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Chapter Text

Xehanort is going to develop some rather impressive neck pain, if this keeps up. He'd wanted to see more of the world -- to be off of that island -- but he hadn't expected how large this new world would be.

If Destiny Islands is a small, easily-navigated set of islands, Scala ad Caelum is a sprawling city layered on top of itself, going higher and higher and higher until one imagines it scrapes the heavens themselves, as the name suggests. It's bigger than anything Xehanort has ever seen before. It's incredibly intimidating. He could get lost here, easily -- winding his way through the many streets and districts, until he ends up stuck in some dead end like fish will get turned around trying to find some escape from a net.

The people, too, are strange. Not in a bad way, but just -- different. The people Xehanort had met on Destiny Islands (not many, because the Islands were and are small, but still enough to get a feel for these kinds of things, on the days when his parent would take him to the market to learn how to trade and how to be polite and interact with other people) had all been rather easy-going. There was an unspoken sense of community, even for Xehanort and his parent who lived out on the smallest island that wasn't large enough for much of anything. There was a sense that they were all friends, or should be, and that it was best to help others. If you were injured, those from the main islands would visit, help you with tasks or chores until you were healed enough to go about your day like normal. If you were sick, they would bring you soups and foods, carefully kept from spilling during the boat rides, and would sing stories over cooking fires as they waited with you to make the sickness less agonizing.

Scala ad Caelum is not like that. It is so large that the people are all gathered in little groups. They walk the busy streets without looking at others, they purchase things instead of bartering. From all that Xehanort has heard, it seems that there's a large divide between the Bluebloods and those who aren't a Blueblood (whatever that means). He doesn't know why, exactly, Scala ad Caelum is like this, but it seems. . . lonely.

Still! It's so large that Xehanort will never tire of new places to explore, surely -- and that fact excites him, if nothing else.

What truly fascinates him, though, is the Keyblade Wielders. The school to learn to be such, the ways they are all taught equally. (As equally as they can be, in a place like Scala ad Caelum, but Xehanort appreciates the effort put in regardless.) He hadn't originally planned to be a keyblade wielder, had only tossed the idea about in his head like one tossed stones across the waters, had thought of it as something from those strange dreams and nothing more. But he had travelled through a strange gateway (something hot, and dark, and reminding him of the way coals are nearly black save for the glowing lines of red, but were still so hot, so dangerous, and should not be touched), and had stumbled his way into Scala ad Caelum, found by a tall man who named himself Odin. Odin had decided that, since Xehanort had appeared at the school for training Keyblade Wielders, he may as well be trained as one.

It really isn't all that bad -- his classmates are all kind. They're strange, certainly, different from what Xehanort is sure the schools at Destiny Islands would be, but still kind. (Except Eraqus. He's not quite kind, but he is nice, and he keeps his claws tucked in and reserved for those who hurt others. Which is, in a way, kind of him. Maybe all Bluebloods are like that?) Hermod is certainly kind enough, offering spare school notes from past lessons for Xehanort to learn from. Vor is always willing to tell Xehanort this story and that, draw him into a conversation to be included, and Urd shares book reccomendations. Xehanort can't read Scalan script quite yet, though, so she'd nodded decisively and decided to teach him how to read, instead, which is very kind of her, even if it feels a bit patronizing that she assumes Xehanort doesn't know how to read at all instead of just being used to Scalan script. (Destiny Islands has their own writing system, which is so much easier -- their symbols are designed to resemble what they mean, with the kana to help with spelling things out until you've got the kanji memorized, but Scalan uses an alphabet and sometimes the sounds those letters make change in a word, how does that make any sense?) She means well, though, so he appreciates it.

Still, as much as Xehanort tries not to get it get to him, something about this place wears on him. It's different -- he's different, compared to Scala ad Caelum. Its people. Its history. Everything about this place is -- different. Not what he is used to. (And, quietly, a part of him wonders if he will ever belong here, or if this is just one more place to stay before he is once more sent on his way to a different world.)

"Careful!"

He slides in the dirt, feet pressed into the earth as his arms strain under the weight of the keyblade pressed against his. Xehanort scoffs, quietly, and pushes until Hermod's blade is pushed back to his own side. And then, as it often is, training continues.

It's difficult, keyblade training. It's exhausting. Oftentimes painful. But Xehanort can't deny that it's also helpful, helping strengthen his bonds with his classmates, as they all train and get scuffs on the edges of their boots and shoes, as they slide in the dirt and get blisters from gripping their keyblades too tightly, together.

They'll have their first expedition into a different part of Scala, soon -- one of the older areas of the city, where Heartless tend to appear more. The Bluebloods leave those places, Xehanort has been told, so that aspiring students can train somewhere more safe than the relatively unwatched and unknown locales of other worlds.

Xehanort is (mostly) looking forward to it -- it'll be proof that his training has paid off, and proof that he's truly been integrated into his class, instead of just "someone who fell from another world". And -- it will be nice, to see more of Scala ad Caelum, even the parts that are less-seen, less-travelled, the parts that some may not think are worth seeing. (Everything is worth seeing, in Xehanort's eyes. His and his parent's island, smallest of the islands Destiny Islands had to offer, was inevitably picked over, Xehanort finding all of the places to play or hide. Scala ad Caelum, in turn, is massive, and he thinks he could find something new every day if he looked. It's invigorating, the possibilities.)

