kingdom hearts -- altercations, burial, compassion
asdfghjkl; I need to stop finding things to write about. Also, I suck at LJ formatting and argh, raaage. Maybe I'll take a stab at fixing this when all these weird codes stop cropping up.
title: altercations
wordcount: 526
rating: PG
warnings: spoilers for birth by sleep.
summary: Perhaps silence is the boy's form of a defense mechanism, and Vexen is certain he isn't the only one unnerved when that silence is broken.
Perhaps silence is Ienzo’s own variation of a defence mechanism.
Even is not the only one shocked by the boy suddenly stirring as the battle over names rages over his head; when he speaks, nobody takes notice, nobody hears him, and at first, they all dismiss the sardonic whisper they hear to be a trick of the air.
“Zexion.”
This is one of the few times they have heard the youngest apprentice speak; he surveys them with the blank-eyed stare of a lizard, lips curling into a thin crescent as he enunciates his new name for the first time. Satisfied with catching their attention, he hops off the chair and departs the impromptu meeting room, leaving them to stare after him as he leaves.
When Even…no, when Vexen stumbles upon the boy, sprawled on a sofa and reciting a dreary litany of pleasantries - good morning, good afternoon, good evening, salutations, you’re welcome, thank you, I beg your pardon? - he is taken aback; after Ienzo was taken in by Ansem the Wise, he had not spoken about the loss of his parents, and had only responded to their queries with monosyllabic responses. Perhaps he was more talkative in the presence of his mentor, nobody knew; now, Vexen finds it unsettling to hear the boy actually speak more than ten words in a row, as his head bobs over a child’s reading book, tongue articulating long-unspoken words as he re-familiarises himself with the crisp syllables that hang in the air.
The Darkness that claimed his heart has aged the boy, Vexen notes with detached wonder, scrawling hurried annotations on a scrap of paper: his eyes are colder now, and more distant, despite the courteous greetings that tumble from his lips.
“Ien…Zexion, what in the world are you-”
He is taken aback by the glazed look the boy gives him, eyes shadowed by unruly bangs; after Vexen stopped attempting to keep the boy’s hair in order, Zexion took to the task himself, hacking off dark tufts with blunt, rusted scissors, but leaving his fringe untouched when Xigbar jokes about the perils of playing with sharp objects too close to one’s eyes. The scientist is unprepared for the smirk that arches the boy’s lips into a quizzical curve, for the polite look of unruffled disinterest on his face; he watches in silence as the youth calmly rips a page out of the book, deftly creasing the sheet into a square.
“Zexion, kindly explain yourse-”
The boy ignores him, and before their eyes, the paper shapes itself into a crane, with arched wings and childish block-print striped across its belly; wordlessly, Zexion cups the origami bird in the palm of his hand, and Vexen scowls. Before he can open his mouth to demand an explanation, the boy clenches his fist, compressing the delicate folds underneath his fingers.
Without a word, he rises to his feet, flicking the slender book shut with a clean snap; Vexen is half-certain he hears the other apprentice respond with veiled mockery as he gently drops the crushed paper bird on the floor behind him.
“People don’t change,” he breathes, “they evolve. Remember that, Vexen.”
title: burial
wordcount: 559
rating: PG
warnings: spoilers for birth by sleep.
summary: Acclimatising with their newfound second existence is harder than any of them would have thought.
Acclimatising with their newfound second existence is harder than any of them would have thought.
Xehanort stalks through the empty alleyways of the Dark City, ignoring the sporadic downpours; they see the light of paranoia spark briefly in his eyes when he launches into feverish tirades and wild theories about the nature of Darkness: Darkness which seems to have turned its back on him, after he willingly submitted himself to it. Whilst he takes in the world around him with the wide-eyed wonder of a child starved of knowledge, ironically enough, the subject of memories seems to have been forgotten altogether; he no longer bothers with trying to recall a past which remains sealed away, a past which has fled even further out of his grasp.
The only ones who have the patience to keep up with his increasingly speculative discourses are Even and Ienzo; even so, the older scientist is content to merely observe his environment, whilst the boy wanders solemnly through the shadowed streets seemingly without purpose, as though seeking to flee the monotony of his surroundings, flitting silently through the avenues like a forlorn waif.
Elaeus is constantly vigilant, and ever-wary; alongside Dilan, he is the most practical, and the two of them methodically attempt to find meaning in the world of spectres they find themselves in, ignoring the ruminations of their companions. They are both content to ensure that they are well-prepared for every eventuality which can possibly befall them, be it hollow-eyed Shadows, or jag-jawed Heartless, all hungering for what they do not have.
