AN: Updating again. I haven't played ff8, I don't know the ff8 Selphie personality, so if she's totally off, I apologize. Also, there's a possibility I will put the Turks back in, since they are fun and generally easy to write, if you have a feeling on this one way or another tell me in a review, I'll probably listen *g*.

Disclaimer: Its still not mine.



Through These Eyes

Chapter Four

The Big Spooky Forest



"Who's that I see walking in these woods.

Why it's Little Red Riding Hood."

-Little Red Riding Hood, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs





"One day, I will win. Really. Honestly. Though I might have to drug you first, or drop a piano on your head or something." Kairi flopped back into the sand and looked up at the stars. They seemed so far away tonight.

"You're doing really well," Tidus collapsed onto the sand next to her, folding his hands behind his head. "You're just not so good against combos yet, but hey, you'll get the hang of it, they're hard to defend against." He smiled easily. "Oh yeah, I talked to Selphie when you went home for lunch, she says that we have to come on her picnic tomorrow, or we'll be disowned and she'll never help me clean my room again."

Kairi smiled, leaning up on an elbow, "Cool. Do I need to bring food?" It felt so good to have friends again, like she was a part of something.

"Nah, she's providing, but I'd bring stuff anyway, unless you wanna die the unglamorous death salt overload. Selphie adds salt to everything. Even juice, I think." He stretched out in the sand before standing up. "I gotta go home soon or my mom'll pitch a fit, she's been weird lately. You gonna go in?" He cocked his head and smiled down at her.

She looked out at the ocean, watching the waves lap against the shore. She could almost see the yellow eyes there, hovering in the surf. "I'm going in." "Good," Tidus grinned, "I'll walk you."

Kairi smiled gratefully as she stood up and took his hand, "Thanks."

~~~~~~~~

He struggled with the gauze, wrapping it awkwardly around his bicep.

His body ached. What didn't ache burned. What didn't burn throbbed. He glared at Anti Sora, who had finally returned from his morning jaunt and was casually picking his shiny black teeth with a bit of straw. Anti Sora glared back before sticking his tongue out at Riku, throwing the straw at him, and wandering off to cause mischief and mayhem.

Riku sighed. Anti-Sora, his creation, had a bigger attitude problem than all the others combined. It broke things, sneered, and did exactly the opposite of what it thought Riku wanted.

He twisted his head around, getting one end of the bandage between his teeth and pulling the poorly constructed slip knot tight. A red haze of pain floated in front of his eyes and he felt faint. God, did it hurt.

He could always order the dark sora-copy to do what he wanted. The power to control the heartless had not left him. He could force it to be nice to him, force it to help him.

But he didn't. It seemed wrong to use it as a slave just because it was under his power. It seemed cruel.

Ansem would have done it. All of his heartless had been pawns, forced to do anything he said because he was the master and they were the worthless peons under his heels. He had made them, so they served him. That was the way it worked.

Riku twisted the gauze strips together, trying to manage a bow one handed. "I hate this."

The shadow in the floor moved. It had been there, doing its best to be inconspicuous, the entire time. It always hid when Anti Sora was about. Its antenna poked questioningly up from the floor boards. The rest of it soon following.

Riku's fingers slipped and the gauze slid down his arm. "Damn." This was not working. He left it, bowing his head. He felt completely drained. He knew he should be in his element; battle, blood, and brutality. Kill or be killed, fight to the death. Seriousness. Lost heroism, the quest of a tainted knight. All very Riku. But he hated it. It gave him everything he had ever wanted, adventure and power and knowledge, even respect, and he hated it. It was just so hard. And recently he had begun to feel strangely cold, as if ice was spreading throughout his veins. His eyes slid closed, so tired.

Unnoticed, the shadow crept up besides its sulking master and carefully reworked the bandage with its delicate hands.

~~~~~~

An axe isn't like a normal weapon. It's got a little magic in it, no matter its origins, because it is an axe. A twenty year old hand-me-down with a chipped blade and a rotting handle is no exception, in fact, if anything, it's stronger.

On the same note, a woodcutter isn't like a normal man. He's inevitably stable, kind-hearted and strong. Woodcutters were born to be heroes, though princes are a touch more popular in today's literature. And heroes have a little magic in them, too.

Lance was young for a woodcutter; he came at the wrong time, with the wrong name, the wrong shape, and the wrong personality. He was a sweet, hard working, cynic with an awkward balance. He was a teenage Peter Wolf, too old for a popgun and too poor for a rifle, so he had a hatchet instead, and that made him stronger.

