Aelius was currently occupying what could generously be called a bed in the guild infirmary—though "occupying" might have been the wrong word. It was more accurate to say he was surviving in it. Lying flat on his back, shoulders propped against a stack of thin pillows, his body looked more like a half-finished diagram of a man than something still clinging to life.
Laying, because sitting was out of the question. He was still missing everything from the waist down—thighs, pelvis, legs, all gone. What remained was a torso lashed together by magic, gauze, and whatever furious defiance he hadn't yet burned through. A haphazard cradle of steel braces and thick enchanted linen wrapped around his midsection, practically the only thing keeping his insides from spilling out. The bandages were dense enough to resemble armor—three solid inches in some places, built up like a fortress wall over the ruin beneath. Each breath he took made them shift faintly, as if warning the world not to look too closely beneath the surface.
The room around him buzzed faintly with arcane energy, the aftermath of both Wendy's healing and the half-dozen enchantments woven through his bindings just to keep the infection and necrosis at bay. Salves and bottles lined the far shelf, most of them untouched, not because he didn't need them, but because he refused them.
He was awake, staring at the rafters above with the flat, dull focus of someone whose pain had long since passed the point of acknowledgment. His eye had regrown, and now both were open—twin shards of storm-glass, glazed not from exhaustion, but from sheer, unrelenting irritation.
The source of that annoyance wasn't pain. It wasn't the tightness of the bandages digging into his ribs, or the phantom pressure where his legs used to be. It wasn't even the slow, creeping itch of his body knitting itself back together in unnatural ways. No—the reason his gaze had gone glassy was far simpler, and far more maddening.
Levy was lecturing him. Again.
Levy's voice came first, soft, insistent, full of too many question marks and drowned in worry. "So…what did that to you—"
Makarov's followed, heavier, authoritative, the kind that expected answers by gravity alone. "Boy, I need you to be clear. If this was a person, or if Nirvana altered—"
Aelius did not answer.
He had tuned them both out somewhere between "what was it" and "why did you." The questions were always the same. The tones changed—Levy soft and awestruck, Makarov stern and tired—but the undercurrent was identical: how did this happen, and why are you still breathing?
Polyursica, ever the charming addition, had already barked something about his magical readings being an "insult to all known biological systems," and she was threatening to sedate him with something derived from powdered basilisk marrow if he didn't stop glaring at people like he wanted them dead.
He would've glared harder, but honestly, it felt like too much effort.
He had tuned all three of them out somewhere between Levy's third scolding and Polyursica threatening to physically turn his blood into ink if he didn't start cooperating. One of them was enough to make him grind his teeth. All three together?
Frankly, he was starting to regret not letting Nehzhar finish the job.
Or at least kill them.
The faintest twitch ghosted across his expression. Not quite a grimace, not quite a smirk—just a sliver of private suffering held beneath a blanket of gauze and barely-leashed sarcasm. If the gods had any mercy left, one of them would get distracted. Or explode. Either worked.
Their words blurred, syllables breaking apart into background pressure, a crowded hallway of sound he chose not to walk down. He watched dust turning lazy circles in a sunbeam instead. Counted the hairline splits in the beam above him. Tracked the faint quiver of the curtain in a draft no one else noticed. The room smelled like alcohol and old wood and iron. His heartbeat thudded in the bandages like a fist on a locked door.
"—Aelius?"
"—we need to know—"
"—stop glaring and answer—"
The ceiling didn't care. Neither did he.
Somewhere far away, someone said his name again. It broke against him and slid off, harmless.
He shut his eyes.
Silence did not follow.
He simply stopped letting the noise in.
The moment stretched. Words continued to wash over him—Levy's concern-creased voice rising in pitches, Makarov's like gravel in a drum, Polyursica's needling barbs sharpened by decades of knowing when someone was being an ass on purpose. And Aelius… simply drifted beneath it all.
Not asleep. Not unconscious. Just… submerged.
