Chapter 10
Polar Night
Titus had been born in a hut.
Not an exaggeration in the slightest. Could be called nothing less than a hut, at least by the civilization well in the south, but to Titus it had never been a 'hut' so much as 'home'. The place of his birth. Small, isolated, tucked under the ledge of a high cliff, on a grassy knoll above the sea.
The house itself was half wooden and half clay, stones around the foundation, a stone path out front leading to the bottom of the hill. A thatched roof above wooden planks, for extra insulation when the winter came. Bright colors inside, tapestries and flowers painted above the doors and windows.
His lands rested far in the north, at the highest reaches of the Lucian continent. Above the arctic circle, but not so high that all sun was lost in winter. It lingered low in the horizon, never truly rising, but provided enough daylight to keep spirits up, and the aurora helped, too.
His island was part of the archipelago chain that led to the mainland. Not volcanic islands; it had been one land mass once, carved up by glaciers over time. His island was one of the smallest of the lot, and the village was sparse and spread out. Fifty people on this island, a hundred on the next island over, and several hundred more on the largest island farther south, where the main village lied.
The coast in front of Titus' home was rocky, dangerous. Riptides and unpredictable waves. Titus was never allowed to go near it, and instead when he wanted to play in the water, he would go to the tidal pool. A calm stretch of clear water, a safe little bay, and all around there were lupines, bright and purple and always swaying in the sea breeze.
In the distance, perhaps half a kilometer behind Titus' house, lied the great old pine forest, thick and snarled. In the spring and summer, it was bright and colorful. Deciduous trees, hazel flowers hanging, briars and berries amidst the pines. In winter, it was calm, quiet. The branches of the pines drooping down under the weight of the snow.
Birds nested in the cliffs along the sea.
It was far out from the cities and towns of mainland Lucis, so remote, and there were no bridges here. To get from one island to the next, one went by boat. Every family had one, as every family owned a dog, a cat, and a horse. Necessary for everyday life, in their own ways.
Titus was the only child in his family, for then at least.
Life in the remote villages was difficult. The only school was on the larger island, an hour ride in the boat, and Titus dutifully set out before sunrise each morning to pass in the calm waters in the shallow passages. At home, Titus was expected to help his father, and worked out in the field behind the house. He never rested, the entire day through, but was praised always for his hard work, and that made it worthwhile. His mother helped him with his schoolwork over dinner and helped him work on his Royal Lucian, and his father taught him how to hunt the seabirds with nothing more than nets.
There was something very satisfying about lying side by side on a hill with his father on the cool summer grass, nets in hand and talking to each other as they awaiting the flitting birds to pass above. After a successful catch, Titus would proudly show off to his mother, and she would take his face in her hands, kiss his forehead, and praise him.
In fall, his father would take him out to the forest and they would tap the pine trees and collect the sap to make tar, which his father would turn into alcohol and store. At every holiday, or when a distant neighbor came by, or when Titus did exceptionally well in school, his father would pour them all a glass. Titus couldn't say he liked the taste, exactly, but he loved drinking it because doing so meant something important was happening. The smell and taste of the tar liquor became associated with some sort of accomplishment.
His mother would sit by the window in winter and sew. Titus liked to watch her, sometimes, when he had a free moment. She made blankets for the family, and when she felt she had earned a treat, she would make the lace tablecloths and runners that every villager decorated their homes with. Traditional patterns, going back centuries, and every family had their own patterns.
Titus, naturally, found his mother's patterns the most beautiful.
One of his favorite sights; her sitting there in front of the frosted window, needle in hand as she murmured to him over the fireplace. Her smile, when she lifted her head to look at him.
Titus' most exciting days were when they went to the largest island as a family, and not for anything school-related. Getting to go into the shops, getting to speak to his very distant neighbors, getting to see the bigger buildings and the port. Sometimes, every so often, there would be a tourist, a visitor from the mainland, and Titus was excited to see them. They looked different and dressed differently, too, and Titus enjoyed staring at them. Men here, as in some other lands, wore their hair long, and Titus liked to gawk at shorn-haired foreigners.
Titus in particular loved the port. The cargo ships in the distance—those were Titus' favorite. One day, he wished to board one, to see the mainland down below. To be on the sea, as a captain; that was his dream.
For now, Titus did his part at home.
Not an easy life, no, but Titus couldn't think of anywhere else he wanted to be.
When the wind blew the right way at night, it brought with it the scent of the pine and hazel trees. In winter, when the sun was just a pink glow beyond the line of the horizon and nothing more, the ice and snow glinted like mica. Chunks of ice washing up on the beach in the surf, littering the beach like diamonds.
Titus was very sure that these cold islands would be where he spent the rest of his life.
Every night, summer or winter, Titus sat on the edge of the hill and watched the moon glinting on the sea.
Home.
Titus was twelve when the Empire first landed.
The worst possible timing; his mother was pregnant, and Titus had been eagerly awaiting being a big brother to someone.
It came out of nowhere, it seemed. One day, there was a dreadnaught passing by, so low over the island that Titus' father had tackled Titus to the ground and covered his head, as if afraid it would have slammed into him otherwise.
Could never have described the terror, lifting his head as the grass and dirt whipped around him, kicked up by how frighteningly low the ship had really been. Titus recognized it instantly as Imperial, and his father had dragged him back inside. His mother snatched him up and dragged him into his bedroom, shoving him into a corner and all but smothering him as she covered him entirely with her body.
The dropship passed, but didn't leave; it had gone to the largest island.
They could hear the gunfire shortly after, even so far away.
That was the longest day of Titus' life, waiting to see if another dreadnaught would come to their island.
It didn't.
Titus' father went the very next day into the forest, Titus in tow, and together they walked towards the center, found a good spot, and began to dig. Over the next few days they dug out a makeshift shelter, to be used in the event of a dire emergency. The entire while they worked in the forest, Titus always looked up and over his shoulder towards his house, so worried about his mother that he could have been sick.
The Niffs had come that first time to their islands in November.
They destroyed the port, and left.
They came back in January.
The island was so small; there was no resistance. The villagers had been overwhelmed, unprepared, and the Empire turned that destroyed port into a Naval base.
In February, the Lucian Army came to the edge of the mainland, and started the fight to regain the sea and the islands, for the ports there were far too dangerous to lose.
That awful fighting.
Gone were the nights sitting on the hill and watching the sea.
Titus spent the nights now under his bed instead of on it, as the gunfire and explosions lit up the horizon. His mother lied on the floor next to him as he hid beneath the frame, staring over at him and smiling, whispering to him and telling him stories to distract him. She reached out sometimes, putting her arm beneath the bed to run fingers through Titus' hair as she murmured. His father waited by the door, always watching and waiting in case they needed to flee into the forest upon Imperial advance.
Titus couldn't smell the pine and hazel through the window anymore.
Just gunpowder.
Titus was thirteen when his parents were killed.
April.
A ship in the distance one day. Imperial. White and grey. Red flags.
