The only thing I truly felt, beneath the layers of boredom and irritation, was the pressure building inside me. The cold, silent fury wanted an outlet. The air around me, responding to my internal state, grew heavy, dense. The stone floor beneath my feet began to protest, small fissures spreading from my boots like spiderwebs woven by rage.
"Azra'il!"
Erza's firm hand on my shoulder was the first anchor to pierce the red haze of hatred that was beginning to cloud my vision. Her touch was familiar, strong. An island of sanity in my ocean of fury. But, honestly, it wasn't enough to stop me. It was the sound, the sudden and unexpected sound of an angry crowd approaching, that finally made me hesitate.
Coming from the direction of our now-ruined guild, a wave of Fairy Tail mages flooded the square. They had been alerted to the commotion, probably by the sound of shattering glass and the sudden drop in temperature my anger had caused. At their head, moving with a grim urgency that contrasted with his small figure, was Master Makarov.
He stopped, and the entire guild stopped behind him as a single entity, an army of misfits united by pain. His gaze quickly passed over the crowd of frightened civilians, over my oppressive aura of power that still made the air tremble, and then it landed on the tree. On the scene. I saw the raw, visceral pain take over his aged face; it wasn't the pain of a guild master, it was the pain of a father seeing his children tortured and displayed like trophies. And then, in the blink of an eye, that pain transformed into something else. Something that, in that moment, I understood perfectly.
Rage. Pure and crystalline rage.
He turned to the gathered guild, his small eyes now burning with an intensity that could melt steel. And his voice, when he spoke, was not that of the wise Master, of the playful old man. It was the voice of a war god awakened from his slumber.
"We. Go. To. War."
The response was a roar. A primal, guttural sound that exploded from the throat of every Fairy Tail member, a mixture of pain, vengeance, and an unshakeable loyalty. The hesitation, the prudence, the previous day's order to "not retaliate"... it was all gone, swept away by the tide of raw emotion. Natsu was at the forefront, flames dancing violently on his fists. Erza, beside me, was already requipping her sword, her face a mask of deadly determination. In an instant, the guild of misfits had become an army, united, focused, and ready to march to the gates of hell. And I, without saying a single word, positioned myself on the front line, my silence, my stillness, somehow heavier and more lethal than any war cry.
We began to move as a single, furious entity, a tide of rage ready to sweep away whatever lay ahead. Magnolia would be just the starting point. Oak Town was the destination. But before we could leave the square and begin our glorious march of vengeance, Makarov's voice sounded again, this time calm, but with an unmistakable weight that stopped us in our tracks.
"Azra'il."
I stopped. I turned slowly to face him, the ice I had created still crackling under my feet. The rest of the guild, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, also stopped, confusion beginning to replace their fury.
"All of you, go," Makarov said to the others, without taking his small, intense eyes off me. "Regroup and prepare at the east entrance of the city. I will catch up with you shortly."
There was a moment of collective hesitation, a murmur of protest, but the Master's order was absolute. Reluctantly, the army disbanded, with the members filing past us in a stream of armour and magic, casting glances that were a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and a healthy fear. Only one figure remained. Erza. She hesitated, her gaze flickering worriedly between me, standing like a statue of ice and rage, and the Master, who seemed to have aged ten years in ten seconds. In the end, loyalty (or stubbornness) won out, and she took a step to the side, remaining silent, a silent guardian and witness to what was to come, moving just a little away to leave us to talk alone.
Makarov approached with his small steps that echoed on the cracked ground. He stopped a few metres from me, looking up at me, his diminutive figure against mine. And, to my surprise, there was not a shred of fear in his eyes. Only a steely resolve.
"Azra'il. You are not going."
The fury that I had contained, that was simmering under my skin like a volcano about to erupt, finally found a target. "Are you, by any chance, giving me an order, old man?" my voice came out colder than the very ice I had created, each word a pointed shard.
"Yes. I am," he replied, his expression as serious as a stone, without flinching. "I saw what you almost did in this square. I felt the nature of your power. And, frankly, child, it frightens me deeply."
"They hurt your children. They dared to touch my comrades," I hissed, taking an instinctive step forward, the pressure around me beginning to build again, the air growing thin. "And you, in your infinite wisdom, want me to sit here like an obedient, domesticated guard dog while you all go to the 'party'?"
