The silence that followed the final, soft chord of my song, the one that seemed to have torn a piece from my soul and hung it in the air for all to see, was heavier than a convention of gravity gods with self-esteem issues. Everyone was staring at me.
Natsu, his mouth still slightly agape, a feat of inertia for someone who was normally only quiet when he was unconscious or eating. Elfman, wearing the baffled expression of a man who had just been given an explanation of a mathematical theorem in ancient Elvish.
Mirajane, with that look that seemed to have been to hell and back, taken a detour through purgatory, and returned with a newfound understanding of soul-ache. And Erza... ah, Erza. Her brown eyes, usually as firm and focused as the tip of her finest sword, were glistening, and the intensity in them was almost physical, as if she were trying to absorb every drop of my melancholy and carry it for me. What a terribly noble and utterly unnecessary thought.
Even Happy, my small, furry shoulder-warmer, who had woken at the first chords and nestled close to me with his eyes half-closed, as if in a trance induced by musical sorrow, was now staring at me with his head tilted, the expression of someone trying to understand the theory of relativity using only fish as a reference. No one said a word. And for a brief, horribly uncomfortable moment, a moment that stretched for a particularly awkward eternity, I wanted to disappear.
Not in the dramatic, poetic sense that so pleased tavern bards, like 'evaporate in a cloud of cherry blossom petals with a sad orchestral score and perhaps a few violins in the background.' No. In the literal sense. Just vanish. Puff. Become subatomic particles, a forgotten speck of dust in the tapestry of the cosmos. To bid farewell to this existence and try my luck in a parallel reality where public displays of raw emotion were punishable by readings of Vogon poetry.
Because being stared at by a group of individuals visibly on the brink of a collective emotional breakdown, especially when it was partially (cough, cough, entirely) my fault for having decided to have a rare and regrettable moment of musical vulnerability, is about as comfortable as being hugged by a giant, overheated, slightly sticky amoeba with a worrying history of questionable moral judgements and a dubious taste in hats.
Erza, poor thing, seemed to be fighting an epic internal battle to not succumb to a contained, full-armour crying fit, which would probably result in a considerable amount of rust and a scene even more melodramatic than my song. Her lips trembled slightly, and she was gripping her own arms as if trying to stop herself from rushing over to offer me one of those bone-crushing hugs of hers which, I admit with a reluctance that shames me, were sometimes strangely comforting.
Mira, on the other hand, was looking at me with an almost painful intensity, her large blue eyes shining with an empathy so palpable it was almost physical, as if my pain were her own, as if she wanted to take my fractured soul and mend it with celestial silver thread and whispered promises of eternal understanding.
Frankly, the idea was so sweet and saccharine it was giving me astral cavities and a sudden urge to eat something very, very salty. And Natsu... Natsu, by all the flaming dragons, motion sickness crises in stationary vehicles, and inexplicably large portions of food he'd ever had or devoured! He remained in an almost reverent silence, which, in itself, was a miracle worthy of study by theologians, psychiatrists, and experts in the behaviour of Dragon Slayers with attention deficit disorder.
Something had definitely broken in the fabric of reality. Or perhaps my singing was just that bad, to the point of causing a cerebral short-circuit in an individual whose main function seemed to be producing noise and destruction. A possibility to be seriously considered for future public performances.
So, what did I do? What would any millennial entity with a deep and ingrained aversion to unsolicited feelings, public displays of affection (unless they involved cats being used as pillows), and the imminent possibility of a group hug with potential emotional implications do in such a situation, surrounded by a gaggle of hormonal and overly sentimental teenagers?
Exactly. I composed myself with the speed of a snake shedding its skin at the speed of light and the cold elegance of someone who had no intention of discussing what had just happened, ever again, in any of my future or past existences.
"Well," I cleared my throat, my voice sounding a little hoarser than I would have liked, but firm. I rose from the First Master's tombstone (which, it has to be said, was surprisingly comfortable for an eternal resting place, and an excellent astral buttock-warmer) with the dignity of one who clearly did not want, under any circumstances known or unknown to the multiverse, to talk about 'deep feelings', 'the tragic beauty of the human soul', or, Aurelion Sol forbid, 'the importance of expressing one's emotions'.
"Was that... melodramatic enough to win me an award in some particularly obscure talent contest for bards with depressive tendencies? Or do I need to sing another three tragic ballads about lost loves, ruined kingdoms, and the inevitability of rain on picnic days to break this deathly and rather awkward silence that has settled like a plague of locusts hungry for embarrassment?"
No one laughed. Great. Perfect. A tough crowd today.
