Aelius sat on the edge of the cliff, one leg bent, the other stretched out, arms resting lazily on his knee as he stared over the lake. The midday sun cast sharp reflections on the water, the bright blue surface broken by the occasional ripple of wind. It was a stark contrast to the absolute chaos rattling the guild behind him. Even out here, with the doors shut and stone walls between him and the madness, the sheer volume was ridiculous.
And that was just to him.
Slayers had enhanced senses—hunters, if one preferred a broader term—but Dragon Slayers? Their hearing was leagues above the rest. If the guild was this loud to him from outside, then to them, it must have been deafening. The sheer racket was enough to give a migraine to someone who wasn't cursed with heightened perception. He almost felt bad for them. Almost.
The muffled bedlam continued, laughter and shouting mixing with the occasional crash of something—or someone—being thrown. Somewhere in the din, he was fairly certain he heard Levy's voice. And judging by the sharpness in her tone, she was cursing his name.
Not surprising. He had just thrown her straight into Jason's path, and the journalist was undoubtedly wringing every last bit of information out of her with the tenacity of a starving dog on a fresh bone. He could almost picture her frustration, the way her brow would furrow, her hands moving animatedly as she tried to fend off Jason's endless barrage of questions.
Aelius remained still, his expression unreadable beneath his mask as he listened to the mayhem behind him. The chaos of the guild wasn't something new—it was a constant, an unrelenting storm of voices, laughter, and destruction wrapped in camaraderie. But now, with Jason in the mix, things had reached a new level of absurdity.
He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. His earlier misstep loomed over him, a rare lapse in judgment that would no doubt spiral into more trouble. He could already see the Council debating what to do with him, weighing the risk and reward of forcing a title onto him. It was an inconvenience, a headache waiting to become a migraine.
The muffled chaos inside continued, but his focus drifted. For a long moment, he simply existed, letting the noise fade into a distant hum as he watched the lake stretch out before him. The water shimmered beneath the midday sun, steady, unbothered. Unlike him.
Then he felt it.
The subtle shift in the air behind him, the faintest displacement of weight against the ground—someone was approaching. Fast.
Aelius barely had time to register it before a foot came swinging toward him.
Instinct kicked in. He twisted, catching a glimpse of blue and white before he rolled away, Levy's foot slicing through empty space where his back had just been.
She landed with a slight stumble but recovered quickly, straightening with a glare that could've burned through steel. "You absolute bastard."
Aelius, now crouched a few feet away, tilted his head, staring at her in silence.
Levy jabbed a finger toward him, eyes still blazing. "You knew he was gonna hound me the second you said that! And you just left me there!"
A beat of silence passed before Aelius finally spoke, voice flat as ever.
"I see you survived."
Levy let out an exasperated noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl. "Barely! That man doesn't breathe between questions! I thought I was gonna die!"
Aelius leaned back, resting an elbow on his bent knee, utterly unbothered. "And yet, here you are. Stronger for it."
Levy stomped closer, planting her hands on her hips. "You owe me for that, Aelius. Big time."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the lake, considering her words—or, more accurately, weighing whether or not he cared enough to entertain them.
"I feel inclined to disagree." He shifted his gaze back to her, the faintest tilt of his head betraying his amusement. "May I remind you that when you informed me of the reporter's arrival, I attempted to leave? You dragged me back here anyway. If anything, I believe this is what the word… karma refers to."
Levy gaped at him for half a second before narrowing her eyes. "Oh, you do not get to play the victim in this." She jabbed a finger toward him accusingly. "You willingly gave Jason something to latch onto. That was not my doing."
Aelius exhaled slowly through his nose, his version of an amused sigh. "Yes. But if you had let me leave in the first place, that moment never would have occurred." He spread a hand, the gesture just short of mocking. "So, in a way, this is all your fault."
Levy's eye twitched. "That's not how this works."
He leaned back slightly, resting his arms over his bent knees. "Debatable."
Levy groaned, rubbing her temples. "You're impossible."
Aelius made a small, noncommittal sound in response.
Levy huffed, but after a moment, her frustration ebbed slightly. "Fine. You win this round. But you still owe me."
Aelius cast her a sidelong glance. "And what, exactly, do you intend to claim as your compensation?"
Levy smirked as she rested her hands on her hips, one brow rising with performative deliberation.
"I'll accept you staying in Fairy Tail as compensation," she declared, her tone light but edged with something a bit more pointed—something that was far from joking.
Aelius didn't even hesitate.
"Done."
It was the ease—the utter lack of resistance—that gave her pause.
She blinked once, then again, her smirk faltering ever so slightly. "…Wait."
His gaze remained on the lake, the sunlight glinting off the edges of his mask, but his silence told her everything.
"You were already planning to stay," she accused, slowly pointing a finger at him, the beginnings of betrayal weaving into her voice with mock outrage. "That was already decided, and you let me think—!"
"I said nothing," Aelius replied coolly, the corners of his eyes crinkling just slightly with an almost imperceptible amusement. "You offered compensation. I accepted."
Levy made a sound halfway between a groan and a gasp, dragging a hand down her face. "You manipulated that entire thing."
"I prefer to think of it as letting you feel victorious," he said, entirely unbothered.
"Arrogant cryptid," she muttered.
"Stubborn librarian."
"I heard that!"
"I said it at full volume."
Levy folded her arms and glared at the lake instead of him, her cheeks slightly pink now. Whether from irritation or something else, Aelius didn't comment. He wasn't sure himself—and he didn't press when it came to Levy.
The chaos inside the guild continued behind them, the laughter and hollering echoing faintly out the cracked window. A chorus of voices rose in uneven bursts: Natsu yelling something about a rematch, Gray probably already naked, again, Jason's exaggerated "COOOOL!" cutting over it all with infectious glee.
But out here, on the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake, it felt oddly quiet. Not truly silent, but separate. Like the noise was part of another world entirely. A world Aelius had once stood outside of for years.
And now?
Now the world was loud, a little too bright, and far too eager to throw him into its chaos… but he wasn't standing outside anymore.
He let the silence breathe, drinking in the wind off the lake, the shimmer of the sun across its surface, the smell of the old trees. Then—
"That one doesn't count."
