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PLAYING FOR KEEPS
Act II
He feigned invisibility as he snuck back into the castle at dawn. The kitchen door he had used the night before was unlocked, thankfully, because breakfast preparations were already underway. No one saw the hooded King with dirt-smudged knees and blades of grass stuck in his hair slinking by. This time he didn't take anything for an extra-early meal, though his stomach protested because some of the freshly-baked tarts looked delicious. The hallways were golden with sunlight; he vaguely remembered the night's distorted moon, a confrontation with the cloaked man, even the challenge—but no matter how hard he concentrated, there existed a significant gap in his memory between the challenge and awakening face-down in the tall grass. He paused at one window on the second floor and squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of the crossroads, but there was only one slender path visible from here.
"Ahem."
Sora touched the glass, enjoying its chill, and said, "Donald."
"Where were you last night?" Donald asked impatiently.
"I went walking."
"All night? Without telling anyone? Where's your sense of responsibility?"
"Quit it." Sora winced and his opaque reflection did too. "I just had to get some fresh air."
"The Court was in an uproar when everyone found out you were gone. The King wandering off like that—without warning—I never—"
"Kinda like Mickey, huh?"
"But at least he was doing something more important than 'taking a walk'!" Donald squawked.
Sora's self-restraint relapsed; his fingers curled into fists.
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up—shut up. Leave me alone!" He turned around. His eyes were bright with anger, yet sunken from exhaustion. "I didn't ask for—this! It wasn't my choice to be crowned!"
Donald bristled, feathers fluffing, but he did not retaliate with his own crabby yelling. ". . . We're not talking about that right now," he sighed.
"Oh come on—"
"Sora!" Donald said, expression grave. "Please clean yourself up and report to the Court after breakfast. They will need to have a serious discussion with you about this."
"There's nothing to discuss!" Sora cried, gesticulating angrily. "I went for a walk. I stayed out late. There's no curfew here!"
"The Court has issued its order for your attendance, so you cannot ignore it!"
"Whatever!"
Sora stomped down the corridor, and he was not pursued. The light shrank from his presence as though he were a cloud passing over the sun; the air felt conspicuously cooler than it had seconds ago. As he passed the royal repository, he checked the handle—it was locked; he thought about kicking the door, but decided against it—and his hand came away smelling of bleach. The entire area, he discovered, smelt of strong cleaning fluids.
—the floor was red with their sacrifice—
He hurried to his room, into his bathroom, and scrubbed his hands until his skin was red and sore. In the mirror he saw a purplish bruise encircling his whole neck, and it alarmed him because he did not remember where it had come from; the skin was tender and he treated it with a sweet-smelling balm from the medicine cabinet. When he was finished, it was almost time for breakfast. He was not hungry: his apprehension for the Court's appointment got tangled up with thoughts of scrambled eggs and toast, and the conglomeration made his insides writhe. He sat on his bed, still in the clothes he had worn last night, and chewed on his bottom lip until it peeled and bled painlessly.
"When will we play your game, Postman?"
"When you're ready to give it all."
"Where?"
"It doesn't matter."
An anonymous messenger knocked on his bedroom door. "The Court requires that you come down to the meeting now, King Sora."
"It's just 'Sora,'" he whispered.
The Court idled in a large, decorated chamber that was only outdone by the King's throne room. Individual members of the Court sat on high oak benches, and these benches bordered the thin red carpet that spanned the chamber's length. They spoke in restless undertones and fiddled with glass tumblers or wood gavels. Head kept low, Sora escorted himself down the carpet; one by one, the members quieted and reproached him with their eyes alone. He stopped in front of the most senior member—a man dubbed the Grandest Advisor—and waited.
"Court is now in session. I will be presiding today. We all know the regulations here," the Grandest Advisor said. "You may be seated, King Sora."
Sora flopped onto the hard wooden chair set up for him and asked, "There was something you wanted to talk about with me?" His clothes were stiff and grimy; aches came from the strangest places, long-untouched muscles he hadn't known existed. Though he tried to resist his impulses, his palms had begun to sweat and itch from the serious dependency he bore for the Key being in his hands.
"We're here to discuss your reckless behavior," said a lesser advisor several places away. He had to lean forward and crane his neck to see Sora.
"It's intolerable the way you ran off without alerting us," another said.
A fist smacked against the wooden bench somewhere. "And you were gone all night!"
"Absolutely—"
"—no excuse for something so—"
"—a gross lack of foresight—"
"—need to learn your place here—"
"We've entrusted you with—"
"—can't believe how disrespectful you are."
The Grandest Advisor lifted his hands and every voice silenced.
"What have you got to say for yourself in light of these accusations, King Sora?" he boomed.
"I don't have anything to say for myself," Sora said.
"Oh, and why not?"
"I'm King, aren't I?" he drawled. His eyes were wide and clear when he looked up. "And since I'm King, I can do whatever I want! I don't need to say anything."