But not strong enough to win.

The dark wolf was old. It had lived a million years in a thousand different lands. It had known both woodcutters and princes, maidens and washerwomen, dragons and unicorns. It knew the way the worlds worked. Knew the way they had begun, changed, and possibly even how they would end. And it most certainly knew that no matter how strong, how kind hearted and stable a woodcutter might be, without an axe he was no mightier than a normal man. And the dark wolf wasn't afraid of men.

That was why, when it chose to attack it did not go for Lance's soft human stomach, but rather aimed for the rotten axe handle. And that was why Lance had time to scream.

The wolf turned, snarling through the wooden mouthful. It had leapt clean over its young victim, bearing the dangerously sharp weapon out of his hands to the soft pine needled turf. The old wood cracked between those jaws, and the strong sharp iron fell worthlessly to ground. The dark wolf grinned, splinters still stuck between its gleaming teeth.

Lance kept screaming even as he tried to run.

~~~~~~

Still in the medow, Sora snapped to full attention. He had heard something, like a moan on the wind. The grass was whispering in the slight breeze, brushing his clothes with a quiet rasp, speaking of softness and safety and a dreamless sleep. He listened past it, straining to hear the fear and pain that had woken him from a sound sleep. It was only a feeling, just a hint of something wrong, the slightest tint of red raw blood floating in the wind, but it was enough. He shook his head and leapt to his feet, catching the keyblade up as he went. He sprang through the meadow, over the brush that marked its edge, and into the woods, heels kicking high.

He ran like a hart.

The instinct of a fighter took over, sharpening his senses, deciphering the wicked muttering of a now live forest. They told him to turn back, to climb, to fly away from it all, to hide. He didn't hide.

Instead he raced forward, following the taste of carnage, jumping over the low brush and roots that always seemed to be in his way. And for the first time he heard the noise that had roused him clearly. It was some sort of panting howl, full of hate and fury, mixed with the softer more human sound of terrified screams.

Sora ran faster.

~~~~~~ The dark wolf snarled, face twisting almost comically, and pawed at its muzzle. A long black tongue lolled between parted jaws and twisted up, wrapping around the injured nose. Licking off the blood.

No one had ever kicked it in the face before. No one had ever been fast enough, no one had ever been lucky enough. Usually the attack was over in seconds; the wolf would leap out from under a bush, destroy or steal the weapon and be back in an instant, ripping across its victim's chest, lapping up the dark heart blood as the face contorted and the body cooled. Even those that somehow managed to stumble a few steps would find themselves borne down in a moment and then they could not fight.

This one, this boy, this woodcutter, only managed a single step before it was in the air, but a second before the wolf's leap would have smashed into him from behind, shattering his vertebra, Lance tripped and fell. The dark wolf went over him, the deadly strength bearing it a man-length past its mark. It turned the moment paw touched earth and sprang again in the same second, but, for the first time, it was not enough. Lancelot was powered by fear, which was much stronger than the absent hunger that motivated the dark wolf and while the beast was in the air he had also turned, kicking out at his assailant.

The steel-toed work boot had smashed straight into the wolf's nose, sending blood spraying from its mouth and nostrils, two teeth cracked. And still the boy was screaming.

With a howl of rage the wolf leapt again, but this time there was little precision and its damaged teeth glanced off the young man's thick skull, leaving deep puncture wounds but no death.

Lance curled into a ball on the forest floor, knees drawn up to his stomach and hands gripping the back of his neck, he was an elementary schooler during an earthquake drill, huddled under his desk, only this time it was real. This time the sky was actually falling.

The wolf shook its head, spit and blood flew in the slight breeze and spattered against the tree trunks. It circled its prey, calming down and feeling the amusement of the situation. Seeing this soft little boy huddled on the dirt, his choked sobbing howls filling the air. Feeling oddly generous, it padded up beside him and sat by his head. Wolfy smile in place, it raised its bloody muzzle to the sky and howled as well, harmonizing with its victim.

