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It settles with the dawn, a golden glow like a warm embrace. No sun, no moon, but the light within is burning bright enough to replace both.
It clashes with all the force of daybreak, as if the dying of the light is a sin so great it cannot even be fathomed. There exists only the breakage of darkness into dawn, only the mid-afternoon glare. The failing tryst of twilight is not carried here.
Serenity, jubilance. The two intermingle, bringing forth a product that is both steely and optimistic. Something warm, young, bright, but with the weight of a millenia on it’s thin shoulders.
The first time he ever holds it in his hands, it is a moment tainted with the rushes of grief, and surprise. He is perfectly at a loss, the shadows are creeping closer, the shadows have swallowed his friend up-
Salvation forms in his grasp, clear and steady. It is not lightweight, but not too heavy for his youthful stature to hold. It beckons with the clarity and splendour of a church bell, take me, make me yours, you are the one who will repair the dying of the light .
The power that sleeps within...I am here to guide it.
A guiding light...which guides more than just his own hands. The creeping and clambering shadows flock to it’s light; wherever he goes he will not be unseen. Perhaps it is due to the warmth of it’s light, that he accepts this burden so readily. Perhaps not.
When it is taken from him, when it flies from his grasp to the hands of it’s rightfully intended owner, something splinters in him. He falls to his knees, bereft of the kindly weight, of the ever present golden hum of something greater than his frail, human body.
The wooden toy sword is a pitiful replacement. He feels with acuity, the intensity of his youth, his inexperience. There is no more guiding hand to help him express the breadth of the light within. No more magic key, to unlock doors and hearts and the magnitude of his own potential.
He has no time to marvel at it’s return. The moment is fraught with contention, with the unsettling stare coming from a face he knows so well. Riku’s eyes are still aquamarine, but the darkness seeps off of him in waves, and Sora barely manages not to flinch at it’s intensity.
The light in his grasp does not waver, does not flinch, does not stammer at the encroaching shadow. It swells within him, a clear and radiant wave of power, of light, raining down upon those who dare to taint a once peaceful world with miserable shadows and ruin.
When the white door is found, when the errant philosopher is struck down, it shines in such a way that no mortal eye can see. The majesty sleeping within shows it’s face for but a moment, when the lock clicks shut, and the arches of the door have faded into nothing but sparkling dust.
It registers, in the back of his mind, that he carries with him a power that no one fully seems to understand. The balances of life and death, of awareness and oblivion, are carried in his hand, in the guise of an oversized key.
Sora carries on, as he ever does. A white castle stretches up before him, and he marches in.
The key does not worry. The key does not fret, at strange words coming from under a strange black cloak. For some while, it does not even seem to mind, if the heartless it destroys (purifies) are real, or simply some residual horror that lies in Sora’s memory.
Memory is rearranged into lies. Truth is disassembled into a parody. There is a beloved face he forgets, and another dear face that stands before him, twisted into a cruel sneer.
The beloved face looks back at him, and quietly exposes the lies. They key does not whisper...does the key not mind at all if he is this Sora, or a Sora who remembers a different girl with the same face? Does the key care if he is Sora at all?
He slumbers. The key slumbers within him.
The awakening is gentle, even if the fuzziness remains. They key comes just as easily, knowing it’s place, knowing it’s role in the grand scheme of this war. It strikes against the empty shells just as it did their corrupted counterparts, without censure, without design.
Regardless of how many keychains are clipped to it, how many transfers and refigurations it endures, the gentle subconscious murmur of this key does not change. It is a calm whisper against the backbone of his heart, ever present, ever watchful. The scales are tipped in it’s favor time and time again, a burning light against a surrounding darkness that surges forth with ever more vitriol.
He never bothers to ask why the keychain attached to it resembles the silhouette of a small king. Maybe Mickey knows...maybe he doesn’t. Three circles, two smaller edged against the larger centerpiece. The keyblade that the king carries is no different, and yet they never seem to find time to speak of it.
Even in a mystery shrouded in darkness, the key holds firm. It does not care whether one, two, five of it’s brethren exist in it’s image. Whether there is one Sora or two, or a Sora who is no longer Sora, it only shines the brighter. It’s master has grown, and so has it.
The whisper against his heart does not cease, even as it’s wielder accepts the blatant inevitability of fading, falling into darkness next to a treasured heart. It’s light radiates the warmest when the two hearts it was destined for are near.
Sleeping...again. This sleep is different. The light which shines from Sora’s heart and coalesces into a weapon of great power is no different, whether Sora sleeps or wakes. But this dream which he has fallen into, this sleep within sleep, this dream within dream...it falters. If Sora cannot call for it, then it will not come. Not unless the straits were somehow even more dire than this.
Waking, it flickers back to life with the rest of him, a quiet and joyful whisper. He does not hear, too intent on the voices and laughter of his dearest friends. The key does not mind. They are joined so deeply, he will never be able to forget.
Darkness approaches. Crucial power lies ungained...or so the old wizard says. Perhaps the key knows better. Perhaps not.
Key strikes key. A Keyblade War unfolds. The key has no remorse for freeing these human shaped husks, these dolls carrying around hearts that should exist no longer. It is a mercy. They too, will be reunited with their bonds and emotions...one way or another.
Sora’s heart goes through heaven and hell over the course of a day, or what must have been a day, as it feels too long to rightly calculate. Fighting, and more fighting. The key races through the air, every strike a declaration of intent to survive.
He does not survive. He fades...beyond all calling and ken.
It is his penance. His due. But his light has not yet faltered. He will be as strong as he must be.
Sora gazes at a city sparkling with light and color. The eternal murmur in the back of his chest is not yet gone. His strength is still carried with him in some measure. The light has not gone out.
Hope lives. The key beckons onward.