Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
He has heard the old swan song many times before, but never quite so beautifully as Lunafreya's.
Her hymn reverberates off gentle water and crumbling stone, echoing through the deserted city and the empty heavens, and Ardyn closes his eyes briefly to listen to her high clear tones. The words have long since vanished from the melody, but her voice is golden as the setting sun in the calm before the storm. Praise be unto the dying of the light!
The strengthening breeze brushes Ardyn's cheek, but he barely notices. The last sensation he felt with any clarity was his execution; texture and temperature, pain and pleasure, have been all but meaningless ever since. He would give everything left to him if he could just feel something once more, anything—for his senses to open to the world again, the way they did for her.
They have not touched often, of course; only hands, and lips to hands, and sometimes in the odd half-remembered dream. Ardyn knows no light is strong enough to expunge the darkness from his depths, but Lunafreya can at least drive it from the surface of his skin, powerfully enough that he can still recall her softness, her warmth, spreading through his tingling fingertips.
It's enough to drive him mad.
Pulling oneself back to the present is always difficult when one has such an extensive past, but Ardyn manages. This is a more momentous occasion than most, and he'd hate to miss it due to reverie. For all his murderous intent, he's never had the honor of assassinating an Oracle before, and he finds himself looking forward to the experience in the same way the King of Kings might be looking forward to his wedding.
Ah… Noctis. His engagement to his respective Oracle is fortuitous indeed, although Ardyn doubts he knows enough of his own history to thank him for joining their hands. But what the young prince does not know, Ardyn has seen firsthand over countless generations. The women of House Fleuret have been objects of fascination for the Lucian kings since the beginnings of both their lines. After all, what man ordained by the Crystal can possibly resist a fragment of its power?
Ardyn supposes he is no exception to that unwritten rule, although his fixation is… different. Darker. Starscourge is nothing to the kind of sick the Oracles make him. They are meant to be cherished, to be adored, for their incorruptible purity and their eternal light, so that all who look upon them will know the glory of the Crystal. How generous is the Draconian, to provide humanity with a beacon in the long night—the gift he gave to his chosen daughters, once he realized his mistake. (Ardyn, his mistake, the failed result of a war god playing at peace.)
And however steep the price of that gift may be, it is not steep enough; it can never be steep enough.
Finally: Leviathan. The storm winds pick up, drowning out the last note of Lunafreya's song, and Ardyn grins at the goddess's wrath. In sympathy, in satisfaction, in seething rage. If some careless mortal awakened him from dormancy, he too would threaten untold destruction on mankind itself. But these past millennia have granted him no such opportunity to sink into slumber. Let the Hydraean feel the agony of consciousness, as he has.
And why does Bahamut permit his fellow Astral to endanger her own city in her petulant fury, yet rain down the Crystal's so-called justice for fear of all Ardyn might do? Fueled by the same raw spite, and with the same capacity to massacre the innocent, how can Leviathan's soul be judged any more pure than his?
The answer is laughably simple, of course. Ardyn decided long ago, so long that he can no longer remember which of his blasphemous escapades sparked the realization, that the Six must have no souls. Otherwise, Bahamut would have little choice but to condemn his own divine self for his hypocrisy, and that thought is worth a smile indeed.
As is Lunafreya's stubborn defiance—impressive, if more than a little foolish. Ardyn finds himself almost proud of her, nary a tremor in her voice as Leviathan smashes the very altar on which she stands. He has watched and hated the Oracles from a distance for thousands of years, but this level of performance under pressure is unprecedented.
Lunafreya is different. Always, she has been different.
Ardyn had the pleasure of infiltrating her life from an early age, insinuating himself in the background. Keeping his distance yet establishing a constant presence in her thoughts, he played the protector even as he plotted to destroy everything she stood for. And Lunafreya, even after all that time, never understood him.
Oh, she tried. First she was curious. Then intrigued. And finally captivated, which was certainly convenient, if a little odd. Still, she never learned to understand him. And that means she'll never expect him to be her killer—which might, under ordinary circumstances, prove a triumph. But unfortunately, somewhere along the way, she caught Ardyn's notice too.
