Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cold,

Cruelty,

And

Callousness.

These are its reintroductions to the Realm of Light.

Here, shivering in sheer contrast to the rough, old, and burning cracked dry earth, a newly transmuted and fragile beyond belief, Heart, frantically beats without blood to flow. Fighting just to stay alive, with no idea about the horrors glaring down at it from above. A heavy black boot just one step away from squashing the little fetus sized organ into an oily pulp under its weight.

Newborns are supposed to be born into a ceremony; caught in soft warm arms and surrounded by excited soon to be loved ones, brought out to be blessed in the Light of either the sun or moon.

…But not here, it seemed, never here. Where despite the grueling heat, the sun and moon had both set long ago. And harsh purifying Light was all that remained. 

Never here, amongst the graveyard full of skeleton keys, where peeking out from under these sands; a few remaining sets of rusty armor stained with angry iron lied still forever, and stubborn rib cages with no Heart to cradle anymore crumbled away bit by bit everyday. And beneath them, the abused earth and rough sand barely entombed centuries old festering malice and hate below, just waiting to be uncovered by some foolish prospector. 

This world's Heart beats at a slow and steady, yet deceivingly calm, spiteful pace. 

A predator in hibernation. 

Meant to be at rest. 

But the bitter old man in black boots seems to think of this place as fertile ground to till, 

'It’ll be easy to germinate and cultivate misery here.’

Instead of a place not to disturb.

He gazes down impassively at the pathetic squirming mass of Darkness on the ground as it, miraculously, begins to take shape. Steadily going from zygote, to fetus, and toddler–

It bends and twists, in pain, under direct Light on its fragile, premature, form.

It smokes and singes, being burned alive on unforgiving land, so hot yet unable to reach the deep cold at its core–but just enough to sear its newly developing and regenerating flesh. Already fighting an uphill battle to exist against its first and forever opponent. 

It writhes, squeals and cries, just like any other newborn baby, crying for help.

Crying is a tool everybody is given at birth, and it's the first thing little babies use to connect with their new world.

"Here!" It means, "I'm right here! Something is wrong! It hurts, it's scary,” or, “help me, I can't fix this on my own! Can you make it feel better? Can you save me?” and, “where are you? Where have you gone? I need you!”

But the old man scoffs at the display.

'What a terrible attempt to garner pity.'

All the old man hears are poor attempts at trying to prey on his sentimental instincts–but the Heart is a wonderful, yet mysterious thing– it wants many things, but not all things are created equally. That is why we have Minds, Souls, Spirits, and Bodies, no? Checks and balances. 

He appraises the growing, squealing ‘baby’ carefully: already it's been born and it seeks to destroy him by any means necessary, even with its low bar mimicry. If he was any weaker, the little creature would use his weakness to destroy him without mercy, he was more than sure of it. 

Perfect; it was just as he intended when he created this vile abomination. 

It inches around, trying to seep into the cracked earth below to escape the Light, or towards the old man's cool shadow. Anything to shield its raw Heart from the world around it.

Everything just felt so new and old at the same time. The hot sun above burning it, the stinging sand scratching its new vulnerable form, the heavy oppression and weighty gaze of a terrifyingly familiar wrinkled face. All of it hitting on a deeper level than should be possible from what little it remembered. No human skin or hair to hide behind.

Up was down and down was up. It was still, yet moving. It was burning alive but its insides were colder than sin, and somewhere in between all of that, thinnest sliver, thinner than paper or the point of a needle, was perfection and peace about to implode.

Still, the thing on the ground brutally claims it's right to exist, even in the face of all this hurt and expectation. It's do or die; there's no one here on its side. So it must fight for its own. Darkness isn't welcomed anywhere in the Realm of Light like this; artificially born into the wrong realm as if it were one of its natural inhabitants, instead of succumbing to it. 

It doesn't want to die here. It's not fair.

Light regards it like any other rotten cuckoo bird egg. A selfish, greedy evil snuck into an innocent nest, to take the food from the rightful hatchlings' mouths. And it acts accordingly. The mother bird–the unsuspecting inhabitants of the Realm if Light did nothing– would be none the wiser, and see it as its own odd but precious child, and neglect its original children.

So the Light burns, and burns, in hope of cleansing the blight before it gets the chance to take root and spread more illness. To push it out of the nest. 

It's all too much.  

Then, like a salty ocean wave it all comes rushing back, albeit muted yet incomprehensible, like a dream– but there, just in front of it– of him!

'Body. Body. My body. My face. It's not safe. I need to go back, I need it back, I'm dying.'

