'Skuld and Brain get a glimpse into the future.'
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Book of Prophecies
Frigga was the Head of the Council. The leader of Scala ad Caelum, for all intents and purposes, even if there were others to share that burden with her. She had been the Head of the Council for years upon years—had managed worries about Heartless attacks, navigated politics within her own family, and tried her best to figure out how to address the threat that lurked underneath Scala ad Caelum's streets. This was far from the first time that she'd had to address her world's citizens; far from the first time, even, that she'd had to do so when all she wanted to do was go back home and hide.
But it'd been a long time, since she'd felt that way; back when she was still young, her mistakes staring her in the face so much more obviously, or wounded grief still stinging until her heart had formed callouses over the wounds. She'd learned to be clever, to be pragmatic, to be confident, and she'd left that girl behind.
And yet here she was, staring her in the face again.
Master's Defender's absence was painfully noticeable. It ached like a hole in her chest; she'd held it for years, and had imagined that she'd hold it until she finally passed it on. But it had left—gone, completely—during her fight with Aegir.
"All my life," she whispered, "I have tried to do what's best for Scala ad Caelum."
There was no one to answer her; she'd come to the garden for a reason, and with Sigurd gone, it was empty.
"I have made careful plans to combat Darkness. I have worked with my council to make sure that my people are taken care of. I have fought and bled for my home, and earned my title by my own merits. I have led for decades. So why, now, have you found me unworthy?"
Her fists clenched, and she uncurled them carefully, smoothing her palms across her skirt. The Union Leaders are here now, some part of her thought, bitter. Maybe Aegir was right; maybe it would be better, if they weren't around anymore. They're clearly up to something.
(They were still children.)
…What kind of political disaster would it be, for her to turn against the Union Leaders after Aegir's declaration and their fight? Her position was…weak. She had her years as the Head of the Council backing her up, but the others—Scala's citizens, the council—might decide that Master's Defender's disappearance was enough of a reason to consider someone to take her place. The Union Leaders would be…the clear choice. She took a steadying breath, in and out. If I side with Aegir now, my position becomes weaker. I can't admit to that loss—and actively fighting against them would likely anger people throughout Scala ad Caelum. Is there truly no way to avoid this?
It felt like everything she'd worked towards was…pointless. Ironic, maybe, that she was as incapable of escaping fate as her forbearers were, even with the Book of Prophecies. She almost wished she had it now, if only to try and find some way forward—but then, she'd already read it carefully, tugging out carefully hidden meanings and studying accounts of those passed. No matter how she tried to deviate from it, she always seemed to end up at the same place.
Something clattered next to her. Frigga started, despite herself; she hadn't sensed anyone, too caught up in her own thoughts, and her fingers twitched with the instinct to summon a Keyblade that wouldn't come.
But no one was there—just a small piece of mythril, sitting on the bench beside her.
-Being detained in a cell for a common criminal felt like an insult. Aegir was an heir—a descendant of Master Ephemer, a former contender for leadership of Scala ad Caelum, and he deserved better accommodations than a dusty cell and too-tight handcuffs. Someone had the decency to heal his injuries, at least, though he hadn't seen anyone besides his guards since waking up. "Is Frigga too frightened to visit me after her victory?" Aegir asked, raising his voice.
He heard shifting outside the door, but little else.
Aegir snorted derisively. "She should really be taking care of that, shouldn't she? I deserve to have my plea heard in front of the council."
"Quiet," one of the guards snapped, banging something against the metal door.
"It doesn't really hurt anything for him to talk," the other whispered, appeasing.
"You think I want more trouble with bluebloods? The less he talks, the better."
…Very well. He didn't have much more to say, in any case, and so he let the silence extend.
It only lasted a couple of heartbeats before a door creaked open. Light filtered into the prison, drifting through the metal bars of his door's window.
"Hey!" one of his guards shouted. "No one's to be visiting the prisoner."
"I think you can make an exception for a member of the council."
Aegir tilted his head.
"Anders?" the second guard asked, surprised. "I—we're sorry, we can—"
"I'm not making an exception for anyone right now," the first guard growled. "After the stunt this guy pulled last night? If he gets out, the rest of us are going to be the ones who pay for it, not you."
"Do you want to make things worse?" the second guard whispered, just able to be heard. "The council has the authority to—"
"I don't give a damn, I'm not going to deal with this blueblood bullshit."
Anders sighed. "Someone needs to check on him. Master Frigga sent me to do it."
The first guard didn't say anything, but Aegir could sense their reluctant anger.
"You wouldn't want to make things more difficult for her, would you?"
"Come on," the second guard urged. Distantly, Aegir heard the sound of footsteps. "I'm so sorry, they're just stressed—"
"Three minutes," the first guard snapped. "That's it."
"Of course."
The door unlocked with a quiet click. Aegir stepped away from it, consider whether he could break free. Anders wasn't a wielder, but he was family; still, it might be worth it if—
"Peace," Anders said, quiet. "I'm on your side."
It gave Aegir pause. "I thought everyone on the council would support Frigga."
"It's…complicated." Anders grimaced. "The Union Leaders have been…less than compliant. I respect Frigga's attempts to work with them, but it has done little good. I believed I would get to actually work with Master Brain, but he seems happier to do his own thing—completely ignorant of everything that leadership is meant to do for this city."
Aegir narrowed his eyes, considering.
"I'm not certain I can get you out," Anders continued, casting a sideways glance behind him. "Your actions were quite…disruptive. But perhaps we can…lay the groundwork for something better."
Perhaps they could. "I'll need proof you aren't Frigga's spy. I won't be fooled like she was."
Anders smiled. "That's probably not something I can prove with our limited time—but I'll try to keep in touch."
-It'd been a long time, since Brain had seen the Book of Prophecies. It certainly showed its age; the cover was dull and faintly stained, the spine worn from regular use, the pages yellowed and almost brittle. He ran a thumb gently along the edges. In here were the answers that he'd been too afraid to look at—answers that probably wouldn't do him any good anymore, now that Daybreak Town was gone.
