14A/N: Happy resbang! (If you're new, this is the last fic in a series I've been writing for the past 3 years; the first is titled 'Now the light falls' and the second is 'Now the night rises'.) This series has been a long time in the making and it's hard to believe that it's ending. I would like to thank all of the people who supported me through writing it, and for you readers for being so wonderful and patient. I began writing this series over three years ago when I was coming out of a difficult time in my life, and finished this last fic while coping with tough experiences so everything comes full circle in a way. I will post my artists' links to their art on my profile-please love on their hard work, they made absolutely AMAZING art for this work, and I am so grateful. Happy reading!
"We welcome you."
Whispers from nowhere fix themselves in Soul's head as he stares up at the witch sitting in the tree. Her gaze is uncomfortably hypnotic as she drops down in front of Soul; the hazy grey fog enveloping the woods sharpens her eyes' golden glow into embers and casts her face into a warped mask of shadow and light that morphs her features from veiled to grotesque and back again. There is something out of sync about the way her shadow moves, how it pools around his own - unwinding and twisting like an animal that hasn't eaten for a long time.
The whispers come from the shadow's depths, Soul realizes.
He tries to lean away without moving. "I've already been here before, I don't need a welcome."
"Not the manners I would expect from someone raised with so many tutors." The mask on the witch's face falls away and Soul sees her clearly for the first time. There is nothing human about her, in spite of her appearance, and cruelty crawls underneath the pleasant tone of her voice. Even so, monster is not the word that springs to mind, although he almost wishes it was.
"How do you know that?" he asks, shifting his weight as the witch begins to circle him.
"Contrary to popular belief, dead men do tell tales."
"Is that before or after you start eating their souls?" He's not sure whether to keep an eye on the witch or her shadow; logic tells him there's nothing to fear from a shadow, even a sentient one, but that doesn't stop the alarm from spreading through him when he looks back down to find the shadow has stopped following its owner, and is moving in time with him.
"Don't be alarmed, familiars are curious creatures." There is a spurious smile in the witch's voice as Soul veers away from the shadow and nearly collides into her. "Particularly with those with a soul like yours."
Soul nearly stumbles before regaining his balance, attempting to glare at the witch and track the shadow's movements at the same time. "I don't care to know what any of that means." He risks looking away from both of them to watch his path as he backs away from the witch. The Rift is about twenty feet away, but he is not sure he's willing to throw himself into that nightmare again, even if the witch were to try something. "If you're not going to kill me or spit out what you want, I'm leaving."
The witch laughs. "To kill a soul like yours would be stupid, although there may be some who are too hungry to remember that." In the seconds Soul spent glancing at the ground behind him, the witch's shadow has broken apart into misshapen fragments; they wriggle forward, climbing onto her body and wrapping around her arms and legs as she speaks, transforming to resemble snakes as they settle into her skin.
Ignoring the question she hangs in front of him, Soul instead focuses on not paying attention on the way the shadow snakes' eyes follow him as he continues to ease backwards. "Then what do you want?"
"Not what I want, but what you need," the witch corrects, the glint in her eyes resurging. "Even if you won't admit it."
His retreat halts as the perpetually gnawing hunger rises up, though he forces it down before it can show too much on his face. The tips of his fingernails dig lightly into the skin. "And that is?"
The knowing smirk on the witch's face tells him she noticed the change in his demeanor. "A friend."
A snort escapes from Soul and he takes another step back. "I don't think I need a witch's help to manage by myself."
"So that is what you call your aimless wandering?" The witch steps out of the forest's shade, somehow still shrouded in darkness. "It looked more like wallowing to me."
He narrows his eyes; the bite of his nails in his skin intensifies. "You've been following me?"
"As have other creatures." She twists her head, but continues to watch Soul out of the corner of her eye. "They're too wary of the Rift to do more now, but it won't be long till one becomes curious enough to venture out."
Outwardly, he shrugs, but his stomach gives a lurch. "I don't care."
"Are you sure that is true?" The witch gestures to the forest and the Rift with a casual sweep of her hand. "No soul who escaped this place ever comes back to walk to nowhere."
Her words slide a strange and sharp uneasiness into Soul's chest. Involuntarily, he glances past the witch and into the dark of the woods. The thought of dying and killing whatever he had become was the axis the rest of his mind had revolved around ever since he crossed over. Yet, instead of finding a way to die, he'd walked along the Rift, hid when he sensed danger, and endured the hunger.
