Disclaimer: Not belonging to me
Warnings: Some blood. Some swearing. Some wtf. I don't know... this one is a little weird. I'm experimenting. :D And this is complete.
First House
In the old streets of the first district there was a townhouse that stayed mostly dark and dusty and old.
This is where everything begins. Sort of.
It had already begun years and years before. But this is where it begins now. With this house.
It used to home an old puppeteer but that was many years ago too. Now, at 8:23 in the evening, the lights in the second window would flicker and dance; candlelight. And then on Fridays and Sundays (and sometimes Thursdays, depending on the month), they would stay lit till well past midnight and well past when anyone who was watching would go to bed.
The predawn hours were lit as well, but only for the barest fraction of time, because then the candles snuffed out and the rising sun served as light.
No one ever blew the candles darkly dead. It would have cast dim silhouetted shadows across the curtained windows. But the shadows never appeared. The candles breezed out, like clockwork, as if a well-directed wind brushed past. Which is, of course, why people began to think the place haunted.
'People' is a vague and ill-defined generality, of course. 'Haunted' is as well, come to think of it.
Take the children, say. The very young didn't quite know of the stories and mystery of First House (as everyone began to call it). They ran by without any notice as they did when they ran by the tavern or the clock house. The older school children well believed it to be haunted by ghosts and ghouls or perhaps a witch. The more adamant and ardent watchers of First House knew a witch sometimes frequented it, but it was not she that lived there.
She wasn't even really a witch. They just called her that because she called herself that. Witches had hooked noses and large warts and tall pointed black hats. This witch did not. This witch had pretty blonde hair (though she mostly hid it in the hood of a long zippered coat) and she had long fingers that drew circles and lines on the door of First House, never leaving marks. She had a quiet voice and an even quieter smile. And her eyes were always wet when she left the house.
The teenaged children (because as much as they protest, teenagers are still children) knew that the house was haunted in a way that wasn't to do with witches and ghosts and goblins. It was haunted by a man; just a man. And he lived in the house the way a mouse lives in a snake's tank - as the last of its days and as a preamble to a certain end.
It was strange that the high school children knew better who lived in First House than the adults. They had their own gossip pool and rumour mill and a grapevine that extended from one end of town to the other. It could have been, reasonably, because the man that lived in First House didn't talk to any of the adults. He avoided their gaze when they happened (oh so rarely) to cross paths, and the man ignored any questions thrown out to him.
Strange that sometimes, if a teenager were careful and watchful and happened to come across the man while he was walking (quickly, shoulders down, feet trudging), they might succeed where their parents failed. If they offered the perfect question, then, why, maybe that man would talk to them. And one boy (aged fourteen at the time) told his mother this, which opened a rumour of paedophilic nature for a few weeks, but it died quite quickly under other influences.
'Other influences' is a quiet way of meaning Mr Highwind who was anything but quiet. He didn't quite live in Traverse Town, but he used to (the older residents would recall). But only in the way most people used to live in Traverse Town. Back when shadows were real and had eyes and could claw into your skin, literally. But he still frequented the streets and his small booth where he would collect odds and ends for space travel. (Space travel, how absurd, really.) And he liked to meet up with the girls on the corners and drink with them, but never take them home (Mr Highwind was oddly respectable, no matter what his vocabulary attempted to convey).
Mr Highwind knew the man that lived in First House, though to what extent no one was exactly sure. He certainly didn't visit the man, but then again, Mr Highwind was in town infrequently, and really, so was that man. But even the slightest whisper of a mention of First House brought Mr Highwind's ears twitching and an eavesdropper to one's conversation. He defended the man in his scruffy, scowling, cigarette wielding way.
Which never really explained the way the man, that man that lived and haunted their town, would frown and darken at the mention of Mr Highwind. He would hunch his shoulders and press his fists tighter in his long coat's pockets. Sometimes, again, if the timing were right, he'd mumble "I don't know him" in a way that suggested he clearly did.
