Chapter Text
The idea of soulmates was a dangerous one, a concept that the heavens themselves disapproved of. Soulmates were uncertain and unpredictable, representing an unstable thread in the fabric of fate. To bind two mortals so completely was to invite disaster, as mortals were fragile beings, driven by greed, anger, and desire. At least, that was his perspective.
For eons, Death has walked the boundary between worlds, guiding the lost and the fallen from the mortal realm into the silence beyond. He has seen it all: criminals, liars, betrayers, murderers, and thieves. He has encountered abusers and the broken lives they left behind. Soul after soul has passed through his hands, each carrying its stains, regrets, and screams.
And in every one of them, he found the same trait: fear.
They feared him in life, hiding from the shadow that loomed at the end of their days. They feared him in death as well, when his towering figure arrived to claim what was owed. Regardless of who they were, they all trembled before him in their final moments.
Death was never meant to be feared. He did not carry malice or cruelty in his heart; he was not a tyrant. Instead, Death represented peace, a quiet release from the burdens of existence. He lifted weary souls from their suffering, holding them gently as
he guided them to a place where pain, sorrow, and fear could no longer reach them.
He understood that it was wrong to judge others. He made a conscious effort not to do so. However, in the course of his duties, he witnessed the worst of humanity: cruelty and greed. It was a disturbing sight, but it was part of his job.
Life, in contrast, always saw the good in those she cared for. Her days were dedicated to nurturing, weaving joy and potential, and touching each soul with hope and creativity. She could never fully grasp the weight of his burden or the quiet despair that sometimes accompanied the task of carrying away lives filled with too much pain.
Death bore it silently. He shielded his partner from the darkness he had witnessed, protecting her heart from the bitterness and horror he had experienced for eons. Yet, despite all the suffering he encountered, there was a solemn grace to it, a silent balance between the beauty that Life created and the finality he delivered.
Life cherished the concept of soulmates. In the quiet hours, she dreamed of their beauty, two souls intertwined, destined to find each other across time and distance. However, she had never been given the chance to create a pair of her own. Death had always forbidden it. To him, soulmates were unpredictable, threads that could unravel the very fabric of fate.
She had been quietly at work, creating and shaping: turning ashes into skin, stars into bright eyes, and stone into bones. Her sole purpose in making him was to ensure that he would be soul-bonded to another. However, Death observed everything, and she knew she couldn’t keep this secret for long.
Her creation was handsome, with deep red eyes, white teeth with sharp canines, strong arms and legs, and long black hair as dark as obsidian. Carefully, she reached into his chest and pulled out a piece of him, a soft glow that pulsed like a heartbeat, cradled gently in her hands. As he lay beside her, peacefully asleep like a doll, she began her work, creating his other half.
“Hmmmm… what to do with you?” Life mused, tapping her chin playfully. “Maybe blue eyes? No, no… let’s make them brown. Deep and dark, like rich soil. Eyes that see people for who they are, even beneath the surface. Yes. That’s better.”
“Now, how about hair next… golden, maybe auburn?” Life tapped her chin thoughtfully, her eyes alight with mischief. “I want you to be unique. Maybe… blue?” She gasped softly, a smile curving her lips. “Oh yes, that’s perfect.”
Threads of shimmering sapphire light unfurled beneath her fingertips, weaving themselves strand by strand until waves of blue tumbled down to the girl’s shoulders. Life leaned closer, adding shape and texture, teasing curls into the glow. The hair fell wild and untamed, yet beautiful like the ocean caught in motion.
“There,” she whispered, brushing her hand through the threads of light. “Wild, but always lovely.”
Life’s joy was uncontainable. To her, this was not a gamble, not a danger, but a miracle. She cradled the soul in her hands, luminous and trembling with potential, and felt as though she had been entrusted with a secret too precious for words.
At long last, she would see what it meant for two lives to be joined not by fear, not by suffering, but by fate. And she was ecstatic.
“You shouldn’t,” came a voice from the shadows.
Life didn’t stop her work. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Death had always known where to find her, even when she wished to hide.
Her lips pressed together, but her hands continued to weave. “I have to. You see them, don’t you? All these souls wandering lost, never finding what they’re meant for? What’s the point of existence if there’s no anchor, no one to walk beside?”
“Anchor…” Death echoed softly. He stepped closer, the weight of him heavy in the realm of souls. His gaze lingered on the form taking shape beneath her hands, a soul wrought from starlight. “No good has ever come from forcing fate’s hand. Bonded pairs… they burn too bright. When they fall, they drag the world down with them.”
“I know,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “But this one,” She gestured to the quiet creation that lay beside her, not yet fully born. “He will need someone. He’ll be born heavy, carrying pain before he even takes his first breath. If I leave him as he is, he will destroy himself. But if I give him a bond, if I tie him to another who can soften him, he might just survive.”
Death’s fist tightened at his side. He wanted to tell her no, wanted to take the fragile weaving from her hands and scatter it before it solidified into a life neither of them could undo. But when he looked at her face, the fierce hope in her eyes, the tenderness etched into her movements, he could not.
He loved her too much to take this from her.
So he swallowed the warning that clawed at his throat. He turned his face away, his silence becoming consent.
Life, radiant in her determination, smiled faintly as the soul solidified in her grasp. “Then it is done,” she whispered, and the chamber trembled with the birth of something new, something forbidden.
In the shadows, Death closed his eyes. He already knew how this would end.
“Come, my love, look at my creation and tell me it is wrong,” she whispered, standing and turning to reach for him. Her hand was soft, pleading, and though his every instinct screamed caution, he followed her.
Her workbench glowed faintly with woven strands of essence, the fabric of life itself humming in quiet song. Upon it lay two figures, fragile and unfinished, no breath yet in their lungs, no hearts that beat.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” She asked, her voice trembling with pride.
