The Prince, The Knight, and the Warlock's Apprentice
Chapter 2: Dark Soul
TW: This chapter depicts self-harm. Please be wary if you're sensitive to this. Thank you!
The Spirit of the Night had no remorse for humans. It ebbed in the darkness and spent its infinite days in leisure. It sought no comfort in its task. It merely whisked away those who were marked for death.
The Spirit of the Night had no remorse… until it came upon the boy. The boy was curled in the shadow of an alleyway, blood pooling between the cobblestones beneath him. His side was ripped open and his face looked feverish. What struck the Spirit of the Night was how hard the boy was fighting, even in his own sleep, to stay alive. The Spirit sensed every fiber of the boy's soul and body desperately clinging to life.
But the boy sputtering for breath had lost so much blood on the ground and in his lungs… and the wound was infected. If it wasn't the blood loss that killed him, it would surely be the fever right in its tracks.
This boy, whose hair was as dark as The Spirit's tendrils and so pale that the moon could be envious. It would be so easy to whisk this one away… but The Spirit couldn't bring itself to. What gave The Spirit pause was the overwhelming sensation of promise.
Most humans hardly had a lick of promise. Many, so many, died nameless to history. They faded away like ashes in the wind, without a single purpose other than to eventually die.
Yet, this one… this small one, who fought with each breath to cling to life… this one, The Spirit sensed, had the promise of greatness. He could be the perfect vessel… but for what?
The Spirit of the Night had no remorse… but it lingered there for a long moment. It was the first time in eons it ever lingered so long. The Spirit took the boy into its ghostly arms. Then, its tendrils seeped out from the darkness and stroked along the gash. It bubbled with blackened blood, and the boy's breath hitched in his sleep. The darkness seeped into him, into all the fibers of his being. It filled up the vessel of his soul with great power: the power of darkness. Yet, The Spirit of the Night still wasn't satisfied. To be filled with darkness was one thing, but to wield its power was another.
The Spirit looked to the Harvest Moon and summoned the magic from it. The harvest moon, owing a favor, whispered back to The Spirit. A glittering stream of golden starlight twisted down like a pumpkin vine in the sky. The Spirit beckoned the stream closer and closer until it dusted the boy's eyelashes and enmagicked him.
When the dawn would come, the boy would awaken to find his eyes gold as the Harvest Moon and blood turned black. The healed gash would leave a normal scar… but with a small pattern of blackness just barely visible beneath the skin. It twisted like the roots of a tree outward from the scar, as if someone drew it in ink from inside him.
The Spirit of the Night propped the boy up and listened with gladness as he breathed gently. Then, looking forward to the day they would meet once more, it left.
The Spirit of the Night had no remorse… but it did, on occasion, have hope.
That was when a stranger, sensing the powerful source of darkness, came to find its source…
Of all the days, Letting Day was Vantias' least favorite.
It always happened on the 7th day of the week, when his blood had a seemingly-accurate amount of time to replenish. He was sure that, if it was up to the Master, Letting Day would be every day. He supposed the 6-day break was something to be grateful for, but right then, he was just grateful that the leeching phase was done.
He looked disdainfully at the vials of moonwater that the creatures writhed within. The blood oozing from their tiny maws had turned the water a murky gray. He counted the little black things once more: eighteen. The sight of them fit in perfectly with all the alchemical paraphernalia littered throughout the cobbled basement: beakers, flasks, chalk, flammables, books, mysterious ampoules, scrolls, and bottles upon bottles of morbid curiosities. Without fail, the whole image brought back that same memory of his Master: One for every year of your life! the old man said, beaming as if this particular birthday present was a prized riding horse instead of blood-sucking worms. He wasn't certain why, but that particular reverie always disturbed him. The leeches, less so. When Vanitas was a boy, he hated the vile little things… but now, seeing them made him feel nothing. It was the same with the fleam.
