Another early update, mostly because I'm in a really good mood. :D

So, I might have overestimated when I said there'd be six chapters plus an epilogue. The way the last sections are getting split up, it looks like this will be the last chapter before the epilogue, and therefore the next update will be the last one.

Thank you to everyone who has read thus far—I hope you enjoy the rest as well. :)

The very first thing he remembers is the pain. This isn't particularly useful to him at the moment, partly because the memory isn't all that pleasant, but mostly because he can't seem to remember who he actually is.

He tries to remember something, anything, a name.

…Isa?

Is that him?

No, Isa is…important…

Everything seems fuzzy, like the world is on a tilt and he's about to fall off. Images of places and people keep shifting in and out of him, and he can't help but feel like he's seeing them through a telescope, from far away. He knows these are tactile memories—he's felt these memories before, actually lived through them, except…

He hasn't.

He can't quite explain it—he knows these are his memoires, except…they aren't.

Certain memories sear through him like pinmissiles. He clutches his head and groans. These are recent, he thinks. He remembers pain, a lot of it…claws digging at his skin, and yellow eyes. There are tears, but he can't remember why. He's not the type to cry over pain—or at least, so far as he can remember.

'Isa.'

A thread of pain sews a path through his head, like a needle going through skin. He shuts his eyes and holds his head between fists. Images, pictures of a vague shape fill his mind, a cross of some sort set between two, yellow eyes. He can recall them peering at him from above, and suddenly his shoulders burn from the recollection of being pinned down.

But this is wrong. Isa doesn't have yellow eyes.

He grits his teeth as the images flood in faster and clearer. This isn't Isa—he can't even remember clearly who Isa is, but he knows it's important that he doesn't forget, and this had most certainly not been Isa.

Or had it?

'Isa. Isa let go.'

The ghosts of words dance around the back of his throat, remnants of past pleas. He remembers saying it over and over—it wasn't Isa, so why had he kept calling out his name? It felt wrong but he had done so anyway, because something had registered as Isa, or at least, something almost Isa, just…

A scar, shaped like an X…

…missing…

Bright, amber eyes…

…something…

Claws, digging through his chest…

…important…

Sinking past skin and bone, past substance and physical being, searching, searching…

Oh god, he remembers. The memory grips him and almost brings him to his knees. He wraps his arms around his chest—he feels so empty.

Without prompt, his feet begin to move. He has no inkling as to where he's going, only that he has to find what's been taken from him. All he knows is that he can't be without it, in the sense that he can't actually be without it. It is only through sheer force of will that he can cling to any semblance of corporeal existence.

He sets out onto the streets, only to find himself surrounded by chaos. People are screaming and running, and everywhere he looks his vision is peppered by black masses. The citizens are being run down by what appear to be small, dark creatures, vaguely anthropomorphic, but only in the sense that they walk upright and have two arms and legs. They are far from human looking in any other regard.

Amidst all the incoherent noise, one voice pierces through in his direction. He feels large hands grab him by the shoulders and turn him around, where he is met with the site of a portly man, roughly in his thirties.

"Lea? Oh thank goodness. Where is she?"

The name rings hollow in his ears.

"What? No. No, I'm not—"

"Where's my daughter, Lea? Where's Kairi?"

The man is in hysterics, and won't stop shaking him. His head is swimming.

Isa, Lea, Kairi. Too many names, and not enough information to discern which ones are important.

"I…I'm sorry. I don't know."

The older man does not respond kindly to this. His grip tightens and he seems to enlarge, to bear down with a frightening presence.

"You were supposed to be watching her! I trusted you! How could you—"

This tirade is cut short by a garbled outcry, and with an involuntary jerk the man topples forward, bringing them both crashing to the ground. This is immediately followed by an enveloping blackness and lots of screaming on the older man's part, as dozens of the creatures swarm over them. Then suddenly the screams stop—no resolution, just an abrupt cut of noise. The world is nothing but darkness and yellow lights.

Then like wind over leaves, the darkness disperses, and all that is left is a single, shivering figure curled up amidst memories—nightmares of amber irises and claws. One lone shadow rises from the ground, gives shape to one of the creatures, a shadow made solid. It moves in a slightly erratic manner, perpetually shifting from foot to foot, and picks its way toward the young boy.

A whimper emits from the figure—why can't this all just be a bad dream? He feels something butting against him, and unfurls himself to find yellow eyes staring soullessly at him, causing him to bolt upright into a sitting position. Recent experiences have taught him that misfortune always follows whenever he sees these eyes—he just can't seem to get away from them.

It approaches without a sound and cocks its head left and right in succession, as if sizing him up. Then as quietly has it had appeared, it sinks back into inky black ether.

It didn't want me. It knows I'm—that I don't have—

He can't even bring himself to finish that thought. A sudden breeze whips through and he grabs at his arms in an attempt to suppress the chill. All around him the streets are empty and silent—he is the only one left standing, completely and utterly alone.