Levy's voice cut through the air with the clarity of a bell, unyielding and sure. Aelius turned slightly, just enough to catch her standing firm, arms folded and expression pointed with that fierce sort of stubbornness that usually meant she'd already won whatever argument hadn't even started yet.
He tilted his head. "Excuse me?"
"I said," she repeated, stepping forward until she was close enough that she could be taken as intimidating, "it doesn't count. You agreeing to stay in Fairy Tail wasn't compensation for anything. You were already planning it."
A beat. A breeze swept past them, rustling her hair, dragging at his cloak.
"I didn't deceive you," he said calmly. "You made an offer. I accepted. I merely omitted the fact that I'd already made that decision."
She jabbed a finger toward him. "Exactly! So it doesn't count! You still owe me."
Aelius stared at her for a long moment, unreadable. Then, with glacial slowness, he shifted just slightly on the stone he sat upon, the faintest sigh drifting from beneath his mask. "Very well," he murmured, a thread of amusement curling through the words, subtle as smoke. "Name your price. Again."
Levy grinned—grinned, the kind that made her look far too pleased with herself.
"I'll think about it."
Aelius blinked. "…You don't have one prepared?"
"Nope." She plopped herself down beside him, legs dangling over the cliff's edge, brushing his cloak aside without asking. "You'll find out when it matters."
He exhaled, something just shy of exasperation ghosting through him. "That's incredibly vague and ominous."
Levy leaned back on her palms, tilting her head toward the blue expanse of sky above. "Welcome back to Fairy Tail, Aelius. You should get used to that."
Levy let the quiet settle between them for a while, basking in the breeze and the calm that clung to this place like dew. Her eyes followed a lone cloud crawling across the sky, slow and aimless. But her mind had never known how to sit still for long.
"Aelius?" she asked, without looking at him.
He hummed in acknowledgment, the sound barely more than a low vibration, like distant thunder on the horizon.
"…Is it true?" she asked, finally turning her head to glance at him. "That you might become a Wizard Saint?"
Aelius didn't answer right away. He sat still, his masked gaze fixed out over the lake, his posture unreadable, but not cold—not entirely. There was a pensive edge to the silence now. Measured. Careful.
Then, eventually, he said, "It's been... suggested."
Levy's brow rose. "Suggested? That's one way to put it." She gave a breath of laughter. "Jason's probably halfway to Crocus by now, screaming it to anyone who'll listen."
Aelius made a low sound in his throat—not quite a sigh, not quite a growl. "A monumental tactical error on my part," he admitted, almost to himself. "Now it's out in the open. The Council will seize on the momentum. Public image manipulation… it's practically a guarantee they'll press harder for it."
"So… you don't want to be one?"
He was quiet again. This time, longer. When he answered, his voice was low and composed but not indifferent.
"I don't need the title. Recognition isn't why I do what I do. Never has been." A beat. "But if being named a Wizard Saint gives the Council a chain to loop around my throat instead of sending me to trial, I'll accept it."
Levy frowned slightly, the weight of his words pressing against her like a chill. "That's a really bleak way to put it."
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I've no illusions about what this is. They're not offering me prestige. They're offering me containment, dressed in ceremony."
"But you're not dangerous," she said quietly. Then, realizing how unconvincing that might sound coming from her, she amended: "Okay, technically you are, but—"
"I am," Aelius cut in, not unkindly. "And they're right to think it. Power without purpose is just a waiting blade. I've made it a point to have purpose." He turned toward her then, just slightly. "But there's something fragile in that, isn't there? Even purpose can… shift."
Levy looked at him for a long time, her usual bright cleverness shadowed by something deeper. "Is that what you're afraid of? That if your purpose changes… you'll turn into something else?"
Aelius didn't respond immediately. He let the question settle between them, let it breathe, before he finally asked, "Have you ever met someone who claims to not fear death?"
Levy blinked, slightly thrown by the shift in conversation. "…Yeah, I have," she admitted after a moment. "A few, actually."
Aelius hummed, his voice carrying something weightier than the casual tone he used. "Every single person who claims they aren't afraid to die is a liar." He turned his head just enough that his masked gaze lingered on her.
Levy's breath hitched at the absolute certainty in his voice. He wasn't being dramatic, wasn't being poetic—he was stating a fact, something fundamental, something carved into the very core of who he was.
"I have seen death, Levy," he continued, his voice quieter now but no less unwavering. "Caused it. Been it. Cheated it." His gloved fingers flexed slightly at his side as if recalling something only he could see. "My magic gives me insight into it in ways most people can't begin to comprehend. I do not fear death, nor the uncertainty after it." His head tilted slightly, and though his face was hidden, she could feel the intensity of his words as if they were being burned into the air between them.
"I embrace it."
Levy swallowed, gripping the fabric of her skirt in her fists. "…That's—" She cut herself off. That's not normal, she had been about to say. But what did normal even mean, when it came to someone like Aelius?
Instead, she asked, "Then what do you fear?"
Aelius was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the lake below. The reflection of the midday sun shimmered on the water, fractured and fleeting, just like everything else.
"Being the cause of death," he said finally. His voice was calm—too calm. A quiet admission, devoid of emotion, but weighted with something heavy. "Like I have been for so many who tried to get close to me before."
Levy's breath caught.
There was no drama in his words, no self-pity. It was simply a truth. A statement of fact.
And yet, behind the evenness of his tone, behind the detachment, she could hear it—that undercurrent of something else.
Regret.
She studied him, the way his posture hadn't changed, the way he remained as still as a statue, like moving too much might break something fragile in the moment.
"…Aelius," she started carefully.
But he exhaled, almost like he already knew what she was going to say, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he murmured. "Not anymore."
Levy frowned, frustrated by how easily he dismissed it—by how used to it he clearly was. "Of course it matters," she countered, stepping closer. "If it didn't, you wouldn't be saying it at all."
His head tilted slightly at that, considering her words.
Then, finally, he gave a small, humorless chuckle. "You really are determined to give me a headache."
Levy huffed. "And you're determined to brush this off like it's nothing."
