Chapter Text
When Laxus thought about his youth, he felt almost like a ghost of himself, as if each memory were merely a distant projection of a man who no longer existed.
He had been born and raised in a kingdom where magic flowed like the river of time itself, heir to a lineage of powerful mages. After all, he was the grandson of Master Makarov, and so, from an early age, his destiny was intertwined with Fairy Tail.
And no one could say he wasn’t destined for exceptional things.
Growing up in the guild halls, where bonds of friendship were forged in battle and where youth flourished amidst laughter and celebration, Laxus had always been a luminous presence. He had hair as golden as the sun and eyes so intensely golden they seemed to contain a lightning bolt trapped within them.
From an early age, he stood out not only for the lineage he carried but also for his undeniable talent, brute strength, and his nature—the indomitable lightning that his own father had implanted in him.
He mastered, with an almost unsettling skill, a magic that many only dreamed of commanding. His pride was as imposing as the power of a Dragon Slayer. But at the same time, this was a double-edged sword—for where pride shone, loneliness also arose. He didn’t want to be just another heir to the Dreyar name; he wanted to be remembered as Laxus, the man who rose alone. He wanted the respect, the admiration, the reverence of others, and perhaps, deep down, the love he never knew how to ask for.
Youth, however, is cruel to those who believe that strength is enough.
His gentle childhood—when he still laughed with Freed, fought side by side with Mirajane, and accepted Makarov’s scoldings with a light heart—was slowly replaced by something harder.
The comparisons came. The expectant glances. The weight of the surname. And he, trying to prove himself, ended up building walls so high that no one could truly see him anymore.
Then, something inside him was lost. Kindness was corroded by arrogance, and the desire to be admired turned into a hunger for power.
The lessons of camaraderie that Fairy Tail had taught him—those born from the warmth of missions, collective laughter, pats on the back, and exaggerated toasts—turned to ashes. The boy who wanted to be loved became the man who only knew how to dominate. And power, when it knows no bounds, devours men.
He was a deeply flawed young adult—and he was aware of it now, sitting there in the cold, damp cell.
The irony was that, as much as he had always wanted to be remembered, all that remained of him was the echo of his mistake.
Now he was there. Humiliated. Alone.
The cell, with its walls scribbled on by those who had been there before him, was the perfect reflection of what remained of his mind: full of marks, confused, without a horizon. This was Laxus Dreyar’s fate. And unlike the previous person who had occupied that space, he had stopped counting the days.
He knew he might never get out of there.
There was no freedom after dishonor, no forgiveness after betraying his own guild, his own family—and, in his case, Fairy Tail was his family.
He sometimes imagined what his end would be like: to be led away, handcuffed, to a public trial, condemned by the very same magicians who had once applauded him. And then, silence. Oblivion.
Yes, he imagined he would leave that cell straight for a grave—and from there, perhaps, straight to hell.
There was no redemption. Nor salvation.
Part of him just wanted the torment to end quickly—for some force to pull him from that limbo and put an end to it all. He wanted to stop dreaming of the screams. The screams of his companions, echoing in his mind, night after night. Screams he himself had provoked.
And somehow, he believed it was just. It was God’s punishment, or perhaps something worse. And he deserved it.
When he let his mind wander—which was practically all he did now—he remembered something he had heard many years ago: “You are a monster.”
He didn’t remember who said it first, but he remembered the tone. That mixture of fear and disappointment marked the words.
Perhaps it was Mirajane, or Natsu, or even his grandfather Makarov.
Or perhaps it had been himself.
It didn’t matter.
The phrase was so deeply etched in his mind that it seemed tattooed.
And he agreed. Laxus was, in fact, a monster—strange, merciless, cold, calculating. And worst of all: he knew it.
Now he sat on the floor of his cell, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out. His worn and loose black sweatpants hung from him like an old rag.
He had lost weight. His hands, once firm and powerful, trembled slightly. His body, once sculpted by strength, now seemed a shadow of itself. But none of that mattered. Nothing else mattered.
He regretted what he had done.
Truly.
But regret wasn’t the same as forgiveness—and the Council of Magic wasn’t moved by tears that were never shed.
And he never cried.
Not in front of anyone.
He could hear, across the corridor, the sound of Mr. Benson’s boots echoing alongside his characteristic whistle. The jingle of keys betrayed the routine. In a few seconds, he would open the main gate and walk over there—always at the same time, with the same calm demeanor.
And, as always, he would try to talk.
Laxus knew. It was always like this.
“Good morning, Laxus. Today is a beautiful day,” said the man, approaching the cell bars. “You’re very pale. You need some sun... You can’t yet, of course, but I presume that will change soon.” His voice was soft and sounded genuinely kind.
