Some issues in the existence of fictional characters

For in all fairy tales, stories, and fantasy films, whenever boys found themselves in magical lands, whenever they battled monsters, they always emerged victorious. That means there must be such a law of fairy tales, and that law is on my side. So what is there to fear?

— Vladislav Krapivin, Children of the Blue Flamingo

Born of the union between an elf and a human, Svartulf the Cruel was an outcast to both peoples. He grew up a cunning deceiver, filled with scorn for everything but himself. Raised among elven sages, he shared in the power and wisdom of all elves, gaining magical might equal to that of the wisest scholars and the greatest kings. But he twisted the knowledge bestowed upon him and turned it to darkness, for he fell prey to envy and craved eternal life — a gift that, since the world’s creation, had belonged to elves alone. Through deception and treachery, he seized Alvstein, the ancient treasure that had housed the light of the Sun, Moon, and Stars since the dawn of time. The stone’s master would be granted immortality, and it was foretold that the fate of the Two Kingdoms was bound to it. When Alvstein was stolen, a time of sorrow fell upon the elves, for from that moment, they too became mortal. Yet the wise creators of Alvstein had decreed that unclean hands could not touch the sacred stone, and so their curse befell Svartulf. Though the stone granted him immortality, he could not bear to be near it, for its radiance caused him unbearable agony. Thus, he was forced to imprison the stone within a vault, forever separated from the very source of his power. But his wicked strength only grew. Over the years, Svartulf’s power grew so immense that he came to rule over most of the lands of elves and men, reigning with a grip of terror that darkened the hearts of all living beings. And as time passed, even his form became monstrous, twisted and grotesque, a reflection of his deceitful, blackened soul. Yet the most abhorrent of Svartulf’s deeds was the rift he drove between elves and humans. The humans blamed the elves for his existence, while the elves held mankind responsible. Children born of mixed blood came to be seen as cursed, and such offspring were slain at birth. The union of elf and human was declared an abomination, forbidden under the strictest law. All things tied to the realm of men became objects of fear and revulsion among the elves. And the cruelest insult one could hurl at another was: "Your mother was an elf." Then came a time so dark that no words in the tongues of elves or men could capture its horror, and it seemed that hope had abandoned the world. But after the blackest hour, the dawn always follows — and in that time of despair, two warriors arose, their hearts burning with valor. One was called Shougo Silver-Tongue. The other was El, son of Lowlite. None among elves was nobler or kinder than Prince El. He had no love for the clamor of battle; his heart belonged to the music of the forest and the quiet joy of deep contemplation. Yet his father, the king, grew old, and the prince — youngest of seven brothers — was determined to prove himself the worthiest heir to the throne of the Elven Realm. He dreamed of restoring his people’s lost power, of reclaiming the immortality that had once been theirs. Shougo, on the other hand, was no noble warrior — he was a rogue from the lands of men, a cunning outlaw who had committed countless crimes. Sentenced to death, he demanded a chance to challenge Svartulf, the immortal fiend. If he fell, it would be in a battle of legend; if he triumphed, he would return not as a condemned man, but as a hero granted pardon. He had little faith that the rulers of men would agree — but so desperate were the times that even the faintest glimmer of hope was enough for people to grasp. And so, side by side, Prince El and Shougo Silver-Tongue set forth into the heart of darkness. And as they journeyed together, the elf prince — pure of soul — came to regard the outlaw as a friend, despite the long-standing enmity between their peoples... "God, it worked!" — Makishima wanted to exclaim. But instead, his lips, suddenly acting of their own accord, uttered: "Where have we found ourselves, my prince?" "You would know better than I, my friend. The only certainty is that we are on our way to certain death." If looks could kill, L would have done it right then and there. Makisima had a suspicion that the grandiloquent language of heroic epics had significantly softened the