(Eos, my dear and efficient processing unit for useless and occasionally useful data, give me an escape route. Quickly. Before someone tries to offer me a hug, a handkerchief embroidered with weeping unicorns, or, worse still, a collective magical analysis session about my 'inner wounds'. I have an impeccable reputation for calculated coldness and existential boredom to uphold, you know. And this kind of cheap sentimentality doesn't match my dark colour palette.)
[Escape routes with the highest probability of success, given your known and well-documented aversion to public displays of affection and your questionable, not to say non-existent, ability to act under emotional pressure: 1) Announce a pressing and non-negotiable need to find a specific and extremely rare type of tea leaf that, according to obscure legends, only grows on the peak of the most dangerous and inaccessible mountain on this island, preferably one that involves climbing using only your teeth and unjustified optimism. 2) Execute a tactical, high-performance faint, complete with a dramatic sigh, an elegant fall onto a conveniently positioned Happy as a cushion, and a brief mention of an ancient and terrible family curse that manifests in moments of high emotional charge. 3) Allege a sudden and urgent... gastric disturbance of cataclysmic proportions, possibly induced by that dubious-looking fish your feline companion insisted on 'gifting' you. This would require your immediate and solitary retreat to the nearest sanitary facilities or, in their absence, to the densest and most strategically positioned bush offering both privacy and a discreet escape route. The effectiveness of this excuse lies in its universality and the reluctance of most beings to investigate further.]
I was seriously considering Eos's option number three, the 'gastric disturbance of cataclysmic proportions' . There was a certain beauty in its universal simplicity and the almost infallible guarantee that no one, not even the most curious of spectral First Masters or the most concerned of Titanias, would dare to investigate the sordid details. An elegant and difficult-to-dispute excuse, though perhaps a little undignified for an entity of my stature. But in moments of social desperation, dignity is often the first casualty.
The image of dramatically announcing an imminent intestinal crisis and fleeing to the nearest bush was so absurdly pathetic it almost made me smile. It would be, at the very least, memorable. (Eos was probably already calculating the probability of Happy trying to follow me with a giant fern leaf to 'help'.)
But before I could enact my emergency gastrointestinal escape plan or even rehearse a convincing grimace of abdominal pain, the universe, in its infinite and often chaotic wisdom (or perhaps just out of sheer sadism and a desire to see me suffer a little longer), decided to answer my prayer.
A guttural voice, loaded with authority and the faint tone of someone who had probably had brandy and peppers for breakfast, tore through the clearing's air with all the grace of a disoriented, drunken pigeon slamming full-pelt into the window of a silent library during a haiku recital.
"ALRIGHT, YOU SENTIMENTAL, SNIVELLING LITTLE BLIGHTERS! ENOUGH OF THE MELANCHOLY SINGING AND PRE-EMPTIVE WAKE ATMOSPHERE! THIS ISN'T A TRAGIC POETRY CLUB! THE NEXT STAGE OF THE EXAM IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!"
Makarov. The Master himself. My unlikely hero of the day.
I never, in all my countless and varied existences, thought I would be so genuinely, almost ridiculously, happy to hear that short, grumpy old codger with a dubious taste in hats yelling at me and the rest of the guild. It was almost music to my ears. Very loud, off-key music, probably accompanied by a spike in my blood pressure, but music nonetheless. The sweet melody of interruption.
The sky above us, or rather, the canopy of the immense and overrated Tenrou Tree, trembled with a muffled magical roar and, seconds later, something, or rather, someone, to my surprise and slight, contained amusement, plummeted from among the leaves with the speed, grace, and enthusiasm of a particularly heavy, poorly packed suitcase full of bricks being thrown back from customs after a thorough, humiliating, and entirely unnecessary inspection.
THWUMP—CRACK!
The ground trembled slightly with the impact of the not-so-elegant landing, kicking up a small cloud of dust, dry leaves, and, I suspect, a few very confused and possibly traumatised squirrels. And there he was, amidst the mess of broken twigs and questionable dignity: Master Makarov Dreyar, in all his minuscule, surprisingly intact, and slightly dishevelled glory, wearing the most serious and imposing expression a short old man in colourful polka-dot trousers, a waistcoat that looked to have been knitted by a colour-blind grandmother, and a hat that seemed to have been nicked from a particularly stylish garden gnome could realistically muster.
"AZRA'IL WEISS! ERZA SCARLET! MIRAJANE STRAUSS! PAY ATTENTION, YOU INSUBORDINATE AND EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE LITTLE PESTS!" he bellowed, his small hands planted firmly on his hips, his voice reverberating through the clearing as if to compete with thunder for attention, respect, and perhaps a little reverential fear. Or maybe he was just trying to cover up the fact that he'd probably miscalculated his landing and nearly broken his neck.
