Oh yes, I did do some Death Note fanfiction. Actually I've done a lot of Death Note fanfiction but can't be bothered to post most of it.

What this actually IS...it's a sort of insight into Kira's effect on people involved in the rest of the story. I saw episode 37 three times in a row on Friday and went out with erulisse14 on Saturday where she bought volume 12 from Forbidden Planet and we spent about two hours in Starbucks reading it.
This is the result.

This fanfiction is mostly thanks to Emilie Autumn for writing such songs as "God help me", "Opheliac" and "Dead is the new Alive" which were a great inspiration to me. In fact, those two albums were a great inspiration. They helped me write this extremely confusing oneshot.

It is difficult to get your head around, I'll warn you. It jumps around a lot to different POVs.

WARNING - SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 37
Title - (tentative - please suggest a new title!) Saviour
Fandom - Death Note
Rating - U
Pairing - None
Words - 941 approx.
Summary - The people who Kira has affected most, and their thoughts one year after the events in episode 37. AU of sorts, because some characters are alive who shouldn't be.



The full moon rose majestically into a black sky. It illuminated the rocks, the sea, and shone in the eyes of heathens.
So many.
They stood, the last stragglers of the group catching up, breathless. The moon's radiance was reflected in a single being, cloaked in the same rough shawl as the others. Beauty hidden beneath the cloth, she stood, the ripples of coarse material dancing about her feet.
Slow steps forward carried her to the edge of the cliff, a single light flickering in her pale fingers. She bent, setting down the single candle in its dish of gold. Turning her beautiful ivory face to the heavens, the moon saw fair locks and sparkling sad eyes. Perfect lips parted to let words escape into the night. The voice was clear as a church bell.
"Kira, our Saviour."

It was no different moon that witnessed sleep falling upon deranged mind after deranged mind.
Shoes tapping quietly upon spotless white tiles, the man with the white coat made his way past room after room until one caught his attention.
Looking through the strengthened circular window in the door, his eyes fell upon a man rocking back and forth, his knees clutched to his chest.
Opening the door as quietly as possible, so as not to alert the man inside, the scientist stepped in, eyes focused upon his patient.
"Are you not drowsy?" The question stilled the man's frantic twitching. The patient looked up, face drawn and pale. His eyes were wide and staring, framed with wild, unkempt black hair, his skinny frame still quivering.
"Of course not! What man could sleep on such a night?" His voice was failing, as if long forgotten.
"Tonight as is any night. I advise you get some rest."
"I will not sleep! I will not sleep, for tonight..." The man's lips twisted into a smile, menacing yet ecstatic;
"Tonight is the return of my Lord!!"

It was no moon that woke the consciousness that the world had almost forgotten.

Pondering over her homework while on the phone to her friend, the student directed the sudden question down the line.
"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

Nothingness had no moon. It was nothing.

The man stood by a headstone, mourning the loss of his dear wife. The cigarette waggled between his lips as he muttered to himself.
"I guess...I hope that there is a heaven. Nothing would be a lonely place."

Tendrils of thought stroked the Earth, recoiling at any evil it touched. One coherent thought formed like a drop of water from a dripping tap, tiny at first, but slowly growing and taking shape.
When it was ready, it fell.
'Is this the afterlife?'
Afterlife. A life after death. This was no life.
Concentration. The thought reached out for memories.

The heathen woman still remained by herself after the others had left. The sea wind played with her blonde locks and the draping folds of her cloak's hood.
"A year. A single year and you are all but forgotten. You fade from the minds of the people." Her voice was soft, lamenting.

"Single year...forgotten...fade...minds...the people..."

"I have not forgotten you, Lord." The voice was harsh, guttural, spoken as if the throat had shrivelled from disuse. He looked up at the ceiling as if seeing through to the heavens.
"I know you will return."

"Not forgotten...Lord...return." This voice was deeper. The echoes danced around the consciousness. The words of the humans triggered something humane within the thought.

"You're here. You must be." The woman clasped her small fingers together.

Inhumane eyes opened. They looked around, briefly connecting with other eyes, before looking downward.
An old, torn volume lay in the talons of the creature.
"Reincarnation is a human belief. But still, there must be something to relieve this boredom."

"Reincarnation." That single word resounded louder than the rest.

"You...are here...with me." The voice was failing, tearing through the weak throat.

"My love..." the woman whispered to the moon. "My...devotion..."

The words were finally dying, the voice giving up. "My devotion..."

"Devotion...ties me to you." That statement was loudest of all. Devotion. Reincarnation.
The consciousness struggled. Was it possible?
The colourlessness around it faded into light.
Memories flooded the space where thought should be. Faces of humans it could hardly remember made themselves known. Memories of deeds done and crimes committed came into being.
That arcane object was the last to show itself, but was the most poignant and relentless vision of them all.
Sight exploded. The present filled the light. People from the memories lived their mortal lives and remembered.
Remembered what he had forgotten.
The light faded once more.

The creature from before hauled itself up on spindly legs. Grating voice filled the silence.
"It's time."

The woman closed her eyes, feeling the connection that had been made in her mind.
"It's time."

The voice gave one last valiant effort, rasping into the silence. The man stared ahead, eyes wide.
"It's time."

The candle flickered at the young man's feet. He stared at the woman in front of him, vaguely aware of his body re-creating itself from the spilt wax, his fingers stretching out, grasping the air, the threads of an old, torn suit weaving back to what they were.
The same blood-stained suit he'd died in.
A twisted smirk awoke dormant muscles in his face, fingers twirling and recalling motion.
"My Lord." Her voice was quiet, disbelieving. She handed him a slim tome with frayed edges.
His fingers grasped at it. His mind remembered.
The Lord had returned.

--end