It was a mark of superiority to the children at the schools how they interacted with the First House Man. A glimpse in a window was alright, but easily faked. Actual sightings were better, since they were usually done by more than one person. Real conversations were reserved for the most elite and older of boys (and occasionally girls), and even between them it was a contest of who had gotten the most words from him.
It was Haru Raye, aged sixteen, who became the undisclosed winner of the unspoken contest. (Now the story almost starts here too. However, the bits before this were rather necessary.) But, yes, Haru Raye. This place of honour he earned came with the uttering of a short four-letter word (that wasn't a swear!). He found out that man's name.
It was the witch that drew it from him like a startled spell; like Rumpelstiltskin.
The witch with her hooded coat (that couldn't be hers) which trailed past her feet and fell past her second knuckles in the sleeves. She had to lift it high when she walked up steps, and if one was looking right, they'd see small white sandals. White white shoes that somehow matched her hair that lay ghostly pale and dead against the black of her clothes.
"I have a lead," she said through the door. There were no lights in the house but she said it to the wooden door anyway, fingers splayed and palm wide near the handle. "I think I know where he's headed at the moment. Will you wait here? I'll bring him to you."
And Haru crouched down in the shadows he had slipped in, knees at chin, eyes wide and ears strained.
The door opened. Not just a small crack that an eye could peer out of either. The witch seemed to have expected something small and non-giving, because she tripped backwards when the man flung the door open.
She stumbled, caught her footing, and lost her hood in the fall. Her back was to Haru, so he couldn't see her face. He wanted to, because the man's expression in the doorway (he could see his face!) softened for a moment in the candlelight that was suddenly lit in the house. Softened, then melted, before hardening and eyebrows turning down.
"I'm not waiting here," he said, and Haru began to count as he memorized the conversation. Four words. "Why don't you tell me where he is."
"Because... he's hiding. He doesn't want to see me."
"Riku always was smart." Sixteen!
"Sora-" And that was it. His name was Sora. And Haru latched onto that like precious gold or ambrosia from the gods. So content and ecstatic with his findings, he heard, but did not process, the grumbled retort.
"Not today, Naminé!"
Nor did he understand the, "Oh. I'm sorry, Roxas," that followed.
'Sora' became a taboo word around adults. The children hoarded it in their vocabulary and only used it outside of adult hearing range. It was inevitable that it would be picked up occasionally, and with the way it was so secretive, most of the teachers at school thought 'watching for Sora' was some not-so-clever euphemism akin to 'chasing the dragon' or 'firing the ack ack gun'.
And like all underpaid, disinterested teachers, they didn't do anything about it.
But since the formation of SORA, Haru was inarguably the most knowledgeable and well-versed on the subject. Even outside of that fateful day, he seemed to be able to pick up the most about Sora. He had nine kinds of horseshoes, his envious classmates marvelled.
So it was to him they pointed to, when a tall, lank man stumbled into the tavern and asked after Sora. The barkeep shook his head, but Odella, the large-chest-wonder who could carry six drinks without a tray, leaned her impressive bosom into the man's personal space.
"Sora, eh?" she asked, accent not of this town, this world, but in a place like Traverse Town, so few were. "I might be able to hook ya up," she continued, bringing two of her see-the-bone-skinny fingers to her mouth, pretending to suck the air in-between through her lips. "Hey! Tino!"
The cloaked, hunched man at the bar turned a fraction when Tino sauntered over. Everyone stared at Tino. It was like some strange, unspoken (but innately necessary) rule. He was as big sideways as he was tall, and the man was a giant. His smell wasn't much smaller. But bars brought opportunities to drink into stupor, which brought opportunities for people to make complete asses of themselves, which, inevitably, brought men like Tino. Tino cracked his knuckles loudly, without actually bringing his hands together. They cracked on their own accord, which was usually enough to intimidate even the most boastful drunk off the premises. But Odella shook her pretty bleach-blonde head.
"This guy's alright. He's looking for some sora."
"Five hundred munny gets ya a hundred grams," Tino supplied, and like any good 'Tino' type person, didn't comment on the state and attire of the man asking. Hunched over, hands covered by threadbare gloves, face hidden by a pulled-up coat. The man's lips moved, slowly and without voice, before he frowned and coughed delicately.