The when and why of it all still escaped him. Perhaps it was her surprising depth of determination that first snagged his attention, the steel beneath the silk. Even as a child, Lunafreya never fought back against her oppressive destiny. Nor did she accept and follow her path in blind faith. Rather, her awareness of her fate was unparalleled from the start. She was not resigned to her duty, but determined to take an active role in it, her conviction powerful enough for her to shoulder any burden. (Oh, such a pitiable waste.)
Or perhaps it was simply because it had been so long since anyone was interested in him. Ardyn. Not his title, nor his accomplishments, but his individual identity. And that interest unnerves him as little else ever has. She has always wished to unmask him, but he can no longer remember if there is anything beneath it. If there is, it certainly isn't human, and that is a tale she must not live to tell.
Almost invariably, Ardyn has found himself at a loss for how exactly to address Lunafreya over the years. He supposes, given the role he took early on, she is something of a protégé, but there has always been an edge to her that does not fit that title. The distance he eventually imposed between them was as much for his own comfort as anything else, although her successful ascension as Oracle was a handy excuse to separate.
Yet Ardyn soon discovered that he could not leave Lunafreya alone. Not really. Not while she still thought so well of him. He might have missed her surprisingly easy conversation, interspersed with pointed questions and profound observations. Or the way she watched his every move, and still insisted on seeing nothing. He might have just wanted to see how much of his hand he could show, how far he could push her, little by little, until she had no choice but to recognize him as the man who would bring her down.
It never happened. Lunafreya came so close to the truth, talking of touching lives from beyond the grave, all the while insensible of how intimately she had the power to touch his, and blind to his intentions. More than once, Ardyn asked her—told her—to hate him, and each time, he knew as soon as the words left his lips that she would never obey. He could see it in her eyes. Compassion, confusion, frustration. Rebellion.
Gods, he hates that shade of blue.
Blue like the heavens and their Crystal; blue like the sea and the Hydraean, striking at the Oracle so that she is thrown back onto the stone. Yet, even with her dress torn and bruises blossoming on her skin, Lunafreya rises along with her voice, still standing strong. And, though Leviathan lunges forward as though to devour the altar and swallow her whole, the light of the Oracle drives her back—no divine intervention, but celestial power wielded by a mortal woman.
Lunafreya's tone is admonishing, her resolve unbroken, and Ardyn smiles at her boldness. Can no threat curb that brazen tongue of hers? Sir, she always called him, and no honorific had ever felt so insolent. Ironic that his own name can sound so much more impersonal than such a short, sweet title. Half a syllable away from the sire he should have been.
A wall of water, a splash of rain, and the covenant is forged at last. Lunafreya holds her head high in the knowledge of her victory, but Ardyn would see her kneel again. She will be his weapon against the Crystal and its Chosen King, a blade unto herself. Would he could avoid slipping it into his heart first, but it seems he's grown careless in his old age.
Then again, perhaps Lunafreya is simply the last thing left to Ardyn on this earth that can still make him feel something, for better or for worse. And, numb as he is, the pain of parting is still far more familiar than whatever fleeting pleasure she might have afforded him. The prophecy cannot be fulfilled quickly enough, and Lunafreya's death will hasten it: that takes precedence. Even if it means returning to his desensitized half-life, and trying to forget her gentle touch.
Ardyn takes a deep breath in preparation, and finds himself wishing he could taste the salty air. He touches his finger to his tongue as if to test the direction of the wind whipping around him, but feels nothing as usual. He doesn't know what he expected; his senses have been deadened for thousands of years. Only Lunafreya can resurrect them, and only temporarily then.
But if he could feel the heat of her smooth skin, could he then have tasted her lips?
