Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or the characters, I make no money with this, etc.

Conjuration

The stone floor is hard and cold, his right arm has gone numb from supporting his body's weight for so long, the shackles that felt comfortably wide at the beginning seem to be closing tighter and tighter around his wrists.

This is what I planned, he repeats in his mind. They don't know, but I am winning.

You fear the world, with its chaos and its contradictions, and fear turns to hate, and hate turns to condescendence, because you know of your own superiority. And you don't want and can't look away and ignore: what you want is to clean it, to control, to simplify, until it becomes as safe and unthreatening as the familiar walls of your childhood room, as malleable to you as the unwritten words on the blank page of a notebook.

And then the notebook fell into his hands, and the world was really his to change, at the tip of his pen, and then the reality came crashing down on him more cruelly than he always expected, and maybe he had secretly wished to provoke this all this time, because anything is better than this vague fear of the unknown.

Only, it isn't, because outside reality is this: death treats, and invasion of his privacy, and torture, and all of it at once. The line ends here, with this strange brilliant spoiled person who seems ready to break any law and sees the world as a playground sitting next to him in his cell, curiously staring down at him with dark, observant eyes free of cruelty.

It reminds him of the time they installed cameras in his room, foreign eyes fixed on him in what was supposed to be a haven, exposing him, taking away life and freedom in small, subtle slices, and he knows then that there's nothing, nothing they – he – won't do to win. But back then he could fight back, outwit them, mock them with his escape, continuing his work right under their nose, and now, he can do nothing.

He tells himself that this is the same, that he choose this, wanted this, that their actions are neatly fitting into his plan, but it rings hollow, in the state in which he is: he knows that in truth, he has relinquished control, and can only hope their reactions will be as expected. The physical pain, then, is almost a relief, until he dares move and the dull throbbing changes to sudden intense pain from the constricted position in which he's laying.

And he has planned for this as well, for this feeling, for his own weakness: when he knows he will break, he will relinquish his memory, and then nothing can make him falter, make him betray himself. It's well past thirteen days now, but he wants to hold on to it as long as possible, doesn't want to give himself up, lose the last bit of control he has and become a puppet, even if it is to himself.

Ryuk hangs by his side, quietly laughing at him, but his presence is comforting, reminds him that his power, his godhood are real, only temporarily out of his reach, and he will have to give up this as well.

"This is stupid, Ryuzaki," he says, the tired, patient tone played for whoever is watching them over the cameras, not the detective himself (he tells himself, but really, he wants out of this, out, by any means, and there's an absurd hope in the back of his mind that he will listen). "I'm not Kira."

L cocks his head, and nibbles on his thumb, without ever taking his eyes of him, and Light really wants to just close his own eyes.

"Light-kun himself said he might be," L reminds him.

"Stop – stop using that!" he snaps. "I was wrong, you scared me with your suspicion, but I know now that if I committed murders I'd be aware of it."

"Yes, I think so too," L says, and unwraps a piece of cake he has brought with him. Light doesn't rise to it. "Are you hungry?"

Light is, because even though he's given enough food, eating with his arms tied is so tedious and humiliating he does it as little as possible. He isn't absolutely sure that acquiescing will result in L actually giving him a piece of cake, if only because the detective knows he's not very found of sweets, and has never learnt that eating in front of others without offering to share is impolite. He tiredly shakes his head.

You control and banish demons by knowing their name, fix them, stir them, erase them as you wish, but the worse shadows are nameless and unfathomable.

Only L looks very, very human, if completely ridiculous, carefully picking crumbs from the aluminium, and then shaking them out of it over his open mouth.

"Ryuzaki, you're getting crumbs on my face," Light complains.

"Oh." There is a pause, while L seems to think. "Sorry." He throws the aluminium away. "We know you're Kira. There've been no more murders since your incarceration."

Light forces himself not to move, to breathe evenly, not to scream: L's lying, of course he's lying, and still every time he says this, cold fear grips his heart: what if it's true, what if Rem failed or betrayed him, and he has nothing left?

"It's got to be a coincidence. Or... I don't know, Ryuzaki. If you let me out I'll help you figure it out."

"Why did you ask me to imprison you, Light-kun?"

Light sighs.

"I don't know anymore."

"There was a lot of evidence against you even before." Light doesn't answer, but he sees the question coming. "Can you recount it to me?"

Light swallows his anger, and he can and does. If he pretends to be exhausted, L will know, and he will have told whoever it is who's watching what it would mean. And they know that if he makes a mistake, it can only be on purpose, he's too smart to forget. Light is sure no-one in the group likes L's methods, and so if he doesn't slip, this is still a reminder of all the reasons, from his own mouth, through his own reasoning.

You dress neatly and correctly, you speak in a pleasant voice, you're private but just kind and helpful enough. You construct your image to fit what is expected of perfection. You crave and scorn admiration, but you must always be worth it so you'll always be above needing it. You learn for your exams, you write the answers you know will give you full marks rather than what you really think yourself, and hide away your rage. You conform and reach out and hope you can escape being claimed and utilised.

And you can, so long as no-one truly understands your potential.

He ends his recollection in a weak voice. No matter what tricks L pulls, sympathy will always be on his side. It makes him oddly angry, the way the others dislike the detective for all the wrong reasons.

"That is true," L, who has only interrupted him a few times and looked absent the whole time, says thoughtfully. Without transition, he ads: "If you confess while you're still imprisoned by your own volition, you're more likely to get a reduced sentence."

Light gives him a dry smile.

"Didn't you promise you'd have Kira executed?"

"I'm not the judge."

He says it in an offhand way, but Light understands the blow. He really wants to know how true this is, how much power L has, but asking too much isn't a good idea.

"If you say so," he dismisses, in a tone of gentle mockery. "But you know that these things aren't proof."

"That's why we want a confession."

Light wonders what these conversations will be like once he has relinquished his memory, once he is sincere in his outrage. L will notice the difference, no doubt, no matter how good an actor he is, there will be instances where he's too perfect, and L always notices because he wants to see.

He doesn't answer, waits: L is running out of candy, which means he'll leave soon, insofar as he ever leaves.

You throw your mind forward, in angles and loops to throw off all pursuit until it is too late; but body and soul are left back, under the weight of too heavy stares and constriction and very human fear. Some day you're too far in to go back, so there's no choice but going further and faster, and make the safe walls that no shadow will penetrate recede further and further to encompass the whole world.