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Things didn't go quite to plan. Special reconnaissance, track down a dangerous Heartless that had evaded capture and execution more than once. Finding its current nest within the dense foliage of Sherwood Forest would be enough, but of course Zexion had intended to go above and beyond, as always. When he stepped through the portal onto the soft, grassy earth, he sought for nothing less than total elimination of the target.
On paper his plan was precise and thorough, even accounting for less than favourable circumstances, such as the town guards or that obnoxious archer stumbling onto the scene before his trap sprung. What he didn't expect—and how could he have? The notion in itself was absurd—was the possibility of the Heartless purposely seeking out both factions and, without even employing some form of charm or possession, rallying them against him.
Perhaps, he thought through a snarl, crouched within an alcove burrowed beneath a tree, perhaps the sheriff or the crown himself was already under the influence of another Heartless. Under that explanation, such a willing defense of the fugitive Heartless made a lick of sense. Zexion hadn't scented any other dark threads woven amongst the fabric of the world, still didn't even as the sheriff himself passed right by, but there was still a non-zero chance of it happening. The archer and his friends on the other hand? Their allegiance with the Heartless left him at a complete loss.
Still, fueled by a volatile concoction of frustration and spite, he stubbornly continued his hunt. To his credit, he was successful in the end with the Heartless falling to his magic, at the cost of multiple lacerations and getting shot. Twice. He had half a mind to finish his other opponents as well, but he’d already used quite a bit of energy defeating the Heartless, and didn’t want to risk offsetting his achievement by damaging the surrounding area. It was clearly best to quit while ahead.
Zexion staggered out of the corridor and into the grey room, one hand firmly applying pressure around the arrow lodged in his left shoulder, the other clutching white-knuckled onto a potion. Luckily for him, the room was completely empty, and he allowed some tension to leave his body. While the couches each looked tantalizing, open and waiting for him to collapse onto so he could yank out the arrows, there was still a high risk of someone else returning and witnessing his sorry state. He had an image to keep up.
Sucking in a deep breath, he limped out of the room and down the hallway, seeking to retreat to the privacy of his bedroom before his injured leg gave out. Had he still been capable of bleeding, he was almost certain there would've been a trail of splattered crimson droplets left behind, waiting to tattle on his status to the first passerby. When he idly glanced down, there was only mud tracked in by his boots. Dark tendrils wafted out from the broken arrow shaft jutting from his right thigh, as it did from between the fingers pressed to his shoulder wound, and from the slash on his wrist. At least he had the foresight to stock up on healing items the previous week; just based on every sting and ache in his body alone, that singular potion in his grasp wouldn't be enough.
As his door came into view around the corner, footsteps met his ears, and he jerked to a stop on his right leg, hissing a pained curse through grit teeth. Someone was approaching. His first instinct was to press against the wall and camouflage himself with an illusion, but his shaking legs and the exhaustion pulling at his limbs warned him that he'd likely collapse should he try. Nothing for it, then—he was too tired, too vexed, too injured to bother cooking up another plan simply to avoid an ally. He'd tend to his wounded pride after his actual wounds had healed.
When the footsteps grew nearer, however, his apprehension at being “caught” melted anyway. Now he could parse the telltale heavy clop of boots on tile, louder than that of Xemnas's, and there were only two Nobodies with a gait like that. Xaldin wasn't exactly ideal, but he'd take the Lancer over Axel or Demyx or, hearts forbid, Vexen, while Lexaeus...
Before he could finish the thought, Zexion's right leg was seized by warning tremors, and he fought to stay standing. His potion hand shot out to the side to knock knuckles against the wall, and he had to push off as soon as stability returned, lest he give in to the urge to fall against it completely. Regardless of which Nobody it was, they had no bearing on the fact that he needed to sit down somewhere quiet and make sure the arrowheads weren't tipped with poison as soon as possible. So he continued to limp, heavier than before, to his door. And to his relief, a few staggered paces away from his room, he watched as it was who Lexaeus came into view from around the curved wall.
They made eye contact, and both paused briefly. Zexion gave a curt nod in greeting and returned his attention to his oh so close door, expecting to be allowed a free retreat to privacy. His expectations were dashed twice that day, as he heard Lexaeus approach with a faster pace than before, and a large hand firmly clapped itself on his right shoulder just when the door had opened, locking him in place.
Zexion snapped his head up towards Lexaeus, irritation flaring at being stopped and a sharp “request” to be let go ready on his tongue, but he only got so far as inhaling to speak. To anyone else the changes in Lexaeus's expression would've been unnoticeable, save for the narrowing of his eyes—to Zexion however, every little detail was plainly obvious. If Zexion didn't know any better, wasn't so firmly aware of the voids in their chests, he would've sworn that the anger behind the clench of his jaw and the worry in the further dip of his brow were genuine. He did not budge when the hand holding him in place lifted and moved to the left side, fingers brushing against his jawline with a gentleness rarely seen from Lexaeus, followed by a light press to coax Zexion to turn his head. The middle finger moved further up his jaw, and suddenly he felt a sharp sting just under his ear as the pad brushed a cut he wasn’t aware of.
“Who did this to you?” Lexaeus asked, a quiet yet explicitly dangerous growl, dripping with an unspoken threat. One that Zexion knew wasn't directed at him.
“A deceived town sheriff, and a persistent fox.” Zexion answered, short and dry. That was all the information he needed to give, all he had the energy to give. And with that he turned away from Lexaeus and shuffled into his room, pretending to miss Lexaeus's hands balling into tight fists.
Upon mindlessly rolling over onto his left side, searing pain ripped through his shoulder, his entire body jolted and he cussed out loud, shocking him out of his almost-asleep haze. He jerked over onto his back and clutched his shoulder, palm hard against the half-stitched hole, forcing breaths in through grit teeth and out through his nose while his other wounds screamed in unison at the sudden frantic movement. Well, that sure woke him up.
Once the arrows had been removed, his wounds lathered with the contents of two potions and the tips confirmed to not have been laced with poisons common to that World, Zexion had set about completing his mission report over simply falling backwards and giving in to sleep's tantalizing embrace. Only after his job was officially complete did he finally give in, nigh-delirious from pain and fatigue. For how long, he didn't know; it certainly didn't feel like more than an hour at most, his body still little more than dead weight. Throbbing, aching dead weight.
He glanced over at the clock sitting on his bedside table for the time—he'd been out for almost fourteen hours, he realized with a wince—and something caught his eye, something not there previously. Using his good arm he propped himself up for a better view, squinting through the bright light cast by the moon. There on the table sat a familiar bow. Its string was snapped in two places, both limbs torn right off and folded in on the grip so it would all fit neatly on the surface, and the grip itself was painted with obvious red smears of blood. Destroyed beyond repair. It took a handful of seconds before he noticed the quiver too, propped up in the corner made from where the table met the bed, bent and crushed at an almost perfect ninety degree angle in the center. Several arrows sat inside, broken just the same, the fletching identical to the two still on his work desk.
The answer struck him suddenly, cutting clean through his jangled nerves and sleep addled brain. Satisfaction curled inside his chest. His lips spread into a mean, venomous smile. In his mind’s eye he could picture a tattered yellow hat sans its feather, flecks of red across the fabric matching that of the bow. Laughter bubbled up and out, quiet, and yet enough to curdle the blood of any soul unfortunate enough to hear it. Lowering himself back onto the bed, he reached out and ran his fingers along the closest part of the bow.
“For me? Oh, Lexaeus, you shouldn't have.”