Parting Wisdom

There is much for him to think about, trapped in darkness.

Ansem thinks first of trust and betrayal. He thinks of his last sight before he plunged into darkness that first time. There's a room and his apprentices, each one precious and dear to him. They're men he trusted, and a boy of whom he was fond, all warped beyond his recognition. Their souls are twisted, hearts hollowed, bodies strange. The ice in their eyes is agony. He would rather daggers in his back than those eyes, would never wish the horror of looking upon such beloved faces and seeing only emptiness upon anyone.

Yet they are what he saw and all he remembers of his final moments in that room. He felt them watching him while he wandered the darkness, driving him further from redemption and deeper into the arms of vengeance and madness.

He remembers the time before that. There was work, mostly, neither rulership nor research easy tasks. It was hard, but fair, and he offered his apprentices the chance to take part in that work and grow their talents. Some of their experiments he rejected—too likely to cause further suffering—while others he embraced. He hoped they'd understand his reasoning. He learned later they did not.

Still he has so many fond memories. He remembers Dilan, ever observant of affection between people, places, things. When not at work in the laboratories he kept watch over them all, a steadfast guardian. He found insects for Ienzo to document, to put his analytical skills to the test. His face was ever stoic, but he seemed soft in those moments—love and loyalty were both important to him then, not frivolous things that might bend, break when faced with a breeze. Perhaps he kept one of those things as Nobody. Perhaps he did not.

He recalls Aeleus, as often at his side as at Even and Ienzo's, their protector. Aeleus and Dilan both would carry the group's youngest on their shoulders, letting him see the world from up high. Aeleus taught him the wonders of the earth too, showed him how to plant and nurture flowers, tend the gardens to make them grow. Though the blossoms were beautiful, it was the soil itself that fed them, and Aeleus who kept them grounded and secure.

Even too is ever present in his memories, desperately throwing himself into his research. His passion to learn made him strange to others, his disposition unsettling to some. His delicate ego and need for praise could be alienating, but Ansem had never minded soothing him. He saw the way he was tender with Ienzo, thoughtful when the boy sought critique and kind when he sought comfort. It wasn't a surprise to Ansem; ice was cold, yes, but add a little cream and it could be so very sweet.

There was Braig too, so strange. His lackadaisical attitude belied his quick wit and even quicker fingers. Ansem can still remember those paper animals he made to entertain Ienzo and the others; foxes and leopards and bears, unicorns and serpents in styles that seemed so strange, so unlike any Ansem had ever seen. "I learned about them from my old teacher," he'd said. "Not around anymore, bless him, but I still feel like he's watching over me. His heart always did guide him right, guess he hoped I could carry that energy into the future. But lil' old me? Be as good as him? As if! Sadly his books went with him, so I can't really show you where I learned it all. Guess you gotta make do with these, huh boss?"

Those words echo, fade into indistinguishable voices that rise again as the chatter of townsfolk. With those voices come more memories, of walking through the gardens when they were safe, water pure and flowers bright, visiting his people as they went about their days. He remembers a young flower girl in her pink dress, buying a bouquet from her. He remembers a boy with an unusual blade and the grouchy old mechanic dabbing medicine on his cut.

"Oh, Leon," the girl sighed. "What happened this time?"

"Boy's been reckless, that's what," the man said. "Cut himself while practicing—says he's gotta be ready for any threats, even if no one will teach him! Well, y'know what I say? Practice ain't gonna do you much good if you knock yourself out, ya damn fool!"

Leon said nothing, but the girl laughed. "You're just worried about him, aren't you Cid? But how about this; I'll go find Cloud and Tifa and then you can all practice together!"

There's a light in the boy's eyes, but it's the man who answered. "Aye, get the boy some sensible company, or else I'll lock him in a room with that daft wizard down the street until he sets you to rights or drives ya mad enough to quit!"

Their words faded as Ansem kept on, the weight of responsibility heavy in his chest. He must make sure the boy and his friends never need to fight.

In the present Ansem bows his head and knows that he failed them, knows that Leon and Aerith and Cid and their friends likely did more to keep his people safe than their king ever did. His chest aches, and the memory resumes.

