Chapter Text
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
- The Ballad of Reading Gaol, O. Wilde
Vanitas had heard the stories about the Golden Kingdom hundreds of times before already. He didn’t need to hear the portly bard tell tales of how their proud and lovely Queen Kairi was cut low by the bastard Sun King to remind him why they were the enemy.
Three generations before, when both Bright and Night Courts lived in a fragile coexistence, the Queen had set out to negotiate a trade agreement with the then Sun King, Lea. She was ambushed, however, and Lea took a dagger to her heart. The sorrowful King Saix of the Shade had arrived too late to save his wife, and saw the blood-soaked blade still dripping in Lea’s hand. His aim steady and true, King Saix avenged his wife, drawing his deadly blade across the throat of the murderer.
The two Kingdoms had been at war ever since.
This history was woven into the daily lives of the citizens of the Shade. The Night Court lived quietly, a sea of somber colors and hardworking craftspeople. Renowned for their smithing, there was never anything quite so deadly or beautiful as a Shade blade.
Life was not frivolous and debauched in the Shade like in the Golden Kingdom. The Brightlings lived raucously, drunk and lustful, their denizens wild, cunning, and as likely to slip a knife in your back as to give you a kiss. In the Bright Court they danced freely, loudly, half clothed and wild. Those who lived there were immoral and thought only of themselves. They were vicious with their arrows and spears, and even deadlier with their pretty lies.
The rumor about town was that the Brightlings could lie so well that they could sometimes even manipulate reality. Silver-tongued devils, the lot of them. That was why it was best to quickly dispatch them of the offensive organ.
Above all else though, Brightlings respected and revered passion. They were always touching and kissing, quick to shed their clothing and join their bodies so needlessly. The idea was so stark in contrast to the modus operandi of Nightlings that it was nearly laughable.
One must only behold a Nightling betrothal pact once to be reminded that love must always be cast aside in favor of strength. While lovers elsewhere may have exchanged silver bands weighed down by precious stones, the citizens of the Shade had instead altered this tradition to replace the frivolous token of companionship with something much more fitting a warrior: a weapon.
Vanitas had no need to imagine the sword he would one day make for the person foolish enough to dare capture his heart. He had no need to, and yet Vanitas sometimes thought he could still see it in his mind’s eye. A brilliant silver thing, it would be, with a gilded handle of gold, crescent moon etched onto the pommel. Vanitas certainly did not imagine this blade when his eyes caught a glimpse of the eyes of pretty boys and girls in the Court. He shoved those daydreams down deep, buried them.
Vanitas abhorred the idea of love. Lust, greed, famine: these are concepts he had already mastered in his first 22 years. Love remained a fickle and elusive beast, one Vanitas hoped to one day capture if only so that he could strike it down himself. Love was the ultimate sign of weakness, and in the Shade, weakness was worse than death.
While some of his peers had enjoyed the comfort of one another in their formative years, Vanitas had focused his attention on becoming the most dangerous person in the Shade. Growing up an orphan, hungry and bruised on the streets, he vowed to pull himself out of the trenches of poverty by any means necessary.
Vanitas studied sword fighting, grappling, and archery. He ran swiftly, molding his body into a weapon, and learned all he could about all he could. As the years dragged on, Vanitas found that he much preferred stealth and deception over brute force, and fortunately his talents found him quite suited for a life of subterfuge.
During the day, Vanitas exercised his brain by memorizing the alchemical composition of potions and poisons, and by the moonlight he practiced his trickery, traversing the world silent and unseen.
Finally the day had come for Vanitas to prove his mettle. He needed a spectacle, something bold and outrageous that would pull him from obscurity and into the ranks of those most feared.
At 18, he finally found his chance. Vanitas had been able to sneak within the perimeter of the King’s retinue, a move that would have surely gotten Vanitas hanged had the act not proven him an asset to the King. As it were, Vanitas was spared death, and made Assassin to the King. Those unfortunate enough to have allowed Vanitas through the King’s barriers had been the first royal marks Vanitas had been deployed upon.
