A/N: I'm really not sure where this came from, so just sit back and glory in the power of random plot bunnies! Incidentally, this is also my first published Kingdom Hearts fanfic, so I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: The Kingdom Hearts series and all the characters appearing in this story belong to Square Enix and Disney. I have no claim over anything but this particular arrangement of words.
Ca-lick, ca-lick, ca-lick, ca-lick.
The sound of footsteps comes echoing down the hall toward my room, each foot placed carefully one at a time, the heel hitting the ground deliberately ahead of the rest of the foot. The clarity and precision is slightly muffled by the speed of the steps, and because of that, is often overlooked by the others. But I can hear it. I can understand the reason. I immediately place the owner of the sound and I know who it is that's striding closer to me with every step.
Ca-lick, ca-lick.
Not one of my favorite sounds, but at least the noise isn't one of soft, deceivingly gentle footsteps that always carries the cloying sweetness and deadly beauty of flowers with them. The ones that seem to be constantly haunting my dreams with their delicate, effortless grace. They dance around me as I sleep, marking strange circles in my mind that are so well-trodden they even disrupt my waking ears with their unwelcome sound.
Ca-lick, ca-lick, ca-lick.
The steps halt in mid-stride right outside the door. I can almost see the owner poised on the edge of the threshold, hesitating while some internal conflict flickers through brain circuits, scattered and unintelligible. I scramble to pick up my sketchpad, flipping through to the next blank page while my other hand frantically searches for my dropped crayon.
Clump, clump.
I lift my head, trying to hear the distant shuffling footsteps coming from the other end of the hall. They slowly filter closer and I make out the distinct lazy, carefree steps of one of the more amiable people in my small world. A slight smile creeps onto my face as I realize the source of the first person's hesitation.
The steps come closer and finally dredge to a stop close to the first set of steps. A short exchange takes place, though the door is too thick and too far away to hear much more than indistinct mumbling. A short silence, a few scuffling feet, and the quiet tinkle of metal zippers. I wait, crayon poised over the conspicuously blank paper, wondering if I should be afraid or not. Finally the door swings opens and the tall, slim figure of a young man slouches in wearing a slightly disgruntled expression, followed by a petite woman with a broad smirk stretched across her face.
The man passes by my chair, completely ignoring me. I lower my face to my paper, feeling the horrible falling sensation of failed hope, one of the feelings I am told day after day that I have no right to feel. I'm now afraid to look the woman in the eyes, so I instead focus on her shoes, the ones with the particularly prominent heel, the heel that strikes the ground more strongly than even those who weigh at least three times heavier than her.
The dreadful scraping sound of a chair being pulled carelessly across the floor makes me jump and look toward the source. The woman winces and fires a sharp remark at the man, who graces her with a mild glare before picking the chair up and dropping it a few feet across from me. He sits down with his head cradled in his hands, close enough that I can feel as though he wants to talk to me, but not too close.
After a few moments, he speaks to me, opening with a casual inquiry about my wellbeing. The conversation moves to another topic and, still with his customary casualness, he asks me to give my honest opinion on his choice of apparel. Confused, I glance at his chest, trying to ignore the woman giggling and my own discomfort toward the question.
His black cloak is unzipped, revealing the standard black pants worn by everyone in the castle and a black shirt with an intricate print on it. He leans back and pulls the zippers a little wider so I might see the whole design. I'm interested despite myself and lean forward slightly, studying the fabric. It depicts a cavalcade of fantastical people and creatures marching around in a circle, some beautiful, some terrifying, and some a little bit of both.
It's lovely and I want to say so, but as I open my mouth I recognize the emptiness in the art, the same void that haunts my own sketchpad, the emptiness that makes me want to tear out all my hard work and throw it out the window, snap all my crayons in half, and vow to never again attempt to create something that I obviously cannot.
As I close my mouth and lean back, the woman laughs outright, jabbing the young man in the chest and voicing the opinion that I obviously agree with her negative response which she had voiced earlier on. I open my mouth again, attempting to correct her, but she just slips my pad out of my lap and flips through it disdainfully, remarking about my lack of progress.
