that never was, a kingdom hearts fanfic

My first foray into Kingdom Hearts fanfiction, and a little bit into others as well ;; Spawned from experimenting with the Organization names without the X, and Larxene's turned up a rather interesting combination...most of this is drabble-ish and very unbeta-ed, so please be gentle. This is my first time writing any of the characters seriously.

Disclaimer: I don't own KH2 or the other mentioned anime.

that.never.was

"Hey, feelers."

She didn't even bother looking up, only the twitch of an eye to show she acknowledged his presence. She was in a good mood tonight, the only reason Axel was not pinned to the wall by various integral organs for that little nickname. That and she got along with the bastard (dependent upon her definition of 'getting along' and her relationship with everyone else in the Organization).

Moonlight shone over the pages of her book, the pages worn thin with use. Sade again, the only thing that interested her in Oblivion's giant mockery of a library. It always calmed her, reading by moonlight; Axel owed his life to Sade tonight, and the wicked grace of the pen. He probably knew it too. Axel pushed her, with the nicknames, the attitude, the games; fire looking for a way to burn itself out. His dancing on the edge amused her which is why she indulged him. But never enough to give him what he really wanted (the death, the release), because then the games would end and she's have no other puppet to dance her sadistic game.

"How much do you remember, about you?"

She turns a page and smirks, her face cutting porcelain angel in the light. "Nothing, nothing at all."

Oh, she's so very good at lying.

He's such a maze of contradictions. He rips the paper (her heart) with one breath, wipes away her unshed tears with another, and in the third tells her that she will die (by his hand).

She's not sure when the seeds of their chaotic (chemical) romance are sown, but they grow and tangle inside of her. She cannot be the only one who feels this way. He must as well, for after all, why do they keep returning to each other?

But there's a war to fight. These things are forgotten, pushed aside

(never were).

Namine is their tool, and she is quite used to it by now. No, not happy with it, and not quite resigned, but accustomed to it. It's her power they need, but it's her they play it for. Because she cannot help but to pity them, even though she is the same. But they just seem so much weaker, for she in some way has a semblance to feel, and is much better at using it than they are. It is a weakness, it is a strength, it is a power.

Like the memories she makes for them.

They ask for things, she never questions, just lets the crayons draw for their words. A lot of the time what they ask for is the past. From their time before the Organization, before the experiment, before the tragedy of Xehanort and Ansem and the warped things they have become. They ask to recall feelings, certain memories, certain faces and places. She is quite familiar with Hollow Bastion, or Radiant Gardens as they recall it. Sometimes there are dips into worlds far and fantastic, into castles and mazes, wild jungles or deserts far as the eye can see. She draws them and lets them live awhile. It is not in her place to question, but sometimes she wonders.

Especially for Larxene.

The woman doesn't come often, and Namine is glad she doesn't. When she does she orders her like she was an animal, trained for a trick. The things she asks Namine to draw are difficult. They are not the same as the others. Hers are…stranger. She asks for the Victorian elegance of castles, not the fantastic creations of others but historic in design. She asks for endless space, black and exploding with stars and fires. But worst of all are the creations of steel. They terrify Namine; her hand shakes to draw them. They don't belong to the worlds of all the others. They don't belong.

Larxene doesn't care. Throws herself to those hardened memories and forgets that Namine is shivering in the next room at the chaos play she's created. Biting her lip Namine draws the characters that Larxene has asked for. They change often, these strange people and their details are so complex. There is a man with long blonde hair and a thin, aristocratic face, with eyes narrow and cold. A woman with hair black as night and swept over her face, cut like a boy's and she is bleeding as a soldier might. Another woman, dressed in satin-silken black, hair as pale and fine as winter sunlight, the brows above her pale sky eyes are forked like a serpent's tongue. These are the souls that she asks for most often, but there is one that is there no matter what. Namine has a sketchbook set aside for him, Larxene will have it no other way.

She takes it out and looks at it, sometimes wondering on why this boy means so much. He is just a boy, older that Sora, around Riku's age perhaps? His eyes are empty Prussian blue, his hair an unruly mop of brown. His face is always expressionless. Larxene never asks for it to change.

Namine notices that he bleeds, not only because Larxene tells her to draw him so, but because that is what he is.

She shivers and locks away the sketchbook and the characters that are just too real.

Wars end. She believed in peace, pacifism. It was her title, her burden from the revealing of the name. The Marquis would have nothing to do with it, he was already sullied so. Protecting her. It made knots inside of her that refused to be undone.

She thought, entertained that notion that maybe he would change after it all. She was still so young herself, given to believe the notions of 'true love conquering all'. Their interactions during the first beat of the never-ending waltz (war.peace.revolution) convinced her further. They were connected, tied by thousand of little red strings, unknown, unseen.

She was a Queen. He was a soldier, and by some twist of fate, her protector. And by all that is taboo, she did not give her heart to the people as Queens are supposed to do (though she played such a clever, convincing charade).

She gave it to him.

Bit by bit she spun her downfall.

