through its warmth in flesh, through searching for pulse, through the very feel of it. Its proximity told her things about life.

The body on the table was devoid of life, and yet it bled. It bled and she prayed, and she knew somehow that her goddess wasn't listening. And that chilled her more than the frigid air of the morgue.

Dr. Woolf had said something, and she'd missed it.

"Apologies… what was it you-?"

"Unsettling, isn't it?" Dr. Woolf said again. His tone was chilly but the bite to it was gone, "Imagine how I felt cutting through the sternum."

"Marjorie?" a voice called from the top of the stairs, an unsurety to the tone that held more fear than perplexion, "I think you should look at this."

Majorie bustled to the top of the stairs. A young nurse, Margo, was waiting for her. She wrung her scrubs in her hands anxiously.

"What is it, love? Go on, show me. I'll see that's it's handled right proper." Marjorie huffed, relieved to be free of the basement. Margo smiled softly in gratitude, though the worried crease between her brows remained.

As they made their way further into the infirmary and towards the nurse's station, Marjorie felt her skin prickle with chill. Perhaps the body on the table had affected her more than she previously thought. The world seemed washed of its vibrancy. The sterile walls of the infirmary, once a comfort to her, now look utilitarian and austere. There was a paleness to everything, and an odd pattern spidered across them, so faint that she felt surely it must be a trick of the light. It pulsed in her periphery like the throbbing of a heart, but it didn't invoke vitality to her. She got the sense of a creature dying, its lifeforce slipping away leaving behind the unsettling cold that now made her core tighten as she tried not to shiver.

They passed open doorways, portals to beds and the men who lay in them. Each felt like peering into a tiny, foreign world. Devoid of movement, each looked trapped in time. And then Marjorie realized with a start that the infirmary was silent. Even her fellow nurses appeared like wraiths in their duties, speaking softly as if fearing breaking some spell. Her stomach turned and a nervous itch began at the base of her skull.

Finally, Margo led her to Severance Wing. On a good day, it was thirty-two beds of misery, thirty-six beds on a bad one. Today was a good day with no extra beds. Still, this was Marjorie's least favorite wing, every bed occupied with the new transfers to the prison and those who succumbed to The Shakes. Despite having the nullification wards in place and the collars being almost completely removed, there was still one wing of the prison under construction, which meant prisoners were still subject to the awful effects of antimagic. Her heart went out to them. So many of them suffered, and the fever could even induce seizures. That's what Marjorie expected to see, a man seizing. What she saw, though, only served to feed her unease.

They were all quiet. No moans from the magic deficiency, from the fevers and the aches that it left in their joints. No mutterings from hallucinations. No movement. There was a horrible stillness, as if they had all slipped into death at once. She passed by one and noticed that his eyes were slightly open, the jaundiced look of them, and how the pupils dashed from left to right, as if he were experiencing some terrible dream. She looked out over the beds, frowning.

"It came on them all at once," Margo said, her voice muted, as if she were speaking through a pane of glass. Marjorie felt more than saw the pulsing in the walls now, and it quickened when Margo spoke, "The strangest thing. They don't respond to anything, not even pain."

Marjorie approached the bed. She reached for the man's hand, speaking gently as she checked for pulse. Marjorie frowned, searching for the vein. She felt it pressing against her fingers, but couldn't feel a pulse. A buzzing sensation of fear pooled in her fingertips and she checked his throat. His eyes were moving, she could see it clearly. His chest continued to rise and fall. Why couldn't she feel his pulse?

Another nurse had walked up as well, also looking to her for guidance.

"Mr. Auger," Marjorie said, snapping her fingers in front of his eyes, "Gwyar Auger, can ye hear me, dear? It's ol' Marjorie, dear. I need ye to answer me, if you have it in you. Can you squeeze my hand? Even a blink will do, if it's all you can manage."

He didn't respond, and so she gently lifted his lid to check if he would respond to light. She began feeling his arms, working her way down, checking the circulation of his legs. Nothing. He was still and quiet, not even reacting to her touch. A few other nurses came up to them, gathering around the bed, all with equally worried faces.

"When did this start?"

"Recently… maybe a half hour. It's as if they've been put under some spell…"

"People don't curse infirmaries," Marjorie said, "Had one of the knights in? Check for magic?"

"Yes," Margo said, "They didn't sense anything. No residual… anything."

Margo also wasn't a wizard, made clear with her poor explanation. She shrugged hopelessly.

"They been given anythin'? To help with The Shakes? Somethin' to aid in sleep or the like?"

"No, or, well… different. Not all the same thing. Not all at once."

Marjorie went through her mental list, checking things off one at a time. Each idea was more radical than the next but what else could explain this?

"Something in their food? When was the kitchen last cleaned?"

"I'll go check with the chef," someone volunteered and rushed off.

"Could The Shakes have… changed? Maybe because of the runes and the collars, it's gotten worse?" one of the others offered.

"That shouldn't be happening here, love. Ain't no runes to be found in the infirmary," Marjorie thought aloud, "Any of the prison comin' in ill? Could be some virus and these poor lads got it the worse?'

"What about the transfers? They haven't been in the prison yet."