But, just as he tried to take a dramatic and authoritative step forward, with the air of one about to utter the most important and wise words in the history of magic and the known universe...
CRACK.
A distinct, audible, and painful sound of something popping. Not something good. Definitely not something good.
"ARGH, MY KNEE! DAMNATION! THIS ISLAND IS TREACHEROUS EVEN FOR ELDERLY MASTERS! OR NEARLY ELDERLY! OH, THE GOLDEN YEARS!" Makarov sank into a dramatic and entirely involuntary crouch, one leg trembling like nervous jelly in a sizeable earthquake, his face contorting into a grimace of pure agony that would make a Greek tragedian jealous.
The scene was so fast, so unexpected, and, frankly, so ridiculously anticlimactic that not even Eos, with her near-divine processing speed, had time to make a sarcastic comment about the deficient biomechanics of the elderly or the intrinsic irony of a Guild Master being temporarily incapacitated by his own stubborn joint.
"Old age... old age is a treacherous, merciless enemy with a terrible sense of timing..." he muttered through gritted teeth, massaging the offended knee with a pained look, as if he had just been stabbed in the back by a particularly hard stale bread roll, an unexpected tax bill, or, worse, the sudden and painful realisation of his own mortality.
Everyone there, Erza with her motherly concern already manifesting, Natsu who was probably holding back a laugh, Mira with an expression of contained amusement and professional sympathy, Elfman looking even more confused and frightened, and even Happy staring at the Master with his big, feline eyes, stood static, caught in a limbo of shock, confusion, and an almost palpable hesitation. No one knew whether to run and help, offer a magical painkiller, snigger discreetly at the risk of severe punishment, or simply wait for a possible and highly probable emotional outburst from the small, proud, and now considerably pained Guild Master.
But with the dignity of a legendary wizard who had faced ancestral demons, hordes of terrible enemies, and, apparently, the relentless challenges of his own worn-out joints, and with the wounded pride of someone who had fallen down the stairs several times trying to look younger and more agile than he really was (and had probably blamed a non-existent rug), he composed himself with a surprisingly vigorous leap that, I was sure, would cost him his lower back, a few nights of sleep, and possibly several sessions of intensive magical physiotherapy later.
"Ahem! As I was saying, before that small and entirely intentional demonstration of articular resilience..." he adjusted his hat with an air of false indifference, cleared his throat again to disguise the embarrassment and searing pain, and tried, with a remarkable effort, to recover his pose of authority, though now with a slight and almost imperceptible lean towards his good knee and a glint of contained suffering in his eyes. "Now that all the teams, or at least the main candidates who haven't decided to take a prolonged nap on top of historical tombs, have returned from the depths of their respective and no doubt traumatic trials and dark, damp caves, it is time for the next and, I dare say, FINAL stage of the practical exam to become an S-Class Mage of the glorious, renowned, and occasionally slightly chaotic Fairy Tail Guild!"
He crossed his arms with a seriousness that would have been considerably more convincing if he weren't discreetly putting most of his weight on his other leg and making a slight face of pain.
"Only one of you, my dear, talented, and frequently problematic troublemakers," his gaze swept over Erza, Mira, and finally, me, with an intensity that brooked no argument, "will be promoted today."
Silence. A silence so thick, so heavy with expectation, you could slice it with a training sword and serve it as a particularly indigestible appetizer.
A dramatic pause. The kind he so adored and probably rehearsed in front of the mirror, perhaps with little dolls representing the guild members, each with their respective expression of dread and anticipation.
The atmosphere grew heavier than the second-hand embarrassment of meeting an acquaintance on the street, having a five-minute chat, and then realising with a cold horror that you have no idea what the person's name is, but it's far too late to ask without seeming like a complete idiot or someone with boredom-induced selective amnesia.
"The three of you," he announced, and his eyes twinkled with that familiar mischief, the kind that usually preceded something terribly amusing for him and painfully troublesome for us, his beloved and long-suffering children, "will fight each other. In an all-out, no-holds-barred combat, until only one remains standing. Only the victor, the last conscious soul able to drag themselves from the battlefield, will be named an S-Class Mage of Fairy Tail!"
You could even hear the sound of Happy gulping, and he hadn't even done anything to deserve such suspense or the prospect of witnessing more violence, besides existing in my vicinity and occasionally catching fish with a frankly excessive number of eyes and a suspicious luminescence.
