2Dust coated each and every book on the shelves in Zexion's rooms. Hands had not cracked their spines, nor had fingers traced the words on their pages, in what seemed like eons. Their owner— always gone, never able to pause for one moment— neglected them, had forgotten them. Once, they were prized above any other possession. They would sit on their owner's lap almost everyday, cerulean eyes staring back at them. Now, their owner had a new friend with Latin writing on their spine and spells that supposedly kept Zexion safe.
Jealousy never took long to set in.
The illusionist walked into his room after what seemed to be an ordinary day. Right on schedule, he was sitting at his desk, penning a report that would later arrive on another desk without fail. Tea sat next to him as well, the aroma filling the room. What happened to Zexion's enjoyment of the scent of books? Did he not used to enjoy that? Why had this routine become so regular instead of picking up a book off the shelf, and keeping it close to him until he slept?
The books could not control themselves, and started to change. Doctor Faustus, a book that was covered in notes and markings, shifted from the tiny playbook into a man that could be considered Doctor Faustus himself. Xehanort, the man that persuaded young Ienzo into these studies, stood behind an unknowing Zexion, studying him. A grimace crossed his features. Look at how that Nobody had fallen. So prideful to think that the laboratory was the best idea when not realizing what the consequences were.
The Picture of Dorian Gray was next, the blue binding becoming a mess of hair. A short boy stood, ogling at the Nobody sitting in the chair, young Ienzo seeing his future. What— how could this have happened? This was where the research led? This was what he was going to become? He almost could not bear to look, but knew he had to keep his gaze on that man— no, Nobody. Zexion had to see him.
"Oh Zexion, look what happens to the things you neglect." Ansem the Wise's voice sounded as he almost strode out of The Canterbury Tales. His voice was heard by deaf ears, ones not even aware that he was standing. The ruler looked to the bookshelf, seeing Paradise Lost about to fall. Out of it spewed monsters from Pandemonium itself: Heartless, Unversed, Nobodies, spiders the size of kittens, and snakes that coiled around the legs of Zexion's chair.
Not all of the books wanted to come off of the shelf. Some wanted to stay and watch the show, play innocent. Others were simply frightened of the results of displaying themselves in front of their owner. He would never pick them up again if he saw them, never. They watched as Hector walked calmly out of The Iliad, taking the form of Lexaeus. He spoke, his voice low. "Zexion," was the only thing he said, not wanting to say more. Next to him, Aeneas in the form of Vexen stood tall, looking down at the illusionist. "You've truly lost your way this time, Zexion," he warned, standing silently thereafter.
Alice in Wonderland was the last to fall, the book that had not been touched since the man became a monster. It was covered in the most dust out of the rest of the books, afraid of being touched by its owner. Alice knew why, but she did not come out of the book. Instead, tea cups filled with blackness that were the size of stoves jumped out, followed by cards with the faces of the fallen citizens of Radiant Garden; all of the citizens he manipulated and led into the laboratory were looking back at him with a blank stare. They were only ghosts.
Red roses with thorns coated the walls, covering every last inch and blocking out the window. The only light that remained was the candle flame on Zexion's desk, flickering as each book fell off the shelf. Zexion hardly paid it heed, letting it watch him finish the last of what would be a good report. Well, he was prideful enough to think so.
"I think it's time you turned around," another voice said, one that Zexion heard. "Come now, don't be shy. You know you must." He sat up straight in his chair, his back rigid against the wood. Unease blanketed him and kept him cold, and forced him to stand and turn around. The pen dropped on the desk, filling the room with its sound of metal falling against a wooden desk.
That was the only sound Zexion heard as he stared, his eyes wide with terror. Another Zexion stared back at him, grinning wildly.
"You're mad, you know," he teased, "You see all of this? All of it you brought upon yourself. Isn't that simply wonderful?"
The true Zexion screamed, and the darkness of his room enveloped him as books continued dropping off the shelves.
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