Chapter Nine: Cat and Mouse

Regis could count the number of times he'd wanted to abdicate his throne on one hand.

There had been the ball his father held for his twentieth birthday. Of course, that was merely a pretense: in reality, the occasion was meant for him to select a suitable queen, not fraternize as he was wont to do at such a tender age. Even now, with all the years that lent clarity to hindsight, he could not begin to fathom how many noblewomen had accosted him in search of attention that night. Weskham kept count for the first two dozen or so, yet by the time the evening waned, both were exhausted enough to cringe at the notion of tallying the total. Clarus was of no use in the endeavor, having been too preoccupied with ensuring that none of the fair ladies in question attempted to stab him while they insisted on remaining in close quarters. Time had hardly eased his Shield's fastidious devotion to Regis's safety, that much was certain. It was this thought that once kept Regis from shying away from his duty as crown prince of Lucis in spite of all it entailed: if he did, his friend would be out of work.

He would never forget his first official state dinner, either—fiasco that it was. Regis had been heavily involved in his father's government from a young age; it was a requirement that King Mors felt befitting of his station. As such, he'd trained in the art of diplomacy since before he formed any memory of specific lessons: how to walk with regal resolve, speak assertively while honoring some degree of civility, eat with an air of grace that made it seem as though bodily functions were beneath someone of such stately presence. Therefore, when the time came for him to join his father as the face of their nation rather than spend the evening sequestered in his quarters where none of the diplomats would see him, he was confident that he was prepared. So, of course, the evening had been such an unmitigated mess that he hardly dared to reminisce about it all these years later. Beneath the thick veneer of his training, he had been a nervous amalgamation of trembling limbs and slips of tongue that had him consuming more wine than was strictly appropriate for a political gathering. The drink, which should have alleviated his tension, did the exact opposite. After that… Well, suffice it to say that he'd perhaps been less than sympathetic with a Duscaen mayor who was a trifle too sympathetic to the empire.

The other instances were buried so deeply in the recesses of his mind that Regis doubted anyone would be able to locate them even if they cut open his brain and laid bare all his secrets. They were for him to regret in solitude.

This council meeting forced him to add yet another note to his ever-expanding list of moments that made him wonder if his throne was truly worth the trouble of sitting in it.

"Sending more men would leave us vulnerable!"

"Refusing to send more aid would mean accepting the loss of one of our strongest allies."

"Tenebrae hasn't known strength since the last Oracle was in power. The empire knows this and acted to take advantage of the opportunity to gain control over the new Oracle."

"In so doing, they have signed their own demise. The gods would never see a mage enslaved."

"They saw one turn to darkness and ravage all the lands with his scourge," muttered Clarus to his left. Fortunately, the din of pointless arguing drowned it out.

Regis couldn't find the energy to reprimand him for his sarcasm, regardless of the honesty behind it. This was an old debate, one that they had held repeatedly for nearly a year now. As with the other predicaments that had presented themselves over time, this particular issue offered just as few options to choose from.

Tenebrae hadn't been the beginning, but a culmination of years of imperial posturing that Regis was unable to thwart. Whatever actions he took, it was as though Niflheim was merely waiting for the chance to effortlessly rebuff him at every turn. When Regis had strengthened military presence along the coastal borders, the empire sent yet another blockade to stare them down. When he'd ordered greater shipments of goods to Accordo, as their ally had been struggling under constant diplomatic bombardment for nigh on four years, either the merchant ships sank under mysterious circumstances or the items were pillaged by unknown parties upon arrival in Altissia. The reports were intentionally vague to avoid the possibility of mislabeling the incidents as attacks; with relations already hanging by a thread, it was unwise to issue premature accusations without indisputable evidence. Still, each situation was obviously a powerplay, a show of imperial might and a warning that Lucis would suffer should they refuse to play by Aldercapt's rules.

Then Tenebrae fell in a storm of fire and ash.

They hadn't seen it coming. There had been no warning. One day, it was business as usual; the next, everything was burning. News broadcasts had been discontinued almost immediately, with only the barest fraction of the story released while they still had the chance. Lucian intelligence operatives had similarly gone silent, and after a year of waiting, Regis fostered little hope that they had made it out of the empire's clutches with their lives. If they were as talented as their position would suggest, then they had embraced the false identities concocted for them cooperatively between their two nations and vanished into the populace. With the empire now holding the keys to all of Tenebrae's secrets and its council, however, it would only be a matter of time before they were discovered.

That was one of many reasons why Regis had authorized the deployment of part of the Kingsglaive to Tenebrae two weeks prior. They hadn't been alone: a militia of volunteers, mostly immigrants born in the Oracle's kingdom, opted to join the fight. Representatives had sought an audience with him mere hours after the empire's treachery was unveiled, offering their services and pleading with him to send aid. Their request had been granted, not that he would have denied them. Now, he was beginning to question whether that had been the wisest course of action. With no news forthcoming, he could only assume that he had sent them—civilians—to their deaths.

