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This is not quite right , his heart whispers, as the boy opens his eyes and finds only darkness greeting him. All black and strange, his hands empty, laughter ringing underwater, too far away to grasp a direction. Somehow, he knows that he’s floating, falling, really, even if it’s slow and gentle, featherlike and...
His hands are empty.
They shouldn’t be. There should be a handle of metal and leather, moulded to his fingers, a chain falling occasionally against his leg, but there is no such thing and that is for some reason much more unsettling than the darkness.
What’s even worse, his chest rings as empty as his hand, treads snapped and coiling into each other, no direction, no power behind them, no light to guide him.
For some reason, that feels important.
Whoever is laughing, it’s closer now and he recognizes three voices, young and unafraid and bright. But the noise is still too muddled to figure out whether he knows them or not. Still too far away to give them shape.
Mind all over the place, he grapples for purchase, for a thought, a name, a colour, but nothing really makes sense but knowledge and feeling, instinct tugging him into a purpose, falling, falling, until his feet meet solid ground and the world lights up blue.
He was expecting more than that, but it’s just blue, sparkling and glowing and sharp, too bright, too cold, edges burrowing into his skin and leaving indents he can feel through this bubble of void still wrapped around him.
The boy breathes in.
Out.
He blinks and finally, his surroundings blur into contrasts and shapes, until he finds himself on a platform cast in crystals and darkness. Underneath him, lines spread in a painting he can’t comprehend, forming objects he can’t quite name, colourless and see through like windows, empty like his heart.
When he takes his first step, the jewels dig into his shoes and shatter, split apart and grow back into flowers of white crystalline behind him. Vibrant blue, light and familiar, a colour he knows but can’t quite grasp, sharp against his fingers, edges ripping into him and bleeding out what thoughts fly past.
Crystals, these are crystals, why are here crystals?
There should be glass.
He looks around, traces the lines on the floor, but nothing makes sense and he expects a voice to call him, to talk to him, but…
Nothing.
Out here, he is alone, wherever here is in the end. The laughter is still somewhere else , but he can’t figure out where it’s coming from and for now, it doesn't really matter to him. It can wait.
For now, at least.
The boy walks the circle around the platform, peeks over the edges, searches for a path out of the circle, but there is nothing at all, nothing, until those children’s voices burst through the bubble and he whirls around to follow.
It’s a door. Or not quite, more a mirror than a door, white and tall, elegant. It’s a stark difference to the sharp chaos around him, polished and old and worn, paint peeling off the surface, revealing darkened wood underneath, the warmest colour he can find in here.
For a while, he keeps staring at it, watches it stand there, right in the space he probably landed in and its surface ripples milky and wispy like clouds, movement behind a curtain, that blue he knows darting across it like the slash of a blade.
Finally, he steps closer.
Closer.
Bright and happy, hopeful and young, that laughter takes his heart and slams it shut, yearning clawing at his insides, something desperate to touch, to cling, to call, words and names forming on his lips only to dissolve into the void a mere moment later.
For another second, he hates.
Then it’s gone again, just as he lifts his hand and touches the surface. He finds his fingers in gloves, fingertips free, but the rest is wrapped in black and red and yellow, recognition flutters like wings in his heart, then the surface changes and he is left staring at two boys playing catch along a shoreline, a boy in silver and yellow grinning at another in white and red, brown hair a birds nest to the silver boys neat ponytail. Their grins spread wide over their faces, golden sunlight following them like a cape. His eyes follow the silver boy, taking in the aqua merging with the sea behind him, a compliment to the skies rising in his friends' eyes.
The image shifts and a girl joins them, red hair and eyes the deepest ocean and that subdued emptiness of a soul that lost everything, including herself. She watches the boys fight, wooden blades clashing in a valiant battle for what looks like a juice box, until her lips curl out into a smile so faint, it could have been imaginary. And yet, the boys halt and stare, until it widens and then they are at her side and touching her, hugging her hands close, if only to give her space, her whole frame overwhelmed. Like she could not believe that they are right there with her.