actual emotional charge of those words. (Not that L didn’t have every right to be furious. If he decided to punch Makisima in the face for this whole page stunt, Makisima wouldn’t even protest too much.) They stood at the edge of a forest, holding the reins of two horses. Before them stretched miles of marshland, its surface broken here and there by gnarled black trees, their twisted branches like the fingers of an ancient crone. On the horizon, a massive black tower loomed against the sky. In short, their destination could have served as the ultimate gold standard of bleak and menacing landscapes — Edgar Allan Poe himself, had he been here, would have torn his hair out in envy and admitted his utter creative impotence. Makisima glanced at his companion. L hadn’t changed much in appearance, though his features had grown finer, and the unruly mess of his hair now deserved to be called "an artistically disheveled mane." He was dressed in something white and vaguely medieval, falling in elegant folds, embroidered with silver and fastened with a fibula set with a precious stone. A narrow silver circlet rested on his forehead, and his ears had taken on an elven point. Makisima wanted to comment that the whole scene looked like something out of a bad movie, but instead, his lips betrayed him once more: "This land has tempered you, turning a boy into a most noble man." L’s eyebrows climbed skyward. Makisima, deciding he might as well lean into the madness, added: "I am honored to be your vassal, my prince, no matter what trials fate may bestow upon us." No matter what he tried to say, only flowery nonsense came out. This genre was determined to make a fool of him. I swear, I'm embarrassed. Just hit me if you want, he pleaded silently with his eyes, hoping L would understand. L sighed, still looking at him with a mix of exasperation and reluctant patience. "At least you did not abandon me in this battle," he said. "Do not disgrace me so. I may be but a simple brigand, yet I have my honor." "Ill tongues claim the gods have bestowed few virtues upon your people… I am glad to see such slander proven false, for you humans are full of nobility and kindness." Was that… sarcasm? Looked like L had adapted to this universe’s brand of courtly double-speak at record speed. "So what’s the plan, prince?" Makisima asked. "I believe our path leads to that accursed tower. Somewhere within, Svartulf keeps Alvstein. It is our duty to reclaim the stolen treasure of my people." Makisima figured L was probably right — better to follow the book’s plot. Even the most mediocre work of fiction usually had a clear moral and logical conclusion. "Perhaps our duty is not only to reclaim Alvstein but to raise our weapons to the heavens in righteous fury and vanquish Svartulf," Makisima suggested. "After that, we should finally be able to return home." L nodded in agreement. Everything should go smoothly, Makisima thought. After all, in fantasy, heroes always defeat Dark Lords. Then came the thunder of hooves, followed by the whistle of arrows slicing through the air. A dozen riders were charging toward them. Not unexpected — no fantasy narrative, however naive, would allow a Dark Lord to leave his tower and its treasure unguarded. A heavy, barbed arrow struck Makisima’s shoulder — his left one, thankfully. L had already produced a slender, ornately carved bow from somewhere and strung an arrow with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Makisima, meanwhile, found a sword at his hip — a beautiful weapon with an elegantly crafted guard. Where had a common brigand gotten such a thing? "Prince El lent it to me for the journey, since my old sword was unworthy," his newly implanted artificial memory supplied. The sword even had some appropriately dramatic, unpronounceable name, as was customary for such stories. Makisima barely had time to think, "I really don’t care for these Freudian metaphors," before realizing his hands somehow knew exactly how to hold it, his feet how to move, dodge, and strike. In short, he fought well. A heady thrill washed over him — an intoxicating rush of power, just like in childhood, when he could lose himself in a fairy tale about knights and monsters. Only when their ten foes lay in a heap of bloodied flesh did he remember — they weren’t monsters. They were men. One had his skull split open. Another’s belly was slashed apart. Someone’s collarbone had been severed, someone else’s limbs hacked away. Shards of bone jutted from gaping wounds. The air reeked of blood. They