"I think that's enough for today." Urd calls, and while Hermod sighs something about not getting enough practice, Xehanort is grateful to her for it. He's sore all over, even if it's the soreness of effort spent rather than actual injury, and he is grateful for the rest.

As he sits, something white catches the corner of his eye. Xehanort looks -- oh, it's Baldr. Xehanort isn't entirely sure how to feel about Baldr. For all the others' emotions are easy enough to get a feel for, in the sense that Xehanort doesn't have to poke his metaphorical head very far out of the shell he usually keeps his emotions in (it's easier to avoid being overwhelmed by everyone's emotions that way), but Baldr. . . Xehanort's never been able to get a sense of what Baldr is feeling, ever. He wonders if Baldr just. . doesn't feel things, and if that's why it almost seems like every emotion is difficult for him to act out, but it'd be rude to ask about it, and so Xehanort is left not quite knowing how to approach Baldr.

(He thinks Baldr looks lonely. Xehanort wants to reach out, but. . . Baldr is intimidating, with his easily-practiced smiles that veer on the edge of being aggressive, some days. Xehanort wishes he was more confident, but for now. . . well. He'll talk to Baldr another day. Another day, another day, just in a little bit. He's only been here a few months, and Baldr seems well-liked by everyone, especially with his older sister Hoder being so loving, so. . . it's fine for now, Xehanort tells himself. Another day.)

Xehanort can't help but sigh to himself again. Scala ad Caelum has ended up. . . so much more difficult, than living in Destiny Islands was. (. . . he misses his parent. It would be nice to have someone he knows with him, in this place. It still doesn't quite feel real, that they've died. He misses them.)

Chapter Text

Xehanort finds himself sitting at a coffee shop, tucked in-between a bookstore and a bakery, somewhere in the lower levels of Scala ad Caelum. It's a bit worn, a bit weathered, older wooden chairs that don't entirely fit the tables, posters and signs and other things plastered over the walls, the menu scribbled onto a chalkboard posted outisde the door, and carefully written in neat letters on a board hanging above the register.

Really, it doesn't at all fit the sort of aesthetic that you'd find on the higher levels of Scala ad Caelum, the ones near where the school is. It's much more the atmosphere of a place that's halfway hidden, that doesn't have time for dealing with the nonsense and posturing that the bluebloods and other higher-classed Scalans have.

. . . Or, Xehanort could be projecting heavily. But -- he does enjoy it here.

He'd not known where to go, in Scala, outside of wandering the school some. He had landed practically on its footsteps, and though he was from off-world, something about his "promising aptitude" made the Bluebloods want to insist he stay at the school rather than kicking him out. Or something like that. But Bragi and Hermod had both taken Xehanort by the hand (literally -- each had grabbed one of his hands, and Xehanort, who had been held only by his parent for many years before that, did not know what to do with the feeling of a different hand clapsed in each of his) and dragged him down to the lower levels, the places that the Bluebloods sneered at when they thought no one was looking.

Speaking of Bragi and Hermod.

"It's important to have time to be." Hermod says, quietly. "Just the three of us."

"We can't remind the Bluebloods and the others too much that we're not as rich and privileged and possessing the Founder's bloodline." Bragi snarks, not looking up from his pile of stationery as he does so. (It's almost ridiculous, actually, the sheer amount of stationery that the other boy manages to fit onto the table. Where does he get it all from? Where does he fit all of it? What does he need it all for?)

"Bragi." Hermod chastises, but it's without heat. "Be nice. Xehanort should have time to learn his own biases, not just copy yours."

Xehanort's brows furrow. "Shouldn't. . . wouldn't you want someone to not learn biases? At all?"

Hermod and Bragi both snort, simultaneously. "You don't live in Scala without getting biases." They say, also simultaneously, almost like they'd practiced it.

"There's too many layers of politics and too much history for you to be able to have the privilege of not having biases." Bragi continues, finally looking up with a scowl, pen in hand. "The Bluebloods will go on and on about how they don't have any biases against people, how they're so great and so kind to us non-Bluebloods, but they're lying liars who lie." There's a sort of bitter humor from Bragi, then -- not in his words, but the emotions in his Heart. Something tired and laughing not because it's funny but because laughing makes it seem not as terrible. Something -- almost Light, with the coldness of it, but Xehanort doesn't have any idea what could be the cause of it. Has Bragi had some bad experiences with Bluebloods who talked like that?

"Don't mind him." Hermod, without looking, pat's Bragi's shoulder, his eyes focused on Xehanort instead. "It's just -- Bragi tends to chafe under the Blueblood's attitudes. Most Bluebloods sound nice enough, even if some of them aren't, so -- use your best judgement, and develop your own biases instead of adopting someone else's, alright?"

"Alright. . ." Xehanort says, a bit doubtfully. Hermod's Heart sings of clear contentment and comfort and belief in what he's saying, though, so Xehanort will do his best to . . . develop his own biases, he guesses.

Hm. "Do --" Xehanort stops. Reconsiders his words. He wants to word this the right way, doesn't want to be misunderstood. "What's with all the stationery things, that Bragi has?"

