~EDITED – This is an edited chapter, and credit for inspiration goes to Sarah J. Mass and her incredible epic-fantasy series Throne of Glass. I encourage you to read it! Enjoy!~

~Part One – Armies of Darkness~

It's so annoyingly hot in this kingdom that Roxas is surprised his skin was melted to the tiles of the terra cotta roof. And he's been lying here for hours; since midmorning actually.

With his arm flung over his eyes, he can feel himself baking like the loaves of garlic bread that local cafes and middle class citizens keep on the windowsills. The restaurants do it to draw in customers to try their new foods, and as for the citizens, it's just their own stupidity; and that results in Roxas swiping it.

Only now, after a handful of weeks snacking on it, Roxas is sick of garlic bread. It was immensely tasty to begin with, but now he hates the way the basil tickles his tongue, and the horrid aftertaste that no amounts of water or wine can wash away.

The bread is all he has been snacking on when he landed in Ivalice a month ago today and make his way to the capital city, Lesalia, just as he'd been ordered by his Grand Imperial Majesty and Master of the Earth, his father Cloud Skyes.

Roxas has resorted to swiping garlic bread and wine off vendors' carts since he's been having an itch in the back of his head for some excitement. Not long after he'd taken one look at the rather beautiful city houses and stores and homes, at the elite guards, at the cobalt banners flapping so proudly in the dry hot wind did he decide not to kill any more people. The city seemed prosperous enough, to the point that he didn't want to ruin it.

So it's just been living in Reno's mansion with his crewmen, and snatching garlic bread . . . and wine. The sour red wine from the vineyards lining the rolling hills around the walled capital – a taste he had initially spat out but now very, very much enjoyed. Especially since the day when he decided that he didn't particularly care about anything at all.

At first, he had simply started sneaking down into Reno's wine cellar and swiping a bottle, taking a few sips, but then it gradually grew to a bottle and a half three nights a week. When Reno discovered this, and put a lock on the door, one he made sure Roxas couldn't pick, Roxas then resorted to traveling into town to the lowest of the low taverns where they wouldn't care how old he was. But boy was he wrong.

He still remembers the look on everyone's face when he had stabbed a security man's eye after he denied Roxas entry. In his own terms, Roxas threw a bit of a tantrum and the man's eye getting stabbed was just an unfortunate accident. The barman didn't ask questions, and the security man survived, and now they welcome Roxas whenever he pleases.

The assassin reaches for the terra-cotta tiles sloping behind him, groping for the silver stein of wine he had hauled onto the roof that morning. Patting, feeling for it, and then –

Roxas swears. Where the hell is the wine?

The world tilts and goes blindingly bright as he hoists himself onto his elbows. Seagulls circle above, keeping well away from the purple-tailed hawk that has been perched atop a nearby chimney all morning, waiting to snatch up its next meal. Roxas thought it was a strange sight at first, but his care deflated in a manner of seconds.

Below, the market street is a brilliant loom of color and sound, full of braying donkeys, merchants waving their wares, clothes both foreign and familiar, and the clacking of wheels against the pale cobblestones. But where in hell is the –

Ah. There it is. Tucked beneath one of the heavy red tiles to keep cool. Just where he had stashed it hours before, when he had climbed onto the roof of an artist's shop to survey the perimeter of Reno's luxurious mansion two blocks away. Or whatever he had thought sounded official and useful before he'd realized that he'd rather sprawl in the shadows. Shadows that have long since been burned away by that relentless Ivalice sun.

Roxas swigs from the stein of wine – or tried to. It is empty, which he supposed is a blessing, because gods his head feels so light. He needs water, and maybe an apple for once. Who knows, maybe the vendor will spot him and he can finally challenge these pristine guards he sees prancing around the streets. And perhaps something for the gloriously painful split lip and scraped cheekbone he had earned last night in one of the city's taverns.

