'And what is your role in all this, Mimir?'
Chapter Twenty-One: Mimir's Interlude
The world came back in fractured bits. A dark room, dim shapes slowly coming into focus beyond the sunspots. The quiet hum of voices, words indistinct. Something hard against their back and rough against their wrists. A musty sort of smell that made their nose crinkle.
Mimir blinked dimly, feeling like they were emerging from some sort of fog. They still felt drowsy, their arms tingling, the taste of ozone on the back of their tongue. Everything seemed murky, their thoughts sluggish. I don't—where am I?
They'd been—the school. That's right. They'd gone there with—Kvasir? Kvasir. They'd gone to get some of the belongings to take back to Meili's, because—
The assassin.
It dawned on them, slowly, that the voices had gone quiet, but it was a distant thing, buried under the slowly-growing buzz of panic. They weren't in the school anymore. They weren't in the school, and they didn't know where they were, and they didn't know what happened, and—
Why were they here?
"I'm happy to see you've woken up at last."
They knew that voice, and even if it took them a moment to name the owner, their heart sped up with sudden, frantic fear. Aegir.
They tried to surge upward, reaching for their Keyblade on instinct—and then they tipped forward, Keyblade sputtering to life and clattering uselessly against the ground. A chair; they'd been tied to a chair. Cliché, they thought underneath their panic, arms jittering and straining painfully against scratchy ropes.
Boots entered their vision. They shifted a little, tapping the floor near Mimir's face, and on an impulse they tried to bite them.
Their owner stepped back a little, just out of range, and Aegir said, too close, "I suppose at least you have fire."
Where am I? they wanted to ask, but the words got caught in their throat, their hands twisting uncomfortably against the ropes. Why am I here? They should—if Aegir had gone after them, they should be dead, right? They'd been helping Skuld; the assassin had seen them. Their chest buzzed with panic, tingling through their wrists, and they bucked, arching against the chair. Their world turned sideways, their shoulder hitting the floor with a painful thud, and their breath hissed through their teeth but they tried to force themself up, anyways.
"Stop."
They thought it was just a command until their limbs locked in place. Spell, they realized, and it felt suddenly like they couldn't breathe, their chest nearly frozen, their muscles straining against something they couldn't fight, and their vision started to go blurry with the panic panic panic—
"You may go," Aegir said, and it sounded like he was speaking from underwater.
"Of course." The voice sounded almost familiar, and Mimir caught a glimpse of the assassin slipping out of the room.
(They needed to get out they needed to get out what was Aegir going to do with them were the others okay—
Kvasir. Kvasir had been with them. Where was he?)
"Now," Aegir said, "I'm going to release the spell. I expect you to behave, or I'll have to replace it. Are we clear?"
There wasn't a way for them to answer, and Aegir didn't give them time to do so; the tightness fell away, and they slumped, gasping. A faint sweat had broken out, and it made their clothes stick to their back. They were shaking; it had been a long time, since they'd felt this helpless.
(Since—)
(Since—)
Aegir moved, and Mimir tensed, head jerking up—but he'd only knelt, not quite close enough to touch. "I heard," he said carefully, "that you have heart magic."
For a moment, Mimir didn't understand. The fact that they had heart magic wasn't a secret, exactly, but it wasn't well-known, either, and they didn't think Aegir—
Kvasir. Kvasir had gone to talk to his uncle. He'd probably mentioned it.
(Was he still okay? Where was he?)
"It's quite a useful skill," Aegir commented. "I believe it's what you used to take down my assassin, wasn't it? You pulled out their darkest memories, and forced them to relive them."
They didn't think that's what they did—or at least, it wasn't what they'd been trying to do. They'd just reached for something, and gotten a jumble of images that they'd had trouble parsing apart.
(And the kickback. There was always some sort of kickback when they did that, some sort of aftereffect that left them seeing double and feeling like they weren't quite there anymore.)
"Very few people across history have mastered heart magic, you know. Or at least—few that we officially have on record. But those that have—it's said they can manipulate memories. Emotions. With a wave of their hand, they could calm a crowd or incite it. They could erase memories, or create new ones. They could force people to relive their worst moments, or their happiest."
The words made Mimir shiver. They couldn't—they couldn't do any of that. They were still learning, and—and they didn't want that much power, anyways. The only reason they were learning was because—
(Because they'd wanted to find the people they were missing. Their family.)
"Where are…?" they managed finally, their throat dry, and beneath the panic there was anger. If you've hurt them—
They didn't know. They didn't know what they'd do, they just—something cold was starting to bubble in their chest, liquid and sticky.
"You've come to care about them a great deal, haven't you?"
Mimir bared their teeth in a facsimile of a snarl.
Aegir looked amused, rather than threatened. "Do you know why you're here?"
They didn't, exactly, but they could take a guess, after Aegir's speech. "Heart magic."
"That's right. In the right hands, it could have incredible power. But it needs to be used effectively."
A tool, they thought, realization dawning slowly. That's what Aegir wanted them for; that's why he hadn't killed them. He wants me to be a weapon. And—
"I understand that you likely won't cooperate very well—you have been influenced by the Union Leaders, after all. So I'm willing to make you a deal: I will leave them alone. Entirely. No more assassins. No more threats. Unless they come to see me, I won't have any reason to pursue them. And in exchange, I ask that you work for me."
Mimir froze. They—they couldn't. They didn't want—they didn't want to be a weapon. They knew what Aegir would do; he'd use them to hurt people. He'd use them to manipulate other people's memories, or force them to work for him, or gather information. It wouldn't matter that their friends were safe, because he could just as easily keep the rest of Scala ad Caelum on his side.
But—but right now, they were always looking over their shoulders for assassins. They were always in danger, and Skuld was angry and Brain never stopped working and Kvasir was so stressed about his family and everyone was tired and—
"You know this isn't sustainable." Mimir's head snapped towards Aegir, whose expression hadn't changed. "If it isn't me, then someone else may go after your friends. If you work with me, I can keep them away. If you don't—well, they'll get careless, eventually. Unless they're willing to eliminate the threats themselves, they won't be able to rest easy—not so long as they're in Scala ad Caelum. And one day, they will make a mistake. They won't pay attention to their surroundings, or they'll move too slowly, or they'll get caught at night, when they're asleep—and then they'll be gone."
They couldn't they couldn't they couldn't—
But their friends—
There—there had to be a way out of this. Maybe—maybe they could pretend to accept his deal. They didn't have to follow his orders; how would he know?
"I won't send you after them, either, in case you're worried. They will be free—entirely." Aegir smiled, and it was cold. "Wouldn't that be better? For everyone?"
If they didn't agree, what would happen to them? Would they stay trapped here? Would Aegir kill them?
Aegir watched them, expression calculated. "I can only wait so long," he said. "I imagine your friends will notice your absence—and I'd prefer not to risk this getting ruined."
"You're not giving me a choice." The words came out quiet, raspy against the back of their throat.
"There is a choice—but one option is more beneficial than the other. For both of us."
How do I get out of this? Because—because he was right, it would be better for their friends if they took this deal, but they couldn't do what he was asking, and—
Wait. Heart magic. The assassin.
They managed a glare, and then slumped, head resting against the floor tiredly. "You won't hurt them?"
"I won't."
"How do I know?"
Aegir's eyes flickered with something like approval. "Good. I hoped you weren't quite that naïve." He stood, leaving Mimir's line of sight, even when they craned their neck; papers rustled, and when he returned, he had a stack of them in his hands, a pen between his fingers. "You're aware that magic can be imbued in items, correct?"
Mimir glared at him, because they weren't stupid; they were training to be a Keyblade wielder, after all.
"This contract," he said, "has been enchanted. It is binding; anyone who signs it must adhere to the terms laid out within." He turned the page to show Mimir, and—there.
'Mimir, Keyblade wielder of unknown origin, will be bound to Aegir Caelum for the extent of their life. They will be required to follow all orders without complaint and to the best of their ability. In exchange, Aegir Caelum will not harm the Union Leaders Brain and Skuld, either through physical or magical means.'
It was…a terrible deal, really. It was too vague—too much room for Aegir to do as he pleased with too much loss. But I don't need to sign it; I just need Aegir to get close enough for me to touch him.
"It's only binding if both parties sign." He tapped the line. "I can even sign it first, to give you assurance." He placed the paper against the floor, and Mimir watched as he scrawled his name across the line. "Should you sign in turn, then I will be incapable of harming your friends—now or in the future."
They pretended to think it over, biting their lip and glancing aside.
"Don't you want your friends to be safe? It wouldn't be much of a sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things."
They hesitated, but only for a moment longer. They sighed, their shoulders slumping—and then they nodded, slowly.
"I'm glad we have an…understanding."
Aegir moved, reaching for the ropes, and Mimir kept themself carefully still, waiting, waiting, waiting—
The ropes loosened, and they lunged, magic already surging through their palms, hands stretching to grab an arm, a leg, anything.
Aegir might not have expected the attack, but he was still a trained Keyblade wielder; he moved almost as quickly as Mimir did, kicking himself backwards, light flickering around his fingertips. Don't let him, Mimir thought, and they swept their arm out, their own Keyblade materializing and hitting Aegir's with a clang! Their free hand reached, and they were almost there, almost, their palm above his chest, and their magic surged, reaching desperately for anything they could use to—
"Reflega!"