Suddenly he knows.  

He is.

I think, therefore, I am.

Fear grips his fragile, repurposed Heart. It wraps around like a hand over a small balloon filled to the brim with panicked air, squeezed so tightly– about to POP! into a million tiny pieces.

The Neo-Shadow Heartless which had once surrounded him minutes ago were gone. The only thing remaining was an empty husk–his body–lying across from him at death's door. 

It looked as if he’d coughed up his own deflated, latex heart onto the ground.

A sheer cold, overwhelming desperation blows over him. As Ventus tries to crawl his way painfully over to his body. 

It feels like falling.

He sees salvation inside it; a soft landing away from jagged rocks if he reaches it, he can fly a little longer.

His self preservation screams at him to return! Back inside! My warmth, my body, I need my body! I'll die without my Light!

…His Light?

"M-muh… b-bod…y…" he wheezes, a small, chilled, shadowy claw reaches out for him, it looks so wrong coming from him, yet he can't help but acknowledge it as belonging to him.

Heavy footsteps crunch over sandstone gravel, the old man–Master?–sets a heavy boot between him and his body. An amused malicious grin on his face.

Ventus has no time to even scramble before a gloved hand roughly plucks him from the ground. His master's painfully tight grip around his scruff keeps him from falling back onto fawn limbs. 

He catches a glimpse of his master's blacksteel keyblade, the eerie lapis lazuli eye glinting knowingly. As if cursing him personally; as it always has in the time he's known the damn thing, committing him to memory against his will.

His master rudely snaps his fingers in front of his face to pay attention. The sound was too loud for premature ears, but the old man isn’t one for gentleness. Instead, he forcefully made him look up. 

"Empty creature from Ventus riven, to you, the name: Vanitas, shall be given."

His master stares at him, waiting for an answer– 

But he's so confused, too in shock to barely even understand what has been done to him. Let alone to his name. But he does know that he’s more scared of what the old man will do to him if he doesn't respond–so he falls back onto what he knows always works. The only acceptable answer Ventus knew he wanted. And he forces himself to say it perfectly;  

"Yes... Master…"

The old man judges him for a second, and seems satisfied.

He abruptly lets Ventus go, and the boy immediately falls at the loss of support.

His master says nothing but his gaze is enough; it burns into the back of his head as he curls in on himself. From cold to uncomfortably warm again.

Ventus looks over at his body, still on the floor wheezing and the horrifying thought breaks through to him–

'Breathe! I need to breathe!' He remembers.

His shadowy hands reach over to grab where his neck should be, and he panics as he tries to remember how to breathe. He takes gulps full of hot dry air; but it feels like it slips through his… windpipe? and hands like water through gills. It's breathing like he's never done before. 

He must look like a stupid gaping fish coughing on land. And his hands reach closer and closer to reach his face, only to be met with–

–Glass?

His fingers tap on the thick, dark, opaque, obsidian glass of his new helm. Which he never realized was even there in the first place. His hands jerk back away in surprise, as if he'd been shocked. 

'What? What is this? What am I wearing? How is this possible if–'

He looks again at his body.

'How am I here… and how is he there?'

'All of this is wrong.'

He quickly abandons the whole breathing idea–not realizing until much later on that he didn't actually need to breathe in the first place– in favor of reaching out for his body.

'I need to go back. I'm– he– my body is going to die!' he panics again.

Why even worry about this ‘body’ when his was right over there–!

"That's enough, Vanitas!" 

That name out loud pulls him back like a short leash. 

The gloved hand returns to harshly grab him by the back of his neck before he gets too close to his body. Dragging him back onto the dirt. 

"You won't be needing that asinine excuse of a vessel, anymore. You have a better purpose, a better form, to be put to use for." 

"You must simply grow into it."

His master's fingers clench tightly around his throat threateningly. And Ventus, because he is Ventus, involuntarily takes in a sharp breath.

His master leans over to grumble in his… ear? Where his ear should be.

"Look at it. How weak it is. Unable to harbor your fullest potential; it's a wonder you were ever able to wield a keyblade in the first place. But now, I have released you from that weakness."

He steps away and glares at him from above, "now, see what trying to hold onto it has done to you?"

"Please! Master, I'm not strong enough yet!"

"Sharpen your fear into rage! You must, if you do not let the storm run its course, it will wipe you from the face of the earth! Make no mistake, this is what you begged for."

