Hi! i have written a thing! also, THANKS SO MUCH TO professor-maka AND amberlehcar! PROMA IS THE BEST, SHE CORRECTED EVERY DAMN MISTAKE I MADE! AND AMBER GAVE IT SOME READ THROUGHS!! THANK YOU BOTH!!! Seriously man, I am super proud of this, thanks! So, I hope you enjoy!
You can also read it here
Summary: Wesley Evans stared at the television, enthralled. The television was currently covering the Battle of the Moon. It was interesting, Wes noted, but only mildly interesting. Or at least he thought so until it was his brother’s face was on the screen.
Wesley Evans stared at the television, enthralled. He was in his evening class on current events at the university (a high class individual like him must know what’s going on in the world) and the television was currently covering the Battle of the Moon. It was interesting, Wes noted, but other than the fact it was a fight to create the new ruler of the world, Wes didn’t really care all that much; rulers came and went, it would not affect him to directly.
That was until one of the Death Weapons was interviewed. The Death Weapon was a stern women with black hair and glasses. Wes didn’t catch her name but what he did catch was that the the only people who remained on the moon other than a pack of children were one death scythe and some of the intelligence division, who could not partake in the aerial battle.
Children. Kids who were about his brother’s age, kids way too young to be carrying the fate of the world. But they were.
Wes’s focus was drawn out of his thoughts to the television once again when he saw the faces of the kids on the screen.
A blue haired boy, a black haired girl, a boy with stripes in his hair, blonde haired sisters and names to accompany them. Wes felt sorry for them, but they were just faces and names; they meant little to him.The last picture caught Wes’s attention though. The picture held two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The girl had dirty blonde hair and green, green eyes; she looked 15 or 16. It was the boy next to her made Wes freeze though, his heart in his throat. It was his brother, the boy standing with his arm around the girl. He was taller now, his white hair styled into effortless spikes, his red eyes warm with a light he had never seen at home. Death scythe Soul Eater and his Meister, Maka Albarn. Both 15. Too young for this.
Wes missed Soul. A lot. He had not spoken or seen him in such a long time, over five years. His letters had been returned and his phone calls left unanswered. He remembered when his little brother was just a young child, all those many years ago, Soul was always getting hurt over trying to keep up with Wes and his friends; climbing trees with them, biking too fast with them, playing sports with them because Soul could not make any friends his age; they were all scared of him. He always teared up when he got hurt but tried to play it off, to be cool; it was only when Soul was alone with Wes that he cried. Wes knew it was his brother’s insecurity that chased him away from the soft life of a musician to the violent life of a DWMA student. But here he was, Soul, his younger fragile brother on the Moon, fighting for his life and the fate of the world.
The woman on television was worried but she hid it well, her expression neutral and her posture straight. If Wes was not as skilled with people as he was he would never have attributed the steel in her spine and her tightly folded hands to worry.
But he was, so he did.
The interview went on. Wes was now very interested in the topic and he really wanted to hear about the status of the kids on the moon. Were any hurt? Were any (please no) dead? The news did not have what he wanted to hear; he wanted to hear that the kids were ok.
Class was over too soon. The program had not yet ended and Wes wanted to know what was happening. He rushed to the car that was waiting to take him home and turned on the in car television, halting any conversation the chauffeur could have tried to have with him. Wes watched as the women was replaced with a soldier who had been on the the moon, only to be removed after the immortal werewolf Free and the witch Mabaa had extracted all the soldiers, leaving only the children and four adults, along with many, many enemies. The soldier spoke of the bravery of the young heroes of the DWMA and never called them children. They were not supposed to be on the moon; they had been searching the world for the child with black blood when their target had gone to the moon, pulling them into the fray.
The soldier explained that the heroes were all prepared to die in this fight, that all members of the DWMA were. The anchor appeared shocked at this answer -those heroes were still children, much too young to die. The soldier disagreed.
At this the anchor looked shocked, even horrified. Wes felt the same- these kids were far too young for such a preparation. The soldier, feeling the general unrest of the audience, explained.
The sisters raised themselves in the streets of New York, their mother having abandoned them before the young death god with the stripes in his hair had taken them in. Ever since then they had been on many dangerous missions; they were seasoned and competent despite being so young.
The blue haired boy was a descendant of the infamous Star clan, one of the lone survivors. The girl was a descendant of the first human weapon. Together, they were assassins, shadows in the night, the dark sky and the scentless flower.
The girl and his brother were strong as well. Soul was now at the at the level of a Death Scythe, as Wes had heard from the many newspapers that had covered the event (Wes was more than a little hurt that Soul had not told him in person or at the very least over the phone). The pair had gathered the necessary number of souls twice, a great feat for ones so young. The girl was the daughter of a three star Meister and a Death Scythe, the current weapon of Lord Death. She herself was a three star Meister, she and the other two star meisters having received and emergency promotion while on the battlefield in case they didn’t make it back. This precaution made Wes’s eyes burn with concealed tears; her weapon was a death scythe, and if having that title was any indication, they were strong. Soul was his brother, they would make it back.
