believer

by soliloqui

Summary:

“You make it sound like I have a choice.”

If you didn’t know him better, you would say his voice sounds as even as his breathing.

You do know him better.

“There’s always a choice.”

The next moment, your hand is caught and wrapped around the hilt of the umbrella. The King’s presence fades. “Don’t catch a cold, Marshal.”

It’s only on the way back that your eyes catch on the entrance to the royal tombs, that you remember the date. The anniversary of the late Queen’s death, taken by sickness before she had a chance to see her son’s first birthday.

The legacy of a Caelum is to lose.

Notes:

Hard to believe it's been almost a year since the first part of this series. I started working fulltime and lost the energy for almost all else, but this pairing is something I keep coming back to.

I might regret starting to post chapters before I've finished the full story (see Sideways), but we'll see how it goes. Might come back to this later and edit some things if I run into trouble further down the line, but at least I have the whole fic planned out already.

Big thank you to Brenna for the humongous help in sorting my thoughts and for letting me bounce ideas off of her <3

I advise reading part 1 before this one, but you do you.

Chapter 1

believer

 

second thing second
don’t you tell me what you think that I can be
I’m the one at the sail, I’m the master of my sea – oh.
the master of my sea

~~~

 

“You,” Regis says, “are going to tell us everything you know. And then, we are going to move to a bed that’s bigger than this squeaking monstrosity, and we are going to take a very long nap.”

“Everything, huh?” you ask. “That might take a while.”

“Knowing you, I doubt it.” Regis slides his fingers over your knuckles carefully. “You are Cor Leonis, are you not? Master of one syllabic replies and shoulder shrugs.”

You scoff, knowing there’s no real way for you to prove him wrong. Your gaze flits over the tapestry, illuminated in stripes of moonlight, trying and failing to find some form of escape from this conversation. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Your stomach is still unsettled, and a heavy lethargy flows through your limbs, pressing you down into the bodies of the two men surrounding you while your mind keeps travelling miles and miles away.

It doesn’t matter.

“Cor.”

Regis’ address is quiet, and Clarus’ hand gentle where it lays on your chest, tethering you to the present. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“It started with Tenebrae going up in flames, more or less.”

Really, it started long before that, but there’s nothing you can do about those past wrongs anymore, is there?

“You’d brought Noctis there for healing, after the Marilith nicked his spine. We weren’t sure if he’d ever walk again, but Sylva managed to work a miracle.”

It’s easier like this, with your eyes closed, not having to see their faces as you talk.

“Niflheim of course took offense to that. They came with their dropships, and their General, and Glauca killed the Oracle. You tried to save both Noctis and Luna, but she decided to stay with her brother and take the Oracle’s place. After that, it was just a matter of time before we were backed into a corner.”

“So, we lost the war?” Clarus asks, voice measured and even like he’s scared you’ll stop talking if he rips you from your mood.

“They called it a peace treaty.” Your lip curls in distaste. “Surrender all territories outside Insomnia to the Niffs, and marry Noctis off to Lunafreya. In return, they’d end the war.”

Regis takes a steady breath, but continues tracing over the back of your hand. You’re honestly surprised they’re taking this so well. “We agreed, then?”

“Like I said. Backed into a corner. You were getting old, and the Wall was taking its toll on you.”

“We have the Kingsglaive, though,” Clarus protests. “No way was Niflheim a match for that many magically enhanced soldiers!”

“You say that now, but you have no idea what kind of weapons their science department is cooking up this very moment. They didn’t call them ‘Godslayers’ for nothing.”

You think of the types of monstrosities you’ve faced at the front, and shudder. Regis rubs your shoulder. “So, there was peace, then?” he prompts.

There’s nothing you can do to hide the scoff, bubbling up with the threat of hysterical laughter. “Peace?” you spit. “The Niffs know no peace.”

(carnage, all around you, no matter where you look there’s bodies riddled with holes, bodies beneath stone and rubble, burning flesh, mothers, children, civilians and soldiers alike, and in the midst of all –

beneath golden awnings, the very heart of the slaughter; cut off the Head and the rest will die and wither, falling, crumbling – )

A hand slithers into your clenched fist, pries your fingers apart, and your eyes open to fall on that blasted ring as it scratches against your skin, knowing that’s over a hundred undead souls touching your body.

“The King is dead, long live the King.” Your eyes are prickling and you hate it.

“The King is dead, long live the King,” announces the steward.

 Prince Regis slips the black band over his finger, face a regal mask and his father’s body not yet cold.

You wish you didn’t know him well enough to spy the weight of the Wall settle on his shoulders, quietly and inevitably.

The legacy of a Caelum is to lose, and to blaze bright, and to burn out far before their time in a never-ending cycle of wastefulness.

Your chin is moved to face upwards again. “With us, Cor,” Regis quietly commands. “Tell us what happened.”

“You know damn well what happened.”

Anger bubbles up in your chest all of a sudden. It’s not fair. None of it. How can Regis just sit there like that, staring at you with his stupid green eyes probing into you, demanding answers? You want to punch something.

“I made him get the swords, get the covenants. Made him strong enough that his death would be worthwhile. Luna died at Ardyn’s hands in Altissia, Ignis sacrificed his sight to save his king, Prompto got tortured, Noct – he got sucked into that fucking piece of shit crystal in Gralea, and only the Gods know when he’ll be back, just in time so he can die properly.”

Fed up, you push away from it all, sit up, almost get tangled up in the sheets while hands reach for you, and

“Cor – ”

(and you break, and)

“No!” You slap at the arm going for you. Clarus sits up as well. “You don’t get it. People are dying every day, from the daemons, from starvation, but that’s not even the worst. The worst is sitting there and waiting, knowing that the only bloody thing you can do is sit there on your butt and survive and wait for the King to return gods-know-when, to bring back the Light and be the fucking martyr he was always meant to be!”

It’s not fair.

Regis is wearing his mask, the one he puts on when he’s upset but not allowed to show it.

“Why are you here, then?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, I should…” You stand up. Immediately the world tilts around you. “I should be with the kids, make sure they’re not getting themselves killed.” You wonder why the door is in the wrong place, why Lestallum’s lights look less bright than usual through your window shades.

“Cor, please be reasonable,” someone says.

You turn towards the door but your legs don’t work all of a sudden. Why are you so dizzy? Something’s wrong. You can’t breathe. The floor is much closer than it’s supposed to be, and your hands are stinging.

“Cor.”

“I promised Talcott, told him I’d join him with the Hunters to clear out Kettier Highland, get more firewood. They won’t make it back otherwise,” you explain.

“Can you feel my hand, Cor?”

Of course you can feel the hand around yours, why wouldn’t – oh. What?

“I promised him?” You’re confused. You shiver. It’s always cold, now.

That’s not right. You were in Niflheim, in a cave. Talcott wanted to come, but you told him no. Iris accompanied you up until Cartanica, said she’d heard rumors about survivors on the radio. You were supposed to meet up with her again, soon.

“Iris’ll be worried,” you mumble. “She lost her hand, y’know, but Prom built her a mechanical one. Good as new.”

You don’t know why you’re still talking. You don’t know what you’re saying, or to whom. You bury your face in your hand (the other one still occupied somehow) and rub your eyes. Your face is wet.

It’s quiet.

“I should’ve protected them. I was meant to protect them.”

Your mind is three miles above your body, neither here nor there.

“And you will. But you need to go to sleep now.”

You have guests.

“I’ll see you to the door.”

“That was a good one. Come on, up you get.”

Regis is quiet. He doesn’t say a word as they lead you to the Regalia, parked across the street; nor when you enter Amicitia Manor and head to the master bedroom. Clarus’ hand on your shoulder doesn’t give you much of a choice.

The King doesn’t catch your eye when you let yourself be manhandled into the bed that Clarus once used to share with his wife, but you do feel Regis’ arm sneak around your waist in the middle of the night when he thinks you’re asleep, leg thrown over yours like an anxiety-riddled octopus.

You don’t think of young princes and tents and the rough dirt of the desert beneath your fingertips; pretend not to feel his shuddery breath against the bare skin of your neck as you force yourself back to sleep.

 

Morning has a way of casting things into a different light.

There’s not much talk, other than refusing breakfast in order to sneak out before Gladio wakes up and heading to the Citadel. It’s easier like this, with a cooling cup of coffee between your hands sitting in your office, to pass off the previous night as a simple (if humiliating) glitch in the system.

You’re fine.

You’ve gotten yourself back together.

All that’s left, now that Clarus and Regis know, is to get a move on and get shit fixed. Like you were supposed to all along.

“I wish there was a way to retrieve the Oracle-to-be, let her grow up safe here in Lucis. Her and her brother. She is in too much danger, this close to Niflheim,” Regis muses that afternoon in the King’s study.

“We’d need a good reason for that. The Queen would never let her children out of her sight, not now. Perhaps if we told her about our knowledge of the future…”

“There are no safe channels of transmission, with the Empire on constant watch,” you interject. “And going for a visit would only incite Aldercapt to attack. We’d be back where we started.”

Regis sighs. You can sympathize heartily. Noctis not meeting the Lady Lunafreya feels incredibly… wrong. But so long as Lucian royalty stays out of Tenebrae, Niflheim doesn’t have a reason to raise weapons against Fenestala Manor. An ally stays alive and strong in form of the Lady Sylva Via Fleuret, and Luna will have a chance to grow up in peace.

“She can be introduced to her duties slowly, under her mother’s guidance. As it should have been from the beginning. She won’t be forced to grow up too fast and thrown into the fray, as she would have been,” you say. The other two nod.

You’ve been planning and scheming for a while now, and while you’re glad your mind has settled a little more firmly in reality, the hangover is certainly something you could do without. Your new body is young, but not that young. You resist rubbing your temples.

“We’ve got trouble closer to home than that, though,” you urge. “Twelve years from now, half the Kingsglaive will be filled with traitors. We need to keep that from happening.”

Regis rubs his beard in thought. “You said there was a mole in a high position?”

Your fists clench on the back of the chair you’re leaning against. “Glauca.”

“A double agent?” Clarus asks. “Who was it?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“A name,” the King orders. “Give me a name, Cor.”

You stare at the wall.

“Titus Drautos.”

Silence.

“Impossible,” the King whispers, sounding faint. You understand.

The then young Prince had taken Titus under his wing during the Great War, when his hometown in the northeastern archipelago of Cavaugh fell. They weren’t close, exactly, but Regis had always been fond of the man, you know that. It makes the betrayal all the more bittersweet. This is the man that would one day murder him in cold blood.

“Libertus was quite… descriptive, in his opinion on the matter.”

“Libertus?” Clarus asks.

“Ostium. A glaive, from Galahd. One of the few who made it out of that disaster alive.”

Regis keeps staring at his folded hands on the table, clenching and unclenching.

“I don’t know when exactly he turned,” you say with a half-shrug, if only to fill the uncomfortable quiet. “I don’t know if he was Queen Sylva’s murderer, or if it was someone else beneath the armor that time. Impossible to tell. But we need to keep an eye out.”

Much as you would like to kill him in his sleep, there’s no evidence. Not yet. And you couldn’t exactly walk up to the man and ask, “Hello, have you perchance been breeding dissenting thoughts against the Crown and planning the downfall of the Lucian kingdom in your free time?” You scoff mentally.

Regis looks every bit his age and more as he rubs a hand down the bridge of his nose, before gathering his composure like a cloak around himself.

“Suggestions?” he asks.

You think for a moment. “Much of the later conflict stemmed from Insomnia losing territories. You concentrated on Noctis and his wellbeing for a long time, and by then it was too late. There was a lot of general unrest; about the refugees, about you keeping the focus on the capital, about not caring enough about the rest of Lucis. The Kingsglaive especially stems mainly from the outskirts, which slowly got overrun by Niflheim. They weren’t happy about that. And then you went and pretty much handed their homelands over to the Empire through the treaty.”

Things you heard from the ‘glaives on shared missions during the Night, between campfires and meagre rations. Things it had taken you too long to see.

Regis nods, thoughtful, then suddenly shakes his head. “Do what we can for the outer territories, yes, but not at the cost of the Crown City,” he decides firmly.

You frown. It’s an old argument, and one you’re very tired of. What good is the heart, when all the limbs are amputated? The body will bleed out either way.

“Insomnia is our last bastion of defense. Should it fall… Cor – ”

“We need to win this war,” you interrupt, then sigh, rub the bridge of your nose. “And we need to do it quickly.”

 

It’s starting to get dark by the time you’ve finished your talk and checked in with Monica.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Clarus asks, catching up with you in the hallway.

You look at him as though the question were exactly as ridiculous as it is.

“…home?”

Clarus frowns at you, keeping pace. He chews on his words for a moment, looking for the right way to phrase them in a way that likely won’t upset you. He gives up when he realizes it’s a lost cause.

“I’d rather you’d return home with me tonight, my friend.”

You stare at him.

“Why?”

The both of you pass a few Crownsguard in the hall and nod at them on the way out.

“…after last night, can you really blame me for worrying about you? I’d much rather you not be alone at the moment.”

Honestly?

You have a breakdown once, and suddenly you’re incapable of taking care of yourself? Did Regis put him up to this? You grit your teeth.

“I’m fine.”

“Cor.” The grip on your shoulder stops you in your advance towards the parking lot, and you turn towards Clarus with a snarl. He shoves you into a narrow alcove, out of immediate sight of the hallway. “The sleeping meds? The liquor? Sitting on the ground, staring at nothing, not even knowing what time you’re in? I’ve never seen you this way. You need help, you need to talk to someone. You scared the fucking shit out of us, Cor.”

“What I need,” you growl, and slap his hand off your jacket, feeling inexplicably angry at all the coddling, “is to go home, have a good night’s rest, and then help win this bloody war and get rid of the Accursed so that the sun won’t stop rising and thousands of people will get to live.”

“Cor – ”

Clarus is a mountain when he doesn’t want to be moved, but you shoulder past him anyway, as roughly as you can manage, and head to the exit, fed up with everything.

What is wrong with you?

 

The night is restless and spent staring at the flickering shadows at the edge of your vision, barely dropping into sleep before being startled up again by a nightmare. The bed is comfortingly hard and lumpy, much like the little cot you had in your one-room-apartment in Lestallum, but it’s also very cold. You try not to think about the memory of warm bodies pressed against yours, less than twenty-four hours ago.

A plan.

You need a plan.

Regis and Clarus know, and that changes things. But only insofar as they are willing to diverge from their prior paths, which – knowing their stubbornness intimately – might not be a lot. Regis will be set on protecting Insomnia, protecting Noctis, even at the cost of Lucis itself; and Clarus follows wherever the King shall lead.

So what do you know?

Prince Noctis is the Chosen King, destined to die.

A prophecy that is thousands of years old, stemming from the earliest generations of the Lucis Caelum dynasty, a prophecy woven by the Astrals and passed onto King Regis by Bahamut when the Prince was but a few years old, which states that the Chosen King will banish the darkness at the cost of his own life.

“Did you know?”

Ignis keeps his useless eyes on the ground, bonfire throwing dancing shadows against his clothes; waiting. The days have gotten cold. You stare into the fire and force yourself not to fidget, because you are much too old to be fidgeting anymore.

When you keep quiet for too long, Ignis tilts his head in your direction. “How long?” he breathes, face unreadable.

“…twelve years.”

Ignis’ silence is as damning as any word could have been.

Noctis is meant to die, and you don’t know how, when, or where; only that you will do your damnedest to stop it from happening. You’ve buried enough Kings to last you a lifetime.

What else?

Ardyn is important.

Ardyn Izunia – or rather, Ardyn Lucis Caelum, as you’ve found out through the surveillance feed of the Crystal chamber in Zegnautus Keep during your later trip there with Prompto.

A healer from long ago, who took the Starscourge into himself and was ostracized for it, resulting in an age long grudge against the Lucis Caelum line.

How are you meant to kill a foe like that? One that is more daemon and darkness than blood and flesh?

Daemon sightings have grown steadily over the decades, always at night or in dark places. You remember it was after the Oracle Lunafreya’s passing that the days started getting shorter and shorter, until the miasma blocked out the sun entirely. So maybe those blessed with divine power still have a way to fight against the darkness, even now.

How does it all fit together?

The Astrals gave humanity the Crystal and magic to fight against the darkness. Ardyn is darkness incarnate, and source of the Scourge in current times. The Scourge is used by Niflheim to produce MTs and fight against the Kingdom of Lucis. The Empire will start killing the Astrals – an Empire led in the shadows by Ardyn himself.

Is it really so simple? Defeat Ardyn, defeat the Scourge, and in doing so win the war and bring peace to the lands?

But then, the only known way of possibly defeating Ardyn is by siccing a Crystal-enhanced Noctis on him, which is. Not gonna happen.

You growl and press your head against the mattress, stare at the pock-marked ceiling above. You’re walking in circles.

“Small steps,” you say.

“Small steps,” your mother says from her perch on the tattered mattress, clutching a hand to her chest. The coughs have been getting worse.

Carefully, you balance the large pot of water to the gas burner in the corner, set it to the side. Take out the matches, turn on the gas, light the match, light the burner. Heave the heavy pot on top of it. Ignore the scent of mold. Your little arms shake from the weight, but you can do it.

You’re almost a man now, anyway.

“Good, my love. Very good. Now grab the carrots, and the cutting board. Is your knife sharp?”

Small steps.

You may not know much about magic and gods, but you do know about war. You know the weaknesses in MT-armor and the command structure of their troops. You know how to train soldiers and how to supply them with what they need. You know how to win battles with minimal casualties. So maybe that is where you should start.

It's a start.

 

A few days later finds you on your favorite ledge above the courtyard. The sky is only just starting to turn; your favorite time of day, when the world is quiet and leaves you to your thoughts.

“Found you!”

An excitable, warm lump of Prince falls into your lap.

“Hello, Uncle Cor.”

You rearrange your legs into a fold while Noctis wriggles to get comfortable underneath your jacket, head pressed to your chest, and your arms wrap around him on instinct. You can feel the boy’s breathing slowly settle.

“To what do I owe the honor, Your Highness?”

Noctis scrunches up his nose, then glances up at you while delicately jamming his bony jaw into your ribcage. “Stop talking funny, Uncle Cor.” He smiles, blue eyes twinkling at you from beneath the dark fringe. He needs a haircut like yesterday. Before he can come up with ridiculous ideas, like smearing copious amounts of hair gel into it. Bah. “What are you doing up here, Cor?”

“Watching the sunrise.”

“Oh.”

The Prince settles in and joins you in watching the clouds turn softly from pink to orange above the courtyard.

“It’s pretty,” he whispers.

“Yea.”

A quick glance to the side shows you the Prince’s Kingsglaive shadow keeping watch from a nearby balcony, throwing you a two-fingered salute. He’s young, with dark braided hair and few tattoos on his face. He must not’ve lost quite as many loved-ones in the war as the others, then.

“What are you doing here, Noctis? It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?”

The boy burrows down deeper into the folds of your outerwear. “Eh.”

“Eh?”

He puffs, and is quiet for a minute.

“It’s just… I dunno. Dad is acting weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like… he keeps hovering, you know? Keeps asking me if I’m okay. Last night he checked up on me twice. He thinks I was sleeping, but I wasn’t.”

“Hm.”

You rub your hand up and down Noctis’ narrow back, unconsciously feeling for scar tissue that you know you won’t find.

“I think he’s scared.”

“Scared? No way! Dad’s the bravest person in the world.”

“Even brave men get scared,” you say, and swallow. “What happened back then, with the Marilith – that snake daemon,” you elaborate at Noctis’ confused glance, “that could’ve easily ended worse. He worries about you.”

“Worse? Uncle Cor, you were in the hospital for weeks! How could it have been worse? If anything, he should be hovering over you.”

“Oh, believe me,” you chuckle, “he did.”

“Besides, that was months ago. Why is he suddenly worrying about me now?”

You think about words stammered in the dark, about another life.

“No idea,” you lie. “Maybe that’s just what being a dad is.”

Noctis humpfs, and crosses his arms. You continue watching the sky for a while.

“Anything else bothering you?” you finally ask, when the line of tension doesn’t quite leave Noctis’ posture.

“…Iggy’s being weird.”

“Weird how?” you repeat your earlier words, and have to swallow a smile.

“Dunno. Just. Ever since… ever since the Mara- Mari-, -li- – ever since that trip to see the fireflies, he keeps ordering me around. ‘Noctis do this’, ‘Noctis do that’, ‘Noctis do your homework’, ‘Eat your beans’. It’s driving me crazy!”

You frown. That is… unexpected.

“What about Gladio?”

“Ech.” Noctis sticks his tongue out.

“…ech?” you mimick. The Prince coughs out a laugh at the sound.

“Gladio is dumb,” Noctis states, with the simple confidence only an eight-year-old reciting a Universal Truth can possess.

“I see…”

No wonder the Prince is feeling down, he’s been lonely.

There has always been the occasional tension between the Prince and his retinue – it’s only natural. But usually, there was at least one of the three of them that Noctis was on speaking terms with, and – oh. Well.

Ignis acting in this way is worrying you, though. You wonder if you missed something these past few months, wallowing in your own self-pity.

“At least Tobul’s fun.”

Huh?

Noctis nods his head in the direction of the Glaive lazily watching them from the sidelines.

“Him?” He seems familiar.

“Yea. Sometimes when I say pretty please, he tells me cool stories from his homeland, about dragons and huge wild cats.” Noctis spreads his hands as widely as he can in emphasis, almost knocking himself off your lap.

You watch him thoughtfully. “Is that so.”

 

Now that Noctis mentioned it, Regis’ hovering becomes glaringly obvious. And the young Prince is not the only victim.

Regis keeps watching you. Keeps finding excuses to visit you in your office, to pass by the training halls when you are putting the Guard through their paces, to bump into you in hallways.

You decide to get out of the Citadel for a bit.

 

If you didn’t know better, you’d think the kid was nervous around you.

No.

You do know better.

Prompto Argentum acts like a scared chocobo when confronted with the legendary Marshal.

You’d noticed it back in Insomnia, before the Fall, before everything went to shit, but never thought much of it. Prompto was merely the Prince’s nervous, clumsy, awkward blond friend who stumbled over his own two feet and stuttered when anyone addressed him, yet for some reason Noctis must have seen something in him. The kid was in decent shape when you ran him through the basics before the trip to Altissia, and above decent with a gun. The anxiety and nerves were likely due to being in a room alone with Cor the Immortal, a legend in and of itself, and didn’t bother you so long as they didn’t interfere with Prompto’s duties to the Prince.

Or that’s the official story, anyway.

The unofficial story is that you didn’t make the connection until you did Prompto’s background check and stumbled upon your own faded handwriting underneath a stamp declaring the boy’s place of birth absolutely classified.

You’d never checked up on him.

Never sought out information of the boy’s placing after you fed the little blob of a living being to the system, never checked to make sure he was alright, that he was being raised by decent people, had everything he needed. You didn’t think you had a right to watch him grow, not after giving him up.

Now, you look at him fumble as he cleans and re-assembles his weapon for the n-th time with shaky hands and feel a pang deep inside your heart.

Things could have been so very different.

 

Prompto is wearing shorts today, as he has been for a while now. Summer is in full swing, and you can see the way he’s sweating and puffing in the heat as he wanders past the café you’ve set up temporary camp in. His eyes are glued to his camera like usual as he walks home from school to a probably empty apartment.

“Yea, that’s totally not creepy or anything.”

You realize it’s not a fun feeling when your heart tries to jump its way up and out of your throat.

“Ifrit’s balls on a stick, Ulric.”

The Galahdian plops down on the seat beside you with a frosty beverage between his hands.

“The fuck is wrong with you,” you grumble.

“So,” Ulric completely ignores you, “didn’t really take you for the stalker-y type, but you learn more every day!” He slurps cheerily at his drink.

You can’t quite decide between glaring daggers at the man and wanting to sink into your seat at the looks you’re drawing from the other patrons of the café. You end up doing a bit of both, crossing your arms with a huff. “Rude.”

“What’s that all about then?” Ulric asks after he’s done abusing his straw.

“None of your business,” you mumble.

The Galahdian sits in silence and watches you, like the little pest he very well knows he can be if he wants to. Ever since you’ve saved his life at the front, he’s been following you around like a love-sick puppy. It’d be adorable if it weren’t so damn nerve-wracking.

“…it’s complicated,” you finally admit.

Nyx sucks noisily at his straw. You kinda wanna punch him, sometimes. “Complicated how?”

You stare at him for a moment, at the stubborn set of his brow, and know you’re not getting out of this any time soon.

“Not here, I’m too sober for this shit.” You stand up and head outside, sure that Ulric will follow you. He does.

You wander aimlessly in the general direction of your car, not really sure yet where you will go. It’s still light out, but only because it’s in the middle of summer. Not too early to hit the bars.

“I know a place,” Ulric says and invites himself into shotgun.

 

‘A place’ ends up a den in the midst of the Galahdian district, advertising with their traditional meat skewers and a beverage that supposedly burns like Ifrit’s breath itself. You’d like to scoff at the dingy atmosphere, but you know how big an honor it is to be invited into the refugees’ culture like this. You must’ve made a bigger impression on Nyx than you’d thought you did.

Besides, The Coeurl’s Nest is… a rather homely place. You think you could get used to it.

“So,” Ulric says, dumping a plate with skewers and two mugs of beer on the table between you, off in a corner that’s not immediately visible from the entrance. “Spill.”

You chew your lip before finally launching into the tale of how you freed Prompto from a Niflheim lab when he was a year old and brought him back to Insomnia, where you fed him to the foster system. The truth about magitek soldiers you decide to keep to yourself, for now, not willing to think about the ramifications.

“Oh. Misplaced guilt then. Still creepy. So, when are you gonna introduce yourself?”

“I can’t just – ” You break off, and take a sip of lukewarm beer instead. You really need something stronger than that, but your car’s parked two blocks away. You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Nyx asks. “Any kid would swoon at being given attention by The Immortal himself.”

You frown. “That’s not – ” you start, but are rudely interrupted by a whirlwind of activity falling over the table.

“Whoa, Nyx! Who’s your hot date?”

“You been holding out on us!”

“Yea, what gives?”

There’s a flurry of scraping chairs and suddenly, three more Galahdians are sitting at your table.

“Whoa!” the woman, Crowe, yells. Right in your ear. You remember her from Libertus’ stories, though the man had failed to mention just how grating the Glaive could be. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Your hot date is the Marshal?!” exclaims one of the two men. Curly hair, you can’t quite place him, even though you’ve seen him before.

“Is it treason to call the Marshal ‘hot’?” Libertus asks, and finally, someone you know. And someone speaking at medium volume.

Nyx lifts his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Hey now, calm down. No one’s dating. Just having a friendly drink between friendly comrades, doing friendly things.” That damn smirk on his face. You’d really like to punch it.

You scowl into your glass instead.

While Libertus and the other male Glaive (you really need to figure out his name) keep trying to rile Nyx up about the true nature of your meeting, Crowe studies you silently.

“You know,” she says, and taps her nails against the glass of her own beverage, “heard you saved a lot of lives up at Sakkada this spring. Including this dumb ass’.”

You glance at her, and shrug.

“I know that might be boring everyday business to you, but.” She stops and glances at the boys. Libertus has Nyx in a headlock, flailing wildly, while the other Glaive cheers them on. “It means a lot to us,” Crowe finishes quietly.

Her face is thoughtful, and you wonder what’s going on inside of it. The fall of Galahd hasn’t been too long ago, and you know the wounds must still be fresh. They all lost, in the war. Some more than others.

“Mind joining us for a spar, sometime?” she invites, and you consider it a moment before tipping your head and raising the mug of beer at her.

 

Clarus finds you on your ledge the next time the weather forecast promises a sunny day, like clockwork. He’s already starting to figure out your patterns.

Maybe you should set up a sign. No one other than grumpy time-traveling Marshals allowed. Something along those lines.

Neither of you says anything as you sit beside each other.

“That day in the office,” Clarus begins eventually. “In November. That’s when it happened, wasn’t it?”

You breathe deeply and close your eyes. The light is warm on your eyelids, a perfectly temperate breeze promising a mild summer day. But Clarus feels warmer yet beside you, even past the few feet of distance. “First time I’d seen the sun in a good eight years.”

Clarus’ eyes bore into you, even when you’re not looking.

Then, there’s a rustle. “Lunch?”

He’s holding a tupperware of leftovers towards you, promising something hearty and delicious. It’s a peace-offering. You take it with a nod and set it beside you, to take to the Crownsguard office later. There’s at least two newbies you’ll have to defend your spoils from, Clarus’ cooking has become that famous.

“You gotta cut us some slack, kid.” Clarus sighs and leans back on his hands, watching you from the corner of his eye. “You might’ve had a while to get used to the whole time-travelling shebang, but we only just realized a little while ago that a good friend lived through the apocalypse. It takes some getting used to.”

You huff.

Those days, when you weren’t training the Guard or looking after Noctis, the three of you talked politics. What’s the current status of the council, the refugees, the Lucian borders. But you’ve steered clear of the whole prophecy business, knowing you would just blow up again about it.

It’s just… you’re quickly growing tired of the worried looks behind your back, like you can’t take care of yourself, like you’ll drop on the spot and have another panic attack if they don’t watch you carefully enough.

You’ve taken care of yourself for a long, long time. You don’t need anyone else.

“You can stop mothering me, Clarus.”

The man shrugs apologetically. “Sorry,” he says, and sounds anything but. “Afraid I’ll be the eternal mom friend.”

“I’m older than you.”

Clarus looks at you in thought, with all his forty-three years and the crow’s feet starting to etch permanently into the skin around his eyes.

“…you know, sometimes you look like it.”

 

As it turns out, you don’t have to seek out Ignis, because Ignis eventually seeks out you.

Gods, you forgot how adorable the kid used to be when he was on a mission, in all his ten-year-old, bow-tied, four feet glory with the large glasses perched awkwardly on his nose.

“Mister Marshal, sir!” he stammers in front of your desk. “I have a request to make.”

“A request?” You lean back in your chair, interested where this conversation will go.

“Sir. I would formally like to request the beginning of my training as Crownsguard, sir.” Ignis’ little fists are clenched at his side, rigid, as he stares straight ahead.

You rub your chin in thought. “Don’t you think it might be a little early for that yet, Ignis?” you ask gently. Ignis looks no less soothed for it, blush high on his cheeks and his breath a short staccato. It took a while for him to grow out of his anxiety towards those of higher social standing, to become the suave, collected source of reason their group came to rely on later on.

“With respect, sir, I think I could serve the Prince much better in my function as a Chamberlain if I were better able to protect him. Sir.”

Ah.

And there is the crux of it.

Suddenly, Noctis’ words make more sense. In his fear over losing Noctis, over not being good enough a protector for the boy, Ignis had become overbearing in his attempt to prove his prowess as servant to the crown. Only this kind of behavior has started creating a rift between the two boys, because Noctis is too young to understand and tackle the source of Ignis’ insecurities.

You sigh.

“Prince Noctis has many protectors, as you know, Ignis. There is a constant guard detail on him ever since the attack early this year; he is as safe as he can be.”

The boy remains quiet even as you wait him out.

Very well.