"Sora is a person?" the stranger asked, trying to make it sound like a statement; fact. Tino glanced at Odella with a massive shrug and sauntered away.
"Ah. Sora sora," Odella murmured, though the distinction was lost on the stranger. "Hundred munny, sweetheart."
"He's a person," the man stressed, "not a commodity." This was said with a slight wry grin, but Odella leaned forward, her smoky breath brushing against even the most hidden of faces.
"I know hun, but, well, the thing is. If you're looking for what I think you are, the person I need to point out to ya is not yet eighteen, and if I'm gonna be doing something like that, well. Little cash flow helps one sleep at night, ya know?"
She wanted munny for a name. A name of a minor that could possibly lead him to the Sora that wasn't an illegal substance, but rather a person. Slowly, the man reached into the front of his jacket, tugging at the worn zipper to further his reach, and pulled out a handful of grubby coin.
He slid seventy-five over, and Odella counted it with her eyes, the quick way all waitresses pick up. Shrugging, she pocketed it and put down a warm beer.
"Wait a few?"
At his nod, Odella disappeared from his side. He was alone at the bar though the place was quite packed for being only eight in the evening. Alone in his seat choice though. People gave strangers a wide berth usually, especially that sort. The bar wasn't quiet; the usual inebriated laughter and cussing rang out against the clink of drinking glasses. Yet even over this, Odella's shouted "Hey! Twenty in it for ya if you bring Haru here", could be heard.
"Won't be a mo," Odella said to the man, moving to refill his glass but he stopped her with a hand thrown over the opening. She glanced at his frown before moving away from his drink.
"You look young, if you don't mind me saying. Younger than most that come in here with Him in mind." Him capitalized. Him like a god, but in reality just some local legend. She was thinking of Mr Highwind or Miss Kisaragi that sauntered in for a 'pick-me-up' before and after dealing with Him, always looking a little bit older than when they first went in. Sometimes there was a man who was just as secretive about his name as He was; sword with a gun, scar across a face that must have been killer in his youth. Didn't appreciate her attentions as Mr Highwind did though, so Odella tended to ignore the broody type.
This man here? He was a broody type. They had frown lines and clenched fists and creases between their eyes from scowling so much. Not that she could see his eyes, poor blind fool. Had a cloth clear over them.
"Old enough," the man finally said, resting his chin on a covered palm. Old enough to throw back his drink without tasting any of the bitter liquor. Old enough to sit frozen-still without any fidgeting. Old enough to wince at the young man that Odella called over and nodded to.
"Haru here knows everything there is to know about the person that I think you're looking for." And maybe Haru did know everything because he neither flinched nor looked at the stranger confused or curious like.
"You friends with the witch?" Haru asked, leaning on the wooden bar to try and peer at his face. The man recoiled.
"Witch?"
"You have the same coats, that's all."
"Naminé's been here?"
Odella left the conversation. She couldn't follow it anymore. And maybe it was over Haru's head too, because he shrugged sadly, gesturing with his head towards the door.
"I'll take you."
The stranger followed haltingly, using slow steady steps. His face stared straight ahead, and even though the man had no eyes (Haru could see the bottom edge of a blindfold) it felt like his non-eyes were staring into him.
The house was dead as it usually was. It was only Tuesday. Sora was never home on Tuesdays. Quiet and stale, it was almost embarrassing having to introduce the stranger to such a place. The man walked forward, gloved palm on the door much as the witch sometimes did. His black coat didn't fit him much better than hers did either. Like it was meant for someone much taller.
"He's not here," the man said.
"Well no. It's only Tues-" The man leapt back and threw his arm to the side. Like magic (but not magic, because everyone knows magic uses light or sound or some sort of effect) a dark sword appeared in his upturned palm. Blue, red, black in its curves and blades. He pulled it towards himself, lifting it above his shoulder and charged at the door.
The blade stuck in the wood, piercing only an inch or two. The force should have sent him clear through. He stepped back and moved again, charging at a different angle. Over and over and one more time.
