Regis ought have known the year before that the vacancy of queen issue was never going to disappear simply because he said so. The ruling council existed, in part, to advise the king and to bring to his attention matters beyond his usual perspective. As such, until all parties were convinced of a thing, the council was free to continue picking at old wounds whenever they felt it suitable to renew a subject.

Most of the time when this happened it was one or two councilors who hadn't gotten their way, attempting to drum up interest for changing a decision. When that happened, very little came of it; the other members of the council had usually moved on or accepted a decision, by that time, and had little interest in rehashing old debates.

The exception came when Regis forced a decision himself. Though he was well within his rights to do so if no consensus could be reached, if everyone on the council disagreed with him, it was only going to come back and bite him, later. And so it was, with this.

As the Citadel exchanged brightly colored leaves for bare trees and rain for snow, the council was at last convinced to accept Ignis Scientia as future royal adviser. Plans for his rearing were still in progress, and they had yet to introduce him to the twins, but he and his parents had sufficiently pleased the council so that one more debate was laid to rest. But they never were content with peace among their numbers. If ever Regis had attended a council meeting with no arguments (however eminently polite they may have been) he would have been forced to consider the possibility that he had slept in and not made it to council at all, but only dreamed of some strange harmony.

And so, one evening in early January, he came in from the snow with a pair of very cold and very happy children to find Clarus waiting for him.

"Is it that time, already?" Regis strained to find his pocket watch while still holding a purple ball of fluff and snow, who kicked her feet and complained about being indoors again, even though her mittens were soaked through.

"I'm afraid so," Clarus said.

Something about his tone made what should have been a commonplace situation much more grave. Regis passed Reina off to Crea and bid a hasty farewell to both of them and Noctis.

"Accordo?" He asked as he fell into step with Clarus.

"No," Clarus said carefully. "Of less international importance—and yet I'm certain you'll like it no more."

Regis waited for the clarification that he knew would come. It took a moment.

"It's that time of year when everyone in the Citadel, save you, starts wanting to celebrate the king's birthday."

Regis made a sound of annoyance. He had been doing a very good job at forgetting he had one, for the past eleven months. It was a cycle that could go on forever. Either he said no, there would be no ball, and the council assented for eleven months and tried again next year, or he finally gave in and then they would expect him to do the same every year thereafter. There were no permanent solutions.

But, though the mere prospect of a birthday ball was abhorrent to him, his opposition stemmed from the council's true purpose.

"And their other plans?" Regis asked.

"I… have heard talk of who to seat beside you," Clarus admitted.

Regis said nothing. They passed through the quiet halls, inhabited primarily by Crownsguards and servants, and through the marble arch that lead to the council chamber. The great stone doors, wreathed in gold and carved with the image of a sun rising—or perhaps setting—on the horizon, stood closed and guarded by a pair of Crownsguards. When Regis halted, they reached for the handles, but he stopped them with a motion.

"Well?" He turned to Clarus. They weren't alone, but they hardly ever were. Two guards stood at the door, a pair followed behind, and Avunculus trailed behind them. Such was part of being king. True solitude had never been something he was familiar with. "You are the royal adviser. What do you advise?"

"Let them hold a ball in your honor," Clarus sighed. "Make polite with whatever young women they throw at you and—for once—try to enjoy yourself. Don't think of them as vapid replacements of Aulea; try to remember they're people, too. And if they happen to be people that you like then, perhaps, you have gained a friend. And if they don't, then. Well. You've survived worse nights. And it would do everyone some good if you were seen in public, now and then."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but half of asking for advice was accepting that what he wanted wasn't always the best thing.

"I suppose you're right." Regis looked at the closed council room doors, rather than Clarus.

Clarus grasped his shoulder briefly. "I will, of course, be with you."

Regis granted him a tight smile. "As ever."

"As ever," Clarus agreed.

They had but to step forward and the doors to the council chamber opened before them. Eleven chairs scraped against the marble floor as the assembled council members rose. Each one of them bowed and murmured some formal greeting as Regis passed them. They resumed their seats only once he had taken his.

"It has been brought to my attention that there is renewed interest, at this table, in a public gathering for the celebration of my birthday," Regis began, once all were seated. "While I have no interest in frivolous displays, I do understand that it has been some time since I was officially in the public eye. As such, I give my consent for such an event to take place, this year."

It would have taken a blind man to miss the shock that followed his words. Likely, each and every one of them had expected to tip-toe around the subject and slowly coax him in that direction with dropped hints and breadcrumbs. And why shouldn't they? The whole thing was still a ridiculous idea. Clarus may have convinced him to go through with it, but he hadn't changed his mind about that.

"And the rest?" Hamon sat forward in his seat.

No guessing what information he was after. Regis fixed him with a steely gaze. "I have neither interest in nor intention to remarry, Master Hamon."

A few of the others exchanged uncomfortable looks. Hamon merely met Regis' gaze and inclined his head ever so slightly. "As His Majesty wishes."

