#silentgoliath

Time worked differently in their world. It could no longer be measured in the steady tick of clock hands and heartbeats, instead distorting and stretching however it pleased.

Before long, it became horribly apparent that all other laws (of physics, of men) were affected in much the same way.

The equality of their lives in the Castle had given way to a stringent hierarchy, a pyramid that took only recency and punctuality into account. Still, they accepted their ranks with little to no argument, silently claiming their titles before sliding into the shadows. It was not long, though, before those in higher places realized the mistake, and began shuffling the assignments.

Xemnas was the Lord, but Saïx was lieutenant, thirsty for blood and punishment and influence, and so when word began to spread that “Number II” was only an alias, and not a designation of power, three death warrants were effectively signed.

Oblivion was a lawless place, but once more they accepted their assignments with reticence and grace. Zexion had eyed the Diviner warily when the order came through, his suspicions obvious and well founded—there was a reason he was being groomed for second-in-command. He knew, they knew, but they were Founders, and Founders endured.

In the basements, it felt safer somehow. They were rulers of their domain, camouflaged in umbrage and sharp angles, illuminated in florescent greens and blues. Above them, the traitors watched their witch ensnare a hero, cackling and rubbing their hands at the thought of mutiny. Down below, there was only the puppet and the child for whom he’d been created.

But as it had transpired in the Garden, before, so history came to repeat itself.

They fell one by one—convicted, persecuted, and eliminated, struck down by the indirect wrath of the lieutenant. Two guilty only by association, the last of nothing more than achievement and aspiration.

It was little things, at first—tiny and inconsequential in their own right. A slight clip in his step, a tautness to his jaw, a smell that wasn’t quite metal. There would be times where he would look up and his pupils would be blown wide, hinting at some unspoken predatory pleasure lurking just beneath the surface. His easy laugh brought with it a new found uneasiness in passersby and bystanders.

Aeleus chalked it up to the inevitability of Even’s influence.

The transition from Heartless to human had taken a toll on Ienzo’s already tenuous grasp on morality, this he knew. There were too many memories, too many wrongs wrought; while he smiled and laughed and joked as the others did, there were times still where his gaze went long and his brow knit with quiet reminiscence. Times where Aeleus felt himself decidedly on edge.

Then the screams began.

Had his post been anywhere else, Aeleus doubted he would’ve heard the sound at all. It was a small sound, really, ethereal and wavering, wafting along the night air with such fragility that it might have been nothing more than a trick of the ear. But he knew it wasn’t. He knew the sound, just as he knew the others wouldn’t notice it, having become so accustomed to the pained wails that used to emanate from the cells below the basements. They were all likely sleeping through it, dreams haunted by memory, but it sent a spike of cold dread twisting through the Guard’s gut.

He knew where to go, not from practice or premonition, but by his intimate understanding of the young Apprentice, the prodigy, the Schemer. His feet carried him down and down and down the winding stairs, past the halls and through the archways, deeper and deeper into the pit of the Castle that Ansem had begged them to demolish. And all the while, the shrieks grew impossibly louder, amplified by the cavernous acoustics of the underground.

Three times, he rapped his fist against the door that felt right, standing anxiously at attention as he awaited an answer. When Ienzo opened the door, it was with a belated sort of flicker, the shuddering of a film wrapped too loosely upon its wheel.

Aeleus knew he had wanted him to see the illusion before it faded—Ienzo never did anything accidentally. Still, he didn’t question the sour stench of vomit in the air, nor did he acknowledge the blood staining the front of his lab coat, pooling in his hands, smeared up to his elbows.

He had seen it, and Ienzo knew.

And that was enough.

“Who is it?” Aeleus asked, though he knew he needn’t. The basements were hot, unnaturally so, and the sweat beading on Ienzo’s temples was no illusion.

“It’s not as though I’m doing any real damage.” It was an answer to a question, though not the one Aeleus had asked of him. “Physically, anyway.” His expression didn’t change, but Aeleus could hear the sneer in his voice, could almost taste the contempt in his tone. “Are you here to stop me, then?”

He exhaled deeply through his nose, watching Ienzo with careful appraisal. “They’re expecting him to train tomorrow morning.” Another answer to another unasked question.

Ienzo did smile then—something wicked and sharp and curved like the honed edge of a reaper’s scythe—looking not so much the progeny of a proud scientist, but the crowning achievement. “Of course they are. Can’t have the newest addition to the Keyblade Club out of practice, now, can we?” His tongue flit out to run along his eyetooth in an absent gesture of excitement. “I’ll be done by then,” he added, glancing over his shoulder and into the darkened room beyond.

Silence hung heavily between them for a moment that stretched like an eternity.