"Although you are now even more… incomplete, this form suits our goals much better for the time being. You've failed me once before; your vessel and Heart are at my whims, now. It's time you've redeemed yourself; especially as the foul creature you've become, use this second chance I've given you.”

“There won't be another like it."

Ventus shakily forces himself up.

So… so all of this was his punishment for not being able to harness the Darkness inside him? This horrible half-existence made up of nothing but Darkness? Just for not matching up to his Master's expectations?! How was this, in ANY way what he was promised?!

He feels as if he's been pulled taught inside out; with tough tungsten wires being used in place of sinew. One look at his hands, his arms, his legs–all of it covered in a quickly growing muscular shell that reflected that exact thought. A body with no soft skin, only muscle, obsidian and grotesquerie. 

It functioned solely as a temporary, claustrophobic, exoskeleton for the squirming, unstable Darkness cradled within; giving him a shape more familiar to puppet from within. 

It felt tightly wound and wrapped; resisting any fluid movement. 

‘Is this what mummification feels like?’ He couldn’t help but wonder. His chest felt so, so, terribly hollow. 

Soulless, with a pang of hollow cold frosting around the edges. All that fear and pain now trapped under suffocating armor crying quietly under the surface. The emptiness now swallows as much of his inner being inside like an ouroboros. Never ending. Cyclical. 

A storm inside a box. That's what he was now.

He manages to look at his body again–and it's different this time. 

He sees a husk. Just like before. Empty. Blank stare and weak breaths. Entirely real and natural. Flesh and bone. But not for long.

There's the smallest bit of precious dying Light in it. Like an ember. Something he wants back so badly– just like the body itself. He wants so terribly to grab the ember, and stuff it back into the scrapped out hole in his heart, let it restart a warm fire to fight the cold. It looks so warm and soft, and much more comfortable than his new freezing one. 

He's sure it would fit him like a well worn glove, it was what he was originally born into, even if at times, it itched, and he wanted to change a few details– this one was infinitely, and unfairly more inhospitable.

So, even if this body is as strong as his master says;

It feels wrong. And yet, like it was always his, against his will. This wasn't the body he wanted and yet it is now, but he doesn't want it to stay this way forever. 

He misses the soft skin, sapphire eyes, and golden hair, distinguishing features he liked about himself–and tantalizingly close, if only he could just get past his Master. 

They were things that proved he must've come from somewhere, and someone–whoever they were. All that time he spent on fantasizing about a potential family he may have shared features with, a connection to his humanity. And the few scars and fingerprints proving he was an individual living being, with a chance to leave his mark, be it on the world or himself. To leave proof he existed in this world.

That is all gone now. 

Who is he without them? He needed them more than anything. The little that was once unquestionably, and undoubtedly his. He didn't know it would be that easy for anyone to take it all away from him. He couldn't have even imagined a fate like this to possibly be afraid of. Let alone avoid it.

But…

He pauses. Then looks at his tungsten wrapped hands.

This body was undoubtedly strong. Just as promised. He noticed how the Light’s burning had stopped as soon as it finished forming.

It weighed heavy and oppressive, yet so much more durable and protective than before. It felt… safe, in a twisted way. With glass obscuring his face, not letting anyone see his face and what he looked like to make judgements. His true nature now completely anonymous like never before. It felt like it would protect him from even the Neo-Shadows–the harsh environments, and his master's blade in a way that his previous one could never endure.

It wouldn't hurt like before, not when he could barely feel anything through the new tough black sinew. In this body, maybe he'd never have to feel that kind of hurt again would he? A fair trade? A body for a body?

A Heart for a Heart

He wanted to justify it. To feel calm. And in a way he was, and in another he was just as terrified at the choice in the crossroads.

The dissonance is staggering.

Here, yet there.

On the verge of death, yet freshly alive.

Natural, yet supernatural. 

He wants it back, but also doesn't.

The more he stands and exists, the more volatile he starts to feel; the more real he begins to feel. To adjust and acclimate to this new existence as if it's always been this way. So why would he want his old body back now? Especially as it's dying right in front of him? Wouldn't he just die, again?

'I don't want to die.' 

That twinge of fear is enough to make him back away and see the body for what it is. A cozy looking death trap.

'That can't be mine. I can't use it, not yet. Not when it's like this.' 

He curses out his old body in shame with renewed anger. How could he have been so blind?!

'That body can't do anything! It's too weak!' 

He's mad, because how dare he–how dare he have been so weak as to allow this horrible separation to happen in the first place?! He didn't want this and yet…! But he couldn't go back to it now! 

