kh_drabble | Challenge Post

Challenge: [206] Storm
Title: In The Eye
Word Count: 412
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Um...hi guys! This is my first post here. ^^; I hope I'm doing this right...I'm sorry if I make a mistake or something!

He was on top of the world.

Around him, all creation spun into chaos, violent winds whipping a maelstrom around the islands. The fragile land broke apart like brittle glass, no longer tethered to the earth but free to roam the air in pieces; as in a dream, perfect order was not necessary -- he knew quite well that emotion could be stirred more through the destruction of reality's boundaries more than reality itself, that one felt greater distress watching annihilation happen in a way that didn't make sense than if it followed the order they were expecting.

Yes, the human mind craved order. And that was precisely what made it so easy to break.

The storm would not touch Zexion. He made his throne in the eye of it, letting chaos and discord consume everything around him, and he would feel nothing -- just as he always had. But where another would only see pandemonium, he could see the perfect structure of his illusion; everything was laid out with such precision, such verisimilitude -- it was certainly one of his finest deceptions yet. Had he a heart, he might feel a throb of pride.

Even back then, in his youthful ignorance, he had to have reign over his emotions; the most cleverly-woven untruth could be unravelled with a single mistake, and if there was anything he'd learned in the art of subterfuge, it was that even spiders could get tangled in their own webs. This would not happen to Zexion; he had counted every thread, knew the tension on each and every string, knew exactly where he could tread and where he could fall.

The possibility of failure never occurred to him.

The stage was set, he had the script in his hands, and any minute now his puppet would make its entrance.

"Sora?"

The curtains rose.

Zexion's lips twitched with the urge to form that slight smile a performer dons before they take centerstage, the same smile a liar wears as he spins his tales; this smile was quickly aborted. A beat, and he turned to face his marionette with the appearance of a boy half his age, staring with cold blue eyes that didn't belong to him; he spoke with a voice not his own, held a weapon he had no right to wield, and watched with false and silent merriment as the pages wrote themselves.

In his own delusion, he was king.

He picked up the strings and made his puppet dance.