"Perhaps." He looked at her then, meeting her gaze properly for the first time since his admission. "But it changes nothing."
"Then we'll have to disagree on that," she said firmly.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then turned back to the lake, falling into silence again.
Levy let it linger for a few seconds, watching him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell her what was going on behind those unreadable eyes.
Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she asked, "Aelius… are we friends?"
The question hung in the air between them, fragile and uncertain.
Aelius didn't respond.
Not immediately. Not at all.
He remained as he was, gaze steady on the water, his posture unchanged. He didn't so much as glance at her, didn't give any indication that he was even considering answering.
And the silence stretched.
Levy felt something tighten in her chest.
He wasn't ignoring her—no, it wasn't that. It was something else. Something deliberate.
A choice.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, frustration bubbling up, twisting into something far heavier than she expected.
She had bickered with him. Laughed at his dry remarks. Trusted him.
And yet, when it came to something as simple as this—
She took a step back.
"…Right," she muttered under her breath, barely audible, and then turned sharply on her heel. "Forget I asked."
And just like that, she walked away.
Aelius remained where he was, unmoving, as Levy's footsteps faded behind him.
The silence that followed felt different than before.
He had been alone countless times. He had lived in solitude for years. And yet, in this moment, the quiet pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating in a way he wasn't accustomed to.
His fingers flexed against his knee.
Friends.
Aelius exhaled slowly, his breath barely audible over the distant sounds of the guild. He couldn't bring himself to call anyone that—not because he disliked Levy or the others. It wasn't about them. It was about what that word meant.
Trust.
Dependence.
A bond strong enough to expect something in return.
He had seen what happened when people put that level of trust in him. He had seen the destruction that followed, the way death inevitably found those who tried to stand too close.
He didn't want to trust like that.
He didn't want them to trust like that.
Aelius tilted his head back slightly, staring at the sky with a distant expression.
Levy had been upset. He could tell. But he couldn't give her the answer she wanted—not without making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
Because the truth was, he could still walk away from Fairy Tail. He could disappear again, just as he had before.
And people who called each other friends… they didn't do that.
He sat there for a long time, the wind shifting the edges of his cloak, before finally letting out a quiet sigh and closing his eyes.
Alone again.
The wind picked up slightly, brushing strands of dark hair from his face. Aelius let it happen, unmoving, eyes open now but unfocused.
He didn't fear death. He never had. He'd walked hand-in-hand with it too long for it to be anything but an old companion. But this? This closeness. This creeping return to the world he'd held at arm's length?
This was different.
This was the danger.
Because if they started to mean something, if Fairy Tail started to mean something, then he was no longer just a weapon or a myth. He was a man again. And men could fall.
He breathed in slowly through his nose, the lake shimmering gold in the sunlight.
There was no going back now.
So he sat, and waited, cloak brushing like whispering leaves around his boots, for the quiet to end.
Because it always did.
The air was still—warm and settled under the lazy light of midday, the lake below catching the sun's reflection in broken silver patterns that shimmered with the barest ripple of a breeze. No storm on the horizon. No howling wind or crashing waves. Just the steady hum of a world that seemed, for once, to have nothing to say.
Aelius sat at the cliff's edge, the stone beneath him sun-warmed, rough, familiar. The sounds of the guild—laughter, shouting, the occasional breaking of wood or ego—drifted faintly from behind, muffled by the thick stone walls. Even at a distance, it was loud to someone like him. Slayer hearing was a gift and a curse alike.
But out here, even that noise became background haze, like wind brushing against memory.
He reached beneath his cloak, fingers curling around the cold metal of his flask. It bore the faintest traces of corrosion near its lip, a memento of what he calls drink. Not the kind anyone else would touch. This was tailored—crafted from his own hand, his own magic. A bitter tonic of toxins that only his body could stomach.
Uncapping it with a slow, almost absent twist, he took a long drink.
The taste struck like always—sharp, metallic, laced with the sting of rot and acid. His throat burned. His tongue numbed. And the edges of his mind softened just enough to make existing a little less like drowning in everything he remembered.
He swallowed once more, this time slower, letting the last drop linger. Then he tipped the flask, shook it lightly.
Empty.
"Hn." The sound barely escaped his throat. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a word. Just acknowledgement.
He sat there a moment longer, the lake throwing reflections onto his boots, and then, without a sound, slipped the flask back into his cloak. His body rose with quiet resolve, movements smooth and devoid of effort. No dramatics. No final thoughts.
"Guess I'll have to make more," he muttered, voice low.
He turned toward the guild, the midday light drawing long shadows off his back. The path back wasn't far, the door propped open just enough for noise to bleed out—the clatter of tankards, voices raised in argument or revelry, someone (probably Natsu) yelling something about meat.
Aelius didn't hesitate.
He stepped through the threshold and into the noise, a shadow brushing against the edge of laughter, hunting nothing more than another drink. Something stronger. Something vile. Something that could silence the parts of him the flask never quite reached.
The moment Aelius crossed the threshold back into the guild hall, the atmosphere shifted. Not with the weight of magic or any overt flare of intimidation—he didn't need such theatrics.
It was silence that greeted him.
Not complete. Not absolute. But the kind of pause that falls when something unnatural walks into a room full of the living.
Conversations stuttered. Forks halted mid-bite. A clattering mug was hastily caught. Even Natsu, mid-argument with Gray over something profoundly idiotic, trailed off into a confused noise and turned to look.
They didn't fear him, not in the way you'd fear a beast with claws and bloodied teeth. It was subtler. A reverence mixed with wariness. As though a force of nature had stepped through the door and they weren't entirely sure which side it was on.
The long shadows of the midday sun followed him, trailing behind his heavy cloak like a stain that wouldn't lift. He walked with a calm precision—measured, almost surgical. The hem of his coat barely whispered against the wooden floorboards.
He didn't meet their gazes. Not out of shame nor shyness. Simply because he didn't need to.
They were watching. That was enough.
His path was unbroken—straight to the bar, the same stool as earlier, still waiting as if nothing had changed, as if the entire world hadn't tilted sideways in his brief absence. Master Makarov, half-seated on a stack of cushions behind the bar top with a bottle already in hand, tilted his head up just enough to track him.