Death’s gaze lingered, heavy, unmoving. He hated to admit it, but a part of him was struck with awe. They were… different. There was a balance between them, a harmony stitched together from opposing threads. He could feel the weight of it already, like thunder on the horizon.
Death himself was hopeless when it came to her. To her brilliance. To the fire in her voice. To the gentleness in her hands. He only ever wanted her happiness. And maybe, deep down, it was selfish, because her joy was the only thing that made his endless burden lighter.
Life lifted the two fragile souls into her palms. Her eyes softened, and she bent over them with a breath as gentle as a spring wind.
The threads stirred. A flicker. A spark.
The newborn souls inhaled, their first gasps sharp and unsteady, like a candle trying to catch flame. Slowly, their eyes opened, one pair dark as iron and storm, the other bright as dawn.
“They are soulbonded,” Life whispered, almost reverent, her eyes glistening with both pride and fear. “Two halves of one whole. They will need each other.”
Death’s jaw clenched, his fist curling as the weight of inevitability settled in his chest. He had seen this before, seen what became of bonds so tightly wound that they strangled everything around them.
But when Life turned to him, her smile radiant and fragile, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. So he nodded once, heavy, resigned.
“They are beautiful,” he admitted quietly, though his voice was shadowed.
And in the silence that followed, the two souls blinked up at them, unaware of the gravity of their creators.
Both lacked personality. For humans, when they were first formed, they were not whole beings but fragments, young souls set upon stepping stones. Traits and temperaments could shift, bend, or even break, molded by the choices they made and the lives they lived.
If a man was born from love, it did not guarantee he would carry it faithfully through his days. The mortal realm was relentless; it twisted and battered, stripped away innocence, and replaced it with scars. Death had seen it countless times before. Souls created from gentleness who returned to him with blood on their hands. Or those born with laughter in their lungs who wept bitterly in his arms at their end.
That was the way of things. The mortal realm changed people.
When Life brought them forth, the realm shimmered. Two newborn souls stood unsteady upon the glowing surface of creation, their forms unrefined and raw.
The woman's light glowed bright, a gentle, shimmering thing. She looked as though she were sculpted from glass, transparent and radiant all at once. Her breath was the sound of wind chimes, curious and uncertain. Every movement cast prisms of color across the space around her.
Then the man, who stood beside her, built of dark heat and density, his soul forged of molten metal and tempered stone. His edges were jagged where hers were smooth, his glow deeper, heavier, like magma pulsing through rock. He blinked, sparks spilling from his chest as he took another breath in the realm of souls.
When their eyes met, they moved toward one another, two halves drawn by an invisible thread neither yet understood. She reached out first, small fingers trembling with wonder. He hesitated, the air between them rippling where light met heat.
The instant his fingertips brushed her palm, her entire body flared, fragile light flickering dangerously. Tiny fractures of color spread across her form like cracks in glass.
“Stop!” Death’s voice thundered through the realm as he appeared between them, shadows trailing behind his steps. He caught the man’s arm and yanked him back, fear slicing through his usual calm. “You’ll shatter her, Gajeel!”
The girl gasped, startled by the sudden pull, clutching her fractured hand to her chest. Yet even as the cracks glowed faintly, she smiled, transfixed by the rainbow shimmer radiating from her translucent form.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered softly, looking past Death toward Gajeel, whose molten form trembled.
Life appeared beside them, warm and radiant, her presence soothing as sunlight after a storm. “He won’t hurt her,” she said gently.
Death’s gaze flicked between them, the fragile girl of glass and light, and the molten boy of earth and flame. His heart sank as he watched them draw close again, unable to resist the pull between them. Even then, he could see it: the danger, the fine line between love and destruction.
Still, when the being of light reached out again, Gajeel followed her lead. This time, his movements were careful, slow, reverent, a creature of molten rock learning to touch something made of sunlight.
For one brief, perfect moment, they glowed together, their lights twining and dancing across the void. They enveloped one another as though remembering something ancient, something older than creation itself.
“Gajeel?” Life said softly, a knowing smile on her lips. “I like that name. How did you come up with it?”
“I don’t know,” Death replied quietly. “It just… slipped out.”
Life’s eyes softened as she looked upon the pair of souls still clinging to each other. “Then she shall have a name too,” she murmured. “Levy. It means to be joined in harmony. A fitting name for a lovely soul, wouldn’t you agree?”
Death gave a weary sigh. “Sure… I just hope you haven’t made her too soft. You know how I feel about that. The mortal realm won’t be so kind to her.”
Life tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips. “And how would you know that? Gods of our status are unable to see the future.”
“I have seen enough, Life.” His tone deepened, the weight of eons in his words. “These humans, your beloved mortals, they’re sponges. They soak up every terrible thing they witness until there’s no good left within them. Your soul of light could just as easily give way to darkness.”
“I have not made her to do so,” Life replied, voice soft but firm.
Death turned toward the pair before them, Levy laughing in Gajeel’s arms as he lifted her effortlessly, spinning her through the glowing air. For a moment, they were nothing but joy and innocence. Death’s expression hardened.
“You still don’t understand what I mean,” he said quietly. “Here, she is safe. Here, she has never known cruelty or fear. The man before her is nothing but a dream, pure and unbroken.” He paused, shadows gathering in the hollows of his voice. “But when they reach the world below, there’s no promise it will remain that way. Levy could suffer, crushed beneath the boots of mankind, before she even gets the chance to meet him. And he…”
Death looked down, the faintest tremor in his voice. “He could suffer just the same.”
“You fear the future too much,” Life replied, quiet but unwavering.
Most gods scarcely noticed the mortals below; their lives were brief, their suffering an abstract season. But Life and Death held these fragile beings like children in their hands. They witnessed beginnings and ends, the small mercies and the great cruelties, most painfully when they were powerless to interfere.