Hermod's Heart curls in amusement, and it shows on his face. Bragi's Heart doesn't do much, just an echo of happiness from within the shell Bragi usually keeps his emotions in, but Bragi sighs theatrically and motions at the piles. "I like stationery." He says, simply. "I like being organized, and making sure I'm getting everything done on time and have my notes all in order and neat, and stationery helps me make sure I'm on top of everything. All my notes are color-coded and highlighted and I use sticky notes and index tabs and whatever other things I might need."

That makes sense, and Xehanort says as much.

Hermod laughs, picking up his cup from the table and sipping at it. "Bragi takes it as a personal insult that the Bluebloods -- our classmates with the gold emblems, mainly -- don't put as much effort into learning the classwork."

"They think it's all so easy and it's just been handed to them because they grew up with keyblade wielder parents and if they won't put in the effort to learn then I will, and when someone inevitably needs help with notes or remembering what we did in lecture then I'll have the answers." Bragi proclaims, though Xehanort can't feel any of the earlier bitterness -- only a faint sense of smug pride. "Besides. Us silver-emblemed students have to stick together, right?"

"Are we the only students at the entire academy with silver emblems?" Xehanort asks, tilting his head just-slightly, the way his parent did. "And, mine is a different color -- does it mean something?"

"The emblems are different colors so people can easily tell if you're a Blueblood or not." Hermod explains, still holding his cup. (Xehanort thinks it's a chai latte? Though he doesn't understand why you'd add milk to tea.) "Officiallly it's for tax purposes, because Bluebloods have to pay different tax rates than non-Bluebloods. Unofficially it's because the Bluebloods don't like mistaking one of us for one of them."

"Us from the lower levels of Scala aren't all the same as the Bluebloods, we have a lot of differences. Cultural differences, accents, things like that." Bragi gestures, pen still in his hand. "People like you--" he points at Xehanort "-- have a gunmetal emblem, rather than silver, to show that you're from off-world. Also officially for tax purposes, but I think the Bluebloods just are attached to their class differences." He shrugs, sets the pen down, and picks up a highlighter to begin working on some other thing, inside the notebook he manifested from. . . Xehanort doesn't know, but from somewhere. "No one from down here is going to talk like we're from down here when at the school, though. They don't like being reminded too much that we're different."

"I. . . see." Xehanort doesn't really, but that seems the type of thing that you say in this situation. Why does Scala ad Caelum have to be so complicated? The most Destiny Islands had as far as caring about bloodlines was making sure you didn't accidentally marry a sibling of yours, or making sure that those chosen to read the sky had had parents who were also chosen to read the sky, in the past, so that you could be sure that they'd have been taught how to read the sky. But even that was for practical reasons, not -- whatever this is, that Scala ad Caelum is doing.

"We're not the only ones with silver emblems," Hermod says, after a moment, "there's also Sigrun, Vala, and Vidar. They're upperclassmen. Sigrun is dating Helgi, I think, so Helgi is also honorarily one of us."

"Helgi is one of us in spirit if not by blood, 'cause he'll come down here even when he doesn't need to, and don't look at anyone strange. 'F it weren't for the emblem giving him away, or his prettyboy Blueblood face, you'd think he was one'a us." Bragi's voice is suddenly thickly accented, and Bragi grins (something rough, and a bit -- what's the word. . . charming? somehow?) at Xehanort when he looks up. "His accent ain't as thick as mine, but most nobody's is, mine's real thick 'cause I'm from deeper in the lower levels."

"Bragi lives around here." Hermod answers a question Xehanort hadn't even thought to ask. "That's why he knows all the different shops and stores that are squirreled away here."

"Ain't nothin fancy." Bragi interjects, and his Heart echoes faintly of embarassment. "Anyways -- less talkin' about me, more talkin' about today's lecture. Xehanort, was there anythin' y'struggled with?"

Getting drawn into the conversation about schoolwork and lessons and their classmates is strangely easy, for Xehanort. It's nice, though. Xehanort hopes they can keep having these meetings, in the ambiance of the coffee shop, with his classmates who aren't as neat or composed as their other classmates, but are still kind and welcome Xehanort, don't so much as blink at anything odd that Xehanort does. It's nice. (He wonders if they'll meet the upperclassmen, Sigrun and Helgi and Vala and Vidar, some day.)

"What are they doing?"

"Hm?" Bragi looks across the courtyard, following Xehanort's gaze. "Oh, the upperclassmen. They're going to be going on a training journey."

Xehanort tilts his head. "Training journey? Like, off-world?"

"No, not yet. That's next year. This one is just a practice trip, to one of the other islands of Scala." Bragi explains, stretching one arm behind his head. "The off-world training journeys are supposed to be more dangerous, so you're not allowed to go on them until you're in your second-to-last year of schooling, when you're like, twenty-one or twenty-two, and you've been an adult for a few years."

"Are the in-world training journeys less dangerous, then?"

Bragi makes a so-so motion. "Less than off-world, but more than other training missions in Scala."

"I hope everything goes alright." Hermod comments, one hand in the pocket of his jacket. "You never know what might be there."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Bragi reassures. "The other classes have almost graduated, and they'll be going off-world soon to manage things. If anything happens they can step in."

