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 9: The Prodigal Son

Note: I feel compelled to mention that I didn't watch Kingsglaive until just this last week (oops?), so I didn't completely rewrite the whole Tenebraen annexation on purpose. But, since it's already done, I'm not changing it.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that – should you fall prey to foul beasts – I will find myself the least bit obligated to drag your lifeless remains back to the garrison." Ardyn smiles grimly, set on observing the scurrying reapertails that linger not far from their perch. "I'm rather serious, Noctis. I've no intention of soiling my cuffs. Do pay attention to what it is you're doing."

A response is hardly called for, and so he does not provide one, a simple dagger clasped firm in one hand while the Starscourge crackles in the other. The advance is slow and steady as he crouches, winding behind bushes and boulders while remaining ever aware of the chancellor's eyes against his back.

The garrison looms behind them in the distance, the airship just barely visible over the lip of the rugged walls. They've been at this for days now, Noctis having traded out his sleek black suit for a basic set of army fatigues, working his way through various routines Ardyn has concocted with which to test his abilities. It feels very much like he's started all over again, as though he is but a teenager with something to prove to his uncle, and, in a sense, he is correct.

This time, however, Noctis must prove himself capable of creating and imfusing daemons with the scourge, and not just amplifying his natural talents.

Suffice to say, Ardyn will not permit him to stop until he is satisfied.

A seed of irritation sprouts in Noctis, a low sound coming from the chancellor lounging atop a rock some distance behind him. The bastard is humming, acting as though this is all a game for him to sit back and observe.

The worst part is that he's right.

The cluster of reapertails have yet to notice him, even with Ardyn's irritating contribution. They wander in the scorching heat as if purposeless, and Noctis waits, seeking to single out but one for this exercise so as to avoid too much of a fight. He is patient, lingering within a large bristly bush that feels very much like a haystack on his skin until one of them draws close, inspecting a nearby hole for lizards as the others gradually widen their own search perimeter.

He draws a slow, deep breath... and moves.

It hears the crackle of the bush, and Noctis warps as the beast prepares to strike, throwing the dagger with pinpoint precision. There's a hoarse shriek from the reapertail, the creature's stinger now pinned to the earth, granting him a viable opening with which to strike. He feels weightless as he closes the distance with an overarching jump, hand falling flush against the hard outer shell of the thrashing thing. The fire courses down his arm, the scourge binding the pair of them for several long, agonizing seconds. A series of pathways appear in his mind, reminiscent of a web, and that flash of harsh black and violet light streaks along each strand until the whole of his body burns. It's worse this time than it's ever been before, and the ache of it all makes him think that the whole of his body will dissolve into nothing.

When the world comes back into focus, his feet are planted firmly on the ground, dagger dislodged from the tail of the now massive insect – monstrous, at least twice its original size, growling quietly from a toothy mouth set between jagged mandibles – slumped to one side in the dirt and dripping with miasma. Noctis removes his hand in a state of shock, sweat sticking the shirt to his back, chest screaming as he struggles to catch his breath. His blackened fingertips tingle with electricity, giving off smoke in the light of the sun.

What the... hell is...?

The slow, steady sound of clapping hands is what meets Noctis when he turns back to his uncle, stumbling to the ground as Ardyn places a hand beneath his chin.

"Oh, you miraculous boy." Gods, the elation in his eyes is mesmerizing, and Noctis can barely recall the last time he witnessed the man looking at him with such apparent pride.

He needn't pay the man any more mind to understand what he's thinking: The benefit of such power will shortly outweigh the consequences of using it. While that may well be true, Noctis hardly finds that to be the case now. The throbbing ache in his arm and chest has spread, little flickers of white lite blooming in his vision as he slumps into the dirt on his back, too fatigued so even lift a hand to block the sun from his eyes. He's tired enough to sleep anywhere, and seriously considers drifting off right here at the side of a smoldering newborn daemon when he has the sensation of floating, head propped up against his uncle's shoulder with a small sound of discomfort.

This sort of gesture was common once. When he was small and the old nightmares still fresh, he would scramble out of bed in a hurry to find Ardyn, more often than not waiting out the late night hours in his study. Wordlessly would Noctis press his clammy little hands against the man's arm for attention, climb up into his lap and huddle against his uncle's chest. They would sit there for what felt like forever, the chancellor's hand carding through Noctis' hair until, at long last, he drifted off to sleep.

Eyes open – he wasn't even aware that he had closed them – flick up to Ardyn's face then, hat and coat noticeably missing. And Noctis realizes too late that they're safe within the walls of the garrison, a cold cloth pressed to his brow and fingers in his hair.

"When you're through," Ardyn whispers, and there's a real fondness there that does not present itself often, "not even the Kings of Old will stand a chance."

Paper shakes slightly in the king's trembling hands, one page coming to overlap another time and again as he surveys the photographs with shock and delight. He's uncertain as to how Cor has managed to procure these images, but he dismisses the query as irrelevant, a faint but sincere smile cutting its way through the thick hair of his beard. The important part is that – if these images are to be believed – his beloved Noctis is indeed alive and present at Formouth Garrison just a stone's throw from Insomnia.

The Marshal stands on ceremony, refusing to smile or offer up any unnecessary commentary for they are in the presence of the Lucian Council. Their voices overlap in disbelief, some asserting that the man in the photographs is indeed the spitting image of His Highness, while others voice their doubt and skepticism. It matters little to Regis. Seeing the shape of that young man's face so distinctly had set the king's weary heart at ease. He had breathed but a sigh of relief, a quiet blessing to the gods for their grace, and had chosen to let the remainder of the meeting take its course while he observed in contented silence.

"This is the garrison in Leide," one councilmember says, stabbing at an image with a finger. "And that... That looks like–! Marshal Leonis, are you absolutely certain these timestamps are correct?"

Regis regards the man with a twinkle in his eye as Cor nods, insisting that the photographs were indeed captured not two days ago.

"The Kingslglaive and Crownsguard have both verified the validity of the information and found it to be trustworthy. We've also discovered myriad signs of daemons within the areas outlying the garrison. We expect that the Imperials have taken to running trials out of Leide of late, though we're yet uncertain as to why."

"What of his eyes? Certainly, this man appears to bear a striking resemblance to both His Highness and the late Queen, but his eyes are–"

"They are Aulea's." Regis stares straight ahead. "Noctis has always had his mother's eyes, her smile. It is him." He swallows, regarding Cor with a gentle nod of thanks. "My son has returned to Lucis."

"Highness!"

Another voice interjects at random, doors to the chamber opening with the unmistakable sound of great effort, all eyes turned to the man who had deigned to intrude. He is young, tall, has made quite a name for himself in this war, for his prowess as a member of the Glaives. While many members of council appear perturbed, the king regards the man with full attention, greying hair appearing to shine in the light of the room as he straightens in his seat.

The glaive doubles over, out of breath, hands pressed against his knees as he heaves, looking up the steps and into the eyes of the Lucian monarch.

"Your Highness... w-we've just received word from Commander Drautos." He swallows, hair falling over his shoulder. "Chancellor Izunia has been spotted at the garrison gates."