A day later, the infirmary felt different. The constant parade of guild members checking in, the hum of overlapping voices, even Polyursica's sharp reprimands had dulled to a low murmur beyond the door. Morning light slipped through the half-open shutters, catching on the drifting dust in the air. It made the place feel warmer than it was—though that might have just been the lack of shouting.
Aelius still lay where he'd been since they brought him in, propped slightly against the pillows, bandages layered thick over what remained of his body. He hadn't bothered to acknowledge much of anything the day before—questions, lectures, even Levy's persistence—but the room wasn't quite the same now. Something beneath the wrappings had shifted.
Polyursica had been in early, muttering under her breath while she worked. She'd cut through the lower bindings to inspect the damage and had paused just long enough for Levy to catch a rare, tight nod of approval before rewrapping him. "They're taking," she'd said briskly, not bothering to explain further, then swept out of the room without so much as a glance back.
Levy, of course, had stayed. She was seated at the foot of his cot now, legs tucked up on the chair, her elbow resting on her knee, and her chin in her palm. Her eyes flicked over the layers of bandages where his legs should have been, narrowing slightly.
"They are starting to come back, aren't they?" she said after a moment. "The legs, I mean. You can feel that, right?"
He didn't respond. His gaze stayed on the ceiling, the same blank, stubborn stare he'd worn yesterday.
Levy leaned forward a bit, her voice lowering. "So… why is this taking so long? I've seen you heal worse, faster. I'm not imagining that—you regrew an entire arm in seconds once. This—" she gestured at the bandages, "—this isn't you. Not the you I know."
Still, nothing.
"You're just not going to answer me, are you?" she asked, a flicker of frustration mixing with the concern in her tone.
Aelius's eyes half-lidded, a slow blink that acknowledged her without conceding anything.
Levy sighed and sat back again, muttering under her breath. "You know, you're infuriating when you're like this."
He didn't argue. He didn't even move.
But beneath the heavy linen wrapping his hips and waist, the truth was there—raw, ugly, and undeniable. Thin cords of newly formed muscle had begun to knit themselves together, anchoring to bone that hadn't existed the day before. The healing was slow, almost grudging, but it was happening. His legs were regenerating, inch by inch. Whether that was good news or just the start of another argument, Levy couldn't tell.
"I'm always like this," Aelius said at last, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, not bothering to meet hers. "You're the insane one—willingly being here. You can actually move without that witch trying to beat you to death with whatever she has within arm's reach."
Levy blinked, thrown off for only a moment before recovering. "If you mean Polyursica, she's not that bad."
He gave a faint, humorless snort. "That's because she hasn't decided you're a waste of her air yet."
Levy folded her arms. "Or maybe it's because I listen to her."
"That," he muttered, "would explain why you're still alive."
She frowned at him, but it didn't stick. There was something too steady in the way he spoke—no heat, no bait for an argument. Just a flat statement of fact, like the sound of distant thunder. She leaned forward again, studying his face for a flicker of anything resembling humor. There wasn't one.
"You could make this easier, you know," she said finally. "Talk to me instead of… whatever this is."
Aelius's eyes slid to her then—slow, deliberate. The corners of his mouth shifted by the smallest fraction, a half-smirk that held no warmth. "If I talked, you'd just ask more questions. And I'm not here to entertain."
"I'm here," Aelius said flatly, "because Makarov, you, Erza, Polyursica, and half the guild would likely hunt me down—probably for sport more than anything."
Levy raised a brow. "For sport?"
His gaze flicked to her, a sliver of dry amusement breaking through the flat tone. "Don't pretend you wouldn't enjoy it. You'd bring a book, camp out in a tree somewhere, and take notes on how long I last before one of you gets bored and puts an arrow through me."
She snorted despite herself. "You make it sound like we're all sadists."
"You are," he said without hesitation. "Just the smiling kind. The ones who throw you a party before setting you on fire."