"T's a big room. Could be the breath that spreads it. Bad air."

"Then why haven't any of us gotten sick?" Margo asked. She continued to wring the hem of her shirt. Marjorie was sure there'd be a hole worn through soon, "Marina gets sick over anything, you know."

As if to confirm, Marina said, "I feel fine."

A scent prickled Marjorie's nose. A stray smell at first, but then it stuck and made her grimace. A cloying, metallic smell. One of the others winced as well and pulled her shirt over her nose. Julia was never good with blood, though she didn't faint anymore. This smell, though, was far more potent than what Marjorie was familiar with when it came to wounds. There was a bitterness to it, like iron left to rust in saltwater. She looked around to find the source, meeting only equally disgusted and puzzled expressions.

A gasp grabbed Marjorie's attention. Across from her was Anita, a middle-aged woman with long, dark brown hair. Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes blew wide. Marjorie followed her gaze down to their ward, and she too gasped.

Blood was slipping out of the corners of his eyes, his nose, even his mouth and ears. His skin was growing pale, his veins stark against him. His eyes rolled backwards and he lurched, suddenly breaking out into a seizure.

"Mr. Auger? Mr. Auger!" Marjorie rushed to release him from his bonds and a couple of the others followed suit. One of the nurses ran to get something to clean away the blood as Marjorie tried to get her hands beneath him to heave him onto his side.

He suddenly sat up, the whites of his eyes yellowed and streaked with sickly red veins. He grabbed her shirt and pulled her down to him until his face was mere inches away. His breath hit her face, and she could almost taste the tinny tang of metal in her mouth. She could hear yelling and the rushing of the other nurses to aid her. Faintly, she was aware of his grip around her arm and how it tightened to the point of pain. She could hear rattling in his chest, a dull clicking that signaled the fatal filling of lungs with fluid. The blood ran from him as if each orifice on his face were a gaping wound.

His lips trembled, parted slightly. The rattling became more insistent.

"Gwyar Auger…" Marjorie said, "Hear me, ye must get on yer side, now. Yer havin' hemorrhaging and we need to find the cause-"

His lips worked rapidly. Sound eased from the back of his throat, a wet whistle of a sound.

"T-t-t-t-ides…"

Someone else was holding onto her shoulders, her free arm. They were strong, forceful things, not the hands of the other nurses. Voices around her grew louder but all she could focus on was the man shaking violently before her. She held his hand, squeezing it in the comforting way only someone who had witnessed the worst of dying can. He coughed and she felt warmth and red splatter against her.

"T-t-t-tides… of…"

"Shh, shh, hush, now, hush…" Marjorie said calmly, "No tides here, now. No tides."

"…blood."

The world funneled down into that word. The bed was covered in red and it ran over him as if it had been poured. Marjorie realized she felt nothing touching him. She felt no life, no inherent history. Only the blood was warm. His veins were so dark they appeared black against his blanched skin.

"Tides?" Marjorie asked.

"T-t-t-tides… of blood…! Tides of blood! Tides of blood! Tides of blood!"

He threw his head back as he convulsed, screaming the words over and over again. Echoes of that same phrase resounded around them as others in the Severance Wing all began screaming it as well. She could hear beds rattling and the sound of men choking on blood.

"Go! Get them unbound, now! On the side, hurry, now, hurry!" Marjorie ordered.

Oh, her ladies were well trained. Even with faces drained from terror, they rushed to unlock cuffs and untie bindings. The sound of blood pattering onto the ground added to the symphony of screams and gurgling. Rune knights were pulled into the chaos, ordered to help in the movement. All the while, Marjorie held onto her patient, praying to anything that might listen for his violent seizing to end, for the screaming to stop, for the blood to stop.

Suddenly, it did. A crackling stillness swept across the ward that was even more unbearable than the sounds of pain and panic. Blind, yellowed eyes tilted towards her, still rolled back. Gwyar Auger's mouth drooped open, blood now so pooled behind his head that it puddled. His head nodded lamely back and forth, back and forth, and made quiet sounds of wet impact.

"The chalice is empty…" his chest rattled and heaved as if speaking took far too great an effort to be sustained. Marjorie didn't ask questions this time, knowing now that he wasn't speaking to her… if it was even him speaking at all, "…I walk now where you cannot follow."

His body crumpled. His head lolled away from her. His breathing stopped. Shaking, Marjorie reached down and checked his pulse once more. For a moment, Marjorie couldn't find her voice.

"Critical Drop on bed two," she breathed.

"What?" a man's voice asked. She turned her head and found herself staring down some poor, terrified Rune Knight. His eyes were large and brown, "Repeat, ma'am?"

"Critical Drop on bed two," she said, louder. She raised her head and gazed at the other stunned nurses. She mustered her courage and brought forward her most commanding voice, "Critical Drop on bed two! Get me statuses, ladies, come on! You know what to do!"

"Critical Drop on bed three," Margo said, her voice quivering.

Anita's voice was warbling, as if she were barely containing panic, "Critical Drop, bed five."

"Critical Drop on bed four." Marina reported.

"Critical Drop on… on bed seven."

"Bed fourteen, as well."