It’s too early for him to see any actual combat, of course, but you also know what it’s like to be young and defenseless and to have to take matters into your own hand.

You take Ignis to the outside training yard and get him some wooden practice daggers to show him the ropes, yet also put emphasis on flexibility and endurance training. Ignis throws himself into the task with no less than the single-minded dedication and laser-narrow focus that you expected.

“You should join Gladiolus sometime with his workouts. Would help you build your stamina,” you tell the kid after throwing him a water bottle and sitting down in the grass.

“But Gladio sucks,” Ignis says, except in his overly polite way of wording derogatory remarks (which you bet he learned from his uncle), so it ends up sounding more like, “I would not dare encroach upon Gladiolus’ valuable allotted time for reaching new records in the amount of daily one-armed push-ups. I am sure the task demands his utmost concentration.”

You suppress another sigh.

Instead, you tell Ignis that it’s both his and Gladio’s job to help Noctis, and that you need to work together if you want to do that. “You think Clarus and I always get along?” you ask him, forearms resting comfortably on your knees. “No, we don’t. To be honest, he can be thickheaded and a bit of a dunce. But when it comes to guarding the King, there’s nothing we wouldn’t do.”

Ignis frowns in thought, a cute little furrow building above his glasses. “I shall give the matter its due consideration,” he decides formally.

You try not to snort.

“Good. And Ignis?”

“Yes, Marshal?”

“Noct’s your brother first, and your duty second. Be sure to treat him as such.”

Ignis grows quiet at that, falling deeper into thought.

The boy has to leave eventually, and you remain in your spot leaning against a tree on the ground. It doesn’t take long until Clarus emerges from behind the breezeway pillars.

“’Thickheaded and a bit of a dunce’, is it now?”

“And an eavesdropper, apparently.”

Clarus plops down next to you and bumps your shoulder, giving you shit for shit-talking him before finally caving and feeding you more food from a tupperware.

The sun is shining and the birds chirping, there’s the scent of grilled cheese in the air and the man who taught you how to care for your sword, who ruffled your hair and bound your wounds as a kid is warm and alive beside you, and you want so badly to freeze this moment.

To keep soaking it up like the rays of the sun, to be able to pretend that this is your life now, that you deserve this. That there’s no blood on your hands, no marks on your soul to be tallied when you finally move on to the beyond.

It’s too nice to believe.

You look down at the palms of your hands hung loosely between your legs, and in the shadow of your body see them sticky and bathed in crimson, the way they’ve been so many times before.

The blood of your enemies, of your comrades. Your own.

There’s a buzzing behind your teeth, loud enough to drown out all sound. It’s Clarus’ hand on your shoulder that you notice first, therefore. It feels oddly disconnected from the rest of you, tense and aching, like it's not really a part of you.

“Cor?”

Your fingers clench into fists, eyes looking away. Your mouth mumbles something unintelligible to the Shield.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Maybe if you stay sitting for a while longer, your mind will eventually find its way back inside your body.

 

“As I told you before, Marshal, this is pointless.”

Ignis’ voice is as sharp as the daggers he clenches tightly in his fists, yet much more brittle than the flawless metal. You’ve been at it for a while and sweat has started to bead on Ignis’ brow, sliding past the visor and dampening his shirt. Yet the only bit of exposed skin he allows himself is between his gloves and rolled-up sleeves.

A few of the wooden targets have fresh marks on them, at the very edges, but mostly it’s the bit of Lestallum’s cliff face that they’re leaned against which has suffered.

Ignis goes to walk away and you grip his shoulder, spin him back around. You refuse to fail another one of your kids. “It’s only pointless if you give up. And the Ignis Scientia I know does not have that expression in his vocabulary.”

“Well then maybe I’m not the Ignis Scientia you know anymore!” the blind man explodes and raises a hand as though to throw, but doesn’t keep track of his other limbs in the process and suddenly, there’s a whole lot of blood and a hiss and two weapons hitting the ground.

“Fuck’s sake,” Ignis hisses and cradles the wrist now bearing a large cut.

You’re on him in seconds to press a wad of cloth against the wound, your fingers quickly growing slick with blood. The cut seems shallower at second glance than you feared, and you both know you can’t waste potions on things like this. But gods would you like to spare Ignis the new scars. He has more than his fair share.

“Well, I suppose that rather proves my point.”

“Horseshit. That proves that you’re upset. You don’t need to see in order to know where your blade is in relation to your body.”

Ignis tries to draw away, but you don’t let him. You keep the cloth firmly against the slash on his wrist and wrap your other hand around Ignis’ gloved one. It’s shaking.

“You’re allowed to be upset, Ignis.” You keep your voice calm, like speaking to a spooked chocobo. Ignis keeps his gaze averted, and you don’t check to see the wetness in his remaining eye. “You’re allowed to grieve. You’re not allowed to give up.”

You bandage the wrist before finally releasing it. Ignis takes a deep breath, visibly gathering himself.

“Because so long as we can do this,” you say and summon your katana in a tinkle of crystals, “the King is still alive. And as long as he’s alive, we keep going.”

You bend down and pick up one of the daggers, storing the other one and the katana back in the armiger. Ignis clenches his teeth and holds his uninjured hand out, receiving his weapon. Your hand on the small of his back turns him back to face the target range.

“Sixteen yards, straight ahead,” you murmur, and then, after the dull clunk, “Two feet to the right, relax your shoulder, Ignis.” And again.

And again.

The bright lights of Lestallum keep blazing above you.

 

“Cor,” Regis says and stops you with a hand to your shoulder as you walk past the Council chambers, where a session seems to have adjourned just then. Clarus is off to the side, talking to an old man in similar robes of gold and black. “A word?”

You nod, and he uses his hold on you to drag you along.

“Walk with me.”

Not like he’s giving you much of a choice.

“If I’d known how much of a hazzle politics are, I’d have stayed at the Cape, spent the rest of my days fishing,” the King sighs, wistful smile on his face. His polished shoes click on the marble floors below. With his slicked back hair, sharp angles and tightly pressed three-piece suit, he couldn’t look more like a politician if he tried, but there’s still a hint of that roguish boy you used to know in the glint of his jade eyes and the tilt of his lips.

“Not much progress, then?”

Regis proceeds to tell you about how the Council is more than hesitant in further pushing the border towards the territories Niflheim annexed in the past.

“The Empire has been quiet ever since our recent but narrow victory over Sakkada. To mobilize the Kingsglaive now would be to endanger that fragile bit of peace. I fear my arguments will fall on deaf ears here.”

“So we’re just gonna keep letting them nibble away at us, bit by bit, because we are too cowardly to fight back,” you state.

“We do not have – ” Regis breaks off as they reach his office and the two Crownsguard in front of it, not continuing until they’re back behind closed doors. “We do not have the firepower to single-handedly overthrow Niflheim and all of its forces, Cor.”

You fall into parade rest before the desk as the King sits down.

“You mean you’re not willing to use the power that we have for that purpose.”

“What power? Sit down, Cor.”

You snort, but remain right where you are. “Like you’re not your own one-man-army. Don’t think I don’t remember the kinda stunts you pulled back then, taking out entire legions with a single blast of electricity.”

Regis steeples his fingers over the smooth surface of the desk. “Those days are over,” he says, gaze sharp and calculating. “I cannot extend that kind of power now that I rule the city, now that I hold the Wall.”

“Cannot or will not?” you ask, and Regis’ eyes tighten. You’re walking a fine line, talking to your King like that.

If Niflheim were no more, you would not need the Wall anymore, and the both of you know it.

But this seed has planted itself firmly inside Regis’ heart, the need to protect, to shelter, to retain that which is most precious. The dragon god is not the symbol and kin of the Lucis Caelums for nothing.

“Shiva’s sake, sit down,” Regis says again rather than replying.

After a moment of contemplating disobeying a direct order twice, you do sit. The King eyes you skeptically.

“How have you been, Cor?”

You frown. “Fine.”

“Clarus tells me you’ve been spacing out a lot.”

Then Clarus needs to keep his bloody mouth shut.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say instead, and cross your arms.

The King regards you a moment longer, before sighing in defeat. “Riveting as the topic of my charming Council is, that was actually not what I wanted to discuss with you.” You tilt your head at him to go on. “I would like to ask you more about this ‘Ardyn’ fellow. I’m assuming you meant the Imperial Chancellor, Ardyn Izunia? The name seems too rare as to be coincidence.”

You stare at him for a moment, wondering where Regis will go with the conversation. You nod.

“You’ve only mentioned him briefly before, but he seems to play quite the role. Would you care to elaborate?”

Quite the role, indeed. Amber eyes, dripping with scourge, flash inside your mind. You find yourself suppressing a shiver at the memory of your last meeting, folded arms tense.

“Ardyn is… the linchpin, the pivotal point.”

You explain what you know of the man, how he’d stalked after Prince Noctis’ retinue all over Lucis, led them along, drew them to Gralea on his own terms. About what you learned from the surveillance feed.

“He spent the Night inside the Citadel, waiting for Noctis to return.”

“So he is the one my son has to defeat in order to rid Eos of the Starscourge?” Regis asks.

You frown. “I wouldn’t know.”

Regis tilts his head at the sudden chill in your voice. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” you say, and meet his stare dead-on, “it’s not exactly like these things came with an instruction manual.”

“You’re angry.”

A crownless King, stooped over the grave of his forefathers, desperate and looking to you for guidance.

Guidance that you don’t know how to give.

“Why-”

“In what time he had left-”

Damn right, you’re angry.

“What do you care?” Regis looks at you in confusion. “Not like you’d have been around for the fallout, anyway.” Something cold twists into your voice, something hard and ugly. You try to swallow it down, but what’s the point? In order to be called Chosen King, one must obviously stop being a Prince first. And Regis would’ve known what that meant.

The King leans back as though slapped, cold mask falling over his face with the ease of decade-long practice.

“You think I did not care about my son’s fate? That I do not care?”

“I don’t know what you were thinking, in your all-encompassing wisdom, your Majesty. All I know is that you let the world fall to pieces and left the picking-up to someone else.”

“You would’ve had me leave my son without protector?”

“You would’ve had me bury three Kings in a row!”

It takes your hands slamming on wood to realize you’re standing up, bent over the King’s desk in anger. Your eyes meet, a million things passing between you yet remaining unsaid, and you can’t stand it anymore.

You can’t stand it.

With a snarl in the back of your throat, you leave the office. Regis does not call after you.

 

“…he deserves to know.”

Your words are no more than a whisper, empty and forlorn in the King’s chambers.

Regis laughs. “What he deserves,” he hisses and takes another swig from the bottle, “is to live.”

The King slumps back into his armchair, liquor haphazardly hanging from his fingers. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, beard unkempt and hair askew. He hasn’t taken the time to properly groom himself in nearly a week, not willing to spend a minute away from his son’s bedside.

The injured Prince is asleep, now, two rooms over.

Regis’ head slumps back against the cushions, and he continues in a slight slur. “What Noctis deserves is to live a long life, rule Lucis peacefully for decades with a wife and children at his side, and then pass on the mantle of regency at the end of said long life, when he is ready for it. But if he can’t have that, the least my son deserves is to be happy.”

You straighten your back, fists clenched at your side. “Ignorance isn’t always bliss. You would let him walk blindly into a knife?”

“You would have an eight-year-old fret over his doom, grow up knowing each day is numbered?”

“You seem to already have accepted the inevitability of that fact!”

Pale green eyes flash purple in the darkness of the room. “Get out!” the King screeches and surges forward, throws his bottle against the wall beside you, where it shatters.

You regard him a moment longer, the broken shadow bent low in a chair, before turning on your heel and exiting through the door.

“Get out.”

The defeated whisper won’t leave you for days.

 

The buzzing in the back of your jaw keeps growing worse, sometimes drowning out your surroundings for hours while you spend the time between sleepless nights and sunrise taking apart the training grounds.

You walk the hallways, restless for something to do, and come across Council members and stuck-up nobles, casting slurs on the King and denigrating his policies behind raised hands. You itch to take out some magitek armors, feel the metal screech beneath your blade, but you balk at leaving the Citadel long enough for those dissenters to take matters into their own hands, much as you would love to gain some distance from everything.

Instead, you sit in your bedroom and stare at the drawer of your nightstand, like you can see through the cheap wood with your x-ray vision. You think of the young men in the picture frame, how much has changed, how much will change, how things change.

And how they don’t.

 

“The Niffs have been quiet,” Nyx says, and grunts as he twists away from another blow. You don’t leave him the time to refocus himself, following up with a low swing at his legs. He jumps over your sword deftly and retaliates with a swipe of his own daggers, quick and deadly.

“Hn.”

You parry, and go back on the offensive. Nyx meets your blows easily, until your second sword catches him off guard and he back-flips out of range. You circle each other, waiting for an opening.

“Wonder what’s going on with that. What they’re waiting for.”

“Who knows. Could be anything.”

A quick feint, a step to the side, and your blades are clashing again.

Afterwards, after you’ve showered, Nyx takes you to the Glaives’ mess hall for breakfast, and it’s testament to how much time you spend out here (decidedly not hiding from the King) that the other Glaives barely bat an eye at you anymore.

You sit beside the curly haired Glaive you met at the Coeurl’s Nest (Pelna, you finally found out), who blinks a tired eye at you before going back to lazily staring into his tea cup. You try to ignore the knowledge that he apparently never made it through the Fall.

“You know, I never asked – where’re you from? The Niffs take your home, too?”

“Southern Leide,” you shrug and bite into your sandwich. It’s been years since the Empire bombed the area and took control of the Quay as a trading post. You barely remember what life was like before your mother took the two of you into the city and you built your life up from the ground, in a tiny shanty in the bad parts of town.

“Really?” Nyx asks and looks at you curiously. “You don’t have the accent.”

“Oh, you should’ve heard me as a kid. Cussed like a sailor.”

“What changed?”

You snort. “Kid. You don’t get to be close to the Crown unless you act like the Crown.”

A lesson from Clarus, who had taken you aside as a fresh-faced thirteen-year-old, after too many noble voices had started complaining about the little rogue King Mors kept in his company. “Life is about adapting, Cor,” he’d said when you complained to him.

“Then where’d that come from?” Nyx asks in Galahdian.

Another shrug. “Friends.”

“Anyone I know?”

You hesitate, shake your head. “No matter.” Even if that was something you wanted to elaborate on, your meager language skills would not allow it, and you’d rather not make a fool of yourself. You’ve always been better at listening than speaking.

“Glaives!” a voice barks from the entrance to the mess hall, and you do your best not to freeze. “Assembly in ten.”

The soldiers around you start grumbling and moving (even Pelna, who seemed to have fallen asleep over his food), but Nyx keeps eyeing you.

“There’s something between you and the Captain, isn’t there?”

Why does the kid have to be so damn observant?

You contemplate your empty plate. “You might wanna keep an eye on him.”

Nyx tilts his head in question, not willing to leave it at that.

You sigh, glancing at the eager Galahdian in front of you, and think of the way he started clinging to you like glue. You frown. “I know he might not always look like it, but… maybe he needs a friend, too.”

 

It’s another rainy day, so your feet lead you to the cemetery behind the Citadel on autopilot. You pay your respects, to the names present and those missing. The rain stops as an umbrella is lifted above your head.

“Dreary weather, isn’t it?” the King asks.

“The worst,” you reply.

They’re the first words you’ve exchanged in two weeks.

You stand in silence, listening to the pitter-patter on the smooth stone around you.

“I won’t watch you lead him to his death this time,” your body says.

Regis’ expression remains an unknown variable to you, floating somewhere at your back and two steps to the side. You think you can hear him breathe evenly through the sounds of rain.

“You make it sound like I have a choice.”

If you didn’t know him better, you would say his voice sounds as even as his breathing.

You do know him better.

“There’s always a choice.”

The next moment, your hand is caught and wrapped around the hilt of the umbrella. The King’s presence fades. “Don’t catch a cold, Marshal.”

It’s only on the way back that your eyes catch on the entrance to the royal tombs, that you remember the date. The anniversary of the late Queen’s death, taken by sickness before she had a chance to see her son’s first birthday.

The legacy of a Caelum is to lose.

 

You wonder if you should apologize. Think about bringing it up after briefings, between council meetings, in the hallway.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

Why?

Because the anniversary of Aulea’s death coincides with the day that Tenebrae’s set ablaze.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Action! :)

I used a random ffxv world map I found on google for the names of towns/regions, then realized later that the map was fan-made and certain names were made up by the creator. Credit for those names goes to SalesWorlds! I'll change the names if required, but that map was certainly a great help in planning out this chapter <3

“I cannot stress this enough. Your mission is a rescue only. Do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. The safety of the Royal Fleuret family is top priority.”

The line of the King’s back is tense, hands folded behind himself as he stares out the window into the distance. Clarus observes the happenings with a worried frown on his face.

 “Your Majesty. Do we have any intel on the exact location of the Prince and Princess? Anything at all?” Nyx asks.

When the news came of the Queen’s death (whether she was assassinated or simply caught in the crossfire unclear), you’d immediately volunteered to get the kids out, and when Regis adamantly refused sending you alone, you named Nyx as your partner.

Any more than that, and you would be too conspicuous.

“Fenestala Manor, that is all we can tell you,” Clarus says, sounding chagrined. “Connections cut off almost immediately after the attack, and we don’t know which of our men on the inside are still alive. Expect no help.”

“Stay under the radar, speak of your mission to no one,” the King adds. “While a most unfortunate development, we do not have the forces to liberate an entire nation; and you are not to try.”

It feels like that quip is addressed entirely at yourself.

There’s a moment, before you leave, after Regis has spoken his blessings for your mission and sent you off. Just a moment, where your gazes cross, and the weight of a million things left unsaid bears down on the two of you.

You’ve both hurt each other, and you’re on your way to an assignment that you know you might not return from. A part of you wants to reach out, grab Regis and shake him, scream at him, beg him for forgiveness, fall on your knees in front of him.

The other part of you turns on its heels and leaves the room.

Nyx eyes you after you make your way to the garage, luggage slung over your shoulders. “Why does it feel like wherever you go, there’re people you’ve got unresolved tension with?”

“I’m just that lucky.”

 

Your first stop is Hammerhead, which might either be a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

You haven’t seen or spoken to Cid in… well.

Not since you arrived in this time.

(Not since you’ve felt the old coot’s stare on your back after you left Hammerhead and its artificial lights behind, disappointment and an endless exhaustion in the shadows under the worn red hat.)

“So ya decided ta show yer scrawny face ‘ere again, after all.”

Cid swipes the cap off his head as you enter the workshop to take a better look at the two of you, standing a little forlornly in your civvies. How does he still manage to make you feel like a kid?

Gods, Cid Sophiar looks young. Well, he’s always been an old coot, but you’re used to his skin all paper-white and furrowed into a million valleys. This Cid still has every bit of his vigor left in his bones, and looks more than ready to knock you over the head with his wrench.

Nyx makes a small sound at your side, and at first you think it’s intimidation at the imposing mechanic advancing on you, but then you notice Nyx is eyeing you instead and you remember your conversation right after leaving the King’s office.

The little shit is bloody laughing at you on the inside.

Ugh.

“Cin, go get started on dinner.”

You didn’t even notice the blond teen watching you from her perch on a truck until she jumps down and walks past you with a curious look, not questioning her grandpa’s order. Her face punches the breath out of you for a moment, too baby-faced and too far down from where you’re used to seeing it.

“The fuck do you want,” Cid asks the moment his granddaughter’s out of hearing range, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“Passage to Galdin,” you reply. “We were gonna ask the Hunters, but I thought it’d be impolite not to stop by and say hi.”

“The King send you?” You remain quiet. “What for? Why not take yer own damn car?”

“That’s classified,” Nyx pipes in.

Cid’s face turns like he’s bitten into something sour and nasty. It’s barely been a few years since his falling out with Regis, you remember. The monarchy and everything connected to it are still sore subjects to him.

So you’re lucky when he ends up saying, “Was gunna send Box down on a supply run. Go, I don’t wanna see yer dumb faces around here.”

It’s almost a relief when Hammerhead slowly vanishes from the rearview mirror of the pickup-truck you stuff yourselves into.

Leide is still the hot desert it used to be, dusty and stifling. You’re glad the ships to Tenebrae don’t leave until morning, giving you a nice excuse to spend a night at the hotel and get rid of the sand in your clothes before the long boat ride across the sea. Nyx is proving to be an amiable companion, filling the quiet with occasional chatter without being too obnoxious about it, for once.

You both know things will only get heavier from here on out.

The next freighter headed to Tenebrae has a small contingent of passenger spots, and the Captain checks your faked passports in disinterest and takes your gil before letting you on the ship.

The lodgings are small, but you’re glad you have a bunk bed to the two of you and don’t need to share with other passengers, because that way you can keep the nightmares between the two of you. When you even can sleep at all, which hasn’t been a given ever since Clarus confiscated your sleeping pills that night on May sixteenth.

“Who’s Selena?” you ask when you join Nyx at the railing and immediately feel him tense at your side.

“…was,” he finally says. “Sister.”

You nod and stay quiet.

“You ever lose any family?” he asks.

You shrug, sigh. “My mum. Got sick, when I was young.” You stare into the waves below. “Never had much family I could lose to begin with.”

Nyx looks over at you. “Family’s not always blood.”

A smile, watching each other’s backs, campfires and shared pain. “True, that.”

 

There’s one more stop in Cape Shaw, and then the long ride across the sea. You’re glad you have a strong stomach, but not everyone on the freighter is quite so lucky. A young mother’s child keeps crying, and you try not to let it remind you of Lestallum, of the dense crowds and housing shortage, famine, young children who grew up without the sun, spending their days terrified and hiding from monsters. The boat’s atmosphere soon turns oppressive to you.

Things get even tenser when you finally reach hostile waters, and the first Tenebraean and Niflheim passengers get on board. You keep your heads down, but Nyx sticks out like a sore thumb among the fair headed people. Whispers of the war start making rounds, of the fires and the magitek dropping in waves from the sky in Tenebrae.

You get off at Origa; as close to Fenestala as you can manage. There are soldiers waiting at the border control, flanked on both sides by magitek bearing axes and rifles. The line in front of you quickly grows shorter, until it’s your turn to step forward and surrender your fake passports.

“Names?” the officer barks.

“Brevian Sino,” you reply, in your best Tenebraean accent. “That’s my brother in law, Arium Fortis.”

The officer squints at you, looking back and forth between your face and the passport. You’ve let your beard grow on the boat ride to match the picture, but you know you’ve made a name for yourself with the Niflheim forces. You’re not sure if you’re important enough to have made it on any ‘Wanted’ posters yet.

“And your purpose here?”

“We’re heading back to my sister’s.”

“Back from what? Fraternizing with those dirty Lucians?” The officer sneers.

“Pff,” Nyx snorts, “if you can call ‘playing around with clay’ fraternizing. I’m a potter, spent some time in Lestallum learning from a master of the craft.”

The officer looks him over, expression darkening. “You’re one of those Galahdians, aren’t you? Bet you couldn’t wait to get back at the Empire for trampling all over your precious country, right?” He bends forward menacingly, and the MTs shift at his back. The people in line behind you are starting to grow agitated.

“Galahd?” Nyx exclaims. “Haven’t set foot there since I was, like, five. I much prefer Tenebrae, thank you very much!”

You wonder if the man’s ever even been to Tenebrae before, but even after the insults Nyx remains as calm as the situation allows. Good.

“And your sister lives where, exactly?”

“Up in Stila,” you reply promptly, carefully melding your voice into a mix of bored and annoyed at being held up.

A few more tense seconds where you could swear the officer’s hands twitch towards the gun at his holster, and then finally he makes a derogatory noise in the back of his throat and lets you pass without another word.

You try not to let your relief show.

 

The two of you make camp one more time at a haven before reaching the city, and with it, Fenestala Manor and the Fleuret Royals. It’s too dangerous to take a motel room in one of the smaller towns on the way, but the night is warm and you have the gear to rough it out in the forest with a few cans of food and your sleeping rolls on the glowing runes. You’ve mostly had to stick to braving the off-roads anyway, due to the overwhelming presence of Niflheim military in the country.

You go over the plan for the following day, sharing what you know about the Manor’s layout and possible locations for Prince and Princess while hoping that history follows in its tracks, that the Emperor wouldn’t have had them shipped off elsewhere.

“You think they’re okay? The kids?” Nyx asks you, setting up the pot of beans above the fire to get started on dinner. It’s getting late.

You shrug. You’d like to say Niflheim would never stoop so low as to endanger – or even hurt – children, but unfortunately you know better. “They’re politically important,” you say instead. “Enough so that they’ll keep them as bargaining chips.”

Then again, the radio silence has been grating at your ears for weeks now. Anything could have happened in that time, and you can only hope for the best.

“Yea, probably,” Nyx tries to convince himself.

The crickets chirp, mixing with the crackling of the campfire in the dark. It’s the calm before the storm.

“Think we’ll get them out?” Sheila asks.

You look at her over the fire. She’s young, barely’d gotten accepted into the Glaive when Insomnia fell, but now you’re glad about every capable man or woman. All that loss has mellowed her, hollowed her out, but she still looks to you for guidance like everything will be alright if only someone in charge, someone stronger, tells you it will be; gives you an order to follow through.

Your gaze swivels past the sleeping Glaives and Hunters at your side towards the ravine where you picked up the radio distress calls, towards the roaming hoard of daemons blocking your path.

Only morning will tell.

“For sure,” you lie.

“You ever gonna tell me where you go when you do that?”

The voice startles you out of your musings, and you look over towards Nyx.

“Or why you seem to see ghosts everywhere you look? Why the King and the Shield are so protective over you?”

And well, are you?

You sigh.

“Survive the mission, and then we’ll see.”

You shovel food into your mouth, then stop and stare.

“Is that. Is that ketchup.”

Nyx looks at you.

“On beans. Is that ketchup on beans.”

Nyx looks at you very innocently.

You look back at him.

Nyx gives an impish smile, swipes back a braid to scratch his neck, and –

Oh.

Oh no.

You’re starting to care for this little shit.

Between all the quips, and the stalking, the sparring, sharing space and nightmares, and travelling miles upon miles alongside each other, you’ve honest to gods started to care about the little shit.

This is going to end badly.

 

It ends badly.

By the time you reach the Mansion, two weeks and three days after word of the initial attack, the battle is long over. The Oracle is dead, Ravus and Lunafreya locked up and watched by soldiers, and the palace lays quiet in the early hours of the morning; but the stone and marble still bear the marks of conflict on it. Singed grass, shattered arches – Tenebrae did not give in quietly.

You manage to sneak in due to Nyx warp-attacking the MTs at the least-guarded entrance like a fucking ninja and find the Fleuret Royals’ chambers-slash-prison in decent time, up high in a tower (because of course it is).

Before you can figure out some decent handholds to climb the walls, Nyx has wrapped an arm around your waist, thrown his dagger high into the air, and then you squiiiish and emerge and oh Gods, your breakfast sure would like to see you again right now. Nyx holds you tight until you can tame your stomach well enough to grab onto the ivy-covered window ledge.

“Never knew warping people was a thing,” you choke out between clenched teeth.

“Well, I warp my clothes with me, don’t I? Can’t believe no one else figured that out yet.”

You find the royals, adequately flabbergasted at the impromptu rescue, and get them to pack their most essentials. Luna ( - tiny Luna, gods, she’s only like twelve, isn’t she? - ) especially insists on staying with her people, but is finally convinced when you bring Noctis into the game. Ravus, you can only describe as shell-shocked. He doesn’t open his mouth for much more than the initial ‘oh’ upon your arrival.

So you finally start getting ready to leave, and that’s when everything turns pear-shaped.

The door opens. An attendant looks inside. The attendant yells. Soldiers flood the room.

You smash the window. Nyx throws his dagger through and grabs the kids. You take his arm.

The world vanishes inside a swarm of scattering blue crystals.

Impact.

Nyx grabs the kids’ arms and takes off for the forest, yourself close behind. Shouting. Soldiers swarm the clearing, opening fire. Nyx casts a shield as you summon a Glock and pick them off as best you can while moving, shots sloppy but somewhat effective.

“Take them alive!” someone shouts.

The shield shatters at the same time as two MA-X Angelus-0 cut off your path.

 

Drip. Drip.

The cave is dank, but hidden.

Nothing else really matters to you while you bend over Nyx and try to keep his organs on the inside. Where they belong.

It doesn’t matter how Lunafreya used to play in this large cave off in the mountains when she was younger and wanted to escape her nannies, only that she was able to find it hidden behind the ferns even while you were running for your lives with Nyx a deadweight over your shoulder.

It doesn’t matter that Ravus is sitting off to the side, looking even paler and more silent than before, so long as he’s there and unharmed, and gives a slight nod when you tell him to watch the entrance.

It doesn’t matter how the Princess’ hands tremble, so long as she keeps pressure against Nyx’ wounds while you grab some bandages from the armiger.

“If you’ve learned any magic at all, Your Highness, now would be the time.”

She takes a shaky breath and focuses on the carnage below her hands, face white as bone. “I can try.”

There are a few potions stored in your space of the armiger, but even as you let the liquid trickle down Nyx’ throat you know it won’t be enough. Potions back then (back now) had a mere shadow of the potency they would gain later under Noctis’ capable hands.

Nyx coughs slightly and flutters his eyes right as Luna’s hands start glowing softly.

“Wha- ugh!”

You press against his chest to hold him still.

“Easy.” Nyx’ eyes are wide and glazed, frightened in his pain. “You’re a bloody idiot,” you can’t help but add, without heat.

A brave idiot, one that bought you time to escape with the children while he single-handedly held off several Magitek Armors before using the last of his magic to warp after you, but an idiot none the less. You clench your teeth.

Beside you, Luna sags forward, exhausted. “I’m sorry, I – this is as good as it will get, I’m sorry.”

You steady her with a hand to the shoulder and bandage Nyx’ midriff (still torn, still leaking, but not quite as bad anymore) before pressing an energy bar into the girl’s bloodied hands. “Are you hurt?” you ask while looking the rest of Nyx over, who’s passed back out again. A large burn slithers down one arm, and the potion you drip over it barely lessens the angry redness of it. A smear of blood on his head hints at a concussion, but there’s nothing magic can do for that.

“No,” Luna chokes out and bites into her food.

“Ravus?”

The boy starts, then shakes his head, mouth remaining shut.

“Good.”

You stand up on tired legs and walk over to the cave entrance to glance between the ferns and ivy covering it, passing another ration bar to the Prince on your way and listening for sounds of the enemy in the distance.

“You’re hurt,” Lunafreya exclaims quietly.

Blood trickles down your calf from a bullet graze, but you don’t feel it. You don’t have time to feel it. You wash it out with your canteen and cover the cut with a bandage haphazardly.