Weakness was simply not tolerated in the Shade. Not a soul blinked twice at the sudden disappearance of the long-serving Kingsguard, or the new replacements already in place. The guards had failed their one duty, and though technically illegal, murdering those unfit to serve the King was a crime proudly looked away from. Instead of murdered or otherwise recorded dead, the guards simply ceased to live in the eyes of the law.
A bell tolled somewhere in the distance, sending up a swarm of birdlike Floods into the air. The creatures called the Night Court home and paid no mind to the humans in their midst. Vanitas enjoyed the company of Floods and had spent a great deal of time befriending the monsters. He had once been able to coax a wyvern-like Flood into allowing Vanitas to harvest its glistening feathers. The soft midnight down could be used to make a powerful poison, should the need arise, though Vanitas shuddered to think what sort of person would warrant such an overkill. The ash from a wyvern Flood’s burned feathers could knock down even an Amantoise with scarce over a thimbleful. Not that Vanitas had tested this.
Despite his haughty attitude and impressive confidence, Vanitas was quite a lean thing, tall and thin. While not physically intimidating, he could blend into the background with nary a blink. Clothed in the royal color of black, he disappeared in the shadows as easily as one might take a bow. Like a ghost, he appeared and disappeared, death and destruction following him like a loyal hound.
Compared to alternatives, Vanitas was a quick death, clean and beautiful. His poisons were the most deadly in the land, and the antidotes were known only to him. The victim’s cheeks would still remain rosy and give off the countenance of full health even hours after the poison had stopped their heart. The royal assassin could be there and done with the deed before anyone had noticed his mark had died.
It wasn’t a bad job, all things considered. He had a room near the bottom of the Castle, and no longer went hungry. He had no want for clothing or books, and the prestige of being the Court Assassin kept him untouchable and formidable. If a few dead nobles and disgraced gentry were the cost of safety, it was a price he’d happily pay.
Vanitas had not yet considered what might happen to him when he no longer was as invaluable to King Xehanort. What use was an old and slow assassin? He’d make sure to save them the trouble of making him a mark though. When the time would come that his hands might shake before sneaking some poison into a gentleman’s cup, he’d be sure to end things himself. Not all poisons had antidotes, after all.
As Vanitas walked past the main road, his nose was assaulted with the sour stench of rot. Another day, another wagon filled with bodies retrieved from the front line. Even from his distance, the smell of death was strong. Vanitas bowed his head slightly in respect for his fellow countrymen and women. They had died a noble death and would reap the benefits of such. Their bodies would be laid to rest in the cavernous hollow beneath the castle. A quiet and peaceful final destination for those who were worthy.
Crossing into the market, the scene gradually shifted into something a bit less dour. To his left a man prepared a makeshift altar, black and red candles dripping fat, waxy tears across the stone surface of a well. The anniversary of the late Queen's betrayal, always a solemn celebration in the Shade, was set to begin sundown next week. The Night Court would be illuminated by the flickering candles shortly. For the week leading up to the Queen’s Day, nobles and commoners alike would fill their homes and spaces with the candles until the final day where King Xehanort would order the lights out. All at once then, the candles would be snuffed out in memory of the Queen. King Xehanort would extinguish the flame burning at the top of the castle, just as his King Father did before him, and then the whole Shade would be purged into darkness.
Vanitas never particularly liked this celebration but would participate nonetheless. He would weave crimson thread into his hair, an ode to Queen Kairi’s fiery mane, and fill his cup with the darkest wine as the moon reached its peak, as was tradition. Blessed are those who seek refuge in darkness for their chalice shall never empty. Nightlings find strength in the extinguishing of the light, in the power of darkness. The wine represented spilled blood, and vengeance. It was a renewed vow to avenge their fallen Queen.
