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Then I fill myself with the cherry juice of my impossible torment and pray that “Good Lord” makes me a genius.
Mykola Khvylovy
•••
Tower Bridge is too bright for his eyes.
Mello tries to hold back tears. He places his hand on the cross around his neck. It’s always cold; it grounds him; it scares away the devil of daring dreams.
The snow falls without a sound; it’s magical and imaginary. It’s a hallucination to keep Mello sane. It never snows in London, they say, and they’re right. London is chilly and hollow; it does not bring any comfort in its coldness. It doesn’t turn festive and white.
This bridge, however, came straight out of a fairytale. Such things cannot exist in a world of crimes, hatred, and shattered childhoods. There can’t be such wonders when a kind-hearted, brilliant person who Mello admired the most was just killed by a god of the new world.
God has a name; its name is death. Mello’s happy he has a different religion.
The bridge tries to convince him that miracles still exist. The cross scares away the devil of daring dreams.
Mello himself is a daring devil: he caged his love and ran away. He can’t look at the murder of crows without getting envious or at Tower Bridge without wanting to weep.
***
When he left Wammy’s house, the sky was benign and sombre. His shadow began to sing once his feet became those of a beast.
He had left an unsolved mystery back at home. The mystery was glowing with snow, sitting before the divine stained glass. It was the divine itself, gentle and worried.
“How long will you be away?” the mystery asked sadly. “How long will I be placing candles for you and speaking to your guardian angel at night? You’ll fall asleep without knowing when your rage will triumph. You’ll fall asleep with no one left to blame. No one’s steps will expel you from your celestial home.”
Mello doesn’t want to hear this; Mello’s happy that Near is not God. Or perhaps the similarity between the two is why he can’t stand Near: he’s not sure how to talk to God, either.
He keeps his hand on the silver cross whenever his heart starts racing too fast.
Evil is subjective, he thinks. You must only master negotiating with different instances.
***
The River Thames seems too big and inhuman. Like a stranger, a woman with kids who's too involved in her business to notice anything else.
She has several children; London is the worst of them all. He’s unpredictable, he has dark humour, his hands are icy, and he breathes smoke.
His love is tremendous, but he never pays attention to Mello. And as Mello passes through these vast, dull streets, he feels freedom starting to bloom in his chest.
How refreshing it is to be alive!
How refreshing it is to be alone!
This winter is amazingly cruel; he’s never seen such beauty before.
***
He lies on the grass near the bridge and thinks.
Is there a way to sell his soul with a guarantee? A soul, or maybe a body? A mind? He’s got a lot to offer; he will succeed if he decides on the best price.
He has enough money to afford a cup of hot chocolate. Sipping the beverage pensively, Mello recalls the hands of his mother. She was wise enough to teach him all she knew about the world and stupid enough to believe God would save her from a terminal illness.
He is angry. He wishes it would snow now. It never snows in London, they say, maybe that’s why he’s not going to stay here for long.
Bringing the empty cup and the permanent coldness with him, he rejoices at the thought of his name being kept safe and sound.
“I also have something to protect,” he brags to the River Thames as she’s hugging her crazy son. “My name will survive if I fail. Only I know it.”
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Near says in the dim light of a candle.
“My name doesn’t mean anything, and it will never do; therefore, it is eternal.”
“O Prince of the Heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan...”
Mello doesn’t trust the world; hence, he’ll do whatever is necessary to conquer it.
Near doesn’t believe in God. He believes in whatever could protect Mello from ruin.
•••
Often, Near dreams of unspeakable light, of water so bright it’s painful to watch, of white arctic birds and non-anthropomorphic creatures somewhere on Saturn’s moons. He wakes up having forgotten who he is. His name is sonorous and enigmatic. It resembles a shiny stone at the bottom of a pond. Just like the stone, it’s never going to be found.
Sometimes Near regrets being bad at arts. He would like to be able to express what his mind has experienced.
It always puzzled him why others thought there was nothing inside his soul. They perceived him as a hollow shell without seeing his radiant dreams. At times, he felt like he never existed for anyone. He was only a function, an obstacle, an annoying rumour. That’s why he was flattered by Mello’s obsession; he happened to be the only one to learn every detail of Near’s existence to finally overcome him. The way Mello despised him resulted in an exceptional understanding.
