The gallows stare back at her. The world gone dark, she walks towards the golden stairs, staring at the rope. There is no anger now, there is no desire for revenge; there is nothing but the swinging rope made of starlight.

The snow is still falling, but she no longer sees it, no longer feels it as she draws closer and closer to the rope. Her world is slipping from her fingers and there is nothing left but darkness and the golden stairs.

She doesn't turn back to him, the angel of death with the scarlet eyes, the grinning angel taunting her even as she approaches her death. It was more than betrayal; there are no words for him, the monster hiding behind the human flesh, wearing the boy's face as one might wear a mask.

A porcelain mask, burning as bright as the sun, blinding her—she can not see the blood on his hands, she can not see the blood in his eyes, she can not see.

She cannot look back. To look back would be to see him, the demon in the human flesh. To look back would be to turn to a pillar of salt and crumble beneath his gaze. She can't see his smile again, she can't feel her world fall apart again—the silence… the silence is deafening. There are no funeral bells, there are no children crying; there is nothing for her.

"Why do you keep looking at your watch?"

The mask is thrown away; she sees his face, his true face, the one he's been hiding behind the sunlight. She sees his smile, she sees his eyes—she sees him and she wants to die.

"Because I am Kira."

The giant's eye rolled inward and it died of what it saw.

There is no music, there is no hope; the sun is gone with the mask and the world is dark. The illusion was so beautiful, the illusion kept her alive. Now the illusion is gone and there is only the gallows. The rope swings. She draws closer, walking away from his eyes, walking away from his face, walking away.

"No, there is nothing I want to say…"

The mask has flown; there are no words for the darkness. The gallows are so beautiful, filled with starlight. She has nothing left to say.

He calls back to her. She can hear the smile in his voice. She does not turn, she cannot turn; she cannot stop and face him, not again. Never look in his eyes, never look at his face, never look at his smile, never look at him. Her flesh has turned to stone; the angel of death looks far too human.

The snow falls slowly, not a whisper in their rank—like the stars falling to earth, they fall softly. There is a darkness in her soul. It is in her footsteps; it drags her toward the light like a hungry child that stares at a feast it cannot eat. There is a despair in her heart; she has lost her wings, and she sits with the sorrow that engulfs her.

His laughter sounds like death. She cannot listen to his truth—his lies were so beautiful, he was not meant to be honest. The lies, she misses his lies, she misses the moment of happiness he gave her, the moment before she saw the cord in his hand, before she saw the crimson in his eye.

What's in a name? It is neither hand nor foot nor any other part of a man. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet….

Her name, her name held nothing but her death. A name and a face, a face and a name. There are no more masks, no more lies, no more words to exchange—only the gallows and his stare as he watches her leave.

She is dressed like the raven as her foot steps on the first stair; she is the night; she is dressed for the battle she lost; she is dressed to face him again; she is dressed so that she might live through the sight of his far-seeing eyes.

The first stair feels like the anger she has lost, the second is the hope he gave her, the third is the betrayal, the fourth is the sorrow and the grieving, the fifth is the long path she has walked to escape him, the sixth stair is nothingness—there is no sixth stair.

His scarlet eyes roll inward and he will die of what he sees there.

She turns to watch him standing with his shadow alone on the boulevard. There is no more smile in his eye. He watches like the raven she pretended to be. The golden noose is around her neck, the darkness waits below her, and his eyes say nothing.

There are no words left to them; she has nothing left for him, and yet he watches her still, waiting for the jump, waiting for the black bird to take flight.

She once had a dream, a dream of happiness, a dream of a future without death and darkness. A dream without poets and ravens, without masks and sunlight, a dream without the red in his eyes. She once had a dream about a love, a marriage, a world free from her past. The blackbird once had a dream that she would be able to fly.

The darkness stretches below her. She jumps with the hope that she has power yet to fly—Icarus flew for the sun but the blackbird flew for the freedom. She is falling, the cord tightens, and she dangles.

A dark feather flutters from her broken wings. The raven falls.

Author's Note: Don't blame me, blame French Revolution documentaries… Er well another random one-shot that maybe two people will read? Well whoever did read this reviews are indeed appreciated.

Thank you to my beta Scourge who got swamped with these one-shots a while ago and they are just now starting to trickle out.

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Obviously.