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Ienzo often took the long way around the castle, and today was no different. He enjoyed wandering through the hallways, looking out of the windows, or gazing up at the many paintings on the walls, or glancing at the photos in their small frames on the desks and tables. Some were group pictures of Ansem the Wise and his apprentices – it was easy to tell which were made when, especially if they included Ienzo. Other photos depicted only the apprentices, or only a few of them. Ansem even had individual portrait paintings of his apprentices in his office.
Ienzo’s favourite was the large painting in the hall, the first painting to include him, made when he was five years old, when he had only just become part of the family. It was a perfect likeness of the six of them. Braig, on the far left, leaning on Aeleus’ shoulder. Aeleus, standing between Braig and Ansem, giving Braig a not-amused look. Ansem, almost perfectly in the middle, looking as calm as ever. Even, next to Ansem, bowing down ever so slightly and smiling the gentle smile he only used when talking to Ienzo. Dilan, on the far right, smiling as if laughing at an inside joke. And himself, Ienzo, standing between Even and Ansem, looking confused and clinging to Even’s coat.
Ienzo glanced at the painting as he passed it on the way to the castle’s library, and stopped.
Something was wrong.
He took a step back, staring at the painting, wondering what had caught his eye. It was wrong, it looked wrong, but he couldn’t quite see what was wrong.
He stepped forward- There it was! A stain, dark and ugly, covering part of Braig’s face. It seemed to run down from his left eye, like a tear stain or perhaps a wound. Strange. Maybe the painting was dirty, or maybe it was just a trick of the light – but if it was a trick of the light, he would’ve seen it before, wouldn’t he?
He took another step forward. Another stain appeared on the painting, this one covering Braig’s right eye. It almost looked like the eye had been torn out, leaving a bleeding hole where it had been. Ienzo wasn’t uncomfortable with seeing blood, but this… This disgusted him. He didn’t understand it. Why was the painting so damaged now? It had been fine only a few minutes ago.
A thought came up in his mind, and he turned back the way he came. He searched the many photos and paintings in the hallway until he found a photo that included Braig. Slowly, he walked past it, stopping when he saw the exact same stains appearing. A coincidence? He found another photo of the guards, and again, Braig had the same marks on his face.
“Creepy” Ienzo muttered to himself. It reminded him of a story he’d read once, about a man who had a magical painting of himself made so that the painting would age and he would stay young. But this was different, this was a painting getting injured…
Wait…
He turned and ran, as fast as he could, to one of Braig’s favourite hiding places. Servants gave him strange looks as he ran past them, but he ignored them. He had to make sure Braig was there, that he wasn’t hurt like the painting was.
Someone stepped into his path, and he skidded to a halt, confused. “Woah there, kiddo. Where’re you goin’?” Braig asked, crouching down to look him in the eyes.
Eyes.
Both eyes.
Braig still had both of his eyes.
“Looking for you” Ienzo mumbled, suddenly feeling stupid. Of course Braig still had both of his eyes. The pictures couldn’t change with time, and they definitely couldn’t show any kind of injury.
“Had a nightmare?” Braig asked.
Ienzo nodded, embarrassed. “Yes.” He couldn’t explain it, Braig wouldn’t believe him.
The guard grinned and ruffled Ienzo’s hair, making the boy giggle. “Well, a dream’s just a dream. Don’t let ‘em bother you too much. ‘S not like they’ll come true.”
…But what if they did?
Late that afternoon, after Ienzo’s lessons were finished, the boy found himself wandering around the lower levels of the castle. He didn’t have a reason to be here, other than wanting to avoid the painting in the hall upstairs. Sounds caught his attention and he curiously approached the source of the noise, arriving just in time to see Braig stumbling up the stairs, pressing a hand against his face as blood seeped between his fingers and soaked his glove.
The guard had an ugly wound on the side of his face, and when he saw Ienzo, he lowered his hand, revealing a hole where his right eye should be.
“S-stay here! I’ll find- someone!” Ienzo stammered before turning and running back up the stairs, away from the nightmare that had come true.
In his haste, he didn’t notice that the painting in the hall was no longer stained.
There was a painting where there had never been one.
Ienzo stared at the frame that had been empty for years, watching the faded shape of the ghost form on the canvas that wasn’t there, trying to make out the facial features of the person in the painting. It wasn’t one of them, not Braig, nor Dilan or Aeleus, nor Even or Ansem or himself. It was a new person, someone he had never met.
If he focused hard enough, he could almost see the face of the ghost.
“There you are.” Dilan’s voice startled him, breaking his concentration. “Even was looking for you.”
Ienzo sighed. He knew that if he tried to explain what he was doing, and that it was important, Dilan wouldn’t understand. Neither would Even, or Ansem, or anyone. They couldn’t see the ghost.
“Dilan!” That was Braig. Confused, Dilan looked up. “What is it?”
“Someone outside, I think he’s injured.” Braig was a little out of breath. “Aeleus is keepin’ an eye on ‘im. I’ll get the Master-“
“No, you should take a moment to calm down, I’ll find the Master.” Dilan left, and Braig sighed and leaned on the doorframe. “That’s one way to mess up your plans for the day, right, kid?” he half-joked, winking at Ienzo with his one remaining eye.
Ienzo gave a nervous smile. “Should I tell Even?”
Braig thought for a second. “Might be a good idea. If this guy’s hurt bad…”
Ienzo nodded and ran off, making a mental note to try if he could catch a glimpse of the stranger. Maybe this stranger was the ghost.