It was a mistake.

~~~~~~

At first Sora only saw the man. He was lying in the dirt, sobbing and screaming. Then there was movement, something darker in the darkness turning, leaping, savage, snarling.

He felt a burning pain in his arm and watched with disconnected horror as the black monstrosity slunk back, a bit of his sleeve and a bit of his wrist in its mouth. In an instant the thing had swung back to the trembling mass on the ground. Lance had been struggling to stand, to help, to fight, or maybe just to run away and never look back. In a breath he was brought down again, leg opened from knee to hip, red muscle showing beneath torn skin.

Sora didn't gape for long; he raised the keyblade and brought it down in a hard, fast stroke while the wolf's back was to him. But at this point the adrenaline was burning faster in the wolf than in the key bearer. It twisted around in a maniac pirouette and clamped its deadly jaws onto the brightly glowing blade. In a moment the weapon was torn from Sora's hands and tossed with a human's casualty into the underbrush. And it smiled at him, eyes glowing yellow, its mouth blistered and burned.

It lunged, almost leisurely, going for the throat, only to stop half way with a strangled yelp like a startled puppy and wheel around, snapping at its own tail. Three of Lancelot Lavender Lawrence's fingers flew into the brush. The other two held on.

Woodcutters are heroes.

It was just a moment's reprieve. The weak grip of two damaged fingers compared to the strength of an ancient dark wolf is like an ant trying to hold up the world. It only lasts for a breath.

The wolf shook and the blood slicked fingers slipped off its tail, silently hitting the ground.

Sora found himself staring at teeth again, but this time there was nothing leisurely or amused about them.

Still, sometimes a breath is all it takes.

Sora had grabbed his keyblade. He cast Firagra. Again, and again, and again.

This time it was the wolf who screamed, beer yellow eyes widening in pained surprise as its hackles burned away and the blisters in its mouth burst. Blood poured along its tongue and its ears smoldered.

With a wild shriek it ran, tail between its legs and the reek of burning fur clinging to its skin, back into the forest. Foul smoke lingered in the air. It felt like an odd ending, all too sudden.

Sora stared after it for a moment before shaking his head and attending to more pressing matters, like the woodcutter lying on the ground clutching his ruined hand. 'Are you alright?' sounded like a fairly stupid and pointless thing to say, but Sora couldn't think of anything better, somehow 'Are you going to live?' just seemed too impolite. Besides, the boy probably wouldn't know the answer. "Are you okay?"

A choking gasp and weak nod answered him. There was a moment of almost silence, of heavy rasping breath and pained whimpers before: "I-I-I- Cou-could you, maybe, get the rest of my-my," he nodded his head toward a bush. His eyes were huge and glassy, and the skin surrounding them a damp white.

With a bit of a grimace Sora kneeled down and groped under the bush, wincing slightly as he picked up the disembodied fingers. They were still warm.

"May-maybe my mom can put them back," Lance said, his voice was desperately hopeless and tears shined in the oversized eyes. "Maybe..." He tried to stand, pushing up from the ground with his uninjured hand, only to fall back into the dirt. "Th-Thank you."

It hurt to look at him. He was only a few years older than Sora himself. Maybe 17 or 18, and lying there in the dirt in the dark with half a hand and covered in sticky blood.

Sora shook himself and walked up to the felled woodcutter, shyly handing him his lost fingers. "Hold them to the rest of your hand, so that they line up right. I might be able to fix it." His own injury would just have to wait. He closed his eyes and cast Curaga. He really didn't know how well it would work; he had never had to... reattach things before. He could feel the healing power flow through him and the keyblade, could see the green light in his mind, surrounding the woodcutter, replacing bone and muscle, knitting everything back together, strong and healthy again. He waited for a moment before cracking an eye to see how it had worked. He couldn't try again if it had failed, his magic was tapped and all his things had been left in the meadow.

Everything relied on this one spell.

Lance was sitting up, his face still pasty but registering absolute amazement. Sora watched as he gingerly wiggled fingers that only a moment before had been dying under a bush.

~~~~~~

Kairi felt unreasonably exhausted. Her arms ached and she felt absolutely drained. Sure, she had run around all day, true, in the all but blistering sun as well as spending a couple hours getting hit with a stick, but that wasn't really out of the ordinary anymore. She really thought she would have adjusted to her new life style by now, that it wouldn't wipe her out so thoroughly. But then, maybe you never did. Maybe that's why Sora had always seemed so lazy, falling asleep on the beach at every opportunity.

She shook her head, trying to stop thinking about him. That was another thing that she never seemed to adjust to. No matter how tired, or busy, or happy she was, she always ended up thinking about them. Every road, every train of thought seemed to lead back to one or both of her missing friends.

She had never really realized how much a part of her life they had been. Oh, she knew that she loved them, possibly even more than her own family, and she knew that she never wanted to lose them, but she hadn't realized how much she loved them, or how much of her they would take with them if they ever left.

