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It’s in the earliest hours of the morning, just as the sun begins to peek its head out from beyond the horizon, that Regis finds himself walking, tiptoeing, into Noctis’s bedroom. The day has been long - meetings upon meetings, words of political assurances that bear no meaning - and the King finds himself feeling exhausted. Fatigue tugs at the skin beneath his eyes and his knee aches, his heart yearning to speak to his dear wife, but she is no more. Instead, he peers into the crib in the room, where his tender and quiet infant son lies sleeping. Noctis is breathing steadily, wisps of black hair atop his head, and for just a moment, Regis feels all the tension of the day ebb away.
Noctis is so small and in that moment, Regis imagines an entirely different possibility. He’s no longer king - a world where that’s never been a thought in his mind - and he sees Noctis, from wailing infant to bumbling toddler and beyond, playing just like all of the other kids do. And then he sees another vision, one likely just a few years away. It’s quiet, solitary, and a young prince with black hair sits upon a throne much too large for him. There’s no joy, no sounds of laughter echoing through the chamber halls. Instead, the prince remains seated, trained to be still, to be seen and not heard, and there’s nothing left for Regis to ponder.
He thinks to his wife, his dearly departed love. Noctis has clear blue eyes, just like the beautiful jewelry the king so often gifted her, and he only hopes that shade of blue remains as he grows older. They’re his mother’s eyes - one last gift from her before she departed the world. And her words, to a crying infant unaware of the severity of the world around him, continues to echo in Regis’s ears when the walls of the Citadel fall still.
“Walk tall, my son.”
Regis doesn’t know a thing about parenting - how to govern a country, how to use the magic of the crystal, how to protect everything his ancestors hold dear, he’s got all of that down. But taking care of his son, of the person who suddenly contains the whole world - he’s not so sure how to do that.
But he does know the vision of a child free from the restraints of royal duty looks more beautiful, more promising, than the image of one shackled by the destiny of his birth. That’s how Noctis will live, at least until he has to take the throne.
////
“No, that’s not right,” the voice is unrelenting, harsh, and even Regis struggles to hide the wince that crosses his face.
They’re in the royal study and Noctis, a tender age of four, sits upon a piano bench. They’ve added pillows beneath him, enough to bring him up to rest his hands comfortably on the keys. There’s a man seated next to him on the bench, forehead wrinkled and hair waning. His shoulders are stern and his voice cuts in again, “Let’s try it again. We won’t be done until you can do this. It’s truly a simple piano exercise.”
Noctis groans, but does not falter. Instead, his fingers clumsily clack against the piano keys again. The sound is not terribly excruciating, but it doesn’t have the splendor of a trained musician just yet. But Regis endure, just as Noctis endures the pieces of training here and there. Piano is part of it, part of the long-standing tradition that all Lucis royals be adept at playing the piano, entertaining guests, the art of compromise, and the list continues on. He had started with piano lessons because young Noctis had shown an interest. Perhaps it wouldn’t be nearly as excruciating as some of the other tasks he must eventually learn.
It’s still pretty mind-numbing, with intermittent sour notes. But Noctis continues to try with a tenacity belonging to his father, as well. The tutor loses no patience and therefore, Regis loses no hope. Once Noctis can master the piano, the painful sounds of sour chords will become a thing of the past.
The tutor leaves for the day and Noctis has decided he’s had enough. He throws his arms down and presses his head against the keys, creating a myriad of sounds that are none too pleasing for the ear. Regis doesn’t mind.
“Am I done practicing for the day?” Noctis asks, his voice small and fatigue pulls at it. It’s always amazed Regis, how his son works so hard even so young, until he’s exhausted from doing the most mundane things, though he supposed learning an instrument isn’t exactly mundane.
Regis nods and says, “Of course. We have dinner to attend but afterwards, is there anything you would like to do? My treat, of course.”
There’s a pause, with Noctis seeming to mull it over, before he proclaims, “Can you tell me stories again?” His eyes are sparkling and so full of wonder, that of course Regis has no choice but to agree.