Amidst it all, Braig is the only one who goes to the trouble of keeping up a semblance of normality; he does not bother with acting like they are constantly under threat of losing their hearts yet again, and stays true to form, as nonchalant and lackadaisical as ever, deriving satisfaction from the simple pleasures of annoying the living daylights out of Even, teasing Ienzo, and pretending to listen to what Xehanort has to say.
They have been trapped in this inverse realm, so far removed from the Radiant Garden, for goodness-only-knew-how-long. It is during a rare moment of lucidity that Xehanort stops rambling like a deranged lunatic long enough to allow himself a moment to remember the past. In an attempt to distance themselves from the lives they left behind, he proposes the idea of reinvention, of metamorphosis; reluctantly, the rest of the apprentices agree, and they adopt new names, discarding their old ones like snakes shedding their skins. Later, Ienzo brings up numbers, and after much deliberation, they incorporate digits into their titles. Soon after, ludicrous appellations follow, but when Braig puts his foot down, he is outvoted, five-to-one. In response to that, he spends most of the remaining afternoon inventing new nicknames for his companions, incessantly making fun of their love for all things convoluted and complicated, despite the fact that deep down, he understands there is method to their madness.
Even now, almost a full decade after they first found themselves in the dark un-world, Xigbar is amused to note that this tradition has continued, long after it has lost its significance.
“Call it burying your past self,” he blithely informs Luxord, clapping the new recruit on the shoulder. “Like dumping that first shovelful of earth onto your grave. It’s the first step to letting go.”
title: compassion
wordcount: 600
rating: PG
summary: He feels almost sorry for her, even though there is no room for him to experience emotions.
He feels almost sorry for her, when he catches sight of her wandering forlornly through the empty corridors of the castle.
The small-framed girl, porcelain-ballerina delicate, flits through the soaring architraves of the Organisation’s stronghold, out of place amongst a flock of black-plumaged jackdaws, like a single lost dove. It is hard to miss her, a ghostly-pale waif with her sea-coloured eyes and simple white dress, the nameless little memory witch who is the newest-discovered plaything of the Superior of the In-Between.
The first time she bumps into him, there is nothing but tentative trepidation on her face; for the briefest instant, he feels a stab of sympathy for the girl, who is as much a vagrant of the worlds as he is, until he remembers who they are.
He is Lexaeus and she is Naminé, and even though there are many things in their existence - or rather, non-existence: Vexen can be pedantic sometimes, and it’s easier just to let him rant than to continue to lob hypotheses at one another - that he is unsure about, he knows for sure that they are both Nobodies, and therefore not meant to experience emotions.
Above all, they are not meant to exist.
There is no room for sympathy or fear, just like how she has no real reason to be afraid of him, save for vestigial memories of what it was like to be scared of a stranger, just like how he has no right to pity the girl, and can only remember that in times long past, he would have been the first to try bringing a smile to her face.
Their first encounter flummoxes him; he watches the witchling return his gaze with determined calm, pursing her lips as she twines her fingers together behind her back; tiring of her scrutiny, he hunkers down to her level, meeting eyes that widen fleetingly with uncertainty.
“Return to your chambers, Naminé,” he instructs, not unkindly, “it would not do for the Superior to find you wandering out of bounds.”
He watches as her lips move in silent pantomime, until she speaks for the first time; her voice, he is surprised to find, is imbued with a certain boldness which he would never have guessed her to possess. “I want to know…”
At the mention of knowledge, of self-awareness and a need to learn, he surveys her with renewed interest, wondering, fleetingly, if Vexen would be interested in a folio of psychoanalysis reports. He gently encourages her by way of a single eyebrow raised in a quizzical curve, and the words tumble from her mouth in a sudden rush, as though she has been mulling over her questions for some time now.
“I want to know who…who you are. Who I am, and why I exist.”
And there, Lexaeus realises, he is stymied. Existential theory is not a subject to be taken lightly, idly bandied to the first individual who asks; at the same time, a small part of his mind rebukes him, reminding him of the consequences of carrying the burden of knowledge. Perhaps, he decides, he can spare her the facts, at least for now. In response to her uneasy silence, he rises to his feet, ignoring the shadow of apprehension that flits across the little witch’s brow. “I am afraid I cannot help you in that area. Perhaps you will be better off asking Zexion.”
