Chapter 37 - Concerto in Three Parts

I. Andante Misterioso

The atmosphere inside the fort was very different than it was outside. The forest was quiet and mysterious, heavy with the sort of silence that left one feeling like he was being watched. The camp, on the other hand, was bustling with activity and noise. There were shouting voices, hurried footsteps. Flickering torches that cast wildly undulating shadows on every wall, every surface. It truly was almost too easy for Demyx to slip in and be lost in the chaos, sidling along the outer perimeter like just another shadow in the night.

However, the place was huge — much larger than it appeared to be from the outside. There must have been well over a hundred tents scattered throughout the encampment, and any one of them could have contained Vexen. How would Demyx figure out which was the right one? How would he find Zexion in all this mess? Perhaps he'd already been captured. Already in chains and with a new noose being tied up for him.

No. Not now.

Demyx swallowed. He couldn't let himself think that way. Zexion was smart and cunning. He wouldn't be defeated quite so easily, and certainly not to the likes of these savages.

He crept along the wall, pressing himself against the wooden logs and hiding in the pockets of darkness cast by lanterns. He stayed low to the ground as he scanned the area ahead. There were two crooked rows of tents lined up in front of him, with a larger, more elaborate one pitched at the top of a small hill in the center of camp. He figured that one was likely for the leader, and that he ought to steer clear.

As he tread slowly to the left, he came upon a small clearing where several boxes and barrels were stored. It was the perfect cover for him — he hid behind the stack of crates and listened for the sounds of boots stomping against packed dirt to fade into the distance. The men were speaking with urgency in their tone, though Demyx couldn't make out the words through all the noise. They were disorganized, uncertain. Something was going wrong, but what?

He took a careful glance past the crates, catching a glimpse of the crude gallows they'd constructed. It wasn't anything special — a platform, two wooden beams and a rope. It wasn't even very tall. Just high enough to…

Demyx cleared his throat to stave off the wave of nausea building in his gut. He'd let his nerves get the better of him again, and there was no time for morbid thoughts. He had to find a new hiding place; it was dangerous to stay in one spot for too long.

Crouching down, he held his breath as he moved, passing by more stacked boxes of goods and chattel before reaching another tent to hide behind. There were people inside this tent. He could hear them whispering. Talking about 'Smith.' He cautiously leaned in to eavesdrop a bit longer.

"Right shame, that is. Never thought he woulda betrayed us like he did."

"It's not like him at all. Almost makes ye wonder if that's what really happened…"

Now, that was interesting. There were some men here who were sympathetic to this Smith guy's plight. Or, at least, who were questioning the situation he'd been caught up in. Demyx listened further to see where the conversation might go.

"He was right about the gold. Maybe we ought to hear what he's got to say…"

"Ratcliffe's made up his mind. If you ask me, Smith better start sayin' his prayers."

So, perhaps, these men were not just a monolith of violence and suspicion. If they weren't all bad, maybe some of them could be convinced to look the other way about him breaking Vexen out of here. Demyx wanted to hear more, but the men had left the tent and were heading in the direction of the gallows, where dozens of soldiers were gathering.

He lingered in place a moment longer, collecting his bearings and deciding his next move. Zexion was waiting — if he hadn't already found Vexen. He had to find them before it was too late. But the camp was large and crawling with people — every one of them on edge. One wrong step and it was his neck on the line.

Just then, he felt something — something he didn't expect.

It was… a breeze. A small gust of wind was blowing around him. Not enough to disrupt the camp — the tent canvas and torch flames remained perfectly still. But to him, it was unmistakable. It brushed against his face, ruffled his hair. A soft swirl of leaves circled him once, just enough to get his attention before drifting ahead through a gap between tents. As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Well, that was weird.

Demyx shook it off. This place had him spooked. He had likely imagined the wind gust out of an abundance of anxiety. And yet, there was something about it that stuck with him. Something that didn't entirely make sense. He thought for a moment, trying to figure it out.

And then, it came back.

It was stronger this time. Like before, it blew in a circle around him, leaves and all, and then vanished into the distance. This was a coincidence he couldn't ignore. And now, he understood why it had felt so strange to him. The air was warm. Warm, like a breath. As if it were alive.

He decided to follow it, slipping into motion as quickly and quietly as he could. A few tents ahead, then a right turn into a small opening. But when he arrived, there was nothing to see. The tents nearby were empty, and the air was calm. This wasn't even a good hiding spot. He was about to turn around and find somewhere else when he could have sworn he heard something.

Singing. He heard singing.

It was a voice he didn't recognize. So faint that he strained his ears to pick it out. And then, the breeze returned in full force. Once again, leaves swirled around his feet, the wind rising from the ground and blowing the hem of his coat. The voice was louder now, as if being carried on the wind itself. It sounded almost ethereal. Like the trees were singing. The earth. The sky. He still couldn't make out any words — just a soft, delicate melody that seemed to hush the air around him. It drowned out the soldiers arguing and the racing footsteps. It drowned out the thumping in his chest. He'd never heard anything like it.

As it had before, the wind sailed away in a new direction, taking the singing voice along with it. Now, Demyx was more than curious. He chased after it, careful to remain hidden in shadows as he followed where it led. His heart drumming with suspense, he watched as it weaved in and out of spaces between tents, leaves billowing in its airy current. The voice was clearer than it was before. He could just barely understand one whispered word.

"Listen…"

'Listen?' He didn't get it. Listen to what? He almost laughed — Xigbar would have called this his 'Expert-Level Hearing' kicking in. Maybe this was a trick, or some weird prank from beyond. But the gust of wind spiraled around him again, nearly strong enough to knock him over.

