Rage, boiling-hot and seething, flowed freely under his skin, kept him going, a contrast to that icy cold judgment and resolve the other held. Nike was shifting, ever-coarse, unrefined and undefinable, two natures resting in the man-- the charming exterior, personable and boisterous, loud, a good man, all in all, spirited and rough, and the other-- dark, hungry, ravenous beast of possession and hate-- all his base desires, consolidated into the monster, the creature so foreign to normal folk, but why wouldn't it be? None had seen what he'd beheld, none had witnessed the rise of an empire, built on his sweat and Sora's mind, working parallel to the Sleeping Forest of old, forging the opportunities Sora was to take. All a subtle and clever deal, sweetened by the fact he was the only one that could take up such a task-- without Nike, Sora could not do what he wished, and it both emboldened space and bound him tighter to his purpose, the one, who'd always cared and nurtured, who'd always been there to laugh and to cry, needed him, actually needed him and no one else-- this lashed Nike so closely to Sora that the difference between them was naught (no boundary, inseperable, two parts intertwined to form one cohesive whole, whether they were separated by distance or not, this superceded that, his heart beat for Sora's, and Sora's for his) and this was before.
B e f o r e t h e f a l l.
Before this wretch took apart what he'd built, sundered his plans with one fell swoop-- to break that infinity he called his own, to shatter and destroy the sky like that, unforgivable, disgusting, vile, low, terrible. Evil. Then, then they defied again, years of more sweat, blood, dripping from his hands and body, he could recall endless amounts of pain that he'd gone through to set the path right once again, Genesis, a new beginning for them, for AT, for the world itself. Another name that was a vow, set about those muscular shoulders. Again, Sora needed no one but Nike, again, this was single-handedly done, the man a bastion of strength and power unimaginable, all borne of that single-minded devotion to one thing and one thing only-- the sky, his sky, the world would be Sora's and Sora was his and he was Sora's and it was all that mattered. To make this possible, Nike was willing to do anything-- this small task ahead of him was not one of those difficult decisions or acceptances, no, this was a simple, pleasurable task-- crushing the one that crushed his brother, so many years ago. A normal person would let that go, bygones be bygones, but no, Nike had let that hurt, the pain and the injustice swell, feeding it, day by day by day by day for five years.
Not a day went by when he did not think of Sora's form on the ground, legs twisted, AT broken out, blood, the precious blood spilling onto the ground. Not a day went by when he didn't review that pursuit and the beat down upon Kiric, relishing in the Regalia upon his feet and the title upon his name. Gem King. He was the Gem King now, all the power that Kiric once held now his, and even his Road reworked, thanks to what Sora had taught him. Long, loping leaps forward, following along Kiric's path carved into the ground, and he could wait, waited five (maybe six now?) long years, riding high on this feeling, loving the stretch and exercise he was getting, focused only on the rose-haired one before him. The moment Judas glanced back was the instant he coiled and leaped towards him, grin painted on his features as he burst forth, expending that effort for the first attack.
Yes, he was the shadow-- relentless and terrible and inkyblack, following close behind every moment-- he was the shadow of his brother -- the wrath, the power behind him, the space to support the sky-- the shadow of the past -- torn flesh, rent ligaments and tendons, fragile, birdlike body prone on the ground; the fight afterward cut too short after his victory to tend to that wounded brother-- and the shadow of the future-- the two of them standing above all, mirroring grins and arms around each other's shoulders, Kiric in the ground where he belonged and the world theirs, in those hands that once pressed against a cool glass container, triumphant past all their troubles.