I sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry more than the weight of a particularly bizarre day on this cursed island, but the weight of centuries, of countless farewells and forced new beginnings. Mavis had vanished, like a spring breeze that departs too quickly, but her words, her sharp, disconcerting observations about my 'strange' and 'sad' aura, echoed in my mind like a persistent melody, a note I couldn't silence.
Damn ghost founders with keen spiritual sensitivity and a tendency to poke at wounds I preferred to keep firmly shut. Seriously, since I set foot on this island, it felt as if the universe had decided I was the private confessional for entities with existential complexes and powers that could snuff out stars.
First Zeref and his immortal drama, his aura of 'end-of-the-world-with-a-hint-of-gothic-poetry', now Mavis and her soul analyses that came a little too close to the truth for my comfort. I did not sign up to be a therapist for supernatural beings with relationship issues with reality or with death itself.
I didn't even want to be in this daft trial in the first place. All I truly wanted at that instant was my absurdly comfortable bed at Fairy Hills, a good, thick book on forgotten curses that promised at least a few centuries of uninterrupted sleep for its victims, and, perhaps, the absolute, blessed silence.
Unfortunately, absolute silence was a luxury rarely granted in my presence, especially when a certain blue cat with a hunger that defied the laws of physics was nearby. And he was. Inevitably.
"Azra'il-chan," Happy began, his voice cautious, his wide eyes fixed on the spot where Mavis had been floating moments before. He scratched his head with his little paw, the remains of the multi-eyed, tentacled fish completely forgotten (probably already digested by his inexplicably fast metabolism, and, I feared, with potential future consequences for the local fauna).
"Were… were you talking to the tree again? Or… or maybe with the ghost of that fish I caught? He seemed to have some unfinished business, with all those eyes staring at me." He shivered visibly, as if the mere memory was traumatising. "Are you really alright, Azra'il-chan? You haven't got a weird fish fever, have you?"
A sigh escaped my lips, this one less weary and more amused. I reached out and ruffled the blue fur on his head with a reluctant affection I rarely showed. He blinked, surprised by the unexpected contact.
"Don't worry about your old companion's eccentricities, Happy," I said, my voice a little softer than usual. I forced a small smile. "Nothing that should concern your furry little head. Go and rest for a bit in some quiet corner. You did a good job with the fish, even if it did look like something out of a forbidden bestiary."
Happy, though he still seemed a little suspicious, purred softly at the scratch and seemed to accept my vague explanation, or perhaps he was just too tired to argue. With a yawn that showed all his small sharp teeth, he dragged himself over to my rucksack and curled up like a little blue ball, falling asleep almost instantly. What a blessedly simple creature.
(At least Mavis didn't try to turn me into bait for a dimensional kraken thirsty for ancient souls, like a certain other spectral friend I met in a particularly chaotic and damp life in a cosmic swamp that reeked of regret and millennial algae,) I thought, a glimpse of a memory best left buried in the depths of my overpopulated subconscious.
I took a deep breath, the forest smell grounding me in the present. The island. The trial. The next phase, whatever that nonsense would be. I sighed again, a sound Eos would probably classify as a 'Level 3 demonstration of existential fatigue'. Such weariness.
I sincerely hoped that Erza and Mirajane, with their usual enthusiasm for trials and tribulations and the opportunity to break a few things (or people), would arrive soon so that we could proceed with this elaborate farce and I could, at last, return to my well-deserved, deeply needed boredom in a less… haunted environment with fewer intrusive 'ghosts'.
I pulled my travel rucksack closer, an almost automatic gesture, my fingers searching for something, anything, that could distract me from the weight of the day. And then, I felt the call. Not from the island, with its whispers of ancient magic and hidden dangers. Not from some lost mage with more problems than common sense. But from something older, deeper, more familiar.
The need, almost physical, to give voice to the silent whirlwind stirring within me, to the memories that Mavis had inadvertently poked with her spectral curiosity. With a discreet, almost imperceptible movement for the eyes of a sleeping cat, while my hand rummaged through the rucksack in a performance of normality, my dimensional inventory responded to my silent command.
The lute appeared in my hands, its dark, polished wood a familiar comfort against my fingers, the ancient strings ready to vibrate with the melodies of my soul, or, at least, with what was left of it after so many ages of wear, so many losses and new beginnings.
I began to pluck a few random notes, melancholic chords that seemed to suit the soft light filtering through the trees, just to feel the familiar tension of the strings under my fingers, the sound echoing gently in the silent clearing, enveloping us in a bubble of sound and feeling.
The words of Mavis about 'sad songs' and 'burnt-out stars' still hung in my mind, like the persistent scent of long-burnt incense. And, like an old wound reopened by a careless touch, with them came bittersweet memories, splinters of what I was in other ages, sparks of lives that had burned intensely and been extinguished without a farewell.
