This is a few months old, but I thought I'd post it here. Depressing, but the scene wouldn't leave my head.
One Last Performance
-o-o-
They had sent the wrong man.
This is the mantra that runs through Demyx's mind as the battle surges around him, a whirlwind of water and noise and his own cries as he desperately tries to keep his powers alive. But the keyblade master's fighting is like a dance of its own, his weapons cutting through the cuneiform shapes that Demyx conjures with his sitar.
The water scatters, punctuating the air like shards of broken glass, tiny droplets scintillating, turning the battlefield into a lightshow of rainbows before they rain down, becoming lifeless condensation against the gray stone. The keyblades glisten as they effortlessly glide through Demyx's attacks, water weeping down their intricate keyways and staining the hands of their wielder.
Demyx almost expects to see a flash of blonde hair instead of brown—someone once a friend, but now a stranger. There is no recognition there on the keyblade master's face. His expression is set with determination, every one of his movements precise and calculated, almost as smooth as the water itself.
And when Demyx meets those unwavering blue eyes, he remembers how the others would sometimes tease him for being weak and tease Roxas for being who he was, and Roxas, with that same exact determination, would stand up to them every time, would stand up for him. But Demyx knows that his memories won't stop the keyblade master from finishing this fight, because this boy isn't his Roxas, this boy doesn't carry these memories—the memories that make this battle so painful.
They told him it would be an easy job. They lied. Demyx isn't cut out for this job. He can't keep up with the boy's dancing form, he can't keep fighting like this. He can feel his power slipping away like water through cracks, and he knows he's becoming desperate.
When the keyblade master reaches him, Demyx hears a shrill voice cry out for someone to intervene—someone to save him—and he realizes it's his own voice. But no one comes.
His sitar is useless, and the keyblades hurt more than he thought they would. As he tries to shield himself against the attacks, he sees those blue eyes again, shining with that determination—with that righteousness, with that complete confidence associated with doing the right thing. In the keyblade master's eyes, Demyx is just another enemy, merely an obstacle in his mission.
But as Demyx falls to his knees, he feels the pain, he feels the hollowness inside of him as he thinks about what it used to feel like to have a heart, and he knows deep down that he's not a monster, and neither was Roxas.
Demyx gets back up. He calls Roxas's name.
Those blue eyes fill with irritation, and the keyblades strike again.
He staggers, a sob bubbling up inside of him as he feels his power escaping him, evaporating. His sitar loses form and disperses into tiny waterfalls that cascade from his hands.
Demyx's knees give out on him, and he hits the ground, clutching at himself because it hurts—hurts all over, hurts behind his eyes and in his chest. He hears himself cry one last time, a broken, despairing wail of someone who knows what it feels like to feel.
The keyblade master hesitates at the sound, his eyes like ice.
Water slips down Demyx's cheeks, his last performance. Then he covers his face, and he truly becomes nothing.