Archive of Our Own

'I'll fight you.' -- that was easy enough to say to him then.

Not that I don't mean every word.

I'll make good what happened, what I did, I swear it.

But ...

Inside his self -- not his any longer, if he were honest -- was a darkness Terra had never suspected. Not the Darkness that his Master railed against, though that was also present, but the all-engulfing blackness of a night that never ended and threatened to swallow him whole the moment he dropped his guard.

It was a darkness born of exile inside his own mind, and if he let it, it would drag him into an abyss he would never escape.

Terra forged deeper into that darkness, grim and stubborn as the earth he had been named after. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other in the endless void, until he found some whisper, some crack in the unseen prison of his mind that he could worry at like a dog at a bone until he’d gained some semblance of control. In the illusion of distance he could hear Xehanort laughing.

Go ahead and laugh, old man.

You think you have the upper hand now, but I got out before and I'll do it again.

The memory, scattered as it was, welled up in his mind's eye: snapping to awareness in the middle of battle, with Aqua -- Aqua! -- pale as death and just as grim as she fought him, fought the thing that wore his face, and his winning free of the dark horror long enough to fight with her against the interloper before being drawn once more into the cage of his own body.

He'd asserted himself in the end, with Xehanort battered and feeble, spitting black bile in the depths of his heart, and summoned the dark Master's Keyblade -- that twisted, wretched thing; his own hadn't answered his call -- to try to drive that old lord darkness from his heart ...

... And then there's nothing until I woke up, sort of, here. Whatever you want to call 'here' when it's a not-place inside my own head, or whatever.

But Aqua, what happened to her after the fight?

And what about Ven? He wasn't with her while we were fighting … I'm just going to have to have faith that both of them made it through somehow.

Once I get free I'll know for sure, and I'll make up for all the stupid things I've done.

I know I'm -- we're -- nowhere near the battlefield from the War. There's that, at least; I've felt bits and pieces, sensations. Whatever world this is, it still feels familiar, so it must be one of the worlds I visited. It won't be home, because Xehanort wouldn't take that risk.

… Assuming there’s enough of home left to pitch a tent on, after what he did to it.

No, those bits and pieces that filtered into his consciousness like a half-remembered dream suggested a fortress or large compound of some kind, perhaps even a castle. There were, in those fragments, a flicker of sunlight filtering through heavy curtains as he, maybe, lay in an unfamiliar bed while a harsh-voiced stranger fussed; a glimpse of water and expansive gardens, a hint of being watched by a small silent child with wise dark eyes.

All of those shards and more besides, and he still couldn't make any sense of the whole – too much of it was fragmented, and it was all at a remove. As if it were all happening to a stranger, and all he could do was watch the scraps of memory that leaked his way. It was frustrating, being so close, almost as frustrating as the lingering sense of absence that bit as his heels and worried at the edges of his thoughts. Something, some part of him almost felt missing, but what …?

Aside from my Keyblade, but that's probably because Xehanort has more control than I do.

Even when I tried to cut him out of my heart, I wound up using his Keyblade and not mine.

But that was nothing Terra could possibly have any control over as he was, and so he did his best to banish the thoughts. There were more important things to be dealing with right now than wondering where 'he' was and what 'he' was doing as long as Xehanort wasn't in full control. Step, step; one after another though the endless dark, ignore the old man, take advantage of his apparent distraction. Whatever Xehanort was doing in the outside world, it was devouring most of his attention, and that gave Terra freer rein to test the boundaries of his prison.

If he's in control of my body.

He's got me blocked most of the time but I know I have him just as stalemated, so what's he doing? What's my body doing?

It just didn't make any sense. If Xehanort was having to fight against Terra every step of the way -- and Terra was making damn sure he had to do exactly that -- who was in control in the physical world? Bitter laughter echoed, muffled, back to Terra's ears as he shrugged the question off as rhetorical. Whoever or whatever it was that was dealing with the real world, it certainly wasn't him, and all he could do was take some small comfort in the thought that Xehanort probably wasn't having much luck on that front either.

On the other hand, something had the old man distracted. Straining against the blackness like a blind man trying to see, Terra slowed his pointless stride and then stopped altogether. If he just concentrated hard enough, sharpened his focus enough, maybe -- just maybe -- he could slip through the black fog in his mind and see for himself what was going on. Pain shot through his phantom form as Terra fought furiously against the iron grip that old lord darkness held on his heart, scrabbled for purchase on the hazy mind at the other side of the darkness.

Even if for just a moment, even if he only gained a glimpse --

A sudden jolt, a trickle becoming quickly a near-flood of sensation; the curve of smooth enamel and alloy and stranger, purer things under unsteady fingers as they traced the contours of battered plating, trailed along the ridges and furrows of a weapon Terra knew nearly as well as his own. More than that sensation, even more than the low and gentle voice that asked probing questions he could not quite understand, there was that presence -- her presence -- that still clung to the disturbingly-inert trappings of a Keyblade wielder, and so strongly that Terra could pick up the ghostly remnants even through the haze that blunted his senses.

AQUA –!!

Frantic, Terra brought all of himself to bear on the tenuous connection between his awareness and his former body, pouring all that he had into the feeble link as the darkness rose up to try and engulf him. Of Xehanort there was no overt sign, even though his presence loomed; old lord darkness was as fixated on the objects laying beneath those trembling hands as he was, if not more so, and Terra howled inwardly at all that interest could imply. He needed to know, needed to see --

The darkness melted away into a filmy black mist, the most ephemeral of barriers, beneath his frantic onslaught; and Terra watched as through a failing monitor, a fractured lens, as those hands that were his -- were once his -- carefully and painstakingly explored every nook and cranny of Aqua's armor. And it was Aqua's, and no one else's; there was no mistaking the shape of the pauldrons and the helm, the mixing of soft blues and silvers and sea-violets.

But of Aqua herself there was no sign, not a trace that he could spot.

The one who handed over his friend's belongings plate by plate was a stranger, a man with short pale hair and eyes like the sun, but with a gentleness that matched his voice. Terra could not make out the stranger's probing questions, try as he might, and he squeezed his eyes shut to force himself to listen closer, to pick out the murmured words. Was Aqua there, somewhere he couldn't see? He couldn't make his body direct attention somewhere else … what had happened to Aqua? Why was her armour, and her Keyblade, worse yet, seemingly abandoned?

“I might have known, little fool, that this experiment would catch your attention despite my precautions.”

Arrogant, biting, and dark as the abyss itself, Xehanort's voice cut through Terra like a night-sharp razor. The old darkness himself stalked within a heartbeat's reach, smiling like a jackal, as Terra whirled to face him with hands held high in a warning posture, ready to fight.

He might be here, but he's still distracted; his hands're twitching in time with what my body's doing. He must know what's going on!

