Part of the reason this took so long is that I have already pre-completed the whole first part of the story; the first 15 chapters or so. I hope to release them regularly, perhaps bi-weekly, while working to keep ahead on the second/third parts. Grad school may continue to get in the way, though. We shall see!

This is something of a prologue—the main timeline will begin in earnest next time!
~Mars

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ACT I: LA SERA

Chapter II: A Sunflower Amongst the Slate
What good is the warmth of summer;
without the cold of winter
to give it sweetness?
~John Steinbeck

It was summer in the Garden then.

And Merlin, Grand Wizard of the Court, was taking dinner with two dear friends in the cool of the evening, after a long day spent celebrating the ascension of King Aeron in the place of his father, King Taran. The Lord Protector had even announced the adoption of another apprentice, an orphan still yet a toddler; a young lad, named Ienzo.

Amidst the beauty of the party, unfolding as the elegant gardens bloomed, very few felt the humidity, for the cool of the waters that rushed through the Garden kept the breeze cool and refreshing. It had truly been a momentous day filled with parades and dancing and an evening of fireworks—set off by none other than Merlin himself.

"-And those are snapdragons, foxgloves, and hyacinth!" Professor Gast was pointing in turn to each of the the flowering beauties on the windowsill, great explosions of lavender, cherry and periwinkle, illuminated by the flames of fira magic.

"'napwagons, floxloves and hikinth!" cried the little girl who sat in his lap, green eyes shining with excitement.

"Very good! You are so very smart!" Ifalna smiled as she stooped to kiss the child's forehead, sweeping up with her a few more dishes from the small, oaken table as she passed.

Merlin nodded as he lit his pipe with a snap from his fingers, enjoying the post-dinner indolence. "She is quite precocious!"

"Isn't she?" Gast murmured, looking to with love. "We're very lucky."

"B'whadda we do w'them, daddy?" little Aerith questioned, tugging on Gast's heavy mustache for attention.

Gast shook his head, "Why, nothing at all, my dear! We simply enjoy them; their beauty is itself a blessing, am I right, Merlin?"

"Certainly true." Merlin agreed.

"And," Gast added, lifting Aerith's tiny arm to wave at Ifalna, "We thank your mother for planting them!"

"Tank-you, momma!" Aerith waved happily and Merlin could only smile—yes, not only a precocious child, but an uncommonly well-tempered one at that!

"You are very welcome, Aerith." Ifalna smiled as took the last few dishes out of sight and knelt to touch her child's nose, "Every beautiful thing must be cared for and loved before it can be beautiful, after all."

"Quite right!" Gast grinned, kissing Ifalna with a smirk, "I myself am a fantastic example, eh?"

Two rooms away, a knock on the door disturbed their revelry.

Ifalna merrily rolled her eyes as she lifted Aerith from Gast's lap, "Certainly, love."

"Quite right, quite right!" Gast pinched Aerith's cheek with a smile and stepped out to check the door.

"I must say though, Ifalna," Merlin added, "Gast is a far better man having met you than ever I knew him before."

"Thank you, Merlin," Ifalna sat, bouncing Aerith on her knee, "I have had more than my share of time to learn."

Before Merlin could answer, an odd sound only just registered in his old ears, like one or two of his old books falling a few feet off the shelf. Judging by Ifalna's tilted head, she had heard it too.

"Allow me," Merlin lifted himself from his chair and, still puffing his pipe, stepped beyond the dining room's cozy atmosphere to where Gast had vanished after the door.

As he rounded the corner into the longer entryway beside the staircase, it was all Merlin could do not to gasp aloud, pipe nearly clattering from his mouth. Quickly he stepped back behind the door jam.

Just within the house stood several suited Turks—special operations for President Shinra (Gast's employer himself )—beside a white-coated man with long, oily-black hair and glasses—a co-worker of Gast, Merlin had thought briefly, before the full truth of the scene came to him.

For there lay Gast on the floor, blood leaking from his chest and temple and camouflaging into the red carpet beneath him. It was then that Merlin also realized that each of the Turks also bore a firearm; two of which still smoked.

Which meant-

Oh, Gast—Gast! Merlin could barely think. He turned back toward the dining room, catching Ifalna's gaze. It must have been clear from his face the direness of the situation, for Ifalna's visage, too, ran cold and shocked. Why would Gast's own company have done such a thing?!

