'Official' Heart of the Realm Synopsis: "Heart of the Realm" tells the story of an incredibly unlucky boy who grows up to be king of an entire, tiny planet against his will. Benevolent and wise to begin with, he looses everything: His dreams, his family, his friends, his health, his sanity, his kingdom, and eventually his very humanity, and becomes the mad-scientist antagonist in another young hero's story. His plans for universal domination thwarted, will Ansem ever come around again, and finally have his own happy ending?
There will be four complete acts, with the third covering the events of KH1 including the nine years prior to the start of the game when Ansem was supposedly missing after releasing the Heartless, and the fourth covering what 'REALLY' happened after the game when Ansem and Riku were blasted with Light from the door to Kingdom Hearts.
Due to the immense length of this story, I will only write this one draft. Alerting me of technical errors will be greatly appreciated, but I shall not bother to fix them. I'd rather internalize the lesson so as not to repeat the mistake in any future projects. Mere spelling errors are not so bad, as I know there ain't many comparatively.
The first five and a half chapters (46,054 words) were written under the pressures of the NaNoWriMo writing challenge: Write a 50k-word novel in 30 days! Hence occasional weirdness in my story's logical structure. I was much too noble in that I tried incredibly hard to maintain correct grammatical form during the challenge; Other NaNoWriMo participants whom I met (in person) were practically disgusted with me. LOL
Index of Original Characters: Hans, Zoe, Freyr, Savanna aka Sai, Monty, Mort Aufero Caelum, Dulce, Basil, Ivy, and most minor characters without names. I give this list just so that the rightful owners of all the other characters (Ansem, Noctis, Hojo, Dick Van Dyke, the Swedish Chef, etc.) receive their due credit. There might still be some OCs I've forgotten, so I'll update here as soon as I remember.
Now without further delay, I hope you enjoy my masterpiece, Heart of the Realm!
Chapter 1: Dark Night of the Soul
Rushing ebon rivers line the silver-black streets. White lights flicker in the windowpanes of a dozen silver-blue modern monoliths, their messages lost in the quivering reflections. The hour is midnight and all the businesses are down for the night, the awnings over each and every darkened doorway resound along the quiet streets like war drums being beaten by the rain. And lo, two mysterious warriors step forward out of the mist! Clashing blades, neither seems superior, and they battle long and hard into the night. When at last one of these young men seems to have been felled, with a final gasp he cries out to the sky and the clouds part. Suddenly he is engulfed in flames as his figure shifts before the other warrior's eyes. The momentary victor cannot comprehend, paralyzed in his shock by the former's enchanted transformation. Where a pale-skinned, short-brown-haired boy had been, now a dark-skinned man with long white hair now be. No less extraordinary a change than Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde! Struck dumb by fear and awe, along with a sickened feeling somewhere in the deepmost corner of his soul, the onlooker forgets to struggle as he is seized by the man around the throat, and blacks out.
With a jolt like a heartattack, up leaped a young boy who had been sleeping fitfully in his bed. A few beads of sweat christened his brow. His breath came in long, labored heaves as though he'd just been jogging. Untangling himself from the sheets, he slowly began to remember where he actually was, still wrought with vivid images from his distressful dream. The sun was well still down, and the whole sprawling metropolis viewable from the boy's window gave off but a minimal amber glow. The hour must have been around 1am or slightly later.
He lit a candle to calm himself, solidifying the room to his distraught senses, and retrieved a small leatherbound volume for amusement. However, try as he might to deny it, the dream somewhat fascinated him and continuously butted its way to the forefront of his thoughts. Whenever he recollected the experience, more strongly than ever would that sickened, knotted feeling return to his gut. His point of view had been that of the onlooker, and yet his opponent had physically appeared to be himself! Conversely, the boy could not at all recognize who the older man was, wrack his memory as he might. This night he had seen himself transform into a complete stranger. One who then proceeded to strangulate him!
Ill content to ignore the dream, he stowed the book away and got out of bed. Surely there must be an answer in his father's library! for the king of Hollow Bastion was by no means a light reader. Ansem, 14, was the younger of two sons, both of whom the kingdom testified were chips off the old block. Quiet mannered and studious, all three of them, with nothing particularly striking about their physical features. (Brown hair, blue eyes...) In a prolonged era of peace, this easygoing monarchy suited the nation just fine.
