Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, it is the property of Disney and Square Enix.
I would like to take this moment and show my appreciation and gratitude for the people who took the time to read the first chapter. I am grateful for all the people who are now following the story, I hope that I am able to entertain you all for the foreseeable future and that my story continues to hold your attention and interest. If there's anything you feel I'm not doing particularly well, please, do not hesitate to tell me, all constructive criticism is welcomed.
Also, to avoid any confusion, the story will be written in the point of views of all 3 characters. The first chapter focused on Ventus, this chapter will focus on Terra, and the following chapter will feature Aqua.
Enjoy the chapter.
It's an odd thing, to know that your strength is yours and yours alone. I have spent the last decade living as a marionette, the strings pulling me this way or that way; the strings superseded my own will, the strings being an extension of the puppeteer's will, Xehanort's will. Every time I moved, my mind reeled and was left in shambles, for it was not my intention to move, it was not my intention to raise his Keyblade, it wasn't my intention to strike down all those innocent people, and it surely wasn't my will to continue being his slave. After a certain point, I made an attempt to let go of all physical sensations, segregate my mind from my body, preserving my will in whatever way I could; it worked… somewhat. I didn't feel my mind take part in an uphill battle against the string master's pull – something that brought me mild relief – but I still felt a certain numbness. I didn't resist the pull of the strings because the strings, wound so tight around my muscles, cut off all blood flow, so to speak. I was in a state of suspended animation, my body was dull and in a constant state of unfeeling lethargy; however, my mind was fully aware of it, it knew, that despite not feeling my arm moving in a slashing manner, despite not feeling my hands around her neck, despite not feeling anything, that I still did all those horrible things, committed all manner of unspeakable atrocities, and, even though it was never my intention to do those things, my body was guilty of doing it nonetheless.
In many worlds it is argued, in the case of legal definitions, that a person is wholly guilty of committing a crime when an illegal action is backed by an intention to commit said action. However, it is also argued that a person is still guilty of a crime even if there is no malicious intent present for the illegal act, though the punishment is far less severe, the perpetrator is still expected to be sanctioned… So why is it that I have been exonerated for all my past deeds? A reasonable person would say that the ventriloquist can't blame the puppet for his crimes, so how could anyone blame me for what Xehanort forced me to do? The answer is simple: they don't blame me. I know they don't, so why is it that I still feel such immense guilt? I know for a fact that I didn't want to do those things, that I tried, in my own way, to fight off his control, that, when given the right push (by a spiky haired boy), I was able to finally set myself free and fight alongside everyone else against the puppeteer.
I know all of this, and yet, I can't shake the feeling that I am as guilty as any one of Xehanort's hooded copies.
When I was finally set free, the joy I felt in that brief moment was overshadowed by the wave of relief and euphoria I was hit with when I saw Ventus and Aqua. I couldn't help myself, I had to hold them in my arms, I had to look them in the eyes and see for myself that they were, in fact, really there. Back in the days – back before the strings – I would make sure that these two never see me shed a tear (call it machismo or an overt sense of masculinity) as I always wanted them to regard me as the 'tough' one, the one they could lean on; all those thoughts be damned because in this one moment, in this small moment where the world was only the size of the two people in front of me, I honestly couldn't care less if they see me weep and bawl like a baby. However, once the moment was over, once the world returned to its true size, and they had left my arms, I felt as if my limbs were burning, a sharp stinging feeling took hold of me and I had to clutch my arms tightly to make the feeling go away. At the time I thought that perhaps after regaining complete control of my body after so many years, it would simply be a while before I could feel normal and at home; that, unfortunately, is not the case.
I had realized that this feeling never manifested itself whenever I was by myself. The all too familiar sense of dullness is what I felt when I was by my lonesome, but when I was with them, whenever they came too close, the stinging feeling would return and I would be forced to take a step back, a step away from them. They would notice this, of course, the raising of their eyebrows a clear indicator, but they would never probe me for answers – maybe they made the same assumption as me and are giving me the space they think I need. The truth of the matter is, however, that my mind and body are rejecting them, not out of spite or disgust for them, but rather for myself. My mind is fully aware of all that happened while I was one with Xehanort, and my body remembers everything (muscle memory is not something so easily lost). So I pull back from them, from their gentle and loving touches because I know, for a fact, that I can't – shouldn't – touch or be touched by them, because I was Xehanort, I left Aqua in the Realm of Darkness, I broke Ven's heart, and I am a monster who got off scot-free.
