The weight of Death's words anchored Tanya to the spot, her mind reeling from the sheer gravity of the truth. Guilt, heavy and suffocating, settled in her chest; every life Natsu had taken was a debt she felt she now carried alongside her sister.
It wasn't the violence itself that shook her. It was the certainty of it.
He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't doubted. He hadn't sought forgiveness.
He had chosen.
Beside her, Anyael remained a statue of stoic grace, her eyes never leaving Natsu's silhouette in the field, as if she had already accepted the darkness required to keep their light burning. Tanya envied that steadiness. Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her skirt.
If danger comes again… would he do it again?
The answer rose without resistance. Yes. And worse — she knew she would let him. The realization didn't fracture her. It didn't make her recoil. It settled. Heavy. Permanent.
She lifted her gaze toward him.
He looked no different than before. Just a man working soil beneath the sun. But now she understood something she hadn't before — protection, at his scale, came with annihilation. And she was choosing to stay anyway.
The silence was shattered not by a sound, but by a presence. "Lady Tanya, if I may, I would like to offer a different perspective—should it be a welcome thought for you," Tara said, her voice materializing mere inches behind them.
Tanya let out a strangled yelp, her body reacting like a cat caught in a sudden thunderclap. She launched herself off the bench with enough force to send her tumbling into the dirt in a flurry of tattered dignity. Anyael's eyes went wide as she nearly toppled over from the sudden shift in weight.
Death's regal composure finally cracked, a silver giggle escaping her lips at the comedic sight of Tanya slumped on the ground. "Tara, dear, you really must learn to announce yourself," Death said, unsuccessfully trying to stifle her amusement. "Poor Tanya nearly achieved flight because of your stealth."
"I am deeply sorry, my ladies," Tara replied, bowing low with a look of genuine remorse. She stepped forward to help Tanya up, dusting off the girl's clothes with efficient, gentle hands. "Lady Tanya, I am truly regretful for the unnecessary fright. It shall not happen again."
Tanya brushed the remaining dirt from her knees, offering a shaky, nervous smile. "I-I'm fine. Mostly. Apology accepted, Tara. I suppose I just need to... adjust. Since we're all going to be living together."
"She is right, Tara. We must be mindful," a new voice rang out, rich with authority and a haunting elegance. In front of the wooden bench, the sunlight seemed to bleed away as shadows coalesced into a single, swirling pillar. From the inky depths, Lunara stepped forth, the darkness falling away from her like a discarded silk shroud to reveal her majestic form.
"We carry the grace of our Lord; our actions should reflect it. Don't you agree, sister?" "Lunara!" Death cried out, her face lighting up with a radiance that rivaled the sun. She practically bounded from her seat to embrace her sister, a rare display of unbridled joy that the shadow goddess returned with equal warmth.
Tara bowed even lower than before. "Lady Lunara, I shall hold your words close."
Anyael and Tanya watched the exchange, paralyzed by a mounting sense of awe. Back in their old lives, these beings were the stuff of scripture, myth, and distant worship — figments of imagination meant to explain the unexplainable. Here, they were tangible.
They were family. They were the help.
The sisters realized, with a clarity that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating, that Natsu's world wasn't just bigger than theirs — it operated on an entirely different plane of existence. The man swinging a backhoe in the dirt wasn't just a farmer; he was the center of a gravity that pulled goddesses and monsters alike into his orbit.
"It's been a while, my dear Lunara. How have you been?" Death asked, her voice bright with a warmth that carried genuine sisterly affection. Lunara smiled fondly and drew her into a brief, familiar embrace before settling onto the bench beside her. "I've been busy running errands here and there for you-know-who," she said lightly.
Both goddesses turned their attention toward the fields. Natsu was still at work, shirtless beneath the morning sun, sweat tracing slow paths down his back as he moved with tireless rhythm. His hoe struck the earth in steady cadence, his off-key humming floating lazily across the open land.
"I can hear you even from here, you know," Natsu called without looking back. "And maybe don't stare too hard. I'll blush." Death leaned back, resting one arm along the bench, amusement glinting in her eyes. "We would love to see you blush, my love. Such things from you are rare gifts."
A faint chuckle drifted across the field in response.
"Anyways," Death continued, turning back to Lunara, "how is Veyron doing? It's unusual seeing you without her." Lunara sighed, equal parts fond and exasperated. "Sulking. Apparently, she found out I went back to Elysium for a quick errand. She wanted to come, and Natsu didn't mention it, so now she feels cheated."
Death laughed quietly, the sound light and unguarded. "I suppose that tracks." "And your trip?" Death asked after a moment. "I assume the council was… difficult."
Lunara's expression shifted, her smile thinning just slightly. "Very. I was fortunate to run into Thysera and Ilyra. They treated me no differently than before." She exhaled. "The rest of the council, however… senile fools and hypocrites. Though, admittedly, I made a misstep. I think I frightened the two of them in the end."
Death reached for Lunara's hands, lacing their fingers together with quiet reassurance.
"You've changed," Lunara said, her tone teasing but sincere. "Ever since you met Natsu, you've grown gentler. Wiser. Are you certain you aren't secretly a goddess of life?" Death laughed openly this time, the sound carrying across the farm like chimes in a soft breeze.
Nearby, Tanya and Anyael watched in silence. To Tanya, the scene felt unreal — not because of divinity, but because of how ordinary it all seemed. Goddesses teasing one another. Laughter. Shared warmth.
The guilt still sat heavy in her chest, but it no longer felt sharp. It had settled into something quieter. Something chosen.
She realized then that loving Natsu was not about ignoring what he was capable of. It was about understanding it — and remaining anyway.
Anyael's gaze lingered on him. She watched how even beings born of myth leaned subtly toward him, how their titles seemed to loosen in his presence. It wasn't fear or reverence that bound them — it was something steadier.
He did not demand loyalty. He created a space where loyalty wanted to exist.
She wondered if this was Natsu's true power.
Gravity.
The man working the soil wasn't merely a farmer, nor a god in disguise. He was an anchor — one that allowed monsters, mortals, and goddesses alike to exist as something more than what the world demanded of them.
While Death and Lunara sank into their own private world of shared history and divine whispers, Tara continued her quiet attempt to bridge the gap between their realms. "Milady Tanya, milady Anyael… I hope you do not mind my presence. I simply wish to speak of our lord Natsu, should you wish to hear it."
Tanya turned toward her fully this time, no longer flinching at the nearness of shadow. "I do," she said softly. "If I am to stay… I should understand the weight of the man I'm choosing."
Her eyes shifted briefly toward the field. Tara regarded her with something warmer than obedience. "You see only fragments," Tara began, folding her hands neatly upon her lap. "The farmer. The protector. The one who smiles gently at dawn."
"Our lord is not simple, though he prefers to appear so. What he does… he does deliberately. Even when silence would be easier. Even when distance would hurt less." Tanya listened without interrupting.
"He protects because he chooses to," Tara continued softly. "Not because he must. And that choice is repeated more often than most realize." A faint breeze moved through the crops.
"There are beings who wield power like a weapon. Our lord wields it like responsibility." Tanya swallowed. "And responsibility," Tara added quietly, "is far heavier than a blade."
Silence returned, but it no longer felt suffocating. It felt grounded. Like something that could be carried.
In the distance, Natsu hummed off-key beneath the sun, striking the earth with patient, unhurried rhythm.