He quickly darted behind a tent, sure that the sudden shift in the air would be noticed. And yet, everything around him had remained untouched. Not a single flicker from the torches, not one man stirring. Just what the hell was going on here?

"Listen…"

Goosebumps rising on his skin, Demyx crept onward, trailing behind the breeze in pursuit of the singing voice. He needed to capture the rest of its message.

The leaves curled around him again, urging him forward — toward a wagon that was piled high with cut logs. He snuck behind it for cover… and collided with someone.

A sharp gasp caught in his throat as he stumbled backwards.

"Demyx?"

He looked up. The figure lowered his black hood. It was Zexion.

For a moment, neither of them moved a muscle. They didn't breathe. They didn't blink. They just stared.

Then Zexion grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him into the shadows behind the wagon, pushing him down into a crouch beside him. "Are youinsane?"He hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question!" Demyx shot back. He was still breathless, still reeling from the run and the shock. "What were you thinking running in here like that?"

Zexion huffed. His stern eyes glistened, like he couldn't decide whether to hug Demyx or shake him. "You shouldn't have followed me."

Demyx paused. "I had to." He wanted to say more — to tell Zexion about the wind and the voice. But he held his tongue. "I couldn't let you go alone."

A hesitant silence stretched between them. Thick with tension, with unspoken words. It felt surreal — being this close to Zexion now. Demyx truly wasn't sure he'd see him again, and here he was. It wasn't until now that he recognized just how badly he'd needed this moment, needed to know that he was alive and unharmed. He was so awash in relief that he couldn't argue anymore.

"I was worried about you."

Zexion softened, his posture wilting as he spoke again. "I'm sorry," he said, words wavering. "I was thinking of Vexen. I couldn't…"

He didn't finish the sentence. Demyx didn't really need to hear the rest. He gingerly touched Zexion's sleeve. Maybe to comfort him… and maybe to assure himself that he was real. "Did you find out where he is?"

Zexion slumped in defeat. "No, not yet."

Demyx said nothing at first. What could he say? He hadn't found Vexen either, and hadn't a clue where the man was being held. But it was gut wrenching to see Zexion looking so forlorn. His eyes downcast, his lips tightened as if he were holding something back.

Demyx scooted closer to him, feeling his warmth, feeling him tremble. He extended a hand and a tender smile. "Then let's find him together."

Zexion looked up at him, his eyes now gleaming like he wanted to smile back. He accepted the invitation, letting his hand slip into Demyx's for just a moment. A short squeeze seemed to be all he needed —bothof them needed. A reminder that they had each other. That together, they could do this.

Demyx heard it before he felt it. The wind, returning in a sharp gust, leaves whirling around him and Zexion. His heart was pounding again. He swallowed the rising panic, glancing around to see if the breeze had drawn any attention. But once again, nothing else seemed to be affected by it. Even Zexion wasn't reacting — like he didn't even see it.

And then, the voice was back. The soft, wispy melody that seemed to come from nature itself. It repeated one word, just as before, as if singing directly to his soul.

"Listen…"

Demyx nudged Zexion, still craning his neck to find the source of the voice. "Did you hear that?"

Zexion blinked. "Hear what?"

"The singing!" Demyx whispered. The voice was getting louder, the wind more vigorous. It was blowing his coat, his hair. Tugging at him, almost as if it was trying to pull him somewhere. How could Zexion not notice?

Zexion's expression was a mix of bafflement and concern. He was looking at Demyx as if he'd just spoken a different language. "What singing? I don't hear any—"

But then, there was another sound. Crisp, real. Loud. It was the crunch of a boot on the ground. Then another one, and another.

Zexion's head snapped up, shaken. "Someone's coming. We have to go!"

The wind surged forward, rustling leaves whipped into a frenzy as it carved out a path through the camp. Demyx didn't hesitate. He took Zexion's hand, "Follow me."

They set off toward the wind's current, their breaths heaving as they ran. It was a miracle they weren't caught, as they had sacrificed stealth for speed, barely keeping up with the trail of leaves ahead. They ducked in and out of hiding places, crouching behind barrels and melting into shadows. Scurrying from one tent to the next, each as empty as the last.

Until finally, they had reached the rear corner of the camp, and the wind gusts dissipated into calm but tense air. A lone tent was pitched there, slightly larger than the others. A light was flickering inside, revealing the silhouette of a figure sitting hunched over on the ground.

Demyx and Zexion stood frozen, chills down their spines. Staring at the motionless shadow. Taking the moment to just breathe. Neither knew what they were about to see, but both could obviously sense an eerie presence urging them forward. As if someone or something had called to them, led them here and pointed at this very tent. It wasn't anything rooted in logic, but just… a feeling.

Zexion took the first step. "He's in there."

Demyx grasped his sleeve. "Are you sure?" He tried to hide his apprehension — but if they were wrong, entering that tent would mean their doom.

Zexion turned to look at him with an expression he'd never forget. One brimming with things like fear and guilt. Nerves. Regret. And maybe, around the edges, a glimmer of hopefulness. He didn't have to answer — his face said it all. Demyx let go of his sleeve, and together, they approached the tent.

They took one more deep breath in unison. Shared a look that lasted a bit longer than it should have. And then, they pulled aside the entrance flap and peered inside.

II. Adagio con sentimento

The first thing they noticed was the smell. The air was stale and humid, foul with the odors of sweat and rust, heavy with exhaustion and despair. It was cramped and dark, with hardly any belongings or furniture anywhere. A wobbly-looking chair sat near the entrance, its wooden legs digging into the grass. A small trunk was lying open against one wall, filled with what appeared to be clothing. A single candle stood on a table in the corner, too dim to even read a book by. Distorted shadows danced in its flickering light.

At the back of the tent was a filthy cot, stained and sagging under the weight of its only occupant — Vexen.

