A/N: Takes place before all games.
Disclaimer: If anyone in this story belonged to me, I would be filthy stinking rich. Since I'm anything but, you may rightly assume that I'm merely playing with someone else's toys - Square Enix and Disney Interactive's toys, to be exact - and that I may, someday, give them back. When I feel like it.
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Tide at Perigee
by Emiphiste
Chapter One
Under every footfall, a pathway with glimmering patterns would extend ahead of him. He tilted his head down, then up. There is no way, thought the young mage, his teeth pressing gently into his lower lip, that I will ever get used to this.
Any of it.
A sudden movement to his left provoked instantaneous fear within him, and he leaped backward, stumbling against the invisible wall surrounding the edge of the polygonal trail. It was only one of Them – one of their higher-ranking Lessers – those Lessers that were held back against harming the mage granted he stay out of the way of the others. The others didn't take well, apparently, to newcomers.
The Lesser wielded a grand weapon, but it did not brandish the formidable thing at the young man (though if it had, the mage would have likely fainted dead away). Instead, it inclined its head with a vague sentient curiosity, then disappeared back into the wall with a sickening gurgle that the newcomer could only liken to the sound of someone releasing that final hold of air underwater before drowning.
He swallowed and cautiously drew a breath of air into his lungs.
"Demyx." The voice was deep and rich, and the young mage turned about-face, standing straight as if he knew to respect the voice's owner simply by interpreting his intonations. He wasn't used to being called Demyx; it had been a full week since his arrival, and the name still sounded odd whether it was being spoken by himself or others. It wasn't as if he knew what he was called before he was called Demyx, if anything – there was a presence of memory that had formed something of a film over the gap in his mind, but it only called echoes of things to his recognition. Never a name or a face.
Demyx stirred his wrists and brought his hands behind his back. "S-sir? Yessir."
The silver-haired man strode up to Demyx, his authority coolly projecting behind a stony gaze. "Address me as your Superior."
Confused, Demyx parted his lips. "Superior?" He hadn't meant to say it so questioningly, but the inquisitive inflection was there in his voice nonetheless, and he could not take it back. "I – I mean, Superior." He avoided eye contact with the one called Xemnas; the man was too cold.
With a nod, Xemnas clasped Demyx's shoulder with a thin hand and started to lead him in the opposite direction the mage had been walking in the first place. "You will train," he said pointedly. There was no room for argument, though Demyx was burning to know what sort of training the Superior had in mind.
As if probing the other man's thoughts, Xemnas barely tilted his head as they walked to address the young Nobody. "You recall, Number Nine, when you were brought here, how your skills were measured?"
Demyx nodded slowly, a shadow of fear brimming within the hollow of his chest. He would never be able to forget. They had tested him, all of them, and by the end of their trials he had splayed himself helplessly in the corner of the room, shuddering with the last torrents of energy he possessed.
Xemnas stepped easily onto the lower platform, the bottom of his coat billowing briefly with the movement. Demyx followed with a small hop; it was a big step. "Tonight, you will meet Number Eight in the Second Chamber of Arms. He is waiting there. He will help you to improve your skills in combat."
The mage's mouth and throat went dry. The last thing he wanted to do was fight. It seemed, however, that these – this Organization – thrived on the politics of war. They seemed to be obsessed with it. Demyx felt cold. "I – "
"You will improve," Xemnas interrupted him harshly. Demyx fought hard to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, and when he did, he was still unsure how to respond to such a statement – to such a demand.
Xemnas lifted a hand, and an ominous swirl of evil-looking material snapped into an oblong tear in the fabric of space. Demyx frowned deeply and took a step backward, but he was pushed ahead roughly by a powerful hand.
"I – will," he stammered at last.
The air in the Second Chamber of Arms was charged with the anticipation of battle – or, in Demyx's case, the precursor of anxiety to imminent doom – and Xemnas didn't seem to be fazed by it. Rather, the Superior chose only to deliver the young mage to the room and leave him to his fate.
"Call it," Xemnas said cryptically, then disappeared into his conjured ether.
Not even a second had passed after that empty warning, and Demyx was thrown aside, a sharp pain resonating from his side out to the rest of him, ending in a brutal vibration at the ends of his digits before his back slammed ungracefully into a wall. "Ow!" Demyx cried, his voice high and tremulous.
