"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... )
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 gripped his Keyblade tighter.
"This is the end."
It had to be. They couldn't keep going like this.
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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.
Xehanort was going to stopped. No matter what. No price was too high to pay.
Still he was aware of the wrongness of it. It scratched at the back of his thoughts, demanding little of him but never letting up, never ceasing.
Xehanort in effortless command of the body he barely recognized as his own, Xehanort's power, Xehanort's madness. The boy he'd chosen now standing beside him, weakened by the sheer force of Xehanort's attacks. The Sentiment did not look to him: he could sense him and gauge his condition well enough without 'seeing' the image of the younger man. In those far, oft-forgotten spaces of his being, other thoughts shuffled themselves around. Memories of promises made in the time before, words spoken, words meant. Enough of Terra's self remained that he was able to recognize, also, that those promises were now torn and the pieces left to fall away from the heart.
The Sentiment's attention was wholly on Xehanort, but within him the links composing his memories came together to relay a fractured understanding to his consciousness: the boy wasn't Xehanort, the boy wasn't an enemy, the boy wasn't a friend. Any allegiance owed was forfeit. He wouldn't attack him, he wouldn't defend him.
Xehanort would be his only concern.
The ground came up suddenly, but Terra's armor moved with it, thrusting his Keyblade down hard with the upward motion. Metal struck earth and dug in. The armor went down on his knees. Around the platform of earth Xehanort had made their battleground, chains swept into existence. In a flash of black, with a piercing ring, chains of his will manifested outside his being, forming a layered cage of glowing gold and amber. A deeper sound resonated as the barrier locked into place, a hollow thunk of metal settling.
Around them, a different noise thrummed, metallic still but softer, a steady pulsing beat.
Terra's Sentiment righted himself, wrapped one hand around the Keyblade's hilt, and pulled Ends of the Earth free.
Cracked and crumbling armor assumed Terra's battle stance. His focus fixed on the Keyblade Master.
Another beginning, another end. Xehanort's end was very near.
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Roiling clouds, inked black and swollen purple, surged over the surf, rippled long arms down the cliffs, across the sand, between and around broken rocks and paths. Long fingers of smoke rocketed up and along the risen column of earth in spiraled patterns, as if inexorably drawn by the gleaming, coruscating dome of light and arched links and the rumbled rhythm that toned beneath them, within them. The storm wrapped, glove-like, over the entire structure, masking it from the city, from the world, turns its pulse and the eruption of violence within into a rolling thunder that shook the cliffside and the windowpanes of the nearest structures off the beach. When lighting split the black, it was shot with gold.
Within the intimate confines of its heart, war raged.
Now, at last, he could feel the immense toll. In all his long life, even in those vanished days of training and weakness, never before had he pushed every skill and stamina to its furthest limit; never before had he entertained the possibility of defeat. There had been surprises, to be certain. There had been clear faults and weaknesses in his plans, his preparations, and his understanding of his opponents and their capabilities. These failures he knew.
But this war was a war of strength and it was - had been, continued to be - chipped away segment by segment, as the sea wears at stone.
No.
No.
No.
Short of breath, haggard, face twisted with exertion and stained with sweat, his fury seemed to churn the very air. Darkness peeled away from his body in waves, coursed along the length of his Keyblade, and stained the soil beneath his feet. He was hurt but not stopped and no matter how much of his strength ebbed away - no matter how they were, at last, pushing the boundaries of that strength - it would never be enough.
And that was why Master Xehanort smiled.
"Here we are!" Even his shout showed the strain, worn and harsh. "And here we will stay!"
His Keyblade rose again and, outside, lightning flashed and another crack of thunder roared in the night.
"Fight, fight to your heart's content!"
Inside, shadows streaked across their battleground and he with them.
"This body is mine!"
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Terra had not let up his training since the day he'd been drawn from the Graveyard. His armor thus bore sharpened skills. He was bolder with his magic, quicker with the turn and lash of his Keyblade. He fought in a way he never had before, without the refinement his whole self might have offered up in the fight but more than making up for any lack of style with unfaltering drive and the variety of attacks his memories imbued him with. Ends of the Earth cleaved the air out ahead of him, leaving gouges in the cliff platform when his aim was off. Pebbles flew in his wake, meteors slipped the barriers set between the combatants and the sky.
The Sentiment threw in one (comparatively weak) power seal for good measure.
Memories flashed like fireworks, crumbled earth and rocks floating on the surface of his one, all-encompassing sense. In that place, the skies were bright and keys littered the landscape. The wind whisked sand along a pathway of parched earth. If there was to come a time when his own blade would rest there, propped up in the sand, a marker of years past and a name devoured by the dark, he would make sure Xehanort's weapon laid alongside it, equally if not more thoroughly forgotten.
