'Brain and Sigurd try to hunt down an old acquaintance.'
Chapter Thirty: The Lost Master
It probably said something about what Sigurd had been through over the past couple of days that, upon seeing the Keeper's Keyblade, the first thing he did was sigh and resist the urge to massage his temples. "Why," he asked, "do you have that?"
"It's on loan."
"Master Brain—" It dawned on Sigurd that he wasn't entirely sure how he wanted to finish that statement, so he trailed away into another sigh. "I'm—not doing anything particularly important, no."
"Good." Somehow, Sigurd got the impression that Brain was going to coerce him into helping, whether he actually wanted to or not. Previously, he might've been relieved. Now, he wasn't entirely sure what he felt. "You remember our first conversation about Darkness, right?"
"I would hardly call that a 'conversation'—but yes."
"You said you made a promise to someone who was 'concerned' about me."
"I told you, I don't know his name—"
"But you are still in contact with him, right?" Brain planted the tip of the Keeper's Keyblade in the ground, leaning on it, and Sigurd would really like to protest that he shouldn't be so flippant with such a powerful Keyblade—but then again, he had somehow obtained Master's Defender, and he was a Union Leader. Maybe the Keyblades didn't have the same weight to him. "Saw some interesting things while I was trying to get you out of Darkness's visions. Something about spying on the council for this guy?"
It was a disconcerting sort of thing, to realize that someone knew this very secret part of himself. It felt like someone had rooted around in his head and picked out the important bits, studying them clinically while he was laid bare. (Never mind the fact that he could barely remember what had happened in the vision himself; everything was fuzzy, tiny snippets of conversation or flashes of images occasionally slipping through the fog.)
"I…am," Sigurd said, all wariness now, and Brain must've heard the way he picked apart his words, noticed the way he shifted a little into a more defensive position. "Why do you ask?"
"I'd like to have a chat with him—about this Keyblade, specifically." Brain tapped the Keeper's Keyblade lightly. "See, I have a theory. There aren't too many people around who would still know me personally. It could be someone who's just worried about a Union Leader sticking their nose somewhere it doesn't belong—but between Darkness and what you said, it didn't sound that way."
"You think it's one of the other Union Leaders?" Sigurd looked at the Keyblade with new eyes. He'd never been entirely sure where the Keeper's Keyblade had come from—its origin seemed perpetually shrouded in mystery—but he supposed it'd make sense, if it belonged to one of them first.
"Nope."
Sigurd snapped back towards him. "What?"
"None of them had a Keyblade like this. Most of us had the standard fair—upgraded sometimes, sure, but nothing too fancy." Brain hefted the Keyblade, bracing it carefully on his palms, and his expression became suddenly closed off. "This is a Foretellers' Keyblade."
A…Foreteller?
"I've seen it once before—with its owner, in fact. He…might have found a way to stick around, if my theory's right."
"And…you think that's the person who…?"
Brain's smile turned a little bitter. "I'd rather it be one of my friends," he said, "but I don't think that's likely."
Sigurd's attention flicked back to the Keyblade. He could still remember first meeting the figure; much of that day was covered in a haze of blood and panic, but that moment was crystal clear. He'd known, even then, that the figure he'd spoken to was different. Powerful. It wouldn't be all that strange, if he were the original owner of this Keyblade.
Still—there was one problem. "What will you do," Sigurd asked, careful, "if I can't take you to him?"
Brain's eyes narrowed.
It brought about the faintest stirrings of panic, and Sigurd hurried to add, "It's important that nobody else—not even Frigga knows this. I may not know who he is, but he's powerful. If you tell people—"
"Hold on. What do you think this is?"
Sigurd fell quiet, because he suddenly wasn't sure he knew.
The seconds ticked by, Sigurd holding his breath carefully, and Brain's eyes widened marginally. "You think I'm blackmailing you," he said, incredulous.
"Well—" It's what most of the others would do.
Brain must've heard the unspoken words, because he huffed, shaking his head. "I'm not going to do much of anything with it," he said, and there was a note of frustration underlying the disbelief. "Doesn't serve me to tell anyone, yeah? Besides, you already went with us to rescue Mimir and helped fight Darkness; think it'd be a little cruel to tell everyone your secrets after that."
"Oh." Sigurd couldn't help but feel a little bit embarrassed, in hindsight. "Well, that's—good. Okay. But—I really might not be able to take you to him. Not because I don't want to," he hurried to add, "but because he's the one who contacts me, not the other way around. I don't know his name or his face or—much of anything about him, really."
Brain didn't respond right away; he tilted his head, Keeper's Keyblade tapping lightly against the floor. "When's the next time you'll meet with him?"
"I don't know. Normally, he leaves a note in my room—but he hasn't contacted me since you arrived here."
"Huh." That tapping got faster. "Do you guys have any popular meeting places?"
"Nothing concrete. We switch locations a lot."
"Anything in common between the ones you do have?"
Sigurd almost answered 'no,' but then paused, considering. Back allies. An abandoned classroom in the school. An old building by the seaside. "They're all relatively…out of sight. Presumably, he wants to avoid prying eyes."
Brain hummed a quiet acknowledgement. "Going to ask for a couple favors, then. Leave a note taped to your window—see if it doesn't attract his attention. Then take me to a few of the locations you can remember. We'll see if we can't track him down."
-"But between the Darkness, the Leaders could see something—the faint light of a pathway, just visible beyond the veil of shadows. And so Ephemer, the first of the Heroes, drew his blade. With a cry he cut through the shadows, clearing open a path…"
Brain closed his eyes, breathing out slowly and resisting the urge to say something. The crowd around the storykeepers was small—just a couple of passersby, who shifted like they wanted to leave, and some children, watching with wide eyes while their parents placed uneasy hands on their shoulders. The storykeepers were a small group, this time, consisting of a singular story teller and someone who managed the props, though someone was clearly playing music somewhere, the sound of some sort of string instrument almost drowning out the story itself.
The keychain clacked against Luxu's Keyblade. Brain shifted carefully, trying to keep both it and him in the shadows and out of sight.
(He wasn't sure it worked; he thought he noticed people casting glances his way, eyebrows furrowed, expressions uneasy.)
"Here," Sigurd said, and Brain turned away from the threat of prying eyes. The music dimmed as he stepped between two buildings, the light fading a little and forcing him to blink as his vision adjusted.
The little alley wasn't anything particularly special. There were some boxes stacked outside one building—food crates, on closer inspection, though they'd clearly been emptied some time ago. There was a small alcove carved into the side of a building, stone arching overtop. A couple cats sprawled on a balcony overhead, ones tail flicking lazily. It could've been just about anywhere in Scala, all things considered.
Then again, Brain wasn't really expecting much.
He took several steps into the alleyway, sweeping it for any sign of something that he could use. "You're sure?"
"Yes." A pause. "Relatively."
Brain snorted, despite himself.
