The man crossed the forest floor with swift, long-legged strides. He moved quickly and surely, despite the darkness. The sound of running water drew him north, where the ground began to rise steeply. As he climbed, the pine-trees gave way to rock and shrubs. In a few minutes he had broken from under the canopy and out onto the brow of the crag. Leaping onto one of the larger rocks, he turned his face east.
It was whispered among the Massawomeck tribe that his mother had mated with a wolf-spirit in the shape of a man. This would have accounted for his harsh, canine features and keen senses. As he had grown, he had taken to disappearing into the hills for days on end. Rumours abounded: that he could track by scent alone, that his eyes could pierce night's shadow, that he could outrun the galloping horse. Nonsense, of course, but there was no denying his exceptional skill as a hunter, nor his eccentric nighttime visits to the hills. It was for these that he had been given his adult name: Asï, 'the-one-who-seeks-the-moon'.
Although Asï did not have a wolf's nose, there was no mistaking the scent being carried from the east: fire and smoke. It was a full moon that night and Asï could see a thin column of smoke rising from beyond the distant hills. A soft moan of frustration escaped his lips: he was so close. He wished he was there now, to see what had happened. If the worst was true then at least he would know; better the swift pain of anguish than uncertainty's slow torture.
Lowering his pack, Asï sat down in the shadow of the rocks. Concern had destroyed his appetite but he ate a little venison anyway: he would need the strength tomorrow. When he had finished, he unrolled his blanket and lay down to sleep, hidden in the shadow of an overhang. He felt quite secure: he had used this spot many times before, and knew it to be well-hidden from all but the most determined eyes.
Asï would not have slept as soundly if he had known that his hiding place was being watched. In fact, he had been watched for many hours; since dawn the day before last. The two watchers stood on the edge of the forest, out of the moonlight. They were intangible figures; dark silhouettes against the shadow.
A soft sound, like the rushing of wind, made the figures turn. Their hooded faces were invisible in the darkness but they did not seem surprised by what they saw: a wide portal of deep darkness, thick and viscous, appeared between the trees to their right. A man, bent and ancient, stepped through the portal, which closed up behind him. He was dressed in the elaborate robes of a tribal medicine man and leant heavily on a staff. One of the watchers, the slighter of the two, spoke from beneath his hood:
"You have done well, Zexion."
The medicine man smiled. With no visible effort, he stood up straight. His appearance fell away from him as easily as if a beam of light had passed across his face. His skin, brown and wrinkled as a nut, was now smooth and pasty. His white hair was black, and hung in a long fringe across his right eye. His robes were now a simple black coat. With a contemptuous flick, he tossed the staff into the undergrowth.
"Thank you, Superior," he said coolly.
"Where are the Powhatan now?" the Superior asked.
"They've set up camp in the caves, just beyond the village," said Zexion, "They'll begin the march to the river at dawn."
"Will the subject reach them in time?" the third, and tallest, figure asked.
"That is your responsibility, Xaldin" said the Superior curtly.
"Remind me why we don't just turn this one into a Heartless, like the others?" Zexion asked.
"This subject is unusual," said the Superior, "we must cultivate the darkness in his heart; feed and nurture it. The greater the Heartless, the greater the Nobody."
Zexion shrugged as he vanished into a portal of darkness.
"Remember, Number Three, do not let the subject suspect that we are responsible for what has occurred. It would make future operations… difficult," said the Superior. Xaldin inclined his head as the Superior vanished into another portal. With his two companions gone, he settled back to wait for the dawn.
Asï was up well before then. He did not breakfast, but began to descend the crag as soon as there was light enough to see. Xaldin followed at a leisurely pace, drifting silently a few inches above the forest floor. Asï followed no trail: his were the wild paths, used only by beasts. He headed south and east, turning to the north at midday. He did not pause for a meal, but ate on the move, his long legs striding along to their steady, unchanging rhythm. He reached the hills a few hours after noon. Xaldin saw him slip into a narrow gully that snaked its way up the curve of the hillside. It was too steep and bare for him to follow undetected, so he decided to wait for Asï at their destination.
