The slow, nauseating sway of that ancient wooden vessel, propelled only by the capricious force of the wind in its large, patched-up sails, and which our guild hosts insisted on calling a 'ship' (likely for lack of a more suitable term for 'floating bathtub with a high risk of sinking'), was my new personal purgatory.
A few endless hours had already passed since we left behind the persistent smell of overrated fish, brine with notes of sewage, and the chaotic, noisy throng of Hargeon's port, and now we were somewhere undefined and probably unmapped on the high seas, under a merciless sun that seemed to hold a personal, particularly sadistic grudge against my delicate, pale, and sunburn-prone complexion.
The sea breeze, which in theory should have been refreshing, invigorating, and perhaps even romantic, only spread with more efficiency and cruelty the smell of salt, the ship's old, wet hull timbers, and the occasional, deeply unpleasant, entirely unavoidable odour of Natsu's vomit, which wafted from some dark, strategically positioned corner of the deck. What an olfactory delight. A truly memorable multi-sensory experience, which I would certainly add to my list of 'things to never repeat in any future incarnation'.
Master Makarov, with the wisdom of one who has undertaken countless, varied, and likely equally uncomfortable and smelly sea voyages in similar or worse vessels, and who, most certainly, has been sick on all of them at least once, was strategically positioned on the upper deck, near the helm, where a tired-looking sailor, with a dishevelled beard that seemed to house small ecosystems and a look of deep resignation, was trying to stay the course and probably not strangle the Master.
The old man, oblivious to the suffering of others, vigorously fanned himself with a suspiciously large paper fan, with vibrant floral patterns and a design bordering on the tacky, which he had probably 'requisitioned' from some young, naive guild mage with rather dubious taste in summer accessories and an inability to say no to a short old man with a pleading look.
His small, shrewd, wrinkled, and experienced eyes scanned the vast, endless blue horizon, as if searching for signs of land, for the legendary, mysterious Tenrou Island, or, which was considerably more likely, for a decent spot, with shade and a pleasant breeze, to take a well-deserved, long, and likely very loud nap.
Natsu Dragneel, our intrepid, noisy, ravenous, and chronically, pathologically seasick Fire Dragon Slayer, was, as always and to the surprise of absolutely no one in the known universe and probably a few yet unknown, collapsed, sprawled, and dumped in a most ungraceful fashion in a dark, relatively isolated corner, conveniently near the ship's rail and, most importantly, at a safe distance from me.
His face, normally so pink, vibrant, and full of an irritating, excessive energy, now sported an interesting, worrying, entirely unhealthy shade of pale-green with bilious-yellow undertones, a colour that definitively did not match his bubblegum-pink hair in the slightest, nor his usual, irritating flaming arrogance, or his total lack of common sense.
He was hugging an old, dirty wooden bucket with an almost religious devotion, as if that simple container were his most precious possession, his one and only true friend in that moment of suffering, producing an impressive, creative, and highly unpleasant variety of guttural sounds, deep, prolonged moans, and incomprehensible murmurs about fish, fire, and the cruelty of fate, that would make a suffering ghost with centuries of practice feel a pang of professional envy and perhaps even ask for a few tips.
His motion sickness was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt and to my eternal, sadistic amusement, a true, inspired work of art of the purest, most crystalline, hilariously pathetic human misery, a universal constant, entirely predictable, and occasionally useful (for getting rid of him) in all my observations and interactions with his remarkably loud, destructive person with an IQ that probably didn't exceed room temperature on a cold day.
Erza Scarlet, my small, stubborn, absurdly strong, has-a-worrying-obsession-with-strawberry-cakes, and now officially, much to my slight embarrassment, named my best friend and private redhead warrior, on the other hand, and in a stark, almost offensive contrast to the abject suffering of her exam partner, was sitting impeccably upright, with an almost military rigidity and a dignity bordering on the superhuman, on a simple but uncomfortable wooden chair on the main deck.
It was as if she were at a royal audience with some important monarch and not on a rickety old boat in the middle of absolute nowhere. Her posture was the living embodiment of iron discipline, unshakeable self-control, and a stubbornness that defied the laws of physics and common sense, even under that infernal heat that made the air shimmer and with the treacherous, constant, entirely sickening sway of the ship, which would make most experienced, steel-stomached sailors desperately look for a sick bag or the strongest motion sickness remedy on the market.
Her silver armour, which she wore with an almost stubborn pride and a total lack of consideration for the climatic conditions, gleamed intensely under the merciless sun, likely turning her into a private portable oven and slowly cooking her in her own abundant warrior sweat.
Her eyes were fixed on the horizon with an almost palpable intensity, as if she were mentally duelling with imaginary krakens of epic proportions, planning complex, infallible battle strategies, or perhaps, and this was my personal bet, just trying desperately, with all her might, not to think about the nauseating smell of Natsu's vomit that the wind insisted on carrying in her direction. Adorable. And, as always, a little frightening in her dedication and her ability to ignore physical discomfort.
