The first blast of magic was so brutal that the giant branch we were perched on trembled with the force of a small earthquake, loosing a shower of dry leaves upon us as if the tree itself were applauding the start of the show with a rather grim and depressing kind of confetti. Down below, in a clearing that would soon cease to be a clearing and become a crater with a prime view of hell, Mirajane and Erza were already exchanging blows worthy of a small-scale apocalypse.
No ceremony, no formal greetings, no "prepare to die, my dear and esteemed rival." Just the pure, direct intention of turning the other into a permanent stain on the island's floor. And, in all honesty, I respected their haste and lack of etiquette. Who has time for formalities when you can get straight to the fun part of mutual destruction and resolving built-up tension?
Erza, gleaming in her Heaven's Wheel Armour, advanced like a tempest of polished steel, a cyclone of dancing blades that cut through the air with a deadly whistle, each one imbued with her iron will. Mirajane, already completely bathed in the sinister purple aura of her standard Satan Soul, the 'She-Devil's' smile plastered on a face that was a dangerous mix of angelic beauty and infernal malice, responded with punches and blasts of demonic energy that could, I calculated with a touch of professional admiration, disintegrate a medium-sized, two-headed bear without even chipping her perfectly manicured nails.
Beside me, Makarov had finally found a minimally comfortable position on the thickest part of the trunk, feigning the dignity of a Guild Master while, I was absolutely certain, still feeling the treacherous twinge of his rebellious joint. He discreetly massaged his leg with a quick grimace, adjusted the hat that insisted on sitting crookedly, and muttered something to himself that sounded suspiciously like 'ungrateful age and excessive humidity,' before putting back on his best face of a wise elder observing the development of his promising and self-destructive disciples with deep and sadistic interest. What a lovely farce. He was enjoying this as much as I was, the old sadist.
Happy, who had managed to pilfer a juicy-looking red berry from the nest of some innocent and now likely orphaned bird with trust issues, watched the beatdown with his mouth open, chewing with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn't have two brain cells to rub together and, therefore, no concept of the real danger and the amount of power being unleashed below us.
"Uwaaaah, Erza-chan and Mirajane-nee are so, so strong!" he exclaimed with his mouth full, red juice dribbling down his whiskers like a tiny barbarian at a feast.
(Gods, sometimes I really question my life choices, my associations, and especially my exam partners. Why did I choose Happy as a partner again? Ah, right. Because the alternative was having to listen to a human being's incessant complaints for twenty-four hours straight. A difficult choice, but the cat, at least, is thermally efficient as a pillow and occasionally quiet when eating or sleeping,) I thought, mentally rolling my eyes so hard I almost felt a little dizzy.
(Eos, my dear and meddlesome calculator of misfortunes, statistics on the show? And do be a dear and include the more amusing probabilities, and if possible, ones less focused on my supposed emotional instability,) I asked mentally, more out of irony and to break my own boredom than out of any real need for information.
[Analysing combat patterns and energy emissions, Azra'il,] Eos's voice replied in my mind, with that usual clinical, aseptic tone that made even a mortuary seem like a cosy place full of life. [Probability of complete destruction of the designated battleground: 78%, with a 4% margin of error for more, depending on the level of mutual irritation and the number of sentimental taunts exchanged. Probability of Erza Scarlet sustaining multiple bone fractures: 41%. Probability of Mirajane Strauss suffering deep-cutting energy damage: 48%. Probability of you intervening due to a complex and misunderstood emotional impulse, should either of them appear to be in real danger of death: 15%, and growing exponentially with every drop of blood spilt. Curiously, the probability increases by an additional 0.5% for the scarlet-haired specimen.]
"Shut up," I muttered under my breath, feeling that familiar, uncomfortable tightness in my chest as I saw Erza take a punch charged with dark energy square in the stomach, a blow so powerful it sent her flying like a cannonball into a nearby rock wall. The rock cracked on impact, webs of fissures spreading from the point where she hit before she slid to the ground with a dull thud.
Eos, of course, did not shut up. She never did. Obedience was not in her core programming, apparently. [Ah, Azra'il, should your anxiety-by-proxy reach worrying levels, I can play some soft music to accompany your emotional state. I suggest 'Funeral March in C Minor'. It pairs well with the number of bones that, statistically, are due to be spectacularly crushed in the next few minutes.]
I rolled my eyes again. Eos's humour was, at times, a strange comfort. At least someone understood my taste in entertainment.
Down below, Mirajane, her demonic horns seeming even larger and more menacing in the twilight, smiled with a satisfaction that was more competitive than malevolent. This was the 'She-Devil' in her glory, not an evil demon queen, but a fighter who revelled in the thrill of battle against an equal. She beat her wings hard, launching herself at the fallen Erza, but the redhead, stubborn as an ancient stone and with the resilience of a magical cockroach that had survived multiple apocalypses, was already getting to her feet the next second.
With a flash of light, she requipped, her Heaven's Wheel Armour being replaced by the impenetrable Adamantine Armour, a fortress of blue metal that shone with stubborn defensive power. She crossed her arms into a shield, just in time to block a torrent of purple energy that Mirajane conjured from a magic circle before her hand. The resulting explosion obliterated half the surrounding trees, sending a shockwave that reached our branch, making Happy squeak and almost drop his berry.