The council cared little for the moral ramifications of his dilemma, although he couldn't blame them: that was hardly the job they had been chosen to perform. All they could do was debate, advise, and legislate—the final decisions and their consequences fell solely on Regis's shoulders. They had a nation to run, an ally to save, and another to protect. There simply wasn't the time to rest on their laurels, especially not when they were currently on the losing side of this war. Now was the moment for action and strength.

Something that his council apparently understood but was ill equipped to execute.

"That's enough," he boomed, his voice echoing in the sudden silence that fell when they realized it was their king and not another of their number who had spoken. All eyes turned to him, and the few people who had stood during their impassioned diatribes sank slowly into their seats.

Regis took a moment to bask in the quiet and survey them all with a careful eye. They only had Lucis's best interests at heart and always would; of that, he had no doubt. He wished that he could say the same for himself, but it was not to be. Some modicum of responsibility fell to him for this series of debacles, a greater one than he believed anyone realized except perhaps Clarus, which meant that his duty to their allies dictated he assist how ever possible. In this war, they could not afford the luxury of believing that they could stand alone. They needed Accordo; they needed Tenebrae. Otherwise, although the hammer stroke would fall slowly, it would inevitably fall.

So, straightening to his full height, he leaned forward to rest his folded hands on the table and began, "We cannot hope to achieve victory against the empire without aid. Our allies are our best defense, as we are theirs. To abandon Tenebrae to Niflheim's governance is unthinkable."

"With all due respect, Majesty, I disagree," countered Councilman Furcifer, reluctant yet unwavering. "Our alliance with Tenebrae has always been of strategic value. They've acted as a buffer between us and the empire for decades. After the Oracle's demise, their fall was unavoidable." Glancing around the table at the rest of the council, he proposed, "We should focus our resources on whatever we will need to rebuff the enemy should they attack our borders, not sending more men and weapons that will be lost to Niflheim."

Before Regis had a chance to address his rebuttal, Councilwoman Lucerna acerbically rejoined, "Is there no way to do both? Certainly, we can spare the resources for Tenebrae and protecting our borders."

"The empire has grown strong enough that to split our attention would be unwise," he argued, but she was already shaking her head.

"As you said, it was a matter of time before Tenebrae was annexed. If that is the case, then it will be some time yet—years, perhaps—before they are able to gather enough strength to attack Lucis. There will be the administration of a provisional government to see to, the absorption or deconstruction of the military—"

"Not to mention the attention they will doubtless pay the Oracle," interrupted Clarus, finally appearing to have had enough of this argument.

There was more than one sour expression at his statement, and Regis nodded in agreement. Little Luna was still too young to be fulfilling her duties as Oracle and would be for quite a while; there was no telling how that timeline would be altered if her actions were controlled by the empire. As a monarch, Regis knew that the effect would be devastating: Niflheim would dictate who died and who was spared the world over, and there was nothing anyone could do about it without first capitulating to their demands. That was a slippery slope indeed.

There was, however, another layer to the conundrum that he would only privately dwell on. It was a personal matter, not one meant for his council to debate.

The empire would have been less likely to succeed in appropriating Tenebrae if Sylva were still alive. Although his encounters with the former Oracle were fewer than he would have liked, mainly for the purposes of renewing the alliance forged between their nations many generations before either of them ascended their respective thrones, he harbored a great deal of admiration for her and considered her a friend. Sylva had been one of the most powerful women in the world, as well as the most loved. Her own council had obeyed her every instruction without hesitation; her people had adored her for reasons other than her inherited blessings. When she ruled Tenebrae, there was no question of its safety: as long as she stood at the helm, no one would dare to incite the righteous wrath of her citizens.

That strong, capable, brilliant woman had been stolen from them by the same person who was likely behind Tenebrae's capture. Yes, Niflheim had always set its sights a bit high, undoubtedly going so far as to overstep its bounds on occasion. Every time, they paid for it with men and resources that they could not renew as quickly as their imperial desires required. That had always been a blessing for the rest of Eos—with eyes too big for his stomach, the emperor would never see the victory he thirsted for.

Now, the light that had kept him at bay was gone. Worse than that was how: in defense of a foreign prince, no matter how futile the attempt had been. Sylva had protected Noctis with her life, and it left Tenebrae vulnerable. The empire had exploited that weakness, ensuring a slow and insidious catastrophe that would rock every nation in the world.

All because Sylva had given her life for Regis's son. Was he to abandon Luna and Ravus now?