When she lost her heart Sora had found it and kept it for her. She knew that, but somehow she had thought that when he freed it, it would be her's again to keep. She never imagined that he would still take it with him. But somehow he had.

With a tired sigh she drew the blinds and collapsed onto her bed. She dreamed about heat and pigeons.

~~~~~~~

Sora's things were not, as he had thought, resting peacefully, and uselessly, in the meadow. No, in actuality, they were moving at a rather brisk pace down the path. Away from him.

Well, some of them at least.

Anti Sora idly swung the knapsack back and forth. Every now and then he tossed it in the air and caught it again. Well, most of the time he caught it again. Occasionally it hit the ground with a faint tinkling, but the bottles of potion and been carefully padded with Sora's jacket, which had also been left on the little hill.

Anti Sora had rediscovered the meadow after leaving the shack in disgust. His master had been in a pissy mood and getting blood all over the place and the doppelganger had been beginning to worry that he might be called upon to actually do something. So he had vacated the scene in favor of a brisk walk through the forest. He would rather mess with annoyed heartless than deal with Riku in poor mood. It was only a little bit later that he had seen the bright flashes of light coming from up ahead. They had been weak but recognizable, and Anti Sora had headed toward them, hoping for something exciting, like a battle, or a barbeque.

He had been disappointed. By the time he had reached the little meadow the keyblade boy was gone. He had left behind his backpack and few other odds and ends but nothing particularly interesting. Still, Anti Sora dumped out the bag and poked around; it was then that he had noticed the potions and an the accompanying moral dilemma.

His master needed potions. Riku's magic was past drained. In the last world jump he had dipped into his life force for the extra energy needed to travel shipless. So there was no way that Riku could heal himself, his magic wouldn't be strong enough for days, meanwhile, the cough was getting worse and his breathing had gone from raspy to labored. Willpower had kept him going thus far, but it couldn't make dead men walk. And very soon that's exactly what he would be.

So Anti Sora was left with a choice. Take the potions back to his master and have him live, or save himself the trouble of carrying the weight and appearing subservient and let Riku handle the problem himself. He chose option one, mainly because there was just the slimmest possibility that if Riku died then the heartless went with him, and Anti Sora wasn't prepared to rejoin the darkness just yet. Still, he didn't exactly exert himself; he just packed up a couple mega potions and an ether and headed back to the shack. He hoped the silver haired egotist was grateful.

~~~~~~~

The shadow was also worried about its master, although its feelings were much more sincere. Riku had fallen asleep, sprawled out on the dusty floor of the cottage, one arm curled carefully around his stomach, the other lying on the keyblade. He twitched occasionally. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was tight, making him look terribly worried or dismayed. Every now and then he would shift, hand gripping the keyblade so hard that his knuckles went white. When he relaxed again the imprint of the hilt was pressed clearly into his hand.

Once or twice the keyblade had even appeared to be accumulating power. The edges would glow and there would be a low hum, it would stop after a minute or so, and the key would slowly fade back to its usual silver color.

The shadow was afraid that Riku would cast a spell in his sleep, it was afraid that he was responding to some sort of danger, it was afraid that he would never wake up.

Shadows don't have magic. They don't keep items. They're the weakest of the heartless, the canon fodder, sent in first, called back last; expendable. They don't even carry weapons. They fight with their claws and jump up from the floors and then they're hacked to bits and no one really misses them because you can't tell one from another and there are just so damn many of them. Like ants.

It couldn't heal its master. Anti Sora had enough power to do it, just enough, but it would be difficult and a little painful for him so he had opted to slip off. The shadow wasn't really expecting him to come back.

It didn't know what to do.