Groaning, Roxas rolls onto his belly and surveys the street forty feet below. He knew the guards patrolling it by now – have marked their faces and weapons, just as he had with the guards atop the high walls of the fort. He has memorized their rotations, and how they open the three massive gates that lead into the castle. It seems that the Gainsboroughs and their ancestors take safety very, very seriously. There is no castle here – the legendary marble castle of King Sephiroth Gainsborough being in Valendia – and with Valendia being the near biggest country of Ivalice, they have forts posted in the rest of the other kingdoms.

It has been a month since he had arrived in Lesalia itself, after hauling ass from the coast. Not because he was particularly eager to find Axel's brother, but because the city is so damn large that is seems his best chance of dodging the immigration officials, who he had given the slip instead of registering with their oh-so-benevolent work program. Hurrying with his men to the capital had also provided welcome activity after weeks at sea, where Roxas hadn't felt like doing anything other than lying on the narrow bed in his cramped cabin or sharpening his weapons with a near-religious zeal.

Witness true power, Tifa had said to him.

Every slice of the whetting stone had echoed it. Power, power, power. The word had trailed him each league across the ocean.

He had made a vow – a vow to stop his blood spillage. So in between moments of despair and rage and grief, in between thoughts of Axel and Roxas' secret Elven heritage and all he had left behind and lost, Roxas had decided on one plan to follow when he reached these shores. One plan, however stupid and unlikely, to stop killing in the name of the shadows; find and obliterate every criminal and lowlife that infested this kingdom – if any. He would gladly let himself get arrested to carry it out.

But, in Ivalice, there isn't much. Just petty thieves and unskilled mercenaries. But small steps are small steps. But it's just them, and just him. Just as it should be; no loss of life beyond their own, no soul stained but his. It will take a monster to destroy a monster.

How different he is from the boy his father had raised as a child. A boy who was cold, heartless, everything an Assassin King should be, that is until Roxas mistakenly stumbled onto the ship of a pirate captain, Axel. The spikey haired, redheaded that had snatched Roxas' heart while in the midst of their travels. Even caused him to rebel against his father and foolishly join up with his psychotic mother and her assassins named Faceless. But that was a grave mistake as well, finding out his mother is alive after years of believing she was dead, Roxas had fled to her in hopes of escaping his father. But Roxas had found out that his mother was even worse than his father, as she had revealed to him a secret of Roxas' heritage that she had used to nearly flatten half of Twilight Town.

His heritage . . . a curse that he had never wished he had discovered. His strength of Elven gene and his power of magic that not even he knew he had possessed. But his mother knew, and his father; but at least his father was humane enough to keep Roxas from even thinking about it. For years he had turned Roxas into a killer to make the idea not even come into Roxas' mind. His mother, though . . . Once she had found out, she used it completely to his advantage. She had created a serum that she had injected into Roxas to gain control over him and use him as a killing machine. The lives he ended, the blood that coated his body –

And once Roxas regained control, with the help of his father, he had fled the continent of Kingdom Hearts to Ivalice. His father had hopes that Roxas would find other Elves of his species and they would train him to control his power, but Roxas doesn't want to control it. He wants nothing to do with it. He had locked the elven warrior away with thick chains in his heart and burned the key into ash. He doesn't even want to think about letting it go.

If he has to be here because of his father's misplaced good intentions, then at least he'd receive the answers he needs. There is only one person in Kingdom Hearts who had been present when the Guilds were merely groups of shadowy stories told to keep children in line. Even back when the Elves themselves had conducted themselves into the different classes of society. Queen Rydia of the Elves. Rydia knew everything – as is expected when you are older than dirt.

Still, it's like restarting. Here he is a no one, or at least a person of legend. The rumors and news of the Guilds and their influence in Kingdom Hearts is well-known enough that the citizens of the Ivalice continent are paranoid enough to fear the shadows at night, walking armed with extra weapons and ready with spare money.

It's the least Roxas can do. For Ventus – for . . . for a lot of other people. There is nothing left in him, not really. Only ash and an abyss and the unbreakable vow Roxas had carved into his flesh, to the friend who had seen Roxas for what he truly is.