When Larxene first came to the Organization, she asked for the definition of what she was. She asked Vexen. She did not like the older man and he was disinterested in her, but he seemed the most knowledgeable one that she, with her low rank, could come in contact with. So she sat herself obtrusively in his laboratory and played with her knives while he mixed chemicals with a forced indifference.

"I used to be different," she stated, picking her nails and flicking the nonexistent dirt onto the floor. She knew it would peeve the scientist; unnaturally clean he was.

"It is the process of becoming what we are," he answered, familiar enough with her unasked question for having dealt with it many times before. His tone was coarse and she smirked; he really did want her out. "You lose your heart and all that made it what it was. You become what it is not. Perhaps you bear impressions of the remnants but nothing more."

He gave her a sideways glance. "You donned the coat, you erased your name. You are no longer that person you remember, whoever it was."

She shrugged, and grinned wickedly into his gaze. "Does that mean that you don't bleed anymore? None of you?"

Vexen furrowed his eyebrows slightly as the strange train of thought, but shook his head. "With the loss of the heart one also loses the means by which blood is pumped. I must perform more tests how-"

She cut him off with a pouting look as she drew her blade over the soft skin of her hand. She glanced up, her gaze poison innocence.

"And I so wanted to see the color of your blood."

She hated the sight of blood, but that did not mean that she was not used to it.

She hated it because it very often was him bleeding. Sometimes for her, most often times not. For some strange reason the latter bothered her more.

She dreamed of creating a world where he would not have to bleed anymore, because no one would have to hurt like that anymore. Naivety and selfishness; she was a child after all but her eloquence in her idealism made her a woman. They loved her for it.

Some hated her for it.

She knew this, but she had her protector. The slight sway of a curtain above her, but her eyes were always trained on the people. She felt him there as she might feel her own heartbeat, her own breath. The little strings that connected them were so many (strangling) but she never saw the danger.

Their beings (hearts) were tied, one, that was all she cared for.

She never saw the danger.

Marluxia has brown ((notdarkenoughtoolong)) hair and blue ((toolighttoofiercenotempty)) eyes. He doesn't love her, she doesn't love him. They don't know the meaning of the word so it never occurs to her that he might be a replacement. After all, she tells him she doesn't remember and he doesn't care enough to find out if she is lying.

She kisses him and stars explode in her sight. She closes her eyes and sees darkness covered in the thousand points of brilliance. She can taste blood even though she knows very well that the other is just as dry as she.

If Marluxia feels, if Marluxia remembers anyone or anything, it doesn't matter. It's no passion play for them. To him she is Larxene, she will never be anything different. She is Larxene, the Savage Nymph, the bitch, the sadist, the thousands of adjectives that built her into Number XII, lock her into her role.

Into everything she is that never was ((neverwantedtobe)).

blood.

b.l.o.o.d

it's everywhere. or it seems to be everywhere ((howcansomeonebleedsomuch?)) battlefield. the battlefields never seem to fade away they are always there on the edge of her memories is it because he had always belonged to them she doesn't know can't think because of the blood

whenever she sees him she thinks of a battlefield

and they are alone and the world is fading out and she can see all of their littleredstrings cutting one by one by one by one by one by one until the scissors will reach the heart

the heartoneheart

actions have consequences there are no such things as fairytales there are things like bullets that tear holes in the fabric of fantasy because this chemical connection is just a fairy tale after all ((whydoesntanyonestopthebleeding?))

blood on her hands as she presses deep into their oneheart and tries to stifle it little cuts of crimson string rain down down down over her again and again and again

she can feel him feel himher dying

dying

d.y.i.n.g

his heart can't be stopping she feels hers still beating and it is not the way it is supposed to be they have only one heart one there was a bondconnectiontangle what about the stranglescarletstrings how can he be dying and she not be doesn't he feel it no no no nononononononono…

..unless there was nothing there at all..

If my heart beats and his heart dies…

If my heart beats without HIM

i.dont.want.it.anymore

"Nothing at all?"

He didn't believe her, she could tell by his voice. She smiled to herself and turned a page, more to see the moonlight on the paper than anything. Oh, she better watch it, she might turn out a lunatic like Saix. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the other shift, his lanky shadow throwing his arms behind his head.

"What about your name before the Organization? Almost everyone has that memorized."

She smirked at his catch phrase and leaned her head back, almost stretching. The light spanned over her slender neck as she flashed him that innocent devil glance. "Why Axel, I've been Larxene for so long, I don't care to remember."

He's getting bored with the game, maybe because she wasn't feeling murderous tonight. There wasn't any fire for him to dance with, no death daring. He straightened and gave an exaggerated yawn, flicking his fingers at her in a carefree or perhaps scornful farewell.

"Later, Larxene."

There was an edge to his voice as he said her name, almost mocking. She decided she would deal with it later. Her night was going too well to ruin with the likes of him. But she couldn't stop the stir of memories, faded as they were, or as painfully clear. Damn, now he had gotten her contemplative. She would hurt him in the morning, give him that death threat he was looking for.

She breathed on the glass, the book still on her lap, watching her breath mist fine and white over the cold surface. With a single slender finger she traced two names, drawing the delicate lines between the delicate letters, and smiled for what she would never be, and for what she had become.

L A R E N E

R E L E N A

Review please? .