Age of Magic: 358 SC

The door before him was sturdy, the setting sun warm against his back, and above his head, the chimney smoke rose into a darkening sky. The Wayfinder necklace against Ventus’ chest shivered, and for a moment, the thought to turn back was more than tempting.

​Somewhere, in places he didn’t know and with people he’d never met, his two companions were doing just as he was. Wandering, questioning, worrying over a master who’d never come home. Maybe they were stopping too, and sighing, and enjoying, in the pause, the warmth of the sun.

​I don’t want to be here. For a third time he raised his fist to knock, and again, faltered. Seeing him. Birds chirped on, saying their goodbyes to the day, oblivious to his struggle.

​But if Terra and Aqua were anything like Ventus, they’d probably, by now, come to the same, unsettling conclusion concerning their Master’s whereabouts.

​He knocked only for his Master and for Terra and Aqua. Knocked despite the worry that grew within him and the voice in his head that shouted to leave. He stayed as the door opened, didn’t move as the other boy, the one who, despite all they’d gone through with one another, back when their masters had been on better terms, looked at him as though he were nothing more than an annoying stranger.

​They were silent, one not willing to give and the other, fearful of what they’d receive.

​This is for Master Eraqus. Ventus took a deep breath and willed his heart to quiet.

​“Vanitas, is Master Xehanort here, I need to discuss something with him.”

​There was a roll of the eyes and a yawn.

​“The Old Man isn’t here,” Vanitas’ gaze never

left Ventus’, and slowly, his eyes began to narrow.

“Hasn’t been for a couple of months. He’s got better things to do than babysit.”

​This might be better actually.

​“Maybe you could help me then. Master Eraqus is….,”

​“Too short-sighted for his own good?” Vanitas smirked, leaning against the door frame.

​Missing. It felt as though Ventus wasn’t the one saying the words, wasn’t the one who clenched his fist and looked towards the Apprentice of Darkness, caught somewhere between being annoyed and angry. He’s missing, Vanitas.

​Vanitas’ laughter was loud, almost forced, the birds quieting as the sound echoed

through the woods.

​“You know there are light rituals for tracing heart connections, right? Or did you forget?”

​He laughed again before going silent, gazing at Ventus with an expectant smile.

Inside the cabin, the sounds of a popping fire filled the quiet.

​“That’s the thing Vanitas, my rituals haven’t worked. There doesn’t seem to even be a heart to connect to. For all I know my Master might be…”

​The word fought against being spoken, clung to his throat as though he’d attempted to speak a curse. In his chest, Ventus’ heart beat uncontrollably.

​And then, and only then, did it feel as though Vanitas really began to listen. Those golden eyes that still, after all these years, felt familiar, the gaze like a cat’s surveying a scene, giving nothing away beside the threat of complete attention, stared into his, into him.

​“A necromancy ritual, that’s what you’re asking for, right?” A chill rolled down Ventus’ spine, and all he could do, as the other narrowed his eyes further, was nod.

​The gaze left Ventus, and Vanitas finally stepped to the side, beckoning for the other apprentice to enter.

​“Fine, but if you want my help, don’t think you’re getting it for free.”

​And Ventus, with the sun still on his back, entered.

​Under his hand Vanitas’ neck felt cold, and as the boy slept his expression still held the stress of the day; eyebrows tightly knit and lips a thin, tense line. Typically, for the kind of ritual Vanitas had requested, a chirithy was best to have involved, but Ventus’ chirithy was a distance away, comfortable at home awaiting its Master’s return.

​So instead, there he sat, one hand sinking into Vanitas’ pillow while the other, gently, felt the rhythmic pounding of the other boy’s pulse.

​Nightmares?

​The pulse dulled, and little by little, the surroundings faded away.

​If you’ve seen half the stuff I have you’d have a lot worse than nightmares. Just fix them and I’ll contact your dear master.

​The sound of the fire, the crackling and unpredictable popping of logs, faded into the sounds of laughter, distant at first, but growing. The voices came before the words, the humming of people Ventus knew better than the carvings of his own keyblade.

​The sound of the fire was long gone, the warmth of the cabin replaced by crisper air, chilled by distant mountains. The last thing Ventus felt from the waking world before Vanitas’ pulse, strong under his thumb, faded into—

​

Their masters sat back, surveying the sparing, older apprentices as Vanitas took his hand.

​“Come on they won’t even notice,” the grasp was warm against Ventus’, strong and dependable. When Vanitas moved, Ventus followed, his eyes tracing each one of Vanitas’ movements. Each step was tedious, each lull in the mock battle causing the boys to still. Only when they’d snuck through the door, closing it was delicate precession, did they speak again.

​“You’re a bad influence Vanitas. Master Eraqus will have me polishing the keyblades once he finds out we left.”

​And that’s when the smile came, and Ventus couldn’t speak.

​“Don’t get caught then genius,” it was only so often that Vanitas smiled, so often that there was something genuine behind what was so often a sneer.

​And then it was gone, and the memory shifted further.

​“We can just use a corridor,” the halls of the castle had faded away to a small, more familiar setting.

​It’d been so long since he’d been back in his bedroom.