There was little need to ponder the question when he already knew the answer.

"If it were simply a matter of maintaining a buffer, we would be having quite a different discussion," he followed hard on Clarus's heels. "The Oracle's position in the midst of this turmoil offers us little recourse. At the very least, she and the prince must be liberated, along with the council if possible."

Furcifer scoffed. "It is optimistic to believe that anyone on the council still lives, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps. But we know this: the empire will not harm Lunafreya or Ravus, not when they are worth far more to them alive."

"They are aware of this, as well, which means that both of them will be heavily guarded. We would lose more than the situation warrants."

"And the countless lives the Oracle would save if she were brought to Lucis?" inquired Lucerna with a raised eyebrow. Furcifer leveled her with a flat stare.

"I understand the repercussions of leaving her in imperial custody as well as you, but the fact remains that we would expend resources we do not have in the hopes of saving lives in the future. There is no guarantee that we would succeed, and even if we did, at what cost? How would we know that Niflheim didn't intend for us to make that mistake?"

The corner of Clarus's mouth twitched downward, but his voice betrayed none of his unease when he asked, "You believe they would lay a trap using the Oracle as bait?"

"I do," Furcifer replied emphatically before turning an imploring eye on Regis. "Your Majesty, I understand that the Oracle is a valuable asset to all in Lucis, but consider the possibility for a moment that the empire would seek to use that against us in a less obvious fashion."

The rest of the council was silent, most of them having grown quite interested in the table or their fingers. A few were brave enough to look between Furcifer and Regis, expressions inscrutable. As much as he would have liked to end the debate then and there, he knew the councilman had every right to voice his opinions regardless of how little Regis cared for them. Besides, he was not so blinded by his determination to ignore what may be a valid point. A king would never be so careless with his kingdom's safety, personal feelings notwithstanding.

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, Regis motioned for Furcifer to continue. The latter respectfully bowed his head in wordless gratitude.

"The Oracle is arguably the most important of the four mages," he began to reticent nods of assent. "As such, the empire knows that we would be likely to mount a rescue operation, if not take back the nation entirely. They could use our desperation to their advantage and draw us in only to decimate any forces we send. Eventually, it will leave too few people here to defend Lucis."

"Which is precisely the sort of cowardly game the empire would play," murmured Clarus, although it seemed to cost him a great deal of effort. Regis couldn't say he felt any differently.

Furcifer nodded. "Precisely. Your Majesty, I am not suggesting we abandon Tenebrae. All I ask is that we consider our own safety first and only act when we have the strength within our homeland to meet the enemy's advances head on."

Not even Lucerna could combat the councilman's logic, and the chamber fell silent enough that Regis was surprised and a bit disappointed that they couldn't hear the traffic from the city outside. It wasn't a comfortable stillness, either. There was a tangible static of unease simmering just beneath the surface as every council member seemed to resign themselves to the same conclusion: that there was nothing they could do for Tenebrae, not at present.

Regis had to concur, as Clarus did, that it was indeed a likely scenario. Doubtless, the empire had thought of nothing other than how they could solidify their power over the region for the last five years, and now they were seeing the fruits of their labor. To send more men—more civilians, even—into harm's way on a fool's errand was just as impossible as doing nothing. He had to safeguard his citizens first and foremost; if he could not achieve that much, Lucis would be all but useless to its allies. Loath as he was to admit it, liberating Tenebrae would have to wait.

That did not mean he had to leave them utterly defenseless in the face of their suffering, though.

"Your logic is incontrovertible, Furcifer," Regis admitted, inclining his head slightly. "An assault on the imperial occupation force is unwise. Stealth operatives would be better suited to this situation."

Frowning, the councilman opened his mouth to speak but hadn't the opportunity before Lucerna agreed, "Infiltration of the territory may prove vital to providing us useful intelligence on what is happening within the borders of Tenebrae. If there is an opening to remove the Oracle without undue risk to our own forces…"

"It would be no mean feat to smuggle someone into the area," Clarus reminded them with a glance at Regis. The latter nodded.

"Which is why I trust that Captain Drautos will provide a Glaive of great competence for the task," he shot back, returning his Shield's knowing gaze with a quirked eyebrow. They both knew that Drautos would jump at the opportunity, as he always did, but his displeasure with the idea would be obvious. Stealth was the realm of the weak, or so he tended to claim—Regis's belief was that it took greater skill and adaptability to fool one pair of eyes than cut out a hundred. It had become a private joke between himself and Clarus that the captain was merely jealous, not having perfected the art of subtlety in all his years of service.

For this operation, however, Regis would accept no argument. There was little time, especially when the path to the coast was now open to the empire. They would need to act with haste if they were to install a Glaive, preferably two, while Cartanica was still free.

