Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just a fucking nerd trying to calm my nerves during this trash fire of a year. So, y'know, don't sue me. I don't have any money.
Ashes of Lucis
Chapter 7: Word of the Chosen Son
"Your presence here has been naught but an outrage and an offense to my sister and her duties, Chancellor. However, you have my vow that I'll not speak word of your treachery, provided you leave Tenebrae immediately."
The words stick hard in Noctis' head like a bad migraine, played over and over on repeat until he has ingrained within himself the dusky sound of Lord Ravus' voice. Stumbling upon the conversation had been an honest accident. He had been granted permission by the lady to peruse the manor's grounds at his leisure come morning, and had intended to do precisely that when Ardyn's hollow laughter had reached him.
He recalls the mirth in Ardyn's shining eyes, ever amused as if by his own bad jokes, regarding Ravus with little concern even as the other man had levelled the point of a dagger to his throat.
"Why, there's no need to threaten, My Lord." Even now, Noctis is certain that his uncle had been mocking the other man with his title. Almost as if that, too, were of no value or consequence. "I assure you, the Oracle has little to fear from me."
It's still soon. Too soon to collect his belongings and make for the train station, for Ardyn has yet to inform him of their departure, and he is loathe to explain to both Ravus and the chancellor that he's accidentally eavesdropped on their discussion. He imagines that, even now, the two men stand in Ravus' study, staring each other down. It will be an odd sort of miracle if the chancellor walks away from their discussion unharmed, condescending as he is.
As per intentions, Noctis rather easily finds his way from the borrowed rooms upstairs to the rolling fields upon the plateau beneath the manor. It is still winter, but the crisp morning air is far more reminiscent of early autumn, the chill all but snuffed out by the warm, gentle glow of the sun. He's almost repulsed by it, the light stinging at his eyes, making his fingers itch. Noctis finds that rather odd, having had few problems with sunlight beyond a bad sunburn or two. It is simply dismissed, attributed to some manner of pollen in the air, perhaps.
The fields appear well tended, more green than pale brown, leaves lush and blue blooms beaded with the dawn's light kiss of condensation. A short distance away, certainly obscured by nightfall the previous evening, stands a long line of trimmed hedges, rising perhaps to stand as high as Noctis' waist. Trees of different varieties linger just beyond, as well as a white marble fountain, colorful leaves shed in haphazard shapes upon the ground, the bare branches swaying slightly.
Incredible that he could have missed all this detail, what with years of reconnaissance drilled into him by both Ardyn and military training exercises. There's no formidable excuse as to why Noctis had missed so much of the landscape surrounding the manor, but he's struck suddenly with the impression that Tenebrae is different somehow, distinctly separated from lands like Cauthess and Duscae in a very important way.
"Noctis?"
Almost eagerly does he turn toward the sound of her voice, heel of his boot digging into the grass, crushing a blossom beneath his weight. The realization dawns on him, though the lady herself says nothing, and he recalls the distinct care and precision with which she had gifted him a blossom of his own.
On his knees now, he flusters, picking up the crumpled flower with a tenderness that feels as though it's been missing. Noctis looks to her ocean blue eyes in relative shame, offering it in an outstretched hand.
"Sorry, I wasn't... You took me by surprise."
Lady Lunafreya examines the offering for a moment, her smile kind as she withdraws a small red notebook from behind her back – Noctis hadn't even noticed that she had sought to hide something from him. From what he can tell, the book has been bound with remarkable craftsmanship, a golden border and floral design gracing the front.
Simply said, it's beautiful.
"Here." The notebook is pressed gently to Noctis' chest, his hand covering hers when he goes to grasp it. "I have but a small favor to ask. Take this notebook with you when you go. But that's not all: I would like you to put something in the book, and send it back."
Noctis breathes quietly as their fingers touch once more, the lady's opening the front cover of the notebook with a nod. There's a pause, and Noctis stares at the flower in hand, moving to press it firmly against the inside front page, closing it with a tight squeeze.
"O-Okay," he finally says, looking between her and the book in his hands. "Then I will."
Lady Lunafreya's smile widens.
He quite likes it when she smiles.
There is no doubt in Ardyn's mind that Ravus, ever observant, has determined at least some fraction of his overarching ambition – that of his intent to fluster his lady sister by means of presenting the Chosen King as but a puppet of darkness. But the man is no threat to him, his claim to nobility and title but a gesture of good faith on behalf of the empire to keep the citizens of Tenebrae in check. That smile falling from his face, the chancellor regards his right hand with but a touch of bitterness, pins and needles still dancing across his skin from the force of the divines' power in Lunafreya's touch. He prides himself on being a man of tremendous patience – as has been evidenced throughout the last several decades – but the determination in the Oracle's words have served to unnerve him, if only a bit.
Regardless, as she and Noctis are now, the gods stand little chance.
Returning to their rooms, the chancellor is disappointed to find that the boy is not where he had left him. There is naught in the manor, nor in Tenebrae, that would do much to snag his attention save the Oracle herself, and it is with that thought that Ardyn has answered his own question.