It’s a fresh friendship, emotions framing their little trio in sunlight and kindness, children just meeting and forging their first bonds of friendship.
He wants to know their names.
Under his hands, the image cracks into a spider’s web and shatters, leaving behind a hole and a beaten path, cracked crystals leading him through the frame in a staircase towards a tower.
When he steps through, he finds a tower built from stained glass, torn and ruined by the crystal structures, glittering from a light he can’t find the origin of, surroundings dark beyond the building itself. When he turns around, the doorway and the old platform are gone, leaving him to only go up.
He does.
This time, there is a bit less of the crystal obscuring the glass painting he steps on, though he still can’t really place it’s design beyond a hand and shapes reminiscent of petals and a strange star shaped fruit buried under muddled white.
With the crystals receding, there is more space for another mirror like doorway, its surface superficial white, no sound accompanying its appearance this time.
The boy kind of misses the laughter already. It sounded… nice.
The silence now is slamming into him like a brick wall falling and he stumbles over a crystal protruding from the floor right in front of him, he catches himself on another and stays there for a few breaths, huffing and breathing out a wheeze, that could have once upon a time been a laugh. Now, it sounds foreign and wrong in his mouth, twisting around his tongue like an obstacle instead of relief.
“Wow, I'm a klutz.” He whispers, voice hoarse and unused, lost in the wide space of void and darkness, echoing off the blue and white.
Dissipating back into the colourless glass painting.
It takes him a few moments more to remember how to move again, and this time he knows what to do, palm connecting to the mirror faster than he can realize.
It’s just the boy with the brown hair this time, alone in a room cluttered beyond any hope of salvation, toys strewn all over the place, sketches of ships and rafts pinned to a wall and doodles of him and the other two children an arch around him. The boy himself has different clothes now, just a red bodysuit, a blue jacket thrown over a chair in the corner, gigantic yellow shoes scattered in different corners of the room, like he was in a hurry to get rid of them and get to work on whatever it is that he is working on, huddled over something as he is. He is not smiling here, instead, his face is twisted in something akin to rage and grief, an expression too ugly for his round face, teeth bared.
Whatever he was holding, he throws it at the wall and the picture frame breaks when it hits the wall. The boy's head snaps up and he opens his mouth, says something.
The boy in silver and yellow is the one to walk in, sparing barely a glance at the broken frame by his feet, instead hurrying to his friend's side and settling into his space, close enough that their knees touch. He reaches for the brown haired childs hand and pulls up onto the bed, then into a hug, leaning back until they are lying down, soft features buried in yellow fabric, shoulders trembling as the taller boy hugs him closer. When the door opens again, it’s the girl, holding a tray with glasses and a jug, she puts it down on the table and shoos the boys further onto the bed, so she can fit with them. She wraps her arms around both of them and laces her fingers through one of the pale hands resting around the boy between the two of them and they share a glance over brown spikes, solemn and hard.
It feels like a promise and a bit like he is intruding in something he should not have witnessed. And yet, he can’t bring himself to look away, watching the moment freeze and shatter under his touch, crystal glass dust piling at his feet.
This moment felt familiar, tender, intimate and he wants it back. He wants to cradle it in his hands and keep it forever, because these kids are like sparks guiding him home.
When he looks at his feet, the glass has changed colour, the hand he can recognize underneath now filled in with black and red and skin, just like his own. In front of him, through the archway, the steps have added red spots, glinting clearer than the crystals around, and when he walks through, his fingers brush the frame and he realizes just how much more worn this one is than the last.
Splinters dig under his skin and he picks at his fingers while walking upstairs to the next platform. There is a pattern already building here and the boy has a feeling that, the longer he keeps going, the better he can manage to hold thoughts, calling things by name and the better he feels himself, not as stiff, not as empty.
Sparks guiding him home, huh.