But he'd get to know where his friends would end up. Or where they were supposed to end up. It might be enough to give him a clue about where he could find them—or give him a little bit of closure, if they could never find them.
Brain breathed out slowly, hand resting flat against the cover. The empty spaces of his apartment felt oppressive; it made his skin crawl, and if he hadn't promised to meet Skuld here, he would've left. He drew his legs a little closer, trying not to touch anything, if he could avoid it.
His finger nicked a loose piece of paper. He frowned, then cautiously pulled the Book open.
An old, weathered paper fell into his lap. He knew what it was before he'd opened it; his fingers moved mechanically, like something else had taken control, if only for a moment. The list of Union Leaders stared back at him, Ephemer's name circled, the red faded to near-black.
The paper crinkled underneath his grip, parts cracking. His eyes stung, and he closed his eyes tightly, breathing out one slow, unsteady breath.
The door creaked open, and he snapped towards it. Master's Defender hummed, warmth spreading through his chest and making him feel almost too-alive for the dead apartment, quiet whispers tickling the insides of his ears.
"It's just me," Skuld said, voice hushed. Her eyes were red; her shoulders were slumped, and her lips looked like they'd attempted a smile they weren't strong enough to hold.
Brain blinked, then turned away—but the only other place to look was the apartment or the paper in his hands. "How'd your talk with Mimir go?"
"It's—" She broke off with a shaky exhale. The couch dipped as she sank into it. "It's a lot." Before Brain had a chance to say anything, she leaned closer, and made a quiet, surprised noise.
He tilted the paper towards her. "Didn't think they'd keep it."
Delicately she took it from him. "That's—"
"It's just a sheet of paper." Brain snorted derisively. "Wouldn't think it'd cause so many problems, huh?"
Skuld stared at it, something tired in her expression. "Right." The paper dropped into her lap, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. It made Brain suddenly, acutely aware of the space between them, where their friends should be.
And then Skuld squared her shoulders. "So. We have the Book of Prophecies."
"Yeah."
"And it—it has the answers to—everything. About…us." She went very quiet on the last word, her eyes flicking to the Book. He couldn't quite read the expression on her face. It was—something like curiosity. Something like fear.
"Don't know about everything. But—yeah. We should be in there."
Skuld nodded, and her fingers curled tightly against her pant legs. He couldn't tell what she was thinking as she stared at the Book; he wondered if it was anything close to what he was thinking. "Where do we…start?"
It was a fair point; he'd never looked at the Book, even if he perhaps should've. He didn't know how far in the future it went. To the very end of the worlds and life itself—or did it simply stop at some point, whether whatever was left was deemed unimportant, or something happened that prevented the Master from seeing anything further?
It was a thick book—big enough that it would take a while to read everything. At one point, he might've been content to spend a day or two reading it, hidden away on his own; several days more, re-reading and making note of any particularly important passages. But a part of him itched to know—to hunt down the important bits, and worry about the details when he had more time and space and quiet.
And Skuld was here, too, waiting patiently. She was watching him, expectant. (Of course she was. He was the one who'd held the Book first, however much he might not have deserved to. Between the two of them, he was the most likely to know.)
Carefully he paged back to the beginning. It would still take some time to hunt down the right passages, probably, even if they didn't read everything. "Just keep your eye out for any familiar names," he said, and began turning pages.
-Do you want to hear a story?
The world was once one. Thousands of smaller worlds all connected to each other, tied together by land, and not the invisible ties of space. It had been this way for ages upon ages—longer than anyone could remember, except for perhaps Darkness and Light and the Great Heart themselves.
But the world was filled with monsters—creatures born from Darkness, crawling through the shadows and threatening those that could not fight them, with magic or weapons or other means. And from that chaos came the first Keyblade wielders—the Foretellers, the Lost Masters themselves, dedicated to protecting the world from the monsters that ravaged it.
But there is a secret few knew, except the Master and the Foretellers themselves: this was only a temporary fix. Darkness can find its way into any crack; when not handled with care, it can cause great harm, even to those who do not turn into monsters physically. And one day, it was foretold that the world's protectors would be its undoing.
The Foretellers had the rare benefit of forewarning—a Book, filled with tales of the future—and they sought to change what was foretold. But sometimes in trying to avert a tragedy you stumble into it—especially when your roadmap is so unclear. The Foretellers grew distrustful of each other, and their followers grew distrustful in kind. In their wake came a great War, and the world broke apart.
That is not the most important part.
It is an important part, to be sure—it formed the world as we know it today, and left its mark on countless people to come. It is a wound that left deep, deep scars on those who witnessed it—wounds that still linger, even on those who can no longer remember them.
The world ended—but the story goes on, and the survivors were left to pick up the pieces.
-Brain had thought a lot about what the Book of Prophecies might contain. When he'd been younger, he'd thought of it as the key to everything—a roadmap to the future, their fates written in careful detail. It might not contain every single thought and action—no book could possible contain that, and it wouldn't be entirely useful, anyway—but it would still contain the important parts. Immutable. Clear.
He hadn't expected the Book to be so damn vague.
"Why," he asked, rubbing his temple and trying to ignore the oncoming headache, "did the Master decide to write this in verse?"
It wasn't overly complicated—for the most part, he could still figure out where in the timeline he was, provided he wasn't just hurriedly flipping through the pages—but it made actually searching for the information they needed frustrating. At this rate, it almost felt like it made more sense to take the time and read the whole thing, rather than pick it apart in snippets.
That was, of course, ignoring the fact that it was entirely unnecessary to write it this way.
"It's like he didn't actually see anything," he grumbled, "and made it vague to hide it." Which would be a nice theory, if that clearly wasn't the case, since he was staring at the part about the Keyblade War right now—after having to flip back several pages because he missed it the first time—and the Book had existed before the event had ever occurred.
"Maybe he was copying the way things sound in stories?" Skuld suggested, but she also sounded slightly exasperated. "A lot of prophecies rhyme—and I've read stories told in verse, too."
So had he—but those weren't supposed to tell them about their own destinies. If this was meant to guide them, then Brain thought it would make more sense for the Master to just…state things plainly.