Vanitas readied another three vials, these ones emptied and cleaned. He retrieved a leather roll and a cloth from their home on the shelf above. He unrolled the leather across the butcherblock table to reveal a long row of metal instruments. Each was a series of blades with a spade head folded into a protective sheath. The blades of the fleams were dangerously sharp and meticulously cleaned. Some iron, some precious metal, some with ornate handles, and others worn from use… but each and every one was ready and waiting for their gruesome task. In the dank atmosphere of the tepid basement, where the only light trickled in from a dusty window above and the candles lit around the room, they seemed to glint. Use us, they whispered. Let us taste flesh, they hissed.
Though his options were many, Vanitas chose his particular favorite: a simple iron blade with a handle twisted up and over into a curling spiral. It almost made Vanitas think of the athames he read so much about in the many tomes his Master kept on ritualistic magic. Perhaps before he acquired it, it was used for just that. He laid the cloth on the worktable and placed the vials and fleam in the center. Then, Vanitas held his bare arms outward to inspect them. Last week, it was his right arm that he Let; the cuts and leech bites were still pink and slightly tender. The week before last, it was his left leg. His legs were his least favorite to Let, so he supposed that was another thing to be grateful for: one arm left to go until next Letting Day.
Looking left, Vanitas' gaze scanned up his pale arm, across the smattering of tiny scars. Then, he looked over the tendrils of his veins. At first glance, they seemed like the same deep blue as any. But looking closer, one would notice the true color to be an otherwordly black. Though muted as veins are beneath the skin, it was still unnerving to those willing to look close enough… and Vanitas liked it that way. "Black of Night" was what his Master called Vanitas' blood. Admittedly, this name always seemed fitting.
He poised the tip of the spade head over the most previously-opened wound along his forearm and, without hesitation, cut. After years of practice, he found no trouble slicing at the perfect depth to draw the perfect amount of blood. It seeped to the surface, a smooth black stone upon white sand, threatening to drip wastefully upon the cloth below.
"And now for the fun part," Vanitas said.
Reaching into an unknown source within, Vanitas willed the blood upwards. First, it was a droplet. Then two, three… several little beads of black floated in the air before him. He willed further, drawing the blood from his own veins in a threadlike stream. Vanitas often used it to weave patterns into the air: chevrons, flowers of life, spirals, whatever he could conceive of. The threads of blood glistened in the dim daylight, casting the subtlest of shadows across the room.
Then came the tricky part.
Vanitas placed the fleam back onto the table to free his right hand. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he lifted his palm and drew his fingers inward. He could feel the otherworldly tug, now so familiar to his senses after years of practice. He plunged inward, seeking out the sensation that trickled through his body like oxygen in his blood. His mind worked through all the dark places in the room. His mind searched the cracks, the crevasses, the tiniest shadows cast by his blood… he pulled it all toward him, the way a celestial object twists gravity inward. The translucent blackness flowed to him, filling up his grasp. He flexed his fingers as if working a ball of clay, molding the darkness into a sphere of undulating black. Then, moving his left hand, he began to weave.
His hands worked in tandem to hold the ball stable and wrap an intricate loom of black blood around the fixture. Loop after loop, blood steadily streaming as he went. He layered shadow and blood, matter and air, black on black, like to like. When satisfied, he held his creation aloft: a gyroscope formed from darkness itself. His eyes flicked to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The feat had only taken him about 30 seconds. Though this was only a small display of his true power, it was still interesting to test and time his abilities.
"Marvelous," A voice creaked from behind him, "Absolutely marvelous, my boy."
Vanitas didn't flinch. He kept the fixture poised perfectly in the air aloft, replying dully, "Welcome back, Master Xehanort." With a snap of his fingers, he released his hold on the darkness. It all slipped away back from whence it came. He twirled a finger and the black threads broke formation to spiral around the back of his head. Then, with a sloping sweep of his right hand, he guided the blood over his shoulder and into one of the bottles. The sight was akin to ink slowly filling up a bottle, though his blood was as viscous as anyone else's. Vanitas' blood was also the only blood he could shape like this. It was something learned early on in his experience with magic.