Hand in hand he walked with Ienzo, his turn to make sure the boy got the fresh air and exercise. They encountered a girl on their walk, proclaiming her status as a ninja—she reminds him just a little of the girl they'd kept subject, the girl who had assured his research must stop. She's brighter though, so full of energy. Her mother apologized over and over as the girl ran rings around Ienzo despite her shorter stature. Ienzo shuffled into Ansem's shadow to escape her, gripping his coat. Ansem knew what that meant; please, can we go now? 

Still Ansem took a moment to tell the girl she'd grow up strong. "I'm sure you'll be a great ninja, just have a care and listen to your mother on occasion, alright?" The girl somehow managed to laugh and sulk at the same time, but she went when her mother called. Ienzo drifted back into the light then.

They go back to their walk, encountered the odd Mister McDuck with his pleasant brogue, buying ice cream to eat while they wander the town. There's a gaggles of pixies making mischief, but not too much. There's two boys, red and blue, playing in the streets—boys who would be his apprentices for just a moment, too short to know them—and a kind-faced grandmother sitting on a bench telling her granddaughter stories. The girl's eyes sparkled and her smile was full of light. 

Ansem loved them all, all his people, his guests, and his apprentices. Even the most unscrupulous wake something in him; the desire to learn, to grow, to nurture, and more than anything, to believe.

A king must be careful for the sake of his people. He must also give them a place to stay, to learn. If he must provide discipline, he must also give the troublemakers somewhere to be safe, to understand, to redeem themselves. He thought it better and kinder than casting folk out into the cold at least, to give them a chance to grow beyond their mistakes. Where could he cast them anyhow? Where would they cause less trouble, less hurt? Would they not cause pain among other innocent people if he let them loose? He has cells, but they are temporary, and he loathed them besides. And I could never kill them. I could not.

Those were the thoughts that had been in his head, amidst countless others. Concern for the heart and what made it give in to darkness, concern for the morality of his own actions. To some extent, he still believes in the ways of his old self. Yet he understands now the cost of his failures. His broken heart stings, but the suffering of his people was a far worse price to pay.

I did not just trust you with my heart, Xehanort. I trusted you with my kingdom's.

Did that make Ansem himself worse, he wonders? Did he have the right to take such risks? Was it worse to be cruel and cast aside, or to gamble with the safety of his people in the hope of aiding strangers, troublemakers, and criminals? But could his own people not fall among that number? His apprentices certainly did.

Have I ever been wise at all? I cannot even answer this question—this question made for kings.

He shivers, and cannot escape the memories that rise with the tide.

Nobodies had become the enemy as he'd sunk into the darkness. Nobodies, and Xehanort. Xehanort had been their guide, their mastermind, and the Heartless had caused Ansem such trouble, but the Nobodies had been the ones to wear the faces of his apprentices. His friends, his students, his family in all but the most meaningless aspect—blood.

The worst of all was Ienzo, just a child and yet with eyes no child could ever own. Gone was the boy he remembered, replaced with something new.

He had never been an expressive child, but despite the comments of others Ansem had never found him cold. He had not liked traditional displays of affection, preferred to hold hands instead of hug, liked to eat ice cream solemnly rather than with joy, and showed thanks with yard long stares instead of smiles—the latter saved solely for successful experiments. There was such joy in eyes then, such that could move Ansem to build a whole laboratory for him just so he'd have another place to work and study.

His eyes had always been as full as any others, if one cared to look. Yet in their last moment together there was only emptiness—in all their eyes, emptiness. No softness in Ienzo, no humanity in Even. There was no sign of Aeleus's quiet thoughtfulness, nor any of Dilan's steadfast loyalty to those he loved. Braig's lackadaisical attitude had taken a sadistic edge—no longer meant to diffuse situations but rather to instigate them in all manner of subtle ways—and Xehanort—

Xehanort.

Just a stranger found in the central square under the most unusual of circumstances. Just an outsider who needed care, who somehow came to be such an important part of Ansem's daily life. In the span of a year he had gone from mysterious figure to one of the most trusted in Ansem's circle, to a concern and finally, an usurper. He'd volunteered to let Ansem study him, to delve into the mysteries of his heart and the threat of darkness that loomed inside them all. Such an act had taken courage, but beyond that he had been intelligent and well-spoken, direct, attentive and curious, and Ansem had seen a kindness, a desire to do good at his core.