Stepping onto the next platform almost gives him whiplash from the amount of red bleeding through the crystals, those getting less and less, the doorway decaying as he watches, paint peeling off in wide strokes of white, splintered wood barely holding onto glue and nails. The next stairway is already forming as the boy moves further into the circle, watching the crystals reflect reddish light, a faint memory forming on his tongue and settling in his bones, that distant smell of ozone and dirt, a world falling apart at his feet.
There are cracks in this stained glass, but it’s carrying more colour, even if only in places.
And yet. He stops right in front of the mirror-door and places his hand onto it, readying himself for another image of the three of them.
It’s none of them, instead it’s a woman cooking in a sunny yellow kitchen.
“Mom.” He breathes, as he takes in the short brown spikes and the stained apron and her green dress floating around her in a mass of skirts like jungle foliage.
She is dancing along the counter, spatula waving around like a wand as she whirls around like a hurricane of smiles and songs. Warmth spreads through his body, arms, legs, hands, fingers, down to his toes and he smiles, fond and soft and so loving, it strains his jaw, itches on his tongue, desperate to call out to her, greet that woman and wrap her in a hug, kiss her cheek.
Steal a piece of pancake he can see stacking on a plate to the side. And when she turns around to grab a pan, he finds himself looking into oceans of blue, deep and sparkling and a mirror image to his own.
Huh. So that’s what he looks like. Like the brown haired boy, like this sunlight woman. She opens her mouth, seems to call someone and he watches said boy trample into the room, do what he wants to, hug her, kiss her cheek and grab a pancake, before he dashes out the door, laughing and waving at her exasperated face.
It softens the second he is out the door and she turns back to the stove, lips curling wistfully kind, a smile filled with enough adoration to drown a room in it. And yet, her forehead wrinkles into a frown, worry lines her eyes, ages her into a fragile shell.
He loves her, this woman, he loves her dearly and he wants to smooth his thumb over the wrinkle and soothe her heart back into glowing as brightly as it did only seconds before.
There are empty spaces on the walls, darker spots on the wallpaper, photos missing and the boy knows exactly what’s missing.
He yearns and the surface shatters as her soft features burn themselves into his mind.
He steps back and glances down, at the green spreading through the glass painting and he presses on, through the gateway, shards crackling under his shoes, up the stairs and to the next memory, memory, these are memories and he needs to know.
He remembers a gentle voice now, flowing over his head as it reads to him, hidden under a blanket as a storm rages outside. He remembers birthdays and chaos, the other two children wild and boisterous by his side as he blows out candles, eight, nine, ten and more, because he is the brown haired boy.
This woman is his mother.
The red haired girl and the silver haired boy are his friends, his best friends and he needs to know their names.
He needs to.
Running up the stairs, hands still empty, grasping for leather and metal not there, he slides over glass and stumbles over crystals and slams both his hands into the flat structure, gasps as the sea spreads from in between the spaces. It’s the girl with the red hair and they are sitting side by side on the dock, feet dangling over boats as the sun sets and plunges the world into gold and scarlet lines of light.
She is smiling and he looks confused, her features exited as she gestures to their raft, their raft , arms spreading wide.
Just the two of us , her voice rings in his head, Never change.
Shards.
The boy in silver and yellow reaches out to him through a black mist collecting at his feet, eyes cold and distant and his own hands never manage to grab the hand reaching out to him.
The image twists and it's the same boy in the same space, only older and smiling at him, the dusk catching fire in his strands and lighting up the world in perfection and sheer affection.
It spreads in his chest and down to his fingertips, warmth and unwavering belief.
More stairs.
The girl in red a ghost in his arms, then solid little later, surrounded by the glow of a princess coming into her own. There is recognition there, a name at the tip of his tongue, swallowed down by a shift in perspective and now she is older as well, sitting right beside him on the trunk of a tree, tears dripping off her chin and onto her collar, staining it a shade darker.
His own sight blurs and he rips himself away.