should be grateful the patrol had been so small, that the two of them were such capable fighters they had barely been wounded. And yet — the magic of the fairy tale had vanished in an instant. L was staring at the bodies with an unreadable expression. Makisima guessed this was the first time L had ever killed a person with his own hands, the first time he had seen death up close in all its grotesque reality. And, with some irritation, he thought — Must be nice for him, a lucky child of a peaceful age, never having seen the messy scraps left behind when a human being is torn apart by a Dominator. Maybe that was why Makisima was so fond of his razor — an elegant weapon, lethal… and, in a way, merciful. He reached for the arrow in his shoulder and nearly howled in pain. For all the artificiality of this universe, its nauseatingly predictable plot, its theatrical scenery — pain and death were real enough. Then again, if anything in the world was real, it was pain. The very first thing a person feels upon entering life. "Prince, I don’t think we can keep cutting our way through hordes of enemies for much longer — we need to be cunning," Makisima said and quickly laid out his hastily devised plan. ...They dragged the bodies into the forest, hiding them from prying eyes. The clever Shougo donned the dark garments of one of the fallen foes, taking on the guise of a servant of Svartulf… "Should I not disguise myself as well, my friend, to avoid drawing attention?" L asked. "You will draw attention regardless. We’ll make it seem as though you’re my prisoner. Trust me, Prince." Makisima didn’t add that he vastly preferred for all eyes in the tower to be on the captured elf rather than on himself. Besides, who in this world would ever suspect that a human and an elf could be working together? ...And so the prince and his companion dared to infiltrate the tower where Svartulf kept his treasure. Disguised, Shougo roused no suspicion among the Dark Lord’s servants who guarded that dreadful place — they took him as one of their own. El, however, was thrown into a dungeon. The servants of Svartulf did not know his name, his title, or his purpose, but they recognized at once that he belonged to the race they despised above all others. And so they tormented him, starved him, demanded the same answers over and over. But the prince did not speak. And the days dragged on. Shougo watched as the noblest of elves suffered in the depths of that prison, but there was nothing he could do. His heart turned to ice to keep from bleeding out… "Please, trust me," Makisima said, day after day. "I will not let you die in this wretched cell. I will find a way." Every time he came to the dungeon, Makisima was grateful for the dim glow of the torch, which revealed so little of the darkness. He had no desire to know just how many fresh bruises, cuts, burns, lash marks, or torn-out nails the elf prince had acquired that day. In secret, away from the eyes of the other guards, he brought him food and a salve that might dull the pain — though it wasn’t as if his heart was truly bleeding for him. He simply suspected that the elf prince was the actual protagonist of this story, and he had no idea what he’d do if, heaven forbid, the man died. And yet, with every passing day, L looked worse — and, seemingly, trusted him less. …Shougo had come to know the grim fortress well from the inside and had earned a fair amount of influence among its inhabitants. But one problem remained: none of Svartulf’s servants knew exactly where within the stronghold Alvstein was kept. That secret, Svartulf guarded from all. Shougo decided to lure Svartulf here himself and make him reveal the truth. The Dark Lord rarely visited the fortress — he could not bear to be near Alvstein’s light for long. And so, Shougo fed Svartulf’s servants a lie: that he had tortured the elf’s name from him. If Svartulf learned just who had stumbled into his grasp, he would surely come in person. And come he did, the moment he was told. For he could not resist laying eyes on the grandson of the elven king he so despised — the one who had once possessed Alvstein before him. But Svartulf knew all his servants by face, for he had twisted each of them into darkness with his own hands. And the moment he set eyes on Shougo, he saw him for what he was: an intruder. No one else in this fortress would have ever entertained the thought that a human might conspire with an elven prince — but Svartulf still remembered the days of his youth, when men and elves had not been