It just sailed through the pass, into shallow water, and Titus had watched it slowly passing. And then, so suddenly, an explosion, a burst of flame and smoke, as the turret of that naval ship fired to the south-west. Titus had cried out in alarm, and before he really knew what was happening, his father had come running out, clenching his mother's wrist, and Titus felt a hand grab his arm.
They ran from the exposed cliff and towards the distant forest, making for that bunker they had made.
His mother was slow, eight months pregnant and struggling. His father pushed Titus in front, shoved him along, and urged him to run for the bunker as fast as he could. Titus did, trying to reach it as quickly as possible so that he could open up the door and usher his parents in.
He was barely a hundred meters in front of them before there was another blast.
This time, the ship's turret had turned in their direction.
The ground shook, dirt and rock blasted up, trees snapped, and Titus was thrown into the air and slammed into the ground before the sound wave caught up to them and shattered his eardrums.
Silence.
It was strange and surreal, that silence, when the flames lit up the sky and the smoke billowed all around, the trees swaying so hard that some of them fell, dirt and dust flying, rocks still rolling. Utter silence, in the midst of chaos. He lied there on his stomach in that eerie silence, watching the trees bending.
Felt like eternity, but was likely only a few minutes.
His hands were covered in scratches, cuts, every muscle in his body felt as if it had locked up, and his chest was locked up, too. No air at all, as the wind had been knocked right out of it.
It came back shortly after, as he heaved in a great gasp, and he pulled his palms beneath him and pushed himself up. A totter, as he twisted sideways.
Titus sat there on his backside, holding himself up on his palms, eardrums shattered and blood running from his nose, every part of him aching and throbbing. Could feel the blood running into his right eye from a gash on his forehead, his nose was burning and stinging, his mouth full of the taste of iron.
The smoke rose and swirled, blowing in the wind, and cleared for just a moment, allowing him to see what was ahead.
He barely comprehended it. His head was still spinning.
He stared into absolute nothing in a daze, concussed and ears ringing, as his parents lied dead in front of him.
Long hours he sat there, staring at them, too far in shock to bother moving.
They had been behind him—why hadn't they been faster? If they had been just a little faster, they would still be alive.
Night came, and still Titus sat there, staring.
It wasn't until dawn broke that he finally found the will and strength and composure to stand up. He fell at first, his balance thrown off by the concussion and his busted eardrums.
He cast them one final look, his parents, and staggered away.
He made it to their boat, and somehow, even with no equilibrium, he made it to the biggest island. It was still held by Imperials, but there was no way he could have paddled right across the war-zone of a sea and into Lucian-held territory.
The Niffs aimed their guns at Titus as he approached shore, but they didn't shoot him. They observed, paused, and gave Titus little thought. They lowered their guns, and one of the soldiers stepped into the water, grabbed the stern of Titus' boat, and hauled him to the dock. They didn't ask him any questions, covered in blood as he was, and quickly sent him on his way into the village.
He stumbled into town, falling over and over again as his balance failed him, and he was picked up somewhere along the way by his teacher. She dragged him out of the street, into a house, and Titus fell out of awareness then. Remembered being on a couch, cold and nude, as someone wiped him free of blood and then stitched up his deeper cuts. Remembered a hand in his hair, someone whispering encouragement. Remembered the smell of alcohol and iron.
He didn't feel any pain, staring at the ceiling as if in a trance, and only one thought seemed to permeate the haze :
They should have been faster.
Hours later, Titus found himself sitting on a bed, and night had come. Titus stared out of the window at the sea, numb and dazed, and looked towards the Lucian mainland, though it wasn't visible from here.
Where Titus needed to be, until the Niffs were beaten back.
For the first time in a long while, Titus spent the night watching the water.
One minute, and everything he had ever had was gone.
And even many, many years later, Titus still didn't know what that ship had even been aiming at.
Titus was fifteen when he successfully made it across the sea and onto the mainland.
December.
Titus found on the opposite shore as much gunfire and danger as he expected. The Niffs had breached the beach by then, after over a year of constant fighting, and had pushed the Lucian Army back from the sea and into the hills.
The group that had left the island were twenty strong. When they reached the mainland, there were fourteen of them. When they crossed from Imperial held territory into Lucian held lines, there were six of them. Titus wasn't sure how he was one of them, as many times as he had tripped and dodged in that mad dash.
Miraculous.
That was also when he had seen his very first daemon.
Making it somehow to the Lucian soldiers, running behind them, and feeling that momentary burst of relief. A soldier grabbed the back of his collar, shoved him towards another soldier, who grabbed his arm and dragged him back. As they ran for cover, there was an awful rumbling. Titus could never have described it, because he had never heard it before. Like thunder, but so much worse, and coming from below rather than above.
The soldiers started screaming, calling for retreat, and Titus was just so tired and so scared and so numb that he barely even knew where he was.
Just remembered turning his head, and seeing flickers of blue, coming from the ground. Tendrils of some sort, rising from absolute nothing. Some nightmare come to life.
He didn't glimpse too much more of that daemon, for the soldiers threw him and the other sparse refugees into the back of a truck and started flying off down the road.
His first time in a car—not a great experience.
Somewhere along the way, he threw up onto the road.
When dawn broke, he was in some town, who knew where, and soldiers were patrolling. So many people, coming and going, and Titus was whisked off to a hospital. He was checked, cleared, and sent on his way.
On his way?
Had no idea to where, and so Titus stood there in front of the hospital, hair tangled and snarled, clothes ripped and bloody, shoes falling apart, underweight and pale. He looked around the busy street, shoulders slumped and chin low. He must have looked so lost, because suddenly there was a hand upon his shoulder.
Titus looked up to see a man, dark-haired and dressed very nicely.
Kind eyes.
Titus didn't recognize him, though looking back on it perhaps he should have.
"Are you lost?"
Titus stared up at the stranger for a while, and then said, "I don't know where to go."
He knew his accent was fairly heavy. He never had felt too comfortable in Royal Lucian, though he was certainly proficient. Just never spoke it on the islands outside of school and had little practice in real settings.
The man looked around, as if looking for Titus' guardian, found none, and waved a hand in the air. Two other men came over. Well—one other man came over, and the other was a boy, Titus' age, and yet appearing so much older than Titus, in full uniform of a soldier and beret upon his head.
The well-dressed man turned to them and said, "Cor. Stay with him. We'll try to figure out where he came from."
A nod from the boy with the beret, and the two men wandered off to flag down soldiers.
Titus and the boy stared at each other, and Titus might have felt shame for being such a mess in front of that perfectly pressed boy if he weren't so miserably exhausted. Would have liked nothing more than to lie down there on the street and sleep.
He might have swayed a little, couldn't remember, for the boy came over to his side and grabbed his upper arm.
A long, heavy silence, and then the boy said, "I'm Cor. What's your name?"
"Titus."
The boy called Cor observed him up and down, studied him, and Titus had turned his head before long just because Cor had such piercing eyes.
