Cold. It's cold, and there's water around him, and something slithering far off, the sound of a snake rustling through a pile of leaves, a pile of twigs. There's a mossy scent in the air.

Allen cracks open an eye. It's dark. Not the darkness of the night, but empty-dark. No lights, no candles, and he's all alone. Allen sits up. His head throbs, hurts, and a wave of nausea pleats across his abdomen. His neck aches—it hurts to breathe, and bile rises in his throat. He presses a hand to his head and clenches his jaw.

Where am I?

"Don't move, boy."

Allen freezes. "Who—"

Faint footsteps, and then Allen feels someone tugging at something around his head. A strip of cloth falls away from his eyes, and he now sees Bookman's face in front of him.

"I—am I dead? I'm not dead?"

"You're still very much alive. Now don't move and let me check your pulse."

Bookman's gnarled fingers clamp down on Allen's right wrist and he starts to mutter under his breath, nodding every now and then.

"What happened?" Allen says. "Was I hurt?"

"Yes." Bookman releases Allen's hand and stands, surveying Allen from head to toe. "Try standing."

Allen presses his palms against the ground, feels the grit and sand between his fingers, the slackness in his lower arms. He's not sure he can feel his ankles. "I don't think I can."

"Hmm." Bookman shoves a bowl at Allen. "You need to eat."

Allen nearly drops the spoon before he starts to spoon gruel into his mouth. "What happened while I was out? We—we're still fighting?"

Bookman raises an eyebrow. "Of course, boy. Did you think we would stop while the Earl still lives?"

"No. But—are you sure we—nothing really happened?"

"Not at all."

Allen nods and continues to eat. But he thinks back to Road and the desolate moor and her laughter and the moon crumbling in the sky. He thinks of her words—that they live in an empty dream, a thing of his mind, a corrupted construct—and wonders where the truth lies.

And in turn, Bookman leans against the wall and watches as Allen moves the spoon mechanically, watches as Allen's eyes flicker with emotions, at one occasional glimpse of gold—there one moment and gone the next, so sudden that Bookman wonders if it was a trick of light and nothing more.

Lenalee places a small chocolate cake before Allen. "Try it."

"Cake!" Allen grabs the proffered fork. "Did you bake it? I mean—did you go out to the town for this?"

Lenalee laughs. "Yes, Miranda and I went to get it for you. You seemed to need some cheering up, Al."

Allen's back stiffens. He grips the fork tighter and avoids Lenalee's eyes. "Yes, well."

"Al?" Lenalee's tone softens as she places her palm against his back. "What's wrong? You can tell us, you know. If there's anything worrying you…"

"Nothing," Allen says, "nothing. I'm just—tired."

He meets her eyes, sees the worry in them and then looks away.

Not for the first time since Road's incursion into his mind, he wonders at the boundaries between reality and dream. Are you real, Lenalee? Or did I kill you too? Am I dreaming now?

And in his mind, Road whispers: You killed them all when Neah took over. That's why they're here. You can't let them go. Your guilt is evident here. They are your cross to bear, yours alone, even though Neah wears your face now.

He's exhausted to the bone. So tired, for a man can only hold his heart and his memories up to a jeweller's loupe for so long before doubt and exhaustion wears him down to nothing more than a brief prayer and the sigh of the wind.

And that's the truth, if only part of it. Now Allen can't sleep at night. As the darkness grows, as candles are snuffed out and the electric lights turned off, he lies in his bedroll and stares up into the darkness all around. His eyelids are heavy, his limbs thick with fatigue, and yet he forces himself to stare up, afraid to fall asleep, afraid to wake in Road's dream world, afraid above all to lose control.

Afraid of a ghost of his own making. Or ghosts. His own private haunting.

And yet—as time passes, as the clock strikes midnight, Allen falls asleep. The truth he is frightened of—that truth—and in the deep darkness, in the silent hours of the night, that truth becomes reality.

Road's throne glimmers in the shadows. Ornate onyx, carvings along the front–there are men and beasts both, their limbs intertwined in supplication and in horror. In supplication to the Noahs, and not to god, Allen supposes, as he stands between two cut-glass lamps.

"Admiring my chair?" Road says, her eyes resting on him without blinking.

Allen meets Road's gaze. "Why did you bring me here."

The upper half of Road's face is shrouded in shadows. Her lacquered fingernails glint mauve in the flickering light. "You came by yourself. I did not summon you."