"I want you to protect what's left and what's most important," he said, his voice unshakeable, not retreating a single centimetre before my oppressive aura. "The weaker guild members who will not be going to battle, their families in Magnolia, all those who cannot fight… they are the easiest targets now that we have declared war. I need my strongest, and most frightening, weapon here, as the last and impassable line of defence." He paused, and his gaze, somehow, seemed to see right through me. "But there is more to it than that..."
He looked at me, his wrinkled eyes filled with an ancient wisdom and a deep sadness. "…I am afraid of what you, in this state, would do if you went there. I need Phantom Lord to be defeated, not annihilated from the face of the earth. I need a city, Oak Town, full of innocent people to be left standing, not a smoking, radioactive crater. And, with that cold anger in your eyes, that thirst for extermination that I have seen before in men who became monsters… I do not trust that you will leave one stone upon another. I do not trust that you will know when to stop."
"Your trust in me is utterly and completely irrelevant at this moment," I retorted, fury and wounded pride blinding me to any shred of reason. "They drew first blood in a cowardly manner. I merely intend to finish the bleeding, efficiently and permanently. Now, get out of my way, Master, before I forget the respect I owe you."
I was about to push past him, to ignore his direct order, to dive headfirst into the bloodbath my soul craved. My mind was fixed on a single, glorious objective: vengeance. His logic, his fears, his prudence… all of it was weak and insignificant before my hatred.
It was then that Eos's voice, ever so inopportune and terribly precise, sounded, not as a system alert, but as the cold, cutting, and accusatory echo of my own forgotten conscience.
[The uncontrollable thirst for extermination in response to a personal loss is a recurring and previously catalogued behavioural pattern in your vast existential archives. Would you like me to access the most pertinent reference file for contextual analysis and possible prevention of mass genocide? Reference protocol: Wallachia. Reference life: number 437. Primary subject: Dracula Vlad Tepes.]
The mere mention of that name, of that life, of that monumental mistake, made me stop in my tracks as if struck by lightning. My hand, which was already closing into a fist, power beginning to crackle at my fingertips, relaxed for an involuntary instant.
(No. Do not access anything,) I replied mentally, a cold irritation and a growing panic leaking into my thoughts. I did not need to be reminded of that failure.
[Forced access authorised by the system due to high contextual relevance: 99.8%. Analysis is necessary to prevent the imminent repetition of destructive patterns,] Eos declared, with the merciless coldness of a machine, completely ignoring my command and my privacy. [Recalling primary data. Initial cause: The public and unjust execution of your beloved wife, Lisa Tepes, by the local populace on unfounded accusations of witchcraft and heresy. Primary reaction: Blind fury, overwhelming grief, and an insatiable desire for revenge. Subsequent action: Summoning of an army of creatures of the night and demons from hell. Final result: Indiscriminate and total annihilation of multiple cities, thousands of innocent civilian deaths, a large-scale genocide that lasted for months and nearly plunged an entire continent into eternal darkness.]
Images, smells, and sounds from that era of darkness and madness flooded my mind without the slightest permission. Fire consuming cities. Screams of terror and agony. The nauseating smell of blood, sulphur, and burnt flesh impregnating the air for miles and miles.
[Crucial data point for the analysis of your current behaviour,] Eos continued, her voice logical, precise, and utterly devoid of any emotion, which made it all the more cutting and painful. [Direct confrontation with your son, Adrian Tepes, also known as Alucard, who, with a broken heart, actively opposed your genocide and your madness. Recorded attempt of filicide on your part. Total and absolute inability, due to fury and grief, to distinguish between ally and enemy, between family and obstacle. The pattern, Azra'il, is repeating with an alarming and statistically worrying precision. You are, once again, demonstrating a wholly disproportionate reaction of vengeance that threatens to harm, alienate, or even destroy those whom you have, theoretically and in your moments of lucidity, sworn to protect.]
My breath caught in my throat. I looked at the small, frail Makarov before me. A stubborn and brave old man, willing to stand in my way, to face my fury, just to protect his family… all of them. I looked in the direction Erza and the others had gone. And the image, terrible, sharp, and accusatory, superimposed itself in my mind: the face of my son, my dear and valiant Adrian, Alucard, standing against me, his heart broken into a thousand pieces by the monstrosity that I, his father, had become.