"Your power grows more and more each day. It is truly a sight to witness."
Vanitas was grateful that keeping his eyes trained on his blood helped him focus, otherwise he may have rolled them in response. Though once the inspiration of his labor, as of late, his Master's praise brought him no recourse. He knew he was talented. He knew his magic was impressive. What else was new?
"Thank you, Master," He drawled and, with a smirk, added "Perhaps someday soon I'll even surpass you."
The old man cackled, and it reverberated off the stone walls much like the shadows that flickered around the room. "Indeed, Vanitas! You are a fine apprentice, and perhaps you'll skip right over court mage and become a warlock outright." He guffawed, and Vanitas knew the old man was shaking his head. "Perhaps, perhaps…"
Court mage–it almost made him want to laugh. Even after all these years and stories, he simply couldn't imagine the ever-scheming Xehanort as anything other than an old warlock hunched over an alchemist's table and cooking up spells in the darkness. Especially when the King himself knew many of the petty spells that Xehanort would peddle for the entertainment of nobles…
When Vanitas' blood reached the capacity of the first glass bottle, he stopped the flow briefly to switch to the second. Maybe it was his Master beginning to bustle around behind him, or maybe it was his mind wandering… but the flow became unstable. Just a touch, just the tiniest amount… but he watched with distaste as drops of black blood hit the cloth below. His pale lip twitched as he mentally chided himself for his sloppiness. His mind reached for his prior hold, like groping around for an object in the dark.
What frustrated Vanitas was that he still needed to drag the magic from somewhere deep within. It didn't come to him so easily. He had to search for it, pulling it out from the darkest confines of his soul. That's what made his blood so valuable, after all: it was the essence of darkness itself. Black of Night indeed.
To his dismay, the Master came forward to stand beside him. The old man–in his usual hunched posture, with hands behind his back–was wearing a sickly smile. A gloved hand reached forward to lift the filled bottle aloft. Xehanort admired its contents in the dusty light, swishing it just so as if it were the first day he discovered it. Despite praise meaning little to him now, Vanitas would never admit to the pride he felt in witnessing his Master's awe in these moments.
"I have news of our plan, Vanitas."
Once more, Vanitas did not flinch. Though he did hate the way the Master referred to this plan as if they both had a hand in creating it.
Xehanort continued, "Word from the castle implies the Prince is finally at the peak of his own power. Just in time for his birthday ball." Another cackle, the black blood sloshing in its limited space, "One cannot write of such conveniences! My, my, my…"
Vanitas' spit soured in his mouth. Fortunately the second bottle was full, so he abruptly cut off the flow with a swipe of his hand. Knowing he wouldn't be able to focus for the third bottle, he pressed his palm firmly over the wound on his arm to staunch the bleeding. "...so it's finally time, then?"
The old man hummed to himself before placing the bottle back down, "Yes… yes, the time has arrived, dearest Vanitas. And, at last, you are ready."
Vanitas had never even met the Prince, though he'd heard much of him from the Master's stories and subsequent coaching over the last few years. It was what all this prepping was readying him for. All the blood he let, all the magic he'd learned, all the darkness he'd become… it was for this.
He was just annoyed he'd have to listen to his Master's usual diatribe on the subject. He'd practically memorized it by this point: 'When I called upon the Devil of the Night–'
"When I called upon the Devil of the Night to save your life, it spoke to me. It told me of the evil within your heart, the darkest of darkness sleeping there… it sucked the life from your skin, gave you the unholy eyes of the harvest moon, and turned your blood to pitch. The Devil of the Night told me of your destiny to devour the light and bring true balance to all of creation–" Turning his head away from his Master, Vanitas mouthed along: "True balance of darkness and light."
This was usually where Vanitas tuned out the monologue. The Master would go on about King Eraquis being a fool, the Prince, the details of his plan, Vanitas' role within that plan, and, without fail, the million things that Vanitas owed him for his altruism. It always rotated between "you owe me your life," "you owe me your power," "you owe me your blood," "you owe me your soul," "you owe me these chores done," "you owe me this food cooked," and "I didn't have to make you my apprentice," and "I could have let you die," or "be grateful for this home and meal you ingrate," or "this magic is a privilege and a gift so be grateful," or–
"It's finally time for you to repay me, my apprentice."