"There's—it isn't exactly consistent. It just needs to be—"
"Out of sight. Yeah, I got that." Brain paused for a moment, tapping Luxu's Keyblade against the ground, ignoring Sigurd's uncertain steps behind him, the almost-unnoticeable pulse of energy beneath his thumb. Alright. Not a lot of great places to have a secret meeting here. More like a place I'd stop briefly to exchange items. But…
The alcove, once he got closer, looked like it led down to a door. It was relatively hidden, so long as no one tried to get in or out of the building. The door looked worn; maybe no one had been here for a while. Would Luxu keep tabs on those sorts of things? Or would he just take a look at the context clues and hope that he guessed right?
…Or maybe I'm wrong, and he isn't still hanging around.
He wasn't sure what to make of that—the wave of relief, of frustration, of—something. It felt like something that had been squeezing his chest had unclamped itself, only to squirm between his ribs and wrap around his lungs instead. If he thought about it too long, it made his hands jittery; the keychain clacked against Luxu's Keyblade, and he went to still it, fingers twitching over the blade, then moving the clamp around his wrist instead.
(He looked at the blade only a moment; catching sight of the eye made him feel nauseous, and so he didn't focus on it, breathing slowly throw his nose to try and make it go away.)
Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Brain twitched, just a little, before he forced down the reflex to react.
Sigurd pulled his hands close to his chest, then shoved them behind his back just as quickly, glancing aside.
"Spit it out, Sigurd."
"Nothing! It's nothing, just—"
He fell quiet. In the distance, Brain could still hear the swell of music, the voices of the storykeeper drifting over the alleyway: "…but Darkness is all encompassing, able to see far beyond the range of any mortal, and it tracked the leaders…"
"I was wondering," Sigurd said, voice low enough it almost meshed with the storykeeper's, "why you still have the Keeper's Keyblade out."
Luxu's Keyblade remained just as dull and dead as ever—but it felt like it was burning, anyways, Brain's hand tightening around the hilt.
"It's just—it seems like it would draw too much attention," Sigurd said. "A Keyblade out in public—well, it's not unheard of, but it certainly draws people's eyes, and—"
"I'm aware."
"—I thought you—right. Right. But then—"
"Can't."
(I don't want this thing any closer to me I can't I can't I can't—)
"I'm…sorry?"
Brain ground his teeth, but he forced his grip on Luxu's Keyblade to relax, if only a little. (His hand still ached, impressions left in his palm.) "I can't," he repeated, and he could hear how measured his voice was, but didn't try and correct it. "It doesn't recognize me as its wielder."
(Not a lie.)
(Not entirely the truth.)
"That seems…odd," Sigurd said slowly.
Brain huffed a laugh, but it sounded bitter, even to his ears. "Makes sense, when you think about it. I'm only borrowing it; why would it need to connect to my heart?" He lifted Luxu's Keyblade, thumb running along the hilt, fingers still red from where he'd been gripping it. He got the impression of a thin, reedy line of energy—just enough to tell him the Keyblade was still alive, but not enough to do anything with. The quietest of whispers hissed through his ears, so low he couldn't make out the words. He tapped a finger idly against the metal, carefully, carefully teasing at the energy, poking and prodding as he tried to sink into the whispers to grasp something—
(I can't I can't Ican'tIcan'tIcan't—)
The weapon snapped back to his side with such force that it cracked against the ground. Sigurd jumped backward, hands lifted defensively.
Brain cleared his throat, tugging his hat lower. (He angled it away from the Keyblade, but he could still feel it. It made his chest burn.)
"Are you—"
"Fine." He turned back to the alcove, but it felt like he couldn't focus, his eyes skipping across the stones. "Well. Guess this doesn't give me much. Just confirms he prefers out-of-the-way places."
"Right—"
"You want to take me to another one?"
"Master Brain—"
"You've got a lot of them, right? Might as well check them out."
(I don't want to find him. I don't, I don't—)
(You need to. You need to find the black box, you can't afford not to, you have to do anything—)
"Master Brain," Sigurd said, a little more urgent, and it made him pause, even if he didn't want to. (He was already halfway towards the alley's entrance. When had that happened?) "You seem…unsettled."
"Well. That happens when you only have one way to protect the world from a millennia-old Darkness, and he's frustratingly cryptic." Brain threw a glance over his shoulder that felt too stiff to be casual. "Don't suppose he's told you anything about himself?"
Sigurd hesitated for just a little too long. "Not…much," he admitted. "He seems like a very…private individual. But some things have slipped, occasionally." A more contemplative silence, now, Sigurd tapping a finger against his arm. "He's made references to people he knew—very few and far between, and he always goes quiet about them quickly, but they sounded close. Family, perhaps, or classmates, when he was younger—he mentioned arguing over rooms, once, and studying together. He's referenced plenty of great literature and stories, but there's always…something about them that feels off. Like he heard them differently." Another pause. "Animals are afraid of him, usually. He doesn't like ice cream, but he eats it, anyways. He—"
"I get it," Brain interrupted, because maybe some of that could be useful, but it made something itch against the back of his chest, and so he didn't want to talk about it anymore.
Even with the mask in place, Brain could feel Sigurd staring at him.
"Just say it, Sigurd."
"How do you know him?" Sigurd asked, almost overlapping the end of Brain's sentence. "The Foretellers aren't spoken of as much as the Union Leaders. They were…mentor figures, weren't they?"
(They led us to the end of the world.)
"Was he yours?"
(He killed me and stole my body, Brain thought, and it suddenly felt like his skin was wrapped too tightly around his bones, something crawling along his arms and down his neck, everything just a little off-kilter—)
"He's how I got here." Brain snapped back around, heading towards the alleyway's entrance.
He blinked, squinting at the sudden sunlight. The music had gone quiet now, but the storykeepers hadn't left; in fact, without his background track, the speaker seemed like he'd only gotten louder and more enthusiastic, gesturing broadly like he was trying to convince more people to come and watch. "But the Dandelions were not there—Brain, the trickster, had predicted that the Darkness was coming, and so hidden the Dandelions away, sequestering them amidst the rubble of the fallen world. He and the others had led Darkness on a wild chase, taking it far, far away from those under their protection, towards the place where the world had cracked in two—"
Brain's lips curled a little, and he tried to smooth out his expression. "It didn't happen like that."
"Hmm?" Sigurd—by his side again, and much too loud.
"We didn't save the Dandelions." I didn't save the Dandelions.
"Perhaps not in the end. But surely you helped them along the way?"
"Does it matter, if they still ended up dead?"
A pause; Brain wasn't sure he wanted to wait for Sigurd to fumble for an answer. "Does it ever bother you that the storykeepers can't seem to keep their facts straight?" Brain asked, and he tried not to sound too bitter about it.
"I…suppose it never crossed my mind. Before, they were always simply…stories." His head shifted slightly towards Brain, then away again. "Though I suppose they have more meaning than they used to."
"Mm. You'd think people so dedicated to maintaining history would write down the stories correctly."