…Then again, he was also likely the one who'd set up the data-Daybreak Town. For all Brain knew, perhaps this was meant to be confusing. Could be a way to protect the future's secrets from the wrong people, he reasoned. And then, more grimly, Or it could be a way to manipulate us more.
Either way, it still made what he'd hoped would be a simple task slightly more time-consuming.
"Well," Brain said, trying to bite back his frustration, "this part, at least, is about us." He tapped the page lightly with his knuckles. "'Five would come from those who fled'—pretty hard to miss."
Skuld's fingers trailed across the page; there was something a little bittersweet in her expression, her voice quiet as she read, almost to herself, "'One charismatic and curious, quick and brave; one bold and kind, and desperate to save, those few hearts that followed in their stead.'" She stopped and blinked, shaking her head and going silent, eyes flicking furiously back and forth.
He watched her instead of looking at the Book—it was still back in their time, so it probably wouldn't provide many details about what happened to their family, anyways. Her expression was steeled stubbornly, focused, but he had a feeling he knew what was going through her head; it'd probably be going through his, too, if he weren't so used to the legends and so baffled by the reality of the Book. Seeing all of them noted down in history—them, kids who he'd seen play pranks on each other or fall asleep inside cupboards or knock each other into the fountain—would never really stop feeling surreal.
Skuld made a noise of surprise, and then she tapped the page urgently, drawing his attention. "'And one stayed behind in the broken land—the leader, the first to try and lend a hand—' Brain, this is Ephemer."
They'd found them, then.
His eyes flicked up higher, searching for the beginning—the parts that were important, the parts that might tell him where the others had gone—and tried very hard to ignore the way his heart felt like it was pounding in his throat:
'But Darkness is a clever, dangerous thing,
And in its cunning, it sought to bring
Itself out of the broken world and into the new
By hiding, very carefully, out of view
In the heart of one who should not have been—
The smallest, only a replacement, in the end
For the true final member of the Five.
And with his presence, Darkness thrived.
It tore apart the world, and tried to tear apart the friends,
But connections, once forged, are not so easily broken.
The Five rose to protect one they'd come to adore,
And the Imposter sealed the Darkness inside him forevermore.
But unfortunately, it was not meant to last,
Their last refuge torn apart in that final clash.
And so the Five were scattered, all across time and space,
Fleeing in lifeboats, each to their place.
One to a home familiar yet not,
One to a land he'd long since forgot.
One to a cage, and a man thought to be a friend,
And one to a castle, where he brought his own end.
And one stayed behind in the broken land—
The leader, the first to try and lend a hand
To the little lights, lost to him now,
Left to pick up the pieces in whatever way he knew how.'
Brain re-read the last few stanzas. Read them again. Stared at them, and then breathed out a long, slow breath that turned into a laugh, broken and not sure what it wanted to be. "Well," he said, "it's a start."
They were there. They were there, on the page. Hints to where his friends had gone, according to the Master's all-seeing eye. Barely more than mentions in passing, but that was more than he'd gotten in the months he'd been here. It was something.
It felt like everything.
"'One to a home familiar yet not,'" Brain muttered, finger pressing an indent into the page. "That's me, probably—none of the others match, and Scala was built out of Daybreak Town. 'One to a land he'd long since forgot'—that has to be either Ven or Lauriam. 'Forgot' could be someplace from when they were younger—or maybe something happens to their memory." He thought about it a moment, eyes furrowing. "Ven," he decided on finally. "He has a precedent for that. He might end up here, too; has to be familiar enough that he should've remembered it. Or maybe it's his old home?" It was hard to tell; the Book was frustratingly lacking in details, but he could hope that their friends would appear more later, and give them a little bit of a better clue. "'One to a cage, and a man thought to be a friend—' That's—"
That was Skuld.
It took a moment for it to really, truly sink in, Brain drawn out of his excited mutterings for a moment, and when it did, his mouth clamped shut. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Skuld hadn't been meant to be here; she was here, and had integrated herself so permanently into his life in Scala that it was hard to imagine a world where she hadn't appeared. From an intellectual standpoint, he understood it—but it was a different thing, to see it written down in the Book.
Skuld was staring at the passage, face white; she'd gone very, very still, except for the slight tremor in her hand. Brain lowered the Book and took her hand gently, trying to steady it. "You doing alright?"
Her fingers curled, very slowly, around his. "I'm—fine."
He snorted. "Sure."
"Why'd you ask then?" But her words had no real heat to them, and after a moment of staring at the passage she continued, "I knew it was going to be there. Or—I knew something was going to be there. Darkness…could've been lying, I guess, but even then—everyone's told me I wasn't supposed to be here." Her hand tightened around his. "It's just—weird. To see it."
He knocked his shoulder lightly against hers. "You want to keep going?"
She paused a moment, seeming to actually think about it, before nodding slowly. "I want to know. About me, and about the others." She took a breath, and then she pointed to the line just beneath hers. "That worries me."
'And one to a castle, where he brought his own end.' If the earlier line was Ven's, then this was Lauriam's. It certainly wasn't encouraging, and it made Brain's stomach twist. Ven's, at least, didn't promise tragedy, and while Skuld's didn't sound pleasant, she was here, so it no longer really mattered. But Lauriam… "Wonder if it had to do with his sister." Lauriam was gentle, most of the time, but he'd been devastated when he'd found out what happened to Strelitzia; if there was anything that could've torn him apart, it would probably be that.
(He wondered with a shiver how it happened—if he'd torn himself apart looking for her, or—)
"Maybe he was looking for us," Skuld whispered.
That—was possible too, now that Brain thought about it. "Looking for Ven," Brain clarified, trying very, very hard to make his voice lighter, if only so he didn't have to think about the what-ifs.
Skuld snorted with quiet laughter. "Yeah," she said, and there was something a little brighter in her voice. "Do you remember that time when Ven got back late from a mission?"
Brain grimaced, because he did—it was the first and last time it happened, Ven properly chastened afterward. "I thought he was going to tear the whole Clock Tower apart."