Levy leaned back in her chair, lips twitching as she tried to keep from grinning. "If that's really what you think of us, why haven't you left before now?"
Aelius's eyes closed again, his expression unreadable. "You already know the answer to that."
The words hung between them, heavy enough that she didn't push further.
Somewhere beneath the blankets, the slow, ugly crawl of regeneration continued—muscle knitting, bone hardening, veins threading their way toward a shape that was still far from whole.
"You're impossible, you know that?" Levy muttered.
His lips curled just slightly. "And yet, here you are."
The silence stretched for a few minutes after that. Levy had settled back into her chair, her book open again—something on ancient magic and gods, chosen entirely because of him. She read with a small, content smile, the kind of expression that said she was perfectly happy just being there, whether or not he spoke another word.
Aelius watched her for a time, the faint rustle of turning pages and the muted creak of the guild hall beyond their walls filling the quiet. Eventually, he let out a slow breath and decided to break it.
"My magic's still drained," he said at last, voice low and edged with fatigue. "That's why I'm not healing as fast. Most of it's going into repairing my internal organs—whatever's left gets used to patch the shell."
Levy's eyes lifted from the page, but she didn't interrupt.
"Even poison doesn't help when it's this bad," he went on. "I could drink enough to melt a wyvern's stomach lining, and it'd just disappear into the damage. There's nothing left to store it in, nothing to amplify it with. It's like pouring water into a sieve."
He shifted slightly, grimacing at the pull of bandages over fresh tissue. "I've rebuilt from worse wounds, but not all at once…" He trailed off, letting the implication speak for itself.
Levy closed her book slowly, thumb marking her place. "So you're saying you're running on fumes."
"I'm saying," he corrected, "I'll be fine."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Levy leaned forward a little, elbows resting on her knees. "You'll get it back. All of it."
He gave a faint, humorless snort. "That's the plan."
"And when you do," she added with the faintest smile, "I'm going to make you answer all my questions."
Aelius let out a slow breath, his tone softer than usual, stripped of its usual bite. "Actual gods have tried and failed," he said, the words almost sounding like an observation rather than a challenge. "What makes you think a single little girl could do that?"
Levy's smile widened just a fraction. "Because I'm not a god."
That earned him the smallest huff of air through his nose, not quite a laugh but close enough for her to notice. He closed his eyes again, not to shut her out, but in something that felt almost like resignation—as if he knew she'd keep trying, and maybe, just maybe, he wasn't entirely opposed to it.
"Still persistent, not sure why I thought that would change," he murmured.
"Still stubborn, not sure why I thought that would change," she mimicked without looking away.
For a brief moment, the tension that always seemed to cling to him loosened, and the faintest trace of ease settled over the room. Outside, the muted sound of guild chatter drifted through the door, distant but steady—like the heartbeat of something that had already decided neither of them was going anywhere.
"You know," Aelius said after a pause, giving a short, clipped laugh. It wasn't a nice laugh—there was no humor in it, only the brittle edge of someone connecting pieces they'd rather have left scattered. "I thought… that everything seemed to align just a little too perfectly. Shortly after I come back, all these people I knew keep drifting into place, one after another. And I kept asking myself why I was telling you all things I normally wouldn't. Why I was… trusting you with pieces I've never given anyone."
His gaze shifted away from the ceiling, settling somewhere in the empty air between them. "I finally figured it out… fighting Nehzhar."
Levy straightened in her chair, her brow furrowing. "Nehzhar… is that the man you were fighting? The one that… did this to you?"
"Yes"
The silence between them was sharp as a knife and hanging over them like a bell.
"You know more about magic than probably anyone in this guild—maybe except the Master." Aelius's voice was calm now, almost conversational, but there was a current running beneath it, something that made the air between them feel heavier. His eyes stayed on her, unblinking. "Tell me, what do you know about control magics—mind control, suggestion… things that take root so deep you don't even feel them, and give you the subtlest push?"