"It's been a long time—"
"I'm aware."
"—and besides, they are very knowledgeable. They probably have a better understanding of the goings-on in Scala than most people—even the council."
Brain snorted, ready to brush it off—and then paused. …Hang on. More knowledgeable about what happens in Scala than…
"Master Brain?"
Luxu could've chosen a lot of people to hide behind, but he obviously didn't choose anyone on the council—otherwise, Sigurd wouldn't have to spy on the council for him. The bluebloods have a lot of connections, but a lot of drama. And the average Scalan citizen wouldn't have access to important information. But the storykeepers…
"Master Brain, are you still listening?"
"I think we need to talk to the storykeepers."
"I'm sorry?"
Brain stepped out of the alley, heading towards the lone performer.
"Wait—Master Brain, the Keyblade—"
The storykeeper didn't notice him at first, but the small crowd did; they suddenly grew hushed, eyes locked on him.
"…with a mighty cry, Brain—"
"Hey."
The storykeeper yelped, leaping away from him, arms thrown almost comically up. "I—Master Brain! I didn't know you were—ah. Come to watch the show?"
The storykeeper's eyes flicked down—down to Luxu's Keyblade, still held stiffly at his side. Brain's eyes slipped sideways; the crowd was looking at it, too, one kid reaching up as if to touch it. He shifted it away a little, and the parent pulled the kid away, giving him a look that was almost nervous. "Nah," he said, tugging on his hat. "I just needed to talk to you about something. You got a moment?"
"I—well, I'm in the middle of a performance—" He paused, blinking like he was trying to reorganize his thoughts. "But—yes, Union Leader, right. I suppose it is a performance about you and—err. What I mean is—I suppose I can make an exception." He turned to the crowd, arms waving wildly. "Everyone! You can go home! The show's over, for now!"
The crowd stared for several long, long moments—long enough Brain almost thought they wouldn't listen. But then, slowly, they dispersed, slipping off down side streets and disappearing into buildings, kids asking loud questions that their parents hushed.
The storykeeper turned to Brain, clasping his hands together with an awkward smile. "Now. What can I help you with?"
-Sigurd really, really wished Brain was more transparent about what was going through his head, sometimes. He had, at least, managed to piece together that Brain thought the man he'd been talking to was a storykeeper; what he hadn't managed to figure out was why.
(It reminded him of when he'd first been assigned to watch him, and he'd found himself scrambling through Scala ad Caelum at odd hours, trying to figure out where his wayward ward had gone and why. He'd been expecting a legend; the reality was a bit more…difficult.
He'd had…mixed feelings about his assignment. The idea of working closely with a Union Leader was a huge honor, regardless of any external factors, and he'd been trying hard to contain his excitement over the prospect. There were so many questions he had—about what Daybreak Town had been like, about the stories he'd lived through, about his connection to Master Ephemer.
But he was also well aware that if Brain discovered his job, it might…put him on edge. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of betraying a Union Leader's trust—but then, he had two people who wanted him to watch Brain. He wasn't sure he dared disappoint them. And besides—when else would he get this chance?
"Master Brain," Sigurd called, knocking on his apartment door. The chipperness wasn't entirely forced; he'd tried to tone it down, a little, but there was a living legend beyond this point, and he'd finally have the chance to talk to him. "Good morning. I hope you're an early riser—we have a busy day ahead of us."
Silence.
"Master Brain?"
The silence went longer, and longer, and Sigurd was starting to wonder if maybe Brain was a heavy sleeper, or simply didn't like getting up in the mornings. It would be—an interesting thing, he supposed. It certainly wasn't the sort of thing that would be mentioned in stories. But he did still need to be awake.
Sigurd debated with himself, tapping his arms in thought. It would be rude, to unlock his apartment door and check on Brain himself—but he also didn't want to keep the council waiting. "Master Brain," he called again, "if you could please open the door…?"
Another long, long stretch of silence, and by this point, Sigurd was growing antsy enough to find his foot tapping rapidly against the floor, resisting the urge to pace. They needed to get moving. Perhaps—perhaps the time travel had thrown off his internal clock, and he was just exhausted. That was all.
…Still.
"I'm coming in," he said, more as a warning than anything, and summoned his Keyblade. "I apologize, but we really must get going."
He unlocked the apartment door, and regretted it almost immediately—it felt like an unnecessary intrusion, to barge into someone else's living space. He almost dragged the door shut again and locked it, ready to apologize, when he finally registered that no one was in the apartment. In fact, it looked like most things had been covered up or tucked away—like no one lived here at all.
He'd been stupefied, for a moment, but when he'd recovered his senses, the first thing he'd done was check to see if someone had attempted to kidnap or injure the Union Leader. But there weren't any signs of a struggle—no sign, in fact, that Brain had been here at all.
I lost a Union Leader, was the only coherent thought he'd managed, a half-panicked, frazzled thing as he realized he would have two very powerful people coming after him if he didn't find the wayward Union Leader. And so he set out, half-frantic—but he didn't know where Brain would go. He thought maybe he'd gone ahead of him—but he hadn't found him in the Clock Tower, or around the school, or in the library, where he'd hoped he might be.
He hadn't been able to track him down for several days. It was like he was a ghost—Sigurd would've believed he'd never come there at all, if Frigga hadn't scolded him to keep track of Brain better, and if his mysterious benefactor hadn't been so insistent that the Union Leader was definitely coming to this time. The panic had eventually wore on to a helpless sort of exhaustion, between the disapproving looks and increasingly urgent requests to find the Union Leader when he didn't even know where to start looking. I'm never going to find him, Sigurd thought, and it nearly sent him into hysterical laughter. The first Union Leader to arrive after the fall of Daybreak Town, and I lose track of him. That's what I'll be remembered for; the storykeepers will tell a tale about how we were supposed to have a Union Leader arrive during this time, but we didn't because I lost him—
Wait. Is that—is that him?
It had taken a moment, to realize that the figure staring out from the alleyway was Brain. He nearly blended in, the shadows obscuring most of his features.
The first thing Sigurd felt was relief—enough to nearly make him trip over himself as he hurried towards Brain, almost shouting his name before he remembered that nobody was supposed to know he was here yet. The second was anger, because he was here the whole time, and Sigurd had been waiting for something horrible to happen? The third was guilt, because he was a Union Leader and probably had his reasons—
But still.
"I'm happy I found you," Sigurd said in a low whisper. "You—are you alright?"
Brain looked…tired. He was leaning against the wall, something heavy in his expression. But when Sigurd asked, he tilted his head toward him. Something guarded went across his face, and he flashed him a sharp smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"I—where were you? I looked everywhere, but couldn't find—"
"Don't worry about it."
Sigurd had trailed off, stunned for a moment. There was an almost traitorous thought whispering, Just like the bluebloods, but he pushed it aside, because he was a Union Leader, and it was fair to keep secrets, really, but—
"I am supposed to be guiding you around Scala."
"Think I can manage fine on my own."
