Chapter 1

Nothing is Sacred

On the edge of a village, bathing in the warm light of summer vespertide, lied a hill claimed by two brothers.

The boys often came to this hilltop when life proved too alienating or frenetic for them to withstand. There, they could roll in the grass, exchange badinage, and simply exist in the childhoods that their lives seemed so keep to steal away from them.

The more baleful of the two brothers lied on his front, his chin resting atop his crossed arms, eyes leering at the endless horizon that stretched out before him. The grass tickled his cheeks in their favonian dance, but he paid it no mind, too lost in his bitter thoughts.

"Roxas…"

The boy lifted his head, his attention stolen by the sound of his normally-beamish companion's voice. He turned his head to look at the boy lying at his side, and he found a pair of blue, hesitant eyes staring back.

"We can't stay out here forever," said his companion, considerably less beamish than usual. "It's getting late."

"Watch me," huffed Roxas, his chin dropping back down onto his arms.

His brother, Sora, shook his head and rolled onto his side. "Why are you so mad at her, anyway?" he asked. "You never told me, and you always tell me."

"It was…" Roxas hid his face in the crook of his arm, hiding the rubrication of his cheeks. "You know… That thing again."

"'That thing?'" quizzed Sora. Roxas didn't need to turn his head to see the confusion on his face; he'd seen it enough by now that he only needed to close his eyes. "Oh, you mean that thing. Roxas—"

"Don't. I know what you're gonna say."

"—it's not that bad!"

Roxas groaned, and this time, he looked up. "Easy for you to say. You already know who you're going to marry, so she doesn't bother you!"

"It's not like Mom can make you get married," said Sora, poking Roxas in the side, unperturbed by the way that Roxas batted at his hand. "And she wouldn't love you any less if you didn't. She just wants you to be happy."

"I am happy," insisted Roxas.

"But if you got married…" Sora tried to poke Roxas in the side again, laughing when Roxas caught his hand. "If you got married, you wouldn't ever have to be alone!"

"I won't be alone," said Roxas, releasing Sora's hand and rolling onto his back to look at the darkening sky. "I'll have you and Mom."

"Well, yeah," said Sora, "but it's supposed to be different, isn't it?"

"Who cares?" groaned Roxas. "I don't need anyone else. 'Specially not some lousy girl."

"Hey!" protested Sora, the grass shifting audibly as he sat upright. "Girls aren't lousy! Kairi's not lousy…"

"But they don't go on adventures," said Roxas. "In all the stories, the girls just sit around while the boys get to have swords and fight monsters and stuff, and when they get married at the end, it's just…the end. They don't go on adventures anymore."

"Well…" said Sora. "Maybe you just need to marry a boy instead!"

Roxas turned his head to glare at his brother, nose wrinkling. "That's weird, Sora."

Sora's smile fell. "Nuh-uh! Mom said—"

"Mom's wrong!" Roxas sat up. "Boys don't marry boys! And if you keep talking like that, people are gonna start looking at you like they look at Mom."

Sora pulled his legs to his chest. "Well… How do you think they're gonna look at you when you never get married?"

"Like a hero," said Roxas proudly, tilting his head back to smile at the sky. "'Cause that's what I'm gonna be. People don't look at heroes like that. I'm gonna get knighted, and people are gonna love me."

"Roxas…"

"I'll go all over the world, and I'll fight dragons, and—"

"Roxas!" Sora grabbed his brother's arm and yanked it hard.

Roxas whipped his head around and found that Sora's eyes were wild and wide with terror. "What—"

"Look!" Sora pointed over Roxas' shoulder with a quivering hand.

Slowly, Roxas turned his head. What he saw behind him, miles away, shooting high into the clouds like a monstrous hand clawing for someone's throat, was enough to turn his blood to ice.

"C-Come on…" said Sora, still gripping hard onto Roxas' wrist as he stood. "We're too close. We need to go home."

Roxas, his eyes still glued to the monstrous pillar, nodded weakly. He would have climbed to his feet, but any movement at all seemed insuperable.

He wouldn't stand until Sora had reached under his arms and pulled him up by force.

They returned to their home in silence, knowing that no one, least of all their own mother, would have blamed them for being stunned speechless by what they had seen.

The fire.

All knew of it, yet none knew exactly what it was.

To the more scientifically inclined, it was volcanic activity boiling just beneath the topsoil, roaring into the sky when the pressure grew too great.