Mirajane Strauss, the albino mage with a smile that could be angelic and promise paradise or entirely sadistic and announce unspeakable pain (usually depending on her mood at the moment, the person she was interacting with, and her hidden, generally mischievous and amusing objectives), was elegantly positioned at the ship's bow, like a bored but dangerously beautiful mermaid, observing the vast, monotonous blue sea.
Her long, silky, immaculately snow-white hair fluttered dramatically, with an almost supernatural grace in the sea breeze, framing her perfect face and her piercing blue eyes, which held that confident, enigmatic, perhaps slightly bored look of hers, with a hint of superiority.
She looked like one of those masterfully carved wooden figureheads on ancient, legendary, likely haunted ships, only infinitely more beautiful, considerably more dangerous, and with a worringly greater tendency to transform into a winged demon with sharp claws and a terrible temper if someone spilt ale on her new dress.
Meanwhile, her younger brother, poor, oversized, incredibly muscular, and with a surprisingly soft, sentimental heart (especially when it came to small, fluffy animals), Elfman, was looking at the choppy sea and the dark waves crashing forcefully against the ship's hull with an expression of pure, abject, almost childlike, and entirely hilarious terror.
He clung to the ship's rail with such force and desperation that his knuckles were white as wax, as if his life depended entirely on that piece of rotten wood, probably with an irrational, deep-seated fear of accidentally falling into the cold, dark, and mystery-filled water and being eaten alive by some giant, hungry, and overly-tentacled squid, a particularly grumpy great white shark, or, which would be, in his mind, even worse and more humiliating, of having to swim a few metres and getting his precious, carefully combed, and likely-hardened-with-some-dubiously-sourced-hair-gel hair wet.
And I, the magnificent, enigmatic, ancient, cynical observer of others' stupidity, and, at that specific and dreadfully hot moment, the profoundly bored Azra'il Weiss, was, as usual and for my own, limited sanity, in my preferred and strategically chosen observation spot.
Comfortably positioned in the relatively cool, scarce, and welcome shade cast by the ship's large, old main mast, sitting with casual elegance and a regal posture on my faithful and multifunctional rucksack (which contained, among other essential items for physical, mental, and spiritual survival, and for my personal entertainment in moments of extreme boredom, my precious, irreplaceable, and carefully selected stock of exotic teas from other worlds and dimensions, some ginger biscuits secretly purloined from the Guild's larder, and some ancient, dusty, light-reading grimoires on particularly creative, effective curses with hilariously unexpected side effects).
From there, my privileged observation post, I contemplated, with a complex mixture of genuine pity (very little, I admit), sadistic amusement (a lot, I confess), and a deep, almost palpable existential boredom, little, loyal, blue, and now visibly worried Happy trying, with moving heroism, a dedication bordering on fanaticism, and a total, absolute, and predictable lack of success, to alleviate the terrible, growing, and increasingly noisy seasickness symptoms of his best friend, his family, and companion in numerous idiocies, Natsu Dragneel.
He, the little Exceed, fanned him vigorously with his small, diligent, and entirely ineffective wings, which barely produced a noticeable breeze or one capable of alleviating the Dragon Slayer's suffering. And, with a logic that defied any rational explanation and demonstrated a profound lack of knowledge about human (or dragon slayer) physiology, he offered him, with almost desperate insistence, raw fish, of dubious appearance and with a smell that would make a vulture think twice, which, honestly, and to the silent horror of everyone present with a minimally functional digestive system and a decent sense of smell, only seemed to worsen still further and considerably the already precarious and nauseating situation, and the already worryingly greenish hue with nuances of grey of the poor, suffering Salamander.
Poor, ignorant, and deluded blighters. They really hadn't the faintest, most remote, notion about effective first aid, about human nature... or about the delicate and temperamental physiology of a dragon slayer.
It was then, in the midst of that picturesque, memorable, rather disgusting, and utterly embarrassing scene of gratuitous maritime suffering, deep existential boredom, and completely misguided and likely counterproductive demonstrations of feline friendship, that Master Makarov, with a loud, authoritative throat-clearing that echoed across the deck like an unexpected cannon shot, making even seasick Natsu stop moaning and terrified Elfman almost jump into the water in fright, finally got our attention.
He, with his irritating ability to always know the exact moment to interrupt my deep, philosophical thoughts, this time pulled me from my important, urgent reflections on the remote possibility of using my newly enhanced powers to subtly create a small, localised, magically efficient portable air conditioning system around myself. Or perhaps, far more simply, directly, and considerably more satisfyingly, to just and solely hurl the nauseated, noisy, and entirely inconvenient Natsu into the cold, dark, and silent depths of the ocean, where he would certainly, and finally, find the inner peace he so sought and so denied us.
"Attention, my dear, valiant, brave, and, judging by the deplorable state of some of you, likely very, very, very seasick brats!"
Master Makarov announced, his voice surprisingly firm, clear, and full of unshakeable authority, despite the constant, treacherous rolling of the ship, the oppressive heat making the air shimmer, and his own, considerably advanced age.