Ansem descended some flights of stairs holding his candle at arms length before him, green carpet along the steps protecting his bare feet from the otherwise freezing cold stone of his castle home. He slid his other hand along the curvy metal banister, however, feeling the burn of ice. The outlines of free standing shelves gradually loomed out of the darkness ahead, growing taller with every step. Alas reaching their midst, Ansem pondered where to begin.
"Dreams...dreams...dreams..." he uttered under his breath, running a hand through the air as he read the spine of each tome it pointed at. Ah, a lucky strike! Found almost instantly, a book on dream analysis and philosophy. Ansem took it and seated himself in an armchair by the dark window, and set his candle upon its sill. Dipping once again into his memories, he struggled to put his dream into words so that he could at least try to look up what it meant. If anything.
"A battle with myself...and then I suddenly turn into somebody else and kill myself..." The very sound of it phrased in its simplest manner made his hair stand on end. Yet for all its almost four-hundred pages, the book proved of little help. On one page yet it did give a short statement in that, in any given dream, every single character is in fact the dreamer him or her self. But so far is where its use ended.
Dull blue light crept in through the uncurtained library window, indicating the great length of time Ansem had spent scouring through it. He put it away and crept back up to his room, hoping that he will be allowed to sleep late. In his room, he put his candle down atop his dresser and took a long, serious look at himself in the mirror. He made a face trying to impersonate the ferocious glare his opponent-self had shot at him just before he transformed. In real life, however, Ansem's bangs fell forward and hid his eyes, meaning the expression physically impossible. At this, he felt a surprisingly huge wave of relief then settle in, such indicating that he was apparently more troubled than even he realized.
Interesting, he mused, lightly bemused, then blew out his candle. Whence suddenly Ansem's reflection went dark and irrational fears jolted him once more, his pitch black silhouette outlined in dull morning blue.
Once he had heard that seers in ancient times were able to penetrate the future by gazing prolonged into darkened mirrors. It was not the future he wished to see, but perhaps he could still penetrate a mystery... So Ansem imagined that he was still dreaming and that his reflection in the mirror was his opponent approaching to face him in battle.
"We meet again," he said quietly, trying not to disturb the sacred stillness of the morning.
"And so I hope for the last time, you wretch," he said, imagining that it was his reflection who said it. "You will die today." Ansem was shocked by his own vehemence and decided that maybe he had better take it down a notch.
"So stranger, come here often?" was then what he suddenly wanted to say, and snorted a short laugh.
"Fool, you cannot conceive of the circumstances about to befall you," he continued, getting back into character by glaring through his brow and sneering.
"Fine then, enlighten me," said his real self to the image, somewhat actually hoping for a spontaneously inspired answer that could help him resolve his dream.
But his reflection only smiled back at him with a malicious glint in its hidden blue eyes, and Ansem suddenly burst into flame. He screamed in terror and tried to pat the fire out, but his whole body was engulfed and he felt a strange sensation besides the heat, as if strong broad fingers were tightening around his throat. At a loss for hope of salvation, the boy finally whipped around to look in the mirror thinking that he must either die, or live-out the worst part of his nightmare. What he saw in it instead of himself or his bedroom was a dark vortex that impressed upon him like the very maw of Hell. And standing in the vortex, a shadowy semblance of himself with glowing yellow eyes and its right hand held out like an invitation.
"No... No... NO! NO!" Ansem screamed as he fell over backwards while trying to get away. His back met the wall and set the room on fire too. It spread unrealistically quickly as though the wallpaper had been prepared in gasoline. But nothing turned black, instead only changed form into other furniture, other settings, other vivid colors like red and blue and pink. Nor was smoke emitted, but the place took on a noxious smell of chemical fumes. In so pure a panic that almost bordered on rage, Ansem reached for the heavy clock from his nightstand and used all his might to throw it at the mirror. Were it not for the wall behind the glass, it would have broken right through. As it were, the clock bounced from the now cracked mirror and left a great welt in the top of the old walnut dresser. Silver pieces of glass followed it, tinkling loudly as they hit. But all other things that were strange in the room suddenly vanished. The flames and the vortex, the demon doppelganger, and that ridiculous smell.
Ansem, so deeply affected, just sat on the floor where he happened to be, and cried. Now without a mirror, he noted the color of his hands, never more glad in all his life to just be himself.