"Let us go together," the old man in a younger body had shouted. It seemed an inevitable conclusion. But this was all his fault, his mistakes and if only he'd seen, so he had to be ready to accept the consequences.
Still, far away, left behind in an abyss, in a prison of pitch black, the Sentiment knew another part of himself was fighting.
About time you saw the light, don't you think?
That he was breaking his own body down with each strike aimed at Xehanort's heart didn't slow the shell of metal.
No matter whose body you steal... No matter whose heart you try to overcome, you're always going to be defeated-
The lingering Sentiment drew back following the rush of Zantetsuken, the shrill of metal and power coming together into one roared word, punctuating a sentence never heard out loud.
"Xehanort!"
At the last syllable, he went still. For the first time since the battle had begun, the armor remained motionless. Light hedged his senses, whispering through him, yielding an impression of warmth in a being who couldn't hope to feel it ever again. A flash of something lit inside his mind. He could remember yellow and gold, spots of light like thousands of fireflies crowded together, and a beam of white at the center. He was fighting. All of him was fighting, but while he knew that and trusted it, he also knew victory could only possibly be one outcome. Xehanort's heart was tangled into his own. There was no way to rid himself of one without releasing the other. If he could release it at all.
Yet that light...
Where had he known it from?
Thoughts pushed past feelings and the Sentiment lunged again, continuing where he'd left off with a sweeping string of hits.
The light couldn't help him now. It couldn't possibly help any of them now.
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A strong wind blew, from leafy columns to lacerated shores, beyond the spire that reached to towering heights, the chains of power provided no more resistance than the air itself. For though the word had not been spoken, it had long since been determined that neither height nor depth, nor powers nor principalities would bar him from keeping his promises.
I will not forsake you.
A moment marked by silence rather than cacophony, the world itself appeared to stand still, turbulence quieting in response to his coming. Present, suddenly, where mere seconds ago he was not, he stood in their midst, a quiet radiance all about him. Golden eyes turning to meet the other's, he fixed the master with his stare, solemn yet piercing in that way all his own.
The end was come.
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Terra's power was unimaginable. Xehanort's, he had known, would be something even he couldn't fathom, but never had he imagined that the man who would have been his master capable of so much. Months ago, they had fought. He never used these abilities then. Now it spurred him to fight even more, fueled by anger and determination. They were fighting for their lives now.
Riku relied on his speed and his quicker jabs at Xehanort, trying to distract him while Terra used the harder blows. While he was inefficient with magic, his darkness was powerful and in check. He used that, too, to distract his foe and let the more experienced wielder do his work. What spells he knew were fired off on the wings of Terra's own, adding to his attacks. And when all else failed, he was summoning Cure to heal the armor, calling on his dark shields to protect himself and his friend.
Even then, it did not feel like enough. They were chipping down what was left of a powerful man. Hope seemed distant (a far off memory) for them. If they came out of this fight, the damage would be irreversible. Terra could lose his body forever.
It was the light that caught his attention, a familiar balm he had felt before. He lifted his head when he felt it and was surprised to see the lion come to their side. Weary, Riku's eyes met his and he smiled. And then he pulled himself into a firmer stance, blade up, eyes focused on Xehanort. He summoned what will he had to continue, raw energy collecting to his body. With Aslan here, there was a better chance at this all being righted.
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What stood between his favored foes was not a being. It was an idea, a metaphor that spoke and acted its will upon a world that had no more tenable claim to it than it did to destiny or oblivion or love. Master Xehanort could sense the magnificent, terrible scope of him now, a brilliant horizon that went on into eternity, a cresting wave that never broke the shore, an infinite well that bubbled with answers and ruin, a great ivory door that bore a golden keyhole through which spilled the sunlight in his dreams and cast no shadows-
Light. All of it, Light.
He could not look away.
“You would steal it from me, then.” His words were meant for the beast that was not a beast, more wild and unreal than any creature. How he fooled them! How willing they were to have faith without knowing! “A theft for a theft.”
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his weapon and within him, his last great reserves swelled and howled. The monstrous darkness in his heart responded to the seemingly insurmountable challenge, a cloud of pitch swarming around his body, blossoming, reaching, seeking to swallow up the light around and before him by sheer force of will and malignance and desire. In its frothing it sometimes took its own shape, a creature with a bound mouth and reaching arms-one, then two, then many, a legion of nightmares that clung to his back and his arms and raged with him. He bore the weight of this dreadful host, and more, and poured all his great heart into the extension of his self that was his Keyblade and welcomed the crime of ego, of the mortal being that defied the Light personified.
“You will not have it!” The dark mass with him at its center moved, a river, an ocean, a universe that was his will. “You will not have my destiny!”
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But that wasn't going to happen, was it? Even with Aslan, with a light that shone brighter than the hearts of worlds, how could that happen now? He couldn't hope. He had gone too far, strayed so far off the path he'd been set on as a boy he could no longer glimpse that road when he looked back.