With the majority of his council in agreement (including Furcifer, who grudgingly assented to the decision as the best middle ground they were likely to find), the briefing finally ended. Regis watched them all file out, whispering amongst themselves regarding details and logistics that he simply couldn't bring himself to care much about at the moment. That was their job; his was to approve the final plan. For now, he supposed he had earned the right to slump back in his chair and heave the sigh that had been pushing up from his stomach for the last few hours.

"One would think this gets easier with time, Clarus," he mumbled, shaking his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Shield lean forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Instead it gets harder."

"Of course."

"Furcifer was right."

"I'm aware."

Clarus's eyes burned into the side of his head, but he chose not to comment further. It wasn't as though Regis didn't already know what he was going to say.

"You think I'm foolish," he surmised.

His Shield shrugged. "I think you're taking responsibility that isn't yours to shoulder."

"Then whose is it?" inquired Regis, finally raising his eyes to meet Clarus's. "Who else will come to Tenebrae's aid if not Lucis?"

"There is always Accordo."

Scoffing, he countered, "You know Accordo hasn't the resources necessary to wage a full-scale war. In time, I doubt that they will escape the empire's shadow any more effectively than Tenebrae."

"That would also not be your fault," Clarus pointed out, his tone brooking no argument. Regis tried nevertheless.

"No one but Niflheim would be at fault in either case, but it doesn't negate our responsibility to our allies."

"I'm not saying that it does."

"Then what are you saying?" he demanded testily. When his Shield wordlessly raised his eyebrows, Regis's irritation seemed to bleed out, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "Apologies, Clarus."

A sturdy, familiar hand squeezed his shoulder in a comforting display of affection he hardly deserved. In moments such as these, he had to wonder what he'd done to warrant being granted a Shield and friend like the one sitting beside him. Perhaps fate had made a mistake and gifted him the presence of someone far too good, and his own just deserts were waiting somewhere to belatedly greet him. He could only hope that his luck would last and that day would never come, but given the way karma had seemed to plague his steps constantly for the last five years, he doubted it.

He would appreciate every moment, however, especially when Clarus ignored his outburst to reassure him, "You already carry the burden of your own kingdom. Do not add the weight of others, or you won't be able to handle even one."

Despite his reasonable appeal, Regis sighed, "Someone must. If not Lucis, then who? If not now, then when?"

"You're doing the best you possibly can," Clarus observed calmly. "It's more than any other king before you would have done."

"Yet it means nothing."

"It means everything."

If only he could believe that. If only Regis could take the situation and whittle it down to such objective facts: that in the grand scheme of things, he was allotting far more time and energy to Tenebrae's troubles than anyone else in the world. How could that be enough, though? Sylva's children were trapped; the council, much as he hated to admit it, was likely already dead. Very soon, there would be little left of the kingdom that had once been known as the home of the Oracle. In its place would be yet another cog in the imperial war machine, the land destroyed to make way for tools of death and destruction. Acting against them was like standing on the tip of a knife—they were just as likely to thwart their enemy as be impaled by their own blades. Who, then, did he protect?

His people. The answer was clear, yet it was a decision that would gnaw at him indefinitely.

Hopefully, their clandestine endeavor would yield at least some intelligence to direct their actions in the future. Although his people came first this time, he would not abandon Sylva's children to this torment forever. As long as there was strength to be found in Lucis, in his station, in himself, Regis would ensure that the Oracle's sacrifice was neither in vain nor unreciprocated. It might take time, but he would see them liberated even if the rest of Tenebrae was lost.

Regis told his Shield none of those things because he already knew. They had been friends long enough that words were hardly necessary anymore, an advantage that had grown exponentially in the last few years alone. There were few others he could turn to at times like this who would understand him quite the way Clarus did.

Forcing a weary smile, he murmured, "You place too much faith in me, my old friend."

"I am confident I'll see a return on my investment," smirked his Shield.

The tense atmosphere shattered for a fraction of a second, sufficient time for him to jostle Regis's shoulder the way he had when they were children, before the doors opened again. They were fortunate this time—it was neither a member of the council boasting ideas nor Captain Drautos in a towering temper at being told of their plot. Instead, the sight of Cor made Regis's heart beat twice as quickly, especially when he spied the envelope the marshal carried at his side.

"Majesty, Clarus," he greeted them with a bow of his head. It took longer than anticipated, but they had gradually discouraged his habitual, nauseating levels of formality in private. Regis considered it quite the boon—anything to transfer that precious package to his hands faster was more than welcome.

When he merely nodded in reply, Clarus took the initiative of wryly retorting, "Was your time in Hammerhead enjoyable?"