A low mechanical hum vibrated through the wall—the forge's bellows, or someone tuning up the lacrima rig in the hallway outside. It filled the space behind his ears, joined by the whirr of a fan blade too old for its mount and the faint tick-tick-tick of a potion cooling over a burner near the window. Time marked itself through noise he could tolerate.
Then a voice cut through—sharper, younger, untouched by age or authority.
"Is he always like this?"
Wendy.
He didn't move, but one of his eyes slid open the barest fraction. Her face hovered in his peripheral vision—uncertain, embarrassed for having asked, for having dared to speak in the presence of whatever this was.
"He is listening, right?" she added after a moment. "I mean—his brain's still working? He's just…"
A beat.
"…ignoring us?"
That got a response.
Not a word. Not a grunt. Not even a flicker of muscle.
Just the slow, deliberate movement of one finger. A thumb. Curling up from where his left arm lay, A single, lethargic thumbs-up.
And then the hand flopped sideways again.
"Gods help us," Polyursica muttered.
Makarov ran a hand down his face. "It's like trying to interrogate a corpse with opinions."
Levy frowned, exasperated, her notebook pressed uselessly to her chest. "You know, at some point, you do have to tell us what happened. You're in the guild now, remember?"
No reaction.
Wendy leaned in just a little closer, trying a different angle. "You nearly died. We could fix it."
That last word hung in the air.
Fix.
Aelius's eyes twitched. The faintest movement of muscle beneath the glare of bandaged skin. Not quite agreement. Certainly not gratitude.
Then—voice like torn parchment—he spoke.
"Would you all kindly… go shout at a wall instead?"
The words were slurred, dry, barely more than a breath, but utterly intact in meaning. Acid-fringed disdain and bone-deep exhaustion wrapped in one mangled package of syllables.
It earned a long, tired groan from Makarov.
And Levy, in the same breath, laughed softly. "Still got venom. He's fine."
Wendy blinked. "That means… he's okay?"
Erza's voice drifted in from the door, low and dry as she finally returned with an armload of gauze. "Yes…Yes, it does," she said, not quite to anyone in particular—maybe to the room itself, maybe to Wendy, maybe to the ceiling Aelius was still intent on glaring through.
She set the bandages down with the careful grace of someone who'd done this more times than she could count. Not just the tending, but the steady rhythm of walking back into blood-soaked quiet, of treating wounds that shouldn't be survivable, of standing beside people who looked like corpses and insisting they weren't done yet.
Her eyes flicked to Aelius, searching for some shift in his face, some sign of lucidity beneath the sheer wall of apathy he wore like armor.
"You know," she said as she approached, "for someone who allegedly hates attention, you certainly know how to make an entrance."
No response.
Aelius was still lying motionless on the makeshift cot, barely more than a ribcage and bandage bundle, one arm hanging limp and the other curled across his chest like a corpse preparing for burial. But he was awake—clearly. Staring at the ceiling as if it owed him money, his newly regrown eye just a little too focused to count as unconsciousness.
She stepped into view.
He didn't look at her. But there was a twitch in the jaw. A tiny one. Enough.
"I swear," Erza went on, "you could be a smoking skeleton and Makarov would still complain you're dripping on the floor."
This time, the corner of Aelius's mouth tugged—barely. Something between exhausted annoyance and reluctant amusement.
"I think he tried," Wendy whispered from the corner, hands clasped nervously behind her back. "To yell, I mean. But then he saw all the damage and… kind of deflated."
"He's just relieved you're not dead," Erza said as she tugged up a stool beside him. "We all are."
"Don't speak for me," Aelius rasped, voice low and scratchy as gravel. "I was enjoying the peace."
"Oh, please. You hate peace. You glare at it until it gets uncomfortable and leaves."
Another twitch. A slightly longer breath in. Still not looking at her, but he wasn't quite looking at the ceiling anymore either. Progress.