The thought, the memory, was a poison. A cruel antidote to my fury. The anger within me, which before had seemed so clear, so pure, so just in its intensity, now became murky, distorted, ugly, terrifying. Master Makarov, of course, knew absolutely nothing of this, had no idea of the ghosts, the demons, and the regrets that haunted me, but he, with his age-old wisdom and his sharp perception, saw the sudden change in my eyes. He saw the blind, relentless fury give way to something far darker, deeper, more conflicted. Something that dangerously resembled… fear. And pain.
I felt a soft but firm touch on my arm. Erza. She had approached again. "Azra'il? What's wrong?" Her voice was full of a concern that I, definitely, did not deserve at that moment.
Her touch, her voice. The genuine concern in her eyes. It was the anchor that pulled me back from the darkness, from the edge of the abyss.
I closed my eyes tightly, forcing the overwhelming energy to recede within me, sealing that terrible power back in its mental prisons with an effort of will that left me trembling and in a cold sweat. The black ice on the ground retreated, melting into a silent nothingness. The air, slowly, began to warm again. All thanks to a ghost from a past life and the firm hand of a very, very present friend.
"So be it," I finally growled, the words coming out slurred, hoarse, with the bitter, unmistakable taste of defeat in my mouth. A defeat not against an enemy, but against myself. The worst kind of all. "I… I will stay. I will be your… 'Guard Dog'." I opened my eyes, and my gaze, now cold, controlled, but laden with a promise of contained violence, fixed on Makarov. "But let it be known, Master. If a single, measly member of Phantom Lord manages to set their filthy feet in this city… if one more single hair on one of your precious children is touched… I will not, in any way, be responsible for my actions."
Makarov nodded slowly, his face a complex mixture of deep relief, genuine sadness, and perhaps a healthy dose of fear. "I know, my child. I know."
He turned, at last, and left with tired steps to join his guild, to lead his war. Erza squeezed my arm gently, a final gesture of silent support, before turning as well. "Stay safe, Azra'il," she said, before running to take her place at the vanguard of the Fairy Tail army, beside her friends.
I stood there, alone in the now silent and cracked square, watching them disappear over the horizon on a march of vengeance. I was a chained predator. A contained storm. And the chain, the heavy, cold chain that bound me, was not the Master's order. It was fear. The terrifying and paralysing fear of one day becoming that monster again.
---(*)---
Hours passed. Hours that dragged with the torturous slowness of a glacier. The noisy and furious army of Fairy Tail had finally marched, leaving behind a silent, apprehensive city and a terribly irritated ancestral mage, who had been relegated to the thankless and wholly unsuitable role of a glorified sentry.
The setting for my noble and important vigil was, as it had to be, Magnolia Central Hospital. A place I detested with every fibre of my being. The strong, aggressive smell of antiseptic and cleaning products was a chemical, futile, and almost insulting attempt to mask the underlying, heavy, and omnipresent odour of sickness, pain, and human suffering. The hospital walls, painted in a sterile and depressing shade of white, felt oppressive, claustrophobic. The almost total silence of the place, so different from the comforting chaos of the guild, was broken only by the monotonous and irritating beep of some magical vital monitoring device and the occasional, muffled sound of a stifled cry coming from some other room. It was a cold, impersonal temple, dedicated entirely to the celebration of frailty, decay, and the inevitability of mortal death. And I, a creature of power and eternity, felt deeply and fundamentally uncomfortable within its walls. It was a constant reminder of everything I despised and, secretly, perhaps even yearned for.
I was sitting on a hard, uncomfortable wooden chair, designed by some sadist, in a dark corner of the room, my arms crossed and with the most bored and grumpy expression I could muster. Before me, in three impeccably white and tidy beds, lay, like broken dolls, the unconscious bodies of Levy, Jet, and Droy.
Covered in bandages, with splints immobilising their fractured limbs and with thin intravenous needles stuck in their pale arms, slowly dripping some healing potion. The sight of them, so quiet, so pale, so terribly vulnerable, still made the cold fury stir lazily in my chest, like a sleeping beast. But the fury, without an immediate and palpable target to focus on, had gradually transformed into a deep, irritated boredom, and a tense, tiring vigilance. I hated waiting. And I hated, with all my might, this corrosive feeling of helplessness.
And, to exponentially worsen my already miserable and tedious situation, I was not alone.
