*Disclaimer: I Do Not Own Kingdom Hearts or any of its characters, I only own this plot.
He was bloody and dark, dripping, teeth bared in a grin, eyes wide against the blackness,
the whites wide and rolling, madness in every pore, madness in every movement. His hands were clenched around the stained weapon, hands crimson from the blood of those he's killed tonight. He's a fairy tale monster, out of the dark, vanishing under the bed and yet never there when you choose to look. As ephemeral as the dreams of children, he nonetheless makes a mark. The notched blade really isn't just for show.
He stalks down corridors, never chasing, never running, never moving any faster than a slow,
deliberate walk, the drip, drip, drip of the blood hitting the floor the only sound he makes,
no footsteps in this strange, white world, owned by blackened creatures with darker souls than his own.
He knows where he's going, feet never uncertain, face still fixed in that grim grin, tap, tap tap at the windowpane, don't open your door or you'll never be free. He walks in through the front door,
and no one dares to stop him.
What do you do, if he comes to you? Is there anything you can do to protect yourself from his hands at your throat, his blade to your legs? It's said he likes to listen to you beg before he tears you apart maybe if you beg prettily enough, someone will come, he'll leave you alive long enough for someone to come, and you can be rescued. Maybe. But every killing is swift, silent aside from the screams, he never makes a sound. No noise of pleasure, no disgust or anger, no rage or pity. He just smiles that same bright smile as he runs his fingers over your entrails, pulling them out before your eyes, making you watch as you die.
He's small, they say, more a boy than a man, a child who searches out and kills children, kills anything which crosses his path, blue eyes wild and dancing. It's said he wore colours once, but now everything is simply red and brown, shades of blood never washed off. He does not stop for sleep, he never stops, merely marches on, taking life after life in his relentless desire for murder.
The other stares into the mirror sometimes, and catches glimpses, but most of the time he's buried under work, and sleep, and he sees nothing except blue eyes, and a smile which isn't his.
The figure's been spotted in the shadows, leaving a room after the intended rescuers have arrived to see their friend spilled across the floor in so many random pieces, but he never kills more than one. He only ever takes on one. In this way, he plays his little game, each of them a pawn in his way, to be taken and mercilessly crushed until he reaches the king. Their lives have no meaning to him each will play out their role until the end, and the end is when he decides to end it. Are you living on borrowed time? Is it him, as every minute ticks down, who draws closer, the tap, tap,
tap of blood on clean floors, the drip, drip, drip as the rivulets pour off his hand as he reaches for your door?
Is he outside now, paused, waiting, knowing that you know he's there? And do you dare check to see?
Was the sound merely the wind, or has he come for you? There is no way to be sure.
He never speaks, silent wanderer through the night, and will be gone by daylight, if you live to see it. A world of night is his alone, and he will take his power there. There is no escape, no hope, no chance that you will be the one he misses, the one he does not spot. He knows each and every one, each name,
each face, each room, he knows everything he needs to know. Does he know good from evil?
Does he know wrong from right? He knows, however, alive from dead, and takes his time moving the residents of the former into the houses of the latter.
They say he's a myth, a tale from the grave, something which has followed since time began,
a nasty little story to frighten children and make them behave. But why, if it isn't true, is it still told?
Why are the doors always locked at night? He's real, as real as can be, even if he vanishes like smoke,
slinks into shadows and then isn't able to be found. Simply because you can not see a thing does not mean it is not still there. He's real. It is just wished that he was not.
Curled up in his bed, Roxas is sleeping? He's still, though, so very still, and nothing they do can wake him, nothing they can do makes him stir. And all the while, the threat draws closer,
the threat slinks nearer. Roxas lies there, barely breathing, whilst underneath the castle,
Sora grins that grim, bloodied grin, and marches on.