Its antenna curled with worry, making question marks in the air. It just didn't know what to do.

~~~~~~~

Sora grinned broadly, life was once again good. He was lying sprawled out on a soft bed with a real down comforter in the guestroom of Lance's house while a super-sized breakfast was fried up for him.

The woodcutter's mother was a little scary, but an excellent cook. When the pair had finally stumbled onto the porch at midnight she had been there, fury in her eyes and knitting in her lap. But after looking them over she had silently gone inside and cooked them a large warm dinner, before ordering one of the younger boys to put fresh sheets on the guest bed and inspecting their injures. She didn't say a word about the keyblade, or Sora's odd clothes, or the chipped iron axe head they had carried back, just hugged them both, her eyes tear bright, and gave them extra blankets. Somehow she just seemed to know.

There was a stifled giggle and then the bedroom door burst open and two little girls and a littler boy tumbled into the room, across the floor and onto the foot of the bed. Sora sat up, surprised.

"Are you really a hero? Momma said you were," huge blue eyes looked up at him from underneath soft blonde lashes.

Sora blushed pink, grinning sheepishly, "Um, sorta. I fight monsters sometimes."

"Wow," true awe.

The boy cocked his head to the side, thick black hair falling into his eyes, "do you have a sword?"

"Uh, yeah, sorta. Its this." he lifted the keyblade from where it sat propped against the bed.

"That's not a sword, that's just a big key." The oldest of the girls rolled her eyes. "It doesn't even look sharp."

"How do you know? You're not a hero," the other girl glared at her sister. "Maybe it's a magic key." The boy suggested softly, "Maybe it belonged to a giant or came from a dragon horde or something, then it wouldn't need to be sharp."

"A giant's key? Yeah, it probably went to his cellar. Or even more likely it's some novelty item. He probably got it at the fair."

"He came back after dark! He has to be a hero. Besides, Momma said so." His blonde defender snapped, before turning and smiling at Sora, blushing slightly. "Do you fight lots of-"

"Hey!" Another boy, the one who had prepared Sora's bed the night before, leaned into the room. "It's time for breakfast!" He glared at his siblings. "So that's where you three are. Mary, mom's gonna get you, you were supposed to set the table."

The oldest of the girls shrugged. Obviously she was going through an early rebellious phase. She looked to be about 10, had black hair to match her younger brother's, regal bearing and a royal sneer obviously in the last stages of production.

The blonde girl gently nudged Sora, getting his attention. "I'll show you dining room." She took his hand and smiled.

Sora smiled and followed her.

~~~~~~

It was the sun that woke her. It was shining cheerfully through the window and directly into her face. Kairi yawned and stretched, rolling away from the early morning brightness. It was too early to get up. Still, it wasn't long before the heat and the hunger got her out of bed and dragging her feet into the kitchen.

Her mother was furiously scrambling eggs. A sign that you really didn't want to approach her. Her father was sitting on a stool and reading the paper.

"Hey, Dad?" She paused and he raised his head, "Wheredidwecomefrom?" She almost winced in anticipation. She hadn't asked that question in years.

Her mother stiffened at the stove and her father hesitated, setting down the paper. "Why do you want to know?" His voice was gentle.

"I just, I just want to know where I come from, I want to know my heritage, I guess, my culture." She wanted to know who she was. "I... I just," a shrug, "want to know."

Her father nodded, her mother left the room. "We come from an island east of here." He stood up and crossed the kitchen, clicking off the stove and lifting the egg skillet onto another burner. "There was an earth quake, and a terrible storm. Part of the land fell into the sea. People died. The storm was incredibly strong, but not terribly large, and entirely centered on the land. The beaches flooded. Your mother and I, and many others, went to the boats. The storm destroyed many of them early on. Ours included. So all we could do was sit in the life boats and float away from each other, praying that the storm would end, praying that we would find land. And we, at least, did. Our boat landed here. On this island. So here we stayed." He smiled sadly at her, carefully moving eggs from pan to plate. "Your mother doesn't like to talk about it. She likes to imagine that it never happened, that we've always been here and that these people have always been our friends and family. Our only friends and family." He passed her a plate. "The island is completely gone now. The mayor sent out a few people to look for it, and for survivors. Neither were found."

Kairi poked at her eggs. "Why didn't you ever tell me? Why's it always been some big secret?" She looked up, into her father's blue eyes.

He shrugged. "You didn't need to know. After all, you didn't remember anything. And your mother didn't want to have to think about it."

"But... But this is my history. Shouldn't I have known?"

"Why? What does it matter? It doesn't change you. You know, people always talk about blood being thicker than water. About the past catching up. Like that's supposed to mean something. What are you supposed to do about it? Blood is thicker than water, I suppose, in a literal sense, but what does that mean? Blood doesn't mean anything more than you want it to. And as for the past, what happened once before might affect you again, but does that mean you have to dwell on it? To think of nothing else? If you don't leave it behind you, then where do you put it? In front of you? In the middle of your life?" He shrugged again, and paused to take a bite of eggs. "Your history, it doesn't really matter, it shouldn't change who you are. But, in case it does, in case you want it to," he smiled at her across the table. "Now you know."