Clawed hands curl into tight, furiously frustrated fists. Trembling with sheer rage and devastation at what had been done to irrevocably change him so–

But he blamed it on him. Himself, and the weak body that was his, Ventus'.

"So now you see, don't you, Vanitas?" 

And yet, he was to be labeled Vanitas. 

'That's not fair. I'm still me. Just because I'm not in there doesn't mean I'm not me!'

It all causes him to snap and glower at the old man still watching him with cruel curiosity.

"My name is Ventus!" He snarls back. Trying to reclaim what little he thought he had left of his personhood now.

He had already lost his memory once before; abandoned to the wastes before his Master found him and gave him a new purpose and chance at life, even if it wasn't an easy one to live. He had no home, no family, no friends, nothing of his own other than three things.

His name, his body, his keyblade.

"Do you really wish to carry the name belonging to that face? You, who is faceless and wiped clean of Light? I'm ashamed to see you still brushing aside a chance at new beginnings for childish comforts, Vanitas." His master sneers.

Ventus glares at him. But feels doubt and shame as his words swirl in his head; he's right, in a way. 

He both did and didn't want to be associated with the weakness that led him here. What if clinging to his name really does make it worse in the long run? What if it cursed him? Would that weakness follow after him? Would it stop him from getting what he’s always wanted?

… Or worse, earn his master's ire?

A part of him is still scared of what his master will do if he doesn't comply more than anything else. He's already testing his limits, like snapping without permission to speak first and acting ungrateful for everything he’s done– even if it hurts. And besides,

As a master, he surely must know what’s best, right? Ventus already lost his body and memory... What's one more thing to lose, his name? So long as he knows who he is, the truth, the reality. Then something as… silly as being called the right name shouldn't matter so much anyways. Besides, he'd get it all back eventually, wouldn't he?

His keyblade was still his wasn't it? That would be proof enough of his identity for now, his Heart.

He doesn't give his master a reply; it doesn't matter actually. All of this exhaustive… mess, weighs on him too much to care about anything anymore at this moment. 

He wasn’t going to win this time.

So, begrudgingly, Ventus simply looks at his master who cruelly smirks back, already knowing the decision he came to. 

It makes him feel worse. How predictable he must be.

"Come now, we have work to do. And bring your corpse; we still have some use for it yet. Waste not, want not." His master drawls, bored, and turns his back to walk further into the graveyard.

A traitorous thought spontaneously pops into Ventus' mind as he sees the old man walk with his back turned on him.

Did he really trust him that much? After everything he just did? Only to leave himself vulnerable to revenge…

Or, he thinks, 'or, he doesn't even see me as a threat worth worrying about.' 

It unnerves him more than it should. He's never… really indulged the idea of betraying his master before. 

He was always too afraid to even think much about the idea; worried that his master could, on some level, read his mind. Still. It was a lingering thought in the back of his mind; to run away and never look back. Maybe even fatally wound the old man enough in order to get a head start. But he's never thought about how he'd accomplish the task. After all, where would he go? What would be next? He had no other options. He needed the master, like it or not. Unable to travel worlds on his own, and he'd probably only be able to run around the badlands for so long before his master caught up to him and dragged him back–

Or worse.

But now, even as he knows he can't bite the hand that feeds. He was oddly at ease with the dark thoughts trying to egg him on. If he couldn't have his name or his body; then spare him his thoughts and emotions. Those are forever his and his alone.

So bitterly, now slightly more adjusted to his new body, he grabs his previous arm roughly.

He contemplates dragging it on the ground behind him, but that would be a waste of energy. And… maybe he doesn't yet wish to see his other body dirtied and damaged more than it already is. He can still feel that panicked, fraying thread in the balance between them. Tethering him to a sense of belonging and responsibility. He can't stand it for much longer,

So he carries it in his arms. Walking up quietly behind his master on steady feet. All while burning holes in the back of his master's head with eyes full of renewed spiteful energy, in sync with the scorched earth beneath them.

He’d have to see through to the end of Xehanort's plans. No matter what. 

There is no other option.

Chapter Text

The long trek back to their shared dwelling is arduous, especially on his new hollow shell of a body. With each step, the tungsten muscle that squeezed the darkness inside grew tougher and tougher–only to snap and buckle his knee. He fell down onto both his knees, but stubbornly held onto the dying body in his arms by cradling its head under his own to keep it from tumbling onto the hard earth beneath them.

He took the moment to rest and wait for the sinew to reattach itself, but his master, evidently, wouldn’t tolerate any delays. A boot came down harshley onto his back, applying just enough pressure to make him uncomfortably bow down and sandwich the body between himself and the dirt anyways. 