Echoes of my countless past lives, of the people I had met in worlds that no longer existed, that I had loved with the desperate intensity of a thousand suns about to go out, and that I had lost to relentless time, to senseless war, to the simple, cruel indifference of the universe which followed its indifferent course.
Even with my soul, in its immortal essence, wandering from reincarnation to reincarnation, I always felt that with each death, something was lost. Like an unfinished song silenced before the final note. A splinter of my essence that broke away, a song that fell silent. A subtle but persistent void, filled with the dust of dead stars, with the silence of unfinished songs, with the melancholy of a lonely traveller who no longer completely remembered the way back home.
[Variations in your biometric signals and Ethernano readings indicate a slight elevation in cortisol levels and a resonance with frequencies associated with long-term memory and complex emotional processing, Azra'il,] Eos commented in my mind, her voice a cold, analytical counterpoint to the torrent of feelings threatening to engulf me. [This pattern is frequently observed before a manifestation of… acute sentimentality. Caution, or alternatively, a handkerchief, is advised.]
(As always, Eos, your ability to diagnose an impending fit of nostalgia with the precision of a medical scanner is… impressive. And entirely unnecessary,) I thought, but a small, bitter smile touched my lips. She wasn't wrong.
Then, the words came, rising from that deep well of memories and feelings, and I began to sing. An ancient song, from a time and a place that no longer existed even in my deepest memories, but whose melody and whose pain still resided in my soul like an indelible tattoo, a scar that never completely faded.
"And the mist blurs what my eyes can see…"
My voice, usually reserved for sarcastic comments, dry orders, or, on rare occasions, for humming some obscure melody to irritate Eos, came out surprisingly clear, but laden with a deep melancholy, a liquid sorrow that seemed to fill the clearing, enveloping every tree, every stone, making even the wind among the ancient leaves hold its breath in silent respect.
"Has all emotion gone, is there anything left in me?"
The lute strings wept under my fingers, each note a lament, an unanswered question echoing in the void. I was not known for my displays of vulnerability; indifference was my oldest, most reliable armour. But music… music had always been my refuge, my confessional, the only place where the masks fell with a silent crash and my ancient, weary, wounded soul could breathe, could bleed, could simply… be.
"Be it what it may, any favour, I'd give you the whole world…"
"I'm going to ask: Are you happy, or have you not found yourself?"
As I sang, immersed in the song and the bittersweet memories it evoked like dancing ghosts, I heard footsteps approaching, hesitant at first, then firmer, entering the ruins towards the tomb. From the magical signature, dense and familiar like the smell of newly forged steel, unwavering determination, and mainly strawberries, I already knew who it was.
I didn't need to open my eyes to confirm. I didn't stop singing, even when a certain imposing redhead, whose aura was like a contained storm, accompanied by a visibly battered but still stubbornly upright Natsu who likely reeked of smoke and trouble, reached the ruin's clearing where I was seated upon the stone that was the First Master's tomb.
I perceived, even with closed eyes, the change in Erza's pace. I felt her approach, the familiar energy growing sharper. She had likely spotted me, and I could almost visualise her face, perhaps with a furrowed brow of concern, but with lips curving in restrained relief upon finding me there, seemingly whole.
Perhaps she took a few quick, determined steps in my direction, her body moving with that martial grace of hers, with the intention of greeting me, of checking if I was alright, perhaps even with that slightly clumsy but intensely sincere way of hers of showing concern or camaraderie, a firm touch on the shoulder, a word of encouragement, who knows, even one of those hugs that could break a few unwary ribs, but which were, deep down, incredibly comforting, a fortress against the world.
I almost expected the sound of her voice calling my name, "Azra'il!", with that unique mixture of firmness, authority, and… something else, something softer, more vulnerable I only noticed when she spoke to me, something I still couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't, completely decipher, but which made my ancient, tired heart give a strange, unexpected leap.
But then, she stopped. Abruptly. As if she had hit an invisible wall. The sound of her boots on the earth ceased, and I felt her gaze upon me, no longer just inquisitive, but now laden with a different intensity, a stillness that was almost painful. She saw me singing, my eyes slightly closed, the lute in my hands as if an extension of my very soul, the melancholic, ancient melody filling the air, weaving a tapestry of sadness and longing.
Her initial intention of an effusive greeting, a direct question about the trial, or even a scolding for my apparent inactivity, must have dissolved into thin air, replaced by a surprised hesitation, an observational quietness that was almost reverent. I felt a shiver run down my spine, not from the breeze, but from the force of the emotion that seemed to emanate from her, a silent empathy that caught me off guard.