“We can’t stay here.” You’re about half an hour on foot away from the mansion, and by now the entire area will be swarming with soldiers. You don’t have time to rest. “We have to make for the harbor.”

“They’ll be waiting for us there.” Luna shudders. “You shouldn’t have come for us. If your friend dies because of…”

“Leaving you here isn’t an option. Any other ideas?”

The Princess looks small and defeated, and you’re already going through alternate routes in your head when Ravus finally speaks up with a croaky voice.

“Take the train. Down south. There’s a stop a few miles from here.”

“Get on a ship in Succarpe,” you nod. “They’ll be expecting us to head east, to the coast; not deeper into the country.”

The Niffs will be looking for two blond kids, so you take them outside and cover their hair and clothes in mud; the two of them take to it better than you imagined royals to behave. Then again, they just lost their mother less than three weeks ago. Likely they are still reeling from all that’s happening around them, to them.

Nyx stays conked out over your shoulder as you take the kids and make your way through the forest, trying to keep as much pressure off the wound as possible. It’s slow going, slower than you’d like, but you keep having to duck away from patrols, hiding behind shrubs and large tree stumps. The graze on your calf is starting to make itself known, as well, burning something fierce.

It’s a few hours later and the sun is starting to set when you finally reach the train station, heart sinking when you see it swarming with soldiers.

“Shit.”

You settle the children behind some rocks way out of sight and wake Nyx, explain the situation as best you can to his pain-addled mind, feed him some painkillers, then slide off to the ticket booth which is a blissful distance from the platform itself. You manage to grab four train tickets to Portia without any enemy encounters or too much suspicion from the apathetic clerk behind the glass.

Two dogs are waiting for you when you return to the rest of the group.

“Looks like Gentiana is looking out for us,” Princess Lunafreya says.

You swallow any thoughts you might have about the Glacian and allow yourself instead a little bit of relief.

It’s a struggle to hide Nyx’ injuries beneath the cape and make it seem as though the man can stand under his own power, but you somehow you manage to slip onto the train while Umbra and Pryna are off making a ruckus and drawing the attention of every soldier in the area. You grit your teeth against the pain in your leg while trying to look inconspicuous and herding Luna in front of you, up the stairs and through the doors.

“Hope they’re gonna be okay,” she whispers, once you’ve shown the tickets to the conductor.

The four of you walk down the wagons in search of a free space, Nyx’ breath tight and strained in your ear, and you’re barely through the connecting doorways to the next wagon when there’s the sound of clacking metal and a voice behind you yells, “This is a routine control! Everyone, be ready to show your passports. I repeat, this is a routine control! Your journey will resume shortly!”

You curse quietly.

The door behind you falls shut, but it’s only a matter of minutes before the soldiers will reach you. You grab Nyx tighter and drag him along, the children in front of you, but you can feel Nyx’ strength sagging more with every second. It’s a miracle the man is even still on his own two feet.

The cabin ahead of you opens, and an old, plump woman steps out, blocking your path. Shit.

“Ah, apologies,” she says, uselessly, and then – even worse – does a double take. “Wait, aren’t you – ”

Before she can say any more, the Princess jumps forward and clutches the woman’s hands, leaning close and whispering in a desperate hiss, “Ma’am, I beg of you, if you love your country at all, please help us!”

You feel the seconds dragging by like nails down your back while the woman gathers her wits about her, blinks her large eyes, listens to the growing commotion behind you, and then finally, finally opens the cabin door wide and shoos you all inside.

“Stay calm, Sabi,” the woman says to a young girl looking down at you curiously from the railing of a bunk bed. The woman must be brighter than you thought at first glance, because within seconds she’s opened the large drawers for luggage underneath the beds and helps stuff the dark-haired Galahdian and lanky teenage-boy into them, before slipping Lunafreya’s hair underneath a pink cap (likely Sabi’s) and sitting her on top of the second bunk, opposite her own girl.

You and her both sit down on the lower levels and you barely manage to force your racing heartbeat down as the voices draw near (“Clementia,” the woman whispers,) and the door opens.

“Routine passport control!” the soldier calls, frown deep on his face. Two MTs clank their weapons menacingly behind him in the hallway.

You make a show of moving slowly to reach for your documents, feigning old age and aching bones.

“Sometime this century, man!” the soldier snaps, growing impatient and glancing at the woman, Clementia’s, passport.

“Six, can’t you see he’s got a bad back?”

“Shush Clem’, it’s fine. Those youngsters, they don’t have time for nothing,” you drawl, voice as raspy as you can make it. If Clarus could see you right now…

You stoop as you hand your fake documents over, and then sit back down with a theatrical sigh. The fakes say you’re fifty-three, meant to seem less threatening, and you hope you can pass as it with the beard.

“So you what, married?” the soldier asks. “The names don’t match.”

“My brother,” Clementia explains. “And my granddaughters.” She lifts her chin to the bunks’ upper levels.

“Documents,” the soldier demands.

“Don’t have any,” she says, and then furrows her already wrinkly brow when the soldier grows angry. “What? They’re not yet twelve, they don’t need any papers! Them’s the law, not my fault, good man! You think I’m made of money?” The scorn in her voice is obvious.

“How old are they, then?”

“Siti’s ten,” she gestures towards Luna, then the other girl, “and Sabi eight.”

The soldier steps further into the cabin and glares at the children, looking at them closely. Sabi shrinks back from the scary man; what Luna does, you cannot see from your spot below her. You keep your hands relaxed, try not to let them twitch for your sword. The knowledge of Nyx lying in the drawer beneath you burns like a physical thing against your legs. You pray he’s either passed out, or lucid enough not to make any noise.

And then the man steps back, grunts, throws the two passports on the ground and exits without another word.

It’s quiet.

“Routine passport control!” The words are muffled through the train’s metal walls, one cabin over. You allow to hang your head for a second as tension ebbs out of your body like an avalanche.

Clementia sighs quietly as well, and you look up to catch her eyes. You don’t move or speak until the soldiers have moved far down the train, until their voices fade away, until a shrill whistle is followed by the jerk of the train leaving the station and gaining speed. Even little Sabi stays silent as a mouse, picking up on the tension. A well-raised child.

“I’d ask what exactly I just risked my life and that of my granddaughter for, but I think I can imagine,” Clementia says finally.

You nod. “I could tell you, but I think we both know you’d be better off without the knowledge. Regardless,” you tip your head at her in gratitude, and mean it, “words cannot express the service you have done us, and your country. If ever you are in need of asylum, rest assured that Lucis will grant it. I will see to it personally.”

Clementia regards you for a moment, and you can see in her eyes that she understands the implications.

You stand up and check on Lunafreya first. “Okay, Siti?” you ask, and she nods at you, wide-eyed but keeping it together.

Next, you open the drawers after a quick glance out the door to make sure no soldiers stayed on the train, resolved to a more thorough check once you’ve looked after Nyx. The man is back out cold, and Ravus helps you lift him on the bed below Luna. You curse at the heat radiating from him.

“Your friend, he’s injured?” Clementia asks.

“Yes,” you reply, and check on his bandages. All the shuffling about has reopened the wounds and they’ve seeped through the linen, so you change it for a fresh one. “But until we get him to a doctor, there’s not much we can do.”

You check on the burns, and while they’re not looking any better, they’re thankfully not any worse either.

“I’ve a salve, for that,” Clementia offers, and you accept gratefully.

Afterwards, once you’ve handed out your half-empty water canteen to the Fleuret siblings, you grab a pack of dried peaches from your secret stash in the armiger and hand it to Sabi. “A thanks, for staying quiet, little one.” Clementia watches with a slight smile on her lips.

Once everyone is settled, you take out a dagger and hand it to Ravus, “Just in case.” He nods gravely and stuffs it into the back of his boot. You leave your protégés with the elderly woman and go in search of the train restaurant and to secure the surroundings, promising to bring something for your gracious hosts and saviors as well.

The hours of the night pass quietly.

Ravus has curled up beside his sister in the top bunk, bellies full, both of them letting the events of the past day sink in and succumbing to their exhaustion. Sabi is soon asleep as well, needing the rest as she is still young. Clementia retires after a while of quiet reading in a journal.

She offered to share a bed with her granddaughter, but you refused graciously. Your brain is too wired to sleep, anyway.

Instead, you sit on the floor beside Nyx’ bunk and stare at the door, thinking of nothing.

Nyx wakes sometime during the night, tossing and turning with fever. You shush him as best you can, calm him with a cool hand to the brow, wrap wet rags around his calves and burnt arm. You hope the period of rest on the train will do him good, even if there’s nothing else you can do for him.

“The kids?” he whispers.

“Alright. Thanks to you. Idiot.”

Nyx sags in relief and is soon back asleep.

With morning, the next train stop comes and goes. You spend the stop anxious in the cabin while Clementia scouts outside, but the few soldiers lingering around the platform don’t enter the train this time. The journey goes on.

Sabi shyly shows Luna her coloring book, and though the Princess is quiet for a child her age, she makes an effort to try and let the other girl cheer her up. Ravus keeps to himself. Clementia talks to you amiably now and then, about nothing of importance, but realizes that any real information exchanged between the two of you would only put her in further danger.

The pair eventually gets off at Celshky, and you’re almost sad to see them go.

“Blessed stars of life and light,” Princess Lunafreya says in parting, holding the woman’s hand and laying her own on Sabi’s head.

The train moves on.

You’ve barely slept the past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on you. Ravus offered to switch guard duty with you multiple times, but you only dared snag a few hours of sleep while Clementia was still around to watch over the children.

Much as you know you need to stay alert, you’d never forgive yourself if something happened to Nyx or the kids while you were asleep.

Nyx’ fever doesn’t rise, and by the third day of feeding him thin soup and water and putting cool rags on his forehead, you think it might almost have lowered a little bit. The skin around his wound doesn’t look quite as red and infected anymore. He wakes more frequently, seems more lucid of his surroundings, even jokes with the children occasionally.

Compared to the boat you step on in Portia, the train ride was a vacation.

It’s cramped.

Outgoing ships are still full of refugees trying to get out of the country, even over three weeks after the initial attack. There’s no chance to snag your own room, with barely enough bunks left for all of you in the large common room. Good thing you weren’t planning on sleeping much, anyway.

You’d caved in to Lunafreya’s large doe eyes on the train eventually and let her and her brother wash out the mud from their hair in the lavatories, convincing her to at least let you cut her hair short instead to make her less recognizable. There isn’t much you can do about Ravus, but at least there’s no shortage of fair-haired people on the boat for them to blend into. Luna wears one of your spare grey shirts like a dress, and even on Ravus Nyx’ spare clothes look comically large, but it’ll have to do.

It’s not much of a problem getting on the boat, as the imperial soldiers are more concerned with those entering the country than those leaving it, and soon after that you enter the wide nothingness of the Styrian Sea, nothing around you but water for miles and miles.

No, the problem lies with the water running out on the boat. With there not being enough food for way too many passengers. With sick people crammed into a small space together, coughing and wheezing and making the air seem foul. With Nyx’ fever picking up again. With your lack of sleep, making you unfocused and dizzy whenever you stand up. With the painkillers running out.

With the sudden epiphany that Nyx might die on this bloody hellhole of a ship.

“Se- Selena, don’t – you gotta run, please, don’t… Se-”

Nyx claws at the air, breath leaving his mouth in short puffs, and you grab his hand, clutch it against your chest. With your other, you turn his head in your direction until the fever-glazed eyes meet yours.

“Shh,” you sooth in a low voice to not draw the attention of the other passengers. “It is good. Ramuh watches over you.”

“Selena…” Nxy whimpers pitifully and squirms on the lumpy mattress, obviously in a shitload of pain.

You rub your thumb over his cheekbone. “Calm. Sleep now.”

Luna slips on the mattress on the other side and gently pushes the sweaty hair out of Nyx’ eyes, hand glowing softly. She mumbles a prayer, and moments later, Nyx falls back asleep, a little calmer now.

The girl swallows heavily, and you can see in the tight set of her shoulder how much she wishes she could do more for her savior. You know the feeling. You move to sit on the foot of Nyx’ bed and open your arm towards her. The young Princess slips onto your lap a moment later, where she curls into a tiny, shaking ball, on a foreign ship surrounded by strangers and clinging to the one person she doesn’t have any other choice but to trust.

It’s the longest ten days of your life.

Having government-issued funds of gil in your magical pocket dimension comes in handy and lets you get dropped off at Cape Caem rather than having to deal with potential Niffs at the Quay. You leave Nyx and the kids inside the house (Nyx flagging badly, and shit, you need to get a move on like yesterday), and head down to the road for the payphone.

“Cid. I need pick-up from the Cape.”

"What am I, a glorified fuckin' taxi service?"

You sigh, clutch the bridge of your nose with two fingers. You don’t have time for this. “I’ve got one man down, and two civilians. It’ll take too long to get a vehicle from the Crown City, and I dunno if there’s anyone in the field right now.”

Cid grumbles and curses. “You owe me one, I tell ya. Be there in five.”

You’re about to hang up.

“And by five, I mean five hours because Caem’s halfway across the fucking continent, you big dunce.”

You return to Nyx and the Fleuret children, feed them what little’s left of your ration bars and water from the tap that’s still running by a miracle, yet tastes stale and coppery. It’s better than nothing. Then you check on Nyx’ wounds again.

“Tell Lib – ”

A hand grabs your wrist and clutches at it weakly. Nyx’ eyes are barely open.

“Tell – tell him…”

You take his hand in yours, curl your fingers in his fist. “You tell him yourself, Nyx. We’re getting you home now.”

He sighs, and grows lax once more.

 

Cid looks like he wants to cuff your head something bad when he drives up in his yellow pickup truck and sees two blond kids trailing behind you.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding.”

You must be looking something, alright, because after a long once-over, Cid only clicks his tongue and motions for the car. The children go in the front with the old man while you lift Nyx carefully into the bed of the truck, head pillowed on your thigh and your back to the driver’s cab.

Cid floors it.

You could sleep, you know you’re as safe as it’s gonna get for now, but you don’t. You trail your fingers through Nyx’ gritty braids and watch the landscape rush past you, eyes burning in the wind.

You’re eventually dropped off at the City gates, where the Crownsguard is waiting to take over.

“Got one idiot Marshal to deliver – ”

You think you thank Cid and say your goodbyes, but you can’t be sure anymore. You’re on autopilot. All you know is that Nyx is still breathing, and the two children are in close proximity, and you’re surrounded by friendlies. Nothing else really matters anymore. You don’t need to feel your limbs, your head, your tongue, the sandpaper behind your eyes.

Eventually more movement happens, and you keep going with the flow until a gloved hand against your chest by a woman in scrubs keeps you back, and you sink into a chair in the hallway.

“Someone get the King down here,” a voice says.

“Blankets for the children,” someone else.

“Marshal? Sir?”

Luna and Ravus sit close to you, not quite trusting of their new surroundings but willing to let someone drape a blanket over them and feed them a hot drink to calm their nerves. A nurse does something to your leg, pinches your skin, presses a water bottle in your hand. More voices around you. Eventually, she leaves you alone again.

A bit of quiet follows, then, up until the click of heels down the hallway.

“Marshal. Report.”

The King’s voice draws your eyes upwards. You stand – you try to stand. Your legs won’t react, and you stay in your seat instead. How strange.

“Cor.”

A hand on your leg – why’s the King kneeling in front of you? The King is supposed to bow to no one.

You keep losing time.

“Mission successful,” you rasp, trying to retain some decency.

There’s something wry in Regis’ voice as he glances at the two royals at your side. “I sure can see that. Welcome to Lucis, Princess Lunafreya, Prince Ravus. My deepest condolences about your mother.”

“Thank you, King Regis.”

“The Glaive? Ulric?” Clarus asks. Oh, Clarus is here too, then.

Your eyes wander back to the double doors that Nyx vanished behind, as though looking at them might magically summon a doctor to tell you he will be alright.

“I see.” The hand on your knee does something, a slow up and down of a thumb maybe. “When’s the last time you slept, Cor?”

You blink at him, trying to understand the question.

“He didn’t,” a shy voice says from the side.

A conversation takes place, but you don’t seem to be a part of it, at least not an active one. So you tune it out and go back to staring at the wall.

“Come on then, Cor, time to get you home. The ‘guard will make sure those two are settled.”

You don’t react to the words until you feel Clarus’ hand on your arm, trying to drag you up. You shrug it off.

“No.”

“Cor, be reasonable. There’s nothing more you can do for him, here.”

More hands on you. You push them away. “I said no!”

You lean back, brush a hand over your face. The beard startles you for a second, unused to it. You take another sip of your water.

More time passes. People come and go. Crowe and Libertus sit next to you on either side, in silent vigil. It’ll likely be hours before there’s any news, but you can’t sleep.

Regis is back, talking to a person in blue scrubs, and then Noctis is climbing into your lap.

“I’ve missed you, Uncle Cor,” he murmurs, nose pressed into your shirt even though you must be reeking of sweat and sickness.

“I’ve missed you too, little star.” You bury your face in his hair, the scent comforting and familiar, as is the boy’s warm weight against you.

You think you see Regis’ pleased face right before you’re out like a light.

The bastard.

 

“…will have to stay on the ICU for a while, but unless there are…”

“…Cor? Marshal. Wake up.”

Someone’s shaking your shoulder. A woman.

Your eyes burn when you force them open.

“Nyx is out of surgery; the forecast is good, so long as he doesn’t reject the skin transplant for his arm. They’ve got him in intensive care for now.” Crowe still looks shaky, but not as tense as she could be. “We owe you. …again.”

You tilt your head. Noctis is missing, which is the first thing you notice, but then see him standing next to his father a short bit down the hallway. Clarus is much closer, and he’s got an arm outstretched towards you.

“Ready to go then?”

You nod and try to stand while the world swims around you. The ground rushes up to meet you, or maybe it’s the other way ‘round, and the edges of your vision dim rapidly.

Weightlessness, and strong arms around you, lifting you away.

“Maybe get him on an IV – ” someone says, but you’re not awake to hear the rest of it.

It’s time to sleep.

Notes:

Cor: *refuses to sleep until he knows Nyx will be okay*
Regis: *shoves nearest handful of child in Cor's lap* here hold this

Chapter 3

Notes:

My darlings, thank you kindly for your lovely comments. I hope everyone is keeping as safe as they can in the current situation.

Be warned that this chapter contains descriptions of war and fighting as well as racial discrimination. I wrote it a long time ago before things started heating up in the US, so none of that was on purpose. But if it's something you have trouble stomaching right now, please be careful reading.

Again, thank you to Brenna for helping me stay motivated about this story <3 This is another Glaive-and-kid-centric chapter, with the next one we'll come back to His Royal Regginess.

Getting rid of your beard feels like the best thing since sliced bread.

As does taking a shower.

Trimming your hair.

Brushing your goddamn teeth.

You look into the mirror and feel almost like a brand-new person.

After you awoke in the medwing with an IV in your arm, the King sent you home on no uncertain terms that barring any pressing news to report, he doesn’t want to see your face in the Citadel until you’ve had at least two entire days of rest.

So you went home, had a nap, showered, shaved, napped some more, and then went to hunt some food to make for dinner in your kitchen, sometime during the late hours of the evening.

Your sleep schedule is more or less fucked by that point, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You read the Glaives’ updates on Nyx’ condition on your phone, check on the news of the world. Nap some more.

The Empire has yet to make its move in retaliation of Lucis stealing their prisoners of war from right under their noses, and it feels every bit like the calm before the storm.

Eventually, the promise of a cloudless sunrise lures you out of your apartment around dawn.

 

The wind is crisp, even if the sun is promising to shine brightly that day. It’ll be a long while before you start wearing long-armed shirts for your runs, but it’s not too soon to start thinking about the winter.

Birds are chirping in the park, wind rustling leaves, children yelling.

“Not so brave now, are ya, fatty?”

“Stupid fat pig!”

It’s none of your business.

“Why don’t you go cry to your mommy and daddy? Oh, that’s right! ‘Cause they’re not here, are they?”

Except it is.

It’s part of your duty to the Crown and the Crown City to protect its citizens; it’s what you swore your oath to and what you plan to uphold, no matter whether it’s an Imperial attack, a bank robbery, or some kids playing bully on one another.

So really, you would’ve decided to intervene regardless of the battered camera lying a few feet away from where a plump, blond kid is lying on the ground, cornered by a gaggle of children.

“What’s going on here?”

It doesn’t take much more than your deep voice and imposing height to chase them off, stuttering excuses.

“You alright, kid?” you ask Prompto as he gingerly gets up from the ground, dusting off his pants and righting his glasses before checking his camera for damage.

The boy nods, eyes on the ground, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

You shouldn’t get involved. You should leave Prompto alone, probably.

There’s still dirt and leaves on his front.

“You want a drink?”

You wince mentally.

Prompto looks at you from below his fringe of hair. “Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but did you really just invite a lone child for a drink with a total stranger?”

You look at him. You want to slap yourself. Instead, you turn around and start walking.

“I do want a drink,” Prompto decides behind you. Your steps falter, and you look over your shoulder at the boy.

You sigh. “Come on, then.”

You’re not sure if it’s fate or not, but you end up in the exact same café where Nyx first told you to stop stalking random kids. You tell Prompto to order whatever he likes and try not to wince again at the whole entirety of the situation.

“I really shouldn’t have come with you,” Prompto explains and takes a giant slurp of his hot cocoa. The taste seems to cheer him up, or maybe the sugar rush hits quicker than expected. “But seeing as you’ve been stalking me for ages now, I’m guessing you know where I live anyway. So I could at least get a free drink out of it, if you’re planning to murder me.”

You stare at him.

“I suppose you’re the one who left the shoes for me too, right?”

You sigh and look out the window. Not your fault the kid was running around with completely threadbare footwear. What were you supposed to do, let him ruin his feet?

“Haven’t seen you around in a while, though…”

Green Lil Malbuddy sneakers were entirely appropriate for eight-year-old boys, right? Maybe? Fuck, you don’t know anything about children. Likely wasn’t even the right size, though Prompto wears them, anyway.

“So what’s your deal, then? Are you my sugar daddy?”

If you were taking a sip of your coffee in that moment, it would’ve ended up sprayed all over the dainty tablecloth. “No! …fuck.”

A sip of coffee gets taken afterwards instead, to buy yourself some time.

“Listen,” you say.

“I’m listening,” Prompto replies after listening to you not say anything for a solid minute. He nibbles on a pastry. Boy sure could use to lose a little weight, if he’ll want to keep up with Noct- …never mind.

You sigh. “Look – ” Prompto looks at you. Like an owl, with the glasses. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just – think of me as… your fairy godmother, I suppose.” That’s gotta be good enough, right?

“That’s creepy.”

“…yea. I guess. When you put it that way.”

You sigh. Your phone beeps, and you glance at it. Another message from Crowe.

“I don’t – look, just enjoy your drink, okay? Just.” You shake your head, stand up, and leave.

 

Going back to work the next day is almost a relief after that little disaster. After a quick check-in with Monica, you head to the King’s office.

“Marshal! Take a seat. Got some sleep, did you?”

Regis motions to the chairs in front of his desk, and you follow the subtle command, not caring for another staring match.

“Plenty.”

“Have you visited your Glaive yet?” Clarus asks, leaning against a nearby bookcase, arms folded. “Heard he got out of ICU this morning.”

“He’s not my Glaive.” You squint your eyes at him. “Or anyone’s, really.”

Maybe Libertus’ and Crowe’s, if anything. They’re like a pack of coeurls.

Clarus’ eyes have a shrewd glint to them, and you decide to distract him a little before he has time to come up with any dumb ideas.

“How’re the royals settling in?”

“Well enough,” Regis explains, sighing and leaning back in his chair. He spreads his hands on the table in front of him. “It’s a tremendous adjustment, naturally, and both still seem to be in shock, but I hope that in time they will be able to settle here and feel safe once more.”

You nod, hoping for the same. Those kids didn’t deserve anything fate threw at them, even if Ravus turned out rather like a prick in the other timeline. Wasn’t entirely his fault.

Regis folds his hands. “Cor, what happened in Tenebrae? How did Ulric get hurt? Tell me everything.”

You do.

You report to your King about your travel, about the presence of the military in the other country, the fear of its citizens. How you got the Prince and Princess out of the tower, how you were ambushed. About Nyx having to play the hero, and your subsequent flight to the port.

About Clementia, and her granddaughter.

“Brave woman, indeed,” Clarus remarks. “We’ll make sure the necessary steps are taken, should she show up on our radar.”

You nod.

“We got on a boat, Nyx turned worse during the ride; got off at the Cape. Cid picked us up, and the rest you know.”

It’s no more than the bare bones of the story, but Regis doesn’t need to know every detail. Even if he keeps piercing you with his gaze like he can drag them out of you if only he tries hard enough.

“What happened here while I was gone?” you ask instead. “Has the Empire started moving yet?”

“We’ve no word so far.” Regis shakes his head. “Only rumors – some folk in Niflheim claim to have seen aircrafts heading east, but we don’t know the credibility of the sources. Could be anything.”

You frown. “So all we can do now is wait and – ”

There’s a presence at your back, emerging suddenly out of nowhere and sending cold shivers down your spine. You spin your head around, then slowly stand up when you see the black-and-white clad woman standing in the back of the room. You hear Regis and Clarus behind you shift in alert.

“Lady Gentiana. What can we do for you?” Regis asks.

“For the safety of the Oracle and her brother, we owe our gratitude.” Head bowed, eyes closed, the messenger is the perfect picture of demureness, of gentility.

It makes something bubble up inside you, heavy and twisted and red-hot.

It’s the Gods who did this, you think. The Gods who spun all those blasted prophecies, the Gods who got us into this entire mess in the first place.

The Gods who would see Noctis die on the throne, like a hallowed lamb led to slaughter.

You move, in between the advancing messenger and your King.

“Your Divinity,” you say, face a mask and voice cold; a warning.

Gentiana opens her eyes and regards you serenely, before moving forward and letting her illusion drop. The two men behind you gasp as the messenger transforms into the Goddess of Ice and the air turns cold, breath fogging in front of you.

She stops just as you start clenching your fists, ready to call your sword at a moment’s notice.

“The threads of fate have unraveled, oh Herald of Different Times. Uncertain, the future is. Mayhap we might yet see a different end than the one foretold.”

“What does that mean?” Threads of fate? Why can’t the Astrals ever express themselves normally, for fuck’s sake?

Is it really too much to ask for?

“There has been strife, amongst our kind,” is all she says. “The answers you seek lie with the Witness.”

Before you have the chance to throttle her, she vanishes in a shower of snowflakes.

“…Cor?”

You rub the bridge of your nose and sigh.

 

It’s in the hallway, afterwards, that you run into Noctis. Or rather, that Noctis runs into you, tackling you from the side like an imp and latching onto your hip.

“Uncle Cor!” You wrap an arm around him to keep the boy secure as you keep walking. Noctis clings even tighter. “I missed you, lots and lots! I wished for my birthday that you’d come back. It took you a while, but look, it worked! Also, you smell so much better! I'm glad you took a shower.”

You wouldn’t admit it under pain of death, but the incessant blabbering close to your ear is incredibly comforting.

The boy is humming with energy, constantly moving his hands while telling you all about the weeks you missed, a healthy flush on his cheeks. His Kingsglaive guard nods at you before following the two of you serenely, at a distance.

Noct’s hair has grown even longer, you note, and there’s a small braid inlaid with beads close to his temple. You tug at it playfully.

“Oi!” Noctis complains and slaps at your hand. “Don’t mess it up! I got that braid from Tobul, it’s important!” He turns his head and yells at the Glaive. “Thanks, Tobul!”

The Glaive gives him a lopsided smile and a little wave.

“Glad you’ve made some friends,” you say. “Speaking of. Have you met Prince Ravus and Princess Lunafreya, yet?”

Noctis grows quiet in your arms. Really, he’s much too old to be carried around like this, but you can’t help indulging him. Just a little.

“Not yet. Dad told me to let them settle in a bit first. I really wanna meet them, but…”

“But?”

He bites his lip and looks to the floor. “They’ve had it really hard, right? What if I say something wrong, and make it worse?”

You stop walking, set the boy down and crouch in front of him to look into his eyes.

“It’s because they went through so much that they need someone to talk to right now, a friend. To distract them. Understand me?”

Noctis looks at you, eyes wide, indecisive.

You tap a finger against his chest. “You’ve a kind heart, Noctis. Just be yourself, be there for them, and it’ll be alright.”

The boy thinks for a moment before squaring his jaw and nodding determinedly. “I will, Uncle Cor!”

You smile, then stand up and clap Noctis’ back. “Alright, then. Go get, I have work to do.” The Crownsguard headquarters isn’t far anymore, and Noctis runs off with a grin, Tobul on his heels.

Monica and Dustin greet you with a smile and a cup of coffee before you head to your office to catch up on paperwork, ignoring the incessant beeping of your phone.

You should’ve known better than that, really, you think as Crowe knocks on the doorframe.

“He keeps asking after you,” she says while letting herself into the room and plopping down into a chair.

“Does he, now.”

You keep your eyes on the computer screen, typing away.

“He does.” Crowe puts her feet up on your desk, ignoring the stink eye you give her for that. “Real pain in the arse, really,” she drawls, watching you shrewdly. “Hard to imagine that he was in surgery just a few days ago, with a fever so high you could’ve fried eggs on his head.”

Nyx claws at the air, breath leaving his mouth in short puffs, and you grab his hand, clutch it against your chest.

“Se- Selena, don’t – you gotta run, please, don’t… Se-”

Your eye twitches.

Crowe stares at you, face knowing. She folds her arms in front of her chest. “It’s because of you that he’s alive, Marshal. You brought him back, despite what it might’ve cost you.”

It’s because of me that he got into that fucking mess in the first place.

You keep typing. The mage sighs, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Why do you see the need to feel guilty over things that absolutely weren’t your fault? I swear, you’re worse than Nyx that way!”

You glare at her. You might be sort-of-friends, but you are still much higher on the military hierarchy than her, and her words are starting to border on respectless.

“Mind your tone, Lieutenant.”

She winces, then furrows her brow. You notice she's young - must be in her early twenties at the latest, maybe even younger. Too young to fight in a war, but it's not like you're one to talk. The next moment, Crowe stands in front of your desk, weight resting on her hands, and catches your eyes insistently.

“This isn’t about the Glaive, or the Guard, or whatever. Like it or not, Cor Leonis, but the day you saved Nyx’ life, you became a part of our family. Us Galahdians watch out for each other, and that means we watch out for you, too.”

Her face softens.

“I’m not trying to criticize you. When I say you’re like Nyx, what I mean is that your kind tends to tangle themselves up in guilt until it chokes you. That’s why we need to watch out for people like you, especially. I’ve seen it happen after Selena, and it wasn’t pretty. But Nyx is still here, whereas she isn’t. So go. Talk to him.”

She leaves the office.

You sigh.

 

“Don’t pick at it.”

Nyx looks up sheepishly from the frayed edges of his bandage. “My hero! Come to bail me out?”

Everything about the scene, from the pallor of Nyx’ skin to the various machines and tubes connected to him, screams ‘extended hospital stay’. You look at the IV stand. “They got you on the good stuff?”

Nyx hums in utter contentment. “Antibiotics, fluids, morphine. I don’t know if I still have feet. Do I have feet?” He contemplates. “Life is beautiful.”