The blade disappeared as quickly and without show as it had first appeared. The man turned, frowning, and tilted his face towards Haru. He nodded, in the sulky way adults sometimes say Thank You. Then he turned towards the door to district Two.
"Wait! Why don't you wait for him?"
"I can't stop looking."
"But he'll come back. He always does. Thursday, sometimes. Friday. Eight:twenty-three!"
"I can't stop looking," he repeated. And he was gone, though he didn't step through the door. It almost looked like... he had created one himself, but that was just the shadows and the evening twilight deceiving. The corners and edges of district One were dead, as always, and the feeling that it was now colder was more than imagination.
The next day at school the children looked at Haru with wide-eyed expressions and hopeful glances. The girls smiled prettily and the boys crowded around his desk in-between classes. But if Haru knew (which he did) he would not share how the changes to First House came to be.
Why there were now four letters carved into the wooden door of the house. Four letters that were not S-O-R-A.
XIII.
They talked and debated what XIII could possibly mean before their morning teacher finally cracked under their constant chatter and demanded to know what 'exeyeeyeeye' was.
The class of 10-B learned roman numerals instead of how to approach the quadratic formula that morning. And suddenly 'sora' (which may or may not be an illegal hallucinogen) became associated with 'thirteen' on every teenager's lips. Intrigued with this strange way of identification, the children took to imitation. Graffiti was on the rise, and soon almost every door had some sort of numeral marked on it with spray paint or cheap pocket-knived indents.
If the man who originally carved the number into First House thought anything of the sudden influx of letters on doors, he certainly didn't comment upon it.
Despite his protestations otherwise, the blind man didn't leave town. He did stop looking. He rented a room above the tavern, paying the barkeep a daily fee each morning, and didn't show any signs of leaving quite yet. It was clear, even to just the moderately curious adults, that Blindfold (as he was quickly dubbed, for lack of a proper name) was connected to their own ghost.
It bothered some: his constant presence. Mostly because it wasn't clear what his intentions were. He carried an eerie aura with him wherever he went, as if thick invisible shadows followed his every step. His eyes were covered though he never had a problem seeing, his hair was dead white as that witch's, and he dressed the same as her. He might have been a witch too for all the town knew, though all he did was sit at the bar and drink warm beer (grimacing at the taste, but refusing to have it chilled) until nightfall.
Between that strange hour when the sun was set but the stars were not quite out, he would walk to the first district and wait. Wait at the house, watching it with folded arms and quick breaths.
On Thursday, when it was suggested that Sora sometimes came back to his decaying haunted house, the witch came instead. It was not only Haru that saw her or heard the conversation that followed. Thursdays were close enough to the weekend that the older boys felt they could get away with late-night sneaking. The rooftop of Syn Lightfall had an excellent view looking down at Sora's house. Haru formed a quick alliance with the girl and together they stretched on the roof (stomach down, fingers clenching against the edge) to watch in pale moonlight.
Syn liked the witch more than Sora, when it came to it. Haru didn't begrudge her this because girls would be girls and there was little one could do to show them reason.
"You two are hopeless," the witch said, stepping into the dim lamplight. No doors had opened, no approaching footsteps. She appeared from nothing but the shadows. "Always just missing each other. One of you needs to stand still."
"I am," Blindfold said stiffly. "Go away."
"I'm trying to help. Why won't you let me?"
"Help?" He laughed; short, wild and pained. "You're the reason he's..." His arm unfolded from the other, hand gesturing weakly towards the door. The witch glanced at the carved letters and looked to her feet.
"You noticed then."
"The place reeks of him. It's all I can feel."
"Sora is still there," the witch said, softly. Her gloveless hand rested on his back for a moment, long fingers sliding across his shoulders. He flinched away from her.
"Go away," he said again. She frowned, hand still outstretched from where it had been shrugged off.
"Why? You used to trust me. We used to be... friends, didn't we? Riku?"