It wasn't meant for him. He'd been too weak and too dark. He'd made too many mistakes. He was all he deserved to be, but he still had to destroy Xehanort. Aslan didn't mean to take that from him, did he?
His helmet lifted. He watched as the darkness rallied, becoming something less a despised element and more a monster. A monster made of monsters, all dark, all taken by hatred. Could his heart even survive such chaos called to it? He could no longer sense it or feel its pull, wrapped so thoroughly in Xehanort's vile darkness as it was. Was that it then? Was his light gone for good?
The cage above them wavered, one ripple and then another splashing across the barrier of chains until they began to break apart, leaving the dark to pool through in place of the gold light.
Terra's armor took a step forward, not pressing or interrupting or going around to get at his enemy because his trust in Aslan ran deep and he dared not defy that kind of strength. His movement nonetheless had meaning and, with a slight tightening of his grip on the Keyblade's hilt, was a question and a plea on the behalf of his heart. Even if he could no longer be sure that existed as anything more than an extension of Xehanort's new identity.
"Aslan."
Don't take it from him. Let me.
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Acknowledging the presence of the Sentiment beside him, Aslan shifted his gaze, watching him. Though unspoken, the request resounded clearly, a plea that he had no intention of dishonoring. Briefly, he inclined his head, the warmth in those golden eyes no less than it had ever been.
It shall be so.
Before that moment could come, however, one thing yet remained. Undeterred by the surge of dark energies seeking to drive him out, he padded forward in silence, every step somehow seeming to shake the very earth to its foundations. He stopped just short of striking distance, unafraid of the wrath of a man who'd presumed to be more than he was meant to be.
"It was never yours to have."
Kingdom Hearts. The very light that comprised Aslan's being, the absoluteness of it that Xehanort so despised, was the very power Xehanort sought to harness. The man had knowledge, it was true. It was wisdom, however, that he was sorely lacking. In his arrogance, he had not only had the audacity to claim a heart and body that was never his for the taking, but also to attempt to overthrow the Heart of all that lived. There was no theft here other than what Xehanort himself had committed. He had walked his path and made his choices. It was now time to answer for them.
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Dragging the claws of his right forepaw across the ground, streaks of light rent the swirling blackness, cutting to the very center of the man before him.
Terra.
Another slash of brilliance.
Awake.
And another.
It is time.
A sound more terrible than any other ripped through the enclosure, filling it with fury as it reverberated across the heavens. Aslan roared, and with that singular act, two hearts already beginning to fracture apart were rent in twain.
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Five years of training.
Five years of caution. A lifetime of wanting. A single moment when all was clear and a hand on his shoulder that told him no. Wait. Don't.
“Always protect yourself before stepping into the darkness. If you do not, it will take you as it has taken many others. I would not lose my apprentices to such a fate.”
Oh, but he hadn't known! He hadn't seen! The depth, the grandness, the power and knowledge and the opportunity to be had for those that dared to step into the void! There in the blackness all limitations fell away and existence itself became pliable, a tool in his hands, a weapon, a scepter, a crown! He could have wept for them and their ignorance; he could have wailed in pity and impotence while they denied the truths that he held out to the universe with open arms. They were afraid and they were unaware and at every crossroads a cloaked figure pointed the way to truth but it remains infinitely simpler to turn away and choose the safer path. That way was ruin, stagnation, smallness and and helplessness and the bitter sweetness of time and death and endings. He had realized this then and knew it so keenly now and the Light itself could stand in his way but he would not forget, he would not, he would--
How excited he'd been! Another boy, another apprentice, his name was Ventus--
Ventus. So kind and so young but there was darkness in his heart and the potential to wield a Keyblade. It would have to be him despite his frailness, there were no others--
His dream. He'd been waiting his whole life but he'd never thought he could share it like this. He couldn't wait--
Soon. Soon, at last, his dream, his only desire...! He had so little time and he was so very close--
There was no pain. The purifying fire was beyond earthly. There was no pain. Just light and light and light and a sound that shook the sky, very stars themselves in their heavenly beds....no. No, it was closer than that. Far closer. The wave was breaking against the shore at last and oh the place was so small and so narrow and yet the strength of that wave was more than his young mind and small body could comprehend. All his years of waiting and it had found him, come for him, and he was as helpless now as he had been on that day, on every day thereafter.
Had there ever been a time when it was not so?
But--
The great Master fell to his knees and cast over his stolen body was a ghostly copy, one that bore his true face and was edged in gold and shimmering smoke. The two, reality and specter, wavered and overlapped and bled into one another, but the illusion of closeness was simply that - a mirage, a trick of the eye. All his careful, powerful seals had come undone; his spirit was unraveling, falling away, torn and wounded so deep within that all he could do was cling to his very existence in desperation.
His head lifted and his eyes asked the only question there was to ask.
But why?
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