He finds himself shaking, suddenly frightened of the complete emptiness that surrounds him—it feels too familiar, even though it shouldn't, as if he can't tell where the emptiness of the streets stop and the emptiness in his chest begins. All he knows is that he can't stand to stay in the center of it, so he starts to move.

The sound of his feet against the pavement seems hollow amidst the vacancy, like punctuation adorning an ellipsis. He sucks in the air with each step, running so fast that his lungs begin to burn, a sensation he largely welcomes, as it serves to alleviate the ache in his chest, however slightly.

He needs…validation, substance…he needs to just move. Life is warmth, and warmth is kinesthetic, it's movement. Step after step, one after the other—he'll get there, surely, if he just…keeps…moving…

He has no idea how far he's travelled once he finally stops. Just where is here anyway? He inhales and breathes deeply, trying to hold on to the burn in his chest while it lasts. It can't have been too far—he's still somewhere in town. He looks up and sees an expanse of stone, a castle fortified by brick. He feels inexplicably drawn to it, as if he's being sucked in by the sheer oppressiveness that it exudes, the way a tidal wave seems to pull you in by looming over you.

He's so focused on this building that he doesn't even register the person who seems to have materialized in front of him, until it occurs to him that a large shadow has fallen over him. His initial shock is because the person has managed to get extremely close without notice. Afterwards, however, there is something about this person that makes it impossible to look away—he is a dark skinned man, tall and silver haired, certainly the most exotic person to have graced such a reclusive town.

And there are those eyes again.

When he speaks it is as if the earth itself has opened up and begun speaking, "What is your name?"

The voice speaks volumes of power, in a quiet, subdued sort of way.

He hesitates at this, "I…they called me Lea."

The man raises his hands and three letters materialize in front of them, spelling his apparent namesake. With a handwave the letters begin circling, spinning faster and faster until the man thrusts his palm out and stops them. They seem like the same letters, just a little different…

The man looks down at him, "From now on, your name is Axel."

He has a name now, which is nice. He tries it a few times on his own tongue, trying to see if it fits and feels right. Somehow it still feels a little off, like it leaves a weird aftertaste in his mouth. Then again, he has a feeling that maybe this has nothing to do with the name itself and everything to do with him. He doubts he will ever be able to fit himself completely to a name, and at any rate, "Axel" is better than "nobody".

Okay. Right. Axel. He could get used to it.

Axel takes a look around him. He has been brought to a dimly lit room, devoid of any furniture. They had told him to wait while they figured out where to lodge him, "they" being a rather sour looking man in a lab coat and a man with an eye patch, which strikes Axel as odd. Well, he's seen stranger things today.

Something tells him this is not high on their priority list, and that he'll be waiting in this room for awhile. It probably has something to do with the way the one with the eye patch muttered, "Shit, not another one" on his way out.

Axel's spine straightens as a thought occurs to him—certainly that means there is someone else in this room? He scans around him for a second time, although there really isn't much to look at. It is a pretty large room, and as his eyes sweep across it, they fall upon the farthest corner, where a lonely figure sits curled up, almost invisible in the vast space of emptiness. When he sees this, a jolt of recognition immediately surges through him.

"Isa!"

Axel practically flies over to the corner and drops to his knees. The figure doesn't respond. He has his knees drawn to his chest, and his face hidden behind a mass of limbs. Axel reaches out to unwrap him from this position, but the moment he touches him the boy screams.

If the room had seemed empty before, it certainly doesn't now—the sound is so palpably agonized that it fills every inch of the room. Axel tries to calm him down, but the boy begins lashing out at his outstretched hands, and even after Axel shrinks back he doesn't stop. He smacks his head back against the wall and lets out another shriek. Axel watches as the boy writhes about before him, and for the first time since he's woken up, even though he knows it shouldn't even be possible, he feels something tighten within his chest.

After that, there is no room for doubt or thought—he reaches out a hand, makes his way past flailing, scratching arms, and palms the boy's face. Immediately the screaming ceases. He brushes the area under the boy's eye, feeling tears beneath his fingers.

"It's okay, Isa."

There is a moment where they just look at each other, but he eventually shakes his head, "My name is Saïx."

It is at this point that Axel realizes how wrong all of this is. This is supposed to be a reunion, but it has somehow ended up being an introduction.

He doesn't break his gaze, and his hand remains where it is, "My name is Axel."

And that is all it takes. Axel and Saïx have never met each other before now, but it only takes this one moment for them to realize that they already know each other better than they even know themselves.

Axel pulls Saïx up into his arms, and a familiar sensation washes over them. They can feel the remnants of memories rising up that feel reminiscent of this moment, and perhaps that is the saddest thing about this—because no matter how familiar it feels, this isn't Isa, and he isn't Lea.

But maybe, just for now, they can pretend.