"You rapscallion—"
"—nothing without our guidance—"
"No choice but to—"
"Shut up!" Sora shouted above the din of protests. "I admit that I went out and stayed out all night, just to spite all of you and your unspoken rules and pointless discussions that always come later on! It's just like when I spite you by refusing to eat or sleep or—"
"What were you doing last night?" the Grandest Advisor asked, overpowering Sora's tangent with sheer roaring volume. "Answer!"
"Don't you get it? I admit to what I've done—I always have—and yet you won't even admit to your doings!"
"Answer the question, King Sora!" a distant advisor yelled.
"I am the honest one! I am the only honest one here!"
"The boy is out of his mind."
"Of all the people here, I am the only one willing to tell the truth!"
"What is he talking about?"
"—someone call for—"
"—obviously needs to be sedated—"
"You tell me of some upcoming war against the Heartless, and yet nothing has happened in a year's time! You claim there is no way for me to leave this chunk of rock, that my home is an unreachable twinkle I ought to forget about so I can better serve you here . . . but—no, my home isn't unreachable. You're all liars . . . I know the worlds have come back together . . . I've seen the proof with my own eyes."
No one swore against him now. The silence was enough to empower his beliefs.
"I know about the letters you've been keeping from me! They're from Riku—and everyone else, aren't they? Aren't they?" he cried, leaping to his feet. "I've seen one from Riku—I've actually seen it!"
"King Sora, you must understand—"
"I'm not done talking!" Sora's hands clenched and darkness taunted his vision again. It felt warm in here—too warm—and there was no outlet for his frustration now. "What were you going to say? I bet I can guess: you fed my lies for my own mental stability! Bullshit. I ought to . . . I'm gonna . . .
"You're all worthless, you're all nothing compared to me, you're all obstacles I'm willing to step on to get out of here. I never wanted your crown, your parades and promenades, your doting public—I never wanted to keep the damn throne warm for Mickey!"
"THAT IS ENOUGH!" the Grandest Advisor interjected.
"Speak. Oh speak! Do try to tell me something otherwise."
"Someone has been making your mind filthy with these lies—"
"I'm loving this. Say all that you can—it's just so funny . . ."
"You obviously have lost touch with reality, King Sora."
"Stop it, stop it! I'm going to start laughing and never stop!"
"Our unanimous decision: punishment—"
"—you're all so pathetic! Cowering before me, and I'm a third your age—"
"—confined to your room for no less than one week while you recuperate and learn how to separate your desperate fantasy from reality."
"Make me," Sora growled.
"Guards! Guards, come in and take him away! Sentencing is to be carried out immediately." The Grandest Advisor's gavel slammed against its cup.
"You want me to adhere to your sentence?" Sora said, holding up his hands; the Key materialized in them, silvery and bright. "Make me do it. Just try it. I'm not your puppet that'll dance for your entertainment. I know about your lies! You cannot hide anything from your King!"
Guards ran in from where they had been waiting in the hallway. Sora jumped onto his chair's seat, and then onto its sloping back. He pointed the Key at the Grandest Advisor with a dark, dangerous look immortalized in his eyes.
"Guards! Guards!" the advisors called simultaneously.
"I want to go home! I want to see Riku and Kairi and Wakka and Tidus and Selphie and my mom—and—I WANT TO GO HOME! You can't keep me here forever! I know the truth now, the truth about all of this, and the truth is FREEDOM!"
"King Sora!"
"Please stop this! Stop him!"
"Run—just run—he's going to—"
STRIKE! With a coruscating display of raw power and one precisely-aimed swing of his arm, Sora sent the Key gyrating into the air. It soared over the Grandest Advisor's head—missing him by one electrifying inch—and arced toward a giant, expensive-looking candelabra. The Key sliced easily through the thick chains keeping the candelabra suspended from the ceiling; gravity let it fall to the ground, where it smashed and sent a cascade of glass shards and lit candles every which way.
Sora cackled. The Key repetitively appeared in his hands and then left them as he reared back, winding up more swings. RAID! RAID! RAID! Other candelabras fell. The advisors screamed and rushed toward the only exit, shielding their faces from the flying glass. The guards struggled forward, caught up by the churning terror, attempting to reach Sora who had by then obtained a higher vantage point atop the Grandest Advisor's own bench.
JUDGEMENT!
The chamber dropped into shadow as the final candelabras came down in coronas of glass and sparks. When the Key appeared in his hands after the attack's final segment, he cradled it to his body affectionately while it continued to glow azure with energy not yet spent, but that energy was warming him pleasantly like a security blanket. The guards forced through the advisors and surrounded Sora, their weapons—pikes and shields that were childish toys compared to the Key—waving at him ominously.
Sora looked down with half-lidded eyes, kind of smiled (according to filed reports), and then swooned and tumbled onto the awaiting troop.