"Master Brain—"
Brain had brushed passed him, and Sigurd had, uncertainly, followed—trailing after him and attempting to make conversation until he'd realized it wasn't working, slowly tapering into silence as an ugly, uncertain feeling bubbled in his chest.
Brain had, eventually, all but collapsed from exhaustion, and Sigurd had had the unexpected experience of trying to drag him home. It was the first hint that this would become a habit.)
"We're looking for someone," Brain was asking, and Sigurd forced himself to listen and not worry so much about why Brain might not be saying anything. "We think he might be a storykeeper."
"You aren't sure?" the storykeeper asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable to be a part of this conversation.
"Not entirely. He's not exactly the most public person." Brain shrugged, Keeper's Keyblade twisting casually, and Sigurd forced himself not to wince, because he wished, he wished that Brain would treat the weapon with a little more care. "Was there anyone who started acting odd one day? Sudden change of personality or mannerisms without any sort of explanation? Strange gaps in their memory?"
Sigurd shot him a side-eyed look. Even after months, he still couldn't get a read on him—not unless his guard was down. Sometimes, it felt like the only time he let himself be vulnerable was when no one else was watching.
(He could still remember the first time he found Brain asleep in the Clock Tower. It'd been a week after he'd arrived, and Sigurd had been growing increasingly frustrated over how much Brain didn't seem to want to be here at all. "Master Brain?" he called, and maybe his voice was a little more exhausted than normal, but—but damn it, he'd been searching for hours, and he wasn't even sure what time it was, but he was sure it was closer to morning that it was night, and he just wanted to go home and go to bed before he had to try and play peacekeeper all over again. "I should just leave him be," he muttered under his breath. "He clearly doesn't want to be bothered. Master Frigga can try and watch him herself—see how easy it is."
His footsteps echoed through the Clock Tower halls. He wasn't really expecting to find him here, but he didn't know where else to search. He threw open a door, and it felt good, at least, to get a little bit of his frustrations out. Embarrassing, maybe, if anyone else had been here—but it was just him, at this unreasonable hour of the morning, and so he threw open another one, and another, and—
Paused.
He hadn't been sure he'd find Brain at all—and if he did find him, he'd expected he'd be up to something, flashing that same sardonic smirk, like he was well aware he knew more than anyone else around him and didn't care what any of them thought about it. But he was just…sleeping. It looked like he'd collapsed in the middle of a project, materials scattered across the table, head pillowed on his arms, hat fallen aside. He had a towel tucked around his shoulders instead of a blanket; Sigurd wondered where he'd gotten it from.
He looked…peaceful, here. His expression was relaxed; it was perhaps the first time Sigurd realized how young he seemed, face softened without that carefully guarded expression. It made him pause, for a moment. He looked…a lot less like a legend, or like the nuisance he'd been forced to chase around, and a lot more like—
A child.
It was an uncomfortable thought to sit with, and he shook it away after a moment. It's a shame I have to wake him up, he thought, half guilty, half amused, because he certainly caused less trouble if he was asleep. But he couldn't stay here, and so reluctantly Sigurd bridged the gap between them and gently shook Brain's shoulder. "Master Brain. Wake up, please."
Brain stirred—slow, much slower than Sigurd expected, and blinked bleary eyes. "Lauriam?"
"I—no. No, it's Sigurd."
Another couple of blinks; the sleep was slowly slipping out of his features, but for a brief moment, Sigurd saw the unguarded flicker of grief and realization—a widening of eyes, a twisting of his mouth, an almost imperceptible stutter of a breath. And then it was gone again, slammed behind a carefully guarded expression. When his lips twisted into a smirk, it looked a little forced. "Still following me around, huh?"
"You should be back in your apartment."
"How'd you know I wasn't there?"
"You've been missing for nearly the entire day, Master Brain. Edging into the next one."
Brain squinted at the window. "Huh." He shrugged, turning back to whatever project he'd apparently been working on the night before, his eyes heavy and movements sluggish. "Guess I might as well get back to work, then."
"You can't be—you haven't gotten any proper rest."
"I'm used to it."
There was frustration, still, because Sigurd wasn't and he wasn't anxious to continue babysitting the Union Leader when he hadn't gotten any sleep at all—but something ugly and uncomfortable twisted in his chest, like he wanted to flinch away at the words. He tried not to dwell on it, but it didn't entirely go away, even as he found himself growing more aggravated throughout the day.)
"That's…an interesting request." The storykeeper rubbed his chin, but there was a question in his eyes, like he wanted to ask why Brain was looking for someone like that and couldn't actually work up the courage to say anything. "I don't know every storykeeper well enough to be able to pinpoint when they're acting weird. Though I guess there were a couple of people…"
"Got any names?"
Brain was still holding that Keyblade at an awkward angle—the storykeeper kept looking at it, eyes flicking nervously between it and Brain, and Sigurd wondered what he saw. For his part, he'd started to notice the cracks—the bags under his eyes, the way he couldn't look at the Keeper's Keyblade for very long, the jittering hands. It made him feel a little ill, if he focused on it for too long.
(After their fight on the abandoned island, Sigurd slipped back to his apartment. He carefully patched up his wounds—still too exhausted for a healing spell, but most wielders were still taught basic first aid, in case something ever happened to their magic—and let the slow, methodical process take up his thoughts.
But once that was done, and he was sitting on his bed, he found himself…thinking.
There was a logical part of him that had understood that Brain was young—but he'd always been a Union Leader. A legend. He'd never been allowed to be young, in the stories—
In life, too, probably.
He didn't want to sit with that thought; he wanted to push it aside, stuff it down deep and lock it in a box, because he was a Union Leader, it was supposed to be different—
But all leaders are still people.
He's a legend, he argued with himself.
And where do you think legends come from?
His foot tapped a rhythm against the floor, and he winced as it tugged on his wounds, but it felt grounding, in a way—kept him from focusing too much on the fact that this was a child, and they'd sent him to war and forced him to lead and now they just expected him to act like an adult when—
The end of the world would be traumatizing for anyone—even legends.
Sigurd breathed out a long, slow breath, pressing his hands against his forehead. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he whispered, and heard the waver in his own voice. "What am I supposed to do?"
The darkness didn't have an answer, and he sat there with the question the entire night, grappling with a concept he couldn't quite accept.)
Why do you need this so badly? he wondered. It doesn't feel like this is just about protecting Scala ad Caelum. But he wasn't sure how to ask that—wasn't sure if Brain would answer—and he found himself swallowing the words, fingers clenching and unclenching in his uncertainty.
(Still not good at making decisions for yourself, are you?)
Brain's head snapped to something over the storykeeper's shoulder, and it dragged Sigurd out of his musings. He followed his line of sight almost without thinking; he almost missed the black-coated figure, slipping into the shadows between two buildings. "Is that…?"
"Thanks for the help," Brain said, cutting off the storykeeper unceremoniously.
"Uh, you're—hey, wait!"