With that, he leaves, striding purposefully past her, his movements as firm a dismissal as any. When he rounds the corner and half-turns, Naminé is gone, and the landing behind him is as empty as before.
back to index.
title: altercations
wordcount: 526
rating: PG
warnings: spoilers for birth by sleep.
summary: Perhaps silence is the boy's form of a defense mechanism, and Vexen is certain he isn't the only one unnerved when that silence is broken.
Perhaps silence is Ienzo’s own variation of a defence mechanism.
Even is not the only one shocked by the boy suddenly stirring as the battle over names rages over his head; when he speaks, nobody takes notice, nobody hears him, and at first, they all dismiss the sardonic whisper they hear to be a trick of the air.
“Zexion.”
This is one of the few times they have heard the youngest apprentice speak; he surveys them with the blank-eyed stare of a lizard, lips curling into a thin crescent as he enunciates his new name for the first time. Satisfied with catching their attention, he hops off the chair and departs the impromptu meeting room, leaving them to stare after him as he leaves.
When Even…no, when Vexen stumbles upon the boy, sprawled on a sofa and reciting a dreary litany of pleasantries - good morning, good afternoon, good evening, salutations, you’re welcome, thank you, I beg your pardon? - he is taken aback; after Ienzo was taken in by Ansem the Wise, he had not spoken about the loss of his parents, and had only responded to their queries with monosyllabic responses. Perhaps he was more talkative in the presence of his mentor, nobody knew; now, Vexen finds it unsettling to hear the boy actually speak more than ten words in a row, as his head bobs over a child’s reading book, tongue articulating long-unspoken words as he re-familiarises himself with the crisp syllables that hang in the air.
The Darkness that claimed his heart has aged the boy, Vexen notes with detached wonder, scrawling hurried annotations on a scrap of paper: his eyes are colder now, and more distant, despite the courteous greetings that tumble from his lips.
“Ien…Zexion, what in the world are you-”
He is taken aback by the glazed look the boy gives him, eyes shadowed by unruly bangs; after Vexen stopped attempting to keep the boy’s hair in order, Zexion took to the task himself, hacking off dark tufts with blunt, rusted scissors, but leaving his fringe untouched when Xigbar jokes about the perils of playing with sharp objects too close to one’s eyes. The scientist is unprepared for the smirk that arches the boy’s lips into a quizzical curve, for the polite look of unruffled disinterest on his face; he watches in silence as the youth calmly rips a page out of the book, deftly creasing the sheet into a square.
“Zexion, kindly explain yourse-”
The boy ignores him, and before their eyes, the paper shapes itself into a crane, with arched wings and childish block-print striped across its belly; wordlessly, Zexion cups the origami bird in the palm of his hand, and Vexen scowls. Before he can open his mouth to demand an explanation, the boy clenches his fist, compressing the delicate folds underneath his fingers.
Without a word, he rises to his feet, flicking the slender book shut with a clean snap; Vexen is half-certain he hears the other apprentice respond with veiled mockery as he gently drops the crushed paper bird on the floor behind him.
“People don’t change,” he breathes, “they evolve. Remember that, Vexen.”
title: burial
wordcount: 559
rating: PG
warnings: spoilers for birth by sleep.
summary: Acclimatising with their newfound second existence is harder than any of them would have thought.
Acclimatising with their newfound second existence is harder than any of them would have thought.
Xehanort stalks through the empty alleyways of the Dark City, ignoring the sporadic downpours; they see the light of paranoia spark briefly in his eyes when he launches into feverish tirades and wild theories about the nature of Darkness: Darkness which seems to have turned its back on him, after he willingly submitted himself to it. Whilst he takes in the world around him with the wide-eyed wonder of a child starved of knowledge, ironically enough, the subject of memories seems to have been forgotten altogether; he no longer bothers with trying to recall a past which remains sealed away, a past which has fled even further out of his grasp.
The only ones who have the patience to keep up with his increasingly speculative discourses are Even and Ienzo; even so, the older scientist is content to merely observe his environment, whilst the boy wanders solemnly through the shadowed streets seemingly without purpose, as though seeking to flee the monotony of his surroundings, flitting silently through the avenues like a forlorn waif.
Elaeus is constantly vigilant, and ever-wary; alongside Dilan, he is the most practical, and the two of them methodically attempt to find meaning in the world of spectres they find themselves in, ignoring the ruminations of their companions. They are both content to ensure that they are well-prepared for every eventuality which can possibly befall them, be it hollow-eyed Shadows, or jag-jawed Heartless, all hungering for what they do not have.