Wes always knew that his little brother would be great at something, even when he showed no particular genius with conventional music -Soul was still very skilled with his own dark style, being one of the best young musicians in the world- classical music and dinner parties just weren’t his style. Regardless, Wes knew he would find a path that suited him. When he found out Soul had weapon blood, he thought this was the perfect opportunity for Soul to grow and learn something new he could excel at, something no one in their family had done before, something no one would dare look down on him for as second best.
But he was still too young for this fight, in Wes’s opinion. Much too young.
When Wes arrived home, he shot out of the car and ran into his family’s mansion, leaving his bag in the car and almost pushing over a maid. He rushed in to the main living room. There his mother and father sat, riveted to the same interview he had been watching in the car. His mother had a tissue to her face and sniffed softly into it while his father had his arm around her. Wes was not surprised that they were watching; yes they were upset that Soul was not following the family tradition of becoming a musician but they still loved him.
His mother had every article of news about Soul and his lovely young meister (her words, not his) printed out and placed in a scrapbook, which was often dragged out to show off to company (willing or otherwise). It was most often brought out around people who mocked Soul, saying he was not a good musician, that he would not amount to anything or something similar to that. Their mother would then drag out the large scrapbook and show the offender every single article from all over the world, in every imaginable language, about Soul.
They had received only two phone calls regarding Soul during his time at the academy.The first was from a doctor who told him that Soul was hurt- he had gotten into a fight with the demon sword Ragnarok and his meister. The demon sword was too strong for them, only being a one star pair at the time, and had almost killed Soul. They were told he was in the ICU but would most likely make it. His mother had cried for days before they received the second phone call while his father upheld a mask of stoicism.
If Wes was being completely honest, they were all dreading the second phone call or a knock on the door, the one that would tell them that Soul had died in action. The one so many parents of DWMA students received.
But this phone call or visit never came. A different phone call did.
This one was from a young girl, probably about Soul’s age, they later found out that she was Soul’s meister. She told them that Soul was alright, his operation had been a success, that he would be ok. The girl had apologised, over and over and over, had said it was all her fault, how she was so, SO sorry.
Wes’s mother hardly ever lost her temper, but she did then.
She had yelled at the girl, told her that her son wasn’t stupid, that he knew exactly what he was doing and that he wouldn’t like her blaming her self over this, not in a million years. He was not a weak boy, he could protect himself and if he chose to protect her over himself then she must mean a lot to him and that she should stop moping and apologizing and get on with her life.
The girl seemed a lot happier then. She thanked his Mother many times before hanging up the phone. His mother, from that time forward, had seemed a lot more comfortable with Soul going out on dangerous missions if that darling young girl would be there with him (his mother had taken to calling them Soma, a ridiculous combination of their names, Wes thought she shipped them or something strange like that).
Wes was pulled from his memories only to notice the interview was ending now. The Death City News station promised to share anything new they learned about the Battle of the Moon. His mother got up, followed by his father to go to the grand dinning room to eat their dinner. Wes refused to leave the couch. He stayed seated in the pale blue armchair that matched the rest of the room, that almost matched his and their mother’s eyes.
The news had no new information for hours, yet Wes refused to leave his spot on the couch, his fear and anxiety continuing to gnaw at him as he awaited for word, any word, of his long lost little brother. Was Soul ok? Was Soul alive? Were Soul’s friends ok? Were they alive?
It was at 5 in the morning that there was news about the Battle. The moon and the enemy had been sealed in a sphere of black, the heroes barely escaping.They had all made it!
Wes yelled with delight as Mother and Father rushed down the stairs, tears in their eyes not for the first time that day. They watched together as the heroes were reunited with the people on the ground. The weapons became people, supporting their heavily injured Meisters as they all moved forward and embraced their family and friends, some near collapse. The blue haired boy had a broken spine as well as having fractured various other bones, and his face was almost swollen shut. Soul’s Meister was being supported by him, a six inch stab wound outlined in blood on her shirt, the skin of her stomach behind it curiously scarred but otherwise clear. The young death god’s stripes went all the way around his head now and he was as bruised and bloody as the other two. The weapons fared better than their Meisters but not by much; they were bruised and scratched, but they were smiling.
They were happy and proud, Wes realized, as the group from the moon stood together smiling, hugging each other (it did not escape his notice that Soul held his Meister tighter and longer then any of the others, and if the happy noise his mother made was any indication, she noticed too. It was good Soul finally had someone he cared about).
Wes was relieved. Soul was ok. Soul was alive. Soul had friends.
Soul was a hero.
Next to that, what good was a musician?