Erza cracked her knuckles and reached for the bandages. "You know, it's honestly a miracle your stomach hasn't just given up and walked off by now."
"I think it tried," he muttered. "Something was moving when I woke up. Not sure if it was mine."
"That's horrifying," Wendy mumbled.
"Welcome to Aelius," Erza said breezily. "You get used to it. Eventually."
She began unwrapping the old gauze with steady hands, peeling back layer after layer of battlefield medicine, makeshift stitching, and some truly unholy fluids that were better not examined too closely.
"You're lucky, you know," she added as she worked. "A few more minutes and we wouldn't have found anything left to stitch back together."
"Lucky," Aelius repeated, voice a dry croak. "That what we're calling it now?"
"Luck, stubbornness, spite—it's a thin line at this point."
"Don't forget plague magic," he said.
Wendy flinched.
"Yes, that too," Erza said, smiling faintly. "Though the jury's still out on whether it's helping or trying to finish you off."
"It killed me once," Aelius muttered, tone almost casual. "Hasn't tried again. So far."
Wendy's hands froze mid-way through preparing another healing spell, the magic flickering uncertainly between her fingers. "Wait—what?"
Erza blinked, then slowly turned her head toward Aelius, one brow arched. "Really?" she asked. "That's how you decided to bring it up?"
"I was making conversation," he said dryly. "Everyone else already knew."
Erza gave a half-snort and didn't deny it.
Wendy's mouth opened, then closed, her brows drawn in a stunned knot. "You—died?"
"It didn't stick," he muttered. "I got better."
"That's not—how does—" Wendy glanced between them, clearly trying to understand how everyone could be so casual about it. "When?"
"Doesn't matter," Aelius said. "Point is, I'm here."
Wendy looked like she wanted to argue, or at least ask how, but Erza gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Later," she said. "He's not exactly the best storyteller when he's missing a liver. Overall, if I'm being honest."
"I'm not missing a liver," Aelius grumbled.
Erza gave him a look—and the look said, anymore.
With a reluctant sigh, Wendy let the moment go, though her eyes lingered on him for a beat longer, as if expecting him to fall apart again at any second.
Aelius, for his part, was already back to glaring at the rafters. The same dull, tired stare—like he was trying to memorize the grain in the wood above, as though the ceiling might one day owe him a favor.
Erza returned to sorting through the gauze, shifting aside an empty bottle of antiseptic with one boot. "You look better than you did yesterday."
"That's a low bar," he replied.
"You were only bleeding from two places when I walked in."
"Progress."
"You managed to insult Makarov with fewer words than usual."
"I'm exhausted."
"Polyruscia only threw one chair this time."
"She missed."
"That was on purpose."
Aelius's brow twitched, just barely. "I'm starting to think you enjoy watching me like this."
Erza didn't bother denying it. "You do get entertaining when you can't move."
"You've all been a terrible influence."
"You were like this before you came back."
He grunted, too tired to refute her, too stubborn to agree.
Wendy glanced between the two of them again—half concerned, half bewildered, a little lost in their rhythm but slowly acclimating to it. She folded the bandages tighter in her hands and began sorting tools beside the bed.
For a moment, it wasn't heavy. It wasn't grim. Just another day in the guild infirmary. Another stupid near-death, another round of banter, another miracle dressed in gauze and bad decisions.
Wendy glanced between the two of them again—half concerned, half bewildered, a little lost in their rhythm but slowly acclimating to it. She folded the bandages tighter in her hands and began sorting tools beside the bed.
For a moment, it wasn't heavy. It wasn't grim. Just another day in the guild infirmary. Another stupid near-death, another round of banter, another miracle dressed in gauze and bad decisions.
But Erza's smile faded. She set the last roll of gauze down with a muted thud, straightened, and turned to face Aelius more directly.
Her tone changed—quiet, but firm. Not accusing. Not yet. "That man… he called you N."
The words were simple. Almost soft. But in the hush that followed, they dropped like a hammer.