It’s been about a year since Regis started to tell him stories before bed - often times, they were old fairy tales, or tales about the previous kings of Lucis. But every now and then, he likes to tell Noctis of the experiences he had growing up. Anything from meeting Claurus for the first time, to going out beyond the Wall to train and hunt for the first time, to embarrassing moments he experienced. Of course, those were Noctis’s very favorites. He would throw his head back and laugh and laugh, sometimes until his face was red and tears pooled in his eyes. Regis liked those stories too, simply because he likes to watch his son experience such raw joy.
Today, he tells him of his first experience with driving. They’re all nestled up in Noctis’s bed, Regis much too large for a child’s bed but he doesn’t mind at all. Noctis is curled up tightly against him, head resting against his chest as he listens intently to every word he says.
“It certainly wasn’t my brightest moment,” Regis admits, stifling a small chuckle, “When you’re old enough to learn how to drive, we will make sure you have plenty of wide, open space for mistakes. And, unlike your dad, you’ll know left from right.”
He expects a laugh there, but instead he hears nothing, save for the sound of Noctis breathing. Regis takes a moment to glance down, a head of black hair greeting him. When he peeks closer, he sees that Noctis has fallen asleep, head pressed against his father’s chest. His breathing is steady and calm, and Regis feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction wash over him. It’s peaceful.
Regis wraps his arm around his sleeping son, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. Ever the heavy sleeper, Noctis stays still throughout and Regis certainly hasn’t the heart to move. Perhaps he will just stay the night here - prolong this peaceful, content feeling.
Holding tightly onto Noctis, he imagines again the future his son will experience - a calm, quiet, normal childhood and as he progresses into adulthood, he will slowly ascend to the throne. Regis imagines that day, imagines Noctis as a man, sitting upon the throne with his shoulders pushed back with quiet confidence. He imagines those blue eyes, piercing but kind. Exactly how his wife wanted him to be raised - strong, but sincere and kind. The traits that he’s always wanted to have as a king - that will be Noctis.
Regis holds tightly onto Noctis, and whispers a promise to him, though it’s mostly to himself.
“Noct, I will do all I can to keep you safe.”
////
Noctis turns five with much fanfare, courtesy of the king himself. He celebrates another year of his son’s life, of a life that has brought meaning back into his own. Things are beginning to get busy, as there’s many things Regis must continue to do to keep the peace throughout Insomnia contained. Noctis appears to take this lack of time together all in stride, but Regis knows better.
He’s sitting in a meeting, with an important council member explaining to him the importance of discussion of trade with Accordo, but Regis finds the words aren’t settling in his mind. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion and he takes a glance around the room, noting the expressions of the members around him. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt if he closed his eyes for a moment? He’s done it before and all has turned out fine, and so he closes his eyes, listening as the mumbles of the men around him face away.
“King Regis, it has been too long since we last spoke.”
Regis cannot help but agree, and though he longs for this conversation to be brief and trivial, he knows it is anything but. The Gods only come to him when they have dire news to bring forth, and it sets Regis’s stomach into twists, churning uncomfortably as he continues to sit in his meeting. There words melt into mumbles now, fading into the background as irrelevant.
It’s Bahamut - the same one that always brings his news, and his voice is as stern and unrelenting as ever. Usually, Regis has to hold in a bit of a chuckle, but the apprehension that fills him keeps him at bay.
“What, pray tell, do you have to tell me? I cannot imagine it is anything good, what with the way you’ve come to me unannounced.” He tries to keep it light, to keep it at least slightly jovial, but Bahamut does not respond. He’s stone cold, perhaps even embarrassingly so, as he begins to speak.
And Regis finds his world shattering.
The meeting lasts well into the night, and Regis realizes he’s missed eating dinner with Noctis, once again. The young child should be long asleep by now - after all, his son truly did enjoy his time for sleep. Even at his young age, he cherishes and safeguards his bedtime, even getting up from his games in order to curl up into his bed. Regis has always found it rather precious, even carrying him to bed when he was much younger.