"Get up," said the voice, a taunt gracing its tone.
Number Eight.
Demyx shot an injured glare toward the other black-coated man and resentfully pulled himself to his feet. As soon as he felt able to straighten his body, it was doubled over once more and sent sprawling to the other side of the room. The mage groaned pitifully. "Stop," he said, his voice hoarse.
Number Eight spun his chakrams idly in his hands. They vanished, just like Xemnas' portal.
Pressing his forehead to his hands, Demyx let out a sigh of relief.
"You have to fight me," Number Eight said brusquely, kneeling for an instant to grab the other Nobody's hand and pull him to his feet. Demyx's body buckled in protest, but Number Eight seemed to have no trouble in holding him upright for as long as he wouldn't stand on his own. It was surprising; the red-haired Nobody was at least an inch shorter than him, possibly more, and he didn't seem to be built right for the strength he exuded. Finally, Demyx relented, and leaned against the wall instead.
"I can't," Demyx insisted, panic becoming more apparent in his voice as Number Eight drew back, summoning his weapons once more. "I can't! I mean – I mean, I don't know how!"
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" Number Eight smirked. "To learn how to fight?"
I don't know where to start! Demyx wanted to scream; instead, he choked out: "I don't want to!"
Number Eight ran a frustrated hand through his hair, then dropped his arms to his side. "Oh, you're a real piece of work, aren't you?"
Demyx tried to control his own breathing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Number Eight said impatiently, "either fight me or let me make this quick."
The mage didn't know how to fight these people – these non-people with their fancy weapons and attacks – but he also didn't like the implication of the second option. "Can't you at least give me a hint?" Demyx flailed. This was unlike any "training" he'd ever gone through before. This was just torture.
Number Eight stood back, chakrams lowered, as if contemplating this idea. Then, he gave Demyx a wicked grin. "No."
Demyx opened his mouth in protest, but whatever he was planning to say was granted no opportunity to slip past his lips because at that moment, one of Number Eight's weapons spun viciously toward him. He squeaked in response and dove aside, narrowly escaping what would have been a very painful route to unconsciousness.
"Why?" Demyx shouted, rolling away from yet another attack. Number Eight effortlessly called back the chakram and sauntered over to where Demyx sprang upward, ready to run away from the next attempted blow.
"Because," Number Eight snapped, "you have to learn for yourself. Otherwise, you'll never survive here."
The mage swallowed thickly and bent his knees, uncertain as to when or where the red-haired Nobody would place his next attack. He wrung his hands and backed away as Number Eight advanced on him – he felt trapped; the man was stalking him like prey. The only thing Demyx felt that he was learning was the fact that he was destined to spend his non-existence on a confusing world with savages who would slaughter their weak and struggling without a second's thought.
Silence fell heavy on the Second Chamber of Arms as the two Nobodies paced in a twisted sort of dance, Number Eight grinning at Demyx as if daring him to let down his – incredibly tense – guard.
Demyx felt like he could cry. The other man was allowing him absolutely no escape. Not only that, but he refused to just lay one of his chakrams on Demyx and be done with it – no, he was holding him there, advancing ever subtly toward the mage, pressing him closer and closer to the breaking point.
And, Demyx thought, he was probably enjoying it.
The mage's muscles were strung tightly against his bones with tendons and sinews stiff to snapping. His mind was racing; he didn't know what to do. The only way past the other man was through him, which means he would have to fight, which he was trying to avoid at all costs. He wanted Xemnas to come back and tell them they were out of time – sparing them none of his proclaimed disappointment, of course, but Demyx would rather be scolded harshly than obliterated.
As time progressed, however, that looked like one of the least likely scenarios to happen. Among those scenarios was also Number Eight's sudden and unexplained change of heart.
His own change of heart was more probable. Number Eight wouldn't expect that, either.
Demyx bit his lip fiercely in a final decision, and prayed that he would black out before he felt any real pain. Curling his arm back quickly, he lunged toward the fiery Nobody, yelling out something that he wasn't sure was a real word as his fist connected soundly with Number Eight's jaw.
Then, he winced horribly.