“Why did you stop?”

Ventus struggles to remember how form words without mouth after being silent the past hour, 

“Ss…sna–pped.” he motions towards the side with the bad knee, already stitching itself back together but releasing a quiet hissing sound. Smoke fissures from the small gap in the sinew, like a popped balloon… or a bloated corpse. But not enough to make him deflate entirely, but the pressure on his back certainly wasn’t helping. 

Realizing this, his master relented, and he hummed, “so you are entirely formless underneath, are you? Is that why you’ve been struggling with the most basic of functions?”

Vanitas nodded, and got back up as soon as the hole was regenerated. He adjusted his hold on the flesh and bone body in his grasp. It felt more like using a tool than like himself, the shell wasn’t him, the smoke was, but it also didn’t hurt when some of it dissipated in the air–not like earlier when he was forming. He couldn’t really describe how it felt to be him other than ‘aware’ and even that didn’t feel accurate since he struggled to keep focus on top of keeping track of his surroundings, the odd pangs he occasionally felt at his core, and moving all at the same time.

They continued on, past the badlands to the edge of a deep, rusty red canyon with centuries old precarious stairs carved into its cliffs leading further down to where they needed to go. And eventually, they reached a desolate, sandstone alcove where an ancient ghost town laid beneath. Another pang! Resonated thought him, and he stared down, noticing the body was paler than before, and struggling to breathe so he quickened his pace. The sooner they got back, the sooner he could get away from this thing.

Terracotta gravel crunches under him, and he passes petrified wood beams, shards of pottery, and abandoned buildings covered in faded, crumbling, plaster murals. The original art was far too old and damaged by the elements to be preserved. Making it impossible to decipher the original image. But he gathered enough shards when he was alone to piece together small bits and pieces of what looked like armored people, keyblades, and crystals.

He's always found these ruins kinda curious–this wasn't the most ideal place to make settlement, did its inhabitants live here before the keyblade war or after? Did it used to be green and full of life like he assumed other worlds were? This world was far too old to tell. His master probably knew; or had some hypothesis written in his notes somewhere, for all he knew. Something like this just reeks of the kind of keyblade war nonsense he'd know all about.

The ruins are far from the Keyblade Graveyard, completely hidden at first glance. If you didn't know it was there already, you'd never find it. And their shelter was hidden in the darkest corner of the city ruins, the barest glimmer of sunlight shining on half of the decrepit building.

His master enters first and holds the rusty steel door open for him to rush inside before letting it slam close– the eerie cri-cri creeeeek! Doesn’t bother him like he anticipated, but it does draw an unconscious grimace from the one in his arms. 

“Set him on the table.” 

His master shoos him away as he turns all his focus on the body and begins removing his its clothing, to which Ventus looks away, unable to watch. He instead chooses to sit down on his old, threadbare blanket in the corner of the room by the window, helm on his knees and arms wrapped around his shell trying to ignore the master’s ‘examination’ taking place. And the terrible day’s exhausting events soon dragged him into a dreamless sleep.

Xehanort pulls an old white sheet over the boy’s pale, half-naked and destabilizing body, finally finished with his observations. He displayed symptoms similar to starvation, dehydration, and heavy blood-loss, and likely wouldn’t last long without a ‘transfusion’. Neither would Vanitas if that were the case, even if it initially seemed to handle the shock of the separation earlier, if one died so would the other. Perhaps he had failed in his urgency to create the X-Blade, but if the boys did not dissolve within the day, then perhaps Kingdom Hearts was still truly within his sights at long last. Much quicker than anything else he had planned.

Regardless of if they survived, this was the perfect way to test if his hypothesis to create artificially made beings of pure Light and Dark from the same heart was possible; and he was right. And if they do end up dying, then the data from this experiment would surely improve his next attempt.

He smiled, he felt like a boy again–basking in the joy of a new discovery. But he had to scoff in retrospect at all who said it couldn’t be done, ‘’Sacrilegious’’ hmph,’ Xehanort grip on his pen tightened ever so slightly, ‘As if there’s anything sacred to be found in existence alone.’

If man was made from clay, then he could be broken apart, mixed, and molded anew just as easily.

He turned to Vanitas’ sleeping form across the room and drew his report book from his pocket to review the rest of the observations made today:

• Formless, with red eyes similar to the weakest of Heartless (Is the eye colour an indicator of power, creation method, or something more?)

