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 11: From the Light Within
Note: As I may (or may not) have mentioned before, the updates are coming less frequently because I have practical skills examinations at the end of the week, and thus I have to divide my attention to working on those. After Friday, however, I will be free of the curse that is class, and will resume my life as it was three months ago.
Rather blatantly, Regis is utterly infuriated by the audacity of this man — and it has nothing to do with the fact that the chancellor sits at the council table with that smile on his face, making uncomfortable small talk over far too much wine. But, given the uneasiness of the blade upon which Lucis finds itself perched, the king blessedly manages to hold his tongue in check.
This duplicitous serpent has gone and slithered past their defenses in what has been the worst way possible, under the potentially false pretense of delivering unto the Citadel terms of peace in the war with Niflheim. And Regis himself, having been so eager believe in the validity of a proposed peace treaty, had far too easily failed to evaluate the matter with more thought. While the monarch does not doubt that, inevitably, the aging Emperor Aldercapt might well have sought to send envoy to Lucis, he does doubt, however, the truth of the chancellor's words.
What additional motivation could I possibly possess?
Plenty, by the look of things, what with experiments on both daemons and beasts cropping up throughout the region en masse; the slaying of Glaives by the dozen; and the miraculous reappearance of the lost prince, long believed dead. He is thoroughly convinced now that Ardyn Izunia was, in some fashion, involved with the invasion of Tenebrae some many years ago, and had seen fit to steal Noctis away to Niflheim. Beyond that, the man's motivations remain fairly cloudy, a hundred different paths present and available to him, and it is those innumerable uncertainties which serve to set the king on edge.
With all of these pieces in play, and when carefully evaluated, Regis is certain that a man the likes of the chancellor has traveled this far for but one thing, and that is to sow chaos throughout Lucis in one form or another.
As Ignis had stated prior, the man is frighteningly deceptive, undoubtedly presenting but a false air of joviality and a haphazard appearance for the sake of luring in and undermining his enemies. That has become quite clear to Regis now that he's spent all of ten minutes seated beside the man, however the revelation may well have come too late, and it is that which he laments above all else.
"Oh, dear," he says, and the very sound of the man's voice has become as grating metal upon Regis' patience. "Where did that boy of mine run off to? I had thought he'd be but a moment."
While the chancellor's face is contorted in something convincingly akin to concern, it is the glimmer of his strange amber eyes that continues to blanket the room with such palpable unease. He is aware that, at least to the king, his farce has been recognized, and there can be seen a touch of hope in his expression that Regis will deign to question him as to both the boy's origin and purpose.
His boy, the serpent says.
Regis steels himself with a number of slow breaths, agonizing though they may be in light of his rising temper. There is something terribly off about the chancellor – as a man more than an imperial politician – and the king determines that his duty is to neutralize such a threat (whether it lie within or beyond the wall), if not simply remove him from the populated confines of the Crown City.
"You have my gratitude, Chancellor Izunia, for coming all this way." A smile is forced to the surface of the monarch's stern face, and the Glaives lining the wall beyond the councilmembers' seats can be seen straightening in preparation to act. Good. They, too, have detected an air of unease. "Yours has been a gracious gesture in these trying times."
"I can assure you, Majesty, I've done nothing to merit your thanks."
Well, at least they can agree on that point.
"You have it all the same." Hands rest flat against the tabletop as the king stands, fixing the chancellor with an expression relaying a lingering apology. "Though I am loathe to ask your patience, I will require ample time to pore over His Excellency's most generous terms of peace alongside my council. You have my apologies for the inconvenience, Chancellor."
Though the man nods, he remains seated, appearing rather entranced by the sight of wine shifting forward and back in his glass, almost as if Regis has not spoken a word. It irritates the king, and he draws breath to insist when the other man fixes him with a smile that makes his very insides twist.
By the Six, he can't stand those eyes.
"Oh, you needn't fret over perceived inconveniences, Majesty..."
A lone member of the chancellor's guard moves to the chamber doors as the man raises his glass, parting them to permit a slew of imperial soldiers to file into the room, their weapons levelled to the Glaives and members of the council, all appearing startlingly rigid and immobile. Peace terms indeed, Regis thinks, and stands upright with righteous fury, arm outstretched and seeking to call forth his weapon, but...
It will not come.
The chancellor, having now kicked his boots up on the council table, merely plucks a small device from within the inner pocket of his coat, takes a sip from his drink, and smiles.
"We are, after all, just getting started."
"Noctis, wait!"
As he runs, the world around him is lost in but a strange blur of black and white and colored accents. It is all far to bright and saturated for him to focus on for more than a second, and it makes his nauseous. His body aches, chest heaving, insides feeling as though he's fallen several hundred feet through the air and struck the earth much like in his nightmares. He wants to cease all movement, put a pin in time, lean over one of the many decorative planters and vomit until the space within his skull elects to right itself again.
This voice, the one that calls his name and spears such a powerful sense of intimate familiarity within, ought to mean nothing to him, for he is the Shade, a shadow of a man — an assassin — renowned and feared for his ruthlessness in battle. He is beholden to but one man, the chancellor who plucked an enemy child out of the dust in the midst of a war and raised him when his homeland itself had forsaken and abandoned him. Why, then, does Noctis feel so drawn to this voice and not to the side of the man whom he has sworn to follow and protect?
