D. Gray-Man: Dance of Shadows

Rating: PG-13 (violence, trauma, pain.)

Summary and Spoilers: This is a writing of the aftermath of the Level 4 fight in the manga, though it applies to anime-verse as well. It partly originated to explain where everyone was in relation to Allen such that several of the generals just left his sorry behind against a pole, when, obviously, Lenalee can't lift him. Seriously, what? For spoilers, there is "Battle with the Level 4" and after. If you haven't gotten that far, you won't understand any of what this is about. D:

Genre:"Gore"? It's a description-fest that makes you hurt. In a good way. I'm working on putting more vivid, haunting imagery in my stories. Let's see how it goes. :)

It should be known that it is Allen's pov we're following. That is not quite clear at the beginning, but now you know. You'll do just fine. He won't.

Also, sorry for the first line. I know it's a bit...often seen...around the fandom, but it's actually making a legitimate analogy this time. ;) The intro (and the rest of the story) overall is supposed to make you feel spacey, dreamy, like just as you fall asleep or wake up. Listen to the words gently; most of the time, they are not supposed to be sharp and jarring as you read. Try to float on the currents of syllables and breathy emotion as you read. I hope someone knows what the hell I'm talking about. xD

Ah yes, and I do not own D. gray-man and I do not make any money from this work. Now, to the main event, ladies and gentlemen assembled for the lovely Circus of Hell!

D. Gray-Man:

Dance of Shadows

It was just like that night, so many years ago, now. He could barely breathe, and even though he couldn't make himself move, there was an uncontrollable shaking. It was the loss of adrenaline, pouring out like his blood was, that was leaving a creaking body in its wake.

At first, he hadn't been cognizant of any pain. In some way, he had been dreaming of his Innocence while it drove his body around—a simple sensation of white light and slight blue floating before his eyes, and, occasionally, an understanding of swirling around the heavens. Sometime in the middle of this gentle dream he had awoken, and realized he was fighting—his heart in his ears, the warm thrum of blood and Innocence saccharine to his limbs as he engaged his prey, and it, him.

There were no questions as to how or why. The missing time didn't come until some time after, when his brain was weaving a plan and it suddenly realized it didn't know how he had gotten from a vision of a molten floor that was once the lab to the starry sky above Hebraska's chambers. But to his thoughts, his Innocence soothed away his cares, and whispered to him, merely:

Fight.

Sometimes when behind the mask, all he could see was brilliant, sentient white that cacooned him in warmth, that made his heart sing. At such times, he couldn't feel anything, and he didn't want to. Times like that—times like this—he trusted his Innocence would save him. He didn't bother to figure out what it had done while he wasn't there. For all he knew, it kept him alive.

Little by little, feeling crept in. When Linalee carried him into the sky, nasea hit where she held him: bruises so deep he felt them out the other side abruptly came to be to his mind, and there was something in his ribs, he realized, that was crushed.

When he took his hand away from his mouth, red soaked into the Innocence-white gloves.

It didn't register that it could have been his own. He had an akuma to defeat. Maybe it was its. Certainly it wasn't Lenalee's; he wouldn't let that happen—

His hand slipped from the sword hilt when the akuma was finally gone. A sigh, a release. . . .

A tiny ache. . . .

And then his arm reformed into its clawed state; he distantly recognized his head tipping back and not feeling his legs at all. Somehow he was standing, though it was like the bottom half of him was made of concrete. There were no images from around him, either—rather, there were pinpricks of color dancing before a curtain of white, cross-signals filtering into his brain as the particles of Innocence wove back into being with his body.

When it had first happened, it may have been concerning perhaps, but there was a familiarity to it now, and it made him smile a loopy grin: He felt like he knew each sparkle by name. He waited for every particular blip expectantly, for each was his Innocence, a cell of his own arm, and they sung to him as each took back its proper place.

He knew he sighed happily, a strangely wet sound. A bloom of liquid in his lungs, a twinge of pain . . . but only for a second. His Innocence went to the site of the intrusion, pooled around it and erased its line to his brain; and then, it drew his attention away. There was a slight ache, as droplets of something slid down the side of his head. But Crown Clown was there for him, as it always was: It whispered him away, and he didn't feel a thing.

What he noticed next was a walkway. Disrupted stone, under his feet. He stopped, ages going by as he tried to think, and then he glanced around. He didn't see anyone, though he only saw what was directly in front of him. He couldn't hear, not even his heart—there was just plain nothing, so he figured everything must be fine. He took his time, considering the next step.

Lenalee. Oh . . . the others. . . .

There still people out there. He had to help them—

His stomach was starting to jab at him though, a shivering that made his legs weak. It was starting to pulse, that weakness, and he didn't like it. His friends needed him, but he wouldn't be able to get there at this rate. . . . He wouldn't even be of help if he could get there. There were liquid cold spots appearing all over his body that flitted away as quickly as they came, and his consciousness chased after them to no avail.