Brain took off running, sprinting after the black-coated figure, and after a heartbeat trying to collect himself, Sigurd followed.
-Luxu was here—or, at least, someone who dressed a lot like him. There weren't many people that had that black coat that Brain knew of; while it certainly could've become more popular over the years, he hadn't seen anyone else in Scala wearing one. Even if it wasn't Luxu, it might be someone connected to him, and that was more than enough to send Brain hurrying through the streets of Scala after them.
(What will you do when you catch them? something whispered, and it would've felt like an inane question if he didn't feel like he was filled with too much energy, a jittery sort of thing that made his hands shake.)
Brain skidded to a brief halt at an intersection between buildings, head swiveling as he tried to catch some sign of—there. The flicker of a black coat tail, disappearing around a corner. He took off running again, sliding around the corner after his target.
"Master Brain! Wait!"
(Why are you running? Why are you waiting around, while Darkness is still here? Why didn't you do anything until after the world was already falling?)
Another twist around a building, and another glimpse of a black-coated figure. (Was it his imagination, or were they moving faster?)
Brain swung his Keyblade around, intending to use magic to stop the figure, and—faltered. His attention caught on the eye, and he stared and stared and stared. There were whispers—quiet murmurings, just loud enough for him to glimpse, and the magic surged a little, tugged sluggishly towards his fingers.
(The eye was staring at him from where the Keyblade was imbedded in his chest—)
The Keyblade swept downward sharply, his breath caught behind his teeth. The magic dimmed, dragged back down until it was barely noticeable, the whispers quieting. Brain was moving before he could think about it, eyes focused ahead so he didn't have to look at—
(You're chasing down the person who did that, who sent you here when you should've—)
His feet skidded awkwardly against the cobblestones, nearly slipping in a puddle; his shoulder crashed into the side of a building, and he grunted quietly, trying to ignore the brief spike of pain. He thought he saw the figure twitch, a little before they disappeared.
(Did they know they were being chased? They had to, didn't they? Or was there some other meeting they had to get to—some other scheme they had to work on?)
(What is your plan why are you still here?)
"Brain!"
Brain pushed himself away from the building; instead of following the figure directly, he took a path around, hoping to cut them off. After a moment of thought, Master's Defender came to his hand; in contrast to the near-dead Keyblade in his right hand, Master's Defender sang, coming to life beneath his fingertips. A chain whipped from the tip, dragging him up, up, up over the building, flinging him towards the fleeing figure.
Something must've given him away, because the black-coated figure twisted upward; their shoulders twitched, like maybe they hadn't realized they were being followed at all, and then they moved, hands lifting to fire off a spell. A torrent of water spun towards him, and for a moment—
(he was in the ruins he was running away from Darkness he was trying to get to the Clock Tower he needed to find that black box he needed to otherwise why was he here—)
(Why was he here if Luxu still was?)
Master's Defender flashed, and he caught something that was almost like a comforting murmur as an Aeroga spell whipped from the blade, ripping through the spell. Droplets scattered around him, glittering from the light of his chains; water splashed against windows and walls, and Brain thought he could hear a shout of protest somewhere.
The figure was running, now, barely having stopped to see the effects of their spell, and Brain followed once his feet hit the ground. Master's Defender flicked, a Zero Gravity spell firing that missed, and Brain tried to ignore the frustration instead, ready to set up a Mine spell—
(There are people here, you have to be careful about spells—)
With a frustrated noise he cut off the spell, using chains to swing around another building, moving faster, faster, faster as he tried to catch up.
The figure—Luxu or otherwise—was apparently crafty enough to realize what was happening. They zigzagged back and forth across the street, turning back on themself, twisting down random corners and leaping over boxes. They swung down underneath an overpass and Brain followed, releasing Master's Defender to catch the edge and fling him towards the black-coated figure.
The figure spun on their heel, hand sweeping out in a wave. An arc of water sept towards him like a tidal wave, slowly freezing over; it took a panicked moment before he could recall Master's Defender, the weapon sending a wave of heat that melted the spell and left it to splash harmlessly against the ground.
(There were people watching—not many, but enough. People pressed against the walls, or peering down the street, or watching warily from buildings. One tried to get close; someone else pulled them back. "They're doing this, too," he thought he heard someone whisper. "Can we really…?")
Luxu was getting away, and—and damn it, he needed answers—
(He wasn't sure if that was entirely about the black box, anymore.)
A burst of wind, and he was flying after the black-coated figure, rocketing down the street.
Light flashed; Brain twisted his head away, for a moment thinking that it was the figure again—until he heard a familiar voice call, "They went left!"
Sigurd, he realized, and Brain gave him a brief nod of gratitude before twisting toward his left, catching a flash of black between the sunspots. Sigurd followed, hemming the figure on the other side, and the figure flinched, like they'd realized that most of their escape routes had been cut off. Their hands lifted, sending a wave of water towards Sigurd; his Keyblade flashed, parrying it with a barrier, and just as quickly the figure sent water surging underneath their own feet, sending them flying into the sky.
No you don't. Master's Defender whipped around; a chain flew from the tip, wrapping around the figure's ankle; they yelped in alarm as they fell, tugged down by the chains, rocketing towards the cobblestones below.
Sigurd made an alarmed noise; his Keyblade lifted, creating an Aero spell to slow the figure's fall.
Brain moved; Master's Defender disappeared, but Luxu's Keyblade was still useful as a standard sword, even if he couldn't access its magic. He swung the weapon around, jabbing it towards the figure.
They started, jumping backward—but they'd been dragged into a dead end, with nowhere left to run. Their hood had fallen down, and Brain realized they looked relatively young—older than him, but he guessed it wasn't by too much. Their blond hair was styled into something of a mullet, blue eyes growing wider as they stared at the Keyblade. "Don't hurt me!" they—he?—wailed, throwing up his hands and pressing himself as far back against the wall as he could get.
Brain didn't move; he kept the Keyblade pointed at the figure's chest, searching the man's face for some sign of recognition. Are you in there, Luxu? he wondered, and tried to ignore the way his hands had started shaking, the way that the Keyblade was still so quiet.
The man stared at him, eyes wide and scared, face pale. Sweat slid down his cheek. If Luxu was acting, he was doing a good job of it, and it brought the first flicker of doubt.
"Master Brain," Sigurd whispered, cautious, "this isn't—"
"I don't know what you want, man!" the figure protested. "Is it money? Did I lose a bet to you or something? I promise I can have it to you in, like, a week."
Brain's eyes narrowed a little. "What's your name?"
"Uh—Myde. It's Myde."
"Where'd you get that black coat?"
"Is that what this is about? What, is it valuable?" He picked at it, but his eyes flicked back to the Keyblade as it moved, and he swallowed convulsively. "I didn't steal it or anything! Seriously, some guy just shoved it at me and told me to put it on."
"And you listened to him, huh."
"Look, he promised to cover my shifts—"
"You a storykeeper?"
"Huh? I mean, yeah! Yeah, I am."