It's been a few weeks since the end of the second Keyblade War (a war I played a major part in orchestrating). The three of us have, to a certain extent, formed a routine that we can collectively refer to as the 'new normal': Aqua and I have taken up the task of training Ventus – I train him in combat whereas Aqua trains him in magic; we occasionally visit other worlds in search for potential Keyblade wielders, we wander those worlds and spend the time there partaking in amicable chatter, and simply taking in the sights and activities of the unique world; we come back home, eat, rest, and start the day anew. It works for us.
Even though I've taken up the task as Ventus's new instructor, I have made sure never to engage him directly. I guide and coach him, demonstrating to him the proper stances, the various forms of attack; I've also made sure that I focus my teachings on what works best for him. Ven's greatest strength is his agility and it's in his best interest to learn techniques that make use of his quickness. The time Ven spent with Sora clearly influenced how he fights: he moves with the finesse and impetuousness of an overly enthusiastic child, reactionary in his fighting style, a fluidity in his movements that matches a scrap of paper moving unpredictably in the wind. It's mesmerizing… but also sloppy. This kind of style has its place – and it clearly served Sora well – but it won't be appropriate in every situation. So I teach him to be better. However, I do question the efficacy of my methods as I don't physically interact with him during our lessons. A lot would be made clear to him if I were to guide his hands and arms, engage him in battle and let him see the full effect of the techniques being taught, but I can't do it. Every time I get close to him I feel my arms sting and I force myself away from him, a small gap between us at all times. A gap a meter in length, and yet it feels so much larger.
The gap between us has become a constant in my life, but it is most prevalent when all three of us gather at the dinner table. It starts out fine enough: we chat about Ven's progress, taking the occasional jab at his shortcomings, Ventus pouts and tries retorting but often fails at his attempts at being witty; we then reminisce about the days before… well, before everything. About the time when I first learned Blizzard and would use it to create ice pops that Aqua and I would add syrup onto (Master Eraqus would often scold us for ruining our appetite this way), or the times Aqua would pull the occasional prank as a way of getting back at me for whatever I had done to upset her. These stories always had us laughing, practically wheezing; Aqua would then try to tap my shoulder good naturedly, and that slight touch would have me reeling back, hissing in discomfort. She would pull back her hand, her countenances clearly displaying surprise, sadness and disappointment. I would attempt to shrug it off by simply saying that she caught me off guard, adding in a low chuckle for good measure; I doubt that it works but it's enough for now.
The first day we shared a meal together, Ven had asked me to pass him a bowl of gravy. I had obliged and proffered him the bowl, but when his hands grabbed the bowl, the tips of his fingers barely grazed my hand and the stinging sensation returned and I, in my shock, it. I cringed when it crashed onto the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Ven was quick to take the blame, and even quicker to head out of the room to get the items needed to clean up the mess – my mess. We all played it off as an accident, but it's obvious, looking at them, that they know that something had caused me to drop it.
Couple these small moments with the 'gap' and it was blatantly obvious that there was something wrong with me. That I went out of my way to keep my distance, to ensure that they and I do not interact in any physical way. Why? Because I can't touch them, I shouldn't touch them. Every time I look at them, all I can imagine is Aqua, alone and hurt in the Realm of Darkness, and Ventus, lifeless and limp, stuck in a deep sleep that he may never have awoken from. And who's to blame? Principally, Xehanort, but I was a key factor. I was the one who gave into the darkness in the first place, I was the one who sought power so desperately that I played into the hands of the most foul man and struck down my own master – my father – in the heat of battle; there will always be blood on my hands, and as much as they try to tell me that it isn't there, as much as I try myself to wash and scrub it away, it will always be present. The stench and sight of it will forever haunt me.
The clocks chime twelve times and I find myself wide awake. Lying dead still in my bed, I look up at the ceiling, flashes of the life I lived but didn't control pervading my vision. Hidden underneath all the self-hatred and loathing, there lies another reason for why the simple act of touching repels me. I was, for all intents and purposes, violated. My body was turned into a toy, my will was subjugated and I was used for his plans. I was a marionette, and the memory of being one frightens and disgusts me. More than anything else, I'm afraid of being used in that way again. I'm afraid of being hugged, caressed and touched in any way, because it all reminds me of the strings, of the slight tugs that would lift my arms, of his will that forced and compelled me to act in ways I would never myself allow; I would be reminded of how his will coaxed my body to move and act in ways I would never want it to. The stinging belies the truth: that I am a broken man who's afraid that even the slightest touch, even if it carries with it only love and affection, may break me, and I don't have the strength or the will to fix myself.
I curl up into a ball and weep, no sense of machismo to be found, in this moment of privacy, all I am is a broken and cast away toy.
Perhaps, tomorrow will be a better day.