Levy straightened in her chair, her book lowering slightly in her hands. "They're rare," she said cautiously. "Dangerous. The older forms were banned centuries ago because they could change a person without them ever realizing it—shift a thought here, a decision there. A spell like that doesn't scream its presence. It whispers. By the time you notice…" She trailed off, brow furrowing. "You think someone's been using that on you?"
"I don't think," Aelius said quietly. "I'm certain."
Her grip on the book tightened. "Nehzhar?"
He gave the smallest nod. "Little things, Levy. Just enough to keep me in the places he wanted me, with the people he wanted me around. Not a chain, not a leash—just… a thread. And I didn't see it until I was looking him in the eye."
Levy's stomach sank, but her voice stayed even. "And the things you've told us… the way you've acted lately…"
"Could have been me," Aelius admitted. "Could have been him, pulling at the right threads when I wasn't looking."
He looked away then, eyes drifting back to the rafters as if he could see something beyond them. "That's the worst part about those magics. You never really know where you end and the spell begins."
Aelius gave another short laugh, this one laced with a wry, dull humor that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Or maybe he just lied. Maybe everything was me. Somewhere, deep inside, I still felt like this place was my home… and I bent my usual self just enough to fit it again."
He didn't leave space for her to answer. His voice shifted immediately—losing its edge, taking on an almost peaceful tone, the kind you'd expect from someone who'd already made peace with their own grave.
"It doesn't matter now," he went on, steady, calm. "It's been done. I'm here. And I already said I'd stay." His gaze didn't waver from the ceiling, but the weight in his words was heavy enough to fill the room. "If he did anything to me, it's gone. Burned out. It won't happen again."
The quiet that followed wasn't tense—it was final, in its own way. Like a door closing with no intention of being opened again. Levy could see it in the way his shoulders eased against the pillows, the faint slack in his jaw. He wasn't looking for her reassurance. He wasn't waiting for her to argue.
He'd already decided.
The silence stretched yet again, though this time it felt lighter—less suffocating—but still, Aelius found himself irritated by it. Not at her, not at the guild, but at himself… for letting it return. For letting there be nothing between them but the soft creak of the building and the muffled sounds of the guild hall below.
His gaze stayed on the ceiling for a long moment before he finally spoke. "I need to do something after this," he said, the words deliberate, as if he'd been weighing them for some time. "Once I'm healed."
Levy glanced up from her book, curiosity flickering across her face. "Something?"
"Go on a trip," he clarified, his voice carrying no trace of his usual guardedness. It was almost casual, but there was an undercurrent there, a quiet certainty that made it sound more like a decision than an idea.
"Would you like to come with?"
Levy blinked, caught off guard—not by the offer itself, but by the ease with which he'd said it. For all his sharpness, all his tendency to hold people at arm's length, there was no bite in the words this time. Just a question, plain and open, as if he actually wanted the answer.
"Like… a vacation?" Levy asked, tilting her head, still unsure if he was serious.
"No," Aelius said, his tone calm but firm, "not for me, at least." His gaze shifted away from her, toward the far wall as though the thing he needed to say was somewhere behind it. "I need to… apologize to someone."
Levy's brow furrowed, but she didn't speak. She knew him well enough now to tell when he wasn't just stringing words together for effect.
"The forest," he said after a pause. "That whole incident. It would appear my anger was… misplaced." His voice wasn't heavy with shame or weighed down by self-pity—it was quieter than that. The tone of a man who'd taken the time to turn something over in his mind until it lost its jagged edges. "I've done a lot of bad things in my life, Levy. Hurt a lot of people. Most of it was warranted—at least by some twisted logic I could convince myself of at the time."
He shifted slightly in the bed, the bandages pulling tight around his ribs. "But I've always known the difference between doing something because it has to be done… and doing something out of pure spite."
