Chapter 27: Requiem de Pandemonium: Part I: An Ephemeral Backtrack or An Unrequited Prayer?

Having fallen over the crest of the horizon many hours ago, the laughter of the burning sun had dutifully given way to the glimmering expanse above as well as the star-stealing void that was the moon. Ever grandiose in its presence, its liquid black surface cast only the faintest of reflections to indicate that there was ever anything in the celestial sky to begin with. It was a sight most somber that concurrently filled the gazing patrons of the earth below with an intuitive marvel at its presence.

From the confines of his home far below the magnificent nightly jewel, Professor Craftlove stood at the threshold of his bedroom window with arms folded across his tattooed chest and chin turned towards the heavens. Hidden within those blackened sacred eyes inked into his skin, distant irises seemed glazed over in a mixture of brooding uneasiness and analytical contemplation. How he longed for the accursed sensation to let him rest in peace, but he knew better than anyone else that to hope for such alleviation was only wishful thinking. The nightmares that relentlessly haunted him for weeks on end now had only increased in their wicked vividness, leaving him to bolt from his sleep drenched in a sheen of his own perspiration every night without fail. It had gotten to the point now to where he wouldn't even fall asleep alongside Cana anymore so as not to disturb her own slumber, becoming almost wearisome in its habituation. At her pressing insistence he would reluctantly join her beneath the silken covers with her slender frame curled up beside him, but the sweet lull of sleep never would come. Biding his time, he would patiently wait for his lover to reach her world of dreams before silently slipping the sheets from his form and sneaking off into his study, where he would begrudgingly turn his reading lamp on and bury his nose in whatever book was most readily available to him. The subject of the text didn't matter in the slightest to him so long as it kept his mind from wandering back towards his hellish dreamscapes. Biology, however, would eventually prove to be the victor and he would find his head bobbing in exhaustion. He would glance up towards the grandfather clock in the corner of the study, remark to himself that he had to be up to teach in two or three hours, and with a heavy sigh trudge his way from his to the living room where he would curl up with a blanket and spare pillow to try to catch at least a little bit of rest.

In the end it made no difference. The visions would come for him all the same.

However, on this particular night he had begun his routine by sneaking away from his bed, but rather than go lose himself in some trivial novel he had already read once before, he found himself drawn to a silent call radiating from a place far beyond his home. Casting the curtains aside, his intuition drew his attention upwards towards the moon where the Kishin Asura and the Demon Swordsman Crona remained steadfast in their imprisonment. Taking in the serenity of the ungodly hour, he breathed in deep and heavy with air that was saturated with an ominous aura, releasing it after several seconds in a controlled escape. Even if he truly desired sleep, his mind wouldn't have allowed it. Ever-thinking and ever-analyzing, his thoughts were far from quiet despite his half-hearted attempts to ease them.

Reaching up, he softly touched the pyramid and crescent moon tattoo that was centered upon his brow.

"Damn you, you old ghost," he muttered softly, feeling the dull, pulsing throb that had been plaguing him in its ministrations. "Why won't you just leave me be?"

Sighing once more, he closed his eyes to muse upon his woes, but was brought out of his self-deprecation when he heard the rustling of the bedsheets behind him. Turning about, he found Cana sprawled out across the mattress with her arm stretching towards his empty half as she subconsciously searched for his absent self to cling onto. Finding nothing but silken sheets to grasp, she managed to take hold of his pillow and pulled it in close, wrapping her arms around its middle as she spooned with the silken cushion. Smiling softly in contention, her movement settled to leave the room in silence.

He couldn't help but let a faint, deceiving smile cross his lips at the sight of her slumbering so peacefully and subliminally longing to hold him close to her. She truly was a beauty beyond compare in his eyes; a cocoa-skinned shakti with a flowing cascade of raven's hair complemented by a rapier's wit and a soul overflowing with compassionate empathy. How he had ever managed to find a woman so tender and fond in the ways of the heart were beyond his comprehension. He was fully aware that he was undeserving of having someone like her by his side, especially with the way he would attempt to hide his own trepidations from her. However, he couldn't keep anything from her even if he tried. Their souls were too far entwined for them to disguise what they were feeling, whether it be happiness, sadness, contention, envy, love, lust, tranquility, or foreboding. Morning after morning she would awake to find him sleeping on the sofa and question why he did so and morning after morning he would find some vague excuse about burning the midnight oil and not wishing to disturb her or claiming he'd been having insomnia and the sofa was his only cure. Despite his efforts of evasion, however, Cana could see easily into the window of his soul and sensed that something was terribly amiss. She could see it upon his face as she watched him thoughtfully the same way he now did to her; the telltale indicators upon his sweating and convulsing face that whatever he was seeing within his subconscious was far from blissful.

Stepping gingerly through the darkness, he knelt down beside Cana's sleeping form to take her in from the new angle. Merely content to gaze upon her for the time being, she appeared so delicate and at ease as the sheets rose and fell softly with every breath. There was a rogue tuft of hair that fell in front of her face to obscure his view and for a fleeting moment he wanted to reach out and remove it back behind her ear before dismissing the notion. He didn't wish to wake her until he needed to. For the time being it was best to let her sleep soundly and dream of matters far more pure than his own premonitions.

"What did I do to deserve all of this?" he wondered to himself in rhetoric, his tone somewhere between uncertain depression and heartfelt endearment as he mused heavily upon the contrasting subject matters that fought for dominance within his psyche.