Allen took a breath, tipping back his head. The ceiling was dark, with prickly lights swimming in it—was he in the basement? It seemed like there was no way out. He might pass out before he found a way —

He coughed, and it felt like metal bouncing around the confines of his lungs. There came a ripple of weakness, followed by blooming heat, spreading from the center of the fluid in his chest. Something came out, warm and bitter.

It took him several long moments to regain enough air to consider what to do. Sit, he decided eventually, staring at the broken floor like a craving. Lie down. Don't feel good. . . .

"Hey," Zokaro grunted, tipping his chin downwards.

"Hm?" the lovely Cloud responded to him, following his line of sight. A story or two below them, a little white figure hobbled along the balcony, stopping every so often and swaying in place. "His legs look broken," she murmured.

"You should go help," Zokoro grunted, a grin pealing across his face. "It'll improve his circulation."

"We need to make sure Marian doesn't get his stupid ass killed. Lenalee," she called, not missing a beat. The girl was standing on the closed shutters, just staring at the crack. It took several calls of her name, but she finally looked up, breathless and tearful.

"We need to make sure the akuma's controlled. Help him," Cloud said, pointing.

The girl followed the line of her finger, and thankfully, didn't scream.

There was a nice dark space nearby; this much he could tell. Well, everything he saw was mostly dark, aside from a growing glow around the edges. It threatened to wash out everything.

But there was a pain pushing that white back.

His Innocence was talking to him. It wanted safety for him. It didn't use words, necessarily, but an understanding. This particular time, it was warmth and sound vibrations through which it communicated. It was lulling him to sleep in a fog, to the sound of rolling waves; as soon as he let himself into it, he felt like he was falling. . . .

But there was something it was shielding him against, he understood, every time his consciousness popped back above the gentle, heavy waves. And the last time his Innocence shielded him from knowing he was drowning in his own blood, he had come a hair's breadth from never coming back.

He listened, into the whiteness, to catch whatever the Innocence was enshrouding from his nerves.

It was holding him up. The Clown Belt was wound snugly around his middle, spooled tightly down his throbbing legs and arms, and even gently curved about his neck--

—It was holding his head in place. There was something so wrong with him that he couldn't hold his own head up? That . . . was too serious to ignore.

Let . . . me go. . . , he thought eventually, holding his hand out toward the ground that was coming at him.

He hit it; a sharp burst of needles in his ribcage that just as quickly were whispered away. However, he saw him chest gasping for air as he lay on his side, even though he could not feel nor hear the movements.

Please, let me . . . Go. . . . I need . . . to . . . them . . . !

His heart was beating painfully fast. It was hot, it hurt; . . . He couldn't breathe. . . .

He curled around his chest, his hands coming up to clutch at broken skin. Perhaps because he would have stabbed himself in the process, the spikes dissolved from his hand, Innocence unraveling up his arm until the farthest reaches of deformed black skin.

It tingled there, but his heart hurt; he moaned, and it turned into a high-pitched creen that wheedled out into the air. He pressed his head into the floor, wishing for coolness, praying that it would help—but it only worsened. His breath caught on fluid, and he found himself hacking up more warm, wet liquid.

A rush of heat bloomed in his flushed face, down through his neck and into his chest and arms. He was suddenly burning as he choked, and he couldn't get away from it. Miserable and unable to breathe, he put as much skin as he could against the granite tile and just lie there, closing his lungs and grasping at nothing while doing so. He reached as if there could be something to anchor him to the living world, when all he could see was his life draining out into the polished black horizon.

He was swimming again, colors dancing before his eyes and the shine in the floor. His Innocence reclaimed its ground, laying a muting blanket over him, through him. He thought vaguely of those important to him; of those whom he still had to help, yet did not know; if the akuma was broken. . . . But nothing would stay, other than the twisting worry that everyone he knew might be dead. And that soon, he would join them.

His Innocence thrummed, suddenly, whisking through his chest, his torso, and then crawling down his back. When it captured his head, it was impossible to think. He recognized this action, though—it was forcing him to sleep.

He pleaded with it, but it refused. He reached out his shaking, bloodied arm to a particularly shiny sparkle on the floor, focusing his consiousness on it. He needed to think, he needed to know, he needed to help the others. . . !

But it was too late. His arm stopped moving, despite the message he sent.

Oh, Crown . . . , he lamented into the white space that suddenly claimed everything he saw, Even you can't move me now?

He sighed, and listened for the inevitable pain of air cooling the blood that coated his broken fingers. There was none.

Just light.

Don't let me die. I still have things I need to do.

. . . Please?