He had thought he would listen when he told him to stop. He had trusted him. He'd believed so strongly in the man he thought he was, thought he could be.

But when he'd seen those false reports, when he'd looked into his eyes that last time, all the heart he'd seen there had vanished. Had it ever been there at all?

He remembers falling into nothingness, remembers thinking of his people suffering, their homes destroyed, their world consumed. He remembers betrayal.

He has failed, again and again and again. Yet even now he reflects on his actions, the agony that drove him down the path he walked. He is not certain whether he should be ashamed or forgive himself for the emotions that sustained him. The anger and the hate helped him survive in nothing and darkness, but vengeance had driven all sense and mercy from his mind. His trust had been exploited, and yet in turn he took his pain and exploited others. He took the name DiZ—Darkness in Zero—and became everything he once sought not to be.

Nobodies come to mind whom did not deserve what fate was given to them by their circumstances, and by him. He thinks of a blonde girl he called 'witch' and all the drawings upon her walls, recalls the way he used her up with the expectation she would return quietly to where she belonged once he was done with her. Recalls the shadow of someone whose existence is beyond his grasp, whose suffering he is ashamed to have forgotten. He thinks a blond boy with hopes and dreams and friends, with a desperate desire to be, whose life was destroyed not once, but twice, all for the sake of another.

Perhaps they had to go, for Nobodies were such fragile existences, but there was a cruelty and a hatred in his dealings with them there had not needed to be.

Perhaps if he had not been so vengeful he might have found another way, but as he was, even if he'd had the time, would have been willing to sacrifice it for the sake of those lives he had dismissed as unnatural? Now he would give anything to save them, but then? He cannot say, and that is his deepest shame.

He wonders if he can ever truly apologize. He wonders if they could ever accept. If they didn't he would not blame them, but he would still like to, and if he cannot, he still intends to set things to rights if he can. It is his choice, after all, to do what he can, although there is little he can truly do at this moment. He hopes the data he left behind is enough.

With his eyes on the endless waves, he thinks at last of Riku. He had carried so many burdens—both his own and the ones he had picked up for the sake of his friend. In a last ditch effort to save him he had cast away his body and donned that of the man who first stole his, the symbol of his past failings, his hurts, his greatest shame. He surrendered both his name and self just so he might have a chance of saving Sora, even if it meant he might never see him or any of his other beloved friends again.

Ansem had finally seen the pettiness of his revenge then, though bitterness had remained within his heart. By then he had made his choice—to save Sora and see his vengeance through—and so his only way to do right had been to put the pieces in place to mend all he had hurt at a later date. It was the least he could do to make amends for his foolishness, even if he was not sure he would be there to see his task to completion. Would the burden fall entirely on others again?

In the end, at least Riku would always have the support of the King and his friends. No matter his face, Ansem was certain he would still be loved. It left him wondering though, if he had confided in Mickey as much as he had sought his comfort during the days before his apprentices' betrayal, perhaps some of their collective suffering might have been avoided.

He wonders, but he cannot know.

Quiet then. Thoughts come and go with tide; friends he should have turned to, folk he should have been kinder toward, things he should have done.

His mind turns to Sora. He thinks of his hands, always outstretched, and his heart, large enough to shelter so many inside. He knows the boy is sometimes foolish in his own way, but he feels there might still be more wisdom in him than in any of the actions Ansem performed, in any of the thoughts he had. For all Ansem has done or tried to do, Sora's simple love seems capable of things he could never imagine or achieve—not as he is now, at least.

Still, if he cannot imagine then he must think. There is reflection to be done. With all the fragments of himself he discovers he might piece together a person he can face, understand, and forgive. Others need not, but he thinks he must so he might move forward and do true good, rather than wallow endlessly in self-pity and agony. That, he thinks, shall be his responsibility. To move forward, do good, and think, think, think.

So there he stays on the Dark Shoreline, for however long he does, thinking until a sound unlike waves reaches his ears. There is sorrow in his heart at the crunch of sand, but still he turns to face the new arrival; a woman, with hair like sea and sky and rain, and such terribly lonely eyes.

How strange, he thinks, and how sad. But perhaps while she is here I might give her something, the result of all my thoughts—some parting wisdom, and a little hope.

Hope in a boy so much wiser than me.