Tonight, Regis finds himself sitting next to Noctis’s bed. The boy is sleeping soundly, blankets nestled up around him, a stuffed animal clenched tightly in his arms. He sleeps soundly, heavily, but Regis always makes sure to stay as quiet as possible. It is proving to be a little more difficult today.
He brings a hand, trembling only slightly, to his son’s head, running his hand through the messy black hair. Noctis is still sound asleep, but leans into the touch nonetheless. It always brings a smile to his face, and even today is no exception.
As he runs his hand through his son’s hair, he begins to tremble more. He feels heat and tears pooling in his eyes, but he refuses to let it fall. He can’t. There’s the part of him that rules over Lucis, that knows how important this is not only for their people, but for the world as a whole. He knows that this duty, given to Noctis, will benefit everyone for the small price of his own life.
But then he closes his eyes, sees his wife holding onto their newborn child - one of his last memories of her - and he pulls up the image of Noctis playing in the throne room, a wide grin on his face as he looks up expectantly at his father. He sees these images, and he hears his wife’s words echo through his ears, “Walk tall, my son.”
The king side of him fades into the background, because now the part of him that’s a father, the part of him that would tear up the world if it meant not a single hair on Noctis’s head would come to home, is screaming. The world be damned, he doesn’t want to give up his son - not now, not in the future, not ever.
Noctis’s life or the life of the world - he knows what choice has to be made in the end, but he wants that choice to be his son. World be damned, Gods be damned - but there’s nothing he can do. One day, Noctis will grow older only to die.
He weeps, and Noctis continues to sleep beside him.
////
Regis does not dream of Noctis’s coronation anymore. He doesn’t imagine the grandiose moment, the time where Noctis has the opportunity to become a better leader than his father. He doesn’t imagine the smile on his own face, wrinkled with age and stress but beaming with pride for his only child, climbing to face the moment he was always meant to. He doesn’t imagine the loud, raucous applause as Noctis, ascended to king, greets his people for the first time as such. He doesn’t bear even imagine how proud his wife would be of their son, of how she must be witnessing this beautiful moment as well, somehow.
Instead, it’s hard to even look at his son. He tries to imagine a teenaged Noctis - learning all that he needs to as he journeys to become king, but instead, Noctis’s eyes begin to bleed black, like that of the daemons beyond their wall, as he tumbled to the ground. He can’t pull the nightmare of finding his son’s cold body, bleeding from the stomach, from his head. He feels the cold loneliness of the Citadel walls, where Noctis’s laughter echoes no more. He can hear his wife sobbing, even though the room around him has gone stone still. It’s all so cold.
He finds he can’t sleep anymore.
////
Sour notes awaken him from his most recent nightmarish escapade, and he hears the angry voice of Noctis’s tutor, “We have been practicing this song for weeks on end, and yet you still cannot get it right. Your recital is approaching quickly-“
“I know,” Noctis grumbles, and Regis notes how he doesn’t make eye contact with his instructor. Noctis is all too aware of many deadlines - kindergarten homework, piano lesson, his young mind manages to hold onto them fervently, which seems to make for a very frantic young child. Regis hasn’t a clue how to help him there; his wife would know what to do, but alas.
There seems to be a fire beneath Noctis’s fingertips when he tries the song again, clanging against the keys as he attempts to recreate the melody given to him. It’s still age-appropriate, as Regis ensured it would be, but Noctis certainly is struggling. Every time he messes up, breaking the melody, he groans and gets back to work before the tutor can say anything. His blue eyes are focused and for a moment, just the smallest moment, Regis can focus on the here and the now. He watches his son work, watches how his hands move and how his eyes scan the sheet of music in front of him. He watches as his shoulders sag, fatigued, when the tutor calls the lesson complete for the day. He says farewell both to the prince and to the king before leaving, and Noctis lets out a heavy sigh.
“This is tiring,” he complains, “Dad, were you ever this bad at piano?” His eyes are gleaming as they glance up at him, and Regis finds himself frozen once again.
He replies, “It’s all a part of your learning, my dear. You will get the hang of it soon. Perhaps it might take until you grow a little more, but you will.”
