IV.

The space Ienzo chose was the one where he'd been taught as a boy. It had good, natural light from the wide windows, and was far enough away from the bedrooms that the noise wouldn't bother anyone. It was also close enough that they could easily get back for water or tea, or the washroom.

Like everywhere else, it was full of some ten years' of dust. When Demyx saw it he groaned, and privately Ienzo agreed.

"Well, we shouldn't shirk," Ienzo said. "Let's clean up."

"It's not like we have Dusks to do it," Demyx muttered.

"I'd rather not work in filth, would you?"

"No," he agreed. "Let's just get it over with."

He helped Demyx sweep through the worst of the dust. Even with the windows open, it made them sneeze. Once it seemed to be mangeable, he left Demyx to continue on and started retrieving books that might be helpful. Rune dictionaries, copies of the fairy tales with scholarly annotations, theory and music history (for context on the composer's life), typical history. The composer had to be from Radiant Garden; how else would it have gotten here?

When Ienzo returned with another load of books, Demyx gave him a droll look. He was doing, surprisingly enough, a good job of it, and the original color of the floor was actually visible again. "For how insistent you were with the cleaning, I figured you'd be helping me," Demyx said.

"It's more efficient if we split our labor," Ienzo said. "I hate to break away from my work once I've started. I'd rather be overcautious with materials than not."

Once the floor was dry, Aeleus and Dilan brought the piano in. Admittedly it was a sorry sight to see, scratched and wobbly. Demyx stabilized it with a few blocks of wood. He looked at it like he might an old friend, with a sort of hazy nostalgia. He pressed the first sour key and flinched.

Ienzo knew he could not really be of help in this case. He watched Demyx as he propped open the old top, armed himself with a pair of pliers, and steeled himself for the work ahead.

He didn't think he would find it interesting to observe, but he did. Without even use of a tuning fork, Demyx managed to get the keys back towards normal range with only a few delicate twists. And once it sounded more-or-less perfect to Ienzo, he kept adjusting.

"You must have a very good ear," Ienzo remarked quietly. "To tell such minute differences."

He seemed unsure of how to take the compliment. "Well, I would hope so." He rolled his right arm. "We wouldn't have to do all this if I just had my sitar," he said bitterly. "That's about as good as it's going to get."

Ienzo touched one of the smooth ivory keys. "Much better."

"Still a bit flat, but I was afraid to pull much harder, especially on the higher notes. I doubt there's any spare piano wire hanging around. It's not exactly a commodity." Ienzo noted, chastising himself slightly, that he'd never heard Demyx speak so deeply or knowledgeably about a subject and has assumed he'd been unable to. Then again, before now he'd never bothered to listen. Demyx played a chord. "It's bearable, at least."

Ienzo nodded. "Shall we get to work, then?"

His expression slipped. "Now? Don't you want to take a break first?"

"Why? There's still so much of the day left."

Demyx rolled his shoulders again. "My arms kinda hurt."

Ienzo sighed. "I could do with some lunch."

It ended up being good that they took a break. He changed out of his dusty clothes and saw the room with a fresh eye. In his urgency, he'd left his books in a mess. "I didn't realize I left these so… unorganized."

With a notable hesitation, Demyx sat down on the little old bench. His posture for practice was good, but he looked tense anyway. He played some scales that sounded like they came easily, but there was a furrow in his brow.

"You look uncomfortable," Ienzo said.

He shook his head. "Just trying to warm up."

Ienzo turned back to his books. He wasn't sure what the best way to keep them organized was. Subject? Date? Relevance? Of course he'd brought too many; he always had. The steadiness of the scales became a sort of background noise that was easy to tune out, at least until he heard Demyx play a sour note. Ienzo saw him flex his injured hand. He'd attributed their early break to laziness, but honestly Demyx was likely in pain. "Is your wound bothering you?" Ienzo asked. He began to wonder how often people had assumed the worst of Demyx, only to have the behavior come from a perfectly logical place. Moreover, why had he let people drag him down like that?

"Just a bit stiff," he said, with an odd smile. He kept playing scales, gradually letting them vary in rhythm and complexity, while Ienzo continued to get himself organized. Once he was happy enough, he sat in a chair close enough so that he could also see the score.