Aelius gave a nod. Not one of thanks. Just mutual recognition.
Without asking, he reached across the counter, past the scattered drinks and unattended plates, and took an unopened bottle from the row behind the bar. Dark green glass. The seal still intact.
He cracked it open in one motion and drank straight from the mouth, the contents—viscous, too thick to be wine—burning like oil and rusted copper as it slid down his throat.
No one moved. No one dared to interrupt.
Until her.
"Aelius."
Erza's voice cut clean through the silence.
It wasn't loud. She didn't shout. But it was sharp—clean and commanding, honed like the blade she'd kept at her side since childhood. A name spoken like a challenge or a question too heavy for anyone else to ask.
Aelius paused with the bottle still half-raised to his lips. He didn't look over.
He drank instead, one final swig, a breath drawn through his teeth, then set the bottle down on the counter with a soft but final clink.
Only then did he speak.
"…Titania," he replied, low and level, his tone void of irritation or greeting—just acknowledgment, like the stillness before a blade was drawn.
He didn't turn to face her yet.
Not because he was ignoring her.
But because whatever she was about to say…
He already knew it wasn't going to be simple.
Erza took a step forward, her boots clicking sharply against the guild's floorboards—a sound that echoed louder than it should have, like a judge approaching the stand.
Her eyes, normally steeled for battle or softened by camaraderie, were storm-lit now. Controlled, but seething. Not the wildfire of Natsu's temper. No, this was different—colder, sharper, more precise. Like the edge of a sword honed not for intimidation but punishment.
"You made her cry."
The silence in the hall seemed to deepen at those words, as if they'd pierced some deeper layer of the guild's collective awareness. A few of the younger members glanced nervously between Erza and Aelius. Even Gray stopped leaning against the wall, his posture tightening. Natsu was already halfway out of his chair before Happy grabbed his scarf to hold him back.
Aelius remained seated.
He didn't flinch. Didn't sigh. Didn't deny it.
He reached for the bottle again, lifted it with gloved fingers, and let the rim hover near his mouth.
Then he stopped.
A low breath left him—not a laugh, not quite—but something close to resignation. He finally turned his head, just slightly, enough that the edge of his mask caught the light.
"Did she tell you that?" His voice was quiet. Not defensive. Not apologetic. Just... calm.
Erza's brows lowered. "No. She didn't have to."
And that, of course, was the truth. Levy was too kind to run to Erza for protection. Too loyal, too stubborn in her compassion. But the evidence had been there—red around the eyes, a long walk home in silence, and that thing that Erza hated most in the world: the look someone wore when they'd trusted and been hurt.
"I don't know what you said," Erza continued, every word razor-precise, "but she doesn't cry for just anything. You might wear that mask like it makes you untouchable, but you're here, now. You're one of us. And we look after our own."
Aelius finally lowered the bottle to the bar, the faintest clink of glass on wood.
"She asked if we were friends," he said, the words slow, deliberate. "And I didn't answer."
It wasn't an admission of guilt. It wasn't a defense.
It was just the truth. Flat and unadorned, like the last breath of someone who's already bleeding out.
Erza blinked, just once.
"That's it?"
"She wanted more than silence," Aelius murmured, his gaze still angled toward nothing in particular. "And I didn't have more to give."
Erza's hand curled into a fist at her side. "Then you shouldn't have let her get close."
"I didn't," Aelius said quietly. "She did anyway."
That stopped her.
Not because it made things better. But because it made them real. More real than anger, more real than blame.
He finally turned his head enough to face her directly, mask and all. No theatrics. No posturing.
Just two people with too much blood on their hands and too many regrets in their shadows.
"I warned her," he said. "She saw the ruin and stepped toward it anyway."
Erza was quiet for a moment.
Then, softly—quiet enough that only he heard it—she said:
"She stepped toward you. Not the mask. Not the monster. You."
Erza's voice cut through the quiet murmur of the guild hall like a blade through still air. "She stepped toward you. Not the mask. Not the monster. You."
Silence dropped again, thick and stifling. Conversations died mid-sentence. A fork clattered against a plate somewhere off to the side. Even the creaking of the old rafters seemed to hush as every eye turned once more to the cloaked figure seated beside Makarov.
Aelius didn't look up right away. He sat motionless, one gloved hand still wrapped around the neck of the bottle, the other resting loosely near the small pile of parchment scraps he'd been ignoring for the past few minutes. The only movement was the faint shift of his shoulder as he inhaled.
Then—calm, even—he finally spoke.
"She stepped toward you, not the mask. Not the monster."
He lifted the bottle slowly, took another swig, and set it down with a gentle thunk. His eyes slid sideways to Erza, their usual burn dimmed but not extinguished.
"You said monster."
A moment passed. Then another.
"At least someone gets it," Aelius added, voice dry, almost amused, but hollow in its delivery. "Nice to know the armor's more than just steel and posture."
Erza didn't flinch. Her arms were crossed, gaze locked with his, fire held in check but burning hot beneath the surface.
Gray stepped forward abruptly, his boots striking the floor harder than necessary as he shoved his way past a few stunned onlookers. His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides—not quite fists, but close. He came to a stop a few feet from Aelius's seat, the space between them charged with something volatile.
"Cut the cryptic bullshit," Gray snapped, the words sharp and unflinching. "She cried."
His voice didn't rise, didn't need to. The quiet that still hung over the guild amplified every syllable like a drumbeat.
"She cried, man. Levy. She never cries. You think you're being noble, or whatever the hell this is supposed to be? You're not. You're just hurting someone who didn't deserve it."
Aelius tilted his head, his gaze flicking from the label on his bottle to Gray's face. His expression was unreadable beneath the hood's shadow, but he said nothing, not at first.
"She was trying," Gray continued, taking a step closer. "Trying to reach you. And you just sat there like none of it mattered. Like she didn't matter."
A few murmurs rose from the guild around them—small, uncertain, a ripple of unease and agreement both. Somewhere off to the side, Mira's brows were furrowed, lips parted like she wanted to intervene but couldn't quite find the words. Natsu, unusually quiet, was leaning forward from his spot by the fire, his mouth tight and eyes fixed on Aelius.