Amidst it all, Braig is the only one who goes to the trouble of keeping up a semblance of normality; he does not bother with acting like they are constantly under threat of losing their hearts yet again, and stays true to form, as nonchalant and lackadaisical as ever, deriving satisfaction from the simple pleasures of annoying the living daylights out of Even, teasing Ienzo, and pretending to listen to what Xehanort has to say.
They have been trapped in this inverse realm, so far removed from the Radiant Garden, for goodness-only-knew-how-long. It is during a rare moment of lucidity that Xehanort stops rambling like a deranged lunatic long enough to allow himself a moment to remember the past. In an attempt to distance themselves from the lives they left behind, he proposes the idea of reinvention, of metamorphosis; reluctantly, the rest of the apprentices agree, and they adopt new names, discarding their old ones like snakes shedding their skins. Later, Ienzo brings up numbers, and after much deliberation, they incorporate digits into their titles. Soon after, ludicrous appellations follow, but when Braig puts his foot down, he is outvoted, five-to-one. In response to that, he spends most of the remaining afternoon inventing new nicknames for his companions, incessantly making fun of their love for all things convoluted and complicated, despite the fact that deep down, he understands there is method to their madness.
Even now, almost a full decade after they first found themselves in the dark un-world, Xigbar is amused to note that this tradition has continued, long after it has lost its significance.
“Call it burying your past self,” he blithely informs Luxord, clapping the new recruit on the shoulder. “Like dumping that first shovelful of earth onto your grave. It’s the first step to letting go.”
title: compassion
wordcount: 600
rating: PG
summary: He feels almost sorry for her, even though there is no room for him to experience emotions.
He feels almost sorry for her, when he catches sight of her wandering forlornly through the empty corridors of the castle.
The small-framed girl, porcelain-ballerina delicate, flits through the soaring architraves of the Organisation’s stronghold, out of place amongst a flock of black-plumaged jackdaws, like a single lost dove. It is hard to miss her, a ghostly-pale waif with her sea-coloured eyes and simple white dress, the nameless little memory witch who is the newest-discovered plaything of the Superior of the In-Between.
The first time she bumps into him, there is nothing but tentative trepidation on her face; for the briefest instant, he feels a stab of sympathy for the girl, who is as much a vagrant of the worlds as he is, until he remembers who they are.
He is Lexaeus and she is Naminé, and even though there are many things in their existence - or rather, non-existence: Vexen can be pedantic sometimes, and it’s easier just to let him rant than to continue to lob hypotheses at one another - that he is unsure about, he knows for sure that they are both Nobodies, and therefore not meant to experience emotions.
Above all, they are not meant to exist.
There is no room for sympathy or fear, just like how she has no real reason to be afraid of him, save for vestigial memories of what it was like to be scared of a stranger, just like how he has no right to pity the girl, and can only remember that in times long past, he would have been the first to try bringing a smile to her face.
Their first encounter flummoxes him; he watches the witchling return his gaze with determined calm, pursing her lips as she twines her fingers together behind her back; tiring of her scrutiny, he hunkers down to her level, meeting eyes that widen fleetingly with uncertainty.
“Return to your chambers, Naminé,” he instructs, not unkindly, “it would not do for the Superior to find you wandering out of bounds.”
He watches as her lips move in silent pantomime, until she speaks for the first time; her voice, he is surprised to find, is imbued with a certain boldness which he would never have guessed her to possess. “I want to know…”
At the mention of knowledge, of self-awareness and a need to learn, he surveys her with renewed interest, wondering, fleetingly, if Vexen would be interested in a folio of psychoanalysis reports. He gently encourages her by way of a single eyebrow raised in a quizzical curve, and the words tumble from her mouth in a sudden rush, as though she has been mulling over her questions for some time now.
“I want to know who…who you are. Who I am, and why I exist.”
And there, Lexaeus realises, he is stymied. Existential theory is not a subject to be taken lightly, idly bandied to the first individual who asks; at the same time, a small part of his mind rebukes him, reminding him of the consequences of carrying the burden of knowledge. Perhaps, he decides, he can spare her the facts, at least for now. In response to her uneasy silence, he rises to his feet, ignoring the shadow of apprehension that flits across the little witch’s brow. “I am afraid I cannot help you in that area. Perhaps you will be better off asking Zexion.”
With that, he leaves, striding purposefully past her, his movements as firm a dismissal as any. When he rounds the corner and half-turns, Naminé is gone, and the landing behind him is as empty as before.
back to index.