Allen watches Road's lips move. "I don't believe you. Let me see your face."

Road leans forward into the yellow light. "So. Here we are. You know, you have always been so stubborn. Master Millennium is getting impatient."

"I thought you said—I thought you said Neah killed me."

A pause. "So he has," Road says softly. "So he has."

"Then it doesn't matter how stubborn I am."

Road stands and steps lightly to Allen's side in a matter of seconds. Her right palm grazes Allen's left cheek lightly and her breath dances along his jawline. "You can awake and control Neah. We need you to wake and keep Neah in check."

Allen stumbles backwards, leaving Road's hand cupping the air. "If what you say is true—if I killed my friends—then why would I want to wake?"

Road lets her hand drop. In the half-light, her pupils are not amber but empty-dark. "Because you are the only one that can stop the war. And Allen Walker would never let anyone suffer if he could help it."

"You're trying," Allen says, "to manipulate me. I won't fall for it. I won't!"

"Don't throw a tantrum." Road peers at Allen across a curtain of petals. In that instance, he can see her age in her eyes—the weight of the years that cannot be hidden by youthful skin or by glistening eyes or frilly dresses. "You may regret this."

Allen slams his right palm against the nearest lamp. "I've had enough of your lies."

"So tell me. Why would you think that your friends are still alive? Why do you think I've been lying to you?"

"You've always lied–"

Road raised a palm towards the ceiling. "Listen first, you fool boy. Just you try–ask them. Ask your friends! Grill them on how much they remember of their own past. Not your shared times in the Order. Ask them about their past. See how much they can remember!"

Allen turns his back on her.

"Go then," Road says softly. "I won't stop you. But remember to ask those questions. You'll find out for yourself if I have been telling the truth."

"Mission," Komui says cheerfully as he jabs Allen in the shoulder with his left hand and simultaneously hands over the manila folder in his right hand. "You're recovered, so there!"

"Brother," Lenalee says, "I think we should leave Allen out—"

Komui's face turns serious. "Lavi is still not ready, Lenalee. We can't afford to let any Exorcist sit idle while—"

"I understand." Allen grins at Lenalee. "I'm fine now. Really."

"But—"

"Let's just fucking get on with this." Kanda stands and glares at everyone in turn. "I'll go with the Beansprout and keep him in hand."

"Good idea," Komui says. "Lenalee, my dear, you'll go with General Nyne."

The briefing continues. Allen tunes Komui's words out, twiddling his thumbs over the stack of paper in his lap.

He'd been to see Link in the morning, to check how he was doing. Matron had pushed Allen away, saying that Link needed his rest. But Allen knows better, even if Cross hasn't been going at him for a whole week about learning to control your inner demons. Cross should know, but Allen simply feels more and more confused.

Another jab in the shoulder.

Allen turns, putting on his pleasant smile, and finds Kanda staring at him with eyes that could bore a hole through rock.

Allen lets the smile drop. "Yes, BaKanda?"

"You'd better be listening. I won't always be there to save your sorry ass if the mission goes downhill."

"Shut it."

"Idiots are idiots."

"And you are a bloody dipshit—"

"Boys," Lenalee says, frowning at them.

"He started it," Allen says half-heartedly.

Kanda looks slightly surprised at the lack of vehemence in Allen's tone. "You don't sound right," Kanda says. "You're not—?"

"No." Allen looks away. "Don't bother me, BaKanda."

And Kanda lets the matter drop.

Komui, it turns out, eventually decides that Allen needs more in the way of babysitting than Kanda alone. So he sends Krory with the two of them. It's midnight when they set off, driving a car along a deserted road. Krory takes the wheel, while Allen and Kanda take the rear passenger seats.

"Don't cause any trouble, Beansprout," Kanda says apropos of nothing. "And put your fucking seatbelt on."

Allen hmphs and looks out the window, distracted.

Kanda glances at Allen's profile, wondering if he might find amber eyes looking back at him when Allen turns his head again. It is with great relief that he sees no glint of amber.

Kanda decides to try again. "Seatbelt."

Allen sighs. "What are you, my mother?"

"Don't be fucking stupid, Beansprout. I'm not hauling your ass out of here if you die in a car crash of all fucking things."

Krory decides to intervene. "You really should put your seatbelt on."

Allen sighs again and puts his seatbelt on.

"This really seems like old times," Krory says wistfully.