Near sees beauty in this. Mello is a splendid animal; he holds an unthinkable power, and he is touched by life.
Near often dreams of life in its perfect, peculiar forms.
Near gently laughs at the idea of hatred between them. Mello appeared in the most wonderful dreams of his.
***
Near’s body is human. It reacts to warmth and holds memories. It burns with pain and persistence. It longs for something he doesn’t remember. Maybe love.
He has no idea what his parents’ faces looked like.
He’s happy to have a human form possessing a talent of some kind. He is a good thinker and a problem solver; he can help reduce crime in society. He has always perceived this as something given to him like stripes are given to tigers.
That’s why he was amazed by Mello’s attempt to surpass him in the talent competition. Weren’t they both born with something unique? With something to be proud of?
Near always thought that Christian God was too cruel. He never blamed Mello for being a little cruel, too.
***
The waves kept coming, the angel’s wings kept flapping as he was asked to perform wonders, and Near kept trying to get lost in a forest. He waited there for a howl, a growl, a call.
There’s nothing that can’t be explained, he thinks; however, some explanations aren’t from the realm of logic.
The stars kept singing old soldier songs as he closed his ears and cried bitterly. Too much to think of, too many feelings—everything is too much.
Near wants to be left alone. He has several things protecting him in a world where death is the god: a name that no one knows, a mind that can compete with God’s, and wondrous visions that keep him sane.
He often dreams of forget-me-nots. They bloom through his ribs, lips, and eyes. They are beautiful. They are blue.
He feels blessed when Mello puts a gun to his head. As if everything blossoms all at once.
Mello has several things protecting him. A name, a group of saints, animal instincts, and Near’s maniacal faith.
•••
There is fire; there is inferno, again and again. Mello’s body was created to be made fun of, to be admired, to be sold, and eventually burned.
He has a scar from when a red-hot cross touched his skin. His whole body is filled with scars, but this one amazes him the most.
He’s sure someone with wings held his hand and took him out of death and into the light. The angel was wearing a gas mask as well. Mello couldn’t help but swear when he saw this. Why can’t he do a goddamn thing alone? Is he really worse than everyone else?
He faints over and over; someone’s hands treat his wounds; he sees Matt’s face; he sees the face of a saint; he sees Near crying and holding a candle; thousands of candles form constellations behind his back, and Mello is furious about this.
He coughs out his first life, and it’s consumed by flames.
“How dare you talk to angels without my permission!” Mello shouts. “How dare you save me with your delicate words!”
The snow keeps falling; it’s radiant and indistinguishable from real. Mello grasps someone’s fingers and sighs heavily.
“Tower Bridge,” he says. “I bet it’s fucking beautiful when you’re not staring at it alone.”
***
When the cross around his neck turned red-hot, the devil of daring dreams kissed his lips lovingly.
***
Matt holds his hand gently. Radiant light wakes Mello from sleep.
Matt’s eyes are shiny; they’re green like a tropical forest. He never seemed happier. His clothes are clean, and he is well-rested.
Mello doesn’t say anything. The sky above them is spacious. There are no mysteries left to solve.
“You are an amazing beast,” Matt says tenderly. “You will have another life. I saw it written in your veins before everything went dark.”
“Don’t say that,” Mello murmurs.
“You’ll face a beautiful world,” Matt promises. “Your hair will be braided by golden fairies. You already know the secret of life.”
“Shut the fuck up, Matt.”
“I’m glad I could see you one last time. Someone’s come to take you.”
The flapping of wings sounds from far away, and Mello feels his head aching.
“Don’t go,” he says.
But Matt’s hand slips from his grasp. Mello sees his friend surrounded by grass, colourful flowers, and heavenly sweet words.
The wind gets stronger; it covers Matt with petals, and Mello hears his singing merge with the sound of the summer breeze.
Someone stands before him. It’s a winged figure that holds a sword to the ground.
Mello raises his eyes and yells, "Why did you take him away from me?!"
The angel looks calmly at him.
“Don’t ask me questions. You must defeat the devil in you.”
***
Having woken up in a dark, dirty place, Mello inhales sharply. It’s his second life that he must let go of. For a moment, he can’t see anything at all. His body is burning, then it’s still, returned from a place no living creature has been to.
Eventually, he starts sobbing. Softly at first, weeping afterwards. He has no idea what position in space-time he holds. He feels astonishing love for something he can’t explain.