I can try to force him, or better, bait him into telling me somehow --

No, stupid, that's not going to work. But if his attention's split that much, maybe – just maybe – this'll be a moment of weakness, just like that fight with Aqua. I took him by surprise then and it nearly worked.

If this was his chance, possibly his only chance -- he needed to know --

If Aqua doesn't have her Keyblade, something … something's happened, something horrible. Maybe something fatal. And it'll be my fault for being so stupid to trust Xehanort in the first place.

Whether it's saving her or avenging her, it doesn't matter.

“It did more than get my attention, Xehanort! Your 'experiment' is over!

“Give me back my body!”

“So the puppy has decided to try and show his milk-fangs, has he?”

Unruffled, undismayed, Xehanort slowly circled Terra with his gaze locked onto the younger man's eyes and the sweet jackal's smile never leaving his face. As the dark Master paced around him Terra pivoted in tandem, seething, searching for any sign of weakness that he could exploit, only to be enraged all the more as Xehanort abruptly turned away, tucking his hands behind his back as if preparing to give a lecture. When he spoke, his tone was almost gently chiding.

“What do you expect to do to me, Terra? I have already claimed you, brought you into the darkness with me and taken your body for my own.

“Oh, you are a stubborn one, I'll grant you that much. That you still exist at all --”

-- and here Xehanort paused, as if irked by some recollection, and Terra wondered at that pause --

“That you exist at all would be considered nothing less than a miracle by most. But to what purpose, Terra? You can neither supplant me, nor overcome me; you are nothing more than a shade, a whisper, powerless. You have nothing left with which to contest me.

“Even that echo Eraqus left within you can do nothing, will do nothing.”

Smiling, ever smiling, Xehanort turned slowly once again towards him, hell-gold eyes glinting with satisfaction. Clearly he tasted victory, but Terra was not about to give it to him. Not when he was so close to maybe -- maybe -- regaining some tiny sliver of control.

“You will fade into the darkness, Terra, and I will --”

“No!”

He'd had enough; with that trace, that horrible hint of Aqua's fate still lingering in his awareness, Terra had heard enough and more than enough. This time he would prevail. He had no Keyblade to raise against his tormentor, but that didn't mean that he was completely helpless -- what a fool, what a stupid fool to forget everything else Master Eraqus had taught him. Grinding his teeth, Terra locked his fury down, forced it to listen to his command. Anger fed the darkness if left unchecked. He would not make that mistake again.

I don’t have a Keyblade, but I’m not letting him escape --!

Terra's mind screamed to the earth that did not, should not exist in this black pocket of his heart.

And, incredibly, the earth answered.

Ragged plinths of stone erupted from the emptiness beneath Xehanort's feet, bludgeoning him with the force of an avalanche and tossing him nearly out of Terra's sight before enveloping him in a cataclysm of exploding earth.

Ecstatic, Terra lunged after his opponent and dug down deep inside, spurred on by desperate hope, until a second spell answered his call and a rain of crimson and molten stone crashed down onto the old lord darkness with the fury of a meteor strike. Baring his teeth, Terra tore through his own core with rapier-precise fury and summoned down a second barrage.

The darkness churned around them, and Terra pressed forward.

I can do this! I --

“Foolish boy --”

Suddenly the void turned inside out, and for a single heartbeat Terra's vision greyed; when he saw clearly again it was through the molten stone of his own spell as Xehanort, bloodied and furious, deflected the meteors back into his face. Desperate, Terra jerked sidewise in a sliding dodge and bit off a curse as the projectiles clipped him, and then the terrain greyed, warped, and dropped him into some stranger place with a peal like a thousand adamant bells as he landed on a surface far less giving than his prison’s empty infinity.

Beneath his feet lay gleaming glass in a thousand jeweled colours, a madman's delicate depiction of all significance to be found within his life; above his head, the darkness boiled like a maddened cyclone; and before him, in a flash dark as the abyss, Xehanort -- eyes burning like twin hellflames -- called his black iron Keyblade and lunged. The great black blade whistled as it clove the air and nicked a lock of hair from Terra's temple, so close did it come before he managed to twist out of the line of the strike, and Xehanort twisted to a halt before raising his Keyblade to strike again.

“You can't keep dodging forever, boy. You feel it, don't you -- something missing, something slowing you down. You don't have the wits to strike me, and you don't have the power.

“You are forsaken, Terra; you simply have not accepted that fact.”

The air whistled with a second strike. Terra leaped skyward, backward, all but dancing along the slick surface of the glass -- where had it come from? -- before skating sidewise once again a hair's-breadth ahead of the Keyblade that promised to unmake him. No magic answered his call this time, his bag of tricks was spent; and though he tried with all his soul his Keyblade refused to answer him. It was as if he'd never borne a Keyblade at all, and that echoing void rang like a hollow condemnation through every fibre of his being.

Is this how it's going to end, then?

Without me even getting a chance to undo what I did?

With Aqua maybe just out of reach? Ven, who knows where?

I need to fight back! Why can't I call my --

:: You are not alone, Terra ::

That voice! Rough, tinged with regret -- his master's voice, Eraqus' voice. So startled was Terra that he stumbled and nearly measured his own length on the brilliant glass, paying no heed to Xehanort's triumphant shout or the whistle of his Keyblade through the air --

:: You are not alone ::

:: Let me give you the support I did not give you then ::

The tingle was the only warning, a sensation of smooth steel-souled determination that screamed 'Eraqus' into Terra's mind as surely as if his Master stood with him in the flesh even as that same tingle solidified into the heavy austerity of his Master's own Keyblade, nestled into his hands as if he had called the thing himself. In an eyeblink Terra regained his footing and whirled like a cat after a dove, bringing the heavy blade up in a two-handed grip -- and with a resounding shriek of offended metal burnished steel met blackened iron. Terra bared his teeth and surged forward, pushing Xehanort back a stumbled pace before throwing off the parry altogether and pressing his suit in a flurry of angry strikes. Taken aback, Xehanort blocked, jerked away, parried, and bit back an oath as Terra's onslaught began to strike home.

“Forsaken, am I, old man? It doesn't look that way to me. My Master is with me, and soon enough I'll find Aqua -- and we'll find Ven together.

“There's no way you can stop us both --”

Xehanort spit disdainfully and raised his free hand above his head, floating free of the glassy flooring as he called the darkness to him in a posture that Terra knew all too well. But still, in that one moment --

An opening! Now --!

Eraqus' Keyblade was oddly balanced, awkward in his hand, but Terra banished doubt from his mind and charged, the sonic shriek of tortured air battering him as he struck again and again at Xehanort's unprotected torso, twisting on a pinpoint to turn and lunge over and over. And yet the corrupt old beast, battered and bleeding, did not fall, refused to fall …

“Is that all you have, boy? Your master's gift of pity?”