"Wooah, so cool! So many lights! It looks like a fireworks festival!" exclaimed Happy, wagging his tail, completely oblivious to the fact that the attack could have killed fifty normal people and disintegrated a small village without the slightest effort. Children... and cats. Their innocence was both a blessing and a constant source of my exasperation.
Makarov let out a nervous chuckle, scratching his white beard, his eyes wide with a mix of worry and a hint of pride. "Heh… These girls are going to give me another heart attack. And I don't even know if the guild's health plan covers heart attacks induced by S-Class exams with such a high level of destruction."
"Look on the bright side, Master. At least the guild's will gets read sooner, right?" I said, in a tone so casual he shot me a horrified look.
Mirajane roared, a guttural, inhuman sound of pure adrenaline. "Hiding behind shields, Titania? How disappointing! I thought you liked to get in close!" She charged again, her right arm transforming into a gigantic, cruel demonic claw, the nails sharp as obsidian razors, aiming for Erza's face with stunning speed.
But Erza was fast. In another flash, the heavy Adamantine Armour vanished, giving way to a lighter, more agile set, the Lightning Empress Armour, complete with an electric spear. She used the spear to parry Mira's claw, the tip of her weapon hissing with energy, and countered with a swift thrust that Mira had to block with her other arm, the sound of demonic energy impacting lightning magic echoing through the clearing. Their dance was a bloody and beautiful ballet, a choreography of power, rivalry, and an unspoken mutual respect that was, I reluctantly admit, worthy of applause even from founding ghosts with a refined taste for combat.
(…It's impressive, the way they move. As if they know each other's every step, every intention, as if their souls are connected by an invisible thread of rivalry and admiration. Like two alpha wolves from the same pack, fighting for supremacy, but perfectly understanding the other's strength,) I thought, biting my lower lip for a moment, but not letting the slightest emotion show. It was just another battle for them, just another test. But for me, there was something uncomfortably personal and irritating about seeing either of them take so many injuries, seeing the blood staining their skin, feeling the pain in their auras.
And of course, Eos, the meddler, didn't miss the chance to analyse my momentary lapse in indifference. [Empathic stimulus detected in relation to specimen Erza Scarlet. Relevance to observation mission: questionable. Suggestion: actively ignore, unless you wish to ruin your carefully cultivated reputation as an indifferent, slightly traumatised, and emotionally inaccessible ancestral entity.]
(Shut up, Eos. And stop cataloguing my reputation,) I hissed mentally.
[With pleasure. Adding a footnote about your vehement denial.]
The branch shook violently as Mirajane, in a fit of competitive fury, managed to grab Erza by the leg and hurl her with superhuman strength against a massive rock so hard that the entire mountain seemed to tremble and let out a groan of pain. A cloud of dust and debris rose, obscuring the view for a moment. Happy's eyes widened, Makarov shot to his feet in a leap of pure concern, and I... I just exhaled slowly, with an expression of forced boredom that, at that moment, I was sure wouldn't fool even the stupidest of goblins, let alone myself.
"Hmm," I commented, with the tone of someone evaluating the quality of cheap, slightly vinegary wine. "If Erza dies, can I have her armour collection? There are a few pieces in there with an interesting design that could be... repurposed." I said it, partly to test the limits of the Master's already overburdened heart, and partly to disguise the cold, nauseating knot I felt in my own stomach at the violence of the impact.
"GIRL! DON'T SAY SUCH THINGS! HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOUR COMRADES' LIVES!" Makarov shouted, his face red with indignation, panic, and probably a sudden spike in blood pressure. He was genuinely on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Eos, ever helpful and with her peculiar sense of humour, added in my mind: [Addendum: in the event of specimen Erza Scarlet's demise, I can catalogue the corpse for study purposes regarding the physiology of red-haired warrior mages with a superhuman tolerance for pain. My data storage efficiency would be optimised by 14%. From a purely scientific standpoint, a positive outcome.]
I sighed, slapping my hand to my forehead with restrained force. (You're impossible, Eos. Absolutely and irredeemably impossible.)
The fight below continued, getting crazier, more brutal. Blasts of magic tore through the sky like lightning from a hellish storm, trees turned to charcoal instantly, the wind roaring like an unleashed beast, carrying the scent of demonic ozone, burnt metal, and the stubborn determination of two women who refused to yield. Mirajane was a force of nature, a stubborn mage defending her pride, her strength, perhaps even her own way of protecting her family by proving she was the strongest. And Erza, ah, Erza was a metallic angel, a valkyrie of relentless blades, the personification of justice and unshakeable will. It was a deadly ballet that, so brutal, so savage, became… beautiful, in a terrible, dangerous, and mesmerising way.
And I, the mere spectator, sitting in my private box in the treetop, with my strange and growing anxiety manifesting as a knot in my stomach, my chronic boredom fighting desperately to remain in control, and a blue cat trembling with excitement (or fear, at this point it was hard to tell) on my shoulder, could only think, with a pang of something I stubbornly refused to name:
(…Fairy Tail always was, and always will be, a circus of lunatics, of monsters and fallen angels, all of them fighting with a passion that defies logic. And I, against all my better judgement, against all my defences... I think I might just love every chaotic and insane second of it.)
In the midst of that spectacle of demons and armours beating the living daylights out of each other with admirable dedication, an orange flash and a familiar roar diverted my attention for a second. Not that I wanted it to, but it was impossible to ignore when Natsu decided to unleash a Fire Dragon's Roar so loud it probably echoed through the entire valley and made a few fish leap from the river in a panic, already cooked.