Carefully, Brain's eyes slid back toward Sigurd.
"It isn't him," Sigurd confirmed, quiet. "But I'd assume we were close."
Close. Close enough for him to send someone to distract them—and Brain had fallen for it. Clever, huh? he thought, swinging the Keyblade sharply downward and ignoring Myde's yelp. Can't believe I was thrown off so easily—
"Can you lead us to the guy who gave you the coat?"
Myde—who'd been staring uneasily at Luxu's Keyblade—snapped his attention back to Brain's face at the question. "Uh—I mean, maybe?"
"Cool." Brain twisted a little to open the pathway, gesturing with the Keyblade.
"Seriously?" Something must've shown on Brain's face, because Myde flinched and said, "Sure! I can, uh, do that." He edged past Brain, giving Luxu's Keyblade an uncertain look and darting past it.
Brain breathed out slowly, trying to ignore the building thing in his chest. It'll be fine. We'll find him—and then we'll get answers.
-Now that he wasn't being actively chased, Myde seemed relatively unconcerned with who saw them. He strolled through the streets, humming a quiet tune that Sigurd suspected was half to soothe his nerves and half to fill the silence. Sigurd, meanwhile, was busy trying to keep an eye on who was watching and ward off any suspicion. "Just council business," he'd hurry to say to any onlookers who paused too long. "We're—working with the storykeepers on a project."
"Oh, yeah!" Myde said at one point, making Sigurd jump; he hadn't even realized Myde had been listening. "The festival's coming up, right?"
"The—" Oh. Right. To put up more wards and keep the Heartless out. With everything going on, Sigurd had almost forgotten about it. "Right. Yes. That's—" In a little over a month.
His footsteps faltered, just a little. Master Aegir's trial is around that time. He wondered if Frigga had remembered, when she set the date. He wondered if anyone else had thought about the proximity, given…everything.
"It'd be nice to have something fun after everything that's been going on," Myde murmured, folding his hands behind his head. "Hey, is that why you're looking for this guy? Is he like—some important contact or something?"
Brain had tilted his head, just slightly, in their direction, Keeper's Keyblade still held stiffly at his side. "Something like that."
"Cool! Is that Keyblade like—a prop or something for it?"
"You're pretty talkative for a guy who had it pointed at him a little while ago."
"Yeah, well—you didn't stab me or anything, and you need me, right? Besides, it's not every day you get to talk to a Union Leader, right?" Myde squinted at him. "So like, real talk—are you actually him?"
"What?" Sigurd asked, incredulous, cutting off Myde before he could continue.
Brain didn't say anything; he just narrowed his eyes a little, expression unreadable.
Myde whipped towards him, gesturing widely. "I'm just saying, it sounds like something the bluebloods would do!" He turned back toward Brain, lifting a finger to his lips. "You can tell me, alright? My lips are sealed. But my friends and I talk sometimes—and you know, it's weird that the Union Leaders would be here, but then not, you know—be active. And like, we have descriptions, but we don't really have pictures, so it'd be easy to make a fake."
"…Are you distantly related to Ephemer, by any chance?" Brain asked dryly.
"Who, me? No way! I'm just another part of the crowd." He sighed with a shrug. "I guess maybe it's better if I don't know, though. If someone found out, they might drag me into whatever they have going on. Politics aren't really my thing."
Brain huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Mine, either."
"See?"
"He is the real Brain," Sigurd interjected, trying not to feel frustrated, and vaguely surprised Brain hadn't said anything. "I was the one who found him when he arrived."
"You work for the council, though," Myde pointed out.
Brain glanced back at him, and Sigurd almost thought he looked amused. "Yeah, Sigurd," he said dryly. "It'd be pretty easy for you to make up a story."
"Master Brain—" He broke off, then sighed and shook his head. "You're impossible."
Brain snorted with amusement. "You're not the first one to say that." After a beat, he gave Myde a curious glance. "Something like that ever happen before? Fake Union Leaders?"
"Well, I mean, yeah? Look, lots of people have thought they could get away with pretending to be Union Leaders. It means you'd actually be someone important, you know? Money, fame, power—all that jazz. You wouldn't have to worry so much about the world falling out underneath you." He rubbed the back of his head. "It usually hasn't gotten very far, though. The bluebloods shoot things down pretty quickly."
"Not the council?"
"I mean—they're not really all that different."
Something in Brain's expression soured, and he turned away. "Right."
Myde, seemingly oblivious to the change in mood, continued, "I'm kind of surprised the bluebloods haven't tried it before. It seems like something they'd do, if it meant they wouldn't have to deal with people complaining about them. I don't know, maybe they're too proud or something."
"You ever think of trying it?" Brain asked.
"Me? No way! That's way more responsibility than I want. Oh—hey, this is it."
Brain's footsteps came to an abrupt halt—so abrupt Sigurd nearly crashed into him. He managed to catch himself and side-step, staring at—an ordinary cart.
"What," Brain said carefully, "am I looking at?"
"The place where I met the guy!"
"It's a storykeeper's cart," Sigurd said, glancing over the musical instruments, the props, the costumes. He couldn't, however, see signs of people currently.
Brain approached the cart, running a careful hand along the edge. "Does it look like any costumes are missing?"
Sigurd hadn't even thought of that, but Myde was already shaking his head. "Nope! Looks basically like it did when I left it."
"Huh." Brain tilted his head. "Did you get a good look at the guy?"
"Nah, not really. He was wearing one of these things, too." He picked at the leather. "His voice kind of sounded familiar? But I don't know, I talk to a lot of people."
Sigurd…wasn't sure what to feel about that. There was a vague feeling of disappointment—that they'd come so close to finding him, only for him to seemingly slip away. But there was relief, too, and confusion, because he still wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that this figure was apparently a Foreteller, or at least adjacent to them, and that he'd gotten Brain here, and—
And who is he? What kind of deal did I make?
But perhaps more concerning was Brain, whose expression had gone carefully blank, hand wrapped so tightly around the hilt of the Keeper's Keyblade that his knuckles had gone white.
Sigurd…was acutely aware that he wasn't Brain's friend. An ally, at some points, but Brain had always made sure to keep him at arm's length. But it felt like he could use someone, at least, and after a hesitant moment he rested a hand on Brain's shoulder. "We probably weren't going to find him in a day," he reasoned. "Just give it time—we can keep trying."
"I don't have time," Brain said, low enough that Sigurd wasn't sure he was supposed to hear. He turned away, heading in the opposite direction of the storykeeper's cart. "Never mind. I'll keep searching."
"I—Master Brain."
"Thanks for your help."
"Master Brain, wait—"
For once, Brain paused.
Sigurd wasn't sure why he seemed to have finally gotten through to him, but he wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. "I know…we have sometimes struggled to work together in the past. I…perhaps shouldn't have listened to Master Frigga's orders."
("He's a child," he whispered, in the loneliness of his room. "And a traumatized soldier, and a former leader, and—and maybe we should be approaching this differently.")