"Are they allowed to do that?" Xehanort wonders.

"Technically no, but," Bragi shrugs, "not like anyone would be too upset."

Something catches Xehanort's eye, from the other side of the courtyard. Oh. "Baldr looks worried."

"So he does." Bragi hums, bringing one fist to rest beneath his chin. "I worry about that boy, sometimes. He always seems to hover around his sister. I don't know how well he'll do without her here to help him if things get too overwhelming -- he's like a weird anxious rabbit."

"Bragi." Hermod hisses. "Don't be mean.

"I'm not being mean!" Bragi insists. "I'm just being accurate. Baldr needs more friends or else he's going to collapse into a puddle, I'm telling you."

"I could be his friend?" Xehanort means for it to come out more confident than it does, but it's apparently going to be that kind of day.

Bragi and Hermod both blink at him. Hermod brightens, at the idea, while Bragi seems to slump. "If you want to!" Says Hermod, cheerily, an approving air about him. "He could use more friends."

"If this blows up in our face and it turns our Baldr is a jerk of a Blueblood like Eraqus is, I'm going to say I told you so. Just so you know." Bragi grumbles, but still stands when Xehanort and Hermod do.

The three of them walk over to where Baldr stands, single-file, like a line of chickens. Baldr doesn't seem to notice them until they're only a few feet from them -- and then he looks at them with wide, wide eyes, like he isn't sure if they're a threat or not. (That's a kind of sad thought. Maybe Bragi's rabbit comparison isn't too far off, after all.)

"Hi." Xehanort begins, having no idea what he's actually going to say.

". . .hi." Baldr says. His voice is quiet -- Xehanort keeps forgetting how quiet it is, but maybe that's why Baldr never really speaks up in class.

"You look worried. Is it about your sister?" Hermod's voice is very good at being gentle without feeling condescending (the way Urd's voice will go, when she makes her voice soft).

Baldr nods, slowly. "I know that nothing bad will probably happen. But -- but what if it does, and I'm left alone?"

"Would having someone there to help you out make you feel better?" Xehanort asks this time, tilting his head in the way that he does.

Baldr stares at him, blankly.

"What he means," Bragi cuts in, "is do you want to be friends? We're all forced to be friendly to each other because we're classmates, but, none of us want you melting to an anxious puddle, so we could help you not get stuck in your head and spiral into a never-ending pit of anxiety." He pauses. "If you want."

Hermod turns around to glare at Bragi, but Xehanort just watches Baldr. Slowly, Baldr shakes his head. "I -- not right now." He says in a sudden rush. Like he has to get the words out before he loses confidence. "Maybe in a few weeks? But I -- I wouldn't be a good friend right now, and. Hoder says you shouldn't have friends if you're not going to be a good friend to them." He really does look anxious, now.

"That's alright." Xehanort says, and tries to give Baldr the same smile that his parent would give him, when Xehanort couldn't focus from all the stimulation, the feeling of everyone's emotions leaking out of their Hearts all day all the time. "Just -- when you do want to be friends, if you want to be friends, we'll be waiting. Take care of yourself -- your sister would want that, right?"

". . . right. Of course." Baldr bows his head, all formal and apologetic, before walking off. Hermod and Bragi, who'd gotten into some quiet, hissed argument with each other, pause and watch him go, just like Xehanort does.

" . . .that boy really is an anxious rabbit." Bragi comments. "I hope he'll be alright."

"I'm sure he will be." Hermod reasons. "The worst that happens is he gets anxious and doesn't talk much while his sister is gone, right? He'll be fine. Baldr just needs some time to get used to his sister not being around all the time."

(Despite that, something doesn't feel quite right, to Xehanort. He can't explain it, though -- only knows that it is.)

He shivers, despite the generally warm -- for Scala -- afternoon. Bragi, of course, picks up on this. "Cold, island boy?"

Xehanort scowls in fake-upset. "Always. I don't know how all of you live like this, the wind is so cold here. Destiny Islands was never cold like this."

"That's a you problem." Bragi replies, and Xehanort sticks his tongue out in response.

"Can both of you just -- not, today?" Hermod says, in the despairing tone of someone who has witnessed such sights many times before. (He has. Bragi and Xehanort both enjoy, for whatever reason, riling each other up and fake-fighting. Vor thinks they acutally don't like each other, and Eraqus has no idea if they love or hate each other. Xehanort would feel bad about it, but their reactions to his and Bragi's fake fights are funny.)

"Only if you buy me coffee." Xehanort demands.

"I also want coffee." Bragi adds. "Also bakery bread."

Hermod throws his hands into the air. "Fine! Fine. I'll get you your coffee and bakery bread. Come on, then." And he begins walking away, just like that.

Whatever tense, off-putting feeling Xehanort had felt earlier is gone. It's a warm spring day, his friends are beside him, and -- life is good.

Yeah. Life is good.

Chapter Text

Xehanort does his best to put his worries out of his mind. No news is good news, according to Scala ad Caelum's cultural views (which is weird, to Xehanort, because in Destiny Islands it'd always been "no news is bad news" because you had no way of knowing whether someone was alright unless they told you), so he tries not to worry about it.