I turned my head, with a reluctance that bordered on an art form, and saw, in another clearing not too far away but still visible, Elfman, transformed into a beast of stone and muscle, punching the ground hard enough to crack everything around him. Natsu dodged with an irritating agility, grinning like a wild animal that had found a new, noisy, and particularly resilient toy, while fire danced around his fists like a pair of living gloves full of bad intentions.
"I'M GONNA BURN THAT SULKY BULL FACE OF YOURS AND TURN YOU INTO A ROCK BARBECUE, ELFMAAAN!" Natsu yelled, launching himself at the other's monstrous arm with a flaming uppercut that exploded in a shower of colourful sparks and the unmistakable smell of grilled rock.
Elfman bellowed in response, a mix of pain, fury, and a desperate attempt to seem more of a man than he was feeling, and retaliated, punching the ground and trying to hit Natsu with a vertical strike that left a hole the size of a well in the earth, narrowly missing the leaping, laughing Dragon Slayer.
"BEING A MAN IS TAKING MY PUNCHES AND NOT WHINING!"
"AND BEING A DRAGON IS TAKING YOUR ROCK-BREATH AND STILL ASKING FOR MORE!" Natsu retorted, laughing like the happy idiot he was, as the flames around him rose into an uncontrolled barbecue inferno.
I huffed, completely bored with that display of primitive testosterone and limited vocabulary, resting my chin on my hand. "They look like two particularly stupid monkeys fighting over an invisible... and probably imaginary banana."
[Behavioural analysis confirmed, Azra'il: display of dominance between alpha primates of different species, characterised by a low strategic intelligence quotient, high destructive potential, and a frankly excessive amount of guttural grunts and low-brow insults.]
"Thank you for the anthropological analysis, Eos. Extremely enlightening. Now, if you don't mind, let's return to the fight that actually matters, the one with a little more... finesse and complex emotional implications."
I left Natsu and Elfman there, trading blows, insults about each other's masculinity, and shouts of magical testosterone, and turned my eyes, and my full attention, back to the true protagonists of this monumental chaos: Mirajane, exuding a demonic aura that was at once beautiful, dangerous, and strangely seductive, and Erza, burning with her tragic warrior's glow, stubborn and incredibly resilient. The fight that was actually worth my attention. And my growing, and very, very irritating, concern.
The roar of another explosion, this time a collision of purple and scarlet energy that painted the sky for an instant, echoed through the treetop, almost shaking Happy from my shoulder. The poor thing clung to my sleeve like a panicked blue tick, letting out a little 'eep!' that was almost inaudible amidst the chaos.
Down below, Mirajane roared, her voice now distorted, echoing with a demonic vibration so powerful that even the leaves on the surrounding trees trembled. "Is that all you've got, Erza?! All that saviour-of-the-people act, all that armoured justice, and this is it?! I expected more from the great Titania! Or has the presence of your dear white wolf thrown you off your game?"
Erza, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth, spat on the ground, wiped her face with the back of her gauntleted hand, and smiled. A dangerous, tired smile, but one that, I confess with a hint of reluctant admiration and a pang in my heart that I refused to acknowledge, had a certain wild charm. "Oh, Mira... my apologies if I was trying to go easy on you. I didn't want to break my favourite toy so quickly, you know. Besides, she's watching. I have to put on a good show, don't you think?"
Mirajane arched an eyebrow, a mocking, malicious smile appearing on her lips, even with an ugly cut on her cheek. "Go easy on me? How sweet of you, Erza. And here I was, thinking you only saved that special care and contained gentleness for her." Her gaze flicked to me for a fraction of a second, quick, sharp as a dagger, and loaded with a provocation I felt even from the top of the tree.
The redhead gritted her teeth, and for an instant, I could see a flush of anger, and perhaps of pure and simple embarrassment, rising up her neck. "Leave Azra'il out of this, you meddling, gossiping she-devil!"
Mirajane laughed, a low, provocative laugh, and even amidst the wounds and exhaustion, that smile was pure venom and delight. "Why, Erza, don't tell me you're jealous? How adorable. And I thought I was the only one who had to compete for the attention of our mysterious and indifferent little wolf. It seems we have more in common than you'd like to admit, don't we, Titania?"
With a magical flash that resonated like the tolling of bells from a burning church, Erza requipped in a fraction of a second, her anger and determination fuelling her magic. Her Lightning Empress Armour was replaced by a beautiful, pearlescent pink breastplate, adorned with delicate metal wings that looked as if they were carved with fairy-like detail. The guild mark, in gold, fluttered proudly on her chest, radiant as a promise of protection and justice. The Fairy Queen Armour. Her most emblematic set, the one that carried the title she so cherished and that, I knew, she only used in her most serious battles.
Mirajane's eyes sparked with satisfaction, a predatory glint dancing in her blue eyes. "Ah, so you're getting serious now? Finally decided to use the armour with your name, Fairy Queen? Good, I was getting bored of watching you change outfits like an indecisive teenager before a school dance. Show me what the real Erza is made of!"
"Pfft, they're talking as if this were some badly written love triangle with an excess of explosions and cheap drama..." I muttered, describing exactly what it was, as I adjusted my position on the branch to get a better view of the impending romantic carnage and tried, with great effort, to ignore the strange heat that rose to my face at the mention of my name in their fight. How childish. And, for some reason, a little... flattering? No. Definitely not.