Merlin tried to mouth the word "Turks" to her, but was interrupted by the sound of a click. Turning back, he found himself staring down the barrel of small pistol, unable to even meet the eyes of his soon-to-be killer, who's defensive aim was around the corner and out of sight.

Moving quickly, before he saw what he had found, Merlin pushed his hand forward with a sloppy, unfocused, "Aerora!"

With a gust, the Turk was thrown back across the hall by the magical wind, his chambered bullet penetrating the wooden frame of the nearby wall. Immediately, the other three Turks opened fire on Merlin's position, each hunkered behind staircases or doors, their spray sending eruptions of splinter and stone bouncing off Merlin's blue cloak.

Pulling his wand out from his robe, Merlin responded with blasts of blizzard and aero magic-the safest inside the home-as he kept his old body ducked low beside the frame. He was never able to get enough of a good look to aim well, only judging his shots by the sounds of what he hit. Picture frames crashed to the ground, wood splintered, and, occasionally, a Turk grunted.

As Merlin's mind raced trying to decide his next move, Ifalna was suddenly at his side, Aerith miraculously asleep in her arms—how…?

As the house seemed to shake around them from the assault, Ifalna stared into Merlin's eyes with a serious desperation. "Gast…?"

Merlin's mouth worked up and down for a moment, "I…"

Only a moment of pain washed over Ifalna's face—a quivered lip, a long sigh, closed eyes—before it re-firmed. In that single moment, it felt to Merlin like years of her life passed.

Over the din, a high-pitched voice seemed almost to scream, "Ifalna! Ifalna do come out! Gast has kept you here long enough!"

Merlin fired off another Aeroga, catching many, if not all, of the Turk's bullets in its torrent. In that brief few seconds of silence, beneath the roar of the wind, Merlin felt Ifalna's arm on his.

"Please," she choked out, voice firm but stuck, "Please, take Aerith. Protect her."

"Madam, I—" Merlin began, arms frozen as he looked down at the small child being held out to him. "W-w-with all due respect—"

"They haven't seen you yet; but they know me." She kissed Aerith once more, her voice a whisper, and held out the sleeping child to him, "Please, take her." She paused, "And once you've gotten out, burn it all."

Still stunned, Merlin accepted the child into his open arm. What was she talking about? How was she so calm?

"B-B-but what about you?" he replied meekly.

Suddenly, in her left hand, a sword appeared—a black hilt and guard, seated beneath a long silver blade that was topped by a sharp right-angled hook, in the shape of a short arrow. It was the strangest sword Merlin had yet seen-resembling almost a key—and how had she manifested it from nothing-?

The sound of ricocheting bullets returned as Ifalna stood tall to her feet, tying up the hem of her of her dress.

"Do not worry about me," she took the hilt in both hands, "As I told you, I've had more than my share of time. If I survive, I will find you—and her."

Merlin looked down at the child in his arms and back up at Ifalna above. Seeing that he wasn't yet moving, she pulled him up by the arm, keeping him far from the door, and shoved him toward the back of the house.

Merlin finally backed away, heart pounding in fear, and mind at a loss for what he was supposed to do—this was a sleeping child in his arms, for goodness' sake! Gast was dead! Ifalna was going to fight! How had this all gone so wrong?!

Just then, Ifalna's voice brought him back to reality.

"Wait!"

Merlin looked up to Ifalna, the very form of bravery, standing with her Keyblade brandished, body tensed to move. She took one final look at Aerith, and one more at Merlin.

"Please," her voice broke, but only briefly, as she swallowed over the emotion, "Please take the sunflower with you." She finally tore her eyes away, looking back to the doorframe that was now shredded with bullets, "It's her favorite."

And with that, Ifalna was gone; vanished beyond Merlin's sight. All he could hear was the sound of bullets and sword. He had to move. He had to go. By the gods, he had to do something! But he couldn't move.

Suddenly, the child—dear, little Aerith—shifted in her sleep, murmuring, and Merlin found his moorings released.

Turning quickly, he dashed through the dining room, out towards the back of the house. Lifting his wand, he called out a gravity spell with a broken voice, collapsing a small portion of the back wall through which he might fit.

Just before he did so, though, his eyes caught sight of the single sunflower, sitting on the windowsill amidst the azaleas and marigold.

With a cry, he snatched up the pot and, with it in one arm and Aerith in the other, he ducked from the house of Gast and Ifalna, lingering only long enough to light the thatched roof with a blast of firaga before stealing off into the still and quiet streets of Radiant Garden.