It's not too bad, at least. Easy enough to get into the groove of classes again. Xehanort plays chess with Eraqus (and doesn't lose as often as he used to, take that; he thinks the reason why Bragi never played chess with Eraqus is because Bragi knows he'd beat Eraqus soundly, and Xehanort's playing chess with Bragi has taught Xehanort enough to be decent at it). Xehanort takes notes, and studies at the coffee shop and bakery with Bragi and Hermod.

Something still itches at him, but he tries not to worry about it. (He's doing a lot of trying not to worry about it. He doesn't know how to explain anything other than just having a bad feeling. Hermod and Bragi seem to accept that easily enough, though, and Xehanort is grateful for that at least.)

A few months pass. Bragi dissapears, returns with some strange sweets. "From a different part of Scala." He says, mysteriously, and then even moreso — "don't tell Master Odin."

Xehanort, realizing it's most likely from one of the sub-ground levels of Scala (the ones that are always cool and damp and remind Xehanort the most of Destiny Islands, though they're never allowed down there because apparently it's too dangerous because it's the poorest part of Scala), firmly decides he'll never breathe a word. After all. With how Odin likes to watch his students like hawks (and Xehanort has never understood more why Baldr always shies away from the attention after realizing what a skittish thing Baldr is), it must have been a feat for Bragi to slip away long enough to find these, and then return.

Hermod similarly says nothing, and only accepts the sweets.

They taste like there's ocean salt in them. Xehanort swallows around the lump in his throat and, with teary eyes and shaky hands, thanks Bragi. Bragi waves it off, but Xehanort can feel the steady pride-accomplishment-softness-trust-love-love-love slipping out of Bragi's normally ironclad heart. (For all he doesn't look like it, Bragi loves Xehanort and all of their classmates so much. Even Baldr, who no one has been able to really befriend, still. Xehanort despairs, a bit, when he realizes just how much Bragi lets his care go unnoticed, but — shared glances with Hermod, and wringing secrets out from Bragi, and the two do their best to make their third friend feel less distant.

Hermod says Bragi had just appeared, one day. That he'd been an orphan, sent from one of the other cities that'd made up the greater Scala area until it'd fallen to Heartless breaking through the Astral Plane those many decades ago. There had been a stasis spell wrapped around Bragi, and Hermod had said that Bragi hadn't said anything when the Keyblade Masters had first found him, only lashed out with his own keyblade when they'd tried to approach him. He'd blamed the accident on that island's Bluebloods, was the secret that Xehanort and Hermod had managed to coax out of him, and Bragi's rare confession was that he'd lived on lower levels just like where he'd slipped away to to find treats.

Xehanort thinks that, for all someone had loved Bragi very much to keep him alive, they had also been very cruel. It's terribly cruel, to tear someone away from their home and make them the last person able to remember what it'd been like. He wonders if that's why Bragi is so gentle to him, if Bragi is seeing himself in Xehanort. If Bragi is so much gentler to Hermod because Hermod has no blue blood, only red, and Bragi still can't bring himself to fully trust any Bluebloods for all he cares for their classmates.

He can guess, now, why Bragi always sounds vaguely bitter when talking about Bluebloods. Why Bragi never quite trusts them, what kind of bad experiences he must have had. The destruction of your home because of someone being arrogant and poking at things they shouldn't have been would do that to you. Xehanort has learned a lot about Bragi, and about Hermod, in the months he's been here.

He wonders if Hermod's apparent easy, light childhood is quite as gentle as Hermod always says, or if there's something Hermod is hiding with half truths.

Xehanort wonders a lot. He tries not to let it affect how he treats anyone. There's lots of things he's learned not to react to, with how the feelings of their hearts are always leaking out. If Bragi wants to keep his heart locked up and chained away, Xehanort will respect that.)

"Hey," Bragi brings up a week after that, lips pulled down at the corners and eyes pinched. "Have either of you seen Baldr recently?"

Hermod frowns back, and Xehanort scrapes through all of his memories — "no," they both say, with shaked heads and frowns.

"Do you think. . ."

Hermod sets an arm on Xehanort's shoulder, squeezing encouragingly. Bragi curls in on himself, worrying his lower lip between his teeth and those amber eyes narrowed with worry.

"Do you think something might have happened?" Xehanort finishes, trying not to clench his fists. (He does it too much. He'll break the skin of his palms and then have scars in them if he keeps doing this."

"It's. . . possible." Bragi says, carefully. Too carefully. Xehanort can't get any idea of what Bragi is feeling, even without Hermod's wriggling uncertainty and anxiety drowing everthing else out.

"The training trip went well, did it not?" Hermod worries, and when he worries, he starts speaking more clipped and careful. More formal, as if by painting himself in the mannerisms of Bluebloods he'd have their confidence. "It should be fine, then, for them to travel to off-world. Naught should be that large a challenge, after all. Right? So there would be no reason for Baldr to be gone. No funerals or inheritance rites, naught of that severeity."

"I don't know." Xehanort doesn't like this. But there's not much he can do. "Let's just — let's just try to keep an eye out? And when" (when, because they would see him again, Xehanort is certain) "we see Baldr again I'm going to befriend him and I won't let him say no. He needs more than just one person."