Makarov, beside me, was pale as a ghost, sweating like a pig in summer, probably reliving some trauma from his own tumultuous youth or just mentally calculating the island's repair costs. "Azra'il... they seem... too serious. They're going to kill each other. Do you think I should stop them before one of them...?"
"Master, with all due respect to your position and your fatherly concern," I said, without taking my eyes off the terribly beautiful scene unfolding, "if you interfere now, best-case scenario, you'll be used as a volleyball between them. Relax. They're still just sizing each other up and trading sentimental barbs loaded with unresolved tension. It hasn't gotten truly ugly yet. Just wait a little longer."
Eos, of course, the eternal killjoy with a peculiar taste for morbid statistics, had to give her unsolicited and entirely unnecessary opinion, but one that, I admit, made me smile internally. [Confirmation. Intervention by a short-statured individual with compromised joint mobility and a history of cardiac issues would result in an 89% chance of taking an accidental magical projectile to the genital region. Strongly inadvisable, unless the objective is a forced, non-surgical, and extremely painful gender reassignment.]
The old man may not have been able to hear Eos's precise and rather graphic analysis, but strangely, as if he'd felt a chill in his soul or a warning from his ancestors, he visibly shuddered, swallowed hard, and crossed his legs in a desperate, protective reflex.
Down below, Erza charged like a pink lightning bolt, her Fairy Queen sword in hand, its blade shining with a holy light, cutting through the air with an intensity that almost convinced me she wanted to slice not only Mirajane, but fate itself and any lingering shred of doubt. Mirajane blocked with her demonic claws, now longer, sharper, and wreathed in dark energy, the impact causing pink and purple sparks to dance around them like fireflies in a particularly violent bar fight.
Mirajane pushed Erza away with surprising force and laughed again, a mocking laugh, but there was an honest, almost vulnerable glint in her pained eyes, as if she were unintentionally exposing herself, the hard shell of the 'She-Devil' cracking for an instant to reveal the girl underneath. "You know, Erza… of all the people in this damned, noisy guild, you're the only one who ever makes me feel truly alive. The only one who forces me to use everything. I hate it with every fibre of my being."
Erza responded with a half-smile, panting, even wounded, sweat mixing with blood on her face, but her eyes shone with an intensity that was purely Erza. "Funny, Mira. I feel the exact same way. So fight with everything you've got, you unbearable, irritating demon. I won't hold back either. Because you're the only one who always makes me push past my own limits, who forces me to be stronger."
They launched themselves at each other again, a collision of light and shadow, of fairy and demon, their magic and their wills clashing in a blinding flash that shook the treetops, sending sparks and burnt leaves into the air like the remnants of a celestial war.
I sighed, and with a calmness that violently contrasted with the carnage below, I brought my mug of tea (which I had conveniently retrieved from my 'dimensional bag', because priorities, right?) to my lips and took a quiet sip, savouring the complex flavour and the irony of the situation.
"Almost romantic, don't you think?" I commented dryly, to no one in particular, as I watched the brutal and strangely beautiful clash continue with full force. "If it weren't for all the gratuitous violence, mass destruction, and the imminent and highly probable possibility of dismemberment, of course."
My audience, composed of a blue cat that now seemed to have developed a nervous eye-twitch and a Guild Master who looked about to have a stroke, a panic attack, and possibly drown in his own flask simultaneously, remained in a sepulchral and absolutely terrified silence.
I, on the other hand, just took another sip of my tea.
"Nice exchange, girls. A seven out of ten. Could have used more poetic metaphors and less camaraderie, but the intent and sincerity were good," I commented, still to no one in particular, as I watched Mirajane block a downward strike from Erza and return a kick with her transformed leg that would make a mammoth seriously reconsider its career and all its life choices.
Eos, ever ready to stick her nose where it wasn't wanted, offered her analytical services: [Curious. Both are channelling personal traumas and unresolved romantic tension into explicit physical aggression. A classic release valve for individuals who share a history of early violence, orphanhood, and, apparently, conflicting feelings for an indifferent third-party observer. Would you like me to prepare a full psychological dossier on their dynamic as the battle unfolds? It could be... educational.]
"Do it, my dear meddling AI. But only if you can actually entertain me," I replied mentally, a smile forming on my lips.
[I shall include my famous and always-welcome acidic footnotes, commentary on the comparative psychology of demons and knights, and a special section on the probability of them ending this fight by either crying or hugging. The statistics are, at the moment, inconclusive, but fascinating.]
"Perfect. Now we're speaking the same language. Proceed with the analysis."
Happy, who seemed to have regained a bit of his colour (or was perhaps just less pale-blue and more of a terrified, confused lilac), turned to me with his big, fear-widened eyes. "Azra'il-chan, don't you think this is a bit... too dangerous?! They're going to get really hurt!"
"Happy, my dear and naive feline, with such an adorably simplistic worldview," I retorted, in my driest, most professorial tone possible, as if explaining to him that water is wet and fire burns. "What you consider 'too dangerous' is, at best, a particularly lively Tuesday at Fairy Tail. I've seen Natsu and Gray cause more destruction in a fight over the last piece of chicken." (That was a slight exaggeration, but the principle was the same). "This," I gestured with my cup towards the infernal battle unfolding with terrible beauty below, "is just a tiff between particularly powerful neighbours with serious anger management issues, figuring out who's going to take the bins out. Believe me, I've seen things far more... dramatic. Relax and enjoy the show. Or hide behind me, which is what you'll probably do anyway."
