Death Note: Farewell To A Legend

Author's Note: Inspired by that episode. Yes, you know what I mean. TT

They let him throw the first clod of earth on the coffin.

It doesn't quite have the effect he expects; the wild euphoria, the giddiness of having done it, having the world at his feet, is gone in this cold quiet morning after the storm, where there are a thousand reminders of death to momentarily prick the arrogance of youth, a bitter assurance of mortality that worries at his confidence. Besides, glee is inappropriate today, as his father and colleagues look on, concerned for his health, his sanity; he hears the whispers, Are you feeling well, Raito-san, and Don't worry, we'll get through this together. There're so many banal, nonsensical sentimentality that he wants to laugh, to—just for a moment, as he'd shown poor, foolish Misora, and tragic, dying L, the truth, the certain, damning knowledge of his triumph over them—to profess his guilt, and see in their eyes the slowly blossoming horror and bask in the smug awareness of his superiority.

But of course, he doesn't, and he only feels the faintest stirrings of pity as he flings out his hand, hearing the wet soil fall damply on the polished lid. (Ridiculously: 'Knock knock! Anybody home?') He stands there for a moment, dazed and breathless in his victory, as the full comprehension of the death looms again with all its omens and implications, and as though in a vision sees the grave, black and yawning and hungry, and worse, waiting, at his feet.

(L is curled like a cat in that tiny box, sucking on his thumb and smiling that vague, dreamy smile of mystery. It's still a shock to see those black eyes closed. He can imagine that L is in there laughing at him, and that somehow—somehow—there's something he's missed—some indication that just maybe, L's not gone yet.)

His father's warm hand curves around his shoulder, lending support, reassurance; he manages not to flinch. "How are you feeling, Raito?" asks that gentle, beloved voice of his childish days, teaching him all that he had first known, and building that first, instinctive craving for order and justice. And he wants to say—the words nudge his lips—and if it had benefited him to tell the truth, he would have said he is, ultimately, disappointed.

(After all, it was L, a small, lost part of him argues, the part of him that had grown to recognize and believe in L, in the man behind the letter, during that early infatuation with law; yes, that is what I want—had wanted—to be.)

"We'll catch Kira," he says, finally, and his voice trembles convincingly (as he has practiced, a hundred times, back home in front of the mirror). "We'll catch Kira, and I'll hang him myself with my bare hands, for, for…Ryuuzaki."

How the mighty have fallen, he thinks then, as the investigation team respond with their laughably predicatable vows of dedication to the 'cause', whatever it may be. Once, you proclaimed that you would hunt me down and kill me. Yet, it seems that I'm the one left standing, creating my new world while you rot and die forgotten in an unmarked grave, yet another number in the list of Kira's victims, yet another martyr to be glorified until you're nothing more than an idealised memory.

But…I'll remember you, at least.

"You're right, Raito-san," Matsuda says, with sincere admiration, breaking into his thoughts. "If there's anyone who can do it, it's you!"

Yes, you will indeed be missed.

Raito smiles, and far away in the distance, as though through a fog or dream, he hears the bells ring their mournful dirge.

End.

Ending note: …Damn you, Yagami Raito.