Cor held him steady the entire time the two men interrogated soldiers, and when they came back, the dark-haired man knelt before Titus and said, "You came a very long way, my friend. You can stay with us tonight, and we'll try to figure out things tomorrow. Is that alright?"
Titus nodded, dumbly, because he was still in shock and he didn't know what else to do.
Cor kept hold of Titus' arm as they began walking, and Titus learned, during the walk, that the two men were named Regis and Clarus. In Titus' daze, it never really occurred to him that Regis was actually Regis Lucis Caelum. Had he known that, he would have been far more anxious.
A while later he found himself in a hotel room, and only when Titus sat down on a chair did Cor release his arm.
Things passed in a blur. He was led to the bathroom, he went into automatic as he took a shower, he was sat down at a table, food and water was set before him, and Cor very carefully untangled Titus' matted hair as Titus picked at his food. Regis and Clarus went out for a while, and when they came back they had new clothes.
Titus didn't remember changing into the clothes. He just remembered very clearly one thing from that night :
Cor taking a jacket and throwing it over Titus' shoulders.
Somehow that had woken him up, and Titus had lifted his eyes up to Cor and been aware of his surroundings and companions for the first time.
Cor stared at him, and didn't say a word.
The jacket was far too big, but Titus gladly huddled up in it.
The following day, Regis found a refugee camp, and walked Titus to it. Titus wanted to stay with them, but knew these strangers were not responsible for him. When they began walking off, Titus attempted to return the jacket.
Cor shook his head.
A soldier came up to Regis, and said, "We'll move them tomorrow morning, your Majesty."
...your Majesty?
That was when Titus realized who Regis really was, was knocked into another daze, and tried once more to return the jacket.
All three of them shook their heads that time, bid him farewell and good luck, and then they walked away.
Cor looked over his shoulder. The others didn't.
Titus found out, not too long after, that the jacket had actually been Clarus', who had tossed it at Cor and instructed him to gift it to Titus.
Even though the jacket had really been Clarus', in Titus' heart and mind it had come from Cor, and that was why, no matter how many times the damn thing fell apart over the subsequent decades, Titus refused to toss it out.
Over the years, Clarus completely forgot that Titus' disintegrating jacket had once been his own, and teased him for still wearing it as much as anyone.
Cor likely remembered, and knew why Titus kept it yet.
Titus was sixteen when he first stepped foot into Insomnia.
The Prince and his Shield had helped to organize a caravan of vehicles to take refugees to the Crown City. Titus was one of them.
It was an absolute culture shock, stepping out of that van and into the grand Crown City. Had never seen so many people, so many buildings, so many cars, so many lights. So much noise, so much chaos, and Titus had been overwhelmed, terrified, absolutely a fish out of water.
The refugee center was quiet on the inside, at least, as Titus sat at long tables with other sad-looking people, eating lunch and trying to figure out where to even start.
It was just chance that Titus happened to be in the makeshift classroom, dutifully studying in the refugee school course, when Regis had come by. Back in the city then, off the frontlines, and he had come to talk to refugees as part of some goodwill effort.
Titus was wearing Clarus' jacket, and Regis had stopped there before him as if stunned.
Titus saw the shadow hovering over him, and looked up from his notebook.
Recognized Regis as easily as Regis had recognized him.
Regis smiled, and said, "I'm glad you made it here safely."
Titus didn't know what to say, and so just uttered, "Thank you. Sire."
Regis smiled at him a little, left shortly after, but he came back the next day and took Titus into a room to speak to him in private.
Regis sat down before him, hands clasped between his knees, and asked, "Are you alone?"
Titus nodded.
"Are your parents coming?"
A pang of hurt, anger, and Titus averted his eyes and shook his head. Regis seemed to understand, and pursed his lips.
A long pause, and then Regis said, out of nowhere, "I would like for you to come to the Citadel to stay, for now. I'll get you into proper classes, and then we can get you settled in somewhere. I'll take you on as my ward, for now. If that's alright with you."
Titus was so stunned, so taken aback, that he was certain he had just entirely misunderstood what Regis had said. Lost in translation. A failing of his Royal Lucian.
But there was no mistake at all, because Titus was in the Citadel the very next day, in a little room on the eleventh floor.
Cor helped him settle in, and Titus was glad to see him.
That first night in his new lodging, Cor stayed for hours and talked to him, got to know him a little, and that was the first time since his parents had died that Titus had really talked to anyone.
Cor meant more to Titus than anyone else, parents aside, and that was the way it stayed for many, many years.
Titus was seventeen.
Regis procured Titus an apartment, a cozy place in the east of the city, and Clarus took Titus out to find him his very first car, though he couldn't drive yet. He had only been in a vehicle a handful of times his entire life, and so Clarus bought him a little old junker.
"Doesn't matter if you crash this piece of shit," Clarus teased, and Titus had scoffed.
Clarus took Titus every day into quiet suburban streets, and taught him to drive.
Titus didn't crash, but Clarus was on the edge of his seat every time Titus slammed too hard on the brakes. He got the hang of it, eventually, and there was really no better place to learn to drive than chaotic Insomnia.
It seemed at some level that Titus was settling in alright.
His accent was fading every day, and by then Cor and Clarus had starting beating Titus into a soldier. Taught him everything they knew, threw him through the wringer, pummeled him into the ground, and Titus tried his best to excel. They must have seen something in him; they wouldn't have tried so hard otherwise.
He joined the Crownsguard that year, at Regis' behest.
He and Cor grew closer, became friends, and Titus considered Cor his brother.
The rest of the city, however...
Titus hadn't come to terms with this life yet. He still had long hair, but tied it back now, still dressed a bit differently than other men, still had an accent despite how much better it was, and still just didn't know how to conduct himself like a local.
Titus stood dutifully at all crosswalks until the light was green, as everyone else knocked him aside and darted over whenever they felt like.
The scars from the explosion that had killed his parents, from the mad dash out of Niff territory, were healed but still so visible. Over his nose, his forehead, his hands, everywhere. Titus looked a bit rough, perhaps, for people glanced at him twice and seemed to avoid him. He didn't understand fully why, until he and Cor had been drinking in a bar one night.
Cor and Titus had sat down, and after a short hesitation the man beside whom Titus had sat suddenly stood up, and griped, loudly, "Ugh, there's more and more of them everyday! They're like ants."
Titus had watched the man go, and had been genuinely bewildered.
More what?
He didn't comprehend at all, until Cor had muttered, in a very dangerous whisper, "Don't listen to assholes like that. Don't let it bother you. These people have been so pampered their entire goddamn lives, they don't even realize how much they really owe refugees."
...oh.
A rise of something that was very close to shame, embarrassment, a little twinge of uncertainty. Hurt.
Titus had never felt welcome here.
Titus' face might have fallen a little as realization set in, because Cor suddenly reached out and slung an arm over his shoulders. A jostle for encouragement. Titus stared into his beer, and wished he could go home. If these people didn't want him here, then he didn't want to be here triply so. He hadn't ever wanted to leave his lands and come here, hell no; he hadn't had a choice.