You lift the bottom of his blanket.

“Looks like feet.”

“Good.”

“Smells like feet, too.”

“…well, who asked you?”

You sniff disdainfully and look to the chair, wondering if you should be sitting down. This feels awkward. You fidget.

"You saved my life. I owe you." Nyx is staring at you intensely, previous topic forgotten.

"We're even."

Nyx shakes his head. "It's two to one, now. Just because I’m high as a cloud on pain meds doesn’t mean I forgot how to do basic math."

There are flowers on the nightstand, and some strange wooden carvings. You know enough about Galahdian culture to recognize a rune or two on the lucky charms. Somebody obviously redid Nyx’ braids, as well. You pick up a wooden charm at random to run your thumb over the divots.

“Cor.” Nyx’ fingers wrap around your wrist, halting the motion. He tugs you closer until you lift your gaze from the needle taped to the back of his hand up to Nyx’ eyes. He looks at you for a moment. “I’m a soldier. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

A deep sigh builds in your chest. Are you really that transparent?

Apparently, yes.

(Either that, or Crowe is a tattletale.)

It’s true, Nyx chose his profession as a killing machine for the Lucian monarchy, and he knew that this profession included putting your own life on the line. Nyx didn’t even really have to accept the mission with you; both you and Regis made it very clear to Nyx that his involvement was voluntary.

And still.

The Glaive wouldn’t have gotten hurt if only you’d been better. You frown and clench your teeth.

Nyx looks at your unhappy expression and rubs a thumb over your exposed wrist. “Did you finally get some sleep, at least?” he asks, eyes soft. He’s too kind for his own good.

“I did.”

“Good.”

The short quiet between you is broken by a beeping sound coming from your pocket. You take out your phone and glance at the screen.

They’re on the move, Clarus’ text says quite simply.

“Hey, don’t be a stranger,” Nyx calls to you on your way out.

 

“After the Empire so cowardly decided to attack our ally and friend, the Kingdom of Tenebrae, and murdered Queen Sylva Via Fleuret in cold blood, we saw ourselves with no other choice but to bring the remaining royals of Tenebrae to Lucis. Here, they will grow up in peace, and the Oracle shall ascend to her duties away from the machinations of Emperor Aldercapt and those he commands. Rest assured that Lucis has no intention of keeping the Oracle from her people.”

The King sure knows how to stage an appearance, with the full royal raiment, a line of Crownsguard in the background and the Lucian crest on the podium set up in the middle of the Citadel’s front stairs. Regis has always been a lean man, and while that sleekness only makes him faster and more unpredictable in battle, the general public tends to associate thinness with weakness. The raiment is meant to bulk him up, make it appear the King is broader than he truly is.

A caption scrolls over the bottom of the newscast, King Regis CXIII defending move on the Empire, and then New Oracle in Lucis – still fit for duty.

It’s a rerun, of course. During the actual press conference, you’d been right in the middle of those officers on the stairs.

“We have tried reaching out diplomatically to our enemy. However, the Empire’s latest attack on the Western Cavaugh area will not remain unanswered. Lucis shall not stand for such senseless violence. The Kingsglaive has already been mobilized, and the public can rest assured that…”

You crack a can of beer and lean back in the sofa, not bothering to switch the channel. You’re not moping. You’re not.

You might just be a bit… put out that Regis is actually enforcing the mandatory rest period of two weeks after prolonged assignments.

As it had turned out, the reason why Niflheim took so long to retaliate was because they had taken their soldiers all the way over to Cavaugh in order to renew their offensive on the border of Lucis while getting as close to the actual capital as they had the chance. They’d twisted the entire situation in their favor during a public newscast, of course, excusing the break of the current ceasefire with Lucis taking ‘prisoners of war’ and stealing the Oracle from her rightful place in Tenebrae.

The council had had a fit.

In the end, Cavaugh was too strategic an area to lose, seeing as the majority of farming happened there and Insomnia was very much dependent on it for food. The concerned area also happened to be quite close to Galahd, so most of the Glaive had volunteered in a heartbeat.

As had you.

Tough luck on that.

Regis won’t be argued with, so instead you train to get your body back into shape, check up on Prompto during your morning runs, and help coordinate supplies for the Kingsglaive at the front. All while knowing your comrades are out there, risking their lives. You wonder what Drautos is doing there, if he’s actually saving more Kingsglaives than he sacrifices in his complicated little game of chess. Which side is he on, currently?

One time, Gladio wanders into your office and demands that you start training him, like you train Ignis. When you ask why, he states that he wants to grow more powerful.

“There’s talk about the Niffs everywhere, that they’ve attacked again. If they’re coming after us, I need to be ready. I need to be stronger, so I can help beat them.”

Gladio knows that Cor is the best, and he wants to be trained by the best. But if it’s mere strength the boy wants, any tutor would do.

You look at him for a moment, thinking of the Shield he will one day become, and all the lessons left to learn. "Come back to me when you’ve found the right reason,” you say, and ignore his childish protests to turn back to your work.

 

For all that Nyx complains a lot about the mothering by his pack, he complains even more once Crowe, Pelna, Libertus and all the others have moved out to battle and left him behind. You share the sentiment. Though contrary to Nyx, who was only just released from the hospital, at least you have a transport to look forward to in only a few days.

“Cor!”

Noctis runs into you after you return from helping Nyx get settled in the barracks at the basement levels of the Citadel. The boy puffs a few breaths; he was running to catch up to you.

“Uncle Cor, Dad says you’re leaving next week?”

You nod. You were on your way to see Monica, to go through the duty roster for the next month. There’s still quite a few things you need to prepare in advance of your absence; who knows what the ‘Guard will get up to without you around. Maybe you should –

Noctis makes a quiet noise. You cock your head at him. The boy looks decidedly unhappy, eyes tense and jaw clenched.

“Can’t you just – ”

He turns around with a huff to brace his arms on the low wall of the breezeway, towards where rain is steadily pattering on the stones and shrubs in the courtyard. The weather is starting to turn quickly, fall approaching faster than you’d like.

You lean against the closest pillar and wait for Noctis to sort his thoughts.

“…do you have to?” the prince finally asks after a long few minutes, face turned downwards, like he’s too ashamed to even murmur the words.

“It’s my duty, as a soldier. To protect the Kingdom of Lucis.”

Your words make Noctis hunch down further upon himself, brow furrowed.

“Why does that bother you so much, Noctis?”

“…I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

He chews on his lips, still not meeting your eyes.

“If I don’t go out there, it might be someone else who gets hurt. If I do go to Cavaugh, I might save a lot of lives. People with families, friends, a future. When you become King, you will have to learn to live with the uncertainty of sending your soldiers into battle, Your Highness.”

You see a shiver run through Noctis at the reminder of what lays in wait at his ascendance. He’s such a sensitive child, always has been. You wish you could be more reassuring. You wish the world were… kinder, on his kind. But for now, you’ll have to settle for making sure Noctis lives long enough to rule at all.

After a moment, you sigh and extend an arm to him. Noctis looks at you a moment before burrowing into your side, hesitant at first, then clinging tightly.

You watch the rain together, and the presence of your Prince at your side helps stave off the cold.

“I know,” Noctis finally murmurs, and stares ahead, eyes bleak and far away. “I just – hate the war."

 

There are three stages to liberating an invaded area.

First, you must secure the population. This stage is the bloodiest, because of the civilians getting into the crossfire.

You’ve missed the first stage when you arrive in your van full of uniformed, hooded figures, but you can see it in the eyes of those who greet you that it wasn’t pretty.

After you’ve gotten the civilians out and somewhere safe comes the second stage, and the longest one. Driving out the enemy. It won’t be for a long, long while until the Niffs will release their claws, drop their claim and go running, when the third stage will begin and the people of Cavaugh can return and reclaim their homeland under constant surveillance of the military.

In your many years of war against the Empire, you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve reached the third stage.

(In the Night, oh, how many times you didn’t get past the first. Screams in the night, blood-curdling, and no matter how hard you fight, you can’t push through the wall of daemons to get through to where you’re needed.)

The rain soaks you through in seconds no matter how many layers you wear, and you can’t stop shivering.

You’re cold.

The fight against the Niffs turns into wash, rinse, repeat: Slash your sword against the never-ending rows of MTs, get out of range before they trigger their self-destruct mechanisms before jumping back into the fray. Shield your felled comrades against the attacks before dragging them back behind the lines, hiding them in abandoned shacks and destroyed houses.

Somewhere in that fray is Drautos, a force to be reckoned with, but so long as he at least pretends to be on your side you decide not to care.

The storms bring with them a new level of hell, thunder mixing into the sound of exploding armors and lightning bathing the battleground in flashes of blinding white.

“What – ”

“Duck!”

The voice cuts easily through the ringing in your ears. You duck, and barely avoid being decapitated. By the time you’ve felled the axman going for your head, the blond gunslinger has vanished into thin air, like he was never there at all. You sway dizzily.

It must’ve been the lightning, making you see things.

 

The first reprieve in days has you heading out East, safe as you can be on the other side of camp, while the Niffs regroup their forces. The scent of smoke lingers on the air and tickles your throat, forcing you to hide your coughs in the crook of your elbow. Your chest aches with the memory of old wounds.

You’re being watched. Have been for a while now.

Shhhhhh…nickkk, is the sound the whetting stone makes on your blade.

The sun is setting behind the clouds. You keep watch from beneath a half-collapsed shed with only part of the roof still intact, eyes lingering on the wastes ahead of you. It wouldn’t do to evade the Niffs only to be ambushed from behind by daemons in the coming of the night.

The three crumbling stone walls aren’t enough to keep the wind out, and you shiver in your drenched clothes. You avoid looking at the large boulder just outside your shelter.

Shhhhhhh….nickkkkk.

“You’re not real.”

“Well, obviously.” The specter scratches his nose before flicking the wet bangs out of his face. “Prompto Argentum is a nine-year-old kid living in the seventh district.”

You nod in agreement, glad to have it settled.

“Bit drab all this, isn’t it?” He lifts a hand at the area around you, at the ruins of farm buildings and the water dripping steadily from the shrubs, soaking into the ground. “Bit like the Vesperpool, only without the, you know. Giant deadly chickens. Or tentacle monsters. Sahagins. I mean – we’re close to the coast, here, do you think there’s – ”

Anger bubbles up in your throat. Bad enough that your mind has apparently started crumbling under the pressure, bad enough that the apparition’s warnings saved your hide in the past few days more times than the shock of it made you lose your focus. This intruder isn’t Prompto, so he doesn’t have a right to act like him, either. “Stop talking like him!” Your yell ebbs uselessly into the night.

The blonde looks at you with something akin to disappointment. You shouldn’t feel so bad about letting down a ghost. You keep tending your weapon while listening to the pitter-patter around you.

The next time you look up from your sword, he’s gone.

 

The day you run into Nyx in between two crumbling farm buildings, it’s been two weeks of near constant fighting, with short breaks for naps when you could take them. You grab the Glaive by the front of his uniform and shove him against a wall, ignoring the bullets whizzing past you.

“The fuck are you doing here?!”

“Nice to see you too, mate!”

As it turns out, Nyx snuck on board a truck to the front because he wanted to help when it came so close to Galahd. You’re about to throw a fit, but Nyx is right when he says they need every able-bodied man or woman to fight against Niflheim. The Kingsglaive isn’t large enough to really be a military, even with their magic.

You curse, but get back at it.

Trying to keep an eye on Nyx only works for about two hours before the fighting turns intense enough to use up every shred of your attention. You feel like a soggy piece of bread by the time a rare break in the clouds and the afternoon sun poking through makes the Empire retreat for a bit. It’s hard to breathe through the humidity in the air, like a heavy weight settling on your lungs. You cough.

Nyx looks at you shrewdly.

“Caught a fly.”

“Sure you did.”

A watch is set up and Drautos calls everyone able to eat and rest. You munch on your ration bar after making sure everyone got their due, then wander through the rows of cots for the wounded in the field hospital, like there’s anything you could possibly do to help, like healing magic isn’t staggeringly beyond you. Eventually, you end up in another tent, Nyx’ hand on your arm leading you to a sleeping bag in the corner.

“…course, Crowe chewed me a new one, but you know how she is.” He laughs.

You look at him like you were actually listening and not floating two feet beside your body.

Nyx looks at you, and sighs. Rummages around his pants’ pockets, takes out a pack of mints, rattles the cup. “Here,” he says. “Helps with the – ” He makes a swooshy hand gesture. “ – all that.” You take a mint, but the flash of cold on your tongue only makes the floating feeling worse, if anything.

You cough, shiver, and burrow down into the sleeping bag.

 

He finds you in the nick of time, shots ringing out over the groaning of the giants. You nod your thanks, wipe the gunk from your sword and limp after him towards an outcrop.

“Saw the signal and thought I’d check it out,” Prompto says, checking over his guns before stashing them back in the armiger in a flash of crystals.

“’preciate it,” you wheeze. Prompto turns around just in time to see you collapse and jumps forward to slow the descent.

“Shit, when’s the last time you slept?” he asks, already looking you over and catching on your sunken eyes. “…sir,” the man adds after a moment, as though remembering who he’s speaking to. You snort. Military doesn’t mean jackshit anymore, and you both know it.

“Got cornered.”

Prompto nods, satisfied with his inspection and already reaching for your calf. “Show me your leg.” You keep an eye on your surroundings for more daemons popping up while the blonde reveals the long, bleeding gash, cleans it and wraps it in bandages.

“I taught you how to do that,” falls out of your mouth before you can stop it, gaze swiveling back to the way your leg wound is treated gently, but expertly.

Prompto grows quiet, hands going still for a moment in remembrance."...so you did." He smiles at you, stretching the scar spanning his left cheek, vanishing in the scruff of his beard. “Was hella squeamish back then, and you always were the kinda guy for a hands-on approach. I almost lost my lunch.”

That boy has come a long way from the bumbling, shy Crownsguard recruit he used to be. He found his place in the world, in helping others; making sure Hunters made it home and Glaives got their weapons upgraded and supplies reached Lestallum safely to keep the civilians from going hungry.

You feel a pang at how quickly Prompto was forced to grow up, how he saw his first intestines on the wrong side of a stomach half a year into the Night and had had to learn to roll with it from there.

 

“You know, you do owe me a story,” Nyx says after a while. You don’t know how much time passed you by, staring up at the fabric ceiling and listening to the sound of rain dripping all around you, to the quiet noises of sleeping soldiers in the dark.

It’s still cold. You imagine seeing your breath fogging the air in front of you.

“I’m too sober for this shit,” you drone.

Your thumb rubs over the pads of your fingers, not quite feeling them. It’s too close to how things used to be, during the Night. You half keep expecting an adult Prompto to walk into the tent, or a blind Ignis, or grey-haired Dustin. You’re used to the occasional hallucination, but until now it wasn’t this – it wasn’t your kids. Your breath shudders on the way out.

“Hey.” Nyx puts his hand on your chest, looks over at you from his bedroll where he’s turned over to face you. “You’re okay.”

The contact helps – an anchor to keep you from drifting away. It helps that Nyx wasn’t a part of the World of Ruin; looking into his familiar-unfamiliar eyes is enough of a reminder of where you are, of when you are.

Nyx smirks wrily. “I should let you know though; I dunno what they told you about me, but I don’t really do relationships.”

You snort, look up at the ceiling and shake your head. “No worries on that front. Don’t take it to heart, but you’re not exactly my type.”

Nyx’ laugh is quiet in the night-time silence of the tent.

“Yea? What is your type?”

You try to scoff it off. You’re a soldier, you’re in service to your Kingdom. There’s no time in between your duty to ‘have a type’.

Of course, your mind doesn’t give a shit about that. It wanders to strong arms and elegant cheekbones before you can give yourself a mental slap, to the feeling of a firm chest against yours and gentle fingers in your hair.

Get your shit together.

Nyx is still waiting for an answer, so you roll your eyes and aim for nonchalance. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

In the end, it’s the coughs that make you agree with Drautos to head back home for a bit to recuperate (as well as Nyx, Crowe, Pelna, Libertus and at least five other Glaives who wouldn’t stop badgering you after just listening to you breathe), though in your head you only do it so you can convince the King to recruit more people into the Kingsglaive.

This battle, more than anything, has shown you first-hand how incredibly understaffed Insomnia’s military is. If the Empire actually decided to grow serious in their conquest and launch a large-scale attack, a flimsy magic Wall would be the only thing standing between the city and certain death.

“Where would we find them?” Clarus asks, brow furrowed. Regis looks at you in thought, mulling it over.

“Get the police force to launch a campaign. Flyers, TV spots, the like.” You shrug.

The King ponders, “It’ll mostly be Galahdians passing the tests for magic affinity. For one, that will have the council up in arms, and for another – why should they fight for us? We’ve all seen the kind of discrimination against refugees in the City.”

“Well then maybe that discrimination is something we ought to do something about,” you grumble, rolling your eyes so hard they run danger of falling out of your head. How much longer will Regis turn a blind eye to that particular problem?

"And after the war is done?” Clarus asks. “What shall we do with hundreds of soldiers?"

After the war is done – what a strange concept.

"As His Majesty’s said, they've an affinity for magic. Make healers out of them, put them in public hospitals."

You’re about to extend on your point when your breath catches in your throat and releases in an ugly, wet-sounding cough that has the King and his Shield back to fussing over you uselessly for a solid five minutes, followed by you getting fed up and going back to your work before they can order you to the med wing.

The rift between you, the one that’s been slowly building for months, keeps growing wider.

It’s the easy camaraderie with the Glaives you find yourself drawn to, instead. You make it a point to head back to Cavaugh any time you can get a medic to clear you for battle, and spend as much time with your new comrades as you can whenever they return to the Citadel for their own breaks. You train together, eat together, and after a while even start sleeping together (metaphorically, of course) after Nyx offers you the empty bunk in his room in the barracks to spare you the trip back home every night.

“The guy who used to sleep here,” Nyx explains, pointing to the second cot, “Gibso, he – well… let’s just say, a shock trooper happened.”

There’s an emptiness in the dorm room that makes your original protest die in your throat. It’s not like you haven’t witnessed each other’s nightmares yet, anyway. You pretend not to see the relief in Nyx’ eyes when you push your tote into the locker in the back.

Then there’s the kids.

Gladio’s kept his distance ever since your earlier rejection, but you see him punching a sand sack like it personally offended his mother in the training halls, once or twice. Ignis is a different story. You try to meet up at least once every two weeks for his dagger training, and it’s not surprising that the boy is improving by leaps and bounds, putting every effort into it.

What does surprise you is when Noctis comes bounding up to you in between deployments and starts rambling about how he got Luna and her brother into sword fighting lessons.

“Can you believe it? No one ever thought she’d need to learn how to fight, just because she’s a girl! How dumb is that?”

You’d love to see Iris more, but it’s hard when you’re avoiding Clarus’ house like the plague and a three-year old has no place at the Citadel. You try to check up on Prompto from a distance when you can, your earlier disaster of a meeting still present on your mind, but it’s also very hard to get out of the Citadel while fighting a war.

And well, if you’ve started putting yourself in dangerous situations on the battlefield because that’s when the vision of elder Prompto shows up to warn you of danger sometimes, if you’ve started getting low-key addicted to that feeling – well, that’s no one’s business but your own.

(And Prompto’s, who keeps shooting you these looks. But he’s just a ghost, so what does it matter?)

…truth is, you miss the kids something fierce. Your kids. The ones you helped raise, saw grow into formidable warriors, who you accompanied into darkness and beyond. If there’s any way to prevent the hardships they ended up facing, you will do it, no holds barred – but… they were your friends, too. Your comrades, your family. And now they’re gone, likely forever. You’re almost sad when the fighting slowly dies down and you stop seeing Prompto, pretend it doesn’t leave a gaping hole in your chest.

The weeks pass, the air grows colder with the coming dread of winter, and Niflheim gets mostly pushed back from the peninsula outside your doors. But the peace is fragile and there is much cleanup needed before the farmers can return to normalcy.

The Niffs keep starting random surprise attacks and everybody is on edge. The images of comrades and civilians getting blown to bits in trip mines makes an unwanted comeback in your memories, reappearing in your dreams at night and vivid flashbacks during the day.

Then the tension rises further when King Regis appears before the Council with his plans of expanding the recruitment for the Kingsglaive, and when Noctis, having grown even closer with his Kingsglaive guard and gained a few more honorary braids in his ever-growing hair, finds out that his friends have not been getting the supplies they should and starts making public claims on just what he thinks about that.

The council is not very amused.

That damn cough has settled in your lungs like an ever-present itch, exacerbated by the colder weather, and of course Clarus won’t stop hounding you about it. In the end, you decide to do what you do best – you get away for a bit.

 

“Why do I keep running into you.”

Prompto only gives a helpless shrug.

“I wasn’t even looking for you this time. I mean – ugh.”

It’s the truth. You just wanted to take your sandwich outside the police headquarters after a long morning of discussing the recruitment process, knowing there’s a park a short block away. Doesn’t make your earlier statement any less creepy.

“I don’t know, Sir. Promise. I just – well, I heard someone say there was a litter of kittens somewhere around here, and I wanted to grab a few quick shots, because, y’know, kittens are adorable of course, but I mean, everyone thinks that, right? And then I thought – ”

You sit down on a bench and eat your sandwich while Prompto keeps rambling on for a while before trailing off, rubbing his neck self-consciously.

“You take a lot of photos on that?” You motion to the camera. It’s a dumb question, but Six, the kid looks downcast.

The words are enough to brighten him up again, and the flood of words starts again.

He’s chubby, and awkward and pretty damn dorky with those odd glasses and the clothes he probably chose for himself, so it’s not a far stretch to think of him as having few friends; maybe even getting bullied at school.

And it’s obvious he soaks up attention like a sponge.

Makes you want to… punch something.

“Anyway, if you want I can show your where the – ”

The boy takes an unfortunate step back at the same moment as an elder woman walks past your bench, causing her armful of books to clatter to the ground. She starts cursing at Prompto immediately, even as he stoops down to help her pick up the books.

“Shiva’s sake, you clumsy boy! Don’t you have any eyes in your head?”

“I’m sorry, I – ”

The woman changes tracks after catching sight of Prompto’s coloring. “Niff scum, don’t you touch my things! Bastards, the lot of you. The King should never’ve let you into the City…”

“I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose, Ma’am.”

She jumps at your voice as much as at the coldness of it, then does a double take, and says – “Oh, Marshal Leonis Sir, I didn’t see you there! So nice to see you, my son won’t stop talking about you. You see, he’s in the – ”

“Yes, thank you. I’m sure you have things to be doing, Ma’am. Please don’t let us keep you,” you clench out between your teeth and shoo her away, reminding yourself over and over that open violence against a Lucian citizen is not an option.

It’s only after a moment that you notice that Prompto has gone quiet. Lifting your gaze, you see the boy has gone frighteningly pale.

“You okay, kid?” you ask, as gently as you can.

He jumps, taking a nervous step back. “U-uh, yea. Yes. I’m – I’m fine. Mister Marshall, Sir. Everything A-okay. I should, uhm…”

You freeze, followed by a sigh. Of all the ways…

“You’re not in trouble, kid,” you interrupt his rambling.

He stares at you warily. “Then… why are you here, Sir? Why are – why do you… keep talking to me? I’m no one special.”

You sigh again. Your gaze falls on Prompto’s wristband absentmindedly. “Do you know about…?”

It takes a good five minutes to calm Prompto down again after those four words, and if you could kick yourself in the butt, you would. Finally, you get him to sit on the bench next to you. You rub the bridge of your nose, trying to figure out how to navigate this new disaster.

“First of all, whatever you’ve been told about your tattoo, it’s wrong and you are not in trouble for it,” you start. Good. It’s a good start. “Secondly, why I’ve been – I… I knew your parents. I guess you could say, I feel like I’m… dutybound to look out for you.”

Two half-lies, if not a truth. You’re not sure if Prompto ever had a woman’s DNA involved in the process of making him, but Besithia was his father, and Ardyn the puppeteer behind his creation, so there’s two people who could qualify as Prompto’s parents in the very roughest of interpretations.

Still, it feels like you just shoveled your own grave by putting your foot in your mouth (and isn’t that an interesting mental picture).

“You mean, my… my real parents?”

“Yea.”

“Will you tell me about them?” Prompto asks carefully.

You look to the side. It’s been twenty-eight years, and you have yet to forget the sight of the rows of tanks with small bodies floating inside them. “That’s… that’s a story for when you’re older, kid. Sorry.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He’s too young to hide the disappointment in his voice properly.

You clench your teeth. You’ve been fucking this up from the moment you met the boy.

“I’m sorry,” you say, elbows on your knees, eyes locked on the ground between your feet. “I’m not very good with… all this.”

You should’ve stayed out of Prompto’s life. Or – been better, somehow. There’s people who know how to deal with kids, Regis, Weskham, even Cid managed to raise a decent lady out of Cindy – anyone would do better than you.

“It’s… fine. At least now I know you’re not a serial killer.”

The kid chuckles awkwardly. You would like to crawl into a hole and die.

 

“Did you know them?”

The words burst out of Prompto apropos of nothing, seeming to startle him just as much as yourself. You look at him over the glowing runes of the haven that the two of you dragged yourselves onto, and gesture at him to elaborate.

“…it’s just, I – it was a Crownsguard who took me from Niflheim, back then. I wondered if…” He wrings his gloved hands. “I never thought I’d have the guts to ask you, but…” – but we could be dead any day from now, and I want to know.

You look at him, at the way he seems to want to look anywhere but you, yet doing it anyway; brave as always. You inhale deeply.

“Yes. It was me.”

Prompto freezes and he stares at you for a moment with wide eyes, warring between disbelief, longing, and doubt. He looks like he‘s about to say something, but –

…we could be dead any day from now.

“And I would’ve kept you if I could.”

Your quiet admission seems to punch the breath right out of Prompto’s lungs. A thin line of tears forms on the blonde’s lashes, eyes sparkling in the light of the runes.

Skinned knees and ratty clothes and a cheap camera to make up for the hole in his chest.

Faced suddenly with – the idea of being… wanted, cherished, not-a-burden –

He swallows roughly. “I think… I would’ve liked that.”

 

You’re startled by a hesitant touch to your arm, and you look over to see Prompto biting his lip hesitantly.

“Hey, I – I mean it. It’s okay if you can’t tell me about my parents. Maybe it has to do with super sneaky cool spy stuff? Who knows. I mean – you do, obviously, but uh… what I mean is – you did almost give me a heart attack, but it’s also kinda – really damn cool that Cor the Immortal is showing interest in me? For whatever reason? No one’s gonna belief me that at school. Which – don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, anyway, because I don’t have any – I mean. But it’s just. It’s cool. You’re cool.”

He blushes. You stare at him. Twenty-eight years, and the kid can still surprise you.

Ignoring the sudden tightness in your chest, you let the corners of your mouth lift in a smile and tousle Prompto’s hair.

You end up leaving him your number.

Notes:

Cor, upon receiving A Prompto(TM): I don't know what to do with children
Also Cor: I've only had A Prompto(TM) for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself

Chapter 4

Notes:

The next chapter might take a bit longer, sorry.

As a note: I haven't played Episode Ardyn, and will only be using part of the canon lore. In fact, I only mention the prophecy and everything surrounding it at all because I need some plot as a base for all the slow burn I've planned, but I don't actually really care about it all that much. I'm writing this fanfic for the CorGis, and the whump. Please just roll with it if things seem weird or contradictory.

It all comes to a head in December.

 

You thought you were over it. That by keeping your distance from Regis, you could stop feeling this way, that it wouldn’t matter anymore.

It’s been so long, and you’ve spent so much time outside the Citadel, on the battlefield, in the City, with the Glaives, that you weren’t anticipating it at all. Noctis laments how little time you spend around him, how much time his dad spends in “stupid, dumb council meetings”, so you let him badger you into playing hide and seek after a dinner with the King familiarly absent on administrative business.

It was a mistake.

But you only realize that after you’ve followed the little boy far into the bowels of the Citadel, towards parts laying closed off to the public except for rare occasions, only dimly lit in the coming of the night.

You stutter to a stop in front of the imposing doorframe, looming above you with its intricate carvings and gilded edges. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t, know it’s a bad idea, but the door is open a slit and the thought of Noctis without his guard, wandering on his own, vulnerable, is enough to make you slip through.

Once inside, your steps echo.

Falter.

Marble, black and white, black and white and red with blood, seeping into the cracks between the stone, seeping deeper into the Citadel where it starts to fester and rot, the essence of the King absorbing into the foundations, spreading through the building –

Your heart stutters. Your back collides with something hard and sharp, you slide down, one knee below and the other bent in front of you, and you daren’t move for fear the floor will drop out from under you and dump you in the pool of blood below, breath rasping in your throat.

You’d followed the trail of destruction from the Treaty Room, from Clarus’ dangling corpse, all the way over here to the Hall of History; seen the figure on the floor; rushed over.

Too late.

His body cold as ice when you grab the shoulder to turn him over and roll him onto your lap, into your arms, but it’s not until you see those green eyes stark wide open that you break.

You break.

Shaky hands barely manage to swipe the King’s eyelids closed before you bend over him, trembling, sobbing, pressing kisses to his blood-spattered face. It’s over.

He’s gone.

The King is gone, and he’s not coming back.

Regis is not coming back.

The Prince you grew up with, who you looked up to, worshipped, cherished, fought with. There will be no more late-night drinks by the fireside, no unplanned fishing trips, no grumbling about politics, no nothing. No forgiving or seeking forgiveness for the words you’ve exchanged.

He’s cold and lifeless in your arms, no more than an empty husk, and he'd died alone.

“I’m sorry.”

You wheeze, a vice squeezing around your lungs tightly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.”

“Cor!”

Shivers in the dark, the air is freezing.

But something warm is pressed against you, and you clutch it closer, desperate.

“Go, get – ”

“I’m sorry.”

“Uncle Cor, please.”

“’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Cor?”

You clench your eyes shut tighter, unwilling to see, unwilling to be.

You just want to stop.

“Cor, you’re alright.”

You’re not.

You’re really, really not.

“Shh… are you with me? Open your eyes, if you can.”

A shake of the head. You burrow closer into the warmth.

This isn’t real. His voice isn’t real, nor is the hand upon your shoulder.

“Dad, is he…?”

“In a bit, love. Cor, I need you to listen to me for a moment, okay? You’re alright, you’re inside the Citadel.”

Yes, yes, you know that. You’re in the Citadel, talking to a ghost. Your arms squeeze tighter.

“Ngh…”

“Cor, dearest.” The voice is a bit more urgent, now, but still controlled and measured; reassuring. “You’re fine, but you need to let Noctis go. You’re hurting him.”

Hurt Noctis? Never!