He feels like he has seen a dream, but dreams never made him cry. Nothing adds up. He doesn’t remember what happened hours ago.
There are several things he remembers: God is almighty, love is the only thing that matters, and living is worth every struggle.
His hand tries to find its way to a silver cross, but it’s gone. A scar is the only symbol left to protect him. From what? Is there something threatening him? Someone? He doesn’t know.
He only knows that life is worth living. And that pushes him to make his way out of the dark and into the world.
•••
Silhouettes in darkness, like trees.
I remember more than there is.
Serhiy Zhadan
After Kira’s case was settled, Near started seeing emptiness in his dreams. Blinding absence of light. At times, he woke up feeling something was missing; woke up with wet eyes, not finding any signs of his eternal forest and the perfect creatures habituating it.
He was somehow broken. Or maybe he was broken before, and now his real self has come to power.
Of course, this wasn’t the case, because nothingness didn’t last long.
***
As Near prepares to speak to saints at night, he sadly stares into their eyes.
“Mello really died,” he states.
Gentleness on their faces is the only answer.
“I’m not going to stop talking to you,” he says. “I’ll protect him in death. I’ll make sure he is remembered. If only I knew his real name, if I knew his name, my dreams would continue to glow.”
One saint places his hand on Near’s shoulder, complaining, “You never stop seeing dreams. You need to see what’s in front of you.”
“There’s nothing in front of me.”
“A wonderful life has begun.”
“Yes,” Near agrees, “all is well now. Everyone is saved.”
“Conquering evil is a never-ending process,” the angel says.
“Do you even have your own point of view?”
“I’m looking from the above.”
His sword shines with the amazing life that’s been taken away from Near.
“Return my dreams to me,” he pleads finally. “I want to see his beast-like feet.”
The next night, and the night after, and every night from now on, Near dreams of war.
***
His body still responds to warmth, he does things automatically, his hair feels longer, and he would like it to grow out so long that it’ll be a hiding place.
There’s nothing left to hide from.
Rose gardens don’t exist anymore. Why, Near wonders? Were they burned down in a missile strike? Did a sad soldier steal them all for his leopard woman?
Gevanni keeps trying to distract him with his impossible bottles. Caged ships have sparked his interest before, but now they feel too upsetting.
“They have no way out,” Near says. “They’re locked for eternity.”
Gevanni seems apprehensive about Near’s mental state.
“Do you want me to break the bottle?”
“No, this is what makes sense to the ship. Without the bottle, it would lose its name.”
“It would still be a beautiful ship. We could touch it. It would have a name.”
Worried, Gevanni places his hand on Near’s shoulder; he doesn’t react at all.
***
The war always takes something from you. Whether it’s home, life, or a sense of identity, no one can be rescued from sorrow. No one can stay unchanged.
The thing that breaks Near’s heart the most is not the absence of kind faces in his dreams. It’s the death of nature—the total destruction. Denial of any hope for the future, be it for humans, flowers, or blackbirds. Near doesn’t enjoy being outside much, but he has the whole world projected into his head, and imagining it wiped out is unbearable.
“My magic is gone. I no longer see wonders. But this doesn’t mean I am hollow now,” he decides one night. “I am a vessel filled with tragedy and love. I wake up from the saddest dreams to see even sadder dreams in the daylight. But it shouldn’t stop me from having a gentle smile.”
***
It’s an especially rainy day. On such days, Near feels more fatigued. He doesn’t want to get up from bed. He needs to push himself hard to get anything done.
Not that the rain is the only reason for his prolonged tiredness. It hurts to realise that there’s no one to compete with him, to observe him, to understand him. Their rivalry made Mello enthusiastic, and Near was ready to give this to him if that was what he wanted. He never thought it was justified. He never thought Mello could be something other than the centre, the front, the root.
Two months have passed since his death. Since his death. These words sound unbelievably distant.
But life continues, and today’s still a day—an especially rainy one. The night before, Near had a terrible vision. It depicted a nuclear war, he thinks.
“Near,” Lidner calls him.
A terrible-terrible dream; the birds were gone; the flowers were gone.
“Near, this is urgent.” She’s holding a phone to her ear.
“What’s the matter?” he asks softly.
“I believe that it’s Mello calling,” she says. “He wants to talk to you”.