"Bed twenty-two."

"Critical Drop on bed thirty."

"It's all of the beds, Marjorie," Margo said, "Critical Drop on every one."

Marjorie's head was spinning so violently, she barely registered that the Rune Knight was speaking to her. Her head felt like it moved so slowly as she turned to look at him. His form wavered, flickering in and out like a light fading.

No shock now, Marjorie. Later, after this is all over, you can. But now, you pull yourself together and you be strong for all these ladies and knights. That's a good girl, now. Back to the present.

"What was that, dear?" she asked, "I've got little time for your knightly duties, now. I have a crisis to handle."

"Apologies, ma'am…" he said, "I'm still fairly new. Critical Drop…?"

"Oh." She said and felt pity that they let someone so green come to the infirmary on this day in particular, "They're dead, lad."

"All of them?" his voice cracked with horror and disbelief.

"Yes," she said, then reached forward and patted him roughly on the cheek, once, twice, "Steady up. Stiff chin, now. We need to check the other patients. If you don't have the stomach for blood, then ye'd best go to handle supplies at the station."

She called over the rest of her staff. Rattled as they were, she knew they were like her. This was the infirmary of Ember Island Maximum Security Prison, and they were not strangers to tragedy. Marjorie let them each have a second to pull themselves together, nodding once to signal that time was up. Eyes hardened. Determined expressions were pinned into place.

"Tie up your hair and roll up your sleeves, loves. Saving lives is the number one priority. Comfort is secondary and something we have little time for. Understood?"

With that, she turned on her heel and led their charge out into the infirmary proper, going room to room to save anyone that they could.

In the near distance, the ringing alarm of the prison began to sound.

---

He always knew when it was raining.

It came to him like waking from a comfortable dream to the damp chill of concrete. It whispered at him, then curled against him, until the discomfort became so profound his skin began to crawl. It was easy enough to tune it out once he realized what it was. For what it was worth, it was quite helpful right now.

In his mind, he was a child in the bowling green, laying on the freshly wetted grass after the storm. Dark ashes inched across his skin, prickling where water touched. His eyes were closed. His hair fanned out around him. His life was slipping out into the wet earth, and steam eased up around him. It was peaceful, even if he knew he was dying.

Making himself small was no small task. How does one ask a star to collapse without it first experiencing its spectacular discharge? Becoming small involved concentration and forcing power into places in his body until he felt pressure sift out his pores. It wasn't painful; it was simply uncomfortable. Like forcing far too many clothes inside of a suitcase. Each metallic clasp screamed for relief, for release, but held firm anyway. It couldn't hold forever, but perhaps with some vision, some discipline, some flexibility, it could last just a little bit longer.

Zahir took a deep breath in and let it out in a blazing sigh.

He heard footsteps approach. Zahir was so used to his routine that he knew intrinsically it couldn't be roll call, or a meal, or even Gajeel. The echo of footsteps was hurried and without care. Clipped. Callous. A Rune Knight, high ranking, more than likely. Someone who didn't care to be heard or recognized. Someone who was moving quickly and with purpose, towards him. He listened to the steps as they approached, listened to them slow as they came before his cell, and then felt the silence ring as they stood before him. If Zahir had been a better, more calm man, more self-controlled and temperate, he wouldn't have opened his eyes. And when he did, he wasn't quite able to tamp down his surprise at who stood before him.

None other than the bane of his existence: Lieutenant Serrill.

"Lieutenant," Zahir regarded him coyly, leaning to rest his chin against his fist, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Lieutenant stood for a moment, starting at him. His chest rose and fell quickly, and there was something about his steely gaze which trembled. His hands were in lax fists at his sides, as if he were fighting very hard to remain at attention. Zahir thought if he flared his heat even minutely, the man would take off running down the corridor. It wasn't a secret that he was terrified. Gajeel had mentioned them being in therapy together, and it didn't take a genius to guess why such a recent change.

"I would say I don't have all day, Lieutenant, but well…" Zahir motioned around himself with one hand.

If he has some sort of intrepid plan to seek vengeance, he could at least get it over with quickly.

He resisted the urge to glance at the runes which caged him. He'd burned them almost completely away, now. And with how long he had kept himself small, he knew that once he released his hold on his power, it would be explosive enough to burn through the runes which would activate to quench his oxygen. The heat would have to be incredibly intense and last a couple of seconds, but he had enough of his own innate strength to manage it. He would just need one deep breath before he tried. He was considering whether this would be necessary to attempt in the near future, particularly if the Lieutenant was actually plotting to kill him, when he watched Serrill's shoulders rise and fall in an exaggerated, fortifying breath.

"Hellebore," he said sternly, his lips set in an unreadable line, "I've come to… to make you a deal."

Zahir blinked at him, then looked warily around him. There were no other cadets with him. Even the Major, who always seemed close by whenever Serrill was forced to this end of the prison, was noticeably missing. He glanced towards the recording Lacrima above them, the blind eye always watching.

"There's no one there," Lieutenant Serrill said, "There are bigger things going on than this conversation right now."

Bigger than monitoring your most dangerous prisoner? Zahir's brow arched as he considered him.