Hardly. Even if he had summoned and thoroughly questioned ever Lucii from the ring, Regis had no doubt that he would be hard pressed to find a king who had ever gotten his own way. Not in Lucis.

With the uncomfortable discussion out of the way, council proceeded. Regis had no interest in the actual planning of this ball—or whatever they intended for him. Likely that would be passed off to some enthusiastic courtier, who would take over Regis' kitchen and household staff for the month. He had few doubts that, in spite of his words, whoever was in charge of this would spend far too many hours pouring over eligible young women. He didn't even want to think about the money that would pass hands to ensure that such-and-such woman was seated near the king.

They might have well seated him with old women. He certainly didn't belong among the young ones, anymore.

When they left the council chamber later that night, Clarus clasped his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile before they parted ways. Regis returned to the upper levels on his own.

Reina and Noctis were sound asleep, by that time. It was still odd to find them alone in their room when he arrived to kiss them goodnight, so accustomed was he to having a nanny with them at all times. But he was comforted in the knowledge that Crea was nearby. That was stranger still, however. No one, save himself, Aulea, and the twins, had lived in these levels since his father had died. To suddenly have another set of rooms occupied was bizarre.

She had chosen the rooms immediately next door to the twins' room, which put her between his room and theirs—albeit with empty space in between. The light was on under her door when he passed. Somehow, he found himself stopping. What he wanted was a drink and his bed, but sympathetic company was sounding ever more appealing. He had even lifted his hand to knock before his mind caught up with him.

What was he even doing? She was his childrens' nanny and that was all. He could justify unburdening himself on Weskham or Clarus or even Cor (though Cor was, admittedly, a poor choice, given that he was neither empathetic nor helpful in most circumstances) but Crea certainly had no obligation to listen to him.

He shook his head at his own folly. He turned and walked away.

The door opened behind him.

"Regis?"

He stopped. He tried to fit a smile on his face before he turned, but in all likelihood it looked pathetic.

"I thought I heard—" She said, before thinking better of something and changing words mid-sentence. "Are you alright?"

If she asked surely he was allowed to answer.

"It has been a trying evening and I think I could do with a stiff drink," he said.

She made a face at that. "I don't know how you can drink that stuff." She jerked her head toward her open door. "Come on. I'll make you a cup of tea. It's better for you."

He hesitated, because he really did want something stronger than tea, but also because… because what? Something was niggling in the back of his mind about going into her rooms.

She held out her hand and waggled her fingers at him. He stopped hesitating; he took her hand and let her pull him through the open door.

Like the nursery next door, Crea's rooms were three rooms joined together. The main room was a sitting room—it had always been, so far as Regis knew—but Crea's touch was on it. Whereas most of the Citadel—including Regis' rooms—were done in black and gold, Crea had removed and replaced until her rooms were unrecognizable. The solemn, black leather furniture was replaced with a short white sofa, which was square but squishy rather than wooden, and a few armchairs with a white and pink design. A few throw pillows, some wooden end-tables (notably not ebony), a coffee table, and some art on the opposite wall tied everything together. Even the cold, black marble floor was covered with a plush carpet.

It felt like stepping out of the Citadel altogether. And Regis realized he couldn't remember the last time he had been out of the Citadel.

He sat on the sofa and watched her assemble two mugs of tea. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't certain that he had ever watched someone make tea, before. She had an electric kettle and a little tree of mugs on the sideboard. From a drawer she pulled out several different tins. He gathered that the contents were tea leaves, though he could not fathom the rhyme or reason for the different combinations she mixed. She glanced over her shoulder at him once, eyes narrowed, as if reading something on his face, before returning to her work. When she came to join him, putting a steaming mug on the table before him and sitting down with her own, he was thoroughly mystified by the entire process.

There was a cute little chocobo floating in his mug. Crea's had a carbuncle perched on one side, with its tail hanging inside.

"Is this how people drink tea?" He prodded the chocobo.

"Some people have very boring tea infusers," Crea told him gravely.

"What is a tea infuser?"

"Did you think the chocobo was just for fun?"

He had been wondering, to be perfectly honest. Probably she had caught him admiring the chocobo decorations in Reina and Noctis' rooms one too many times.

"It's full of tea leaves," Crea said. "How do you drink tea?"

"From a teapot on a tray and often accompanied by tiny sandwiches." Regis lifted the chocobo part-way out of the tea to find that it was, in fact, full of little holes, underneath.

She laughed at him.

"What?" He let the chocobo fall back into the tea.

"Sometimes you're so normal. And then you say something like that and I remember you're really, really not," she said.

Regis wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. He learned more about tea than he had ever known there was to know about tea; she told him what leaves had gone into it and he promptly forgot all the names, then she showed him how to remove the chocobo when the tea was ready (which was also not something that had ever occurred to him). They spoke of comfortable subjects: of her new rooms and how she was settling in. She wanted to get permission to paint the walls and brighten up the black, since she had so much spare time with her twenty-four-hour work shift. He told her she could have it done by someone else.