The man makes some comment about artistic block and I quickly latch onto the somewhat valid excuse. The woman narrows her eyes, but throws the pad of paper back to me anyway before turning and marching back out of the room with her customary swiftly deliberate strides. The man follows soon afterwards, but not before bidding me farewell with a small smile. I listen sadly as his footsteps are punctuated by the zip of his cloak, effectively hiding the shirt once more.
I'm at that beach again. The one with the beautiful red sunset and the almost surreal sparkling water. I breathe in deeply, ignoring the vague feeling that I shouldn't be able to feel contentment to this extent, or be as happy as I am right now. I carefully sit down upon the soft sand, slip off my sandals, and pull out my sketchpad and a pencil, a real lead pencil with a semi-soft point perfect for drawing that fits my hand as if I'd had it for years.
But as I place the point upon the paper, the warmth of the sun vanishes and the sand feels cold beneath my body. I look up, but see nothing more than a beautiful sunset and pristine water, just as before. Shrugging off the unsettling feeling in my stomach, I go back to my drawing, only to discover that my pencil has disappeared, along with the paper. Shivering violently, I hear soft, calm, and piercingly clear footsteps close behind me. I jump to my feet, but can no longer see or feel the soft sand, nor find my shoes anywhere. The steps are coming closer. I look around wildly but still see nothing. The beach is gone and with it my contentment. Darkness surrounds me, billowing and flaring in soft spurts, threatening to consume me and still the footsteps come closer.
Losing control, I start running, faster than I remember being able to, sprinting through the never-ending darkness, but whatever direction I follow, it seems as though I'm running toward the steps. Just as I feel myself giving in to panic, a hand reaches out of the blackness, a hand not much larger than my own, and grabs my shoulder, shaking me slightly. A voice, familiar and yet not entirely welcome, filters through to my terrified mind, bringing me back to stability. I look up, desperately trying to find the face of my rescuer, but the darkness is still swirling around me and I see nothing. Another hand shapes a path through the black, grabbing my other shoulder in a slightly tighter grip than before, and both hands begin shaking me roughly. I scream, trying to get away, twisting violently in the strong grip, squeezing my eyes shut against the horrible blackness engulfing my senses. Vaguely, I hear the same familiar voice in the distance calling a name over and over again, a name very familiar to me, though its hard to make it out over the continued screaming of someone entirely too close for my liking. It takes me a moment of confusion to recognize the name as my own and another moment to realize the screaming is coming from my own throat.
I cut the sound off abruptly, sitting up quickly and grabbing the first thing my hands come in contact with, a thick, pliable fabric, in an automatic motion to calm myself down. Slowly my vision returns, though it's still entirely too dark for my liking. I glance around distractedly, searching for something to focus on, before I discover one dark eye, the other hidden behind a curtain of hair, glaring mildly at me through the shadows. I glance at him in confusion at the sudden wake up call. Before he has a chance to answer, the door is thrown open and slightly stumbling quiet footsteps announce the presence of another man with only one visible eye, except his is covered by a worn black flap of cloth held around his head by a long strip of fabric.
He inquires briefly about my screaming, but doesn't even glance my way, obviously distracted by something else. As soon as the door swings shut once more, I turn back to the first man, asking what the cause of the disturbance might be, but he only pulls his cloak out of my tight grip and sits down in the chair beside my bed, ignoring my questions.
After a few moments have passed and still no information is forthcoming, I settle myself down to wait until I can go back to sleep once more. The steps of the other man have long since died away, leaving the room almost unbearably silent. If not for the vague silhouette of the reclining man beside me, I would think I am alone in the room.
Then, softly, in the distance, I hear footsteps.
Dum, dum, dum, dum.
Heavy, self-assured steps that perfectly capture the confidence of the owner. Slowly they come closer, now accompanied by two other sets of feet, which I immediately recognize. The first steps are short, clipped, and hurried, but I know the owner takes about three strides to every one of his companions', so they must be walking together. The second set of steps are ponderous, gentle, and much slower than either of the others.
As they come closer, my temporary guard quietly stands and walks to the door with the same soft yet penetratingly clear steps that I had heard in my dream. He opens the door as the other three draw abreast, speaking quietly enough that I cannot make out what he says even with the door ajar. A short answer from the third man I had heard and sharp retort from the second. The first remains silent and does not speak as the three sets of steps begin again when the door swings shut and the calm steps of my companion return to their origin.
