Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned here. I do own the designs of the Fallen Nobodies, however.
Anyway, this was inspired from a roleplay. For my own purposes, I had to create the lesser Nobodies controlled by Zexion. I ended up with the Fallen Nobodies, annoying little things that always refer to a person by their 'true' name and have a bad habit of speaking in riddles and poems. I discovered it to be rather fun, writing how they talked, so I decided to do a little fanfiction about it.
Thus, 'Truth and Lies'.
Truth and Lies
A master of deceit, he is the one who leads them. There are none safe from his trickery, and many a mind is shattered because of what ifs and would be's.... Then, sometimes, their young master uses the worst words of all.
Sometimes, he speaks the truth.
But this is not often.
Seconds and days and years have passed, they know their young master well. It is in shadows, those which he once so feared, that he cloaks himself in. It is with false words that create his ability, spun from a book of untruths. Every expression and every word from his mouth is potentially an invention.
The Cloaked Schemer is their master, and fables are what make his entire being.
But not they.
For they are the Fallen, and every word they speak is truth, although few realize it as such.
To the little boy of light, they whisper how one day the straying cloud shall return to the sky, and how rain will fall, although not from there. Rain will fall from here, from this never-should-be world, because nothing will ever be right.
To the fierce woman who sings like lightning, they rhyme of how many a year ago, in the starry sea, there lived a woman no one now knows, by the pretty name of Arlene. They chatter of how he was a child and she were a child, then they had a child as well- But that is when thunder strikes, and they must scatter to avoid fading away.
To the poison blooded man, they gossip how genocide seemed to be Aramuil's eternal lover, following him although he did so detest its affections. Such slander draws a venomous smile and narrowed eyes, yet they do not cease until he whirls away from their presence.
To the man who kisses Lady Luck and Mistress Fate, they ponder over orphanages and bloody hands, yet rarely do their talks of Lourd go far. For, you see, never does the dice stay in one place, rolling on and on, being picked up again by another before continuing its never ending game until, ah! Snake eyes.
To the siren boy whose songs are never more then weapons, they sigh about the creature who desired nothing more then to sing for his beautiful mistress of the waters. Once she went missing, and Myde searched and searched, stepping further into the shadows for desperation and then... Quickly retreating footsteps always leave their requiems unfinished.
To the white rabbit who traps himself in a maze of fire, they hiss, a thousand death rattles slipping from unseen mouths as they curse Lea and the Fae beasts who took such a fancy to him. Such a fancy, in fact, that they wanted his precious burning heart for their own, and that is when flurries of flames lash out at them, trying to snatch another one of their own in a mirror of the first time.
To the scarred man who loves their moon so, they murmur of how Artemis favored her beautiful Isa above all the other wolves. Such is the cause behind why the moon always reveals the dead in all their horror, they claim, for Hades and Artemis are never to mix. They know that the way they speak leaves him pondering over if what they say is nothing more than fabrication.
To their beloved mountain of such faith, they say little except to sing praises of Elaeus, so kind and gentle. To say more would upset their young master.
To the distant arctic spirit, they are the ravens that report and remind him of how Even let his pride and ambition overrun his sense and morals. This, their young master muses, could be the reason why his companion never leaves the depths of the lab.
To the mighty roc with three razor sharp talons on each foot, they call how well Dilan's loyalty paid him, by stealing away what mattered the most. Always from a distance, however, for they have learned long in the past how flying is naught but torture when he recalls anger.
To his companion the single eyed hawk, they keep their hide-aways ready, no bullet able to pierce them there while they wonder aloud what it must have felt like to have an eye torn out by the very thing Braig had created. The only responses they receive are vicious curses.
To that which controls all by claws around the neck, so soothing yet so terrifying... They say nothing at all.
Here's the link to a picture of the Fallen, in case you're interested.