He was right – Number Eight did indeed look astonished at the fact that the mage had assaulted him so. The chakrams disappeared for an instant as the man rubbed his jaw with irritation. "Wrong move, Number Nine," Number Eight growled lowly, and promptly slammed Demyx into a readily-conjured wall of flames.
There was pain. Luckily, Demyx was good at passing out.
It had been an excruciating walk from the Second Chamber of Arms to his quarters, both the unyielding heat from his burns and the lecture from Xemnas weighing heavily on his body and mind. His forehead knocked gently against the wall as he pressed his hand to it, revealing the shimmering doorway that would lead him to temporary solace. He wanted nothing more than to rest.
Hesitantly and tenderly, Demyx slipped out of his long coat, wincing as he felt even the smallest grooves of the leather against blistered skin. The pain reminded him of something – something about a beach, and the sun, and the sun reflecting brightly against the cool, wavering ripples of the ocean –
Just as quickly as it came, the memory faded into the film that ran over his mind. Demyx sighed deeply and kneeled to the chest at the foot of his bed, opening it with a quick flick of the unsecured latch. He knew there was a Potion in there somewhere. With any luck, it would be a substantial enough dose to give him enough comfort for sleep tonight.
After rifling briefly through the stacks of paper, stones, and spare articles of clothing, Demyx procured a green bottle from the depths of the chest. He was quick to uncork it and down the whole bottle, grimacing against the bitter taste and hoping that he could swallow enough of his own saliva in rapid gulps to calm the churning in his stomach and keep it down. There was a brief spell of panic as he thought he would be unsuccessful, but after a full minute of tilting his chin upward, eyes closed, contracting the muscles of his throat just enough, he folded his arms and buried his face into the crook of his own elbow, breathing steadily as the potion worked its magic.
The mage stood, wiping his sticky lips with a bare wrist, and settled onto the firm mattress. He was feeling better. Energized, even. Maybe even good enough to take on Number Eight! He chuckled at the thought, then shook his head.
In his peripheral vision, he caught a familiar glimpse of blue.
His sitar.
It was the one thing that had made it through the transition with him – that transition between Something and Nothing that he sensed was a disturbing one but that he could not fully remember – and Demyx felt that he would not have made it through the whole week without it. Music was a saving grace; it calmed beasts, it frightened the fearless, and it drowned out the cries of worlds helpless against darkness with a soothing, hopeful melody.
Demyx smiled and held his hand out to the sitar. It vanished in a swirl of blue, then rematerialised in the mage's arms. Cautiously, he ran his fingers down the strings, closing his eyes as the chord struck something both beautiful and horrible in the emptiness of his chest. He wiped at his eyes, then started to strum a gentle tune. It was doing him more good than the potion. The melody became quicker and a little more intricate, and he felt the familiar cool mist against his face as the music awakened the ebb and tide of the water he knew was within himself. The ocean he'd remembered only minutes before slipped once more into his thoughts, and Demyx let his eyes flutter shut as a whitecap struck against his wavering knees. He tasted the salt in the air.
When he opened his eyes again, he grinned at the creation that he was certain he'd summoned before – a perfect replica of himself with head tilted, magnificently reflecting whatever dim light emitted from the walls of the room. For Demyx, there was no vanity in creating himself within water – it was no testament to his own glory or implication of the mage's worth – rather, it was a combination and manifestation of the two things he could truly understand in this world: himself, and his power. With music to join the two harmoniously, he knew he would always have a place within something.
His gaze wandered over the clone, and he frowned in contemplation. Then, curiously, he struck a different sort of chord on the sitar, strumming madly, and the clone turned and whipped and whirled in a disjointed and frantic manner, arms outstretched. If Demyx wasn't careful – if he didn't change the tune, it might end up destroying something fragile, and the mage certainly didn't want to incur Xemnas' wrath in a situation regarding the liability for property damages –
The music came to a halt, and the clone fell in an unidentifiable spray to the floor. Demyx's mouth opened slightly, and he swore he felt excitement tug at something in his chest. He pulled his knees up to his torso and leaned his chin upon them, his brow knit in thought. Maybe – just maybe –
With a small, self-pleased grin, Demyx rolled back, his head falling against the pillow as he clung to the sitar. Perhaps – perhaps he could survive here.
He could survive.