Like the bones of the elderly before the storm, Craftlove needn't see the dark clouds over the horizon that carried with them a thunderous fury, but rather intuitively felt their threatening presence all the same. Although the remainder of the world remained blissfully ignorant to its strengthening aura, the sensation of imminence that tainted the air offered him not a moment's peace. Just what exactly composed said feeling of impending discord he couldn't say for certain, although he silently hoped that all of it was nothing more than some form of mental construction. He would much rather take the chances of falling into insanity than the illusions of his dreamscape becoming reality.

Taking a seat just upon the edge of the mattress so as to not disrupt Cana, he slumped down as a wave of uncertainty befell him, burying his marked face in his hands. Releasing a faint huff, his swirling pool of thought took him back to only a few short years ago when both she and him had been stationed in England as part of the DWMA's European Division. Life there for the most part had been pleasant enough with their day to day duties of seeking and destroying corrupted souls and the occasional paperwork that came with being a pair of Two Stars. Although they could have gone for the level of Three Star and Death Scythe had they felt inclined to, they found the simple life in their shared countryside flat to be far more enjoyable than the added stresses of a higher rank. Their lives back then were rather routine, but that seemed to suite them just fine.

Finding himself recollecting on scattered memories without any particular rhyme or reason as they flashed though his psyche, his mind decided to focus in on one in particular. It was of a day that had happened around the same season three years prior, and why his subconscious had randomly chosen said memory he hadn't a clue. Winter had befallen the quaint English town they had taken up residence in, blanketing the charming buildings and streets with a sheet of white. Standing proud and erect in the market center, a festive evergreen covered with snaking lights and glittering tinsel towered above the evening patrons who went to and fro from shop to shop. It was a Saturday evening he recalled and just a few days before Christmas's arrival as he and Cana strolled around the town square with no particular agenda on their minds other than getting out of the flat for a little while. They had stopped and gotten supper at the local tavern, browsed through an antique bookshop to help pass the time, and then decided upon coffee to help fend off the winter's chill as they glanced at the various wares in the shop windows. Walking along in pleasant silence, they had long since surpassed the need for idle chatter in order to find comfort in the company of the other.

Passing before a storefront, a glimmer had caught his attention that pulled him momentarily towards the lighted display. Halting in his footsteps, it took a brief moment for Cana to realize that he was no longer beside her.

"What did you find?" she inquired, backtracking a few steps to gaze into the storefront alongside her partner. Following his line of sight, she noticed the variety of jewelry laid out in meticulous arrangement upon a bed of red velvet to bask beneath the glow of the light above. Collections of luxurious pocket watches, bracelets, and necklaces made of polished gold, silver, titanium, and precious stones adorned the otherwise humble boutique with their brilliant luster.

However, as she followed his gaze, she found that none of those items were the ones that had grabbed him, but rather a quaint collection of rings presented in their velvet boxes beside them. There were about a dozen of the symbols of eternal love, each one ranging in degrees of design and exquisiteness. Like the watches and bracelets beside them, they were crafted from lustrous gold or sterling silver and ornamented with dazzling diamonds and other assorted gems.

"Do you think we should get married?"

The question slipped off of his tongue before he even realized its implication. In the simple spur of the moment the thought running through his brain had somehow bypassed his mental filter and gone straight to his mouth. For several awkward-filled seconds he stood frozen in shock of his own foolishness, mentally cursing himself for asking such a question in the same nonchalant manner he would ask where they should go to eat. He hadn't as much fear of her answer as he did of his own inability to comprehend how he allowed the inquiry to slip through.

His anxiety, however, was laid to rest as Cana moved close to him and wrapped her arm around the crook of his own.

"Hmmm…I'm not sure," she answered with a coy, teasing tone as she rested her head against his shoulder. "Always was hoping to find the ol' clichéd tall dark and mysterious man with a vineyard estate and a yacht to sail the world in, but I suppose I'll just have to settle for what I can get."

"Well then my sincerest apologies if I don't meet your stringent criteria," Craftlove replied in mocking jest as a faint smile formed upon his lips. "I can only offer you my love and all the baggage that comes with it.

"There's always a catch, isn't there?" Cana giggled, nuzzling up a little closer into his wool jacket.

"Besides, you're not particularly fond of bitter things and you've already gotten to see most of the world when we're on missions," he added smoothly.

"True," she sighed, feeling the warmth of his body heat touching her cheek even through the winter layers he had on. Or perhaps it was the faint flush of rosiness that painted her face as she basked in the newfound stillness. Either way she wasn't going to complain.

Standing before the diamond rings, they both looked upon them absently as they glimmered off the window pane with neither of them speaking a word. While one of them took simple pleasure in their intimate closeness, the other contemplated on many natures of questions pertaining their previous momentary lapse of judgment. The answer they had received hadn't been an airtight one of confirmation, although they supposed that was most certainly better than a heart wrenching rejection; not that they had anticipated it as such to begin with. It was more the principle of the matter than anything else.

"Do you remember that day at the Academy when we first met?" Cana wondered, looking absently into the glass in front of her.

"Of course, although the circumstance leading up to it is one I'd rather forget," Craftlove replied with a hint of unpleasantness in his voice. "Sent before Lord Death on the very first day of class. Not exactly what one would call a memorable first impression now was it?"