He has been waiting for what seemed like forever for today. People rush back and forth in the house, from kitchen to family room to kitchen again, and he stands in the middle of traffic, peering up at them with the biggest smile ever. His exasperated mother, after knocking into him accidentally for the third time, ushers him out onto the front porch of their quaint bungalow.
"We're getting everything ready for your picnic, Sora," she says into his ear. He grins because her long hair tickles his nose. "But I think there might be an early birthday present waiting for you in the backyard . . ."
That is enough to get him moving. He stumbles over his own feet when going down the front steps and falls flat on his face; however, in innate juvenile fashion, he is back up and sprinting around the house before his mother can even register what happened. The colors are warm and bright this afternoon: the sky is unblemished cerulean, the grass is soft under his bare feet and no lighter than healthy viridian, and the ocean swallows up a distant horizon as liquid sapphire. It smells salty because the ocean is very close. Sora thinks it smells alive. As he rounds the last corner of the house, he runs directly into a pair of outstretched arms and collapses again, but this time with laughter pealing around him.
He wrestles with Riku, a boy no more than six or seven years old here, while Kairi—quiet, timid Kairi who had only arrived on the island a month ago—watches them with nervous excitement. Though Sora provides a good fight, he is no match for Riku's naturally larger build, and soon becomes immobilized from the waist up. He opens his eyes to a sun partially eclipsed by Riku's head. He twists and turns as violently as he can, hoping to upset the weight on his midsection.
"Hey! Lemme up!"
"Well, if it isn't the birthday boy! We were wondering when you were gonna come out back. Me and Kairi were just about to leave and go do something fun."
"Get off me, Riku!"
Riku laughs—the sound is strong and clear and real—and doesn't move. "Not until you say you're sorry for keeping us waiting, yeah? We went through the trouble of getting you some really cool gifts!"
"Gifts?" Sora instantly forgets his grievances.
"That's right," Kairi speaks up with a little smile. "We got 'em at the same time."
"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! Off, off, off! I wanna see my gifts!"
The streamers hanging from the largest tree in the backyard are made of metallic tinsel that catches the light and sets the entire tree ablaze. Sora adores tinsel—it's shiny, after all—though the year-end holiday decoration is incongruent with his summertime surroundings. Twinkles sneak over the grass whenever each bough shifts; Sora points out the particularly large twinkles with his "beating stick" and prowls after them, the similarly stick-wielding Riku at his side.
Kairi opts not to participate in these skirmishes, so she sits at the picnic table, sucking on a mango slice and smiling patiently with the adults.
WHACK!
"I think I got one!"
". . . THAT WAS MY FOOT, RIKU!"
"Then don't get those huge things near my stick!"
"Ow ow ow ow ow!"
"Come on! It didn't hurt that badly."
Sora sniffes. Riku's heart breaks—it shows openly on his face. The adults "Awww!" collectively.
"It really did hurt . . ."
"Here, let's—"
WHACK!
"SORA! THAT'S NOT FAIR!"
The adults groan as Sora poses victoriously over Riku (whose knees have buckled from being hit on the back), waving his stick and wiping away the beguiling tears since their purpose has been fulfilled.
The actual picnic meal is no more than a smorgasbord of his favorite foods. He spends most of it attempting to covertly launch fruit seeds across the table at Riku. (After losing his spoon to flustered Mom, he petitions Kairi for use of hers, but she kindly, wisely declines.) Most vividly he recalls the presents set in front of him once the meal is finished. There truly aren't many, but to Sora they might as well form a mountain. He attacks each with gusto, flailing his hands about to rip off the sparkly paper without delay. Hulking bows bounce off unwary bystanders' foreheads and curly ribbons end up in the tree with their cousin tinsel. Whenever he uncovers the actual gift, he crows praises at it and issues a thousand thanks to the givers.
But most important are two gifts: Riku's and Kairi's. In this memory he can feel his hands trembling as he looks into the outer box of Riku's gift—and finds a long, crushed velvet jewelry case. He lifts it out and puzzles over it, shaking its contents (Riku smacks him); he pops the lid open, and tucked inside is a chain composed of small silver crowns that are more impressive than bracelet charms. The chain is cool to the touch and he loves it immediately.
"Thank you, Riku," he whispers. He doesn't know how else to express his gratitude.
Kairi's gift also hides in a jewelry box, but her gift is a necklace with a silver crown pendant that matches the chain's crowns perfectly. Sora looks up and his eyes water. These gifts from his two best friends are thoughtfully matching and lovingly given—not to mention they're shiny, smooth on his skin, and really look wicked. He fumbles with the clasps at first, but he gets the necklace around his neck and attaches the chain to his belt-loop, where it flashes in the sun.
"You guys are the BEST!"
Riku grins and—without warning—wrestles Sora to the ground again (though prior notice wouldn't have mattered). "You're welcome, brat!" he says. "And yanno, all this crown stuff might mean you'll be a king one day! If you're really lucky . . ."
"You think so?" Sora says, awed.
"Hah! Are you kidding? Of course not. Who would trust you with running a kingdom?"