The sun had just touched the western horizon when Asï saw his village from the hilltop. The smoke had died, leaving a smouldering black scar amongst the forest green. To his surprise, Asï did not weep. He did not feel angry, or sad. He could barely think. He was numb. With shaky, uncertain steps he descended the hill. He wanted to cry, but he did not. He willed himself to scream, to tear at his hair; anything. Nothing came, only a painful numbness of the head and chest.
The village had been burned two days ago, at the very least. It was a controlled fire: few of the trees had been more than singed. The earth between the huts was burnt black. In the centre, piled so high that Asï could not see over it, were the bodies of the slain: a funeral pyre, black and monstrous, all brittle limbs and faceless skulls. It was not until he saw the skeleton of a dog lying on the very top of the mound that Asï wept. There was something so pitiful about it, so entirely senseless in its killing that he could stand it no longer. Asï fell on his face, clawing at the earth, screaming and retching like an infant. It seemed to last for an eternity; these futile tears, that did not seem to slake his grief but only add to it. How long it was before the voice spoke to him he could not tell. It was soft and delicate:
"They came at night, without torches, and by secret paths."
Asï raised his head. He could see a vague figure, standing on the very edge of the forest. It continued:
"They formed a ring around the village, to catch those who tried to flee. They killed without fear or favour. Some died bravely. Many were killed while they slept."
"How – how do you know?" Asï asked, raising himself up onto his elbows.
"I saw them do it," the figure answered.
"Helped them do it, more like!" Asï cried. He scrambled to his feet and launched himself at the figure. His fingers closed on air. Asï turned. The figure was standing beside the pyre now: a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a long black coat, with the hood pulled low over his face.
"Tell me!" Asï demanded, tears in his eyes, "tell me who did this!"
"Why, the Powhatan, of course," said the hooded figure.
"They're on their way to the river," it continued, pointing south "if you hurry, you may catch them before they reach their boats."
"Catch them…?" said Asï slowly.
"And make them pay," said the figure.
Asï stared at his feet. What else was there to do? His tribe, his whole family, were dead. He had nothing. No home. No companions. Better to have died with them than live alone. No, he thought, better to live. Better to take revenge. Better to fight; to kill.
He looked up. The figure had vanished. Asï called out for him, but there was no reply. On the spot where he the figure had stood lay a long buckskin package. Asï knelt down and opened it: it contained a bow, a quiver of arrows, a spear, a shield and two knives. As soon as his fingers brushed against the spear, Asï could feel his chest beginning to burn. It was a deep, smouldering fire. It made him light-headed, and so very happy. Asï clutched tight to his anger, held it as one lover embracing another. His face split into a thin-lipped smile as he clutched the spear. As the sun trembled on the edge of night, Asï howled.
On long winter nights, when the moon is high, the elders of the Powhatan tribe will sometimes speak of that night: the Night of the Wolf.
The details changed in the telling, but every child knew the core tale: how Chief Powhatan's war party, returning from a raid on the Massawomeck, had been ambushed on their march to the shore. How the party had scattered into the trees to avoid the relentless arrows, only to be stalked in the moonlight by some unseen terror. Few really believed it to be human, though it walked like a man. Descriptions were confused but they all had common roots: dark hair, matted with dirt and ash, skin stained with blood and great, white rolling eyes. It fought with inhuman speed and strength. Men were found pinned to trees by their own spears, their faces mauled as if by the teeth of beasts.
It was on the riverbank that young Kocoum, wielding only a knife, had grappled with the fiend. First one cut, then another, carved a vivid 'x' across the bridge of its nose. Then the creature had begun to change. Survivors' stories told of a black cloud settling over it, darker than night itself. Some say it merely took on its true form: a great wolf, with glowing yellow eyes and fur as black as shadow. Again, it was Kocoum who fought the beast, thrusting a spear into its very jaws and up into its head. He had just raised his knife to sever the beast's neck when the cloud rose again. When it had cleared, the beast was gone.
Asï did not awake slowly, as if from a peaceful sleep. This was a sudden rush from oblivion into full consciousness. He screwed up his eyes; it was light now. He was lying on something warm and hard. Not earth. It felt more like stone.