Why would you –

The warmth squirms. Your hold relaxes slightly, turns into a cradle, protective. The warmth is precious, you’d never harm it.

“Good, very good. You’re doing just fine, Cor. Can you open your eyes for me? You’re safe.”

It’s a bad idea. It’s a bad – but you do it anyway.

And so your bloodshot eyes fall on the ghost, perched in front of you, one hand on his son’s back. It’s not real, you know it isn’t because the hand still has all of its fingers, has its cursed heirloom, and the blood is missing.

A relieved sigh. “There you are, love.”

The ghost would never call you that, either.

Looking at the ghost is painful, like something trying to claw its way out of your chest, so you let your gaze wander; and before you can help yourself, it lands back on the marble, black and white and black and white and red and –

The ghost moves, blocking your view.

You can’t breathe.

“Uncle Cor,” the warmth says, and fidgets until the small, pale face can rise from where you smushed it to your chest. Dainty hands touch your chin, a child’s kiss pressed against your cheek. Precious. “Please don’t be scared.”

The child is precious, and must be protected. You hold it close to bury your nose in the sweet smelling hair.

“Noctis?” the ghost asks, a quick note of concern swinging in the timbre of his voice.

“’m fine, dad. It’s okay.”

Of course it’s okay. Noctis is with you, and he’s safe. You smooth a shaky hand over his head, feel the fine strands of hair glide through your fingers, the little bumps of braids on the sides.

“Alright.” The hand on your shoulder moves in slow circles, up and down and up and down; soothing, gentle. “We’ll all just sit here for a bit, and breathe,” the voice of the ghost states. It continues in a steady drone, calm like a rock in the raving sea. “It’s the year seven-hundred and forty-four. You are safe. Noctis is safe, and so am I. Clarus is safe at home with Iris and Gladiolus. Everything is fine.”

You listen to the voice and try to match the rhythm of your lungs to the circles being drawn on your shoulder. Up and down, and up, and down.

You breathe.

 

Things are muted as you walk through the hallways, Noctis on your hip. You’d stumbled right after standing up, only keeping upright due to the hand still on your shoulder and Regis’ soft “steady” in your ear.

It’s hard to walk without feeling the ground beneath your feet, but you don’t let Noctis fall. You’d never. The boy clings to you even when the King places you in an armchair in his sitting room and presses a tumbler of something strong into your hands. You must’ve scared Noctis.

“Are you all better now, Uncle Cor?” he asks you, voice small and frightened.

“Mhm.”

You stroke his back and avoid the King’s gaze. Silence reigns for a bit while you sip at your glass.

Eventually, Noctis yawns and fidgets.

“Time for bed, love,” Regis says, and for a dizzying moment you’re unsure which one he’s talking to. Just a moment, though. Noctis slides down from your lap.

The King stalls his son when he passes him on the couch and wraps a hand around his neck, brings their foreheads together.

“I’ll be by in a bit.”

“Promise?”

Regis’ eyes soften. “Promise.”

The door shuts softly behind him, with damning finality.

A moment.

“Cor…” the King sighs, with something that might be veiled disappointment. You still refuse to meet his gaze, glaring down into amber liquid instead and keeping yourself from biting the inside of your lip, just to feel something. “You can stop mourning me.”

You freeze.

(“I’m sorry I let you die.”)

“The hell do you mean?” you mumble.

“That night, you told me what you seek is redemption.”

Your jaw clenches.

(In a daze, you lift your knuckles to trace over Regis’ cheekbones, regal and sharp in the dim light falling in through the window – )

“Cor…” Regis starts, achingly gentle. You hate it. “I can see how the guilt over my death is eating you up inside. Please, just – ”

“What’s it to you?” You drain the last of the alcohol, burning in your throat, then thump the glass onto the expensive couch table. You force yourself to look him in the eyes, look at the man sitting in front of you, young and different and alive. “You’re not him.”

A myriad expressions pass over the King’s face, until he settles on something you can’t quite identify. “Nor do I aim to be.”

It’s too much. Too much for you to handle. You need some space.

You stand up and walk to the door.

“Cor,” Regis calls after you. “I don’t want you driving like this.”

You shake your head, “I’ve a bed in the barracks,” and leave.

 

Prompto sits next to you on the park bench, showing you pictures on his camera while munching fries. It’s cold outside.

You don’t know how you keep running into each other, but if it’s fate you’ve decided to stop caring.

Instead, you look at the greasy fast food in distaste. Between two bites, you snag it out of the boy’s protesting hand and exchange it for Clarus’ tupperware and a fork. A quick flick deposits the fries in the waste bin to the side.

Prompto munches for a while before remarking, “You’re quiet today. I mean, quieter than usual. Something on your mind?”

You grunt.

You don’t know why you keep behaving like this. The King didn’t deserve your harsh words, and Prompto doesn’t deserve your silence or coldness. They both deserve better. But you can’t help yourself. Something ugly twists and snarls in your chest, tries to claw its way up every time you open your mouth.

You’re tired of it. You’re tired of a lot of things.

After a moment, Prompto takes your non-response for what it is and changes the subject. The kid is entirely underappreciated, really.

“Mom phoned the other day, you know. Said they might be home for the Yuletide. If they can make it. …I hope they can make it.”

There’s a hopeful glint in his eyes, and you decide that heads will roll if Prompto’s parents fuck it up one more time.

You need to stop being a shitty friend to the kid, so you lean back in your seat and ask, “How’s school? Tell me about your favorite subject.”

 

---

 

The Citadel is abuzz with preparations for the upcoming Yuletide Ball. It’ll be a grand affair, this time, featuring both the Lucis and Tenebrae royal family and bringing with it all the explosion of security measures such a thing entails. The aim is, of course, to appease the public and the Lucian court about the entire fiasco that was Fenestala; show a united front, lull everyone with sweet words and grand gestures. When she heard about it, the Princess herself suggested her brother and herself attending in order to soothe tempers in the council and bring the public on their side through some well-placed news articles, showing the surprising maturity of the thirteen-year-old girl.

So you’ll just have to deal with the raving headache the coordination of Kingsglaives, Crownsguards and general security brings you, as well as having to deal with yourself, Clarus, Drautos, and the King in one room together.

“Noctis doing okay?” you ask Regis during a calm moment between last minute preparations. You don’t meet his eyes.

The King looks at you, then returns to the papers in front of him, voice carefully neutral. “You may want to ask him that yourself.” And yeah, maybe you deserved that.

You find the boy in a side-room, legs dangling over the edge of a table and cravat askew, obviously waiting for a maid to come help fix his attire after Ignis had to drop out to look after his sick uncle. His hand is hovering in front of him, palm facing inward and fingers wriggling around a small flame that catches in his eyes even from a distance.

“Your dad will have your hide if you set that cravat on fire.” Noctis jumps at your voice, flames extinguishing in his surprise.

Having Luna and Ravus around has apparently been a good thing, in more ways than one. Not only does the Prince have more kids roughly his age around to talk to and play with, you’ve also seen the girl encouraging him to practice his elemancy on a few occasions now, Ravus a silent protective shadow whenever the younger ones sat together in the library or the gardens to talk.

“I wasn’t going to!”

“Mh-hm.”

You walk up to him and start fixing his clothes. The motions are unfamiliar, a bit like dressing a life-sized doll, but you’ve spent enough time around royalty to know which button or drape goes where. You carefully don't think of all the times you've watched Regis bind his tie in front of a mirror while snarking off at Clarus about some thing or another.

Noctis sits carefully still, looking up at you from beneath long, dark lashes.

“Did I scare you?” you finally ask into the silence of the room.

“I wasn’t scared.”

You give him a look before kneeling down and retying the boy’s loose shoelaces.

“…maybe a little,” Noctis finally admits. “Dad told me soldiers get like that after they see bad things, kinda like how I kept dreaming of the Marilith for a while. That they keep remembering. He also said when that happens they need to talk to people.”

He’s staring at you, reproach obvious in his voice. Here you are, getting grilled by a nine-year-old. This is your life now.

“I’m talking to you right now, am I not?”

You straighten up and take a step back. The Prince crosses his arms over the intricately tailored vest and swings a foot your way, which you catch before it can leave a smear on your dress pants. “Fine then, so talk to me.”

After a long sigh, you sit down next to the boy on the table. A glance to the watch on the opposite wall tells you you should be getting ready soon for the arrival of the guests. “I… a long time ago, I lost someone. I blame myself for not being there to save them.”

“What would you have done differently, if you could?” You look over at Noctis, flummoxed. Your brow furrows.

That’s easy, you should’ve – been there. Done something. Saved him - saved both of them.

And gotten yourself killed in the process? There’s nothing you could’ve done against the General himself.

The accented voice sounds remarkably like that of one Ignis Scientia, the old version, and when you look up you see him standing in the corner, arms crossed and visor-covered face turned in your direction.

You close your eyes and exhale deeply, wanting to face neither the truth in his words nor the fact that your mind keeps splintering in ever smaller pieces. “Uncle Cor?” Noctis puts a tentative hand on your arm. You look at it, at how small, how dainty it is. Everything about Noctis seems small and dainty, but only a fool would think that means he's weak.

“Can you keep a secret?” He nods. “Sometimes I see dead people.”

You don’t know what makes you say that. The last thing you should be doing is pushing your mental issues on a nine-year-old. Maybe you’ve finally gone off the deep end, but you find you simply do not care anymore. You’re getting tired of pretending you’re okay. There’s a buzzing in your limbs like pins and needles that makes you want to shred up your skin, step cleanly out of it and leave it behind like all the other useless deadweight.

A glance to the side shows you the barely hidden concern and scepticism on the Prince’s face. “I’m no expert, but I think you need to see a professional.”

You scoff. “I’m not… good at talking about things.”

He drops his hand from your arm with a huff and starts heading for the door, looking at you firmly over his shoulder. “You’re talking to me right now, aren’t you?”

 

The City has been flooding with refugees, from Cavaugh, from Tenebrae, stragglers from Galahd or Niflheim, and lately even Duscae and Cleigne after the Empire started tightening their iron fist in the area. It’s all too easy for the Insomnian citizens to feel threatened at that, to feel like the newcomers will take their jobs, their food, their wealth. They bring with them news of the war, which is a reality many people are unready to face.

Many of the refugees, having witnessed the horrors of the Empire first hand, are ready to fight in the military to protect themselves and their families. As expected, a good portion of those ending in the Kingsglaive rather than the Crownsguard or the police are of Galahdian decent due to their natural affinity for magic.

It doesn’t matter that these people risk everything on the front in order to keep Niflheim at bay, that many of them lose friends, limbs, or their lives – all the public sees is foreigners being rewarded by wielding the King’s precious magic after coming into their City and stealing from them. It makes you want to grind your teeth into dust.

And so, after months of war and strife and rising tensions in the council and general populace, it all comes to a head in December, during the Yuletide Gala.

A long time ago, on the day of the Treaty Signing, there’d been a moment while you’d been helping shepherd citizens into the boats to flee from the oncoming destruction of Niflheim’s war machines, when your connection to the King’s armiger broke off.

Quietly, just like that.

Like an entire world wasn’t being ripped out from under your feet between one moment and the next.

Your knees had buckled beneath you, dropped your weight against a nearby wall as Monica called out to you, not yet realizing the gravity of the situation because her bond with the King was much weaker than yours, than Cid’s, Weskham’s, Cla-

You could only stare towards the Citadel, mouth agape in silent horror.

When years later earlier some nobleman in shining doublet draws a blade and slashes it towards the Lucian Prince, it feels a lot like that moment.

 

They’d waited until the King and his heir were separated by the length of the banquet room.

Someone in the crowd screams, “He has a knife!”

“For Lucis!”

You’re fast, but not as fast as the King, who warps straight across the room and buries his sword in the back of the man advancing on Noctis and the Fleuret siblings.

More movement in the crowd, grunts of pain, blades being drawn. The man was not on his own. Bodies drop among the screeches before you even have time to wonder how so many managed to smuggle in weapons.

“Exits!” you yell, sword already summoned and drawn, fighting your way through to the children. Your roles are clear; Clarus to the King, yourself to the Prince, until the time that Gladiolus himself is old enough to pick up the mantle of Shield. And the King is a force of his own in that moment, eyes wild and twirling his blade, so Clarus takes the leeway to coordinate the ‘Guard instead, ordering to take prisoners alive for questioning.

A blast of wind throws everyone in the proximity to the ground, and those who stand up again with their weapons drawn towards the King are hit by a bolt of electricity, crackling in the air and making the hair on your arms stand upright.

You’ve reached the wide-eyed Prince after stepping over several bodies on the floor and take up position to guard the three younger royals. Gladiolus – who’d initially grumbled over having to attend at all – has now crowded all over Noct, but hasn’t taken a weapon to the gala nor been connected to the boy’s own armiger yet.

A silent prayer of thanks is sent to whatever deity cares that Ignis is off at his uncle’s on the countryside, one less youngster to worry about getting hurt in the fray. You push a dagger at the young Shield-to-be, who gives you a grim nod in return.

By then, most of the fighting is over and the traitors are rounded up in front of the King with their hands bound behind their backs, some of them hissing and spitting at their monarch.

“You dare come into my home and lay a hand on me and mine?” Regis’ voice is enough to quiet the entire room in a matter of seconds, trembling with power.

You almost pity them. Almost. If they’d gone after Regis only – but no, they had to be idiots and threaten the children. Likely their last mistake.

“As witnessed by the here assembled, I charge you with treason and sentence you to death by virtue of the power given to me by the holy Crystal.” Muttering arises in the crowd. The King calls out to his Crownsguard. “Take them away for questioning, I want every last one of their sympathizers uncovered.”

As soon as the men are led away, Regis immediately checks on the children, who are surrounded by even more Crownsguard by then. They’re unharmed, if shaken; staring at the carnage around them. Ravus has taken his young sister into his arms and holds onto her tightly.

By that point Clarus has managed his way over from the other side of the room, where he’d handled clean-up and damage control. He has a cut on his arm, bleeding sluggishly, but walks otherwise unhindered. You turn your attention to him while Regis fusses over the children and are about to nod to him on your way to accompany the prisoners, when Clarus suddenly turns pale, sways, and drops like a marionette with his strings cut.

Your heart seems to follow, plummeting to your stomach.

“Clarus!”

( – a body, inconspicuous if for the sword straight through its back and dangling high up against the balustrade, trailing blood, like a –)

The blood leaves your face in a heartbeat, leaving behind nothing but cold and panic as you rush towards the Shield and drop to the ground in front of him.

A ‘Guard beat you to it, examines the scratch on her Commander’s arm, says something about poison.

Poison.

Which, depending on the kind, is a death sentence, because the antidotes ran out during the second year and there’s no way you can –

The woman in uniform summons a small green vial and drips the contents over the injury, waiting the few seconds until Clarus’ color improves and he nods his head at her, before she stands up, like it’s nothing, like having antidotes on hand is a normal everyday occurrence.

Right.

Your hands are shaking and you can’t move, only watch as Regis in full-out dragon mode comes up to turn his fussing towards Clarus, who puts him off with the ease of years-long practice and finally stands up again. There’s orderly chaos all around, women crying and men lamenting and the Crownsguard trying to bring order to the frightened guests, medics arriving on scene to tend to those caught in the crossfire.

No one pays you any mind as you stand up as well and stagger for a moment with light-headedness. Well, no one except - 

Regis is onto you in an instant, patting you down frantically. “Are you hurt? You’re white as a sheet. Fuck’s sake Cor, if you’re hiding any –”

“What?” you ask, confused. “No, I – why are you.”

Regis sighs in relief and looks at you with pure exasperation on his face, finally seeming to come down from his adrenaline high. “Because I happen to care about you quite a lot, you big dunce.”

“Oh.”

“For all your prowess, you can be a bit dense sometimes.” Regis’ hands are on your chest, and he’s close, very close, so much so that you can smell the ozone surrounding him like a cloud and see the leftover purple sparks in his iris, the light spatter of blood on his cheeks.

The next moment, he sighs again and turns away, wiping a sleeve over his face.

“Noctis, darling, let’s get you out of here. You as well, your Highnesses, Gladio. This day has been entirely too long.”

 

It takes a while for the children to calm down again, with a cup of hot chocolate in the King’s sitting room, Lunafreya pressed into her brother’s side and Noctis into his father’s. Even Gladiolus had finally begrudgingly sat down on the sofa, sipping his drink, like a proper eleven-year-old and not like a soon-to-be member of the military and protector of the heir to the throne of Lucis.

You stand silent sentry. Clarus had taken one good look at you, then decided to send you with the King while he handled business down at headquarters. You should be offended, that he thinks you’re not fit of mind to handle interrogations right now, but seeing most of your important people in one room together to monitor is enough to sooth you.

“I’m sorry your experience here in Lucis hasn’t been shaping up to be the best so far,” the King apologizes softly to the Fleuret siblings, voice full of regret. “I’d wished to spare you two further pain, not bring more. If I’d known things had grown quite so dire in the upper Houses as to warrant an attack at Yuletide, of all times, I would have never put your lives in danger like this. As it stands, if there is anything at all I can offer you…”

Luna swallows, then lifts her head gingerly to meet the King’s gaze, once again the spokesperson of the two. She takes so much after her mother.

“It is alright, Your Majesty. It was my idea, after all… you’ve done your best, and I thank you for your hospitality and protection.”

Noctis remains silent against his father’s side, staring into his cup.

Clarus eventually appears, accompanied by a Crownsguard who escorts the Fleurets to their quarters. The Shield lets himself be bullied by Regis towards the bedroom to sleep off the aftereffects of the antidote, but not until they’ve exchanged a quick whispered conversation off to the side.

When the King returns, Noctis stands up and grabs your hand, giving you no choice but to guide both royals over to Noctis’ room.

You watch from the doorway as Regis wishes his son a good night, perched at his bedside and bending over him.

“Uncle Cor?” the boy calls out, drawing you to the bed. You sit on the side opposite Regis.

“What is it, Noct?” you ask, the nickname slipping out before you can help yourself.

“Stay with me?” he asks, voice small. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

The child curls against your thigh, Regis’ hand on his back in a soothing gesture. “Do they really have to die?” he whispers.

It’s Regis who answers. “They tried to hurt our people, Noctis; and what’s worse, they tried to hurt you. To hurt Luna, and Ravus, and many others. They knew what the punishment for that would be. They knew they were committing treason.”

“When I’m King, I’ll make sure no one dies,” the Prince mumbles into the fabric of your slacks, already losing the fight against sleep. Your heart clenches. “They were scared about their home, weren’t they? Scared that Niflheim was gonna take it away,” the Prince says wisely.

Regis shakes his head. “There were better ways to show it, Noct. They were willing to kill you, without hesitation. I cannot forgive that.”

Noctis shudders and presses against your thigh. “You’ll protect me, right Uncle Cor?”

Affection rushes through you, violent and terrible and all-encompassing. You stroke strands of hair off Noctis’ forehead with gentle fingers. “Always.”

“…Dad?”

The King grows still, and you daren’t look up at him. “In any way I can,” he finally says, voice tight and trembling.

Noctis mumbles something and snuggles deeper into the sheets, nodding off.

You sit in silence. Neither of you dares to move.

Eventually, Regis bends down to kiss his son’s head and stands up, walking towards the door. “Come with me,” he murmurs. You follow.

Off to the side of the sitting room, close to the bedroom holding a now sleeping Shield, lies a private study; separate from the King’s official office elsewhere in the Citadel. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve been inside the room, filled with dusty bookshelves, various trinkets and a desk in the back, flanked by comfortable looking chairs.

Regis absentmindedly lifts a hand to ignite the candles in different places around the room and walks up to a bookcase.

“My search began in the library, flicking through every book I could find about the Cosmogony. It seemed a fitting place to start, what with how the Six seemed to be involved in every major event throughout history.”

He pulls a book out after hovering his fingertips over its spine for a moment, then drops the heavy tome on the desk with a thump, turned towards you. Gods of Eos, it says, and then in smaller print, An all-encompassing Guide to the History of the Astrals.

“Naturally, there is likely more literature on the Hexatheon than one has time in a life to read – there is a reason the Oracle dedicates her entire life to the study of the topic. There are sixteen separate, different versions of the Cosmogony alone, not counting the current children’s adaptation or older translations. I tried to focus on the main points – the Astral War, the rising of the Scourge, the Prophecy itself – but nothing.”

Regis keeps walking around, pulling out tomes and texts and dropping them on the desk haphazardly, opening some of them to pre-bookmarked pages.

“The different versions all contradict each other. About the first of the Lucis Caelum Line, the origin of the Crystal, where the Scourge came from. This text even mentions it might have stemmed from the Meteor in Duscae, that it’s a parasite come from a different star!” The King slams a thick, open book in front of you, scattering the loose documents at the side. The script appears to be in Old Niffish, with an illustration of a daemon to the left and the Disc in the bottom right corner.

“That is not to speak of the mess that is the general timeline. No one seems to know when the Astrals fought, when exactly Solheim fell, when the Gods dropped into their slumber. All that’s clear is something happened two thousand years ago, something big. And it is connected to the Lucis Caelums, to our family line. How can we not have a clear timeline of our own history? What did we have scholars, historians for?”

He grows more and more agitated, throwing his hands into the air in general frustration. Ancient-looking scrolls are extricated from the drawer of a bureau, handled only slightly more carefully than the books if only for their brittleness.

“I found hand-written accounts of my ancestors, dating back about one and a half millennia, up to Queen Palanthe the Fearsome. They speak of the importance of the Crystal, of the Power of the Ring, but nothing else of relevance. Not even the daemons make an appearance until five hundred years ago, when King Georgius the Pious started sealing them into underground tombs.”

The King frustratedly stuffs the scrolls back where they came from before returning to one of the bookshelves, making the candles flutter in the draft.

“Your Majesty,” you start, but the man doesn’t listen.

“None of the official texts even mention the finer points of the Prophecy, only speaking in broad terms about the Coming of the King of Light and that he will ‘banish the darkness forevermore’,” he raises his fingers in quotation marks, “but never how.” Regis opens another Cosmogony tome to a dog-eared page. “‘In the Light of the Gods, Sword-Sworn at his Side 'Gainst the Dark the King's Battle is fought.’ How is that helpful?!” He slams the book shut.

“Regis.”

“That painting in the Hall of History, depicting the Chosen King with three companions and the Oracle at his side – the artist unknown and long dead. This Ardyn fellow – not a word, nowhere. How can he be the evil incarnate that Noctis must overcome, if no one even mentions him? Not the Gods, not the Lucii, no one?”

“Regis.”

The King’s frantic pacing comes to a stop, one hand clutching at a bookcase, fingertips white. You both stare at the dark ring on his hand, glinting ominously in the flickering candlelight. A burden and a boon rolled into one.

“‘Many sacrificed all for the King; so must the King sacrifice himself for all’,” he spits. Defeat seeps through the King’s voice, bends his posture from the proud curve of his spine, his back turned to you. You’re quiet.

“I’d thought that I would get to see him grow up, grow old enough to take over the mantle of Kingship once I am no longer able, that I’d be able to help him ease the burden by being at his side for as long as I could.” The words are thin and trembling, even if you can’t see the wetness in his eyes. “I’d thought I’d be able to carry my grandchildren through the garden one day, show them the rose bushes that Aulea grew.”

The legacy of a Caelum is to lose.

He turns back abruptly to sit down in the chair behind the large desk. His face is dry, but his eyes are bloodshot, sunken behind the deep shadows of his face. The King looks haggard in a way he never allows himself to appear in public, when the strain of holding the Wall, the political debacles, raising a son fated to die are all kept behind a carefully cultivated façade of stoicism.

“If there were a way, any way, to spare him; no matter the cost…”

You step forward gingerly, carefully push aside the texts and papers on the desk baring witness to the hours upon hours the King has spent trying to find a way around sacrificing his son and sit on the wooden edge, legs touching Regis’ thigh.

His dark hair has come loose from its usual gel cast sometime throughout the evening, falling in tangles against the sharp, pale cheekbones, hazel-green eyes hooded and staring into nothingness.

Regis Lucis Caelum was twenty-three years old when he buried his father and ascended to rule the continent.

He was twenty-six when he had a falling out with one of his few close friends and twenty-seven when his main advisor left him for another government.

At thirty, he lost his wife long before her time and had to raise his small son on his own, only to find out a scant few years later that this very son, his only heir and last memento of the love of his life, is destined to die for the fate of the entire world.

And now, at thirty-nine, King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII bears the weight of a failing kingdom on his back, standing tall despite everything. It feels like it would need someone older, someone… more, to weather all that. Someone with twice the experience and an enormous army at his back, not this frail widower with shadows beneath his eyes and a tremble in his limbs.

How could you ever accuse him of not caring enough?

Slowly, you reach out to slide the silver crown from his hair, put it on the table beside you and draw the King’s head against your stomach.

You sigh. Oh, Regis. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

Regis makes a quiet noise into the fabric of your shirt and reaches up to clutch a hand to your jacket.

Looking around at everything, you feel very much like an asshole. All this time, you’d thought Regis had given up. You really should’ve just communicated better. The both of you, you’re not very good at that, are you?

Seeing him like this, small and tearful and seeking your warmth, you’re reminded painfully of the time after Aulea died, taking with her the laughter in the halls and the smile on the King’s face.

As a child, the bratty prince annoyed you. As a teen, you worshipped the ground he walked on. As a man, you learned to keep your distance, not feeling worthy of walking in the same circles as the King with your pitiful background. And then came Aulea, and then the grief over Aulea, and Regis had a child to raise.

But you forgot that Regis is just a man, a lonely one at that, and he deserves all the help you can give him. When did you stop seeing him as the innocent boy who put shaving cream in Clarus’ boots, and started seeing him as only the distant, unflappable leader of a country?

The man in front of you presses closer, emitting fine trembles, and you raise your hand to stroke through his hair tenderly, comforting him as best as you can.

Eventually, much sooner than you’d like, the King braces himself and draws back from your hold, reigning in his emotions once more. He seems unable to meet your gaze, embarrassed from his breakdown.

Traitors, and coups, and the enemy at your very doorstep. You sigh again.

“We need Wesk here.”

The King frowns into the silence and looks to the side, sounding world-weary and twice his age. “Agreed.”

 

It’s late, and you accompany the flagging King to his bedchambers where Clarus is already sleeping peacefully. You help Regis into bed, make sure he has everything he needs, and when you make to leave Regis catches your sleeve, looking at you imploringly.

Stay, his eyes seem to say, but his mouth doesn’t.

You look at him for a moment, heart beating fast and a million feelings tangling in your chest, before gently disentangling yourself to wish your King a good night from a safe, professional distance.

This is too new, this silent invitation, and it makes your heart pound painfully.

“Sleep now,” you whisper in apology, before leaving to keep a silent watch outside.

 

---

 

“Oh shit, you’re awake? I mean – uh, shoot.”

“Prompto, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t – I saw what happened on TV, you’ve got other things to worry about; I really didn’t even want to call you, I didn’t think you’d answer the phone – ”

“Prompto. Tell me.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s just… my parents told me – well, I mean they sent me a text. They… they’re not gonna be home for Yuletide this year.”

His voice is small and tinny over the phone. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night. Expect me around six.”

 

---

 

When Nyx originally made the offer, you hadn’t truly thought about taking him up on it. Spending the Yuletide Night with the royal family is an age-long tradition that you hadn’t planned on breaking with, but these are special circumstances.

If the memory of Regis’ hand on your sleeve makes your heart skip a beat and driving your car in the other direction helps you avoid thinking of all that, well, all the better. A problem for future-you.

The royals are safe with Clarus, and Noctis will have enough people around him to distract himself. However, there’s another kid who sorely needs you tonight.

Nyx only takes a moment to be surprised over Prompto’s presence when he greets you at the door to the Coeurl’s Nest, eggnog in hand.

“Hey! Glad you two could make it. Prompto, right? Cor’s told me a lot about you. Do you like hot chocolate? Granny Gerta makes the best, come on. I’ll show you.”

He passes you his drink and leads the boy away, leaving you to the tender mercies of Pelna and Crowe who drag you into the thick of the festivities.

Yuletide as celebrated by Galahdians turns out to be colorful, and loud, and a lot more fun than you want to admit to. They don’t give gifts to each other, but there’s a lot of good food to warm your bellies, provided by those who have a hand at cooking, and endless music and dancing. An old woman sits by the fireplace and tells stories in accented Lucian to a gaggle of children from all over – Lucis, Tenebrae, Galahd, and now even a short, plump boy from Niflheim. Prompto seems to have relaxed into the situation and taken to the Glaives running about like a fish to water, soaking up all the attention of people cooing at his freckles or wanting to squish his cheeks or look at his photos.

Good.

"I think... I think you were right, about Titus. He really did need a friend."

It’s late that night, after everyone is either drunk and snoring in a corner or off to bed somewhere in the large house, that you and Nyx lie next to each other on a table, heads in the general vicinity of each other, and stare at the ceiling in a stupor.

You grunt noncommittally. You don’t want to think about Drautos. You don’t want to think about anything except for the warm heaviness in your body and the solid wood against your back.

“So,” Nyx slurs and looks at you from the side, face so close you could easily touch the tattoos on his skin if you wanted to, “is this drunk enough yet?”

You sigh and close your eyes.

“Tell me, Nyx. What do you think of fate?”

Notes:

I'll have you know, I had an entire bullet point for the scene of Regis showing Cor his progress on the prophecy that simply said 'CHEEKBONES.'

Chapter 5

Notes:

Again, the next chapter might take a while. Things at my workplace have kinda escalated, and I'm counting down the days till I can leave at the end of the year. The constant stress is a killer for my writing inspiration, sorry.

A heads up for more racial discrimination in this chapter.

"I've found my reason."

“Which would be?”

A look to the ground, chastised. “A Shield who can’t protect his King is a failure.”

You nod. "Training begins next week. Six am sharp, Mondays and Fridays. I expect you to organize your own workouts in between."

 

With the new year comes Weskham.

You weren’t there when the King made the phone call, you don’t know what it is that Regis told the man to convince him to leave Altissia and make the journey across the sea, but when you say your goodbyes to Ignis after another training session, he’s waiting for you in the shade of the breezeway.

“Cor Leonis. There’s been rumors you’ve started acquiring children.” His deep voice rumbles in a way that is pleasantly familiar, if tinged with bittersweet memories.