Others claimed the fires to be the work of some god or another, thrown into a rage by the sins of humanity.

Still others believed the ground whence the fires came to be the home of the Ankou, the guide of the dead. To them, the fire was a phenomenon that occurred when he traveled to and from his place of residence.

To most, however, the flames were unknown and unquestioned. They were what they were: Pillars of fire pouring into the open sky, seemingly at random.

Regardless of which beliefs any given denizen of Sublustris subscribed to, there was one truth all could agree upon, one rule to follow.

"Stay away at all costs."

The fire was clearly dangerous. Only a fool would approach the flames. Roxas had grown up on these beliefs, on these fairy tales. He'd listened to every rumor, heard every cautionary tale that parents told their children, every story told in warning. He knew, from years of submersion in this culture, that no one dared to get anywhere near the site of the eruptions.

Which was exactly why that was where Roxas was headed.

He shuffled between the trees, treading the forest floor with weak footfalls. His shoulder burned like hot coals, and the earth itself seemed to wobble with every step that he took, but he had to keep walking.

It wasn't that his pursuers were gaining on him. No, that threat had long-since passed. They'd turned around the moment they realized where Roxas had been leading them. It was the fear of something else that pushed him through the pain.

His primary adversary was time.

With every minute that passed, Roxas' stomach sent audible roars up his trunk.

With every second that rolled by, another milliliter of blood soaked into his shirt.

With every degree closer the sun drew to the horizon, the air around Roxas became another degree colder.

It was autumn. There had been a chill to the air for weeks. Roxas hadn't been looking forward to it even when he had a home to return to. Now that he no longer had a fireplace or a warm bed waiting for him, the incoming frost had gone from inconvenience to nightmare.

A throb to Roxas' shoulder yanked him back to the present. He gripped the wound hard, ignoring the way that the spreading scarlet glued his shirt to his hand like so much raw bread dough. He stumbled forward, the whole world spinning around him, and slammed his shoulder into the nearest white oak. A cold breath hissed through his teeth as he slid to the ground.

He couldn't remember a single time at any prior point in his life when the outcome seemed so bleak.

The wound in his shoulder itched as much as it ached, and it was slowly but surely driving him mad with malaise. The musket ball raised his skin beneath Roxas' palm. It hadn't gone deep, and perhaps it would only be a matter of digging his fingers into the wound to pull it out, but Roxas knew better than to try. Right now, it was working as a stopper to stem the blood flow. If he dared to dislodge it, he would only bleed out faster, and then he really would be in trouble.

Roxas turned, supporting his back against the oak and sliding further down until he was seated on the damp earth. He wondered, was this his punishment for turning back, to chance a look at his assailants? Or, if he'd only kept running straight, would it have been a fatal shot? Would it have killed him?

Should it have?

Roxas glared at the crimson color that soaked into his shirt. How much longer could he survive like this? How much blood could someone lose before they fell unconscious? How much longer did he have? Was it worth waiting it out?

Perhaps it would have been a better idea to dig the musket round out of his shoulder after all, to die on his own terms, without that infernal itch.

Roxas released his shoulder and reached for the hole that the musket ball had torn into his shirt to rip it open wider, hissing at the pressure it put on his already throbbing shoulder. Pressing a finger into the wound itself didn't hurt, though. Perhaps he was already going through as much pain as it was possible for one person to feel, or perhaps his skin was getting a head start on dying.

His fingers brushed against something hard that gave in to his prodding too much to be bone just as the scent of smoke assaulted his senses.

Roxas lifted his head, tearing his gaze away from the bullet hole. Did he really smell smoke? His nose was so clogged from the cold that it hardly seemed possible. Where was it coming from? Was it the Fire? Was the Ankou coming to take him away?

On shaking legs, Roxas climbed to his full height, pushing against the oak tree for support.

The way he saw it, he had a fifty-fifty chance. Either he was about to die regardless of whether he rid himself of the musket round, or there was a house nearby. A house with a warm fire and food and a bed. Heaven above did a bed sound nice.

And if it did turn out to be the home of the Ankou, well, either Roxas would find Death or Death would find him. Hardly a reason to be cautious.

Through a head foggy with fatigue and malaise, Roxas decided to take the risk. He began to walk, pushing past the flora and leaning against every tree within his reach. He felt so weak already; walking would soon become impossible. He needed to hurry.