The flowers… Yes, yes, the flowers were gone.
•••
Mello asks him to go to London. Mello already purchased a ticket. Lidner, Gevanni and Rester are shocked.
“You can’t go,” Rester utters. “We have no understanding of his motives.”
“I do not care,” Near answers, collecting his toys into a big suitcase.
“Mello has risked his life so you could catch Kira, but he has also threatened to shoot you; this is not safe,” Gevanni says, his voice hopeless.
“As you mentioned, Mello died so I could catch Kira.”
“I am positive he didn’t plan to die,” Rester notes.
“I want to talk to him about this,” Near replies. “Did he plan to die? Why didn't he if we were sure he did?”
He waits a few moments in silence before exhaling tiredly and saying, “I am going to London. You will accompany me.”
It was decided the very second that he heard Mello’s voice over the phone. Near is going wherever Mello asks him to. He is alive; angels are wrong; the war can be stopped. Near is willing to take his miracles back. If that means falling into a trap, dying even, so be it.
Everything is worth looking into his eyes again.
***
Near has been to London before, but he never had a chance to observe the city. Or, more precisely, he had no interest in doing so. Being outside for a long time made him feel unwell.
Now, with Rester, Linder and Gevanni following him closely, he looks at the spacious streets, at various shop windows with small flags of the United Kingdom fluttering brightly, at noisy children wearing colourful jackets, birds looking for some peace of mind, double-decker buses splashing water from under the wheels. London is white. London is faceless. It has a quiet voice, overpowered by the humanity it’s observing. To some extent, Near can understand this, but the city makes him feel too cold, lonely and lost.
“It’s so loud hear,” he says.
“It is.” Rester looks nervous. “Mello told us he’s going to meet you near the underground station. It is very close.”
“Okay.”
Near is way too nonchalant; he may be dreaming; yes, this must not be real. The water under his feet is sparkling. The rain pierces through his heart with golden spikes, making it burn, making it bloom. This is magical; hence, the magic is back; therefore, he is dreaming, for magic does not exist in the real world.
He hears engines, which means that the angels are singing again. He smells forget-me-nots, and suddenly his eyes fill with tears.
“Near.” Someone’s voice is calling him.
It’s magic’s voice, it’s angel’s voice, it’s Mello’s voice, it’s Mello’s voice.
***
God is alive, magic is afoot.
“I’m not going to kill him,” Mello hisses as Lidner makes it clear to him that she’s carrying a gun. “I only need to speak confidentially. It’s not going to take long.”
Why, Near wonders? Why can’t it take years, eternity? He realises he hasn’t spoken a word yet.
“Mello,” he says, his voice breaking. No. No, he cannot speak.
“Hi,” Mello replies softly, looking right into his eyes. It seems that he realises Near’s not thinking straight.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says awkwardly. “And I won’t take much of your time.”
“What then?” Near asks finally. “You will ask me questions and leave?”
“Well, I guess, that was the plan.”
“Okay,” Near says. It would be absurd to assume he would stay for long.
“I want you to follow me for a short while,” Mello continues calmly. “There is a place I wanted to show you.”
“What the heck?” Gevanni protests, ready to interfere.
“It’s okay,” Near answers. “I’ll follow you.”
***
The bridge seems surreal surrounded by the high-rise buildings. It resembles a fairy tale element with flat, soulless background. Too ecliptical, Near thinks, too many visual stimuli. The waves crash on the shore, greyish, calming. He focuses his attention on the river.
Mello stands near him, leaning over the fence, looking at the water. Lidner, Gevanni and Rester stay close to them but maintain a distance so they can speak freely.
“You seemed lost,” Mello says.
“What?”
“When I saw you near the underground. You seemed lost.”
Near is quiet for a while. A fish splashes on the water's surface.
“I was lost,” he says. “I am lost. I no longer see beautiful dreams.”
“You’ve seen them before?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry if some questions will sound weird,” Mello says out of the blue. “The thing is, I believe that I’ve lost part of my memories recently. I may have forgotten some details about you.”
“Oh,” Near replies. “It makes sense.”
***
Tower Bridge starts to glow with blue illumination. Twilight is near; the lights along the Thames path are lit.
Near observes Mello’s face trying to guess where his mind wanders now. He seems pensive and calm. Near gets the feeling that Mello has become calmer in general.