"Didn't you complain about being forced to help the whole time?"
"You're remembering wrong." He shoved her lightly. "Ven was fine, anyways."
Skuld's lips twitched towards a smile. "Remembering wrong, huh?"
"Two things can be true."
Skuld laughed, and it was a little less tired and a little more honest. She sobered after a moment, eyes growing heavy. "He was pretty upset with Ven, the last we saw him."
Brain's hand tightened around hers involuntarily. Furious shouts and agonized screams echoed over the crash of metal. The memory soured, tasting bitter on his tongue. Maybe Lauriam wouldn't search for Ven, after all, if he was still grieving the loss of his sister. Maybe it wouldn't be a good thing if he did. He loves Ven, he argued with himself. Even after everything that happened—he still grieved, when Ven sacrificed himself.
But a lot can change, something else hissed. And Darkness can seep into the most unlikely of places.
"Well," Brain said, because that line of thinking was getting him nowhere, "it doesn't matter. We'll just have to find him first." His finger tapped the passage. "Wish it was a little more clear on which castle."
Skuld gave him a strange, skeptical sort of look, but turned back to the Book with a quiet hum. "Castle of Dreams, maybe?" she suggested. "Since 'castle' is in the name."
"Could be. Or Enchanted Dominion or Dwarf Woodlands, if the name doesn't particularly matter." There were probably a whole host of worlds with castles that he didn't know of, too; they could end up searching for ages and still not find the right one. "We'll have to ask Meili—see what they know."
Something flickered across Skuld's face—just a flash, there and then gone again, but Brain caught it anyways. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, and only made a quiet noise of protest when he jostled her. "It's nothing, just—"
She fell quiet, and Brain waited, watching her.
Her fingers curled, tightening into fists. "If we leave to look for Ven and Lauriam," she murmured, "we'll be leaving the others—Kvasir and Mimir and Meili."
Brain blinked, sitting in the idea for a bit. It was something that he hadn't really stopped to think about; ever since he'd gotten here, he'd been on a frantic race to find the rest of his family, desperate to try and reclaim something normal. He'd wanted to escape this place with its ghosts, the weight of a world still sitting too heavy on his shoulders.
That hadn't changed, really. If he thought about staying in Scala for too long, it felt like something was squeezing his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Kvasir and Mimir and even Meili were friends, maybe—but it wasn't the same, and it wasn't enough to make him want to stay.
But it did still make something squirm in his gut, a little. "Not like we can't visit," he pointed out. He thought he could do that, probably, if there was always an option to leave. "I'm sure Kvasir would be happy to harass Ven and Lauriam."
Skuld laughed, but it sounded a little forced, and that melancholy expression hadn't left her face.
Brain swallowed, and tried to ignore the way his throat had tightened. "You don't want to leave."
Skuld didn't answer right away. She sunk against him, and suddenly, she looked much, much more tired than she'd been. "I don't know," she whispered. "I do want to find the others—but we might be looking for the rest of our lives, and still not find them. And—and there's a lot about being here that's—hard. But—" She broke off, expression pinched.
"But you'd miss the others, too."
She nodded. "It's—I don't know. It's not the same as it was with Ven and Lauriam and Ephemer, but—I don't want to leave them. And Mimir—" Her breath hitched, expression faltering, but she rallied and continued, "I just got them back. I can't give them up again."
That's right. Brain hadn't had many connections, beyond the Union Leaders, but Skuld had. It brought about a strangely bitter feeling, and Brain tried to shake it off.
He tried to say something. He thought he probably should. But when he tried, the words got stuck, and he stayed still, staring at the pages of the Book.
Skuld sighed into the silence. "I guess we can't leave right away, anyways," she murmured. "If Darkness is still here."
(It'd been here for years. It'd been hiding here, underneath the world, since Ephemer had rebuilt it, and the world was still here. Frigga and Sigurd said they were taking care of it. They'd be fine.)
(You've been given a second chance to make up for your mistakes you can't just leave—)
(Why not leave it to someone who might actually have a chance? You failed once; what makes you think you won't fail again?)
(We have the Book of Prophecies this time.)
(Master's Defender sat heavy in his chest, humming quietly.)
Brain's fingers trailed carefully across the pages. He should be—he should be looking for answers to that. Not his missing friends. They were—they were just two people. What were they, compared to a world?
"Brain?" Skuld asked, quiet.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the wayward thoughts. "Right." He flipped a page absentmindedly. "We can figure it out later."
He could feel Skuld watching him, but she didn't press. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or not.
-This is how the story goes: one of five would stay behind. He would survive, and he would build a world from the scraps of his old home, and he would become a figure of legend—a beloved leader whose legacy would last far beyond his passing.
The story doesn't talk about the grief. About the bad nights, even decades after the world's fall, where he'd still wake up crying or find himself shaking in his partner's arms. It doesn't talk about the fear, leaving him unwilling to enter the shadows without a light at hand.
And it doesn't talk about the healing, either—of the reality of it, not the romanticized stories. Of the anger and the hurting and the complicated conversations as slowly, slowly, old wounds started to scab over, and even if the weight never left, it became easier to bear.
It was not perfect, the wrong thing at the wrong moment tearing open old wounds as if they were fresh. But that is the way of things, sometimes.
-Looking through the Book of Prophecies was…surreal. The Book had only ever been a distant thing to Skuld—something the Foretellers had possessed to help guide them, as one last gift from their Master. She hadn't realized how close the Book had been, when she'd become a Union Leader; she wasn't sure what she would've done if she had.
(And sometimes, she thought about the fact that Brain had had it with him, the whole time they were there. There was a part of her that was angry, but only briefly; if she'd been given the Book, she didn't know if she would've looked at it, either.)
Her fingers touched a page now, forcing Brain to pause; they hadn't gotten much further, still so close to the beginning—to them—but she'd realized, very quickly, who the passages were talking about.
'Floating through the ruins was a single ark
Sheltering its strange burden from the dangers of the dark—
A leader to rise, and bring life back to the land
With stubborn bravery and an ever-gentle hand.