Less crystals every time, less light blue and white as pink and soft yellows join the red and green.
Only this time, he realizes that the door-mirror is decaying more and more, barely any paint left, the wood all but rotten away, only the cloudy grey surface and a thin metal frame rising in the middle of the platform, wisps of black and purple weaving around it.
Ozone and dirt spread over his tongue, his body seizing in a fight or flight reflex and he struggles to reach out and touch the grey area.
He expects another memory, but just for a second, maybe even less, the world around him flickers into a realm of sky and sea, endless and far too bright.
The boy shields his eyes and when he opens them again, the memory is gone and the crystals have cracked in places, stained glass littered with even more cracks, a few missing panels he hops around on his way to the next stairway.
It feels endless by now, singular memories that rattle at the edges of his mind and heart, tugging other memories to the forefront and back in place. Some are better left forgotten, but the boy still faces their taint head on, burrows through them and up, jumps over several steps and lands on the next platform.
There are no black wisps around the memory this time. Instead, they are sliding around the crystals reminiscent of a million hands waiting to grab him and pull him back into the abyss of oblivion.
He hurries forward and grabs the frame, spreads his other hand over the flat grey, schools his face into a semblance of calm.
He needs to know. And he will figure this out, why he is in this weird place of darkness and glass, why he can’t remember anything, why his hands feel empty still. Even the frame lies all wrong in his hand, stray wires digging into his palm, pressure uncomfortable and distracting.
This memory is of a dog and a duck and himself, or rather, many, many memories of the three of them. The duck whacks him over his head with a staff, the dog helps him up after a fight, carnage around them and hard eyes. He himself looks older here, clutching a key like weapon and clothes switching with every new place they seem to visit.
Pressure settles behind his eyes and he blinks it away, concentrating on the duck and the dog protecting him and each other, he himself is jumping and vaulting over any surface, off any ledge, battling his way through thousands of opponents with golden eyes.
This should have been an adventure. He thinks, Instead it turned into war.
People in black coats loom in the back of almost every memory and he grits his teeth against his skin crawling with terror and rage.
He shatters this memory himself, just balls his fist and smashes it through the memory, stalks through it towards the next tower and ignores black lines filling in beneath his steps.
Another memory with the dog and the duck.
Calmer this time, them flying in a ship.
Darker blues find their place in the stained glass.
He keeps walking.
Once again, there is the girl with the red hair, offering him a star shaped yellow fruit and he looks so confused at this. The boy can’t help but laugh at himself.
I just want to be part of your life .
He wants that too. He loves her. She feels like home and sunsets and laughter, but in this scene, the silver haired boy is missing here to the point that it hurts. What happened between them for him to leave like this?
Did he leave or is there another memory waiting for him?
The boy traces the girl’s face and steps back when the memory shifts and this time, memory-him lands with the girl in that realm of sea and sky and he kind of… understands.
“I’m dead.” He whispers, “I’m dead.”
But then why here? Why like this?
The boy sinks to his knees and presses his forehead against the outline of the fruit, thoughts churning, running in circles, until he can’t breathe anymore. The questions leave him gasping on the floor, grappling at straws in his head until his thoughts settle on aqua and silver. He wants to know.
He needs to know. Their names, his memories, what they lived through for him to die. What they went through for this girl to be so adamant that she stays a part of his life.
The only way to find out is to keep going and so he does, he stumbles through the gateway, up to the next platform and almost falls over his own feet, catching himself on one of the crystals still surrounding the platform. Beneath him, the stained glass glitters deeper with purple shadows, the dark wisps dancing around white and blue, crawling his way through the cracks. Finally, the boy recognizes the sleeping form of himself holding that key shaped weapon, the borders, the stars and the setting sun in the background, now that the crystal receded far enough to really take a look.
In front of him, the memory crumbles and just before he rushes over to touch it still, but in the end, he is too late. Dust spreads in a cloud of grey and voices spread in whispers of light around him.