It was so dense and complex; honestly it looked to Ienzo more like a drawing than a song. At least the runes were legible, but that didn't help Demyx. Even so, he seemed to sight-read with relative ease, making sense of the chaos and playing a beautiful, melancholic song. While he did made a few mistakes Ienzo noticed, Ienzo would have been more surprised if he hadn't.

But instead of looking relieved, or at peace or happy, when he got through the first part of the score Demyx pressed his hands between his knees anxiously.

"It's lovely," Ienzo commented. "But-rather sad. I wonder what it means."

"Could just be what was on their mind when they wrote it."

"Perhaps. We'll know more when I translate. Keep going. I'll try to remember the rhythm of the sung phrases."

For a long time-it was hard to tell how long exactly, but the sunlight in the room was starting to darken-Demyx kept pressing forward. It was all woefully complicated. Looking at the notes made Ienzo dizzy. Instead he watched Demyx's hands work across the keyboard, surely and competently. He was utterly, completely, and almost painfully focused as they passed from movement to movement, only pausing ever so slightly to turn the page. This was talent, raw and simple, and Ienzo felt a wave of guilt when he thought of how they'd all belittled Demyx for his obsession with his sitar.

This guilt broke his own concentration, and he noticed the bandage on Demyx's hand was no longer clean and white, but soaked through with blood. He grabbed his shoulder. "Stop. Your hand."

Demyx looked down, startled. The keys were faintly bloody. Ienzo grabbed one of the cleaning rags and tied it over the first bandage. Demyx did not seem concerned about his hand; he was more worried about the blood on the piano. He started wiping at it with another rag, discordant clangsreplacing the previous melodies.

"Leave it. You probably need stitches," Ienzo said.

"It'll get stained if I don't," Demyx said. A sharp, anxious edge crept into his voice.

"That's all right." It was a very old piano. That would be the least of the damage. "I'm going to get a first aid kit. Put pressure on it. About that much." He squeezed Demyx's right hand to demonstrate. He could feel the faint scratch of the thick calluses against his own soft, unweathered hands. He set off. He'd never seen Demyx's hands without gloves, had never paid much attention to them before. In a way they were quite graceful when not hidden behind the Organization's uniform.

Why was he thinking about this?

He found the first aid kit in its usual place, still well-stocked with sutures. Ienzo washed his hands meticulously, twice, and returned quickly. He crouched down and took the injured hand. "Bleeding seems to have stopped. I suppose i must have misjudged how deeply the wound ran the other night."

"Even did too," Demyx said weakly.

"That's odd," Ienzo said. "I usually trust his judgement with these things." He unwrapped the bandages and saw why. The wound was narrow but ran deeply. He cleaned it gently, but Demyx still hissed in pain. Then he prepared the sutures. "I'm sorry, this will hurt. But it won't heal correctly otherwise."

The needle had barely pierced the skin before he was cringing away.

"Steady," Ienzo said. He tried to move as quickly and lightly as possible, but even so it took nine stitches to close the wound. The irony of this was not missed by Ienzo, and while he did not believe in luck, he considered adding a tenth. He changed the bandages out for clean ones. "Nine stitches. Rather auspicious."

He wiped at his eyes. "It fucking kills."

"I can't see how it would be… pleasant. Nonetheless, I think you should let your wound heal before we continue." He sat down next to Demyx. "Of course, I should like to do some translation work. If it's all the same to you, I can translate, and you can rest. For today… I think this is enough."

"I couldn't agree more." More than anything, he looked exhausted, and he cradled his injured hand.

Did his anxiety keep him awake as well? Ienzo nearly asked. Instead, he said, "I am curious, though. How many instruments can you play? I shouldn't have assumed your mastery of piano, though you are rather skilled in that regard."

The question seemed to startle him. He exhaled, clucking his tongue a little. "Well, I mean I don't really know. Sitar, obviously. Stringed instruments tend to come really naturally to me. I don't have much experience with brass or woodwind, but if I looked at it for a little while, I could probably pick it up. It just seems to make sense to me. You know?"

How Ienzo envied that skill. Nothing, not one little thing, had ever come so easily to him. Except perhaps overthinking. "Fascinating. So you've no formal training?"