His own words send him into visions of the future - of an adult Noctis, walking up to his doom instead of his crown. He can feel his vision sway with tight tears, but he wills them away. He will not let this come between him and his son.
But every time he looks into those eyes, he hears the truth over and over. He deals with the fact that Noctis will have to die to save his people over and over again. And each and every time, he wishes he was nothing but a father, with an only goal of protecting his son. The king in him knows it is what must be done to save everyone, but the father him?
He’d rather watch the world go up in flames, as long as it meant he could see Noctis grow into an adult and live the life he should. And that thought terrifies him.
////
His duties cause him to spend many hours locked away with his council, holing over laws and treaties and trades. It leaves Noctis with only his advisor-in-training and the various lessons he has for each day. During the week, the seven year-old has school, as well. It’s an unusual choice, once that received the ire of his councilmen, but he was unrelenting. Noctis was to live a normal life as much as possible, and going to the local elementary school played a big part of that.
It’s the only way to soothe the irrational side of him, the one that wants to run and hide away with his son. Give Noctis a normal life, and keep him from his fate as long as possible. If need be, he will even take this secret to his own grave.
But he longs to see his son again, to be able to talk him. Even with their usual dinners together, Regis has hardly been able to attend. He imagines Noctis, eating quietly. He sees it now - despite the complaints from Ignis, Noctis pushes aside the vegetables, rolling them against his plate as he eats around them. The sound of his fork against his plate speaks louder than his new advisor, and certainly speaks volumes more than Noctis himself. His son has been rather quiet lately, Ignis has noted, though he’s certain that isn’t entirely too troublesome. Noctis is a boy of few words to begin with, after all.
The lack of his father just makes those words fewer, Regis supposes. He heaves a heavy sigh and returns his attention back to the papers in front of him.
One of these days, Noctis will understand. He will understand why his father works so much, but he may not understand why his father has distanced himself. And perhaps that’s all right.
////
The overwhelming scent of fire is all Regis can smell. It’s not alright. As he walks forward, brandishing the royal arms, staring down the daemon, things are not all right. He sees his son, sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him from both the person lying next to him and a gaping wound in his back. His Noctis - newly eight, working so hard, that’s his son.
It’s not alright.
His heart is racing and his mind is tumbling with all of these different thoughts, but the most prevalent is about Noctis. Will he be alright? Did he make it in time? What would happen now if Noctis perished, and Regis wasn’t able to save the one light in his life?
A small part of him says, “Then the prophecy will be fulfilled,” but Regis pushes it to the furthest parts of his mind. Because right now, his focus is on his son. Noctis needs to pull through, because Regis doesn’t know. How he could handle a world without Noctis.
With his son tied to machines in the Citadel hospital, that unnerving thought won’t seem to leave his mind. A cold, empty, and stunningly quiet room. In his mind, in that world, he’s glancing at the piano. Dust covers it now, and as he limps over to it, all he can see is his young son, eyebrows furrowed as he attempts to play his first piece. And then he wanders into the dining room, where he sees his young son sitting amongst a plethora of empty chairs - all alone.
Regis can’t be alone - he can’t be without his son.
The doctors try their best, and he knows he’s more of a hindrance than a help. But he just can’t bring himself to leave the room. His legs won’t seem to work, and it’s not because of his old injury acting up - a typical excuse for why he couldn’t attend meetings. He’s frozen, heart clenching in fear with a looming reality just behind him - one day, Noctis is going to die. And he could die while Regis is still alive to see it.
The thought causes him to hold onto Noctis tighter.
////
With Noctis recovering abroad, Regis has realized several things. The most prominent of these things is that without Noctis, he feels as though a chunk of his very soul, the fibers that stitch himself together, have come unfurled. He’s unfocused, asking more questions than usual, and even his bad knee has been acting up more than usual.
He also finds that he cannot sleep - of course, he hasn’t truly been able to in quite some time, but everything feels exacerbated. The arguments of the council feel so much worse, the echo of his own footsteps as he journeys to his bed for the evening feel so much louder, pounding in his chest.