His is a weary sigh as he meanders the halls, occasionally finding himself quite taken with a painting or the sight of the nation's rolling hills out one of the many windows. Those hills had once appeared to have been spun of gold, the wheat tall and threatening to swallow the people who wandered therein. His lip twitches. Such a shame that the kingdom of Tenebrae – let alone the rest of Eos – shall soon be naught but black.
The terms of his immediate departure have been quite clear, and while the chancellor has no reason to trust Ravus, he neither has reason to believe the man will betray him. He is a man of decorum and dedication, unlike Ardyn himself, placing his sister and her needs far and above his own. If he so much as suspects that the chancellor will raise hand against Lunafreya, he will keep his mouth shut and his head down.
That Ardyn knows he can count on. His persistent unpredictability as both a politician and a scion of the scourge have assured as much.
"I'm afraid we must take our leave, Noctis," he says and descends the spiral stairway, breaking into a grin as both his ward and the Oracle appear through the entrance to the garden. The boy holds in his hands a small book, surely a token of affection granted him by the lady herself. Clever girl. "Collect your things, quickly. We needn't burden our generous hosts with our presence any longer."
The instruction is followed without question or hesitation, lean black shape ascending to the higher floors of the manor, leaving the chancellor and the Oracle to revel in one another's company.
Ardyn fixes her with a gentle look, backs of his fingers just grazing a smooth cheek. As he thought. The irritation is next to nothing, no more than a tickle, indicating that the strength of her touch is thoroughly dependent upon the will of the gods themselves. How terribly pathetic that she need rely on them so.
Though she does not move, the downward shift in her expression says what she will not: Do not touch me.
His hand lingers but a moment longer before falling away. There's little need to provoke her in this moment. His words and actions have had their desired effect, both upon her and darling Noctis.
Very soon, the boy will come to him with questions.
The thrum of an engine roars loud beyond the manor's doors, Lunafreya momentarily taken aback by the closeness and familiarity of the sound. The carrier, as expected, and right on time.
"I must thank you, my dear, for the enlightening evening." Ardyn tips his hat, head bowed just enough to catch her notice, a wicked thrill running through him like the charge of stampeding dualhorns. "It has been a pleasure. Pray don't forget what we discussed."
She looks abruptly ill as her chest expands with breath, taking but a moment's pause before she spits back, foregoing all pleasantries: "I won't."
Noctis appears then, bags in hand, looking between them as though he knows he's gone and missed something important. Ardyn pats him on the shoulder, ushering him toward the doors. They open, the sound of heavy machinery an absolutely deafening sound in the foyer, the chancellor's hat very nearly swept away as an artificial wind blows. He grips it by the brim, still smiling.
"A carrier?" Noctis manages to shout, arm raised to shield his face from the gusts. "What about the train? Ardyn, where are we going?"
The queries go ignored, Ardyn's boots producing a near silent sound as he steps upon the thick metal of the carrier's lip, scarves whipping wildly as he turns to regard his charge.
"Why, to Formouth Garrison. Where else?"
Sweat slicks his brow, and it is in that moment that Cor Leonis truly knows apprehension. A reckless and violent youth had conditioned him against it, against the likes of fear itself at the hand of any man, but nothing the fates had thrown his way could have prepared him for this.
The echo of his boots upon hallway floors feel strangely distant, as though he is not quite in his own head, though still in full control of his actions. As he walks, the Marshal lifts a hand, fingers curling into his palm, and he swears that he can see himself full-circle, observing as though having been somehow removed from the shell that is his body. Cor shakes his head and the sight clears, a palpable uptick in his heart rate felt beneath his skin.
No, he thinks, seeking to talk himself down. On this day, he returns to Lucis bearing good news, certainly the best that the kingdom has had in many years.
Dark walls seem to close in on the Marshal as he moves, pace quickening. The man swallows around a lump in his throat, growling quietly as if to prove to himself that, yes, he still has the means to speak. His hands press flush to the double doors engraved with the crest of Lucis, pushing until they give way to grant him passage. There, visible from his place on the threshold, His Highness can be seen in the high-backed seat of his study, curtains drawn and lights dimmed, the monarch's hand pressed against his eyes as if to ward away the light.
"Highness," Cor begins, and King Regis stirs, appearing to have dozed off behind his desk. The older man fixes the Marshal with an apologetic look, an empty smile forming on his lips. "Your Highness, I bring news from Duscae."
Another slaying of Glaives is what the king anticipates. It's written plainly on his face, expression growing dour as he draws a weary breath, looking perhaps far more haggard than the Marshall has ever seen him. Over the last few years, the king's strength – as well as his health – has declined greatly, days innumerable spent laid up in his bedchambers, tended to by the Citadel's royal physicians, each of whom had come to the same basic conclusion: His Highness' time is running out, the Wall taxing his body and mind more than ever.
Cor finds himself staring at the floor, resolve strengthening as he lifts his eyes to the king, right arm brought up and over his chest with a bow.
"King Regis –" The man straightens in his chair, giving the Marshal his full attention at the mention of his name. "– Prince Noctis is alive."