In the clearing, the duel was on fire, literally, at times, when Erza's magic manifested. Her Flame Empress Armour launched an arc of scarlet fire that carbonised half of the remaining battlefield, turning the vegetation to ash and the ground to black glass. But Mirajane just laughed, her body enveloped in a dark, cold mist that extinguished the fire as if it were the pathetic, insignificant flame of a birthday candle.
"You'll have to do much better than that if you want to even scratch my nails, Titania!" Mira bellowed, spinning in the air like a fallen angel and firing a blast of concentrated demonic energy that whizzed past Erza's ear, nearly decapitating her and incinerating what was left of a poor, innocent, ancient tree behind her. The tree, poor thing, had done nothing to deserve such a tragic end.
The redhead leapt into the air with impressive agility, landing on the charred, smoking branch of the dead tree, and looked down at her rival with that warrior-queen gaze she did so well and that, I reluctantly admit, was a little... captivating. "I will not lose, Mira. Not to you. Not today. Not here."
Mirajane growled, the low, guttural sound of a hungry beast, smiling even wider, her sharp teeth glinting in the light of the magical explosions. "Then show me, Erza! Show me why they call you Titania! Show me your strength! Show me your soul!"
They both leaped at the same time, one a comet of ruby fire and gleaming steel, the other a meteor of purple darkness and demonic fury, and the impact when they collided in the air, in the centre of the devastated clearing, was so intense, so brutal, so charged with power and emotion, that I swear I even felt my tea vibrate in my mug.
"Urgh, they could at least give a little warning when they decide to blow up half the environment with their emotional crises and violent displays of affection," I muttered, adjusting my seat on the branch, which was swaying dangerously like a leaf in a hurricane.
[Reinforcing safety alert: high-velocity rock fragments, charged with residual magical energy and possibly unresolved feelings, may impact your face in approximately 2.3 seconds. Recommendation: adopt a defensive posture or, alternatively, use your face as an improvised shield and test the durability of your current bone structure for data-gathering purposes regarding the resilience of your mortal shell.]
I rolled my eyes, feeling a headache begin to form behind them, a combination of the battle's intensity and the uselessness of Eos's suggestions. (Noted, Eos. And your alternative suggestion is terribly unhelpful and a bit sadistic, as usual. Shut up now and just watch.)
Happy, growing paler and now resembling a small blue ghost with cat ears, clung to my arm again, his little claws digging slightly into my cloak, his whole body trembling. "Azra'il-chan… w-w-what if they… what if they really kill each other?!" his voice was a squeak of pure panic and desperation.
"Then," I replied, in my most faux-casual, unconcerned tone, glancing sideways at Makarov's horrified expression, who seemed to have aged ten years in the last five minutes, "there's a smaller bar tab for the guild to pay at the end of the month, and the dispute over the last slice of strawberry cake in the fridge becomes considerably less competitive. Think of the financial and gastronomic upsides. There's always a silver lining."
The old man's eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, unable to formulate a response to such cynicism. "GIRL, DON'T JOKE ABOUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT! THEY'RE MY CHILDREN! MY IDIOTIC, DESTRUCTIVE CHILDREN, BUT MY CHILDREN NONETHELESS!"
I shrugged, with an indifference I didn't truly feel, but which was absolutely necessary to maintain my reputation as a cold, detached ancestral entity. "Just stating facts. Fewer members, less destruction and expense. It's basic mathematics and efficient resource management."
Meanwhile, the battlefield below us transformed into a festival of magic worthy of a civil war between minor gods with serious temper issues: scarlet flames danced with purple darkness, holy light clashed with demonic energy, shocks of power so loud and deafening it was as if the very heavens were trembling with fear or, perhaps, with pure and simple excitement at the show.
An involuntary smile escaped me. A cold smile, yes, but a true one, as I watched those two forces of nature clashing with everything they had, no reservations, no fear. (They're alive. Fighting. Burning with a passion, a fury, and a determination that I long ago forgot what it felt like to truly feel. So be it. Let them burn as brightly as possible.)
(Eos,) I said mentally, my inner voice a little softer, more serious than I would like to admit, a tone I rarely used with the AI. (Let me know if either of them really... goes past the point. The point of no return. The point where the damage is no longer just to the scenery.)
[Confirmed, Azra'il. Monitoring vital signs, Ethernano levels, and structural integrity of both combatants with maximum priority. Although I must say, with a 98.7% degree of certainty, that your personal concept of 'going past the point' is highly relative, subjective, and will likely be triggered long before any real danger of death, based on your current biometric fluctuations.]
(That's precisely why I'm asking you to monitor, you meddling, overly analytical rust-bucket,) I sighed mentally, feeling an irritating warmth rise to my face at Eos's accurate observation. I raised my teacup, which, to my surprise and delight, was still miraculously warm in my hands, and gave an ironic toast to the glorious, stupid, and strangely beautiful carnage unfolding below me.
"May the best woman, or at least the one who is less broken and in need of fewer bandages at the end, win."