This shook Vanitas out of his bored reverie. His head snapped over to look at his Master, who was beaming at him. The man clapped a firm hand on Vanitas' shoulder, the way a father would for a son. It was the most warmth Vanitas had seen from his Master in ages.
"Vanitas… these years and all I have taught you… it's finally time to embrace your purpose." Xehanort's voice lowered, and Vanitas' mind slipped to the call-and-response portion of the diatribe, "Tell me your purpose."
"To consume the light of this world."
"What must you destroy?"
"King Eraquis' reign."
"And what will it take to do that?"
Without hesitation, Vanitas responded, "The heart of Prince Ventus."
A low chuckle, eerie and delighted, rattled from Xehanort's throat. He removed his hand and turned away. "The finest apprentice a warlock could ever hope for."
This time Vanitas took the opportunity to roll his eyes.
"Ah, and for such an occasion…" The old man continued from across the room. "I've a gift for you."
Vanitas faced his Master, who lifted a wooden box from the last step of the basement stairs. Opening the lid, the old man revealed its contents: a black tunic embroidered with red and silver threading. He could only assume that there were matching pants beneath. It was leagues nicer than any of the old dark rags he'd been wearing for ages now.
Just as Vanitas was about to question the sentiment, his Master commanded, "Finish that last bottle and get cleaned up. We have a ball to attend tonight."
Realization. Then, shock. "Tonight?" He griped, "The ball is tonight? You can't be serious."
"Don't balk at me, boy!" The Master snapped back, "You're as ready as you'll ever be. From what information I've gathered, the Prince is just as starved for a friend as you are. Do as boys do, and you'll win his trust over one way or another. I'm sure of it." The Master left the box atop a littered table, then began his ascent on the stairs, "Now hurry along! We haven't any time to waste."
Within a moment, the cellar door above creaked shut with finality. Vanitas stood blinking… before letting out an aggravated growl. He hadn't been a young boy for years now, and yet the Master never saw him as anything but.
The sound of dripping caught his attention. His grip had loosened at some point, as the cut on his arm was seeping blood between his fingers. He watched the black substance drop to the cobblestone floor, the weight of his task settling on him.
It was finally happening.
After years of hearing the same damn prattling over and over, after all the painful hours of apprenticeship, after all the blood let…
Finally.
Wiping his hand across his wound, he willed that darkness to stitch up the slice from the inside. Vanitas swallowed back the creeping tightness in his throat as alowly, easily, the rarest of smiles crept upon his face. Then, it cracked into a wicked grin that was wan as the waning moon at blackest midnight.
Finally, finally, finally.
He ripped at that darkness all around him, forcing it from its hiding place. He pooled it all around him, flooding the room with smoke-like miasma. He used it like an appendage, reaching across the room and pulling his new dress clothes from the box to marvel at them: black and soft as velvet night, the red threading intersecting the fabric the way lava carves rock. He willed the clothing forward to grasp the lightweight materials in his pale hands. Despite himself, he let out a hearty cackle–one that would put his own Masters to shame.
It was finally time to step into the world.
It was finally time to prove himself as the Warlock's Apprentice.
He let the darkness disperse once more, heading for his room to ready for the ball.
The third vial sat empty and forgotten upon the table.
Exeunt.
A/N: Hi! I'm just going to ignore the date and times of my last updates and act like time isn't SCREAMING by me every single day! I'm also going to ignore the giant well of existential dread that keeps me from enjoying my hobbies for some weird twisted fear of failure that manifests itself as writers block! Hooray!
Ahem. Anyway. Yes, I am in therapy. This chapter is extra-special because my partner actually beta-read it for me and gave it a shining stamp of approval. It feels good to be accepted in my weird creative outlets. :')
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