How he remembered the unwavering sternness in his past instructor's voice as he adamantly insisted that the tattoos that covered his skin had in fact not been drawn on with marker as some form on juvenile prank and that he would not march himself to the washroom instantly to remove them. However, despite his earnest attempts to explain that the array of symbols and pictures couldn't simply be washed away, the unreasonable old man wasn't going to have any of it and sent him to the Death Room before they had even finished taking attendance.

"But we all know it wasn't your fault," she consoled. "Professor Helsing was the one who was always uptight, but if you think about it I guess we should have thanked him for that. We might not have partnered together if he hadn't sent both of us to Lord Death."

Indeed, following his subsequent visit to the Death Room and a brief chat over tea with Lord Death to clarify the situation at hand, the shinigami sympathetically apologized for the misunderstanding and assured him that while Professor Helsing was an accomplished Meister he also had a tendency to run a very tight ship in his class. The instructor too was later called in, where he received a firm scolding, made to offer up his own apologies, and the incident would be forgiven despite some lingering reluctance.

"Well you didn't have to do what you did either," Craftlove stated, recalling the episode that occurred the following morning that ultimately would end up changing both of their lives.

As he had arrived into his homeroom for his second day of academia, he remembered being overwhelmed by a sudden aura bearing down upon him. Looking about, he found every one of his fellow N.O.T. students staring at him, watching with judgment and quiet whispers. It mattered not that he had been proven innocent by Lord Death because his classmates had already labeled him in their minds as the designated delinquent of Class Rising Sun. Trudging to his seat, he honestly couldn't say he was too terribly surprised by their actions. After all, what better way to be deemed the outcast amongst them than to be the twelve year old boy in a tweed suit covered near head to toe in ancient symbolism who was sent to Lord Death's office within the first ten minutes of being at the Academy? Nevermind that he had never asked to be marked that way or that he could do nothing to remove them because his reputation was now at the mercy of the adolescent rumor mill.

Slumping down behind his desk, he had buried his face in his hands and hoped for nothing else but to disappear, already dreading the remainder of his inaugural year at the DWMA.

"Good morning."

Even after all the years that had passed between them, he could still hear the kindness of those two simple words resonate within his memories and wished he could go back in time and appreciate them more than he had. At that particular moment he had mistaken the greeting as being meant for someone else and so brushed it off and ignored it. Again the girl had extended her salutation, but he offered no acknowledgement or hint of response. So lost was he in his own despondency did he fail to recognize that her words were directed at him and it wasn't until he felt the tap on his shoulder that he was pulled out of his inner dejections. Lifting his head, his eyes fell upon Cana for the very first time, and while he wished he could have said that it was instantaneous love that filled him, it wouldn't be until many years later that true attraction would find them. On that particular day she was clad in a flowing peach-colored sleeveless dress accented with twisting floral patterns around the collar that appeared to hug her body and seem too loose all at once. Outfitted with matching arm sleeves that wrapped around her biceps, vibrant crimson leggings, and simple goldenrod sandals, her Hindi roots were amongst the most evident of traits as he took her in. With her head cocked to the side in curiosity, cascading raven hair left to its own devices formed a veil across the left side of her face and allowed a single soft grey iris to peer through.

She often claimed jokingly that he had stared at her for well over a minute before blinking, although he would adamantly dispute the notion. It couldn't have been for any more than ten seconds at the most.

Without even a word, she gave a faint smile and held her arm outwards towards him. Pulling back the loose peach sleeve, she revealed her own array of blackened ink adorning her skin. Intricate patterns of complex mandalas, blooming flowers, sacred geometries, and other symbols crawled their way from her fingertips up to her shoulders. Whether she had any more hidden behind her clothing still remained a mystery to that day.

"Its henna," she had explained with a knowing grin.

Thoroughly puzzled by the exotic girl's actions, his twelve year old self was unable to form anything resembling a coherent response before the bell to begin class rang and Professor Helsing entered the room. What was even more perplexing was what Cana did next. When called upon for attendance she proudly raised her hand to mark her presence and subsequently allowed the loose sleeve to fall down her arm, exposing her bodily artwork. Needless to say Professor Helsing wasted no time sending her to Lord Death's office, after which he went on an extended rambling about how no student of his would turn into a disrespectful tattooed hooligan on his watch.

Not long after that the orthodox professor and Craftlove would both find themselves summoned before the Grim Reaper for the second time in two days, although to his credit the young Meister hadn't at all the faintest clue at that moment why he had been called back. He deduced that perhaps Lord Death thought he was responsible in influencing the girl to draw on herself, and as he would later find out that was very close to the truth.

"Yes. I see, I see," he vividly recalled the shinigami saying as he bobbed his head enthusiastically in apparent comprehension of the circumstance. "So if I understand this correctly Ms. Mehndi here believed that Mr. Craftlove was singled out unfairly during our little incident yesterday and so decided to do this as her display of solidarity. Well if that's the case I believe I might have a solution for our so called 'delinquents' here. What say we have them partner up for a while and see how it goes, hmmm? I think there might be some potential to be found between them."

There was reservation and a certain degree of uncertainty painted upon his younger self as he heard Lord Death's suggestion. However, on the inside a faint flutter within his chest made its presence known. Whether it was something in his heart or his soul he didn't quite know for sure, but he wanted to say that perhaps Cana felt that same spark as well on that day.

Nearly twenty years after their memorable introduction, he could most assuredly say that she had. It seemed so odd to believe that in what seemed like nothing more than a brief blink of the eye they had emerged from the ranks of Class Rising Sun, completed their fair share of daunting missions against a slew of vile opponents, and emerged as a capable Two Star duo within the halls of the Academy. That same young lad he once was would have no idea the profound ripple that was created by her actions that day.

