He remembers the way it hurt the first time, when Ienzo’s heart had been ripped from his chest. He remembers the disbelief, the fear, the pain, and the guilt that had overshadowed everything. He remembers the horror, and a dying man’s certainty that nothing could ever be as bad.

This is worse.

It’s the betrayal, he thinks: the smiling green eyes that will be the last thing he ever sees. He isn’t sure how he let this happen, how he didn’t realize that Axel would attempt something like this, and only the shock that comes with being ripped self from self keeps him from hysteria. It is taking longer this time (that, he suspects, is intentional), and as much as he wishes that the Replica would let this end, he knows that there will be no miraculous half survival this time.

There will be nothing at all.

He is blissfully numb when he hits the ground, when the Replica turns and walks away, when Axel disappears into a portal. Staring wild-eyed after his would-be murderers, he feels relief and growing confusion settle around him. There may be much that he misread about the Flurry of Dancing Flames, but he knows that Axel never leaves a job half finished.

“I wish he would stop doing this,” a voice murmurs from above him, and Zexion glances up into eyes that are as dark as midnight. The speaker gives off no scent, and although he is certain that he has never seen her before, nobody has ever been so familiar. “Don’t take it too hard,” she continues, her tone gentle, “he doesn’t understand yet.”

“How can I…?” he begins dryly, scornfully, but trails off as he realizes that he does care. He no longer simply knows that he has been betrayed; he can feel it as well, as Ienzo once would have. Zexion’s eyes widen, and he demands, far more forcefully than he probably should, “How?”

She sighs, taking no offence, and pulls him onto his feet. “Walk with me,” she says, and though the words are only a suggestion, he could never bring himself to disobey. “There are some things I need to explain.”

She leads him unresisting away from the scene of the ambush, away from the entire Castle and he is too stunned by the sudden, inexplicable return of emotion to notice that she uses no portals. “You – and your kindred – were trapped in a state somewhere between life and death. Now that you’ve been returned fully to me, you’re closer to what you were meant to be.”

The sense of familiarity returns, and gazing again at the young woman, at the hair that’s blacker than night, at the clothing that serves as a more perfect mirror to what he himself is wearing, at the pendant hanging from her throat – so similar to that of the Organization, but simpler and somehow more complete – he realizes, and, perhaps, finally understands. “I know you,” he states quietly.

“I come to everyone twice in their lives,” she reminds him.

Zexion somehow knows exactly when. “But I was never born,” he argues half-heartedly.

“Not in the normal manner, no, but you still have the memories,” she corrects him with a patience he suspects is unending.

And he suddenly realizes that he does have the memories, and wonders why he never noticed before. “You told him that it was okay, that life was about making mistakes, that…” he breaks off, unable to continue. For almost a decade, he has lived with the memory of guilt and self-hatred, and can no longer remember why.

Shaking his head, he quickly says, “Still, I shouldn’t exist.”

“I hate to break it to you, Zexion, but you actually don’t know everything about the universe,” she tells him, amusement and affection creeping into her voice. “You are mentioned in my brother’s book, and nobody knows more than he about what is meant to be.”

“His book must be wrong,” Zexion says flatly. He knows that he probably shouldn’t argue with such a being, but that has never stopped him in the past. “We’re not real. We’re only fragments of other people. Even our memories are not our own.”

She smiles, and the expression tells him that he is wrong, but not at all foolish or ignorant because of it. He has never before been so comfortable with being corrected. “Do you really think life is as simple as that?” she asks mildly. “My little brother is lord over all visions and fantasies, but he is as real as I. You may not be human, or even meant for this reality at all, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t exist.”

She hesitates for a moment before adding, “Nor is there any fault in being born from another’s death.”

“Is there really an afterlife for us, then?” he asks, even now not daring to hope. “I had thought…” he breaks off, certain that she already knows their theories on the matter. At worst, he had expected complete annihilation; at best, to be simply reabsorbed into Ienzo as if he had never been anything more.

“That is a very human concern,” she sighs, and although she never quite answers, it almost doesn’t matter. She continues to speak, and there is sense to her words, and something like peace, and he is too tired to disbelieve. This is easier – so much easier – than the hell that has been life for far too long, and he does not know why he has always been so afraid of it. He wonders why they have always struggled so desperately to cling to a life that will never be anything more than empty.

But the possibility that they should never have bothered at all is more than he can bear. “Does this mean that the Organization is only meant for death?”

Death smiles again, and the expression holds the sorrow, sympathy, and understanding that he has never before received. “Everything comes to me in the end, but that doesn’t mean that they were never meant to live,” she says quietly, and holds out a single pale hand. “Are you ready?”

“Can I say no?” he replies, and if there is a touch of bitterness in his voice, it is only because of long habit.

“You can,” she admits, sighing softly. “Your kind is unique, and will alone can keep you anchored to this world, if you so desire.”

He can understand that; normal rules do not apply to Nobodies. Only through strength of will has he survived these past years. “What have the others chosen?” he finally asks, although he can already guess the answer.

“They have all come with me,” Death replies, and he does not need to be able to read people to know that this is the truth. She will never lie. “Will you choose the same?”

He considers the alternative, the possibility of returning to the Organization, even for vengeance. He remembers the constant routine, and the nameless fear and despair that lay under every moment of every day. He thinks of the unending struggle simply to be, and the unspoken memory of dying that they all shared. “You’ve never left us, have you?” he murmurs, laughing softly.

“Never,” she replies, and it is no longer such a disturbing thought.  Zexion knows that there is only one choice; he has had enough. Letting go of the burden of memories that has always defined his existence, he reaches out and grasps her hand.

“Welcome home,” Death murmurs, and her smile is like the sunrise to eyes that have never seen the dawn.