The man was curled up and hiding behind his knees, quivering under a torn blanket that wasn't big enough to cover him. He was deathly pale, thin, almost emaciated. His hair was matted and dirty, clinging to his face. His coat was missing — he'd been dressed in tattered, loose-fitting garments similar to those of the men outside. His flesh was covered in bruises, lacerations and dried blood. His breath rattled in his throat as if just breathing was a struggle. Shackles were locked around his wrists and ankles, cutting into his skin, with chains so short that he could barely reach the half-empty water bucket nearby.

He raised his head slowly upon their arrival, his weary, bloodshot eyes widening when he saw who had come. His mouth moved like he wanted to speak, but he had neither the words nor the breath for it.

Zexion rushed to his side in an instant, tears already pooling in his eyes. "Even…!"

Vexen winced as Zexion threw his arms around him. "Ienzo…" he croaked. "Is it… really you…?"

"It's me, Even," Zexion warbled between sniffles. "Demyx and I came here to save you."

Vexen shakily turned to face Demyx, his eyes narrowing as if he couldn't quite see him. "Th-Then… I'm not seeing things…"

Demyx tried not to grimace. He thought he knew what to expect, and he thought he was ready for it. He thought he could handle whatever this mission would bring. But nothing could have prepared him for this — the image of Vexen, hollowed-out and broken, frightened, sickly. It was agonizing to see such a vigorous man now barely conscious, barely even alive. To smell his blood, to hear him cough. To watch as Zexion eyed his wounds with an expression of pure helplessness on his face. He wanted to vomit.

Biting his lip, he knelt down beside Vexen's trembling form. Zexion was wiping off his face with his sleeve, uselessly trying to clean up some of the dirt, the sweat, the blood. It was clear the captors had never bathed their prisoner, and had hardly fed him at all. In fact, Demyx was certain that he'd probably never been let out of this tent. When Zexion retrieved a ladle of water from the bucket for him to drink, he was so weak that he could hardly swallow it, most of it spilling down his front.

Altogether, the situation seemed dire. They were going to have a hell of a time freeing Vexen — it would be a miracle if the poor man could even stand. He glanced over at Zexion — tears running off his chin, both devastated by Vexen's condition and elated for their reunion. Torn between sobbing and smiling, just paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of emotion he didn't realize he could feel.

This was what they came here for. There was no room for doubt, now. They found Vexen, and it was time to take him home.

"You're not seeing things," Demyx answered assuredly. "We're gonna bust you out of here."

Through his pain and illness, Vexen had managed to give Demyx a look of pure gratitude. That was something else he hadn't prepared for — how moving that small gesture would be, even after all this time. He'd earned this man's approval months ago, but only now did it really hit him just what that meant, just what value his blessing really held for him.

A sharp whisper from Zexion drew their attention. "Demyx, we've got to get these shackles off. Help me."

The two set to work trying to figure a way to pry the rusty shackles open, but Vexen only sighed. "It's no use. They require a key…"

"Maybe we can pick the lock," Demyx suggested. "There must be something around here we can use…"

While Demyx started combing the interior of the tent for anything suitable for lock-picking, Zexion examined Vexen's injuries more closely. It was now that he realized he'd left behind his bag of curatives when he ran inside the camp alone. He had no potions, no elixirs, not even a simple bandage with him. Aside from cleaning him up a little, he could do next to nothing for Vexen at the moment.

"Even," he asked as he carefully prodded at the man's limbs in search of broken bones. "Who did this to you?"

Vexen took a shaky inhale. "Who? A better question would be 'What?'" He wheezed, sputtering out coughs that sounded like sandpaper. "It was a monster. Shaped like some sort of plant." He had to take a break, so winded that he could hardly complete a sentence. "I was no match for it. I had no choice but to flee. That's when I was captured…"

"Hey, Zexion," Demyx said, picking up and inspecting a bent nail he found in the corner. "That's the thing Axel and Xigbar killed."

"They killed it…?" Vexen heaved another pained breath, barely suppressing another coughing fit. "Shame… I would have liked to study it further…"

A true scientist at heart. Of course Vexen would care only for his research, dangers be damned. Demyx smirked as he lowered at his side again, jamming the bent nail into the lock on his shackles and hopelessly twisting it around. He didn't really know what he was doing — he could only try to brute force his way through them. It wasn't working. He passed them off to Zexion, who seemed to have similar luck. The lock wouldn't budge.

Grasping for ideas, Zexion posed a suggestion. "Maybe we can just carry him out?"

"No," Vexen rasped. "The chains are locked around that stake in the corner. I've been trapped here so long that I've lost count of the days…"

Vexen was coughing again. Zexion was patting his back. They were slumping their shoulders, sighing. Losing hope. But Demyx was determined — he wouldn't let them give up now. Someone in this camp had the means to open those chains. All he had to do was figure out who it was… and shake him down.

"We've gotta get those keys, then," he resolved. "I'll find them."

"Wait, Demyx, don't—"

He was cut off by a sound from outside.

It was familiar. The sound of boots in the grass. Slow, almost hesitant steps. They were coming closer. Everyone held their breath.

Demyx looked up in horror. A shadow was expanding on the canvas.

Vexen gasped. "The guard… You two have to get out of here before he discovers you."

"We can't just leave you here," Zexion protested. "Maybe we can hide somewhere. I can use my illusion powers to—"

"There's no time," Vexen whispered, now with growing desperation. "Please, Ienzo… don't let me go to my grave knowing that I took you with me."

Zexion stared, faltering under the sting of Vexen's plea. He'd strategized every move from the moment he entered the camp. He calculated all the risks. He knew what he was doing. But now he was out of ideas. There was only one way out of this tent, and now it was blocked. They couldn't escape. Couldn't hide. They were stuck.