He saw the stranger less than an hour later, when Even asked him to help treat the stranger’s injuries. “His name is Xehanort” Even said, impatiently waiting for Ienzo to hand him the bandages. “He hasn’t said anything other than his name since Braig found him. We don’t know where he came from, or how he was injured…”
Ienzo had stopped listening at that point. He silently did what was asked of him and left when Even gave him permission. He had to see the ghost in the painting again.
The not-existing painting was still there, in the same old frame, but now the person in the painting had a face.
A face that was all too familiar.
Xehanort was an interesting person, Ienzo thought. He was friendly, charismatic and intelligent, but he was ambitious and a little too eager to prove himself. He had no memories of his past, but sometimes he sat and stared at the suit of armour that he’d insisted they kept even though it wasn’t his, talking to it as if it were an old friend. He would avoid the guards as much as he could, but sometimes he and Braig talked about things Ienzo didn’t understand.
When Braig and Xehanort talked, something about them changed. Ienzo didn’t know what it was, but it left him confused and frightened. It showed in the painting, too. The new painting in the hall showed a strange shadow around Braig and Xehanort.
Ienzo sat in the small corner under the stairs, staring at the painting, wondering when Braig’s eye had changed from brown to gold.
Xehanort had golden eyes, too, but sometimes there was something else, a flash of blue behind the gold.
Maybe their eyes were gold because of that strange shadow?
That theory was proven wrong a few days later, when the strange shadow appeared around Dilan. Ienzo tried to ignore it, he tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but sometimes he heard Braig and Dilan talk, and… He didn’t want to know what they talked about.
Another week later, the shadow appeared around Even. The laboratory had changed with the scientist, it felt smaller and confined and frightening, and there were notes that Ienzo wasn’t allowed to look at, stored away on the top shelf or in the locked drawers. Xehanort worked in the laboratory more often now, reading complicated books and making complicated notes, talking to Even in hushed tones when he thought Ienzo wasn’t listening.
Ienzo watched them and wondered what could be so important that he wasn’t allowed to know.
He never noticed the shadow appear around Aeleus, but one day, it was there. The shadow bled into the entire painting, threatening to suffocate Ansem and Ienzo, the only ones who were still unaffected.
That was the day the youngest apprentice asked to be involved in whatever the other apprentices were doing.
Aeleus refused and told him that it would be too dangerous, that what they were doing was not something a child should be involved in. Even hesitated and worried that it might be harmful to him somehow. Dilan was hesitant, too, but refused to take a side in the argument. Braig shrugged and said that if Ienzo really wanted to be involved, they shouldn’t turn him away. The final decision fell to Xehanort, who allowed Ienzo to help them.
“It has to be a secret” Xehanort said when he explained their research to Ienzo. The younger apprentice didn’t understand why it needed to be a secret, but when he looked at the painting later that day, he thought he understood.
The shadow hung around him, too.
Ansem was dead, no, he was ill, no, he had left Radiant Garden and would return soon, no, he would never come back. The rumors spread quickly through the town. Ienzo listened to them and wondered what the people would think if they knew what had truly happened.
Two boys, both a few years older than Ienzo, had joined the apprentices in the castle. They were still only assistants now, but the quieter of the two, Isa, would join them as researcher soon. The other one, Lea, was a troublemaker, but he was helpful and never made mistakes or dropped important items, so Xehanort kept him around.
Ienzo saw the boys in the painting. They were ghosts, standing beside Xehanort, the shadow surrounding them and threatening to swallow them. The painting looked strange to him, he barely recognized himself or the other apprentices. The shadow had changed them. It had left a crazed look in Even’s eyes, too cold, too sharp to be human. It had turned Dilan quiet, distant and somewhat arrogant, Aeleus stubborn and unfriendly towards anyone other than Ienzo, Xehanort impatient and frustrated with every little mistake they made. Braig had changed the most, he had been cheerful and friendly in his own rough way, but now he was eager, ambitious, scheming and plotting, yet still putting up his overly friendly façade.
Ienzo had changed, too. He had learned much and more that a child his age probably shouldn’t know about, and the knowledge had left a mark on him. But unlike what it had done to the others, the shadow hadn’t brought out his bad qualities. Instead, it had transformed him into a being not quite human, half a shadow himself, quiet and curious and always hiding. He enjoyed being able to hide, he enjoyed the quiet comfort of the shadows, and most of all, he enjoyed being part of the shadow rather than being enveloped by it.
He wouldn’t mind staying like this.
There was another shadow in the painting. It hung over everyone, turning their eyes dull and cold and their skin greyish-pale. It had held Ansem for a while now, but this was the first time it held others. Lea and Isa, the ghosts in the painting that would never be painted in, were affected as well.
Ienzo didn’t like it. It made him nervous, afraid, wondering what might happen.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Xehanort lured them all into a trap, and one by one, they died. Ienzo was the last of the apprentices to die, reaching for Even as he clung to life and felt it slip away. The shadow had claimed them all.
Zexion looked at the painting. He remembered seeing this painting in the hall of the castle, before he had been Zexion, before he had received his purpose. He had been a child then, and the others had been his family. How long ago that seemed. It had only been a few years.
Curious, he studied the image, the all too familiar faces. They looked too calm, too friendly. This was not who they were, not anymore. They were all ghosts in the painting now.
Zexion found a place near the door, where he could listen without being seen. He blended into the shadows, an illusion erasing his footprints in the dust on the floor. It was as if he was never there.
Maybe he never was. He was only a ghost, after all.