The glare that earned him could have stripped the gold ornamentation from the walls and melted it into a steaming puddle on the floor. Clarus frequently joked that in his old age, Cor was growing soft: the disdain he once felt for Cid's very existence had been tempered into something fonder, less biting than the young marshal who hadn't understood why an uneducated bumpkin maintained such a coveted standing at the Citadel. His complaints about accents and intelligence had tapered off in light of Noctis's apparent diversion down a more suitable path, although there were still occasions when he regaled them with tales of what passed for nutritious meals in the Sophiar household.

"Diner food!" he'd exclaimed after his second trip to Hammerhead. "A prince growing up on diner food. I would call it preposterous, but it is Cid we are talking about."

Admittedly, Regis harbored his own concerns, but a bit of research into said diner had mostly assuaged them. There was no changing Cid, and given the enormity of the favor they'd asked of him, it would hardly be appropriate to demand more. There were other ways to ensure that Noctis received a homecooked meal on occasion.

One of those methods happened to be turning eight years old very shortly. He was also one of the reasons why Cor's ventures to Hammerhead were not entirely the pleasurable affairs that a simple change of heart would have indicated.

"Gladio needs to be more careful," the marshal asserted, speaking directly to Clarus now. The latter grimaced.

"What did he do this time?"

"Nothing Noctis would understand, but if he continues to speak the way he does about his education, it won't be difficult for the prince to realize what his training is for."

If that were the case, it would be a ways off yet. Regis had been assured that Noctis was brilliant, more so than he ever could have dreamed. (Perhaps he was slightly biased, but that didn't matter.) Regardless, no five-year-old was likely to understand the inner workings of their government well enough to identify Gladiolus as having such an important position.

With that in mind, Regis couldn't help smirking slightly when he interjected, "From the mouths of babes."

"It would be preferable if the babes could keep those mouths closed more often," grumbled Cor without much heat. He could speak at length about the ways in which Ignis and Gladiolus might foil the entire scheme with one misstep, but Regis knew that he had grown just as attached as he was irritated.

"I'll speak with him," Clarus promised, obviously resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Some things, namely Cor's paranoia, would never change.

Neither would his thorough attention to detail, not that Regis would complain or wish for any less. In fact, when Cor handed him the envelope he'd brought, he silently thanked every deity in existence that fate's mistake had granted him both a Shield and marshal of excessive quality. The latter could recount every moment of his visit to Hammerhead with almost painstaking accuracy, outlining his experiences so scrupulously that Regis almost felt as though he'd been there himself. Then, as always, Cor delivered a package far heavier than he would have expected from anyone else. It was like being handed his heart, his soul, and every time was as the first.

Well, not entirely.

"I will review this with Aulea," he quietly excused himself, the weighty packet clutched tight enough in his hands that he feared he would accidentally bend it and ruin the documents inside. "Thank you, Cor."

"Always a pleasure, Your Majesty," replied the marshal in a brief return to propriety. Regis didn't tarry long enough to watch him bow, but he could picture it in his mind's eye.

With each of Cor's ventures to Hammerhead came a certain gift, one that Regis and Aulea shared with each other upon his return. The idea, admittedly, had been one of his own.

Despite his reluctance to risk Noctis's discovery all those years ago, the comfort of knowing that he was protected by Gentiana's blessing had made Regis bolder than he would ever have predicted. His concerns for Noctis had never abated, but beneath the general threat of the curse itself, there were pressing matters to be considered. A reasonable education could be provided, as could the funds for any clothing or toys or other belongings that Noctis might need. Guaranteeing that he never wanted for anything was as simple as a phone call.

Objects, however, were nothing more than that. They could not provide his son with the companionship he required if he was to rule someday, particularly with regards to those who would be the closest to him after his return to the Citadel. There was simply no way that Noctis could grow up without his Shield and advisor by his side, even if their visits were much shorter in duration than Regis preferred. What would it be like to come home and have to acclimate not only to the environment but also to the people tasked with your protection? Would it be reassuring to know that he had others watching over him no matter where he was, or smothering? They could not assume the former nor chance the latter; to do so would be to set their son up for failure.

So, it had been Regis's choice to send Cor with Ignis and Gladiolus in the hopes that the boys would begin to develop the basis of a camaraderie not unlike the one he shared with the marshal and Clarus. He hadn't quite expected them to get along like a house on fire, as Cor described it, but that was for the best.

As he made his way towards the gardens where Aulea met him every evening, Regis was unable to quash the surge of bitter longing that threatened to choke him with its potency. He felt no small measure of joy at the prospect of his son befriending the two boys that had always been destined for his retinue; Hammerhead was a small outpost, and his reports from Cid had indicated Noctis was beginning to feel the loneliness inherent in such an existence for a child. He could not bring himself to regret sending him friends to ease his upbringing.

