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{ ATE : Echoes of Shadow : 1 }
{ Xehanort : Realm of Darkness ~ Xarcabard : Castle Zvahl }

Within the darkened halls of the ancient fortress, in the center of the throne room, a single corridor of shadow opened. From its depths stepped the silver-haired master made young, decked in his black and crimson attire from his time as the decrepit master.

On the first fall of his boot in this realm, an invisible, intangible pulse reverberated through the castle, calling its host to present itself--though he was already in the room itself, the feeling was still... almost enthralling, in the direct sense that he must obey. The corridor closed, leaving Xehanort standing with his arms crossed as he stared forward toward the throne.

"So, I see you've taken his power for yourself." It was both a statement and the openings of discussion, as if prodding an explanation.

The four of them stood silently, patiently, in the dull glow of the Sun-Cryst, staring at the ancient suit of armor and tainted greatsword leaning against the pedestal, bathing in dark energies. Moments prior, their fifth, enveloped in countless weaves of temporal magic, had simply… vanished. Disappeared from time and space. All that was left was a single, stationary spark hovering in the air. And that was the point at which they all stared, waiting, uncertain.

They didn’t have to wait much longer.

The spark suddenly erupted in reverse, revealing a great, oval rip in space the grew tall, wide, vast, roaring and consuming great energies, and then simply… collapsing into nothing. In its place crouched the crimson-clad time sorceress, and at her feet, bleeding profusely, unconscious if not worse, was a naked, scarred man.

“What happened?” Xehanort demanded, slowly strolling forward.

“The only time at which his being was tangible was at the moment before his death,” she hissed, clearly frustrated. “I tried. I went through his entire life. Every single moment, every single choice, was too stable, too immutable, even with all of this.”

“It’s hardly an issue,” Kuja said with indifference, flicking a wrist toward the dying man as a great wave of healing energy passed over him… and seemed to do nothing besides seal his wounds. The sage’s look darkened. “What’s wrong?”

The scarlet angel looked over to Kefka, who gave her a raised brow.

“His vitals are too low,” Lugae said, barely moving, though the mechanical glint of his eyes twisted and refracted different layers of light. “You’re only keeping the body alive. His mind seems to be locked in a cycle of regaining consciousness and slipping out entirely.”

The genome hissed. “You caught his soul half-way through transpiring. He’s useless!” he sneered, turning away in disgust.

She nodded toward the collection of items and raised a brow of her own. A moment later, the clown’s face suddenly lit up with unbridled glee.

“Well, this is a disappointment,” Xehanort muttered, staring down his nose at the scene. “The Guardian is not often mistaken. Are you sure you didn’t miss something?”

“You don’t think I looked?!” she hissed, looking up at the master with matching golden eyes narrowed. “I scoured every second of his life, I watched and tried so many—” her eyes suddenly went wide— “What are you doing?!”

Both Xehanort and Ultimecia were only just able to jump backward—the crouching woman pushing herself backward onto her rear—as Kefka suddenly appeared above them, gripping Garland’s ancient blade, and with a peal of maniacal laughter, he threw it down, blade first, directly into Garland’s chest.

The blade touched flesh, stopped, and energy instantly burst outward in an overpowering wave that sent the clown flying backward and forced everyone to shut their eyes.

The pulsing softened and ceased. Everyone slowly brought their arms down and opened their eyes, staring at a figure that was little more than a black, monstrous silhouette of a man, if he could even be called that anymore.

“What were you thinking, you stupid clown?!” Kuja shouted, torn between shock and disdain.

“New chick suggested it!” he said—though somewhat wheezing—from his position stuck to a pillar.

“I may have raised a brow and motioned my head,” she mused, smirking.

“Why?! Do you have any idea what this might do to—”

“He’s alive!” Lugae shouted, utterly shocked.

Everyone went silent.

“His vitals, his brain waves, they’re all… well, they’re going utterly haywire, but he’s—oouck!”

Without warning, a powerful gale of wind rushed up around Lugae and ripped him through the air toward the shadowy body, pulling his face almost down to the ground before his throat was caught by a swiftly-outstretched muscular hand.

The gnarled head slowly turned, white eyes glowing with palpable rage.

“You… will… help… me…” an oddly two-toned voice snarled.

Ultima smiled. “Welcome back, old friend.”

The Shadow Lord listened with unwavering attention, a feat that before all that had transpired, the Nightmare Dreadnought would have found difficult. However, when it came to Master Xehanort, his presence and the air of command that the young man held made it impossible to ignore, not that he intended to. As the Favored One turned away from him and began to walk away from the Throne Room the Lord of the Castle followed. Partially because he was curious as to where he was headed, but also because of a feeling of needing to do so. He had explored much of the castle in his time. The large labyrinth like fortress was starting to feel familiar to him at this point as they headed towards the lowest levels. What was drawing Xehanort to those depths though, he wasn’t sure. Despite his mental pondering he still listened carefully until the silver-haired man had stopped speaking.