Blindfold (Riku!) suddenly whirled, his long coloured blade slipping into his hand from nowhere. Its edge was against the witch's throat before their unknown rooftop spectators could blink. "You were supposed to reconnect them. I captured him so you could put him back. So Sora would wake up. And now... now they're both awake."
"That... shouldn't have happened. I don't know. He's not my Roxas. All the good we brought out in Twilight Town? It's gone, it's just... the other parts left. But they're both real, Riku. Roxas is real. Sora needed him back."
"Did he? I don't care what That Man told us. Did he really?"
"Usually the Other dies and it doesn't matter. But Sora lived. And he's a part of Sora. They would have died without each other."
"Then how are you still alive, hmm?" Blade still pressed to her neck, the witch made a strange small noise, and turned her face away from his. Time slowed, only measured by the faint noise of their pulses. "Naminé..." Riku said, deadly quiet (a term usually overused, but completely accurate here). "Where's Kairi?"
Riku didn't wait for an answer. He growled, loud and carelessly, pushing his blade further at the witch. It skimmed across her skin, and where it pierced, her blood was not normal red.
"You fucking nobody!" he yelled, voice hollow and hurting. Syn and Haru, still listening, still watching, glanced at each other nervously. "You fucking, fucking nobody!"
He lunged again, but the witch, frantic and crying, threw her palm to empty air. A wide oval of swirling darkness appeared and she turned into it, disappearing from Traverse Town. It closed before Riku could follow, which he seemed intent on doing.
In the empty district on Thursday night, the blindfolded man dropped to his knees and cried without any tears falling.
"Did you see anything last night?" they asked both Haru and Syn on Friday morning.
"No," they answered together. Because some things weren't meant to be seen.
Near the end of October the children didn't have as much time for ghost chasing and late-night spying. Even the most devote child regrettably turned their free time towards the inside of a book instead of a rotting house. There were examinations to study for. If their own ambition didn't force them to sit and learn then their parents' certainly did.
Two weeks of chemical properties and economic ratios saw long, tired faces. The end of those two weeks saw faces alight with joy and relief, and some fires alight with the ritualistic burning of test scores. Haru shoved his exams in his school bag without looking at the two-digit number across the top. He tried very hard not to think what could have happened around First House in those fourteen days without his keen eyes to mentally record.
He knew at least that Riku had left. Sora had not come back that first weekend, and by the end of Tuesday the room above the tavern was unoccupied once again.
Which would account for Haru's surprise at the man standing by the door once again. His hood was up, but Haru could see the edges of the blindfold when he turned his head.
"You waiting again?" Haru ventured.
"You don't want to be here," Riku replied. It was the sickly quiet whisper that never failed to dance shivers along Haru's spine. He wanted to argue; he most certainly did want to be here. But he knew in adult-speak that meant more 'I don't want you here'. Scowling, Haru opened his mouth to disagree when his attention was distracted. Riku was swinging a weapon in his hand, listlessly. It wasn't his usual blade either. Wasn't really a blade at all.
A wide circle with metal spokes between the edges. Red and silver. Riku flicked his wrist to an odd rhythm, the round weapon spinning dully in his hand.
"What's that?"
"A souvenir." Riku smiled and it was ugly. "Get out of here. Now." Frowning, Haru did as he was told. Perhaps a little frightened of that strange bladed circle (though he would never say it even to himself), Haru made a large production of leaving the district.
Then he looped around to an ally entrance, and quickly rapped his knuckles against Syn's door.
"Rooftop," he said when she answered in her after-school clothes and slippers. And maybe Syn wasn't all that bad (for a girl) because she didn't do anything other than open the door wide and gesture him towards the steps. And Syn's Mom was simply the best because she brought them warm tea and fried noodles for dinner. She made an odd gesture to Syn, who turned a brilliant red, and then was gone. Haru's Mom would have demanded to know what they were doing, and probably would have joined them either way.
It wasn't until after the noodles were long gone and only the cool dregs of tea remained that Riku moved from his spot. Hours of just staring at the carved XIII on the door, swinging the circle idly. But then-
Sora. Sora! He stalked through the district door and stopped deadly when he saw Riku standing there. The two children edged forward on their stomachs, watching the exchange that (to Haru, at least) had been anticipated for months.
