Chapter 3

Whispers of the Wind

Not much had changed over the past week of Roxas' life.

He still wasn't sleeping, but that didn't bother him too much. Honestly, he was beginning to appreciate the extra hours that would have otherwise gone into unconsciousness.

However, he also hadn't eaten since he left home two weeks prior. That was not as easy to accept. He'd watched the sun rise and set no less than fourteen times without craving so much as a single slice of bread. He wasn't growing thin, nor was he feeling weak. For whatever reason, the need to eat was simply...missing.

While Roxas stood in front of the mirror, redressing his wound per routine and trying to decide whether the prior two weeks had been anything more than a dream, he caught sight of a familiar blue eye from the doorway in the looking glass. He smiled and tied off the ends of his bandages before turning around, cautious in his movements, as if he were approaching a wild animal rather than a nervous girl.

"Xion," he greeted, reaching for the shirt he'd set on his bed so that he could pull it over his head. To his surprise, the same girl who had been so frightened at the mere mention of entering his room just a week before slid inside without the smallest hesitation.

"Hi, um..." Xion closed the door behind her with one hand, the other picking nervously at the hood of her coat, eyes averted. Roxas watched her for a long, curious moment before the reason behind her hesitation finally came to him.

"Oh, I never told you my name, huh?" Xion looked up at him with a nervous smile, and that was all the answer he needed. "It's Roxas."

"Roxas..." Xion lifted her head, and the anxiety disappeared into her kind smile. "It's nice to meet you."

Roxas laughed quietly and offered his hand, which was quickly met with the cool leather of Xion's glove.

"What brings you here?" he asked, withdrawing his hand.

"There's...something I wanted to ask," explained Xion. Shy, but...not scared. "Do you...have a family?"

Roxas' head bowed. It was his turn to be nervous. He hadn't even thought about his family for at least the past week, and suddenly, he was all too aware of that fact, and with that awareness came guilt. He sighed heavily and turned to take a seat on the edge of his bed. "I've got a brother. Sora." He shook his head. "He's a total goofball, and he's definitely not the sharpest thorn in the bush, but he's..." Roxas frowned, searching for the mot juste. "...wise, I guess."

Xion tried to hide her amused smile behind a gloved hand, but when Roxas lifted his head, he saw it in her eyes. "How can someone be dumb and wise at the same time?"

"It's hard to explain," replied Roxas, grinning in turn. It was encouraging to see Xion break through her shyness enough to be this playful. "He's got this way of...knowing people, you know? He can tell what people are feeling, even when they're trying to hide it. Even if they're strangers. And he knows exactly what to say when people are upset. I guess that's why he and Riku get along so well."

"Riku?" asked Xion, her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, heh..." Roxas rubbed the back of his neck, realizing that he'd gotten ahead of himself. "He's Sora's best friend. He's really quiet, and he's got this bad habit of blame himself for things that aren't his fault, or things he can't help. Sora doesn't really...get mad. I mean, he can, but if Sora gets mad at you, that's how you know you really messed up bad. But I think Riku could kill someone and Sora would barely even scold him for it. They're close. Real close. And Sora always knows exactly what to do to make Riku feel better about himself."

"You, too?" asked Xion. "I mean, does he make you feel better about yourself?"

Roxas' smile shrank a fraction. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Me, too."

Xion looked down at her feet for a moment, nervous again. It took a moment, but she did eventually lift her head to ask another question. "What about your parents?"

Roxas shrugged. "I never knew my dad," he explained. "Mom died in the 'big storm' a few years ago. It's just been me and Sora ever since. Well, I mean, mostly. Riku and Kairi help us out, and they're kind of like family, too, but—"

"Kairi?" asked Xion.

"Another one of Sora's friends," explained Roxas. "Actually, you look a lot like her. Your hair's black, though. Hers is kind of...mahogany, I guess. Kind of a reddish-brown."

Xion touched her cheek. "You're...able to see my face?"

"Yeah..." answered Roxas with a cocked eyebrow. "It's not that dark in here."

Xion smiled and shook her head. Strangely, she seemed a lot happier than she had been only a moment before. "Sorry, I..."

Roxas waited patiently for the explanation that seemed to be on the tip of Xion's tongue, but it never came, so he moved on to the next subject. "What about your family? I mean, besides Xemnas."

"Um..." Xion averted her eyes. "I...had...a dad and two brothers, but..."

"Oh..." Roxas dropped his gaze to his hands. They fidgeted on his knees. So that was why she was staying with Xemnas. If Roxas didn't have Sora, then...

"Why are you here?" asked Xion, as if responding to Roxas' thoughts. "I mean, if you have a brother, then..."

Roxas reached for his shoulder and rubbed the aching wound beneath it. "I...broke a law. A big one. And everyone back home... They weren't happy about it."

Xion chewed her lip.

Roxas shuffled his feet.

"Xemnas isn't nice."

Roxas flinched at the non-sequitur and looked up to meet Xion's eyes, half-expecting her to be joking. One look at her desperate expression told him that she wasn't. "What are you talking about?" He shook his head. "He took me in, even though he knew there were people after me. He gave me clothes, and a bed, and—and he helped me out when I was..." Roxas gripped his shoulder again, a little too hard. He ignored the sting. "And he lets you stay here, too! How can you say something like that?"

"I know he seems nice at first," said Xion, "but he isn't." Roxas watched her hands clench into fists. "You should go back and find your brother, and then go somewhere else if you have to. Anywhere else. But not here. It's not safe."

Roxas stood from the edge of his bed, brow furrowed. His own hands curled into fists. "I don't believe you."