Insomnia was a hell-hole.
Titus was eighteen.
He stood before the mirror one Saturday night, after too many drinks with Cor, and in an intoxicated fit of frustration he grabbed a pair of scissors, raised them up, and sheared off his hair.
When the first strands hit the ground, it felt as if a part of Titus' very identity had been cut off as well.
Home was gone, for now.
He cut his hair off jaggedly and unevenly, and when Cor came over the next day to hang out, his mouth had fallen open.
"What the hell did you do?"
He looked a mess, he knew. He was hung-over, homesick, regretful, lonely, anything and everything, and his sloppy, uneven haircut was still less of a wreck than Titus himself.
He was surrounded by a million goddamn people, and still felt so alone.
No one here to speak his native language to, no one who looked like the people from his village, no one who dressed like his parents did, no houses with embroidered patterns and painted flowers, nothing at all that he recognized, nothing at all familiar, nothing at all comforting. No sea to sit and watch at night. No forests here, no winter sun hanging below the cold horizon, no aurora in the dark, no lupine fields.
Just steel and glass and people who hated him.
So Titus just shrugged a helpless shoulder and didn't say a word, because if he had tried to talk then he probably would have started crying, and his eyes were already bleary. Stinging.
Cor's stern face softened. A pursing of Cor's lips, a short sigh, and Cor came inside, took up an electric shear, sat Titus down in the kitchen, and properly clipped his hair.
Titus' first real haircut.
Cor was silent the entire while, but when he set the shear aside and Titus looked up at him, Titus thought that maybe Cor's eyes were a bit red, too. That he swallowed.
His friend.
Titus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Cor suddenly marched to the freezer and pulled out a bottle of liquor, and they spent their Sunday morning at Titus' kitchen table, drinking themselves senseless in near silence. They drank all day, and in the evening, when Cor had passed out on Titus' couch, Titus staggered over, threw a blanket over Cor, and then lied down on the floor in front of the couch. Slept there beneath Cor, because he was so miserably lonely that if Cor had left in that moment Titus might have actually thrown himself over the railing of his balcony.
Alone.
Nothing hurt as much as homesickness. Couldn't escape it, couldn't numb it, couldn't force it away.
Like a knife, always twisting in his stomach.
Titus was twenty.
His accent was gone, and no one looked at him twice.
He wasn't considered an 'outsider' anymore, because he had cut his hair and adapted to their clothing, picked up their slang and speech patterns. He passed now for a native Insomnian, and was treated far better for it. No one got up when he sat next to them at bars anymore.
He didn't feel like himself, but there was no one else to be.
Just tried to fit in.
By then, he had become the soldier that Cor and Clarus had worked so hard to twist him into. He wasn't as tall as Cor, but had become broader. He drifted from Cor's training then and more into Clarus', because Clarus had taught Titus to use the great sword and Titus was more comfortable with it.
The Glaives had been invaluable in training him in the daggers, and although Titus wasn't the best with them, they were far more comfortable in his hands than Cor's katana.
Regis stood before Titus that year and asked him if he would leave the Crownsguard and join the Glaives. When Titus was reluctant, Regis hinted that he wanted Titus to lead the Glaives one day, as Cor would lead the Crownsguard.
Honored, perhaps, Titus accepted.
His dream always had been to one day be a Captain; this would just end up being a little different than he had anticipated.
Titus couldn't be on the sea.
Not anymore.
Titus was twenty-two.
King Mors died, and Regis was crowned King. By then Titus had seen and fought so many daemons outside of Insomnia's walls that the no longer flinched when looking at them. Utterly desensitized.
That year was the first time that Titus had left Insomnia since he had arrived. He traveled north, leading a group of soldiers, and fought on the frontlines on the ever encroaching Niff advance. Home was so far behind those lines now that Titus couldn't reach it, but he was close, so close, an awful ache in his chest that lit up like fire.
Not being able to break those Niff lines and push them back had been one of the most devastating moments of Titus' life.
Not being able to make it home.
He pushed hard, fast, furiously, determined and stubborn and fearless, but no matter how hard he tried the lines didn't break, and the Lucian Army was forced ever back.
Titus came back from that battle with more scars and more homesickness, because it felt suddenly as if he would never see his home again.
Wouldn't give up, though. Never.
Titus would have died fighting before he ever gave up on his homelands.
Always, it called to him.
Titus was twenty-four.
Regis named him Captain of the Kingsglaive that year, the same year that Cor had become Marshal of the Crownsguard. They were the talk of the town, it seemed, both of them so young to have already made it to the top. Shortly after that, adding to Titus' growing accolades, Titus bested Clarus in a fight at last.
Had been a surreal feeling, standing above Clarus with his sword at Clarus' throat. More of a rush than being named Captain had been, in all honesty.
Clarus stared up at him in shock, scoffed, and then said, "Good job! You've earned your title."
Pride.
His title was tested far too soon and too hard when Ifrit burst into the city.
One of Titus' more frantic days, for sure, as he and Clarus ran in circles and shouted and panicked and tried to figure out what the hell was even happening. Standing there on the top of a building, uniform blowing in the wind, his earpiece crackling with screaming Glaives, breathless and wide-eyed as he watched an Astral setting the Crown City on fire—
It felt then as if the entire world had gone mad.
There was nothing that could ruin a man's ego and sense of accomplishment quite like standing before an actual god.
Titus had never been as hopelessly aghast as he was that day, and when a Glaive cried into his ear, "Captain! What the fuck are we supposed to do?" Titus had just screeched back, "Fuckin' do something! Take it down!"
"How do ya take down a god?"
Good goddamn question, and Titus didn't know what else to do except summon his dagger and start warping across the buildings to get to that giant pain in the ass as quick as he could. Didn't even know where to start, but dropped into the midst of his Glaives all the same, and tried to coordinate.
Titus summoned his great sword, one of the Glaives covered it in ice, and Titus used every bit of strength he had to strike out at Ifrit's heel. A darkening of the fire, a dimming, but only for a second, and it had little effect.
One of the Glaives cried, "We're fucked!"
"We're fucked," Titus affirmed, readying his sword again, "But we're gonna keep tryin'!"
Titus had no plan, and it wasn't his greatest display as Captain, no, losing his head like that and barging in. He didn't know what else to do, and he couldn't just stand above and do nothing.
Clarus' voice in his ear, then.
"Titus! I see you down there! What are you doin'? Pull back! I need you with me at the Citadel if this thing is comin' for the King!"
Clarus was Titus' superior, and Titus should have just said, 'On my way.'
Instead, Titus said, "I'll get there when I get there! I'm busy now!"
"Titus—!"
Titus gathered up his men and barged again, to no effect.
Titus' stubbornness came out in full that day, and it wasn't his best side.
After the battle, when it was all done, Cor had found Titus at last, seemed relieved to see him alive, and Cor had reached out to run a hand over Titus' singed hair.
"That was close," Cor snorted, as singed and blackened Titus glared at him. "You look a little well-done."