• Grows, regenerates, and adapts shell incredibly quickly (Potentially a result of originating from another complex entity - reasoning; build matches source and copying pre-existing entity.)

• Vulnerable underneath a strong but faulty shell (incomplete and unstable, likely collapsing in on itself without its original counterbalance. Solution; find a substitute.)

• Rigid motor functions and decreasing cognitive function as time passes. (Potentially a result of environment, prior physical and mental status, and method - needs more controlled factors next time.)
• Sleeps as a form of energy recuperation despite seemingly not having any true physical form (perform autopsy in the case of death if possible. Likely related to Heart’s capabilities.)

However, despite his prior discovery, he still wasn’t satisfied with all the other unanswered questions he had about his creations. He wondered, did Darkness truly have some kind of laws hidden in its chaos? The Realm of Darkness must run on a completely different list of rules than the Light. Time and space held no meaning in there– the same must've been true for its inhabitants' biology and physics. Heartless do not grow, need, and age like those of the Light typically did. They did not change much and there were many of the same creature types; all cut from the same cloth. The only thing they really grew in was power; so what about other creatures from its depths?

Just as Light had a variety in its people and worlds, the same must be true for Darkness. The Heartless could not be the only manifestations of the Realm of Darkness.

Because Vanitas was proof of that, a Heart made of Darkness yet born in the Realm of Light, with no human form but no heartless symbol to be seen. So what is Vanitas, really?

Truly there was no precedence for such a being; not since before the Keyblade War. He speculates that Vanitas was the closest recreation to a true denizen of the Dark he'd ever see within his natural lifetime– something he’s seen scholars debate over whether or not they really even existed throughout his travels and studies.

But bring the emphasis back on his natural lifetime.

As Darkness was… almost beautiful. In the way that it preserved most anything. The Heartless were proof of a immortality; they never ate or slept, relentless in their attempts. Single minded and free of desire, other than to spread. Truly harmonious; those of the Light would never understand the grossly simple brilliance hidden within the Dark. 

For all his time as a Keyblade wielder; those of the Light could never seem to fully agree on any one action. Always arguing amongst one another over what was the best way to preserve the Light. So fractured were they; Masters teaching students in variously different ways and styles, the difference between truly remarkable students and buffoons playing moral soldier was bothersome. No Mark of Mastery was equal; to much variety, to little control. 

There was no balance. 

So he admires the Darkness, despite how revolting it was on an instinctual level. It was like a siren, beckoning those with false promises wrapped in satin, one he refused to fall for–chaining himself on the mast to listen and understand. He admired the chaotic yet overwhelming force of the Heartless. For beings of pure evil they had a rather interesting organized hierarchy within itself. One he had yet to fully understand; and now had Vanitas to completely reshape what he once thought possible.

Vanitas could quite possibly be key to controlling such a force of nature. He hopes it lasts long enough to see that reality come to fruition.

Ventus gasped, awoken by a sharp pain coursing through him, as if struck by a thundaga spell. He struggled to see his master, blinking rapidly new eyes as they adjusted to his dark helm’s filter. Then, as he tried to get up and walk, a wave of nausea and weight caused him to tumble instead–that floaty, mid-air, weightless ‘feeling’ he had before suddenly dropped– and his sense of balance swayed from side to side as a new, fullness filled his once empty shell.

All he could do was stare up at his Master, and desperately reach out a heavy hand to him, but the old man simply stared before writing something down in his notes. He felt the urge to look at his body on the table next to him and felt an awful sensation clawing inside him. Not outside; he couldn't feel much of anything with this suit, but inside.

Inside, all he could feel and hear is the loud, concerningly out of rhythm beating of a heart–seemingly working overtime to keep him intact like he was just brought back from the verge of death with a well timed Curaga. 

‘I'm here, I'm still beating, I'm still alive. There’s still time to fix this. But just barely.’ comes the thought, but it doesn't wholly feel like his alone. 

This new existence was nothing in the grand scheme of things, nothing more than a blimp in his hopefully long life– something he might even be proud of becoming later down the line as part of a greater whole.

But this was a completely new agony to before; 

He's so caught up in his new pain that he doesn't notice his body stirring beside him–and another sharp pain piercing straight through his chest and into his heart and tugging him back to it. He has no time to brace himself– lurching forward and crashing into the table suddenly with a painful gasp. He curls in on himself and grips the tough suit over where this new heart was trying to grow into. 

He shakes his head and tremors in place as aches rumble throughout rapidly growing malformed bones, "M-master, make it st-stop! It's too much!"