"There are still a good few long, tedious, and likely torturous hours of sailing, with much strong sun, very little usable wind, and a worrying amount of large waves, until we finally, and if the sea gods and this old wooden hull hold up, reach the sacred, mysterious, legendary, and, I sincerely hope, not too infested with giant sea monsters or grumpy ancestral spirits, Tenrou Island. However," he continued, with a mischievous, shrewd, rather sadistic, and totally familiar glint in his small, wrinkled, and anciently wise eyes, "to prevent you, my young, impatient, and hormonally unstable candidates, from dying of sheer, absolute boredom, excessive, paralysing anxiety, or a fatal, utterly anticlimactic combination of both before even setting foot on the island, or that our dear, esteemed Natsu over there, in his desperation and his stomachal agony, spontaneously decides to redecorate this beautiful, historic, and likely very expensive wooden ship with the highly acidic, dangerously colourful, and terribly malodorous contents of his delicate stomach, I shall, with my infinite, overflowing generosity, my almost divine patience, and my unquestionable wisdom, now explain how this little, amusing, and potentially deadly carry-on will work, or rather, how this year's much-awaited and feared S-Class Mage Promotion Trial will be. At least," he added with a mysterious, enigmatic smile promising no good, "the first, most exciting, most challenging, and, who knows, my dears, most… interesting, surprising, and perhaps even fatally amusing part of it."
All of us, the three candidates and our respective, unlucky partners (except, of course, poor Natsu, who at that moment was likely far more busy and focused on bravely trying not to vomit on his own shoes or on some unsuspecting guildmate than on paying attention to the Master's instructions), instinctively gathered around the small but imposing figure of Master Makarov.
Our ears, or in my case, my keen and alert lupine ears, were entirely attentive and focused on every word, and our hearts (or, in my specific case, my ancient and jaded ancestral blood-pumping organ that has seen too much) were beating with a complex and volatile mixture of growing curiosity, palpable anxiety, restrained excitement, and, in Erza Scarlet's particular and entirely predictable case, a fierce, unshakeable, and almost palpable determination that seemed to emanate from her in waves of sheer willpower.
Master Makarov, with the solemn air and the importance of one about to reveal the deepest, most well-kept secrets of the universe, or, at the very least, the secret and much-coveted recipe for his famous and legendary meat stew with magic mushrooms, explained with surprising clarity and almost paternal patience:
"Right then, you young, promising, and utterly insane candidates for heroes and walking disasters. When, and if, we finally and mercifully dock on the mysterious and likely dangerous coast of Tenrou Island – and that, my children, is a big 'if', considering the venerable age and questionable state of repair of this floating, creaking, and dangerously rusty pile of wood some dare call a ship – you, my brave and perhaps slightly naive adventurers, will have to, as your first and fundamental task, pass through certain and well-defined… 'paths'. Treacherous, likely cursed passages full of unexpected dangers that will test not only your raw physical strength, your superhuman endurance, and your impressive magical skills, but also, and perhaps even more crucially, your dubious luck, your ability to make swift and correct decisions under extreme pressure, and of course, and this is an essential skill for any self-respecting Fairy Tail member, your legendary and almost supernatural ability to, somehow inexplicably, not get completely and forever lost on a magic island that, according to legend, loves to play cruel, confusing, and occasionally deadly tricks on unwary, arrogant, or simply very, very unlucky visitors."
He paused dramatically, like an experienced actor at the height of his performance, clearly savouring the moment, the growing suspense, the palpable tension on our faces, and, probably, the slight greenish hue beginning to take over the faces of some of the more nervous candidates. Sadistic, manipulative old man, with an innate and undeniable talent for the purest, most crystalline theatre.
"As there are, by a happy coincidence of fate or by meticulous and malicious planning on my part, three pairs of valiant, brave, and totally and completely insane candidates participating in this exam this year," he continued, casting a quick, meaningful, and perhaps slightly worried glance in my direction, Erza's, and Mirajane's, "there will be, to keep things fair, balanced, and conveniently symmetrical, exactly three different, distinct paths with varying levels of peril available for you to choose wisely… or with blind desperation. Each pair of candidate and partner must, therefore, choose one, and only one, of these three mysterious paths. And it is precisely here, my little, anxious lobsters, that the real fun, the real challenge, and, who knows, the real carnage, truly begins."
His small, wrinkled eyes shone with an amused, restrained malice that promised trouble. Lots, and lots of trouble.
"Two of these three randomly selected paths, my dear children," he revealed with a smile that would make a shark shiver, "will lead you, inevitably, inexorably, and to your immense delight or your deepest, most abject despair, to a direct, personal, and likely very painful confrontation with one of our most powerful, most fearsome, most experienced, and, depending on the day and his mood, occasionally very, very grumpy S-Class Mages of the Fairy Tail Guild. Yes, my dears, you heard correctly! An epic, memorable, and perhaps even legendary battle against a true titan of magic! Or, which is considerably more likely and statistically more accurate, a swift, efficient, one-sided, and deeply humiliating massacre, depending entirely on your dubious luck, your questionable skill, and how cross the S-Class Mage in question is on that particular day. To, therefore, successfully pass this first, exciting, and potentially fatal stage of the test, you will have exactly two clear and distinct options: either you, in some totally miraculous, surprising, inexplicable way that defies all laws of logic and probability, manage, with much effort, sweat, and perhaps a pact with some dark entity, to defeat the S-Class Mage sadistically blocking your path – which, let's be painfully honest and realistic here, is highly, almost astronomically, improbable, but I, as an incorrigible optimist, love good, bloody surprises – or, and this, my children, is the considerably more realistic, strategically smarter, and, without doubt, immeasurably less painful option with a significantly higher survival rate, you manage, with much persuasive blarney, bare-faced luck, an impressive display of your skills, or perhaps, who knows, a generous and irresistible bribe of fresh strawberry cake, to win their valuable, coveted, and hard-to-obtain approval and their even more valuable and even harder-to-obtain respect. Each of our S-Class Mages, as you well know, has their own, peculiar criteria, their unstable moods, and their bizarre demands for granting this rare and precious approval, so… good luck in discovering what they are before it's too late and you end up as a colourful stain on the island's landscape."