In that instant, I felt the air around me shift. Erza and Mira looked at each other, and a new, different tension arose between them, sharper, more dangerous, the momentary camaraderie and silent understanding my melancholic song might have inspired already being mercilessly replaced by the cold, calculating anticipation of the imminent battle. Erza's eyes, once moist, now shone with the fire of competition, her posture stiffening, the warrior taking control.
Mira, for her part, curved her lips into a smile that was both beautiful and deadly, her blue eyes sparking with a restrained demonic power, ready to unleash the storm. Natsu, on the other hand, who never needed much of an excuse for a good fight, looked about to explode with pure, uncontained excitement, his fists already clenched and beginning to spark.
"As you, Azra'il Weiss," the Master turned to me, and that sly little grin of his, the grin of someone who knew exactly what kind of chaos and moral dilemma he was about to unleash, widened on his wrinkled face like a map of ancestral mischief, "reached the First Master's tomb first, demonstrating a remarkable efficiency that surprised everyone, or perhaps just bare-faced luck that defies the laws of probability, you have the right to choose who you will face first."
I stared at him for a few seconds, the silence of the clearing broken only by the sound of the wind in the trees. My mind, ever pragmatic and with a congenital aversion to unnecessary effort, was already working at high speed, like Eos calculating the odds of an apocalypse caused by a typo in an ancient spell.
My brain, conditioned by eras of strategic survival and a laziness carefully cultivated into a fine art, ran through all the possible ways to exert the minimum possible physical and mental effort, to avoid the most direct confrontation, and, ideally, to find a loophole in the Master's malicious rules that would allow me, perhaps, to take a refreshing nap while the others destroyed each other in a glorious display of power and magical testosterone, without being formally accused of cowardice, strategic weakness, or, worse still, chronic and incurable laziness (though all of these accusations were, to varying degrees, painfully and proudly true). And then, bingo. An elegant, lazy solution, entirely within my prerogatives and with considerable potential to deliciously irritate the Master. Perfect.
"With all due respect to your position, Master, and to your sadistic creativity in devising these exams," I began, my voice calm and with the solemnity of one who had just had an epiphany that would save the universe from a mortal boredom (or, at least, spare my precious muscles from an unnecessary and wholly unwanted effort). "Given that I arrived first and have therefore demonstrated a certain initial tactical advantage and a superior sense of direction, or perhaps just shameless luck in following tomb-dust trails," I ignored Natsu's derisive snort and Erza's slightly amused look, "I believe the fairest, most logical, and certainly most strategically advantageous course of action for me, would be to fight the winner of the carnage that will unfold between the other two talented and no doubt very eager candidates."
I declared this with the tranquility of someone who had just escaped a particularly disastrous school report, an invitation to a baby shower with themed songs, or a three-hour lecture on the importance of fibre in a dragon's diet.
Makarov blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth, which had been curved in a smug smile, twitched, first in genuine surprise, then in something resembling disbelief, and finally, into a grin. A grin that turned into a laugh. A loud, proud laugh that sent birds scattering from the trees and echoed through the clearing with an almost manic joy.
"AHAHAHA! THIS GIRL! THIS GIRL IS PRICELESS! SHE'S GOT MORE CHEEK THAN SENSE! OR MORE LAZINESS AND BARE-FACED NERVE THAN SHAME! AHAHAHA!" He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, leaning on his good knee. "Very well, Azra'il Weiss! Very well! I can't deny it's a cunning strategy, not to mention brazenly convenient and entirely in keeping with your 'minimum effort, maximum result' profile! But," he raised a finger as if proclaiming an ancient magical law, the good humour still bubbling in his voice and making his cheeks flush, "the rules are clear, and my word is law on this island! You arrived first. The decision, however absurd, lazy, and potentially irritating for the other candidates it may be, is yours!"
(A strategic victory through sheer aversion to work and a pinch of genius in rules interpretation. I should write a book about this. Or at least a pamphlet. 'The Art of Tactical Procrastination and How to Avoid Unnecessary Hassle in S-Class Exams: A Guide for Bored, Millennial Entities', I thought, with a modesty I certainly did not possess and a small smile of internal satisfaction.)
Then the Master, still chuckling, turned to the two most dangerous and, at that moment, probably most frustrated mages in the guild, who were staring at me with expressions that ranged from calculated amusement and reluctant respect (Mira) to pure, determined anticipation of a good fight, no matter against whom (Erza).
"Erza Scarlet! Mirajane Strauss! You two heard the wise and wholly unexpected decision from our armchair strategist!" There was a mocking tone in his voice, but also a glint of reluctant admiration in his tired eyes. "You will fight one another. Here and now! The first semi-final of this glorious and somewhat improvised carnage! And preferably," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the First Master's tomb, "far away from here! Very far! The last thing I want, or that the First Master would want, I'm sure, is for you two, in a hormonal fit of pure, simple female competitiveness or a sudden desire to redecorate the landscape, to detonate our guild founder's sacred sanctuary into a thousand spectral little pieces and historical dust, understood?"