A great kingdom would rise from what remains—
Born of water, forged in the flames
Of loss and grief and one young soul's strife,
Bringing back to it warmth and joy and life.
Wielders would finally return to their home,
And for a time they would grow; more would come
To learn and to lead and to teach,
Ever-expanding their young kingdom's reach.
And for years, that Light would shine,
Underneath one young leader's watchful eye.
(But it is a hard burden to bear for one so young—
One still grieving, hiding wounds that still stung.
And though he would heal and build his kingdom toward the skies,
In the cracks still left would the seeds of Darkness hide.)'
It was such a strange thing to grapple with—with her fate being written here, in these pages, her presence important enough to preserve in some form, even if perhaps her name wasn't. Stranger still, to see the Book talking about her best friend and realize just how important he must've been, to keep his stories here.
She had known—she had heard legends about Ephemer, now, and met his descendants, and seen the world he'd built. But it was different, to see it in the Book itself—something written by the Master of Masters, someone that she'd considered a legend. It was hard for her to reconcile the differences, sometimes. Ephemer was a boy who'd laughed at her dumb jokes and gotten in trouble for exploring places he shouldn't and had stayed with her when either of their nightmares became too much. This wasn't an Ephemer that she'd known; this was a person that only existed in stories.
"Doing alright?"
She hated that Brain had to keep asking that. "I'm fine," she said, a little sharper than intended, and winced. "Mostly."
He huffed a laugh, to her relief, but his voice softened as he added, "Weird that this is how we see him again." His fingers trailed near hers, absently running across the verse. Beside them were pictures, surprisingly detailed, showing images of what must've been early Scala. "Probably the most accurate thing we'll get of what his life was like."
And that—that was true, too. The legends were so muddied by time that Skuld wasn't sure what was true and what wasn't; when she heard them, it felt less like she was hearing stories about them, and more like she was listening to her parents or her friends tell her legends of some far off place, so distant from her own experiences. This—the Master had seen this.
For a brief moment, she shared Brain's frustration about the verse. She wanted so much more than this; she wanted to see how Ephemer had rebuilt the world, she wanted to get to know his family, however vicariously, she wanted to see how he'd changed and get to know her friend in the only way left to her now.
But all that was left of him was a couple of verses on a page—one part of a much larger history, however important. The personal details of his life…probably wouldn't be important enough to the Master to write down. (They were important to her—but then, she didn't expect the Master to know or care about that.)
Her throat closed with grief. She stared at the last passage, thumb running along it gently. He'd still been hurting, even after he'd built Scala—and he'd done it alone. At least she and Brain had each other.
(And she wondered, absently, what that meant for them—if they'd ever find a way to escape their grief, or if they'd have to live with it for the rest of their lives, too.)
Brain started to turn the page, and she stopped him almost without thinking about it, her hand hitting the page harder than she intended.
She could feel Brain giving her a side-eyed look.
"Not yet," she said, and felt silly for saying it. "I can't—"
It was…stupid. It was stupid. Staring at these pages wasn't going to bring Ephemer back. But—
But it felt like it did when she thought Mimir and them. She knew it wasn't going to do anything, but she didn't want to let him go.
She half-expected Brain to say something—to quietly point out that they weren't looking for Ephemer, he was gone, and that they should be focusing on finding more information on Ven and Lauriam. But he didn't; he watched her for a long, long moment, and then he let the pages settle, silent.
Skuld's eyes burned, and she wrapped one arm around his waist and tugged him into a brief hug, hoping he knew how grateful she was.
-The story goes like this: sometimes, it is messy. Sometimes, you rebuild yourself out of the wreckage of everything you lost, and you learn to live around the ache. Sometimes, you realize that time has eased the pain as it's gone on, and you realize that it no longer hurts anymore. Sometimes, you hurt yourself, stumbling around in the dark.
It is different for all of them, in the end—how they decide to move on, beyond their tragedy.
-Brain knew that he'd be appearing in the Book at some point. Even if he hadn't known that they all appeared, eventually, all of Scala ad Caelum had known he'd arrive; they'd made that very clear. Still, it didn't entirely prepare him to actually see it.
'As time moves on, history repeats,
And those that were once meant to protect would fall to greed
And pride and selfishness, darkening their hearts
And threatening to tear their world apart.
Their numbers would dwindle, one by one,
Thousands to hundreds and dozens and then to none,
The Heirs to a leader's light gradually becoming a threat
To everything that they had once sworn to protect.
But there was still hope, however slight—
The trickster, the leader's friend, come to fight
For a future for a world that he barely knew—
A second chance, a way to begin anew.
With clever words and careful plans,
The trickster would take fate into his hands
And entrust a student with the burden he could not bear alone—
Destiny's last deifier, and a chance to atone,
For mistakes owned, and not made
And for those that could not be saved.
The kingdom would fade without fanfare;
Darkness edging closer, working with care
To tear apart the bonds in its wake,
And leaving the survivors to fade, quietly, into their fates.'
Skuld leaned closer, touching the page, and he heard her breath hitch. "Brain—"
(That's me. That's me, that's me, that's—)
"I couldn't do anything."
The words slipped out without his consent—but he stared and the promise of a fallen world, at the mention of a student, and read between the lines. The people of Scala ad Caelum had thought one of their legends had come to save them—but really, he was just as helpless as he'd always been.
('Mistakes owned, and not made'—what did the Master know about it? If he'd been better—)
"We don't have to look," Skuld whispered, quick, one hand on his arm.
He heard, but only barely; his fingers tightened around the pages of the Book, and for a moment, everything blurred. He could almost feel Master's Defender sitting heavy behind his ribcage—a responsibility that had fallen to him a second time, however impossibly. One that he was going to fail again, because if even the Book predicted it, then—then what was he supposed to do?
The Book has changed before, something inside him whispered, quiet, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of Skuld sitting beside him. Last time, things might've been different if you had the Book to guide you. You have that, now—so use it.
'A second chance, a way to begin anew—' that's what the Book said. A second chance to get things right this time.