Shaking him from his musings, a roll of thunder boomed in the distance that with it sent a disturbing chill down his exposed spine and prompted him to raise his face from his palms. Tentatively he rose from the mattress and walked back over to the window that he had just come from, unsure of the source of his dread, but hoping that the apprehension that had blanketed him all night hadn't come to fruition. Throwing the curtain aside, his sight grew wide at the scene before him.

"It's happening."

The Black Blood Moon; that constant reminder of the battle against the Kishin that had dominated the celestial sky for what seemed like for so long now had finally been dethroned by the return of its wicked shining form. No longer crescent in shape, the lunar rock had become warped and near circular with the old omen of blood slipping between its chuckling teeth as it rocked to and fro.

Thumping between his brow, a wave of searing pain sent the professor to his knees as he let out an agonizing groan. Falling into the black, his vision briefly went dark before faint glimpses of transparent phantoms began to play before his mind in rapid succession. Like watching an old grainy film set to fast forward, images of unknown people and places filled his psyche as he struggled to grasp at precisely what was happening to him between the illusions and the burning sensation like a branding iron against his forehead.

There he found himself now in a barren cobblestone alley barely illuminated by candlelight from the adjoining street with a single hooded figure present before him.

"-been forewarned before- ignorant humans-"

The figure's voice was muddled and near indecipherable, coming in and out at random, but Craftlove could almost swear it sounded like that of a woman's.

"What's done is done."

That was almost certainly a man's voice that time, although he could barely make anything coherent out through the rapid flickering of the scene as they sputtered out of sequence. Between the sensation between his brow and the haze of his mind he could hardly take in any of this new vision he was witnessing.

"-foolish to allow you here- you do realize- executed for this-"

"They'll never know."

Struggling to make out any words, none came to surface as the only thing Craftlove managed to conjure was a choking gasp of empty breath.

Within the illusion he reached into the inner pocket of a cloak that he failed to recognize as his own and produced a small drawstring bag and presented it to the enigmatic woman, or who he assumed was a woman.

"-upheld my end-now yours-", he said.

Accepting the bag warily, the phantom loosened the strings to inspect the integrity of the contents within then nodded her head in confirmation.

"There is no return, Aleister."

Perplexion washed through his psyche to add to the already raging torrent that was overwhelming his senses. For but the briefest of moments he put aside the world around him to ask himself just what the woman meant by her cryptic words. Why on earth had she used his namesake when he was most certainly positive that he had never encountered such a person under those specific circumstances before in his entire life?

Just the simple way she said that one word begged him to focus it in on a point within his mind, latching onto it in some form of distraction from the bombardment all around him. Like a tape stuck a loop, he could almost distinctly hear her repeat it again and again, gaining clarity and volume with each pass.

"Aleister…Aleister...Aleister…Aleister!"

And then it all came back to him.

Finding his world gone black once more, the mental images vanished without a trace as well as the scorching sting upon his forehead, leaving only the gasping of his own labored breathing to fill the silence.

"Aleister!" he heard Cana cry out in distress, her delicate hands latched firmly upon his shoulders while he convulsed in a heap upon their bedroom floor. "Aleister!"

Much to her own simultaneous alarm and relief, the professor opened his eyes to meet her own and his shaking began to wane. Releasing a faint sigh of relief, she deduced that her beloved had undergone yet another series of his plaguing terrors, but the face that met her told more to that story. Many a time she had observed the expression he would wear after a nightmare and this was certainly nothing resembling it. Where he usually would heave a deep apologetic breath and take a moment to collect himself after he awoke, he now appeared distant and stunned. Even in the depths of the early hour, she could see the color had drained from his face and his bare skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Over their many years together they had faced an array of the most morally corrupt humans and monsters that roamed the earth, yet she had never seen him so full of dread as she did in that single moment.

"Darling, are you alright?" she questioned with concern as he struggled to pull himself upright. Reaching down, she helped him to his feet, but found him stumbling about with disoriented steps as he regained comprehension of the world around him.

Bending over with his hands on his knees, he allotted a moment to pass to allow his rampant state of mind to settle from what he had bore witness to.

"Cana…we have to go," he forced out.

"Go?" the woman replied with a puzzled look, taken aback by the sudden statement. "What are you talking about? Go where?"

"We have to help them," he muttered almost absently to himself.

"Help who?" Cana demanded to know, growing increasingly frightened with every moment she spent attempting to decipher his vague words. "For goodness sake, Aleister, what are you talking about?! Help who?!"

Pulling himself back to his full height, the distress that came from his voice betrayed the exhaustion of his psychic ordeal.

"The moon, Cana!" he practically pleaded, grabbing her by the shoulders and twisting her towards the window. "Look at the moon!"

Gazing upwards out from behind the glass, the woman hadn't even stopped to notice the yellow light that cast itself into her home, sprawling shadows across her form where for so long there had been only pure darkness. A chilling fear befell her that she hadn't felt in almost a year's time as she took in its newly deformed shape and the lowly cackle that the celestial entity emitted as scarlet dripped from behind its sinister mouth.

"What in the…?" she managed to say, trembling at an almost complete loss for words as she took it all in. "I-I don't understand. Does this mean that the Demon Swordsman…the Kishin?"

