"In the depths of every heart, there is a tomb and a dungeon--"
Who: Terra, Riku, Joe, Aslan, and Master Xehanort
When: Late evening, progressing throughout the night
Where: Dead Horse Cove
Summary: The culmination of the events that began with the theft of Terra’s body - or, arguably, with Xehanort’s arrival in Siren’s Port - that will once and for all put an end to the villain’s reprehensible plans. A goal ( Read more... )
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“--though the lights, the music, and revelry above may cause us to forget their existence, and the buried ones, or prisoners whom they hide.”
Emotion. The sword, the shield, the greatest of flaws. So long he’d spent in its study and its use, only to again be stalled, even hindered, by its unexpected and ever-powerful presence and complexity. How often would this circumstance repeat, as though in that span of time between one instance and the next he had forgotten all the hard lessons learned?
No more. No more.
This would be the last.
In the peripheries of his vision the city's darkness churned, a primordial cauldron not of his own making. They came simply because he was, because like called to like and mindless and formless and directionless as many of them could be - Form without reason, parts without wholes; a pitiful, powerful existence whose parallels were not lost on him - they knew him. Minimal effort was necessary to keep them at bay, but he let them be if they kept their distance, as though the idea ( ... )
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When he gave his mind to idle thoughts, he knew that he hated this tiny city on its tiny island on its presumably tiny world. He remembered quite clearly the distaste, the slow, growing anger and coldness in his chest when he had learned of his fate - his capture. More maddening still that there was neither a party nor a person to blame but a force instead, nameless and mindless and entirely beyond his grasp. After a lifetime of choosing his own roads for himself, to be stalled at the final hour, to have what was rightfully his stolen“A prison, and the sea as the jailer.” He slowly turned, the raucous wind catching in his hair, at his clothes. It smelled of brine, and storms, and memories; all unfathomably bitter on his tongue. “I have wondered from time to time if it is this and only this that drives the heart to other worlds ( ... )
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He knew. His lips almost moved with the words, a chain in a far off memory that lingered every now and then in his mind. Xehanort looked so much more like the "Ansem" he knew so intimately well and he couldn't help the tension in his shoulders. His eyes scanned the figure before him, an old man turned young, his hair caught in the wind. His clothes were far from what Terra would normally wear and his lips almost twisted in disgust.
No, he would push those emotions away. He wouldn't show the anger he felt.
"Why? Are you really glad?" Riku began to draw closer, slow, showing no animosity for the moment. "This is it, isn't it? This is where you want to be begin it all." He frowned. "You can't. Almost everyone here will die." But Xehanort knew this. They all knew it. "You won't succeed."
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“But sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open.”
The spare.
The desire to laugh was irrational and pointless, and yet Xehanort felt no need to contain it. He half-lowered his weapon, the awful clearness of his smile a marked contrast to the shadows that rolled about his body, barely contained. Above them, storm clouds gathered, slithering across the sky in stains of industrial browns and grays. The air cooled, rolled, grew wild and whipped mercilessly at the steely waters and pale sands, lifted his clothing and his hair and fashioned him into a specter born of the storm and the awful destruction that boiled underneath it all. And despite this, despite the noise and fury and building energies, still he laughed, the mockery clear and sharp.
How glorious it felt to do away with all pretense.
“You would have survived, my boy, had you stayed away.” he said to the replica and took a half-step toward him, body lowering into a preparatory stance. “But you had never struck me ( ... )
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“In an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; when the imagination is a mirror, imparting vividness to all ideas, without the power of selecting or controlling them--”Xehanort had discussed such things once with Braig, when their days and nights had been less disorganized and crucial and their association had maintained that fragile, humorous civility. It had been all theory then, gleaned from books and research and logic, as most theories were. He had thought once upon a time to test them, when time had still been a luxury and other discovers had yet to occur. He had made plans, fashioned experiments, begun to search out in the wide World for the appropriate subjects, but such projects had been put aside and, ultimately, left behind to forever remain unfinished. A pity, to turn away from new avenues of knowledge and understanding, but greater goals had presented themselves ( ... )
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“--then pray that your grieves may slumber, and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain.”
How fitting, how tremendously appropriate.
It all came back, always. He thought of Braig's cleverness, of that cycle continued on forever, and wondered if the man knew far more than even he himself was aware of. Did you know it would be this pair, this place, this night? Or is it Fate, a true being after all with a hand in the passing of the days, and is there any time left at all to wonder.The battle was begun; all opportunity to search and speculate had passed ( ... )
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A suit of armor stood at his side, enduring despite all that Xehanort had thrown at him. The both of them were tired, bruised and battle-worn, but he could feel no sign of letting up in his limbs. The gravity and weight of the power around him was crushing; were he any less of a Keybearer, any less of a fighter, he might have buckled under that weight. Terra's presence in whatever lingering form he had was a blessing and a pillar. He drew from the strength the man had and used it as his own, pushing past the pain and the strain in limbs.
He kept his arm in the familiar stance he always held, his breath coming short. His eyes fixed on Xehanort's from underneath a razored curtain of ruffled silver hair, gaze determined and expression calmed. They could do this. They could.
Let us go together!
No.Riku couldn't stop him from pitching the earth upwards. He nearly lost his footing, anger flooding through him once more. He would not allow his emotions to rule his hand, but he refused to let him win. He ( ... )
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He had known it the moment he'd tracked Xehanort down, picking out the pooling of darkness that surrounded his figure and heading straight for it, certain that he would find his target, sure of what he felt in a way he hadn't been over the many weeks he'd spent searching. Too long he'd been led astray by less familiar shadows. Too long but no more. And so he'd found Xehanort and fought him. No holds were barred in his quest to destroy the man. To see him fall was his everything. He'd tore into his enemy's armor, the brunt of his heavy blade borne by blue and white metal. He'd trusted the flesh and bone beneath the shell would feel each blow, would know pain in a way he no longer could. He couldn't relish the thought, couldn't reap satisfaction from each attack of his that landed, but nor could he suffer frustration or despair when his swings missed their mark. There was only a steely determination from start to finish, a resolve that would not be broken regardless of the damage his armor took ( ... )
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