I will always protect you!
That man will never get close to you.
Your mom’s cookies are the best.
What’s this?
A Paopu fruit. C’mon! I know you wanted to try it!
This world has been connected.
Riku!
Have you forgotten us? You replaced us.
Sleep well. I’ll stand guard, so you can rest in peace.
I didn’t want you to find me.
You don’t believe that, Sora.
All of it accompanied by aqua twisting into the crystals, filling the gaps in his memories out of nowhere, all of it the boy in silver and yellow and he stands there, in the middle of the platform and stares at a freckled pale hand reaching towards him from darkness. He stares at a young man with a smile hidden behind moonlight, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and gesturing like a maniac as he talks, the same man, only older, staring down at him with so much fondness that the boy wants to hide his burning face and turn away, but he can't.
It’s beautiful how the other’s eyes glitter in the moonlight and whenever he turns to him, how he lights up the second the boy makes a joke or even looks his way.
It’s the same as with the girl, the same kind of love, just as fierce, but where she is home and warmth and peace of mind, this man is yearning under his skin, bubbling up his throat in a gasp and a sigh, he wants to spend days by their side, training together and laughing and going on adventures. But he also wants to hold the man’s hand and keep him close, shoulders brushing, to lean against the girl and she reads to him, voice soft and cherished and he wants them to smile at each other like they did years before. He wants to wake up alive and look into soft eyes and he wants to see his beloved smile with no trace of darkness tugging at their hearts.
Come back soon, Sora. Promise me, you will be careful.
This is my lucky charm. Give it back to me when you find your way home.
He stops in front of one of the crystals, reaches out and presses his hand against the man’s.
“Just a little longer, Riku, Kairi . Just a little bit longer.”
The first names he remembers and of course it’s these two. Riku wraps himself around his heart, a shield and a power, a race to a star and back, happiness running alongside him like a breeze. Kairi settles into place right next to him, a memory of sunshine and beach shores and warm water.
They are vines and wooden swords and everything good in the world, his best friends first and everything else second.
Donald. Goofy. Mickey, they all trickle back, a blue haired lady and a man fighting with armor like a sunrise. A boy sleeping in his heart and his twin staring at him in a city bleeding darkness.
He lifts his hand and slashes in a motion reminiscent of calling for a weapon and in a flash of power, his keyblade finally comes home to him. There are still holes in his memory, many of those, but what he has is enough of a start that he can piece together the rest.
His name is Sora, he is a keyblade wielder and Riku and Kairi are the friends he is in love with. They are also his best friends for life.
His mother has been mourning a child lost at war and he has to get back and apologize to her.
He has to get back to Kairi and apologize for leaving her behind, for leaving her at the islands and not sparing her a second thought while looking for Riku.
He needs to get to Riku and finally offer him the world on a silver platter because that man deserves that and more.
He needs to grab his friends and stuff them into the next best gummi ship and drag them off for the adventure they wanted years and years ago.
No more wars, no more lives lost, just the three of them exploring the worlds and beyond.
Sora turns to the next stairway and runs up to the next platform.
There has to be a reason that he is remembering more and more instead of fading out here, this path has to lead somewhere, there is still too much missing, but he will figure this out.
He always figured things out before, even if he understands none of it.
His heart will guide him, as it always did.
Up there, no mirror-door awaits him, but the second his feet land on the glass platform, crystals burst apart and the stained glass lights up as around the platform, various windows rise in a flurry of sparks and silver.
Now, isn’t this familiar. Sora stalks into the middle of his heart station, feet scuffing against glass tinged in a rainbow of light reflecting off his clothes, arms, legs.
He looks up at his memories, stares up at his friends, all of them, everyone he met up until now, Leon and the Radiant Garden gang, King Mickey and Disney Castle, he finds the Mysterious Tower squished in between memories of Ariel and Belle, but when all is said and done, he focuses most on Riku and Kairi, their smiles flickering in and out of memories, Riku’s eyes lighting up his way and Kairi’s hand reaching out towards him.