"I don't know," Craftlove admitted solemnly, unsure on the fine details of the events unfolding in the sky. "Believe me, I wish I did, but it doesn't matter how now. We have to go."

"Aleister," she addressed, her ordinarily sweet and empathetic tone now turned stern and demanding. "You can explain yourself later, but you better tell me right now what it is you've been seeing in your dreams. I know you worry about the ripple effect of your curse, but right now is not the time for you to be keeping secrets from me. I know you've been dreading something for weeks now so there's no use hiding it anymore."

Pausing, the tenseness that was wrought throughout her body was evident as she leaned forward on the tips of her toes, cupping his face and bringing it down to meet her own. The tenderness of her soul had returned, but an underlying trembling could still be felt in her touch.

"I'm begging you, please tell me," she implored. "What's going to happen?"

Tilting his head towards the floor, the professor released a sorrowful breath, knowing that with each passing second they were wasting precious time to undo what fate had shown him. Try as he had for the passing weeks to live a normal life both for his sake and Cana's, there was no skirting around it anymore. The moment had long since frittered away where he should have spoken of it, however it wouldn't have made any difference. Fate was a cruel and conniving mistress that always took that which she deemed to be hers no matter how much one attempted to stand in opposition.

Bringing his head back up to meet her, he laid out before her the simple, unfiltered truth about his premonitions and all the hellish details they contained. His words were quick, yet thorough in conveying their meaning, knowing that with each passing second they were squandering time. All the while she listened intently, clinging onto every vision that he spoke of with the upmost attention. Deep inside her soul she prayed that her beloved was wrong or that what he had envisioned was erroneous in nature, but she couldn't remain in denial for long. Outside her window she could hear the droning wail of sirens make their call across the desert and her heart sank as she came to terms that they could not merely avoid what was about to transpire.

"Is there anything we could have done?" she finally questioned, her heart heavy with remorse.

"No," Craftlove dejectedly replied, casting his sight away momentarily. "But we can change it. Even if it's one life, we can change it."

"Then we need to hurry. Lord Death has already sounded the alarm," Cana nodded, twisting about abruptly and striding rapidly over to the master closet so that she could change from her nightgown. Slipping it off, she rushed to don a burgundy kurti with teal floral arrangements, loose cream pants, and low black heels. With no time to do her hair she left it as it was, permitting a wave of it to conceal a portion of her face.

Adequately prepared, she stepped back into the illumination of their bedroom, unsure if it might be the last time she would ever lay eyes upon it. Captured by a flicker, she turned her head to spy the moonlight reflecting off a picture frame of her and Aleister on one of their prior vacations in the mountains. Their faces were partially covered by ski goggles, yet their smiles were all they needed to show to convey their affection.

All she desired now more than anything was to make it through whatever lay in store for them so that they might make memories such as that for many more years to come. More importantly, though, so that others may have that same opportunity as well.

Not soon thereafter, Craftlove reappeared behind her, finishing buttoning up the breast of his tweed coat as he did so. While his suit wasn't nearly as pressed and properly groomed as he would have preferred it to be, the circumstances dictated he best not fret about such trivial matters at the moment.

The Two Star felt the shift in her soul before he even saw it upon her features. Gone was her personifying timbre laced with compassion and benevolence, replaced now by one that was burdened by the weight of countless innocent souls. The same tender grey irises she had moments prior were now narrow and focused, emitting a razor-sharp glare from behind her raven veil. In a certain sense it pained him to know that part of her distress was by his own doings in keeping his visions from her, but he knew that she wouldn't place any blame upon him no matter how much it might be justified. Nevertheless, to see the gentleness fade from her soul and be replaced by stirring waves of anger, helplessness, and uncertainty did nothing to ease his already brooding spirit.

"Cana," he addressed lowly, placing a shaking hand upon her shoulder. Without a word her answer came in the form of a brilliant flash of light as she transformed herself. Shifting and contorting in the blackness, she landed easily within his grasp, their souls entwined not only by the ties of love, but by the oaths of Meister and Weapon.

"It's been a while since we've been in the field, hasn't it?" he asked as the radiant glow of her Weapon form shattered in his hand. There was moment's pause as he awaited her reply, watching as the moonlight glinted upon the relief of sharpened steel. Then at last she spoke with a hardened voice that conveyed her words as an acute affirmation and undisputable declaration of intent.

"I've still got my edge."

Upon her heavenly perch, the rebirthed Mother Witch basked in the glory that was the Madness of Chaos, watching with rapturous elation at the blanket of havoc that was beginning to envelope the earthly body below. Lights belonging to vast and various cities before her began to waver and eventually extinguish as their slumbering patrons awakened to the mass-educed panic that befell them. Grinning in marvel of her Madness, she knew that the first to succumb to Chaos would be her fellow witches followed closely by the weak-hearted souls of the world. With their natural affinity for discord swelling within their souls, they would cause a plethora of unrest for the Grim Reaper and his forces scattered throughout the globe. And that was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

"Breathtaking, is it not, Inu?" Hecate questioned in rhetoric, rubbing her hand through the brimstone fur of her lieutenant familiar. Replying in a throaty growl of approval, the hell hound turned her snout to the Book of Eibon that remained in her mistress's possession and gave a faint snarl.

"Hmm?" she hummed in inquiry for a moment before remembering what remained inside the magical text. "Oh, yes, of course. I suppose I should probably inform them that they are free to withdraw from the book now."