“Enjoy your last few moments; the mortal realm is waiting,” Death said quietly.
Gajeel clutched Levy’s hand, unwilling to let go. Life watched them with a soft, aching smile. “They do not want to leave one another,” she whispered.
“Do not fret. You will meet again, at a later time,” Death replied.
Life lifted Levy’s soul, and the girl’s radiant body folded down into a single glowing orb, an impossible sphere of every color. With a fond, sad gesture, Life puckered her lips and blew the orb away like a dandelion seed. It drifted toward the world below.
Gajeel lunged forward, watching the light fall. “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he breathed, clutching his chest. “What is this? I…feel—”
“Sadness,” Death answered plainly. “What you feel is sadness.”
Gajeel looked up at him with open, unguarded eyes.
Death’s voice grew steady and heavy, the weight of ages in each syllable. “When we send you, you must be careful. Guard her with more than strength, Gajeel. Guard her with patience, with restraint, with your heart.” His molten eyes bored into him like a warning that had existed since time began. “Do you understand? If you falter…if your fire consumes what it is meant to protect, then there will be consequences you cannot imagine.”
A cold shiver ran through Gajeel’s jagged soul. He swallowed hard. “I… I would never hurt her,” he said, voice raw and reverent, as if engraving an oath into the world.
Death’s gaze did not soften. “In this realm, perhaps I believe you,” he said, low as thunder. “But the world below is dark and cruel. Pain will twist you; hunger will gnaw at you; anger will be a constant companion. Promises made here may wither when they are tested there.”
He stepped closer, vast and solemn, standing as tall as a mountain. “When we cast you into flesh, you will not remember this. You will not remember her light, nor the warmth you feel now. You will know only an ache, an emptiness. You will stumble in the dark until the day you find each other again.”
“I will know her when I see her,” Gajeel said, his voice ringing through the void, defiant and sure. “The earth will not change me. I will stay as I am.”
Death studied him for a long, heavy moment, the glow in his eyes flickering like the last embers of a dying star. “Every soul says that before the fall,” he murmured. “But the world below does not ask permission to shape you; it carves you. Until there is nothing left of who you were.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
Death exhaled, a smile spreading across his face. “Now I might just believe you.”
And with that, Life gathered his soul in her hands, smiling sadly. Without another word, she breathed him into the world below, where light and warmth dissolved, and fire met flesh.
As the last flicker of Gajeel’s soul vanished into the ether, the air grew still. The glow of Life’s hands dimmed, her expression soft but heavy with unspoken worry. She turned to face Death, her eyes reflecting both light and reproach.
“You shouldn’t speak things into existence that haven’t yet come to pass,” she said quietly, her tone steady but edged with hurt. “Words hold power, even yours. You breathe doubt into what could be beautiful.”
Death regarded her in silence, shadows folding around his form. “I only speak from what I’ve seen before,” he replied at last, voice like stone sliding over stone. “The world below has a way of proving me right.”
“Then maybe,” she said, stepping closer, her radiance brushing against his darkness, “it’s not the world that’s cruel, it’s the faith you’ve lost in it.”
For a moment, they stood in the stillness of eternity: hope and inevitability, light and shadow, each certain the other could not understand.
“Do not disappoint me, Gajeel.” He finished before turning away from the endless void to Earth.
Chapter 2: Childhood
Summary:
Life watched her bonded souls from above, her children who had suffered pain no child ever should. Though they were bound by the same wound, the same echo of loss, they remained vastly different in how they would turn out.
Notes:
A glimpse into Gajeel and Levy's childhoods.
Chapter Text
They went about their celestial duties as they always did, shaping souls from the shimmering starlight that illuminated the cosmos and guiding the departed gently as they transitioned from one realm to the next. For a fleeting, delicate moment, everything felt as it should, a harmony of the universe.
Gajeel entered the world in a quaint oceanside village, a small place tucked hundreds of miles away from where his fated partner would eventually be. His father, a rugged fisherman, learned the art of navigating the unpredictable waters aboard his modest wooden boats, returning home with the fresh catch of the day. His mother, nurturing and resilient, labored lovingly in the fertile soil, coaxing abundant harvests of colorful fruits and hearty vegetables from the land to provide for the tight-knit community.
As a child, Gajeel basked in the warmth of love and care, rocked gently to sleep during sultry nights, nestled in the comforting embrace of his mother’s arms, and nourished every couple of hours. As he drifted into his dreams, Life herself watched over him from above, chuckling fondly at his insatiable appetite. Day after day, his parents fed him generously, ensuring his every need was met.
Even as Gajeel grew, his voracious hunger never waned. He would sneak through the gardens, plucking ripe, juicy tomatoes straight from the vines, devouring them until his stomach ached from overindulgence. His father would venture into the wild, returning with game from the forests and mounds of silver-scaled fish that gleamed in the sunlight. Their days were filled with hard work, laughter, and the warmth of family, painting a picture of blissful existence. But from the depths of the sea, darkness began to loom.
One fateful night, shadows materialized on the horizon, hulking ships gliding ominously toward land, their silhouettes sharp against the moonlit sky. Unbeknownst to the sleeping townsfolk, the men aboard those vessels held grim intentions, brandishing bladed weapons and torches that flickered like malicious fireflies. As these marauders landed upon the shore, their footsteps thundered against the sand, and chaos erupted, filled with ruthless laughter and the clamor of destruction.
Gajeel rested peacefully between his parents, blissfully unaware that the tranquility of his world was on the brink of an irreversible change.
It was the piercing sound of anguished screams that cut through the silence, wrenching his father from sleep. Panic surged through him as beads of perspiration glistened on his brow, and he shot upright in bed.
“What was that?” His wife whispered, drawing the heavy animal pelts closer around their sleeping child, who remained blissfully unaware amid the brewing storm.