Accepting that others were able to see his son in person and know him in a way he couldn't never failed to twist his insides, though, no matter how happy Noctis was with his companions. What Regis wouldn't give to disguise himself in plain clothes and take a trip out to Hammerhead. Perhaps he would pose as a simple businessman seeking to service his vehicle—it had, after all, been a long time since Cid worked on the Regalia, and he would surely love to lay his hands on that beautiful vehicle again. Thoughts and daydreams consumed him, as they did every month when Cor returned with news, of what it would be like. He wouldn't tell Noctis who he was, of course; that would be too painful for both of them when it came time for him to leave. But oh, what he could do for his little boy—talk to him, hear him excitedly babble about what he was learning with his tutor or what he'd discovered in a hunter's truck. Regis would take him for something sweet at the diner, something Aulea would roll her eyes at but hardly blame him for. Before he left for the day, he would get to pat Noctis on the head and say he would see him soon, and he would.

But those were merely dreams. Not once had Regis left Insomnia to visit his son, nor would he for so many reasons. If he did, if he allowed himself that momentary weakness, he knew he would never be able to let go. There would be no saying goodbye, because he would grab Noctis and bring him home where he belonged. There would be no secrets, because he wouldn't be able to keep his identity from Noctis in the first place, not when the slightest details about his life already brought Regis close to tears. Perhaps there wouldn't even be a conversation, for he doubted that a child so young would ever understand why their father came to see him but would not—could not—stay. Spending even one day with his son wasn't worth the agony of leaving again, if he could force himself to do so.

In his brief lapses of judgment, usually late at night when the world was dark and his nightmares felt closer than ever, he had Clarus to affirm his decision. Their reasoning was different, as was often the case: where Regis's concerns were primarily for Noctis's emotions (and, admittedly, his own), his Shield considered the security of the matter above all else.

"If Ardyn is likely to monitor anyone in Lucis, it is you," he'd warned one evening, just before they'd decided on the current arrangement. "Noctis may be shielded from his sight, but you are not."

Regardless of duty, Regis would gladly jump into the fires of Ravatogh before he revealed Noctis's location purely as a result of his own impatience. His child was safe—maybe he'd been robbed of the perfect life Regis always wanted for him, unlikely as it was to begin with, but he could guarantee that much. If the alternative placed his son in unnecessary danger, then Noctis was better off without him in his life.

Inconvenient truths aside, at least they weren't entirely without news. Regis thought he would go insane if not for Cid's constant reports for the last five years and now Cor's monthly deliveries. With one eye on Hammerhead at all times, he could rest assured that a part of himself was always with Noctis.

A part of both of them, he remembered as he slipped through the door into the enclosed garden. Winter's hold on Insomnia had only recently begun to thaw, yet in this bastion of peace, it was always springtime. The flowers were constantly in bloom, and the temperature remained perfect for new buds to grow. Light spilled in through the glass that encased their little splash of nature, turning everything a brilliant shade of orange as the lowering sun peeked above the distant horizon. It was one of the most glorious sights the Citadel had to offer, and one of the few private places they had left.

That was why he had designated this as the spot for his reunions with Aulea at the end of every day. The stress of ruling his kingdom took its toll, and sometimes he merely wished to escape the confines of his chambers for a while and pretend that they were anywhere else. Aulea never complained, nor did she deign to address the situation. There were some things that simply couldn't be described in words.

"I apologize for my lateness, my love," he murmured as he approached, kneeling to press his lips to her hand. When he tilted his head up, her expression was set in a forgiving (albeit wry) smile. "I found myself waylaid by a most aggravated council."

Aulea smirked at him but chose not to remark on the mixed emotions she'd always felt towards his subordinates. It must have been apparent from his expression that he needed a moment to simply vent his frustrations in a setting where they would not be overheard. After all, it was poor manners and politics for a king to complain of such things in the presence of others. His wife, however, was perhaps the most skilled of them all in the art of keeping secrets.

Sighing, Regis moved to sit beside her on the stone bench and shook his head. "I feel as though I have failed our allies, yet I know that there is nothing more we can do. You've said it yourself, as has Clarus. Lucis must come first."

Per usual, she was kind enough not to say she'd told him so. Countless times, as a matter of fact.

"Protecting our kingdom is my foremost priority, but the ground we are losing elsewhere will not be all the empire takes from us if we do not act. They have Tenebrae, which means they have the Oracle in their grasp. Gentiana and Carbuncle have not been seen since the invasion, so we have to believe that they were not there until we have confirmation. If Niflheim holds all of the mages…"

He didn't dare to say it, but Aulea undoubtedly knew what he meant: there would be no hope for anyone if that were the case. Ardyn had drifted so far from both his counterparts and the Astrals that made them in the first place that there was no telling what he would do in the event that the empire took custody of all the mages. As Furcifer had indicated, the Oracle was considered the most precious, her powers carrying the greatest weight amongst the people of all nations. What the Messenger and Dream Guardian represented was just as important, and if their lights were obliterated from the face of Eos, no one would be safe. There would only be one mage left, and he would sooner see them all rot or live long enough to satisfy whatever twisted, grotesque experiments he sought to conduct.