Tears were flowing again, cascading down his face as he helplessly watched the figure draw ever nearer to them. A few moments more and he could have saved Vexen. That was all he needed. They wereso close.

The looming shadow reached out for the tent flap. Every heart stopped as they watched the figure's hand push through the slit. Then, with a sudden rush of air, the flap opened, and a young, frightened-looking man stepped inside.

He froze on the spot, eyes wide and gawking at the three of them. He didn't speak — he didn't even appear to be breathing. He just stood there, small, meek, and utterly terrified.

He was young — no older than Zexion or Demyx. He wore plain civilian clothes, a bit wrinkled and dirty from countless hours in the wilderness. A floppy, wide-brimmed hat was loosely covering his unkempt red hair. He'd arrived unarmed, his hands having not so much as twitched since he entered the tent.

Zexion was on his feet in an instant, throwing a protective arm across Vexen. Demyx stood too, more curious than afraid as he studied the stranger.

This was their first real look at the enemy — up close and personal.

Whatever Demyx had expected, this certainly didn't match. He wasn't a savage. Not a monster. Not even a soldier. He was just a scared kid who probably bit off more than he could chew. Too young and naive to understand what he'd signed up for and likely regretting the choices that brought him to this very spot. So simple. So relatable.

Human. That's all he was. Pitiful, vulnerable, and human.

He backed away at Demyx's approach, never letting the trio out of his sight. His hand was fumbling behind him, reaching for the tent flap. Demyx's stomach dropped. He was about to run. He was about to turn them in.

Zexion cried out in desperation. "No, wait!"

The man halted mid-step, turning an even lighter shade of ghostly white.

"Please, we're not a threat," Zexion begged. "We just want to rescue our friend."

The poor kid was panting hard, more and more nervous every second. "You… You speak English?"

"English?"

Zexion's confusion only seemed to shake him further. The conflict in his expression — his entire posture — was easy to read. The disbelief at these strange, alien men standing before him. The weight of his duty on his tense shoulders. The panic in his frightened eyes. The reluctance in his clenched jaw. He was fragile — ready to shatter like porcelain.

It didn't matter what language it was. They understood him, and now, they'd discovered thatheunderstoodthem.This was perfect. The only thing standing between them and freedom was a timid, harmless boy. All they had to do was convince him to let them go.

A gust of wind and leaves rose upward from the earth itself, startling Demyx as it swirled around him like a tornado. The roar of the wind was loud, and yet he still heard the singing voice echoing in the air. It chanted that same word it had been whispering to him all along.

Listen…

He couldn't explain it, but at that moment, he felt a new burst of courage surging through him like an electric current. He felt grounded, steady, purposeful. Standing tall, chin high, knowing that right now,thisis what he was meant to do.

"Listen," he pleaded softly. "You don't want to do this."

He placed a gentle hand on Vexen's shoulder. His exposed skin was so cold, so clammy. Like a corpse that hadn't managed to die yet. The urgency of the situation was ever increasing. Demyx knew that every second counted here, and he couldn't afford to screw this negotiation up.

"This man hasn't done anything wrong. He doesn't deserve to die."

The guard hadn't budged an inch. Hadn't even blinked. His eyes fixed on Demyx — locking on as if he'd never seen anything like him.

Demyx kept his hands visible as he cautiously began his approach. "Think about it. You really want his blood on your hands? Can you live with yourself after that? I know I couldn't."

His expression was beginning to crack. He glanced at the prisoner — the weakened and helpless Vexen, slumped on the floor and barely breathing. There was uncertainty in his eyes now. A questioning look that seemed to come from deep within.

Demyx hadn't slowed his pace, and the boy did not recoil even as the distance between them was closing right before his eyes. "See, I don't think you're a bad guy. You're not like the others. You're not a killer. You want to do the right thing. I can tell."

A long pause. The boy's eyes darted between the three strangers in front of him, still every bit as terrified, but now with a potent twinge of remorse. He could still bolt any second, but he hadn't yet. Demyx reached out, hands open and inviting. "If that's who you are," he said tenderly. "If you're a good person, then drop the keys and walk away."

He let his final plea ring for a beat, radiating nothing but patience and understanding. Empathy. Honesty.Humanity."Please… Let us go."

The silence that followed could have lasted an eternity. The deafening wind, the sonorous melody, the noise of the soldiers outside… all of it was gone. The only thing anyone could hear was their own hearts pounding vigorously, painfully. Then, the boy very slowly reached into his pocket and, with shaking hands, pulled out a small metal ring of keys.

He took one last beat, one last chance to hesitate, staring at the keys in his hand as if they were either a precious gift or a dangerous omen. He closed his eyes, took a breath. And then, dropped the keys to the ground.

When he opened his eyes again, he appeared surprised. Surprised at what he'd done. Surprised that the three strangers were still there. He looked at them, one by one. Trying to read them, Demyx guessed. Trying to understand them. There was more than fear and shock on his face now. There was pity for Vexen, curiosity for Zexion, and something like gratitude for Demyx. Regret, but resolution. Vulnerability, but strength. Humanity, in all its complicated glory.

Without another word, he turned around and ducked out of the tent. The canvas fluttered shut behind him. He was gone.

There was no time to question whether or not that had really happened. Zexion lunged for the keys, like he was afraid they would vanish. He'd already brought them back and was trying each one in Vexen's shackles by the time Demyx had processed thathe'd done it.He'd actually convinced the enemy to release them — with nothing butwords.Words spoken from his very own heart.