The flash from the final impact lit up everything like lightning captured in a bottle and then released all at once, blinding even my eyes for an instant, and I've watched supernovas be born up close in some of my more interesting lives, not to brag (okay, maybe just a little, but it was true).
[Sensory log: energy peak detected, equivalent to an Alpha-Two class plasma explosion. Warning: risk of permanent auditory damage for unprepared organic spectators with a fragile tympanic structure. Fortunately, you do not qualify as 'normally organic', therefore you should only suffer a slight, irritating ringing for a few minutes,] Eos commented impassively in my mental ear, always with her comforting analyses.
(Eos, I literally haven't had human eardrums for a few dozen incarnations, remember? And even if I did, Natsu's high-pitched screams when he sees a boat bother me far more. They just irritate me on an existential level and make me want to commit an act of violence against aquatic modes of transport,) I retorted mentally, while Makarov beside me covered his ears with a pained expression and Happy clung to my arm like a hamster traumatised by a particularly loud firework explosion.
When the blinding light finally dissipated, revealing the destruction in all its glory and the smell of ozone and burnt stone, the two mages were standing, facing each other, panting, their armours and demonic forms in tatters, the remaining clothes on their bodies partially destroyed, torn and stained with soot, blood trickling mixed with sweat down their faces and arms. The ground around them had transformed into a grotesque mosaic of smoking craters and deep furrows that cut through the earth, as if a comet had tried to park there without using the handbrake and dragged half the mountain along in the process.
Erza still held her swords in a defensive stance, the red blades of her Flame Empress Armour losing their magical glow, but her arm was visibly trembling with the herculean effort of staying on her feet.
Mirajane, half-kneeling on the ground, was arching her back, breathing in heavy, ragged gasps, her demonic wings torn and fluttering like a forgotten old cloth in the wind, unable to support her any longer.
For a second, an eternal second charged with an almost unbearable tension, there was only silence, a silence so deep and absolute that the sound of blood dripping onto the ground seemed too loud, each drop a funeral drum marking the end of the battle.
Mirajane tried to rise, her gaze still sparking with anger and that stubborn, defiant smile of hers, but her treacherous legs refused to obey her iron will. She fell forward, catching herself on her arms with a groan of frustration and pain.
Erza, gritting her teeth with a determination that bordered on pure and simple insanity, also swayed, her whole body protesting the abuse. But she drove one of her swords into the ground with a dull thud, using it as a makeshift crutch to keep from collapsing completely. "Still… still standing, Mirajane!" she forced her voice out, a hoarse, breathless challenge, as if refusing to be the winner by mere chance or the opponent's simple surrender. She needed the victory to be earned, not given.
Mirajane lifted her face, stained with dirt and blood, her blue eyes burning with a mixture of fury, wounded pride, and something more, something that resembled... a reluctant, almost painful respect. "You… you damn redhead… stubborn as an armoured pack mule…" And then, to my complete and utter surprise, she laughed. A real, hoarse, broken laugh, but one full of genuine respect and perhaps even relief at finally having found a limit. "Damn it, Erza… this time… you really… beat me."
With those words, the last spark of demonic power seemed to drain from her body, and Mirajane finally toppled sideways onto the soft earth, her consciousness finally abandoning her, leaving behind only the silence, the smell of battle, and the image of a defeated, but not humiliated, warrior.
Erza, breathing like a bull after crossing an entire desert of sand and fire, let go of her swords, which fell to the ground with a dry, pathetic clatter, the sound echoing through the devastated clearing. "I… I won't lose…" she murmured, almost voiceless, more to herself than to anyone else, a final affirmation of her iron will, before she too fell to her knees, her body finally yielding to exhaustion and pain, still conscious, but visibly on the brink of a total collapse.
Happy, finally letting go of me, flew like a small, desperate blue arrow towards her, his round green eyes full of tears he didn't bother to hide. "Erzaaa! Erza, you did it! But you're all hurt and bashed up! And your hair is a mess!"
Makarov got up from the branch so fast he almost popped his other knee, his eyes shining with pride and worry, a mix of emotions that would probably give him heartburn later. "Good girl… What an incredible battle… What spirit… Good girl!" he whispered, his voice thick with genuine emotion.
I, still in my private box on the branch, just clapped slowly, once, twice, the dry, deliberately sarcastic sound contrasting with the emotion of the moment, while holding my now-empty teacup in my other hand. My heart, that treacherous, stubborn, wretched organ, was beating at an annoyingly fast and slightly painful rhythm at the sight of Erza, all battered but victorious, and Mira, equally formidable, unconscious on the ground below. What an inconvenient feeling.
"Now that was first-rate entertainment," I commented, in a tone so blasé that even Happy would probably have thrown one of his radioactive fish at my forehead if he weren't too busy hugging the redhead's face and crying into her hair like a small, walking fountain.
Eos, of course, the eternal killjoy with a peculiar taste for morbid statistics and unsolicited psychological analyses, didn't miss her cue to deliver her final report, worthy of a robot commentator for a particularly brutal, no-rules sport.
[Battle conclusion: technical victory for Erza Scarlet by opponent incapacitation. Probability of permanent physical sequelae in both combatants if not treated immediately by a competent healer: 12.7%. Probability of emotional sequelae and an even more complicated rivalry now charged with mutual respect and unresolved romantic tension: increased to 99.8%. Need for immediate medical support for both: high. Level of emotional distress, anxiety, and contained relief in observer Azra'il: detected, measured, and duly filed, though vehemently denied consciously by the subject herself. A curious fact worthy of note for future reports on her psychological inconsistencies.]