Several minutes passed with nary a sign of firelight in the darkening night. Roxas was ready to chalk the scent up to his imagination—after all, how could he have smelled it? He couldn't even breathe through his nose, much less use it for something else—but on the very edge of giving up, he saw it: Warm flame bending through a glass windowpane, its flicker painting the surrounding trees with orange light.

Fresh determination carrying his weary bones, Roxas pushed himself further. The closer he got to the light, the thinner the trees became, and the source of the flame became clear. At least, it seemed to be clear, but Roxas wondered if the ache in his shoulder hadn't driven him completely mad.

In the center of the clearing, casting a shadow over anything that dared to draw too close, stood a castle. Or, rather, what appeared to be one. Upon closer inspection, Roxas realized that it wasn't quite a castle, but a manor, and a lavish one at that. Lavish enough that no one could blame Roxas for making the assumption.

It was an old building, a hundred years at least. Even Roxas, who couldn't tell a flying arch from a buttress, could guess that much. It definitely wasn't like anything he'd grown up with in Sublustris. Still, he wasn't in any fit shape to admire the architecture any time soon.

Roxas dragged his feet to the front entrance, swaying with every weak step through the thick grass. The hand attached to his injured shoulder hovered over the wooden surface of the door for several seconds. Then, Roxas' will to live outweighing any worry about who might be on the other side, he curled his hand into a fist and knocked.

He only managed to knock twice before his weakness got the better of him and he collapsed against the front of the door.

He waited, turning his ear to press against the wood, listening for footsteps. None came.

He pressed his eyes shut. Nothing for it. He would have to try again.

Roxas slapped the palm of his hand against the door, the sound muffled by his own weight against it. "Hey!" he cried out with as much power as he could muster (which, at this point, wasn't very much at all). "Is someone in there?! I need help! I'm hurt!"

Roxas waited.

He waited for a full minute, his ear still pressed against the door.

Nothing. Not even the slightest sign of movement.

Groaning, Roxas pushed himself away from the door and rolled over so that his back was pressed against the wall beside him. Once more, he curled his hand into a fist and swung it back, hitting the door with the side of his palm. The sound had intensified without his body muffling it, but so slight was the increase that Roxas could hardly be sure it was there at all.

"Hey!" shouted Roxas yet again, and again, and again, his voice weakening with each attempt. Whether it was from his dying strength or his dying morale was difficult to tell.

Perhaps no one was home. Perhaps the owners had left the house to hunt. Perhaps they were staying in the village for a few days. Perhaps they were upstairs, too far away from the door to hear Roxas' cries for help.

Perhaps…if Roxas just let himself in, he would be able to explain himself by the warmth of a fire. Maybe the owners would be more inclined to hear him out once he was already inside. After all, wasn't it said that it was better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission?

Especially in this case, thought Roxas.

He rolled back onto his uninjured side and tried the doorknob.

It was locked.

Roxas clenched his teeth and turned his head to press his face into the door frame. Again, he slammed his fist against the door, this time out of frustration.

Again, he was faced with a choice.

On one hand, he could stay outside and wait to see whether it would be the cold or the blood loss to ultimately sink him into a painful, eternal sleep; on the other…he could force the door open with the very curse that had gotten him banished from his village in the first place.

Roxas was loath to admit it, but that choice wasn't really a choice at all. With his life on the line, all he could do was opt for the latter.

Once again, he reached for the doorknob. It glinted for the briefest of moments, as if catching light from an unknown source, before fading back to its normal sheen.

This time, when Roxas attempted to turn the doorknob, it twisted effortlessly.

He pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold before closing it behind him.

A shudder rolled down his body. It was warm. For the first time since Roxas had left his house that morning, he had encountered warmth. Warmth that had nothing to do with the blood dripping from his open wound.

He pivoted away from the door to look around the glamorous room he'd walked into. The second he did, however, he found himself frozen in more ways than one. His body turned stiff and immovable, petrified, and any warmth the house had managed to provide him quickly poured out of him like so much water from a basin.

Past the rows of pillars, beyond the red carpet, atop the grand staircase gleamed a pair of intimidating, golden eyes. The face that they were set in wore an expression that reminded Roxas of a time long past. It was the same look his mother used to give her sons when they returned home late from some excursion or another. It wasn't a mask of anger, but impatience for an explanation.

Familiar expressions aside, the man at the top of the stairs looked nothing like Roxas' mother at all.