Gray didn't back down. His voice remained steady, but it edged toward something colder, sharper, with each word.
"You can't even consider her a friend?" he asked, incredulous. "Or any of us? You keep saying you're trying to protect everyone by staying away, but you considered Caius a comrade? Him? Of all people?"
It was a mistake.
A low sound rippled from Aelius—not a word, not even a growl, but a shift in presence. The air around him seemed to tighten, thicken, like the pressure before a storm but far more personal. The bottle, which had been steady in his grasp, was set down with a precise, deliberate click that was far louder than it should've been. His head turned, slowly, his putrid eyes locking onto Gray with an intensity that peeled back the veil of his usual detachment.
He stood.
It wasn't dramatic. He didn't rise with fury, didn't shout. But somehow the act of him standing was louder than any outburst could've been. The silence in the guild became brittle.
"You know why I tolerate Caius, Fullbuster?" Aelius's voice was razor-thin, every syllable laced with fury kept on a tight leash. "Because he's a bloodthirsty maniac."
He took a step forward, his cloak shifting like dead leaves in windless air.
"I've watched him tear families apart—literally—for being in his way. Men. Women. Children. Screaming while he laughed. And you want to compare that to her?"
His hand twitched, just slightly, as if resisting the urge to summon something darker.
"I keep Caius close because anything that happens to him, any hell that opens up and swallows him whole—he'll enjoy it."
He leaned forward slightly, the edge of his mask catching the light.
"And I want him to. Because it means when the reaper comes for him, I won't have to feel a godsdamn thing."
The last word hit with a thud, final and full of venom. The guild remained frozen, barely breathing.
"And that's why he's not my friend," Aelius continued, voice softer now, colder. "He's a monster, one I understand. One I can aim at worse things and forget for a moment what I am."
He straightened.
"She's not like him. She's kind. Curious. She's…" A faint, near-invisible tremor passed through his next breath. "She's still clean."
Gray's eyes flickered with curiosity as he watched Aelius carefully. "You mentioned someone else, too," he said, his voice quieter now, the tension in the air already palpable. "When we were still rebuilding, you mentioned a girl. Neshi, wasn't it?"
Aelius froze for a split second. His fingers tightened around the bottle in his hand, and for the briefest moment, his mask seemed to grow heavier, as if the very mention of the name was enough to weigh it down.
"Don't mention her," Aelius replied sharply, his voice low, warning. His emerald eyes flicked sideways to Gray, an unmistakable coldness in his gaze. "I don't want to talk about it."
But Gray, ever stubborn, wasn't going to let it slide that easily. He leaned forward, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But you of all people brung her up. She matters to you, doesn't she? You can't just ignore her. You mentioned her when we were rebuilding—what happened to her?"
Aelius's hand tightened even more around the bottle, the dark liquid inside swirling with his rising agitation. The calm exterior he usually maintained was cracking at the edges, and the fury that bubbled beneath the surface was becoming harder to contain.
"Do not talk about her," Aelius repeated, this time his voice more controlled, but the sharp edge of his anger was impossible to miss. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the explosion that was just about to happen.
Gray, not realizing how much this would affect him, pressed on, his brow furrowed. "If she mattered to you, Aelius, why won't you just say it? What happened to her? Why can't you—"
That was the breaking point.
Aelius's anger erupted in a flash of violent energy. He stood up so fast the chair behind him scraped across the floor with a loud, screeching sound. The bottle in his hand was suddenly slammed down on the counter, a crash that made everyone in the guild flinch. His emerald eyes burned with rage, and his voice, when it came, was a low growl, barely holding back the storm inside.
"I said don't talk about her!" he snarled, each word dripping with venom. The guild went completely still at the force of his outburst.
Gray's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't back down, standing firm despite the intensity radiating off Aelius. But even he couldn't miss the raw anger that flashed through Aelius's gaze before he quickly turned away, hiding it behind the layers of rage.
Aelius's chest heaved, his breath shallow, as if he was struggling to contain the storm inside. His voice, when it came again, was softer but no less fierce.
Gray's jaw tensed as he stepped forward, the defiance in his posture matching the fire in his voice. "No," he said flatly. "You've hidden enough, Aelius."
The name hung heavy in the air—no title, no deference, just the man beneath the mask. The way Gray said it felt deliberate. Peeling him down to the root, stripping him of the armor he wore not just on his body but in every word, every breath, every step he took through that guild.
The silence that followed crackled with tension.
Gray's gaze didn't waver, not even as he pointed a finger at the cloaked figure seated beside the master. "You think shutting everyone out makes you strong? You think pretending none of us matter is going to protect us? Or is that just easier than dealing with what's still eating you alive?"
Aelius didn't respond, didn't even look at him.
But Gray wasn't done. His voice lowered, less confrontational now, more cutting in its sincerity. "You got angry. You never lose your temper unless something really gets to you. So don't try to tell me she was no one. This Neshí… whoever she was… she mattered."
Aelius's grip around the bottle on the table tightened, the glass groaning faintly under the pressure of his fingers.
Gray watched him for a beat, then took another step forward.
"She mattered," he repeated, softer now but no less firm. "And I don't know what happened to her. But I know that whatever it was… you never let yourself deal with it. You buried it. Like you bury everything. And it's not just hurting you anymore."
The guild was so quiet it might've been empty. Mira had stopped wiping down glasses. Elfman's hands were clenched on the edge of a table. Even Natsu wasn't moving.
Only Aelius.
Still standing.
Still silent.
The faint tremor in his hand gave him away. The mask didn't crack, but something beneath it did. A breath—ragged, unsteady—escaped him like a pressure valve struggling not to burst.
Then, low and bitter:
"You don't know what you're asking for, Fullbuster," he said. "You think digging through old graves helps anyone? You think dredging up her is going to fix something?"
Gray didn't answer right away.
Aelius finally turned his head. Just slightly. Enough for one smoldering eye to catch the light.
"Let it rot," he said, quieter this time. "Let it all rot. That's the only mercy left."