​“What? You’ve never tried one? Too scared little Venty-Wenty?” and a hand found its way around Ventus waist, found a way to pull him close. Ventus felt the warmth creep up his face. How had he responded? His mind was blank, thoughts turning to mush; felt possessed, dictated by fate rather than reason.

​“If I have a chance of being lost in the darkness being lost with you wouldn’t be so bad.”

​And then, just as he’d done all those years before, Vanitas pulled him closer, not towards the portal of darkness he’d opened but to himself, to his body, towards—

​The sun was warm against his back as one hand, dragging against the grass, found its home against Vanitas’ chest.

​“Just because you practice Darkness doesn’t make you evil Van—”

​The memory faded, the words quieting as the sound of Vanitas’ heartbeat grew further.

​Finally, he’d arrived.

​Ventus thought Vanitas’ heart would have been heavier, colder. Had assumed the hues of red and black would have felt oppressive, enough to tighten his throat and send a shiver down his spine.

​But Vanitas, someone who’d suffered from chronic nightmares for as long as Ventus had known him, did not have a heart that showed signs of terror. Typically, in the heartscape of someone stressed, there were signs, like a bruise on tender flesh, of the persistent root of the dreams.

​Here, the stained glassed platform showed no sign of turmoil, no inclination of the kind of hex or subconscious, darkness-born monster. Vanitas’ heartscape, the root of who he was, was empty, and calm.

​The thought occurred to him almost instantly.

​Ventus’ gaze, slowly, went to his feet, to the red and black stained glass that would, eventually, lead to a portrait of Vanitas. And then there would be those closest to Vanitas, the ones near and dear to his heart.

​Would Ventus find himself amongst them, a shock of blond hair amidst the dark-hued glass?

​And if he did, what would he do?

​His heartbeat rivaled Vanitas’ at the thought, pounding in his ear louder and harder with

each passing moment. Never had he wanted, and feared, a realization as badly as—

​The groan started low, a haunting wail before the crack ripped through the heartscape. The crack came suddenly, a quick-moving snake through stained glass. Another groan, louder now, and cracks jutted through the depictions of Vanitas’ legs. The platform began to sway.

​No, it was too soon. He hadn’t found what he needed.

​Ventus could hear, in the approaching distance, the sound of shattering glass.

​I need more time.

​Vanitas shot up from his sleep, a hand gripping the front of Ventus’ shirt. Ventus came to just as quickly, gasping at the interruption of the ritual. The room was cold now, and dread filled the space, a creeping sort of fear that rose with each moment.

​Ventus slowly turned to investigate, half expecting to still be in the ritual, deep in Vanitas’ subconscious about to face the root of his fears.

​But no. It could never be that simple.

​Before them, was the ever-swirling presence of a dark corridor. It gaped, looming, swallowing the warmth of the room.

​“Xehanort,” Vanitas’ voice was tired, more tired than it’d been when Ventus had begun the ritual. “He must have something for me.”

“But the ritual—”

​“No time.”

​The words came growled as Vanitas rose from the bed and pushed past Ventus. Ventus stilled, watched as the other boy began to grab things, cradling them in the curve of his hand as he navigated the cabin as though for the last time.

​He’s leaving, he’s leaving without contacting Eraqus.

​Ventus stood quickly, the bed groaning against the movement. His hands trembled as he balled them into a fist, and briefly, the thought of fighting came to him. “What about your part of the deal?”

​Vanitas paused in his packing.

​“Did you figure out what the nightmares are all about?” the words came softly, a hint of vulnerability in the quiet.

​“I didn’t see any signs of nightmares within your heartscape Vanitas,” Ventus stepped towards the other boy, voice gentle, coaxing. “Maybe you felt really relaxed or safe while sleeping? It could be because of the fire; I always sleep better when a fire is going.”

​You have to keep up your end of the deal.

​“The fire…,” the corridor seemed to grow darker, the chill increasing with each second it stayed open. Ventus took another step forward, fists relaxing into an outstretch grasp. Vanitas was stilled, caught between his thoughts and the corridor, and only when Ventus’ hand found his shoulder and squeezed did he blink, and turn to the other.

​“Our deal Vanitas,” another squeeze, and pleading blue eyes. “Please, for my Master.”

​Ventus felt, in the moment, a surge of hope, as Vanitas’ attention never left his. They looked to one another, conversations starting in their eyes but barely forming into words. There was desperation in both of them, fears rising, and reassurance so badly needed.

​“When I’m done with the Old Man I’ll find you, I’ll uphold my end of the deal,” Vanitas pulled away then, Ventus’ hand falling to the side. “I promise.”

​And once again, as though guided by fate, Ventus’ answer came from a place within himself that fought to be recognized.

“I trust you.”

​“You shouldn’t trust people so easily, idiot,” something had cooled in Vanitas, and the playful aggravation returned in stride.

​“I don’t.” And the words felt like an admission of something, a confession that felt so much like an invitation to fight.

​It was fitting for the pair.

​And even though Vanitas was leaving, and they’d go their separate ways, a connection that previously hadn’t existed now resided between them. The other laughed, something empty in the sound before he stepped fully into the corridor. His words lingered:

​“Wait for me.”

​Ventus watched as the corridor closed, sat back on the bed, and felt the fire chase away the darkness’ cold.

​He knew the other would find him.

And he knew that he’d be waiting for him.

​