The darkness coiled around Xehanort's shoulders, oozed from his torso, reared towards the maelstrom above their heads like a living thing, and Terra felt his gorge rise at the sight of the black beast. It was so unnatural, so obscene -- and he'd very nearly given himself over to that.

I will not use the darkness in me like that, giving myself to it like that!

There was something familiar about that roiling mass; but what was it? Something in how it moved, how it clotted and shaped itself like a living thing, but where could he have seen --

Aqua! When Aqua fought -- when I tried to help her fight --

The black beast's rictus grin flashed, reflected in the glittering mosaic, and night-dark claws sharp as the abyss tore stripes in Terra's torso from throat to pelvis, leaving him collapsing to one knee and coughing bloody froth as his borrowed Keyblade clattered to the glassy floor. Gasping, Terra fought to stay upright, stay aware. He was not going to fall, damn it.

I said I'm not letting it end like this!

Shaking his head, Terra blinked drops of clinging crimson from his lashes and gathered himself. Master's Keyblade was just barely within reach, Xehanort smiling that jackal's skull-grin like the monster that reared above him, empty-breasted, empty-hearted, as old lord darkness lifted his Keyblade casually, so casually, and paced forward serenely to deliver the killing blow.

In a moment of detached clarity, Terra realized he was crouching on a stained-glass image of his own Wayfinder, the twilight orange of its petals staining slowly scarlet with his blood. Despite the pain, he managed a smile.

We're never apart. Never.

I'll find you both, and make it right.

Sensing his chance in Terra's apparently unfocused musing, Xehanort surged close and struck; and in that moment Terra snatched for his borrowed strength and drove the burnished steel into the dark lord's unprotected gut.

Xehanort roared, clawing at Eraqus' Keyblade, as the black beast clawed in tandem and thwarted fury at Terra's unprotected face -- and Terra returned the favour by ramming the steel shaft deeper into the unresisting flesh.

Then the world dissolved into the night-dark void, and he knew nothing more.

… Nnn …

The first thing Terra became aware of was the incessant, throbbing pain that all but threatened to make his skull burst open like an over-tense balloon. It was like the mother of all migraines concentrated into a single searing mass of agony centered right between and behind his eyes, and nothing he'd ever experienced could compare with it; and yet, strangely enough, now that he was swimming back to semi-awareness the pain seemed to be fading out.

He was fairly certain headaches weren't supposed to work that way, but who was he to complain about not feeling like he’d taken a Keyblade to the skull? No, he’d take what he could get and be thankful, yes indeed.

The second thing he became aware of was the distinctly damp and lukewarm feeling of a folded washcloth placed over his eyes, and some time ago if that very lukewarm clamminess was any indication …

… Wait, what?

A ... washcloth? How was that even possible? Unless --

Unless.

Terra hardly dared to breathe the possibility even as it registered. It shouldn't be possible at all -- unless he were back in control. Slowly, gingerly -- his arm felt as heavy as lead, as if he were moving through deep water -- he reached toward his face and touched the cloth with his fingertips. It was just damp enough, definitely clammy, and had a nap to it; just an ordinary washcloth. Barely able to contain his joy, Terra lowered his arm across his chest and drew a deep, careful breath as he prepared to take stock of his situation.

Washcloth over my eyes, so someone brought my bo- brought me here. Something happened, I guess, maybe a collapse after that fight in my head. That'd explain the headache too, maybe.

I feel … hm. Lying down. Definitely wearing something looser than usual.

Slowly, he felt along the surface of the bed -- yes, definitely a bed -- he'd been placed on. His curious fingers encountered thick quilting, but he wasn't placed beneath the bedclothes but rather on top of them; perhaps to avoid overheating, but he wasn't certain. There was a pillow under his head, thick enough to cushion and nearly enough to immobilize him.

If whoever did this thinks I've got something wrong with my head, that makes sense. They're not really wrong, either.

Well, time to try and get up.

Painstakingly slowly, Terra eased himself upright on the bed, catching the cloth as it fell from his face as he braced himself with his other hand. The sense of fuzziness, of some indefinable loss was stronger now; his reflexes felt dull, his thoughts slower, almost as if he’d been drugged or was fevered. It was disconcerting, really, feeling less than competent in his own body. But there would be time to deal with that later -- for now, he needed to take stock of himself and his surroundings.

First things first meant checking for external injuries, a quick survey that turned up nothing at all that would have reflected the battle he’d just waged inside his heart. Reflexively, he glanced down at his hands, which were familiar enough if maybe a little unsteady, and -- a little more tanned? Or maybe that was just a cast from the lamps that were set high on the walls. Clothing at the moment consisted of a simple loose shirt and darker slacks, fairly nondescript. Interesting; it didn't quite seem like bedclothes, but it wasn't something he'd really wear out and around.

Or, of course, it's sick clothes. C'mon, Terra, work through the fuzziness and think.

Okay, that's me covered, what about where I am?

The room was mundane enough, cozy in its own way. A large, high-arching window made up of interlocking panes was mostly hidden by the heavy drapery he'd dimly sensed while locked away in his own heart, which suggested that this was the same place that he’d snatched impressions of from his prison. The foot of the bed nearly overlapped with the wall beneath the window. To the left of the bed were a desk and chest of drawers against another long wall, with a pitcher half full of some liquid or other and a mug left sitting on the desk next to some papers. The short wall closest to him had a bookshelf, the far one a door.

And then there was the mirror above the desk.

At first, muddled and barely awake, he'd ignored the flash of unfamiliar ivory that flickered in the mirror's glass as he moved; but as soon as he had spotted the door Terra had decided to take himself off for a walk to find out where he was, and once on his feet his reflection was on full display. That flickering ivory was the tips of his own mop of hair. His jaw dropped with shock.

I don't believe it.

Quivering with disbelief, he slouched over to the desk and planted his hands on it, leaning in towards the glass. He still looked like himself, more or less -- he hadn't changed physically. Yet. But his hair had bleached out to a dull ivory-white, and his eyes … it was all he could do not to punch his own reflection in the same heartbeat that he confirmed those burning hell-gold eyes staring back shockily at him. His eyes. Xehanort's eyes.

Looks like I'm not rid of him completely, or else he plotted up some kind of physical alterations and that's what he's been doing when he has more control.

Not sure which I like the thought of less.

That's a lie; it's definitely the first option.

I need to find out where Aqua's Keyblade is -- and where I am -- and I need to do it as soon as possible … hm?

Mental monologue broken by the rustle of paper against his knuckles, Terra glanced down at the desktop. A note, written in a strong precise hand, lay there, and with a little shrug he picked it up and skimmed the contents.

'Xehanort,

His Majesty was unable to determine the exact cause of your collapse, but surmises that it be due to simple overexertion. Taking your condition when found into account, I see no reason to dispute His Majesty's assessment.