“I haven’t been acquiring anything. Ignis has a sharp mind, he needs something to do.”

“And Gladio?”

“Better that he beat up training dummies than his prince.” Better he learn his priorities from the start.

Weskham nods, eying you from the side as you walk to the King’s office. “Jared picked me up. Iris sends her regard. Said she misses her favorite uncle.”

You keep your gaze firmly turned ahead.

“There are also two more young royals in the Citadel than there seemed to be a few months ago.”

Thank the Six no one knows about Prompto yet.

“Well, and then there’s the rumor of how you took a young boy to a party with some Glaives, last Yule.”

You’re above wincing. You’re very much above it. Externally, at least.

Weskham has been here for half a day. How does he always do that?!

He’s always been able to pick me apart with a single look; what a bother.

“You need to eat more,” Weskham says, walking side-by-side towards the elevator. “I think Jeanne’s got some leftover stew down by the docks.”

“I’m fine.”

He pinches your biceps through your jacket, heedless of the hand slapping him away.

“Quit it, you nag.”

“I’ll quit it the day you start taking proper care of yourself, Cor.”

“Cor?”

You look over at him, then quickly away.

“Sorry, what? Spaced out.”

Weskham is quiet for a few moments, and you can feel his gaze on you, dissecting you layer by painful layer.

“Regis will be glad you came,” you say, if only to fill the silence and distract the other man. “He really needs your help if we’re to get through that war in one piece.”

“Does he, now?”

You’re saved from any more awkward conversation by reaching the end of your quick journey. You knock on the door and open it after hearing the King yell “enter”.

“Ah, Weskham, my old friend. I didn’t expect you yet. Pleasant journey?”

The two men shake hands warmly, like the past twelve years were nothing but a smudged spot on a piece of paper. It’s hard to say how long the peace will hold, how long Weskham will be able to stand staying in Lucis this time, but at least he’s here now.

“The winter season is never a good time to travel by boat, I suppose, but the drive was pleasant enough, yes. Camelia sends her regards.”

You step to the back and let the pleasantries wash over you, wishing you could get to the important talk already. You’re finding it hard to concentrate through the buzzing in your head, gnawing on your lip to stave off the numbness under your skin, which stretches like a plastic sack around your body. You should be checking the supply crates, should be going over the lists with –

“Cor.”

You look up at Clarus’ call and notice the attention of the room’s three other occupants fixed on you.

“What?” You frown and try to reorient yourself in the present. You’re in the King’s office, in Insomnia. It’s the year seven-fourty-five. Everything is fine.

Clarus frowns back at you, that damn worried look on his face again.

“What?” you say again. “I’m fine.”

“You’re dissociating is what you are.”

Regis mouths at you, “It’s the hands,” and wriggles his fingers. Weskham looks at you with a deadpan stare.

You fall into parade rest, conveniently hiding your hands behind your back. “Are we gonna be talking politics, or not?” you ask.

 

You do talk politics, eventually. Regis gets Weskham up to speed on the happenings of the past year, of the tensions, the situation with the Empire, on his Council. Tells him about the attack at the Gala and what they’ve learned so far from the interrogations – which is disgustingly little. Their prisoners are rather tight-lipped about the entire affair, about who is in cahoots with who else.

Weskham listens avidly, arms half crossed and a hand at his chin in thought. The image of him in his immaculate waistcoat, bathed in slants of golden afternoon sunlight, looking so much like he belongs, like he never left – it makes something tighten painfully inside your chest.

“While certainly worrying, assassination attempts are nothing new, and neither is the war. Why do you need me here, really?” It’s not an accusation, merely a man taking note. Knowing him for as long as you have, you’d never expected Weskham to merely take things at face value.

You straighten up a bit from your slumped over position in a chair. Just because Weskham came, on an old friend’s plea, doesn’t mean he’s intending to stay.

“Because eleven years from now, half the Kingsglaive will be filled with traitors and turn against their King right as the Empire attacks the City. We can’t let it get to that. If Noctis is to bring back the Dawn and drive back the daemons, he’ll need all the support he can get. Better if he still has a kingdom at all than if he were to stumble through the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on his back while being hunted by dreadnoughts.”

Weskham grows still at your words. “And you know that how?”

“Because I lived it.” You stare him straight in the eye. At his disbelieving look, you add with a smirk, “Don’t worry, you age well.”

 

After another half a day locked in a room with the King and getting a more detailed update, Weskham Armaugh takes the reigns like there was never a thought to something else and handles the cleanup of the Yuletide Gala fiasco with the ease of someone born to it.

It's almost an embarrassment to the Guard how quickly the advisor gets information from the prisoners. Weskham has been and always will be much more dangerous than his deceiving looks make people think. He uncovers the different factions at work in the city, after making you sit down and tell him in detail every little thing you remember about the political state in the years to come, who had an alliance with who, who left their money where, anything at all that stood out.

A few minutes into his explanation, you realize once again why politics was never your favorite topic of conversation.

First of all, there is the group of dissenters behind the attack at the Yuletide Gala. You’d already guessed from the level of their sword skill and the fact they managed to get into an event for the Upper Houses to begin with, but they do appear to stem from noble families without exception. And the noble families are largely unhappy with Regis showing any sign towards threatening the peace inside Insomnia, even be it at risk of losing the outer territories. What do they matter, so long as you can sit safe and sound behind a magical Wall?

And to think the first attacker claimed to fight ‘for Lucis’ – what a bloody hypocrite, you think. Lucis is so much more than just one city.

Next, there are those who fight for the opposite. The ‘outsiders’, come from beyond the Wall and familiar with what the war looks like in reality. They feel that, despite everything, Regis isn’t doing enough for the outer territories, that the King should use his army to liberate all of Lucis and smash Niflheim with an iron fist.

As if it were that easy.

And lastly, a few Councilmen turn out to have had their pockets stuffed full by the Empire itself, looking ahead to a comfortable retirement by their enemy’s hands while working in the shadows to sabotage their own Kingdom.

Those make you the maddest of all.

Apart from that, there will always be people calling for a democracy, questioning the King’s legitimacy based on Crystals and holy magic, or smaller factions unhappy with this policy or that policy, but all in all the public mostly seems split between camp ‘resources are being wasted on regions outside Insomnia’, and camp ‘not enough resources are spent on regions outside Insomnia’.

In the same manner, the Crown citizens appear torn between outrage over innocent children (especially their beloved Prince, who has been adored since the day of his birth, and the equally beloved Oracle-daughter) being put in danger and grudging agreement that the King's course hasn't been exactly pleasing the masses lately, even if an outright assassination attempt might be a bit much.

It's enough to make your head hurt something fierce.

And of course, becoming aware of the differing factions is only half the battle. The other is actually dealing with it, and bringing unity back into the country while making sure the King is free to make the necessary decisions without being constantly questioned or overruled by his Council.

Those directly involved in the assassination attempt are to be executed after all, like the King announced, as a warning to others; but those who only supported the dissension are let off with prison sentences. Still, it will take months for Weskham to get to the bottom of every last conspiracy, to uncover every last illicit fund flowing between Niflheim and Insomnia.

“Do not get any funny ideas, though,” Weskham tells you over a stack of papers, giving you a sharp once-over. “Once this is all taken care of, we will be having words.”

You quickly find an excuse to escape the office.

 

“Absque labore nihil,” you state, and swing a sword at Gladio’s head. He dodges nimbly enough.

“Nothing without hard work,” he replies dutifully and goes on the offensive, slashes still weak against your trained muscles but already better than a mere few weeks ago.

“Amicis semper fidelis.”

“Always faithful to friends.” Gladio summons a shield to stop your blade before it can connect with the straw dummy that he left glaringly open. The Prince may have connected his Shield to his own armiger after the fiasco of the Gala where Gladiolus was left unarmed and useless, but it will take a while still for trust to bloom between the two of them. You make a mental note to plan joint training sessions in the future.

“Facta non verba,” you state the third and last Amicitia motto.

“Deeds, not words.”

Sweat has been beading steadily on the boy’s brow for a while now, despite the chill of winter in the training halls. You don’t go easy on him, but neither will an enemy outside the Wall. It doesn’t take long after that for Gladio’s trembling legs to go out under him and for the tip of your sword to rest at his throat.

He sags in annoyance. “I’ll get better.”

You stare at him, at the clench of his fists, the angry furrow of his brow. And lift your sword away to extend a hand. “Don’t tell me, show me.”

Once upright, rather than demanding an end to the grueling training session or throwing his sword to the side, Gladiolus steels himself and falls back into a ready position on shaky legs in front of the dummy. You look him over for a moment with a critical eye, before relaxing.

“Dismissed,” you say, and motion with a tilt of your head.

The boy’s relief is palpable in the air.

 

“So, you’ve decided to take him under your wing after all?”

The two of you walk down the empty corridor. “The last time, he left his King for several weeks to fight the Blademaster, because he was insecure about his worth.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Clarus side-eyes you.

You’re quiet for a moment. “In the time he was gone, Noctis got a concussion and multiple slash wounds, Ignis was out for the count due to poison and Prompto ran out of bullets because Gladiolus was their supplies master and he wasn’t there. I only happened to stumble upon them by chance.”

The fate of the entire kingdom, the world, almost lost because of the hubris of a single man.

“You can’t shield your King when you’re not there.” There’s steel in your voice. “It will not happen again.”

You were never officially a Shield yourself, were never born into that family. And still, there’s not a day you don’t regret your own decision to face the Blademaster, thinking yourself above everything. Gilgamesh taught you humility, taught you your place, and not a moment too early.

Clarus is quiet at your side. You remember the way he helped you through the days afterwards, when you were laid low with injury and fever. How he chewed you out while at the same time lifting your head with his arm around your neck so you wouldn’t choke on Weskham’s soup.

The two of you reach the end of the corridor where your paths diverge, and the Shield lays a broad palm on your shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but gets interrupted by your phone beeping in your pocket.

You take it out and read the text, lips tilting up in a smirk. “It’s Nyx. Gotta dash. Apparently I’m late to a spar I didn’t even know about. Glaives can be a pain in the butt.”

You only catch the tail end of Clarus expression after stuffing your phone back where it came from, but was that – disappointment?

What reason would Clarus have to be disappointed? You shove the thought from your mind.

Clarus nods at you and lowers his hand back to his side, chewing on his cheek like he’s thinking about something.

“Iris keeps asking after you,” he finally says. “Friday night, dinner, 6 o’clock. No excuses.”

You sigh and acquiesce.

 

Early the next day, you see Prompto being bullied on your way to the Citadel and tell him to get into the car. “You have my number. Why didn’t you call?” Prompto stays quiet. You keep driving. You pass the turn you would’ve taken if you would drop him off back at his home.

"Are you kidnapping me?" You give him a long side look. "Kidding! ...I think..."

“I don’t trust you to be alone right now.” Prompto looks like a kicked puppy. You sigh, feeling like an asshole immediately. “Not like – I didn’t mean it like that. I meant – it’s not okay for your parents to never be around to look after you. You shouldn’t be on your own all the time.”

“So where are we going?”

“I was on my way to work, but I’m sure I can find some friends to drop you off at.”

“Like the guys we spent Yuletide with? The soldiers?”

“Maybe one of those, yeah. If they’re around.”

Or maybe someone closer to your age, you think after you’ve stopped at a drive-through to get the kid a milkshake to cheer him up. Shiva, he looks so young on the seat beside you, sucking on the plastic straw and swathed in a heavily padded winter jacket curtesy of your last shopping trip with him. The puppy eyes were enough to make you forget about the load of sugar and empty calories in the drink.

Security at the Citadel isn't an issue, not when it's the Immortal escorting Prompto through the front doors. You’ve barely crossed the lobby when a white ball of fur barrels into the kid.

“Oof! Hey, who are you?”

Pryna licks Prompto’s face, who pets her enthusiastically. Noctis and Luna come running up close behind and immediately start apologizing while helping the blonde off the floor. The minute Noctis realizes that the newcomer likes dogs, you know he’s a goner. And Luna just seems happy about meeting anyone her general age group.

The boy turns shy in face of the two other children rambling at him excitedly and looks to the floor, red-faced.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then."

Prompto spins around at you. "W-what?!"

"Luna, Noctis, this is Prompto. Why don't you play for a bit? I’ve got some paperwork with my name on it." You deliberately leave out titles, not wanting to scare Prompto even further.

As the two young royals drag Prompto off to gods-know-where, you hear two pairs of footsteps behind you.

“What’s this, then?”

You turn around to face the King and his ever-present Shield. You briefly look down, then lift the plastic cup in your hand. “A smoothie.”

 

When you slip up and greet the gaggle of children with “Your Highnesses, Prompto,” later and Prompto finds out who exactly his new friends are, he’s mortified. That’s not what makes the kid quiet on the car ride back, however.

“I thought I should’ve been able to fight them off on my own,” he mumbles. “That I should’ve been stronger. Like you. That’s why I didn’t call.”

You sigh and look over at the downcast kid for a moment. In your head, you’re already going through measures of how to get the chubby kid into working condition, but that’s not the important part here.

“Prompto… you’re not weak.” You think of the boy who grew up with absent parents, constantly doubting his self-worth, who stuck to the Prince’s side like glue even when the world ended, even when there were no oaths or birthrights binding him to Noctis. Who comforted dying Hunters with their shaky hands in his. The man who tried to cheer up his friends despite all, who stayed kind.

You’re one of the strongest people I know.

“Can I… come back, sometime? It’s just – Noctis had some comics he wanted to show me, and I – ”

You smother a laugh behind a cough. “Yeah, I think we can figure something out.”

 

The public may moan about it, but with the Council once again firmly in hand of the King, Regis is able to redirect much more funding towards supplies for the Kingsglaive. Never mind the fact a large portion of those funds stem from illicit streams of money towards Niflheim, now dried up as soon as Weskham got his nose into the affairs.

You’re glad about it, even if it means watching Drautos and your King in one room together as the Captain and Clarus, both commanders of the King’s armies, hash out the necessary steps to get the Kingsglaive into better working condition.

Nyx has told you about how he’s been growing closer with Drautos, and you wonder what that means. If it means anything at all. The man is as hard to read as a stone statue, though you think you see a shred of… grim satisfaction when his reports of missing potions and elixirs aren’t put off as unimportant? It’s hard to tell.

Your gaze wanders instead over to Clarus, imposing as ever in his Council robes and more than holding his own against the strong build of the captain in his elaborate red coat. There’s a concentrated frown on the Shield’s stern face as he points out this or that on one of the lists lying on the table between the two men.

Steadfast, sure, not letting himself be distracted by the knowledge of who the man in front of him turned out to be in a different time.

He reminds you so much of Gladiolus.

Or rather, the other way round?

This Gladio still has a long way to go. You think of him in his early thirties, the way you’d last seen him before heading out on your trip to Niflheim. How he and Ignis had been bent over a map to organize another supply run through the Malacchi Hills with a group of Glaives, some of which had turned tail and betrayed their country that day so long ago, but who’d come back and fought to regain the Commander’s trust.

You think of how Gladio’d lifted his head to give you one last, unreadable parting glance over the flickering of the campfire, a million things unspoken between the two of you. With the feathers up and down his arms, long mane of hair and the strong set of his shoulders, he couldn’t have looked more like his father if he’d tried.

It’s an image you’ve seen in the corner of your eye for a while now, following you through the hallways or watching from afar.

You don’t know what it means, what any of the hallucinations mean; if your brain is trying to tell you something or if it’s simply a sign of you going barmy, so you’d rather not think about it too closely. Regis’ raised eyebrow as you become aware of him watching you stare at Clarus from the side prompts you to quickly pick up the nearest document and pretend to be very busy.

 

The new supplies lighten the mood among the Kingsglaive considerably. The Coeurl’s Nest is filled to the brim with enthusiastic Galahdians celebrating the new changes when you finally take Nyx up on his invitation that Friday night after stopping by the Amicitia Mansion for dinner. In fact, they’re already so drunk they have no inhibitions in calling you ‘Nyx’s hot date’ when you show up. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to lose the gods-damned title.

The Glaives have gotten used to you hanging quietly in a corner, just watching their bantering. You’re no social butterfly, but that doesn’t mean you’re not comfortable in their midst. Sometimes they badger you into interacting with them, but most of the time they leave you alone. You can appreciate the way Nyx takes time every once in a while to sit next to you and talk quietly.

Pelna and Tobul are in a lively discussion of the Prince learning to warp when Nyx slides onto the bench next to you.

(When Noctis isn’t hanging out with Prompto – who has quickly turned into something of a fixture at the Citadel, as much as he’s able to – Noctis is spending a considerable amount of time around his Glaive guards, listening to their stories, playing games or learning tricks. Noctis loves people quickly and easily, and even if the Glaive might not always think well of their King, the little Prince is soon fiercely protected by everyone.

You’re just glad that Noctis has something to distract him from all the drama going on politically.)

“Ah, life,” Nyx sighs happily and wraps his hands around the mug of beer in front of him. “You need to appreciate the simple things, right?”

The both of you watch Crowe cajoling three of her friends into a chicken fight that somehow ends up involving blindfolds, knocking over a table where another group was playing cards.

“True, that.”

It’s easy to remember your last time in the bar, with a similarly light-hearted atmosphere, laying on those very same tables a few weeks earlier and telling Nyx about being a man in the wrong timeline.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Nyx says after being quiet for a long time. “I used to, because that’s the Galahdian way. But then Galahd fell, and – we had so many losses – ” He cuts himself off, traces patterns into the wood for a moment. “I don’t believe in fate anymore. Because if I did, that would mean accepting that our Gods forsook us, that all this was meant to happen.”

You didn’t tell him every detail, and you didn’t tell him about his Captain’s double identity. Some things are better left untold. But it feels – relieving, to have one more person in the know; one more person you don’t constantly have to hide yourself from.

“So that’s why the King keeps watching you like a hawk? You told him?”

You’re far enough gone to say, “More like, I had a nervous breakdown on the anniversary of his death and he dragged the story out of me.”

Nyx looks over to you. “Maybe the King is right to worry, after all.”

“Reggie’s an old nag.”

Nyx chokes on his spit.

“What?”

“You call him Reggie?!”

“I’ve known him since I was a kid. He ordered me to, said he’s got enough people ‘Your Highness’-ing him.”

“So what changed?”

You grow quiet. “That kid grew up, and the Prince turned into a King.”

“Pelna has the hots for your second in command, by the way.”

If you were having a drink at that moment, it would be making its jolly way into your windpipe. You level an accusing stare at the man at your side.

“Latest gossip,” Nyx says, unapologetically. He nudges you with an elbow. “Get that frown off your face, tonight we’re celebrating.” The Galahdian throws an arm around your shoulder, ignoring your protesting look. “Let loose a little! Maybe take a look around, meet someone new, you know?”

You try to shrug the arm off – unsuccessfully – and look to the side. Whatever nice thoughts you used to have about Nyx, you delete them from your memory.

“Unless… you already have someone in mind?”

It’s dumb.

It’s dumb, and absolutely inappropriate, but you can’t help thinking back on earlier that evening; on a warm house and Iris’ bright grin as she caught sight of you and Clarus standing in the doorway wearing an apron and a smile.

“A-ha!” Nyx yells, leaning down to catch sight of the blush on your cheeks. It’s the heat of the room, and the beer in your stomach. That’s all. “So there is someone! Spill, Leonis.”

You do not spill.

Even after looking a little too deeply into your glass until the bar turns hazy around your eyes, even after hours of Nyx pestering you – this is something you will take to the grave with you, buried deep down.

This isn’t happening, never in a million years, so it doesn’t even bear thinking about.

 

When you’re not helping Clarus mediate between the Guard and the Glaives, sitting in on war councils, working on recruiting for the Glaive, training with Nyx or helping one of the kids you’ve ‘acquired’ with their workouts, you spend every free minute you have pouring over Regis’ notes in the small side office in his chambers or scouting the library. Many revelations fit to what you’ve found back then, but a few new details accumulate as well.

You can’t miss anything. And the exhaustion at the end of the day helps you fall asleep.

So it’s not – it’s not as though you’re neglecting yourself, exactly. You’re not.

Apparently, though, your mind disagrees; because it projects a vision of Iris, mid-twenties and consisting of approximately 90% lean muscle and stubbornness, leaning against your kitchen cabinets and giving the dirty dishes in the sink a scathing look when you stumble into your apartment late one night.

She tells you over the painful pounding in your heart in no uncertain terms to take better care of yourself before being gone after the next blink.

The next time you run into Prompto at the Citadel during lunch hour (Nyx must’ve picked him up to come play with Noctis during the winter break), Clarus shows up right after you’ve handed the boy your Tupperware box, smacking the back of your head.

“If I knew you had two mouths to feed, I’d have given you more, idiot.”

Prompto startles and almost drops the food, about to start stuttering apologies. You could strangle Clarus for scaring the kid; but what you say instead is, “Teach me how to cook, then.” You issue it like a challenge, but really you’ve got Iris’ voice nagging you at the back of your mind. And, maybe… if you knew how to cook you wouldn’t have to rely on Clarus’ leftovers to keep Prompto fed properly. Two birds, one stone.

Clarus frowns at you. “Seven pm, and you better like lasagna.” Then he turns to the kid at your side. “Prompto, right? You got anywhere to be tonight?”

The boy in question squeaks, looking ready to faint.

 

The lasagna turns out fucking delicious, even if you almost burn the ground meat (Clarus moves really close to you in order to grab the spatula out of your hand and save the meal, and you’re not going to think about how that solid block of heat feels right at your back), and the bell peppers in the sauce end up a little overcooked. But all in all it’s a good effort.

Prompto doesn’t really unfreeze much from his doe-in-headlights-impression, sitting stiffly at the table to cut the tomatoes for the salad while seeming unimaginably grateful for receiving a simple task to follow, but he does loosen up the slightest bit when Jared appears with a squealy Iris in her arms and then even more when Gladio slaps him on the back after arriving in the dining room.

“Hey, Prompto. Didn’t know you were coming over.”

“You two know each other?” Clarus asks.

“Sure.” Gladio leans over to sniff the steam curling up over the dish Clarus is putting in the middle of the table before being pushed back with a hand to the forehead. “Hard not to, with how much he hangs around Noct.”

You all sit down to eat.

“Heard you took up running?” Gladio asks Prompto before an uncomfortable silence has a chance to rise above the table. At Prompto’s nod he offers, “Thursday morning at Riverside Park?”

The younger boy blushes, but gives a shy nod towards his plate. You hide a smirk against your fork, sharing a glance with Clarus before reaching over to right the sippy cup Iris was about to launch off her high chair with gusto.

 

The Empire has been keeping Lucis on its toes, starting random skirmishes here and there as though to test their strength. Much as the Kingsglaive appreciates the King’s newfound support, it takes time to recruit more numbers and train them for battle; and a potion can’t heal a stomach that’s ripped open or reattach a limb. And that’s not all.

Nyx flops down with his back on the bench you’re sitting on and puts his head in your lap, finally back from another stint at the front. It’s stupid to worry about him, of course – you’re both soldiers, and aware of the risks – but you do it anyway. After the assassination attempt you hadn’t dared leave the Royal family behind again, yet every piece of bad news from the battlefield makes you wonder if you could’ve prevented it if you’d been there.

“This is how it is, now. You watch an MT almost gut one of your friends, and then you come home to some random guy throwing a tomato at your head.”

He gripes about the treatment of foreigners in the city for a bit, how nothing has really changed at all. You can’t help but agree. The black sheep in Regis’ council may have been weeded out, but how do you sway a public stuck on an opinion for decades?

Nyx sighs heavily and stretches his arms above himself, then crosses them beneath his head.

“Ulric,” you say tonelessly and ignore the random Crownsguard walking past choking on their own spit, “take your fucking hand out of my crotch.”

Nyx lifts his lips in a weak attempt of a smirk and says, “Spoilsport.”

 

The public is entitled to have an opinion, of course. It’s a free country, as much as a monarchy can be – Regis doesn’t forbid them the right to protest, to organize demonstrations in the streets.

That doesn’t mean it won’t make you gnash your teeth.

Too much does it remind you of those early few months, when refugees started flooding Lestallum and a good part of the natives stuck up their noses, hoarded their resources jealously. How people almost starved in the streets, how fights broke out over food and water before you’d managed to organize the Hunters, Guards and Glaives enough to set up patrols and bring order to the city.

It’s late at night when you wake from another nightmare in Clarus’ guest bed. An evening spent teaching you how to cook turned long after a bottle of wine was opened, and you’d let Clarus cajole you out of calling a taxi and into spending the night at the Mansion.

The soft, damp sheets cling to you uncomfortably, seeming to drag you back down into the depths of unconsciousness and the lurking shadows of your dreams, but it only takes you a second to jump out of the bed when you hear soft whimpering from down the hallway. Less than half a minute later you carefully lift Iris, arms raised in silent plea towards you, from her crib, blanket and all.

She sniffles against you softly, clings tight to your borrowed sleeping shirt even after you’ve taken her downstairs and fed her some warmed milk.

“Bad dream?” you ask her quietly, petting her cheek with a finger. The girl gives another soft whine and burrows her face into your chest sleepily. “Yeah, I getcha.”

Clarus finds you some time later, walking up and down the living room and swaying his daughter softly in your arms, half asleep yourself. Her weight is warm and reassuring against you, and you hadn’t caught that much sleep to begin with.

“Give her to me,” the Shield demands, hand outstretched, and you turn away from him.

“No. …I just got her to sleep.” You keep your voice low and ignore Clarus, who after a moment huffs and turns to take Iris’ sippy cup back to the sink.

The little girl in your arms smacks her tongue and twitches her nose, dark brown hair tousled and falling against her forehead. She couldn’t seem more like an angel to you if she tried. You gently rock her some more, closing your eyes for just a moment as your mind floats.

Your eyes land on the bowl of soup, held in gloved hands, then travel up until they meet warm amber. Iris has a frown between her brows.

“Dustin told me you haven’t eaten yet.”

“My,” you sigh, “what a nag,” and grab the bowl and spoon, warm against your hands. Every day you remind me more and more of your father, is what you don’t say.

You’re jostled down to earth by arms wrapping around you suddenly.

“Careful,” Clarus says, very close. You look up to him, his face inches from yours, looking sleep-rumpled and oh-so inviting. It takes you a moment to drag your eyes up from his mouth, from thoughts of what the tickle of his beard would feel like.

Careful? “Wha…?” You blink. Clarus is warm, so warm. His daughter is the only thing keeping a bit of distance between the two of you as you lean against the man. But then you can feel him tense against you, and that is very wrong. Clarus shouldn’t be tense around you.

And then he does something even worse, which is pulling away. He puts a steadying hand against your shoulder as you sway, this time involuntarily.

“At least sit down if you won’t let me put Iris to bed.” He leads you over to the sofa, where you sink down with Iris on your lap. You grab him by the arm and pull him down next to you, before he can do something dumb, like leave.

“Cor – ” Something in his breath seems to catch, but that’s a thought for the morning. For now, you’re sleepy, and Iris is warm against your chest and Clarus a blazing furnace when you lean against his side, so all of that can wait a little while longer. Blessed be the Amicitias and their endless supply of heat.

You’re almost gone by the time Clarus finally relaxes a little bit and wraps a careful arm around your shoulder, then rests the other one against his daughter’s back.

When, in the morning, you find yourself alone with a sleepy child under a warm blanket, you try not to be too disappointed.

 

It’s decided that a press conference is needed to defend the King’s course of keeping Insomnia open and welcoming to refugees, in hopes of swaying the public with facts and well-laid arguments. You know Regis and Weskham worked on the King’s speech all week, trying to straighten out every last kink.

“ – will not abandon Lucis to the wiles of the Empire while we sit comfortably inside – ”

Noctis is pressing against your leg from behind, leaning against you as he glances around the swath of curtains blocking the view of the conference taking place. There’s an unhappy frown marring his face.

“ – besides, as the statistics clearly show – ”

The crowd starts murmuring.

The pressure against your leg increases, and you watch the Prince clench his fists. In a moment of sympathy, you reach down a hand to smooth over the boy’s head, making him look up. You raise an eyebrow.

Noctis’ expression firms in resolve, and then he pushes away from you, out onto the stage. You have half a mind to stop him, but refrain at the last moment; only keeping an eye on the crowd for potential dangers.

The King’s speech trails off as the wandering eyes lead him to the sight of his son, with braided hair and in all his four-foot-three-glory, walking up to him and tugging on his sleeve. For a moment he frowns, but the expression smooths out when Noctis whispers something into his ear.

Regis nods, and swoops his son from the ground to sit him on the lectern. Clarus and Weskham watch with quiet bemusement.

"I'm really mad, you know?" Noctis starts addressing the assembled reporters apropos of nothing, after adjusting the microphone with a resounding squeak that has people wincing. "Tobul, come here.”

Noctis waves his Glaive guard forward, who complies after a startled second and comes to an awkward stop next to the desk.

“This is Tobul. He's Galahdian. One time, I leaned over a balustrade too far because I was an idiot and wanted to look at something, and when I fell off the balcony Tobul never even hesitated to jump after me and warp me back into the Citadel. I'd be dead without him." Regis looks at him, mouthing 'you did WHAT?'. Noctis ignores him with the ease of experience.

He points to a red-headed Crownsguard recruit, standing at attention to the side of the crowd. You only recognize him vaguely.

“That’s Christopher, from Cleigne. He’s got a really funny accent and wants to be a Crownsguard to pay rent for his little sister.”

The boy in question blushes, but doesn’t move from his position.

"Over there in the back is Crowe, who's nineteen and just lost her home country. She has a sharp tongue, but her spicy fish curry is seriously to die for. Her friend Miles from Tenebrae lost his leg in a trip mine trying to save a farm girl in Cavaugh. Then there's Sadda who got blinded by an MT armor five years ago and started a soup kitchen in the ninth district instead, even though she barely has the money to feed herself. Her family came to Insomnia from Leide when she was a kid, hoping for a better life for their children."

The crowd has gone completely quiet, hanging onto every word of the small Crown Prince sitting on the speaker’s desk.

