III of V. Donald Duck
The world can be a wonderful place, kind and beautiful. Young though he was, he needed proof. Donald refused to place his faith in such a world without it. It was a mess, loud and chaotic. And so filled with possibility. He could not see that initially and not on his own. He was created by another and rebelled early on, unhappy with his lot and envious of others. He saw the world as the disorder he believed it was and wanted no part of it. The few things Donald believed worth his efforts were always unattainable and, oh, how he despised that happy little mouse. Bridge, parents, children, happiness, Walt, Walt, Walt, Walt. Phooey.
Donald said it would never happen, said it could never happen. So naturally he ate those words and, somewhere along the lines and dreams, swallowed his pride and began to love Walt Disney. He seemed to test the boundaries of everything Donald knew to be truth and did it with love and patience. He didn't throw his kingdom back into the face of the quick-tempered duck. Donald's opinion of the mouse even changed; jealous though he still was, Mickey was Walt's son and an unexpectedly wonderful friend. The duck changed and, for the first time, noticed the sun and even a pretty young duck named Daisy.
Walt was a magician, weaving lives and friendship together. He discovered doors that Donald never noticed and left them open for others to follow him. So Donald did just that. It wasn't difficult, for he was never too far ahead. He always waited.
His sorrow is great as he stands back, leaning lightly against his friend Sora. He watches his nephews, love and uncles pay their teary respects. Donald cannot do it, cannot leave his goodbye and let it die into the frosty wind. That is too much for the duck, who has grown and grown to love this magician. It's so cold and he just cannot, just cannot let it all end this way. There must be something he can do… something. But then the slowly rising sun catches on the name scrawled across the stone and Donald knows that, no, there is nothing. Donald is not as great a magician as Walt, his magic cannot change what has happened or anything that will. Walt, dearest, Walt is sleeping and Donald loses his composure.
Sora lets his keyblade hit the grass as Donald calls to be held. Donald cries out so loud, his blubbering words incomprehensible. But it is not as if they matter, they are only pleas to God and half-composed denials. Daisy finds Sora in the sea of black holding Donald and releases a trembling sigh, for she can barely contain her own sorrow. She notes again that Donald is not in black. He refused to accept that this magical man could not save himself. He was angry, so angry, but now he is just sad. Sad that he was abandoned, sad that so much potential is gone. And just so sad to see the last door opened.
As Daisy cuts through the crowd to find the crying duo, she feels the stir of Donald's magic and lets out one sad, breathy laugh.
The magician is now wearing black.