For perhaps an hour after the events within the hall of mirrors, Lucy and the Baron wandered throughout the carnival as it slowly decayed, searching for any sign of Azrael.
Yet even as they walked the sky began to grow light at its eastern edge, filling their search with a sense of urgency. And when at last all other possible places for which a Lord of Death might retreat to had been exhausted, it was the Baron suggested that suggested the most reasonable of final options.
Directly upon Azrael's throne.
For while Lucy had taken 'The darkest reign of the thorn' to refer to Azrael himself, perhaps it was another portion of the riddle that had been achingly obvious. Thus, there was a little room for argument and the two made their way to where the game had all begun.
Upon reaching the tent, they found it as decrepit as the others, the black velvet tattered in places.
It filled her with a sense of dread.
"I think I ought to go alone." Lucy murmured.
"Whatever for? Supposing we need to tackle him to the ground-- are you saying you could do something such as that on your own?"
"I..." her words trailed off to an aching silence. Unspoken words hanging like mist in the air, wrapping themselves around the two. The guilt and shame of what Lucy had done to cause the Baron's arrival to the carnival latching claws upon her heart. And though she knew she could never tell him, there was a sense of responsibility upon her that said that this final step was hers to bear alone. For she could not put him in further danger now that they had come so close to the end.
"I simply need you to stay here." She replied finally.
"But what if you--"
"Stay. Here."
The Baron offered no further argument, perhaps sensing the urgency in her tone, and taking a deep breath Lucy walked into Azrael's tent.
He was sprawled across the thorns; a pitiful shadow of what the Lord of Death ought to be. His dark locks plastered to his forehead, slick with beads of sweat. His tunic, unbuttoned to nearly the navel, was wrinkled and torn on places where it had snagged upon the brambles. His once pale lips now stained dark with what Lucy guessed was wine.
He hardly looked up as she entered the tent, his eyes dragging themselves around the room in a sluggish manner. Yet when at last he gazed upon her face, a drunken leer tugged at the corners of his mouth, his words slurring terribly as he spoke.
"Come to get your final key, my lady?"
The key in question, she saw, was displayed fully upon his neck; a dark shape of twisted iron that filled her with a sense of foreboding.
He had made no attempt to hide it. For he knew as well as she did that this was his final stand, and it was all coming to an end now.
Stepping forward, Lucy marched directly up to the dais upon which the throne of thorns sat, a twisted and blackened mass who's branches stretched upwards and out like broken fingers.
"I've won your game," she said, her voice ringing out like a bell in the cavernous and decaying space. "I've solved your riddle. I've found every key. Now let the Baron go."
She watched then as Azrael tilted his head back to look at her, his teeth glinting in the half-light as his lips were pulled back in a taunting grin. "You have not won the game yet, my dear. For you have not yet retrieved the final key." He stood then, taking a lurching step forward till they were merely an inch apart, his form towering over her. "And what makes you think I ought to simply give it to you?"
"Is that not what your ridiculous carnival is all about? Uniting the lost souls of lovers?"
A sharp laugh burst from his lips then, sending a spark of anger coursing through Lucy.
"You never loved him," Azrael said, that damned smile still frozen upon his lips, his eyes suddenly bright despite his stupor. "Not truly."
"And how would you know that?" Lucy spat.
"Because having someone tell you that you're supposed to love them is not the same as truly falling in love. And you know this."
The blood seemed to drain from Lucy's cheeks then, her lip quivering as she spoke. "Enough."
Yet Azrael's grin only widened, his movements languid as he inched himself closer to her till they were but a breath apart. "You know what love is and you know that whatever façade you put in its place was nothing but a show. Always obedient. Always looking to be the good girl."
Lucy's words were laced with venom. "Stop it!"
"Yet you're no angel." Azrael went on, his breath hot against her cheek, reeking of wine. "And you know as well as I do that you wish you did not have to pretend to be so... You wish you weren't as good as they all say you are–"
"I said enough!"
"... You wished Edward would stay dead."