"But I still want to help—and so do your friends, I imagine. If you don't want me around, alright—but don't go off alone. Ask your friends about it; they might be able to give you better insight, or at least help you deal with—with whatever demons are still haunting you."
(He remembered seeing Brain after the fight—the faint fear, the curling feeling of guilt, the gut-punch of understanding. Because he could see it, now—all those little details, the things that he'd been too frustrated to notice before. The lack of sleep, the avoidance, the anger—and all they'd done was make it worse. We haven't been looking at this right, he'd thought with slow, dawning horror. I—I need to do something. I need to make this right. Somehow.)
"…Master Brain?" he asked, after a long period of silence—and then, more cautiously, "I mean—Brain?"
His shoulders twitched, and Sigurd wondered if he'd made a mistake. But when Brain glanced back at him, there was something a little less wary in his expression. He opened his mouth, like he was about to say something—
And just as quickly, his attention snapped to the Keeper's Keyblade.
Sigurd stared at him, uncertain. "Is…is everything alright?"
Brain didn't answer right away. Very slowly, he lifted the blade, until the eye at the end was level with his. He'd gone pale, and he breathed out a slow, shaky breath. "This used to be his."
"You…mentioned that."
"So what if it's still connected to him?"
Sigurd started. What…?
"Come on." Brain turned, heading off in the opposite direction of the cart.
"I—Brain, wait!" He paused, dipping his head toward Myde. "Thank you for helping."
"Uh. Sure?"
"Sigurd!"
He wasn't sure if he was relieved that Brain still wanted him along or not. Still, it didn't stop him, sending him scurrying after Brain as he hurtled down the streets.
-Luxu's Keyblade had been so quiet that the last thing Brain had expected was for the way it suddenly started to buzz underneath his fingertips. It was so quiet that he might not have noticed it, if he wasn't so conscious of the weapon in his hands. But the energy was more palpable now, a steady thrum like a heartbeat. Master's Defender remembered me, he thought. Why wouldn't Luxu's Keyblade remember him?
It felt a little bit like a long-shot—but then, he was willing to take whatever chances he had to, if it meant he could actually find him. And so he ran, twisting and turning through the streets of Scala ad Caelum, lifting Luxu's Keyblade like a compass and trying to pay attention to whenever that quiet thrumming seemed to grow a little stronger.
"You're too clever for your own good, sometimes."
The voice came quiet—loud enough for Brain to hear, but it didn't carry, like the speaker was leaving the choice to stop or go up to him. He nearly tripped over himself as he slowed, breath catching in his throat.
Sigurd—still following—called, "Brain, what's—" And then he seemed to notice it, too, his voice suddenly falling very, very quiet. "That's him," he whispered, and there was something like fear and disbelief in his voice. "Do you—?"
"Give me a minute."
Sigurd didn't make a noise; he just slipped away, pacing back down the alleyway to give them space.
Brain…should move. He should turn, but his feet felt like they'd been glued to the cobblestones, something wrapping around his chest and refusing to let him go. You need to face him, something in him whispered. That's the whole reason you're out here, isn't it? He took a breath. And then another. And then he turned, wrenching himself out of the grip of whatever had him to face the speaker.
He couldn't see the figure in the shadows—not really. The darkness made it too difficult to distinguish features, even if there wasn't that damn black coat covering him. The voice sounded familiar, but only vaguely—like he'd heard it once or twice, but not enough to make a strong impression. But Luxu's Keyblade had grown warm in his hands, humming with the faintest stirrings of life, quiet voices hissing louder and louder, until he could nearly make out the words. Even if Sigurd hadn't confirmed that this was the guy who'd been talking to him, Brain thought he would know.
"Luxu," he said, slow and even, but his teeth clicked like the words should have bite. A dull ache ran down the center of his chest, and his fingers twitched like they wanted to rub it.
The figure stood still at first, like he hadn't heard Brain at all. And then he sighed, long and low, shoulders slumping with the motion. "I was hoping you wouldn't find me."
"Might not of, under normal circumstances. I didn't think you'd still be alive."
Luxu laughed, a tired and self-depreciating sort of thing that sounded like the creak of old bones. "Me, neither. Guess we're both a little disappointed, huh?"
"How?" Brain asked, and Luxu's Keyblade tapped against the ground, click-click-click.
His head tilted, angling towards the tip. "I see you've found my old weapon. Looks like they're keeping it safe."
"Answer the question, Luxu."
"That's not really why you hunted me down, is it?"
His fingers gripped the Keyblade so tight that they hurt. The weapon shook, and he wasn't sure if that came from him or from the Keyblade itself. "No," he said, "but I figured I could multitask."
Another laugh. "Man, kid, you can't just let things go, can you? Always chasing after the past."
It felt like a Keyblade in his chest, all over again. "I figure I'm owed some answers." He smiled, all sharp edges, and continued before Luxu could: "But I guess it's fine; I have a theory, anyways. You said you needed my body for a vessel. Didn't want too many 'prying eyes' watching." He gestured with the Keyblade, and watched as that glowing blue eye seemed to shift, angling towards Luxu. "If you could take mine, you could probably take others. If the lifespan's based on the body and not the heart—you could pretty much live forever, right?" The Keyblade cracked! against the ground, loud enough to echo off the rooftops. "I guess whatever you had to do took a little longer than planned, huh."
Another tired huff of a laugh, short and exhausted. "You always were a little too clever. You could do so much here, if you weren't so busy chasing ghosts."
"Well, there's something I haven't figured out yet."
"Oh, yeah? And what's that?"
"Why?" His voice cracked a little; he dropped it lower, quieter, to try and hide it, but it didn't entirely work, the words hissing painfully from between his teeth. "You told Frigga about the black box—but last I saw, it was with you. Darkness is still here, and you knew. You wanted to keep me away from it—but it doesn't look like you're doing much about it."
A sigh. "Kid—"
"You were one of the Master's apprentices. You have the power to do something. If you're not still here to fix things—then what was the point?"
Luxu went very, very quiet. It was an eerie sort of thing—unnatural, like he wasn't even breathing. Or maybe Brain just couldn't hear it, over his carefully controlled breath, tight in his chest, and the pounding of his own heart.
Very slowly, Luxu lifted his hand. Brain managed not to react, held carefully still, until the Keyblade in his hand gave a violent sort of tug. It dragged him forward, arm snapping painfully in its socket, something snapping painfully through his chest—and then it disappeared, rematerializing in Luxu's open hand. Brain nearly stumbled in its absence, feeling strangely…cold. Empty.
(He wondered if this was what it'd been like, when Frigga had lost Master's Defender.)
Luxu tilted his Keyblade a little. He chuckled quietly, then covered the eye with one hand. "Hello, old friend. Not sure if I missed you." His head lifted, and Brain stilled, pinned by invisible eyes. His attention locked onto the Keyblade, something screaming at him silently to run run run, but—
I need answers. I'm not leaving until I get them.