The biggest - and perhaps most shameful - thing of all is just how far Regis is willing to go in order to protect his son. Even in Tenebrae, when he has the option, however small it may seem, to save another - another instinct kicks in and he finds himself just clinging onto Noctis all the tighter. He ignores the screams, and the guilt begins to creep in. He could have done more, he says to himself even months later, to save those who helped Noctis so much. He could have saved Lunafreya and Ravus, but his cowardice pushed him forward, that dreadful feeling that has remained as lead in the pit of his stomach.
He has to keep Noctis safe - he absolutely has to.
////
“I don’t know, Specs,” the voice is muffled, suffocated by the closed door, but Regis knows it’s his son’s voice - he knows that voice anywhere. It takes a moment before the king realizes that he’s wandered past Ignis’s room. Noctis has been spending a fair amount of time there lately, when he’s not working on homework from school or training with Gladiolus - or recovering from his training with said Shield, but that’s all a fact of life.
Noctis is sixteen now, and his injury is mostly recovered. There are days where it’s bothering him, Regis can tell. His face, for all his attempts to maintain a cool facade, changes ever so slightly. His right leg drags with the slightest limp. His eyes scream with fatigue, but is Noctis does not want to bring up his pain, neither will Regis. Noctis still arrives for their dinners together, but it’s been sparingly lately. He knows it’s all a part of growing up - of growing older, of preparing to become an adult and eventually, become the king.
But he can’t help but feel that sense of longing - that sense that time is nearly up, for one of them or the other, and each moment must be sacred.
Ignis doesn’t seem to be fazed by Noctis’s previous words, because his reply is as surgical as ever, “We’ve spoken of this before, Noct. You know it will happen eventually. Right now doesn’t seem likely, but it will in your lifetime.”
Regis knows he shouldn’t, but he finds himself lingering in the corridor, just beyond the door to Ignis’s room. He’s selfish, but perhaps if he knew what could be bothering Noctis, he could put a stop to it. Something at school? The idea of having to inherit the throne?
Noctis’s voice is quiet, hardly audible, but Regis is able to make it out. There’s a heavy inward breath and a quiet, “But he just, he looks so tired. It makes it feel more real, I guess. That Dad’s not going to be around forever. I just . . .”
Regis stops listening there. He knows what will happen next; Ignis will console him and speak to him just as he always does, and then remind him it's time for his training with Gladiolus, and his son will be off to train like the conversation never happened before. But he knows how much things like this weigh heavily on his son. Deadlines - homework due, speeches to prepare, the ever-present idea of his father, who has always been there, suddenly no longer being here.
Regis has been a fool.
////
Not a day goes by without Regis thinking about all of the things that could have been - if his wife was still by his side, if Noctis hadn’t been chosen as the king of light, they all eat him up from the inside. It’s not as though he he can change anything, but the thoughts and worries eat away at him at night.
To console himself, he thinks of his wife - he thinks of Aulea. It’s been many a year since he has uttered her name, but he thinks so often of her. He thinks of her every time he looks at Noctis, as they share the same brilliant eyes, the same determined demeanor, the same resilience.
To calm himself at night, he imagines the piano melody Aulea used to play. She was skilled in all types of music, more so than Regis, but piano composition had been her favorite. She played a particular piece, crafted when they were but teenagers, whenever she noticed the stresses of politics getting to Regis.
He asked her once what she called this piece of hers, and she smiled and replied, “I called it Noctis.”
It seemed only fitting to bestow the same name to their son - their son, the pride and joy of the family, just as Aulea took so much joy from the created.
////
Noctis attends piano lessons by himself now, and it has been as such for many years. Regis couldn’t bring himself to sit there after Noctis’s accident, and it didn’t seem as though Noctis minded terribly much. Or rather, he didn’t make any comment during their rare dinners together.
Regis has found himself feeling far more fatigued - his muscles ache after even the simplest of days and he knows his time in the world is waning. But Noctis is scarcely eighteen, hardly old enough to strike out on his own, let alone become the king. Or rather, become the king of light. Regis still tries to push the thought from his mind.