Xion's eyes widened with hurt, and Roxas found himself wishing he had said what he'd said at least a little more delicately. She clasped her hands together tightly, her fingers overlapping one another. Roxas couldn't see her knuckles, but he had no doubt that they were white beneath the fabric of her gloves. "I... I'm just trying to help you, Roxas."

Roxas shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, quiet, but still firm. "Even if I did believe you, I have nowhere else to go."

Xion dropped her gaze. "Okay," she said quietly, an unspoken ache in her voice. "If... If you ever change your mind, then...tell me, and I'll try to help you get out."

In the center of a circular room, in front of a polished maple desk, surrounded by bookshelves, stood the very vision of a bel-esprit. The light from the stained-glass window behind the desk caught his eyes, igniting the acid green ring around his eyes. Blond hair cascaded down to his shoulder blades and framed his stern-looking face, accentuating his angular features. With careful, albeit knobby hands, he labored away at the crystalline figure before him, carving into the ice effortlessly with little more than the languid strokes of his long, thin fingers. He bent low, scrutinizing the fact of his creation, frowning in ardent concentration.

"Is this an exact replica?" asked the man of his young companion, a famulus seated in the chair behind the desk.

"It does seem to be," replied the boy. He stood, the long fringes that favored the right side of his face tickling his collarbone with his movements. He approached his elder, the spine of an aged tome in one hand, its cover splayed out across his fingers. With his free hand, he traced an image that only he could see. "Hmm... Although perhaps..." He turned a delicate page with a feather-light touch and peered down at the figure, looking into its eyes. Unlike his lankier companion, he did not need to bend to make eye contact. The stool that displayed the glassy creation was enough to bring the figure to eye-level. He compared it to the book in his hand, his blue eyes flittering back and forth. "Yes, his eyes are not quite so...severe in the Atlas of Omens."

"Hm." The taller man reached out and covered his sculpture's eyes with his thumbs. He slid them across, tracing invisible lines that started at the bridge of the nose and moved outward toward the temples. When he withdrew his hands, the eyes were softer. More sincere. "Does that suffice, Zexion?"

Zexion, for of course it was he, nodded and closed the book in his hands. With careful footsteps, he walked around the shaped ice, inspecting every inch of the sculpture. When he returned to the point where he started, he placed the lexicon carefully on the desk. "I believe it does," he confirmed. "And in that case, may I have the honors, Vexen?"

The man, Vexen, nodded tersely. "Very well, I did the last one myself, after all."

Zexion crossed the room, passing the sculpture as well as a silent, reverent girl watching from beside the window. He sent her a patient smile, but when he reached the bookcase, he became almost eerily stern, understanding the importance of what he was about to do.

On one of the shelves, between two of the books, sat a small, glass urn, something pink glittering from the inside. Zexion carefully removed the lid, and that pink glow rose up and out. With a gentle hand, the boy reached forward and caught the light, caging it in his fingers gently as if it were a rare butterfly: Precious, but fragile. He replaced the lid with his free hand and carried the light back to the sculpture. The air stilled in the room, frozen in awe for some, in concentration for others. Zexion sidled close to Vexen, facing the statue's front, his hand only inches from its chest. When his fingers parted, the light within rose again to hover just a few centimeters above his palm.

Zexion leaned down, lowering his face to his hand. He inhaled deeply, parted his lips, and blew a current of cool air toward the light, guiding it forward until it met the sculpture's chest.

Upon meeting the surface of the ice, the effulgent pink slowly began to bleed past it, sliding deeper and deeper until it reached the core of the carving. Once there, the light bloomed outward, refracting against every surface, every slight imperfection, and glittering like a diamond in the sunlight.

Still glimmering, the creation blinked and lifted its head, as if seeing for the first time and trying to process its surroundings from top to bottom.

Zexion reached out with a single hand and pressed two fingers to the creature's forehead. Where there had been living, glittering ice before, pigment began to flow like watercolor soaking into a white cloth, spreading outward from Zexion's touch. Pale skin replaced the statue's transparent face. Its hair changed very little, but grew opaque, and ceased to shine so brilliantly. From the neck down, the coat, carved painstakingly from Vexen's steady hands, turned black, contrasting brilliantly with the creature's hair. Its eyes, however, were the most striking feature. Though they were no longer transparent, having become turquoise in color, they seemed to shine no less.

"He is handsome indeed," said Vexen, and nodded in approval. "Excellent choice, Zexion.

"Thank you, Vexen."

The boy, for that was now exactly what the carving had become, stepped shakily down from the stool. His two creators hastily reached out and grabbed his arms, guiding him down.

"You need to be more careful," chided Zexion. "You might look human, but this is only an illusion. Underneath it, you're still only ice, which makes you very fragile."

"Ice is...fragile," said the boy absently.

"That's right," agreed Vexen. "Of course, you won't melt at room temperature. I have seen to that. Still, I do suggest you avoid fireplaces."

"Avoid fireplaces..." parrotted the boy.

Zexion sighed. "Judging from precedent, I suppose he'll be doing that for about a week?"

"Until he builds up a decent vocabulary, yes." Vexen released his creation's arm and gestured for Zexion to do the same. "And he will need a name." ("Name..." echoed the boy.) "Was the original's name mentioned in that tome?"

"Until he builds up a decent vocabulary, yes." Vexen released his creation's arm and gestured for Zexion to do the same. "And he will need a name." ("Name..." echoed the boy.) "Was the original's name mentioned in that tome?"

Zexion lifted his book from the desktop and shuffled through its pages only to stop suddenly and trace his fingers across the seemingly blank parchment. His hand stilled over the page, and he tapped his index finger. "His name is...Riku."

"Riku." Vexen turned down toward his creation and bent low, resting his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Then it is decided. Your name will be as much a replica as you are. Your name henceforth shall be Riku."