A loud squawk sliced through the morning’s stillness. Vanitas’s eyes were immediately drawn to the inky plumage of one of the royal chocobos ahead. Astride the black creature sat Aqua, the formidable Commander of the Night Army. Upon glimpsing Vanitas, Aqua urged the beast forward, parting townsfolk as she passed.
Vanitas leaned against the stone exterior of a nearby shop and waited for her approach. He wondered absently what she could be doing in this part of town, alone, on such a random day.
“Assassin,” Aqua said formally, jutting her chin out to acknowledge Vanitas. She slid down her mount gracefully and removed her gleaming helmet. Vanitas always forgot how young and pretty the Commander was until he was forced to take in the sight of her.
“Commander,” Vanitas purred.
“I come to urge you back to the castle grounds. The King would have a word with you.”
Vanitas raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “A mark so soon to the Queen’s Day? Isn’t that bad luck?”
Aqua scowled. “Are you doubting the intentions of our most hallowed King?”
Vanitas waved her off and pushed up off the building. “Nothing of the sort. I’ll head to this audience at once.”
The Commander nodded curly before signaling for her feathered beast to kneel down so that she could more easily regain her seat.
“Do be quick, Assassin. He grows impatient even as we speak.”
Though Vanitas lived in the castle, he had only once before been called directly in front of the King.
He had only been in his position for nearly a year when the King had brought Vanitas to his side and detailed the assassination. If Vanitas’s face betrayed the surprise he felt hearing the King’s order to take out his eldest child, Strelitzia, Xemnas pretended not to notice.
It had to be a test, Vanitas figured. When pushed to the limit did Vanitas serve the King or the Shade? Vanitas still didn’t know the answer, but he had snuck the poison into the Princess’s dinner all the same.
To be called into the throne room again could mean only one thing: his newest mark must be equally important. Whoever was unlucky enough to be killed, the King trusted no intermediates to deliver the message to Vanitas.
Perhaps this would be interesting.
The guards to the throne room permitted Vanitas entrance and he tried to disguise the wonderment he felt at the opulence of the place. The slate walls were studded with diamonds and topaz, imitating an endless midnight sky. The lights burned low and cast glittering light across the stones. The polished black marble of the floor shone like the top of an icy lake.
At the far end of the room sat Xehanort, reclined lazy against an elaborately designed throne. A cruel smile played across his face as he watched Vanitas approach. The room felt ominously empty all at once.
“Come closer, my little reaper,” the old man called in a sing-songy voice.
Vanitas dare not speak but drew nearer. The echo of his boots across the floor seemed to go on forever. When appropriately close, Vanitas knelt to both knees and dipped his head toward his liege.
“I was pleased with your most recent work. Quite impressive to dispatch an entire barrack single-handedly. You saved our soldiers much bloodshed. Queen Namine has already withdrawn the remainder of her troops from the Western front.”
“I am pleased to serve you, my King.”
“I have need of your talents once again.”
“You need only ask.”
The King cleared his throat and allowed a pregnant pause before continuing. “I’ve never asked such a thing of you before. I fear that this may prove even too difficult for you, my most trusted executioner.”
Vanitas couldn’t help but allow his eyes to flicker across the King’s face. Was he being baited? A kill is a kill. Details might change, but Vanitas had never come upon a man or woman he could not end.
“Yes?” he prodded.
“I have had word that the Queen intends to abdicate her throne in favor of her son upon his upcoming birthday. I would like very much for him to not see the day.”
Vanitas cocked his head to the side. Kill a Prince. The incredulousness of the idea nearly made Vanitas laugh.
“The Queen is old and with her son dies the last of the tyrant Lea’s line. This feud could be over in a week’s time.”
“A week?” Vanitas gasped.
“I thought the death of the Prince would be a fitting tribute to my grandmother’s memory. When better to avenge her death than on the anniversary of her betrayal?”
Vanitas gaped at the King. He tried to rein in his fear, but the massive undertaking before him seemed impossible.
Assassinate a Prince in seven days. He’d have to get started straight away.