“I miss them.” He breathes into the void, steps slowing down until he is finally in the eye of the storm, smiling up at his life rushing in a hurricane around him.
Namine offers him her pinky for a promise and her memory shatters as he speaks, Xion gazes up at Roxas and bursts into blue and white light not unlike the remnants of the crystals around him. Roxas stands in front of a man in a black coat, Oathkeeper and Oblivion, a legacy of his heart and Xion’s sacrifice and he wants to meet them, get to know them.
For real this time, not just from memories that never were his own in the first place and not from memories technically gone for good, not from stories that might have been lies all along. Sora wants to get to know them.
As real people.
Sifting through all of this takes ages, he shifts them aside and into place, watches memories disappear when they line up and give way to others, so he can start anew, but Sora keeps going, unrelenting and impatient, elbow deep into his work at some point and ignoring the flickers of black crawling up the platform, only to shy away from the light coming off the glass. Sora keeps sorting, keeps remembering, until all names are in place, all of his memories, only the last few missing.
How he got here and why, for example.
“There was this battle, on that weird tower and with a guy…” He mutters and looks up.
No more memories left, only the usual vast darkness, only his own breathing, only another staircase he can walk up.
And he does.
A boy sits there, white hair, mismatched eyes, legs crossed. Clothes cut in the same style as Riku’s, funny enough, and too familiar to be anything but a friend.
And yet, Sora's teeth ache in something resembling frustration, his eyes fall on the crystals dripping off his hands as the boy looks up and stares at Sora, stares and stares and stares until his lips curl into a tiny smile.
“Your friends are looking for you.” He says, voice rough and deep, but gentle in a way, a friend that could have been. He lifts a hand and around them, the world shatters into the realm of sea and sky, leaving behind only them and the crystal arena. Around them, a city of white buildings shoots up, small and tall, skyscrapers and tiny little buildings crunching under Sora’s feet as he dares the few steps closer to the other boy.
“You’re Yozora.”
“And You are Sora.” He smirks and Sora laughs, crosses his arms behind his head.
Right.
They fought.
And Sora lost.
Now he remembers, that strange cold seeping up his legs, crystallizing him into a statue, that last thought of “Sorry guys, guess I’m not coming back after all.”
The sadness and frustration of having lost.
He sits down in front of Yozora and spreads out his arms, asks what has been burning on his tongue ever since he woke up, “What’s going on?”
“Your friends are looking for you.” He waves at the walls, where Sora finds Riku and Kairi, running through the same world he is sitting in, “Only you are here and they are out there.”
Sora watches Riku defend Kairi and catch her when she stumbles and he watches Kairi create a Flowbermeow and name it, something stupid probably, if Riku’s face is to be believed. He laughs at their antics, grins in sheer elation when they hug, Sora watches and watches and watches them and he wants to go home so bad, he could reach out through these strange walls and touch them.
His fingers itch and cool when they brush the parchment surface, trace Riku’s face, settle on Kairi’s determined gaze and Sora rips himself away from the walls, back to Yozora.
“What now?”
“You did your part. Now it’s their turn.” Yozora leans back and stares into the sky, “You remembered. And by remembering you opened the part. Now they only need to find you.”
After all, it’s your turn to be saved for once , is left unsaid.
Their eyes meet, Sora plops down in front of Yozora, giggles at their names again, “Still, what do I do now?”
“You could go on. See if you find a way out of here. You could also stay here and wait to be saved.”
As if there is any other choice. With these two options, there is only one thing really viable and Sora grins and summons his keyblade, “Guess I’ll see if I can find a door somewhere around here.”
Kingdom Key sits comfortably in his hand, familiar, humming in a greeting.
It’s a city out here, as white and weird as it is, there has to be one door somewhere at least. And if not, he will create the keyhole.
