27 February 2011 @ 10:16 pm
Fic: Gravitational Pull  
Title: Gravitational Pull
Author: breathless_dawn
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I am no king, therefore I own no Kingdom.
A/N: Huzzah! The first piece of writing I've done in months! Written for [livejournal.com profile] kh_drabble challenge [254] expressions of love. Because there is not enough love for Sora's mother. Many thanks to my dearest [livejournal.com profile] iki_teru for the last minute beta ♥ All errors are my own.


Those first frantic days after the world was nearly ripped apart, she calls Sora’s name until her voice deserts her. It’s not until a week later, after the tears have dried and the realisation sits in her heart like a stone that her boy is gone. She begins writing letters.

After the first one is finished she rolls it up, corks it inside a glass bottle and goes to the beach; wading knee deep into the afternoon tide and releasing the bottle into the current. She watches it drift until it reaches the edge of the world.

She doesn’t stay to watch it disappear.

She writes a letter every day, addressing them to Sora at first, begging him to come home. Some, she writes to Riku, and to Kairi, and some to all three of them because they’re all gone, but she knows they’re still together somehow.

After the fifteenth letter, she stops watching the bottles drift and walks away without sparing a glance.

After the twentieth, she stops addressing them at all, just begs to anyone who will listen to bring her son back in one piece.

She runs out of bottles after letter thirty-three. She sets letter thirty-four adrift without one, watches it sink to the shallows, the ink fading in the salty water.

There is no letter thirty-five.




She takes to collecting Thalassa shells, after, and arranges them on Sora’s windowsill.

She goes to the shoals that appear at low tide and gathers shells everyday. After a while, there are jars full, scattered about the house, lining the windowsills and spread haphazardly over the countertops. There are broken bits of shell scattered on the floor and she continues to find sand and shells in her pockets.

After three months of collecting, she realises, they are no longer for Sora. They are for her. A consolation because she can’t quite remember his smile anymore, because his face is beginning to blur at the edges. Because she has to look at old photographs to remember the correct shade of blue his eyes are and she’s losing count of the days it’s been since he disappeared.

The details continue to slip away, and she finds herself wondering if one day she’ll forget he existed at all.




On his birthday, she makes him a paopu cake because it’s his favourite. She meticulously sticks fifteen candles into the cake and lights them.

She makes a wish, closes her eyes, and blows them out.

“Happy birthday, Sora,” she whispers to an empty house, and the day passes like any other.

Half a year has elapsed since the children were ripped away from the island, and as much as she hates to admit it, it’s gotten easier. Easier to accept that her son won’t come home from school in the afternoon, that he won’t make faces at her for making potato stew for dinner, that he won’t smile sheepishly at her when he tracks sand all through the house.

It shouldn’t be so easy to forget so much.

The cake remains untouched on the counter for a week, until she is forced to throw it away because the fruit on top is beginning to rot.




She swears she sees him in the stars one night, a constellation at the very centre of the sky.

“Sora,” she whispers, because she has given up on prayers and wishes and dreams, “I love you,” and hopes with all her being that it is enough to pull him back through the universe, back home.
 
 
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