Another scream shattered the night, followed by the harsh sound of something crashing. Through the small window, the unmistakable flicker of orange flames danced outside, casting an eerie glow upon their faces.
“Raiders…” he hissed, his voice quivering with the potent mix of fear and fury. “Hide! Hide now!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang from the bed and grasped the heavy metal mallet that leaned against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface a stark contrast to the warmth of his home. The chaos outside grew louder, echoing in his ears, booted feet churning through the mud, laughter sharp enough to cut.
He took a defensive stance in front of the door, gripping the mallet tightly in both hands, resolve radiating from his every pore, ready to stand against whatever fate had in store.
“Get back!” He roared, his voice reverberating through the night air. “Or I’ll end you where you stand!”
The pirates erupted into raucous laughter, their cruel mirth echoing through the night as they charged forward like a tide of darkness. The trees, lush and imposing, were soon engulfed in flames that writhed upward into the velvety black sky, casting eerie shadows as the battle unfolded.
Gajeel’s father moved with desperation and fierce love as he swung his weapon, his muscles taut with the effort. He felled one pirate, then another, but their numbers were overwhelming, ten against one. Steel met flesh with a sound that silenced the night.
The blade drove clean through his chest, and for an instant, the world froze. His mallet hung suspended in the air, his breath catching in his throat. Then came the warmth, a flood of it, spilling down his front as he coughed, the taste of iron filling his mouth. The metallic tang burned his tongue, foreign and wrong, a taste that didn’t belong to the living.
He staggered back, knees striking the dirt. His hand trembled over the wound, fingers sinking into the torn flesh as if he could hold himself together by sheer will. Blood pulsed through the gaps in his grasp, dark and steady, painting the ground beneath him in a spreading halo.
Some buried instinct, the primal call of a husband, a father, screamed at him to move. To get up. To go home. His family was waiting, just beyond that door. He crawled, dragging his body forward, leaving a wet, crimson trail behind him. The laughter of the pirates filled the night, cruel, booming, almost joyful, the sound twisting and fading in his failing ears.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the wooden step — almost there — when the second blade came. It drove through his back with a sickening crack, pinning him to the earth like an insect beneath glass. His breath hitched, then broke into a ragged gasp.
For a moment, he still moved, his body jerking, twitching in protest, and then the strength left him. His head fell to the dirt, eyes wide open, the reflection of his home flickering in them one last time before the darkness claimed him completely.
Inside the home, Gajeel’s mother acted with fierce protectiveness, tucking her son beneath the bed and pressing a trembling, desperate kiss to his forehead as she whispered words of comfort. Her heart pounded as the raucous shouts of the raiders grew closer, and dread filled the air. When the door splintered and crashed open, she held her breath, covering her son's mouth with her hand as she watched boots filter into her house.
Her body trembled so violently she could hear the rattle of the bedframe. The crash of shattering glass cut through the night, and her son’s terrified cry pierced her ears. She tightened her grip around him, heart pounding against his small body, then froze as heavy footsteps thudded closer.
A thick, calloused hand seized her ankle, yanking hard. The splinters from the floorboards bit into her skin as she was dragged out from the narrow darkness beneath the bed. Gajeel held onto her for dear life, reaching after her, but she let go, better him safe than both caught.
“Look what I found!” The pirate’s voice was cruel and triumphant. He hauled her upright, throwing her into the center of the room. Before she could draw a breath, more hands were on her, grabbing, pulling, tearing. Her cries were drowned beneath their laughter as rough fingers clawed at her arms and clothes, wrenching her toward the door.
They dragged her out into the cold night air, out onto the porch, and there, she saw him. Her husband lay sprawled in the dirt, eyes glassy, the earth beneath him dark with blood. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed over him, fingers clutching at his shirt, begging him to move, to breathe, but he was still, his body already cooling.
“Let me go!” She gasped, thrashing as they ripped her away from him. Her shirt tore open down the back, fabric splitting with a sound that made her stomach twist. She fell again, the ground biting into her skin as she curled inward, trying to hide herself from their reaching hands.
“What a pretty bitch!” One of them jeered, his voice thick with drink and violence. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back until her throat ached.
“Get off me!” She screamed, her nails raking his wrist. Panic drove her, wild and feral, then she struck, her thumb digging deep until it sank into the soft socket of his eye. His scream was raw, animalistic.
“Ahhh! My fucking eye!” He howled, stumbling back as blood poured down his cheek.
She fell forward, crawling across the dirt, dragging herself toward her husband’s body. “Please…” she whispered, clutching his cold hand, tears streaking through the grime on her face.
Another shadow loomed over her, blocking out the moonlight. “Bring her,” the pirate growled, his grin wide and glistening. “A woman that fights like that… she’ll keep the crew entertained.” His laughter followed, low and vile, as they reached for her again.
But defiance ignited within her, hot and blinding, cutting through the haze of terror. She spat in his face, the act sharp as broken glass. In a sudden, feral surge, her fingers found the heavy mallet lying beside her, still wrapped in her husband’s lifeless grasp.
With a cry that tore her throat raw, she swung. The mallet connected with a skull-cracking thud, and the sound echoed through the night like a bell tolling for the damned. The pirate’s body folded in on itself, his knees giving way, collapsing into the dirt like a puppet severed from its strings.
“You won’t take me!” She screamed, voice trembling but unbroken. “I will fight — I will curse you!”
Each word was a weapon. Each swing was a prayer twisted into fury. She struck again and again, her small frame driven by something greater than strength, by rage, by grief, by love.
But then the world shifted.
A shadow rose over her, massive and monstrous. The captain stepped forward, his blade gleaming in the erratic glow of the burning torches. His grin was carved from cruelty.