However, suddenly a new fear struck upon him as he heard the sound of a hurried commotion coming down the hall just outside his bedroom door. Someone had heard him!
"Guards," he whispered, judging by the unique sound of their metal boots striking the stone floors right through the carpet, and the constrained clanking of the joints in their armor as they ran.
He panicked, knowing full well that he did not have the authority to command them not to come in if they had sufficient reason to doubt his wellbeing. Well, he wasn't well, but not due to the ill will of an intruder. To hide was his first inclination, first of all to conceal his stained face, then next because he was about to get in huge trouble for the damage that he caused. But Ansem was smart enough to realize that doing so would have only made the guards' fears seem that much confirmed; They'd alert his parents and tear apart the castle and all its grounds looking for a nonexistent criminal! So, collecting himself, he scrambled to his feet and dried his face on his blue silk pajama sleeves. He brushed all the broken glass from on top of the dresser onto the floor, towards its end farthest from the door where they wouldn't see it, and kicked the ruined clock as far as he could underneath his bed. Next he picked the broken mirror itself up by its engraved walnut frame, laid it flat on the floor, and slid that under his bed as well. The stage looked convincing enough, he thought, trying again to wipe his feelings from his eyes with his hands just as the guards made it around the last corner and finally into his stretch of hall.
"Prince Ansem!" a strong voiced bellowed through the thick wood, "If you're in there, let us in or I shall have to break this door down!"
"Hold your horses," Ansem groaned loudly in reply, crossing the spacious room. He promptly undid the lock, but opened the door slowly so as to only peek at them through a crack. There were two of them outside from what he could see, both high ranking and both comically surly.
"My word, child! Er, I mean Sir! What have you done to your face?" The first man gasped suddenly.
"What?" said Ansem, profoundly confused, his mind only falling back on his worst fear.
"You're bleeding!" the helmeted man said.
"Oh," chirped Ansem simply, kind of relieved, and wiped his face with the back of one wrist to see where, only to realize that the palm of his hand was bleeding too. Looking back over his shoulder, Ansem saw drops of blood left in a winding trail all over the floor.
"Come on. We'll take you to get fixed up," the leading guard said, probably as fatherly as he was ever able to, and lead the young and very tired prince away through the hall. Ansem was just glad that the guy said it wasn't his business what mischief he had been up to all night, even though he also assured Ansem that his parents would immediately be notified of his injury.
The rising sun had now broken through the horizon, changing the sky and thin clouds outside from dull blue to pale gold and lighting up the stained glass windows all throughout the castle. Colored patches of light appeared high up on the walls opposite them, indicating the direct angle from which the earliest light penetrated their whimsical designs. The new day came unwelcome to Ansem's weary eyes, which refused to adjust to the creeping brightness and involuntarily tried so many times to close while he walked.
By reaching the medical wing, he felt pretty much a zombie. At least until he spotted another mirror, where he finally could see for himself the mess he'd become: Tangled hair, shadowed, swollen eyes, and several long gashes around both of his eyes which lead him to realize that there must have been shards of glass caught in the fabric of his sleeves. Though, fortunately, his hands were not carved nearly as badly.
A kind nurse seated him on a tall stool and washed and bandaged all these wounds. Then Ansem stretched out on a cot to rest while he could, before he would have to explain everything when his mother got there. He really wasn't looking forward to lying, but how could he tell the truth and not sound insane? Maybe if he said he was sleepwalking... He tried hard to convince himself that such an excuse would almost be true, but then again he secretly had to admit he'd been far more awake then than he was even now.
Closing his eyes though, in spite of how badly he needed to by this point, just brought all those terrible images flooding back to him again, causing him to toss and turn with the nurse as his witness. Fortunately, the large white bandage on his face helped to hide the fast ailing color of his complexion, as well as the expressions of extreme anxiety that he was otherwise failing to bottle. Too quickly, or perhaps not quickly enough, was Ansem able to slip back in to the land of slumber and dreams.