Kanda snorts. And so it goes, the bickering, the banter, and finally the silence that stretches into the shadowy night. And the night is a long one indeed, for their mission this time requires going deep into the moor, and Komui had insisted that they reach the rendezvous by early afternoon at the latest, for reasons he refused to divulge.

"Why early afternoon?" Kanda had asked.

"Oh." Komui had shrugged and flapped his fingers. "You know. Time constraints and all that."

"That's not a fucking answer—"

"Boys, just reach by early afternoon, or you may have cause for regret. That's all. Go pack!"

And then Komui had slammed his office door in their faces, and knock and hammer as they might, he had not deigned to open his door again.

At dawn they reach the start of the moor, where the asphalt roads shrink and turn into little more than dirt paths. Krory steers as best as he can, the wheels shuddering over the stones and other debris littering the path. Allen continues his brown study, and Kanda watches everything, silent and still, like a leopard studying his prey.

It's high noon when they finally reach the meeting point, where two finders wait by a large rock shaped by the wind into a caricature of a hand pointing towards the sky.

Krory stops the car and they step out towards the finders.

"What is it," Kanda says, as the taller finder nods at them.

The finder jabs his finger towards the lone house looming across the horizon behind him. "Suspicious activity."

Krory shifts on the balls of his feet. "Akuma?"

"Maybe," the second finder says. "Or Innocence."

"Likely both," Kanda says, hefting Mugen in his hands. "We should check it out."

The taller finder glances at his wristwatch. "I think we have enough time."

"Enough time for what?" Allen asks.

"Strange things happen at night," the second finder says.

The taller finder shrugs. "We've heard screams. And the house glows at night."

The second finder takes a step away from the house. "And the tramps—they say those who go in there disappear."

"That's what the locals says too," the taller finder says. "All verified accounts, mind you. We've double-checked and triple-checked."

"Hmph." Kanda looks up at the sky. "We'll do a sweep now. Then we can rest tonight and enter again tomorrow night."

Together they head across the undulating path. There's no life here, neither bird nor tree, and the sun's rays fall scathing on their necks. It takes a full half-hour's trek to reach the perimeter. No fence comes to sight, save for what appears to be a scattering of stones, arranged in a haphazard pattern.

"How odd," Krory says as he bends over to prod at the nearest stone. Its edges are weathered, with age perhaps, or the elements. "It feels… warm."

"That would be the sun," Tall Finder says.

Kanda kneels and grabs a stone. He lets it sit in his palm, weighing it, feeling the texture. "Not the sun."

Allen comes to life. "Something to do with the Innocence?"

"We should put it back." Krory withdraws his fingers and wipes them on his coat. "It feels… almost sentient."

Kanda drops his stone to the ground where it clanks against a nearby stone, before striding to the door. Mahogany stained with age, the iron bars a deep grey-green. Kanda pushes against the doors, and they creak open.

Kanda steps in. Without waiting, he says, "I haven't got all day to wait for you fools."

They all scramble to follow him. It's musty inside, and dust motes dance in the air. There's mould creeping across the walls, and the stink of death and decay all around.

"We haven't been inside before this," Tall Finder says.

"You weren't supposed to," Kanda says shortly. He pokes at the curtains at the far end of the room before drawing them open. "Nothing here. Move along."

Refreshed after a day's rest, the exorcists enter the house again the next evening.

"We want to be there early," Kanda says.

Tall Finder glances over his shoulder towards the horizon. "We—"

Kanda slides Mugen into its sheath. "You're not coming."

Short Finder says, "But we—"

"You're a liability. So don't even start." Kanda yanks a length of cord from his pocket and loops it over his hair.

Allen looks up in the middle of lacing his boots. "Where did you get that from? And you're being rude again, BaKanda."

A frown flickers across Kanda's face. "That's none of your business, Beansprout."

"They were just trying to help."

"We have a mission. We go in, get the Innocence, kill all the Akuma, then we get out. I don't have time to babysit."

"They don't need—"

"You can save their sorry asses if you want to. If your own sorry ass doesn't need saving in the first place."

Allen glowers. "BaKanda—"

Krory walks up. "I'm ready—I—is something wrong?"

"I think you guys should leave now," Tall Finder says, gesturing towards the sun. "It's almost time. You'll need to find a hiding place."

Without another word, Kanda turns and walks off.

"That rude, selfish prick—"

"Allen," Krory says, "maybe we should follow him."