When they had docked at the largest port in Ivalice, Roxas couldn't help but admire the caution the ship took while coming to shore – waiting until a moonless night, then stuffing Roxas and his crew and the other refugees from Kingdom Hearts in the galley while navigating the secret channels through the barrier reef. It is understandable: the reef is the main defense keeping Kerwon's legions from these shores.

There is the other task lingering in the back of his mind: to find out the meaning of that riddle his father had told him on the docks of Twilight Town.

Roxas did know, he just knew, that a part of it had to do with his Elven heritage. While he didn't want to use his Elven side, ever again, a part of him did itch to try and control it. Seeing other fully-fledged Elven men and women in the kingdom, most of them knights and guards, it did intrigue him to wonder how he could possibly use his "other half" without ripping an entire town's population in half. But Roxas shoved all those thoughts aside when they had docked and the refugees had been herded ashore for processing by the port's officials.

Roxas and his men had slipped through the crow, surprisingly well given they had to carry Axel on a stretcher. They had wound up on the road to the capital as soon as he was certain his men were all right. After they had gotten settled in at Reno's mansion, since there was nothing Roxas could do, he occupied his time and his mind by browsing around the marketplace.

It had all been fine – fine and easy. Hiding in abandoned buildings and houses along the way, they passed like shadows through the countryside.

Ivalice. A land of myths and monsters – of legends and nightmares made flesh.

The kingdom itself is a spread of warm, rocky canyons and thick forests, growing ever greener as hills rolls inland and sharper into towering peaks. The coast and the land around the capital are dry, as if the sun had baked all but the hardiest vegetation. Vastly different from the soggy, frozen empire Roxas had left behind.

A land of plenty of opportunity, where men didn't just take what they wanted, where no doors are locked and people smile at you in the streets. But Roxas doesn't particularly care if someone does or does not smile at him – no, as the days wore on, he found it suddenly very difficult to bring himself to care about anything at all.

Whatever determination, whatever rage, whatever anything he'd felt upon leaving Kingdom Hearts has ebbed away. Devoured by the nothingness that now gnaws at him.

It was four days before Roxas spotted the massive capital city built across the foothills. Lesalia Imperial Capital. For some reason, Roxas wished they were in Valendia, the city where Queen Lilian had been born; the vibrant heart of the kingdom. He hadn't even seen or dreamt of the Queen since he had left Kingdom hearts, and now he missed even her company.

While Lesalia is cleaner than Twilight Town and has plenty of wealth spread between the upper and lower classes, it is a capital city all the same, with slums and back alleys, whores and gamblers – and it hadn't taken too long to find its underbelly.

On the street below, three of the market guards pause to chat at a local tailor, and Roxas rests his chin on his hands, his arms hugging his knees. Like every guard in this kingdom, each is clad in light armor and bears a good number of weapons.

Rumor claims the Ivalicean soldiers were actually elves of Valendia sent out from the capital. And they are ruthless and cunning and swift. And Roxas doesn't want to know if that was true, for about a dozen different reasons.

But still, while he is in Lesalia, he wishes to travel to Valendia, as that is the home of the elves. The creatures of which he needs help from, not some more mortals and mere small scatterings of elves, but a population of elves themselves.

They certainly seem a good deal more observant than the average Twilight Town sentry – even if they hadn't yet noticed the assassin in their midst. But these days, Roxas knew the only threat he poses is to himself.

Even baking in the sun each day, even washing up whenever he feels like it in one of the mansion's many marble bathrooms, Roxas can still feel Demyx's blood soaking his skin, into his hair. Even with the constant noise and rhythm of Lesalia, Roxas can still hear Demyx's groan as he gutted him in the garden of his mother's castle back in Traverse Town. And even with the wine and heat, Roxas can still see Axel, horror contorting his face at what he had had learned about Roxas' Elven heritage and the monstrous power that could easily destroy Roxas, about how hollow and dark Roxas is inside.