For the time being, it would be best if you rested and did not strain yourself overmuch. You will remember with time; there is no need to push yourself. Be certain to keep yourself hydrated -- the tea will aid with this -- and sleep if you feel you require it. Perhaps take a short walk in the gardens, if you feel ready for such activity. Call for one of us if you feel it necessary.

Even'

Well, maybe that also explained the splitting headache. The note's contents prickled at the back of his mind, though, and Terra stared down at the slip of paper as if attempting to will any unspoken knowledge from the brief message. Something about remembering with time …

If he -- if I -- if my body -- this is confusing … If “Xehanort” just kind of turned up in some world, and me and the old man've been fighting for control, I guess my body has just been kind of on autopilot or something. Maybe acting amnesiac? That would explain the part about remembering.

There's still something Xehanort's been up to, though, because this Even person is using his name to address whoever it is they think they found, namely me. And him.

Oww, my head.

Scrubbing at one temple, Terra poured a mugful of the tea and slammed it back -- and promptly coughed a few times, mint tea not being meant to be chugged -- before throwing himself across the brightly-quilted bed and staring up at the ceiling with its intricate brass piping, arms tucked behind his head.

Okay, so I'm in a place that has a king -- that's “His Majesty” -- and there's gardens. I remember, kind of, hearing a lot of water before. So … I could be back in that world where I supposedly rescued Xehanort. I could even be back in that world with the races, but I don't remember that much water. It did have the pipes and stuff under the town, though.

I'm not going to get any answers staying in here, is the thing, no matter what the note said … no, wait, I guess I can leave. There was that bit about taking a walk in the gardens. Why is it so hard to stay on track …?

A walk it is, anyway. I won't find answers in here, and I won't find Aqua either.

The memory of shakily examining Aqua's gear spurred Terra into action more than any confusion about his own self ever could. Climbing back to his feet again, he raked a hand through his still-unnerving hair and poured a second mug of tea, sipped it more slowly while weighing his options, and then heaved a mental shrug. It didn't really matter that he had no clue where he was going; at that, he could probably pass off any obvious confusion as being because of amnesia and the collapse.

No time like the present.

I'll find you, Aqua.

Gingerly -- in case he provoked headache, round two -- he reached out with annoyingly blunted awareness, searched for anything that 'felt' like Aqua or Ven and tried not to swear when he came up with nothing.

Well, he'd do it the hard way, then.

With slow and deliberate motions, mindful of that floating disconnected sensation, Terra set the mug down and made his way out of the room and into the hallway.

It didn't take long for Terra to confirm his suspicions regarding the world he'd landed in. A short walk down the warmly-paneled hallway -- avoiding, for the time being, the various closed doors he passed along the way -- had led him out to a pair of larger doors and, once past those, out onto a balustrade and staircase that was definitely familiar. Equally familiar were the brilliantly blooming gardens at the foot of the switch-backed staircase, and -- further off into the distance -- the cluster of fountains spraying water and tiny rainbows down in the town below.

Oh, he was definitely back into that garden world. Radiant Garden, wasn't it? Well, he could certainly see why it merited the name, with the way the hazy moonlight was reflecting off the stone and water. There were no Unversed lurking in the flowerbeds this time, and so Terra wasted no time maneuvering down the staircase and into the garden proper. Stretching his legs always did help him think through sticky situations.

And it doesn't get more complicated than this.

Back and forth, back and forth along the white pebbled pathways, his steps so measured and deliberate he could seem three times his age and more; the deliberate winding patterns of the paths were almost soothing as Terra picked at his immediate situation.

He needed to find Aqua's armour and Keyblade, of course; that went without saying. But should he reveal himself to the people who were obviously helping “Xehanort”, or should he wait and see what the situation was before making that leap of faith?

Rushing in stupidly got me into this mess and dragged the others with me.
I can't afford to make the same mistakes again.

The soft crunch of small feet on the path behind him brought Terra up short, his musings abandoned as he tensed instinctively. Someone else was there …

A small hand closed on the hem of his shirt and tugged, once. Slowly, Terra pivoted in place to stare down at his 'captor'; a boy of anywhere from nine to a poorly-grown twelve, dressed much like he was, with a mop of blue-grey hair falling in his face and dark, knowing eyes. He'd seen those eyes before, in the bits and snips of memory that filtered in from 'Xehanort's' experiences.

“Where are you going?”

Fair enough question, that. Relaxing, Terra shook his head and offered a sheepish little smile, untangling the small fingers from his clothing as he did so.

“... Nowhere, really.

“I was just wandering in the garden, trying to sort out my thoughts. I figured that wouldn't be too much of a strain.”

The boy nodded silently; apparently that was an acceptable answer. A little nonplussed by the odd child and his silence, Terra patted his head awkwardly and turned to continue down the path he'd been wandering -- only to discover that he had company insistently and silently dogging at his heels. Well, if the kid wanted company -- and why not, maybe he couldn't sleep and didn't want to be alone at night -- Terra wasn't about to shoo him away. There wasn't any harm being done, after all.

Four circuits of the garden later the silence was broken by another quiet question, the boy seizing Terra's wrist as he spoke.

“Did that weapon hurt you?”

What weapon … wait.

Carefully, mindful of his own unsteadiness as much as the desire to not overwhelm the boy, Terra paused and then lowered himself into a crouch to bring his gaze level with his odd little interrogator. The cool dark eyes gazed back placidly, revealing nothing. Terra sighed.

“It didn't hurt me, exactly, but it hurts to know that it's here and not where it belongs.”

“Do you know where it belongs? Do you remember?”

“It belongs to a friend, to someone very important to me.”

Quickly Terra weighed his options. Obviously the boy had either been present for the inspection and collapse or was told about it; maybe, just maybe, he could lead Terra to Aqua's gear. Placing a hand on one narrow shoulder, he tried to keep desperation out of his voice as he continued.

“Do you know where it is?”

There was a long pause, as the boy bowed his head, fingertips tapping against his mouth as he weighed the question with all the gravity of some ancient scholar; finally he nodded once, decisively, and looked back up at Terra before holding out one hand.

“They're in His Majesty's workrooms.”

Aqua …

Dignity be damned; Terra collapsed into the nearest chair as his legs all but gave out from under him, his eyes locked on the tumble of blue and sea-violet arrayed neatly in sequence down the length of the marble tabletop. Next to him his young guide climbed into a second chair and folded his hands on the table, watching Terra with a mixture of curiosity and some other, unreadable emotion.

It took several long, painful moments before Terra dared to reach for the Keyblade that lay unresponsive on the marble, lifting it carefully, so carefully, as if he expected it to fall to shattered slivers in his hand as soon as he touched it. There was no mistaking it -- it was Aqua's blade, with the lingering signature of 'Aqua' still clinging to it, and yet the only way it could be separated from her was if she had died. Died, or some inexplicable reason cast off her Keyblade and her armour, and Terra couldn't imagine what could prompt Aqua to do any such thing.