Once he enters the city for good, that’s where things get weird. The walls are littered with different shades of pale pink and yellow, memories flickering in and out of existence, old and new, Riku and Kairi as they are now appearing here and there, as they run, fight, Riku’s Komory Bat and Kairi’s Flowbermeow at their sides. Sometimes, he sees their backs, the Dream Eater sigils burning their brand into his eyes.
They have one each, switching back and forth whenever the world around them shifts, night and day, light and dark, a constant shift of perspective as Sora moves past the buildings.
No sound but his feet splashing on the ground, nothing but his own breath.
Hitching whenever he sees Riku’s eyes spark into light, whenever he catches Kairi or whenever she uses Holy to shield them from another Nightmare, the light reflecting off their faces like stardust and Sora is in love, a little bit, maybe a lot. And he wants to reach up and touch their faces, hold their hands, fight by their side. He yearns to be close again and just… be there. In their space and hearts.
But as he is, he can’t.
He is still stuck in this place with no way out yet.
So he keeps going. Slow and steady, he moves further into the city, past walls and his friends looking for him, increasingly determined, as their skies slowly merge into one split one.
Something in his chest skips and beats and Sora almost feels like he might have his heart again.
The buildings fade from stone to crystal and from crystal to overgrown ivy the closer he seems to get to the centre of this place, a slow descent into rubble and ruins. Under his feet, crystals crunch again, small shards dig into his feet, through his shoes, right into his skin.
His fingers cry blue, reaching up his arms, over his shoulders, pointy and see through, but Sora presses on until he finally reaches the piazza, and in it, he finds his own crystal. His body encased in softly glowing blue and around the statue, specters of Riku and Kairi, fluttering around it as they move, reminiscent of motion captured in photos.
For a second, he believes that Yozora is with them.
Slowly, his mind starts fading into surreality, his sight blurring into rainbows cast in indigo and cerulean and sora slams his hand, his keyblade against his body as both of them shatter with his friend’s ghosts staring up at him.
I can’t go yet.
Everything goes black again.
Voices ringing underwater.
His heart station pulsates under his feet.
And then.
Terribly warm arms close around him, a face in his hair, small hands clutching onto his arms and someone nosing into the small space between his neck and shoulder.
Voices.
Familiar.
A power given, a power lost, a choice made.
The power of the warrior. Invincible courage. A sword of terrible destruction.
The power of the mystic. Inner strength. A staff of wonder and ruin.
The power of the guardian. Kindness to aid friends. A shield to repel all. Who are you?
“Guardian.” Riku.
“Mystic.” Kairi.
Warrior. Me.
It’s always been the three of us. It was never just me, it’s always been the three of us.
“We want to save him.”
“Just let us share this.”
I wish I could say “no”. It’s warm though. You feel warm.
His heart beats in his chest, strong and kind, reaching out towards his friends and wrapping threads of light around all three of them, tying them together tight and bright, reforging the bond from his side.
Wake up.
Edges dig into his skin as the warmth shifts into more concentrated points of contact. Sora fights to open his eyes again and is met with Riku and Kairi peering down at him, faces opened wide and hopeful.
Lavender blue and the seas at sunrise.
A promise given to him a lifetime ago and to this day they are still keeping it.
His lights that guide him home.
All memories come flooding back and then it’s a moment of tears and relief, Kairi sobbing into his chest and Riku clutching onto them both as Sora scrambles to hold both of them close with barely existent strength.
It’s the best and the worst feeling of all, that elation of freedom, of waking up safe and at the same time the dread before a storm, he is awake and home and safe in his friends arms but the true struggle is yet to come. Recovery.
Explaining what happened, maybe. Apologies over apologies because there are so many regrets Sora never realized he had. He owes so many people so much, most of all these two and Sora needs to speak, he needs to tell them “I’m sorry” and “I love you” and “Please never let me go again”.
But that is for later. Now, he is here and they are here with him, both of them, and he wants to never see another sunset separated from even one of them.
They are his home, he found his home.
His home.
He is home.