Bragi nods, slowly. "Alright." He slumps, then, against the table, and Hermod carefully pats the top of Bragi's head. "Alright."

Xehanort wonders if this is bringing up any bad memories, for Bragi. He hopes not. He'll just have to keep watch for Baldr, and everything will turn out alright. (It has to.)

He wonders, the entire time that they're searching for the upperclassmen, why everything feels so wrong.

Xehanort doesn't know how to word it other than things just — feeling wrong. Off. Like a skipped record, almost. It feels like something squeezing his chest, a weight pressing down just enough to make moving difficult, but not enough to be noticed —

Xehanort knows, from the flickers and dances of everyone else's Hearts, that he is the only one feeling this way. (Not even Bragi's Heart, in its unknown state, betrays any feeling of unease.)

Fighting Heartless gives him an outlet, but Xehanort still worries. They've been given cards to use for strengthening themselves, and Xehanort is grateful for them (they feel familiar somehow, in the way a memory of a memory does; something from his parent, perhaps? Or those strange dreams he'd had, as a young child?).

(In the privacy of his own thoughts, Xehanort remarks that Scala ad Caelum seems to have some sort of obsession with having cards or medals or totems or something as an outside vessel for getting stronger. He has no idea why, and it's rather strange all told, but it isn't harmful or anything, so. . . Xehanort won't be the one to make a big deal out of it.)

Either way. There's not much that can be done except press on, and hope they can find more clues about where the upperclassmen are and what happened to them. It's all they can do.

(Privately, Xehanort is glad that they'd split up. In this situation, as much as he appreciates and cares for Eraqus, Vor, and Urd, he thinks the friction would wear at him. It's, more than anything, the fact that he knows Bragi and Hermod, the kinship the three of them share of not being Bluebloods. Xehanort hates that he doesn't fully trust his classmates, but — he knows what he's felt from Bluebloods, in Scala. He knows how some of the younger Keyblade Masters have looked at him, and the other two of his trio. He knows by the innocently unkind comments made by Eraqus and Urd and Vor, ignorant of the harm because no one had ever told them that it could be harmful.

He shakes the thoughts away. Tries to. It'll be fine. He trusts Bragi and Hermod to guard his back, and he knows there'll be less tension if Eraqus, Vor, and Urd can guard their own backs. It'll be fine. They'll meet up with each other if and once they've found anything, and if they stumble upon Baldr somewhere, it'll be all the better for it.)

The taste in his mouth is sour like denial and his Heart trembles in worry. Things will be fine, though. They have to be fine. (He can't show his worry or fears. Showing those things out on the battlefield is a risk, lets Heartless in.

Be slothful and well-rested, by envious and always strive for new heights, by avaricious and always fight to keep that which is yours, be gluttonous and always be well-fed, but never be wrathful and let your vision tunnel down to the focus of your ire. Never let anger fester. Those are the teachings of the Four Unions, of Scala ad Caelum. Sloth, Envy, Greed, Gluttony, those are the tenents that are respected. Things that one must draw wisdom from, shining Light on them so as to see the lessons one can learn. Wrath is a false light, so Master Odin says, and Xehanort does not have as much faith in these tenents as it seems the others do, but he will be selfish and be well-fed and well-rested and he will keep striving to be better and better. Self-improvement and self-care, and so it makes sense that Wrath isn't included in the list.

So he keeps the frown off of his face as firmly as he can and he refuses to give in to that sinking, cloying feeling settling into his chest.)

Chapter Text

It's all a blur, it's all too fast—

Meeting his classmates and meeting the Upperclassmen and then Vor was gone and then they were following the Upperclassmen and then got separated. Going back to Scala ad Caelum and then Baldr is there and Xehanort is so so glad to see Baldr (but something is wrong something is wrong) and then they're looking for Vor and the Upperclassmen again and then and then and then—

The underworld and Hades and Cerberus and fighting and fighting and Baldr and Bragi and Thor left behind (and Xehanort doesn't remember Thor nearly as well because Thor had been a new student, only with them a few weeks but already left behind with Xehanort and Eraqus and Hermod pressing on ahead) and looking for Vor and the others and then back to Scala and then and then—

baldr and white and keyblades and heartless and blood blood so much blood—

(Xehanort doesn't like this. This isn't real. It can't be real. it has to not be real please let it not be real please)

It is a nightmare, come to life, and Xehanort — breaks.

(Corpses and corpses and blood, so much blood — and they are all dead and Xehanort can only know dread and he wonders what has happened to Bragi, Bragi who had been so distrustful of Bluebloods and Bragi who had gotten stabbed in the back by one. And he wishes he could unsee Hermod's eyes, glazed over in death, chest unmoving and green jacket stained red and gold turned copper-orange.)

Things blur. shift. memory comes in fragmented pieces.

The upperclassmen try to fight Baldr. They (the few of them left) fail. Eraqus and Xehanort try to fight too, because (rage and wrath behind his teeth and Xehanort thinks that if this Light is what caused this trembling rabbit to become a terrified beast lashing out and sinking claws into everything he touches, then he wants no part of the Light at all, but wrath is not for Keyblade Wielders to have) they are all that's left, them and Baldr and Master Odin.