Before she could draw another breath, steel flashed. The sword drove clean through her chest, silencing her mid-scream. For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, the mallet slipping from her fingers, her blood dripping onto her husband’s hand.
Her gaze drifted downward, past the flames and chaos, toward the dark slit beneath the bed. Two small red eyes gleamed from the shadows, wide, wet, and trembling. Her lips parted, the shape of her son’s name ghosting on her breath, but the sound never came.
Her body faltered, folding gently as though sleep had finally claimed her. The firelight caught the sheen of her hair, the blood pooling beneath her spreading like ink on parchment.
The captain wrenched his blade free, the motion casual, almost bored. A cruel chuckle slipped from him, curling into the cold air.
“Women are no fun when they fight back,” he sneered, wiping his sword on her torn clothes. His eyes lingered on her still face, a flicker of grudging respect twisting his mouth. “And yet… I saw no fear in her. Only fire.”
He turned away, leaving her body crumpled beside her husband’s, two lights extinguished, one pair of eyes left to witness.
“They didn’t have much, Captain,” another said. “Just three gold bracelets.”
Above them, unseen, Life watched, her golden light dimming. Her voice quivered when she finally spoke.
“That was all you wanted? Murder — over three gold bracelets?”
Her fury shook the heavens, but sadness weighed heavier still. She turned her gaze away from the burning shore.
“Death?” She whispered.
He had indeed been there the whole time, watching in silence.
“Yes, my love?”
She lowered her eyes. A single tear, like a drop of molten gold, slipped free. “You see. I did not interfere,” she said. “Go retrieve them, please. Bring them home.”
He wanted to shield her eyes from it all, but she knew better. She finally learned the darkness of the world below. She wished she could ignore it, wished she could look away, but the love she bore for Gajeel made it impossible.
She wept for him often, watching from above as he hid away in the forest, fighting to live as best as a young boy could. He ate fish raw from the pond, cut his small hands open on sharp rocks, and cried in the night from the cold.
All she wanted was to hold him, to tell him everything would be all right. But she couldn’t. Not with Death so close at her side. He loved her; she knew that all too well, but he was a stickler for the rules. His morals would never bend, no matter how she pleaded.
So one day, she could no longer stand idly by and watch him suffer.
He knelt in the heart of the woods, the crisp air now edged with a biting chill. It had barely been two months since the brutal murder of his parents, and despair clung to him like the frost on the branches overhead. Starving, teetering on the brink of death, he was curled into a tight child’s pose, his frail frame shivering. The contours of his spine and ribs jutted sharply against his pallid skin, which had taken on a sickly, ghostly hue.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, rendering tears a luxury he could no longer afford. With blistered and sore feet, he trembled against the cold, each shiver stabbing him with pain that echoed through his frail body.
“Don’t worry, sweet boy, I’m coming,” came a soft, soothing whisper, as she meticulously prepared a sacrifice. A majestic deer, a large buck adorned with tall, four-pointed antlers that seemed to command the forest's attention, its robust body a stark contrast to Gajeel's frailty.
Just a few miles away, a dragon crafted from gleaming metal and rusted scraps soared through the desolation, in search of a meal.
She had forged this dragon and watched over him for nearly a thousand years; never once had he feasted on human flesh. She held an unwavering trust in him, particularly since he had recently suffered the loss of his hatchling and mate to the cruel, unyielding cold. His paternal instincts were strong, and he was the only living creature within a hundred-mile radius of Gajeel’s bleak existence.
With gentle fervor, she whispered to the dragon’s soul as she released the deer, urging it to run towards the boy. “Take pity on him, Metalicana.”
The dragon’s sharp eyes scanned the snowy expanse below, detecting movement with uncanny precision. He locked onto the deer as it bounded clumsily through the wintry landscape. With a mighty thrust, Metalicana launched himself from the sky, diving low and landing with thunderous force upon the deer, his razor-sharp claws finding their mark with deadly grace.
In a mere five seconds, Metalicana ended the life of the deer, sinking his teeth into its tender underbelly. Life itself seemed to frown at the heart-wrenching sight of her creation, which had only drawn breath for a fleeting ten minutes. Yet she remained resolute, accepting the sacrifice with a heavy heart.
“Look up,” she urged again, and the dragon obeyed, under the impression that her voice was merely his own conscience beckoning him.
As Metalicana lifted his gaze, he noticed something small, nearly engulfed by the falling snow. He lumbered forward, the warmth of the deer still lingering in his jaws, and approached the child who lay beneath him, shivering and wide-eyed in awe at the magnificent creature looming above.
“Don’t…eat me,” Gajeel whispered, each word a struggle that barely escaped his cracked lips.
Metalicana didn’t comprehend the child's fear, but a surge of paternal instinct flooded through him, filling his heart with a deep, unexpected compassion. He gently lowered the still-warm deer beside the child, its heat radiating a momentary shelter against the freezing air. As dusk settled, the dragon wrapped his massive body around Gajeel, shielding him from the icy wind and swirling snow, an impenetrable barrier of warmth and protection in an unforgiving world.
She hid this from Death. How he never found out was beyond her, especially since he saw everything. Luckily, he had been far too busy; winter was always his busiest season, and this winter was a frigid one.
Metalicana took Gajeel in as his own. From that moment on, she turned away and pretended she hadn’t seen what happened that night, even feigning surprise when she watched him finally eat his first proper meal in months the next day.
Metalicana loved Gajeel, but he was nothing like Gajeel’s biological father. He was hardened, rough, calloused, lacking the gentleness that had cradled Gajeel as a child. When he flew with Gajeel on his back, he was unafraid if the boy slipped.
“I’m slipping!” Gajeel would scream, only for the dragon to roar back,
“Well, hold on tighter if you don’t want to fall to your death, boy!”