The moment he heard the click of a lock opening, it was like an enormous weight had been lifted from him. Vexen was free. He seemed stunned at first, staring at his bloody, scraped-up wrists. His eyes then slowly lifted to Zexion, and the shock melted into relief. He smiled — weak and laced with pain, but his face shone with pure affection for the young man sitting in front of him. He reached for him, sliding his arms around his shoulders and holding him tightly.

Demyx longed to let this moment linger for them. To give them all the time they needed to grieve and to heal, to just be there and know that everything was going to be alright. But as he heard the volume outside rising, he knew that time was a luxury they didn't have.

He hurried over and crouched beside the other two. "We probably don't have long."

Zexion and Vexen finally let go of each other, sniffling and wiping their eyes. Zexion reached up and tenderly brushed some tangled hair out of the scientist's face. "Can you walk?"

Vexen took a shallow breath and nodded. "I will try."

With Zexion hooking under one arm and Demyx under the other, they took their positions and locked eyes. "On three…"

Together they counted and heaved Vexen to his feet. He was very weak and unsteady — leaning heavily, knees buckling. He was shivering, his skin even colder than it was a moment ago. They waited, hovering in place while he determined whether or not he had the strength to take a step.

The man took a few hoarse breaths before staggering forward. First one step. Then another. His feet dragged along the bare ground as he made his way for the exit. In no time, he was winded again, having to pause every few paces just to breathe.

"Wait," Zexion said suddenly. "Even, your coat."

Vexen shook his head. "They confiscated it," he sighed. "I've no idea where it is."

Demyx didn't think twice. "No problem," he offered, already unzipping his own coat. "You can take mine."

Zexion arched an eyebrow. "Yours won't fit him."

"It doesn't have to fit," Demyx countered as he tugged off his gloves. "It just has to cover enough to protect him from the darkness."

He shrugged the coat off his shoulders and gingerly wrapped it around the hunched-over scientist. They helped him get his arms into the sleeves, then drew the front zipper all the way to his chin. He did have to squeeze into everything else, but once his hood was raised, he was ready.

Zexion, however, was still unsatisfied. "Demyx, what about you?"

There was a mournful anxiety in his voice. Demyx could sense his conflict — the war between his instinct to protect and his fear of loss. He whipped his head around, scanning the tent for a solution, his gaze soon landing on the open trunk packed with clothes.

He picked up a plain-looking, puffy white shirt and a pair of brown slacks that only reached as far as his knees. "These'll do."

Zexion balked. "They won't get you through the dark corridor."

"Sure they will," Demyx grinned before pulling the shirt over his head. "Trust me. I'll be fine."

Once he was dressed, he took his place back under Vexen's arm, supporting him as he began to walk again. Without warning, he stumbled as the toll of a bell and the rolling of snares began to crescendo outside. The rest of the soldiers had hushed, leaving only the echo of the drum's dirge to punctuate the tension in the air.

"The trial," Vexen gasped. "It's begun. We're out of time."

All the blood ran out of Zexion's face. "No… What do we do now?"

"We need a diversion… Some way to clear the area…"

Vexen's entire torso shuddered with each breath he took — a painful reminder of how much effort it cost him just tospeak.Demyx cringed. This poor man did not have long.

The wind stirred again, gently brushing against his ankles. The haunting melody lilted along its current, faint as an echo. Something was building inside Demyx again. That sense of pride — new and unfamiliar, but persistent. That new burst of confidence, ofcourage.

He made a show of it. Puffed out his chest a little. Proudly. Confidently.

"Say no more," he declared. "I'm the King of Diversions."

Zexion reached out in protest. "You'll just get yourself killed!"

"Not a chance!" He summoned his sitar and strapped it to his back, keeping it at the ready. "You just sit tight. It's Demyx time."

"Demyx…"

"Hey," Demyx lowered his voice, giving the apprentice a warm, reassuring smile — one full of promises he hoped he'd be able to keep. "I can do this."

Zexion stood there, mesmerized. Captivated by the glint in his teeth, the sparkle in his eye. He couldn't explain how, but it was as if Demyx had become a new man. Brimming with confidence and bravery and even wisdom unlike he'd ever shown before. What he wouldn't have given for time to just stop, to give him a few moments to take it all in, to admire the growth, the character. To gaze at that arresting smile, to bask in it, to burn it into his memory.

His fingers twitched, his unspoken longing to reach out and take Demyx's hand one more time. His eyes welled up again, but he quickly blinked them dry. He couldn't quite match the fiery beam of Demyx's smile, but with a short nod, Zexion handed over his trust. His belief that he could absolutely do this, that he would somehow save the day and come back to him unharmed. His quick-thinking had gotten them this far, and it would take them all the way to the end. All the way home.

Vexen coughed. His strength was giving out and Zexion was losing his grip. Demyx rushed over to steady them, wondering briefly if he ought to stay behind. But the gust of wind intensified into a furious spiral, tugging impatiently at his legs, begging for his attention. Leaves were cutting his shins as they raced along the circling stream. This was his cue.

Demyx turned to face the exit. He was ready.

In a flash, the billowing current burst through the tent flap and vanished from sight, leaving in its wake a restless, expectant feeling. As if it was waiting for him, beckoning him to follow. No hesitation — just resolve.

He wasted no time chasing after it. With one last exhale, Demyx dashed out of the tent and into the action.

III. Vivace con fuoco

It had grown darker outside, with the sun now just a tiny red sliver on the horizon. Stars were visible among the purple hues of the sky. The air was crisp, clear, and still. Demyx breathed deep through his nose. These were the perfect conditions for an outdoor performance, and he intended to put on a hell of a show.