Even still, his days are scurrying lay busy, with rarely a moment to himself to think. However, when a simply decorated invitation finds itself on the top of his desk, amongst the papers he must read over, he finds himself with a small smile on his face.
It’s for Noctis’s recital - the last one. The handwriting is delicate and careful, but still with several errors, and Regis knows it’s been handwritten by his son. The time is for tomorrow evening, and though he knows he has much to do, many things to prepare for an upcoming meeting with ambassadors, he knows he can make the time to prepare for it.
////
Noctis talks with him at breakfast, and things go as they usually do. His son doesn’t speak much and when he does, Regis knows there’s many more words laying beyond, remaining unspoken. There’s a tension to his shoulders and a sheen to his eyes that’s unexplained, but Regis certainly doesn’t mind.
Then Noctis asks, “What did you like about mom?”
Regis finds he’s not quite able to answer. It’s certainly not the first time he’s asked about his mother, but it’s been many a year and when Regis opens his mouth to answer, he finds that his voice has hidden for the slightest moment.
“Well,” Regis finally begins, “Your mother was someone truly special. She had a way to make everyone feel comfortable around her. She stayed strong in the face of danger, she had an incredible talent with the piano, and she . . . well, she made me feel complete.”
Noctis nods and asks, “Is that why you had me learn to play the piano?”
“No,” he replies, “It’s always been a tradition for the royal line of Lucis. I just never quite mastered it as much as your mother had. In fact, she likely would have taught you.” Regis has always tried to block out that particular image, but it comes barreling through without hesitation - his wife, seated on the piano bench next to a young Noctis, gently pressing Noctis’s fingers against the keys. There’s a smile on both of their faces, and there’s more laughter than frustrated sighs. Things could have been a lot different - the world has its ways of providing torture.
Noctis laughs, “That would have been nice. That other tutor could be really mean.”
“He certainly could,” Regis says, “It was hard to watch when you first started. I apologize for not attending your lessons recently. Perhaps he cooled his temper with age.”
Noctis shrugs, “Kind of. I don’t mind that you stopped coming. You’re busy. But . . . will you be able to make it tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear.”
////
Ignis gives Gladiolus a gentle smack on the back of the head, and Regis hears the advisor whisper harshly, “Don’t even think about falling asleep.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the Shield replies with a yawn, “Noct invited me here, so I ought to at least be nice and listen. Even if piano is boring.”
Regis hears Ignis sigh as a blond sitting between them speaks up, “But it’s just so cool. Look at how fancy this is just for a few people in the audience!”
The king thinks he knows who this is - Prompto, a friend of Noctis’s from school. For the longest time, Noctis had never mentioned a single friend until this young man came into his life, and Regis couldn’t be more thankful. When that day comes, when his son no longer has his father to look after him, when Noctis has to rise to meet his fate, he at least has a friend like Prompto.
There’s a grand piano in front of the room in the room, sitting atop a stage. It’s a small theater in the Citadel, allowed by only the royal line to use. It could seat up to one thousand, but today, there were only four in the audience. Regis feels his heart swell.
Noctis arrives on the stage, dressed immaculately in a tailored suit. His hair is combed and his shoulders are tense - he’ll never let others know, but Regis can certainly tell when his own son is feeling anxious. His jaw is taut and as he sits on the piano bench, he moves robotically, as though the movement is genuinely painful. It could be, Regis realizes sadly, especially if his back injury is acting up.
Regis can see Noctis’s piano instructor standing just off of the stage - age has not truly been kind to him, but he’s watching Noctis with an unknown sparkle in his eyes, and this calms the king down. His breaths come evenly, and his gaze is now entirely directed on his son.
Noctis takes a moment to look out into the audience. His gaze first lands on Gladiolus, who is standing with attention. Prompto seems to mouth something to him, and Ignis has a prideful smile on his face. But when Noctis’s gaze lands on him, lands on his father, a gentle smile crosses his face and his shoulders sag, perhaps with relief.