"You don't need to worry about any of this, kid. You played your part."
"Yeah? Well, in case you missed it, Darkness is still here. Someone's got to do something about it—"
"And you think that's you, huh? You'd just go wasting your second chance?"
(I shouldn't have gotten it.) "What do you think a second chance is for?"
"Living. Kid, news flash, but I didn't save you so you could get yourself killed."
"What's one life worth, compared to a world?"
He thought he saw Luxu twitch, a little bit; thought he heard him murmur, "Of course. You would end up like me, wouldn't you? Fate has a funny sense of humor."
"But I don't need you specifically," Brain said, pointedly ignoring the words, because they didn't matter, Luxu didn't matter, he just needed answers. "I need to know how to use that." He gestured at the Keyblade.
Luxu tilted his head. "You want to access the knowledge it holds."
"If you didn't tell Frigga where the black box was, I don't figure you'll tell me." His smile felt sharp enough to cut, painful on his face. "Besides, not sure I could trust what you'd tell me."
He got the impression that Luxu was staring at him from underneath the hood. He sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, kid. I'm feeling sentimental, so a word of advice: you don't want to find the box."
"Funny that you'd send Frigga after it, then. What, it can't do what you said it can?"
"It can. I'm not saying no one should find it. I'm saying that you, specifically, should stay out of it."
"I can't just do nothing. I failed Daybreak Town; I'm not going to fail the world my friend built from it."
Luxu didn't say anything at first—and then he sighed, lowering the Keyblade a little. "You really aren't going to listen, are you? Alright. Let me try this a different way." He leaned a little closer, and it felt like he was looming over Brain, even if he wasn't really that much taller. Time seemed to freeze, the air stilling, sounds growing dim, movement slowing, and Brain wondered if it was a trick of his imagination or something Luxu was doing. "If you keep chasing after shadows, they'll consume you eventually."
"I—"
"Take it from someone who knows—that guilt ain't serving you any. Sure, it's useful when it works—but that's not what's going on here, is it? If you don't let it go, all it's going to do is eat you alive."
"Seems like 'letting it go' hasn't exactly done anything good for you."
Luxu laughed, bitter and tired. "Oh, kid. You don't get it—that fucker's still here. Crawled between my ribs and made a home there. You think I want you to make the same sacrifices I did?" He shrugged, his Keyblade twisting idly between his fingers. "But alright—what's one more thing on top of it all? Not like I don't already have blood on my hands." He lifted his Keyblade, and Brain found himself staring back at that bright blue eye. "You want to find that black box, right?"
Yes, Brain thought, but didn't say, holding his breath in case Luxu changed his mind.
"Well, I could just tell you. I have some…vague memories of where it was, last I checked. But you went to all of this trouble to bring me my Keyblade—so I might as well show you." He stepped out of the shadows, and that thing screaming a warning in his mind screeched louder. Brain took several stumbling steps backwards, hand lifting in preparation to summon Master's Defender—
And found Luxu's Keyblade shoved into his open palm instead.
The Keyblade was much more aware now; it seemed like it had woken up after a long slumber, energy pulsing through it like veins, the hilt so hot it nearly burned. The eye twitched and moved, a thousand different whispers rising until their voices crashed, rolling over each other and making Brain's ears ache. In some ways, it felt very much like Master's Defender; in others, it felt entirely alien. Aggressive. Dangerous. While Master's Defender was comforting, this was so hot it burned, hands reaching up to tag at his sleeves, his arms, his legs instead of gently supporting him.
Luxu's hand held the Keyblade in place. With his other hand, he propped up Brain's, laying the flat of the blade across his palm. His hand touched the glowing blue eye, and—
"…can't just…"
"…islands are in…we have to do something…"
"Maybe we should've never—"
"In your hand, take this key—"
"Ah. There it is."
A thousand images, flashing by so fast that Brain felt like he was going to throw up, his eyes and head aching. He almost didn't realize when they stopped, wobbling on his feet, blinking away images like sunspots. His breath caught in the back of his throat, and—
Sunlight. Bright. He couldn't feel it, but he could see it, so strong it made him want to squint. He couldn't—couldn't close his eyes or move at all—and it burned, making his breath hiss between his teeth. Everything sounded muted, but he thought, vaguely, he could make out a dull scraping sound.
He moved, twisting roughly, and hit something solid. A faint clang, reaching him as if through water; a tall, black surface, faint silver highlights marking its edges, and the faint glimpse of a black leather coat.
And then a voice—his voice. "May my heart be my guiding key."
He hadn't done this; the memory just wasn't there. But—
Luxu had my body, once. And if the Keyblade saw him—
He couldn't turn—he couldn't see anything the Keyblade didn't—but he held his breath, searching desperately for something, something that he might recognize. There were thousands upon thousands of worlds with bright sunlight—thousands with harsh winds and course sand, blowing across the Keyblade's eye as Luxu moved. The blade would twist, and he would see bits of cracked ground, the black thing—the box, the box—occasionally popping into his field of vision.
His eyes ached. Everything felt uncomfortably stiff; if he thought about it for too long, he felt like he was going to panic, blinking and twisting away and breaking the vision apart. Wait, he hissed at himself. Just wait. There has to be something. I'm so close—
The weapon twisted, just a little, and his heart stilled. In the distance he caught the glint of metal, long shafts of familiar weapons sticking out of the ground, the cliff side. For half a heartbeat, it felt like he'd been thrown back into the past, wandering through a graveyard to meet the people that would become his family.
He gasped, shuddering. For several moments, he could only see the afterimages of a wasteland, patterned over tall buildings and cobblestone streets. Feeling came back slowly, faint warmth trickling back, the scent of the sea stinging his nose. The sound of gulls filtered back into his hearing with a quiet pop.
His feet were still unsteady. He wasn't holding the Keyblade anymore; it dawned on him, after a moment, that his hands ached, and that Luxu was holding the Keyblade at an awkward angle, and he realized he must've pulled away.
"It's a lot, right?" Luxu asked, and there was something almost, almost familiar— "Don't look too long; you might get lost."
"The wastelands," Brain breathed. "Where the War happened. Of course—if you couldn't hide it in Daybreak Town—"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, kid. A lot can change over the years." Luxu tossed the Keyblade back to him, and Brain fumbled with it. His hand wrapped around the hilt, and he dropped it like he'd been burned. It took him a panicked moment to realize that the weapon had gone quiet again, the hilt cool to the touch. "But it's a start. Good luck, kid; that's all the help I'm giving you."
Brain…should've said something. Wanted to say something. But the words got trapped in his throat, and in the end, he just stood there, panting, the Master slipping into the shadows with his Keyblade still cool on the ground.
Because I know it's been a while since it was mentioned, the festival was brought up in chapter eight. Funny how it's so close to Aegir's trial, huh?
Also, Luxu. I love writing Luxu, haha, so it was fun to get the opportunity to do so this chapter, even if it was only briefly.