I saw from the corner of my eye, through my eyelids, that even Natsu, the human hurricane, stopped beside her, his usual chaotic energy momentarily contained, his pink-haired head tilted slightly, observing with an almost childlike curiosity, as if trying to decipher an unfamiliar, strangely captivating sound that made him forget his hunger or his urge to fight.
Erza remained motionless, and I could almost feel how the music was hitting her, how the sad notes and the loss-laden words resonated within her. She, who carried her own burdens, her own invisible scars from the Tower of Heaven, from betrayal and loneliness. Perhaps she understood, more than I imagined, the melody of my weary soul. And the thought, the possibility of that silent connection, was both comforting and dreadfully frightening.
"Why does your gaze towards the sky reflect the loneliness?"
"Why is your smile so colourless?"
"The words come and go without forming…"
"Your character, I've learned to unravel…"
Then, more steps. Light and heavy, laden with an energy I would recognise anywhere, even if I were at the end of the universe, even if I were blind and deaf.
The demonic aura, now more contained, more refined, but still unmistakably powerful, an elegant, dangerous darkness. Mirajane. And Elfman, with his large, slightly clumsy presence, but with a heart that radiated a canine loyalty and an almost palpable concern. Just like Erza and Natsu, I already knew who they were before their faces even emerged from between the gnarled trees and the ruins' shadows.
They too had arrived. The group was complete. What a lovely, unexpected party at a tomb. Master Makarov would be thrilled with so much comradeship.
Mira looked as if she had been through the wringer, and that was an understatement. There were scratches on her pale face and her clothes, usually impeccable, were torn in several places, stained with dirt and something that looked like… soot? Had she fought with Natsu on the way? Or some other fire-breathing monster? Her shoulders were slightly slumped with exhaustion, her normally proud posture a little dejected, but her blue eyes, when they met mine for an instant, still shone with her fierce determination and a new kind of confidence, a newly acquired maturity that was almost… palpable.
She was being lightly supported by her brother Elfman, who, despite his own evident fatigue and the makeshift bandages on his arms, looked ready to carry her on his shoulders for the rest of the island if necessary.
I think she had quite a fight on the path she chose. She probably faced Gildarts, judging by the overwhelming residual energy still subtly lingering around her, like the scent of a storm that has just passed. That would explain a lot. Including the expression of one who has stared into the abyss itself and returned a little different.
When she saw me there, seated on the tombstone, my fingers gliding over the lute strings, my voice choked with the melody, the initial surprise on her face gave way to something much deeper, much more intense. Her lips parted slightly, and her blue eyes, which so often shone with a teasing mischief or the cold fire of her demonic power, now widened with an expression of… almost painful understanding.
There was a vulnerability in her posture, a softness in her features she rarely allowed the world to see. She stopped, just like Erza, and the look she gave me wasn't of one concerned with the exam or my apparent indifference to it. It was the look of someone who heard not just the music, but the soul behind it.
The pain I tried so hard to hide, the loneliness the song exuded like a sad perfume, seemed to resonate with her in a way that left me momentarily… exposed. It was as if the melody were opening a chink in my armour, and she was looking straight inside, at the weary heart of a traveller of many ages.
She said nothing. She didn't need to. Her silence, the way her chest rose and fell in a restrained breath, the way her fingers seemed to want to reach out to me but hesitated, spoke volumes.
She just continued to listen to my strumming on the lute and my voice, which now seemed to carry the weight of more than just this life, the echo of a thousand other sad songs, a thousand other losses, a thousand other loves broken like glass. And, for an instant, under her gaze, I felt a strange, uncomfortable connection, as if two broken souls were recognising each other in the gloom.
"What is gone insists on not being just the past…"
"In your eyes I see light for a world that resists…"
"Loneliness wants to follow you, just like the moon in the desert…"
"Try to find that warmth in your light…"
Then, a specific image, sharper, more painful than the others, took hold of my mind with the force of a wave. A memory of a past so distant it seemed to belong to another soul, another star, a universe that perhaps no longer even existed. From a time thousands of lives ago, before the memories began to fragment, before boredom became my most constant companion. Anastasia. The person who had been my everything, my scorching sun, my cold, mysterious moon, my entire constellation in a sky I had thought was infinite.
I remember her hair black as the deepest night, silky and shining like a raven's wing, her lilac eyes containing the wisdom of ancient libraries, the gentleness of a field of flowers in spring after a soft rain. And, mainly, above all, I remember her words, those same words I was singing now, spoken to me, in a moment of absolute despair, deep darkness, when I thought there was no more light in the universe, when I myself had become the shadow.
"Why do you worry so much about your exterior?"
"Why won't you let me truly know you?"