His fingers hover above the piano keys, and then with a deep breath, he begins to play. Regis closes his eyes and listens to the melody his son plays, an overwhelming sense of melancholy filling his being. The song is familiar, like the feeling of a warm blanket enveloping him, and he finds himself listening all the more carefully. Just where has he heard the song before? He hasn’t listened to piano compositions, especially complex ones such as this, since his wife passed.
The memories all come storming back at once - the sight of Aulea, seated at the piano, plucking away at notes before picking up a pen and writing them down, eternally keeping them safe between the stanzas of the pages. Noctis, she called it - the only completed piece she ever wrote, the one that inspired the name for their son.
And now, with delicate hands and a quiet strength, Noctis is playing the very same melody.
How he managed to get ahold of the sheet music, Regis hasn’t a clue. But now he’s lost in many sensations - of the past, of sitting by the piano with his beautiful, selfless wife, and of the present, of the overwhelming emotion that presses against his heart. He can’t describe it, but when he opens his eyes and sees his son, sitting at the piano and playing that same melody, a calm rushes over him.
“Your Highness,” Ignis’s hushed voice invaded his ears, and he turns to look at his son’s cherished advisor. He wears and expression of concern, but Regis simply waves him off, returning his attention entirely to his son.
He brings his hand to his face and wipes away the tears that have formed, and for the smallest moment, he swears he sees Aulea upon the stage. He thinks he sees her hand come to rest on Noctis’s shoulder, a kind smile toying at her lips. Her blue eyes, piercing and loving, looking at her on - at the light of Regis’s life.
He listens with his entire being, even as the song changes from one to another, more unfamiliar piece. His son has relaxed now, hands moving freely across the keys and though Regis knows the fate that will befall him, in this moment, all he feels is peace.
“Aulea,” he whispers, “Protect him.”
////
Noctis is in a rush to get on the road, already walking with large steps towards the Regalia. It feels more than a little surreal - not just that his son is taking the car, but that he’s sending his son off to be married with Lady Lunafreya. He limps out to greet his son, holding tightly onto the cane in his right hand. His legs certainly don’t work like they used to, and Noctis, newly twenty, understands that.
Regis has come to terms with it, whether Noctis has or not.
He calls to his son one more time, placing his hand upon Noctis’s shoulder. It’s strong, determined, and he feels his heart swell with pride for just a moment. The worry, the knowledge of what lies beyond this moment, all fades away. What remains is the love he has for his son.
“Where you go,” he says, “The line of Lucis goes with you. Walk tall, my son.”
Noctis piles into the car with Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto at his side. He looks back just one more time as Ignis begins driving the car away from Insomnia, away from the only home Noctis has ever known.
Regis continues to look, even as the car has long since left his line of sight. Even as the sun begins to set, even as the knowledge of his own longevity tickles the back of his mind, his gaze remains ever forward, thinking of Noctis.
Walk tall, my son.
////
Regis knows the balance between the king and the father sides of him is a delicate one, as it must be. There are things he must do in order to help the country he was born to protect. And yet, as rational as that part of him is, there’s another part of him ever louder, ever more determined.
He knows how silly this whole event must have sounded, even to the most optimistic - a treaty with Niflheim, a country hellbent on eternal rule. But Regis went through with it anyway, because his son had long since left the range of the Citadel, and is miles away from the dooming claws of the empire.
Regis is not - so many are not, and as he lies on the castle floor, debris all around him, he feels no pain. There’s warmth spreading from his back, but it’s the furthest from his mind. He doesn’t see the destruction around him, he doesn’t feel the cold, unforgiving ground beneath him. He doesn’t think of how survivors in Lucis will think of him, a king who abandoned so many to try to save the life of his only son. He knows how true it is, and yet it doesn’t stop him.
As he closes his eyes and gives out one more breath, all he sees is Noctis - Noctis after his final piano recital, a warm and large smile on his face. He feels the warmth from his son, suddenly so small again and nestled up against him in his large bed, fast asleep after listening to the wonders of the world. And for just a moment, just one more moment, he allows himself to see Aulea - see her holding the newborn child against her breast, Regis’s hand on her shoulder.