"The bluebloods are the ones who bring about the world's fall," Brain said, and it dawned on some distant part of him that he'd interrupted his friend—but it was only a distant sort of acknowledgement, his mind still turning as his fingers flicked back to the top of the passage. "'The Heirs to a leader's light gradually becoming a threat—' not a lot of subtlety there. Supposedly I take a student, but—"
Who would even be capable of fighting Darkness? What was the plan there? Is it like Ven—a sacrifice? He could feel a part of him recoiling from the thought; the idea of training someone just to sacrifice them to Darkness was…difficult to accept, even if he understood the logic in it. If it's only one person, compared to hundreds or thousands—and you've already failed to save so many. Wouldn't it be worth it—to sacrifice one if it meant saving the world?
No, he answered himself, ignoring the faint, niggling feeling of doubt. If I were to sacrifice anyone—
(It should be him.)
He blinked and shook his head, flipping through the pages. "Maybe it's like choosing a leader," he murmured, and for a moment, he could hear the whispers of centuries of wielders, something almost too warm in his chest. "But that doesn't answer—there has to be more. Something that we missed. If we can find a way to—"
A hand on his arm stopped him; he paused, thrown temporarily back into the present, and snapped towards his friend.
Skuld stared at him; there was something sad and worried in her expression, and whatever frantic search he wanted to go on seemed…less than important.
His skin itched. His hands shook, and his legs felt jittery, like he needed to be doing something now, now, Darkness is here now—but he forced himself to release a steadying breath, shoulders slumping from the weight of it. "Right. We—should focus on the others first." That's what he wanted to Book for; that's why the two of them were looking through it together. He could look through the Book on his own.
(How long will Darkness wait? You took Mimir from them, how long before—)
"Are you okay?" Skuld asked as Brain, carefully, turned a page.
"Fine."
"Brain."
"It's nothing, Skuld. Just got ahead of myself."
He could feel her staring at him. He wasn't quite sure what she was thinking of until she said, quiet, "You never talked about what Darkness showed you."
He felt himself twitch, and then rallied and turned another page. There were words there that it felt like he wasn't really seeing, and he had to pause and look over them again, frustrated. "It's probably not all that different from you. They dragged out some of your negative feelings, right? Did the same with me."
She was still watching him—waiting, he guessed, for him to explain.
"They were just trying to manipulate us. It's what they do." A shoulder lifted in a half shrug. Another turned page.
"That doesn't mean it can't hurt."
(That doesn't mean it's not true.)
Another pause, however brief, before he could turn the page again. "It's—"
He wanted to tell her, almost; it gnawed on him, making something ache, and—and if there was anyone who'd understand, it'd probably be her. But he looked at her, and the words got lodged somewhere in his throat. He cleared it, glancing sharply away. "It's fine."
"Brain—"
"Anyway. Think I found Ven." He tapped it lightly. "'The youngest, the imposter'—pretty sure it fits."
Skuld frowned at him, but she didn't press. She leaned closer, squinting down at the passage. "'Would fall into the hands of the scapegoat'—what does that mean?"
Brain's eyes flicked, if only briefly, to next bit—'chosen by his forgotten friend'—and then away again, ignoring the way it made something twist in his stomach.
Skuld, apparently, assumed he didn't have an answer. Her eyes flicked back and forth, reading, and her face grew slowly paler. "'And would rend him apart,'" she whispered; her hands started shaking as she touched the page, eyes growing slowly wider. "Ven."
Brain stared at the passage a moment, then scrunched his eyes closed, taking a second to breathe and steady himself. He could hear the pages crinkling underneath his grip, and he tried to relax his hold.
"He already—that's not fair. That's not fair, why does—"
"Just what fate has instore for him, I guess." The words came out flat and tasted bitter.
"Is it too much to ask for it to give us a break?"
"Think he gets a little bit of one, at least." He pointed to the next passage.
'But from the tragedy came a light—
A life spared, given reprieve from the fight
For four years with a new-found family,
With the terrors of the past fading beyond memory.'
Skuld's anger eased a little, her expression smoothing. It turned into something bittersweet, her palm resting gently against the words.
"He's alright," Brain said, gentle, and was surprised at the surge of emotion. It was hard to parse apart—something grieving, almost, but relieved, too. Of all the things that would make his eyes start stinging, why would it be this part—the one part that seemed to promise something good for one of his friends?
"…He forgets about us, doesn't he."
It wasn't really a question, but Brain answered it, anyways, if only to fill the silence. "Yeah. Guessing that's what that last bit means."
"Maybe that's…better." Skuld smiled, but it was a sad sort of thing. "He went through so much, and maybe those memories would just…hurt." One thumb ran along family gently. "He found people to love him without—without everything. With Darkness and—and the whole mess with Strelitzia and—" She broke off, eyes flicking to the previous passage, and her expression fell a little. "And I wish he didn't have to go through so much to get it."
Brain hummed a quiet acknowledgement. "At least he gets it eventually."
It made him wonder, for the first time, if he should go looking for the others at all. He hadn't really imagined a world where the others would forget about Daybreak Town—or one where they'd find their own happiness. Maybe he should've—but then, it'd felt almost impossible to imagine his life without the others. But here—Ven had found his own family. And Skuld was right about how much the memories would probably hurt; did he really deserve to be faced with that grief again, when he finally had the chance to leave it behind him?
But where did that leave them? Their family would never be complete again, he knew, with Ephemer gone, but he'd thought—
(For a moment—just a moment—he let himself think about his own future. A future like Ven's, maybe—where even though they didn't find the others, they still found a way to be happy. To make their own lives and futures, out of the pieces they'd left behind. It hurt, in a lot of ways, tearing open old wounds, but—in a weird way, he felt lighter. Like maybe if he let them go—
No. He shut the thought down almost immediately. They were his family; he couldn't leave them behind.)
(Something like guilt twisted around his ribs, squeezing tight.)
"Lauriam?" Brain suggested.
Skuld stared at the passage a little longer, but she nodded.