There were over a hundred men, all gathered at the front for the trial. A blond-haired soldier in blue clothes was standing on the platform, a noose around his neck. Demyx gathered that this man must be Smith — the alleged traitor. Strange, he thought. This guy didn't seem menacing in the slightest. If anything, he looked… disappointed. Not afraid, not even angry. Just dismayed that whatever events had transpired had brought him here to the gallows, condemned by his own people.

A much larger man in a flashy uniform stood to the side, reciting something to the crowd that Demyx couldn't quite make out. He must have been the Governor. The rest of the soldiers were standing in the dirt, some holding torches, others with their hats in their hands. They murmured to each other, a low hum of uncertainty resonating in the atmosphere around them.

Prompted again by the insistent force of wind and leaves, Demyx marched forward. He didn't sidle along walls or dart behind crates now. He no longer hid in shadows, holding his breath. These men didn't scare him. When he was only a few feet away, he stepped into the light. Open. Exposed. Vulnerable.

No one noticed him at first. He was effectively disguised in his borrowed outfit. It took a moment for a pair of eyes to fall on him. Then a few more, then another handful, until over half the men were staring at him, mouths agape. Demyx watched as the realization washed over their faces — that he was not one of theirs. That he did not belong. He heard them muttering, questioning his presence, wondering aloud if he was a stowaway. Confusion and apprehension spread among their ranks as they waited to see what he would do.

Once he'd gained every last man's attention, he smirked. Just what he'd always wanted. Every eye and every ear on him. This was his spotlight. He pulled his sitar off his back and held it for a moment, letting himself feel it in his fingers. Calling to it. Praying to it — as if it were something sacred, something divine — that it might breathe its music into him. This instrument housed his very soul, and he needed its power now more than ever.

He slowly raised his hand high in the air, his open palm vibrating with elemental energy. He could feel the world stirring at his command, the weight of oceans bending to his will. Sharpening his focus, centering his pitch, he could pick up the voices of the storms. Their offerings, their battle cries. He inhaled, closing his eyes as he summoned them.

"Water…"

His hand gradually lowered until it was resting above the strings of his sitar. His fingers were at the ready as his mind began weaving together a melody for him to play. He opened his eyes, gazing lovingly upon his audience. The largest he'd ever seen. His grin widened as he prepared to begin his act — one these men would not soon forget.

His next order was spoken barely above a whisper, intense and purposeful as he murmured his magic to life.

"Dance!"

With an almighty pull, he strummed a loud note from the thickest string of his sitar, letting it ring through the atmosphere in growing waves. The soldiers covered their ears, recoiling at the volume. Amplified by magic alone, he plucked a few more notes, each one louder than the last. He called upon the waters of the sea, of the earth, and of the sky, conducting them like pieces of a great, elemental orchestra. Inviting them to join him in the performance of the century.

It started small, at first. Raindrops fell from the clouds, pattering softly to the ground. Lightly, harmlessly. Demyx began to construct a dissonant melody on his instrument, drawing more water from the heavens, guiding it to the ground in thick cascades. By his second refrain, the light sprinkle had built into a torrential downpour.

He glanced around, admiring his handiwork, grinning as torches were doused and soldiers scrambled to stow their weapons under cover, slipping in mud puddles in their haste. Little did they know that he was just getting started.

Now, he composed a new song, one with deep, haunting passages in the bass register. Pools in the grass began to bubble, boiling like cauldrons until they sprang up from the earth into tidal waves. With the power of his sitar, Demyx weaved these streams together like threads through a tapestry, twisting them into funnels and letting them pirouette through the camp.

Tents were collapsing under the weight of the monsoon he had created. Soldiers were running, screaming about witchcraft, calling him a dark sorcerer. Their leader was calling for order, but his cries fell on deaf ears as his subjects erupted into chaos.

"You fools! It's not magic! It's just a storm!" He shouted in a rage. "Ready your weapons! Fetch some dry powder and load the cannons if you must! Just move!"

He raised a pistol high in the air and pulled the trigger, but with its fuse and powder saturated, the weapon failed. Grumbling, the Governor threw it to the ground and unsheathed a sword instead. He climbed down from the platform and was heading toward Demyx with malice in his eyes when suddenly, a crash of thunder reverberated through the air. Demyx looked up just in time to see a thick bolt of lightning stretch across the sky with a blinding flash.

He was confused. His magic could manipulate water, not lightning. He could create rainfalls and hurricanes, not thunderstorms. And then, as another branching beam of electricity spread through the clouds, he understood. His lips curled into a smile.

Thanks, Larxene.

Lightning struck once more, this time aiming for a nearby pole where a lavish red, white, and blue flag was fluttering vigorously in the storm. The fabric was singed away by the electricity, burning up at the corners until only half of it remained.

The surly leader was distracted. This was his chance. With a resonant flourish on his sitar, Demyx swept up another pool of water, tiny droplets congealing into a massive current. He strummed hard, manipulating this new collection into the shape of a musical note before letting it loose. He couldn't help laughing as he watched it chase frightened soldiers into hiding before completely drenching the Governor with a mighty splash.

And then, he felt another presence. A rumbling beneath his feet. The earth was shaking. It wasn't a big enough quake to hurt anyone, but it did topple over some barrels and knock the encampment's outer wall off balance, creating gaps where wooden logs had split.Of course. Those new openings were paths to freedom.

He chuckled to himself. "I owe you one, Lexaeus."

This was no longer a solo performance. Now accompanied by the ensemble of thunder and lightning, in tempo with the steady beat of an earthquake, Demyx prepared for his most dazzling showstopper yet — the encore. Towers of water shot upward like geysers, then unfurled into wide ribbons. By his will, they soared through the air, graceful, but violent. They knocked soldiers off their feet and overturned crates of supplies as they careened from one end of the camp to the other, soaking everything in their path.