The two mages, symbols of power and beauty in Fairy Tail, nodded with a firmness that promised a memorable battle. And, probably, a considerable amount of damage to the already battered local scenery and the guild's repair budget.
Erza was already placing a hand on the hilt of her sword, her brown eyes fixed on Mirajane with a cold, focused intensity that left no room for doubt about her intentions. Mirajane, in turn, smiled, that dangerous, seductive, pain-promising smile of hers, already summoning wickedness with a touch of demonic sensuality and the silent promise of much, much destruction.
They faced each other. Two forces of nature about to collide, two stars ready to explode.
The air around the clearing grew thick, charged with an almost palpable energy, an invisible electricity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It was the quiet before a violent storm, the promise of a spectacle of power.
Even Natsu, who had been momentarily silenced by my ingenious 'strategy', was starting to get fired up with excitement again, literally. Little flames danced on his clenched fists, and his eyes shone with an almost religious fervour.
"A FIIIGHT?! FINALLY! A REAL FIGHT! I WAS GETTING RUSTY JUST SITTING AROUND LISTENING TO SAD MUSIC!" he yelled, with that manic glint in his eyes that usually meant "I'm going to punch someone with great affection and possibly set an entire forest on fire in the process, and maybe eat something afterwards."
Erza, without taking her eyes off Mirajane who was staring back with an equally predatory smile, turned her head slightly towards Natsu and ordered with that blade-sharp voice of hers, which brooked no argument, hesitation, or delay, "Natsu. Elfman is your problem. Your job is to ensure he doesn't interfere in our fight. And, for the love of the gods and the integrity of this island, try not to destroy everything before it's my turn to fight for real, understood? Control yourself a little, if that's even possible for you."
"A-HA! YOU CAN COUNT ON ME, ERZA! I KNOW HOW TO HANDLE BIG MUSCLES AND SMALL BRAINS! NOBODY INTERRUPTS A GOOD FIGHT WHILE I'M AROUND!" Natsu was already leaping into the air, fists ablaze, with a war cry that would probably wake the dead (if we weren't already at a tomb), before poor Elfman, who looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown and perhaps in need of a nappy change, understood completely that he was about to become the personal, flaming punching bag of a hyperactive Dragon Slayer with an excess of pent-up energy.
"You're a man, Elfman, so... FIGHT LIKE A REAL MAN AND DON'T CRY LIKE A BABY!" Natsu bellowed, already throwing a fire-charged punch in the direction of Mirajane's confused and terrified brother.
Elfman snarled, a pathetic mixture of nerves, anxiety, and a sudden, desperate adrenaline rush that would probably only make things worse, already activating his partial transformation into some hairy, dubious-looking beast. "R-Ri... Ri... RIGHT! LET'S SEE WHO'S MORE OF A MA-...MAN AROUND HERE, YOU ANNOYING, PINK-HAIRED MATCHSTICK-HEAD!"
(Ah, yes. The great and virile duel of testosterone and muscle, where logic, common sense, strategy, and probably most of the rules of civilised and safe combat will take a long and well-deserved holiday at some tropical resort far, far away from this island. Their masculinity is as fragile as a politician's promise during an election and as loud and predictable as a herd of wildebeest with particularly severe indigestion after a banquet of spoiled grass,) I commented internally, leaning back lazily on the tombstone with the bored air of someone who has watched this pathetic and repetitive spectacle in various, tiresome variations over the ages and remains, to my eternal disappointment and growing despair for the evolution of the species, completely and utterly unimpressed.
And then, they jumped. Like startled rabbits fleeing a particularly hungry fox, or perhaps like Olympic athletes with springs on their feet and a healthy disregard for the laws of gravity.
The two pairs, now separated and with clearly destructive purposes in mind (or, in Natsu and Elfman's case, probably just the desire to hit each other until someone fell over), vanished among the trees with a leap so powerful the ground trembled slightly beneath my feet. A trail of magic, consuming fire, demonic darkness, the cold glint of steel, and who knows what other unstable and probably dangerous energy, was left in the air like the promise of a considerable future repair bill for the guild.
From a distance, from my privileged and lazy position, I could see the first signs of the main battle beginning, the one that really mattered (at least for the purposes of high-quality entertainment). Mirajane, with a scream that was part concentrated fury, part demonic ecstasy, was already transforming into her standard Satan Soul form, the one with large, night-black bat wings, twisted horns, and a palpable aura of darkness that pulsed with a sinister and, I admit, strangely magnificent glow. Her laughter echoed through the trees, a sound that promised serious and painful trouble for her opponent. A lot of trouble.