Instead of coddling him, Metalicana taught him valuable skills. He taught Gajeel how to hunt and fish, showing him how to stay warm and survive on his own. Metalicana even infused the boy with magic, training him to become a dragon slayer. Day by day, Gajeel grew stronger, no longer the fragile child who had suffered so deeply.
Though Metalicana was rough and often harsh, he cared for the boy in his own way. He shielded him from the worst of the elements, offered shelter when there was none, and always called Gajeel his son, even if they were entirely different species.
She hadn’t even noticed when Metalicana left for a hunt that day. At first, Gajeel waited patiently, but as time passed, restlessness took over. He began counting the days as they stretched on endlessly, but Metalicana never returned.
Desperation gnawed at him, and finally, he could wait no longer. Gajeel wandered through the forest, calling out and searching every ridge and hollow, scanning every shadow for the dragon who had become his guardian.
Yet the woods remained silent. The wind whispered through the trees, but there was no response, no roar, no sign of Metalicana. With each passing hour, Gajeel's heart sank deeper, as the boy who had survived so much suddenly felt the sharp, hollow ache of abandonment once more.
Gajeel had learned how to survive, not to live, but to endure. The forest had shaped him into something lean and hard, all sharp edges and silent steps. He had grown faster, cleverer, stronger with each passing year, carving out his existence from hunger and frost. Six long years had passed since Metalicana disappeared into the frozen wilds, swallowed by the same silence that had once sheltered them both.
He told himself he didn’t care. That he didn’t need anyone, he was his own strength, his own protector, his own fire against the cold. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between breaths, he still felt the absence. He smothered it beneath anger, buried it beneath pride, until his heart was armored in iron.
That morning, hunger drove him from the trees. The town before him was small, gray, and half-asleep, smoke rising from chimneys in thin, ghostly trails. He slipped through the back streets like a shade, unseen and unheard, the tatters of his cloak fluttering in the wind. His eyes darted to every movement, every window, every boot print in the mud.
He moved with the quiet patience of a predator, circling a baker’s cart left unattended at the market’s edge. The scent of warm bread hit him. His stomach twisted painfully, the ache of starvation sharper than any blade.
In one fluid motion, he reached out, fingers steady despite the tremor of need. His hand darted into the cart, snatching a rough, stale roll from the edge. The crust tore at his fingers, but he didn’t care.
Then he vanished, melting into the narrow alley before the baker even turned his head.
In the shadows, he pressed his back against the cold stone wall, chest heaving. His pulse thundered in his ears. Tearing into the bread, he frowned. The bread was hollow inside. Nothing but air and crust.
“Scammy baker,” Gajeel muttered, gnawing at the hard crust anyway.
A shadow moved across the wall.
“Shitty bread, isn’t it?”
Gajeel froze, head snapping up. A tall man stood at the mouth of the alley, his figure framed by the fading daylight. He leaned against the brick, casual as smoke, holding a hollow roll between long, elegant fingers. His smile was faint, practiced, but it never reached his eyes.
“Yeah,” Gajeel said, wary. His body angled just enough to bolt if he needed to.
“You may be a thief,” the man went on, his tone smooth as oil, “but that bastard baker’s a thief too. Takes more than he gives.”
“You a cop or something?” Gajeel muttered.
The man laughed softly, a sound too even, too careful. “Do I look like a cop to you?”
Gajeel scoffed, tearing another bite from the bread, feigning indifference.
“I can offer more than stale crumbs,” the man said, his voice dropping low. “You’re quick. Clever. I’ve been looking for someone like you to join my guild.”
Gajeel bristled. “I’m good. Leave me alone, you creep.” He pushed off the wall, brushing the dirt from his hands, backing toward the street.
“I have food,” the man called, his tone sharp enough to slice through the wind. “A warm bed. Shelter. Anything you need.”
“Fuck off, old man. I ain’t interested.”
“I’ll pay you.”
That stopped him… just for a second. He turned, suspicion flickering in his dark eyes. “Heh… you ain’t some kinda freak, are ya?”
The man chuckled, a low, measured sound. “Of course not, child. I only wish to guide you, set you on the right path.” His eyes gleamed faintly in the half-light, strange and predatory. “But guidance has a cost.”
He stepped closer.
“I need someone strong,” he murmured. “And I’ve been watching you for some time… Dragon Slayer.”
Gajeel stiffened. “Oh? So you’re a stalker.”
“Funny one, aren’t you?” The man’s smile sharpened. He reached out and laid a firm hand on Gajeel’s shoulder. His touch was cold, heavy with intent. “My name is José. I’m the master of the Phantom Lord guild. I look after a lot of children there.”
He pressed his half-eaten roll into Gajeel’s palm, his thumb brushing the boy’s knuckles, a gesture that felt both kind and wrong.
“If you’re ever interested…” José’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “You know where to find me.”
He turned and strode away, cloak snapping in the wind, his steps silent but deliberate. Gajeel stood frozen, the rough bread clenched in his hand, the taste of it suddenly bitter, like ash in his mouth.
Before the man vanished completely into the dark, Gajeel called out, his voice small but sharp.
“What would I have to do?”
José paused, half-turned, that slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.
“Whatever it takes.”
Life held her breath.
The air itself seemed to still, the forest, the wind, even the whisper of time, all waiting, praying that her bonded soul would turn away. She had given so much to save him: her blessing, her essence, her hope. To see him now, standing before an evil man like José, teetering on the edge of cruelty, was almost too much for her to bear.
“Don’t do it, darling,” she breathed, her voice carried on a wind that did not reach his ears. “Please… don’t.”
But the boy did not hear. The hunger in his belly and the ache in his heart drowned out the voice of the divine. He looked up at José, the promise of food and warmth glinting in the man’s dark eyes, and in that promise, he mistook salvation for kindness.
He reached out.