[Direct, potentially lethal battle against Fairy Tail's S-Class Mages? Interesting. Extremely interesting. And highly risky. Preliminary data analysis indicates a survival probability for the current candidates ranging between 'extremely and comically low' and 'a statistical miracle that would defy all laws of the known universe'. This, Azra'il, will definitively be very, very amusing to observe. And to meticulously record every detail for posterity, of course. And for future reference in my reports on human stupidity,] Eos commented in my mind, with her usual coldness, impeccable logic, and a scientific enthusiasm that was, to be honest, a little unsettling and entirely inappropriate for the gravity of the situation.
"As for the third path, ah, the mysterious and intriguing third path…"
Master Makarov, with perfect dramatic timing, gave an even more enigmatic, more mysterious, more teasing, and rather sadistic smile, the kind that usually precedes some particularly creative form of imminent disaster or of prolonged and educational suffering for his beloved and unlucky 'dear children'. His small, shrewd eyes shone with ill-contained amusement and a promise of something… different.
"The third path, my small, curious adventurers, is what we, the older members with a more refined sense of humour in the guild, affectionately and with a touch of irony, call 'The Path of Silent Challenge and Inner Ordeal'. A path which, unlike the other two, noisier and more destructive ones, does not, at least not directly, involve a brutal, potentially fatal physical confrontation with one of our overpowered and frequently temperamental S-Class Mages. Instead, my children, it is more a… a subtle and introspective battle. An ordeal to measure the true strength of your young and not yet entirely corrupted hearts, the unshakeable resilience of your curious minds, and the often surprising depth of your bonds of friendship and loyalty. A test of spirit, of character, and of determination, much more than of tensed muscles, of destructive magic, or of the ability to shout very loudly."
Makarov, the undisputed master of suspense, of vague explanations, and of danger-filled subtext, as was his way, did not deign to provide us with many other juicy details or practical information about this particular path, leaving a heavy air of mystery, of growing suspense, and of a slight but palpable apprehension hanging over us like a dense, cold fog full of unknown possibilities.
Typical and totally irritating of him. He simply adored a good old drama and the opportunity to see his 'children' suffering a little bit.
"So, my dears, after you, with much luck, a good dose of stubborn persistence, and perhaps a few broken bones, manage, in some way, to pass through your respective and challenging paths and, most importantly, survive their dangerous and unpredictable particular challenges," he continued, with an air of one who is just beginning to truly have fun and to savour our growing nervousness, "the ultimate and non-negotiable objective of this first and eliminatory phase of the S-Class Exam is one, and it is very simple in theory, but dreadfully complicated in practice: you, my small and diligent detectives, will have to find, in some remote, secret, likely very well-guarded place by deadly traps and, who knows, by some ancient and grumpy creature, on this treacherous and mystery-filled island, the legendary and sacred tomb of our beloved, idolised, rather eccentric First Master and founder of the Fairy Tail Guild, the incomparable and ethereal, Mavis Vermilion."
A collective murmur of surprise, astonishment, and almost religious reverence ran through the small and tense group of candidates upon hearing that legendary name. The First Master's tomb? Now that was genuinely interesting.
"More juicy details about the rest of the trial, about the unpleasant surprises that await you, and about how, hopefully, not to be eaten alive by giant, hungry creatures, not to be cursed by particularly vengeful ancestral spirits, or not to get lost forever in the labyrinth of time, only after you, my brave and now likely terrified candidates, have successfully passed these first, exciting, and potentially fatal stages. Any daft questions, irrelevant comments, or last words before you face your destiny? No? Grand. Excellent. I love decisive people." He smiled with satisfaction.
"Now, please, enjoy the rest of this pleasant and relaxing sea voyage to fervently pray to your preferred gods, to make your last wills and testaments, to say goodbye to your loved ones, or simply, and this is a special suggestion for you, Natsu, to be sick a little more and completely empty the contents of your stomach before we set foot on dry land. Believe me, you'll feel much better. Or not."
As the Master, with an air of mission accomplished and a poorly disguised sadistic satisfaction, returned to fanning himself with his colourful fan and contemplating the horizon as if nothing had happened, and as Natsu, predictably, emitted a few more guttural sounds of protest and misery, I stood there, pensive, with a complex mixture of habitual boredom, a growing curiosity, and perhaps, just perhaps, a small and almost imperceptible pang of… interest, considering which of the renowned and overestimated S-Class Mages of the Fairy Tail Guild I would have the dubious and potentially irritating honour, or the extreme and hilarious misfortune, of having the remote and improbable chance to face in mortal combat. Or, more likely, in a very long and tedious conversation.