"I see you found me, Ansem-Boy," Sora said. But his voice was strange, it wasn't Sora's, and Haru had once gotten Sora to say nineteen words so he knew what Sora sounded like.
"You took Sora away from me," Riku called over. "You took my best friend."
"He's still here," Sora said, finger tapping against his temple. Grinning. Riku matched it.
"So I took your friend." Riku tossed the circle blade to the ground. It bounced and skittered until it lay near Sora's feet. Sora stared at it long enough for Riku to begin shifting from one foot to the other, then slowly bent down. Sora brushed his fingers above the tossed object, not quite touching it.
"-sell," he whispered.
"What?" Haru asked, straining to lean further over the edge.
"He said 'axel'." And Syn was pulling him back.
"Eye for an eye," Riku called towards Sora. "Metaphorically, anyway," gesturing towards his blindfold. And then Sora was on his feet, hands thrown out and grabbing two long blades from thin air. He leapt and flew towards Riku with a speed that wasn't quite human. Riku's blade was up, horizontally, defending his face against Sora's double attack.
They threw themselves towards each other and then apart. Sora swung his two blades restlessly. They were intricate, bright, and very much resembling... keys.
"I will burn your skin and soul," Sora snarled at him, lunging again. When they fought it was more like dancing. Each move and bend against air and sometimes the very walls around them.
"Funny. That's what he said."
Haru frowned, watching them strike and parry around the electric light of the street below. Riku was taunting Sora with careful calm words. Haru did it to his younger brother all the time because it made him careless. Made him cry and run blindly at him. And so was Sora. Screaming with rage and bitterness, Sora struck again and again but his blows were always tossed to the side by Riku's single weapon. It occurred to Haru, wildly, that he had no idea which man below he should be rooting for. But he didn't need to pick a side; it ended with the next quick blow.
A block to the left, a sidestep by Riku and then he struck. The non-keyed blade brushed aside the two opposing it and drove straight past into the soft, mortal flesh of Sora's side. Blade still stuck through Sora (in one side, out the other; beside Haru Syn was crying), Riku lifted his foot and pushed against Sora's legs.
Sora fell to the ground, body rigid and refusing to curl into itself. Pulling his sword out with a tight pull and grunt, Riku took a step back.
"I hate you," Sora said, fingers still tight on the hilts of his keys.
"Because I beat you?" Riku laughed. "Which time?" Sora clenched his jaw, breathing fast and roughly through his nose, before slowly relaxing into the ground. He smiled up at Riku.
"This is for killing Axel," he said, raising his hand and waving goodbye.
"Don't you dare-"
"Riku?" And it was Sora's voice. The other Sora. The real Sora. This Sora winced for a long moment, looking down to his side and back up to Riku's dripping blade. "...Riku?" He began again. "Riku. I looked everywhere for you." Neither moved; Sora down and bleeding, Riku frozen in his place. Then suddenly Riku was at Sora's side, quick as in battle.
"I know," Riku replied, kneeling. He tugged his gloves off so it was a flesh hand that Sora grasped when he reached up.
"I just- God, Riku. He's in my head. All the time. What he's done..." Sora hitched, full-body, arching off the cement and clenching his fist and jaw and eyes shut.
"I know," Riku said, again. He turned his head, hair slipping over his shoulder. Sora laughed and it was wet and dry at the same time. His fingers, twitching and bloodied, touched Riku's long hair.
"You girl," Sora said, and Riku laughed too. Sora swallowed, eyes turned up in his head, as if he could see something far away and secret.
"Come here. I'll take you to the king." Riku sat up, reaching his arms beneath Sora's neck and knees. Keening, Sora moved away.
"No. No. You once... had him in your head. Different 'him'," Sora chuckled again, and he coughed, and there was blood that splattered and fell across white lips. Blood is one of those things that no matter how far away you are, it still stands stark dead against skin. Riku almost wiped it away but his hand flinched back.
"Sora. Don't."
