Anger is a strange thing, Naminé thinks, even as she watches Axel pace back and forth, apparently affected, on some level (not emotionally, perhaps, biologically, maybe she'd bring it up with Marluxia) about Roxas.
She hasn't experienced it, but it doesn't look pleasant, what with the way Axel scrunches up his face and digs his nails into his palms, leaving bright red half-moon indents in his skin, jaw clenched. She's tried to keep her jaw clenched, but it's unpleasant, so she doesn't try.
Instead she draws. She draws whatever comes to mind, which isn't very much. She draws a mattress of vines, a paradise of golden treasures, a brilliant white light surrounded by pale, almost-unnoticeable shadowy hands. She doesn't get why they're confused sometimes, puzzled by her paintings, sculptures, and charcoal touches in her room.
Once, Vexen asked, why do you do it? She'd looked back, towered over by him, and picked up another color, another translucent, lighter, feathery ivory, and pursed her lips thoughtfully.
It feels right. And then he'd stared at her for a few minutes more, and she thought she ought to be intimidated, but really, after all, they'd never hurt her, and Vexen wasn't terribly mean. She kept at her mural of a brilliant light, and pale, translucent, grey hands that reached towards the light.
She remembers it most vividly, because Vexen had that interesting look in his eye, as if he had some shadow of emotion within him, confusion perhaps, and almost ridicule. He hadn't spoken since, and he kept guard, but instead had that impossible-to-pin-down look in his eyes.
Axel paces and almost knocks over her sculpture of his weapon, he prefers it over the others, watching it with a strange glint in his eye she didn't bother to interpret. They couldn't feel after all, and whatever they did, it was because of the shadows of the former heart.
She contemplates the bunched shoulders, the constant yet repetitive movement of his arms, clenched jaw, that strange fire that seemed to ghost over his own weapon's flames shining in his eye. She begins a sketch of a delicate flame, the color purple and blue, tiny sparks of red, and a brilliant light again.
She doesn't know why brilliant white lights feature so often in her creations, and she doesn't mind either. The flame is, in her mind, in a constant state, even within anger, it still leaps and burns the same, but it reaches towards something.
There is no sound, no sound other than Axel's quiet, fast pacing and the sound of Naminé's lead scritchscritching across her pad of paper. She never really plans it out, her creations, she merely goes by her mind's image, which might be unorthodox, may be orthodox, she doesn't really care either way.
(if she can feel, she would feel that there are tears, salty liquid, dripping down her face, even as a small child weeps inside her)
She flips the pad, not finishing the sketch. Something about the delicate flame irks her, and she doesn't want to finish it, so she doesn't. Instead, she finds an old sketch, one she doesn't remember drawing, yet her drawing style, softer lines than reality, adding ribbons and paler hues, is evident.
It's Organization XIII, but it's not drawn by her. Yet it's her drawing style, the feathery mess atop Roxas' hair, a slight curve of lips (she thinks it's called a smirk, but she's unsure) on Axel's face, Larxene's eyes which she never managed to replicate, yet there's a sting, a biting touch added to her softened features, Xemnas stands in the background, ever imposing, and countless other tiny touches that scream of Naminé's style, but she didn't draw it.
She doesn't know how it came to be. It irks her some, but the feeling, negative, is something she is all too skilled in ignoring, quashing the feeling away from her and it dies swiftly. Yet the foreign feeling, not being irked, still stays, like a cloak she cannot discard.
"Burn it." Her voice is hoarse, even as she offers the pad (only two pages with drawings) and he burns it, his anger still evident even as he paces, wisps of flames licking about his fingers.
There is something, a new, odd feeling that wells in her chest, but she doesn't listen.
(the child bangs her hands against the walls, her tears dripping down her face even as she screams, her voice hoarse and overused, desperation and a need to make it right-)
Anger is a strange thing, and she doesn't care to try it. It's useless after all.
a.n. I started writing it because I was angry but then it just turned out weird. Naminé, in this version, was held captive, but she never connected to her emotions to the level we ordinarily have. Naminé's heavily influenced by a somewhat more humane Organization XIII, and thus, she is loyal to them.
They didn't use scare tactics, they falsified a story where they were guards and her parents died and blahblah. She doesn't care and the child is Kairi, and her age is intended as well. Naminé's strange in how completely well she controls her emotions, and she ignores them.
I just, I'm pretty sure I butchered the storyline, but I also never played any of the games and the wikis are only so helpful. None of my friends actually play it, they prefer Final Fantasy, which, unless I'm asking for tips how to play the games and advance more quickly etc, they're not that helpful.