It may be an intrusive thought, but it is not an unwelcome one. And really, Ardyn has seen for himself the answer. Her suppressed shivers whenever he touched her, the dilation of her pupils even in the brightest light, her rosy cheeks and averted eyes… oh yes, he could have. And in a way, his triumph might be all the greater now if he did. But he didn't—call it chivalry, his courteous distance, born of self-preservation—and now it is too late.
But the taste of revenge will be sweeter, anyway. In taking Lunafreya's life, Ardyn will also take Noctis's love, and his own last hope of sensation. Truly, she will be a worthy sacrifice. Her pain will be nothing, nothing to theirs. And Ardyn shall be the one to inflict it, to make her feel, as he feels for her. All that remains is to exact his retribution.
To that end, it seems the King of Kings has finally taken flight to claim his power. Ardyn draws his knife, invoking a prayer of his own.
Our Crystal, which art on Eos, accursed be thy name.
The little black speck of legend darts from building to ruined building, striking at Leviathan now and again. But what is a mortal to a god, really? Longevity is exhausting, and immortality more so. Even Ardyn can hardly fathom the difference, having been born human. He, at least, has the advantage of blending in; his singular solitude is of a different kind. You won't catch him sitting in the middle of a maelstrom, laying waste to his own city. (Not yet.)
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done in hell as it is in heaven.
The storm picks up and drowns out all else with howling wind and pelting rain. Ardyn finds himself cheering for Noctis, striving against the rising winds and rushing water, but the hurricane gales snatch the encouragement from his mouth to claim it for their own. Ah, the endless struggle against the forces of nature—incomparably beautiful in its self-righteous futility.
Give us this day our daily dead, and condemn us for trespassing as we condemn those who trespass against us.
Life is the true scourge of this star, destroying itself and everything else. It craves the light, and the light is unsustainable, but darkness needs only darkness to survive. Soon enough, Lunafreya will remember that salvation is a lie, and in her dying moments, she will understand him, just as she has always wanted. But soon enough comes too soon: Leviathan lashes out, Noctis hits the ground hard… and Ardyn hesitates, entertaining a few fleeting doubts—ever the jester.
And lead us all into temptation, and deliver us to evil.
Perhaps he has grown too hasty in appointing himself Lunafreya's executioner. Perhaps he could let her live in chains instead, keep her as a reminder of all he never was and can never be. She could be his prize, pure and radiant, to balance his profanity; his, to torture him with tactile delight. But then she runs forward as though to attack Leviathan in the Chosen King's stead, and the spell of possibility shatters as something inside Ardyn snaps.
For mine is the kingdom…
It takes him a moment to recognize it as his temper. Lunafreya may have awakened his other senses, but it seems her luminescence left him momentarily blind. As an individual, she is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things… as is Noctis; as is Ardyn; as is everyone on Eos. If the Draconian has taught him anything, it's that their most important quality is how they can be used. Ardyn cannot afford to leave Noctis even the slightest hope, save the Ring. He can already imagine the expression on his face—shock, despair, helpless fury—and that makes him feel something, too.
And the power…
Even as Lunafreya stumbles, body failing and breathing labored, her will still burns so brightly. And who is Ardyn to deny her the fate she has always embraced? Throwing his dagger down to the altar, he follows in its path, savoring his nonbeing in the infinitesimal interval before he solidifies. Such is the power of the Crystal, this dissolution and reconstruction. And it will prove its downfall once Ardyn dissolves the world, reconstructing it in perfect darkness. That will be his redemption: not merely release from the scourge that has consumed him for millennia, but the purchase of his freedom from life itself, paid in martyrs' blood.
And the glory…
With that, there are no more second thoughts. Ardyn walks forward with slow and purposeful steps, heedless of the rain, but takes half a moment to admire the view one last time. Lunafreya has never looked so lovely as she does now, bruised and battered in the throes of a losing battle. And oh, that ruined dress, clinging to her body the same way she clings to life, soaked through and half translucent—ghostly white, like the wedding dress she will never wear. Death, not Noctis, take her maidenhead.
Forever.
Now, about that ring…
Amen .