I only knew, and only by sight or reputation, a few of them, and my personal and direct contact had been, to my relief and for their safety, extremely limited and superficial, to say the very least.
There was, of course, the famous, the legendary, the almost mythical Gildarts Clive, the undisputed 'Ace' of Fairy Tail, a man whose magical power was so overwhelming, so immense, and so totally out of control that, according to guild legends and the Magic Council's damage reports, he routinely and totally accidentally destroyed entire cities, geographical landscapes, and his comrades' patience just by distractedly passing through them.
I, thankfully, had had little direct or prolonged contact with him, as he was, for the sake of Fiore's structural integrity, almost always travelling on some hundred-year-suicide-mission in some distant and dangerous place, or something equally dramatic that kept him far from people and from breakable objects. But I knew, with an instinctive certainty and from Eos's constant and alarming alerts, that he was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, ridiculously, absurdly, and dangerously strong.
The difference in level between my current self, with my powers still sealed and my fragile, limited teenage body, and a true monster of nature like him was… well, let's just say Eos, with her cold logic and her ability to calculate survival probabilities, had vehemently and repeatedly warned me to avoid a direct and unnecessary confrontation with him at any and all costs, unless I had a sudden, inexplicable, and totally masochistic desire to be instantly transformed into a nameless, fine puddle of dust.
And we also had, of course, the most recent, the loudest, the most arrogant, and, in my humble and totally impartial opinion, the most irritating new addition to the select and overestimated club of S-Class Mages: the Master's spoilt and god-complex-ridden grandson, the electric, bad-tempered blonde, Laxus Dreyar.
Ah, yes. With this particularly unpleasant specimen of the human species, I, unfortunately and to my eternal regret, had already had the deep, unforgettable, and totally dispensable displeasure of getting to know him a little better than I would have liked.
Everything about him could be summed up in a few, but carefully chosen and highly descriptive, words: he was a tremendous, complete, absolute, and totally insufferable git of an heir, arrogant, spoilt, with a superiority complex the size of a small continent and with a pathological need to prove that he was the strongest, even if it meant electrocuting his own guildmates.
He thought he was the bee's knees, the cat's pyjamas, just because he was the bloody grandson of the Guild Master and because he knew how to use some noisy electric sparks with an irritating glint to intimidate the weaker, the younger, and the more naive. Pathetic. Predictable. And utterly, completely, and absolutely irritating.
Facing him in combat, and having the opportunity to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face with some of my less… pleasant spells, would be, I must admit, immensely and deeply satisfying, in a deliciously sadistic and entirely justifiable way.
In any case, as our dear and dramatic Master had so eloquently informed us, there were still a good few long and likely very seasick-inducing hours of sailing until we finally and mercifully reached that mysterious, sacred island, with all certainty, full of deadly dangers, treacherous traps, and, who knows, some really interesting monsters for me to analyse.
And, as boredom, my old and faithful enemy, was already beginning to settle in my ancient soul like an insidious and incurable plague, and as the prospect of hearing Natsu's laments for a few more hours was something that not even I, with my vast experience in enduring the unendurable, was willing to tolerate, I decided that I needed, urgently, some minimally interesting form of entertainment to pass the time, to distract my mind, and, who knows, with a bit of luck and much skill, to subtly irritate some of my lovely and noisy travelling companions.
With a discreet, almost imperceptible movement, and with a small secret smile on my lips, I took my faithful, rather battered, but still magnificent, lute from my rucksack. An instrument that faithfully accompanied me in many of my solitary contemplations, and whose ancient strings and polished wood had already played the distant echoes of many forgotten songs, of many untold stories, and of many lives lived.
I began to pluck a few random, soft, and melancholic notes, just to test the strings, to feel the resonance of the wood, and to assess the peculiar and rather damp acoustics of the deck of that old and creaking ship.
The soft, clear, and rather melancholic sound of the lute, even in its apparent and deceptive simplicity, automatically, instantly, and, as always happened, to my secret satisfaction, caught the curious attention of Mirajane Strauss.
She, with her almost supernatural radar for any spark of art or distraction that could alleviate the general boredom, came floating in my direction. Her walk was a lesson in grace, her white-as-sea-foam hair fluttering in the breeze, and that smile on her lips was a perfectly calibrated mixture of genuine sweetness and a hint of 'I know exactly what you're thinking, and probably a little more'.
"Well, well, if it isn't my favourite private tutor in one of her rare moments of public inspiration," she said, her voice velvety as silk and with a glint of shrewd amusement in her large blue eyes. She stopped beside me, tilting her head slightly.
"I've missed your melodies, you know. Since those… rather intense learning sessions of ours on the guitar back at Fairy Hills. Especially your almost non-existent patience with my fingering mistakes." A small smile played on her lips.