"I killed him, didn't I? For you." Haru had never seen someone clench their mouth as tight as Riku did, bitter and fierce. His jaw tilted and he turned his head away.
"Yes. For me," Riku spat hatefully.
"So... Riku. You have to." Riku shook his head, and punched the pavement dully. His long blade lay beside him but he nudged it out of his own reach. It scraped the stone ground loudly, clanging and echoing in the horrible silence of evening.
"I'm older than you, Sora. You don't get to boss me around." Riku tried to lift him again but Sora swatted one of his blades against Riku's hooded shoulders.
"Stop. Riku." Every syllable from Sora's mouth was barked; quick and forceful. A gasp with each word. As if they were numbered.
"...I don't have a keyblade. There is no magic. If I killed him, I'd-"
"Tell her I'm sorry. For breaking my promise."
"Sora, you can't-" Sora stopped him with a hand to Riku's face. Riku's hood had fallen back during their battle, leaving long hair to hang limply around his shoulders, tied only back with the width of cloth covering eyes. Sora's fingers curled behind the top of the fold and tugged. He pulled it down past the eyes, though it stuck along the bridge of his nose. It was far enough though, even if it was only Sora that could clearly see what lay beneath.
"Riku," he smiled into the word, "Riku. Don't let me die with him in my head." And the smile dissolved. "Come on, Riku," this last part different, cruel, and not-Sora. Riku made a horrible noise in his throat, diving to the side and grabbing his blade. His hand wrapped around the edge instead of the handle, but if he was cut he made no noise. Blade up, positioned, and then down down down in his swing.
The sound of Riku's weapon striking the hard ground echoed magnificently throughout the district. Syn's face was buried in her arms and her shoulders were heaving. Haru ducked his head at the large clamour, but quickly raised it again, refusing to miss what happened. But there was nothing to see. Where once two men lay, nothing but blood and solid shadows remained.
Traverse Town always had visitors. Outside worlds, people who were lost, and ones just passing through. The town was a junction between all other roads that led who-knows-where. The actual residents of Traverse Town certainly never cared to find out. They had their own lives and places to take care of right here.
But even with the constant flow of newcomers and repeat customers, some were noticeably absent. Mr Highwind, marvellous tipper that he was, had stopped lurking about the taverns and smoking with the girls. The witch, as the children called her, stopped skulking about the shadows as if they were her home. Even Blindfold's room, though they kept it empty for the first bit in case he returned, was soon rented out to the next customer with munny.
The First House became less and less haunted. There were no lights flickering in its windows on the weekends and sometimes Thursdays. There was no Sora stalking through the city restlessly, talking rarely but with two voices. The old townhouse in first district grew entirely musty and old.
Old in the way buildings lose their flavour and story. Stories unravel and grow quietly stale. The carved letters in the door and the indents of a magnificent duel in a corner on first district were all that marked where a story once thrived. Once upon a time.
And when there was nothing to talk about, there was nothing to say, and even that boy Haru started to haunt the house less and less. It was unfitting, perhaps, that after so much childhood investment in a mystery and story that lasted for nearly a year, it was not Haru that ended the story in Traverse Town. It was Syn one day who brought it up again as they were walking across third district, hands not quite touching.
"I saw the witch yesterday. She waved me down from my window."
"What did she want?" The witch had never been as interesting as Sora. Everyone knew it. But... Girls.
"She said she was looking for her boys."
"As if they're pets?"
"As if it's cute."
"Well. They're dead... I guess..." He'd never said it out loud before. The words felt dry, rusty and wrong on his tongue. When Syn shrugged her shoulder brushed against his.
"That's what I said. She said she'd have known if they died. Would have felt it."
"And?"
"And then she went away."
And then she went away is as good as a the end. It's not as concise, not as neatly-packaged and certainly not as satisfying, but it will do. And it would have. Except...
Except is a word following the end. A sort of post-script to say that there's just this one other thing, this one other thing and then it's the end for real.
"Except," Syn said. "It was a little weird. The witch, I mean. She was different."
"Hmm? Different how?"
"Her hair. It was red."