A tease to calm his nerves, but it didn't work so well.
Ashamed of himself as he was.
That day was one of the worst in Titus' memory, an absolute debacle, and Titus was quite shocked that Regis hadn't fired him the following day.
Regis had clapped Titus' shoulder instead and said, "You did well, my friend! Your men saved the city from much destruction. My condolences for those lost."
Titus had stared at Regis in disbelief, because he hadn't felt that he had done well, not in the slightest. Hadn't had a grip on the situation, hadn't been in complete control, hadn't had his head entirely in the game.
All the same, a new medal was pinned on Titus' breast, despite Titus having to pin medals on twenty-two new Glaive tombstones in the Royal Mausoleum.
From that day, Titus worked on keeping composure. On remaining blank, stoic, calm, collected. To be like Cor, always unshakeable and always in control.
Titus learned from that day, and steadily mastered the art of controlling emotions and impulses.
One day, it would come in handy for more than he anticipated.
Titus was twenty-eight.
For the first time, Titus bested Cor in a fight.
A shock to the both of them, perhaps, because gods knew Titus had always given it his all, had always tried so hard to come out on top, and yet Cor had always been one step ahead.
Not that day.
Something had worked in Titus' favor, something had clicked in his head, and when Cor struck at him, so fast, Titus managed to parry as he fell back. A shift of his great sword and a summoning of his dagger.
That time it was Cor crouching above and Titus lying on his back, but it was the tip of Titus' dagger pressed into the skin above Cor's heart.
Cor scoffed, and didn't seem to comprehend at first.
Titus couldn't stop the smug smile, and said, eagerly, "It's about goddamn time!"
Cor pulled back, stood up straight, and griped, "Every dog must have his day."
Cor extended his hand to Titus, and hauled him to his feet. Titus couldn't stop smirking, and Cor rolled his eyes, knowing full well that Titus was going to harp on this for many a day to come.
And he did.
He felt on top of the world.
As always, that world he knew crashed down.
Titus was summoned in the middle of the night to an emergency council.
The lands to the north were falling, the Niffs were pushing, and the wall was crumbling. The council was gathered to determine whether continuing to send Lucian troops was still an option. A full retreat had been ordered, and now Titus' home hung in the balance.
Titus must have looked panicked; Cor kept glancing at him in worry.
Regis ran a hand over his forehead, and said, "This decision is not to be made lightly—"
"Sire! We cannot hold them off anymore, their numbers are too great, and our troops are spread too thin."
Titus felt sick, dizzy and bewildered.
Another councilman spoke up.
"Sire, we should focus our strength on Galahd. It will be a much greater blow to lose those lands and their natural resources—"
"I agree, Highness, the archipelago is lost! Those lands serve little purpose now without access to the sea. To lose the iron and gas of Galahd would be a great blow. We must abandon the northern territories and focus now on the west!"
Titus' eyes snapped back and forth between the bickering councilmen, and he fell into a bit of a daze then, heart thudding and the ice of dread flowing in his veins. Stunned, perhaps, that this conversation was even occurring.
Little purpose? Had those word really been spoken?
That was where Titus had been born—
One of the most surreal and infuriating moments of Titus' existence. Watching old men safe behind a wall discussing the fate of Titus' home.
Regis finally lifted his head, ran his hands down his face, and then said, "All in favor of continuing the push in the north?"
Titus' hand flew so furiously into the air that he nearly smacked the councilman sitting next to him. A glance around, as his pulse raced. Cor had raised his hand. Three other councilmen.
...that was all?
Stunned and breathless, Titus felt the world sink under, looking over all the council in turn, lips parted and eyes wide. Cor stared at the table, brow low and lips pursed. Clarus hadn't raised his hand—why hadn't Clarus raised his hand? The councilmen turned their heads when Titus stared them down.
They averted their gazes; couldn't even look Titus in the eye, the cowards.
"All in favor of full retreat from the north?"
Dozens of hands flew up, and Titus felt numb.
Dazed.
Like too much else in his life, it happened too fast, far too fast, and once more, in just a minute, Titus lost everything he had ever known.
Titus lost his home, then, because iron deposits in the west were more important.
Bitterness.
Titus was twenty-nine.
In his bedroom, suitcase on the bed, angrily tossing every bit of clothing he owned inside, brow low and lips pursed and sometimes whirling around to kick the nightstand.
The north had been abandoned, Titus' home utterly forsaken.
The Lucian Army was in Galahd now, and Titus' home was Imperial.
Titus woke up that morning, and couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't stand it here. Couldn't stand seeing Regis, Clarus, those councilmen. Couldn't stand being in this city, this fuckin' hell-hole that he hated, this city that had always been safe and took it for granted. Couldn't stand seeing these pompous, arrogant, spoiled people, who thought they were better than the rest because they had been born into security.
Couldn't stand knowing that he had worked so hard, so hard, only for Regis to give his lands over to the Empire without so much as a word of protest.
Titus hated Regis then, more than he had ever hated any other man.
Regis hadn't even argued. Hadn't thought about it.
He couldn't take it anymore, and so that morning Titus had dressed in civilian wear, folded up his Kingsglaive uniform, and marched right into council. He set the uniform on the chair that he normally would have sat in, looked Regis in the eye, and said, so plainly, "I'm leaving. Replace me with someone whose lands are still Lucian."
Cor leapt up from the table, as Titus glanced at him.
That expression on Cor's face. Awful. Could never have described it.
The look of a man whose only friend and brother was stepping off a ledge.
Titus would miss Cor, and tried so hard to express that with his eyes alone in that brief moment their eyes locked. A crinkle in Cor's brow, an inhale, but Titus turned on his heel then and stalked out.
He went to his flat, and began packing.
As if he had much.
A sudden shift of shadows in the corner.
Titus blinked, furrowed his brow, stared, and then shook his head and carried on angrily packing. Seeing things now, in his fury.
He couldn't wait to hit the road and leave this miserable city behind. Imperial lands or no, Titus was going home, where he belonged. If he had to start a one-man army there and fight the Empire himself, then so be it. He'd fight anyone and anything that came into his home.
Another movement in the corner, in his peripheral, and Titus once more glanced to the corner.
He gave a short cry in alarm, and jumped.
A man stood suddenly in his corner, out of thin air, and Titus summoned up his sword instinctively and fell into battle stance.
What the hell—?
The man stepped forward, hands held up before him, and said, in a very condescending voice that Titus automatically detested, "Calm down, now. I'm just here to talk."
"Who are you? How the hell did you get in here?"
The man smirked, and offered, "I have my ways."
Suddenly, the man was gone, and then that voice was behind him. Titus whirled around, stupefied and anxious, as the man leered at him from the other side of the room.
"Settle down. I merely came to extend you an offer. I couldn't help but notice you seem rather displeased at the King. I come to invite you to Gralea."
Titus scoffed, sword held ever ready.
The very last place he ever wanted to be.
"Get out."