Huffing faintly in annoyance, she found the act of mild irritation not in part to the notion that she felt like she owed them any debt for her freedom, but that she rather enjoyed the moment's peace and quiet having just defeated one of her former Warlords and sealed him away within the core of the earth. However, the situation just couldn't be helped she supposed. She did have a new shinigami she needed to pay tribute to after all and a little extra ruination to add to the mix would only make their eventual meeting that much more satisfactory.

"Pha, stropha, pha, phalo," she incanted mundanely, levitating the Book of Eibon and giving a quick flick of her finger. Opening to its center, the pages of the text unleashed a swirling vortex that released Sibylla and Orobo from its confines, placing them beside her. They were followed shortly thereafter by Gopher and the Wrath Noah in a most unceremonious of fashions in which they were practically spat out of the Book of Eibon like particularly bitter morsels.

"Argh…what the hell?" Wrath groaned, wincing his eyes before realizing he was now lying sprawled out on top of his minion.

"Noah-sama," Gopher practically cooed in adoration of their unforeseen position. "I can feel your heart beating, Noah-sama."

Giving a mighty shove against the teen, the sorcerer let out a prolonged string of seething swears as he scrambled to his feet. Putting a considerate distance between them, his anger quickly redirected itself from his clingy underling to Hecate, who he eyed with an unamused leer.

"Hope you found that funny, witch," he muttered beneath his breath.

"Quite," the Mother Witch quipped simply in reply, having heard him. "However, the time for gaiety has not yet been reached. While the Madness of Chaos is indeed spreading throughout the souls of the world, it will not be done without opposition from the Reaper."

Her words of discretion, however, fell on absent ears as the two remaining members of their party gazed about the shining lunar landscape with awestruck expressions.

"The Kishin," Sibylla finally managed to question with newfound hesitance. "Is…is he…?"

"Imprisoned once more within a magical barrier and banished to a place where he shall reside until the end of days," Hecate answered with a hint of wicked satisfaction. "His derangement and ferocity were just as I remember them being all those years ago. Nevertheless, despite all his blustering about being an almighty God of Fear he was held captive by a mere child who wielded the power of BREW and therefore I cannot attribute much credit to him. That is only a testament to the might of Eibon and nothing more."

Turning the cube lightly in her hand, a snicker of repugnance crossed her lips at her mentioning of the sorcerer. To believe that within her palm she now held one of the Demon Tools created by him was almost too much to fathom.

"Hecate," Orobo addressed, pulling the Mother Witch from her line of thought. "What became of the Demon Swordsman?"

"I have no interest in the fate of the child," she replied coldly. "They were nothing more than a minor nuisance at most, so I let them play with my babies while I vanquished Asura. However, I naturally assume they were swallowed up alongside him and now share his eternal place of residence. With Asura eliminated as a threat my focus is now upon the newly-crowned Reaper and this school of followers you speak of."

"The shinigami is hardly an issue we need be concerned about, Hecate," Sibylla stated with a hidden smirk. "With your Madness filling the souls of witches everywhere his arsenal of Death Scythes should be incapable of posing any threat to us. The same souls of our sisters that they consumed in order to gain their power will now become the harbingers of their ultimate destruction."

"The extent of your ambitions and cunning are admirable, but you assume too much, child," Hecate replied with slight condescension, making the Fly Witch balk momentarily at her remark. "Even without his Death Scythes the Grim Reaper remains a formidable adversary. However, the fact does remain that this is not the same one I once knew so I'm intrigued as to his successor's capabilities. If the same blood runs in his veins as the Death of my past he will not succumb to any threat to his precious 'order' without fierce resistance."

"So what would you suggest we do then?" Wrath questioned warily with an interjecting sneer, not at all doubting the wisdom of one of the Eight Warlords, but silently reluctant to place the entirety of his trust in her.

Looking down into the two articles of Eibon she carried in either hand, Hecate had no hesitation in her mind about what needed to be done. Her disciples of Chaos were already aware of it as well, as they were the ones who had set this entire chain of events into motion via her resurrection. The gears of destiny were now gaining steam and soon they would be spinning with reckless abandon into the throngs of mayhem.

Turning to face the Noah, Hecate extended her right hand that gripped the magical book. Who was to say she couldn't give her glorious Chaos a little zing for extra satisfaction?

"I was informed that as per the conditions of your assistance in my rebirthing the Book of Eibon would be returned to you," she said, smiling lightly. "If that is the case then it is only fair that your agreement be fulfilled, wouldn't you say?"

Crossing his arms across his chest, Wrath eyed the gesture with a scowl of conflicted contempt. Despite the Madness radiating throughout his being tempting him to take the book and unleash every ounce of his fury upon Shibusen, there was the tiny string of thought that lingered within his mind that remained ever distrusting of two witches and the mage.

"What's the catch?" he growled lowly.

"I have no intention of deceiving you," Hecate replied, her tone hardening as she propositioned with the suspecting sorcerer. "You and your subordinate are both part of this book, are you not? It is only natural that the book should be wielded by you then. It carries no value to me, therefore it is futile for me to burden myself by not utilizing its potential. My only condition for relinquishing it to you is that I ask you to make a simple promise to me."

"What?" Wrath snarled with brow cocked.

Unable to suppress her elation within the moment, a sinister Cheshire grin began to form that brought her fanged canines to bear.

"Bring Chaos to the Reaper's doorstep," she instructed. "Introduce this school of his to the true meaning of ruination and leave no soul untouched by your hand. It is evident that the fire of your soul is fanned by the winds of desolation, so why not spread those flames throughout the lands? Do that which you were meant to do. That is my only requirement."