Life’s heart broke as she watched his small, scarred hand slip into José’s grasp. The moment their palms met, something ancient and sacred shattered. The bond she had once forged in mercy cracked like glass beneath the weight of fate. And as they shook hands, sealing the choice with quiet finality, the world exhaled, not in relief, but in mourning.
While Life kept a close watch on Gajeel, she also observed her soul of light, Levy. Levy was only five years old when Metalicana saved Gajeel. Like Gajeel's, Levy's family was no different; her parents loved her more than anything else. They owned a small library nestled at the base of an ancient mountain, a beautiful yet dangerous place, especially during the rainy season.
Yet they had owned the library for 15 years and lived in the town for more than thirty. Not once had they witnessed the wrath of Mother Nature.
Her father and mother were highly educated and much older; they had just turned thirty-eight when they had Levy. They valued their education greatly and had put off having children until their careers were well-established.
When Levy came into their lives, they vowed to devote as much time to her as possible, eager to embrace the joys of parenthood. Levy was a quiet girl; she didn't speak much nor did she cry when she was just a babe.
Life watched giggling as her parents ached with worry when their daughter slept through the night, or when she didn't cry when she fell. They feared the worst, feared she was ill, but Life knew well she was just a good baby with good parents, nothing more.
She had adopted the quiet life her parents had created for herself, so she was a calm child. But smart, smarter than any kid she had seen before. She could read aloud books that were well above the level of someone her age. She could handle numbers and vast amounts of knowledge.
Her parents were thrilled to bring her into their library, which held a vast collection of books and ancient scrolls in various languages.
They were happy.
Until the mountain could no longer bear what it held. For two endless days, the rain had fallen without mercy, drenching the earth until it turned to a heavy, suffocating mud. The air hung thick with the scent of wet soil.
It began quietly, deceptively so. A single stone came loose from the mountain’s crown and tumbled down, bouncing once, twice, before vanishing into the fog. Then another. And another.
Each one struck harder, faster, until the quiet drip of rain gave way to a low, trembling groan, the sound of the mountain itself waking up after a century of rest. Trees shuddered. Birds fled in panicked bursts. Then came the roar, deep, ancient, and unrelenting as the slope gave way.
The earth convulsed. A wall of mud and shattered stone tore free from the mountainside, ripping roots from the sodden ground, devouring everything in its path. The forest screamed beneath the onslaught, splintering wood and crushing every living thing in its path.
And in the chaos, there was no time to run, no time to breathe, only the deafening truth that nature, once still and sheltering, had turned against them.
They were shelving books when the rumbling began, soft at first, a distant growl rolling through the mountain’s bones.
“What in the heavens…?” Levy’s mother whispered, steadying a stack of books on the lower shelf, her daughter perched on her hip.
Levy’s father paused, hand still resting on the desk. The floor trembled. Dust rained from the rafters, a fine, ghostly veil that drifted through the trembling air. The tea on his desk quivered, tiny rings spreading across its surface.
He crossed the room in three strides and tore back the curtain—
—and froze.
Rushing towards him was a roaring wall of earth and stone, a tidal wave of mud devouring everything in its path. Trees splintered. The sky disappeared.
For the briefest instant, Michael understood. His breath caught; his eyes widened. There was no time for words, no time to turn.
The glass window burst inward like gunfire. Shards struck his face and throat before the shockwave hit, and then he was gone. The force of the mudslide obliterated the wall, snapping his spine and crushing him beneath an explosion of timber and stone. There was no scream, no movement, only the brutal silence that follows instant death.
“Michael!” His wife screamed, though the roaring earth drowned out the sound.
The flood of mud slammed into the room, tearing shelves from the walls, swallowing the floorboards whole. Books dissolved in the sludge, their pages spinning briefly before being ground into nothing. Levy’s mother staggered back, clutching her child, her mind refusing to accept what she’d just seen — her husband’s blood still warm on her face, his body buried beneath what had once been their home.
The structure groaned, its timbers splintering under the weight. Windows burst open one after another, spilling rivers of mud inside.
Levy’s mother stumbled, clutching her child tight as the muck rose past her knees, cold and suffocating. Her eyes darted wildly, seeking any lifeline. Then she spotted it — the ladder leading to the second floor, fragile against the weight of the collapsing building.
“Hold on, baby. Hold on,” she whispered, wading through the debris. Her foot slipped on wet paper and jagged shards of glass, but she caught herself on the ladder and began to climb. Each rung groaned under her weight, the library sagging ominously beneath her.
Above, a beam snapped free, crashing into the wall with a deafening crack. The entire structure shuddered violently, sending clouds of dust and ink-dark mud spiraling through the air. She coughed, shielding her daughter’s face, her fingers trembling as they clutched each rung.
“Someone! Please! Help us!” She shouted, voice swallowed by the roar of rain and shifting stone.
“Hello! Is anyone in there!?”
Her gaze shot upward. Through a narrow split in the roof, an old man’s face appeared — lined, weathered, yet kind. Recognition struck her heart like a jolt of lightning. Relief surged through her chest; he was a good man, a savior in this living nightmare.
“Climb! Climb as fast as you can!” His voice cut through the chaos. She obeyed, pushing higher, her muscles screaming, holding her child like she would crush her own bones to protect her.
“I’ll save you!” He shouted, bracing himself against the slick rock.
“There’s no time!” She cried, panic raw in her voice. “Just take my child! Please, take her!”
With every ounce of strength, she lifted the little girl upward by one arm. She could feel the child's shoulder pop out of its socket, but she was desperate. The old man’s hands closed around her, rough and steady, pulling her free.
Life exhaled in a soft, golden sigh, one fleeting moment of grace. Levy was safe.
Then the mountain screamed.
The library’s frame twisted, cracking violently. The ladder buckled under the sudden collapse. Levy’s mother screamed as her footing gave way, and she fell backward into the churning, relentless mud.