His breath leaves him, and it’s the last mortal image he sees.
////
He remains with all of the previous kings of Lucis, though it certainly isn’t of his own desire. Bahamut had come to him again, shortly after he arrived, and told him one more piece often prophecy - concerning his son, and just how his son will meet his end.
Regis does not know how much time passes for Noctis, but it feels as though all time has stopped. His head is filled with the image of Noctis, fresh and young, off on his journey with his dear friends, suddenly cold and lying in blood. And then the images go back to when Noctis is eight, nearly losing his life. It all meshes together and refuses to leave his mind.
He prays, perhaps too much for any deceased king. But he does, in the hopes that a miracle does occur, and that Noctis has the opportunity to reclaim his throne, just like Regis knows he should do. He knows he’s fighting against the world itself, even now when his arms have no strength, but he cannot help it. His son is the world, and without his son - what purpose does anything else have?
////
Noctis, thirty years old and tired, sits upon the throne once more. He takes a heavy sigh, and Regis has no choice but to watch as each previous king plays their part. Every moment, every breath, every sound, feels as though it’s pulling pieces of Regis’s very soul from him. The part of him that still remains as king, that rationalizes every situation no matter how dire, tries to repeat words to him, like mantra - this will remove the scourge from the world, everyone will be able to survive because of him, because of Noctis.
But he wants to scream, This is my son!
All has fallen silent again, which only points to one more thing. Regis holds tight to the blade in his hand, gaze never wavering from his son. For just a moment, he allows himself to think about what could have been once more. Noctis upon the throne to loud applause, Lunafreya steadfast by his side. Gladiolus and Ignis playing their part, helping to make the world safe and peaceful for all again.
Noctis looks up at him, and they lock eyes for the smallest moment. Regis isn’t sure what he expects to see - anger, regret, resentment towards fate, he hasn’t the faintest clue, but it’s certainly not what he sees.
Instead, he sees that same joyful glint in his eyes that Noctis has always possessed, even when his back was against the wall. When he was injured and fighting back from his injury, or when his work felt all too overwhelming, that same determination remained. It’s still there even now, when Noctis gives him a faint smile and solemnly nods towards him.
Hands trembling against the hilt of his blade, Regis moves.
////
A hand lands on his shoulder, and for a moment, Regis is overwhelmed. It has been many a year since he had been in contact with someone besides Bahamut, and now, when he turns to look at who has approached him, a smile crosses his face.
Shoulders strong, smile on his face, Noctis stands before him once again. He thinks back to the last time they had met on the same plane - as Noctis left on his journey, on the journey that would come to end his life.
And the first thing Regis utters is, “I’m sorry.”
Noctis hugs him, and for a moment, Regis returns back to those moments with a small Noctis, when he was still naive to the ways of the world. Now, Noctis has left the world just as he had before, and still Noctis remains as close to him as ever. He doesn’t speak, but Noctis doesn’t need to. Regis doesn’t need to, either. Not anymore.
Noctis finally does speak, and he asks, “Shall I play one more time, for you?”
Regis takes a moment, having to think about what he means. The question seems out of the blue, but then Regis realizes where the Gods have placed them. They’re back in the Citadel - or rather, a recreation of it, as they can never go back to their human world. Noctis is standing next to the grand piano, on the stage of his final recital all those years ago. Regis smiles.
“Of course,” Regis replies, “If you would allow me to listen.”
Noctis smiles, and takes a seat at the piano bench again. Before he starts, he says quietly, “I found mom’s song when I was looking for extra music to practice. I didn’t know it was hers until my piano tutor told me.”
“You performed admirably,” Regis replies, “You did so well, my son,”
He’s not talking about music or piano, not anymore. Noctis seems to understand that as well, because he smiles, words no longer necessary.
His fingers press against the keys and he begins to play again - play the song Aulea wrote, the song that stitches the pieces of their lives back together again.
As the sun begins to rise again on the world they’ve left, they lose themselves in the music of eternity.
You’ve walked tall, my son.