Mr. Benson was the head warden and perhaps the only living soul who treated Laxus like a human being there. He was a robust man with a long, dark mustache and round-rimmed glasses that gave him an intellectual air. The white shirts he wore always had their sleeves rolled up, and his dress pants seemed somewhat out of place in that damp, gray environment.
To Laxus, he looked more like a librarian than a warden. And, in a way, that was almost true: Benson was an avid reader and frequently brought him books—hidden from the other guards.
Laxus didn’t treat him badly. But he didn’t encourage him either. He had learned that bonds were dangerous. And yet, deep down, he knew that the kind man was the closest thing he had to a friend—a friend who called him by name, who looked him in the eye without fear, who treated him with a humanity he believed he didn’t deserve.
Few knew, but Laxus had voluntarily surrendered to the Council. In exchange, the Raijinshuu— Freed, Evergreen, and Bickslow—were released and not charged.
However, they were not allowed to visit him. It was part of the agreement.
“Good morning,” he replied curtly, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Benson smiled, accustomed to the curt tone.
“May I see what you drew today?”
Laxus extended the small black notebook he kept with him. It was a simple object, dated with the current year, which he used as a refuge.
It hadn’t been easy to obtain it. One day, he asked for a notebook and a pencil. The request was denied, but Benson took responsibility and brought the notebook himself, claiming that a pencil and a notebook posed no danger.
And, in fact, they posed no danger. The monster Laxus would never try anything against Mr. Benson—the only person who showed him kindness.
In truth, what he did was the opposite of dangerous: he drew. He wrote. He created.
Drafts, poems, fragments of memories. Trembling lines that formed faces, symbols—sometimes just meaningless scribbles. It was his only pastime.
A silent addiction.
And there was something tragic about it: the monster who had destroyed his guild now filled his time writing poems.
Benson slowly leafed through the notebook, the pages yellowed with use rustling beneath his fingers. He stopped at one of the last verses and raised an eyebrow.
“‘Snakes devouring men?’” he murmured. “That’s a little scary, Laxus.”
The blond man lifted the corner of his lip in an almost-smile.
“I’m not finished yet. It’s just the first verse. One day you’ll see it complete. Maybe.”
Benson closed the notebook and returned it. There was pity in his eyes—a deep and genuine pity.
“You know, Laxus... I want to help you. But I can’t if you don’t open up to me. I won’t hurt you, you know that. I feel that, somehow, you...”
“—Please, Mr. Benson,” Laxus interrupted, without raising his voice. “I don’t need your help.”
The man sighed.
“My young man, do you really think they’ll want to help you?”
Laxus looked away, staring at the ground.
“I never said I wanted help from anyone.”
Another sigh.
“I’ve already pulled some strings to bring someone who can help you.” Benson smiled slightly, as if he were holding good news.
“—I already said I don’t want help.” Laxus’s voice sounded colder than intended.
“It’s someone from your guild,” the warden continued, pleased to see the other freeze for a moment. “They’ll come on Thursday.”
Laxus didn’t answer. He just stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. His heart, which had been beating aimlessly for so long, seemed to lose its rhythm.
Guild.
A word he hadn’t heard in so long that it already sounded strange.
For a moment, he wondered who it could be.
Freed, perhaps.
Or Mirajane, with that look that mixed pain and fury.
Or, who knows, Makarov himself—the grandfather he loved most and had hurt the most.
But no, that was impossible. Makarov would never look for him.
The memory of the old master struck him like lightning.
Laxus could clearly see Makarov’s face that day—the disappointed and, at the same time, tender look.
“You didn’t understand anything about what it means to be part of Fairy Tail.”
Those words, spoken before expelling him, still echoed in his mind.
And they hurt more than any sentence from the Council.
Now, months later, Laxus understood. Strength had never defined a Fairy Tail mage. It was the heart—the camaraderie between companions.
And his was in ruins.
Silence lingered in the cell.
Mr. Benson watched him with a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
Laxus, motionless, seemed trapped between two times: the glorious past and the decadent present.
Finally, the old man walked away, murmuring something about lunch, and the sound of keys echoed again down the corridor.
When he was alone again, Laxus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of dampness mixed with rusty iron enveloped him. The air was heavy, but somehow, there was peace in that confinement.
The solitude, though cruel, was honest.
And he thought about Thursday.
What he would do if he saw someone from Fairy Tail before him.
Would he apologize?
Would he fall to his knees?
Or would he simply look away, as he always did?
He didn’t know.
Perhaps he would remain silent.
Perhaps he would surrender to the emotion he had been repressing for so long.
He leaned his head against the wall and let the memories overwhelm him completely.
Natsu’s laughter echoing through the guild. The sound of Cana’s mug clinking against the counter. Lucy’s smile. Makarov’s voice saying that everyone there was family.
Family.
Another word he had forgotten how to use.
He closed his eyes again and thought: Perhaps Thursday will be the beginning of the end.