"What has the dark muse whispered in your ear today, Azra'il? Some ancient lullaby to soothe the greenish sobs of our Natsu? Or perhaps one of those obscure ballads of yours about fallen kings and impossible loves, perfect for contemplating the lonely vastness of the ocean and our insignificance before it?"
Her curiosity was, as always, a sharp weapon, and her ability to turn a simple act of boredom into a social event, irritatingly effective. She remembered the lessons, of course. Mira didn't forget anything involving a shred of beauty or skill – or the chance to draw me a little out of my shell.
I thought for a moment, my fingers still sliding gently, almost distractedly, over the lute's taut strings, feeling the familiar vibration of the ancient wood against my body. I was on a ship.
A wooden ship, with sails billowing in the wind, sailing on the high seas, towards an unknown island, full of mysteries and with the implicit promise of adventure and danger. All of it, somehow strangely and unexpectedly, reminded me with a surprising clarity of one of my many, varied, and frequently chaotic past lives.
A particularly fun, anarchic life, full of poor-quality rum, dubiously sourced roasted meat, off-key shanties in port taverns, and a sense of almost palpable and totally addictive freedom.
A life where I, for a brief and glorious period, was a fearless pirate, sailing the dangerous and unpredictable seas of the infamous Grand Line, aboard a small but surprisingly sturdy ship, with a grinning skull and a straw hat on the main sail, and part of an incredibly eccentric, noisy, loyal-to-the-last-breath crew with an impressive ability to get into the biggest and most absurd scrapes in the universe.
A crew led by a young captain, with a contagious smile that defied logic, a naivety that bordered on stupidity, unbelievable luck, and an insatiable and seemingly infinite hunger for adventure, for meat, and for achieving his impossible dreams. Ah, those glorious times of searching for the One Piece… or, at least, of trying to survive my captain's madness and my shipmates' follies.
[Ah, yes! Your memorable, utterly chaotic, frequently illegal, and surprisingly fun season as the feared, respected, and occasionally a little misunderstood 'Immortal of the 7 Seas' of the infamous and legendary Straw Hat crew, wasn't it, Azra'il? What a truly memorable and danger-filled time!] Eos commented in my mind, with a tone of nostalgia that was almost palpable in her synthetic voice and, of course, as could not be otherwise, with a generous dash of her usual and irritating appreciative sarcasm.
[Between surviving your captain Luffy's harebrained, entirely improvised, and generally suicidal plans, your swordsman companion Zoro's incredibly wrong and geographically impossible directions, and your long-nosed, cowardly sniper Usopp's brilliant but frequently explosive and dangerous inventions, you, somehow inexplicably, still found the time and energy to plunder a few Marine ships out of sheer boredom, to compose surprisingly sweet lullabies for the crew's reindeer doctor, and, of course, to write satirical and hilarious lyrics about the freedom of the seas, the importance of a good rum, and the considerable and aerodynamically questionable size of Usopp's nose.] She, as always, remembered all the embarrassing details.
[And, if my vast and impeccable data memory does not fail me – and it rarely, if ever, does, especially when it comes to your more… eccentric life choices – that was not, in any way, your first nor your only and memorable experience as a maritime outlaw with a peculiar taste for adventure, for cursed treasures, and for a healthy, and totally justifiable, disrespect for corrupt and incompetent authorities, was it, Azra'il?] she continued, clearly amusing herself with my recollections.
[I also remember, with a vivid clarity that still causes me some uncomfortable shivers in my most sensitive circuits, another life of yours, particularly… explosive, full of gunpowder, betrayals, and with a worrying amount of firearms, where you, by a whim of fate or by sheer bad luck, were part of the infamous, feared, respected, and surprisingly well-dressed and stylish crew of the equally infamous, feared, respected, and incredibly red-haired Captain Sarah Fortune, the ruthless, calculating, and drop-dead gorgeous Bounty Hunter of Bilgewater. And, if my in-depth and precise analysis of your emotional data from that particular era, and of your current situation, is even remotely correct, and it usually is, I must add, with a subtle touch of scientific malice and a good dose of satisfaction, that you, my dear and predictable Azra'il, already had a certain, undeniable, recurring, and totally problematic soft spot for strong-willed red-haired women, with excellent aim, a short fuse, and a tendency to drag you into life-or-death situations since that time… isn't that right, Azra'il?]
I couldn't, and honestly, didn't even want to, with all my ancestral dignity and my wounded pride, counter Eos's painfully accurate observation, impeccable memory, and subtle but lethally effective teasing.
Because, much to my eternal, growing, and totally humiliating embarrassment, and to her sadistic, constant, and totally predictable amusement, I really, and unfortunately, did have an affair… shall we say, intense, memorable, full-of-sparks (literal, thanks to her pistols, and metaphorical, thanks to our explosive chemistry), and totally disastrous with the beautiful, dangerous, incredibly stubborn, and absolutely irresistible Sarah Fortune in that troubled life.
Damn red-haired women and their magnetic, irresistible charm that always, invariably, and totally unfairly, seemed to find a sneaky way to breach my ancestral defences, melt my heart of ice, and make me question all my life choices. And damn Eos and her irritating, superhuman, and totally unethical ability to never, ever, let me forget my rare but significant moments of sentimental weakness, my questionable romantic choices throughout the ages, and my slightly worrying relationship patterns.
