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He greets the news of Larxene’s demise with little more than a tsk and a toss of his hair over his shoulders as he continued to lean over a sapling, carefully dripping water around the freshly packed soil. Such a small, delicate thing, much like all plans were. And in much of the same way, they required knowledge, understanding, careful preparation, and above all, patience.
Lightning was incapable of being patient. Which is why Larxene had been a wonderful distraction. Sowing chaos and mayhem, indulging in her sadism gave him plenty of space to observe and adjust his plans. She had been good at dredging up unexpected details, for certain, and it was genuinely a pity that she simply pushed things too far. For as much as she liked to kick puppies, it would figure that, eventually, the little keyblade wielder would bite back.
Dusting dirt from his hands, he moved on to another bed, goldenrod blooms that hung heavy like bells, native to Twilight Town. Partial sun, of course, and best in acidic soil. Their neighbors were a true prize: delicate pink blooms on surprisingly sturdy, fibrous stems. Each blossom an array of dozens of tiny, tiny petals that spiraled out in perfect, mathematical patterns. These, these were a species that had once bloomed in Radiant Garden and, except for this little square of soil, were lost to the worlds forever.
He nurtured and tended to his garden, preferring to pass the time on something constructive and meaningful than listen to Vexen’s endless prattle about his experiments or Zexions snide observations, or Axel’s cheerful quips that were carefully wrapped in poison. There was an irony, he supposed, that the only of their number stationed here in Castle Oblivion that he could stand was the quiet, stoic Lexaeus and his silent, unwavering command of the earth. Flowers needed soil, after all.
And well, Vexen had been useful only after Axel had done away with him. Ha, ice was only useful after it had melted to water. Another silly little irony.
Perhaps, if things worked out well, he could get the keyblade wielder to be rid of them. For Namine’s safety, of course.
He hovers over a bed of flowers with petals so pale blue they were nearly white, dewey from the water he’d carefully sprinkled over its dense soil. Namine, that girl, was a problem. As much as he loathed it, she was the only truly indispensible part of his plans. Without her powers, there was no leash to slip on the keyblade wielder, and no weapon to turn against Xemnas. Though he wished it weren’t so, the girl would have to stay alive for the time being.
At least until the keyblade wielder was firmly in his grasp. Then, well…
If something ill befell the poor girl, surely Xemnas would be the one to blame.
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The dusk whisper in his ear when Zexion is murdered, and Marluxia has to close his eyes and run an ungloved thumb over the barely-opened bud of a rose to soothe himself. One of his own, one painstakingly bred to withstand the chill and emptiness of Never Was and Castle Oblivion. Nothing grew in either place, despite the abundance of rain.
Axel he growls to himself, rising to his feet and tugging his glove back on. Or should he say, Saix’s lap dog? Oh, he knew that both of them were fond of quiet, intense conversations when they thought that nobody was looking, but his Dryads had ferreted out Assassins from his part of the Castle more than once, catching them trying to spy on him.
Each member of the Organization was granted dominion over a particular family of nobodies. And each member employed their personal minions however they wished, as long as it did not interfere with the Organization’s over-all goals. Which was the polite way to say you couldn’t use your minions to kill off another member, or members of their own personal retinue.
But spying? Well, just about all of them used their nobodies to spy on each other. It wasn’t uncommon for his Dryads to chase out Assassins and Snipers from his personal quarters, just as his fellows had thrown out Dryads from theirs. It was common knowledge that everyone spied on everyone, but nobody spoke of it out-loud, least they be the first to tip their hand and begin the inevitable chain of chaos that would result from it. Over time, it became a game of sorts, something brief and exciting to chase away the dullness of waiting for Xemnas’ plans to come to fruition.
Until Xemnas’ own second in command began scheming with his old colleague from his previous life.
Now, Marluxia was beginning to see what seeds Saix had been sowing. Sedition, rebellion, betrayal? Despite the old yarn about mimicry being the highest form of flattery, he couldn’t help but feel that this was down right tacky. Even if it was convenient for him that Axel had dealt with the Schemer on his own, unless he showed up to pledge his loyalty to Marluxia and his cause, this was nothing short of a power grab.
Tsk, he should not have let Larxene try to recruit him on her own.
The rest of his flowers would have to wait, despite how the electric blue and jade green blossoms desperately needed water, and the deep, arterial purple needed to be trimmed. At the least, Axel would stay low for a while, especially with both the keyblade wielder and the strange intruder that had appeared in the basement still milling about. There was still time, and Lexaeus would not take the death of his comrade well.
Perhaps a landslide would be enough to snuff out that bothersome flame.
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...A child. Just a wretched, small boy. Barely even touching manhood. Barely old enough to be weaned from his mother’s care.
How could a mere child…
...No, not just a child. He had he fingerprints of other’s machinations all over him. Axel. The girl. Thorns that twisted and pulled at him, at the dull and witless companions that followed him, and in a child’s ignorance, he could not realize how deeply they were hooked into him.
What would become of his flowers?
Crimson petals scattered over the marble white floor, the inky vapor rising off of his defeated body, everything growing dull and collapsing, collapsing, vanishing…
Flowers burned. Flowers froze. Flowers withered. But they always came back. Flowers were the great survivors, the things that silently endured the ravages of the world, only to return and bloom again.
This was not the end of him.
Life always found a way.