Aelius didn't blink. Didn't flinch. His expression didn't shift from the distant half-scowl he'd been wearing since the moment they wheeled him in. But the air around him seemed to compress.
Erza waited, arms folded now. "You're going to tell us who he was."
Silence.
He blinked slowly, like the ceiling above him had just started reciting a poem he'd heard too many times. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Dry.
"No."
Wendy looked up, blinking. "Right, he called you N? Is that something you—"
"No," Aelius repeated, sharper this time. Still not loud, but final. His eyes didn't leave the rafters. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," Erza said. Her voice didn't rise, but it edged closer to something hard. "Someone from your past just tore through you like paper. He called you something we've never heard. He looked at you like he knew you. Like he expected you."
"Lots of people know me," Aelius said. "Most of them are dead. The smart ones stay that way."
Wendy's hands stilled over a roll of tape. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.
Erza took a step closer to the bed, and for a heartbeat, her shadow darkened the bandages draped over Aelius's stomach. "He called you N," she said again.
"That's not what matters," Aelius muttered.
"Then what does?"
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and tired. "That he's gone."
"And if he's not?" she asked.
"Then you're all dead, and the name won't help you."
The silence that followed was still—not strained, not cold, but brittle. Like the pause between two arguments, or the beat before a wound bleeds.
Erza stared at him a moment longer, then gave a quiet sigh and stepped back. She didn't press further.
Wendy looked between them again, eyes wide and worried. "Is… is he going to come back?"
His voice changed—a note of quiet certainty beneath the gravel.
"No," he said, flatly. "I scared him."
Wendy blinked, confused. "Scared him… how?"
"I showed him something," Aelius murmured, almost to himself.
He didn't elaborate. He didn't blink. He just let the weight of that sentence linger like smoke in the room, curling into silence.
Wendy glanced at Erza, silently asking for clarity. Erza, for once, had none to offer. She just gave a slow breath through her nose and resumed checking the tools laid out beside the bed—her fingers deliberate, her expression unreadable.
Aelius, meanwhile, drifted back into his quiet. Whatever he'd done… whatever he meant… it was his burden to carry, and clearly, he had no intention of handing it off.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
Erza exhaled through her nose, sharp but not unkind. She looked at him a moment longer, her expression unreadable but edged with something harder beneath the calm disappointment, perhaps. Not in him, but in the lack of answers. Or maybe in the sheer stubbornness that clung to Aelius like another bandage.
"Fine," she said at last, voice quiet but firm. "You can keep your secrets for now."
She turned to Wendy, who was still watching Aelius like a storm might roll off his cot and swallow them all. Gently, Erza placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Come on," she said. "Let's give him space. He'll pretend not to need it, but he does."
Wendy hesitated, clearly uncertain, but nodded. She gathered the unused gauze, looking once more at Aelius as if waiting for a sign he might change his mind. He didn't offer one.
They stepped out into the hall, the heavy door swinging shut behind them with a soft click.
Makarov followed not long after, slower, his expression pensive and furrowed in that specific way that always meant he was chewing on a dozen unspoken questions. The Guild Master lingered near the cot for a beat longer than the others had, eyes flicking over the mess of bandages and blood-stiff sheets with the quiet weight of an old man who'd seen too many of his children in states like this.
He didn't speak. Not now. Just turned and walked after Erza and Wendy, no doubt hoping that between the three of them he might pry something loose—some sliver of the truth Aelius refused to part with the night before, when they dragged what was left of him through the guild's doors.
By the time the hall quieted again, footsteps fading into the distance, Aelius was alone.
Mostly.
Polycusca had already vanished, of course. The moment Erza had entered earlier with her armload of gauze, the old healer had muttered something about too many people breathing in her infirmary and made a quick, pointed exit. She never did like an audience, especially not when her patients were of the gods-damned variety.