A glowing Keyblade. A faint purple haze surrounding their hand. Something fizzling, flickering at their fingertips. And then—
Burning.
(They were on a battlefield. A heart-shaped moon hung overhead; in the distance, they could hear the ring of metal.)
(They were still small, sitting in their foster mother's lap, and she was combing through their hair and murmuring a story.)
(They were running through a town highlighted in the haze of the morning sun, laughing as they chased after their friends.)
(They were sitting on a fountain with a statue of someone they didn't know but who felt familiar, and something like grief welled in their chest.)
(They were—)
(They were—)
(They were—)
What
is
happening
to
I
c a n ' t
(Distantly, they thought they could see Aegir. They thought they could hear…something. It sounded like screaming. It might've been them.)
They fell.
-(It felt a little like drowning, this—this falling. A distant part of them understood that this was their magic—this was what it was like, on the other end of things.
I need to get back. They reached a hand out, scooping through the air like water, but it felt like the more they fought, the further they fell. Aegir—I don't know what he's going to do. I need to get back, please—
It was their magic. They should be able to just turn it off, right? They searched, digging into that place beside their heart, warm and flickering, like a starburst. They tried to cup it, but it felt…difficult. Like they were fighting against something inside themself.
Something whispered through their ears. It sounded like a voice.
Who's there?
Light. Something flickering, down below them. They stared, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade into the background. The light was—warm. Familiar. Comforting. The voices grew a little louder, flickering through their ears like music, and as they drifted closer, it felt like coming home.)
-("What am I supposed to do with this?"
"They should shut off the magic, shouldn't they?"
"I don't know. Maybe they can't; we don't know what using heart magic on themself will do."
…
"…Take them to a room. We'll keep an eye on them for now.")
-(Let me tell you a story, Mimir.
You see, once, a long time ago, there was a kid. They weren't anything too out of the ordinary; they were a Keyblade wielder, just like most kids their age. And just like most kids, they went out to fight Heartless. Collect light. Protect the world from danger.
But there was one thing that made them stand out: they happened to make friends with the right people.
That's all you were, really. Lucky.)
-Mimir's earliest memories were filled with stars.
Some of that was literal; they remembered when they were very young—young enough they shouldn't have been left unsupervised, not that many people were concerned—that they'd sneak out their window and clamber onto the roof, staring up at the stars and wondering what it was like out there. Wondering what they'd do to reach the stars.
Wondering if, maybe, the hazy figures in their memory were out there, too.
Because they dreamed of the stars, too. Stars in their hand, flickering across their vision, bright and warm. And people—people who felt like the stars. People who felt like home.
Some of them weren't very clear, and they came paired with feelings of urgency and fear and grief. A flicker of pink and the scent of flowers; a voice drenched in anger, and then grief and guilt, but someone that they knew, deep in their bones, was gentle. Golden hair and a bright, bright light, someone who could light up a room if he tried, but who had gone very dim and still. A figure all in black, a lazy drawl and sharp eyes, but with something sad and regretful about him that made them want to tell him things would be okay. A blond-haired girl, seen from a distance, and then up close, and it felt like they'd only known her briefly and then she was gone.
And then there were the others. The white-haired boy, red scarf a bright splotch against the rising sun. Laughter, and gentle ribbing, and sitting against the warm stones of the fountain. The black-haired girl, stars in her ears, voice carrying on conversations they couldn't remember but that made them feel happy and safe.
They didn't know their names, but they knew they loved them. They wondered if they'd been family—if this was what family was supposed to be.
They'd told their foster mom about it, once, and some of their foster siblings. One of their siblings had scrunched his nose and said, "They're just dreams, doofus." Their foster mother had been kinder, gently taking them aside and explaining that maybe they had been people they'd known when they were very young, and that's why they couldn't remember much.
"Why did they go away?"
Their foster mother had looked pained, and they hadn't understood why then, but they did now. "Well," she said carefully, "people leave for many different reasons. Sometimes they're dealing with something very hard, and so they need space. Sometimes they're kept away by work or other responsibilities. And sometimes—sometimes something happens to them, and they can't come back."
Mimir had taken that, picked it over, and asked, "Will they come back?"
"I don't know, love. Sometimes they do."
And so every night, Mimir would climb out and look at the stars, and try to imagine what their missing friends (family?) were doing. I bet they're having all sorts of cool adventures out there, they thought, reaching out a hand; the lights were out tonight, and so the stars felt much closer than they usually did. Maybe they found treasure, and are going to come back with it, and then they'll take me on a treasure hunt, too. Or—or maybe they're fighting monsters, and when they come back they'll say sorry for taking so long.
Their eyes stung, but they didn't want to cry; they weren't supposed to be up here, and they didn't want anyone to know. "I love you," they said, like a promise. And then: "Do you miss me?"
They didn't get an answer, but they liked to think it was, "Yes."
-(This is where your story began.
You awaken here, in a world you don't recognize but that you know somewhere deep, deep inside your heart. The sky is painted, bright blues and yellows and pinks blending together to create something that looks like it comes from a storybook. Houses line the streets, bright purple roofs lively against the colorful backdrop. Even the cobblestones underfoot are splattered with color, pale oranges and creams running against the green gardens. It is so different from Scala ad Caelum, with its monochrome buildings and muted skies, that for a moment you forget how to breathe.
People run past you, and you start backwards, out of their way. You don't recognize them at first, the hazy figures just splotches of vague color against an already-bright background—and then suddenly you do. Red scarf. Stars.
Your family.
"A long, long time ago," someone says, voice high and gentle, "there were three friends."
You think you feel a weight on your shoulder and catch a flicker of gray fur and a cape out of the corner of your eye, but you can't look; you stare at the figures ahead of you, entranced. Your legs move almost unbidden, pulling you towards them first at a walk, and then a run, racing after them through streets you hadn't been on but knew how to navigate, anyways.
(You think, somewhere, that you hear someone talking. That there is something you're supposed to be doing. "Wake up," a still distant part of you whispers, wrapping around something near your heart. "You need to wake up."
You forget in an instant; it washes away, drowned by the dream.)
"They didn't start out that way, of course. They had to get to know each other, and their friendship was tested, time and time again."
Laughter, from somewhere up ahead. You turn a corner, names on your tongue, but you can't quite get them out.
(When you pass a window, you think you catch your reflection—someone who doesn't look like you, but who you recognize. You don't have time to think about it; it was probably a trick of the light.)
"In the end, it wasn't enough; the story ends in tragedy, broken apart by your own hands."
You turn a corner, and—there. Only one of them is there, now, waiting in front of the fountain. The boy in the red scarf.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself. We should start at the beginning—when you met Ephemer.")
-("…They're smiling."
"Must've been a good memory they sent themself to. A clever trick, to try and hide away."
…
"…It won't last. They have to face reality, eventually.")
-"We throw a coin in?"
Talking was hard, sometimes; it made Mimir feel tired, and sometimes they wished they could just make vague noises and wave their arms and people would understand them. But they needed to talk, this time, because they had to make sure they got it right.
"That's right." Their foster mother nudged them closer, and Mimir stared up at the founder's statue and wondered why it made them feel like there was a lump in their throat. They fidgeted with their coin, turning it carefully, and glanced back at their foster mother. "Go ahead," she said.
The water was filled with coins, some bright and shiny, others dull and cracked. Mimir wanted to fish in the fountain—collect the coins and run their hands over them to try and figure out what their owners' wishes were—but they thought that maybe that was rude, so they didn't. They tossed theirs in instead, and they weren't really sure what they were supposed to do, but they thought, I want to see my family again.
The founder's statue was silent.
Another coin plopped into the water beside theirs—their foster mother, smiling softly. "It's just a silly superstition," she said, "but supposedly, the founder may bless you, if you're lucky enough."
Mimir stared at the coins. "Lots of people ask him for stuff."
"They do."
That didn't seem fair, to Mimir—people couldn't just keep asking. They had to give something, too. But they didn't know how to put that into words.
So they asked instead, "Why?"
"He's the one who made this place. Our home." One hand rested on Mimir's shoulder, and it felt heavy, weighted with centuries of stories they barely knew. "A long, long time ago, the sky had no stars. All those distant worlds were one, held together by the Great Heart. But a terrible war occurred, and it cracked the world apart. From that darkness emerged the survivors—the first Keyblade wielders, and the heroes who guided them."
"The Union Leaders," Mimir said, because they knew that part; they had heard their siblings talk about them, beg for stories, tugging on their foster mom's skirts or making up their own tales. Mimir only got things in bits and pieces—little bits they didn't entirely understand, but they could fill in their gaps. Their favorites, they thought, were the ones about the founder and his friends. It reminded them of their missing family—and a part of them would imagine it being true, sometimes. That maybe their family were legendary heroes just like them, and they'd come back and sweep them into their arms and Mimir would feel like they were someone important.
"That's right. The Union Leaders guided them, taking them across the worlds in an attempt to protect them from the Darkness. The shadows chased them, picking off the lights one by one—and in the end, only the founder remained." It made something in Mimir's chest twist, and their eyes burned, but they didn't entirely understand why.
"The other Leaders are said to have been scattered—a final ploy by one of their number. But the founder stayed to protect us and guide his friends home. They say he's still watching over us now—and if you earn his favor, he may intervene to help you."