They searched silently for several minutes, the only sound the quiet rustling of pages, until Skuld made a startled noise. "Wait—'brother lost.' Brain, go back."
Brain's eyes furrowed, but he obeyed, flipping back a page and scanning it. About half-way down the page his eyes caught on something; he felt Skuld stiffen beside him, but his eyes were glued to the words, something sinking in his chest.
'A grieving heart would awaken alone,
Bearing forgotten memories and a purpose no longer known.
The missing pieces would drive him mad,
Searching desperately for what he once had.
In his search for what was lost, he would lose everything still his,
Tearing himself apart until he is
Little more of a shade of the person he used to be—
A lonely Lord of the Castle, too blind to see
The way that he is walking towards death
Until a familiar weapon leads him to draw his final breath.
(And yet how close he was to finding a brother lost—
If only he had realized what his actions cost.)'
He might not have realized it was Lauriam, if he hadn't been searching so staunchly for mentions of his missing family. But the Book mentioned he'd end up at a world with a castle. The 'brother lost,' the familiar weapon—does he die to a Keyblade wielder?
It was a different kind of blow, compared to Ven's and Ephemer's. Ven found happiness; Ephemer, even if his life had likely been harder, had still seemed to die peacefully, with a long legacy following in his wake. But Lauriam—
"It might not be him," Skuld whispered, but from her expression Brain knew she was thinking along similar lines.
"We saw how he reacted to Strelitzia's death," he pointed out, voice gentle. "If he forgot her—"
"Us."
He paused—but then, it didn't specify which memories, did it? "Us," he agreed, and it stung. "We don't know what he would've done." He stared at the passage, and he felt like his throat was closing in on itself. "He dies alone."
He guessed he didn't know that, for sure—the passage didn't say anything about whether he had people around him or not—but it didn't feel like it mattered. Lauriam would do everything to try and reclaim what he lost, and he would die for it. Become someone he wasn't, from the sounds of it. It made it feel, strangely, like the Lauriam he'd known hadn't made it out of Daybreak Town at all.
(And for a moment, it felt, a little, like he was staring at a mirror of himself. He wondered how easily it would be for him to walk to his own death—to cling so tightly to his past that he would lose everything he had. He wanted to argue that he wouldn't, but—
Wouldn't you? If it meant reuniting with your family? If it meant stopping Darkness?
…Would any of that matter, if you weren't you anymore?)
Skuld's shaky sigh dragged him out of his thoughts. She'd slumped back against the couch, her hands shaking as she ran them over her face.
Brain laughed a bitter, humorless sort of laugh, tilting his head back. "Makes you almost wish you didn't know, huh?"
"I don't—know. It's—I wanted to know what happened to them. I wanted to know where they were, but—" She broke off, voice trailing into shaky silence.
"We'll find him."
"What if we don't?"
"We will."
"Brain."
He cut off his instinctive protest, because—because she was right, wasn't she? They'd both gotten lucky to find each other. For all they knew, Lauriam wouldn't appear again for centuries until after they'd already died—and even if he didn't, if he somehow ended up appearing while they were still alive, they could end up searching for decades, across countless worlds, and still never find him.
But how were they supposed to sit back, knowing one of their friends would—
(This is your fault, too. If you had done better—if you'd saved them like you were supposed to—)
"If we don't—" Brain started, and then he stopped, because he didn't have an answer. What were they supposed to do, just—just give him up?
(You might not have a choice. Sometimes, all you can do is grieve.)
Skuld leaned against him; he guessed she knew he didn't really have an answer, either. "We'll talk to Meili," she whispered.
"Right."
They fell into silence again, and Brain found himself feeling strangely adrift. They had information about their friends—not much, maybe, but it was more than they'd had for a long time—and there might be more in the Book that they'd missed. But he was also, slowly, realizing that it might not be enough to find them.
Ever since he'd arrived in Scala, he'd clung to the hope that, one day, he might be able to bring the remainder of his family together again. He hadn't really been able to imagine a future beyond that; it hadn't really felt like it existed. But the world was going to go on, whether they found the others or not. What was his role in it supposed to be?
(Master's Defender was a warm, familiar presence—not heavy, like it usually felt, but comforting, almost like a friend. It was…strange, to have something so familiar and yet so changed returned to him, and he wasn't sure what to do with it.)
Skuld tugged on the Book a little. "Can I…?"
Oh. "You want to see where you were supposed to end up."
"I—I know some of it. Darkness—" She blinked rapidly, then shook her head. "They could've been lying, but it didn't feel like it. And—I want to know."
He…could understand that. He passed the Book to her, and she gave him a grateful look. "Did you want me to stay?" He could imagine that she might not want to share something so personal—but then again, she might want the moral support, too.
She looked startled for a moment, but then her expression softened into a sheepish smile. "Yes. Please."
Brain could feel his softening in response. He nodded, and watched as she slowly flipped through the Book.
-The story goes like this: there are two children, where they should have only been one. They are the fractured remains of legends, an age long lost to time, trying to figure out where their stories end.
What do you do, when all of your histories have become fairytales? When there is nothing left of the people you've loved but legends? Do you take those legends, and make them a part of you? Do you rail against the unfairness of it all, and try to bring a little of their humanity back into their tales? How do you move forward, with the loss still ringing in your ears?
-Despite the fact that she was looking for it, it still felt like Skuld came upon her own passage quicker than she wanted.
Skuld's throat tightened. Her fingers trailed across the passage—just two short verses, easy to lose amidst everything else. She might not have even realized it was her, if she hadn't seen that vision from Darkness. But—
(But she could still imagine Subject X clearly—a version of her that had lost everything, her memories and Keyblade and freedom, staring at her with the same helpless anger that she felt.)
"You found it?" Brain asked, quiet.
She nodded, but her voice broke a little as she whispered, "It's me."
Brain's eyes flicked between her and the passage, but Skuld's eyes were glued to the Book.
'Into the hands of the lost would fall a child—
A leader once, now memoryless and mild,
And in her he would see something long lost—
A false memory to reclaim, whatever the cost.