Merlin…

Merlin…

Merlin…?

"Merlin?"

Merlin slowly blinked open his bushy brow and sighed, looking up into Aerith's deep emerald eyes, painted with undeserved worry and concern. No longer a little toddler, she was a young woman of 18. She was still dressed in the white gown of her healing profession, apparently having only just returned from her shift at the infirmary. Her long brunette hair was tied back and piled atop her head in a large bun by a pink ribbon, a feat of balancing and strength that Merlin, a true magician, had always marveled at.

"What…what is it, child?" he answered sleepily, "Welcome home, I should add…"

"Thank you," Aerith quickly responded, concern still evident in her voice, "It's just that you were mumbling in your sleep—were you having a nightmare? Are you alright?"

Merlin blinked, "Why, yes, yes, I'm fine. Only an old man's dreams." He placed his thin hand on hers, "Nothing you need worry yourself over, I do say."

Aerith nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but experienced enough to know there was little more to be said. "Well, I am glad you've taken your afternoon nap already!" a smile returned to her face, "Remember who's coming over for a wonderful welcome home dinner this evening!"

"Yes, yes, I remember…" Merlin murmured, "Your young…friend."

"And Cloud, too, obviously!" Aerith tut-tutted him with a smile as she stepped away, "And don't be so obstinate—you know who Zack is to me."

"Yes, of course, of course…" Merlin returned her scolding with his own smirk. Yes, Zachary Fair was her "boyfriend", as they called it now. After two years, he might as well accept it!

No matter his qualms, he was pleased to see Aerith so happy as she hummed her away upstairs to change—her best friend, her boyfriend, her "little brother" all back in one day! And Squall, too!

All the same, best to keep young Zack on his toes.

"Remember—Tifa will be here any minute to help prepare!" Aerith called down the stairs. "She's bringing food from the bar."

"I'm not old enough to have forgotten everything, you know!" Merlin called back to her, coming down to a mumble, "As if I would expect Tifa to stay away even a day with Cloud back…"

"I can still hear you!" Aerith laughed from above, before he heard her door shut and her muffled voice after it, "No more grumpiness!"

Merlin sighed as he lit his pipe and leaned back into the cushioned armchair of his study. Aerith had re-opened all the windows, letting the late afternoon breeze in and pushing through several pages of the open book before him. On the sill, among the many flowers Aerith had filled their home with, an old sunflower still grew—bringing Merlin pause.

He had only ever told Aerith the scantest of details. She knew he was not her biological father, she also knew that her parents had died in a housefire many, many years ago. But to tell her any more… Merlin had feared the worst.

When Ifalna never returned, he had tried for years to tie the Shinra Company to the crime, but President Wilhelm Shinra was a professional in his time and his Turks left no trace–-he had never even been able to ascertain their motive, and digging any deeper would've drawn unwanted attention to dear Aerith.

As it was, he raised her himself, giving her the surname Gainsborough and used his position in the King's court to protect them. Thus, Merlin had let the terrible matter sit, always a small parasite at the back of his mind.

The wizard continued to puff away at his pipe, sending great and varied shapes of smoke into the air, taking advantage of the moment that Aerith was away. She wouldn't let him smoke if she were present.

Perhaps that was why he was so wary of Zack: that idiotic, attention-grabbing, antic-causing, ladder-climbing, life-of-the-party, gregarious soldier of the PKF. If there ever was someone who would draw attention it'd be that one.

Couldn't he be just a pinch more professional, like Squall? Or even if he could only be more like Cloud. Ever since that boy moved in with them, at Aerith's insistence, he had been nothing but a quiet, polite and helpful young man. He and Tifa had worked their way to Radiant Garden all the way from Nibelheim; and at such a young age, too! That kind of quiet, unassuming dedication was something Zack could stand to emulate!

But, Merlin feared, it was actually Cloud who wished to be like Zack.

It was winter in the Bastion then.

And Ansem the Wise was telling stories before the fireplace.

"…and so the Prince became a King and the Princess became a Queen," Ansem sighed, satisfied, as the current tale came to its conclusion, "And they lived in the castle happily ever after and had a beautiful family."

"I hate when they end like that," Braig scoffed, rolling his eyes as he scratched at his new facial hair, "So predictable: boring!"

Ansem arched a brow as he leaned back in his seat, the large fireplace burning quietly beside him. Its orange glow cast flickering shapes across the faces of his five apprentices and the walls of books behind them.