"And… you need my help?" Zahir asked, his lips twisting in amusement. He couldn't believe the irony, "Need me to light some fires for you, Lieutenant?"

The bubble of laughter stayed just at the opening of his throat, because the Lieutenant's frown changed its character with barely a twitch, transforming into something far different than his well-worn scowl. His eyes dimmed; his color faded. He looked like a man staring down a noose.

"Oh," Zahir said, the single syllable holding enough inflection that Serrill was forced to avert his gaze entirely, "Oh, you are desperate, aren't you? Coming to me, of all people, for help? What's the matter? Can't clean up a little mess without the Major's help?"

The blonde's jaw clenched, "He's in danger."

Again, Zahir was left fumbling, "What?"

"Major Bishop is in danger," Serrill reiterated, strength returning to his voice, "And I need your help."

That time, Zahir did laugh. It wasn't completely theatrical, either. It was a genuine laugh of bemusement.

"You need my help to save my prison warden's life? The man who keeps me here?" Zahir asked, grinning, "As if I would."

"Of course, you wouldn't." he snapped, "But you would save Gajeel's, wouldn't you?"

A pang twanged in Zahir's chest. It snuck up on him, nearly destroying all his efforts to keep himself contained. Humor fled him. Of course, his Laxus could surely save him? But if that were truly the case, would Lieutenant Serrill be here asking for help now? Major Bishop was a magic-less man, but what wizard could possibly be strong enough to jeopardize Gajeel and Laxus's lives? Zahir's plasma core spasmed with emotion that he found hard to keep tamped down. Despite himself, his eyes flashed to the runes. They glittered with the effort to keep him nullified, the symbols roughened and partially burned.

"You are Igmallad, The Violet King, aren't you?"

Zahir's eyes flashed back to the Lieutenant's face. It was then that he glimpsed a book clasped in his hand, held tightly against his side. There were symbols in an old language, one Zahir knew came from another time entirely. Had the Lieutenant read into his mother's cult? To what end?

"I am his son," Zahir said coldly. With a roll of his eyes, he added, "His undying spark resides in me."

Again, Serrill took a steadying breath, "Do you know who Marinus Undine is?"

His core twinged hatefully. He felt his blood turn calescent, flushing lividity to every fiber of his being. He would have staggered had he been standing. Igmallad's ember was usually quiet unless he were setting something on fire, but that name made it feel almost enraged. Zahir clamped down on a breath, trying desperately to hold his fire down. It was a test of will, and one he was determined not to lose. He would have expected the Lieutenant to be startled by his wretched reaction, but the man seemed to have pinned some of his usual pretense back into place.

"Of course you do. It involves him," Lieutenant Serrill said, filling the silence, "part of your conquest of Fiore involved getting rid of him, didn't it? I can take you to him."

Zahir's spark surged again, but he had tamped it back into submission. He wasn't a fool. He knew there were parts that the Lieutenant was purposefully leaving out. If the Major was in trouble, why not send a squadron after him, for instance? How Gajeel and his beau factored into this was also left without explanation. Whatever was going on, the Lieutenant was doing this without the other Rune Knight's knowledge.

Perhaps this knowledge would be daunting to another, but upon reflection Zahir found he cared little. He also found that he had already resolved to help. He owed the Lieutenant for keeping Gajeel alive in their fight. And he had little scruples about saving the one man he'd ever been able to touch without burning, even if they'd never be romantically involved. And, after it was all over, neither the Major nor the Lieutenant would be able to stop him from leaving if he wished. It would certainly save him the trouble of trying to find a way to cross the bay which separated him from the mainland.

Zahir pushed himself to his feet, only now realizing that the Lieutenant was presenting some sort of case. His words floundered and then stopped entirely. He appeared startled for a second, his mouth pressed into a firm line to hide his nervousness.

"My thanks for keeping Kurogane alive," Zahir said, marching up to the tenuous boundary which separated them. He ran his fingers through his hair, coiling a violet strand around his finger, "You'll want to fortify yourself, Lieutenant."

"What?" the Lieutenant asked, silvery eyes widening, "W-why would I-?"

Zahir relaxed the tension in his back, feeling the burning inferno inside kicking up in preparation to react. It boiled and frothed in his skin, ready to be free of its confinement.

"This will be explosive," he grinned at him wickedly, "So unless you want to be cinders, you'll do what I say. Now."

Zahir took a deep breath in. He released his control just as a silver circle sprang to life beneath the Lieutenant. Power exploded around them. Zahir heard the runes fizzle and then felt the ones which were meant to snuff him out activate. But his fire was hot, and in the span of frail heartbeats he felt them, too, fail and butn. He influence spread rapidly, concussive as it exploded through the expanse of hallways and cells, flooding through open space until it fizzled and then swiftly returned back to him. It coalesced around him, turning his chest molten and livid. He let out a blissful sigh, relaxed now for the first time in days.

When his eyes focused, he saw the Lieutenant crumpled against the wall. His body was coated in silver, his metal arm raised in defense. His chest heaved and he was shaking like a kicked dog. As Zahir approached, the man made a flimsy attempt at pressing farther into the cracking concrete. Zahir squatted down before him and took two fingers to tap his shaking wrist. He pushed it from the way, a smug smile turning up his lip as he watched the Lieutenant choke down his own panic.

