Their relationship was pure pretense on both sides. Neither of them could truly feel, truly appreciate the "emotions" that were part of it. He'd say to her that she was closer to the template. She'd say she was as much of illusions and shadows as he was.

But by then, he would have already been cradled by a book's world. And she would have already reverted to the meek façade of a phantom girl in a castle full of broken spirits.


It happened on one of the days that Naminé would grow weary of the sketches in her pad. Would be taken under a wave of ersatz guilt and simply cease to draw memories into life. Unfortunately, the Savage Nymph was witness to this, and unwilling to let it slip. Or maybe she was as bored as the too-pale girl in the too-pale castle and this provided just the thing to excuse her venting of anger.

"My, my! Has the little witch run dry of inspiration? Because if she has, I'll gladly remind her of the fact that a heart is needed to be inspired in the first place." Silence, as always. Naminé rarely speaks – when she does, she does so in faded whispers and an innocent voice. The black-coated woman saunters over to her, taunts dripping from her words like honey and a smile to put predators to shame.

"Or is it that she has grown close to our sky-brought hero? How amusing… the evil witch growing a heart from guilt only! If only it was real… but no, a fake. Like all in this place." A snap of lightning, a wince. The grin grows wider. "Oh what, what will dearest Sora do, I wonder?"

"It is not about Sora." Shy, and a liar to boot she may be… but no, Sora is not hers, never hers. She is only a ghost, while he is light and blood. Naminé can only lay claims to a certain affection to another dark soul in the bleached castle. To another being broken as she is, but with more poise and the embrace of shadows around him.

"So, the witch is also an unfaithful temptress! Weren't you best friends? You'll just break his heart… don't you like the feel of it? The lick of power?" She knows the barb hurts, the fake memories implanted in the hero's mind of the witch's making.

The elder female giggles – she "wishes" she had a man that was so devoted to her wiles. But Naminé is quiet once more. The insults and jabs wrap around her, cling to her and spark along like stray lightning.

A voice dissipates it.

"Twelve – while your talent for slander is of an extraordinary nature, it is not what we are here for. Surely, a few bouts of combat with more active prey will provide some more entertainment."

"Not to mention it lets the witchling continue to rebel against us, right Zexy?"

"Do not refer to me as such. I do not insist on rank, but my name or number are preferred."

"And what is it to me? I, in a show of care for our Organization's goal, am trying to steer Naminé back to her task of drawing Sora closer and leaving him as our puppet. It is more important than dealing with some heartless that you have probably conjured from that book of yours."

Naminé has watched the owner of that voice since his entrance. Her eyes, normally like an empty mirror, now show flickers of something close to a teenager's love. She does not know what brought him here, so far from his domain, but is thankful for it. He continues to try and lure the Nymph away, with promises of blood and darkness that entice the female. She yields after a while, striding out of the room with knives gleaming in her hands and the crackling of bloodlust-filled lightning about her.

The male approaches her, expression neutral. She cowers in her seat, a part of her begging to stand and…

"Naminé – as I understand, you have been drawing less. Is anything concerning you? We can't have this inconvenience, if we plan on getting our hearts back." Only business, away from what she hoped he would say, but she doesn't care, can't care. He takes a glance behind him, assuring himself that there are no other specters gliding too near to Naminé's cage. His gloved hands reach out, one taking the pad in which she draws. He flicks it open.

"Purpose aside, they are quite eye-catching. A far cry from the ones I saw you working on the previous times that I've been here."

It is nearly imperceptible, but there is a smile on his face. And a finger is tracing the sketched lines, eyes roving over the pages. Naminé blushes – she doesn't know how she can – and reaches out towards a blank page that she keeps nearby for times like these, where she wants to draw something but cannot use the note book.

The figure on the paper is done quickly, yet it looks so very similar to the person she wanted to draw. She doesn't notice that the room has gone silent; the soft voice has ceased praising her works and there is no sound of pages turning. She definitely does not notice that the man that is out of her drawing is standing now slightly behind her, the one eye she could see casually looking over her shoulder and into her drawing – his likeness.

"Ah… is that supposed to mean something?" He drawls with a smirk on his face. He is reaching for the page, trailing his slim fingers across it, gently ghosting a touch upon her bare hands.

For him, it had all begun as a ploy. He wanted his heart back and he knew that somehow the memory sorceress was necessary. But now, in her room… the scheme was fraying at the edges. He wasn't supposed to grow attached to her no, not attached, can't feel right. Much less to have something that was too close to love no, melancholy, twisted, heartless caring.

But he had, and now he had seen her create a drawing of him, a being who by rights should not exist. She had made him real, if only in a page as a drawing.

"Zexion…"

"Can I have it?" He asks – he wants something of her. Something he can manipulate her with, something he can remind himself of her face with. I can't, too wrong, no heart… love… . His fingers have found their way to her hands, caressing them – somehow, he thinks that he'll sway her if he does this.

"I, yes… at a price." She stutters and mumbles her way through that phrase, but manages to keep her too-blue eyes on his. She untangles one of her hands to run it through the fringe that obscured half of his face, stroke the pale thin neck. Pulls herself closer, because she is half-sure that one of them will break into darkness and mirrors in this moment.

She feels his arms encircle her waist, his lips ghosting her own. Closer, closer… a non-pulse racing, her free hand reaching to his chest. Where his heart should be, there is naught but an echo, and a gloved hand over hers.

He feels her unsure touch, her breath against his mouth. And he knows that, even without his heart his love, his soul he can pretend to care. Because the pale hand on his chest and the drawing and the girl are enough pieces to pretend it is there amidst the darkness that is him.

"What price?" He breathes this out, although he knows the answer. Her half-hooded eyes told him, the pencil told him. He touches his lips to hers. The faint scent she has of faded light and ink tastes sweet for him, like a far off memory from a life he led once upon a time.

For her, Zexion tastes of freedom and darkness and old books. She can pretend that their relation is not as false as they both know it is. She holds him closer, prays neither of them will break. The tightening embrace from him tells her that the "feeling" is mutual.

They stay like that for a while, lips pressed together and bodies close. He pulls apart, a hint of a smile on his face.

"I expected nothing less from such a work of art, Naminé…"

She blushes again, feels him trail a finger along the reddened skin.

"Now, to prevent Larxene from harming you, would you please return to creating your drawings? You can show them to me next time around. If I like them…"

The finger dropped to the corner of her lips, and languorously traced them. It was a promise of sorts. A challenge. The smirk on his face and the faded blush on his cheeks add to it, make sure she does as he wants.

She picks up the discarded pencil. He watches her for a while, then leaves with the sketch she made. What they have between them is make-believe and puppet strings. Empty mirrors that occasionally reflect the ghost of tainted emotions and drawings. But it is all right for them – it could never be anything else.