But he came to in a wasteland. Scars in the earth dominated the landscape, and there was not one surviving creature or plant to be seen to the flat, orange horizon. The sky, too, was orange. Was it late in the day in this dried up, barren place, or was this in fact a world at its end? Tens to hundreds of thousands of enormous hand weapons littered the land, many stuck straight down into the dirt and left standing up, as if in memorial for their fallen wielders. It was a haunting sight. There were so, so many of them... Clearly an apocalypse had happened here, perhaps centuries ago from the look of it. Upon closer inspection, Ansem realized that the colorful metal weapons were actually giant skeleton keys. Periodically, strong, swirling gusts of wind would arrive on this spot from the great beyond, causing the short chains that hung from the handle-ends of many of the keys to sway and rattle against the keys' hilts. It was a sweet, terrible sound, like a chorus of chimes in place of all the soldier's voices who had been silenced. It was no question who had been here, but when or even the reason why they died was already lost to history.
Amidst the sea of markers, a wide pathway had been left cutting through them for long absent travelers to use. Two such pathways crossed not far from the spot where Ansem found himself, like a giant negative X. He followed the path he was on toward the center of the X, for here there stood three keys apart from the rest. Such a placement seemed to suggest that they were somehow special. But why?
His fingers twitched, as if an electrical spark had just landed on his hand from somewhere, and suddenly he felt his grip tighten around something. Looking down, he discovered himself to now be clad from head to toe in red and brass-colored steel plate armor, as well as carrying an enormous blue and brass skeleton key like it was a sword. No longer could Ansem tell if he was in the past or present. An important battle was about happen. He could feel it in his marrow, as well as his breathing begin to deepen from the effects a preemptive torrent of adrenaline being dumped into his system. Two more knights clad in similarly-made armor filled in behind him, each carrying a key-sword of his and her own. The enemy had not actually arrived yet, but this was the correct meeting place. Noticing that no more knights appeared to be coming to join them, Ansem reached for the centermost of the three keys in the center of the X, taking it up in his free hand. His only-two comrades repeated likewise with the other two keys, sensing the impending difficulty of what was to come; They all knew there was no promise of victory today.
Staring determinedly ahead, the three waited only a moment for their foe to appear. Alas came a lone, old man with a bald head, dark skin, and a scraggly white goatee. He walked half bent over with slow, wide, confident strides, out of the distant orange haze. At once a strange figure to behold in this scene, but Ansem recognized the ugly geezer at once, and almost fainted. It was an older version of the man he saw his evil self become not but one dream ago. In fact, Ansem realized that he himself was somewhat older, too. About age 18, he thought to himself. Had they both been transported to the past, or was this the future?
A moment later a second figure appeared, seemingly right out of the body of the old man as though they had been spiritually fused. Or was the smaller figure, clad in black and red and masked like some drone without an identity of its own, simply an extension of the man, born of magic tricks?
This madness had to end, Ansem felt, his weakness from shock phasing into a kind of manic rage. Now was his chance to end it himself. Never mind the runt; He would defeat that devil and finally be at peace! The knight to Ansem's left rushed forward but a single step to initiate an attack when Ansem caught him by the shoulder and held him back. Instead, Ansem himself rushed forward and engaged the old coot who also wielded a key, though unlike any of the others on the field it was solid black and creepy looking.
Too quickly it became clear that the old man had powers more than fighting skill, for throughout the battle he commanded the winds of the sky and the very rocks of the earth to do much of his fighting for him, whilst he just stood by and smiled down upon the three knights. Maybe he was the Devil, because his very poise indicated that he thought of himself equal to or greater even than God.
His companion, or pet, was more aggressive and attacked the knights personally. He, she, or it on its own was incredibly powerful, and it took the other two knights working together just to keep he, she, or it off of Ansem's back. For the moment, however, the lady knight seemed to be handling it, so the second knight broke away and tried a sneak attack on the old man from behind while Ansem distracted him. But the old man magically vanished as the knight struck, the knight's weapon cutting through empty air, and then reappeared behind the knight. The old man caught Ansem's friend by the helmet and dangled him over the edge of a high, 90-degree cliff with but a single hand. The young knight flailed helplessly as his helmet cracked under the strength of the man's grip, even so that pieces fell away like broken glass and exposed parts of his face. Ansem tried to rush in and save him, but the old man summoned a wind that even pulled many of the keys out of the ground. The gust swirled and writhed in the sky like a sentient being, visible only because it still carried a thousand keys within it, all of which battered against Ansem's armor like stones in a sandstorm, and carried him away.
The red and black fighter had escaped its lock with the lady knight, and returned to stand by its master's side as the old man cast another spell. The boy who's life he held in his fingertips suddenly burst into black colored flames, then as the flames went out, became frozen in ice. And with a sadistic sneer, the old man let him fall from the cliff. Ansem picked himself up from the dirt just in time to see his friend's weapon, still in his hand, hit a rock and shatter during his descent. But then the body fell out of view before Ansem actually saw him hit the ground.