Reaching out, Wrath took the Book of Eibon in hand, keeping his leering gaze trained on the Mother Witch before him all the while. With faint disbelief in his good fortune, Hecate released the text from her grasp without reluctance, ensuring that the contract made all those months ago with the amber-eyed witch and her mage servant had been fulfilled. Touching the archaic leather of the book, he could practically feel his natural impulse for rage multiplying tenfold from the sheer magical power that lay within its pages.

This time around it was Wrath who was unable to disguise his inner emotions. Smirking to himself, the supposed mother of all witches had no inkling of the magnitude of the mistake she had just committed by so willingly handing him the one article he craved more than anything else in the world. For within his possession he now commanded the key to dispensing rage upon whomever he saw fit, whether they be foe or otherwise.

"With pleasure."

Deep in the midst of the ungodly morning hour, the chattering ping of a telephone echoed throughout a spacious apartment. Moving from its origin in the master bedroom, the dial floated past the suave and modern furnishings of the penthouse, down the staircase, and into the upscale, yet empty living room and kitchen. Falling silent for but a brief moment, it resumed in its clamoring chime for the third straight time without answer, but not without proper reason. The two individuals who at the current moment occupied the quarters were indeed wide awake, however, it was not by any means due to the abruptness of their late night inquiry.

Staggering blindly with near intoxicated movements, Spirit felt for the door of his master bath, searching desperately for the little panel that would turn on the overhead lights. Fumbling within the darkness, the Death Scythe found the switch after several failed attempts which forced him to squint his eyes back shut as the vanity bulbs cast their blinding glow.

Groaning as he forced himself to look into the mirror before him, he clutched the countertop in a straining grip. Appalled by what he found in his reflection, he saw two of his black and grey scythe blades protruding from his back. Curling sharply, they nearly pierced their way into the mirror before they flashed in a burst of white light, adding a third edge to the duo. Then to his perplexion they vanished just as easily, leaving him hunched over the sink with his night shirt draped in tatters about his sweat-drenched chest and shoulders.

Gasping sharply, his hand rose up to grab at his heart, feeling something from within him that he couldn't describe in his current condition. It wasn't as though there was anything physically alive, yet he knew that there was something burning within his core vying to escape. It filled him with unimaginable thoughts that were not of his right mind, tempting him like a little devil to give into irrational, erratic tendencies. Beyond the mental bombardment he was receiving his body was going haywire and acting without his consent as well, only adding another layer of complexity to the situation. Outside his apartment the sirens from the emergency broadcast screeched without pause, mixing in with the rumbles of ever-frequenting thunder.

"What the heck's going on?" he muttered, winching as once more his scythe blades appeared and retracted rapidly at random.

"Spirit!"

The panicked, feminine cry that rang out to him came from the second occupant of the redhead's home. Entering the light that filled the bath, Cyran Brize approached the distressed Death Scythe with hands cupped over her face as though on the brink of tears. Clad in her turquoise nightgown that flowed loosely around her, she stopped just outside the range of his seemingly sentient and erratic edges, watching in both horror and comprehension of what was transpiring.

"Stay back!" he commanded sharply in a tone so unlike any he had ever directed towards her before. However, rather than comply with his demand, the woman dropped to her knees upon the tile floor and began to shudder and writhe.

"Cyran!" he called out, releasing his firm grip upon the granite fixture and falling down in front of her. Disregarding his own warning, he took hold of her quivering shoulders and brought her up to face him. Keeping her head buried within her cupped hands, the Death Scythe found a precious moment of mental clarity to gently pry them away. Beneath them he found her face to be ghostly white, drained of all color save for the sapphire in her irises. With quivering lips, an empty breath came forth before she finally found her voice in a trembling timbre.

"Something's wrong," she managed to say. "The Pull…it's never been like this before. I-I don't understand. It's always been there, but now…"

Raising her head sharply, Cyran snapped her hands up and latched upon the Death Scythe's biceps, digging into flesh with painted nails.

"How many are there, Spirit?!" she questioned frantically in a desperate plea. "How many witches are in the city right now?!"

"I-uh…" Spirit stammered, wracking his jumbled mind for some form of coherent answer. "Fifteen?! Twenty, maybe?! I-I don't know!"

True fear befell the older witch as she quickly came to terms with what that information meant for them. If there were even five other members of the Coven experiencing the same sensation that she was within the vicinity of Death City they were all in grave peril. However, if what Spirit had said about there being upwards to twenty of them currently nearby she couldn't even begin to imagine what lay in store for her, the Death Scythe, and everyone else.

"Spirit, listen to me carefully," Cyran implored fearfully. "I don't know what's happening, but right now the Pull of Magic is stronger than I've ever felt it in my life. I can't resist it for much longer, so I need you to do exactly what I tell you, understand?"

Waiting a single moment for him to confirm her words, she resumed.

"Run, please," she trembled. "Leave the city as fast as you can. Go to the desert and find somewhere safe to stay until the morning comes. Don't stop for anyone and don't look back."

"Maka?" he questioned in swift rebuttal, the thought of his only child being the first to come to mind.

"If you truly love your daughter then you'll stay away from her," Cyran tried to explain as best as she knew how. "I know this is difficult to ask of you, but somehow the soul within you that gives you the abilities as a Death Scythe has awoken. Both you and I are under the influence of the Pull, meaning if you were to be near Maka there's no telling what might happen. You could very well end up hurting her, or worse. I might end up hurting you. The only thing you can do is stay away from anyone, including myself and her."