Allen sighs. "Yes, we should. But he is the most infuriating person ever to—"

"Hurry the fuck up!"

"Come on, Allen." Krory nods towards the horizon. "Not much time left."

When they enter the house, it is slick with darkness, clustered with the whispers and sighs of a bygone era. The air is dank, and still, and yet a deep chill permeates their bones.

"Stay close," Kanda says, as he leads them towards the heart of the house.

They set up shop in the what must have been a grand sitting room in ages past. Kanda watches the door to the hall. Krory stands by the servants' entrance. Allen looks out from the full-length windows, dusty curtains drawn to the side.

Outside, the land is all mist and fog, greyness and darkness meshing together. Not a single star can be seen in the night sky.

Kanda lights a lamp to combat the darkness. "They'll know we're here."

"They're supposed to know, right?" says Allen.

Kanda shrugs and sets the lamp on the coffee table and shifts to sit across from it.

And so they wait.

The grandfather clock strikes eight. Then nine. Then ten.

Nothing and still nothing.

Kanda exhales. "We might as well take a short break."

Allen shakes his head. "Something doesn't feel right."

"I—" Krory begins. He doesn't get to finish his sentence, for in that instance something dark rises in the shadows.

Gunmetal grey body, a human face stretched taut in a permanent grimace. Something like tears or blood painted across its cheeks: a warning, a reminder. "Hello, Exorcists."

They all spin to face it.

Kanda says, "Stay back."

And with that he pushes off, swinging Mugen in a graceful arc. Hell's Insects buzz towards the Akuma, which explodes into dust and gives off the smell of something vile, something that sizzles like sulphur and brimstone, something reminiscent of a night in the damp of a cemetery.

"Only one Akuma?" Allen looks around. "And a Level 2? That's hardly—"

But there's more movement in the shadows, movement that's not to be discounted. In a matter of seconds up rise two Level 4 Akuma, both grinning brightly, the dull lamp light glinting off their metal skins. Kanda grits his teeth and allows Mugen to transform into two blades which cut viciously through the air as he runs towards the nearest Akuma. A slight sizzle, and then a clanging sound as metal hits metal.

"What are you waiting for!" Kanda shouts without even looking over his shoulder. "Finish the other!"

Krory and Allen tackle the other. The Akuma flits aside, nimble despite its bulk; Allen pirouettes on his toes and turns Crowned Clown around. Krory, not quite so fast, misses his target and ends up having to push himself off the opposite wall.

"The Fourteenth," the Akuma says. "We feel it, we feel him!"

Allen meets the Akuma's eyes. "You'll die today." Then he strikes out with Crowned Clown.

The Akuma opens fire. Krory and Allen jump out of the way. The Akuma, as if by the threads of fate, makes for Allen and corners him by the window. Eyes whirring, the Akuma studies Allen, lifting a cool metallic hand to rest against Allen's jaw.

Allen smells death—sulphur and brimstone, the decadence of hell, the sizzling taste of god's fury.

He readies Crowned Clown again.

"The Fourteenth," the Akuma says again.

Krory sprints forward. Without even turning away, the Akuma lifts its other hand to shoot at Krory. Krory crumples onto the ground.

Allen slashes Crowned Clown into the Akuma's path—there's a ringing sound, and both of them are thrown backwards. In this lifetime, the Akuma is quicker and faster to recover; it's off the ground in a matter of seconds and comes face to face with Allen.

"I could crush you now," the Akuma says, one arm around Allen's neck. "But the Fourteenth calls. The Fourteenth sings to us!"

Allen struggles unavailingly. "Shut up! There is no Fourteenth here!"

The Akuma only grins. "The Fourteenth calls and we answer. You know it is the truth. The Earl knows too."

Allen wraps Crowned Clown around the Akuma's body. But now—there's a ringing sensation behind his eyes, and he can barely feel his hands. The Akuma's outline becomes blurred; there's one Akuma, then two, then one again. In his mind he hears the Fourteenth humming, gentle and soothing, and the song leaches into his consciousness in the spaces between heartbeats.

Allen closes his eyes. The ground trembles below his feet. The precipice awaits.

Across the room, Kanda despatches the other Akuma with brutal efficiency. When he steps aware from the gore and filth, wiping Mugen against the curtains to rid it of the stain of Akuma, he sees Allen backed against the wall and Krory lying motionless a short distance away.