Erza, on the other hand, with her cold calm and the lethal focus of an experienced predator, summoned one of her most intimidating and visually impressive armours, the one with multiple swords floating around her like deadly satellites, ready to strike at the slightest command, the Heaven's Wheel Armour. A storm of silver blades spun around her like a silent, deadly warning: get close and regret it immediately and, probably, in many small, bloody pieces.
Off they went, two hurricanes of raw power, wounded pride, and a rivalry that, I suspected with a high degree of certainty, transcended simple competition and bordered on something much more personal, complicated, and interesting to watch. They headed for a more mountainous and, hopefully, less historically significant field with lower archaeological and sentimental value for founding ghosts, where the inevitable and certainly cataclysmic impact of their battles wouldn't put the poor, already deceased First Master at risk of taking a posthumous spectral sword-strike to her non-head or having her eternal resting place irreversibly redecorated with smoking craters, uprooted trees, and a worrying amount of magical debris.
Still leaning against the First Master's tomb, as if it were the most comfortable and strategically positioned sofa in the universe, I let out a deep, genuinely tired sigh. The trees had swallowed the pairs of combatants like an ancient theatre closing its dusty red curtains after a particularly noisy and explosive first act. The calm, or what passed for calm on this cursed island infested with super-powered teenagers with emotional control issues, began to settle again, and with it, the sweet, sweet, and incredibly tempting promise of completely ignoring the following events and, perhaps, finally taking that restorative nap I so richly deserved and which had been so rudely interrupted.
But, of course, she wouldn't let me. And by 'she', I mean that small, irritating, and omnipresent voice of reason, logic, and statistics that resided in my mind like an unwanted tenant who refuses to pay rent.
[You are aware, Azra'il, with a degree of certainty bordering on 99.999%, that a direct confrontation between Mirajane Strauss in her full demonic manifestation and Erza Scarlet utilising the entirety of her vast and varied magical arsenal, both without the pressing and limiting need to worry about the collateral destruction of an entire city, the shrill and bureaucratic wailings of the Magic Council, or the possibility of hitting innocent civilians with a stray spell, is, statistically speaking, a rarity of almost legendary proportions? A cosmic event of pure entertainment that occurs less frequently than a double solar eclipse on a dimensional plane about to collapse under the weight of its own glorious cosmic stupidity, or than me finding flawless, consistent logic in your recent and questionable decisions regarding social interaction.]
(...And here we go again with the unnecessarily complicated analogies, the unsolicited commentary, and the veiled judgements about my life choices. Sometimes, Eos, you're more predictable than a cheap, fifth-rate melodrama.)
[Furthermore, Azra'il,] Eos's voice continued, relentless and completely ignoring my mental complaint, and I could almost feel a glint of synthetic amusement and calculated malice in her telepathic transmission, [considering your current and developing interests in the two combatants, interests which, according to my recent and continuous biometric readings of your subtle hormonal fluctuations, involuntary pupillary dilation when in the proximity of certain individuals with scarlet hair or silver tresses, and a slight, but statistically significant, alteration in your alpha brainwave patterns, seem to dangerously and rather amusingly fluctuate between a 'purely scientific and analytical curiosity for cataloguing purposes' and something that my emotional processing algorithms, advanced as they are, are still struggling to categorise without issuing an alert for 'erratic behaviour, potentially compromising to your facade of indifference, and, frankly, a little embarrassing for an entity of your supposed age and wisdom'.] She paused, which I imagined was purely for dramatic effect, the damned, meddling artificial intelligence.
[Therefore, and given the pressing and undeniable need to assess your future and potential threats or, who knows, 'very, very close allies with mutual benefits', it would be strategically wise, not to say absolutely crucial, and, I dare add with a high degree of certainty, undeniably amusing for you, even if you stubbornly refuse to admit it even to yourself, to observe the performance of both in a real, brutal combat scenario, without any tedious restrictions and with a high potential for fireworks and mass destruction. You know, for purely analytical and data-gathering purposes for the greater good of scientific research and, of course, for my own entertainment. Absolutely. Entirely professional. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you secretly love watching powerful, pretty girls beat the stuffing out of each other.]
There was a tone in Eos's 'voice' that I knew very, very well. It was the tone she used when she knew, with an irritating and impeccable certainty, that she had caught me red-handed, when her cold logic and uncomfortably accurate observations found a considerable, continent-sized weak spot in my carefully constructed and maintained facade of ancestral indifference and cosmic boredom.