"Riku! I could be a good king!"
Kairi stands nearby, giggling behind her hands, and then——she stops.
Her bubbling laughter fades into silence . . . and all elements of the island are very still. The colors he thinks are so intense start to dim. He stands up—Where's Riku?—and looks at the tinsel. Its shine is gone. The tree's boughs aren't moving anymore.
—But don't be afraid.
He touches the necklace and then the chain.
You hold the mightiest weapon of all.
The island dematerializes around him. Everything was made of glass all along; fragments large and small spiral off into the darkness that settles in lieu of substance. He chases one of the biggest pieces until he can no longer discern movement in this featureless place that is somehow familiar.
So don't forget:
His legs give out and he sits down on something. Around him the darkness breaks and flakes away to reveal tall blue walls made of stones stacked atop one another. Marble ripples into view underfoot and spreads out in all directions, giving a floor to the room that is being assembled around him. DisneyKingdom's emblem-bearing flags sprout from the buttresses growing like weeds everywhere. Stained glass windows refract the sunlight pouring in on him, throwing pinwheels of color across the floor. He is sitting on a chair tucked against a banquet table in a room reserved for especially special occasions. Things captured forever in memory emerge from the final patches of darkness that still linger: penguins balancing trays race around the table, leaving solid afterimages that disappear seconds too late to go unnoticed; servants carrying presents or party decorations fuse together from shadow and glowing glass particles; chairs scrape on the floor and it smells heavenly and excitement fills the emotional void in his chest.
Goofy fastens two overlarge hands around Sora's shoulders. "It's your big day, Sora!"
"Aw, guys—you didn't have to do all this . . ." Sora says, rubbing his cheek.
"Of course we did!" Donald squawks. Sora wonders if he ever does anything else. "When you let on that your birthday was coming up, you should've known we'd do something for it! The Keyblade Master deserves no less!"
"Well . . ."
Sora smiles and pokes curiously at the fancy gold cutlery that has been laid out for today's festivities.
Only a few weeks ago he had returned to DisneyKingdom as a hero, although even a hero had been unable to search for King Mickey. According to royal scientists who talked over afternoon tea, the worlds were separated fully again. There was no way to recover the lost sovereign until fate opened the gates like before, they explained. Sora didn't know if he believed them, but he kept the questions out of his mind by letting his companions show him around the Kingdom. Every day he has found something new to be fascinated with, like the stables and their strong horses, the incredibly large room he gets to stay in, and even the frequent banquets where dignitaries fight to shake his hand and congratulate them as their bona fide savior. It was during one celebration for the sake of celebrating that he let slip his upcoming birthday to Goofy, who immediately grabbed Donald and went to start preparations.
So his birthday dinner promises to be a smash, but for lunch he is surrounded only by his friends that live in the castle. The executive chef personally escorts the afternoon meal to the table, and Sora learns about the gold cutlery's status as a royal heirloom that has been around since the days of King Walt the First. He is given one present early just because, and from the collection he picks out a rather simple-looking box that makes Goofy act excitedly.
"Go on, go on—open it, Sora!"
Inside the box is a crown—a shiny brass crown that is awkward and heavy, but still attractive. His heart wedges into his throat because he remembers Riku and Kairi, and their gifts of silver crowns from a birthday that now feels like a lifetime ago. (He knows he shouldn't be so choked up since he's worn those gifts every day without fail, but he can't help his reactions.) He has never forgotten about his friends—especially Riku's sacrifice at the door to Kingdom Hearts, and then the promise to Kairi, and . . . His throat closes and he struggles not to cry. There is applause all around him for some reason, but suddenly the anteroom is fainter than before and there are pale shadows lurking undetected in the corners. He recalls that when the royal scientists had told him that leaving the planet was impossible, he had stayed in his room for hours, grieving for Riku and Kairi and Mickey because of his own helplessness here.
"I don't think I understand," Sora says, fumbling for the words. He looks up and his eyes are glistening. Everyone around him thinks he's about to cry tears of joy. "What is this crown for?"
"It's your birthday present!" Goofy says, taking the crown and placing it atop Sora's head. "The Court convened with the Senate and other influential people in DisneyKingdom, and they decided that in King Mickey's absence, you should be our new leader!"
"Until King Mickey gets back, of course," Donald adds.
"Your coronation is supposed to be in a week. Isn't that great?"
Sora's chest contracts as he asks his only question aloud: "Who would trust me to run a kingdom?"
In his mind there is Riku's grinning face and his rough tomfoolery, the two of them rolling around on the grass with tinsel fluttering overhead, the new weights of his gifts hanging from neck and belt, and Kairi's soft laughter in the background. (Riku, I could be a king . . . I could be a king . . .) Sora slowly reaches up and removes the brass crown; it's uncomfortable and kind of gives him a headache.
"You're the Keyblade Master! There's no one better suited for the job."
Sora looks around. Everyone is so happy. And though a new loneliness has settled on him, he forces his lips into a smile and hears another smattering of applause.