She, that meddling AI with a data file too large for my own good, as always, managed to tease me, embarrass me, and leave me utterly speechless with an alarming, irritating, and entirely unfair ease.
I took a deep breath in an attempt to ignore Eos and concentrate on the music. Then, after strumming a few more pensive, nostalgic, and perhaps a little melancholic notes on my faithful lute, and solemnly, and with a Herculean effort of will, ignoring Eos's precise psychological analyses and inevitable future provocations, a familiar, cheerful, contagious melody and an even more beloved, significant, and full of an indomitable spirit of adventure and camaraderie lyric came to my weary mind, like an old, forgotten friend who returns at the exact moment you need them most.
A song from an old, skeletal friend, a talented musician, a companion of many, many, and unforgettable dangerous adventures, of many epic battles against powerful enemies, and of even more, many more, bottles of a particularly strong sake, of dubious origin, and with a flavour that defied any description.
It was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, the perfect song for that moment, for that open sea and blue sky setting, and for that growing feeling of freedom, hope, and adventure that, despite all my cynicism and my reluctance, stubbornly began to bubble in my chest.
With a small, genuine, and perhaps even a little sentimental smile on my lips, a smile that, for a brief and fleeting instant, perhaps even reached my blue eyes and made them shine with an ancient light, I began to play more firmly, with more passion, and to sing, my voice, surprisingly clear, in-tune, melodious, and laden with an emotion that I rarely showed for one who had just boredly contemplated the remote possibility of annihilating a small planet or two, echoing softly but forcefully across the old wooden ship's deck, over the rhythmic and constant sound of the waves lazily breaking against the hull and the occasional, pathetic, totally predictable, and ever-weaker groan of Natsu Dragneel.
"Yo, ho, ho, ho, yo, ho, ho, ho"
My voice, surprisingly clear for someone who spent the morning considering genocide under Hargeon's hot sun, began to weave the familiar melody. The lute's plucking, previously hesitant, now gained confidence, the notes leaping across the deck like gulls playing with the wind.
"Sailing this sea, we'll face the waves ahead"
"With Binks's good brew, we mustn't forget!"
The first to react, as was to be expected, were the more… auditorily attuned to anything other than their own grumblings. Happy, who until then had been heroically trying to revive Natsu with a particularly suspicious fish, stopped mid-"Aye!", his small blue ears pricking up in curiosity.
Even Natsu's moaning seemed to lessen in volume, his half-closed eyes turning vaguely in my direction, as if the melody were a more effective seasickness remedy than any of Porlyusica's herbs.
"Far from this quay, you'll see the finest sunset light"
"Painting the sky to the sound of birds in flight"
Erza, who was sitting in her impeccable 'I'm-ready-for-battle-even-if-it's-just-a-boat-trip' posture, subtly relaxed her shoulders.
A small, almost imperceptible, smile began to play at the corners of her lips. Her eyes, normally so focused and intense, gained a softer glint, lost in some distant memory or perhaps just appreciating the change in atmosphere. She lightly drummed her fingers on her armour, in time with the song.
"And with no-destination, we follow the endless blue"
"We'll never be without Binks's good brew, to see us through"
Mirajane, who had approached with the air of one expecting a celestial-calibre performance (and perhaps to subtly remind me of the rest of the guitar lessons I still owed her), was now genuinely captivated.
Her smile, normally so full of a calculated malice or an enigmatic sweetness, gave way to an expression of pure, disarmed admiration, her lips slightly parted.
Her dark blue eyes, which so often shone with demonic power or with the promise of some clever taunt, now reflected the sunlight in a softer, almost dreamy way, as she gently swayed her head to the song's rhythm, her long white hair fluttering like silk in the wind. It was rare to see her so… vulnerable and openly impressed.
"That is all a pirate ought to own"
"Our home is the ship, if the ocean should be wild"
"Hoist up the flag and let the sails be flown"
"Storms will arise and they might fill you with fright"
Master Makarov, from his perch on the upper deck, stopped fanning himself. His small, shrewd eyes, which previously roamed the horizon, were now fixed on me, with an expression that was a mixture of surprise, recognition, and perhaps a hint of longing.
He stroked his white moustache, a slight smile forming. That song, surely, brought back memories for him too, of wilder and less… bureaucratic times.
Even Elfman, our giant with a fear of water, seemed to momentarily forget his dread of the ocean. He stopped staring fearfully at the waves and turned, his eyes normally full of a contained anxiety now displaying a spark of something resembling… joy? Or perhaps it was just relief at having a distraction. He even risked a slight swaying of his shoulders to the rhythm, which, for him, was practically a full dance.
[Musical appreciation levels in the vicinity: Surprisingly high, Azra'il. Your talents as an interdimensional bard, or perhaps just as a teenager with a surprisingly vast repertoire, seem to have universal appeal, even among individuals with such… eclectic, frequently questionable musical taste as this group. And, I must add, with a hint of scientific interest, your Ethernano levels are subtly harmonising with the melody. Fascinating. Almost like a primitive but effective form of musical magic. Or perhaps you're just unconsciously exuding space-idol pheromones,] Eos commented, with her usual cold, precise analysis, but this time with a touch of what could be interpreted as… genuine approval? Or perhaps she was just glad I was no longer grumbling about the heat and my existential misery.