You liked that idea—liked the idea that someone would love people so much that they'd come back to them, no matter what. But it also felt…sad.
They stood there for a long time in silence, Mimir chewing over the story. Their foster mother's hand, eventually, gripped theirs. "Come on," she said gently. "We should head back."
What did you wish for? they wanted to ask, but they couldn't get the words to come. It was frustrating, a little, because they wanted to know, because sometimes she seemed so sad, and—
And it felt like there was something warm bursting in their chest. Something like starlight, billowing out along their arms and flickering at their fingertips. And then, for a very brief moment, they saw—
(A hazy figure. Brown hair, bright eyes darkened by a storm. Joy, and grief, and an empty room.)
It was there for only a moment, but it made Mimir hesitate, stuttering in their steps.
"Is something wrong?"
They didn't know, but they shook their head, because they didn't want anyone to worry.
Their foster mother smiled, but it was a hesitant thing, and she didn't say anything more.
-(Ephemer. The name of Scala ad Caelum's founder. You stand frozen, rolling it around your tongue, and it feels familiar.
(It breaks you, for half a moment, for the spell, and you think you almost wake, surfacing briefly to a dark room you don't recognize.
…Had one of the nobles named their child after the city's founder? You think it makes sense; they seemed like the sort who would do that.
And then the water drags you down again, shadows wrapping around your arms and neck and check, and it's hard to think about that when your missing family is finally in front of you.)
The boy turns, and his eyes light up when they land on you. You'd never been able to see many details before, but now everything was painted in sharp relief, like you'd been staring at an image through water and had finally, finally come to the surface. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. The confident stance. The bright red of his scarf, still standing like a bloodstain against his neck, but with frayed edges and threadbare patches that suggested years of use.
He shouts a name. It isn't yours—but he's looking at you.
"You met Ephemer on a mission." Something that looked like a cat trails across the street nearby, but you can't turn to look at it, focused on the boy in front of you. "And he told you about all of these crazy theories—about how the Foretellers were keeping secrets from you."
"Missions?" you ask, and your voice sounds different; you touch your throat, startled.
The boy—Ephemer—an Ephemer—looks at you with furrowed eyebrows and a vaguely-confused smile.
"You were a wielder."
"I was little when my family left."
"Not in this lifetime."
"Is everything okay?"
That's him; that's the boy who you'd been searching for, and he's standing in front of you right now, and you're confused and half of you is pretty sure that this is just a dream, but you have so much you want to ask him. Years of questions bubble to your tongue, and an ache that feels centuries old opens between your ribs. One hand reaches out, touching his face, and it feels so solid beneath your fingertips that you can hardly believe it.
All those years. All those years of searching, and here one of your missing family is, standing in front of you like nothing had changed.
"Where did you go?" you ask, and this has to be a dream, because you remember him like this, and so many years had passed since you were little, but—but you had to know. "Why did you leave?"
The boy—Ephemer, Ephemer—smiles, but it's sad, and he places a hand against yours. "I'm sorry for leaving you again, — ."
The name buzzes like static, and you wince; it sits wrong in your ears, but it also sounds like it's yours. "You—I looked for you."
It sounds familiar. You shake your head, trying not to feel silly because of course it does; you'd replayed imaginings of this conversation so many times, turning them over and over in your head until you finally fell asleep. But it feels like more than that; it feels like something much deeper, a terrified, terrible ache that you couldn't shake.
Ephemer's hand tightened around yours. "You aren't going to find me anymore. I'm sorry, I'm—I died a long time ago. Long before you found your way back."
You didn't know what 'found your way back' meant, but the rest stung. It's just a dream, you think. It's just what you fear.
(Heart magic can bring out buried memories, can't it?)
"But I'm glad you found Skuld again. At least—at least you two have each other, right?"
…Again? Your mind scratches against the word.
"That's what happens next."
This is the first voice that's familiar in a solid way—a voice that you know how you recognize it.
Ephemer's hand loses its substance. You grasp at it, stumbling, and he scatters apart like dandelion seeds. You want to scream, but the sound gets caught when you see the figure who's taken his place.
Skuld stands in front of the fountain—younger, dressed differently, but still unmistakably her. "Ephemer disappeared—and then you met me.")
-("Night's coming."
"I know."
"…Should we do something?"
"…Hand me a book. I'll see if I can't find a spell."
-"You're going to a different family."
Mimir lifted their head from their book and frowned at their foster sibling.
Daren—of course it was Daren, it was always him—must've seen something on their face, because he frowned back. "It's true. I heard Mom talking about it."
Mimir shook their head, slamming their book shut. They knew these people weren't their family family, but their foster mom was nice, and they didn't always like their siblings but they could deal with them, and they needed a place to stay.
"Uh-huh! She was talking to some guy about money or something, and how it's too expensive to keep you around anymore."
That sounded wrong, and it made something sharp and angry burn in their chest. They stood, book falling to the floor, fists shaking.
"What's the matter? Can't say anything?"
And that's what pushed them over the edge; they lunged, silent despite their fury, but Daren screeched enough for the both of them, biting and kicking and clawing because it wasn't fair, he didn't just get to say things like that—
(That star-bright energy again, warm against their fingertips. The whisper of someone who had their voice but not their face, saying, "Look. Look a little closer." A child, crying and confused, and grief and anger spiraling in a cloud that didn't have anywhere to land.)
"What's going on here?"
Mimir broke away, and Daren turned and ran, crying, to cling to his mother's legs. "Mimir—Mimir just starting hurting me, a-and—"
Their foster mother rested a hand against Daren's head. "Mimir?" she asked gently.
They went to shake their head, but then they looked at her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she'd been crying. There was something like grief on her face—something like guilt—and—they knew.
They ran instead, ignoring her panicked shouts, scrambling out the window and climbing cat-like towards the top of the roof, and tried to ignore the fact that they were losing a family all over again.
("Did you cry when you left me, too?" they asked the stars that night, whisper-quiet. They knew the figures from their memory had loved them—but they were pretty sure their foster mom loved them, too, and that wasn't going to stop bad things from happening. They didn't understand it then, not really; love was supposed to overcome everything, like it did in the stories. But it didn't seem to fix this.
"I love you," they said, because they didn't know what else they were supposed to say, and they hoped their family's faces didn't crumble the way their foster mom's did.)
-(There is something wrong. The world flickers with static. This isn't right—you didn't know Skuld from before; you'd only met her after she came to Scala ad Caelum, scared and angry and tired and ready to fight you for a crime you hadn't meant to commit.
"This is a dream," you say, because it has to be. You—you are supposed to be somewhere else.
(A dark room. Shadows dripping in the background. A person, standing over you like you were a threat. You reach for it, but it doesn't stick, and you are dragged down, down, back into this world with specters that make you feel like you're drowning.)
Your skin prickles. The world looks like it's growing darker, but Skuld smiles easily, stepping past you to sit on the fountain. "This is where we became friends."
You remember that part—you found her at the fountain, after that failed mission, and you talked to her about your missing loved ones, and she seemed…not happier, but less hurt. Less wary.
"We went looking for Ephemer," she continues, and your mind screeches to a halt, because that isn't right, "and afterward, I told you about how the two of us met." She laughs, but it's melancholic and bitter, and she leans forward with her elbows resting on her knees, smiling a sad sort of smile. "We got to know each other pretty well, before—"
"…Before?"
The wind picks up. Static ripples across the ground. Something clangs in the distance, and you turn, slowly, slowly, until—
"Before the end.")
-("Nothing. Not a single spell that's useful."
"…Perhaps if we—"
"Get out. I can handle this myself. If you have nothing better to do, then go and search for answers yourself.")
-"Don't you ever get tired of reading the same stuff?"
Mimir looked up and made a face. Their room at the new house was crowded; they weren't used to sharing a space with so many other kids, and it made them feel claustrophobic. It also meant that they got asked all sorts of questions, and that was okay sometimes, but it got annoying when the others asked questions they should've had the answers to.
Mimir gestured to their meager pile of books—five total—and gave the girl—Pan, they thought—a deadpan look.
"You could borrow other books." Pan shuffled closer, frowning down at the page they'd been looking at—a picture of a constellation, a story underneath it—something about a clever fox, and how she'd befriended one of the heroes of old, and gave them a permanent place in the sky. "Why are you always reading about the stars, anyways?"
There was a flicker there—something that felt genuine—and maybe it was that or maybe it was because they wanted the questions to stop or maybe it was because they just really, really wanted to tell someone else, but they took Pan's hand and dragged her out the window, ignoring her startled squeak as they climbed onto the roof. Pan huddled nervously on the edge, knees dragged to her chest as she eyed the ground beneath them, but Mimir wasn't worried; they'd been climbing around roofs for long enough to know how not to fall off. They tugged on her hand and pointed to the stars, distant specks of light, barely visible right now, but still there.
Pan looked at where they were pointing and made a funny face. "I don't get it. Is that the one from your story?"
Mimir shook their head empathetically. "Family."
"Your family are stars?"
Mimir made a frustrated noise and gave her an exasperated look.
Pan's face screwed up further, and she chewed her lip, and then she stared hard at the stars like she was trying to decipher a puzzle. And then her eyes widened, a realization dawning slowly across her face. "Oh. Your family's out there."
They nodded, even though they didn't know. It was just…what they hoped.