Only Levy remained, perched cross-legged on the stool beside his cot, half-hidden behind the curve of a book she'd started pretending to read five minutes ago.
She had been there since the night before, before they'd even moved him from the cart. Before the blood had stopped soaking through the first set of bandages. She hadn't helped patch him. Hadn't left either. And now, as the silence stretched, Levy finally looked up.
Her eyes flicked across his face, across the bruises and the blood crusted at his collar, across the bandages that didn't really help. She tilted her head slightly, voice quiet but firm.
"You really won't tell us anything about him?" she asked. "Not even me?"
She didn't plead. But there was something behind it—something not quite betrayal, not quite frustration, not quite hurt.
She didn't lean closer. Didn't push. Just sat there, gaze steady, waiting.
Like maybe, if she stayed still long enough, he'd remember how to speak in truths again.
The silence held, stretched thin like old parchment, drawn tight between them. Dust floated in the shafts of light cutting through the rafters, slow and weightless. Aelius didn't move, didn't blink—just stared at the ceiling as if the answer might be carved there in the woodgrain.
Then, finally, his voice came—low, hoarse, not unkind. Just tired. Detached.
"Who do you think is the strongest mage to ever exist?"
Levy blinked, surprised more by the fact that he'd spoken than by the question itself. She frowned, thoughtful. Not rhetorical, then. Not sarcastic. Just… curious. Or something close to it.
"Well," she said after a beat, brushing a thumb along the spine of her book, "I mean… it'd have to be Zeref, right? He's—he was—immortal. A genius. He created demons. Some people say he invented half the magic we even use. So yeah… if we're talking raw power, I'd say Zeref."
She looked at Aelius again, expecting him to scoff or roll his eyes, or maybe offer some impossible name she'd never heard before.
But he didn't. He just lay there, still wrapped in bandages and too many silences, one corner of his mouth curling in a way that made her feel suddenly unsure of her answer.
Aelius didn't laugh. Didn't argue. Just let the quiet linger another few seconds, long enough for Levy to start second-guessing herself.
"…Was that wrong?" she asked, trying to read his expression. She couldn't.
That curl of his lip deepened a hair—not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
"No," Aelius said at last. His voice was steady now, the rasp less raw, but still cool as untouched steel. "He's a good guess. Logical. Popular. Most mages would say the same."
Levy narrowed her eyes slightly. "But you don't."
A breath slid from his nose, too dry and too faint to be called a sigh. "No."
He turned his head—not far, just enough that one eye met hers through the tangle of half-healed wounds and trailing hair. "Zeref had time. Knowledge. An empire. But magic like that… It's like a house made of swords. Looks impressive. Sharp as hell. But it cuts everything—friend, foe, self. It doesn't grow. It corrodes."
Levy frowned again, trying to follow his trail of thought, but the pieces didn't quite lock into place. "So who is stronger than that?"
Aelius didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"No one," he said simply. "Because 'strongest' doesn't mean anything."
Levy blinked. "That's… not what you asked me."
"I know," Aelius murmured, his eyes closing again. "I just wanted to hear what you'd say."
She stared at him. Waited. No elaboration came. Of course it didn't.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
Aelius made a soft, amused noise. "You're still here."
Levy scoffed, crossing her arms. "Someone has to make sure you don't bleed to death again."
"I'll try not to," he said, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head toward her.
The words were quiet, almost teasing—but there was something in them, some thread that pulled her breath tight in her chest for just a second.
"…Tch," she said, looking away. "Try harder, then."
A beat passed.
Then, more gently, "But really… you're not going to tell me who he was?"
Aelius's eye opened again, dull and bright all at once, glassy with exhaustion but locked onto her with unnerving precision.
"I could," he said softly.
Then, without blinking—
"But I won't."
Levy didn't flinch. She just nodded once and looked back down at her book—though she hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. "Then I guess I'll just stay here and annoy you until you do."
A pause.
"I know."
And somehow, he sounded almost grateful.