enemies. And he suspected, at once, that this stranger had not come with good intentions for the master of this stronghold. So Svartulf commanded that Shougo be brought before him. But they did not call him Silver-Tongue for nothing. Drawing upon every ounce of his skill, Shougo wove his words into a lifeline. He swore to Svartulf that he was no enemy. He told the truth — at least in part. He spoke of how his own people had nearly executed him, how he had pleaded for the barest scrap of mercy and bought himself a final chance to prove his worth here. He hated humans, he said, for they had cast him out. And he offered Svartulf his service… Until Makisima saw Svartulf with his own eyes, he had entertained the thought that perhaps the Dark Lord, too, was a prisoner of his own story, undeserving of the fate prescribed to him. (Not that it mattered — Makisima didn’t see any other way out of this wretched book. Someone had to die. Either them, or the Dark Lord.) But when they met, all thoughts of pity and understanding were gone in an instant. The Dark Lord was no towering monster. At first glance, he was an ordinary man. (Makisima recalled that the story claimed Svartulf was half-elven, but nothing in his features betrayed it.) Not handsome, not young. His eyes were cold and utterly indifferent, as if nothing in the world could stir them. His speech was measured and even. He did not deign to anger, nor even to scorn. In short, Svartulf the Cruel was eerily similar to a high-ranking crime boss or a seasoned politician. Perhaps, in this, the story had bent slightly to accommodate Makisima’s own mind. A caricatured, horned, or fanged brute in a black cape wouldn’t have unsettled him in the least. But this man — who could, with a few quiet words, send a thousand to their deaths without hesitation — suddenly struck him as truly terrifying. Or rather, it wasn’t Svartulf himself who was terrifying, but the sheer, crushing helplessness in the face of fate. It was a new sensation for Makisima, and the moment he got the faintest taste of it, he wanted to spit it out. In Psycho-Pass, he had been the smartest, the strongest, the most untouchable of all people (well — except for one person, the one-he’d-rather-not-think-about). He had never feared anyone or anything. He had lived on the edge, fully convinced, deep down, that nothing truly bad could ever happen to him. And now? Now he felt weak. Afraid. Exposed. Prey. No matter which word he chose, it made him sick to his stomach. The worst part was that the Dark Lord turned out not to be an idiot. Silver-Tongued or not, Makisima had always thought highly of his own powers of persuasion. But Svartulf simply listened, raising a skeptical brow, smirking now and then... And still, Makisima thought he had convinced him. He thought Svartulf believed he wasn’t an enemy. Until he said: "Your sword. Let me see it." He didn’t wait for permission. He merely moved his fingers — and in the blink of an eye, the sword was in his hands. Oh. Magic. (Well, that wasn’t exactly the word Makisima used in his mind, but the meaning was about the same.) He had completely forgotten about Prince El’s sword, had carried it with him this whole time. The scabbard was plain, and no one in the fortress had paid much attention to the elegant hilt and guard. When Svartulf summoned him, he hadn’t even been disarmed — no one had considered it necessary. Svartulf was confident the man wouldn’t try anything, not with guards in the room. And even if he did throw self-preservation to the wind and lunge at him... the Dark Lord’s magic would likely protect him. "Elven craftsmanship," Svartulf mused, turning the sword over in his hands. "How did a weapon like this end up in the hands of a man like you?" "I took it from Prince El," Makisima said smoothly. "Or rather, he gave it to me. He trusted me. Thought of me as a friend." Honesty is the best lie, after all. Svartulf smiled faintly. "See the hole in the pommel? Do you know what it’s for?" Makisima cursed himself. He should have put two and two together long ago. It was true that he had never seen Alvstein before, had no idea what size it was. But still — he should have guessed. A legendary magic stone. An elven sword meant to be wielded against the Dark Lord. What use was all his genre-savviness if he never actually used it? "For Alvstein?" he said dully. Svartulf nodded, still smiling. "Without it, the sword is nothing but a scrap of metal. Can you believe it? The elves forged this weapon specifically to destroy me. Pathetic creatures. Not a single soul among you had the spine to face me with an ordinary blade. No, you all needed your heaven-blessed miracles..." He curled his lip in disdain. "Did you really think, you insignificant little gnats, that you could steal Alvstein from me and end my life with this sword?" "You are mistaken, my lord," Makisima said. "I would never raise this sword against you. I..." A brilliant argument — at least, it seemed brilliant to him — suddenly came to mind. