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He had been born weak.
That was what Master told him- he was weak weak weak just like his Other, who was laying limp and still, so still at his feet. Though he could stand, his legs still shook- he nearly collapsed onto his Other (maybe maybe maybe they could rejoin and this awful awful dream would be over) before Master pushed him aside and picked his Other up, fixing him with a glare he quickly looked away away away from because Master’s eyes were too bright, too bright and too hard, too hard and too intense to look into.
“Look at me,” Master said, and slowly slowly slowly he looked up, feeling something sick heavy hot and burning churn within him as he met the bright hard intense yellow eyes of Master.
He could only hold contact for a second, then he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t do it anymore. Master scoffed, cold and disappointed and mad, mad, mad. He felt humiliated.
Master named him Vanitas, then he disappeared with his- Vanitas’s- Other.
Pain!
He gasped and fell to his knees, the feeling of his Other moving further and further away and leaving him behind and alone shot, cold and sharp and aching, through his entire body.
It hurt. He hurt.
Master returned.
And the hurt did not stop.
---
Vanitas knew he was weak.
He knew from the hurt and scars that he was. He knew, from the way his body burned and yowled at the end of each battle, from the way his fingers bruised and blistered from gripping the pommel of his Blade for hours and hours and hours, from the way cold tears burned hot against his skin, that he was weak and that he needed to be stronger, stronger so that he could rejoin with his Other.
He knew. He knew.
It still hurt.
Hurt came to Vanitas in a way he dreaded, a way that made him curl up in a ball and cry and scream and scratch at his suit as he begged begged begged Master to let him take it off, when the light was too bright and the dark wasn’t dark enough and Vanitas couldn’t breathe or see or think past the chaos in his head and the growing, sharp, angry pain in his stomach.
He created monsters, when he was like this. When feeling, be it physical or mental or an awful awful mixture of both, Vanitas would gag and choke and heave as he scrabbled his fingernails against any of his skin that he could find, desperate to rid himself of the itch that plagued him to the bone.
Afterwards, he would be left feeling drained, empty, and so, so tired with nothing but the voice of a newly birthed breed of monster echoing in his head as it stood before him, twitching and shuddering with him in sync. Some hissed while others wailed, others who screamed and others who whispered, meek and quiet. No matter what they sounded like, they all said the same thing-
Master, we serve you.
Master is hurt.
Master is afraid.
Master cries.
“Go away,” he always snarled back, lashing out with his Blade and killing the creature and feeling the impact like he had brought the Blade down upon himself.
Master would then nod once, motion for Vanitas to stand up, and force him to practice summoning the new species until there was truly nothing left for Vanitas to give.
---
Vanitas was weak, but he was growing stronger.
In the times between the births of new creatures, Master would train him. Not just for battle, though that was most common- sometimes he would sit Vanitas down on the ground and talk to him about wars and keyblades and Light and Dark and how Vanitas must grow strong in order to make his place in the history of the Worlds.
During these times, Master was… kind. He spoke to Vanitas in a way that made him feel important, because Master told him he was- he was the pure Darkness to his Other’s pure light, and one day they would clash and form the χ-blade that would save the Worlds from themselves.
“You are one half of that Key, Vanitas,” Master would say, and for a wonderful few moments Vanitas felt like he mattered.
During each one of these times, Vanitas always felt the urge to move- his hands would shake, or he would rock back and forth, or jump up and down. These emotions, too, couldn’t be contained within Vanitas- they had to be freed. These feelings, though, didn’t create monsters- they just filled Vanitas up, up, up until he was overflowing, pouring out into his hands and legs and up his throat, not to spill out as a monster but rather as sounds he made just because he could.
Master would say nothing, when Vanitas got like this. He would simply stand and watch, intense eyes burning into Vanitas until he calmed down. Then, and only then, did Vanitas remember what happened after he got… like that.
Master would sigh, sounding disappointed.
“Look at me, Vanitas.”
Vanitas would.
“In the eye.”
Vanitas would try.
“Your behavior is unacceptable,” Master would say.
Then, Vanitas would be punished.
---
Vanitas was weak.
He allowed himself to become full. Full of a different type of emotion; not ones that helped him by creating monsters, but rather ones that made him jump and spin and make noises that didn’t make sense. Those hurt him, made him vulnerable to attacks that could be launched on him when he was distracted.
It was Light . If it entered his heart, it would hurt him. It would destroy his Darkness, and render him useless for the plan he was so vital to.
It made him weak.
That was why, Master told him, he had to be empty. Emptiness meant there was nothing within him at all, a perfect vessel for Darkness to do its will during his clash with the Light.
That was why he had to be punished- it was to get rid of the Light within him.
That was how Master explained it to him; that was why he paid so close attention to Vanitas when he was overtook by Light. He had to see where the Light was poisoning him most, so that he could attack it and defeat it, keeping Vanitas’s Darkness safe.
If Vanitas shook his hands, Master would break them.
If Vanitas jumped up and down, Master would cut the backs of his heels.
If Vanitas made noises just because he could, his throat would be crushed by Master’s boot.
On and on this went, years and years of Master destroying the Light trying to infect Vanitas, sparring, and telling him of his role in the great battle ahead against the Light- and soon, Vanitas knew he was ready to face both his Other and his destiny.
He did not feel, not anymore. If he felt the Light try to poison him, he would resist, squashing it with his Darkness and refusing to let his body move the way it- the way the Light wanted it to.
The only emotions he felt were the ones that helped him, the ones that grew into monsters that fought beneath his command. They were the ones who made him strong in the first place. Sometimes, he would try and force himself to create a new monster, pushing himself to the brink until he felt that itch build in his skin, the chaos growing in his head, the sharp pain of a possible creature sitting heavy in his stomach.
He couldn’t create new ones, after a while. He would try and try, forcing himself past that edge again and again, but no new monster would stand before him when his vision cleared. There would only be the others around him, the ones that had already been created- they would all twitch in time with him, their voices crowding each other in his head until he cut them all down with practiced ease. He eventually stopped trying, but he couldn’t stop the episodes completely. That was fine, though.
Vanitas was strong.