Pan suddenly went very, very quiet. "Are you waiting for them to come back for you?"
It felt a little like they'd stumbled onto a sensitive topic, and so Mimir nodded very carefully, watching Pan from the corner of their eye.
"Lucky. I don't have anyone waiting for me." Pan pulled her knees to her chest, folding her arms across them, her eyes wet. "Did you know when Keyblade wielders die, they don't leave bodies behind?"
They did, even if they couldn't remember where they'd heard it. Probably a story, somewhere.
(The sound of crashing metal rang in their ears, a thing so distant it was barely a memory.)
"My mom used to be a Keyblade wielder. They brought her Keyblade back, but I was the only family, and I was too little to have it." She sniffed, and then lifted a shoulder, scrubbing her eyes. "It's fine. I don't mind. Just means I don't have to worry about anyone else, right? I can do whatever I want."
Mimir wasn't quite sure how they felt about that; the idea of leaving their family behind made it feel like someone had reached into their chest and pulled their heart out, squeezing it until it bled.
"Can you tell me about them?"
Mimir hesitated. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but…it was hard. And the memories were precious, kept close to their chest.
Pan sighed, apparently seeing the look on their face. "We should really teach you sign language or something."
Mimir's eyes furrowed.
"Sign language? Like—using your hands to talk?"
Their eyes went wide, and they reached out to shake her shoulders, grinning so broadly their cheeks hurt.
"Ah! Hey, hey, careful, we might fall!"
Mimir released her, smile turning sheepish.
(A flash. Something sad, and a flicker of a Keyblade; something warm, and they thought they could see themself through Pan's eyes, small but brave.)
"We can start tomorrow," Pan decided, head lifted imperiously, and Mimir thought—maybe Pan wasn't family, but she could be a friend.
-(You don't know where you are. Everything is…chaos. The world spins around you, and you are swept up in it, feet dragged along across a rocky, barren wasteland that you recognize deep inside your bones—a thing that lives inside you, pressed into a corner of your heart that you can barely touch, fingers snapping back when it burns you.
There are—there are Keyblade wielders here. Dead Keyblades. Graves, jabbed into rocky cliffs or scattered lifeless across the ground. You stumble over a still-fading body and the face is blurry.
Something flashes past your face, bright and hot, and your Keyblade comes out to defend you, except—
It's not yours.
(It is.)
Starlight gleams in your palm, and your fingers are sticky against the hilt. There's blood on them—your palms are bleeding, painful and achy from a battle you haven't fought, and you decide that has to be all it is, because it couldn't possibly be other people's blood, right?
"Let me tell you a story, — ."
The name buzzes in your ears, and something flashes too close to your face. You stumble backwards, lifting your Keyblade to parry, and it hits with a harsh clang! A child stands in front of you, and your chest constricts, because a child shouldn't be here, what are they doing—
("The ancient Keyblade War," your professor says, and for a moment, there's a break in the chaos; a flicker of golden light, a classroom, classmates who aren't your friends and you're pretending to ignore, "was fought by countless Keyblade wielders.")
"A long time ago, there was a great War."
Another person, stepping in too close. You swing your blade, and everything feels wrong, off-kilter and unsteady. It takes you a moment to realize you're wearing armor—but you hadn't had armor forged, not yet. You don't know where it came from.
("Not much has survived from that time, beyond stories. From what we've gathered, the wielders—originally meant to protect Kingdom Hearts—grew greedy, and Darkness found a way into their hearts.")
"The wielders fought over the light—and it broke the world apart."
Another flash; you can't move quickly enough to parry this time, and a half-second later pain shoots up your arm. You scream, and there's an echo of a voice that's not your own.
("That's what the Union Leaders emerged from—the ones who would help us become who we are today. They kept the light alive—")
"—but that could only last so long, couldn't it?"
Someone moves, quick-footed. You brace yourself this time, shifting your stance, palms pressed against your blade.
Clang! Another Starlight slams against yours. You look over the edge of the blade, and Skuld stares back at you.
Static ripples across the ground, and it takes away the graveyard and leaves behind something new: a dark room (dark, dark, like the one you were in, isn't that where you were supposed to be?), strange contraptions lined against the walls, rubble scattered across the floor. Shadows move in the corners; it feels like they're watching you.
"Skuld," you say, and swallow tightly, because you don't know what's going on anymore, but you remember something like this, at least; Skuld had looked at you like this before, out on the training field, when she'd been lost in a memory and couldn't recognize you anymore.
(Are you sure?)
"Give them back."
You almost don't hear the words, at first; they're low and angry, whisper-quiet, and your head starts up.
Skuld is crying; her face is twisted in fury and fear, and her arms shake when she presses down on your weapon. "Give them back to us."
Your face contorts. You don't understand.
"You heard her," someone says, a voice that echoes, and something steps out of you—a ghost, someone who you don't know but that feels familiar. "Give them back."
You tilt your head. The pressure disappears from your weapon. The ghost doesn't turn to look at you, and you stumble towards them a little, hand lifting to trace their edges. "Who…?"
A flash of light. The pain doesn't register at first; just the force of the impact, a solid thud against your chest, and you stumble backwards underneath it. And then—
(It hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop make it stop Ephemer I'm sorry I'm sorryI'msorryI'm sorry—)
"Let me tell you a story, little one. You are not who you think you are.")
-("Damn it, they're useless like this. And after all the trouble…"
…
"…What sort of memory could possible hold you captive for nearly a day?")
-"Psst. Mimir. Hey, Mimir."
Mimir ignored the whisper at first, batting it away like an annoying fly.
Something poked their shoulder. "Mimir. Hey, hey, wake up."
Mimir rolled over, pulling their blanket over their head.
Abruptly, they found themself on the floor, blankets and all. They fumbled for a moment, finally freeing themself from the blanket and glaring at Pan.
She grinned, bright in the night. "Come on, come on! I've got something to show you."
Mimir glared harder, then pointedly fell back against the floor and dragged their blankets around their shoulders.
"Come on, don't be such a spoil sport." She nudged their side with her foot. "It's about star stuff."
The sing-song voice said that she knew that'd be enough to rouse them, and it was. After several moments trying to convince themself it'd be better to just go back to sleep, they gave up, reluctantly rolling over and letting their blanket pool around their legs.
"Yes!"
They lifted a finger to their lips, giving her an exasperated look; the rest of their foster siblings were asleep, and they didn't want to risk waking them up and getting caught.
Her expression turned sheepish. "Sorry," she signed. "But come on, come on! It's super cool!"
Mimir rolled their eyes, but they let her pull them along, grinning wryly despite themself.
Pan led them out the window, across the rooftops, slipping easily from windowsills to balconies to side streets with practiced ease. Mimir clambered after her, feet light as they darted across the familiar rooftops.
(It felt like they had help, sometimes; like when their foot slipped over the roof's edge, something was there to push them back up, or to soften their fall. Like a guardian, of some sort, and the fanciful part of them thought that maybe it was their missing family, reaching out to try and keep them safe.)
Pan eventually led them to the docks, shushing Mimir. They gave her a deadpan look, but she didn't seem to notice, just pointing towards the docks and saying, "Look."
They followed her line of sight, eyes tracking several figures as they walked away from some ships. "Merchants?" they signed, glancing at her curiously.
Pan shook her head. "Look at the armor."
They looked closer, and—there, a glint in the moonlight. Keyblade wielders.
A strange shiver went down Mimir's back. They moved a little closer, hands gripping the edge of the roof.
"They just got back from a mission," Pan said. "I heard them talking about it. They were assigned to help guard some merchants from monsters—how cool is that?"
Mimir could imagine it, almost—varied worlds with colorful people, strange, bright-eyed creatures rising above them, even as they faced them unafraid.
"Wouldn't it be cool?" Pan asked wistfully. "Having a Keyblade. You get to do whatever you want—go wherever you want." She went quiet, and then: "I bet we could go off looking for your family. If we became wielders."
They snapped towards her.
She wasn't looking at them; a finger traced a pattern on a shingle, her expression shifted towards something almost sheepish. "I mean. It's just a thought, you know? But Keyblade wielders go off-world all the time. And we'd get to see what's out there."
The thought of being a Keyblade wielder made something sing inside them—it was terrifying, almost, something whispering of grief and fear and anger, but it also felt right, like a friend that had been missing had finally come home.
Pan turned towards them, and she grinned when she looked at their face. "I thought you might like it."
Mimir ducked low, trying to hide their face against the shingles; they hadn't thought they were that obvious.
Pan laughed, and shoved them lightly, and they squawked as they tried not to lose their balance. "Alright!" She stood, hands pumped, and Mimir made another alarmed noise and scrambled to try and keep her from falling. "Look out, world! We're going to become the best Keyblade wielders ever!"
Mimir smiled, despite themself. Yeah, they thought. Yeah. We will.
They almost didn't notice the way the shadows shifted near Pan's feet. Almost.
A frown. A hesitant glance. For a moment, they thought they'd imagined it.
"Hey, is something wrong?"
They nearly shook their head, until Pan's shadow moved again, the edges slowly stretching upward, tiny spots of light flickering in the center.
Pan turned to follow their eyes, and then made a startled noise, leaping away from the shape.