"I… I promised her…"
Lucy Heartfilia's voice was a choked, broken, trembling whisper that cut through the sterile and oppressive silence of the room like a shard of glass. She was sitting in a chair beside Levy's bed, holding her friend's small, pale hand with an almost reverent gentleness, as if she feared a stronger touch might break her for good. Her shoulders were slumped in a posture of defeat, and she hadn't stopped crying silently since we had arrived at the hospital, hours ago. Her silent tears were almost as irritating as Natsu's screams.
"I… I told her she would be the first to read my novel when I finally finished writing it," she continued, her voice choked, more to herself than to me, in a monologue of pure and crystalline self-pity. "She… she's one of my best friends here at the guild… one of the few who is… who is 'normal'. We like the same things, books, stories, teas… and… and…" A loud, painful sob escaped her lips, and she squeezed Levy's hand a little tighter, as if trying to transmit her own scarce life force to her unconscious friend. "Look at her now… all hurt… all broken… because of a stupid, meaningless fight between two guilds."
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing and not on committing an act of violence against my weepy teammate. The sound of her crying, low and constant, was like the irritating scratching of nails on a cosmic blackboard. Irritating. Unnecessary. Utterly counter-productive. But, beneath the thick and comforting layer of my usual irritation, there was something else. A strange, uncomfortable, and entirely unwanted pang of something I resolutely refused to name. Empathy, perhaps? What a troublesome, useless, and terribly inconvenient feeling.
"Stop with your cheap, fifth-rate romance heroine melodrama, blondie," I said finally, my voice coming out rougher, colder than I perhaps intended, just to break the cycle of crying and self-pity. She gave a little jump in her chair, surprised that I had, at last, deigned to speak. "You're sitting there, whining and talking as if she's already dead, buried, and with a gravestone with a tacky epitaph. Wake up to reality. She's a Fairy Tail mage. And the mages of this guild, to my astonishment and constant irritation, are considerably more resilient than radioactive cockroaches. She'll wake up soon, probably complaining of a monumental headache and, to your misfortune and my boredom, immediately asking to read that mediocre manuscript of yours, which is probably full of clichés."
Lucy slowly raised her head, her large brown eyes, now red, swollen, and filled with tears, fixed on me. She stared at me, surprised by my response, which, though rude, ill-mannered, and utterly devoid of any social tact, was not, in fact, cruel. There was, hidden beneath the layers of sarcasm and impatience, an almost imperceptible hint of… encouragement? Or perhaps it was just my clumsy attempt to make her shut up.
"You… you really think so, Azra'il?" she sniffed, wiping a stubborn tear with the back of her hand. "I… thank you. And… and thank you for staying here. I was a little surprised, to be honest, that you agreed to keep me company here in this hospital."
I looked away, towards the window where the light rain was beginning to fall, uncomfortable with the gratitude in her voice and in her eyes. It was infinitely easier and much simpler to deal with their fear or their anger. With gratitude… I never quite knew what to do. "Don't jump to sentimental conclusions, blondie. And please, don't start crying again. I am not, and never will be, the completely heartless monster you, in your limited mind, probably think I am. At least, not most of the time. Only on Tuesdays." I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling the hard, unyielding wood protest with an irritating creak.
"And besides, and this is the main point, the Master, before he left to play at war, gave me a direct and very clear order: to protect the most 'vulnerable' members of the guild. And, at the present moment and to my misfortune, these three here," I gestured with my head towards the three beds, "and you, who seem to be one step away from drowning in your own abundant tears and causing a flood in this room, are the epicentre of vulnerability in this city. So, to be clear, I am merely, and solely, following orders. Nothing more. Nothing personal."
My cold, impeccable logic, though entirely correct, seemed to hit a raw nerve. The expression of sadness on Lucy's face subtly changed to one of frustration. Excellent. Anger was much easier to deal with than tears.
"So… so is that the only reason you stayed here? Because I'm 'weak' and 'vulnerable'?" The insecurity in her voice was palpable and a little pathetic. "I hate this. I hate feeling like this. I hate being left behind here, feeling utterly useless, weak, while everyone else, Natsu, Gray, Erza, are out there, risking their lives, fighting bravely for the honour and vengeance of our guild…"
I watched her for a moment, in silence. Her frustration, her desperate desire to be strong, to be useful, to make a difference… it was something that, very reluctantly, and with a certain and growing admiration, I could understand and even respect. I too, more than anyone, hated feeling helpless, hated being left behind. And, frankly, her anger was considerably less irritating and much more productive than her incessant crying.