But even that sounded like a lie.
Even that sounded like it hurt to say.
Aelius's fingers loosened from the bottle's neck, the faint creak of stained glass dissipating into the heavy stillness. He sat forward, elbows resting on the scarred wooden bar, the shadows of his hood casting a jagged veil across his mask. His eyes flicked up—
—and caught Makarov's.
The old master didn't speak. He didn't have to. It was the look: the quiet kind, patient, heavy with understanding but unyielding. Not a command… but an expectation. One Aelius knew too well.
He stared for a long second, shoulders lifting slightly as he exhaled like it drained something vital from his lungs.
"I just can't catch a break, can I?" he muttered, more to the bottle than anyone else. The words dropped into the silence like iron on glass.
Then he turned slightly in his seat, voice clearer now—though still flat and worn.
"Fine."
That single word cut through the tension like a blade. Around the hall, jaws tightened. Eyes widened. Gray blinked, caught off guard that he'd actually broken through.
"You want to know about her?" Aelius said. "Then I have one rule. One."
He held up a single gloved finger.
"Don't bring her up after this. Ever again. Not her name. Not her memory. Not her shadow. This is the first and only time."
He let that hang, giving them all time to chew on the seriousness of it. His tone was razor-sharp and final.
"She's the reason for my little walk through the forest," he said quietly, not looking at anyone now. "She tried to bring back my friend. The same one who got close. The same one I killed."
Silence.
Aelius's fingers flexed slightly against the bar, a soft grind of leather against wood as he kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, seeing things none of them could.
"I thought I could call her something close to a friend," he said after a moment, and there was something raw and threadbare in the way he spoke the word. Like it didn't belong in his mouth. "Despite all her flaws. And trust me—she had them. Arrogant. Impulsive. Talked too damn much. Always had to be right, always had to prove something…"
His voice trailed, catching on the edge of memory, of something too alive to be called dead and too lost to ever come back.
"But she was almost enjoyable to be around," he admitted bitterly, as if the confession hurt worse than any wound. "There was this… spark. That maddening energy that made her hard to ignore. And for a while, I thought maybe—just maybe—she understood."
His hand finally released the bottle, tapping once against the bar.
"She tried to use black magic to bring back Alaric. Thought she could outsmart the darkness in it. Thought she could twist it into something good. Thought I'd want that."
A hollow breath escaped him—almost a laugh, but nothing about it was funny.
"First friend told me to kill myself," Aelius said flatly, like he was reciting a fact in a textbook. "I killed my second. And the third…" His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "The third views life as a game. Like death is just another move on the board."
The room was still. Not with judgment now, but something heavier. Something softer.
A few eyes lowered. Even Natsu's ever-burning stare dimmed. Off near the corner, Lisanna looked away, her brows furrowed in quiet, aching confusion. It wasn't loud. No one said anything.
But it was there.
That look.
That subtle downward shift in gaze. That faint, unwanted silence that hummed of shared discomfort. Pity, even if they didn't know they were giving it.
Aelius noticed it instantly.
His eyes flicked to the nearest one, Erza maybe, or Mira—and locked on just long enough to kill it. He wasn't angry. There was no fire behind the stare. Only ice.
"I don't want your pity," he said quietly. Not cold enough to wound. Just… cold. Matter-of-fact. A simple truth. A grave sealed shut.
"You wanted to know. Now you do."
He looked back at the bar, bottle still half-full in his hand. His voice dropped just above a whisper, low enough that only those closest might hear—but the weight of it still rang out across the hall.
"That's all."
No invitation. No resolution. Just a door that had opened, briefly, only to slam shut again.
And he didn't look up after that. Didn't speak.
He simply drank.
Until—
"Where's Levy?"
Jet's voice rang out before Aelius could even move.
"Why? So you can make her cry again?"
Droy stood just behind him, arms crossed, a rare firmness hardening his usually easygoing face. "She doesn't need more of you right now."
Their voices weren't loud, but they carried. And they were sharp—bladed with that indignation that came from protectiveness, from friendship. The kind Fairy Tail was built on, but something more personal too. A few guildmates stirred from their silence, shifting uncomfortably, watching the tension rise again like a second storm on the horizon.
Aelius stopped.
Slowly, almost deliberately, he turned to face them, the hem of his long coat dragging slightly against the floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't square his shoulders in challenge.
But the pressure in the air dipped low.
His emerald eyes met Jet's, then Droy's, and though he looked calm—composed, even—there was something in the set of his jaw, the flicker of fatigue riding just beneath the surface of that stare, that suggested his patience was bleeding thin.
"I didn't ask you," Aelius said quietly, the edge of his voice honed and precise like a scalpel sliding just under the skin. "I asked where she is."
Jet's mouth opened again, ready to protest—but Aelius had already turned.
He walked off without another word, the space around him seeming to bend slightly away as if the air itself had no interest in getting in his path.
"She's probably in the library," he muttered under his breath. "Where else would she go when the world starts looking like me?"
And with that, he moved on, boots tapping steadily against the guildhall floor, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to fade.
The guild library was quieter than the hall had been—still, hushed, filled with the scent of parchment, ink, and aged wood. The golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows, casting long shadows between the tall shelves that loomed like silent sentinels over the aisles of books.
Aelius stepped in without fanfare, his boots landing soundlessly on the polished floor, the only movement in the stillness being the faint ripple of his cloak trailing behind him. The moment he entered, something shifted in the air—not pressure, not magic, just a subtle change. As if the library itself held its breath.
He didn't call out.
He didn't need to.
Tucked into the far corner, where the older texts were kept—where stories of enchantments, ancient dialects, and obscure enchantment circles gathered dust—Levy sat curled at a table. Her small frame was hunched slightly, arms folded on the desk, a book lying open but untouched before her. Her hair fell like a curtain across one side of her face, hiding her expression, though the faint shimmer clinging to her cheeks betrayed her.
She hadn't heard him yet.
Aelius stood in the threshold a moment longer, watching.
There was a deep, hollow pull in his chest—an ache that sat just behind the sternum, where no magic could dull it. She was here. Alone. Quiet. Hurt. And it was because of him. Again.