A short pause before a jumble of noise filters down the hallway, a group of at least five sets of steps, possibly more, mingling together and making it difficult for me to distinguish the different sounds. A short feminine giggle erupts, leading an outbreak of speech from five different sets of vocal chords. I'm able to recognize the telltale ca-lick, ca-lick of the woman obviously leading the group, closely followed by the barely audible footsteps I've come to associate with discomfort and inevitable fear. The man sitting beside me glances at me, his gaze unreadable, before standing and walking to the door once more.
This time he opens the door wide enough for me to catch a glimpse of the two people I had just identified, letting the jumbled conversations fill my silent room. The woman laughs at him, making an insinuative remark, before he cuts her off with a quiet retort and a general proclamation for silence addressed to the rest of the group. As soon as the order is obeyed and the only sounds are the separate sets of footsteps and occasional giggles from the woman, he closes the door more quickly than before, glancing back at me suspiciously as though I'm on the verge of running past him to get outside. Confused, I tilt my head at him slightly, wondering why he's behaving differently than his wont. Still staring at me carefully, he steps back to the chair, and only when he's seated once more, removes his eyes from mine.
Shaking off the strange behavior, I turn my attention back to the footsteps, which have since passed by the door, but are still audible. From the remaining sets I decipher the casual, shuffling steps from earlier that day, another set characterized by a hollow, ringing sound that rarely passes through my room, and the last pair of feet that land squarely on each step, confident yet cautious at the same time.
As I'm about to turn my attention away, I hear another sound, a new yet oddly familiar sound, one so quiet that I almost dismiss it as my imagination.
Tam, tam, tam, tam.
The sound reminds me of one of my created memories: very familiar, yet with a hint of something that should not be there, something that prevents the memory from being whole, being real. As the medley of steps fades away, the last set seems to go on in my mind, treading around in a familiar circle. It creates a feeling, one that I'm not familiar with, one that feels much more complete, more real than any other.
Tam, tam.
Around and around, now comforting, now eluding. What is it about this simple sound that's so compelling?
I'm so wrapped up in my new discovery that I don't notice the two final sets of steps approach until the door opens one last time, just enough for a tall, broad-shouldered man with a deceivingly benign, almost dreamy aura to peer inside, trying to catch the eyes of the man sitting beside me. I glance at my guard, only just noticing the intense, almost frightening way he had been looking at me, probably since the last set of steps had died away.
He looks up at the intruder and immediately steps up to the door, engaging in a hurried, quiet debate. Although I cannot hear what is being said, I can feel the intense, slightly annoyed stance of my guard and the calm, aloof indifference of the other man. When the argument begins to escalate, the taller man seems to drift out of his dreamy state, cutting off my companion with a short command. After a slight pause, he concedes and walks slowly back to his original seat, his eyebrows slightly creased.
The door closes once more and the two final sets of steps fade away. By the process of elimination alone, I'm able to distinguish each sound, though I normally don't resort to this method. The slow, thoughtful steps of the leader disappear first, landing with a deep resounding thump as they pass down the hallway. The final set of steps I would've mistaken for someone else had they come sooner. They sound nothing like the normally confident and slightly arrogant stride of the man to whom they belong.
I slip back underneath the covers and turn over onto the side facing away from my watchful guard, who still has his eyes narrowed in a penetrating look that seems to pierce me straight through. As I ease back into uncomfortable sleep, I realize that I'm not the only one in whom the new set of footsteps has awakened a strange feeling.
A/N: I wasn't going to add this, but on further consideration, I realized that this story is very, very vague, so here's a handy dandy guide to all the characters, in order of appearance for your personal sanity/curiosity.
First part-Naminé (narrator), Larxene (the ca-lick sound), Marluxia (mentioned in second paragraph but not actually appearing), and Demyx (the clump sound).
Second part-Naminé (still the narrator), Zexion (her guard), Xigbar (the first visitor who comes alone), then Xaldin, Vexen, and Lexaeus (the three sets of steps, mentioned in that order), then Larxene and Marluxia (the first two of the big group and the ones Naminé sees through the door), then Demyx, Saïx, and Luxord (mentioned in that order), then Roxas (the tam sound), and finally Xemnas and Axel (I hope you don't need me to tell you which is which).