Introspection is dangerous: something breaks quietly as the realization that maybe he isn't truly looking for death settles in and his hands loosen their grip. He wants to be out of his skin, out of his head, (gone), but when the opportunity to presents itself, he doesn't take it. In the end, he's existing like he's holding his breath, like he's waiting for something.
The thought brushes too close to her; sparks an ache so fierce in his chest that his fingers twitch in recoil, as if he could push the memories away. Gritting his teeth, he looks back at the witch. Any alarm at her appearance has dissipated, and with it, any concern for his well-being.
Or so he tells himself.
"The truth is what happens," he says to the witch. "And I'm here, aren't I?"
She does not answer Soul, nor does the smile on her lips fade-it grows instead, wider and wider, stretching up to her ears and eyes. He watches with a horrified awe, revulsion rising high and rancid on his tongue, but it is the abrupt quiet that makes Soul look away and realize he is no longer outside of the forest.
"So you are." The words seem to eat the silence, dropping like stones from the witch's mouth. There is an endless darkness roiling at the back of her throat that peeks out when she opens her mouth, a mound of distorted shadows writhing in the dim twilight. It's only when Soul catches the muted screams for mercy and peace mixed in with the witch's voice that he understands none of the shadows he saw at the witch's feet belonged to her.
A sound like thunder crashes down and Soul starts as dirt flies up into the air, flinging his hands to his face.
"I will be here when you need me." The witch is close enough for her words to crawl into his ear.
Soul jerks away, but when he whirls around to face the witch, she is gone and he is standing in the same spot where he met her.
For several moments, all Soul can do is stare into the forest and wish he had the courage to go into it.
Instead, he waits until the absence of his heartbeat begins to disturb him, and he continues to walk alongside the Rift.
Sleep calls to him.
It takes several minutes and a wave of lightheadedness sweeping over him until he nearly sidesteps into a tree for Soul to realize that he is tired, physically tired. He catches himself on the tree's trunk on reflex and blinks rapidly in confusion at the odd pressure blooming in his throat before he yawns for the first time since he died.
Leaning against the tree, Soul stills and absorbs the feeling of exhaustion settling in his body; there is an ache in his legs from walking so long that emanates to the rest of his body, and a heaviness behind his eyes tugging down at his eyelids. He feels himself slump down against the tree rather than actively decide to sit down, resting his head on the trunk. The ground is not very comfortable and the tree's bark is hard and rough, nothing like the feather-stuffed pillows he used to sleep on, but even with that, his eyes flutter shut almost instantly.
The memory of where he is forces his eyes open and he looks uneasily over his shoulder and into the forest. Hours have passed since he met the witch and the dull grey-green leaves of the bordering trees have been replaced by vibrant purple, spiky-shaped ones. He has no idea if that means he's out of the witch's territory, or if witches even have territories, but at least it's a marker of how much distance he's put between himself and where the witch appeared.
But that means nothing if the witch had been telling the truth about other creatures following him, a voice from the back of Soul's head whispers. Nor does it change the fact that the witch has certainly been following him. Her twisted smile, breaking out of the confines of her face, materializes in his mind.
Soul flinches, shaking the memory out of his head, but the feeling of helplessness continues to echo in his limbs. Whether the witch actually transported him into the forest or cast an illusion, she possesses powerful magic, and if she had been serious about taking him, she easily could have. He thinks back to the souls he saw in her mouth, feels his stomach twist with disgust as he remembers their screams, and moves his thoughts to the remnants of the souls at the witch's feet. Did they have any consciousness left, any awareness of what was happening to them?
Raising his hand, he gazes through his palm, faintly translucent even here, and digs the heel of his hand against the hunger cutting into his chest. Its existence is a constant reminder of a world out of reach, one that he didn't deserve anyway. His fingers curl as he lowers his hand-would being eaten away until he was only a shadow hurt any less than this?
Before the idea can take hold, he shoves it away and huddles further down against the tree, tilting his head up to gaze at the sky. There are no stars or moon, nothing he can trace endless patterns with so he can lose track of his thoughts, only a stormy grey that darkens to pitch in some places.
Though perhaps that doesn't matter, he thinks as the edges of sleep blur his vision. He should find a safer place to rest, but it feels like the ninety years Soul went without sleeping have hit all at once and, after spending months resisting his mind, he has very little in the way of self-control.
Closing his eyes, he crushes his thoughts and lets sleep draw him into darkness.
A light prods Soul's eyes open and he grumbles underneath his breath, rolling over and pulling his arm over his face. The light persists, however, following him to shine in his face again. Irritably, he swats at it and misses. He smacks the air another time before giving up, sighing and hauling himself into a sitting position to find the forest has disappeared - that everything else has also vanished, in fact - and he's floating in mid-air.