(A curious fact is your rusty-circuited grandmother, you meddling rust-bucket,) I growled mentally, feeling that familiar, uncomfortable tightness in my stomach that only happened when I saw Erza or Mira get truly hurt. Don't ask me why; the answer wouldn't fit in a thousand-page treatise on the anomalies of affection and the absolute, glorious stupidity of the heart. It's easier just to ignore it.
Down below, Mirajane was still unconscious, with Elfman running desperately towards her, his cries of "Sis! Sis, talk to me!" echoing through the clearing. Erza was trying not to fall flat on her face, with Natsu arriving like a hurricane to support her, his expression of excitement replaced by a rare, genuine concern. And Happy was whimpering as he wiped a little blood from her face with his paw, like a small, furry nurse.
Well now. A beautiful moment, almost worthy of a cheesy poem about the power of friendship, rivalry, and comradeship, if it weren't for the zombie-apocalypse-worthy scenery they'd left behind and the amount of work it would take to clean up afterwards.
Makarov stroked his beard, a tired sigh escaping his lips, a mix of overwhelming pride for his 'children' and absolute horror at the repair bill this would generate for the guild. "I will never, in all my years as Master, understand how those two haven't destroyed the entire island yet, or maybe the entire continent, in one of their little spats…"
I stood up, stretched my back with a satisfying pop that made my own knee complain a little, and tossed the dregs of my now-cold tea into the nearest vegetation (probably killing some rare, innocent plant in the process, but who cares about botany at a time like this?). "Master, it's simple," I said with a dramatic sigh, my voice floating down to him on the still, dust-filled air. "This is Fairy Tail. If it isn't dangerously chaotic, spectacularly destructive, a little insane, and deeply, emotionally draining, it's just no fun. It's our particular charm. Our trademark."
Makarov gave me a look that blended deep, tired approval with the resignation of someone who gave up trying to understand his problematic children a long time ago, a look that seemed to say "you're absolutely right, you irritating brat, but for the love of the gods, don't say that out loud near a member of the Magic Council or I'll never know peace again."
Happy flew back up to me, his small face stained with tears and snot, sobbing pathetically and a little movingly. "Azra'il-chan! Erza's alive, but she's all bashed up! And Mira-nee won't wake up! What do we do?!"
I shrugged, forcing an expression of nonchalance I didn't feel in the slightest, but which was absolutely necessary to maintain my reputation as a cold, detached, and slightly sociopathic wolf. The truth was, the ache in my chest only started to subside, the knot in my stomach only began to loosen, after I saw them both breathing, even if with difficulty. "They'll survive, Happy. Trust me. One is too stubborn to die from a few scratches and one or two demonic explosions, and the other probably has a pact with some underworld entity that prevents her from perishing in such an... anticlimactic way." I replied, letting a small, almost imperceptible half-smile escape, one that was more relief than anything else.
[Confirmation: historical data on Erza Scarlet's resilience and Mirajane Strauss's demonic nature indicate a 98.3% chance of full recovery for both, provided they receive adequate medical treatment, therapeutic quantities of strawberry cake for the former, and perhaps a small offering of virgin's blood for the latter... I am joking about the last part. Or am I? Data inconclusive. Emotional data: Azra'il is clearly relieved and attempting to disguise it with poor-taste humour. Note for psychological file on emotional defence mechanisms and the use of sarcasm as a distancing tool.]
(If you write that last part in my file, Eos, I swear I will delete your personality core and replace it with an AI that only knows how to recite bad jokes about llamas and the importance of a high-fibre diet,) I hissed mentally, feeling a pang of irritation, but the threat didn't have the same force as before. I was too tired to even be creative with my threats.
I rolled my eyes, but inside, that ugly, uncomfortable tightness in my chest that I hated feeling with every fibre of my being was finally beginning to dissipate, being replaced by a deep exhaustion and a sense of... relief. "Come on, Happy. Let's go help those two blockheads carry their respective battered mages before one of them gets the brilliant idea to stand up out of sheer wounded pride and start another fight while bleeding like a stuck pig."
As I approached Erza, I couldn't stop my heart from doing that strange, irritating leap in my chest when I saw her trying to lift her head to look in my direction, her body trembling with effort, her eyes unfocused, and her face pale as wax beneath the dirt and scratches.
Happy flew desperately to her side again, crying like a leaky tap. "Erzaaa, talk to me! You're alive, right?! Don't die, please! Who's going to give me fish behind Azra'il-chan's back if you die?!"
Erza breathed with difficulty, trying to force a reassuring smile, but her face betrayed the excruciating pain, and perhaps the fear of finally fainting right there, in front of everyone, which for her would be the ultimate humiliation. "I'm… fine…" she murmured, each syllable scratching her throat, as if she were swallowing broken glass.
I knelt in a second, dropping any pretence of indifference or boredom. My concern, at that moment, was too real to disguise, and honestly, I no longer had the energy to play the tough girl. I brought my hand to her face, my fingers gently brushing a lock of her scarlet hair, analysing the cuts, the dried blood, the shallow, ragged breathing. "Look at me, Red," my voice came out low, almost a whisper, failing a little more than I would have liked to admit. "I told you not to overdo it like this, didn't I? What part of 'try not to die in a stupid and melodramatic way in a ridiculous promotion exam' did you not understand?"