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t," he said. "My hands aren’t pure enough. I’m a hardened criminal, my lord. Alvstein would burn me with its light." "Do you expect me to believe the prince would entrust such a thing to a common brigand?" Svartulf scoffed. "El must have trusted you like a brother to give it away so easily. Enough talk, Silver-Tongue." The Dark Lord raised his gloved hand. He didn’t touch Makisima — but it hardly mattered. An invisible force clamped around his throat, strong as an iron vice. "Wait—!" Makisima choked out, and for once, his terror was not an act. He had only seconds left to live. "You can test me. You can see for yourself if I’m lying." Oh, how he hated saying that. "If I’m a friend to the elves, the light of Alvstein won’t burn me." "Are you truly willing to sacrifice your hand just to prove your loyalty to me?" Svartulf mused. "Better to lose a hand than my life, wouldn’t you agree?" Svartulf regarded him with something that almost resembled amusement. "You know, Shougo Silver-Tongue, I think this is a trick. I think you’re hoping Alvstein will help you defeat me. But I’m curious — what will a clever man like you do when he realizes that even in the noblest hands, the stone is just a stone? Aside from its little gift of eternal youth, of course." He smiled. "Very well. I will show you Alvstein." …And just like that, Shougo had tricked Svartulf into revealing his greatest secret — the location of the legendary stone. Svartulf led him through the fortress himself, through winding corridors and locked doors, into a hidden chamber where a small ornate box rested upon a pedestal… "Take it out of the box and bring it to me," Svartulf ordered, leaning casually on the elven sword. For the briefest moment, Makisima almost believed the stone wouldn’t hurt him. What if — despite everything — Alvstein blazed to life in his hands? What if its divine light flooded these halls, banishing the darkness and wiping Svartulf the Cruel from the face of the earth? After all, his psycho-pass had always been pure white. But no. This ridiculous fantasy relic turned out to be a far truer mirror of his soul than Sybil System’s advanced technology. The pain was hellish. Makisima screamed, unable to stop himself. Some stubborn, spiteful part of him refused to drop the stone immediately. He wanted to endure at least a few seconds — to see — even as he watched, from what felt like a terrible distance, his own hand blister and blacken, smoke curling from his burning flesh. As his skin peeled back, shriveling like the casing of a boiling sausage, exposing muscle, then bone. The stench of charred meat filled the air. A few steps, and at last, he couldn’t hold on any longer. The stone slipped from his fingers. "Ha! Looks like fate really doesn’t want you wielding that sword," Svartulf remarked. "Very well. I see now — you’re no friend to the elves. Your soul is steeped in darkness. And so, you wish to serve me? Even after losing your hand because of me?" "If..." Makishima struggled to form the words — "if my choice is between death and serving you, my lord, then I choose service." "Very wise, human. Pity not all of your kind share your pragmatism." Svartulf bent down and picked up Alvstein himself. Makishima forced himself to focus through the red haze of agony, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. And to his surprise, he saw the Dark Lord calmly fit the stone into the sword. "Did you think I couldn't touch it either?" Svartulf smirked. "Fairy tales. You know the legend — I stole this from the elves. How do you suppose I did that? It doesn’t harm me." "And yet you kept it as far from yourself as possible..." Makishima thought. But the thought barely had time to form before slipping away — he was in no state for sharp deductions. The pain was so unbearable that he was nearly ready to bite offwhat remained of his scorched hand. "Ironic, isn’t it?" Svartulf mused. "I can wield a sword forged for a hero, and you cannot. A fine weapon, truly. Perhaps I’ll keep it. Whatever its