He was olive-skinned, and his hair shone in a way that Roxas had only ever seen on his brother's closest friend. It wasn't quite gray, like that of the elderly; it was as if molten silver cascaded down from the crown of his head, dripping onto his shoulders. It caught the flame from the candles that decorated the pillars, reflecting the firelight off of its glossy surface and painting his neck with a rufescent glow.

The man's attire was a panoply of silk and precious stones. It wasn't quite regal, but it wasn't a far cry from it by any means. A black waistcoat adorned with ruby buttons wrapped around his lean physique, emphasizing his toned waist. Contrarily, the white sleeves of his silk shirt underneath emphasized the surprising bulk of his arms, blossoming at his wrists like carnations. His black breeches disappeared at the knee into a pair of fine, black boots.

"Good evening," said the man, his smooth, deep voice snapping Roxas out of his dazed staring.

"Uh, hi," said Roxas, and fell silent. He stood paralyzed, clutching at the wound at his shoulder as he tried to formulate an intelligent response. Or, at the very least, an appropriate one."

"I came from outside."

That was not it.

"I mean—" he was quick to amend. "I mean it's cold, and I needed a place to stay, so… I mean, I tried knocking—"

"You seem to be injured," said the man, taking a step down the stairs.

Roxas tightened the grip on his shoulder and nodded mutely.

The man descended like a deity, and when he reached the bottom step, he waved Roxas in the direction of a nearby door. "Come," he said, leading the way.

Roxas, given no choice, followed.

The room, while not quite as luxurious as the great hall, was glamorous nonetheless.

Two elegant, pink chairs sat on the carpet at the center of the room. A fire roared full and strong in the fireplace on the far wall. The fireplace itself was decorated by a coat of arms upon the mantle.

The sound of a creak caught Roxas' ear and he turned his head to see the man kneeling in front of a cabinet in all his finery. When he stood, he made toward the door, a roll of linen strips in hand. He excused himself, allowing Roxas the opportunity to inspect the room without seeming too invasive.

He found it odd that there were no paintings on the walls. He'd expected a manor this fine to have portraits of generations of its inhabitants, or at least a commissioned piece or two. There were, however, sculptures along the sides. Perhaps the manor's landlord simply didn't care for paintings.

Roxas' gaze shifted to a table by the fireplace. He wanted to get a better look at the woodwork, but his shoulder chose that particular moment to throb painfully under his grip. He winced and gripped it tighter, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He hoped that this olive-skinned man would be able to help him. He didn't want to lose his arm, but he didn't want to spend another moment in this crippling pain, either.

It was then that the homeowner returned with a basin of steaming water in his hands.

"Sit," he ordered in his base tones, and Roxas acquiesced to his demand. The man set the basin on top of the small table positioned between the two pink chairs and, without warning, reached for a knife at his belt.

"Whoa!" gasped Roxas, instinctively recoiling. He hadn't had that knife before, had he?

"I presume you want to be healed."

Roxas nodded, already shaking in anticipation of his pain worsening.

"Then you should be prepared to face the methods necessary." He reached for the hole that the bullet had made in Roxas' shirt and used the knife to cut it open.

"H-Hey..." protested Roxas weakly.

"It was beyond saving," said the man, his gaze intent upon the wound. "Worry not; I will provide a clean shirt for you later." He raised a hand and pressed his ice-cold fingers into the flesh surrounding the bullet hole.

Roxas cursed quietly, gripping the arms of his chair. Realizing what he'd done and how unwise it was to do such a thing when he was a guest in a wealthy man's house, he slapped his left hand over his mouth. He swallowed, and he lowered his hand slowly. "S-Sorry."

The man acknowledged neither the curse nor the apology. "The ball is near the surface," was all he said and grabbed his knife again. He reached for a cloth that had been sitting at the bottom of the basin and used it to clean the blade.

Roxas held his breath and closed his eyes. He could guess what was coming.

The pain in his shoulder burned, intensifying as he felt the knife tip penetrate his skin. His foot slammed hard on the rug in place of a scream or a curse. He seethed through his clenched teeth.

"Impressive," said the man. "Your shoulder is completely intact. There isn't even the slightest chip in the bone."

"Nnng!" said Roxas in lieu of a response. Words were beyond his current capability.

The pressure of the knife left Roxas and he dared to open his eyes. The musket ball that had been on his shoulder now rested on the table, the blood covering it reflecting the firelight. Roxas turned his head to look at his shoulder, and he almost threw up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so much human blood spilled, and knowing that it was his own did little to calm his stomach.