He shrugged. "Not that I can remember. I mean, some one must have taught me how to read and write music."

Ienzo blinked. "What else can't you remember?"

Demyx whistled, a low, strange sound. "Well, I mean, a lot, really. My past is… kind of blurry."

That made no sense. If he were whole now, he should have all his memories. Ienzo wondered if there was a reason why Demyx hadn't revealed his true name. "That's… peculiar. Did you remember your past as a Nobody? The first time you were one, anyway."

He twitched a little, and a hand went up to his head as if in pain.

"Demyx? Are you alright?"

Demyx breathed shakily and audibly. His eyes were glassy, vacant; without warning, he fell forward in a dead faint.

"Oh, goodness," Ienzo said. He crouched down next to him and shook him, but he didn't wake. He reached back into the first aid kit, looking for smelling salts of something of that ilk, but Even usually considered such medicine old-fashioned and didn't stock it. Ienzo took Demyx's pulse, noting it was uncomfortably high.

What on earth? Was this some sort of reaction to his questions? Why? Had Xehanort deliberately withheld the vessel's memory from them?

He tried to lift Demyx's body, but of course he was too weak. He sighed, more frustrated with himself than anything. He picked up his gummiphone. "Even? I need your help."

It took both of them, but they were able to get Demyx into bed. Through all of this he didn't stir in the slightest. Even took some blood, hurried out to run some quick tests, and came back some half hour later. In the meantime Ienzo waited nearby, afraid to stray too far lest something even worse happen. Despite himself, he was worried. It was hard not to feel at fault somehow.

"Well, I've check his blood count," Even said wearily. "Everything is normal but the sugar and iron were low. I'm sure that explains the fainting. What you consider a trigger is no doubt a coincidence."

Ienzo shook his head. "I'm not so sure. He had mentioned something about lacking memory. Why is it that when I tried to prod, he had this reaction? Roxas was similarly knocked unconscious when he strayed to Castle Oblivion."

Even wrinkled his nose. "Ienzo, you know as well as I do that Demyx has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps he just wanted some attention. Your worry is misplaced."

He didn't care for Even's callous tone. But at the same time, he was the only person who had become human the same way Demyx did. "...Even, do you have all your memories?"

"Of course I do! I think I would know if that were not the case."

This did not make things any clearer. "How odd. How odd…"

"His heart is not yet complete. That may have something to do with it."

"I'm going to take a look at my notes regardless." He'd never heard of such a thing. Was it perhaps a trauma-induced amnesia?

"Still, this brings up the matter of our diet. I had suspected it is somewhat lacking, too high in carbs. Perhaps we can go down to the marketplace and find something more nutritious…"

Ienzo found it strange that, despite having studied memories and hearts for the majority of his career, this was what he was hyperfixated on. "Aren't you at least a little curious?" he asked in a low voice.

"I am. But at the same time, it's still so early on. We know now that this recompletion process favors entropy. If we woke with our physical wounds, wouldn't it make sense to wake up with psychological ones as well?"

"I… suppose." He sighed.

"He will recover," Even said, with just the slightest bit of warmth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two bottles. "This is just some medication for him. Iron and a painkiller for that hand. I should have noticed how bad it was."

"I'll bring it to him. Thank you, Even."

"I'm the only one here with a doctorate in medicine. My burden to bear." He actually smiled a little, and set off back to his studies.

Ienzo got some water for the pills. He himself was feeling dizzy and achy, and desperately tired. The last thing he needed was to fall ill. When he went back to Demyx's room, Ienzo found that he was awake. "Oh good, you're conscious. How are you feeling?"

Demyx was a touch less pale, but didn't look good. "...Weird," he said. "I don't know why that happened."

"You're a tad anemic. And your blood sugar was low." He set down the pills and water. "Even recommended you take some supplements. And I brought some mild painkillers for your hand. No doubt it's several weeks' of malnutrition catching up to you. I'm sure it was hard to come by good food when you were hiding."

He took the pills and water. Ienzo considered leaving, to get some rest of his own, but then he caught sight of the plant on the window. The soft, silver-blue-purple evoked something deep and startling within him. "That's a lovely illumina plant. Where did you get that?" Pinpricks of memory, vague and faint-his mother, seeming impossibly tall, gently pruning the buds by the light of the full moon.