Panic takes over and he flails wildly before realizing nothing is attacking him sinks in and there is a vague, but recognizable unreality radiating from him and into the world. Gazing out into the darkness yawning open in front of him, he stretches out a hand and feels the haziness travel down his arm and ripple out.
A dream, he realizes as he drifts upward. Or a good illusion of one, though he doesn't feel the same terror that he did when the witch cast her magic. He doesn't have time to ponder the possibility-a low buzzing sounds above his head and he peers up, spying a sphere of light bobbing up and down.
The light stills, like it was waiting for him to notice it. Dropping to eye level, it flits about his head, no bigger than a thimble, though its glow makes it appear bigger from a distance. It trails away from him and then pauses, hovering expectantly.
Soul starts to move forward, but then he hesitates. Even though he is nearly certain he is dreaming, he is still wary to follow the tiny sphere. When he was alive, dreams contorted and transformed into nightmares in the blink of an eye; in death, he is sure it would take even less.
Something keeps him from turning away, however. The light gives off a soothing warmth, one he hasn't felt for a long time. He stares at the light for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling as he thinks.
After another beat, he follows after the light.
The darkness of his dream is weighty and liquidlike, making it hard to move except in an awkward, sluggish movement that mimics digging through mud. Fortunately, the sphere of light is patient, never moving too far ahead and waiting when he falls behind.
It's impossible to see what direction the light is leading Soul; for all he can tell, it could be looping him around in an endless circle. Eventually, the darkness around him seems to lessen, shifting from completely opaque to a murkiness he can almost see through if he squints hard enough. The outline of something impossibly tall slowly materializes in his vision; it shines dully, although it's not until he's close enough to touch it that he can make out the glassy surface.
Pausing in front of the mirror, Soul reaches out to brush his fingertips against the cold glass. It's gossamer thin and seems to bend under his touch. As he spreads his fingers across the glass, a strange sensation starts to thrum beneath his hand- like a cacophony of drums thudding against his skin, and he pulls away, wiggling his fingers before touching the mirror again. There is no rhythm nor flow he can make out, though now that the surprise has faded, the sound feels less like drums and more like the rush of a thousand heartbeats.
Soul keeps his hand against the glass for another moment before dropping his arm. The light disappeared in the time he spent examining the mirror, but the darkness has lightened into a dim gloaming-translucent enough to see without the light, although his reflection remains a shadow in the glass. Looking up and down into the darkness, he places his palm back against the mirror and listens again to the thrumming beneath his fingers-all in all, this dream is surreal and odd, but he certainly has dreamed odder and worse things.
Soul begins to turn away, giving the mirror a final glance, before freezing in place.
He can see his reflection clearly now. (Except the mirror is not a mirror and the person looking at him is not his reflection.)
Maka has her hand raised to the same spot that Soul does, and if it wasn't for whatever separates them, they would be touching. Her lips are parted and her eyes are wide, fingers slowly curling as if to wrap around his.
Her voice is tentative, hardly above a whisper. "Soul?"
He can't move, eyes tracing and retracing her face. His words are stuck somewhere in his throat.
"Soul." Maka sounds more sure now. "Where are you?" Her expression is mixed, eagerness and something else he can't read. She presses forward, so close her warmth bleeds over to him. "Why did you go?"
The questions break his trance, and for one moment, Soul allows himself to indulge in the feeling of Maka being so close. He pulls his hand back. "I'm sorry."
Biting down on his tongue, Soul wrenches himself awake.
It doesn't take Soul long to find the witch.
She's lounging in one of the trees near the forest boundary, hands behind her head, and a smile on her face that says she was waiting for him. She examines her nails when he stops in front of her. "I told you that you may find there are those in the forest who are not so kind to you."
"I still don't care about that," he says.
The witch raises an eyebrow. "Then what do you care about?"
Soul rubs his thumb across his palm and feels the familiar warmth pulse against his skin. "I don't want to dream," he says. "If I go with you, can you help me with that?"
A gleam enters her eyes. "You are talking with a witch, aren't you?" She pushes off from the tree, landing silently, and outstretches her hand. "I will need your word."
Briefly, Soul hesitates. The shadow snake on the witch's arm has crawled forward, resting its head on top of her hand, eyes fixed forward on his face.
It feels like a warning.
Soul takes the witch's hand and feels Maka's warmth ebb away. "You have my word."
