I've been sucked into Final Fantasy. #oops

Been writing a bunch of prompts for the FFXV kinkmeme. Time to crosspost from ao3!

Prompt:

"Because the spirits of all the kings/queens reside in part in that ring, right? I'm just picturing sad Noctis curled up on one of the bunks in the dorms inside Zegnautus, whispering "Dad" in the vague hope that his father will hear him."

Noct couldn't tell how long it'd been—hours? days?—by the time he finally stumbled through a door like all the others to find a room stacked with bunk beds and lockers. He barely managed to press his hand to the mechanism that closed the door and ensure it had locked itself—in whatever capacity it could lock, seeing as it was in the enemy's keep—before he tripped over to one of the bunks and finally let his legs give out under him.

He sat for a long time with his head hanging nearly between his knees, just breathing. Ardyn's voice was still echoing vaguely in his head, and the bitter almost-aftertaste of the two MTs he'd absorbed—killed, destroyed, obliterated—with the Ring of the Lucii in the hallway pulsed up his arm and through his head like something crawling under his skin. He let himself shiver, finally, with the sheer revulsion of what the power of his ancestors, the Ring his father had worn for decades, was capable of.

It took several deep breaths to keep himself from vomiting.

Slowly, the strange pulsing in his arm faded. He shook out his hand as he finally let himself lay back, sparing a long and wary look for the dormitory door. No sounds came from without, and he knew better than to let himself relax in any way...

But gods, he was tired. And not the weary, can-barely-keep-my-eyes-open tired of a long bought of using the magic of the Crystal, or the ready-to-sleep-like-a-rock tired of a long day of fighting monsters and making camp. No, it was something deeper, something that plucked insistently at his chest and made his breath stutter ever so slightly. Something that made his limbs feel like they were four times their weight, and muddied his thoughts until he could barely think.

He wondered, vaguely, if this was how his dad felt, wearing the Ring day in and day out, as it sapped his strength and vitality to power a wall that fell anyway.

Noct felt something hitch in his chest, and he stifled it with gritted teeth and a hand pressed firmly against his eyes. He needed sleep. Just an hour or two; he didn't know how long he'd been going, or how much longer he had to go. He just... needed to rest.

Ardyn already knew where he was. He'd hear anyone who came through the door... right?

Flimsy justification, Noct. His inner voice sounded almost like Gladio.

He looked down at the Ring on his finger and fiddled with it for a moment. He nearly took it off—nearly ripped it from his finger and threw it across the room, just to be rid of the strange ache that went up through his wrist and hadn't gone away since he'd put it on—but practicality stayed his hand. He needed it.

In case something came through the door. In case he had to defend himself.

Lying on the bed was messing with his head. He could already feel the nerves that had been pulled taut and alert as he moved through the keep coming undone, loosening until his head started to feel muzzy and exhaustion plucked its weary fingers over his bones.

Just an hour. Just one.

Noct jerked awake to the sound of creaking metal and a far-off shriek.

His heart pounded relentlessly as his eyes darted around, trying to get his bearings. He reached toward the Armiger to summon his Engine Blade—

And nothing happened.

Recollection surged, and he let his eyes trace the dormitory. Nothing was out of place from when he'd fallen asleep, and the door was still closed. The sound that had awoken him was distant and growing fainter.

His heart wouldn't stop pounding. His breath hissed through his teeth as he tried to calm himself.

Shhhh, you're safe, a voice in his head whispered, a jagged memory of years ago. His father, sitting calmly by his bed as he jolted awake in a panic after a nightmare; not long after the invasion of Tenebrae, when Noct still had trouble sleeping through the night. His dad would be there, every time, even when now Noctis knew he'd had council meetings running long into the night and early-morning open sessions with delegates and dignitaries. Regis would take his hand, whisper quietly about nothing at all, and it had been one of the most comforting things Noct had ever heard.

He wasn't safe now. He was alone.

The pain came suddenly and totally, like a wave finally breaking over him. His chest tightened until it felt like it was going to implode, and he curled into himself as the sobs he thought he'd snuffed out months ago ripped their way out of his throat.

He wanted his dad.

He wanted that hand to squeeze his and tell him that everything was going to be alright—that this was all just a nightmare, and things would look brighter in the morning. He wanted to hear the quiet hum of his father's voice rolling through the air around him until he finally fell asleep.

He wanted to talk to him. One last time. Say he's sorry.

Noct's fingers were digging into his cheeks as he tried to stifle his sobs; who knew what might be lurking outside the door? But he couldn't stop entirely, and his breath hitched around every gasp. There was something hard digging into his lips, and abruptly he remembered.

The Ring.

The Ring that every Lucian king or queen had worn since the world began. The one that absorbed the essence of every bearer. The one that was rumoured to carry some semblance of every ruler's spirit.

With a surge of desperation, he yanked the Ring from his finger and held it in front of his face with both hands.

"...Dad?" he whispered finally, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

The Ring was silent.

"Dad, I need... I need a little help here." The tremble in his words increased until he choked, but he had to try. He waited for some kind of sign that the kings of old were listening, that maybe they might grant this one favour, but there was nothing. No surge of warmth, no familiar chuckle in his ear—just the industrial clanging of Zegnautus Keep's air vents and the distant screams of daemons.

"Regis Lucis Caelum," he tried. The invisible hand around his throat was tightening, choking him. "Regis L-Lucis Caelum. Regis Lucis Caelum!"

The Ring was inert, lifeless, as though it had no magical properties at all.

Noct's teeth ground together as another sob tore its way out of his throat. "Dad!" he choked, fisting his hand around the Ring and tucking it under his chin, curling his whole body around it so tightly that he thought he might never straighten again. "Dad, please... p-please, I need—" He sobbed again, his other hand curling over his head as if it could block out not just the industrial lighting of the dormitory, but the entire reality of the world around him.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely, like a child, over and over again, his voice cracking around the sounds that tore their way out of his chest. "Please, Dad, please..."

But there was no response. Eventually, his sobs died out to great heaving gasps that gave way to the deadened, emotionally bereft sleep of the truly exhausted.

And so the True King of Lucis finally slept, tear tracks staining his dirty cheeks, alone and cold in the base of his enemy.

His father never came.