The old man performed a fluttery little wave with his hand, magically changing his keyblade into some kind of blue and red ball of light. The light shot into the now overcast sky with a blinding streak, and with a bright blue explosion, suddenly illuminated the clouds from behind.
By this point, Ansem had never known such rage. In fact, he felt like his anger was eating him alive, and he only wished it would stop. But he couldn't quell it, and, tearing his helmet off, witnessed more black flames appear in a circle around him, this time coming from him. Without really seeing himself, rather just knowing, as often happens in dreams, Ansem could tell a partial transformation was taking place. A horrible one. Was the only way to defeat this guy to become just like him? By this point, Ansem didn't think he had a choice.
He could see the lady knight off in the distance, her own ruined helmet discarded as well, screaming at him. For his own good, Ansem knew. But he couldn't even help himself.
Wake up...wake up...WAKE UP! he pleaded.
The clouds above parted, and from the gap that formed an enormous, luminous blue heart slowly descended and came to hover above the darkened wasteland. The old man's feet left the ground in a graceful, magical ascent to meet it. For whatever reason, Ansem knew this must not be allowed to happen. He got to his feet, his irises suddenly changing from angel blue to amber yellow no different from the very eyecolor of the old man, and sprang with superhuman agility towards him, as if in flight, leaving a streak of dark flames in his wake. He caught the old man around the waist with one arm and body-slammed him straight into the ground, so far below, then followed him down with a single, rising strike from his keyblade.
But as dreams often do, Ansem's perspective suddenly switched, so that when he struck the old man, he had seen his 18 year old self instead from the opposite point of view, flying down at him from out of the sky, facial expression twisted up in furious insanity. He had to admit, of the two faces, he personally found that his own was by far the more frightening. The last thing Ansem saw before he woke up were his own glowing golden eyes.
Returning to reality, the first thing Ansem noticed as he blinked were two small, closely situated lamps hanging from the high ceiling directly above where he slept. Maybe they had something to do with how that dream ended, he wondered. He hoped. Checking the old wooden clock on the wall, he discovered that it was now almost noon. The nurse told him that his mother came by not too long after he fell asleep, but found him already so deep that she decided not to wake him. Of course Ansem didn't reveal this, but he severely wished that his mother had awoken him, would it have only prevented him from dreaming again.
"You should go see her," the nurse advised. "She cares more about your face than that mirror you broke."
Gah, they've investigated! Ansem thought, wondering if they found the clock too, which had been his great-great grandfather's. "I'd like to get something to eat first," he said, and left the ward.
The first place he went, however, was back to his room, where he just sat in a winged armchair for well over an hour staring at the floor. The curtains had been thrown open so that the daylight flooded in. He could see the many distant and tiny blue mountains from his window, mountains which beyond laid the sparkling sea. The Capitol City lay in concentric circles around the king's castle, not too distant, but not too close either; The city life could be seen, but not heard. Ansem wasn't sure just how old the castle was, but he did know of at least one ancient ruin in a far off ghost town where his ancestors used to sit, back in their time.
He thought of the dreams, and pined to never need sleep again. He also thought back to the vision in the mirror, the vision which had come out of the mirror and tried, so to speak, to ensnare him. The mirror frame was gone from the room, taken no doubt, along with most of the glass and the trail of blood he'd left, but here and there a bit of glitter still sparkled in the thick area rugs. This, and the scratches on his face and hands, were all hard evidence that prevented him from hoping that this whole morning had just been one long and really weird dream. Perhaps he had been sleepwalking... If one can still dream with their eyes open... And though he smashed a few heirlooms, maybe the flames and doppelganger had not actually been real...
The boy felt pathetic that he should hope to be going crazy, but he would infinitely prefer that to the alternatives presented.
"Ugly old fart, get out of my head," he hissed.
At longest last, however, a soft knock on his door roused Ansem from his dark thoughts, and his older brother stuck his head in.
"Hay, sleepyhead. How you doin'? Not so good, I heard."
"Eh, I'm okay," Ansem tried assure Hans, but didn't currently have the spirit to make those words sound the slightest bit convincing. Hans let himself in and leaned sideways against the wall with his hands in his pants pockets.