Truly, this was his magnum opus. An epic masterpiece, a symphony of collaborative effort, of melodies and counterpoint and harmony all building in a great crescendo. Demyx was playing with everything he had, so fast that his fingers became a blur. He plucked every note with reverence, like a hymn. As if the gods themselves had written each phrase especially for this moment.

The rain was falling in thick sheets, only to stand back up and dance as he commanded. Waves crashed like giant cymbals and thunder rolled like a timpani. Soldiers were running and shouting and panicking all around him. Everyone except for Mr. Smith, who was still trapped inside his noose. Demyx let a few notes ring as he piteously watched the poor man trying to untie the rope. He would have bet all his munny that this prisoner was just as innocent as Vexen. If only there was a melody he could compose that would free him, too.

As if the universe had heard his thoughts, something came zipping through the air, narrowly missing his ear as it whizzed by. He squinted, trying to see what it was.No way…It was a playing card, spinning like a boomerang and heading straight for the gallows at the speed of sound.

In one quick motion, the card cut right through the noose before embedding itself in a far wall and vanishing into a puff of smoke and particles. In that instant, Mr. Smith was free. Demyx's jaw dropped.

"Luxord…" He breathed in disbelief. "Nice shot."

Smith met his eyes for a brief moment, his expression unreadable at such a distance. It was no matter — Demyx sensed every word he would have wanted to say.

There wasn't time for more than a shared look, however, as the Governor, covered in mud and having noticed Smith's escape, came stomping through puddles with his sword in hand.

"Shoot him, you idiots!" He bellowed. "Don't let him get away!"

Mr. Smith had already jumped down from the platform and taken off running before the leader had finished his sentence, with the Governor trailing not far behind. Demyx figured it was high time for him to take his bow as well. He dismissed his sitar, thanking the instrument for its blessings, then quickly made his way back to the tent where Vexen and Zexion had been left.

The air now smelled strongly of wet earth and gunpowder. Darkness bled into every corner of the camp now that the torches and lanterns were out. Rain was still pouring, flooding the ground from wall to wall.

Demyx ran as fast as he could, sloshing through ankle-deep water and dodging mud puddles left and right. He was soaked to the bone, and his bare feet felt like icicles, but he couldn't stop. All around him, men were scattering throughout the camp, screaming in terror and arguing amongst themselves. Fires were starting back up. The first rifle shots were heard cracking in the night. But in all the chaos, no one even tried to stop Demyx as he raced toward the prisoner's tent.

When he arrived, his stomach lurched. The tent had caved in.

The canvas was water-logged, the supports having snapped under the weight of gallons of rain. Everything inside was buried under the debris. There was no sign of Vexen or Zexion anywhere.

"Zexion?!" He called out, praying that he'd get an answer. He dropped to his knees, frantically digging through the mud and debris. Searching. Pleading.

There was movement. Shapes were shifting under the tent's canvas. A figure emerged — Zexion. Drenched and winded, but alive. He was dragging someone behind him by the arm. Vexen. Another man soon appeared with the other arm hooked around his shoulders. Demyx froze when he saw him. It was the boy from earlier — the one who'd left them the keys to Vexen's shackles.

Zexion caught his reaction right away. "It's okay!" he assured him, having to shout over the storm. "He's helping us!"

The young man seemed nervous in his presence, his expression a bit sheepish, but he didn't shy away from the encounter. "W-We'd better get out of here," he said shakily. "He'll be back soon."

Demyx hadn't recovered from the shock, hadn't had the time to determine whether this was really happening. His body moved on autopilot as he rushed over and helped pull Vexen back to his feet. Together, the four of them staggered away from the ruins of the tent, making their way toward the outer wall. They could still hear the sound of the Governor yelling, his voice steadily rising in volume. He was coming closer. He was on the hunt.

The boy gasped, his face pale. He pulled at Vexen's arm, leading the group in another direction. "This way! Hurry!"

The suspense heightened as they set off toward their escape. Vexen was limping heavily, relying on Demyx and the young soldier to keep him upright. They tread along the camp's wooden perimeter, searching the outer wall for an opening large enough for them to fit through. It wasn't long before they found one, framed by broken logs. Zexion hopped through first, extending his arms to help pull Vexen through.

"Now,I have you!"

Demyx's heart stopped. He looked up in horror — the Governor had caught up to them. He was soaked and muddy, his cape torn and his hat missing, though he was no less of a threat. He towered over them, menacing, pointing a sword directly at the young man who'd helped them escape.

"Ah… Another traitor in our midst?" he asked pointedly, drawing out every word with both an air of delight and of repugnance. "You've nowhere to go but to the noose.Allof you!"

"Ratcliffe!"

The new voice belonged to another man who had appeared behind the Governor — Smith. His jaw set in determination, he advanced on the leader with a sword of his own.

The boy cried out to him. "John, no!"

"Stay back, Thomas!"

"Smith!" the Governor growled as he whirled around to face his adversary. His eyes darted between Smith and the young man, his mouth slowly twisting into a sinister smile. "Throwing away your freedom to save your treasonous friends? How touching. You can join them at the gallows!"

There was a clash of metal on metal as the Governor and Smith began swinging their swords. The boy, Thomas, was watching with nervous anticipation as the pair inched farther and farther from sight. Demyx wished he'd gotten the chance to thank Mr. John Smith for this. But there was no time to waste. If they didn't leave now, then all of Smith's efforts would have been for nothing.

With Zexion pulling from the outside, Demyx helped Vexen crouch through the opening in the wall. Once he was out, he climbed in himself, then turned around to find Thomas still standing there, looking uncertain.

"Aren't you coming?"