Roxas often wonders whether or not what could happen if he does figure out the riddle, and had discovered that truth his father had told him about . . . Roxas never lets himself get that far. Now wasn't the time for thinking about Cloud, or the truth, or any of the things that had left Roxas' soul so limp and weary.

Roxas tenderly prods his split lip and frowns at the market guards, the movement making his mouth hurt even more. He had deserved that particular blow in the brawl he had provoked in last night's tavern – he had kicked a man's balls into his throat, and when he had caught his breath, he had been enraged, to say the least. They didn't take bribes from the merchants, or bully or threaten with fines like the guards and officials in Twilight Town. Every official and soldier he had seen so far had been similarly . . . good.

The same way Sephiroth Gainsborough, the King of Ivalice, is good.

Dredging up some semblance of annoyance, Roxas sticks out his middle finger. At the guards, at the market, at the hawk on the nearby chimney, at the strong fortress and the captain who lives inside it. He wishes that he had not run out of wine so early in the day.

A cooling breeze pushes past, bringing with it the spices from the vendors lining the nearby street – parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. He inhales deeply, letting the scents clear his sun-and-wine-addled head. The pealing of bells floats down from one of the neighboring mountain towns, and in some square of the city, a minstrel band strikes up a merry midday tune. Ventus and Demyx would've loved this place; hell, it could eve bring a smile to Maleek's face.

That fast, the world slips, swallows up by the abyss that now lives within him. None of them will ever see Ivalice. Never wander through the spice market or hear the mountain bells. A dead weight presses on Roxas' chest.

It has seemed like such a perfect plan when he had arrived in the Imperial Capital. In the hours he had spent figuring out hub worlds of the criminals, he had debated how he would find the gangs and the guilds.

The only other thing he can do to occupy his mind and his time was learn about the Elves; seeing as how all of his books, as well as Axel's had been left all the way back in Kingdom Hearts, trapped in the glass castle. The home of the Faceless and the staple building of Traverse Town. But gods can screw that.

It had all been going smoothly, flawlessly – just hunt down the criminals and kill them all – until . . .

Until that gods-damned day when Roxas had cornered a local assassin on a rooftop. Until Sephiroth Gainsborough had come riding in through the city's gates, in full view of where Roxas had been perched on the roof of a noblemen's house.

It hadn't been the sight of him, with his ivory skin and silver hair, that had stopped Roxas dead. It hadn't been the fact that, even from a distance, he could see his catlike turquoise eyes – identical to Roxas' eyes, the reason why Roxas usually wore a hood in the streets.

No. It had been the way people cheered.

Cheered for him, the Valendian king. Not even they're king and they cheered! They adored him, with his dashing smile and his light armor gleaming in the endless sun, as he and the soldiers behind him rode towards the north coats to continue blockade running. Blockade running. The king is a gods-damned blockade runner against Kingdom Hearts, and his people loved him for it.

After he made sure to gut the local assassin and hand his head on the gutters, Roxas had trailed the king and his men through the city, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, and all it would have taken was one arrow through those turquoise eyes and he would have been dead. But Roxas followed him all the way to the city walls, the cheers growing louder, people tossing flowers, everyone beaming with pride for their perfect, perfect king.

Roxas had reached the city gates just as they opened to let him through. An when Sephiroth Gainsborough rode off into the sunset, off to war and glory and to fight for good and freedom, Roxas lingered on that roof until the king was a speck in the distance.

Then Roxas had walked into the nearest tavern and gotten into the bloodiest, most brutal brawl he had ever provoked, until the city guard was called in and Roxas had vanished moments before everyone was tossed into the stocks. And then Roxas decided, as his nose bled down the front of his shirt and he spat blood onto the cobblestones, that he wasn't going to do anything.

When he had arrived at Reno's mansion, the blood still flowing from his nose, after receiving a severe tongue lashing of swears and lectures from Vanitas and Riku, Roxas only asked for a simple tissue before sauntering off towards the chamber room holding Axel, who is still asleep since their departure of Twilight Town. Roxas always keeps a constant vigilance on Axel, waiting for him to wake up. He would sit there all day, usually. It's already been a month, blood pressure is stabilized, pulse is strong, and he still hasn't shown any signs of movement apart from even, peaceful breaths.

