Nobody has ever been able to understand why you were inducted into the Organisation.
To be completely honest, not only to yourself, but to everyone else, you are not sure either. You are, after all, the anomaly in a band of scientists and philosophers, the oddity so far removed from their sphere of influence: the original six are by far, the most detached of the nine of you, having long since shucked and discarded the shells of their humanity, leaving nothing but cold, hard logic to rule their minds. You, on the other hand, continue to hold on to the patterns and trappings of a life you have long since left behind, and are disdained for it.
Surely there is nothing wrong with remembering.
Without our memories, you try to reason with an irate Xaldin, wouldn't we all be scarcely more than empty shells? I-I mean, even emptier than we already are?
Of course, nobody listens to what you say. Why should they? You view their indifference with scant bitterness, for after all, they have been trapped like this for far longer than you have been, and perhaps have truly begun to forget what it's like to feel the laugh bubbling up in their chests, have forgotten what it's like to attempt grasping at the slivers of sunlight filtering between dew-dappled leaves.
What they don't forget, though, is the art of war. Every single one of them – even the two younger ones, who, you are certain, are only a few years older than yourself, despite the grumpy scarred one's world-weariness – are fighters at heart: if there is one rule that they, as travesties of nature not meant to exist, still obey, it is that of survival of the fittest. You are confident in your belief that every single member of this Organisation adhere to this rule – yourself included – though it does not take the mind of a genius to know that they think otherwise.
A musician? What manner of preposterousness is this? Vexen, who sneers over his shoulder at you as he stares down an indifferent Superior, who only smirks blandly at him in response.
Do you know what you have gotten yourself into? Saïx, who speaks with veiled bitterness as he glares at you with cold amber eyes, his gaze as lifeless as that of a fish on a slab.
Is this the way you want to continue existing? Tenacity for life is one thing, but this is far different from whatever fanciful notions of an afterlife you may have entertained. Lexaeus, whose ponderous words are weighed down by heavy finality, tinged with frank, ironic candour.
A pacifist. Zexion, his voice a musingly droll undertone, disinterested but coloured with polite disbelief. How interesting. How very twee.
Tell me, boy, how do you possibly hope to continue existing if you still allow yourself to be hopelessly enraptured by the past? Xaldin.
You can't be serious. So you're telling me you fight with songs? Xigbar.
Hey, so what do you intend to do with your life around here? Axel.
Xemnas only ignores them, leaving you to face the barrage of disbelief from your so-called comrades. Yeah, thanks a lot, you, the newly-dubbed Melodious Nocturne, think with a sudden searing flash of animosity, white-hot in its mercurial intensity, for bringing me to this godforsaken place, wherever the hell it is. Like it makes a great improvement to being chewed up by Heartless, having to play glorified cupbearing gopher to you lot.
What can water possibly do? Axel drawls one day, as he lazes around in the lounge and plays with the flickering candles which illuminate the area; tonight, the power generators are down, and you have seen Xaldin pass by several times already, braided hair tied away from his face, his crown topped by a pair of filmy-lensed goggles; you watch in bemusement as he clanks impatiently past, pulling on scuffed leather gauntlets leaking the smell of machine oil and harsh chemicals, a toolbelt slung over his shoulder. Xigbar clomps in his wake, bantering lightheartedly all the while, trailing behind him the strains of barked laughter and the sharp tang of metal, a procession of floating machine parts and various other contraptions hovering easily behind him. They round the corner looking like some absurd parade, doubtless headed towards the bowels of the castle, where slumbering generators lie, wheezing and belching acrid plumes of smoke.
A couple of times, Vexen stalks past, slightly dishevelled and with one of his innumerable old, solution-stained labcoats hanging loosely off his shoulders, a variety of pens tucked behind his ear and poking from a number of pockets on his person. Curses and eloquent oaths – mostly containing the names of the seniormost three Organisation members – fall from his lips with startling ease, and he grumbles unabashedly about delicate experiments put at risk by the power failure. He vanishes up a flight of stairs, presumably to harangue Lexaeus with some new, irritatingly unproven hypothesis or another, wafting behind him the rather unpalatable odour of hydrogen peroxide and singed cloth; the disgruntled researcher's footfalls fade into silence, swallowed by the cramped passageway, as he picks shards of test-tube glass from his sleeves and lapels.
You ignore the obtrusively overcurious Flurry of Dancing Flames, and squint down at your sheaf of sheet-music, frowning with concentration as you cross out some notes here and there, and attempt to play out the melody in your head, trying – but failing – to block out Axel's idiosyncratic chatter.
