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.
Danger, Danger
Note: I wasn't going to write this, but decided that I need more soft Lunardyn in my life, and that I deserve it.
He looks haphazard and utterly unmade, a sleepy, sated look gracing the chancellor's face as his more eclectic vestments are left to a chair in the corner. The man is no fool; he knows she is awake, lying still in the warmth of the morning sun, the very thing he's perhaps moved to avoid. If he's noticed her lingering eyes, Ardyn has given her no indication, hands braced on the porcelain of the vanity as he stares vacantly into the washroom mirror. When the dawn comes, he's quick to cover up, as if he bears some aversion to direct sunlight. That would certainly explain his attire, all long sleeves and layers, materials that ward away light rather than welcome it. All in all, fully dressed, he appears as some great shadow, seeking to drown others in the undertow which follows him.
There is something terribly off about this man; she's seen it, felt it crawl beneath his skin, suffered incomparable bouts of nausea in his presence. She's yet to ascertain precisely why, but Lunafreya is aware that it is utterly inhuman, her reactions those of any sensible creature seeking to escape the proximity of a predator. But in this light – streaming through soft white curtains to pool gently on the area rug beneath her bed – he seems far less intimidating.
She sits herself up against pillows pushed against the headboard, sweeping a hand lazily through her blond hair, still watching him through the open washroom door. Ardyn has not seen fit to move for several minutes, seemingly caught up in a trance within the mirror, and the Oracle cannot stop her mind from wondering just what it is that flows through his own. What manner of life he must have lived to be as he is now, so terribly broken but stitched together with frightening precision.
Lunafreya blinks, and he is gone, the double doors to her chambers closing behind him with a soft sound. She takes that as her cue to prepare for the day, for a lady such as she cannot present herself before the house staff in such a state of obvious discord.
In spite of gentle splotches of sunlight, the floor is cool beneath her feet, and she moves quickly to avoid the discomfort for too long. Her morning rituals pass by in a blur, the water in the clawfoot tub rising almost to the brim as it swallows her up, sweet smelling oils and tinctures applied to soft, pale skin. It is in no less than fifteen minutes that the lady stands where the chancellor had a short time ago, fingers curling into the dip of the sink where his own had been as if trying to call to mind the very images that had frozen him in place.
It works, much to her surprise, and she is again greeted with flickering warm images of wheat fields and trees, sylleblossom blooms and crisp morning skies as clouds drift lazily by. Rather than bearing witness to the scene as she had the first time, the Oracle finds herself in the moment, day and age still unknown to her, tall grass rising up from the earth to lick at her knees.
A presence from behind draws her attention, and it is the familiar face of the dark-haired man into which she stares. Her mouth moves to speak his name – Noctis? – but what pushes past her lips is but the whisper of a name Lunafreya has only heard in passing.
Somnus.
Almost as quickly as she was thrust into the vision, the Oracle finds herself standing once more with her fingers poised upon the sink's edge, breathless and heart racing, a lingering sheen of sweat appearing upon her brow. The washrag she'd used to cleanse her face is taken in a trembling hand, the remaining water having grown cool, providing a welcome bit of relief as she ushers salt away from her skin.
This unknown man ever on her mind, Lunafreya – now dressed in pristine white – departs her bedchambers, and makes her way down the corridors to play hostess to the man who awaits her in the parlor.
They sit opposite one another at table, a member of the kitchen staff appearing terribly flustered as the chancellor dismisses their many offers for a morning meal, insisting that he's comfortable enough with a glass of wine. Lunafreya has only ever seen him eat in passing, and she wonders – utensil drawn to her own lips – if, perhaps, it all tastes to him like ash. That can't be, she recalls, for he is nothing if not eager to indulge in alcohol, and she masks a small smile upon thinking that he is very much like a child in that way, insistent upon his preferred sweets to anything else.
As if he's heard her thoughts themselves, Ardyn lifts his gaze across the table, an unsettling emptiness in his vibrant eyes that the Oracle dismisses as but fatigue. She herself must bear an expression of some concern, for the man before her vanishes, replaced once more with the conniving chancellor that Lunafreya knows she ought to fear.
Her eyes wander for a long moment through the unruly waves of his hair, down to the almost ludicrous collar of his shirt and lower still. For a moment, it seems as though the damage to his skin shines right through the fabric, radiating waves of heat and darkness that both call to and threaten her all at once. The audible snap of his joints pull her from reverie, an amused smirk plastered upon his face as though he knows the sound serves to irk her. He is correct. She's heard such things far too often for her liking, and finds herself lost in memories of her own, having arrived far too late to aid the people of far too many villages scattered across the Lucian kingdom. She is reminded of the breaking of bones, the howls of daemons at dusk, the slick wet sound of flesh being rent in pieces and devoured.
Rather abruptly, Lunafreya finds herself feeling rather ill.
How abhorrent, she thinks, that this man believes such things to be a genuine a source of amusement, and she is yet again drawn to and disgusted by him. A hand is pressed to her lips a moment, the other seeking out the glass of water placed just beyond her plate. She draws it close, draining the container with a fervor perhaps unbefitting a princess and emissary of the gods. She cares not, would much rather appear a bit flustered than give the chancellor further satisfaction in making her retch. With the glass left with only ice at the bottom, Lunafreya sets it down upon the table, flicks her eyes up in time to see that this man has seen fit to stand, replace his coat and hat and begin fussing with buttons and buckles to ensure all is as it should be.
He stalks around the length of the table, and the Oracle finds herself standing as he draws near. As always, Ardyn towers over her, ever amused, tracing the curve of her jaw with a touch far gentle for that of a man playing at politician. No, his is the caress of a lover, and Lunafreya finds herself stiffening as a member of the waitstaff enters the dining hall.
She does not dare move as he leans in to plant a chaste kiss upon her cheek, heart thrumming a mile a minute within her breast. This man is dangerous, unnatural and strange, and where the Oracle ought to push him away, reviled by his proximity, she elects instead to lay hand against his chest. Ardyn stills, tension palpable beneath the lady's fingertips, and she curls her hand into a fist, holding him to her for a moment longer than they both know is appropriate. He permits this, lingering several seconds before pulling away, regarding her with but a gentle incline of his head as he takes his leave down the corridor, staff hurrying after him.
Lunafreya draws breath through her nose and holds it, his scent infectious, the truth of their entanglement once again striking through her mind as lightning. This man is dangerous, she thinks, and – in due time – he will be the end of her life upon this Star.