It didn't really matter too much to Titus in that moment who the man was or how he was able to materialize wherever he wanted. Titus was on a mission to go home, by the gods, and didn't want any delays.
"Will you not even speak to the Emperor? King Regis may have forsaken your lands, but perhaps they may yet be saved. Wouldn't it be a grand thing for you, after so much hard work, for you to see your homeland become an autonomous oblast? Or perhaps even a sovereign nation?"
A furrow of Titus' brow, a very slight lowering of his sword.
"What are you talking about?"
Titus was only one man, and not an important one, as Regis had recently made very clear by letting Titus' home go so easily. Titus meant nothing to Regis, and never had. Regis had made use of Titus, and nothing more.
"Come to Gralea. Everything will be explained there. The Emperor has a proposition for you. You may find it quite to your liking. What else do you have to lose?"
What did he have to lose?
Not a goddamn thing. Had already lost everything possible.
Titus couldn't really explain perfectly how everything had come to pass, but the next thing he knew he was driving out of the city, to the north, towards home, but instead of going home Titus found himself stepping up onto a dreadnaught.
Shortly after, Titus stood in foreign lands in a dim room in front of the Emperor.
The Emperor stared at Titus, but it was Ardyn, his smarmy Chancellor, who spoke the entire while. Hours it felt like Ardyn spoke, and Titus was led from the throne room into some sort of basement, into rooms that contained things he had never wanted to see.
Titus learned more in that day in Gralea than he had ever thought was possible for one man to learn.
The offer was rather simple, for all of the lead up :
Sign himself to the Empire, become their soldier, and yet return to Insomnia as a double agent. Help the Empire destroy Lucis, and in return, upon the fall of Insomnia and the end of the line of Lucis Caelum, the Empire would withdraw from the northern archipelago and leave it autonomous. Free.
His home, freed from violence and war.
It was tempting.
But...
At last, Titus lifted his head, met the Emperor's eyes, and said, firmly, "No. I decline your offer. I'm going home."
It was tempting, but Titus wanted to go home now, not later, was sick of Insomnia, was sick of this entire kingdom, and he was fully prepared to go back to his place of birth, bury his parents' remains properly, settle into his old house, and carry on as he had always intended.
As Titus turned and meant to leave, Ardyn called, cheerily, "I regret to inform you that this wasn't an actual request, as much as a demand."
Titus fell still, feeling the first stir of anxiety.
Titus looked over his shoulder all the same, and whispered, "Make me."
At the time, in Titus' defense, he didn't completely understand what Ardyn was and what he was capable of.
Ardyn lifted his shoulders, snorted, and said, so casually, "Do you remember all that fun we had a few years ago? When I brought my friend Ifrit into Insomnia? I can do that anywhere. It would be a shame for you to go home for there to be nothing but ashes."
Dread.
Titus turned around, and swore he could feel those awful flames all over again.
Ardyn crossed his arms over his chest and said, in a softer voice, "However much you may hate us, Captain, don't you hate your King just a little bit more?"
...well, yes, actually. Yes he did.
Titus had given everything he had to Insomnia, everything, had devoted his entire life to Regis, and Regis hadn't even had the decency to come to Titus alone and try to explain whatever reasoning he may have had. Regis hadn't even said, 'I'm sorry.'
Bitterness had long since festered into hate.
Ardyn swept forward, sensing Titus faltering, and extended his hand.
It was a good long while before Titus begrudgingly accept it.
Didn't seem like he had much choice in the matter.
But it was done then, all of it, and by the end of that day Titus had a suit of magitek armor. He had a new name shortly after; General Glauca. After that, a new title; High Commander.
Everything seemed to happen so fast. Barely had time to wrap his head around it.
Titus' head was a mess, didn't know if he was actually doing the right thing, but in the end he was fighting always for his home, and this way was just a bit easier than fighting the entire Imperial Army by himself.
Maybe.
Two days later, Titus retuned to Insomnia.
A place he hated and had never wanted to see again, and then he was standing before a man he hated and never wanted to see again, when he burst into council as abruptly as he had the day he had left.
Everyone jumped, and once more Cor leapt to his feet.
This time, Regis did, too.
A very long, very awkward silence.
Cor closed his eyes momentarily, in what Titus knew was relief, as the council stared, and Regis finally uttered, so softly, "My friend. Have you forgiven us?"
Titus lifted his head and looked the council over in turn, before his eyes fell atop Cor. A softening of Cor's face, a lift of his brow, an electric stare between them, and it was easy for Titus to see how glad Cor was that Titus hadn't left.
When Titus spoke at last, his eyes then on Clarus, he merely said, thinly, "No, your Majesty. I just realized I didn't have anywhere else to go."
A pursing of Regis' lips, but he inclined his head regardless and seemed to accept the dismissal.
"Shall you remain on my council?"
"If the council allows."
A low round of murmuring, whispering, conversing, and Regis called, "All in favor of reinstitution?"
Cor was the first to raise his hand, Clarus on his heels, and the others soon followed.
No one denied Titus reentry, because perhaps at some level letting Titus return assuaged some guilt they might have had for giving away Titus' home so easily.
Titus was shortly after in uniform again, and sitting at council as if he had never left.
Cor stared at him the entire time.
As soon as they were alone, Cor came up, and Titus expected a clap on the shoulder, a handshake, a word of encouragement.
Not quite.
Cor reached him, stopped, stared at him, and Titus was a bit startled when Cor broke form and reached out to embrace him, firmly and fervently. Titus returned it with as much enthusiasm, Cor clapped his back, and when they broke apart, Cor just whispered, "I'm glad you stayed."
A little twinge of regret, pushed easily aside.
"So am I," Titus said, and meant it.
For different reasons.
Titus was thirty-one.
By then, he had gotten used to his double life. He didn't become General Glauca all too often. Only when Regis left Insomnia to fight, and only then to create Glauca as a player in the game. Every time Regis left Insomnia, Titus would make a point of making Glauca's presence known.
It wasn't hard to create a fearsome reputation, with the frightening appearance of the magitek armor and the way his voice warped beneath it.
The legend of General Glauca grew faster than Titus had anticipated.
In Insomnia, life went on as normal. Many new Glaives these days, many from Galahd now, as the Imperial assault focused there.
That was when the trio had first come to him. Nyx, Libertus, and Luche. Young, dumb kids, fresh from the wilds of Galahd, and when they had signed themselves over to the Kingsglaive, Titus had stared at them hard because it was like looking at himself, long ago.
Hopeful. Thinking they were wanted, welcome, that they would join the Glaives and change the world. Thinking they would accomplish something. Thinking they owed Regis this service, Nyx in particular.
That didn't last too long.
Just a few months, actually.
The three of them were gathered in a corner one day, muttering to each other in Galahdian, and Titus had approached them because it seemed as if they were distressed.
"Something wrong?" Titus asked, and they turned to look at him.
They switched into a language Titus could understand, and it was Luche who asked, in an angry whisper, "Why are people treatin' us like this? I don't understand. I tried to walk into a bar last night and got kicked out! I didn't do anything wrong, I just walked in."