The scenery before him changes in short bursts, each frame appearing drastically different than the last. Noctis is startled to find himself warping through the halls, movements chaotic and fearful, but bearing all the same eagerness as the pull within his gut that grows stronger with each faltering step.
Noctis.
He wants so badly to scream, call out to the unknown that he is here and he is coming as quickly as the universe will allow. But he has only sparing amounts of air trapped in his lungs and bile rising up his throat as Ignis — and gods know who else — trail after him.
Another corner is turned, and with such speed that Noctis very nearly finds himself soaring through one of the far walls, his boots leaving obvious scuff marks against the grain of silver-grey paint. An arm is outstretched toward the tile of the floor, seeking to keep him from falling flat, but his wrist buckles beneath him with a sickening crack, and he quickly finds himself sliding down the checkered corridor. Perhaps it is the nausea, or even the very real possibility that he's gone and broken his wrist, but the speed at which Noctis now rockets through the hall is maddening. The floor, the one constant in all of this, drops out from beneath him, giving way to a set of stairs lined with a stunning crimson carpet. He begins to roll in his descent, clutching the damaged arm to his chest for protection, all sense of direction lost as Noctis finds himself spinning wildly out of control.
Each thud of his body against the steps hurts more than the last, little flecks of light bursting from behind his closed eyes. When it feels as though the movement has slowed, he grits his teeth, knowing that it's but a trick of his mind. The only sure sign that he has, indeed, stopped is that of his full weight coming to rest against a wall at the bottom of the stairwell, the headiness and confusion taken several seconds to lighten up.
He blinks, visibly shaken, wrist searing with pain beneath his grasp, staggering to his feet in a dimly lit corridor illuminated only by the light of a great azure stone set some dozen meters before him.
The Crystal of Lucis.
Noctis.
The voice is beside him now, as though the owner stands at his side, whispering in his ear. On impulse, Noctis turns his head, a chill trickling down his spine when no one is there. He swallows, more confused and startled than perhaps he has ever been, and takes several cautious steps forward, surveying the area for other signs of life with wide golden eyes.
The Crystal is, in a word, beautiful, so much so that he cannot tear his gaze away. The sound of his footfalls is muffled by the carpet, extending from the landing at the stairway's base to that of the stone itself. The room in which it is housed appears to be built in the shape of a dome, the ceiling high above curving in a visible arch. It is almost cavern-like, this part of the Citadel, and it occurs to Noctis then that he has no idea precisely where within the great structure he stands. There are no windows lining the walls, but neither are there any additional doors or hallways. He is utterly lost.
Those concerns are short-lived, mind again transfixed upon the stone and the voice that continues to linger in his head. It's clearer now than it was out in the courtyard, more at peace than when it was calling to him through unknown corridors. There is no fear to be felt now, no anxiety. Only a strange feeling of warmth and comfort.
As he approaches the Crystal, it begins to glow, a white-blue light stabbing into the backs of his eyes with an intensity he's not yet faced. A sound, like that of a steady hum, cuts through the air, and it is with a gasp that Noctis is blown back by an abrupt gust of wind, landing hard on his backside.
"Fuck!"
His whole body aches as if his very bones have been set alight beneath his skin. He cringes, face screwed up into a harsh scowl as he curls in on himself. The Starscourge surges, pulsating through to the surface of his flesh, obsidian marks and flecks of starlight visible, and Noctis knows without even looking that the whites of his eyes have gone dark, traces of miasma spilling forth from his eyes like tears.
With his good hand, he swipes at his eyes, the inky blackness sticking to his dark sleeve with a strange luminescence. This has happened before — once — when he chose to abandon Lucis, remain in Niflheim with Ardyn, in the city that had seen him raised from boy to man. The chancellor had explained to him the Starscourge on that day, elaborated as to the abilities that came with it, as well as the costs. To give oneself over to the darkness, he said, would come with near limitless possibilities, the greatest of which to negate any physical damage done to one's body. The downside was, of course, an omnipresent buzzing in one's head, the many voices of those daemonified by the wielder of the darkness.
While Noctis has yet to change another person from mortal to daemon, and he has managed to avoid such a consequence. But it stands to reason that, with Ardyn at his back, that blissful peace of mind may not last too much longer. Not with the ferocity in the chancellor's desire for Noctis to perfect his hold upon the power.
He's on his feet once more, again approaching the Crystal, still swiping the darkness from his eyes as the stone glows brightly again. He stops cold and braces himself for yet another gust of wind, but it does not come. The light from the stone becomes brighter and brighter until he is forced to look away, startled only by the sensation of a cool hand grazing the side of his face.
"Oh, Noctis. You've come to me."
The woman who stands before him is nothing less than stunning. She is clad in black, dark hair swept over one shoulder in a neat braid, and her eyes... her eyes are the same shape as Noctis' own. There is a strange familiarity about her as she continues to stroke his cheek, black lines and streaks rolling down over her thumb and vanishing as if nothing had ever touched her skin.
"Who—?" he begins, a finger pressed suddenly to his lips.
Hers is a sweet smile, fond and warm, tears beginning to well up in her bright gaze as she speaks.
"Noctis. My son. You've come home."