There is no point to Roxas' plans. Sephiroth and Maleek would have led the world to freedom, and Maleek should have been breathing. Together the king and the boy could have defeated the plague of assassins. But Maleek is dead, and Roxas' vow to Ventus – his stupid, pitiful vow – is worth as much as mud when there are beloved fighters like Sephiroth who can do so much more. Roxas had been a fool to make that vow.

Even Sephiroth – Sephiroth was barely making a dent against Kerwon's forces, and he had an entire army at his disposal. Roxas is one person, one complete waste of life. They didn't need him.

They didn't need him for anything. He can't be an assassin, he can't be a hero. He can't do anything.

Apart from he guard's, Roxas still hasn't seen one of the Elves – not a single damn one – or the faeries, or even a lick of magic. He has done his best to avoid it. Even before he spotted Sephiroth, he had kept away from the market stalls that offered everything from healing to trinkets to potions, areas that are usually full of street performers or mercenaries trading their gifts to earn a living. Roxas has learned which taverns the magic-wielders liked to frequent and never went near them. Because sometimes he feels a tickling, writhing thing awaken in his gut if he catches a crackle of its energy.

It has been a week since he had given up on his plan and abandoned any attempt to care at all. And Roxas suspects it will be many weeks more before he decides he is truly sick of garlic bread, or brawling every night just to feel something, or guzzling sour wine as he lies on rooftops all day.

But his throat is parched and his stomach is grumbling, so Roxas slowly peels himself off the edge of the roof. Slowly, not because of those vigilant guards, but rather because his head is well and truly spinning. He doesn't trust himself to care enough to prevent a tumble.

Roxas glares at the thin scar stretching across his palm as he shimmies down the drainpipe and into the alley off the mansion driveway. It is now nothing more than a reminder of the pathetic promise he had made at Ventus' half-frozen grave over a month ago, and of everything and everyone else he had failed. Just like his gold ring – the ring that Axel had given to him as a sign of their bond – which Roxas gambles away every night and wins back before sunrise.

Despite all that has happened, and his own role in Axel's coma, even after Roxas feels like he has destroyed what there was between them, Roxas hasn't been able to forfeit his ring. Roxas has lost it thrice now in card games, only to get it back – by whatever means necessary. A dagger poised to slip between the ribs usually does a good deal more convincing than actual words.

Roxas supposes it is a miracle he makes it down to the street, where the shadows momentarily blind him. He braces a hand on the cool stone wall, letting his eyes adjust, willing his head to stop spinning. With a misstep, Roxas had ended up in a back alley of the marketplace, the wrong step over the wall that separates the mansion's property line from the rest of the land.

A mess – he is a gods-damned mess. He wonders when he will bother to stop being one.

The tang and reek of the woman hits Roxas before he sees her. Then wide, yellowed eyes are in his face, and a pair of withered cracked lips part to hiss. "Slattern! Don't let me catch you in front of my door again!"

Roxas pulls back, blinking at the vagrant woman – and at her door, which . . . is just an alcove in the wall, crammed with rubbish and what has to be sacks of the woman's belongings. The woman herself is hunched, her hair unwashed and teeth a ruin of stumps. Roxas blinks again, the woman's face coming into focus. Furious, half-mad, and filthy.

Roxas holds up his hands, backing away a step, then another. "Sorry."

The woman spits a wad of phlegm onto the cobblestone an inch from Roxas' dusty boots. Failing to muster the energy to be disgusted or curious, Roxas would have walked away had he not glimpsed himself as her raises his dull gaze from the glob.

Dirty clothes – stained and dusty and torn. Not to mention, he smells atrocious, and this vagrant woman has mistaken him for . . . for a fellow vagrant, competing for space on the streets.

