I have slept in the darkness—
But the seventh angel woke me, and giving me a sword of flame, points to the blood-ribbed cloud, that lifts his reeking head above the mountain.
Thus am I the prophet.
He didn't look like Kira. In that coffin, he looked like something that had once been Light Yagami. He looked like L Lawliet—eyes closed, no expression, an empty shell of humanity. The tears were lies because none of them knew, and those who didn't cry knew too much. Cassandra stood before him, waiting for his golden eyes to come alive with the ironic sense of humor that belonged solely to him. The man, the god, the fallen angel.
There were no visions of burning cities now; her gift was lost now that Apollo was dead. She reached for his dead hand, wondering at how the morticians had made it look innocent, as if the blood had not existed, as if the bullet holes weren't real. She didn't see Near at the funeral; she saw only the lies the world had given him. His dead-eyed sister, his distant mother, his betrayed team. They all hated him, but they stayed and wept all the same.
Only Cassandra had the gift to see all his faces, to see the truth through his thoughtful silence, to wait and watch as he destroyed the world around him. So many lies, so many deaths, so many words, so many years. And what had it gotten him but an empty grave? Matsuda stood, his eyes filled with Mu, staring down at Light with faked indifference, his insides uprooted in turmoil. The world had returned to its pleasant state of anarchy—Guy Fawkes was burning.
And what would she do, spectator turned pawn turned prophet? What could she do now that her visions had ended, that her world was in ruins? Outcast, demon, monster. Where would she go now that the world had cast her out?
His hand was cold, his vision had ended, and she had always known what fate awaited him. She could hear the gunshots, the laughter; she could see the blood dripping down his fingertips. She could see Near's emotionless face as he condemned him as just another murderer, just another corrupt, blood-thirsty monster who thought himself God.
Cassandra was left blind, but she knew where she might go, what path she might take. It didn't matter if the world did not exist outside the minds of men; it did not matter that Kira would never have made a difference. Nothing mattered. But she could have his revenge. She knew her way around his world well enough—she knew exactly what name to write in that Notebook, and she knew the face to assign it to.
Not even Near himself, the child who defeated the god, could escape the black pen of death. He had offended the shadow of sunlight—and for that, he must pay with his life.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.