Titus looked them over, softened his face, and he felt for them, he really did.
He'd been there.
Dumb kids; they had to learn sooner or later.
Titus hated it, but said all the same, "Look at you. Really look at yourselves. You don't fit in. You're foreigners. Outsiders. Go home tonight and really look at yourselves. Your clothes. Your hair. Your tattoos. You don't belong here. They're never going to treat you the way you want them to. They're never going to want you here."
Libertus, hothead that he was, pointed to the window at the city below, and cried, "I busted my ass outside that wall yesterday for them! How can you say they don't want us here? We're the ones keepin' 'em safe!"
Titus scoffed.
"You're nameless shields. Faceless. To the public, you're only there to shield them from Imperial bullets. You think they care how you feel? Get over yourselves. You're never going to be welcomed by these people. Don't expect to be. You fight to keep the King safe, and therefore to keep hope alive. You fight the Empire for the country entire, not just for these people. If Insomnia falls, Lucis falls. If Lucis falls, all of our homes fall. That's what you fight for. Don't get any illusions about how you'll be treated in the meanwhile."
The harsh reality of being an immigrant in Insomnia.
They were silent, sullen. Hated raining on their parade, but it was for the best if they lowered their expectations.
Several months later, Titus noticed Luche sitting in the mess hall alone. Nyx and Libertus were well on the other side of the room, and that was odd. Titus went over to Luche, whose eyes were very firmly downcast, and asked, as he had before, "Something wrong?"
Luche was quiet for a moment, and then uttered, quietly, "I wanted to cut my hair."
Titus felt a pang of hurt in his chest that wasn't for Luche exactly.
That old homesickness, rearing its head as if often did.
"Why didn't you?"
Luche glanced over at Nyx and Libertus, and grumbled, "They made it sound like I was... As if cutting my hair would mean I was givin' up being Galahdian. As if I was turnin' my back or something. It's not like that. I just hate people looking at me the way they do."
Luche was staring ever downwards, and Titus was silent for a moment.
It wasn't easy, letting go of that last little bit of your identity. Losing a part of yourself just to fit in to a place that didn't even want you there.
Finally, Titus said, "Look at me."
Luche lifted his eyes.
"You can have long hair in Insomnia, or you can be an immigrant. You can't have both. Cut your hair. It won't change what you fight for. I cut mine."
Luche's incredulous look.
Titus walked away without another word.
The next day, Luche's hair was shorn.
Titus was thirty-four.
Heart hammering and nerves shot, and yet resolve and will set in iron. He felt anxious, out of sorts, but never faltered. He sat perfectly still on that dreadnaught, sword in between his knees and already in full armor. He wasn't looking forward to the task at hand, no, but it was a necessary evil.
It was Tenebrae's turn to fall.
'Kill the King and get the ring if you can,' Ardyn said, orders he had never given before when Regis had gone outside the city. 'Leave the Prince and the Princess alive. Do what you want with the rest.'
What Titus wanted was to leave the rest quite alone.
His goal was Regis, and Regis only. He struck down only those who got in his way.
That day wasn't the day Regis was meant to fall, clearly, for Titus was unable to strike him down so easily, and then Regis had grabbed Noctis. It would be too hard to kill Regis with Noctis in his arms without risking Noctis' life, too, and Ardyn had been very specific.
The Imperials soldiers dropping down around him began firing on the Tenebraean soldiers, and Titus stood inert and annoyed when the MTs followed and the flamethrowers came out.
Regis had fled by then, ever the righteous coward, leaving the Oracle and her children alone under Imperial fire. Shocking. Except not.
Titus watched Regis go, Clarus on his heels, and the soldiers tailing him had enough sense not to shoot, knowing as well that Noctis was off limits.
A scream, and Titus turned his head to see the MTs setting the Queen ablaze.
Disgraceful.
He shot forward, plunged his sword through her, and considered it a mercy. No one, after all, ever wanted their death to be by burning. Cruel and unnecessary. She had only been put into this position because of Regis.
She fell, and her son stared up at Titus in shock. Titus stared right back at him, and saw himself there, so long ago. Odd to be standing on the other end. An Imperial killing a parent in front of their child.
At some level, though it was very wrong of him, Titus was glad that someone else could suffer the way he had.
To feel what he had felt.
Titus walked away, looked up at the swaying trees, so tall above him, and tried to pretend that he was back home in his own forest.
He wasn't.
Titus was thirty-five.
It was Titus rather than Ardyn who went to Ravus and swayed him over to their side, because Titus really did see himself in Ravus, if only by circumstance. It wasn't hard to do at all, and Ravus put up far less resistance than Titus ever had.
Ravus was bitter, wanted revenge, sought vengeance, but Titus had actually been a bit surprised by how little convincing Ravus had needed.
Titus had gone to Ravus as Glauca, and even when Ravus stared at the man who had killed his mother (technically), he hadn't flinched.
They stood at an impasse, and Titus asked, curtly, "Are you angry?"
"Yes," Ravus had very simply replied.
"Are you angry at the Empire?"
"Yes."
"Are you angry at the King of Lucis?"
A more fervent, "Yes."
Ravus was very calm, very collected, brow low and lips pursed and at perfect attention. No visible anger upon his face, despite his declaration, and Titus saw far too much of himself there in Ravus. A seventeen-year-old boy, being thrust into a world he didn't recognize because the Kings of Lucis cared only for their own, locked away within their royal city.
So Titus pressed his sword into the ground between his feet, and asked, very bluntly, "Do you desire vengeance against the King of Lucis for abandoning you?"
"Yes."
"Will you join the Empire and aid in the destruction of Lucis?"
"Yes."
At that, Titus pried, "Why? I killed your mother. The Empire has taken your lands. Your ancestral home is annexed. Why aid us?"
Honestly wanted to know, because even Titus had rejected the Empire's terms at first, and older than Ravus was. Perhaps Ravus' young age swayed his decision—still a child, after all, irrational and easy to rile.
Ravus lifted his gaze to meet where Titus' eyes would have been were they visible, and didn't seem torn or hesitant at all when he said, "For two thousand years my bloodline has aided the Kings of Lucis. Offering our life and blood. Suffering the gods and subverting ourselves. The King of Lucis came to us for help. We gave it. And when you fell down amidst us, he ran, and left us alone. I hate the Empire, more than you know. But in my heart now I know I hate Lucis more. The Empire has never professed to be something they're not, unlike the King of Lucis, who proclaims to be a savior and yet abandons those who need him the most."
That was good enough, because Titus felt the same way.
Titus held his great sword in one hand, and with the other he flicked his wrist and summoned the sword the Empire had made for Ravus, in case of his acceptance.
Titus gripped it in the middle by the sheath and held it out. Ravus didn't hesitate, coming instantly forward and accepting the sword in both hands. He looked pointedly at Titus as he took it, and Titus could sense that Ravus had understood what Titus meant for him to.
Titus using the Lucian ability to summon arms had been intentional. Letting Ravus know that there was someone in the kingdom working behind the scenes. An extra sense of security.