"Yeah, I guess so," he says and betrays his heart.
That night he stands outside with a huge group of people—more people than he has ever seen in one place—and watches a large-scale fireworks display. Colors he didn't even imagine existing stream and twist across the sky, sometimes distinct shapes (heart, crown, star, circle) and sometimes gleaming bursts that fizzle upon nearing the ground. The fireworks' sounds are the most impressive component and he smirks whenever a skittish someone jumps a little after a particularly loud explosion.
Green and blue sparks are mingling overhead when one of the royal advisors comes over and touches his arm.
"I'd like to introduce you to someone," says the advisor. "He's one of your biggest fans."
Sora turns and looks at the two men standing there. The advisor is rather nervous, though it's not clear why, and the other man holds himself with heavy dignity, his hands clasped.
"This is Senator Axel. He advocated your appointment as King most fervently."
Senator Axel tips a head of stylishly messy hair. "And I will never back down from my support: you are truly the personification of stalwart hope, and the people need hope in these times, Sora . . . hmm, or should I say—King Sora?"
"My coronation is not for another week, I think," Sora mumbles, embarrassed. "And it's just 'Sora,' anyway. None of this 'King Sora' stuff."
Surprise passes over Senator Axel's face; in the merging of fireworks and moonlight Sora is able to see that the Senator's wide eyes are an imposing shade of green. Déjà vu seizes him—but as with most instances of déjà vu, he cannot trace a connection between these eyes and any pair from his memory.
"You're a modest king as well!" Senator Axel exclaims as he regains his composure. "I look forward to your coronation, then. A week, was it? I'll be there."
Sora hears the whistling of another firework—it's yellow and glittery and looping above the rest—but it does not detonate because it freezes halfway up the sky. Sans premonition once more, everything abruptly fractures like broken glass and disintegrates into darkness. The sky comes down in huge chunks that dissever into smaller portions when they strike the ground; people all around Sora crumble bloodlessly, falling atop one another; even Senator Axel's proud eyes turn into a gritty dust.
You are the one . . .
The ground weakens and melts into black quicksand that threatens to drag Sora into nullity. He struggles without a voice because there is no one here to hear it. His hands claw about for an anchor, but what he touches he is cut by as his fragile memory rains down more and more knifelike shards.
. . . who will open the door . . .
There is no use fighting it. Darkness consumes him and he knows completeness.
. . . to the light.
Sora awoke with tears on his face.
Rolling over was a chore: all of his muscles were impersonating tightly coiled springs and the mechanical heat seared his insides. He groaned weakly when he found the leverage to sit up. His mouth tasted dry and sour. As everything came into focus, he discovered that he was in his room, on his bed, and a blanket was drawn around him. Outside his window the sun tempted the horizon, but he had no idea what the specific time was—or even if this day was the same in which he had fainted. Standing proved to be too much of a feat, so he sulked in his stiffened clothes and wished he had something to drink.
". . . What the hell," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes of tears; his palms were grubby with sweat. "What happened?"
He didn't expect an answer, but his door creaked open and Goofy's head appeared. "You up yet, Sora?"
"Yeah, I'm up," he said, wincing.
"Oh—good. I was getting kinda worried."
"What time is it?"
Goofy hesitated. "Dinnertime. You've been out for a while, yunno."
Sora felt disoriented, and it didn't help that the room had suddenly begun swimming. Nausea rose into his gullet like a swollen balloon. He shut his eyes and pulled the blanket around his body tightly. It's really cold in here, he thought at the darkness behind his eyelids and frowned. His memories were scrambled and what he could pick out made little sense. He was certain that the Court had called him down to have a chat, but after that there came only the reoccurring themes of shadows and smashed glass. Right about now he would have killed for something to drink.
"What happened?" he repeated, quietly, once everything had stopped moving.
"Well . . . the Court reached a decision . . . you gotta stay in here for a while, Sora, and I'm supposed to guard you," Goofy said, trying not to let anything seep into his usually affected voice. "You caused a real hullabaloo downstairs. Your scrapes got cleaned up, so don't worry about them. I'm also going to bring in your meals when they're sent. You should think of this as a vacation . . ."
"My scrapes?" Sora lifted his hand and touched his cheek where two butterfly bandages had been attached. There were other bandages all over his face—one was alarmingly close to his right eye—that felt rough under his fingers and whose wounds hurt if he pressed too firmly. "When did I get these?"
Goofy's concern became apparent when he said, "You don't remember what happened?"
"No—I do, I do," Sora lied. "It's just a little foggy."
"I wasn't in there at the time," Goofy said, "but I saw the place afterwards. The candelabras were all over, so I guess you got your scrapes from the glass that broke when they hit the floor. You scared everyone pretty badly—"
"I am the honest one! I am the only honest one here!"
His frightened, panicked yelling. The Grandest Advisor's red, angry face.
"Oh speak! Do try to tell me something otherwise."