Setting the lifeless blade down gently, he glanced towards the boy.

“I don't suppose you know when all this got here, or how, do you?”

The small pale fingers tapped a short rhythm on the tabletop; the dark eyes gazed back, unreadable, and then the child placed one hand on the Keyblade, almost meditatively. Not for a heartbeat did his attention waver from Terra.

“Even said that His Majesty said it was found with you in the courtyard.

“But I knew it wasn't yours. It doesn't work with you, even if it could fit you. It isn't his, either.”

Terra blinked. ‘His’? What ‘his’? What kind of comment was that? Unless the boy had encountered another Keybearer -- and Xehanort had been here in this world, supposedly captured.

But so had Ven. And if there were even the slightest chance that the youngster meant Ven --

“'His'?”

“I saw someone else, with this sort of weapon. More wind than water, and he kept the noise away from me. But this doesn't belong to him, it doesn't work.

“You're also changed, now. You aren't who you were before nightfall.”

It had to have been Ven, with that reference to wind; it certainly was not Xehanort. But, how did he know about Aqua’s affinity to water? Had he watched the battle they’d fought against the massive Unversed in the courtyard together? Strange, eerie child, and Terra felt a prickle crawl down his spine as he stared at the boy. What kind of …

“... That's true, I'm not. But I still want to try to understand what happened to me.

“This other person, though -- was he younger than me? With blonde hair?”

“That's --”

“Ienzo! C'mon, kid, you know you're not supposed to be wandering around the palace this time of night. You're gonna get us all another lecture.”

Terra froze in his seat as the slippery words registered, a mask of displeasure freezing on his face as he twisted to face the new arrival. The eyepatch didn't make much difference; he recognized the gunman he'd battled during that farce of a 'rescue'. While Terra stared down the new arrival, without a word of protest, the child -- Ienzo, clearly -- pulled his hand away from the Keyblade and slipped off of the chair with the air of one who was used to this sort of badgering from interfering adults and chose to humour it. Favouring Terra with one long, long stare, he padded away from the worktable and out the door without so much as a whisper.

As soon as the door clicked closed behind Ienzo, Terra found himself on the receiving end of a much more unpleasant gaze. There was malice there, and a malevolent sort of glee -- and, Terra noticed almost belatedly, the gunman's one eye was now an all-too-familiar burning gold. With a laugh a hyena would envy, his one-time antagonist flung one arm out in an expressive gesture of amusement that ended in a flourish of pointing right at Terra's face.

“Well, now that the brat's out of the way, time to get things taken care of.

“Y'see, Terra, I know just who you are -- having what you might want to call an inside line on this whole thing, y'know -- and let me tell you right now:

“Do we have a surprise for you.”

The golden eye blazed with a sudden, unholy madness, and Terra found himself reaching frantically inward for a Keyblade that still, still refused to answer him. Surging to his feet, he snatched up Aqua's blade -- feeling the slightest of tingles, hoping against hope as the blade fought him that it meant she still lived, somehow, somewhere -- and willed his sluggish body to respond. Before he so much as brought the blade into a ready stance the gunman was on him, peppering him with maddening, stinging small-fire and laughing raucously.

“I don't think so, Terra! Just keeping you off-balance til the main event kicks off -- but don't you worry, I'll be patching up the holes once it's all over, not that you'll be able to notice --!”

Terra felt the trickle of a dozen small wounds trail down his face, his torso, wetting his clothing and speckling the table with crimson. He swung his weapon at his assailant but was too slow, too disoriented to land a telling blow as that maddening laughter spun through the air around him, chasing after him from all directions --

A surge of darkness clouded his vision black as night, and for a moment Terra thought he'd given himself to the dark forever before the hated voice of Xehanort lanced through his skull like an agony of blackened flame.

:: Your stubbornness ends here. Your heart is mine! ::

Screaming in agony, Terra collapsed to the floor's cool tiles and clutched helplessly at his head under the onslaught of Xehanort's sudden savagery as, unprepared for an ambush from the inside, his defenses shattered like glass.

Like a discarded bauble, Aqua's Keyblade clattered to the floor beside him.

Buried down deeply into the endless darkness, that unknown void of his own heart, Terra could only find himself losing more ground with every passing heartbeat.

Xehanort had won, had surely won; for all his desperation, all his dearly-won strength, Terra could no more pull himself back out of the pit he'd fallen into than he could sprout wings and fly. There was nothing for him but to fall for an eternity and more, as all around him in the eddying darkness a thousand thousand glittering shards of brilliant glass fell with him in mute reminder of what he'd lost.

Lost, yes, and falling forever into his own private darkness, but not willing to fade away into that endless void. Never that. If he could not take back his body he would at least influence it, meddling with the thoughts of Xehanort the apprentice, reaching out beyond the blackness with phantom tendrils to tangle with the old man's plans.

I might have lost, but you're not going to win.

I'll make a new person out of us first.

One bit of influence at a time, forcing that old lord darkness to subsume himself under a new and fledgling mind -- there was no way to know if the gamble would ever work, but what did Terra have to lose? Not a thing, not now; a thing he repeated like a bitter mantra, all the while cursing the lassitude, the sluggishness that even now clouded his every action. Even half lost to the old man, he'd never discovered what was wrong with him. Maybe it was just what happened to anyone possessed by the miserable old wraith, vitality inside as well as outside sucked away while Xehanort took advantage of the weakness.

But it didn't matter, save as a galling, distracting thorn lodged in his throat, as long as he was trapped so far in the recesses of his own mind that even the tiniest of glimmers from the apprentice's experience and memory could barely reach him.

The one small comfort in his endless exile was the flickering presence of his Master. A small thing, but persistent; like the beating of a moth's wings, or the glow of a firefly -- yes, a firefly, a tiny but eternal light to guide him in the darkness of the abyss. Terra spoke as much to that soul-light as he did to himself, desperate to keep madness at bay for just a little longer, and in the silence of the void he fancied that Eraqus acknowledged his words but was harbouring his own strength instead of attempting to respond.

Not since his maddened ambush of Xehanort had Terra heard his Master's voice, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he wasn't alone in the dark while he laid down thread after thread of himself in the apprentice's fragile mind. Maybe, just maybe, if he nudged just enough -- those are your friend's belongings, this is who she is, this is your other friend, this is how they feel, what you need to look for -- he could take over again from the inside without Xehanort ever knowing what was happening.

So it went, for an eternity; or perhaps for days, or merely a few beats of the heart. With no means of marking time -- if time even mattered any longer in this nowhere-place so down deep inside -- Terra could only cling to his sense of self, and the warmth of his Master's tiny unseen light, and hope for a change.

When that change came, it brought horror in its wake.