It was like her shadow had detached from her, slowly dragging itself away from its owner and out of the ground. Long claws scrabbled at the shingles, murky, water-like darkness bubbling around its stomach as it dragged itself into existence. Something like antenna twitched at the back of its head, flicking in their direction. Its head cocked, the angle a little too sharp, and Mimir gripped Pan's arm a little tighter.
"What is that?" Pan whispered.
Chittering. Quiet—barely there, but just enough to hit Mimir's ears wrong, making their skin crawl and their head spin. The thing was still coming, head tilting this way and that, legs slowly dragged from the ground.
The chittering grew a little louder. Mimir's eyes shot over the monster's shoulder, and they thought they could see more shadows, shifting in their direction.
Pan started in the monsters' direction—and Mimir dragged her back, shoving her towards the edge of the building, "Wha—Mimir!"
Go. They pushed her, and then slid down the edge of the roof. Something crashed into the shingles, and they winced as a shard of something went past their face; they thought they heard Pan's startled shout, but it was difficult over their pounding heart, something shaky and fierce and terrified.
The two of them ran—Mimir dragging Pan at first, and then the two of them keeping pace, Pan finally seeming to catch on that this was dangerous, they needed to move—and the shadows moved with them like a wave, constantly trailing beside them.
The Keyblade wielders. If they could find them—they could take care of this. Mimir just had to remember what direction they went, and then they'd be safe, and they could go back to the house and laugh and cry and make plans for when they'd be able to fight monsters. They just had to—
The shadows rose in front of them. Mimir lost their grip on Pan, toppling over the shadow, and something scratched at their legs. They heard Pan shouting, "Leave them alone!" and then a screech, and when they turned, one of the monsters had latched itself to Pan's back.
Mimir scrambled to their feet, and before they'd even thought about it they'd started moving, trying to launch themself past the monsters. Another swipe, and they barely managed to jump backwards, staying just out of the monsters' range.
Pan was—the monsters were still there. She was still in danger, even if she was shouting furiously, kicking and punching and biting and doing everything possible to free herself.
No. There was a sort of panic in Mimir's throat that was familiar—a terrible, desperate sort of thing, and they needed to get past they monsters, they had to, Pan was—
There was something—something burning in their chest. Something that felt like a starburst, and they reached for it, desperate, desperate, please, they needed to help, they needed to help—
Their hand reached, and their fingers wrapped around something—a stick or a pipe or something, they weren't sure, and then they were moving, weapon swinging towards the monster. Their feet fell into a fighting stance almost without their consent, solid and familiar, and for a moment, it felt like they were someone else—someone who knew how to do these things. A warrior. A hero. Their make-shift weapon moved with sharp precision, swinging around the monster in an arc and circling into a stabbing motion, and there was a fierce sort of joy when it looked like it hit.
The monster paused for a moment. Its head tilted, arching so it could look at the item sticking out of its chest. It looked back at Mimir, head tilting in the other direction, clawed hand lifted.
And then it moved, dragging itself along the edge of Mimir's make-shift weapon.
For a moment, Mimir didn't entirely comprehend what they were seeing. Darkness crept along the edges like goop, overflowing and slowly making its way towards Mimir's hand. They let go, stumbling backwards, and the monster kept coming.
It didn't do anything. The thought felt half-hysterical, their confidence slowly crumbling. I stabbed it and it didn't do anything.
A clatter, and then the monster was coming towards them again, herding them backwards.
"Pan," they whispered, trying to see where she'd gone. "Pan."
And then the monster was nearly on them, and they had to move, pushed back, back, feet skittering backwards until they were forced into a run, the monster at their heels.
Down a street, around a building—they didn't dare go onto the rooftops, too worried that it would slow them down and give the monster a chance to catch up. They ran and ran and ran, heart pounding so hard they tasted metal, right up until they turned a corner and found themself staring at a wall.
That awful chittering noise again. They turned, slowly, barely able to breathe, and had the distinct, terrified thought of, I'm going to die.
They weren't going to be able to find their family. Would they grieve, if they came looking for them? Would anyone tell them what had happened? Would anyone know?
The monster looked at them, and they froze, staring back at beady yellow eyes and trying to convince their limbs they needed to move. (There was something that said they'd done this before—that they should know what to do, they knew how to fight—but it was a distant thing, buried so deep they didn't know how to reach it.)
The monster tilted its head, chittering, and came a little closer—and then the shadows moved, and it reeled away like it had been struck. It skittered backwards, then disappeared, and all Mimir could do was stare after it.
Pan. Their scattered thoughts finally found purchase on something. Pan—Pan was back there. Pan was injured.
They managed to get their shaking legs moving, wobbling into an unsteady run, nearly falling over themself. Be okay. Be okay, be okay, please—
Arms wrapped around their waist, and a scream got stuck in their throat. They kicked and punched, desperate and scared, because they needed to get free they needed to get back there Pan was hurt they needed neededneeded—
"Kid. Kid, easy, it's okay, I've got you."
Footsteps hit the cobblestones. A weapon flashed—a Keyblade, star-bright. "Any Heartless?"
"Thought I saw some go that way. Check for them; I'll get the kid to safety." And then they were running, going in the opposite direction, and Mimir needed to tell them, needed them to know, their friend was back there—
(It was just like it was before.)
"Pan," they whispered, terrified and desperate. "Pan, Pan, PAN—"
They repeated her name, over and over again, until it was less a word and more a scream, kicking and fighting against the arms holding them all the way back to the house.
-(It's hard to think. You hunch over yourself, one hand still wrapped in your shirt, just above your heart. Your breath shudders; the pain is gone, but your chest still aches, and you're crying with grief and fear and guilt because—because you don't understand.
Smoke curls from the ground, slowly rising into an indistinct figure. You cringe away from it, head snapping up, and you call that foreign Keyblade (Starlight, Starlight, it's back, it's back—) and stumble to your feet. You slash with your free hand, cutting through the smoke, and it disappears for a moment—and then it reforms, twisting easily around behind you.
"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?"
You whip around, lifting your Keyblade and pointing it at the shadows. It shakes, the keychain clacking against the hilt. The only thing you can hear is your breathing, loud and rattling.
The shadows have no face, but you still feel as if you're being appraised. "It is a shame that you've buried us so deeply."
"Who are you?" you manage, and your foot slides a half a step back, scraping against glass.
The shadows curl; you get the impression of a smile. "Darkness.")
-(The room was empty.)
-"Mimir," their foster mother said, exasperated, "that's the third time this week."
Mimir stayed quiet, staring at her stubbornly, fists clenched by their side. Their eye hurt and watered, vision blurry. They could feel a bruise forming on their shoulder.
In their defense—they hadn't meant to get into a fight. They'd been trying to visit one of the noble's houses, and bluebloods didn't really like dealing with the common people very much, so they'd just…tried to go in through the window. They weren't going to do anything bad; they just wanted to look at the records and see if there was anyone they recognized. They'd just happened to be caught, and—well, things had escalated from there.
Their foster mother's frown deepened. "Honestly, Mimir. You can't keep doing this. If you keep getting into trouble—don't you want to be someone?"
They'd never been someone; they were the kid who was always left behind, forgotten and ignored until they did something someone didn't like. It was a bitter thought, and they thought they should probably try and stop it, but they couldn't, too tired to deal with the frustration.
"Grounded. You'll stay in your room for a week—no books, either."
Mimir nodded, short and terse, and their foster mother sighed, and they wanted to shout, because, You don't get it, you have people, and I keep losing them—
But they didn't. They turned, and they marched themself to the room they shared with their foster siblings, and slammed the door shut behind them. Their back hit the doorframe, and they slumped to the floor, sniffing and wiping at their eyes. Stupid, they thought. Stupid, stupid.
They just thought—Pan had mentioned, once, that the white-haired boy from their dreams sounded like a blueblood. They thought maybe if they saw his picture, they'd know.
But if he's still here in Scala ad Caelum, some bitter part of them whispered, then he didn't come back to find you.
It was easier to believe their family was still out in the stars somewhere, just trying to find a way back to them. But. They had to know for sure.
…They really wished they were here now.
Something shifted in the corner, and Mimir stiffened, eyes snapping towards the movement. It didn't move again, but they thought they felt something creeping over their foot—but when they looked, it was only shadows.
They scrambled to a standing position, anyways, tense and worried. Something clung to their back, and it felt like it was supposed to be a hug, but it was sticky, tacky against their shoulder blades.
And then there was a whisper—something quiet, hissing through their ears, half inside their head: It's okay. We're with you, still.
It probably shouldn't have been comforting—but they felt like they had no one, and so it was.
(We wouldn't leave our favorite wielder behind, after all.)
-("We have been with you a long time," they say when you can't find the words. "Since the end."
"I don't know you," you say, and your voice shakes in a way you don't like.
"You do." The shadows swirl around you, Darkness curling around your shoulders like a hug. "You remember, don't you? How clever you were, to try and trap us in that portal."
"What…portal?" you ask, but there's a sharp, splitting pain in your head, and you think you see—
Something. A long, cable-like passageway. Shadows, swarming and screeching overhead. Your chest hurts, and you are—you are dying. You were dying before; this isn't a new experience for you, because you should've died on that battlefield, but Eph— and Skuld came to save you. This is different; you made them think that you betrayed them. There would be no rescue.
Your chest burns. You struggle to breathe, but you smile anyways, grim and stubborn. You can't lift your Keyblade, but you aren't going to give them the satisfaction of cringing away. The shadows howl, furious, and it echoes in your ears and rips through your skin.
