Chapter Text
Brain sat at his desk, empty book in front of him and pen in hand, drinking with ink. As he stared at the blank page, he lost himself to thought. It wasn’t that there was nothing to write about - on the contrary, there was so much he didn’t know where to begin.
The ten years that had passed had not been without their strife and struggles, building Scala from the ground up was as much of a painstaking task as he’d expected it to be. Not every dandelion has hopped on board as enthusiastically as Brain’s faction had, and he still remembered the long months of negotiations, the late nights of writing up policy and agreements, falling asleep at the very desk he was at now. In some ways though, that distraction was a blessing to his - their dandelions. There had been little time to think of the world they had lost when it was time to build anew.
Now there were no dandelions. They were his people, the people of Scala. With them he entrusted the future of the keyblade, and with his daughter the task of leading them to a new age, one where they could look to the future without forgetting the lessons of the past. Which is what brought him here, to his well worn desk and to his empty book, as he sat wondering for a place to start.
His thoughts brought him further back, back to before Scala, to the time he found himself thinking of less and less as of late. He wondered if they would be proud of what he had accomplished, what he’d done for the people who’s well-being they had been untrusted with. He could imagine Ephemer’s voice, muddled though it may be with age and forgetting, discussing future plans with him. Skuld pulling him into a hug he never asked for but always secretly enjoyed. Then there was Lauriam, who in all of his charisma would have brought the citizens of Scala together in a way Brain never could.
And as Brain thought of Ventus, an idea bloomed in his head. For it had been Ventus who had shown them the existence of the deepest darkness, but shone with the warmth of the brightest light. If that day were to repeat there wouldn’t be a single decision he’d change, gladly sacrificing his spot on the arc a thousand times over. Yet still, heart ached for the friends he had lost and the ten long years spent without them.
That would soon change, as long as finished his work. He only hoped his family would understand, if they could not forgive.
Pen touched paper and he began.
To you, my beloved,
Long ago, people lived in peace, bathed in the warmth of light.