Thomas didn't answer right away. He didn't even turn his head. He was still paralyzed, his fists clenching and unclenching. Trying to convince himself one way or the other. Demyx remembered this same moment inside the tent — the long silence wherein the boy fought an internal battle between duty and heart. He'd made the right choice then, and was still weathering the consequences of that choice. Now, he was forced to make it again, and there was much less time to decide.

Finally, he turned to Demyx. There was a seriousness in his expression. A sense of determination. A flash of courage. "Thank you for saving John," he said firmly. "Run. Now."

With a shaky smile, the man backed away from the opening and out of sight. It wasn't clear what he was planning to do. The only certainty was that he would do what he believed to be the right thing, even if it meant violating his orders. He wasn't a scared kid anymore. Demyx respected that, and acknowledged the sacrifice he was making for that cause. It was now up to him and Zexion to ensure that Vexen made his way home… for his sake as well.

They were out of the camp, but not yet in the clear. There was a wide open, grassy clearing between the walls of the encampment and the forest. There were soldiers climbing up to the tops of the fort's corner towers, shouting and loading their weapons. Another handful of gunshots echoed in the air as their supply of powder dried. This would likely be the most difficult segment of their escape. They had to make it across without being captured — or worse.

Zexion took Vexen's hand and held it tightly. "The dark corridor is in the woods," he said with urgency. "We have to run."

Vexen gave him a long look, and then a short nod. "Understood."

The younger pair let go, giving the man a chance to stand on his own. He was still unsteady, but he didn't fall. That was all the time they had — another rifle popped loudly above them. They ran. They ran for the trees. They ran for their lives.

Zexion led the way, several feet ahead while Demyx brought up the rear. He kept his eye on Vexen as they ran, only glancing backward a few times to ensure that nobody was following them. Surprisingly, he was managing to keep up, dodging and weaving around rocks, holes, and bullets. They were making pretty good time. There was a large rock ahead — beyond that, it was a straight shot to the woods.

Then, Vexen stumbled and fell to the ground.

Zexion, having already reached the edge of the forest, turned back immediately. "Even!"

Demyx was already there, trying to help the scientist back to his feet. "I've got him, Zexion! Keep running!"

Zexion froze, hesitating. He was wringing his hands. Demyx was still trying to get under the scientist's shoulders, heaving with all his might. More gunfire. More yelling.

Vexen protested in exasperation. "Just go on, Demyx. I'll catch up!"

He was leaning on the rock, using it as leverage to get himself off the ground. Demyx didn't budge, still pulling the man's arm with the full weight of his body. Then, something caught his eye in the background. Two figures, slashing at each other with swords, battling atop one of the fort's tall towers. His mouth went dry. It was Smith and the Governor.

Vexen was standing again, wheezing as he tried to regain his balance. "Demyx…" he pleaded. "You need to protect Zexion."

Demyx looked the old man in the eyes, reading the unspoken words in his heart. He knew he wouldn't make it to the woods. He knew he was finished. That's why he was sending Demyx in his stead. Because Demyx was the only one he would trust to care for Zexion — for hisson.Only Demyx could keep him safe. Only Demyx could make him happy. Only Demyx could love him even half as much as Vexen did.

Vexen gripped his shoulder, his eyes swimming with tears as he pushed him away, nudging him toward the trees. Demyx, still reeling with disbelief, looked to Zexion. He was still frozen. Staring. Waiting. How could he return to him empty-handed? How could he break his heart by telling him that Vexen wanted to be left behind?

He turned back. The scientist was hunched over, catching his breath. This was it. There was nothing more for him to do. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting back all the words he wanted to say. Agonizing as it was, he owed it to the man to honor his wishes.

Obediently, sullenly, he made his way toward Zexion. His chest ached as he walked now. He wondered what god he should pray to for Vexen's safety — or for mercy on his own soul.

A loud shout sounded from afar. Demyx looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.

At the top of the tower, the sword fight had ended. John Smith had been knocked down. Governor Ratcliffe had a gun. He was aiming it right at Vexen.

There was a great howling in his ears as the familiar gust of wind and leaves circled him like a cyclone. Fast, violent, and warm as it always was. Grasping at his clothes, his hair. Pushing him forward like an unseen pair of hands.

The mysterious singing was deafening now, the melody clearer than it had ever been. He could finally make out the rest of the words.

Listen with your heart…

He took off at full sprint, heading for Vexen. "Look out!"

Vexen hadn't moved. He couldn't react fast enough. Demyx begged the wind to carry him faster.

Zexion's voice cried out behind him. "Demyx, no!"

Listen with your heart…

He took a flying leap in front of Vexen, knocking him backward and out of the way. There was a loud, explosive crack, and then immediate pain in his abdomen.

"Demyx!"

Everything moved in slow motion as he soared through the air. From the sounds of panicked footsteps, the warped droning of Zexion and Vexen calling his name, to the bowing of branches, the flutter of leaves. The world was swaying back and forth like grass in a breeze. Colors blurred together. The stars in the sky became jagged streaks against a blanket of darkness.

His head was starting to spin. Goosebumps erected on the skin of his arms, his legs, the back of his neck. His body felt very cold. He shivered once, maybe twice. But at the same time, there was warmth. A sort of wetness that was spreading across his belly.

He'd forgotten the pain until it crept back into his consciousness, deep and throbbing. He glanced down. His shirt was stained a deep crimson.

Listen with your heart…

Time sped up again. Images flashed across Demyx's eyes, one after another, faster than he could comprehend. The cut on his arm. Zexion giving him the stuffed moogle. The first time they made love. Confessing their feelings. Becoming a couple. Finding their heartbeats. The bar. The piano. Their song. Our song. Our song. Our song…

He landed on the ground with a heavy thud, and then everything went black.

Stay tuned, my friends.

Peace and love,

Ostelan