They descend.
"You killed me." It comes out in a shaky breath, and you tear away from Darkness, trembling and cold—and then you stop, because that's not right, is it? "Or…you killed…?" You blink, and you see double; it feels like you aren't entirely tethered to your body, the whole world just slightly off-kilter.
Something flickers near your side—the ghost from before. You snap towards them, and you can't tear your eyes away.
"You were clever," Darkness continues, and their voice is gleeful. Childlike. "But so were we. We could not get out of the portal—but we have traveled in hearts before. And you were so willing to harbor darkness."
Another ghost, formed from shadows—a purple, cat-like creature with dark stripes and red eyes. It looks like Skuld's Chirithy, almost.
"We did not expect to have to wait so long," Darkness continues, sweeping the creature away. "We were weakened; we had never experienced dying, before, and did not know where you would go. We were pleased to realize you brought us to our sibling."
"Who did you kill?" you ask, more urgently.
The ghost turns, finally. Their features look familiar, and you touch your face on reflex. They smile, and it's a gentle, sad thing—and when they speak, it's in a voice that sounds like it should come from your mouth. "Me.")
-(A creaking door. A vague noise of disgust. The door slammed, and footsteps stomped down the hall.)
-"I'm sorry, but your application was rejected."
Mimir had never been in the school before—not the one made for Keyblade wielders. They hadn't even entered when they'd applied; they'd filled out the right forms and performed the tests in front of a proctor, but that'd been in the community building, where everyone did so. But they'd come as soon as they'd gotten the rejection letter, stomping their way towards the office in a bid to find out what they'd done. Why they hadn't passed. What about them wasn't good enough.
(They had to pass. They had to. They didn't know what they'd do if they didn't; they didn't have anything else.)
The wielder sitting across from them looked tired and vaguely annoyed, but they sighed and looked at the rejection letter. "Mimir, was it?" They bent and riffled through some papers beneath their desk; Mimir craned their neck, then started when the wielder sat up again, a file in hand. "That's—hmm. Exam scores—strong with history and navigation, but most general subjects were poor. Initial exam showed that—" They broke off, squinting at the paper.
Mimir tensed, fists clenching and unclenching.
"Initial exam showed strong magical potential," the wielder said, seeming to collect themself, "but that the participant's heart was…wounded. Potentially unsound for wielding a Keyblade."
Wounded?
Mimir shook their head, slamming their hands on the desk.
"Look, your application was rejected. It's not that uncommon. You'll find something else to do, I'm sure."
You wouldn't. You had nothing else. You worked your jaw, thinking. "If a Master sponsors me," they signed, "then I can be apprenticed. That's how it works, right?"
The wielder narrowed their eyes. "It is," they said finally. "Did you have a Master willing to?"
"I can find one. If I make an appeal."
The wielder's expression soured. "We're past the date for appeals."
"Strong magical potential."
"Look—"
"I'm qualified. I know I can do this. Just give me a chance."
The wielder stared at them, then groaned, rubbing their forehead. "Fine. Fine. I'm not paid enough to deal with this, anyways. I'll tell Master Osmin he needs to set up an appeal—let it be his problem."
Mimir grinned, triumphant. They weren't quite there, not yet—but it was a start.
(A week later, Osmin approached them with a careful look. "A trial run," he said mildly. "You'll spend two weeks in class with other wielders to see how you fair. Afterward, you'll make your appeal. We'll go from there.")
-(The shadows pull away, like they're giving the two of you space. You stare at the ghost. They stare back with that same smile, silent—and then they lift their hands to sign. "Hello, Mimir."
You startle, and Starlight drops, disappearing in a burst of sparks. Your hands are shaky, and you fumble to get the words across, but you try, anyways: "Who are you?"
Their smile turns sad. "You, in a way."
"No. That doesn't make any sense."
The ghost goes silent, like they're thinking of what to say. "Your missing friends—the people who you think of as family."
You jolt, unsure what the ghost means, but then the shadows part, and—
There they are—clear, this time, not cloudy like in your memories. The pink-haired boy is bent near the blond-haired one, worry pinching his expression, even as the smaller boy grins with unrestrained excitement. The white-haired boy (Ephemer…?) smiles, and even if it still seems like there's a weight on his shoulders, he laughs brightly. And—
And you recognize the other two. Skuld. And Brain.
"These are the Union Leaders," you sign.
"Yes."
And that—that can't be right. Because you know these figures. You know them like you know your own heart; they'd left impressions so deep that you'd thought you'd recognize them on sight.
Thought.
"That's not right. I'm not—I was born in Scala ad Caelum."
The ghost smiles, and it looks sad. "Do you know what happens when people die?")
-("Fine. I will wake you by force if I have to.")
-"Welcome, Mimir. The council has heard and granted your request for an appeal."
Mimir tried to stand tall, but their eyes flicked across the council members—stony faces, mostly bluebloods. People they didn't know, but would determine whether they could actually become a Keyblade wielder or not.
Beyond them were the Masters—or some of them, at least. The ones that were willing to take on apprentices, if they proved worthy.
Master Osmin stood at the front—not the Head of the Council, but the one in charge of determining whether or not they'd be eligible for apprenticeship. His expression was neutral; Mimir wondered what was going on behind it. "Your appeal may consist of anything you believe may support your case. You can show off blade work, or magical ability, or give a speech. You will be given thirty minutes, or until you have finished. Afterward, anyone present may choose to sponsor you. Should no one step forward, you will unfortunately not be considered for apprenticeship."
Mimir nodded.
Osmin nodded back. "You may proceed."
Mimir had thought, long and hard, about what they would do. All they knew about was stars, really—and that was useful for Keyblade wielders, maybe, but it was useful for a lot of things. It wasn't enough to impress the council.
But then—they'd thought. The normal application didn't test fighting ability—that was something that was learned, typically. It just tested academics—what people knew of Scala, and its history, and philosophy, and the like. But Mimir—Mimir knew how to fight. They hadn't tried to use anything even resembling a sword since—since Pan, but they remembered. And—they had to hope that it would be enough.
They didn't have enough to purchase anything even resembling a training Keyblade. Thankfully, the council had provided some options, and they grabbed a wooden blade and tested its weight carefully. It felt right in their hands, something warm sparking in their chest. Slowly, they settled into a fighting stance, and then they moved.
There was that same feeling again—that disconnect with themself, that feeling that someone else was piloting their body, dragging them through motions that were as familiar to them as breathing. You know this, something in them whispered. You'll be alright.
The council was silent, for the most part. Occasionally, Mimir thought they heard someone murmur—but then it went silent again, and Mimir tried not to think about it. They went through form after form until their legs felt like jelly and Osmin said, "That's enough."
Mimir held the training Keyblade carefully, panting, and glanced at the council, searching for some sign of how they did. Some had unreadable expressions; others looked vaguely interested; others looked sympathetic. Mimir swallowed, and turned to Osmin.
He had a vaguely perturbed look on his face. "You have some talent with swordplay," he said carefully. "A little sloppy, but some of those moves were relatively advanced—or at least, close enough facsimiles of advanced moves."
Sloppy? a distant part of them thought, offended, and then they blinked. Where did that come from?
"Your appeal has been made." Osmin turned, scanning the crowd. "Is there anyone who wishes to sponsor them on the basis of it?"
Mimir held their breath, hopeful.
The crowd stayed quiet. Some looked thoughtful, murmuring to each other—but no one stepped forward.
"Then it's decided," Osmin said, and Mimir felt like their heart was crumbling. "You will, unfortunately, not be permitted to train as a Keyblade wielder. I wish you luck in your future endeavors."
No, Mimir thought, desperate. No, please—
They reached out, and their chest burned.
Osmin frowned; they'd grabbed his arm, they realized distantly, their fingers sparking with a strange sort of energy. "I understand that this is difficult, but—"
A sun sat in their chest. It felt like it was overflowing, molten in their throat, spilling out of their fingertips and digging underneath the skin. For a moment, they saw—
(A garden. Two children—Osmin, they realized, and a white-haired girl they didn't recognize but thought they probably should've. "We're going to reach the top together. I promise.")
Their skin, for a moment, felt all wrong—too tight, like it had been put on a skeleton that didn't match. Their clothes itched. The world shifted, patterned over by a place they both recognized and didn't, bright colors blotched against a golden background. They looked up, and all they saw was white hair, and the face was different and there was no scarf and maybe he was just older, because they thought they knew him. "Ephemer?"
Ephemer looked at them like he'd seen a ghost, and when he spoke, he asked, "What did you do?"
There was something that said that that wasn't Ephemer's voice—that they'd heard that voice, before, from someone else. They released their vice grip, stumbling backwards, and—and there was Osmin, staring at them, gripping his arm like they'd hurt him, and they were in a room before the council, and—
And why had it felt like they'd been somewhere else, before? Who had they…?
"Heart magic."
Their head snapped up at the voice—a woman they didn't recognize, slowly making her way through the group of Masters. The wielders parted around her, murmuring quietly, and Mimir got the impression this was someone important.
"What?" Osmin asked, head snapping in her direction.
"Heart magic," the woman repeated, staring at Mimir unblinking. "That's what they used on you." She narrowed her eyes a little as she studied them. "It's not common—most people can barely use it."
