Sora had always thought of the Keyblades as living. Each of them had a distinct feel to it when he held it; the Kingdom Key filled him with courage, while the Follow the Wind made him want to move, keep seeking the horizon with every second he breathed. The Sweet Memories quailed from battle more than the others; this he carried when on diplomatic missions. The Fenrir terrified the hell out of him, and the Oblivion was nothing at all, a void of power.
But while each Keyblade had a personality in his hand, it had never occurred to him that they had one out of it.
He had never expected them to speak like this.
Ever since those Chasers had shown up, the Keyblades had been getting more and more….vocal. Not auditory exclamations, but whispers, inside his head. Memories of past users, who had been killed by the Chasers. Memories of old masters, and half the time Sora wondered just how they might remember him to the next chosen. Would they commend his valor, or use him as an example of all the ways a man could fail?
Or woman, he supposed. The Wishing Lamp's last master had been a woman, small and secret and dark. Related to Jasmine, maybe.
(and her hands had been swift like desert winds, and her wrath had raged like a sandstorm, and she had given herself up like a lamb to the slaughter when the Chasers threatened her young sister, given up her life and her weapon to appease them)
Sora stifled a groan in the darkness and buried the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to banish the memories of those who had come before him.
Trying to ignore their pleas for vengeance, echoing from the rack of weapons in the corner like a chorus in a temple.
( the wielder of the Hidden Dragon had lived in a temple, high above a small village, polishing the statues of the Buddha and practicing what little healing arts he knew after he hid the Keyblade away and forswore violence. They had found him anyway, burned the village to the ground--)
Sora knew now that the Chasers had come before the Heartless and the Nobodies. The Chasers were the first to come to a world marked for destruction, to kill the Keyblade wielder of that world so that no one could stand against the darkness that would follow.
The Chasers had started this war, and it was only by killing them that it could finally end, that they could all have peace.
"Sora? Everything okay?"
It was Goofy, who had been standing guard outside and must have heard Sora's frustrated groan as yet more memories surfaced. They were taking it in shifts these days even in the inns and safe houses, and Goofy had relieved Sora only an hour ago.
"Everything's fine. I just had a bad dream."
Goofy nodded in silent understanding—they were all sleeping uneasily these days—and returned to his post, closing the door behind him.
Sora was glad at least one of them believed the lie. He knew Donald was starting to worry, and Mickey already knew firsthand what was going on. He and the King hadn't spoken of it, but the way the King closed his eyes wearily before drawing his weapon said everything without words. It was a relief to at least get some form of silence these days, even from one's comrades. He should start running with Cloud and Leon. Those two understood the value of silence—and what it meant to hear voices.
He figured the best way to silence all of them forever, both the Keyblades and his own eternally mouthy conscience, was to endure. And maybe, after all this, he and Kairi could finally be together.
It was with that happy thought that he was able to pass into sleep, a small smile on his face that not even the grim foreboding of the Keyblade phantoms could remove.