Ravus clenched the sword tightly, and Titus said, plainly, "Welcome to the Imperial Army. You'll be trained extensively."
"By you?" Ravus asked, and Titus wondered if Ravus might have wanted to be trained by Titus to learn how Titus fought, in order to one day take him down, as Titus had bested Cor and Clarus.
"No," Titus replied, and Ravus averted his gaze.
Titus wouldn't make the mistake that his friends had.
Ravus left Tenebrae and went to Gralea.
As the dreadnaught left Tenebrae, Titus stared out at the sylleblossom field, and was reminded of the lupine fields at home. How they swayed in the breeze of the sea.
Titus fought for two countries that he hated because, at the end of all things, he just wanted to go home.
However many years passed, on the very brink of sleep, Titus could swear that he smelled the cold sea. The aroma of the blanket his mother had made for him. The scent of the pine trees on the wind. The faint but comforting spice of the hazel flowers in the cold sunrise.
Home.
That smell that could never possibly be imitated anywhere else in any way.
Home—gone. All of it, lost in ashes. Insomnia was his 'home' now, however much he detested it. Couldn't get away from it yet, not yet, and so now he sat here on the couch of the man sworn to the line of Kings that Titus had been tasked with dispatching.
The world truly was bizarre.
Ignis listened to Titus speak, and never uttered a word.
He told Ignis about himself and his home, naturally with a very good many omissions. Told Ignis everything he could, and that of course was enough for Titus because he had never told anyone anything at all.
They had shifted by then, and Ignis was at his side, head resting on Titus' shoulder and Titus' arm holding him close. Ignis' left hand rested atop Titus' thigh, and that might have been one of his happier moments.
Doing nothing at all except talking.
Perhaps one day, on his deathbed, Titus would tell Ignis the entire truth, and offer him up those bits of his life that he had so neatly failed to mention during this spiel. When he had nothing left to lose.
When Titus stopped speaking, Ignis lifted his head and kissed Titus' cheek.
And very abruptly, very randomly, Ignis changed the subject.
Perhaps Ignis had sensed Titus' melancholy and was trying to distract him from it, for Ignis suddenly blurted out with absolutely no context, "Noctis once defiled a painting in the Citadel. I snuck in after hours and fixed it so that no one would know."
Titus blinked, turned his head, and asked, in utter confusion, "What?"
Ignis stared up at him, and said, very seriously, "Well. If we're spilling our souls to each other."
Titus gaped at Ignis, and then, out of nowhere, Titus started laughing.
Unbelievable. Of all things to say!
Titus rested his head back on the couch, raised a hand over his face, and sighed. Yeah, it would figure that Ignis' deepest, darkest secret was that he had taken paint to an invaluable heirloom in order to keep Noctis from getting into trouble.
But dammit all if Titus didn't feel miles better when he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Ignis. From Ignis' very soft, very pretty smile, it was precisely what Ignis had intended.
They pressed their heads together, and started talking, just like that.
They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, and the entire while Ignis' hand never let go of Titus'.
Titus was very painfully aware of how content he was sitting there, how much he wanted to be there, how happy and safe he felt within these walls, with this man, and knew not to get used to it because it could never be.
Against all odds, Titus was in love.
Didn't think it would hurt so much. Like that old knife in his stomach, twisting still, but now for love more than homesickness.
The hour was suddenly very late, and they had finally trickled down into silence, as sleep crept up.
And so Titus stood up to leave, and Ignis opened his mouth.
Titus bristled, held his breath, waited.
In the end, Ignis just said, "Goodnight, Titus. Thank you for confiding in me."
Disappointment.
He wanted to stay the night, wanted Ignis to ask him, and yet knew he couldn't.
Titus couldn't stay, because if he stayed then Ignis would know for sure that he was falling in love because Titus would have cracked. Would have said it aloud, perhaps, and made a fool of himself. Ignis was already catching on, it wouldn't be long now before Ignis cut him off, and Titus didn't want that end to be any more painful to his ego than it absolutely needed to be, not now, not when he had just told someone for the first time about his home.
He didn't stay, but oh—
How he wanted to.
Had Ignis asked it of him, he would have.
Titus only replied, "Thank you for asking."
He kissed Ignis' forehead, and left. He trudged down the stairwell, stomach churning and chest heavy. The longing of wanting something that was right in front of him but always out of reach.
He glanced up, by chance.
Ignis was leaning on the railing above, watching him go with a smile.
A jolt of his heart, a rush of adrenaline, and Titus fled. Fled, because he wanted to stay, wanted to clench Ignis up and cling to him all goddamn night.
The only person that seemed to care about him.
Couldn't stay, and so Titus got into his car and sped out, pulse pounding and feeling something that he hoped to the gods wasn't distraught.
Titus didn't sleep that night. Tossing and turning, and he looked like hell the next morning. He ducked out of council and used a different corridor than he usually did, because he couldn't stand to see Ignis then, not in that state, not in that mood.
Was this what it felt like to be lovesick?
He wouldn't know, but it hurt.
In Titus' efforts to avoid Ignis, however, he only ended up causing himself more grief :
Titus rounded the corner, dazed as he was, and nearly crashed into equally rushing Cor.
An awful impasse, as they skidded to a halt before each other, eyes locked and stances stiff. Titus took a step back, gave Cor the floor, and maybe that was because he missed Cor, and hoped that conceding to him a bit would warm Cor up.
Hardly, and perhaps rightfully so.
Cor just stared away at Titus, unblinking and unmoving, and then, when Titus opened his mouth to speak, Cor abruptly sidestepped him and quickly carried on. Titus looked over his shoulder and watched him go, and felt a little twinge of regret.
Titus hadn't meant to fall in love. That had been an accident.
Cor walked away from him, and Titus couldn't stand it. Because there was no one else around, Titus abruptly said, in hardly more than a whisper, "I miss you."
A hesitation, as Cor fell suddenly still.
Titus held his breath, hopefully, as Cor ever so slightly turned his head, not enough to look back at Titus but clearly at some level wanting to. But then a shift, a movement, and Cor started walking again. Titus' shoulders fell a bit, but he nodded at Cor's back all the same, for there was little else to do.
He hadn't wronged Cor, but he had wounded him.
So he watched Cor go without a word, and then carried on as well. Nearly a year now, since he and Cor had spoken unless it had been something absolutely necessary. Missed that man. The only real friend he had had in his life.
One day, perhaps, Cor would understand that Titus hadn't done it intentionally.
Cor hadn't meant to fall in love. Why couldn't he understand that Titus hadn't, either? Both of them were suffering, because neither of them would really get what they wanted.
Cor walked away from him, and in a way, it was as if the last true tie he had to this city had walked away with him. Nothing here at all, except Ignis. And Ignis, in the end, simply couldn't be, even more so now that Ardyn had taken an interest.
All Titus had ever really wanted was to go home.
It wasn't his fault that suddenly he wanted to take Ignis there with him.