It helped ground Mimir, a little, hope growing slowly in their chest.
The woman finally blinked, and then she smiled. "My name is Master Freya. I'm one of Scala ad Caelum's Keepers—and I believe I'd like to sponsor this one."
-(It's such a morbid question you don't process it at first. You stare at them, and you realize there is still a wound in their chest, charred like they'd been burned. It matches the place where your chest ached, and you rub the spot, shaking.
"The heart goes…somewhere else. According to legends, it's supposed to go back to the source—to the Heart of All Worlds itself. No one's quite sure what happens from there." They swallow, and there's something like fear and grief in their expression, and it makes your heart ache in response. "But sometimes, something interferes.
"We were all—the Dandelions. We were—"
"Trapped in the data world," you finish, and it comes distantly. You don't know how you know, but you do. "It was going to sleep."
"We were going to sleep." The ghost's hands shake, their expression pinched painfully. "Our Chirithy could protect us—by turning us into something else, or taking us to another heart, where we would be safe. And I was already dying."
You stare. You stare, and you stare, and you stare, because the words still aren't quite clicking.
The ghost gives you a sad, regretful sort of smile. "But the heart needs to be receptive. And heart magic isn't—it isn't common. Especially not magic strong enough to reach out to a dying heart."
There is a sinking in your stomach—a realization dawning, slow and terrible. "What did you do?"
The ghost looks at you, and their regret seems to grow stronger. "I'm sorry.")
-(Pain, distant. The flicker of magic. A frustrated sound—and then it started again.)
-"Everyone has some capacity for magic, no matter how small."
Mimir listened to Master Freya intently, trying not to fidget. It was still strange, having a mentor—but not in a bad way. It gave them something to focus on. Someone who could help them learn.
"For most people, accessing that magic takes training. They will generally need some sort of conduit—something to help them pull the magic out of them and channel it into spells. For Keyblade wielders, however, it's different. Keyblades automatically amplify someone's magical ability and make it significantly easier to access. Because of this, wielders often need more training to control their magic than they do to access it.
"Magic is incredibly varied. People may have affinities for certain elements or types of spells. Heart magic is…a particularly rare affinity to have."
This made Mimir shift, and they tried not to feel too awkward.
Freya smiled wryly. "Most people would be thrilled to have such a rare gift, you know."
I'm just me, they thought, but didn't say. I'm nothing special. Instead, they signed, "Why's it rare?"
Freya paused, looking like she was considering her words carefully. "Heart magic is…complicated. You need to be able to reach into another individual—connect directly to their hearts. It's difficult for most people to be able to breach that barrier." That wry smile returned. "Generally, when we see it, it manifests as a way to sense other's emotions. More powerful mages, however, can access memories—even alter them."
Memories… "Could they make memories clearer, too?"
"I don't know. Perhaps."
"…Could they use it on themself?"
Freya studied them.
Mimir wouldn't look at her; they picked at a splinter on their chair, trying to stuff down the vague mixture of hope and grief. They wondered, if they could enhance their own memories—could they learn more about their missing family? Could they figure out where they'd gone? (Why they'd left in the first place?)
(Why did you leave me alone? Didn't you want me?)
"Is that why you wanted to train as a wielder?"
It wasn't exactly it, but it was close enough.
Freya sat, pulling a chair up across from them. "Heart magic…can be dangerous. People fear and respect it for…understandable reasons. If you want to do this, then we'll have to be careful."
Mimir's head shot up, and they couldn't stuff down the hope that pounded against their ribcage.
Freya smiled gently. "Well. Let's get started."
-("You were young," the ghost says, and you stumble backward, shaking, and something in you screams to call your Keyblade again (but what if it was Starlight, you didn't want it to be, this wasn't right—) "There wasn't much of me left to save. I'd never really been…anyone. Not like my friends were."
"Skuld," you whisper, distant. "And Ephemer."
Something soft and warm enters their expression, and it should be sweet but it makes you feel sick. It drops after a moment, and when they blink, that grief and regret is back. "I didn't mean to. I was just going to rest inside your heart. But both of us were too weak."
"No," you say, and then you shake your head, the rapid-fire words caught in the back of your throat. No no no no no nonono—
"I'm sorry," they repeat, and you know they mean it but that doesn't make this better. "I never wanted this for you. I never wanted my memories to—I'm sorry."
"You aren't me." You shake so hard that your teeth rattle. Your fists clench, fingers digging sharply into your palms.
"Not entirely," they agree. "But I'm a part of you. Your heart merged with mine, when you were born. There really isn't much difference between us, anymore."
The shadows spin in a whirlwind, tearing at your clothes, and you try and shield yourself, eyes stinging. The ghost stares back at you, unaffected, that same sad smile never leaving their face.
Light flickers beneath your feet. It pulses like a heartbeat, glowing faintly in the stained glass. It takes you a moment to understand where you are—your Station of Awakening, pictures carved carefully into the surface. Skuld is there, and you are not surprised.
Ephemer is there, too. He shouldn't be; you didn't know him.
(Brain and Kvasir and Meili aren't there, and it feels like if Skuld was on your platform, then they should be, too.)
You stare at the images, and the truth sinks into your bones, slow and shaky and sure. But still—
"No."
—but still, you have to fight it.
The ghost gives you a sad sort of look. "Mimir—"
"No," you repeat, because—
(Because you never had a family waiting for you. Because they were all just distant figures that you were never supposed to find. Because you feel like everything has suddenly been thrown sideways, because of what the ghost had done.)
(What you had done?)
"You aren't me," you repeat, and it's desperate—and when you swing your hand, a Keyblade comes, and you don't look to see which, because you can't stand it if it's Starlight, but you just want the ghost gone—
The glass cracks. You stumble, thrown off-kilter before you even really have the chance to move. And then it breaks, and the darkness swallows you.)
-(Movement. The vague beginnings of waking. A pained noise, and the drip of water, something hissing in the background.)
-"I need a little help from you. Osmin says you're talented."
Mimir stood straighter, trying very hard to look professional. It wasn't often the Head of the Council herself asked for help, after all—especially not from apprentice wielders. They wondered why she'd chosen them.
"Master Brain and his friend are going off-world for a mission. I'd like you to go with them—to make sure that they're alright."
Master Brain? A shiver went down Mimir's spine. The Union Leader.
(They remembered when he'd first appeared—when he'd first been introduced to Scala ad Caelum. They'd only been able to get a glimpse of him through the crowd, but they'd heard people murmuring about him constantly. He'd always been a distant figure, smiles sharp, unapproachable to almost anyone, let alone them.
It was strange, to have a Union Leader in the city. Strange, and terrifying, and exciting.)
(They wondered why he looked familiar, then pushed the thought aside.)
"I need you to report back to me," Frigga continued. "I'm trying to assess this newcomer's abilities—see where she stands."
Why me? they wanted to ask, but they didn't think they'd get much more of an answer. Besides, it wasn't an opportunity they wanted to risk losing. They were going to be working with a Union Leader. They were going to be going off-world. They might—
Don't get your hopes up, they warned themself silently. This is only your first time off-world.
Still.
And so they agreed, going to wait at the pier. And they waited. And they waited. They paced back and forth, legs growing stiff, and it slowly, slowly dawned on them that maybe they weren't coming at all. They left without me, the thought, and it filled their throat with something bitter. That's fine. Everybody's always leaving me behind, anyways. I'm used to it.
…But maybe they were tired of being left behind. And they were given a mission by the Head of the Council herself.
(It wasn't like they didn't know the stars; they'd been staring at them their whole life, after all.)
They followed them. They followed them, trying not to be too irritated as they trekked across the world looking for them, biting back anger when they finally found Master Brain and his friend fighting a group of Heartless. Their Keyblade came to their hand in a flash, and maybe they put too much magic into it, but they were frustrated and tired and embarrassed and at this point all they wanted to do was get the mission over with.
And then—
"Who are you?"
Mimir couldn't do anything. Couldn't say anything. They stared at the girl—Master Brain's friend—and it felt like there was something screaming at them. (I know you. I know you, I know you, I know you—)
Skuld. The name came to them in an instant, and they tried not to rock under the weight of it, because it felt right. There are two Union Leaders here.
"Well?" Brain asked. "You going to tell us what you're doing here?"
And Mimir snapped to him, because that's right, they were on a mission, and they'd just left them behind. "Helping you."
The mission didn't go as planned. None of it did. The Union Leaders weren't anything like Mimir expected them to be; they were Masters, but they were kids just like them, right about the same age, and it showed in the way they acted.
It stung. It stung worse because, the more they thought about it, the more they realized they realized they probably had a right to act that way, because Frigga had more or less sent them to spy. It was a bitter thing, and after they came back and gave their report they slipped away on their own.
They hadn't expected to find Skuld at the fountain. They hadn't expected to find someone that it felt like they had something in common with. We've both lost people. We've both been left behind—in different ways.
And Skuld—she reminded them so much of their missing family that it ached. Maybe they hadn't gotten off on the right foot, but—but maybe—
"You never told me your name, you know."
Maybe there was a chance they could be friends.
-(Let me tell you a story, Mimir.
I don't want to hear it.
No? Well, that's a little unfortunate. It is your story.
Please. Please I don't—
Well, alright. I suppose it is time you woke up—
Isn't it, —?)
