Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.

There was something very unsettling about slowly feeling the life dripping out of your body.

Light was sure he was overreacting. It was fatigue from the stamina he had worn out while dealing with bloody flesh dripping over his ripped clothes and then having to flee from people who were denser than he was by far.

Gods didn't flee from anybody.

So he supposed he wasn't God after all.

Light had worn out his legs, running and running and running, only seeing the blurry sunset barely visible from his eyes that were fogging up. From pain, tears, or exhaustion, Light couldn't tell, and he didn't want to.

There were people who died in their sleep. People who died peacefully by their loved ones. People who died with halcyon smiles on their faces as they listened to the rhythmic beeping of a hospital machine. There were people who died content because they had accomplished things to be proud of.

Light thought those people were fools. You could live with dignity, not die with it.

His father had told him that death shouldn't be something to be feared, since there's nothing to do to prevent it. Besides, it wasn't like you had time to cry or fret.

Light had never agreed.

Dying was the worst weakness a human could exhibit.

Gods didn't exhibit weaknesses.

So he supposed he wasn't God after all.

There he was, his legs aching, his back arched against a cold staircase, his toes curling to find resistance as they slid and skidded on the floor and he tried to find his footing. One of his palms was gripping his bullet wounds and not even worrying that fresh, crimson blood was trickling down his knuckles. Did death heighten your senses right before crumbling for good? Light could swear he could smell the blood more prominently than he ever could.

Still, that was probably the feeling everyone got before they died.

There wasn't any histrionic music from a symphony suffocating him. He didn't even hear the church bells.

But God is dying. Why aren't you ringing? Why aren't you ringing?! Don't you care? God is dying! Ring the bells, dammit!

Light's fingers clawed at the concrete beneath him, blood drying beneath his fingernails as they scraped at the concrete. A horrible sound was echoing from the noise, like rusty nails on sharp metal, but Light's ears were dull to it all.

And where was Ryuk, that damn son of a bitch? Wasn't he supposed to be here? He was supposed to be where Light was, always, unless the Death Note wormed its way back into purely his own possession –

Light's brain made one of its last few clever deductions it would ever make. Ryuk had gotten his Death Note back. Light was dying. He was dying and no one could save him. Not even Shinigami would want to help out a man who rattled the earth so strongly it was like a teacup teetering precariously on the edge of a tabletop, brought more than three Shinigami to the world, and evoked several cat-and-mouse games of chase where the goal was the same for everybody; Death Notes.

They didn't just fall from the sky everyday.

Some people often remarked that when you died, your entire life flashes before your eyes. Light wondered often how these people were able to testify this mystical fact if they were dead. Light had never believed it, but now that he was in a position he thought Kira could outwit, sitting in a pool of his own blood and his teeth ground in agony, he wanted it to be true anyway. What was his life? Was it nothing but the Death Note? Now that it was over, now that he had failed it, he didn't want it to be anymore. Accomplishment was nothing to be proud of when the end was not victorious.

His pride was useless.

Gods didn't need pride to feel inferior.

So he supposed he wasn't God after all.

His life wasn't flashing before his eyes. He couldn't even remember what he was before the Death Note. Was he a kid as obsessive as he was now? Was he this power-hungry? Did he ever sink as low as he was sinking now?

He was falling deep into a hole, a dark hole with nothing but firm dirt packing him in and crumbling on top of him. He could either try to shake off the dirt as it fell on his head and pack it down under his feet until he could reach the top, but right now he wanted to let the dirt fall on him, let him succumb to darkness. He couldn't expurgate the etiolated messes out of his life; they weren't ephemeral. And he knew that no fireman would throw a ladder into the hole to get him out.

He was beyond saving.

Gods didn't need saving.

So he supposed he wasn't God after all.

A part of him Light was telling him that he was luckier than he would ever be able to remind himself. Never once in his life did Light ever regret picking up the Death Note, he had spent his nights dreaming about the intrigue he desired but couldn't create on his own, and the Death Note had given him that on a silver platter. It was a talisman that would give him life as much as take it away. Fun, intrigue, and finally a challenge.

Never had Light met anyone like L before.

He was a challenge by himself. Light could never figure out some of his reasoning, and inside he knew that L had truly beaten him. Killing someone to eliminate them was a bit like admitting that they couldn't be defeated while living. And Light hated that about L. He had a wry talent for outwitting him, and done it so effortlessly.

Light always had to work hard to be the best.

God didn't have to work hard.

So he supposed he wasn't God after all.

Light couldn't even move his hands anymore. He wondered if it was the lack of energy or the death worming it's way up his body like a snake slithering him up. Light didn't want to close his eyes. He knew that when he would, he would letting go, losing. And he didn't want the last thing in his line of vision to be a grimy shack where he had fallen to die and bleed out his gunshot wounds.

There was no one at his side to hold his hand, stroke his hair, or let him know that he was going to be okay. He vaguely wondered if anyone would do that for him, had they the chance. Would his father, after the man would grow knowledge of his title of Kira? Would any of his family? Would any members of the task force show mercy to Light as a human? Would L?

Light felt soft, warm tears slowly pooling around his eyelashes. He wanted to blink them away, and lie to himself and think you'll make it out of this, you always do, but how could he, when there was no one to outwit and no one to defeat? He let the tears roll down his blood-stained face until they dripped from his shoulder and landed amidst the blood on the floor, swirling to intersperse with the crimson color. Light felt one quiet sob escape his lips as he groaned for help, whimpered for saving, and attempted to moan his way into living.

There was so much he hadn't done. He hadn't drunken a barrel full of beer like his friends from high school probably had. He'd never had a proper girlfriend. He'd never felt love. He'd never smoked. He'd never run across various streets naked and screaming with only the streetlamps illuminating his show. He'd never lived life as a teenager, he'd never grown up to be an adult, he'd never felt anything but utter duty to save others.

He'd never really been a human.

That was the only thing that he and God had in common.

Light felt his eyelids droop to curtain half of his vision, his parted lips slowly meeting again.

And perhaps it was the loss of blood going to his mind or the confusion or the utter helplessness, or the delusion of dying, but Light didn't even gasp when he saw L standing in front of him, almost waiting for him, almost watching him.

Goodbye, Light Yagami.

And even though Light wanted to reach out, grasp onto the last bit of faith that humanity had in him and reel it in, his body was worn and wrecked. Blood was still dribbling pathetically from his wounds.

In a way, it was almost comforting that through it all, L still had a drop of faith of him. Or perhaps Light wished it to be that way, that L hadn't given up on Light. He hadn't given up on defeating Kira. He hadn't stopped being a challenge.

Light wouldn't have wanted anyone else to stand in front of him while he was dying.

So in a way, it was almost perfect.

I'm sorry, L Lawliet.