He gave a meaningful glance to the recording Lacrima above them, melted and smeared across the surface of the cell.

"How's about instead of you letting me out, I take you hostage?" Zahir grinned down at him. The Lieutenant's eyes narrowed. In the distance, the sound of the prison alarm began to blare, "Now, who do I need to save my beloved Kurogane from?"

The Lieutenant's eyes hardened. Zahir offered him his hand, watched the war which played out across his features before he took hold of it. Zahir hauled him to his feet, taking the time to trace his gaze against his metal arm, an arm which didn't appear to feel pain. He stepped to the side and tipped his head to the side expectantly, eyeing the book again as he passed. It wasn't a book of his cult, but it was something related. A book of ancient demons. Why would the Lieutenant need a book on such a thing?

"More demons?" Zahir asked and

was surprised by the answer.

"Gods, actually."

Zahir blinked, "Gods?"

They rounded the corner. The brush of magic further down the hall made Zahir's skin prickle. It made his skin prickle. Fire churned hungrily inside of him, craving destruction. On impulse, he reached for Lieutenant Serrill's prosthetic arm and dragged him to his chest. He was lean muscle pressed to his front, trembling as Zahir summoned flame into the palm of his hand, curling it around his fingers to form the black tips of demon's talons. He felt it race through him, Igmallad's spark. The world shifted into the ultraviolet hues of temperature. The weight of a black crown pressed into his brow as the curled horns manifested, more than just an adornment, but a part of the spark, a part of him.

The bodies of wizards rounded the corner and then stopped abruptly.

"Lieutenant Serrill!" one of them gasped, then dropped into a ready stance.

"Ashby, don't!" the Lieutenant choked, wincing as Zahir brought his hand closer to his throat.

"Ashby… that's a familiar name, isn't it?" Zahir contemplated aloud, "Ah yes… if I remember correctly, he was quite protective of you, wasn't he, Lieutenant?"

"Don't hurt anyone," the Lieutenant gasped, and then, much quieter, "…please…"

"Oh, of course not, Lieutenant Serrill, since you'll be giving the order for your men to stand down," he replied evenly, and then gave Cadet Ashby a meaningful look, "And they are going to listen."

"We don't make deals with the likes of you," Ashby barked, taking a step forward. The men behind him hesitated, clearly weighing the situation better than he was.

Zahir didn't grace him with a response. Instead, he threaded a hand into Lieutenant Serrill's hair and pulled his head back against his shoulder. The man grunted, grabbing onto his enflamed arm with his prosthetic. Zahir looked Ashby in the eye as he flushed flame up his fingers, honing them into a glittering blade. It was all for show. Fire was fire, after all. But it had the desired effect when pressed against the Lieutenant's fragile throat. He dragged it slowly downward, leaving behind a trail of blistering red before resting it just below his adam's apple. Ashby's jaw clenched and unclenched as he worked through possible solutions. Lieutenant Serrill was trembling, his breath whisking in and out so quickly Zahir wondered if he'd pass out. The Lieutenant blenched against his chest when flame pressed to flesh. A strangled groan started which he tried to cage behind his teeth.

"Give the order, Lieutenant," Zahir purred, blinking slowly at Ashby.

"Stand down!" Lieutenant Serrill snarled. "Now!"

Several of the Rune Knights did. Blades sheathed, magic deactivated. All except Ashby who still glared at Zahir, his fist trembling around the hilt of his sabre. Zahir knew the look in his eye, intrepid youth having not yet been beaten out of his own self until recently. So he tilted his head towards the Lieutenant's ear. Adorably, the man flinched as his hot breath shivered across his bared skin.

"You'll want to hold your breath for this next part," Zahir hummed quietly, "Or fortify your lungs… whichever you prefer."

Ashby lunged. Zahir merely tilted back his head and sighed. The heat which bloomed from around him made all of the knights, including Lieutenant Serrill, stumble and fall to their knees. Zahir let him fall rather than risk burning through his throat. The knights hacked and coughed, crawling feebly to be free of the stifling furnace his core unleashed. Even the faithful cadet who so clearly wished to sacrifice himself for his superior officer limped until he collapsed and was then dragged by the others to perceived safety. When they were a satisfactory distance away, Zahir pulled back in some of his heat, just until the discomfort became too bothersome. He watched Lieutenant Serrill struggle to his feet, chest heaving.

Zahir expected an outburst of some sort. A demand to know why he had done something so rash, or perhaps, to berate him for not leaving the other knights unharmed. He was surprised when the Lieutenant did neither of these. He got his breathing under control, dropped whatever spell of protection he had cast, and gave him a wary look as he rubbed at his throat.

"This way," he said, voice ragged and hoarse. Zahir's lip quirked and he followed wordlessly.