There was no warning. One moment the darkling silence reigned as it always did -- the next, a silent screaming, the soundless noise of twisting metal and tearing flesh as something tore the void around him asunder and threatened to take him with it. One by one, the shining glassy shards whirled in an unseen vortex and winked out like dying stars, disappearing between his fingers as he clutched desperately through the darkness after them.

The pain was unbearable, unthinkable; and far from over.

The blackness roared, swelled, and all around him Terra could feel the rending claws of the darkling horror that black beast that rode the old lord darkness, could sense its soul-rending, heart-killing rictus grin through the endless night --

:: … terra ::

Master!

All around him the darkness closed in, clawed at him, leaving seeping wounds as fragments of his heart were torn away forever. The firefly light flickered, swooped helplessly around him -- and was ripped away in a maelstrom of agony as Terra's vision briefly went white with pain. Howling, he clutched after his Master and saw the burning, blackened mist where his touch -- where the touch of the darkness that enveloped him, strained him with every passing moment -- scored Eraqus' fluttering heart, saw it and recoiled in terror.

What -- what am I --

What's happening --

:: terra … I'm so-- ::

The pale light flickered and fled, and the darkness devoured Terra whole.

Just a heart just a heart just a heart

I won't fall, I won't fall to this, I need to stop this

What am I

I won't be this, I won't be this, it won't end like this

An endless mantra. An endless existence -- if existence it was -- enmeshed in the deepest of darkness, in the very essence of the black beast that had battened onto Xehanort and tried to rend Aqua limb from limb. If he were ever a monster, it was now.

Terra knew neither how long he hung battered and torn in that unholy melding, nor why he had not be annihilated outright. He knew he was not alone; he was trapped with someone who sometimes felt like the old man, sometimes like what he fancied that apprentice mind would feel like it he'd been a real person, but who called himself 'Ansem' and not ‘Xehanort’.

And this Ansem was mad. Mad enough to have carved out his heart -- carved out the old man and taken Terra along with him, hidden scrap as he was -- with the darkness itself, with that jackal-grinned thing, and now … and now …

Now he, they, were that horror. A hideous amalgamation of hearts bound up in darkness as black as the abyss. Nothing else. He couldn't touch, couldn't see, couldn't feel, couldn't die; he could do nothing but scream and recite an endless loop of broken and meaningless thoughts as time itself froze around him.

??

!!

Terra's wordless mantra shattered as something … something familiar fluttered against his awareness, some other heart, a still-living heart. That heart, a heart that called to that heart-hunger that was a familiar abomination now -- it was a heart that he knew. That knew him. And a brilliant moon-bright light shone from that heart.

Maddened, almost mindless, that light drew a memory from him nonetheless and he strained the black beast’s senses to pinpoint that heart and its owner.

A moment, an eternity later, he knew.

It was that boy, the one he chose so long ago -- was it that long ago? -- there on the beach in the twilight. That boy with the knowing eyes and the little secret smile and the moon-bright light inside. Wordlessly, sightlessly, Terra reached blindly for that light and was rewarded with the glimpse, impressed on his inner eyes, of a youth Ven's age or somewhat better who stood defiant against a darkening storm that threatened to tear his island word apart. Older; so much older. But it was him, of that there was no doubt.

So long … has it been that long …?

Instinctively Terra yearned towards the boy, hoping to succeed at contact for -- he wasn't sure for what, could barely formulate the awareness of 'what'. Straining, clawing, he called towards that light, and something lanced, searing, shining through the abyss that was the Seeker of Darkness. The black heart inside it howled with pain that Terra shared and accepted as due punishment without a moment's thought.

But the Seeker knew how to corrupt; and, beneath the layers of misdirection and false identity, old lord darkness still lurked and plotted. In an eyeblink it was on the boy, coaxing, cajoling, luring, and before Terra's horrified awareness could pull away the light was smothered, the moon eclipsed, the earth burned black. Even the merest shred of self-doubt, of bitter distrust, fed the darkness more than his own drive for strength could ever do; something, someone had planted a seed of doubt in the heart of his chosen heir, and that was all the Seeker required to stain that young heart forever.

Which made the youth a perfect vessel.

Helpless to act, unable now to feel the boy, Terra howled mindlessly as the black beast -- as Xehanort -- as he tore his successor's heart bare and plunged within, coiling inside like a worm inside a rosebud before calling a Keyblade black as night and as sharp as a demon's wing.

And then, raising the black blade high, he -- they -- tore the island's heart asunder and called the darkness down.

Shattered as he was by his unwitting betrayal, the sliver that had been Terra found no purchase in this new body's senses, no means of communicating nor of influencing the shell's behaviour. Battered and soul-bleeding as he was, little more than a shadow of his own heart grafted to a larger whole which had eaten him alive … a fate he could only witlessly, mindlessly welcome as the darkness that called itself Ansem worked its will upon the shattered worlds. The corruption of that moon-bright youth had been the final crack before he fell apart completely.

Once, twice, he felt a flicker against his awareness; the impression of concern for a young lady with a heart so pure it burned -- that reminded him of a boy he knew he should know the name of -- the stab of guilt mixed with darkling jealousy for another, the determination to set right a grave injury. It was that last that stirred him from his animal despair, but as weakened as he was he could do nothing.

Nothing but watch, as six hearts gathered and a Keyblade like no other was welded together. As another youth fought his stolen body -- and turned that same blade on his own self. As, flush with power, the black beast warped that stolen shell into a mockery of a forgotten shape, a form long since cast aside twice over, and the Seeker of Darkness rose in very truth.

When the final battle came he welcomed it, welcomed the promise of an end, unable to remember what it was that drove him to cling to his own existence and feeling a grim pleasure in the ending of the black beast's venomous life. And as the magic rained down, the glittering razors of that brilliant Keyblade tore into his stolen flesh, he let it all go.

The Seeker roared as it was torn to pieces -- and a brilliant agony lanced through his very being as he was abruptly ripped free of the patchwork heart he'd so long been a fragment of. Across the very worlds, plummeting through a shimmering abyss he could not sense and yet he knew, raw and vulnerable with neither flesh nor darkness to protect him against the void …

… Flowing, whirling, unseen but present, one by one, a thousand thousand shards of glass like scattered jewels locked themselves into place beneath a dome of endless night. The images were crazed and warped -- the boy was there, older, changed; the black beast as well, and the sigil of that fallen garden -- but solid beneath his feet as, Terra once again, he drifted through the void until his feet touched down on the glassy twilight Wayfinder still stained with his own blood.

Slowly thought, true thought, began to filter back into his awareness and he looked down at the softly glowing mosaic beneath his feet as if he were seeing it for the first time.

The figure sleeping, half curled and limp, in the glassy image did not depict himself, but rather --

… is that … my ...

The world exploded into existence.