-Mimir woke to screaming. They didn't realize it was them at first; their throat felt raw, scratched and painful. They wondered how long they'd been screaming for.
(…Mimir? That was—that was their name, right?)
Where were—they were—this wasn't where they were before. They didn't think. They'd been—
(In Daybreak Town.)
(In the school.)
(In a dark room in some house they didn't know.)
They'd been—
Something touched their throat, cool and metallic. It took them a moment to register it. Someone's talking; they wondered if they'd been talking for a while.
"…test me. You are clever, I suppose—but I will not be caught off-guard again."
'Clever' rang in their ears, and they twisted their head just a little, hissing as the edge of something cut their throat. They were—this was someone—someone they knew. Someone who was—
He's related to Ephemer.
He's an enemy.
He's—
Mimir sucked in a breath, and when they blinked, the world flickered with images—things from Daybreak Town and Scala ad Caelum, two lives fractured across the space.
The speaker had gone quiet. Aegir. Right. That was his name. "…Getting a taste of your own magic must have been rather unappealing, I suppose. I will have to make note not to get caught in it."
Mimir (You) blinked, their eyes stinging; they sucked in a wheezing breath, and when they exhaled it was with a half-hysterical laugh. They (You) they didn't know what had happened. This was—
The Keyblade went tense and taut against their throat. Gradually it lowered, still carefully pointed at their chest. "But I believe we were in the middle of something, when you attempted your little…trick."
They—they had been doing something, hadn't they? It felt like an eternity ago, but—
The others. They were—I was trying to get out. That's why—
One hand went to the Keyblade, pushing it away distantly. It cut into their palm; distantly, they were aware of Aegir tensing, drawing away like he was frightened, but they were mostly focused on the door.
"What are you doing?"
They were—in a bed, they realized. The moth-eaten blankets rustled against their legs. Their feet touched cold wood.
"Where are you going? We aren't done here."
Their legs were shaky; they wobbled, one hand flying out to steady themself.
"Stay back."
The Keyblade disappeared from underneath their hand.
Look out.
The warning hummed in their ears, and they moved, kicking backwards on instinct. Something buzzed warm in their chest; it burned like a starburst, and they reached for it, pulling, pulling, pulling—
Metal clanged against metal. Aegir stumbled backwards, and his eyes went wide. "That's the Union Leaders' Keyblade."
So it was. Mimir stumbled, knees hitting the floor painfully; distantly, they wondered how long they'd been stuck in their memories. It felt like centuries.
Starlight hummed in their hand. They lifted it, slowly, and stared dully at their reflection. It still looked like them, but it felt wrong. Their skin itched, tugged taut, and the clothes felt suddenly ill-fitting.
Starlight's tip hit the floor with a thud, leaving a dent in the wooden floor.
"You—"
Aegir was—talking. Saying something. They should—they should probably be concerned about that.
(Their head hurt. The world was still spinning, everything off-kilter.)
"Fine. If you won't agree willingly, then I can make you."
The Keyblade swung back. Mimir should…do something, they thought, but their arms felt like lead, and the world was splitting into pieces, bits of—
(Daybreak Town, hazy in the morning light.)
(Scala ad Caelum, dark enough to see the stars.)
(Ephemer and Skuld and Brain and Kvasir and Meili and—)
A gust of wind; the light guttered, like a candle going out, and disappeared. The outline of a Keyblade stopped, frozen. The keychain clinked against the hilt. A hush went over the room, silence so loud it hurt. Something sticky and cold slipped over Mimir's legs, curling along the walls and dripping onto the floor. The stillness settled into something oppressive, settling across their shoulders like a weight.
Aegir remained still. The Keyblade didn't swing down, still poised, but it was like something had blocked his path—or caught his attention, a more pressing threat than the Keybearer before him. "What's happening?" he snapped, and his voice fell heavy in the dead air. "What did you do?"
"Hello, Aegir."
The words came like a low, hissing whisper, resonating somewhere deep inside Mimir's chest. They sat back on their heels, Keyblade dragging furrows into the wooden floor.
"Who's there?" Aegir twisted; his Keyblade swiped sharply, a flicker of light in the shadows.
"Son of Gymir. One of the leaders of the noble houses. Hopeful heir to Scala ad Caelum's leadership."
"Show yourself." Aegir spun, smoke trailing around his ankles. Mimir stared at them, entranced; when they blinked, it looked like he stood on a metal floor, not a wooden one, and they thought they saw someone younger—someone they recognized.
"But you were passed over, weren't you? Oh, how it must've ached, to know that you weren't good enough for the very job you were raised for."
"Is this a trick?" That glittering Keyblade whipped around, and it took Mimir a moment to realize that it was aimed at them. "Are you some assassin? Sent by the Union Leaders in retaliation?"
"No trick." Shadows lanced from the ground, tangling around Aegir's leading arm and twisting tight. The jerked, snapping down, down, and Aegir hissed, Keyblade slipping from his grip and disappearing in a burst of sparks. "There is so much…bitterness in your heart. Anger. We can feel it. We understand. You want what you're due. And now, not only do you face opposition from your family, but from the Union Leaders as well." More shadows, twisting tightly around Aegir's waist and chest, and he made a vague snarling noise as they twisted them around.
Two moon-bright eyes flickered from the shadows. Something like a head coalesced from the darkness, jagged jaws clicking together, spiral horns and sharp spikes trailing into wisps. Darkness dripped like tears down its face, drip, drip, dripping onto the floor and disappearing with a hissing fizzle.
They're here, something inside Mimir whispered, giddy with a terrified sort of excitement. (Their heart burned. Their vision turned hazy. For a moment, they were staring down a Keyblade, light so bright it hurt.)
"We understand," Darkness repeated, and then those eyes narrowed, and the tendrils wound so tight around Aegir that Mimir almost thought they could see them digging into his skin, his breath hissing out in a choked gasp. "But you have taken what is ours, and we have come to reclaim them."
"Y-you—"
Aegir's fingers twitched. His Keyblade appeared in a burst of light, tip twisting to fire a spell. Light and heat flared across the room like a wave.
The spell hit squarely; Darkness didn't flinch, their eyes narrowing and jaws twisting upward in the facsimile of a smile, the spell smothered. They laughed, quiet and giddy, and the shadows snapped tighter, squeezing until Aegir choked. "You'll fight! A feeble attempt, perhaps—but an attempt nonetheless." Those glowing eyes narrowed further. "We might humor you, under different circumstances. But as it is…"
They looked, finally, away from Aegir, and Mimir felt pinned under their stare. There was something—something familiar there. Something warm. Something safe.
(They weren't safe. They'd killed them. They'd destroyed Daybreak Town. They'd—)
(That's not me, it's not—)
"We will let you go this once, Aegir. You have so much potential, and we would hate to waste it. But we would advise you not to interfere again."
The shadows untangled. Aegir fell to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping.
"You may do what you will to the Union Leaders, to the nobles, to Scala itself—but this one is ours." The shadows moved, head shifting serpentine-like in Mimir's direction. The darkness stuck to them, pulled out of the corners of the room, sticking like cobwebs and leaving an unnatural light behind. "We look forward to seeing what you'll do."
Mimir blinked slowly. Their thoughts stuck to each other, indistinct and muddled, and they moved on autopilot, looking up, up, up, at the looming jaws. Strangely, they didn't feel afraid, even as the shadows pooled around them and Darkness stared.
"Hello, Little Light."
Their head felt…heavy. They stared at Starlight, the tip dragging against the floor. They blinked, and the world flickered with a kaleidoscope of colors—bright purples and oranges and whites and golds. In them were fragments of memories, tiny shards of stained glass that glittered with visions of themself, and of the person who claimed to be them.
Snap—snap—drip. The shadows moved, and an arm lifted from the ground, tether-like darkness snapping from the wrist. One large claw slipped underneath Mimir's chin and lifted their head gently, something wet dribbling down their neck.
Yellow eyes glowed from an indistinct face, all wispy shadows. A clawed thumb wiped at their cheek, and the eyes narrowed; grief stung like sharp pinpricks, and they realized after a moment it might not be their own. "You have been asked to bear so much—and you have always taken it willingly, for the sake of the people you loved. To save them, or to find them—you are so willing to sacrifice yourself."
Their breath rattled. Starlight shook, the keychain clanging quietly against the shaft.
"It is alright. You can rest. I have you now."
The shadows parted, stretching open like the darkness was a friend, simply waiting to welcome them home. They You blinked, and in the shadows, you thought you saw—something else. A collection of blurry figures that you'd been searching for your whole life, and you stretched a hand out towards them, fingers brushing ghosts that were just out of reach.
The darkness stretched towards you, wrapping around you in a careful embrace. It was…softer than you expected. Warmer. A reedy keen cracked into a sob, the shadows bubbling around your lips.
"Rest."
You fell.
-(I love you.)
(I'm sorry.)
So hear me out: Chirithy said the Player would melt into another heart at the end of UX, right? That's pretty vague wording, and it sounds less like standard reincarnation and more like…like a Sora and Ven situation if that situation had gone wrong. While I don't really think this'll be how it goes down in canon, I figured—this is already an AU. And it makes for something fun to write. (One day I'll write a memory reveal without angst, but it is not this day.)
…Uh. Anyway. Sorry for the cliffhanger, see you in December!