”I care little for the other replicas. After Ajora failed us and disappeared everyone seemed to just go their own way. I chose a much more direct path to the power I desired, I’d say that worked out rather well,” He concluded with a slight smirk. ”Regardless of my feelings towards them though, someone else is messing with them and that doesn’t sit right with me. Which ones survived and what would you have me do?”

She nodded, acknowledging the warning and the advice. Already she could tell the truth of the volatile emotions. She’d so far cycled through elation, joy, curiosity, awe, a little bit of surprise, and all of them hit her like a ton of bricks. Nothing negative, which was such a novelty she wanted to laugh again, but she suppressed it so she could listen. And then she thought for a moment to answer his question, but she ended up shaking her head.

"Not at the moment," she confessed. "But I think I might later on. Is there any way I can contact you if I do have questions?"

It was dark. Then again, it was always dark here.

The Realm of Darkness had always been a cold, desolate place where time and space colluded against standard reality. Minutes could have been hours or seconds. Moving in one direction could actually take you in the other. There was no 'north' or 'south'. There was no designated order. And once you entered, it was particularly difficult to leave without the proper means of spatial translocation. Effectively, once you entered the shadows' domain, you were either lost... or welcomed.

And that had only grown more overwhelmingly true since an awakening a short while ago.

The Replica known as Saint stood silent, as if in meditation, within a clearing near what seemed like endless miles of monstrous, briar-filled overgrowth. Energies flowed through him with intoxicating ease, more pure than even concentrated oxygen. The shadows rejuvenated him, brought him a sense of... not serenity, per se. He may have felt connected. He may have felt assured.

He may have felt hungry.

And then, like a terribly unsettling stillness within a storm's eye, something shifted in the air and he felt... alone. That sense of oneness was gone. It may have seemed at once refreshing and terrifying: his emotions were no longer amplified, strengthened, but they were all the more his. He felt the same way he'd felt after awakening as himself.

The way he'd felt before the voice gifted him power, which he now felt absent.

"Must feel pretty weird," called out a voice from his side, neither man nor woman, "having that uninvited influence suddenly gone after you were just getting used to it."

There, near the edge of the clearing and leaning against a gnarled tree, was a figure cloaked in the old Organization's black-hooded garb, their arms crossed, their form largely obscured by shadows made from the strange pseudo-moonlight. They strolled forward, casually and without any show of hostile intent.

{ ATE : Echoes of Shadow : 7 }
{ Xehanort : Realm of Darkness ~ Xarcabard : Castle Zvahl }

The man released a small hum of thought, but little more for a few moments, taking in the room under the scarlet light.

"This room is older even than the Zilart," he explained. "In fact, it is the oldest construction in this world--if one can even call it a construction. Perhaps a better phrase is manifestation."

There was a flash of white light that bounced across the room as Xehanort summoned his keyblade. Slowly, he lifted his arm in front of him, and let the tip of the blade roll forward such that it was pointing downward, while his other hand came to grasp the handle with his first.

And then, with a single breath, the room grew radiant... and cold.

A keyhole appeared in the far wall, and the glass-like formations around them revealed a glow of their own, refracting and filtering the dim light of the keyhole into a sickly teal shine that overpowered the red, making the Lord's orb appear almost yellow due to the mixture of lights. The younger would immediately recognize the sensation rushing through his veins and chilling his blood as the awakening of vast quantities of dark energy, and that would bring a revelation as well: this room was made of pure, naturally generated nethicite.

Xehanort lowered the blade, but the room remained aglow.

"This is the doorway into the heart of this world," he said. "The crystals here were once simply that: pure magicite. But in the ancient days, the first to find this place brought forth their dark intents, so promising the world to turmoil and conflict for the rest of its days until the darkness prevailed."

He turned now, his yellow gaze locking with the others. "The Shadow Lord served the Darkness as faithfully as one could expect, keeping this room and the domain around it under his control as best he could, and for his purpose he was gifted the power to do so," he explained. "I am here to see to it that the new lord is likewise enabled, should you pledge your loyalty to the Darkness and its inevitable authority."

{ ATE : Echoes of Shadow : 9 }
{ Xehanort : Realm of Darkness ~ Xarcabard : Castle Zvahl }

There was little more than the faintest hint of a smirk to show Xehanort's approval. And then, little more than the faintest breeze as he twisted his black keyblade and thrust it directly into the new Shadow Lord's heart.

The young man would have heard a familiar click as his body and heart were forcefully opened up to the energies surrounding him. The pale light grew ever more luminous and swirls of ancient magic swept up and around him from below, enveloping his every fiber before rushing into the spot where the keyblade seeped into his being. He could feel the dark energies of the room, of the castle, of the very world itself, and he felt suddenly tied to them--no, not tied to them, but in control.

He saw flashes of history in the blink of an eye. Vast, terrible black armies, all waiting, all hungry.

Moments later, though the scenery calmed and Xehanort's blade vanished, he could still feel its ebb and flow. Its breathing. The world's heart beating.

"The Shadow Lord protected this dominion by wielding its essence like a weapon, molding it to suit his sovereign needs," Xehanort explained, crossing his arms once again. "Now, so too shall you."