A cold silence filled the room then, prickling with a thousand unspoken, venomous words. And yet all Lucy could bring herself to do was strongly return Azrael's gaze, her eyes admitting nothing, her body as poised in defiance as it had been before. Revealing no part of how his words had shaken her to the very core of her soul.
For surely he could not have known about her moment's hesitation when the Baron had fallen. Surely he was playing some role in the game to shatter her, to make her fall in the most wretched manner possible.
At her unwillingness to crumble, however, he smirked-- though Lucy could see the false arrogance behind it. An uncertainty behind it all that perhaps she would not break as easily as he would have liked her to.
In an instant however, he broke their trance entirely, the drunken haze returning to his expression as quickly as it had vanished in the moments prior. Now with a depth of sadness that overcame his haughty exterior.
"Still," she heard him mutter then under his breath, "Perhaps I want him to stay dead too." He slumped down upon his throne then, motionless, his lashes fluttering weakly before they closed, the lanterns around them sputtering slowly before giving way to darkness.
From the shadows she watched as he appeared to curl into himself, his head hanging low, his lips moving listlessly with words that hardly made any sense, and there... The key still hanging temptingly close beneath his throat.
She was so close to him now, their bodies merely within arm's reach, and though she knew it was a dreadful idea indeed, she felt the familiar tug within her to take something that was not her own.
He would feel it despite his drunken state, she knew. Yet in the end perhaps it did not matter, for she needed to only have the key in hand, running from the tent to the gates and out into the world of the living once more.
She simply had to be quick and silent in her execution.
Inch by inch her hand crept closer as they had done so many times before, on so many others. Her fingertips brushing against the frigid metal of the chain, and still Azrael did not stir.
Grasping hold of the key, her body tensed as she prepared herself to snap the chain around his neck, pulling ever so slightly--
Without warning his hand latched around her wrist, fingers digging into the soft flesh till she cried out in pain, his touch achingly cold. Like that of a dead man. Yet a fire was in his eyes, burning into her as she struggled against his grasp before he pushed her suddenly, as though throwing her away from himself.
She hit the ground with a dull thud, pain shooting up her leg as her ankle was twisted beneath her. Yet nevertheless, she could only stare at Azrael as he rose from his throne once more, his lips curling back into a snarl.
"Tell me why I should give you the key."
An answer hung on the edge of Lucy's tongue, her rushing thoughts mingling with the pounding of her heart in her ears, her skin prickling with an icy sweat as Azrael awaited her reply. And finally, it came. Slow and uncertain yet building power as she spoke, a confidence blooming in her chest.
"I know that you once loved... And I have to believe you recall what it felt like. I know you still remember it after all this time. And though perhaps I do not love the Baron--" she grit her teeth then, amending quickly, "Edward-- in the manner you think I ought to, there is some manner of love that I have found for him during the night. Not that of lovers, but between two people who have done everything to fight for one another. And you know as well as I that whether he is my lover or not, I shall not leave this carnival without him."
The war upon his expression grew darker, his eyes lashing between the sight of her upon the ground and the key within his hand, two choices at odds with one another. Tearing him apart from within.
Yet something seemed to break within him then, a decision being made in the depths of his soul, and from where she lay she watched as he threw the key to the dirt in front of her.
"Just go," he whispered.
Staggering to her feet, Lucy grabbed hold of the key of Death, feeling its iciness burn the flesh of her palm, yet lingering in the tent a moment more to watch as Azrael returned to his throne.
Slumping down upon it, she watched as the brambles seemed to wrap themselves around him and he tilted his head back further into them, receiving their embrace.
Yet before the thorns could swallow him entirely, she saw him give her a final, teasing grin that could not have been more at odds with the sadness reflected in his eyes. "Best leave now, my dear." he said softly. "The sun shall soon rise."
And even as Lucy took heed of his warning, leaving both him and the tent behind, she did so with a lingering sensation that Azrael made a sacrifice she would never fully know the weight of.
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