Here, in Lucis, there was still some semblance of strength. How long that would last if the rest of the free world fell was unclear.

"I know," Regis sighed with a dry smirk. "I cannot predict the future, nor can I prepare for every contingency. You've said so before."

Aulea's eyes bore into his when he glanced at her, communicating silently. Nodding, he pushed aside the concerns that would doubtless continue to pester him even without the opportunity to ruin this moment, and held up the envelope he'd set in his lap.

"Cor brought more photos of Noctis. Shall we?"

Maybe it was nothing more than the shifting light of dusk, but it seemed that his wife's features brightened considerably at the change of subject, and Regis chuckled as he cupped a hand over hers. He hadn't even opened the packet, yet tears were already threatening to spill down his cheeks when he turned it over to do so with trembling fingers.

What he discovered was a veritable treasure trove. Cor had certainly outdone himself this time, although it appeared that Cid had also helped in the endeavor. As they pored over the photographs together, Regis was glad to see that not all of them were posed the way they had been towards the beginning of their visits. Cor hadn't felt comfortable slyly gathering pictures of a child that had no idea who he was, which he could understand; privacy was a precious commodity even for a young prince—perhaps especially.

Now, quite a few of the shots were candid. Regis could imagine that he was staring at his son in real life, watching him color a messy yet endearing picture of his two friends standing beside him. He could place himself in the position of the photographer and feel like he was a part of Noctis's attempts to sneak vegetables away from the kitchen so that they could not sneak into his dinner.

"Look how he's grown," he whispered when they paused at a picture Cor had obviously solicited. According to the tales the marshal had brought back to accompany the photos, Cid's temperament seldom lent him the patience to see himself on film. This one, however, had to be one of Regis's new favorites.

In the last five years, he had spoken to his old friend and the guardian of his child on the phone a handful of times. Their conversations had been chiefly for Noctis's benefit, although they had exchanged a few pleasantries that gave him hope their relationship could one day be rekindled through their shared affection for his son. Calls and voices could not replace the warmth that spread through his chest at the sight of Cid's smile when he looked at Noctis, holding the latter in his arms while he grinned at the camera.

Clarus had once told him that the passage of time was quick, that the years would fly by until he was left wondering where they had gone. The hours themselves were agonizing, but there was no denying in hindsight that he was quite right. It was all the more apparent when they flipped to the next picture, another posed piece that left him laughing heartily. What else was he to do when his son was up on Gladiolus's back as though the latter were an undersized chocobo? Ignis held Carbuncle in the same fashion, albeit with the resignation of a child who had been wheedled into doing something he felt was ridiculous. He would have been justified, although maybe it wasn't such a great travesty for him to spend time amongst children who weren't trained to act as adults—something he was far too good at, in Regis's opinion.

Between the two of them, Ignis and Gladiolus made his baby boy look so tiny. Well, he would always be their baby, but he was an infant no more. It was clear in the photograph that he was small for his age, as Cid had pointed out on numerous occasions (and which Cor suspected was due to his diet). When Regis had last seen him, however, Carbuncle had seemed so enormous by comparison. Stopping on the final picture, he smiled sadly to see that that was no longer the case: the stuffed toy fit quite comfortably in Noctis's arms where he was sleeping on a threadbare couch with his head in Ignis's lap and a foot on Gladiolus's shoulder.

He was growing up. Slowly but surely, Noctis was growing up before his very eyes.

What he wouldn't give to see it in person.

It was a near miss, but he managed to push the photos back into the envelope just before his body betrayed him and allowed his tears free rein. They streaked silently down his cheeks to stain the fabric of his trousers instead of the beautiful, precious pictures that would soon join the framed ones that decorated his personal chambers.

He knew that Aulea would have her own tears, that she would be equally torn between delight at seeing their son and the permanent heartache of keeping him at a distance. There would be grief in her gaze and a desperate need for comfort etched into every line of her face, just like him.

But there was no solace to be found in her cold, stone arms. There was no sympathy in the grey eyes that stared back at him, unchanging with season or mood or moment. Ageless and serene as she hadn't been in life, the effigy carved above her grave could offer him company but not comfort. Even in those final days, mere months after they had sent away their son and living symbol of their love for one another, she could ease his troubles with a glance or her fragile fingers clasping his with surprising strength. The endless stream of doctors who couldn't diagnose her ailment, the hours spent watching her vacillate between fiery fevers and deathly chills, the constant fear that this was yet another method a spurned mage had chosen to exact his revenge—none of it had changed that.