"I heard you drove a train through here...or wrecked a train in here...or that it was a train wreck in here...or something like that," he teased, and winked. "You're just lucky that we have, like, a million maids working for us, and janitors, and cleaning people, and repairmen, and fix-it guys, and firefirghters..."
Ansem had started to smile, but at the mention of firefighters suddenly reverted back to his former pallor.
"Yeah...," he gloomily interjected, trying to make his brother stop.
"What's eating you, anyway?" Hans asked at length, trying to empathize. He wasn't that much older than Ansem; About two years, but he still had a way with himself that was much older than that. It might have been the weight of his destiny, it being he and not Ansem who would one day rule over Hollow Bastion, that was to blame. Or so was all that Ansem could figure. Not that Ansem himself was immature, or at least no one had ever told him so if he was... (Regrettably, Ansem was a tad shy, and knew it.)
"Umm, bad dream," Ansem answered, still trying to be honest, but vague. "Really bad."
"How so?" Hans persisted, earning a scathing glare from his younger sibling.
"Two, actually. I died in both of them," said Ansem, letting his gaze fall back to the floor.
Hans kept his mannerisms causal, probably trying to lighten the mood. "Oooh. Some a those, huh? Sorry about that," he said, bobbing his head and glancing once around the room. "But, ah, why take it out on the furniture? If you don't mind me asking," he added, respectfully noting Ansem's aversion to details. But Ansem already knew that he would eventually have to answer that one, anyway.
"I wasn't fully awake yet at the time, and thought I saw something," he lied. "Something from my dream," he hastily filled in, trying to soothe his conscience with one more kernel of truth.
"Ah," said Hans, looking at the dresser where the mirror once stood, thoughtfully placing a hand to his chin for a moment, then took a seat on the side of Ansem's tidied-up bed to continue their conversation. "I'm just glad that you didn't need any stitches. Though, I am a bit jealous; Chicks dig men with cool scars," he jibed.
Ansem rolled his eyes to humor him, but scarring had not even occurred to him until now. Great; After all was dreamed and done, the night still hadn't managed to pass without changing his face forever. His heart sank to new and profound depths, but equally much he realized that it was his own fault (for how carelessly he handled the broken glass) and that he was going to have to live with it no matter what. As if getting stuck looking like a mummy for a few days wasn't bad enough! Already, he was formulating plans in his head to lay low until the bandages could be taken off. Too many people would want him to repeat and repeat and repeat the tales of how he ended up in this state, which was, frankly, embarrassing.
"Hay, think you could have someone bring me a lunch?" he asked, finally answering to the complaints of his stomach.
"Sure thing, but I hope you don't just plan on hiding here all day."
"What if I do?" Ansem grumped.
"Well, then I shall have to think of something suitable," Hans assured slyly. "Also don't forget you still have lessons today."
"Oh yeah. Dangit." For Ansem, a sense of reality and the daily grind was slowly beginning to come back to him, which was kind of refreshing, but also suddenly made the day feel like a Monday after a long vacation, even though it was actually a Thursday in the middle of a holiday dry spell. He didn't want to do any work, but maybe that was exactly what he needed.
"Guess I'll get going," Hans finally said after a time, and stood up abruptly. Just as he was about to close the door behind himself, he hollered back over his shoulder, "I hope you like boiled sheep eyes and deep fried bird feet!"
"You know me," shrugged Ansem plainly. He saw Hans shake his head to himself as the door sealed up behind him, as if he'd been thinking, 'Man, tough crowd today.'
Alone again, Ansem needed burn off some energy; He jumped up from his armchair and paced a few turns in agitation. He wanted to see his bandages again, if only to make sure that he wasn't going to end up like another dang Phantom of the Opera; But alas, he was fresh out of a looking glass in here.
He thought back to before the incident at the mirror, recalling how badly he had wanted to know what symbolic meaning the first dream had probably held. Perhaps he had already known what it meant, for the translation was simple and literal, but he was uncomfortable with it and so sought long and hard for a differing interpretation that would help him convolute, and so deny, the obvious... Ansem came to a halt in his steps.
"Which is what, exactly?" he asked himself aloud, unconsciously lifting a hand to his chin like his brother had done. He drew a mental blank. But a moment later, Ansem chuckled quietly under his breath. "...That I need a therapist," he concluded, and dismissed the whole train of thought.