The prison was quiet aside from the blaring of the prison alarm. Runes had activated, glaring deep hues of purple which pulsed as his flames did as they hurried through the empty halls. Zahir had expected the prisoners to be herded into their cells, but that should have also meant Rune Knights standing guard at every cell block, every crossway, swarming like ants to find them. This wasn't what had happened. In fact, there was a startling lack of Rune Knights. The Lieutenant had said something bigger was going on and now it itched at Zahir that this was all very… off.

There was a strange chill to the air. His natural heat was enough so that even winter's sharp edge didn't penetrate him but this was different. Oppressive. Damp air, an oddity around him, was pressing down against him. His flame didn't flicker, because the spark inside of him was everlasting, but he had the distinct feeling that his power was being tested. Not by a wizard or spell, but by an absence of something he had never been aware was there in the first place.

He adjusted his vision, deciding to rely on more human senses, and blinked in perplexion. The lights were out, with no reserve lighting turning on. Instinctively, he summoned light, coloring the space violet as they passed cells with men sitting in the dark. No one spoke to them, and many appeared shaken. It was while he was looking along the wall that he noticed it was glistening. The faint, salty tang of the sea tingled in nose. It was almost metallic, but not in a way he recognized from burning men alive. He lifted a hand and ran it down the stone, recoiling back immediately when he felt a familiar biting chill. The moisture which clung to his fingertips was thick and sticky before it bubbled away.

Lieutenant Serrill was watching him closely from farther down the hall, realizing he had stopped. The wall wasn't finished where he was standing, and a strange washed-out light was flowing in from beyond. Rebar struck out like broken bones, waiting for work to continue. Metal that was new, recently installed, was rusted. Right before their eyes, it was flaking off and falling away. Zahir narrowed his eyes at it, a question on his tongue.

"We need to keep moving," the Lieutenant said sharply. He turned on his heel and continued onward. Zahir gave the metal one last look before following.

They were coming to the front of the prison. Zahir was confused as to why the Lieutenant would go this way, until the reasoning became extremely clear. The checkpoint was empty, the guard station also noticeably devoid of Rune Knights. A scuff echoed in the space. Shoes lost purchase and slid. Movement betrayed terror and Zahir looked back to see three knights huddled together behind the station, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Zahir was accustomed to being feared, which was why he got the distinct notion that it wasn't him that they were scared of. The Lieutenant didn't even look back, just walked to the gate which was also startlingly empty.

With power gone, the Lieutenant had to force the doors open. The metal scraped the ground with a teeth-jangling screech. The hiding Rune Knights yelped and scabbled to get to the other side of the station, disappearing beyond a bend. Zahir was hit with the stench of brine, copper, sulfur, and the horrible scent of rotting sea creatures. He heard someone gasping as they left and looked down to see a Rune Knight huddled against the ground. His eyes were wide, his teeth chattering, but otherwise he seemed completely incoherent. Lieutenant Serrill offered no explanation or even acknowledgment.

Zahir drew his gaze forward and stopped in his tracks.

There was no wind. From the prison gate, he could see down to the docks. The pathway gave way to white sand with divots of upturned sand. It looked like there had been a rush across the beach, a mass which cut through the sand in terror. The bay rippled unnaturally. The water pulsed outward, perfectly rhythmic, like a heartbeat. There, in the dark water, were vibrant spots of white. Cloaks frozen in billowing fullness. Rune Knight and dockworkers alike were face-down in the water, arms out at their sides, as if they'd simply laid down and never rose again. Just beyond them, a white haze began. Zahir couldn't see the lights of the mainland coastline because the mist was so thick.

He also didn't see a single boat tethered to the dock.

"Hellebore," Lieutenant Serrill was halfway down the path, looking up at him, "We don't have a lot of time."

"As apparent as that has become, my dear Lieutenant, it has also come to my attention that the ferry isn't here," he said with saccharine sweetness.

"We don't need the ferry."

"I also have an aversion to wooden boats."

"We're walking," Lieutenant Serrill replied.

They came to the end of the dock. Zahir looked down to the black water beneath them and back to the Lieutenant. Lieutenant Serrill closed his eyes, a look of concentration coming to his face. A great, grey magic circle expanded beneath them, tinting the water below. The dull rippling slowed and solidified. Water rolled over the surface of itself and then stilled. Lieutenant Serrill, without a word, stepped from the dock and dropped to the water below, landing with a dull thud. He turned and looked up to Zahir expectantly.

Zahir's core throbbed. He gritted his teeth and followed, also dropping onto the solid platform of solidified water. His hands and feet hit water, the chill of it leaching into his fingers and turning them black. Cold and pain sizzled up to his wrists and ankles. He rose slowly, closing his eyes as he tried to find tolerance for the pain he'd be living with for the foreseeable future. Lieutenant Serrill frowned.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, genuinely.

"Yes." Zahir replied, clenching his fists as fire flared up into his knuckles. It only took a moment to sear away the moisture and for color and vibrancy to return to his skin, "I am made of fire, Lieutenant. I don't like water."

The Lieutenant seemed to turn thoughtful, "That was why even though you're an S Class Wizard…"

"They dumped me on this island prison?" Zahir grinned, flashing his teeth, "Even if I got out of my cell, I would be trapped… unless, of course, I killed everyone on the ferry and took that back to the mainland. But what are the chances of me doing that before the Magic Council got word and they sank it into the bay? How long would I last on an island prone to storms when there were no resupply ships coming?"