What had happened to him, Asï wondered? He remembered picking up the spear in the village. Then rage; burning, seething, mindless rage. Vague memories floated up from the abyss: screams, the smell of blood and earth, his hands slick with gore. He'd been cut, wounded by the tall youth. Then ice cold and falling, falling with shadow all around him.
Asï opened his eyes. He was lying on a floor of orange stone. Slabs of stone had been cut and set in a flat surface: Asï had never seen the like in his world. Tentatively, he raised himself up. He was lying on a wide path of these orange stones, between two great stone walls. These walls seemed to be similarly fashioned from the stone and decorated with many colours. They had strange holes in the side, which shimmered like the surface of a pond. Asï took a tentative step towards them. He started back. He could see a reflection in one of the shimmering holes. It should have been his face; it certainly looked like him, but it was subtly wrong. The lines were harsher, even more canine than before. His hair was different too: no longer black but silvery-blue. He peered closer. His eyes were yellow; the pupils oases of purest black. Was this real? What had happened to him?
Asï suddenly realised: he was not frightened by this. In fact, he did not feel anything. He knew he should be surprised, scared, angry. Instead there was just a silence, as if his emotions had abandoned him all at once.
"You are beginning to feel it."
Asï turned. A figure in a black coat, the hooded pulled low to conceal his face, was standing nearby.
"You – what, what has happened to me?"
Asï started at the sound of his voice: so desolate, so level. It should sound angry, or nervous; anything but that even monotone. Yet, he did not even feel worried at the lack of his worry.
"What… what's happened to me?!" he demanded, mimicking the anger he did to feel.
"Are you still angry?" the hooded man asked. He seemed curious.
"Y-yes!" Asï said defiantly, trying to sound confident.
"Prove it."
The hooded man clicked his fingers. A strange object appeared in the air before Asï: it was silver, as tall as a man and topped with a device shaped like a star. Asï reached forward and took it out of the air. As soon as he touched it, he felt a thrill run up his arm. Something like instinct told him how to use it. He swung it forwards. Eight blades, as long and keen as daggers, shot out from the star at the end.
"Show me your anger," the hooded man ordered.
Asï gripped the weapon in both hands. He took a step forward, swinging it overhead to strike the hooded man. The hooded man raised a hand; Asï's weapon rebounded off an invisible surface, six inches above the man's hand.
"As I thought," the man said thoughtfully, "you have no anger."
"I… I have!" Asï cried, willing himself to become angry. He swung the weapon again, its use becoming easier with each pass. The hooded man leapt back, his movements almost too quick and light for a man of his size.
"What's happened to me?" Asï demanded, charging forward, still swinging the weapon. The hooded man jumped back again. With a flash of light, two red blades appeared from his hands. Asï froze, startled. The blades whirled, caught Asï's weapon and twisted it out of his grasp. It flew up and landed clattering on the stones some distance away. Asï turned to retrieve it but paused, feeling the hooded man's hand on his shoulder.
"Do not pretend to me that you feel angry. You cannot feel angry about anything. Not about me, or your tribe, or your enemies. You feel nothing."
Asï paused. The hooded man was right.
"How… how do you know?" he asked
"I know because I was the first."
"The first of what?"
"Of our kind: the Nobodies."
"What is a… Nobody?"
"A shell. A being whose heart has been claimed by the darkness, and yet still exists. We do not exist and yet we are."
"But… how can this be? What can I do?" Asï asked. He felt no fear at the hooded man's words. He heard and remembered the facts as calmly as if he had been explaining yesterday's weather.
"You can do nothing," said the hooded man, "but together, we might.
"My name is Xemnas. I am head of an Organisation of Nobodies. We are seeking a way to regain our hearts. I have come to ask you to join us."
Asï considered this for a moment. What else could he do, after all?
"I will join you."
"Good," said Xemnas.
"Long have I sought one such as you," he continued, "one who possesses both power and cunning. You have great potential, although as yet untapped. If you will serve me, I will teach you to use the power of nothingness itself. You shall be my second, and no other shall be above you. Together, we will reclaim our hearts. Welcome to the Organisation, Number Seven: Saïx."