“Mommy!” Levy screamed, her tiny voice swallowed by the roar of the mud and rain. Makarov struggled to hold her wriggling body, her little hands clutching at his cloak as she tried to see through the chaos.
Through her wide, innocent eyes, Levy watched her mother’s head break the surface of the swirling black sludge, hair plastered to her face, arms flailing desperately. She slapped at the mud and water, struggling to keep herself above the suffocating tide.
Then a sickening pop. A beam, thick and heavy, snapped free from above, crashing down with unstoppable force. Levy’s heart lurched as her mother’s head jerked violently beneath the impact.
Her hand shot upward, reaching, reaching… and then was gone, swallowed by the black, roiling ocean of mud and debris. The world seemed to shudder in that moment, silence and chaos colliding, leaving only the sickening inevitability of loss.
Levy’s screams cut through the storm, raw and broken, as her small body trembled in Makarov’s arms. Her mother was gone.
The shelves shattered, the ceiling groaned and gave way, and in a single, merciless instant, the building was swallowed, buried beneath the mountain’s wrath, along with the shattered dreams of countless books that would never be reread.
Death had brought her their souls, her parents. The flickering orbs whispered words of worry, words that life could hardly find intelligible; they spoke rapidly in different languages, all mixed together.
But she knew, even Death knew, that their final thoughts were not of themselves, but of the little girl they had thrust into the arms of a stranger. Fear clung to them like the last breath in their lungs; they worried if she would live, if she would be loved, if the world would be kind.
And Life, gentle and solemn, leaned close to their fading spirits and whispered, “Do not fear. Your child will thrive. I will watch her with the Realm’s eye. Through storm and sorrow, she will be seen.”
Death bowed his head beside her, his silence an unspoken vow.
Levy was different after that. She hardly spoke, barely ate, and never played. The chatter and laughter of the Fairy Tail guild washed over her like waves against stone, warm, familiar sounds that could no longer reach her.
At night, she shivered in the darkness of her room, surrounded by the soft breaths of sleeping children. The shadows on the walls moved like ghosts, and sometimes she thought she heard the mountain rumble again, the echo of her mother’s scream buried somewhere deep in the silence. Even here, in this new home, fear clung to her like a second skin.
Makarov worried endlessly. He’d watch her from a distance, the tiny girl who sat beneath the window, a book forever resting in her lap, pages untouched. She stared through the glass as though searching for something just beyond the horizon, something lost to the storm.
The other children begged her to play, tugging at her hands, offering toys and smiles and friendship. But Levy only gave them a small, fragile smile and shook her head, retreating once more into her quiet.
She missed her parents. She missed the smell of old paper and mountain rain. She longed for the warmth in their voices while they read to her by candlelight. The silence without them was unbearable, a hollow ache that never seemed to end.
One afternoon, Makarov took her by the hand and led her down a long, winding corridor she had never seen before. The old wooden floor creaked beneath their steps, the air cool and still. They stopped before a heavy oak door, its surface marked by age and dust, tucked away behind forgotten crates.
“Go on,” he said softly, pushing it open.
Levy gasped.
Before her stretched a vast room, walls upon walls of shelves, each one brimming with books that reached toward the ceiling, and ladders leaned against them like sleeping giants. The air smelled of ink, parchment, and quiet wonder.
She stepped forward, slow and reverent, her tiny fingers tracing the spines as though they might vanish at her touch.
“Master…?” she whispered, voice trembling with disbelief. “Are… are all these books for me?”
Makarov’s smile was gentle, touched with sorrow and pride. “Every single one,” he said. “No one else uses them. They’re all yours now.”
Levy turned, her eyes wide and glistening in the golden light. “For me?”
He nodded. “You have a lovely voice, my dear. When you’re ready, perhaps you’ll read some aloud and share them with the other children. But until then… these belong to you.”
Levy’s throat tightened. She pressed a worn book to her chest, its cover cool against her skin. For the first time since losing her parents, warmth stirred faintly within her, fragile but alive. A spark of belonging, flickering in the quiet heart of Fairy Tail’s library.
“She got lucky,” Death whispered, his voice like wind through hollow bones. From the shadow of the beyond, he observed the old man. Makarov moved through the guild with quiet purpose, his every act stitched together with kindness and strength.
Death tilted his head, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. A rare one, he thought. There was not a single thread of malice woven into that man’s soul, only warmth, leadership, and the steady light of a heart uncorrupted. Though he would never admit it aloud, Death saw something of himself in the old man, the same burden, the same endless watching of lost souls who needed a hand to guide them.
“It was fate that brought him to her that day,” Life murmured beside him, her eyes bright with reverence. Her hand pressed gently over her heart as she watched the small girl in the library below. “She will grow into something extraordinary. Even grief can bloom into grace.”
Death said nothing, his gaze lingering on the child clutching her book to her chest. For once, he did not argue.
Gajeel and Levy couldn’t be more different. Both had survived the storm, both had lost everything that made them children, yet what grew from their pain could not have been more opposite.
Gajeel had been forged in shadow, his heart turned to iron. Under José’s hand, mercy was weakness, compassion a curse. He learned to bite before he bled, to strike before he could be struck. The world taught him that cruelty was power, and he believed it.
Levy, on the other hand, was held in light. The arms that lifted her from ruin were steady and kind, her new family teaching her that gentleness could rebuild what tragedy had shattered. Under Makarov’s watchful eye, she learned that knowledge was strength and kindness the truest form of magic.
Two souls, born of the same storm, one hardened, one healed. Life and Death watched from their realm, silent witnesses to the cruel symmetry of fate.
For now, their paths lay far apart. But the world has a way of drawing together what it once tore in two.
ClassySassy Sun 12 Oct 2025 08:49PM UTC
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