Terra did not wake. There was nothing that he could describe as “waking” -- the world was not there, and then it was, with a burning cold clarity that shook him to his core. He could not see, could not feel as flesh and blood could feel; but that strange clarity of sense informed him of the eddies of power that crossed the world, matched those eddies with the faded memories of the days when he had been sighted and gave him the ability to identify what lay around him.

Lifting his head warily, he took in his surroundings: grey skies above, clouded and unrevealing. Beneath him the surface on which he knelt was mute stone, battered, the colour of parched earth; it dropped away abruptly. A butte, or some sort of pillar?

A pillar. The pillar. The tower of stone where Xehanort --

Where that bastard took my body from me.

Where he attacked Aqua; attacked us all.

Where he destroyed Ven, sicced that dark mockery on him.

The χ-blade -- he said the χ-blade had been created. And then --

Anger, undirected, sharp as the earth's teeth, picked him up and shook him like a wayward mongrel as the memories rushed in. Oh, he was reacting now as he had not, could not, since the old lord darkness had coiled inside his heart, and he remembered. The armour remembered, Ends of the Earth remembered, and he regained that memory as the force of will that drove him -- that had been missing for all that time, unspoken, as he'd fought against the dark -- slammed home into his fractured heart.

His hollow self remembered for the first time that final, silent combat and the look of hatred and confusion that clouded his own face -- Xehanort's face -- as he, as that will that the old man could never break, fought him to a standstill until the butte was overcome with untamed power from below. And he had waited ever since, here on the barren earth, a hollow shell waiting to be refilled. To make good that promise to his friends, to avenge his pain and theirs.

He looked down at his hands, his hollow form, the brazen fingers locked in rest around Ends of the Earth.

'Ends of the Earth' -- I'm the end, alright.

The last echo left.

But there's enough of me to put an end to him.

I know he's out there; I can feel him.

Whatever he is now, the bastard is still out there.

I'll destroy him.

Ven, Aqua; I'm coming. This time I'll find you.

He surged to his feet, scanning the ground for a means off of the butte. The plating of his armour squealed in protest at this sudden movement after years of disuse, and he ignored it; he couldn't feel the weight or resistance, hollow as he was, and the joints would loosen soon enough. In moments he was launching himself off the butte and skimming across the shattered valley floors, a vengeful soul in brazen metal.

There was no way out.

He'd scoured the graveyard of Keyblades, searching for a means to escape, but there was nothing -- the world was locked off from all access, whether by Xehanort's hand or the sheer madness of their collective battles or some other force he could not divine. He neither knew which was the likely reason nor cared to learn it, spurred by his thwarted anger as he was. The only important thing was that he was trapped again.

Maybe I can't get past the barrier because I'm not alive.

Bitterness welled up in his nonexistent throat until he shook it off, replaced it with stone-solid resolution.

There was one thing he could do.

Time passed, and he never noticed; he felt nothing, no exhaustion, no pain. Time enough to cover every last finger-length of their three battlefields, and to uncover every scrap, every trace he could scrape from the barren earth: shards of Ven's armour, etched by frost; a few gleaming fragments that could have been from the χ-blade; and a single shred of bloodied fabric that could have come from Aqua's bodysuit.

All of these he gathered, one by one, and buried deep within the earth with a fragment of his own battered bronze plating.

Then, in the midst of the barren valley where they met their end, he knelt once more on the barren stone.

The echoing silence was abruptly broken by a surge of power, and a trio of bright life-forces surged into existence as -- somehow -- the barrier of the world was bypassed. Where were they, their hearts seemed to ask, and what was this place? -- so many questions, and who could blame them?

The commotion shook him from his empty reverie as their presence registered. He couldn't see them, not the way living eyes could see -- but he could sense them, could track them, could feel the meaning behind the words he knew they were saying.

And then there was the one in the lead …

Bright, brilliant, a paragon of the light. And a Keyblade -- a Keyblade! -- and all wrapped in a lingering familiarity that burned into his consciousness. Who was this? Why were they here? How did they get to the graveyard?

:: Who are you? ::

That Keyblade. Was it the boy -- did he survive, somehow, his moon-bright light returned? He reached out with a tendril of awareness and promptly drew back again, the bile of disappointment colouring his thoughts. No.

:: You aren't him. You aren't the one I chose. ::

The Keybearer railed back at him, but he couldn't follow; he could only feel the confusion and -- and, yes, anger, defensiveness -- behind the stranger's words. Insistent, he probed again and felt the distinct touch of darkness against the light --

This person, this Keybearer had been one of the black beasts.

Memory surged, of the monster and the old lord darkness who used it, who took body after body for his own. It was the only other possibility for that familiar touch that presented itself to him.

:: Xe … han … ort … ::

:: Xehanort! ::

With the fury of an avalanche, he surged to his feet with blade raised high. This time he was going to end it.

:: No. ::

:: Now I understand. ::

Pained, shamed, he began to sink to his knees once more, the battle over with a victor but no vanquished. The young Keybearer -- now remembered, vaguely, as the younger child dancing impatiently while he'd made his choice on that twilight beach, so long ago -- wisely retreated with his friends, and he let them go. In his madness and his anger he'd attacked the innocent; was he tainted still?

A flash of power caught his attention, held the shivering sensation of another world within it, and in a moment's eternity he sensed the trio bolting towards it, through it. They had bypassed the barrier choking the graveyard --

In a brazen blur he surged to his feet, called Ends of the Earth to glide him faster than thought, and tore through the swiftly-closing rift. Ignoring the shorts of surprise on the other side he kept right on moving, fleeing that new world as fast as he could fly.

He could feel, as if in a far-off, fractured mirror, himself.

He knew where he needed to go.

If there were one advantage of his hollow existence to be found as he fled the Keyblade Graveyard, it would be the simple fact that he could no longer feel physical pain. Hunched so low over the glider that his plating could have been fused with it, he ignored both the cries of alarm and the peppering of spellstrikes that drew sparks from his armour as he sped through castle hallways -- and then, ignoring all peril, crashed directly through the ceiling-beams to make his escape.

Nothing mattered now but that screaming siren call that rattled through the emptiness inside and focused all existence with a laser-like intensity. Out there, somewhere out there was himself, and with it would surely be the old lord darkness who had caused all this agony.

The one who struck down his Master, his father.

The one who destroyed Ven, left nothing but remnants clinging to that stranger in the graveyard.

The one who killed Aqua, took her Keyblade as a prize.

The one who led him into the abyss, took his face, used him as a stalking-horse for his second host.

Across the worlds he raced, untiring and uncaring, through the void between that could never harm him now that he was nothing but the armour he once wore as protection from that same emptiness. He was nothing but vengeance now, and was content with that. Across the worlds, and beyond them, and no sign of his destination greeted his senses; whirling, circling, Ends of the Earth whined with the strain of arcane metal stretched to its limit, unable to find the world that he searched for. But he could feel it, sense it just out of reach.

An inversion of his long-destroyed home, a world not of a balance between light and dark but instead a yawning void where neither could exist.