Casting his head down towards the tile floor, Spirit allowed the woman's words to sink in for a moment before his entire body slumped in an exhaustive sigh. Flashing white, the scythe blades protruding from his spine retreated once more, leaving him all but shirtless with the witch's fingernails still digging painfully into his arms. He didn't understand how or why all of this was transpiring around him, but he knew that there was no avoiding the inevitability that it was happening nonetheless. Cyran's explanation had made the picture just clear enough for him to understand that the second soul inside of him, that of the witch Theodora he and Maka's mother had defeated all those years ago, was reacting to some unknown force. Every temptation, every primordial impulse, every desire for discord that Theodora once had now ran rampant through his veins.

And yet he couldn't help but turn a smug grin at the thought of it all. Lifting his head up, he looked Cyran in the eyes bearing his trademark suave.

"Like hell I'm running away," he remarked coolly. "How would I be able to call myself a Death Scythe then, huh? And I'd rather die a thousand times over than hurt a single hair on my precious Maka's head. No stupid 'Pull of Magic' is gonna turn me against her."

"I'm begging you, Spirit, this is no time for foolish pride!" Cyran implored quickly in refutation. "You have no idea of the power of what we're dealing with! If you don't run you could very well end up doing something that you never thought possible! If the Pull continues like this for much longer nobody you care for is sa-!"

Cut off from her desperate warnings, a sharp pang of returning wavelength overwhelmed both their souls within the moment, rendering them incapable of resistance to its force. Falling away from his arms, their hands found the tile as they succumbed to the call of the Pull, writhing and moaning all the while. From his exposed back, two, then three, then five sharpened blades emerged in erratic bursts, nearly skewering the witch right in front of him. Letting loose with an agonizing roar, the Death Scythe brought his fist down upon the floor, shattering the ceramic below. Staggering to his feet, he grabbed hold of the crowning to the sink for support only to spy the reflection of the five scythes protruding from him. Looking to his bloodstained hand, he willfully transformed the appendage into a blade as well, eyeing his heart frantically.

"Get out of me!" he directed a cry to the source of all his temptation, ready to cut the witch's soul from him. However, before he was able to perform a hasty surgical operation upon himself, a strong, yet delicate hand caught his wrist.

"As I've said before, there is no fighting this, Spirit," Cyran stated with a hauntingly calm demeanor as she gazed upon him from within the mirror. "This is the nature of witches, whether we wish it to be or not. Desolation and upheaval are to us as water and air are to your kind and now you too know its impression upon the soul. If it's any comfort to you I wish none of this were happening and that we could continue this spark we've found, but it cannot."

"I'm sorry," she offered, her voice carrying with it the faintest hint of remorse.

Releasing her grip upon Spirit, the witch turned her back to him and walked slowly from the bathroom back into the master bed. Lowering her head as she approached the windows at the far end she began to utter incantations softly to herself, her hands beginning to radiate a turquoise glow around them as she did so.

"Aniso, Oda, Odana, Ishnu," she recited, the radiance about her delicate fingertips becoming a sapphire flame. "Oda, Oda, Ishnu, Ani…Aniso, Oda, Odana, Ishnu."

"Oda, Oda, Ishnu, Ani," she finished.

Rattling the surrounding expanse of the cityscape, a flash of infernal blue and white consumed the penthouse, blasting out windows and portions of the wall in a deafening explosion. Mixing in with the wails of the sirens and fellow sounds of thunder nearby in a harmony of turmoil, the crackle of the engulfing blaze reached its crescendo as sapphire embers rose against the backdrop of the bloody moon.

A/N: Wow, that took long enough. My deepest, sincerest apologies everyone, but I never thought this chapter would take seven months to get to you. I really didn't mean for it to happen like that. The good news though is I'm not dead. There's just so much going on in my life right now its nuts. I'm incredibly busy with my new career path as an apprentice and learning the ins and outs of my new craft. That being said, I'm currently working seven days a week with two jobs with very little time for personal stuff to help keep my head above water, so that's a big factor in the delay. Ain't no rest for the weary though. I've come too far to back out now, so here's to hoping one day the struggle will pay off. I have faith it will.

Now onto the story. There's a lot of implication and unknowns I've snuck in here on purpose. A lot of it ties into subtle dialogue from previous chapters, so if you're up for it it might help to just start rereading from the beginning. Not necessary however.

I also want to say a bit on this final scene with Spirit and Cyran. From what I can tell from the manga its sometimes hard to deduce when a witch is supposedly "under" the influence of the Pull. Sometimes its apparent and sometimes its implied. This makes writing it a bit of a challenge so I hope I've portrayed it to your standards. This was something different for me because I'm trying to write solely what I believe would be the appropriate character response to a new situation. Spirit is a good example of this. I wanted to portray Spirit with a real sense of panic for the first time. As we know Spirit is known for remaining exceptionally composed and suave in dangerous situations, but I wanted to create a situation that forces him against that nature. I hope I delivered and have left you all in anticipation.

I have no idea when the next installment will drop, but I will try to the best of my abilities to make it reasonable. Please bear with me as I try to survive this game known as adulthood.

Until next time,

K.K.

P.S.: Rest in Peace Chris Cornell. Your contributions to the world of rock will forever remain legendary. Say Hello to Heaven \m/