“I dream of war every night,” Near says suddenly, feeling the need to share this. “I see destruction, I hear explosions and air raid alarms. There is no hope left in my dreams.”
Mello stares at him in silence.
“Tower Bridge was a strategic target during World War Two,” Near continues. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Mello these things anymore.
“No wonder you seemed lost,” Mello says, his voice bitter. Then, he adds quietly, “I am sorry.”
***
They continue observing the bridge, each thinking different things.
“Does it look miraculous to you?” Mello asks, and Near hears some hint of nervousness in his voice.
He thinks of his lost vivid dreams. Of animals and colours, beating hearts, sparkling waters. The worlds intensified to the limits of human imagination.
He recalls seeing Mello in his dreams. He looked like a saint, or better to say like Eve in Eden. Yet a saint. Until the word is spoken; until the night ends. His eyes knew no good nor evil, he was divinely powerful, loving, and calm.
Near recalls snow falling in his dreams, turning unknown planets white and luminous.
These were miracles.
“No,” he says finally. “This is just a bridge.”
“I see,” Mello says, seemingly disappointed. “I was wrong, then.”
“About what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
They’re silent for a moment, and Near starts to feel dizzy in the presence of many stimuli of the outside world.
Mello says something quietly; Near does not hear him.
“What?”
“Your name,” Mello repeats. “Did you tell it to me?”
Near stares at him in astonishment.
“Why do I get the feeling that I knew your name?” Mello asks again. “I’ve been trying to return my memories, and my thoughts constantly revolved around this.”
“I never told you my name,” Near says.
“Then I was wrong again.” He seems upset.
Could this be a trap? Is Mello planning to use secret data against Near? Does this have something to do with the death note? Near is very confused.
•••
The water seems enchanted, glimmering beneath the dim sky, reflecting blue lights sparkling on the bridge. Yes, Mello thinks, this place is special, something must happen here.
Before going to London, he had little understanding of what he was hoping to find. He knew Tower Bridge should be observed in the presence of a close person, that was an old idea. He could only think of one person close to him – Near.
Near… What was he like, exactly? What did he mean to Mello? The feelings that arose in the thought of him were envy, annoyance and… trust. He could trust him with his life. Why? There was something else. Something unspeakable, almost bigger than a human could comprehend. A colourful light, a candle, a hand. Something else. The loneliness near the river. Absence of something familiar.
The loneliness near the river… Did Mello know his name?
He certainly had an impression of possessing special knowledge about Near. Something that no one else realized. Could this be his name?
This would help shed some light on his past. This would help fill in the gaps that occurred after God saved him.
***
Mello is wrong again. Near never trusted him with his name. He stares at Mello almost afraid. Perhaps he thinks it’s all a trap now, perhaps he’s preparing to leave.
Fuck, Mello thinks, starting to feel hopeless.
The bridge is not more magical with someone nearby. He does not know anything special; his intuition fooled him; perhaps his memories will never return. He’s not sure what to do next. He’s suddenly very tired.
The wind feels cold against his skin. Near is still looking at him perplexed. All of a sudden, Mello leans towards him and whispers in his ear, “My name is Mihael.”
***
Mihael, Near thinks mindlessly. Very close to some name, a familiar name.
“I prayed for you,” he murmurs, “all this time that you were away.”
“You lit candles for me.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t remember,” Mello says. “But I think you saved me.”
“Where is your rosary?” Near asks, but Mello is silent for a while. It seems that he just recalled something.
“Why did you pray? You don’t believe in God.”
“But you do.”
“Is this the reason?”
“Yes. Additionally, I have seen the angels, and they were nice young men.”
Mello laughs, “How the hell could you see angels and not believe in God afterwards?”
“How can you believe in God without seeing them?”
Mello is silent again. Near notices flowers blooming under his feet. He thinks of how Mello brought his lips to his ear.
“Can you bend like this once more?” he asks.
Intrigued, Mello does lean forward.
“The name’s Nate River,” Near whispers.
And the flowers bloom; yes, they bloom again.
***
“Your name is beautiful,” Mello says. “It all now makes perfect sense.”
He remembers archangel Michael holding a sword, asking him to do one thing.
Mello laughs, finally feeling liberated.
“The devil inside of me,” he says, “was trying to convince me that there was a devil inside of me.”
Near looks at him tenderly. He understands.