"You knew that?"

"Of course, I knew that. I'm sheltered, not stupid."

"Well we didn't," Lieutenant Serrill snarled.

"And now you do," Zahir hummed, approaching him. He cocked his head to the side, staring into the Lieutenant's eyes. He enjoyed the look of them when his magic was activated. They glittered like moonlight through smoke. The starry silver of it was quite enchanting, "A little more distaste for Colonel Ansel, and perhaps we can turn you against all this. Is there anything else I can say to… enlighten you?"

Lieutenant Serrill narrowed his eyes at him, "Push your luck, and I'll let you drown out here."

"Only if I can take you down with me, darling," Zahir cooed, batting his lashes at him with a smug grin.

The Lieutenant gave a mildly annoyed huff and began walking away. His magic slipped through the water like snakes. Glittering streaks of his magic circle fanned out farther and farther as he became more accustomed to turning water into a static material. The fog crowded in on them, blotting out the sky above and the world around them in a suffocating blanket of muted grey. It was a mist, and it wisped across Zahir's flesh with the pinpricks of needles. He stoked his own flame in response, staving it off so it couldn't touch his skin.

The low, reverberating sound of a foghorn cut through the air. They both froze, immediately on alert from the closeness of it. Zahir didn't hear water churning, or the sound of a hull cutting through the waves. More than certainly the sound had been from the ferry, but not only did they not see it, they didn't hear it either. The stench of salt, rot, and copper took on a new sharpness. The Lieutenant gagged, and even Zahir, who was accustomed to the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh, found it vile enough to make his skin crawl. Again, the sound of the foghorn blared. Zahir stepped closer to Lieutenant Serrill, wary of the water still lapping at his ankles, listening with churning stomach for the sound of approaching waves.

There was a sharp, bone-jarring crack as something struck the water. A geyser of foam and sea spray erupted from beside them. Zahir winced as water pelted him, each droplet a fresh stab of pain. They both peered to see what large thing had hit the water and were both knocked dumb and speechless. A body bobbed lazily up in the water, eyes partially open and face frozen in a look of terror. The crystal water crimsoned with blood.

Zahir looked up. Something enormous loomed above them. A shadow. A vast, hulking form suspended preternaturally above the sea. As he focused on it, he began to pick out the details even if he couldn't quite believe them. The ferry hung above them like an ornament placed on a flimsy bow. The vessel swayed, its lights flickering feebly like dying fireflies. They both stood and stared at it, trapped in the eerie silence only broken by the lapping of water over their feet. Then came the sound of a distant, wet thud. Another followed, louder this time, sending ripples of impact through the water.

Figures were falling, tumbling limply from the decks. No screams pierced the night, and somehow that made it even more horrible. Broken marionettes fell through the mist and landed with gut-wrenching impact. The deafening crack of a body as it met water at dreadful speed followed by the gentle lapping of displaced water. One after another after another fell.

The ferry groaned, sounding like some dying, vast creature crying out with suffering. It tilted slightly, like the bow it hung from was having trouble holding it. The foghorn blared again just as the last of the light dimmed and failed. Zahir watched, his core churning, heart beating against his eardrums, as a solitary figure fell, spinning lazily through the air before hitting the edge of Lieutenant Serrill's magic circle with a resounding crack. Despite himself, he winced, stepping back from where blood splattered and purple insides oozed into water that had become harder than concrete.

"Gods alive…" the Lieutenant paled.

A flicker of motion over his shoulder drew Zahir's eye. Another dark shadow. Not just the ferry had been suspended in the air, but dozens more. Fishing vessels and trade barges, even a small warship for patrolling the waters, their silhouettes looming against the strangely vibrant mist, had all somehow been plucked from the sea and hung in the sky. And then, as Zahir watched, he realized one had begun to tilt. It was a slow quiver, the strain of weight palpable. Then a low groan, like whatever the ship was held by was outraged by the weight it was forced to carry. And then the first ship fell.

A fishing boat, wooden and fragile, tumbled like a discarded toy. Its hull met the black water and splintered. The crash echoed across the bay as fragments of rigging, nets, and splintered wood exploded outward before it vanished into the misty sea. Another ship followed, a cargo vessel, metal screaming as it fell. The terrible impact, the shrieking of steel and air and earth-shattering collision, sent waves swelling towards them.

"Run," Lieutenant Serrill said, almost too conversationally to be horrified. And then, "Hellebore, run!"

Zahir ran. He ran as close to the Lieutenant as he dared, knowing the more he pushed himself, the hotter he would become. And all the while, ships and bodies were falling from the sky. Each impact was as powerful as a detonation, sending water roaring and hulls splintering or compressing. The air, cloying as it was with the strange, unnatural mist, was thick with brine, wood, and the sulfuric scent of decaying ocean life.

A massive wave roiled up above them and Zahir, lost in the flight from displaced water and falling bodies, froze in place. Lieutenant Serrill didn't stop, and so quite suddenly Zahir was sinking. He flailed and screamed as water surged up his calves, his knees, his hips. His fire surged, his spark desperate to survive what he knew he could not. He scrabbled for silver magic symbols, his only guide for safety.