"Oh. Someone at the marketplace gave it to me. Aerith, from the restoration committee."

Of course. Aerith was one of the few people in Radiant Garden who actually knew all of the local blooms. She used quite a lot of them in her healing. "Ah, yes. That makes sense. They're a good group of people. I've been keeping in touch with them about Sora." Demyx must not have known about its properties; in direct sunlight, the plant was slowly dying. "You needn't leave this in direct sunlight, you know. They grow at night."

"Did you study botany, too?" Demyx asked.

Another fuzzy memory of his mother, surrounded by plants in her study. ""Not quite. A specialty of my parents'." He took the plant off the windowsill. At least it seemed well-cared for, other than the sunlight. "Can I see your stitches? I want to make sure you're healing properly." The wound had stopped bleeding, and looked to be healing well. He could feel again the warmth of Demyx's skin like his own had memory. Ienzo didn't understand. Had he been touched so rarely that it felt odd? Was that what this was?

"Thanks. I'm sorry about earlier."

He shook his head. "That's quite alright. I forget that you're still adjusting. You should use the rest of the day to get some rest. I'm going to go and see what translation work I can get done while there's still good light. Aeleus is making stew. I'm sure he'll let you know when it's ready."

So Ienzo returned to the study room alone. He settled down with some tea and the papers and bent to study the first line of runes. It was not going to be as straightforward as he thought. The composer was using odd colloquialisms. After an hour or so, he'd barely gotten through one line, and even that was a guess.

Dawn town is a fucking mess. Or maybe they meant Dawn, town? So Dawn, and town is a fucking mess. Unfortunately, the swear was the only part he was really sure of.

With a splitting headache and just his memory to rely on, the melancholic music made the space seem even lonelier. The unbidden thoughts of his mother didn't help. He'd been incredibly young when they'd passed-five or so-and his memories were blurry and ill-formed.

Ienzo realized for the first time how brief his time at the castle had been as a human. Only three years. In his mind it felt like ages and ages. He'd learned so much, and when he was a mere seven years old the experiments had kicked into high gear. Xehanort had spent more time with him, encouraging him with ideas until he had toddled over to Ansem, tugged the hem of his coat, and asked, "Master, what makes a heart?" And Ansem had said, "why, Ienzo, we've been wondering the same thing, what do you think?" And he had said, "People who bond."

That had given them enough fuel and questions for the test subjects.

Ienzo wouldn't make it as far as the washroom. He vomited in the kitchen sink. His head ached so badly he thought he might faint as well. Instead of cleaning up his mess, he had to sit down for several moments.

Ansem came into the kitchen, likely to gather him for dinner. "Ienzo, is everything all right? Are you ill?"

"I think so, Master." To his horror, his eyes were watering. The panic was hot and sticky in his breast. Thin, sharp memories stabbed him. The others, telling him lies, or what they thought was the truth- Ansem's gone mad, he's been experimenting on children. He remembered the faces of the people they'd questioned, remembered questioning them himself, remembered the screams when they felt their bonds being ripped apart-

He jumped up and was sick in the sink a second time. Ansem rubbed his back and he nearly recoiled from the touch.

"You must get to bed," he said softly.

The tears were hot and salty on his face. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and started to run water over his mess. Xehanort had lied, had turned them all against one another for his own purposes, made them think that casting their hearts off was a choice. You will be free of all fear, of all guilt.

"I shall take care of it. Let us go." He guided Ienzo back to his room and waited until he had lay down. "First Demyx, now you. We might all catch it." He touched Ienzo's forehead. "You don't have a temperature. Maybe you ate something poorly?"

He couldn't find the strength to say it wasn't an illness.

"I'll get you some ginger tea. That'll settle your stomach."

He shouldn't feel guilty that Ansem was taking care of him. He pulled the covers tightly around him.

"My dear boy. Go to sleep, alright?"

In the silence and stillness of the room, he curled around himself. He tried to hold back the tides of emotion and memory, but they battered him again and again and he couldn't help but cry, weakly and pathetically, until his abdominal muscles ached.

He didn't want to be Ienzo. He didn't want to be anybody.