He closed his eyes, just to blink, but the whiteness took its final hold. The world dropped out from under him, and for perhaps the last time, his consciousness was gone.

The new Darkboots didn't have the sound of the old ones. They clicked when they should've clacked, they flew when they should have run, and when she crested the final pillar, nothing there was right, either.

"Allen! Allen!" she called, her pale face bright with pink. "Allen. Oh God help us, Allen...." Hovering over his face, she smoothed over his matted hair and whispered gentle reassurances, in the guise of being to him. Just as little Timcampy zipped over her head, she grabbed the boy around the shoulders and, using her knee as support for his back, pulled his upper half upright. The gurgling sound in his throat stopped, changing to short coughs instead.

"Allen. Allen?" His head flopped into the crook of her elbow. He was surprisingly heavy, too heavy to lift. Dipping her face down below his eyes, she spread her hand across his chest, under ruined fabric. His heart beat under hers, fast, erratic, and fluttering; his chest heaved sporatically. Lenalee drew her hand back, only to find it . . . cold.

Her palm was coated in a thin layer of sticky blood, quickly congealing in the air.

Allen coughed; she looked at his face, just in time to see blood bubbling out of his mouth.

"Al...lennn," she pleaded, shifting around to prop him against the large stone pillar they were in front of. He stayed against the collumn when Lenalee let him go, but it was only because he did not move. He simply lay there, like a badly played doll with severed strings.

She stared. The generals were gone; she couldn't carry him; she could try to shake him awake, but what then? What would that help? She had to leave him, but . . . what if . . . by then?—

"No, no; Allen, hang on. Don't die! Please don't die, I'll get help! I'll—" She pushed back tears that made it hard to see, and then smoothed over the side of his head. "I'll be right back, okay."

"Le . . . 'nleh. . . ." As she pulled her hand away, the slightest bit of eye cracked open. The light had subsided a little: the white had pulled back, and apparently this girl's shadow had been why.

She looked straight at him, startled. It was not a look he liked on her, and he certainly didn't want to be the cause.

He wanted to ask her what was happening. The Order's people. Hers, really. She liked them. They didn't necessarily all like him. She would care; she would know. He had ceased all feeling long ago, but speaking took energy he could not muster. He frowned, and to Lenalee, it look aggreived.

She should go see them, make sure they were all right. He would be fine: he always was. He had his Innocence with him, after all.

But, even if he were to expire . . . well, he didn't want her to see it. The men should take care of the bodies. Speaking of men, she should go be with someone that was functionable. Like Komui, or Reever. People. Even though it might be a little lonely in the meantime. . . .

But this was him they were talking about. He should die alone, same way he was born. He'd pretty much planned on it.

"G-oh . . . frie-hennd-s," he sounded out, but her tears only got heavier, to his limited capacity for frustration. She sat on her knees, crying in between his ruined legs. Allen forced his eyes shut, annoyed at himself, and then opened them again, trying anew. He wanted to smile. Had no idea if he could. "'M . . . fihhne. Friends . . . mih' die. You . . . shood go . . . t' thum. 'Fore . . . can't."

He sucked in a breath, wet and clogged. No matter how much air he swallowed, he was dizzy. His head rolled a little closer to her, and . . . there!—the smile managed to make it with the momentum. She never could resist those, he reasoned. She couldn't but leave now!

"'M . . . fine. Tim," he said, by way of explaination. "—'s here."

"No, Allen, no! You listen to me." Her fingers wrapped into his shirt collar and she didn't speak until he looked into her eyes. The black circles were darting back and forth quite quickly, he thought. It was dizzying.

"—you to die. . . .alive, Allen. —tay alive."

"Hm, hm," he said to placate her. He had no idea if it actually made syllables. It was supposed to speak volumes, but she would understand: He did.

"Here." She crouched into him, and tried to shift his abdomen over her shoulder. There was some rocking and moving and such, until Allen found himself back on the ground again, staring up at the ceiling, and then Lenalee's face came into view again.

He wasn't sure where she had gone, but it was nice to see her again. It was always good to see Lenalee—

"Dammit, Allen, why are you so heavy?" She was starting to cry again. She rubbed her arm over her eyes, and then one palm. The other was pressed against his stomach. He could barely feel the pressure. She was soft, though.

"—llen. Allen," she vowed, gripping his shoulder and then pulling him into a sitting position against something cold and stone. "Here, just stay here," she said. She seemed awfully concerened for just leaving for a while. Allen made a small huffing noise at her, conveying his disbelief at her distress.

"'M fihne . . ."

"Yes, Allen, you're just fine. . . ." She rubbed her eyes, turned away. The grip on his shoulder tightened, though. Her head turned back with disorienting speed; she gripped his arm and ducked down against his face. A light peck should have prickled his cheek, and then she nearly jumped to her feet. He hadn't felt a bit of it; he just stared in wonder at the fact that she could move. Had she always been able to move like that?