His eyes flicked toward her briefly, then back to the ceiling. "I know when I'm in the wrong. I may not like admitting it, but I do. And I can't pretend this one will just fade away. If I let it sit, it'll rot like everything else I've left behind. And I've already left too many things to rot."
Levy closed her book completely now, resting it in her lap.
"I need to make it right," he continued. "Not for me—not even for the sake of forgiveness. I'm not naïve enough to think one apology is going to fix anything. But just because it's right."
He paused, his gaze unfocused, as though weighing the thought in his head before it slipped out. "Actually… scratch that." His lips twitched, just enough to show he knew how it sounded. "There's a very good chance one apology will fix it. Knowing her, anyway."
Levy tilted her head slightly. "She's that forgiving?"
"Forgiving?" Aelius shook his head faintly against the pillow. "No. Forgiving isn't the word I'd use for her. She's not the type to forget a slight, not really. But she's… decisive. Once she's made her judgment, it's done. If she believes I mean it—and she would, because I wouldn't waste my breath otherwise—then she'd take the apology, turn the page, and never bring it up again. Not out of mercy. Out of principle."
He exhaled slowly, his eyes closing for a moment before opening again. "It's one of the more infuriating things about her, honestly. Makes you feel like you've been granted absolution, but you know damn well you haven't earned it."
Levy smirked faintly. "Sounds like someone you respect."
A low, dry chuckle escaped him. "Respect might be pushing it. But I acknowledge her. That's about as high a compliment as I hand out."
"So… uh, who is this person you have to apologize to?" Levy asked, her tone cautious but curious. "Uh… is it Neshi? Gray said she was the reason you… You know, did all that."
Aelius's eyes shifted toward her, slow and deliberate, before returning to the ceiling. "Vanessa," he said finally. "That's her real name. But yes… Neshi, if you prefer the Moniker." His jaw flexed slightly, like the name itself was a stone in his mouth. "She betray—" He stopped himself mid-word, the syllable hanging for a beat before he corrected it. "Or I thought she did. In truth, she was… manipulated. By Nehzhar."
Levy frowned. "Manipulated how?"
Aelius's voice stayed level, but there was an undercurrent beneath it, the kind that made it clear the wound wasn't entirely closed. "Same as me. Threads in the mind. Suggestions, planted deep and slow, until what you want and what he wants are impossible to tell apart. She didn't even know it was happening. I didn't see it either, not until much later. By the time I realized, I'd already made my choice about her."
He let out a breath that sounded almost like a sigh, though there was nothing relaxed in it. "And I chose wrong. I saw betrayal where there was none. I buried the person she actually was under the image Nehzhar wanted me to see."
Levy leaned forward slightly, her book now resting forgotten in her lap. "And… she doesn't hate you for that?"
Levy leaned forward slightly, her book now resting forgotten in her lap. "And… she doesn't hate you for that?"
"She probably doesn't even know she was manipulated," Aelius said, his voice slow, deliberate, like he was picking the words from somewhere far away. "Her mind's… different. She's like ADHD on magical steroids—always moving, always distracted, thoughts firing in ten different directions at once. It wouldn't be hard… especially for Nehzhar. He could slip suggestions in between those thoughts, weave them through the noise. She'd never notice. Not right away. Maybe not ever."
His gaze drifted toward the far wall, unfocused. "That's the thing about people like her—their strength and their weakness are the same. They adapt so quickly, they don't always stop to question why. A push here, a word there… You could make her walk halfway to her own destruction without her realizing she'd left the starting line."
Levy frowned, unsettled. "And you think that's what he did to her?"
"No," Aelius said simply, the word clipped and final. He didn't bother to elaborate, and his gaze stayed fixed on some far, indistinct point in the ceiling. He knew exactly why Nehzhar had done it—why she'd been chosen, why the strings had been pulled the way they were—but saying it aloud would only invite more questions. Questions he had no intention of answering.
Levy studied him, clearly waiting for more, but he gave her nothing. The silence between them stretched, heavy and unyielding, until it was clear the subject was closed.