"Follow the waves, let the dancing guide you true"
"If you see no end and think of giving in to rue"
"Stand firm, my friend, a new day will arise anew"
"Yo ho ho ho yo ho ho ho"
When the last notes of the lute dissipated on the salty breeze, carrying with them the echo of my voice, a comfortable, rather surprised, strangely pensive silence hung over the old ship's deck for a few moments. Even the sea, with its capricious waves, seemed to have calmed its impetus a little to listen better to the song. Or perhaps it was just my fertile imagination, my inflated ego.
Natsu, by a miracle defying all laws of physics and medicine, hadn't been sick throughout the entire song and now looked at me with an expression of genuine confusion and… was that admiration? "Oi, Azra'il… that song of yours… it's pretty cool! Lively! Makes me want to… want to punch something really big and then eat lots and lots of meat!" he declared, with his impeccable logic and his usual enthusiasm. A compliment from him, I supposed, was the most I could expect. And frankly, it was better than being attacked by him.
Happy, who had been perched on my head during the entire performance, a surprisingly light, furry weight, flew to hover in front of me, his large green eyes shining. "Aye! That was a really, really fun song, Azra'il-chan! Almost as good and lively as a fresh, juicy fish!" High praise, coming from a cat with such well-defined priorities.
Erza gave a small sigh, as if waking from a pleasant, distant dream. "That was… that was truly beautiful, Azra'il. Touching. Where do you know such a song so… full of adventure from?" There was a softness in her voice, a genuine curiosity, and a glint in her eye that made me feel a strange, uncomfortable warmth in my chest.
"It's just an old song of old friends, of bonds that time and distance cannot break, and of distant, dangerous seas full of promises, my little, curious, and now less seasick redhead," I replied with an enigmatic, perhaps slightly melancholic smile, plucking a few more soft, nostalgic notes on my faithful lute.
"A song about the untamed freedom of the soul, the wild beauty of adventure, and the vital, fundamental, absolutely non-negotiable importance of a good, hearty, and frequent swig of questionably sourced sake to keep the crew's morale high, hope alive, and sanity minimally intact, even when the most terrible and frightening storms arrive without warning and despair threatens to beat mercilessly at the ship's door."
Mirajane drew a little closer, her blue eyes still fixed on me with an intensity that was a little… different from usual. The admiration on her face was palpable, but there was something more there, something softer, more vulnerable. She clapped her hands delicately, a sound almost musical in itself.
"Truly enchanting, Azra'il. And your skill with the lute… It always impresses me." A small, genuine, and perhaps slightly shy smile played on her lips. "You have many hidden, surprising talents, don't you? Who would have thought that behind that carefully constructed facade of a 'cynical, lone wolf who hates everyone' there was the soul of a romantic pirate, a surprisingly talented musician, and perhaps even a beating heart?"
Her teasing, this time, was lighter, more affectionate, almost… friendly. And her eyes shone with an admiration that went beyond simple musical appreciation. There was a poorly disguised crush there, I could feel it. Poor thing. She clearly had terrible taste in romantic interests. Or perhaps I was just irresistible. Probably both.
"Let's just say, my dear, observant, and occasionally a little indiscreet Mira," I replied, with a smile that revealed absolutely nothing of the whirlwind of thoughts and memories passing through my mind, but which perhaps, just perhaps, promised everything, "that some melodies simply have the power to travel through time and the wind, and end up finding those who need to hear them. And I, as an appreciator of good stories and echoing songs, was just lucky enough to learn a few on my… wanderings."
I winked slowly at her, with an air of calculated mystery, just to have the sadistic pleasure of seeing her cheeks, if possible, turn an even more interesting, intense, and revealing shade of pink. The art of elegant evasion was one of my specialities.
Even Master Makarov, from up on his privileged observation post, gave a slow, approving nod, and a small, nostalgic smile formed under his white moustache, before he returned to fanning himself with his colourful fan, probably lost in his own, ancient memories of youth, of sea adventures, and of lively songs sung in smoky taverns.
The atmosphere on the ship, previously tense from the heat and boredom, had subtly changed. The discomfort and irritation seemed to recede a little, like the low tide, replaced by an unexpected lightness, a silent camaraderie, and a renewed anticipation for the adventure that awaited us, all lulled by the cheerful, contagious melody that still seemed to hang in the salty air.
And I, Azra'il Weiss, the ancient entity, the cynical observer, the master of naps, for a brief, fleeting, and totally unexpected moment, felt something that dangerously resembled… contentment. Or perhaps just a slight satisfaction at having managed to impress an albino demoness and a Titania with my musical skills. What an irritating, confusing, and totally inappropriate feeling for someone of my calibre and my vast experience. I really, and with a growing urgency, needed more tea. And considerably fewer human and teenage emotions to analyse. Damn this guild and its ability to make me feel things.