[ It isn't the first time he's felt the life spilling out of him, the way it seeps out cold and slow. He'd done it before, standing opposite Ventus and Sora, in the Keyblade Graveyard— but this is different. It hurts more, every inhale becoming thinner, pulling on the torn muscle. Is it worse, or better, than being dismembered? That had been excruciating, but at least it had been quick.
Elden is at his side in moments, and Vanitas' gaze lifts slow, pupils small and the gold of his irises taking up most of his eyes. He wants to laugh about it, the irony of dying for a lightbearer, but when he exhales it comes out bloody and wet. You're going to be fine. It's only death.
And then Elden lays hands on him, and then Vanitas feels his magic up close— too close— and for a moment, everything whites out.
It isn't joy he feels, because Vanitas doesn't know happiness. What he feels is a flood of a memory not his own— the calmness of a decision made. It's Sora, sitting on Destiny Islands, looking into Kairi's face. It's the realization that the fighting is over, that he's accomplished what he set out to do. It's being, and then not being. It's the anguish finally over, and the long, stretching, gentle silence of death. The cradle of a heartbeat that slowly fades out.
And then, all at one, it's Vanitas slammed back into his body— Elden's light pouring into him, stitching the muscle together, pulling bones back into place.
The pain is indescribable— and maybe it isn't pain, but Vanitas doesn't know how else to call it. His longing for what Sora had just before he came here, his longing to be whole and quiet and complete. Vanitas' face is wet with tears, and he puts his hand out, lays it flat against Elden's chest and pushes at him weakly. It's too much Light. It's too much— ]
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Elden is at his side in moments, and Vanitas' gaze lifts slow, pupils small and the gold of his irises taking up most of his eyes. He wants to laugh about it, the irony of dying for a lightbearer, but when he exhales it comes out bloody and wet. You're going to be fine. It's only death.
And then Elden lays hands on him, and then Vanitas feels his magic up close— too close— and for a moment, everything whites out.
It isn't joy he feels, because Vanitas doesn't know happiness. What he feels is a flood of a memory not his own— the calmness of a decision made. It's Sora, sitting on Destiny Islands, looking into Kairi's face. It's the realization that the fighting is over, that he's accomplished what he set out to do. It's being, and then not being. It's the anguish finally over, and the long, stretching, gentle silence of death. The cradle of a heartbeat that slowly fades out.
And then, all at one, it's Vanitas slammed back into his body— Elden's light pouring into him, stitching the muscle together, pulling bones back into place.
The pain is indescribable— and maybe it isn't pain, but Vanitas doesn't know how else to call it. His longing for what Sora had just before he came here, his longing to be whole and quiet and complete. Vanitas' face is wet with tears, and he puts his hand out, lays it flat against Elden's chest and pushes at him weakly. It's too much Light. It's too much— ]
Stop— Stop—