He let out a breath through his nose, low and slow. No anger now. No fire. Just the residue of it all, pooling in his lungs like smoke that refused to rise.
Then, finally, he stepped forward.
Two steps. Three. The sound of his boots on the stone floor broke the silence.
Levy looked up slowly.
Her eyes met his—and though they were red-rimmed and still slightly wet, they were not afraid. Not timid. Not even angry, exactly. Just… wounded.
Aelius didn't avert his gaze.
"Library," he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. "Figured you'd be here."
There was no sarcasm. No bitterness. Just the truth.
He stopped a few paces from the table. Close enough that the light from the window stretched across his coat, glinting faintly on the steel of his hidden armor beneath.
He let a silence settle between them before speaking again.
"I'm not here to argue," he said. "Or explain. Or justify."
His eyes dropped briefly to the book she hadn't been reading.
"I'm here… because you stepped forward." His gaze met hers again. "And I didn't."
His hands, gloved as always, remained at his sides. His posture was rigid, trained—but his voice was low and bare, stripped of the coldness it usually carried.
"I saw someone walk toward me without fear. And I treated that like a threat."
He gave a slow shake of his head.
"You didn't deserve that."
And for once, the mask wasn't what he was hiding behind.
He just stood there, waiting.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for pity.
Just for the first word to come from her… if she had one to spare.
Levy's voice broke the silence, soft but steady despite everything.
"…Why?"
Aelius didn't move at first. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his eye. His shoulders lifted with a slow breath—measured, not frustrated, not angry. Just tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, either. The kind that sank into the marrow of a man and stayed there.
"I'm getting tired of explaining," he said, his voice rough, carrying the weight of too many conversations he didn't want to have, too many ghosts dragged into the open just to be dissected. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing—not with sharpness, but weariness, and something dangerously close to exhaustion. "Tired of dragging it out in front of everyone like I'm some parlor act with a tragic backstory."
His gaze drifted toward the stained glass window above the far wall—its colors dulled in the dusty light, painting the floor in faint, fractured hues.
"But…"
He looked back down at her. And for once, there was no edge in his expression. No cold distance. Just that quiet exhaustion… and something just a little more vulnerable underneath.
"You, of all people, deserve to know."
He didn't sit. Didn't get closer. Just stood there—guarded, as ever, but not closed off.
"I'd like to keep it short," Aelius murmured, his voice as dry and steady as parchment being turned in an ancient tome. "So I'll tell you what I just told Gray."
He didn't look at Levy, not fully. His eyes traced the cracked spines of the books lining the walls—places where knowledge lived, and emotion wasn't required.
"First friend told me to kill myself," he said. "Didn't even flinch when she said it. Just stared, like she was reading off an ingredient list. As if my pain was a recipe and I was the last part to be discarded."
He shifted his stance slightly, a shadow flickering across his face.
"I killed my second." His voice was quieter now, like the words might shatter if he raised them any louder.
His lips curled—not into a smile, not really. More like a grim reflection of one, hollow at the edges and sharp in the middle. A cut, not a curve.
"The third…" A pause, heavy and laced with something darker. "The third thinks life is a game. She doesn't cry, doesn't grieve. She collects pain and suffering like playing cards and laughs when you call it monstrous."
He finally turned to Levy then—fully, completely. No deflection, just the haunted green of his eyes fixed on her, quiet and merciless in their honesty.
"Those are my choices. That's my track record. So when you ask me why I didn't reach out… why I didn't say something or let you in…" He shook his head once, slow. "It's because I don't know how to see someone like you without thinking I'll end up ruining you too."
He let the words settle like ash in the silence, the air in the library thick with the weight of truth laid bare—raw and unpolished, the kind that didn't ask for comfort or forgiveness. Only understanding.
Aelius's gaze didn't waver from Levy now. If anything, the green in his eyes dimmed slightly, like a flame struggling in the wind, flickering behind layers of exhaustion worn like old armor.
"I see the way you look at people," he went on, quieter now, but no less certain. "Like they're worth saving. Like there's still something good in them even when the world has carved them down to scraps. You looked at me like that, too."
He exhaled slowly, the breath shaky despite his effort to control it. "And for a second… just a second, I wanted to believe you were right. That maybe this"—he gestured loosely to himself, the mask, the cloak, everything—"wasn't all I am."
"But I've watched what happens to the ones who try. Who care. They end up bleeding for it. Or worse… they stop caring too."
His voice dropped low, softer than a whisper. "I didn't want that to happen to you."
There was no anger left in his tone. No fire, no scorn. Just a hollow sort of clarity. A truth he'd held too long. A weight he didn't know how to put down.
"I don't get to have what people like you offer. I don't trust myself with it. And I won't let you become another scar I carry."
Then, a pause—drawn out, bitter.
"I said it the day I came back. Why I let you think I didn't care." He gave a faint shrug, a gesture too tired to carry any edge. "Because maybe if you hated me, it'd be easier for both of us."
The silence after Aelius's words was long and strangely fragile, like the air itself might shatter if either of them moved too quickly.
Levy sat there, frozen halfway between anger and heartbreak. Her eyes were wide, shimmering slightly beneath the soft library light that filtered in through the high windows. A book lay forgotten in her lap, one hand still resting atop it, the other clenched tightly into her skirt like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor.
Then, slowly—like she was trying to find the words in a language she'd never spoken before—she finally broke the silence.
"…That's not fair," she said, voice soft and uneven. "You don't get to decide that for me."
Aelius turned his head slightly, green eyes watching her, expression unreadable.
"You think you're protecting me?" Levy stood, not with the fury that Jet or Droy might've carried, but with something quieter. Something far more dangerous. "By shutting me out? By making me think I was just another problem in your way? Do you know what that did to me?"
Her hands shook now, not from rage—but from everything she'd been carrying since the day he came back. From the confusion, the worry, the self-doubt she'd buried under her usual cheer. Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop.
"You're not the only one who's lost people. You're not the only one who's scared to open up. But you don't get to stand there and act like you're the only one who gets hurt in all this."
A pause, and then more quietly:
"I cared. I care. And I'm still here, aren't I?"