"I know how much you've had to overcome…"
"But it's time to accept yourself"
"And change"
"Believe in yourself"
Every verse was an echo of her, a memory of her unwavering faith in me, even when I myself was my own worst enemy. I sang with my heart in my throat, each word an ancient tear I refused to shed, each note a searing longing that tore at my chest with invisible claws. My fingers, previously nimble and precise on the lute strings, now trembled slightly, occasionally slipping, but the raw emotion only made the melody more poignant, more desperately real.
I even felt a subtle increase in Mavis's magical presence around me, a warm, understanding vibration, like a spectral hug. Perhaps she was identifying with the music, with the pain of loss and the stubbornness of the hope contained within it. Or perhaps she was just surprised by my hidden musical talents, wondering what kind of contradictory creature I truly was. Or, who knows, the little founding apparition was simply enjoying the impromptu performance at her own tomb. 'Ghosts' can be surprisingly sentimental, I discovered. And, apparently, they enjoyed a good tragic ballad.
The verses continued, the melody now a little stronger, more defiant, as if fighting against the very melancholy it carried:
"Is it those free to fly that fall from the sky?"
"Is it those free to fly that will live on?"
"Why does your gaze towards the sky reflect the loneliness?"
"Why is your smile so colourless?"
"The words come and go without forming"
"Your character, I've learned to unravel"
"I believe in you"
I opened my eyes slowly, the last echo of the lute dissolving into the heavy air of the clearing. The image of Anastasia, her gentle smile and her lilac eyes full of a sad wisdom, retreated painfully into the deepest shadows of my memory, leaving behind only a tightness in my chest, a dull, familiar ache, and a faint, fragile warmth like the flame of a candle amidst a storm. I looked at the faces before me, figures silhouetted against the flickering light that filtered through the canopy of trees.
Natsu was surprisingly quiet, which, in itself, was an event worthy of note. His moss-green eyes, normally shining with a chaotic energy and an insatiable hunger for a fight or food, were wide and fixed on me, his mouth slightly agape, as if he had just witnessed a form of magic he didn't understand, something that went beyond explosions and flaming punches. He looked… confused, perhaps even a little frightened by the raw emotion that had emanated from me.
Mirajane, standing beside Elfman, wore an expression of exhaustion and pain on her delicate features, but there was also a new, intense understanding in her blue gaze, her lips forming a small, almost imperceptible melancholic smile, as if the song had struck a deep, perhaps equally painful chord within her. Elfman, as always, looked completely lost, but his face displayed a silent respect, the perplexity of one who knows they have witnessed something significant, even without understanding what. And Happy, the small, loyal Exceed, had awoken from his nap and was staring at me with his head tilted, his large blue ears attentive, as if trying very hard to decipher the meaning of those sad notes and words.
But it was Erza's reaction that held my attention, even as I tried not to show it.
She stood a little further away, her posture still that of a warrior, arms crossed over her armoured chest, but there was a difference. The usual rigidity of her shoulders had softened, and her face, normally a mask of seriousness and determination, was… different.
There was a vulnerability there that I rarely saw, a mirrored sadness that struck me with unexpected force. Her brown eye, which so often blazed with the fire of battle or the light of justice, was moist, welling with tears she stubbornly refused to let fall, but which made her gaze even more intense, more piercing.
There was a pain in her expression, a pain that wasn't physical, but which seemed to come from a very deep place, as if the melancholy of my song had found an echo in her own soul. Her lower lip trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she were fighting to maintain her composure, not to break down right there.
She said nothing. No word of comfort, no question, no teasing about my sudden, unexpected display of sentimentality. She just stared at me, and in that silent gaze, I saw an understanding that went beyond words. I saw the pain of loss, the shadow of loneliness, the weight of burdens we carry in secret. I saw the recognition of a soul that, perhaps, was not so different from my own in its essence, despite all our armours and all our differences. And, beneath it all, beneath the sadness and the understanding, there was something else in her eye, something that made me uncomfortable and, at the same time, strangely… warmed.
An intensity, a devotion, an affection so raw and palpable it made my own ancient, tired heart give a painful, confused leap. It was the gaze of someone who saw beyond my facade, beyond the ancient entity, and who, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to care deeply for the fragile, broken woman I tried so hard to hide.
"I believe in you..." The last line of the song, the one Anastasia always spoke to me with a conviction that was like a balm to my wounds, still resonated in my mind, a stubborn, painful echo. And, staring into those bright, brown eyes of Erza, misty with an emotion I couldn't name, for an instant, a dangerously vulnerable instant, I wondered if I myself, after so long, after so many lives, after so many losses and new beginnings, still believed in those words.
Or if I was just singing to a ghost, to a memory, or to a void that would never be truly filled. And which of those would be the greater tragedy? The eternal loneliness, or the possibility of, once again, allowing myself to feel something that would inevitably end in pain?