vapidus | You wouldn't steal a boy

In the moment immediately after the action there is only silence, everything utterly frozen.

The old man in front of Vanitas coughs, blood dripping out his mouth. He makes a noise - he can't speak. Keyblades can cut through nearly whatever they wish and the bone of a ribcage isn't an obstacle. Eventually, his widened eyes dull and his weight slumps and drags the tip of Void Gear down, the keyblade sliding out of the wound it punctured half with only the force of it's summoning. Vanitas realizes, in a distant and offhand way, that this is the same guy depicted in all the portraits and statues all over the place.

He stares down at the body, blood still dripping from the Keyblade's tip onto the floor at his side. It doesn't seem entirely real. Why did he do that?

This morning, the biggest worry on Vanitas's mind had been the failure of a magic lesson. He'd been angry and fuming less because of it, and more because of all the little things it had been the final straw for. Darkness this and light that. That was it, Vanitas had decided. He was running away. It was a quick and simple decision, and he had found his way through a tunnel of darkness into another world, which was new and interesting in and of itself, and definitely a worthy distraction.

He'd spent some time exploring the white stone buildings and streets, all oddly empty, then a house that contained splashes of colour. It was extensive, with rooms and halls folding in on themselves. A keyblade made short work of the many and myriad locks, even if it was annoying to use it on near every single door. What was initially novel became vaguely, indefinably foreboding. It was in the bloodied bandages he found in a rubbish bin. It was in the odd way the pantry was stocked. It was in the pristine, white, show-home room he still stood in the empty doorway of, with it's bookshelves with no books on them.

I can never go back, Vanitas had told himself this morning, and Vanitas now considers this a stupid, petty and childish thought, like a little kid declaring they were a cloud for a day. Because now, with the blood of some random stranger on his shaking hands, he really can't go back. He's proved them all right. Behind him, he can feel his shadow ripple and swell.

Threaded | Flat

For Ventus, days had stopped being defined by sun and stars and the heat of sand and strange crawling monsters, and had slipped into a strange new routine at the whims of a new Master.

Don't get Ventus wrong, he was in no way unhappy with the shift. For all of his very short existance, the few concept that stuck in his head where that the world was harsh, it was uncaring and lonely and...and...

Well Ventus couldn't do anything about it. And apperantly, he wasn't supposed to. He was, for all extents and purposes, a tool, and for some undefinable reason he had finally been an acceptable enough one to be taken here.

Where before he had seen Xehanort perhaps ones a week, perhaps less, to get supplies and had his progress checked on, now his training had progressed to actual training, not just vague instructions on plans and purposes.

Things had been a routine, safe that was, until now.

Ventus was frozen in the doorway, staring wide eyed as Xehanort crumpled in front of him a bit of blood splattered down the front of his clothes. He'd been trailing right before the older man after all, and he still stood, frozen in place as Xehanorts falling body revealed another boy behind it, about his age, with a keyblade in hand.

He was staring at the body, frozen as well. Part of Ventus's hand twitched automatically, trying to call for Wayward Wind. This is an enemy His training said. This is a danger. You need to fight. You need to strike first, this is a test this is an attack just movemovemove!

But Ventus couldn't move a muscle, he stood there face slack and looked down wide eyed, a puppet with its strings cut.

He had no idea what to do.

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