Inspired by Allen's words to the Akuma, which I accidentally misread as 'Kanda' instead of 'Akuma'. Taking liberties with canon, such as Allen's eyes' ability to see souls, and with Kanda's tattoo.

One of Seven

Kanda's hair is loose and coated in blood and dirt. There are little twigs and leaves tangled in the fine hairs and a swollen, faintly red bump on the side of his head that promises a large bruise and a nasty headache. Allen watches, from a distance, as the tattered edges of his clothing, stiff with blood, attempt to ruffle in the wind. And there is blood everywhere. All of it dried, including the one around a large, fist-sized hole in the side of his uniform, where all that gleams now is pale skin. His face sweats blood; as the sweat on his temples runs down his face it gathers the blood dried on it and falls to the ground in great crimson rivulets.

Seven days. Allen was called in yesterday. He steps closer and listens. Kanda's breathing is labored, his chest pressing in and out with a questionable hitch. His frame trembles just so- just enough to give him away, but not enough to interfere with his fight. How it always is with Kanda, in Allen's eyes. Just enough to show his distress, never enough to allow anyone to intervene.

His pupils are enlarged nearly to the rim, and his eyes become pools of ink that swallow everything save pride and hatred.

When he finally falls, Allen steps forward, sword in hand, and finishes the job. Kanda looks at him through lidded eyes, too drained and exhausted after seven days to force a voice through his throat, and his body trembles. There is blood pooling beneath him at a gradually slowing rate. It will never reach Allen's feet. His eyes roll into the back of his head as his tattoo creeps larger over his chest, and then he passes out.

Allen stands over him a moment longer.

"Pitiful Kanda. May your soul find salvation."

He throws Kanda over his shoulder and leaves.

†††

"Did you know, Kanda," Allen begins, twirling a straw through a now-empty cup, attempting to catch the traces of sugar at the bottom. He's leaning against the wall, watching the gentle rise and fall of Kanda's chest under the sterile white covers, "That your soul is stuck?"

Kanda's glazed eyes watch him blankly under the morphine.

†††

He moves like a phantom in the darkness, eerie white, and with his dark hair reflecting the candlelight in odd angles. His body is fluid, but that is the only part of him that runs free. Allen watches, sees the sweat and concentration, sees the strain on a not-yet-healed body. Hours and hours in, he crashes to one knee on the ground, holding Mugen for support, and his hands are tight-knuckled and his lips mouthing nonsense. Allen pipes up.

"There is tar going all the way up to its waist. It flails around, but can't get free. Did you know that, Kanda?"

Kanda shoots him a wearied look, stands, and continues.

†††

Kanda eats alone, in the corner of the cafeteria. The time of others attempting to sit with him is long gone. Each time he has taken his leave of them. His pupils are always too large, and his face always too pale.

"Do you know what that tar is made of, Kanda?" Allen whispers in his ears as he passes by, "Pride."

†††

It is harder to wake him up now. Allen shakes his shoulder and calls his name, and it only used to take the creak of the door to wake him up. Allen traces the shadows under his eyes, and only once he reaches the mark on his chest, feeling the subtle difference between the tattooed skin and the natural flesh surrounding it, does Kanda stir. It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

"Sinking quickly, Kanda," Allen calls out as he leaves the room and waits outside.

†††

In parody of contemporary art, blood flecks cover the pristine white of the sink. The tips of Kanda's hair, dripping into it, are coated in scarlet. His arms shake with the effort of holding his body over the sink. His back is smooth and unmarred, but strained, pulled tight over the bones and becoming tighter and tighter every day. His waist thins out and his hair doesn't have the same sheen as before. He sways, and his breathing hurts to hear. Each expulsion of breath brings blood to drip from his nose and mouth.

Allen places a hand on his shoulder, where the tendrils of his mark creep over to reach his back, as if attempting to encircle his heart from all sides.

Kanda's voice is raspy, "What… do I do, Allen?"

Allen runs his fingers through that once beautiful hair and glances at the mirror, where the shadow of a great man now stands, "Pray, Kanda, pray to God. And I will help you."

Title refers to the seven sins, of which pride is one. Also, I based Allen's actions here on his behavior in ch. 169, which is rather serious and melacholic. Reviews appreciated.