The Akuma, wreathed in shadows and darkness, flecked with dull lamplight, head shaking back and forth, appears to be devouring Allen like some monster newly risen from the grave.

Kanda leaps. Mugen slices almost cleanly through the Akuma's shoulder blade. The Akuma, snarling, lets out a stream of Dark Matter from its hand. Kanda dives sideways to avoid the danger.

"Beansprout!"

But Allen doesn't move. He remains still and lifeless in the Akuma's grasp.

Kanda runs again, bringing Mugen up against the Akuma. The Akuma raises its ruined arm to block Kanda's path.

"Stay away, Exorcist," it croons. "The Fourteenth calls."

"Shut your mouth," Kanda says, wrenching Mugen away. The screech hangs in the air; it leaves a scar in the Akuma's arm where sharp metal gouges metal.

"Be quiet," the Akuma says. It sends a blast Kanda's way and sends him sprawling into the fireplace.

The Akuma turns back to Allen. "I will bring you back to the Earl. There is a bounty on your head. And I will be favoured above my brethren."

Allen cracks open his eyes. He groans.

And then, he grins.

In the fireplace, Kanda presses his lips together as fractures knit themselves back into whole and unblemished bones. Then he dusts the ashes from his fingers, and crouches. Looking up, he sees it—amber eyes, wavy white hair. A ghastly smile.

Allen cradles the Akuma's face. "You and your kind are nothing. How dare you stand in my way."

Kanda steps out and leaps. Mugen swings through its deadly arc. There is only the dread wind whistling through cracks in the windows; there is only darkness and the lantern light flickering; there is only grim laughter, and then the shearing sound of metal, and then metal meets flesh.

Metal tears through flesh.

Allen screams.

Kanda lands lightly on the balls of his feet, his torso bent forward. Perspiration down his back; down his cheeks.

Allen continues to scream. Now he shakes too, as if his very bones are folding in on themselves; as if he is breaking into pieces, flesh and bone and blood repelling each other, an unholy communion of sin and holiness.

Kanda's fingers tighten over the hilt. He presses his feet against the ground before wrenching Mugen away. Something dark drips down the length of Mugen's blade.

The Akuma hisses as it turns to dust.

Allen closes his eyes; he clutches at his shoulder as he slumps against the wall.

The day dawns grey and chilly.

Allen's head hurts. His limbs feel like they've been stretched out for too long; exhaustion creeps through his veins and take root in his bones. His shoulder blades are sore and stiff. He tries to lift his right arm and finds it weighed down.

"About time."

It's difficult to open his eyes, and when he does, he sees two fuzzy images of Kanda seated cross-legged before him. "Huh? What happened?"

"I should be the one asking you that."

Allen presses his palms against his eyes. The warmth of his hands helps to clear his mind, if only a little. "Akuma?" he says. "I—there was a Level Four."

Kanda nods.

Allen's eyes widen. "You stabbed me!"

"Genius," Kanda says. "You deserved it."

Allen at least has the grace to look slightly abashed. "Neah took over, I suppose?"

Kanda rolls his eyes. "Rinse and repeat."

"Allen! You're awake!" Krory rushes in like a cyclone.

Kanda ignores Krory's entrance. "How often are you going to do this, Beansprout? Will you always cede control?"

"I didn't!"

Kanda squats, all the better to stare Allen in the eye. "You do."

"You did, Allen." Krory's face is grey and wan. "It was—"

Whatever it was, Krory can't bring himself to say it. All he does is shake his head and mouth words under his breath.

Allen looks at Kanda. "Did I hurt anyone?"

"Not on my watch," Kanda says.

"Please help me up." Allen struggles with placing his elbows in position against his side. "BaKanda. I said please."

Kanda snorts but reaches over to push Allen's back up. This close, Allen can see the shadows under Kanda's eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Kanda looks down. His eyes have ever been a puzzle to read; this time, though, Allen can see the confusion there. "What?"

"I said sorry." Allen's own eyes flicker downwards. "And thank you. Again."

"I always have to save your sorry ass," Kanda grumbles, but there is little heat in his words. "Don't make me do it again, idiot."

"I'll try harder next time."

"You'd better." Kanda's hand rests on Allen's shoulder for a moment, the touch light and feathery. "Don't get into the habit of thinking I'll always be there to bail you out."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Allen says. His stomach growls. "Now–do you have food?"