original purpose, it frames the stone beautifully." "A masterpiece, indeed," Makishima murmured, forcing his voice to remain steady — not to betray the fury or the pain clawing at his throat, but to sound smooth, almost flattering. "A shame Prince El isn’t here to see it." For the first time, he saw a flicker of real emotion on Svartulf’s perpetually indifferent face. Amusement. Cruel, vindictive amusement. "Oh, he’ll see it. I will kill the prince with this very blade. If his grandfather were alive to witness it, he’d weep so bitterly the heavens themselves would shatter." That was the reaction Makishima had been hoping for when he mentioned L’s name — but in truth, it had been a blind guess. At this point, he was improvising more than strategizing. Alvstein had been his last great gamble. He’d bet everything on the stone solving his problems for him. And now, the stone and the sword were in Svartulf’s hands. The Dark Lord showed no sign of pain, none of the unbearable torment that the legend swore Alvstein would inflict upon him. Either the legend was a lie (which was impossible — it was written into the very fabric of this story)… or there was something crucial Makishima was failing to understand. "I want to see it, my lord," he said suddenly. "If no one bears witness to El’s death, how will the elves ever know the terror of it?" Svartulf had dismissed his guards before retrieving Alvstein — he was fiercely protective of his secret vault. The Dark Lord gave a quiet chuckle and waved a hand in permission. Fine. Follow me. It seemed that, after the Alvstein incident, Svartulf had begun to trust him — at least enough to lower his guard. And really, why wouldn’t he? What was there to fear from a man with a mangled stump for a hand? Or from a prisoner, half-starved and chained? Makishima’s last hope now lay in the idea that maybe L could do something. To piece it all together — the stone, the sword, and the prince — like the pieces of a puzzle. Maybe a foolish hope. But it was the only one he had left. When he stepped into the cell, his heart plummeted. The light of the enchanted stone, now set into the sword’s hilt, illuminated every corner of the dungeon, and Makishima saw the elven prince. He was barely conscious, his body little more than a mass of wounds wherever the tattered remains of his once-beautiful silver-white garments failed to cover him. "Words cannot express the joy of this reunion, prince," Svartulf said. "You look so much like your grandfather... as if his very soul had passed into you. But your grandfather was wiser than you. To think you actually believed you could kill me with this useless scrap of iron." The insults poured down in a steady stream, but the prince did not so much as glance at Svartulf. L was looking only at Makishima — his eyes unbearably black, enormous with hatred. "Before you die, know this — your human friend has betrayed you," Svartulf said, reading L’s emotions perfectly and seizing the opportunity to twist the knife. "He is nothing but a coward and a wretch, unworthy of the friendship granted to him by the noblest of elves." Makishima wanted to look away from the prince’s face. He tried to look away. But he couldn't. The absurdity of the setting made the whole scene even more revolting. This was supposed to be a lighthearted tale about magic, swords, and heroes, yet it had twisted into a nightmare with no awakening. The thought flashed through his mind: this is the end. He had lost. He was trapped here, in this nauseatingly cliché text, in this cardboard fortress of Darkness, filled to the brim with horrors that were all too real. And L was about to die. What was worse — dying, or spending every day trembling for his life, catering to the whims of a mad, immortal Dark Lord? Perhaps, before long, Makishima would envy L’s fate. But at this moment, he was willing to give almost anything for the prince to survive. He wasn’t sure if what he was feeling deserved the grand description of his heart bleeding, but one thing was certain — he didn’t want this to be his final memory of L: a bleeding half-corpse, eyes filled with hatred. The stench of pain and fear thick in the air. And, let’s be honest, the sour taste of guilt on his tongue. "Do you know what happens next?" Svartulf went on. "You die, Prince El. And you die by the sword your kin forged to destroy me. My only regret is that your grandfather isn't here to witness it." At last, L turned to look at Svartulf. And then — quietly, but firmly, with a dignity that should have been impossible