He bites down on new soft tissue and clenches teeth that were not there before, a twang of iron spills into his mouth and–He cries out loudly, hot moisture–tears, he remembers now– fall down and mix with sticky, wet claylike skin inside the helmet, that create an unbearable, suffocating humidity trapped inside.

It's overwhelming! Whereas before he felt the world, painfully raw,  fresh and new to yet so familiar, it was eventually muted through his suit and helm. This? This was oversensitivity hell. If he was being mummified before, then this felt like the process was trying to revert itself.

"Vanitas, calm yourself. The pain will only make you stronger. Embrace it, and endure. Show me you're better than what you were before. That you can control this form now." 

A white gloved hand roughly tries to wrap around his shoulder, trying to yank him off the floor. Pins and needles stabbing themselves all around the skin the hand sits above, trying to reach through thick armor. 

Vanitas yelps at the new horrible sensation. He doesn't want to be touched. He just wants it to end. 

Finally having enough of being manhandled today against his will, he uses what remains of his strength to escape his master’s grip, and runs towards the door because he needs to get away from that body or this will all be for nothing!

Sends one last crazed look at the two of them as he reaches the door, and his master glares, taking a step forward–And that's all it takes to scare Vanitas to make a break for it, sprinting out of the ruins without looking back. 

‘Away, away, I need to get away. It's not time yet.’

He runs and runs, gasping for breath as he keeps going under the hot sun above; boiling him from the inside out as even his suit was no match for it under these conditions– in fact it felt like it was moments from unraveling and leaving him to melt into a puddle of clay, organs, and hollow bones.

He doesn’t even think of where to go but to just go, past the ruins, past any stairs, deeper downwards into the swindling canyon until something bright ahead reflects into his eyes, stopping him in his tracks to shield them. 

Then the earth began to rumble. And before he could react, bone dry rock cracked open below like a gaping maw, swallowing Ventus whole.

"ACK–!"

He lands harshly in a giant crater with no way out, onto a pile of rubble and rusted, ancient armor, each giving him new bruises to worry about. He whimpers and bites down a scream as he definitely felt something break in his fall, but shakily sits up and uses a trembling hand to climb out of the pile, sharply inhaling as it hurts, hurts, hurts! To even move at this point.

Ventus does manage to flop forward onto clear but hard ground, miserable. 

'Just stop… please stop… make it stop…!' 

He swallows down the cry bubbling in his throat, but he can't help the tears gathering in his eyes. 

'... Someone, please… anyone. Somebody…'

He doesn't know what he's calling out for. Or what he wanted other than for it to all stop.

The pain, the sensitivity, the awkward new existence, this gaping hole and unfinished– unstable weight in his heart. His past, his dim future, his dreams, his body, his name.

His freedom.

For all that he admonished his body for– for what his master said about him, he can't help but feel weak right here and now. He doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to be weak because it feels so bad, he wants to die rather than to experience this weakness again, and again.

His headache gets worse, ringing in his ear and hot flashes in his mind. He rolls onto his back, delirious, and imagines the crater’s walls closing in on him from above like claws. He swears to see a singular dark keyblade at the center, chained down with talisman, surrounded by odd rusted armor and–no, where those… bones? 

 A migraine that starts to blur and block out his vision in spots until–

–He's drowning.

…

Down, down and down.

…….

Darker, yet darker still. 

………

All feeling is lost on him 

Darkness stretches as far as the eye can see, until something red glints and breaches through the murky haze. Just below him is a broken stained glass mural. He slowly lands on it, feeling completely hollow in his chest, yet full of doubt and desperation in his head. 

He's dying, he knows he is, and here he is now. Waiting at death's doorstep, no?

There's nowhere to run; the small broken glass platform looks to be slowly but surely breaking apart and crumbling away. Piece by piece. 

His eyes widened, helpless to do anything but watch as it all dissolves into nothingness. 

"Nonono…! No, please, no! Th-this… this isn't fair! Stop, Stop! This can't be happening!" He cries, "please, please stop! I'll do anything, no!" 

He frantically looked around for anything or anyone to save him, but nothing. He can't even catch the few particles that fizzle out into the dark in his hands, hoping to extend his time. He's doomed to watch himself die again. He crumbles to the floor, hyperventilating.

His terrified sobs and incoherent pleas for mercy go unheard in the void, he's barely able to see through his thick black tears, filling up his helm with sickly crude oil, onto the mocking image below him. He can barely make out the image in the spiderweb cracks; his body, faceless, covered in the damn suit he was wearing. No Wayward Wind to be found; atop the silhouette of what is undoubtedly the Keyblade Graveyard and a ring of ruby fleur-de-lis surrounding it.