"My best friend is from Niflheim, and he takes the best pictures ever. They always make me smile when I'm having a bad day." You notice he doesn't say the name - maybe to protect him? You wish it wasn't so sorely necessary.

"These people are your neighbors, your potential friends, but most of you have been giving them the cold shoulder when all they wanted was to feel safe for a bit, like all of you have been since the erection of the Wall.

"I know the people of Insomnia can do better than that. I know that we can all work together and help each other. Emperor Aldercapt and his Generals are out there, trying to bring Lucis down, but together we can stay strong and bring peace again. And that starts with you, and your neighbor.

"...that's all. Thank you for your time." The boy stumbles to an awkward stop, steam obviously running out. The microphone makes another squeaky noise as Prince Noctis climbs off the podium and walks back to the curtain. The room is silent. King Regis uses that moment to lean forward and add "I couldn't have said it better myself. Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen," before leaving the stage, completely ignoring the part of a press conference where you’re supposed to… well, interact with the press.

Behind the curtain, Noctis freezes in place, staring ahead at nothing. "I can't believe I just did that," he says, before trembling to the ground where he stands. You look at him for a moment before breaking into a relieved laugh.

 

The media backlash is, surprisingly, positive.

As it turns out the public loves Noct, even after getting a stern dressing-down from the nine-year-old.

"Come now, Marshal.” You decisively don’t turn your attention from the TV over to where you can hear Ignis’ voice in the doorway to your kitchen. “A blind man could've seen that coming."

 

"I can't believe you mentioned my pictures," Prompto tells Noct, looking like he would prefer to sink through the floor towards the other side of the planet.

 

---

 

Even if that’s one problem starting to get taken care of, another, bigger problem remains.

In your dreams, you’re back in the throne room; dark gloom hanging over the City and shining through the bit of façade that crumbled down. Ardyn stares down at you mockingly from the throne.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock’s ticking, how much time do you have left?”

You wake upright in bed and ready to fight something, only there is nothing to fight. So you do the next best thing: spend the day scouring the library for any hint of information you or Regis might have missed, with a sleepy Noctis curled into your side as you read.

Maybe you shouldn’t be researching the prophecy where the boy can see (that’s an entire different can of worms that you’re not willing to open right now), but Noctis’ attention is on his drawing pad and it’s not like the historical chronicles of the Lucis Caelum family are in any way suspicious.

“I wanna go to public school after this year,” Noctis says apropos of nothing, picking up an eraser to smudge over some thing or another on his paper. “I talked to dad about it, but he said he’ll think about it, which means no.”

You still. “I think he’s worried you’ll be attacked again. It hasn’t been that long since the Gala yet. …and you did just about insult half of Insomnia a few days ago,” you say in a vaguely chastising tone. Noctis shrugs unapologetically. “Why the change of heart, anyway?”

The boy draws in silence for a few moments, lips pursed.

“Prompto wants to go to River Fork Middle School, if he gets a scholarship. He says he’s getting close with his maths grades.” One of the more prestigious schools in central Insomnia.

“You and Prompto, you’ve grown close, huh?”

Noctis shrugs awkwardly. “He’s cool. And he… he doesn’t call me ‘Your Highness’ all the time. Even the Glaives don’t call me by my name.”

You look over at him, at the boy looking for a bit of normalcy in a life that’s as far from normal as you can get.

“Give your Dad some time,” you murmur and turn back to your book.

After a while, you sigh. It comes at no surprise, but the further you get in the chronicles, the more obvious it becomes that they’re useless for your current research. You’re too warm with the Prince snuggled into your side however to stand up and look for another.

“What’re you drawing?” you ask him instead, glancing at the paper. You’d almost forgotten how good the boy used to be at art. With time and puberty, the hobby became too girlish and got replaced by video game consoles and sword training.

Noctis huffs embarrassedly. “A bedtime story. About two brothers.” Craning your neck is pulling at your muscles, so you turn back around and let your gaze swivel through the library. So many books, so many pages that could hold the answer. “I don’t really like the story itself,” Noctis keeps talking. “It doesn’t have a happy ending. The older brother, a good, wise man, he’s supposed to be King; but then the younger brother tricks him and kills his lover. And has the older brother put into prison. It’s dumb; I dunno why Gentiana told it to us.”

“Gentiana told you?”

“Yeah. She spends time with Luna sometimes. I think it has to do with the whole Oracle thing. I hope it’s still a long while till Luna has to be the Oracle. I know she’s older than me, but… she’s still so young, you know?”

You nod. That she is. In the last timeline, she picked up her duties with sixteen, and even then she was the youngest Oracle in the history of Oracles. The fact that Shiva is already staking a claim over her leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Give the girl some time to be a child.

“But Luna couldn’t sleep, so she told us a story.”

You don’t ask about the obvious sleepover-situation Noctis’ comment alludes to. “If you don’t like the story, why are you drawing it?” you ask instead.

Noctis’ hand stills over the paper where he was aggressively shading something. “If I don’t like an ending, I change it in my head. See?” He shows you his sketchbook, where a King and Queen sit on their thrones, another man at the King’s side, hand on the hilt of his sword. “They should just get along already, damnit.” The boy pouts, and you don’t have the heart to chastise him for the language.

Noctis is and always will be too good for this world, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Another negative side-effect of public opinion changing is that Weskham suddenly has a lot more free time. Time that he can spend fretting over you uselessly.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out at.”

You roll your eyes, but obligingly budge over so Weskham can sit down next to you on the ledge overlooking the courtyard.

The other man takes a deep breath of spring air, eyes closed, before turning that calculating stare at yourself like the weapon it is. “Spill,” he says, and okay, what the fuck.

“About what?” you deadpan.

“Well, let’s see.” Weskham makes a show of raising his hands and counting down on his fingers. “According to Reggie and Clarus, you keep spacing out, dissociating, have panic attacks and flashbacks, barely sleep, don’t eat enough, and last year in May you had a complete breakdown involving a bottle of cheap vodka and sleeping meds. Need I go on?”

Your expression darkens with every word. “Then maybe Reggie and Clarus need to keep their bloody mouths shut. I’m fine.”

And really, you have been. Yes, you keep having the occasional nightmare, but what soldier doesn’t? Things are finally gaining a little bit of momentum, Noctis is getting stronger than ever, Prompto has found people who genuinely care about him, and Ignis and Gladio are learning more and more to work like a team in protecting their Prince. Things are going fine.

Maybe if you tell it to yourself often enough, it’s gonna stick.

“You and I both know if that were true, you wouldn’t have a reason to snark at me. From what I’ve heard, you’re far past the snarking age, little lion.”

How does Weskham still manage to make you feel like a child next to him? You clench your fists at the condescension.

“I’m not here to lecture you. All I ask for is for you to open up a little. Let things out rather than eating them up until they choke you from the inside.”

“What do you wanna hear about, then? About how the Crown City went up in flames, crawling with Niffs? About how the Empire slayed God after God, laid waste to Altissia, how they murdered the Oracle? About the Night, the famine, the mercy killings when the Scourge started spreading?” Your voice rises continually, until you’re almost yelling at your companion.

“Yes,” Weskham says, quiet by contrast. “Those are exactly the things I want to hear about.”

You scoff and throw your head back to lean against the wall, looking up. It’s ridiculous how easy it is for that man to get you so worked up. Years of strife, of battles and hardship, of growing older and wiser, and here he goes and turns you into a mess in the matter of minutes. He’s always had a way of getting beneath your skin.

Trying to salvage the last of your dignity, you inform Weskham of what you’ve been contemplating for a while now but hadn’t dared to with the political situation still so fragile. “I’m gonna head off soon, check out some places I missed during my last years of travel. None of the resources we have here are telling us shit about the prophecy.”

“Around the continent?” Weskham asks, letting the previous topic slide graciously.

You nod. “Maybe further, if I need to. There were some places that were inaccessible due to the influx of daemons during the night. I might have more luck now.”

Weskham hums. “Yes, it seems as good a time as any to stretch ones legs a little.”

You nod, then freeze. Turn your head towards him. He looks back at you.

“Weskham no.”

The absolute last thing you need is a babysitter.

The man smirks. “Weskham yes.”

Notes:

People: *are being prejudiced assholes*
Noctis: y'all be doing me a disappoint ಠ_ಠ

"A smoothie" is obviously a loving reference to that one fan comic by Breezy-cheezy.

Time for a roadtrip, baby~ ...I actually haven't got a lot planned for that, yet. If there's any particular Cor-Weskham-interaction you'd like to see, lemme know. I'll see if I can build it in somewhere.

Chapter 6

Notes:

This chapter has fought me tooth and nail. Since the last time I updated, I have quit my job, started a new one, moved to Berlin, started therapy, buried my dog, lived through some of the darkest phases of my life, moved houses again, and am now contemplating another career change. I feel like Cor and Wesk's roadtrip had so much potential and I tapped into none of it because this isn't really the part of the story I want to write, but finally I decided I'd rather give you an imperfect chapter than none at all.

My deepest gratitude for all of your lovely comments. Knowing I still had avid readers out there waiting for an update gave me the motivation to push through, thank you so much! <3

“Tell me about your Glaive.”

You look at him incomprehensibly.

“Sir Ulric, I believe his name was?”

“What about him?”

“How long have you been an item?”

You stare some more.

“Ah. So you haven’t.”

“Yeah. No.”

Weskham folds his arms over his raised knees and lays his head on them, looking over at you contemplatively. “Hmm. I did always imagine you – well.”

“Huh?”

“No, nothing.”

 

The King and his Shield see the two of you off at the garage, telling you in no uncertain terms to be careful and come back in one piece.

“Shiva talked of a Witness; that means there must be records somewhere out there about what happened,” you had explained the trip to His Majesty, who only seemed annoyed he couldn’t accompany you himself.

Clarus lags behind a bit after the goodbyes have been said. You almost kick him in the nuts when he asks, “So you and Nyx really aren’t…?”

“Why does everybody and their aunt think I’m sleeping with Nyx?” you explode, glad there’s no other audience in the deserted parking garage.

“Let me see. He helps you look after your not-an-offspring, you spar at least once a week, you went through emotionally challenging times together, you saved each other’s lives, you share a room. Half the Glaive is planning your wedding. Need I go on?”

The words are so similar to Weskham’s a few days earlier that you have to suppress a snort. “He’s a child,” you choose to sputter instead, aghast.

Well, a very young adult, if anything; but still. Being in your mid-fifties (at least mentally), you’re more than twice his age.

Clarus gives you that damn shrewd look again. “So, you’re into older men, then?”

You look at him flatly. “I’m into men my own age,” you say, openly not protesting the ‘men’ part.

You can feel Weskham’s stare on your back, so you turn around and start heading for the car, not chancing a glance back. You’re only too glad to leave this madhouse behind.

 

(It takes you a long while to figure it out. Embarrassingly long.

Weskham lifts an eyebrow at you when you choke on your coffee halfway down the road, plastic cup clenched in your grip.

Clarus thought you were with Nyx. All this time. Clarus thought you were off-limits, so he kept his distance.

And you threw yourself at him like a pining fool.)

 

You have half a mind to skip over Hammerhead, to spare yourself the confrontation after the last time Cid saw you as a shivering lump of misery at the back of his truck, half-starved and out of your mind. Especially with Weskham at your side, you know this will bring up so many unpleasant, half-buried things best left in the closet. But if he ever found out the both of you were in the area and just drove by, you know he’d rip you a new one.

“Shit to do,” you reply when Cid asks you about your trip.

“Shit? What shit?” He takes a swig from the flask in his jacket pocket.

“Just shit. Nothing important.”

The mechanic gives you a look daring you to say that kind of chocobo crap to his face again, which you ignore with the ease of years-long practice. At your side, you can feel Weskham eyeing you curiously.

Regis had written him about the true words of the prophecy, but not Cid. Not Cid, who had been long gone by that time, bridges burnt and broken, for all that Hammerhead lay much closer than Altissia. Cid, who had to find out from your own lips while the King’s body was not yet cold. Who raged.

You look away.

“His loyal dog until the end, aren’t you?” There’s fire in his eyes, vitriol spewing from his tongue. “Carrying out his orders even after he’s dead. Do you even give a shit at all about the boy?”

Your fingers clench in your pants, the other hand clutching the teacup Cid had offered you tighter. You deposit it on the floor of the garage next to you, very careful not to make a noise. Face a mask, you rise and head for the open road.

A rustle of cloth indicates the old man slumping behind you. “Wait… Stay, Cor. You know that’s not what I meant.” He sighs in defeat, the weight of a million words unsaid bearing down on him. A million words which will never have the chance to be exchanged, now. “Cor – ”

Do you even give a shit –

“Tell him I’ll be at the tomb.”

Weskham must’ve picked up your slack while your mind was elsewhere, engaging Cid in a discussion of Reggie’s policy changes, what happened with the council and the time thereafter. The shift of priorities; what to protect and what not to. You can see it’s not enough to change Cid’s mind, not yet, but the first seed of an olive tree has been planted.

The late morning sun shines through the open garage door, painting shadows over the rough floor and littering tools and trinkets. You feel old.

“Burning daylight,” you murmur, into a lull of conversation, and stand up.

Weskham catches your eyes over the hood of the cheap rental later, one arm leant on the open door. He probably sees too much when he looks at you, but there’s nothing much you can do about it. You fight against the tiredness in your bones. “Where to?” he asks.

“Balouve Mines,” you reply, swinging into the driver’s side. “And after that, we’ll see.”

 

You didn’t realize how the stuffiness of the Citadel had been bearing down on you until you’re on the open road, windows down and wind tousling your hair, the hot Leiden sun bright on your face despite how early it still is in the year. Weskham drums a quiet rhythm against the window sill, expression mild as milk.

Fighting daemons with Weskham is like an old forgotten dance that your muscles nevertheless remember, effortless and fluid once you’ve shaken the stiffness from your joints.

(Except those moments when you push an enemy away from you and wait for the crackle of electricity, or the swing of a hammer following up, or the whooshing sound of a broadsword.)

You take your time, looking into every daemon-infested crevice inside the Mines, intent not to miss anything. Not this time. It was a wild guess, of course – the Mines stem from a completely different time period than the founding of Lucis, but you have time. For once, you have time, and the Kingdom is – for now – secure. You kick up dust as you emerge from the dark caves, stretching your hands above your head and popping your shoulder joints with a sigh.

“Don’t you start,” Weskham says and nudges your shoulder on the way down to the car. “Your old bones aren’t that old yet.”

You huff.

Weskham is still every bit as good a cook as you remember. The sun is just starting to set when he ladles hearty stew into bowls over your campfire, Longwhythe Peak burning orange in the distance.

“And one extra bowl for the growing boy,” Weskham says while pushing the dish in your direction.

You’re torn between wolfing down the food like someone starving and feeling looked down upon. You’re fourteen, not a baby.

A flash of blue produces the folding chairs from the armiger. You wouldn’t have minded weathering the rough stone, but Weskham has always made it a point of using little comforts when available.

You wonder what Altissia has been like for him, these recent years. What it was about the city that kept him there, after his treatment had been done and his injury healed. Was it the picturesque architecture, the good food, the fine company in form of one Camelia Claustra?

What did Altissia have that Insomnia didn’t?

You feel like you’ve never really known the man well at all. Back then, he had already been in his twenties – far beyond your juvenile reach, talking above your head with the Prince more often than not. And afterwards, there had been barely anything more than dusty memories and regret between you, keeping your interactions short.

Where does that leave you now? For all that you’ve known Weskham for several decades, you think he might as well be a stranger.

A buzzing in your pocket rips you from your thoughts.

You squint at the screen.

“What is it?” Weskham asks.

You drop back in your chair, huffing. “Regis learned how to use emojis. Apparently.”

 

The desert stretches wide in front of you, sun burning down and asphalt bumping you comfortingly from below the tires. There are several different versions of Leide in your head, and you don’t know what to do about that. This one feels unreal, somewhere in the middle of all the alternatives.

You’ve seen Leide through the early eyes of a child, fighting off small lizards with a stick. You’ve seen Leide out of Prince Regis’ tent, past Weskham’s cooking fire. You’ve seen Leide on patrols with your troops, seen dreadnoughts flying towards the smoking Crown City. Withered and dark under the scourge, on your infrequent visits to assure yourself the kid was alright and the old coot still kickin’.

It’s almost a relief when you abandon the drab plains for the rolling hills and green forests of Duscae.

Leide had been unhelpful in your search regarding the prophecy, but then again, you had been expecting that. Duscae and Cleigne might prove more fruitful, with certain ruins and areas that had been inaccessible during the Night because of daemons or the tide of time.

Regis keeps texting you.

Apparently, Prompto had shared with his new friend the technological advancements of the decade, and Noctis had in turn informed his father who, in his all-encompassing wisdom, had decided he needed to be ‘hip’ and ‘cool’ and that you would be the perfect victim to practice his texting skills on.

You start reluctantly returning pictures of your travels, for lack of anything else to write.

HRM Regis: Oh, there is a picture-sending function? 😲

HRM Regis: I need to ask Noctis about this. 🤗

HRM Regis: What a beautiful sunset, Cor! 😍😍😍🌄

It’s very slow progress, but progress nonetheless. From texts and emojis to pictures to gifs and memes. Weskham laughs at you when you squint over one particularly incomprehensible meme (not like the others had been any better) of a chocobo, a broomstick and bright pink text, then holds his hands up in defense when you turn the screen around at him to get his artistic opinion.

It keeps you occupied, in the quiet times of rest or while refueling the car. Weskham keeps looking at you shrewdly anytime your phone buzzes, anytime you bend over the screen with a tiny smile.

Whatever.

It’s not your fault Regis apparently has too much time on his hands.

 

Costlemark is still every bit as tricky as you remember, but you think it might be worth it, if you manage to get into any of the closed-off rooms you weren’t able to reach before.

“This seems to date back to the reign of King Evam of Solheim.” Weskham’s voice trembles slightly in awe. It might be the first time he’s been confronted with history that old, at least in a shape other than some dusty tome in the library.

“Queen,” you correct.

“Mh?”

“Queen Evam. Common misconception.”

Weskham stares at you from behind the beam of his flashlight, momentarily ignoring the writing on the wall in front of you.

“How do you know?”

“She keeps popping up in the old accounts. A lot of scholars attributed their daughter to her wife Lileth, but that’s just because they’re homophobic idiots. I read the journal of her midwife, once. She was pretty clear which of the two squeezed that baby out.”

And okay, why does Weskham keep looking at you?

“What?”

The other man shakes his head. “Nothing, just… didn’t take you for a scholar.”

“I’ve been at this a while now.”

“That I can see.”

“It’s not that hard, once you’ve learned the basic Solheim alphabet,” you explain, touching your fingertips to the runes on the wall. And you’d been wary at first too, but Talcott had been a surprisingly gifted teacher. “Old Lucian builds on it. Look, here they talk about…”

It’s too easy, that back and forth with the voice at your back that sounds so much like Ignis once the owner falls into a dedicated discussion on the finer points of Solheim history with you. Almost forgotten facts flock to the forefront of your mind, details you’ve read on monoliths and in ancient records that form a picture, yet the central part is still missing.

You don’t need info on the Astral War, or the fall of Solheim. You’re looking for that tiny space of time in between that and the meticulously kept records of Lucian historians. The turning point, the ascension of King Somnus the Mystic, the Founder. You need info on Ardyn, damnit.

You keep missing something, something vital, and it makes your teeth clench.

The deep gurgle of forming daemons is almost a welcome distraction. You’ve been here too long.

You summon your sword and jump into the fray, slashing and hacking at the monstrosities that have tried to creep up behind you. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, nothing you can’t handle, but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate the gun taking out an Ereshkigal that had tried to sneak up on you with a few efficient hits.

“Nice shot,” you tell Prompto, and spare a second to throw him a grin, and –

– it’s not Prompto –

Why isn’t Weskham at the lighthouse? What the fuck is he doing in Costlemark Tower? He hasn’t been in places like this in ages, he’ll get himself killed –

Everything is wrong.

You can’t feel your body. There’s a gush of wind, something taking a swipe at you and a sharp hot pressure against your arm as your sword his flung from your hands. A curse behind you.

A moment too late, you call a dagger to your hand to block against the Yojimbo’s next blow, but the creature is already staggering against multiple gun shots to the chest before melting back into the shadows.

You’re too slow. Everything is moving so fast around you, and you’re too slow.

“Cor!”

There’s something off about the way Weskham looks at you, but the no-nonsense attitude with which he grabs your arm to check the bleeding gash is soothingly familiar.

“We should get out of here,” Weskham decides after wrapping a piece of cloth around the wound and stashes your sword back in the armiger. You nod dumbly.

The sun is almost starting to come up again by the time you’ve found your way out of the maze of Costlemark Tower, and it makes you realize how tired your body is. You’re lucky you didn’t encounter anything more challenging than a few flans on the way out. The dewy grass wetting your boots grounds you a little more firmly in reality, or whatever passes as it nowadays, but your lips still tingle with numbness.

“Mind explaining to me what happened to you down there?” Weskham asks nonchalantly while getting the first aid kit out of the armiger and kneeling next to your camping chair where he had pushed you unceremoniously upon reaching the haven.

“…that’s never happened before.”

Sure, you know your brain’s fucked up and your PTSD is over the roof, but so far it’s never caused you to freeze in battle or get yourself hurt.

Without Weskham, you’d be dead. The fact that you do seem to need a babysitter burns something fierce.

“The dissociation?” Weskham glances at you from the corner of his eye while tying off the bandage.

You eye his movements dispassionately. “It’s a liability.”

Weskham is quiet for a moment as he repacks the first aid kit.

“It’s about trust.” You look up at him. “Regis and Clarus let you go out here because they trust me to step in if you need it.”

The thought makes a burning lump form in your throat. How incapable, how helpless did they think you are that you would be unable to handle a trip like this on your own?

And how unsettling, to find out that they were right.

You shouldn’t need to be coddled, not when it’s up to you to use your knowledge of the future to save this timeline. And yet here you sit, watching Weskham cook, resigned to your seat after a stern reprimand to rest.

The more you think about it, the more you see all the little ways in which Weskham has been looking out for you during this trip: The way he always seems to make noise when approaching you from behind when you know how quiet he can be on his feet. The way he somehow tends to end up covering your back when entering a crowded rest stop, like he can see your unease floating in the air. How he just so happens to nudge your bedroll on his way to pee in the middle of the night, when you were twitching in your sleep.

All the things you did for Prompto, for Iris, for Ignis.

For you, it’s unnecessary. Weren’t the kids off so much worse? They were never meant to end up battle-hardened soldiers, jumping at every moving shadow. You would have spared them all that pain if you could, the constant vigilance, learning how to judge supplies at a moment’s glance, calculate how long a crate of canned goods will last a settlement. You would take it all on you, if you could.

But here you are instead, in a world where Clarus hovers and Regis worries and Weskham pays attention much more than he should.

You don’t need – you shouldn’t need this, any of it.

…and yet.

In a world of constant darkness, how good had it felt to know Libertus was covering your blind side in a fight. How calm, listening to Ignis talk about random happenings in the weeks you were gone over dinner in his tiny Lestallum apartment. Prompto’s patched you up more than a few times, and while you wish the kid didn’t have to see so much blood in his lifetime, you’d never protested his touch.

With them, you had let yourself be vulnerable.

“Why Altissia?” you finally ask, feeling fed up with all of it. Weskham can give big speeches about how now that he’s here, Regis can trust him with your well-being, but fact of the matter is that he wasn’t here for nearly a decade.

Why did you stay?

Weskham stills in his motions of brewing another pot of coffee next to the fish stew set to simmer. Serves him right, to be caught on the wrong foot for once. Just once, you would like to see his unflappable composure shatter.

“How much do you know?” Weskham asks slowly, resuming the process of filling up two mugs. “Did you ever ask me?”

In the future, he obviously means.

You shake your head as you receive your beverage, hands cupping around the hot porcelain. Duscae is much colder than Leide, and a stiff breeze is rustling the large pine trees around your clearing.

Weskham sits down in his camping chair with a sigh, looking at you thoughtfully.

“I certainly wouldn’t have kept the matter a secret from you, even if it is not only my story to tell.” And maybe that’s true – it’s not like you’ll ever have a chance to find out, again. The latter point makes you curious though, and you cock your head to prompt him to continue. “I suppose Regis and I had something of a falling out.”

And that much was obvious, but, “About what?”

“Certainly nothing as tragic as with Cid, and yet… do you remember how young Regis was?” That’s a startling thought. In hindsight – yes, even now you sometimes catch yourself stumbling over Regis’ relative inexperience compared to your own many years on Eos. But back then? You had been but a bumbling teen yourself. “Teenagers can be foolish, though I suppose my reaction was not as mature as I would have liked to think of myself either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our mission to restore the alliance with Accordo had just failed. Mors was frail enough that Regis knew his own Kinghood was imminent, yet still alive enough to make decisions that Regis chafed at. Like all young people, he thought he knew what was best regardless of any advice I would give him as his future Hand. I was… tired of it.” Weskham’s voice lowers. “I’d decided that if Regis wanted my help, he would have to ask for it. Only… he never did again.”

You mull over the new information. Oh, the woes of too much stubbornness and pride.

“You came for Noctis’ birth, though,” you note.

“An olive branch. But by that time, Regis had already learned not to rely on me and built his own circle of advisors.”

The two of you sit in silence. The amiable, but distant relationship between those two makes so much more sense now. Regis too stubborn to admit he needs help, Weskham too prideful to come without being asked for, only keeping vague contact through infrequent letters. How much did it hurt Weskham, to feel like he wasn’t needed anymore?

It’s strangely humbling, to see this vulnerable side of the other man. Perhaps, Weskham no longer sees you quite as that little boy trailing in the Prince’s footsteps.

 

You find yourself staring at the tent wall in the dark. Somebody moves behind you and you sink into the buried memories of quiet breaths in the night, princely boots in your ribs at three in the morning, of waking up because Clarus drank too much beer and had to take a midnight piss. That cozy feeling behind your chest of not being on your own, knowing that if an iron giant or a dreadnought rumbled up to your camp, there’d be four people drawing weapons at your back. You remember it had made you feel invincible. It’s been forty years, but this feeling has burned itself inside the very core of you.

Sometimes, you’d woken up to Regis a warm weight pressed all along the length of your body.

Behind you, Weskham shifts once more before settling down with a sigh. You close your eyes and try to sleep.

 

You trudge onwards, and even if it’s just in your imagination – the air feels a little lighter between you. The wound on your arm heals quickly.

Your gaze keeps straying southwest, towards Niflheim; wondering… but no. For now, there are still things to be done. You’ve grown attached to Insomnia, and even though it’s hypocritical in regard to your old strife with the King, you’d rather stay close and be able to protect Noct and the other kids if push comes to shove.

It’s hard to keep telling yourself that with every day that passes with nothing to show for it.

HRM Regis: ✨A slim boi✨

The picture of Noctis dangling a large earthworm into Regis’ camera elicits a strange mixture of fondness and creeping guilt in your gut. You ignore Weskham’s side-eye, rolling your shoulders to get rid of the tension.

“When’s the last time you went on a vacation?” Weskham asks, glancing towards the Vesperpool and leaning back in his camping chair, sipping coffee.

“Regis put me on medical leave once.” Does that count?

“That doesn’t count.”

Oh.

“Well, guess this is my vacation, then.” Even if it’s technically in service to the Crown.

“You know, there’s more to life than the Crown.”

There isn’t.

“…Regis is just a man,” Wesk adds.

He seriously needs to stop it with all those knowing looks he keeps throwing you over the top of his mugs.

“I guess I can see why that Glaive never had a chance,” he murmurs.

“It’s complicated.”

“With that boy?” Weskham smiles crookedly. “Always is.”

 

Against your hope, not even Steyliff Grove turns up anything remotely useful for your search. Each day, you listen to reports of the war efforts on the radio broadcast and feel the ticking of the clock. You’ve been gone a long while. The prophecy might have time, but the war doesn’t.

For now, you decide to head back and regroup.

Leide is a dark, brown shadow outside the windshield, sun long gone, and Insomnia a looming shadow to the East. All the problems that you left inside the Citadel are awaiting you.

Mayhap they will still be waiting after one more night.

“Ye’ll give yerself an ulcer, worrying like that, kid. Either King Mors’ll like you, or he won’t. Ye’ll find out when he sees you, and not a moment sooner. Now go and grab me that screwdriver.”

Hammerhead is always brightly lit, and inside it sits an old coot that might have too strong an opinion on some things, but who certainly had a right to be angry over being kept out of the loop of so many of them. Maybe it’s time to lessen that count by one thing. Maybe you just want to get blackout drunk one more time before going to face the music, and Cid’s roughness is exactly what you need right now.

Either way, you park your car alongside the road and leave the keys in the ignition. Weskham only gives you a long look as you get out, pat the roof of the rental and say, “Catch you later.”

Then you head out to buy the largest bottle of fire whiskey that gas station has to offer.

Notes:

If I had a nickel for every time Weskham tries to figure someone out by looking at them, I don't know what I'd do with all those random nickels because we pay in Euro here.

Fun fact: So many of you told me that my story gave you a newfound love of second person POV (which is really heartwarming!!), but the real reason why I decided to use it is because with m/m ships, you keep having to use characters' names all the time to distinguish between all the different 'he's, so using 'you' for one character makes it a lot less repetitive :D 10/10, would recommend

Chapter 7

Notes:

This one's one of my faves! Some of these scenes I've had on my hard-drive for years now.

There’s a big welcome-back dinner at the Amicitia Mansion to celebrate your and Weskham’s return. Iris cheers and Clarus hugs you too long and too tightly for it not to mean anything.

You meet Nyx and Prompto at the Coeurl’s Nest afterwards.

“Oh! You’re back. Um, cool. That’s cool.” Prompto is awkward but cute as heck. He ends up gifting you a potted plant, which you put into a place of honor on your window sill and try not to kill with your black thumb over the following few weeks.

In between trips to the front, you make it a point to spend as much time with the children as you can, to keep reminding yourself why you’re doing this. Iris is over the moon whenever you let Clarus badger you into coming over for another cooking lesson, and it’s almost enough to distract yourself from the way Clarus acts around you, the small touches, the quiet contemplation.

Dinners with Regis and Noctis are, if anything, even worse. Because Regis keeps throwing you those glances – like you hung up the moon yourself, like any of what you did has yet managed to help the boy at the table escape his fate.