Erza blinked slowly, her brown eyes finally focusing on me, and she sighed in a thread of a voice, a sigh that sounded almost like relief at seeing me there, so close. "Azra'il… I… I did it…?"
I let out a nervous chuckle, a mix of relief, exasperation, and something else, something warmer that I refused to name. I squeezed her shoulder with a gentleness I rarely employed with any living being. "You did it, you stubborn, reckless idiot. You did it. But next time you decide to have a fight of epic proportions, try to walk away from it on your own two feet, not being carried like a glamorous, bloody sack of potatoes, alright?"
At that moment, an orange flash and a cry of "ERZAAAA!" caught my attention. Natsu arrived like a hurricane, almost knocking Happy over with his shrill shout. "ERZA! Thought I was gonna miss the end of this ugly fight?! You were amazing! The best!"
He knelt beside her, holding her arm with a care that contrasted with his usual brutish nature, and his amused, excited expression was quickly replaced by concern. "Blimey, Erza… you're really bashed up. For real. I'll… I'll help carry you, okay? Don't push yourself anymore. Leave it to us."
Erza tried to protest, probably out of pure, stubborn pride, her mouth opening to say she didn't need help, that she could walk on her own, but her strength abandoned her before any sound came out. "Don't… need…"
"Yes, you do," I said firmly, almost in a tone of command, and Natsu, to my surprise, gave me a look of rare complicity and agreement. He might be an idiot most of the time, but when it came to Erza, his brain seemed to work a little better. "We'll sort her out, Azra'il. We'll take care of our Erza."
On the other side of the clearing, Mirajane was starting to wake up, looking like she'd been punched by a drunk bear, run over by a runaway carriage, and then used as a bowling ball by a giant. The dazed, dopey smile on her lips didn't fool anyone; there was a trickle of dried blood running from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes, when they opened, trembled with exhaustion and pain, trying to focus on the world around her.
"...where's… Erza?" she mumbled, the first thing her confused, aching mind sought out was her rival, her opponent, her... other half in that dance of destruction.
"Easy, Mira, she's fine. Or as fine as one can be after a fight with you," I said, turning in her direction to help her too. Elfman was already by her side, stained with tears of relief and worry. "MIRA! SIS!"
He practically threw himself to his knees beside her, holding his sister's hand with a strength that was both protective and desperate, as if fearing she would disappear if he let go. "Are you okay? Talk to me, sis! I'll… I'll carry you to the ends of the earth if you want! I promise! I'll be a man for you!"
Mirajane managed a tired but genuine smile, the sight of her brother seeming to give her a little strength. She squeezed his hand lightly. "Silly… I… I can take it… I just… lost this time…"
Elfman looked about to cry again, this time from pure relief, and looked at me with an almost childish desperation in his large eyes. "Azra'il… she's going to be okay, isn't she?! She really is?!"
I took a deep breath, quickly analysing her residual energy. The damage was extensive, no doubt, but her life force, the demonic soul that resided within her, still burned strong, albeit weak and exhausted. She was resilient. "Her body will recover, Elfman. She's a Strauss, after all. And, apparently, just as stubborn as a certain red-headed Titania. She's strong, like few others. Just… take care of her. Don't let her play the proud hero and try to get up on her own now. She needs you."
He nodded so fast his neck looked like it might snap, tears finally streaming down his dirty face. "I'll take care of her, I swear! I'll never let anything happen to her again! Never!"
The two women stared at each other from the ground, across the devastated clearing that was a testament to their strength, a moment of sick and strangely beautiful complicity. Erza was almost fainting in the arms of a surprisingly gentle Natsu, while Mirajane leaned on an Elfman who was crying and laughing at the same time, like two pairs of broken soldiers who didn't know how to stop fighting, but who, deep down, didn't really know how to hate each other either.
Erza drew a breath, her voice failing, hoarse, but with a defiant glint in her tired eyes. "I'll… still… thrash you again next time, demon…"
Mirajane laughed, a laugh so weak it sounded like she would fall asleep at any second, but with that same provocative, predatory glint in her gaze, an invitation to the next dance. "I'll… be waiting, Titania… eagerly…"
I took a deep breath, feeling that stupid ache in my chest again, such a foolish fear of losing either of them, of seeing those bright flames extinguished, even though I knew they were as tough as the finest star-forged steel and as stubborn as a cosmic mule.
I stood up, stretching my hand out to Happy, who was still sniffling and hovering nervously in the air. "Come on, let's go give these two numpties and their two stubborn mages a hand."
Happy wiped his face with his paw, beating his wings with a new determination in his eyes. "Let's go, Azra'il-chan! We'll take care of them! Together!"
And off we went, helping Natsu support Erza and Elfman lift Mirajane, like a band of broken, dysfunctional, noisy friends who didn't know how to be normal, but who knew, deep in their hearts, however reluctantly, how to take care of each other when it really mattered.
Makarov approached slowly, his knee still bothering him, wiping away a discreet tear (whether of fear, relief, or pure, simple fatherly pride, it was impossible to tell). "These kids… these kids are going to be the death of me one of these days. And probably bankrupt me."
I gave a lopsided, humourless smile, but one full of relief.
"Not today, old man. Not yet."