"You could always attempt one yourself, Braig." He responded, his tone toward his third-eldest apprentice one of challenging amusement.

"Yes, I'm certain we'd all love to hear what you have to offer," Even smirked over the thin text in this hand, which he had been reading throughout the evening-Ansem knew fairy tales had never been Even's cup of tea; at least, not since he left childhood about five years ago.

"Alrighty then—" Braig paused, absently pulling at his short ponytail, "So there once was this Princess, right? And she was—"

"Be appropriate." Aeleus' prematurely deep voice interrupted, as he nodded briefly toward young Ienzo before returning to prodding the fire.

Ansem watched with a smile as his youngest, little Ienzo of only a newly-minted eight, brushed the silver hair from his eyes and spoke up with the voice of an elementary student, but the vocabulary of one much older, "I'm quite certain I will endure, Aeleus!"

"All the same," Dilan chuckled as he reclined in his seat, hands laced behind his head, "I daresay we would all be better off without Braig's…fancies."

"Agreed." Aeleus confirmed, picking up a large log in one great hand to place gently on the fire.

"Awwww, c'mon!" Braig waved his arms wildly, "Gimme a little credit, eh? You think I'd tell a story like that with the old man right here?"

"You are certainly capable." Even replied without looking up this time.

Ansem couldn't help but laugh at his boys, "It seems you might be stuck with me and my boring stories of castles and families, Braig!"

"Whatevs," Braig shrugged, "It's not like I haven't survived all these years of 'em."

"Father," Ienzo questioned, the only one to still yet address him so (although Even occasionally still slipped up), "When will our own King and Queen have a family?"

"Well, y'see kid—" Braig began quickly, a smirk starting across his face.

"Appropriate." Aeleus chided again, his square countenance firm.

As Braig leaned back with another sly shrug, Ansem mulled over the question. He had never answered questions quickly, even simple ones such as this, and his sons had come to patiently await his response.

"It will happen when they so choose," he finally responded, observing with bemusement as several ears perked up—they had been discussing free will and determinacy earlier in the day's lessons and were, to his pride, seeing the illustration, "You see, Ienzo, a family is something you choose."

Ienzo stroked his chin for a moment, looking far older than his years, before finally exclaiming: "But I most certainly didn't choose Braig!"

Ansem laugh boomed through the cozy study, mixing with the snickers of Even and the single snort from Aeleus. Dilan only smirked and even Braig released a single, acknowledging, guffaw.

"Ah, that may be true!" Ansem replied, "But I most certainly chose you, Ienzo! And I also chose Braig," he eyed the young man with a mischievous grin, "Though I often find myself questioning why."

"Besides," Even added, eager to both teach or show off, "The fact that you remain here, even in spite of Braig, constitutes a kind of choice, albeit a crude one."

Ienzo nodded, "So King Aeron and Queen Gwendolyn, just as they chose each other, will one day choose to produce a family?"

"Indeed, but remember—" Ansem leaned forward, knowing he was almost theatrically eager to communicate his point, "The blood that will tie them to that child is far, far less important than the fact that they chose that child—and that they keep choosing them, every day."

"Hm." Aeleus quietly provided his affirmation.

Ienzo opened his mouth to ask another question, index finger poised in request, but was interrupted by a rapid knock at the door.

"Come in!" Dilan said.

"Lord Ansem," A young castle servant poked his head into the study, "I apologize for interrupting, but there's a fellow at the gate who refuses to leave—"

"In this weather?" Ansem stood up quickly, well aware of the chilling storm outside the study's warmth. The entirety of Radiant Garden had been shuttered in preparation for such a gale, "Are you certain he is even capable? Would you leave a man to freeze?"

The servant had no response, so Ansem gathered his cloak around himself and responded for him, "We are not barbarians! Take me to him." He beckoned with his hand, "Braig, Dilan, with me—the rest of you, please clear a spot for this poor guest by the fire."

With a quick nod, Braig and Dilan dutifully followed as Aeleus and Ienzo began to move chairs and shift tables around Even. Ansem brushed past the servant, who followed along at a distance. The halls of the castle were only slightly colder than the study, or other rooms like it; their prolific use of fire magic was enough to heat even the grandest ballrooms of Hollow Bastion.