It’s a waiting atmosphere, but on what, you don’t know.

 

You heave a sigh and run a hand through your hair, lowering the phone from your ear.

“What is it?” Clarus asks, looking up from his paperwork.

“My not-an-offspring got a tooth knocked out fighting another kid. Gotta go.”

The drive to the school leaves you a curious mix between anxious and harried, wondering whether Prompto is alright and what exactly motivated him into joining a fist fight in the first place.

It takes some prodding, but eventually, the blond boy hugging his legs mulishly on the bed in the nurse’s office, bruise across his jaw, admits to protecting a younger classmate.

“She didn’t… do anything to them. The kinds of things they said about her, it was… nasty.” Prompto’s cheek moves where his tongue is probing the empty space between his molars. Thankfully still a baby tooth.

It reminds you of the time you’d run across the blonde in Lestallum’s field hospital, black-eyed and with a weeping gash across his cheek, but telling you with a proud smile about the family he’d saved from a daemon nest.

You talk the school into letting Prompto off with a slap on the wrist, considering the circumstances, rather than the formal reprimand they had been planning on. The staff member you talk to might be somewhat daunted by your mood, which has not improved after realizing that Prompto’s parents are once again out of town and couldn’t be reached.

“Sorry,” Prompto mumbles, steps slowing once you’ve walked out of the front doors onto the courtyard. You turn around, hand tight around the handle of Prompto’s schoolbag. The boy won’t meet your eyes.

You sigh, take a step forward and kneel so you’re on Prompto’s height. “Hey,” you say, and put a hand on his shoulder. Prompto bites his lip and finally looks up at you. “I’m not mad.” His brow furrows in disbelief. “…not at you,” you amend. “Come on.”

You take him with you to the Citadel, so that Prompto won’t have to come home to an empty house, and foist him off on an excited Noctis wanting to show him the colored marbles that you’re pretty sure he’s been secretly using for warp training when no one’s looking. Maybe that’s exactly what Prompto needs right now.

Yourself, you sit on the small roof above the courtyard, contemplating what to do about Prompto’s home situation while watching the two boys play below you.

There’s nothing you’d love more than to call the authorities on Mr. and Mrs. Argentum for the obvious neglect that’s been going on for far longer than you’d like to think. But what good would that do? Putting Prompto through the whole foster system again, uprooting his life and landing him with a family that might potentially be even worse? Like this, at least the bills are paid and the fridge is filled, despite the emotional toll his parents’ absence is taking on the boy.

Of course, there is another solution… but you can’t let your mind stray that way. It would hurt too much, thinking about all the ways it would be a bad idea.

Regis joins you sometime later, and you quietly wonder which of the three potential perpetrators betrayed your hiding spot.

The King smirks at you from his seat at your side. “This was my favorite place whenever I wasn’t in the mood for etiquette lessons as a young boy,” he explains nonchalantly. “Of course, I had to stop using it as a hiding spot when I realized a certain hot-headed little punk had need of it.”

You huff and look away, falling into a silence that feels surprisingly companionable.

For all that you keep feeling his gaze on you every so often, Regis has been giving you your space, never pushing more than you’ll let him. Even now he’s a quiet shadow at your side, in his tweed vest and dress shoes and calm demeanor, fiddling amiably with the watch at his wrist. You smell the slightest whiff of after-shave and try not to lean into it.

You remember Weskham’s talk about trust. Just as they had been trusting Weskham to look after you, Regis and Clarus are putting their trust in you to make the right choices based on your knowledge of the future – a trust misplaced. You’re terrified of choosing the wrong thing and losing that second chance you’d been gifted out of nowhere. Taking up Regis’ silent offer of companionship now – how could you ever deserve it?

Despite all that happened, all the good that’s changed… your guilt over your past actions – or rather inactions – remains as strong as ever. It’s a simple fact of life: The sky is blue, the wind blows cold, Cor Leonis feels guilty.

“Did you manage to reach his parents?” Regis asks after a little while of watching the two boys, who have now sunk down on a bench in the garden to look at comic books that Noctis keeps stashed in his armiger.

You harrumph into your collar. Back to the first topic then, which you are still no closer to figuring out. “Doubt they’ll be back before next month, if that.”

You feel Regis’ surprised eyes on you.

“Don’t,” you say, staving off the words before they can come. “He’s already part of the system. Switching families again won’t do him any good.”

Regis hums.

“You do seem awfully invested in him. Were you close? In your time.” His voice is deceptively light.

You turn to stare at him.

“And I would’ve kept you if I could.”

“Come on,” he continues before you have time to answer, “I want you to introduce me.”

 

“Ho-oly shit, you’re the King.”

And that is exactly why you’d refrained from introductions so far. “Language, Prompto.”

The boy squeaks and flaps his hands.

“Prompto, Reggie; Reggie, Prompto.”

“Hello there, young lad. I’ve heard so much about you from Noctis. I’m pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

Prompto looks like he’d prefer to melt into the ground.

 

Sometimes you find yourself leaving dishes in the sink longer than necessary, hoping that Iris’ ghost will show up to nag you about it. Your heart skips a beat every time you hear Prompto’s voice telling you to dodge in the middle of a skirmish, warning you of a stray bullet flying your way. Gladio’s voice trails after you in the Citadel’s hallways, urging you to keep your enemies close but your friends closer.

“Know who your allies are. Never fight alone, fighting alone is what gets people killed.”

In the dark of night, you stare up at the ceiling and wonder if they’re still alive, wherever they are.

You feel loose, untethered; torn between your failure in the now and your craving for a past that is as painful and bittersweet as it is lost to you.

All in all, it’s rather frustrating. The Empire keeps pushing from all sides, and you still haven’t found anything worthwhile to help you stop this war or the blade hanging above Noctis’ head. Prompto’s parents continue to neglect him, but the boy is adamant that he’s fine and has everything he needs. You just want to help your loved ones, but you can’t and it’s driving you mad.

You pore over old books and go to train for hours on end. You’re a killing machine, honed to perfection, but still can’t protect anyone where it matters.

“It hurts just looking at you.”

“I live to serve,” you reply drily and take another swing at the practice dummy, because fuck Clarus. If he’s gonna start lecturing you on your posture he’ll have another thing coming.

You tighten your grip on the sword, and in the next moment there are two thumbs pressing into the tense knot that is your back, and you flinch.

“Fucking – ”

“Alright, then.”

Before you can protest, Clarus has taken you by the shoulders and steered you to the (blissfully empty) side rooms. You drop the practice sword into the armiger before being pushed towards a padded table. Clarus orders you to lose the shirt and get on the stretcher before proceeding to grab the oil to give you a deep-tissue massage.

“You don’t have to.”

“I wasn’t asking.

You hiss as Clarus’ thumbs dig deep into your wound-up muscles, but the pain soon fades into a heavy ache fades into bliss. You think about how bloody good those hands feel on your naked back, how powerful, and what else you’d like for Clarus to do with those hands. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched like this.

“So then, tell me. How long are we gonna keep dancing around this?” Clarus asks conversationally. “Because I don’t know about you, but personally, I’m not growing any younger. And neither is Reggie.”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Liar. And not even a good one.”

You sigh. “I don’t know what it is you want from me.”

“There’s nothing we want from you. …well, you taking care of yourself for once might be a nice start,” Clarus says while digging his thumbs deep into a knot.

“See,” you grunt, “there you go already with your impossible demands.”

Clarus ends by rubbing his large, warm hands all the way up your back, from one end of your spine to the other. You try not to stretch into it like a cat, but it’s a hopeless endeavor. “We’re not asking for anything you’re not willing to give,” he says, voice close, hands resting on your neck where the skin has started to grow hot.

When you don’t reply after a few moments, he moves to the side and returns a moment later with a towel to drape over your back to keep the heat in. Then Clarus turns around to lean back against the stretcher and crosses his arms with a huff.

“We saw your looks back then, at the Cape, in Altissia… but you were so young then, and you never mentioned; after.”

“The Crown comes first,” you say, habitually, because what the hell else are you supposed to tell this man? Regis is like the sun; blinding and unreachable.

Clarus regards you with something akin to pity.

“I am curious… did you ever grow some balls, back then? From what you told us, the Fall is still quite a few years away.”

“…the Crown comes first.”

“You do realize that Regis is the Crown, yes?”

What you do realize is that your muscles are not gonna get anymore relaxed than they already are, so you sit back up, towel falling away. Clarus uses it to wipe the oil from his fingers and sighs while you swing your legs over the edge of the table. You look at each other for a long moment.

“All I’m saying is, you’re allowed to want things, Cor.” The Shield’s voice is quiet.

You are meant to serve. You’re meant to bleed in the name of a thousands of years old monarchy, in the name of the King you swore fealty to. You aren’t meant to want.

Clarus is a steady presence next to you, breathing evenly and emitting a comforting heat like the human furnace he is. He’s close enough you can smell his aftershave, see the stubble where he missed a patch. After a moment too long, he goes to turn away, and something inside you snaps. You catch him with your leg and wrap it around Clarus' thigh to reel him in. Your hand in his thick council robes draws him down until your lips crash together.

What follows is warmth, and heat and impatience and a fight for dominance, which you quickly yield to the man pressing close to you; even if you’re older and frustrated and a million other things, yielding to Clarus has always been easy. You grind against the solid heat between your thighs, moan into the kiss at a particularly sharp thrust, and Clarus slows you down with his hands on your hips. “Been a while for you, huh?”

You don’t want to think of the terms ‘stress-relief’ and ‘family resemblance’ in the same sentence, so you keep your mouth shut and pressed against Clarus’.

“Easy. We’ve got time,” the other man says after a few moments of leisurely kissing that does nothing to sate the hunger in your chest.

“Fuck you, Clarus,” you gripe, feeling your blue balls keenly.

“Maybe later, if you’re good.”

The wink is almost audible in his voice. What a fucking cock-block.

You punch him in the arm, but Clarus won’t let himself be deterred, not even by the way your back is likely still slick with oil and Clarus’ clothing is in pristine condition. He suddenly wraps his stupidly large arms around you and draws you in tight, and oh fuck.

It’s been so many years, you forgot what the Amicitia Embrace of Pain and Doom felt like.

(It’s actually not very painful, unless you’re counting the way your heart gives a sharp clench. Apart from that, it is very soft and secure and good and makes you feel like nothing can ever hurt you. Your face is pressed into Clarus’ chest and makes you a witness of the man’s living heartbeat, which is more soothing than a great many things in the world.)

“Just… gimme a moment,” Clarus asks.

You decide to give him as many as he wants.

 

Clarus and Regis are a package deal. You know this. You are acutely aware of this.

But when you feel Regis’ eyes on you the next day, you take the coward’s way out. Galahd is supposed to be nice this time of year. Lots of nice, unexplored ruins. Far from Insomnia.

Weskham only sighs and packs his bag again.

 

On May sixteenth, you are out camping in the wilderness, no settlement for miles and miles. The Empire has left nothing but rubble and ash. Nyx probably would have jumped at the chance of coming back here, had you told him; and he would have broken at the sight. This is no reconquest.

You light a candle and set it at the edge of the haven, staring out into the darkness. Weskham carefully sits down next to you after who knows how long. The mantle of memories lies heavily on your shoulders.

“Tell me,” he prods gently.

And, closing your eyes, you talk into the night.

 

“I found his body in the Hall of History.” You stare down at your hands, at the fingers that had turned the King over, cradled him. “I held his dead body in my arms.”

“You loved him.”

There is not a universe in which you would not.

“I failed him. So many times over.”

The guilt chokes you. It bubbles up in your throat like tar, like acid. You can’t breathe around it.

“You did the best you could.”

“Did I?”

Weskham’s hand is heavy on your shoulder and the only thing keeping you tethered to the now.

“We all have made mistakes. Me, you. Regis. That does not mean that we did not try our best, in the moment. It means we are human.” You shake your head, closing your eyes. Your lashes are wet. “Little lion, let it go.”

How can you let it go? Your entire life revolved around that Monarchy. Regis Lucis Caelum watched you grow up, put a stamp in the shape of himself right on top of your heart.

You’d gotten used to seeing Regis, greyed and aging, trying not to let the country see the way his weakening hand shook on the scepter; and now you are back here with a Regis who has barely started getting wrinkles.

You can’t tear your eyes from Regis when he’s in his full regalia in front of the council tearing his opposition apart, the sight makes you weak in the knees and your mouth run dry. You crave Clarus’ warmth like a drug, like he’s the only thing keeping you alive in a cold winter.

And yet.

And yet these are not the men you buried.

Falling into their midst, by letting yourself have this, you feel like you’re simultaneously betraying the memory of the men you left behind.

The hand on your shoulder squeezes. “Cor. Try to live for the now.”

 

The two of you come back from your trip two weeks later and report to Regis. Weskham scrambles off to start preparing for the next council session, but Regis holds you back to offer you an invitation for a nightcap with a piercing stare of those hazel eyes, “To discuss what you found.”

You take a quick breath and, before you can talk yourself out of it, you say, “Why not,” ignoring Regis’ pleased surprise.

On that day though, the council meeting (that you reluctantly join in hopes of scrounging up some more resources for the Kingsglaive) drags long into the evening, and then Noctis has trouble sleeping on his own, and by the time the three of you make it to Regis’ sitting room all of you are about ready to keel over and fall asleep.

You drink a glass of brandy together anyway, “For old times’ sake.” It’s almost a little too much like Yuletide a year ago. You talk a little about what you saw in Galahd, but your heart’s not really into the topic.

Regis especially keeps almost drifting off, face slack and vulnerable, and Clarus rouses him with a hand to the cheek. “Time for bed, love.”

“Bed?”

“To sleep.”

Regis pouts, but lets Clarus pull him up.

The Shield holds his hand out to you, an invitation.

Heart pounding in your chest, you accept.

The motions that Clarus and Regis fall into while getting ready for bed together seem so natural, like a well-practiced dance that you stand on the outside of, observing and failing to fit into. After stripping down to your underwear, you lie down on the side of the bed, not really sure where you’re supposed to be, rigid on your back. The bed is too soft. Regis slips under the covers in the middle followed by Clarus, and sighs.

He grabs you around the waist and pulls you close with surprising strength, back against chest.

“Stop thinking so loud. It’s not rocket science, Cor.”

Clarus spoons up behind Regis, hand coming to rest on your stomach.

“Royal sandwich.”

“Mh. The best kind,” Regis rumbles in your ear, and you think you can feel him pressing his lips against your shoulder through the shirt. Or maybe that’s just your imagination.

It takes a long while for the tension in your muscles to seep out of you enough for you to sleep, mind taking you back to tents and sleeping bags and clingy Princes.

 

The first thing you notice, oddly, is that your legs are cold.

The second is the taste of copper on your tongue.

And finally, there’s the burn of half your side ripped open, dripping, so painful your body is halfway managing to block it out in order to protect you.

Your hearing doesn’t start functioning again until the ground is lifted away from you and a frantic hand slaps your cheek.

“…are you – Regis?”

“Cor!”

It takes you too long to realize the thrashing at your side is not from you, is not from that time. Regis is sitting up straight in bed, breath quick and gaze staring unseeingly forward.

“Reggie?” Clarus asks in a voice rough from sleep. It’s the middle of the night.

“I knew this one.”

Your brain takes a second to catch up. To sit up from sleep-warm sheets next to your King, and see the sparks of magic inside his iris, feel that same magic rising alongside your bond connecting you to Regis’ armiger, creeping in as though to ensure itself of your presence in the absence of another bond severed.

You shudder. Somewhere out there, a platoon of Glaives are risking their lives for their Kingdom at this very moment. And Regis feels every single one of their deaths.

 

Your tired eyes slide open to a blurry figure, jade and black and pale. You see Regis’ mouth moving, but the words don’t make any sense to you.

It doesn’t matter.

You fed your hubris, and you paid for it. The Blademaster made sure of that.

“I was an id’jit,” you mumble and lift a hand to Regis’ chest, smear blood in trembling patterns. It’s important that he knows, that someone knows. That no one will return to make the same mistake.

“Hush, Cor.”

Those jade eyes glow bright in the dark of the coming twilight, and it’s there on the steps of Taelpar Crag that you swear devotion to the one who would gather you in his arms without a thought, who would heal you despite your foolishness, who makes you feel safe.

You realize that, above everything, Regis is a kind man.

And you swear to yourself, this one I shall follow.

 

The mood among the Glaives is somber the next morning. Reports have started trickling in of the latest skirmish, and you’ve lost good people. All while you were playing sleepover with the King.

The war isn’t turning in your favor.

The last time, Niflheim’s army had been weakened after the attack on Shiva, which hasn’t happened yet in this timeline due to Lunafreya not awakening her with a covenant. Niflheim is getting too strong for just the Glaive to hold back anymore.

One night finds you contemplating things while sitting on the railing of a balcony, some five hundred feet above the glittering lights of Insomnia. The late hour finally brings a cool breeze into the oppressing heat of summer. Cars move through the roads far beneath your dangling leg, like tiny toys. One day, this will all be over. Just a few more miles, and then a few more. One day, you will get to rest, to sleep.

You are very tired.

The number of options available to you has narrowed down, you know that. At times, it seems like only a miracle could help you win this war. The weight of your knowledge rests heavily on you, of Niflheim’s military, their bases, their intel. Elder Prompto has started giving you those concerned looks every time he appears, like he knows what you’re planning. Which, of course, seeing as Prompto is entirely inside your head. You know it’s the only way. And yet – with how powerful the Empire has become, it’s a suicide mission.

You should have gone earlier. Before you had people who depend on you.

“It’s not ideal, certainly, but Prompto will be well cared for by the Glaive if push comes to shove. Nyx has grown too attached to the boy for him not to,” Ignis mentions, leaning against the railing in his uniform. It’s been a while since you’ve seen his ghost. “And Lord Amicitia is more than capable of keeping his children and the young Royals safe, so long as the war is dealt with. Perhaps we might even be able to count on Cid’s support.”

And hadn’t that been a conversation and a half.

You hadn’t mentioned the prophecy to him – that choice would remain up to Regis. But in between worn tools lying around a darkened workshop and Cindy’s lilting voice calling out from the kitchen, you hadn’t been able to keep yourself from dissociating at all, and of course Cid had picked up on it. When he’d dragged the story out of you on a pair of lawn chairs next to a bonfire, you’d wondered if you’d ever have the strength to talk about it sober.

He hadn’t said so in as many words, but in between the cussing-you-out, you’d felt Cid’s support, in his own, gnarly way.

“We’re still no closer to figuring out a way around the prophecy, though.” It feels like you’re still missing something, something big. You can’t wrap your mind around it.

“Weskham knows just as much as you, now.”

It’s about trust, huh?

Trust that Wesk and Cid and Clarus and Nyx will have your back so that you are free to do the things that need doing. You mentally start sorting your affairs, planning through everything, and Ignis helps you cover all your bases; to think logically through what you can do now.

“I’m your subconscious speaking,” Ignis explains when you wonder aloud at it, “and right now, what you need is a strategist.”

You grow quiet when some time later you hear someone approaching from inside, and watch the King slowly stepping onto the now empty balcony, walking forward.

Regis rests his forearms against the balustrade a few steps below you, watching the city, long coat flapping against the wind. He cuts a striking figure against the backdrop of city lights, lean, elegant, powerful; like the dark silhouette can just barely cover the magic boiling beneath his skin. Your whole life has revolved around this man.

The King turns around. “Ah, here you are.” He looks up at your precarious perch on the railing. "Need I be worried?"

“You're always worried,” you mumble. “Not a damn thing I could do about it."

“You could get down from that ledge, for one."

You lean your head back against the wall of the Citadel in your back. "I'm comfortable, though."

A pause.

“Who were you talking to?” So much for acting surprised to see you.

“…no one. Just some ghosts.”

“Noctis told me you see dead people, sometimes.”

You close your eyes. “Not one of my finer moments.”

“Arguably not, no.”

Regis drums the fingers of his right hand against the marble, eyeing you thoughtfully like a puzzle to be solved.

“If my humble presence is not enough to entice you down from there, might a nice glass of brandy perhaps do the trick?”

Knowing where this will lead, you shake your head. “Another time, Your Majesty.” Regis takes the rejection in stride, only continuing to look at you a moment longer. You wonder what he sees.

With a sigh, he pushes himself away as though to leave, but not before stepping up until he’s on your height, tall enough now to turn your head towards him with his knuckles gentle against your cheek and close enough that the air between you fills with the heavy scent of his cologne. It makes you dizzy, makes you feel drunk on his presence and your heart pound heavily in your chest. Your breath catches as you stare into the King’s hazel eyes, so close to you.

When he leans in slowly, it’s everything you ever wanted and a stab to the chest at the same time. You turn away at the last moment, towards the yawning abyss of Insomnia below you, feeling the King’s lips come to rest against your cheek and his beard scratch your skin.

You think about the fake passport burning a hole into your personal pocket dimension in the armiger, about the maps of Zegnautus Keep you printed from secure Crownsguard servers.

Your heart grows somber as a heavy realization settles at the bottom of your chest like a stone: You were never meant to keep him.

“Some days you can’t even look me in the eyes,” Regis remarks thoughtfully.

You smile weakly. “You’ll catch a cold, Your Majesty.” Your voice sounds sad, even to your own ears; distant. You keep your head facing away so you don’t have to see Regis’ expression. You wish –

It really doesn’t matter.

A few moments later leaves your cheek bereft of warmth and yourself alone on the balcony, wishing for things you can’t have. The King’s steps fade with the uneven noise of a limp.

 

Supporting the Glaives with more of his magic and curatives is taking its toll on Regis. You see him stubbornly walking the corridors in his leg brace at his usual brisk pace, like he’s trying not to let the strain show, but it shines through in the dark furrows under his eyes and the clench of his jaw. The weight of the Wall becomes more visible each day.

A small voice in the back of your head tells you that if the war ended, you wouldn’t need the Wall anymore.

The realization you haven’t been able to shake for some time now grows from a candle into a large flame. This is what you’re meant to do. There might not be anything you can do to save the kids in your old timeline anymore, or to change the prophecy in this one, but there is one thing left that you can do, even if it costs you your life. In this world, it can be you sacrificing yourself rather than Regis.

As much as you’ve cherished the little extra time you were given with him – this is what you owe, for the gift of having seen the chance of a future in the making.

The late evening when you find Regis slumped over his desk with a cold is when you decide it is time.

Clarus is tending to Iris, who had caught a fever – there seems to be something making the rounds. Regis had insisted Clarus go, had hidden his coughs as well as he could. You put the back of your hand to his heated forehead for a moment, before bending down to gently gather the King up in your arms and carry him to bed.

“Thank you,” you murmur once Regis is safely tucked underneath his covers, and, “I’m sorry.” The King wakes up halfway as you move to stand, makes a soft confused noise. You detangle the hand that had reached out to catch yours and stroke over Regis’ brow bone until his eyes grow heavy again. “Sleep now. You need to sleep.”

You leave before you can convince yourself to stay.

You quietly pack your bag in the dorm you share with Nyx, then knock him out with a pressure point when he tries to sneak after you in the hallway. This is not his fight, and you won’t risk him getting hurt again.

There’s one last stop you make on the way to the City gates, in your apartment. You sit down on the bed, take out the picture frame from the locked drawer in the nightstand, and touch the faces in it with weary fingertips.

You loved him. You hated him. A part of you died with him.

This is someone else, and he is no less worth loving.

Notes:

Only two short chapters left in this part of the series! I just need to do some minor editing on them, maybe I'll manage to put them up next weekend.

Those of you who had been hoping for a quick resolution re:Cor's romantical feelings towards two certain individuals, pls don't kill me! This is a slow burn, after all :D

Chapter 8

Once outside the city, you send off a text to Weskham, telling him to look after Regis and not to send anyone after you. Then you throw your phone into the dirt and kick your bike into gear before the light stripe of grey on the horizon has any time to grow larger.

 

“Dunno how you do it. I don’t think I’ve swallowed that many flies in my life,” you grumble while pushing the goggles up into your hairline and leaning on the handles with your free arm.

Prompto laughs.

“Free protein.” He wipes his greasy hands on a rag and throws it over whatever metal part he’d been tinkering with in Cid’s workshop – his workshop, now, more or less. It’s been years since Cid was aching little enough to work on a project – before walking closer.

Ever since finding out about how you had almost ended up his dad, he’s been much more open and light-hearted around you.

“Look, you need to lean into it more while taking a turn, here – ”

 

The sun slowly starts coming up, and there’s nothing but you and the open desert road and a feeling of recklessness. It’s almost familiar. The looming shadow of Hammerhead Station has passed you a while ago, but Cid’s voice still echoes in your ears calling you an idiot, coming back from the Blademaster that first time.

An idiot.

Ah, fuck.

“The answers you seek lie with the Witness.”

You almost fall off the bike while cussing yourself out, then adjust your trajectory to Taelpar Crag.

 

Later, traveling through the mountain ranges of Niflheim, you have half a mind to check out the cave where you vanished in the old timeline. Maybe it would take you back. Maybe not.

It doesn’t matter.

The Diamond Weapon might not be finished yet, but that just makes it easier to destroy all you can of the progress and the Magitek program while you’re at it.

The explosions are a faint echo in the distance, going off one after the other, yet not loud enough to drown out the screeches of the raving madman in front of you, lamenting the destruction of his life’s work and greatest accomplishments. All across the country, bases will be lighting up like fireworks right now from your pre-planted explosives. You wish you could've seen it.

In the end, it boils down to a choice: Get out, or kill Besithia. The more you can distract, the more time for Highwind to get the children out.

You plant your feet, lift the gun, and pull the trigger.

 

(“Niflheim is going down, one way or the other. Think about which side you want to be standing on when that happens.”

The girl, battle-hardened and too gods-damned young, only looks at you. Glances to the door at her back, then to the bunch of frightened, pale-haired kids standing behind you.

“Fuck,” Aranea Highwind says, emphatically. “Fuck you.”)

 

The MTs are on you a moment later, detaining you before Besithia’s body has even hit the floor.

You get dragged into a cell and shackled to the ceiling by your arms. You’re left there for days, by which time the Emperor enters the cell, gloats over having caught the Immortal, rages at the troops he’s lost. Tells his MTs to take his anger out on you. Leaves you there a while. You drink when you’re splashed with cold water. More people show up. Ulldor? Tummelt? You don’t know. You don’t care. They might be asking you about Insomnian troop movements. You only open your mouth to tell Aldercapt you’d like a word with his Chancellor.

When Ardyn finally comes in sometime after, it’s to look, to gloat some, too. Maybe he’s just curious.

“You knew it was a suicide mission, did you not?”

It’s hard to look at the man and not think of all that he has done, all that he will do. You look into those amber eyes, ignore the question, ignore the scent of decay on the air.

You think of a bedtime story. Of two brothers, and a betrayal. The words of the Blademaster.

History is written by the victors.

“How much longer,” you rasp, “are you going to keep catering to the whims of Gods who played you for a fool?”

Ardyn grows very still, watching you.

“Noct’s different from Somnus.” The words are getting harder and harder to press out from between ruined lips, vocal chords shredded from what you think must have been screams, only you can’t remember. The words are important, though. Might be your last.

“What do you know?” Ardyn comes close, until you can almost see the darkness rolling underneath his skin.

You smirk. “I know what you want most of all.”

“And what would that be? Do enlighten me.”

Unconsciousness is only a breath away, but you cling stubbornly.

“Tell me, Your Majesty. From one Immortal to another. What’s the worst one can do, to one such as us?”

Notes:

:)

Chapter 9

It all ends rather anti-climatically.

You fade in (– pain, and cold, and still more pain –), you fade out (–  to the dark, comforting like a blanket; peaceful). You fade in (– to the pain –)

Maybe it’s okay this way. You’ve done your best, you’ve caused as much mayhem as you can; the rest is up to Regis now. Maybe it’s okay for you to rest now. Maybe you’ll even get to see your kids again.

But then you think of another Prompto, sitting in Nyx’ apartment because you hadn’t made a spare key of yours yet, and of Noctis, waiting to tell you about the potion flask he made out of a juice box, and of the last time you saw Clarus, frazzled with a sick Iris on his arm, tiny Iris, and Gladio, and Ignis and –

Your chest hurts.

For what it’s worth, you want to live.

After a while, there is a different face, smooth metal pulling back on a person you know, who you don’t know what to think about. A person you once thought you knew, a long, long time ago.

“Was it worth it, Marshal?” the General asks.

You remain quiet, waiting for the final strike, for the end to come.

“For King and Crown,” you mumble.

“…for Hearth and Home,” someone echoes.

You fade out.

 

It all ends rather anti-climatically, in a hospital bed.

You fade, in and out and in, to low voices and soft touches, and all you are aware of is the absence of pain. Mellow sounds, a drip of water, a quiet beeping noise, the rustle of fabric.

You think it’s not been that long (but what is time?) when you wake to the King bent low past the tubes and wires to kiss your cheek, next to the oxygen mask, in mimic of a memory that feels a lifetime ago. Your hand is held very carefully in his gloved ones.

He stays like that for a long moment, pressed close, eyes shut, forehead against yours. You revel in the warmth while it lasts. Your limbs are so heavy.

Finally, the King untangles himself, sits up. “Thank you,” he says, “for giving me faith.”

He stands up, revealing his full battle armor, while Clarus shoots you one last look. His face tells you what his voice doesn’t. I’ll look after him, I’ll keep him safe. You can rest now.

Regis turns on his heel and leaves the room, Clarus close behind him. Later, you will learn about the Insomnian contingent arriving at the front, lightning and frost sparking as the King and his Shield charge into battle. About how bit by bit, the Insomnian army pushed back the Empire until they stood at Aldercapt’s doorstep, forcing him into defeat. You will hear the talk from the Glaives, see a few rare pictures from front line photographers that made it into the news, and read accounts about the splendor of a glorious battle and hard-fought victory.

But all that is for later.

 

You fade out.

Notes:

Annnnd… that’s a wrap for part two! Thank you for sticking with this story for so long!

50k words, and I can’t believe we still haven’t seen a proper CorGis kiss. Don’t worry, it’s not far off anymore ;)

I do have some small interludes planned before the next big part, to show how we go from spot A to spot B to spot C, so don’t worry if the ending was a bit confusing to you (though please let me know what all is confusing, so I’ll make sure to cover it!!).

Part 4 is mostly ideas and small scenes so far, so please don’t hold your breath for it; but do let me know what you are looking forward to seeing! There's an entire budding relationship to explore, and lots of trauma to work through <3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Immortales