The man who had removed the musket ball had the washcloth in his hands again. He wrung it out over the basin and raised it to Roxas' shoulder.

Roxas had to bite his knuckle to keep himself from screaming. As impossible as it had seemed, the water in his wound hurt worse than the knife. He pressed his eyes shut again, tears of agony squeezing out between his eyelids.

"What is your name?" asked the man cleaning Roxas' wound, his voice calm and quiet.

"Rokshash..!" said the boy, speaking almost incoherently around his knuckle.

"No surname?"

Roxas shook his head. The last thing he needed was for someone to trace him back to Sora. He'd been enough trouble for his brother as it was.

"Very well." By the sound of sloshing water, Roxas could guess that the cloth had returned to the basin. "You may call me Xemnas." More sloshing, most likely to rinse the blood from the cloth. Roxas didn't bother opening his eyes to look; he knew they would soon be forced shut when the man, Xemnas, resumed his cleaning. "Now... Who exactly were you running from?"

Against his better judgment, Roxas' eyes opened wide. He slackened his jaw, allowing his knuckle to fall away. "W-What do you mean?"

"You've been wounded by a man-made weapon," said Xemnas. "It is past sunset, and yet you were wandering the woods. Were this a mere hunting accident, you would have either been armed, or you would have been accompanied. And beyond that, you were very eager to force your way inside. Eager enough, perhaps, to unlock a locked door by matter of force."

Roxas' eyes widened. "I-I wasn't—" His words were cut off by a piercing cry as Xemnas pressed the cloth to his wound yet again.

"I was absolutely certain that I had locked that door," explained the man. "I can think of no profession but thievery that would demand the skill of a lock pick." He pulled the washcloth away from the wound, but Roxas' troubled expression stayed where it was. He had a feeling that this conversation was about to turn very sour.

"Um..." He swallowed. His throat was dry. "Yeah, I mean... I guess you could say that."

"Indeed..." The man wrung out the cloth before continuing to clean Roxas' wound, earning another pained hiss. "And I assume you have no place to stay. Surely you would have gone there instead. You have no family. No one to care for you. Am I correct?"

Roxas jerked his head in a stiff nod.

The damp cloth lowered from his shoulder yet again.

Xemnas held Roxas' gaze with his chilling, honey-colored eyes.

"Will you steal from this house?" he asked.

"No," said Roxas. He wished he could tear his eyes away from Xemnas'. It felt as though his soul was being devoured. "I-I only did it because I had to. I promise."

Xemnas took the knife from the table. Roxas flinched, and felt very silly for doing so once he realized that Xemnas was only using the blade to cut the rest of his shirt off. The man set the shredded shirt aside, along with the knife, and reached for the linens he'd retrieved from the cabinet. With gentle (albeit still rather cold) hands, he began to dress Roxas' wound. This didn't hurt nearly as much as the cleaning had, so Roxas felt he could relax.

"In that case," began Xemnas, his eyes fixed on his own handiwork, "perhaps it is best that you make yourself a home in this manor."

Roxas' heart skipped a beat. A home? In the manor? "You mean I get to stay here? For good?" He searched for a lie in Xemnas' face. "Why would—ow!" Xemnas had tightened the bandages. It hurt almost as much as the cleaning, but only because Roxas hadn't been prepared for the sudden change in pressure.

"You will find that the manor has many spare rooms," explained the olive-skinned man. He tied off the bandage with a firm knot and climbed to his feet. "I am a...private man, and yet even I grow weary of being alone. Perhaps a single guest will not be so much of an inconvenience. I have but one condition."

Xemnas was a tall man. When Roxas stood, the top of his head barely reached his clavicle. "What condition?"

"Under no circumstance are you to enter the first room to the right of the grand staircase," said Xemnas. "That room is my private study, and it is not to be disturbed."

That was all? "Yes, Sir."

"You may choose any room from the west wing." The man turned to leave without bothering to send Roxas even one last glance. "I presume you are not too injured to see to that on your own."

"Oh..." Roxas watched as Xemnas disappeared through the doorway. "Sure..." This stranger was, well, strange. As strange as they came. But... Roxas reached up with his left hand to touch his newly-dressed wound. Xemnas was not unkind. Not by any means. Roxas had broken into his house, and yet he still offered a place to sleep. The man had even seen to his wounds. Roxas owed a great deal to this man, and he would do his best to repay him, starting by following the order to stay away from the study.

But...that didn't mean he wasn't curious.