A hollow mockery of a world.

Very well.

A hollow soul suited a hollow world -- and now, and now, the darkness had no flesh to find purchase in, no life-force to corrupt. Without a moment's hesitation, he scored the dark scars of his battered heart, called the blackness forth, and raced through the passages of darkness to find that nowhere, nightmare world.

He arrived in an eruption of utter blackness, stark against the formless white-grey shifting that was all that remained of a world that never was and could never be. Keyblade once more in his brazen grip, he strode silently across the phantom world, searching, seeking --

There.

Directly ahead, a coalescence of emptiness and darkness, a coiling knot of impossibility that drew itself even as he watched into a mockery of human life. Defeated the master of the Order may have been, but not destroyed, not dissipated utterly. There had been no time, no chance.

He could not see Xemnas flicker back into nonexistence once more cloaked in the black shroud of the Order, could not see the drops of inky ichor fall from the ravaged nightmaster's lips as he drew himself upright from the milky ground. The hollow earth could see none of this -- but he felt that empty shell, the yet-lingering touch of the muddled, hybrid heart that once lurked within the patchwork mind, and knew his prey for what it was. Still silent, he lifted his blade in challenge.

:: It ends now ::

Hollow and metallic, the 'voice' rung across the empty world like a broken bell, like the shattering of glass. As if taken aback, Xemnas flowed backwards a single pace and took to the air, hands hidden in his sleeves as he cast his arms slowly wide in a gesture half-defiant, half mockery of any such emotion.

~ What is there to end? I do not exist -- and you, neither do you. ~

Slowly, deliberately, the nightmaster glided closer to him, mouth pursed ever so slightly as if chiding a wayward child even as his burning eyes glinted with something very akin to well rehearsed anger. The hollow one’s plates grated against one another as he pivoted, keeping always the Ends of the Earth between himself and the remnant phantom that shook his head slowly, so slowly.

~ You are nothing but an echo, and a wayward heart. ~

~ You know nothing but mindless fury. What do I want with these things? ~

:: This ends now, Xehanort ::

Viper-swift, he lashed out in a vicious arc, and the heavy brass-blue teeth of Ends of the Earth bit deeply into the nightmaster's sleeve, drew ichor and a seething coil of darkness --

* shining armour on a deathless white floor, blue and sea-violet, hidden precious thing *

* hunting for a chamber and its sleeping light in a world that destroyed the mind *

The ragged images, tattered memories, ripped from the nightmaster rang through him like stones against glass. Staggering backwards, the hollow earth's fingers tightened on his blade's grip so tightly that metal squealed against metal. That empty shell still remembered his friends. It kept, after all these years still kept Aqua’s armour and blade secreted away. It knew … something … about Ven.

It was -- this creature was, Xehanort was --

It's still ... it could still be ...

The hss of energy flare was the only warning as a beam of blood-crimson arced towards his helm. Skating swiftly sidewise, he sliced through the air in a parry and lunged towards Xemnas -- towards himself, more truly himself than the blighted beast had any right to be.

That would soon be remedied.

:: Only one will leave ::

Anger cold as stone ignited once again and he pressed forward, strike after strike that was desperately parried by the harried nightmaster. Xemnas had power, but was weakened from his ordeal and his near-discorporation -- and, worse, was slow, too slow. Not to the eyes of the children who had pinned him in his den, perhaps, but his foe's jagged quicksilver mind remembered that lassitude, that slow deliberation all too well.

And the nightmaster could still feel pain.

Ignoring the vicious roundhouse kick that threatened to shatter abdominal plates, the hollow one continued his advance. One swift sweep of his blade and Xemnas was laid open from shoulder to the tip of his ribs opposite, bleeding black ichor and desperate, before a flurry of scarlet thrusts scored burning slashes across his armour and punched sizzling holes the length of his flank. Leaping away, he called a cage of veriest will and brought it crashing down, only to discover his quarry had deceived him with illusions of false life and winked out of existence altogether, stepping back into the world to bury one ethereal spike the colour of heart’s blood into his unprotected back.

* maelstrom of darkness above, glittering glass-scape below *

* Aqua lost, Ven lost, the boy lost *

Xemnas drove the lance of scarlet deeper through the brazen plates, bidding fair to puncture clear through the breastplate of the hollow figure. His lips were flecked with ichor-stained foam as he spit a denial of the images assaulting them both.

~ No. I will not be that weak again. ~

:: It ends now. ::

Twisting away with a violence that snapped the glowing shaft into foaming shards, Terra leaped high and came crashing down onto Ends of the Earth once more in glider form. The nightmaster flowed away and into the air, face a mask of wounded disapproval, and one hand twitched as the call went out to a borrowed black iron blade long since fallen into disuse --

Flying straight towards Xemnas, the hollow one launched himself from the glider, arms wide as if to embrace the nightmaster, and the armour burst itself asunder as if every brazen plate opened itself up into the abyss itself.

In a heartbeat, Xemnas was engulfed within.

Convulsing, the brazen figure collapsed as the darkness boiled around its feet and dragged it in screaming silence from that nonexistent world.

Pain lanced unexpectedly into his awareness, and he groaned, coughing weakly. Everything hurt, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes and behind his eyes to the pit of his gut. It was a horrible, insidious kind of pain, like nothing he'd ever experienced. Slowly, cautiously, expecting to be blinded by agony, he got his hands under himself and heaved himself up and away from the cold, clinging soil, easing his eyes open.

It was hard to think, his head pounding and rattling with a thousand thousand thoughts; he was not even certain what had happened, where he was, what he was.

Where …?

Black sky above. Beneath his hands, streaked with rusty crimson trails of half-dried blood, lay bare soil and pools of lifeless water that reflected back a flicker of sunset blue gaze when he glanced at them. Behind him lay nothing save the remnants of blighted meadow that tapered off into the void itself. Before him crouched a twisted castle, brassy and blighted, adorned with wedges of soul-twisted verdigris -- an abomination of impossible architecture that caused more pain for his aching head and promised sure oblivion if he dared to breach its gate.

And yet … and yet, he knew this place.

He looked down at his hands again, and coughed bloody foam until he gasped for breath, thick locks of hair the colour of barren earth tipped with snow falling heavily in his eyes. Breathing heavily, he sat slowly back on his heels and dared a second survey of his surroundings; his head spun, and his closed his eyes again until the moment passed.

I …

All around him lay scattered plates of copper and bronze and black brass. Between his knees -- had he fallen on it? -- a brassy Keyblade, heavy and solid; a second lay just within reach, a twisted thing of blackened iron.

Carefully, consideringly, he closed one bruised and battered hand around the heavy blade's comforting grip.

As his thoughts slowly cleared, as he gazed unflinchingly at the void-touched castle, he realized that he was home.

And, if this were truly home ...

I …

I am --