Screaming. The Key's comforting warmth and glow enveloping him. Power.
"—you're all so pathetic! Cowering before me, and I'm a third your age—"
Like something out of a dream? A whirlwind of images: shocked expressions, flashing glass, a sharp blue light sparing none, despair personified, the people need despair in these times, . . .
"Look at your King now, why don't you!"
"—and that's it. Now you're supposed to stay in here for a week."
". . . I think I'm going to throw up."
Sora forced his legs to move, ignoring their burning pain, and made it into the bathroom just in time. He splattered the ceramic around the toilet bowl, but he conscientiously cleaned up with a handful of toilet paper. Wary and worried, Goofy watched this from the doorway. In the mirror Sora inspected his bandages. There were cuts and scrapes everywhere, not just on his face, but most others were covered with actual linens that smelled strongly of pricy ointment. There were now actual wrappings around his neck for the deep welt there. He leaned against the sink and wondered when his eyes had first become so flat and watery.
"Are you all right?" Goofy finally asked. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
Sora looked at his guardian's reflection and then his own again. Those cold, dead blue eyes had not gone away. "No, I don't need a doctor. I would like to get out of here, though."
"But the Court said—"
"Fuck what the Court said!" Sora snapped. He tipped his forehead against the mirror and willed his eyes to live, to become like they had been before all of this started. There was no change, but the mirror's surface felt frigid and he understood that his skin was burning up from fever. "Fuck—what—the—Court—said. . . . I think I'm going to throw up again."
His aim was even worse this time. Goofy nabbed the toilet paper and cleaned up what he could while Sora slumped into a kneeling position nearby. Slow, tired tears fell down his cheeks, pricking some of the lesser scrapes that had been left uncovered. He tried to resist when Goofy pulled him up by his armpits, but the fight went out of him like an extinguished candle and he submitted to being put in bed again.
"I'll be back with dinner soon," Goofy said, fluffing Sora's pillow and tucking his blanket around his shoulders. "You just lie here and try not to overexert yourself. Here's—the trash can—in case you need it."
"Urgh."
"By the way, the door is going to be locked from the outside, so don't try to get out."
Sora glared at him.
"I'll bring up some fresh bandages, 'cause it's been a few hours since they were changed. And I'll fetch a stupe for your forehead."
Sora glared some more at him.
"Don't worry, Sora! These next seven days will pass like they're nothing."
"I want out of here, Goofy. Now."
"Sorry, Sora—the Court's orders are final . . ."
"Now, Goofy."
Goofy smiled sadly and left. The door's tumblers tumbled and bolt fastened fast, imprisoning Sora inside his room.
Though gastric acid kept violating the sensitive lining of his throat, and his back was a screaming patchwork of contorted muscles, and he just wanted to go to sleep again and forget about his meeting with the Court, Sora shed his blanket and got back onto his feet. The pillow went flying first, but it harmlessly hit the door. Then he went into the bathroom and broke the mirror with one well-placed punch, fracturing the reflection of his dead eyes. The shower curtain's metal rings ricocheted around the bathroom as he wrung the curtain from its place; the light bulb died after a direct hit by one. The bathroom door came off its hinges because his strength and anger were so fiercely bonded into one kick.
The Key was his again with a mere thought, the fifth limb he treasured and feared, and he used it to smash the bureau, dismantle the bed, destroy the window, tear up the walls, ruin the tables, and create a small-scale bonfire via an overkill of Firaga. The flames scorched the ceiling, leaving sooty marks from corner to corner; miraculously, he somehow did not burn down his wing of the castle. When he at last incinerated the door standing between him and freedom, he met with a familiar troop of guardsmen who had been assigned to Sora the High Risk Problem.
He screamed the entire time—no one could make out any words. Apprehending him proved to be near-suicide for some of the guards: he did not pass out this time and instead fought with all the intensity he could summon. Goofy was halfway back from the kitchens when the screaming started; he dropped the dinner tray and ran to the hallway where Sora was plowing through guardsmen as though they were rag dolls.
Goofy dived forward and grabbed Sora's shoulders before he could swing the Key at his next victim. Time slowed to a crawl.
"Sora, Sora, Sora—Sora! Stop, stop—please—please!—it's me!—it's your pal Goofy!"
"Goofy?" Sora stopped and turned; the fury in his expression disappeared and he wilted without it. "Goofy . . ."
The guardsmen that hadn't been overcame watched with a mixture of fascination and boding while Goofy talked, slowly and calmly, as though Sora were a frightened wild animal that knew how to use the Keyblade.
"Sora, let's go find you someplace to lie down. You don't look so good."
"I just . . ."
The Key dissolved into stardust and its Master felt bereft. Itchy. Helpless. Worthless. Incomplete.He heard the shadow's laughter.
"Hush. Don't try to explain anything right now, okay?"
"I just wanted—" Talking hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. The tears fell despite how much they hurt.