He still wears the clothes he had left Kingdom Hearts, blood-dripped with smears of dirt and dust. His hair – of which he had stupidly allowed his psychotic mother to dye a chocolate brown – has washed away to a light golden brown, and his roots are starting to grow. The small blonde dots are starting to reclaim their place on his scalp, and Roxas is more than happy to revel his blonde hair again. Anything to get rid of the mud-brown that so easily reminds him of his mother.

Well. Wasn't that just wonderful. An all-time low, even for him. Perhaps it'd be funny one day, if he bothers to remember it. He can't recall the last time he laughed.

At least she can take some comfort in knowing that it can't get worse.

If it weren't for the emptiness inside him, along with that pathetic promise he made to Ventus that he wouldn't kill anyone anymore, Roxas would've easily spilled her guts onto the street. But instead, as fast as his tipsy body can allow, he draws his dagger and jabs the hilt into the side of her head, and she collapses onto the ground. After rummaging through her things, he could only acquire a flask of fountain water.

Drinking it to minimize his thirst, Roxas trudges back around the wall and towards the mansion. Its red-brick exterior was different than the brown and white of the village. Its three stories with a wraparound porch, and balconies. The only similarity it has with the town is the terracotta roof. Vines creep up the left side of the house, clinging to the chimney.

Roxas does his best to keep his walking steady as his cloak flaps in the breeze that tickles his hair. He pays no heed to any of the merchants or citizens he passes by, still they clear him a path; most likely due to his stench.

Making his way up to the mansion's driveway, Roxas wipes his nose with the back of his hand as he pushes open the double oak doors, of which have no guards outside. Normally he would've complained, but this isn't a Guild mansion. Reno is just a normal citizen here.

The moment Roxas walks through the doors, a long red carpet muffles his footsteps. The mansion foyer goes straight back into a living room with two split staircases on either side; then open balconies revealing doors deeper into the home. A large crystal chandelier hangs at the center of the ceiling, flickering with bright orange candles.

As Roxas takes off his cloak and hangs it on the thin coatrack by the door, he's suddenly grabbed from behind, his hands getting pinned behind his back.

"Hey!" Roxas screams. He immediately starts to thrash, but the powerful muscles holding his wrist, shift and then Roxas is hoisted up over a shoulder. He continually pounds on his perpetrator's back, but he only sees the red of the carpet as he's hauled up the stairs. Then the next thing he knows, he's plunked down with a splash of warm water and sweet smelling bubbles.

Roxas bursts through the surface and gasps for breath, coughing as some water is swallowed down his windpipe. He rubs his eyes and turns to his left to find his abductor with one hand on his hip and a damning frown on his face. The moment Roxas recognizes the ember-gold eyes and the dark black spikes around his head, Roxas doesn't stop the hiss that escapes his lips.

He summons his energy as best he can. "Vanitas, what the hell?!"

"Well you weren't going to take a bath on your own anytime soon, and I'm tired of having to put on my mask whenever you walk by. Not to mention it's seeping into the furniture of the mansion." His lifelong companion spits. He folds his arms and glares at Roxas, but Roxas can still see the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

Roxas snarls, but quickly frowns as he lowers his head to the water of the tub. Because Vanitas was smart enough to plop hi in fully clothed, the water is already hazy.

"I'll give you a chance to change. Just turn the lever upwards when you want more water." Vanitas says, Roxas looks up and watches as Vanitas turns and walks out of the door. His back muscles expand and contract underneath his blue tunic as he opens the door and closes it softly behind him.

Roxas just sits there for a moment, letting the warm water cocoon his skin. From his ribs up, it is exposed and he shivers harshly. Removing his dirtied clothes and shoes, Roxas turns the faucet handle upwards like Vanitas had said, and soon more warm water pours from the faucet, steaming as it replaces the tainted water.

Dumping his soaked clothes into the sink, Roxas takes the three steps it takes to get down to the tub, and settles himself up to his neck in water and suds. The tub is a beautiful white marble, just like the rest of the bathroom with a thin, set in the middle of the bathroom. There's a white lace curtain pulled aside though meant for privacy, though there's no point since there are balcony doors located in the back, and overlooking the sea just beyond. Another crystal chandelier hangs overhead, matching the smaller scones on the wall around the mirrors on both sides of the room.