And when the casual conversation faded away and they sat with their cooling tea, Crea with her legs crossed underneath her, Regis had almost forgotten what had brought him here in the first place.

But not quite.

"I have been pressured into tolerating a ball thrown in honor of my birthday," Regis said, after the quiet had stretched sufficiently.

She waited. A hint of a crease between her brows spoke of confusion, but she didn't speak. Perhaps she guessed there was more.

"Ostensibly because the people wish to see their king," he said, "But I suspect the whole idea is merely a cover to introduce as many titled and unmarried women to me as they can fit in one room."

Crea choked on her tea. "Your council is trying to play matchmaker?!"

"Yes," Regis said gravely.

"And… do you want…?"

"No. I have no intention of becoming involved with someone."

"Why not?" She asked.

Regis looked sharply at her.

"Sorry! I don't mean like that—!" She said quickly "I just mean that I can think of a hundred reasons not to, so I'm wondering which…? If it's too personal…"

He smiled unhappily. "No, I would share, but I can hardly quantify it, myself. On the one hand, it feels as if that would be unfaithful to Aulea. On the other, I wonder if any could ever capture me as she did."

Crea inched closer. "Not to mention, having your council trying to stick their nose in it is just plain invasive."

"Precisely."

"So what will you do?"

He shook his head. "I have told them that we will throw a ball. And I have told Clarus that I will be polite, but I have no intention of enjoying myself."

"You don't even get to spend your birthday doing what you want?"

"That is not a luxury I have ever had." He smiled bitterly. "No, my dear, I have had few birthdays of any worth. But I maintain that these celebrations become pointless past the age of fifteen. Do I need a day on which to note how old I am growing?"

"You're not old."

"I feel old, sometimes. Often."

She stared at her half-empty mug in silence, strummed her fingers on the side. "Does the Wall do that?"

He held out his hand and looked at the black ring, inlaid with the Lucis Caelum house crest. "Every day it drains some little more of me. Someday I will grow too old to recover what it takes as fast as it takes it."

She followed his gaze, studying the way the ring caught the light for a moment.

Then, without preamble or apparent segue, she said, "I wish you wife was still here."

Despite the fact that he thought the same to himself, multiple times per day, each and every day, the remark caught him off-guard. He turned to look at her and she pulled her gaze from the ring. Her eyes were shiny and over-bright.

"So you wouldn't be so alone," she said.

It was such a pure and genuine wish for the sake of his happiness, when she had never even met Aulea.

"I… am not completely alone," he managed after a moment. "I have Clarus… and Weskham…"

"Both admirable men, but I think we can all agree that they lack a certain tenderness," Crea said matter-of-factly.

"And Cor."

"Marshal Leonis' solution to everything is to hit it harder."

Regis laughed. "And I have my children."

"Undeniably the cutest kids on Eos, but not very empathetic listeners."

Somehow she had taken him from moping about a birthday party to imagining an earnest emotional outpouring involving Noctis.

He smiled at her. "And… I should like to think… I also have you."

"And what am I?" She asked.

He considered. Then shook his head. "I have no idea. I put the most important parts of my life in your hands every day; you do what I wish I had the freedom to do, but you do it much better than I ever could. And, somehow, after spending all day doing that, you still have enough energy left to teach me about tea infusers and listen to me complain about trivial problems."

"You don't have any trivial problems," she objected.

He only smiled.

"Well," she said, "I'm not your royal adviser or your Shield or your steward or the marshal of your Crownsguard… but I'm here. If you ever need me."

"Come to the ball," he said.

"What?"

"Reina loves her dresses and intricate hair, does she not? And if the people of Insomnia wish to see their king, doubtless the prince and princess should make an appearance, as well. If they are there, then you must also be there."

She stared at him, stricken. "I can't go to a party full of rich, upper-class guests! I'm just a nanny!"

"The nanny of the prince and princess must go where they go," Regis said. "And have we not established, a moment ago, that you are more than that?"

She looked unconvinced. "I have nothing to wear."

"You really must think of a better excuse than that. You realize, I am sure, that the Citadel staff includes half a dozen tailors and seamstresses? They will make you a dress along with Reina and Noctis' attire."

"You really want me to go?"

"I do."

"Then," Crea sighed, "I guess I'm going."

She still looked reluctant, but that had mostly given way to resignation.

They finished their tea and she walked him to the door. He was struck by the fact that he had stood outside her door, not but an hour or two before, dreading the month to come, and now he left with a surety that it would be—if nothing else—tolerable. And she hadn't even used alcohol.

"Crea—" He stopped outside and turned.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Well don't thank me, yet; I might still embarrass you in front of the whole kingdom."

He smiled. "No—thank you for everything."

Before she could object, he pulled her into a hug. When he walked away and returned to his own room, it was with a certain warmth burning in his chest, which had nothing to do with hot tea.