"It's all right. There are plenty of vacant rooms left. Come on—this way. No hard feelings, right? Can you still walk?"
"I can walk," Sora whispered, paused, and coughed. "But my mouth tastes funny."
Then he dropped to his knees and—one strained and painful convulsion later—vomited blood all over the carpet.
Goofy rushed Sora to the royal hospital ward. After stabilizing emergency treatment, Goofy was permitted to sit nearby while the resident physician lectured and a nurse served Sora cup after cup of warm herbal tea.
"The undue amounts of stress you've been experiencing led to the repression of your immune system, which was already fighting against a fever and who knows what else. On top of that, the stress caused your digestive tract to weaken—you're so thin, too, you need to eat more—and that's where the blood comes in.
"Whatever training you've been doing is too intense. Whatever else that's going on is too intense. Relaxation is the only thing I can prescribe—well, there's also the herbal tea and maybe some natural depressants," the physician said, busily writing on a pad of paper. "You'll be staying in the ward for at least a few days while we monitor your health."
"A few days—?!"
"Shut up," the physician cut in, unfazed. "You're in no position to argue. I didn't practice medicine for this long to allow a sick person to walk free."
"It's all for the best, Sora," Goofy assured him.
"You also had some minor burns on your hands, but they'll heal. The cuts on your face will be receiving fresh bandages momentarily." The physician tapped his paper with a pen once, twice, three times. "What else, what else . . . you're really a mess . . ."
"Tell me about it," Sora muttered and rubbed his side.
"And I don't mean just physically. There's been the recent issue of your anger—"
"I don't have an anger problem!" The Key was lurking in the middle space it did whenever it wasn't in his hands, waiting to be called forth; energy permeated the air and no one could sense it but him. He could so easily pull out the Key, and . . .
"Of course not, of course not," the physician said dismissively. "According to this report I have, you only refused to eat well and sleep well for the past few months. You only refused to abide by a reasonable self-imposed curfew or explain your actions afterward. You only destroyed several priceless candelabras and only thoroughly terrified the important advisors of Disney Kingdom! You only destroyed your room with a fireball and then in the ensuing struggle you only wounded several guards. And then if all that malice wasn't already enough, you vomited enough blood to stain the royal carpet!"
"Don't mock me! Don't you dare mock me!"
"I'm telling you the truth. Those stains will probably never come out."
"How dare you . . ."
"Your anger is causing all of this stress. It's not only affecting your body, but also the people around you."
Sora abruptly lost his will to dissent after that. He slumped back onto the hospital bed, clutched at his pillow, and watched the sixth cup of herbal tea idle away its steam on his bedside table.
"What bothers me is that no one referred you to me sooner—but that's life," the physician mumbled. "Now we can begin the healing process. If you don't have any more comments, King Sora, I'm going to do some of this paperwork and see about getting you those depressants. The nurse will be attending other patients, but just call for her if you need anything."
Goofy squirmed in his seat. "Can I stay, Doctor?"
"Sure, Goofy. Just don't make too much noise. See you both later."
The ward was quiet for a few minutes. Goofy inched upset glances over to Sora during this time, opened his mouth more than once as if to speak (and each time his nerve failed him), and generally felt miserable about being unable to protect Sora from his inner demons.
"Stop sulking over there," Sora said.
"I'm just worried!"
"It's none of your business."
"I can't help it. Sora—I should've known you needed help . . . since lately you've been acting so weird, and saying such weird things . . ."
Sora's restraint was still thin and brittle. "Did you not hear me yesterday, Goofy?" he said through clenched his teeth. "Hmm . . . that's right—you didn't . . ."
"I heard about what you said. You couldn't have meant any of it, right?"
"I did! I meant all of it. I meant every—every—fuckingword of it. I meant it more than you'll ever know."
"You know the Court wouldn't keep anything from you!" Goofy cried. "They've done nothing but help you during your time as King!"
"I know they have—they had my letters, Goofy! In the royal repository, before—"
"You haven't given any proof that these letters you talk about are real."
Nausea swept over Sora and black spots appeared in his vision. "I . . . I know what I saw, damn it . . . I would go up there and get them if—"
"If what? I went up there personally, yunno, and there was nothing of yours around."
"Shut up!" Sora shouted, though his voice was actually very weak. "I know I saw them on one of the shelves before they were stolen!"
"Stolen . . . ?"
"Yeah, they were stolen," he said and knew that he had executed a perfect faux pas. No one would believe his story of the postman, especially with how erratically he had been acting lately. "They were stolen by a guy in a black cloak, who looked a lot like the man we saw in Hollow Bastion."
"Ansem?"
"No! The other man . . . he didn't speak with words, remember?"
Goofy contemplated this and Sora hoped the thoughtfulness was a good sign.
"You believe me, right?"
"Sora . . . I think you're really going to have to listen to what the doctor says if you wanna get better."
"You don't believe me?" Apparently he had guessed wrong; like a fading firework, his optimism dropped away into black desperation. "You've gotta believe me, Goofy!"