Stepping quickly out before him, Dilan hefted open the large wooden doors of the castle, allowing the biting breeze to blow in unwelcomed, bringing in with it flurries of snow. Ansem wrapped his red cloak firmer around himself and stepped out into the whiteness, taking the first steps down toward the ornate gate of the castle. He'd have to speak with this servant later—there is no world in which Ansem the Wise would allow one of his people to die for want of heat or space!

"Braig, Braig—" Ansem called through the whistling chill, as his eyes fell upon a huddled, dark shape amidst the snow piled against the iron, "Open up the gates!"

As Braig headed toward the gatehouse, Dilan caught up beside him.

"I would be shocked if he yet still breathes…" Dilan sighed, "This damned cold…"

Ansem nodded quietly, darting forward as soon as the gate creaked open wide enough for him to slide through. "Young man, young man—" he called out, stooping to crouch beside the huddled form. "Are you alright?"

As the quivering shape moved, Ansem found himself shocked—not only was this young man alive and able to move, he did so even while wearing only the tattered remains of a cloak and bearing only the slightest of frames. A thin, shaking hand reached out for Ansem, who quickly removed his own robe and wrapped it around the boy—for he could now tell this was a boy, maybe only six or seven years older than Ienzo, perhaps, for his emaciated and desperately pale form made it difficult to tell.

The cold bit at Ansem ever more deeply, as he put aside for the moment the questions of this young man's origin—how did one such as he end up in the Garden, in this condition? And how did he end up at the castle gates in the midst of a winter storm? Confused and concerned, Ansem called for Braig and Dilan to help carry him.

"It will be alright, my son," Ansem comforted, wrapping the boy close in his robe, "Tell me, how did you get here? Where are you from?"

"The hell?" Braig muttered over Ansem's shoulder, rubbing his arms in the cold, "How's this dude alive?" Dilan could only shrug, as he shook the ice from his long, braided hair.

"I d—I don't-t-t- k-k-know…" came the half-conscious, chattered response to Ansem's inquiry.

Ansem's brow furrowed as he gestured for Dilan and Braig to take the youth by the shoulders, "Well…do you have a name?"

The boy eyes rolled up to look at Ansem, their amber flame the first hint of color Ansem could observe in his whole form, "X-x-x-x-Xeha…Xehanort-t-t-t…"

Ansem breathed sharply as he stood, cold knifing his bones. He lifted the boy with Braig and Dilan, "Well, Xehanort, you may call me Ansem—and I promise we will make you well."

To that, Xehanort did not respond, and Ansem feared he had lost consciousness.

Xehanort…

Xehanort…

Xehanort…

"Xehanort…?"

"Sir?"

Ansem startled awake, blinking until the study around him came into focus. Apparently, he had dozed off for an afternoon nap.

"Sir?" Xehanort repeated, looking down at him, unsure, "Are you alright? You were repeating my name."

Ansem rubbed at his eyes and sat forward. There he was, Xehanort—somehow become his foremost prodigy, the recipient of Even's jealousy and Ienzo's emulations. Several books and stacks of paper were held under his arms and a pencil was tucked into his ear, pushed back along with that long silver-white hair of his—so shocking to the rest of his brothers when they realized the shade was not simply the ice and snow he had been found in.

Unfortunately, the eternally serious young man had never recovered his memories despite their greatest, ongoing efforts over many long years. The mystery of his arrival, truly, of his survival, remained just that.

"What—what time is it, Xehanort?" Ansem questioned with a weary smile.

"Well, sir, the sun has just set—" Xehanort glanced behind him, "and the young Princess is requesting a story."

Ansem followed his gaze to see the large bulk of Aeleus, decorated in his full military regalia, standing behind Xehanort, holding in his arms the tiny form of Princess Kairi.

"She has also selected the colors for her party." Aeleus added, briefly, with a paradoxical solemnity, "Purple and white."

Kairi nodded vigorously in affirmation. In his enormous arms, she looked like the smallest of creatures—her bobbing head was barely the size of Aeleus' whole hand. Her large eyes looked at Ansem, through auburn tresses, with an infectious, expecting, mirth.

"Well, let's not keep Her Majesty waiting!" Ansem exclaimed with a playful smile, as he lifted himself from his chair with a great heave. He knew was getting old. "Are you be willing to join us, Xehanort?"

Thinking for a moment, Xehanort turned to follow after him, "I suppose I could, at least momentarily. I wanted to speak with you about several experiments, as well."

Ansem placed a hand on Xehanort's white-coated shoulder, he must've been at work in the laboratories today.

"A wise choice."