She took a step toward him.
"You say you don't know how to see someone like me without thinking you'll ruin me? Did you ever think—just once—that maybe I'm stronger than you give me credit for? That maybe I knew what I was stepping into?"
The pain in her voice wasn't just for herself. It was for him, too.
"I looked at you and saw someone who was hurting. Who needed someone. And I didn't step toward the mask, or the power, or the shadow you wear like armor. I stepped toward you, Aelius. The one behind all of it."
Another step. The library was silent but for the low hum of her voice now.
"You can push me away. You can act like none of it matters. But don't you dare stand there and pretend you don't matter to me."
And for a moment… Levy didn't look like the bookworm the guild always knew. She looked resolute. Not angry. Not afraid.
Just unwilling to give up.
"I deserve the truth," she finished. "Not because you owe me. But because I was your friend even when you tried to pretend I wasn't. And if I get hurt for it, that's my choice."
She stood there, breath shaking, eyes locked with his.
Waiting.
Aelius stood motionless for a moment, the weight of Levy's words pressing down on him like a physical force. His gaze was steady, but it wasn't a look of contempt or disinterest. There was something in his eyes now, a flicker of something buried deep inside him that had long been forgotten—or maybe never fully acknowledged.
He sighed, a sound that was more like a weary acceptance than anything else.
"Then yes," Aelius said, his voice quieter now, almost like he was speaking to himself as much as to her. "If it's still up after all this... then I consider you a friend."
His emerald eyes met hers for the briefest of moments before they looked away, almost as if he was embarrassed by the admission. It was so rare for Aelius to show such vulnerability, and even now, it came out like a reluctant truth. He wasn't used to admitting things like this. Not about anyone. Not to anyone.
But there it was, hanging in the air between them, the first piece of truth he'd allowed himself to give in a long, long time.
His hand moved to his flask, fingers curling around it tightly, almost as though to steady himself before he spoke again.
"Don't expect more than this," he added, his voice hardening again, as if he was trying to put some distance between them, as though trying to shield both himself and her from what had just passed between them. "But... that's all I have to give."
Levy stood there, silent for a moment as she processed his words. She could see the walls going back up, the distance settling in like a thick fog between them. But she wasn't ready to let it all close off again. Not after what they'd just shared, no matter how brief or raw it had been.
"Okay," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "I won't expect more." Her gaze was steady, her hands clasped loosely in front of her as she took a small step closer. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to back away either. I can't just pretend this didn't happen. You are giving something, even if you don't see it that way."
Her eyes softened, a quiet warmth flickering beneath her words, her vulnerability still there, though she wore it carefully.
"All I'm asking for is a chance, Aelius. Just a chance to prove that you don't have to keep everything locked away." She took another step forward, her tone gentle but firm. "You don't have to do this alone."
Levy's voice was low but sincere, the truth of it in her steady eyes. "And if all you have to give is this... then that's enough for me. I can't promise that things will be easy or that I won't mess up, but I won't back down either."
She took another breath, her hands reaching to touch the back of a chair near her. "You don't have to let your past dictate everything about who you are now. People make mistakes, Aelius. And that's fine. What matters is what you choose to do with the chance you have now."
Levy's gaze was unwavering. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."
Aelius exhaled sharply, his eyes briefly flicking to the ground as if the weight of his own words had become too much for him to handle. The rigid mask of indifference he wore began to slip again, revealing a glimmer of the man beneath—someone who wasn't as cold and distant as he often tried to project.
His voice was rough, but he pushed the words out, fighting against the tightness in his chest.
"I suppose I should apologize for making you cry," he said, his tone lacking the usual sharpness but still carrying a cold edge. "I... didn't mean for that to happen."
He glanced up at her then, his gaze steady but hesitant, as though acknowledging a part of himself that he'd long since buried.
"I'm sorry."
The words seemed to linger in the air, heavy and unspoken, as if Aelius had been holding them back for longer than he realized. There was something almost fragile in the way he said it, a vulnerability he couldn't completely suppress, even if he tried to hide it behind his usual guarded demeanor.
It was the closest he had come to offering something more than the biting, defensive side of himself.
Levy's gaze softened, the edge of the hurt still visible in her eyes, but there was something else there now—understanding, acceptance, and perhaps a quiet relief. Her lips parted, and for a brief moment, she seemed to search his masked face, as though weighing his words carefully, trying to find the meaning behind them.
She nodded slowly, her voice quiet but steady, "Apology accepted."
Her words were simple, yet they held more weight than the usual formalities. It was a forgiveness that didn't come easy, but there was sincerity in her tone, an acknowledgment that despite everything, she saw him—not as the monster he believed himself to be, but as the person beneath the mask.
Levy stepped closer, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips, though it was tinged with sadness. "I know you don't like to show it, but..." She hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "I see that you're trying. Even if it's hard for you. You don't have to carry all of it alone."
Aelius's eyes flickered, a fleeting softness before he quickly masked it, his posture stiffening. "I don't need anyone's pity," he muttered, more to himself than to her, though the words lacked their usual venom.
Levy's smile remained, though it was faint. "I'm not offering pity, Aelius. I'm just... here, if you need someone."
The air between them had shifted, lighter now but still carrying the weight of what had been said. It wasn't an instant healing, and perhaps it never would be—but it was something. Something genuine. Something neither of them had been expecting, but both of them needed.
Aelius's gaze shifted slightly, his usual guarded demeanor slipping back into place as he exhaled a quiet breath. The walls were returning, slowly, but for a moment, there was still something unspoken between them. He tilted his head slightly, eyes meeting Levy's with a flicker of uncertainty buried beneath his cold exterior.
"Are we good now?" he asked, his voice steady but carrying a faint trace of something softer beneath it, something he has shown more today than ever before.
It was a simple question, but it carried the weight of everything that had just transpired—the apologies, the raw honesty, the fragile bridge they had both tried to build. Despite himself, he was waiting for her answer, as though a part of him still feared the weight of what came next.
Levy stood there for a moment, her eyes meeting his, before she nodded, her expression sincere but tinged with something quieter, almost reassuring.
"Yeah," she said softly. "We're good."