Baldr, chained, and Xehanort, moving to strike, and then—

agony

pain, pain, searing sharp pain, and oh

(he wonders if this is what Bragi had felt, when he'd died, this sharp agony and then quickly growing numbness)

— and then.

No. He thinks.

I don't want to leave yet. He thinks.

(Something trembling, in the back of his mind, in the shredded pieces of his Heart. You do not wish to leave?

It feels like making a deal with a demon, this — this force that feels like nothing but Darkness, that feels like crashing ocean waves and the faint traces of citrus. All the same — no. I don't want to leave them yet.

Very well. The voice speaks. You would have died regardless. To you, I grant this mercy and this curse. Fare thee well, Ghost of Scala ad Caelum, Changeling Child of the Isles of Destiny.

And then the pain twists—)

and then Xehanort is — apart. Foggy, he watches his body. (There is something wrong.)

His heart stops. He can feel it.

(He can feel the sudden searing heat, and the way Baldr's eyes grow glassy with madness, teeth too sharp, choking smell of mint rolling off of him in waves, the way he's merged with that strange Heartless.

Xehanort can tell — he has died. His body had breathed its last, and now he is here, a ghost—

and something terrible, something old and ancient and hungry and clever, has taken his body as a vessel. And it's Xehanort's fault.)

Chapter Text

He witnesses it, that ghost — that monster — burrowing into his corpse. He witnesses it, that agony and despair and pain burrowing into the body that has not-yet-stopped-breathing, the Darkness filling in the space where Xehanort had been to the point that his the body has not even the time to properly die.

He turns away. He cannot stomach the sight. (Not that he has a stomach anymore, being like this as he is.)

Xehanort remembers the stories his parent had told, time and time again, when he was younger. He remembers the visions and memories that would bleed from their heart to his, and how scared he always was because he did not recognize this, did not know how to control it. (His parent did their best, bought him gloves so that his ability would be dulled, carefuly coaxed him through how to separate his-heart from everyone-else's-heart. It . . . helped, somewhat. Not as much as either of them had wanted. But it helped.)

Xehanort cannot do anything, now, but watch, and witness, and it burns and burrows into him, the sheer grief—

all of his classmates (friends?) are gone. Eraqus is all that is left, and Eraqus — poor, sweet Eraqus, who was bigoted in the way one who'd never quite had their worldview challenged was, poor Eraqus who had never learned to look at the lighter and darker shades of grey by necessity, poor Eraqus who would never see the lowest levels of Scala because why should a Blueblood lower himself to that—

Eraqus was never prepared for this. It's no wonder he broke, unknowing last survivor of the massacre that he is. His world remains painted in shades of purest white and darkest black and Xehanort — cannot handle seeing what Eraqus will become.

(He will regret, in time. Will feel the weight of his guilt pressing down, down, down, like a rock upon his chest. But right now the wound is far too raw, far too fresh. So he flees.)

Xehanort wanders the worlds, for a while. It's almost freeing, being a ghost — no more responsibilities, no more obligations.

No one to talk to him or tell him what to do, and isn't that lonely? Isn't it agonizing?

And then, and then—

He finds Bragi.

Bragi, who should be dead.

Bragi, who'd been so tired, so haunted, like he'd known something the rest of them hadn't, before he tied.

Bragi who is older now, whose eyes are a darker brown, whose hair is losing its red brilliance and turned black by the lack of sunlight, Bragi who is here and still tired but very much not dead.

Bragi who can see him.

At first, Xehanort is angry, is wrathful at the lie. He screams, and yells, and though his hands cannot touch Bragi (because Bragi isn't dead) he swings his fists and claws with nails as though that would accomplish anything, would vent the betrayal.

It does work. Somewhat. Too soon (or not soon enough), however, the feeling fades, until Xehanort is as hollow as he had been at the start. A ghost with nothing left, just an empty Heart and Soul floating along with no body attached.

"I'm sorry." Bragi says, when enough time has passed that he realizes Xehanort has no more wrath to spare.

". . .why let me think you were dead?" Xehanort asks, quietly, sitting beside Bragi on the sun-warmed stone (not quite feeling it, but the thought is nice).

Bragi shrugs a single shoulder, the action far more tired than Xehanort has ever seen. Like this, he can feel Bragi's Heart, the emotions bleeding out more freely, things crying out in pain and exhaustion and bitter resignation. (Resignation to what?) "I don't really. . . have an answer." He says, slowly. "I was. . . tired, I guess."

"Well." Xehanort says, quietly. "That makes two of us, then." He doesn't say much else, then. But, somehow. . . he doesn't think he needs to. Not for now. "Do you mind if I stay, for a while?"

Bragi blinks, slowly. "Are you. . . lonely?"

"Yes." Xehanort says, softly, and in the silence that resumes he can keenly feel the absence of Hermod, their trio turned to a duo. "Aren't you?"

Bragi is silent. His Heart, however, howls in lonliness and grief.

"You can stay." Bragi says, softly. "But I — I'm not who you think I am. What you think I am."

"That's alright." Xehanort says, just as soft. "There's still time for me to learn who and what you are. If you don't mind. Friends keep each other's secrets, and we're friends, aren't we?"