For months, the subject would remain in a cage—
Chained by fate, now, little more than notes on a page,
Until the Traitor, still wandering, took pity,
And released her into a strange, foreign city.'
"It's me," she repeated, a little steadier. She reread the passage once, twice, trying to pry apart the pieces of what should have been, if fate had gone according to plan.
Trapped for months, by someone who thought he knew her. She wondered what that meant—if it was someone from her past, or—
Mimir.
The idea struck so quickly that she didn't have the chance to shake it off, and once it did, she couldn't quite let it go. She had wondered already if she had somehow called her old friend here; if she had been the reason Mimir was facing—everything. Maybe this was proof that she was right; that if she'd ended up in the right time and place, she would've brought her old friend there, instead. And then they would—
(It felt like she was staring at them across the lifeboat chamber all over again, wondering desperately about where her friend had gone.)
She could feel her expression twisting with her emotions, a complicated sort of tangle. If that was true—if she was somehow dragging her lost friend with her, for whatever reason—then maybe it wouldn't have mattered where she ended up. Maybe it would've caused problems, anyways—but here, she wasn't stuck in a cage.
"Luxu."
Skuld started, drawn out of her musings by Brain's murmured comment.
He had a strangely complicated expression on his face; his fingers were pressed against the page, just below 'Traitor.' He noticed her looking and gave her a grim sort of smile, tapping lightly just beneath the word. "Just a theory. One of the Master's apprentices was supposed to be a traitor, right?"
It was something she'd almost forgotten, in the midst of everything else; it was hard to think about the Foretellers, when she had to worry so much more about leading the Dandelions or surviving in Scala ad Caelum. "You think it's Luxu?" Her eyebrows furrowed. "How would he even be here?"
One hand touched his chest, on the space over his heart. "Like I said," he whispered, but there was something heavy to his voice that said he wasn't saying everything, "it's just a theory."
She wanted to press, but she wasn't sure if he'd explain; she let it go, for now, and hoped that he'd talk to her about it if it was important.
Brain shifted a little, taking a steadying breath. "Well. Someone was still looking out for you, at least. Guess that's something."
"Maybe. But—I never find you guys. Or at least, it doesn't say I do." None of them did—or none of them were supposed to, at least. "So we just…never would've seen each other again. If I hadn't ended up here."
Brain had gone very, very still. "Don't know," he said, finally. "Maybe the Master just missed something."
They both knew that was unlikely, even if Brain was stubbornly refusing to say it. "Why did it change?" she whispered. "What did I do to…?"
Brain didn't say anything, but it was a thinking sort of silence, and after a moment he asked, "What can you remember from the end?"
It was a loaded question, and she winced, but she knew what he meant. The memories were still raw and fractured, but she paused to consider them, anyways, turning them over carefully, like they'd cut her if she wasn't careful. "I just…wanted to stay with all of you," she whispered. "I wanted to find you guys, after everything."
"Well—maybe that's the secret."
Skuld laughed, half-incredulous. "That's so small."
"So? Small things can have a ripple effect. You wanted to stay with us; I'm guessing you weren't thinking about who?"
Skuld shook her head, but she could see where he was going. "So it's not even necessarily something I did different—I could've ended up with any of you."
"Or lost, if you didn't have a strong enough anchor." Brain's fingers trailed across the passages. "But you wanted to stay with us badly enough that you did."
"Changing fate can't be that easy."
Brain didn't say anything at first; when he did, it was simple and matter-of-fact. "You're here."
It seemed like such a simple thing, but it made her eyes well up, anyways. She laughed, scrubbing at her eyes. "Yeah," she agreed. "I guess—I guess that's what matters."
It still felt like a strange thing to grapple with—that one small thing could've changed her fate so completely. She didn't entirely know what that meant, still—didn't know if her being here would actually change things at all, or if the universe would find a way to right itself, one way or another. The answers were…likely entirely out of her control.
So just do what you can—here and now. You might not be able to find your friends—but maybe you can do something to help Scala ad Caelum.
"Thanks, Brain."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Didn't exactly do much."
She elbowed him lightly. "I'm thanking you, anyways."
Another quiet snort. The apartment grew quiet; through the window, Skuld could see the rays of the setting sun, and she blinked. She hadn't realized just how long they'd been here.
"You think Meili's sent out a search party yet?" Brain asked, apparently noticing the same thing she had.
"Kvasir will be breaking down the door at any moment."
Brain grimaced, and Skuld laughed. "You admitted you're friends."
"That doesn't mean I want him to drag me back to Meili's."
Skuld's eyes crinkled with a smile. She felt…drained, a little, but also lighter. Knowing what happened—or what was supposed to happen, at any rate—didn't necessarily fix things, but it was…nice. Just to have that.
Even if it was the only thing she got to keep of her friends.
It was a sobering thought, but a realistic one. Ven wasn't awake to be thinking about them. Lauriam had probably been thinking about his sister—or had been too distracted to think about anything at all. And Ephemer—they knew what happened to Ephemer.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe they did end up here. But—
But.
"What do we do now?" Skuld asked, because regardless of what happened, they were a team. They'd move forward together—whatever that 'forward' looked like.
Brain shut the Book carefully. "Well. We still have Darkness to worry about—so I guess that's first. We'll figure out the details of this," he gestured at the Book, "later."
Skuld nodded.
"And we'd probably better get back before Meili actually sends someone after us." He started to stick the Book into his jacket, but paused. "If you ever want to look again…"
Skuld blinked, and then smiled, grateful. "I'll let you know," she said. "Thank you."
Brain managed a small smile back. They left together, slipping through Scala's quiet streets.
-Let me tell you a story—of two lost children, and where they go from here.
I was…very intimidated about writing the Book of Prophecies portions. Largely because they're written in verse, which is…not something I'm super familiar with. I'm not really sure they qualify as "good," but they ARE done, so I'm going to count that as good enough.
On that note: there were actually verses that I wrote that didn't get used. Ven's section is the most notable; I wrote out a section focusing on what happened to him in BbS, but decided to leave it out of the actual chapter because it seemed better to at least give them hope that ONE friend would end up okay.