Death, that old friend of misery, changed everything. Alone he had suffered through the intervening years, and alone he would suffer now.

At least he could console himself with one thought, sometimes the sole reason he was able to rouse himself from his bed in the morning and face his duties as king: fifteen years to go.


"I thought you said you had the situation well in hand."

"Why, Your Radiance," Ardyn drawled with a dismissive gesture, "I can assure you that the matter is indeed completely under control."

Emperor Aldercapt raised his eyebrows in an expression of skeptical amusement. "Is that so?"

"But of course."

For a moment, he offered no answer. His concern was a reasonable reaction, Ardyn supposed, but it was entirely unnecessary. The emperor was nothing more than a mere mortal; he ruled over his pitiful landmass with what he considered an iron fist. It was his mage, however, who truly held the power of the empire in his hands. How very frequent it was that Aldercapt appeared to forget how much of his success was owed not to his military prowess, but his ever faithful, loyal servant.

It was not the emperor who had brought Tenebrae and King Regis to their knees.

It was not the emperor who had punished a meddlesome rodent with another death in exchange for a life saved.

Even so, the ungrateful swine reclined back on his throne and mused, "I would have thought that managing a child would be simple work. Still, I have yet to see the dead prince I was promised."

"Is it possible that Your Radiance doubts my abilities?" inquired Ardyn in a low, smooth tone. It had little effect on the emperor.

"Perhaps you are simply losing your touch?" he replied instead. Making it a question did nothing to soften the blow. "You have been a great asset to the empire for many long years, but even the most talented can age gracelessly."

Oh, that was rich. Coming from a man whose existence hung by a thread, one that Ardyn could gladly sever at any moment, made the comment all the more comical. In certain circles, that was.

With a dangerous smirk, Ardyn simpered, "I can assure you, age to someone of my unique abilities is but a number. Just as a child is but a momentary blemish."

"A blemish that will ascend the throne of Lucis if you cannot deliver your side of our bargain," Aldercapt reminded him blandly.

"You have my word"—he bowed low, mostly to hide his sneer— "that the prince will be found."

"And killed."

Ardyn refrained from sighing, the result of centuries of practice. Some people didn't understand the poetic irony of the long game, the slow and steady drag of years that eventually brought all things to an end. How very dull.

"The prince will indeed expire in time," he ultimately evaded. His subtlety was not lost on the emperor.

Aldercapt scoffed and insisted, "Five years seems an adequate allowance, perhaps even too kind."

Raising his head, Ardyn donned a puzzled expression and inquired, "But Your Radiance, do you care so little for the nuances of the chase?"

"At this juncture, I care more for ensuring that Lucis does not interfere with our ambitions," he tutted impatiently. When Ardyn shook his head in feigned dismay, he demanded, "You have a more effective solution?"

That was his cue. It was such a simple feat to read the emperor's desires and play him for the fool he was.

With a façade of utmost calm and deference, he recommended, "According to our operatives inside Insomnia, support for King Regis's meddling in your affairs is dwindling. With his son outside the city and his dear wife having passed long ago, I daresay His Majesty will be taxed enough with his own nation. Involving himself in imperial matters would be foolhardy at best."

"You wish to do nothing, then?" Aldercapt assumed.

"Perish the thought!" was Ardyn's immediate denial as he rose to his feet and paced closer to the throne. "I am merely entreating you not to act in haste. Lucis crumbles from within, and the prince will be found well before he has the opportunity to reinforce his father's resolve. King Regis knows he is no match for Niflheim's might in either regard."

There was no reason for Ardyn to delineate between the emperor's use of force and the magnitude of the shadow he had personally cast over Regis's kingdom for the past five years—longer, if he was being honest. And as Aldercapt preferred to acknowledge only that which made him appear strong and wise (and young, which was quite a stretch even for him), it was all too easy to bring a thoughtful smirk to his face.

"You will still see to it that the boy is disposed of?" he clarified carefully, to which Ardyn inclined his head in respectful acquiescence. "Then I grant you the time you deem necessary to do so."

"Your Radiance is too generous for words," lilted Ardyn, already moving towards the doors.

The guards outside had hardly opened them in anticipation of his exit before the emperor called, "Make no mistake: should you fail to locate the prince or Lucis does indeed overextend themselves to our disadvantage, the consequences will be severe."

Spinning on his heel, Ardyn swept into a deep bow, plucking his hat from his head in the process.

"Rest assured, Your Radiance," he pledged confidently, "there is more than one way to apprehend a child."