I mean, it's pretty much a source of life and nourishment and all that. You know what other things I learnt about it over the years? For a split second, the flame-controller grins roguishly at you, before he continues without allowing giving you an opportunity to answer. Water is a symbol of vitality, or purity and renewal, in practically every civilisation. You name it: Egyptian, Greek, Persian, Chinese, Roman, they all have deities which represent the life-giving properties of water, and a whole bunch of myths and legends associated with the stuff. People dip their babies into water when they're born to bless them. Heck, they dunk themselves in there because they think they can purify their souls too, while they're at it. So that leads me to my next question. What are you doing here, anyways? I mean, you could've run when Xaldin found you and escorted you back here. Could've run and never looked back.
You are silent for a long time, so long that it seems as though Axel tires of the lacklustre conversation you offer, and diverts his attention to toying with the guttering candle flames; you watch as the shadows lengthen and warp against the walls, stare at the wavering tapers until everything blurs to an amorphous mass of red-yellow-orange before your eyes.
Do you know what it's like to drown?
When you finally open your mouth to answer, you know without having to look that you have taken your companion by surprise; the sound of your voice makes him flinch involuntarily, and in response to that single, sporadic twitch of his hand, an entire row of candle-wicks go out, leaving half of the chamber swathed in shadow. He stares at you with his jaw hanging slack, fingers poised almost comically in the air in the act of pinching out an imaginary flame, but you do not meet his eyes, only bending down over your sitar to pluck experimentally at the strings.
What?
Lush, mournful notes and plaintive melodies rise through the air like the spiralling smoke from the extinguished candles, filling in the oppressive silence that falls between you and him. Had you a heart, you would have been moved to tears. Almost. Almost.
Do you know what it's like to see your breath escaping from your nose and mouth in a stream of tiny little bubbles, dancing far, far out of your grasp? Do you know what it's like to reach helplessly towards those precious gulps of air, feeling nothing but your own hands swiping uselessly through the water above your head?
The look on his face says it all; there is unease in the depths of that bright green gaze, a hint of a question in the quirk of his brow. You rest your fingers upon the neck of your instrument, varying the lengths of the strings and the pitch and volume of the sounds that rise from it, all the while studiously scribbling out errant bass and treble clefs from crinkled manuscript paper with a flourish of your pen; you determinedly, deliberately, focus your attention upon your music, so that Axel will not see the fishhook smile you wear on your face like a second skin.
Do you know what it's like to crave but a mouthful of water, only to have it perpetually out of your grasp, that life-giving fluid vanishing from your cupped hands as soon as you bring it to your lips?
Do you know what it's like to be crushed by a kilotonne of water pressure? To feel the grind and groan of your bones as they bend and bow beneath the strain? To feel the heaviness press on the inside of your skull until it feels like your head's about to explode into a thousand little splinters?
Do you know what it's like to see your life and everything you have ever cared for, being washed away by a neverending tide?
Do you know what it's like to feel fear rising in your throat like bile as the first waves crash into the mast and bowsprit of your ship, snapping the sturdy wood like a matchstick? To hear the elusive siren singing her heart out, leading you hopelessly to your demise amidst roiling waves and deluging clouds?
Do you know what it's like to be unable to hold your breath underwater? What it is to obey your screaming instincts, and draw that first gasp of liquid fire into your lungs?
Do you know what it's like to sink into a ceaseless void, watching as the light above your head dwindles?
Do you know what it's like to helplessly tread water whilst the deep pulls you ever-closer to its abyssal heart? Do you know what it is to feel like you're all trussed up in a giant anchor, slowly being dragged into what seems like the centre of the earth?
Do you know what it's like to lie at the bottom of the sea, to have your bones picked clean by the ebb of the tide?
Finally, you turn to face him, and offer him a broad, guileless grin, innocent and serene. Who knows, huh? Maybe I can get everyone to experience all that someday.
An unexpectedly jaunty tune issues from the strings you absently caress. After all, it'd be nice to show people there's more to things than just their perception of it. It'd be nice to show them how it behaves, how it sparkles and dances. It'd be nice to show them how something so benign can destroy everything in its wake if it feels like it. That's why I'm here.
Axel can only gaze mutely at you, shadowed features immobile, the contours of his face flickering in the sputtering candlelight. Man, you look like you need a drink, you say nonchalantly, stretching out the syllables with great deliberation as you roll the words ponderously over your tongue like a mouthful of sea-oyster pearls. D'you want me to get you a glass of water?
epilogue. General disclaimers apply. GOD DAMN IT I NEED TO STOP WRITNG DARK, INTROSPECTIVE SORT OF THINGS. ARGH.