Bragi's smile, now, is a soft, tentative thing. "We are."

(There was something old and tired, in Bragi's eyes, but Xehanort sees those eyes alight and the youth return to Bragi's face and he thinks — a ghost he may be, but he will do all he can to protect his last living friend. Even if that means letting secrets lie, or learning who Bragi truly is.)

Chapter Text

Time passes, in strange and warped ways. Xehanort. . . drifts. (It's easier, to drift — scarily so. Far harder to keep himself in the present, to keep himself tethered and sane.)

The mourning is constant, as is the grief. But then — he's a ghost. All he is is grief, anymore. Tired, and aching, and wishing something (anything) had gone differently.

"Do you miss them?" He asks, one day, as he follows Bragi's wandering through the streets.

"Like a rib from my chest." Comes the answer. Bragi's eyes are tired. They're barely even amber anymore, edging more towards black. His hair has lost its red sheen, too — it's almost unnerving to see. "I miss them, but I don't. . ." he sighs. Sits on a nearby stone wall, that is common in this world. "I mourn so many people already." He says, with a weight to it that makes Xehanort want to weep. "What's a few more, right?"

It should mean something, Xehanort thinks. It should mean something.

(How sad must it be, how painful, that you know grief so well it is your default state? How much must that bleeding wound lie open, for more grief to not even be a drop of water amongst the sea? Bragi is almost entirely grief, and Xehanort doesn't know how to help him.

In many ways, Bragi is more a ghost than Xehanort. He can't think of anything more sad.)

Eventually, eventually — Bragi decides to move.

"This world just. . . doesn't fit me anymore." He says, in explanation. Not that Xehanort had asked — it feels rude to ask, now — but Bragi said it all the same.

Even with access to the Lanes Between blocked, supposedly, Bragi knows a way through. It's some other mysterious thing, Xehanort knows, related to why Bragi is so full of grief, why Bragi blinks like he's in the midst of a hazy morning.

(Xehanort does not care to remember the journey. He only clings to Bragi, and settles back into the shell of himself, and refuses to abandon his last friend.)

Bragi settles into the world the same way he'd settled into Scala ad Caelum — finding an identity for himself, letting others fill in the blanks of his story, until he is Braig of Radiant Garden, who learns from the old castle guards and has found himself a new career.

(He is nineteen, now. He had been sixteen when Xehanort had died. Xehanort doesn't know how to feel about the fact that three years have moved so quickly — or, has it been more? The worlds move at different rates. Xehanort is. . . wary.)

(He has been a ghost for — how long now? How long has it been? How much has his corpse aged, held by the Darkness as it is?)

"Why the name change?" He asks, instead of spiraling further.

Bragi, sitting against a wall in the low twilight evening, shrugs. "It was written."

"Written?"

"In the Book of Prophecies." Bragi inhales (shudders) and turns to properly face Xehanort. "I have. . . a long story, to tell, but you have to promise not to get mad." He sounds vulnerable. He sounds young.

"I'll listen." Xehanort promises. And he does.

(He thinks, after the story is told — after Braig, or Bragi, or Luxu, or whoever this friend of his is, sits in front of him waiting for rejection—

Xehanort thinks that there is no one he quite hates as much as he hates the Master of Masters.

"Was there a heart in the body you're in now? When you first found it?" It's a morbid question, but Xehanort finds he doesn't care what the answer will be. Bragi — Luxu? — is his last living friend, and Xehanort is a ghost. He doesn't need to have morals, anymore. Not really.

". . . no." Luxu — Bragi? — says, softly. "The boy that was Bragi was — not stillborn, but his Heart wasn't there at all. His body was alive but he would have died soon anyways. It was. . . easier to slip my Heart into the empty space, than to tear someone else's Heart out. And I —"

He sighs, and looks at Xehanort. "I'm not saying this to make you like me, at all." He says, eyes still dark and exhausted. "This body has grown its own Heart, over time. I liked being Bragi. But this body has its own Heart now, and sooner or later Bragi — Braig — and Luxu are going to have to figure out what the differene between the two is. And I'm not sure which one I am."

"That's alright." Xehanort says, just as soft. "You'll both be my friends. You just shared a body for a while."

Bragi-Luxu-Braig looks at Xehanort, and raises an eyebrow, but he — they — smiles. "Thanks, Xeha."

"It's not like I could go anywhere, anyways." Xehanort tilts his head back. Looks at the sky, now dark and filled with moonlight. "You're my friends. And I'm just a ghost. My. . . time has run out. Yours is still ongoing. Why wouldn't I stay by you?"

". . . you should check on your corpse, anyways." Bragi-Luxu-Braig tells him. "Just in case. And — let me know if anything major happens, alright? You can't get hurt, but I still want to know. Even if you're a ghost you're still our friend, too."

"Alright. It's a promise, then."

They shake hands, the two — three? — of them; and so, it is.

The time will pass and the ghost will drown in his metaphors and hollow emptiness but he knows, he knows — at least there is still this. This promise to be friends. This promise to protect each other. At least there is that.)

mourns his friends, stays by bragi bc they're both 'ghosts'.

ends up going with bragi to radiant garden when bragi-luxu hops to the next vessel out of necessity of time passing