Nestled in the circular tub, vanilla scented candles lit in the corners of the dais, Roxas debates on scrubbing himself, but he's so warm now and possibly relaxed that he simply rests his head back. His body slides slightly until the water level is just below his nose. Roxas closes his eyes, trying to let the scent drive away his repulsive odor. But then the door opens again and back is Vanitas with a couple folded, white towels in hand. He sees Roxas and his shoulders drop. Another disappointed frown. Unphased and uncaring, Roxas turns his head away to face the wall. To stare at a vase of lily flowers in full bloom poised next to a bowl of popery.

Looks like Reno's trading with Axel has certainly paid off is the expensive decorations and deigns aren't significant enough.

Roxas listens as Vanitas makes his way around the bathtub and sets the downs down in the corner. He walks his way into Roxas' peripherals, and Roxas turns his head. "Roxas, come on. Can you even clean yourself?"

"I didn't care enough to bathe in the first place. What do you think?"

Vanitas sighs and sits on the edge of the dais. "Roxas, what happened? You seemed so, determined beforehand. But then we got here, and you ran off, then the next thing we know, you come home with a bloody nose and no ambition. Now look at you."

Roxas curls into himself, not wanting to hear Vanitas' lecture that he's already heard before. And once is enough. And with that woman in the alcove . . .

"If you're going to give me a lecture, then just leave now and let me bathe in peace." Roxas snaps.

"If I do that, you'll turn into a raison by the time I get back. Look, you can't keep expecting me to baby you." Vanitas says.

"I never asked you to in the first place." He has to be drunk – still drunk or descending to a new level of apathy – if he's talking to his only other true friend like this.

And it's true. In a way, Vanitas was Roxas' caretaker and rock since they reached the shore of Ivalice. He would bring Roxas breakfast when Roxas didn't feel like getting out of bed, he would lay with Roxas in bed when he was screaming from nightmares of Elves and demon creatures. He would read some stories to Roxas whenever they were in the library, the only place that Roxas ever get out of bed for. And he would hold Roxas for as long as he wanted, or until Roxas finally felt safe enough to fall asleep. If it weren't for Vanitas, what would Roxas be? Admittedly, Roxas is grateful, even if he did beat up Vanitas for hiding away the wine. Vanitas still having a scar on his chin as proof.

Vanitas merely sighs and shakes his head. Roxas shifts slightly as Vanitas exits his peripheral vision momentarily then there's light shuffling of bottles and drawers, the running of sink water and then he's back with a wet rag smothered in bubbles. "Lean forward." Vanitas orders softly.

Roxas bubbles the water with his lips before he lifts his shoulder out of the water, earning a shivering of goose bumps. He leans forward, enough to rest his chin on his knees, and soon feels the warm rag on his back, moving up and down and in circular motions. The rag traces all along his back, and over his shoulder slightly before Vanitas dips the rag in the water and wrenching it out. He takes Roxas' chin and angles his head upwards before delicately starting to scrub and wipe the assassin's cheeks. He then takes a porcelain pitcher and dunks it into the water then pouring it slowly on Roxas' head, running his fingers through the boy's hair as he does.

Vanitas does this repetitive motion until Roxas' skin is clean and his hair feels less greasy. Still, it takes serval rounds to clean the grim off of Roxas, Vanitas having to replace the water twice. But even when he has Roxas clean, an impressive accomplishment if he does say so himself, he still lets the assassin stay in the now clear water. Even if he knew Roxas might just get it wet again, Vanitas dries off the boy's hair with a towel.

He then says. "Please tell me you'll stop. Please." Vanitas says

But Roxas can't stop, even as the gods and the lord or the threads of fate readied to shove him back towards his original plans of action.

He can't. And he doesn't really want to. Just the past few minutes of interaction have drained him completely.

He doesn't want to stop.

What utterly troubles Roxas the most, or possibly not, is that it didn't unnerve him as much as it should have.