I let out a long, resigned sigh, this time of pure and absolute exhaustion and perhaps, a dash of compassion. "You're not useless, Lucy. You're just a little too noisy, excessively anxious for my taste, and with a worrying tendency for melodrama. And, at the moment, your anxiety is filling this already depressing room with an even more depressing energy, which, I'm sure, is doing no good whatsoever for the recovery of our injured friends. Or, more importantly, for my already battered and very limited patience."
With bones cracking in an audible protest against the infernal chair the hospital provided, I stood up. "Listen closely, blondie, because I'm not going to repeat myself. There's a decent, or at least tolerable, bakery about two blocks from here. Erza, in one of her fits of 'forced and mandatory socialisation', has already dragged me there once. They have, if I'm not mistaken, some sweet cinnamon buns that she, with her surprisingly simple taste, seems to like. And which, I must admit, are… tolerable, for lack of a better adjective."
I crossed my arms, staring at her with a seriousness that brooked no refusal. "So, you're going to go there. Now. You're going to breathe some air that doesn't smell of disinfectant, sadness, and failure. You're going to buy some of those much-loved sweet cinnamon buns for when these three hungry ones here finally wake up. And," I paused, my tone becoming serious and perhaps a little threatening, "you're going to bring me a cup of tea. Strong. Black. Bitter. No sugar. No milk. No lemon. And, for the love of all the gods and demons I've ever known, if you, by some chance or through an act of sheer stupidity, bring me one of your pathetic teabags, I will, with the greatest of pleasure, have you admitted to this very hospital, with a diagnosis of 'suicidal tendencies and a dreadful taste in hot beverages'."
I practically pushed her out of the chair with the force of my gaze. "I'll stand guard. I guarantee it. No one, absolutely no one, will enter this room without my permission. No one will harm your friends while I am here. I promise. Now, go. And don't come back empty-handed."
The idea of having a task, of being useful, even if it was something as mundane and trivial as going to a bakery, and the simple and welcome chance to escape the oppressive and suffocating atmosphere of the room, seemed to genuinely cheer her up. A little of her usual energy and light finally returned to her tired face.
"Right! Yes! A bakery! I can certainly do that!" she said, getting up with a renewed determination. "Sweet buns for Levy and the others, and a strong, black, bitter, and terribly snobbish tea for you. Understood! Mission accepted!"
She gave me a small, hesitant, but genuine smile, a smile that, for one brief, fleeting instant, lit up her tired and drawn face. Then, with one last worried look at Levy, she left the room, her steps now lighter, firmer, and with a purpose that wasn't there when she entered.
The silence that settled in the room after her departure was… welcome. Deep, uninterrupted, and gloriously quiet. Finally. I stood alone in the middle of the room, with the three unconscious mages, the soft, rhythmic sound of their heartbeats on the magical monitors, and the light rain that had now begun to drum softly and melancholically against the windowpane.
With a sigh of relief, I sat down again in that infernal chair, but this time, the discomfort seemed a little less unbearable. I closed my eyes and allowed myself, for the first and only time in many long hours, to relax my constant vigilance, my predator's stance, a little. I could still feel, with my heightened senses, the presence of every living soul in the hospital, the distant bustle of the city outside, the rain falling incessantly on the roof. But, for the most part, everything was normal. Everything was, at last, quiet.
(Finally, a little peace and quiet. A little time to myself,) I thought, letting my mind finally wander freely, without interruptions.
[Real-time situation analysis: Unit Lucy Heartfilia has just left the safe and previously designated perimeter of your protection,] Eos's voice, ever so helpful and with impeccable timing to spoil my rare moments of tranquillity, sounded in my mind. [The probability of risk to her physical integrity has, consequently, increased by 37%.]
(Relax, Eos. Stop being so paranoid,) I replied mentally, with a sigh of pure and utter impatience. (It's just a simple and harmless bakery, a mere two blocks away, in the heart of the relatively safe city of Magnolia. What, in the name of all the cinnamon buns in the universe, could possibly happen to her that's so bad and so dangerous? It's just a five-minute walk.)
And with that dangerously complacent, wholly atypical thought, which I would certainly regret bitterly later, I allowed myself, at last, to sink into the blessed silence and my own arrogant certainty, not knowing, in my infinite and supposed wisdom, that I had just sent the poor, innocent, and unlucky blondie straight into the lion's den. Or, in this specific and much wetter case, into the treacherous and dangerous bubbles of a certain and problematic woman of the rain.