Chapter Content
In the sterile quiet of the guild's infirmary, the only sound was the ticking of the clock and the faint, herbal scent of Madam Porlyusica's potions. Makarov sat on a small stool, his form small and weary, looking at his grandson.
Laxus's body was a geography of bruises and bandages, a testament to the overwhelming power that had defeated him. He was awake, and Makarov knew it.
Makarov sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of eighty-eight years, and a decision he never wanted to make. "Alas! You truly are a clumsy fellow, Laxus."
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