A hand clamped down on his wrist, and then his other as well. Lieutenant Serrill grunted as he dragged Zahir from the water. Zahir's reaction was more instinct than thought when he flared out his fire in one massive, violet column. He heard the sizzling sound of water vaporizing into steam before he realized what he had done.

His heart seized as he looked to the Lieutenant, fully expecting him to be burned alive and possibly dead. What he saw was the Lieutenant blinking rapidly as his eyes readjusted to darkness. His body, as well as the water, and a wave which had collapsed over them, were all shimmering silver. They bobbed along the surface of the waves, safe in their strange little bubble created by the Lieutenant's quick thinking and a sprinkling of sheer dumb luck. All around them, they heard the groaning agonies of ships and boats breaking.

Serrill, huffing out a tired breath, gave Zahir a cursory glance to be sure he was alright.

"Well… you didn't leave me to drown," Zahir said lamely.

The smallest of smirks tugged at the corner of his lip. It was boyish, and the most disturbing sort of charming Zahir had ever seen. It even made his eyes sparkle; the look of a child who knew they were getting away with something.

"You didn't push your luck," he said with a bit of playful inflection.

Zahir gave him a contemplative look, confused, "Don't I terrify you?"

"Yes," he said, his smirk growing, "But you said you'd help me save Gajeel, and you've seen all this horrific shit and haven't asked me a single question."

"When most of your life was explained by it's this way because a demon said so, you learn to stop asking questions."

"Well, given I don't know how to explain to you that I'm pretty sure gods are real and something they're doing is messing up the entire world, I like that mindset right now."

Again, for at least the millionth time, Zahir found himself dumbstruck, "Well… what a thing to explain."

"You see my dilemma."

"Might I suggest a direct approach, then?" Zahir said, "Did Kurogane somehow piss off a god?"

"No… something that wants to be a god is going to rip his heart out."

"I see," Zahir replied pragmatically, "And Marinus is… going to rip out his heart?"

"I actually don't really know what Marinus has to do with this… other than something about a prophesy of fire." Serrill confessed.

At that, Zahir fluttered his eyes shut, "A prophesy of fire."

"Yes."

"And you want me, the son of a fire demon, to fight him?"

"…Yes."

"Of course."

"I hadn't considered… self-fulfilling prophesies are…" he stammered, then gave up, "You're from a cult."

"I am from a cult."

"You know all about self-fulfilling prophesies."

"I do."

"Hellebore, I need your help," the Lieutenant started, but Zahir held up a hand to silence him.

"Zahir."

"What?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Zahir," he iterated, finally looking back up at him, "Only my enemies call me Hellebore."

Lieutenant Serrill's look turned a bit sheepish, "Serrill… just Serrill."

"Serrill… when you're ready, I would like to be out of the sea. Please."

"Right, yes. We should go then."

The tide was low by the time they made it to shore, so low that they were walking atop mudflats frozen by Serrill's Reinforcement Magic. This last part of their journey revealed why there was such a noisome stench of rotting sea creatures. Opportunistic birds were feasting on the rancid carcasses. Zahir only barely managed to resist the urge to sink to his knees once they were on dry ground and off the beaches.

"Well… now what?" Zahir asked.

"We have to go south."

"South," Zahir said, frowning.

"Sssouth," a voice hissed from the darkness.

Zahir snapped his head towards it and again was forced to crane his neck backwards.

"Rut! You're alive!" Serrill's face broke into a grin.

"Yesss, little wizard. I am."

The thing that stared down at him with large, yellow eyes was far more lizard than it was man. Zahir took this in, considered it, and also considered Serrill's relief at knowing it was here. Vaguely, he thought that whatever it was must be helping Serrill. Or at least, they were on the same side. Serrill seemed to realize his contemplation and cleared his throat.

"Ah, um, Rut, this is Zahir. Zahir, this is-"

"Rutivak," the thing said, crossing its arms in a very human gesture. Its tongue slid out, long and lazy as it tasted the air. It seemed to study Zahir with distaste and then made a guttural hissing sound, "Firssst wizards, and now demons. Ssstill... better than priests."

"Oh, we can certainly come to an accord there," Zahir said, eyeing the creature warily, "Especially the good-looking ones."

It made a grating chuffing sound, much like an alligator coughing, if they had the ability to do that. It took Zahir a moment to realize it was laughing at him. Did that mean he'd made a good impression? Should he be concerned about that?

"Come, little thingsss…" it said, "We move quickly."

He dropped down on all fours, and promptly grew into a massive lizard that had no right ever being that large. Serrill didn't miss a beat, clambering up onto its back and looking expectantly down to Zahir. Zahir, attempting not to seem nearly as bemused as he felt, placed a hand on the beast and waited for it to wince or snap at him for the offense. When this didn't happen, he, too, climbed on the creature. Then, it turned its massive head and took off, moving far faster and far quieter than anything that size should ever have been allowed to move.

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Author's Notes:

Thank you for your patience beautiful beans 3 I hope the fact that this is a long one makes up for the time.