in his state — he said: "It makes no difference how one dies. The death dealt by a sacred weapon is the same as the death dealt by any other. But if nothing else, I can take comfort in the fact that by bringing this sword here, I forced you — monster — to feel, if only for a short moment, like an ordinary man again. My grandfather told me... for you, there is no torment worse than that." Svartulf lunged forward in a fury, closing the distance between them. And that was when Makishima finally understood. An ordinary man. Shougo Silver-Tongue? More likely, Shougo the Fool. Shougo the Utter, Unparalleled Idiot. To be fair, the prince could have been a little more upfront with me, he thought. Svartulf’s magic didn’t work near Alvstein. That was the stone’s secret. It didn’t cause him physical pain, but it robbed him of power. Makishima’s right hand — the one that had grasped Alvstein from the box — was now nothing but a charred stump. So he reached into his pocket with his left. Fantasy novels usually handled this sort of thing with far more grandeur. Dark Lords were supposed to be slain by elven swords with unpronounceable names. The hero should have been a noble elf, not some highwayman he picked up along the way. And, of course, a proper epic hero would never strike his enemy with a cowardly stab in the back. But Makishima had long since realized that epics were not his genre. And Svartulf — so fixated on the elven blade and the enchanted stone — had conveniently overlooked the fact that Makishima might have another weapon on him. The knife slid into Svartulf’s throat as smoothly as into butter. If there was one thing Makishima Shogo excelled at — aside from overthinking, self-loathing, and running his mouth — it was handling small, bladed weapons. The elven prince’s eyes widened in shock — he had clearly not expected this outcome. In fact, he had probably long since stopped expecting any outcome at all. "So you really are... a hero...?" Svartulf rasped. Blood gushed from the gaping wound that stretched from ear to ear. "What did you think?" Makishima said, his voice edged with dark satisfaction. He knelt down, grabbing the Dark Lord’s head by the hair. "Then why... did the stone burn your hand?" Makishima shrugged. "There’s not much in life that’s purely black or white. I am a criminal. My soul is dark enough that I could stand there and watch the prince suffer, thinking it would bring us closer to our goal. But, as you yourself said — you don’t need heaven’s blessing to kill someone." Svartulf let out one last, wet gurgle and died. ...And so, not by sword, but by cunning — and by the strength of courage, loyalty, and friendship — Svartulf the Cruel was defeated. Not even his dark sorcery could save him. The moment he perished, the sinister force that bound men to his will dissipated. As if waking from a deep slumber, the people in the fortress looked around in bewilderment, realizing where they were and what they had been doing. No mortal knows the hour of his own demise, and where one falls, another may find eternal glory. Let us therefore give praise to the two heroes who dared to stand against Svartulf for the sake of restoring peace and prosperity to the Two Kingdoms! "I told you I wouldn’t let you die in this dungeon, my prince," Makishima said, doing his best to inject some genuine remorse into the painfully clichéd line. The moment he freed L from his shackles, the prince — without a word — punched him square in the jaw. And hard, too, considering he looked like he was barely clinging to life. His eyes were wild, almost feral. He pounced on Makishima like a cat, straddling him, knees digging into his ribs, and started punching him in the face — mouth, nose, cheekbones. Blood gushed from Makishima’s nose, pooling in his mouth, the taste so familiar he almost felt déjà vu. It was just like with Kogami. Except this time, he actually felt guilty. That hadn’t been a factor in his fights with Kogami. He barely fought back — maybe threw a few half-hearted punches out of instinct, but mostly just raised his hands to soften the blows. Eventually, he managed to twist free and shove L off him. They both sat there, battered and breathless, and that was when they noticed— Makishima’s hand was no longer burned. L’s wounds were gone. And surrounding them were no longer the dark stone walls of Svartulf’s dungeon, but the familiar bookshelves of the Library of Babel. Two pages slipped from the book of elves and swords, fluttering down to the floor as softly as fallen feathers.