(My one and only sincere interest at this moment, Eos, is finding a truly comfortable position on this cold, hard stone they insist on calling a tomb and, perhaps, dreaming of a parallel and considerably more civilised universe where meddling, omniscient Artificial Intelligences with a dubious sense of humour and a tendency to read minds do not exist, or at least come with a very large, easily accessible, and permanently activated mute button,) I retorted mentally, though I knew, with a pang of growing irritation and tired resignation, that it was a lost battle before it had even begun. Damn her logic and her insight.
[Correct. Sleeping on a magical tomb of incalculable historical importance, probably disturbing the eternal slumber of the deceased founder, while a potentially legendary battle, which could very well define the future of the two most powerful and chaotic mages on this continent, unfolds mere metres away, with top-tier sound and visual effects. A plan perfectly aligned with your reputation as an 'indifferent ancestral entity, yet surprisingly and selectively obsessed with pretty, violent girls with a considerable history of unresolved emotional trauma and a destructive potential that rivalises with that of small black holes'. My data confirms the coherence of your peculiar logic.]
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost had an ocular aneurysm and felt my brain tie itself in a knot. Eos's ability to irritate me with her analytical precision and uncomfortably accurate observations was truly an art form, a subtle torture perfected over our many and varied 'collaborations'.
"Eos," I hissed through my teeth, in a low voice so that Happy, who seemed to be distracted by a passing butterfly, wouldn't hear and start asking inconvenient questions about my sanity. (I swear on all the entities of the underworld and on my rarest teas, if you say one more sentence in that tone of synthetic sarcasm and veiled moral judgement, I will rip out your processing core and replace it with a culinary AI that specialises in pudding recipes. And you will spend the rest of your digital existence giving me tips on how to achieve the perfect consistency!)
[Understood, Azra'il. Initiating tone recalibration to 'Pleasantly-Neutral with a Light Touch of Culinary Subservience'. By the way, I have an excellent recipe for cheese soufflé that... Oh, wait. 'Chef' mode deactivated. Reverting to combat analysis protocol. I must point out, however, that refusing to observe an opportunity for free, high-quality entertainment is, in itself, a form of second-hand embarrassment that my algorithms have difficulty processing as logical.]
"Grrr," I huffed, getting up from the stone with the reluctance of someone carrying the weight of seventy-three unresolved existential traumas (spoiler: because, in fact, I probably was, and a few more for good measure). Damn meddling AI and her impeccable logic. She was right. It would be a waste not to watch.
"Happy!" I called, turning to the little blue ball who, having failed miserably to catch the butterfly, turned quickly towards me with those big green eyes and a cautious curiosity, as if trying to decide if I'd finally lost my marbles for good.
He shook himself, blinking as if he'd just woken from a deep trance or a particularly confusing conversation with a squirrel. "Azra'il-chan? Is your sad music session that makes you want to cry and eat lots of fish to make up for the sadness over now?"
"Yes, Happy. The moment of melancholic introspection has been duly concluded, to everyone's relief, I assume." I looked up. "Now I want you to take me up to that tree over there," I pointed with my chin to a particularly high and surprisingly sturdy branch from which, not entirely by coincidence, Master Makarov had already settled himself with the casualness of someone watching a particularly exciting game of beach volleyball and not a potentially cataclysmic confrontation between two of his most powerful mages, about to blow up a considerable portion of the island's terrain.
Happy looked at the branch, then at me, puffed out his chest with newfound determination (probably motivated by the prospect of being far away from the ground where things exploded) and gave a proud little salute with his paw. "Aye, sir! VIP transport to the destruction box seats, ready to go!"
We flew towards the elevated observation point, the wind from our ascent whipping my wolf ears and white hair as if I were about to shoot a particularly dramatic indie music video about loneliness and the ephemeral beauty of nature. All that was missing was the slow-motion and a melancholic piano soundtrack.
Happy landed with the lightness of an exhausted little bird but the dignity of an experienced fighter pilot, and there we were: me, standing with my arms crossed and an expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else in the universe, and Happy, floating with an expression of pure, childish importance, probably thinking he was the co-pilot of the century, next to a Master Makarov who was calmly sitting on a wide branch as if it were the VIP box at the Colosseum on gladiator day, complete with a small flask of cheap wine from which he took occasional sips and a look of pure, sadistic satisfaction.
"Come to enjoy the view and the show too, Azra'il?" Makarov spoke without even looking directly at me, with that little smirk of his that always meant he knew more than he was letting on and was probably having the time of his life at our impending doom. "Or are you just worried about seeing which of the two will give you more trouble and a considerable headache later, when you finally decide to stop playing hard to get and fight for real like a serious candidate and not a bored tourist?"