She sat back slowly, her expression tight. "Right. Of course."
Aelius didn't react, didn't so much as twitch. Inwardly, he could already feel her curiosity sharpening, filing away the evasive answer for later. He'd deal with that when it came. For now, he let the stillness settle again, content to leave the truth exactly where it belonged—buried.
"You gonna come?" Aelius asked, his voice low but direct, as if the question had been waiting on his tongue for a while. His eyes shifted to Levy, steady and unblinking.
"Worst case," he continued, "you get some answers to… something or another. You like to pry, so I'm giving you a crowbar." There was the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one that had forgotten how to be warm.
Levy didn't answer right away. She studied him for a long moment. The weight in his tone, the deliberate way he'd said it—it wasn't just an invitation. It was a door he didn't open for many people.
Finally, she set her book aside with a quiet thump. "Yeah," she said, leaning back in her chair. "I'll come."
Her voice carried no hesitation, but there was a flicker in her expression—something caught between curiosity and resolve. "Not just for answers," she added. "But… if you're going to walk into something like this, I'd rather be there to make sure you don't do it alone. As your friend."
Levy's words lingered in the air for a moment, softer than the steady hum of the guild outside the infirmary walls. Aelius didn't respond right away, but his gaze returned to her, searching for something—doubt, maybe, or the kind of polite dishonesty people wrapped around themselves when they made promises they couldn't keep.
She met his stare without flinching. "And when we meet her," she went on, her voice steady but gentle, "I'm not going to pry into your past. Not through her, not through anyone else. If I learn anything about who you were… it'll be because you told me yourself. When you're ready."
The faint tension in his jaw eased just slightly, though his expression didn't change much. Still, there was something in the way his eyes lingered on her—a long, weighing look, as though he were trying to decide whether she meant it.
She didn't look away.
After a long silence, he gave the smallest nod, more acknowledgment than agreement, but enough to tell her the words had landed. "…Fair enough," he said, his tone quiet, almost reluctant.
Levy leaned back again, her book resting in her lap. "Good. Then we have an understanding."
He closed his eyes briefly, a slow exhale slipping past his lips—not quite relief, but something close to it. "…We'll see how long you can keep that promise," he murmured.
"I can," she said simply, with no bite, no challenge—just certainty.
He didn't answer, but his silence wasn't dismissive this time. It felt… settled.
"All right," Aelius said, breaking the quiet with a faint rasp, "go join the guild. If you stay here any longer, they might start thinking I've poisoned you."
Levy arched a brow, but he wasn't finished.
"And before your two knights—" he gave the title a dry twist, "Jet and Droy—decide I need to be killed for taking too much of your time."
That earned him an actual smirk from her. "They're not that bad."
"They glare at me every time I enter eyesight," he said flatly. "And if they've been glaring at me that much before–" he gestured vaguely to the missing half of his body beneath the bandages and covers "—they might try to actually do something when I'm like this."
Levy shook her head, standing and tucking her book under one arm. "They just worry about me."
"They watch me," he corrected, settling back into the pillow with a faint curl of his lip. "Big difference."
She took a few steps toward the door before glancing back. "You know, you don't make it easy for people to like you."
"I told you last time you said that—and the time before that—it's the point," Aelius replied, his voice carrying that familiar, dry edge. His gaze stayed fixed on the rafters above, as if the conversation were nothing more than background noise.
Levy arched a brow. "And it's still a terrible point."
He gave the faintest shrug, careful not to pull at the bandages. "Maybe. But it's mine."
Her lips quirked, though it was hard to tell if it was amusement or exasperation. "You're impossible."
"That's the other point," he said without missing a beat.
Levy only shook her head, the hint of a smile softening her features. She turned toward the door without another word, the quiet confidence in her step saying enough on its own.
The hinges gave a soft creak as she slipped out, leaving him alone with the muted hum of the guildhall beyond and the slow, steady rhythm of his own breathing.