Chapter Text
Anakitty sat on the edge of the Loki Familia’s rooftop, her tail curled tightly around her legs as the wind whispered through the night. The city of Orario stretched before her, golden lanterns flickering like distant stars. Yet, the beauty of the view was lost on her.
Raul was gone.
The words echoed endlessly in her mind, a cruel mantra she couldn’t escape. She had fought beside him, laughed with him, trusted him. And yet, she had been powerless to stop fate from taking him away. The others had tried to console her—Finn, Riveria, even Tiona and Tione in their brash, straightforward ways. But nothing could fill the emptiness his absence left behind.
So she had pulled away, isolating herself from the familia that once felt like home. The Loki Familia was strong. They would move forward. But Anakitty felt trapped in place, her grief a chain she didn’t know how to break.
She barely noticed the sound of approaching footsteps until a hesitant voice called out.
“Anakitty?”
She stiffened, her ears twitching slightly. It wasn’t anyone from Loki Familia. She turned her head just enough to see Bell Cranel standing at the rooftop’s entrance, looking uncertain but determined.
“…What do you want?” she asked, her voice flat.
Bell hesitated before stepping closer. “I saw you up here… and I thought maybe… you shouldn’t be alone.”
She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Is that so?”
Bell shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I know we don’t know each other that well. But…” His red eyes softened. “I’ve lost people too.”
Her breath hitched. For the first time, she really looked at him. Bell wasn’t just some rising adventurer or the talk of Orario. He was someone who had suffered loss just as she had. The memory of Artemis and his grandfather flickered in his gaze, unspoken yet heavy.
Anakitty turned away, her tail twitching. “And what? You came to share in the misery?”
“No,” Bell said firmly. “I came because… I know how much it hurts to feel like no one understands.”
Silence stretched between them. Anakitty swallowed, her fingers tightening against the stone ledge.
“…And what do you do when it doesn’t stop hurting?” she finally whispered.
Bell sat beside her, his presence warm despite the cold night air. “You keep going,” he said. “Not because you forget. But because the people we lost wouldn’t want us to stop living.”
Anakitty closed her eyes. She thought of Raul’s smile, his constant worrying, the way he always tried to encourage her even when she doubted herself. Would he have wanted her to waste away like this?
“…That’s easier said than done.”
Bell chuckled softly. “Yeah. It is.” He exhaled, looking up at the stars. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll listen.”
She opened her eyes, watching him carefully. He wasn’t pushing her. He wasn’t demanding she be okay. He was just there. And for the first time since Raul’s death, she didn’t feel completely alone.
“…Thanks, Bell.”
He smiled, small but genuine. “Anytime.”
As they sat in quiet companionship, the echoes of loss remained—but now, they weren’t quite as overwhelming as before.
The minutes stretched into hours as they remained on the rooftop, neither feeling the need to break the silence. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scents of Orario—baking bread from a distant shop, the iron tang of adventurers returning from the Dungeon, the faint floral notes from Hestia’s church. The city was alive, moving forward, even if she felt like she was standing still.
Bell shifted beside her, his posture more relaxed now. “You know,” he said, his voice softer than before, “when Artemis died, I thought I’d never be able to move on. I kept thinking… what if I had been stronger? What if I had been just a little faster?”
Anakitty flinched. Those same thoughts had plagued her every waking moment since Raul’s death. The what-ifs, the regrets, the self-loathing. She clenched her fists. “And did you ever get an answer?”
Bell exhaled slowly. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think there is one. But I know that if she were here, she’d tell me to keep going. To keep protecting the people I still have.”
Anakitty’s ears flattened. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that.”
“You don’t have to be strong all the time.” Bell turned to look at her. “But you’re not alone, Anakitty.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She had been pushing everyone away, convinced that no one could understand, that no one could reach her through the suffocating fog of grief. Yet here Bell was, offering his hand, even when he had no reason to.
A lump formed in her throat. “…I don’t know how to move forward.”
Bell gave her a small, knowing smile. “Then let’s take it one step at a time.”
Anakitty stared at him, searching for insincerity, for pity—anything that might make her shove him away like she had everyone else. But all she found was quiet understanding. A flicker of something long-buried stirred in her chest, something warm. She hesitated, then exhaled, a deep, weary breath.
“…Fine,” she muttered, looking away. “But if you get annoying, I’ll throw you off this roof.”
Bell laughed, the sound light in the heavy night air. “I’ll take my chances.”
Anakitty didn’t smile. Not quite. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself breathe. And perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.