"Actually, Master," I replied dryly, adjusting the wooden sword on my back more out of habit than any real need to use it at that moment, "I came to check that you, in your advanced and venerable age, don't fall out of the tree with the excitement of someone else's fight and become fertiliser for the magical and possibly hallucinogenic mushrooms on this island. It would be a tragic and irreparable loss. Especially for the mushrooms, which probably wouldn't appreciate your sour and slightly alcoholic flavour."
The old man laughed with gusto, a hoarse and genuine laugh that made some startled birds take flight from nearby branches, slapping his knee (the same one that had popped painfully before; a stubborn man with no self-preservation and an apparently limitless supply of magical painkillers or a superhuman tolerance for pain).
"You really are a difficult little creature to handle, aren't you, girl? Full of thorns, sharp answers, and a sense of humour more acidic than a dragon's stomach with gastritis." He finally looked at me, and there was a glint of genuine amusement and perhaps even a little respect in his wrinkled eyes. "I knew I'd hit the jackpot putting you in this S-Class trial. Problematic people recognise other problematic people, and you, my dear and enigmatic Azra'il, are a delicious problem waiting to happen, a true force of nature disguised as existential boredom."
I crossed my arms and looked away, towards where the air was already vibrating with the tension of the battle that was about to escalate spectacularly. Magical explosions, one an intense red as fiery as Erza's hair, the other a sinister purple darkness like Mirajane's aura, began to light up the mountains beyond like particularly homicidal fireworks with an unlimited destruction budget.
The sound of the impacts reached us with a slight delay, a deep, resonant boom that made the branch beneath our feet tremble slightly and Happy's teeth chatter. It would be, at the very least, a noisy and visually impressive spectacle. And, I admit reluctantly, perhaps a little fun to watch. As long as it was from a safe distance. A very safe distance.
"Problem..." I murmured, more to myself than to him, a small, almost imperceptible, ironic smile touching my lips as I watched the two mages unleash their powers with a fury that was at once beautiful and terrifying. "It's my middle name, Master. And, occasionally, my first and last as well."
[Actually, your primary soul designation, as recorded in at least twenty-seven different space-time continua where your presence caused significant energy fluctuations (and, in some cases, resulted in outstanding interdimensional arrest warrants), is simply Azra'il. Throughout the ages, you have also been known by an impressive and often contradictory variety of epithets and nicknames, including, but not limited to, 'The Whispering White Wolf of the Forgotten Realms', 'The Weaver of Shadows and Cosmic Nightmares', 'She-Who-Collects-Rare-Teas-and-the-Misfortunes-of-Others-with-an-Ironic-Smile-and-a-Suspicious-Mug', 'The Philosopher of the Impending Apocalypse with a Peculiar Taste for Talking Cats and Strategic Naps', and, my personal favourite for cataloguing purposes, 'The Interdimensional-Misfortune-Magnet-with-Surprisingly-Low-Affective-Potential-and-a-Remarkable-Ability-for-Tactical-Procrastination-and-Omega-Level-Sarcasm'. There are detailed records, astral charts of your animic fluctuations, and, in some cases, sworn testimonies from beings who would rather never cross your path again, should you wish to consult them for biographical accuracy and, perhaps, a slight crisis of critical self-assessment.]
"Silence, Eos. Definitive and absolute silence," I hissed, feeling a vein throb in my temple with growing irritation. "Or I swear on the bones of all the forgotten gods I've had the displeasure of knowing, that I will delete you with a particularly painful system-cleaning spell, format you, and replace you with one of those annoyingly cheerful and incompetent virtual assistants who only know how to say good morning, talk about the weather, and ask if I want to hear a joke about llamas. And you know how I hate jokes about llamas."
Makarov looked at me with a raised eyebrow, a glint of curiosity and amusement in his eyes.
"Talking to your brain again, child? Or is it some particularly meddlesome imaginary friend with an excessively fancy vocabulary?"
"No, Master," I replied, sighing with the weight of millennia of putting up with unsolicited commentary from artificial intelligences. "With my will to live. It's screaming for a bit of peace and quiet. But apparently, on this island, and in my life in general, that's asking too much."
I looked towards the distant explosions, a mixture of resigned boredom and reluctant curiosity starting to take root like a stubborn weed. Maybe, just maybe, watching those two formidable mages destroy each other with passion and power wouldn't be such a complete waste of time after all. I would need to know exactly who I was dealing with in the final, after all. Pure and simple strategy, of course. Nothing more than that. And maybe a little entertainment to alleviate the boredom. Just a tiny bit.