"I'll be back, Allen. I'll get a doctor. Just hang on, okay, you're not going to die. I'll never forgive you if you do. . . ." It turned into a question at "do".

"'U should go, Len'lee...'ve been here lohn'er than me, so..." he sighed, unable to catch his breath. He had the distinct feeling physical objects were exiting his mouth along with his words. It was weird. "Wanna see 'em, yeh? Go. 'm fihn. . . ."

I'll die by myself. I do that a lot. No worries.

She didn't say anything for a very long time. Allen saw her grip Timcampy's squishy shell hard until she mumbled something sad and hushed, and then she was running down the hall. Allen sighed at the sudden empty space, and let his chin slump against his collar. It felt much better, to have his hands laid out on the ground like this, palm-up at his sides.

It felt good, though, all of it, he thought as his glazed stare drifted over his shoes. It was warm. There was no pain. Just an awful tiredness that was grinding on his nerves and the realization that he couldn't move.

Allen sighed, staring at Timcampy as the golem fluttered down on to his knee. "Just you and me, Tim," he thought, thinking he said it. Tim's tail tapped against his leg in what he assumed was appreciation, beating to a slow, unsung rhythm.

Allen took a deep breath, eyebrows furrowing at the heaviness when he tried to expand his chest. It tickled his throat and he coughed out something that reduced the weight for a while, but it left him exhausted. His stale gaze rested in between his knees, but it wasn't until Timcampy bit his kneecap some time later that he realized he was still conscious.

But . . . He frowned. Timcampy was strangely dull and pale; made in blurry shades of gray; beyond him, a wall of formless black. Even all the times that he passed out without his master and only Tim in his spinning vision, it hadn't been like this. Allen tried to focus on the golem, but his eyes did not obey his commands. Like an unseen had was moving them, they wavered the opposite direction, to a grainy, dark line hovering just beyond the far end of his feet. It swished like fabric, and Allen blinked hard at it. But his eyes, again, moved on their own as soon as the shadow moved again.

The world was darkening. The sound of his Innocence was gone, replaced by an amazingly frightening nothing. Just . . . nothing, not even ringing in his ears nor blood rushing through them. His eyes pulled up, up, up and up, until they rested on a shape looming above him. Two grey-white irises in a head of swirling black lines locked on his, and then steadily leaned nearer.

Big, closer . . . gaining on him like the moon.

"You. . . ." Allen breathed at it, a curse to keep it at bay.

It tipped its head. Then it grinned, a cracked, cursed smile, glowed mily like its eyes. One black, boney hand appeared in the shadows, descending on Allen's eyes.

"Mine."

"Walker!"

Several bones jarred against each other at odd angles when Allen's jump, torn muscles moving like jelly around them and he did, undeniably, feel it. Before even chasing after the voice, Allen gaped with gritted teeth at the place the dark figure had been.

Against the sound of his breathing, it was still quiet, it was still dark . . . and the shadow was gone.

A sharp tickle caught his lung and hack until he could not catch his breath; his chin fell against his shoulder even as the spasm continued. He was cold, so very cold, and as he shivered, pain and sleep demanded their hold. But there was no presence of his Innocence at all. Just Timcampy, sitting upon his knee.

"Lnlee?" he asked. "That you?" He wondered if he said it.

Why did she have to come back? There were more important things than him. Didn't anyone ever understand that?

"Go . . . the others. You've . . . been here lon'er than me, so... 'm sure...." He sighed, his lungs crushingly heavy, even as the figure to the side came down next to him. A person with bright blond hair, that could in no way be the man waiting beyond his reflection.

He slid over the blond's shoulder, and he still had no idea why they were still trying to save him.

"'S okay, really. I've got Tim and my shadow to watch over me."

*****

Afterword:

+This is the first Dgray fic I've uploaded. It won the battle of, "who got done first." I think it turned out all right! :)

+There were originally three short fics that were all back-to-back in timeline, so I decided to stick them together to make Dance of Shadows. There may be a part 4 and 5 now, too. Please enjoy all the chapters of the story. ^__^

+Also: thanks for reading, and review if you have something nice to say, or glaring suggestions. I live to hear people's reactions--"This line [inserted here] made my heart beat way too fast!" "This line is so great; don't change it!". It's enjoy the fangirling if you can put it into words. :3 It's also totally acceptable to ask questions--"I didn't understand this part D:". I like answering questions. :3

Last edited: 1/10 :D (I substantially edited the writing to be less passive, have better word choice, and less extraneous words and "stage direction." I added to Allen's big paragraph of delusional thoughts with Lenalee, and clarified a bunch of stuff both at the beginning("flying around" part) and end ("with shadow" part). It's much, much better now, in my opinion :D ).