He tries to suppress his tears, lest he drown himself in them, shakily breathing in and trying to keep things together, anything to be less afraid. Make this easier.

Bitterness swells in his throat, "but why me…?" He despairs. 

…

It's dark here.

He jumps, "W-who?"

It's you again!

I'm a brand-new heart. Don't be scared.

I followed your fractured pieces…

And they led me to your heart again.

"You shouldn't be here. This is my heart. As in me alone." He impudently warbles.

Or is it? I can't tell.

Existing like this must hurt.

"I…" Vanitas sighed, "Yeah it does. I lost my Light." 

Your Light? So that's why it's so dark here!

"Yes. Mine. And my body too…"

"It's not fair. It didn’t work, and now I’m going to die again, for real this time." He whispers, tightly clenching his fist over his heart, “IT JUST ISN’T FAIR!”

No. It isn't. 

…

I'm sorry. 

He stared down at the broken mural at his feet.

Empty, he says, "don't be. There's nothing anybody can do for me, there's never been, and never will be."

"I've lost. You're through when you lose."

A crushing defeat lies heavy in his throat, making it hard to breathe without breaking out into rising panicked tears again.

Then… Then you can copy my face! It'll be like sharing. 

He refuses, stunned by the offer, "what?! No– you can't!"

Why not? I know it isn't the same…

But, that's all I can give.

I'm sorry it isn't more.

He's stopped in his tracks as a little warmth washes against his new, freed brown, tanned feet. Like tropical beach waves.

He looks down in awe, "What is this?" 

He's taken aback as warm sea water seeps and rises out from cracks of the broken mural. Completely overtaking it and filling up all the way to meet his ankles. It keeps a steady depth, despite it overflowing past the platform's edges spilling infinitely into the Dark.

It feels nice. It's the nicest thing he's ever felt in both this existence and before.

The water is comfortable, not too hot and not too cold, just right. It lazily flows around his skin, it's soft and all encompassing–a steady, grounding force surrounding him, different than the black suit that strangled him before. Making small ripples at the slightest movement. A salty and fruity scent gently wafts through the air, but it's not overpowering; as if it knew how sensitive he was to all these sensations.

It's so easy, so comfortable, that he doesn't realize he's breathing and feeling with a fully sculpted, flesh and blood face, unobscured by that suffocating obsidian helm.

It's just him and the water for a few blissful moments. A sense of calm and childish sweetness overcomes him. 

He feels… maybe not safe, not completely but…

'This was the nicest gift anyone has ever given me…' 

Something so precious and kind, right at the end. Or so he thought.

For now, he carefully kicks his foot around experimentally. A small giggle escapes him as he accidentally causes a splash. The water doesn't hurt at all; sprinkling on his skin refreshingly as opposed to the hot air of the Graveyard. In a moment of childish wonder he crouches over to dip his hands to cup liquid sapphire in his hands. It sparkles and appears to clear in his brown hands. Slowly dripping back into the pool below. 

It's so much more different than the poisoned sands before, the exact opposite, even. It feels… cleansing, in a way. Still salty, still a little too much for him, but he's willing to put up with this than the full pain of before. 

Before it can all fall back in, he impulsively splashes it onto his face. Eyes closed of course, but he feels rejuvenated as it soaks into his soft black hair and face. Enjoying the coolness it brings.

Our lives have been intertwined.

I bet it feels a lot better now! 

He feels a small smile grow on his new lips, "it does…" 

Nothing else is exposed now, but I don't know how long it'll last, maybe forever, maybe for a little bit. I'm not sure.

So it might not be perfect…

He shook his head, "without my light, and the body made for me– It'll never be perfect. But for this moment… It's enough. You saved me." 

Our time is up. 

You have to wake up.

A pit forms itself in his stomach, full of newly sparked fear for what was waiting for him outside.

"I don't wanna go yet."

You have to. 

…

I'm sorry.

I can't come with you, but I can see you off so you're not alone. 

I know that doesn't make it any less scary,

But…

He shakes his head and sniffles, he wants… he wants to repay them somehow. This new, almost unpayable debt that he wants more than anything to be rid of, but not for just himself. For some reason, he just can't bring himself to say it. The very little he could say, in this moment, though it might never be enough. 

A tear slips down his cheek and joins the brine below. 

Are you ready?

Bravely, he nods.

Now let's open the door together!