"The Court said that you were telling lies . . ."
"I'm not lying! I swear to you that I'm not!"
"If you're not lying—" Goofy wavered and looked away. "If you're not lying—then—you're imagining these things."
"Imagining these things . . . ?"
"I know you're not a liar, so that means—"
"I'm not imagining anything," Sora said flatly. "I know I saw my letters in the repository."
"But the Court said—"
"Fuck the Court! They're turning all of you against me," he said and sat up despite the protests of his muscles. "You're one of the few people who could believe me, Goofy!"
"You've been so different, and like the doctor said, the stress is really getting to your noggin too," Goofy said, tapping his head.
"Are you saying I'm crazy?"
"No, it's nothing like that. The stress is just playing tricks."
"You think I'm crazy," Sora whispered.
"You're putting words in my mouth!"
"It's true! You think I'm crazy, don't you? DON'T YOU?" Sora shrieked suddenly. "Don't deny it. It's in your eyes—those damn doggy eyes of yours that are looking at me like I'm crazy. I'm NOT crazy. You're crazy—yeah—you and the whole Court! You're all crazy! You're the ones that belong in this hospital ward, having these stupid conversations with stupid people who say 'Gwarsh!' all the time! Gwarsh! If that isn't the craziest thing I've ever heard anyone say, then I don't know what is! . . . except for the idea that I'm crazy."
"Sora!"
"You're crazy. All of you. Get away from me," he growled.
"—I just want you to know I haven't said 'Gwarsh!' yet."
Sora laughed and pointed an accusatory finger at Goofy. "You just did!"
"The Court wants me to testify for your health. I think they're going to take the crown away from you until you get better," Goofy said.
"They're actually doing something worthwhile?" Sora said and smiled, lying back down on his hospital bed. "While they're at it, how about they make you into the King this time around?"
Alarmed, Goofy shook his head. "I can't be the King! I think only a person who holds a Keyblade can become the King! That's Mickey, and you, and—well, I guess that's all."
"So I'll give you the Keyblade," Sora said and conjured it with a flexing of his wrist. It felt good and warm and the memories it brought were both happy and painful. Firaga! and the room burned and it smelt like the descent into damnation. "Here, take it."
"Sora, stop kidding around. Just stop it."
"I don't care," Sora said and flung the Key onto the floor, but it slid over against the baseboard without incident. It flickered indecisively as its Master continued: "You all have decided that I'm crazy. Why bother with a trial? I don't deserve to be King, or have the Keyblade, or anything else . . ."
"You're putting words in my mouth again," Goofy warned.
"Whatever," Sora said before he turned over to face the wall.
Goofy played the only card he had up his sleeve: "What would Riku say if he came back and saw you acting like this—like a boy he didn't know at all?"
Sora tensed. "Riku," he murmured. "Riku would . . ."
"And what would Kairithink if she saw what you did during the meeting with the Court?"
"I . . . I wouldn't have had to act like that in the first place if you all hadn't kept the truth from me. If you had just given me the letters, or let me off this planet as soon as the worlds came back together . . . I'm cooped up here, a bird with clipped wings . . ."
Goofy sighed. "Golly, I don't know how to reason with you. I'm not any good with these kinds of talks. I was especially never good with talking to my son when he was a teenager like you."
"You have a son?" Sora said, starting. Slowly, he turned back over.
"Huh? Of course I do!" Goofy grinned and began to rummage through his ostensibly deep pockets for something. "I got a picture of him on me."
"You never told me that," Sora said, bewildered, but temporarily forgetting all of the transgressions this crazy person had committed. "You really do?"
"I do! You just never asked," Goofy said, matter-of-fact. He pulled out a beat-up leather wallet; its plastic photo inlay sprung out like a party snake and undulated back and forth across the floor. Goofy struggled to control the infinite number of linked photos that the wallet somehow contained. "His name is Maximillian. He likes to be called Max, though."
"I had no idea that you were a father . . ."
"I wasn't always the best when he was young, regrettably." Goofy looked through a few feet to find the photo, which he held up for Sora to see. "He's the one on the left."
Sora looked from the photo to Goofy and back several times. "He certainly has your . . . uhm . . . everything?"
"He doesn't actually," Goofy corrected, pointing out Max's eyes. "If you look closely enough, you can see that he has his mother's eyes."
"Ah—that's right," Sora said and smiled to humor him. Goofy smiled back and they knew that at least some of the tension between them had been eliminated.
"Well, you should just get some rest for now," Goofy said, patting Sora's covered shoulder when he stood up. The plastic photo inlay got tangled around his knees and he fought with that while scooting toward the hospital ward's exit. "I'll be back later, after I talk with—well, you know."
"Yeah, I know," Sora said. He rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.
"You're not going to try to leave, are you?"
Sora shut his eyes and made his muscles loosen. "No, I think I'll soil some more expensive royal carpet if I do that."