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.
Far From Salvation
Note: Based on the alternative ending we were supposed to have the pleasure of playing through, Dawn of the Future.
He's always been an absolute hit with the children, their large eyes lighting up like fireworks when he strolls languidly into a room. Without effort, he manages to steal their attention away from their ever busy father, quickly becoming a plaything for them to climb on, to chase, to pull every which way until he's lost all sense of direction. Absent their affections, however, the man is distant and dour, electing to shut himself away among the pages of books.
She has long since forgiven him any trespass against her, her country, her family. In Tenebrae, there were many nights where the then Oracle was granted chance to communicate at length with the woman who had stolen his heart. Bits of the ancient's memories, often hazy and warm, have given her insight into what who and what he was. Having been witness to the stark difference, Lunafreya finds – with little surprise – that she greatly prefers the man with gentle eyes.
When faced with her reflection in the mirror, she can see the striking similarities in their appearance, hers and that of her ancestress – of her daughter, even. They must remind him so of Aera. It's little wonder he's become so keen on satisfying the princess, appearing wounded at even the threat of bitter tears. He's yet to look at her with such fondness, but Lunafreya does not bear a grudge. Rather she pities him, perhaps now more than ever, miraculously blessed with salvation from the scourge.
It's unlikely he considers any of this to be remotely close to salvation.
With roiling thunderheads threatening the distant expanse of the sky, she waits alone in the library, expecting to find him wandering between the many towers of books and shelves for something new to occupy his attentions. He doesn't show, and it is well past midnight when the queen ventures off to search the Citadel, resolute in her desire to share with him a moment.
Illuminated by a patch of faint moonlight, Lunafreya stands still in one of the many hallways, wondering if he's gone and left the city again. Much to the frustration of both Noctis and the Kingsglaive tasked with keeping tabs on him, Ardyn has made a habit of disappearing to linger in places other than Insomnia, and always without a word of warning.
She elects to check outdoors before giving up, venturing to the Citadel's rooftop pavilion, The wind blows cold through the folds in her pale white dress, and the queen rubs hands up and down her arms to keep warm..
He likes it up here; the children have told her as much. When he finds himself feeling caged, Ardyn can often be found perched on the edge of the rooftop like some great gargoyle, swallowing up the city's sights with observant eyes. If nothing else, he has developed a burning fascination with the age, and seeks out any opportunity to commit to memory the most intimate workings of the world.
A cold gust of wind whips her hair this way and that, and the queen trembles, surprised when the biting chill is blocked out by the weight and warmth of that too familiar coat upon her shoulders. Ardyn fails to spare her even a glance as he brushes past, taking to the pavilion's edge just as the children had spoken. Lunafreya pulls the coat closer, a bit surprised by its heft; he seems to move so easily. It smells of thick pine trees and brandy, and she expects he's taken to the forests of Duscae of late, seeking to quell the ache of his wild heart.
For as long as she has known him, he has preferred to be on the move – hardly ever in one place for more than a few days before cabin fever strikes again, urging him to chase down whatever new whim it is he fancies. Such a strange and disorganized way of life for a man so known for his frightening precision.
She observes the silver outline of his broad shoulder as cast by the moon. He glances at her, looking gaunt and tired, almost inhuman, and Lunafreya forgets that he wasn't human not too long ago.
It's a remark she smartly keeps to herself.
"Ardyn."
Tension is visible, palpable, thick like smoke and radiating from his shoulders much like the darkness of the scourge once had. She wonders if he ever finds himself missing it, the burning throb of electricity in his veins. While her own time fraught with such terrible power was blessedly short, he has not been quite so fortunate, having damned himself to a long and dreadful life by caring far too much. It only stands to reason that he cares for nothing now.
"Ardyn."
His face is set in a deep set scowl, hair blown every which way by the wind, making him look as mad as he'd been not ten years ago.
How much of his old self has returned? What more has he been able to recall of his first life in the time spent free? In frequent talks with her ancestress, she has learned much about him, and in contrasting his past with the present, Lunafreya knows that they are two very different men, bridged only by a handful of memories and the body they've shared.
"The children miss you." It's a matter of fact, not manipulation, but the uncertainty of his features speaks volumes of his encroaching anxiety.
How strange. Ardyn had seemed so calm and unperturbed before the healing, and appears to have unraveled since then. Or perhaps he's slowly changing again, becoming more like the man that Aera loved.
He speaks as if he's heard the other woman's name in Lunafreya's mind. "How kind of you to say."
The gravel of his tone is too familiar, reminiscent of the monster who destroyed so much of their world, cold and calloused and noticeably lacking the false joviality and taste for theatrics.
"Avis, in particular," she adds, feeling a touch guilty for having dangled her daughter as the proverbial carrot. Gods, the way he looks at her little girl with such adoration, she may well have risen to become the sun herself. "She asks after you often. It has been some time since you wrote her letters."
Ardyn remains distant, stone still and fixated on some unknown sight in the distance. No, he's simply being obstinate.
Lunafreya takes to sitting on the carefully laid floor of the pavilion, still clutching the material of Ardyn's coat between her fingers. He looks back, and a flicker of amusement appears. He likely finds it funny that a queen has elected to sit cross-legged on the floor like a child.
"She loves you," the queen says, though she's uncertain as to whether she speaks of her daughter or Ardyn's lost love.
"Why must you insist on nagging me so?"
"Your thoughts harm you." It's a simple answer, tinged with a note of melancholy.
He bristles.
They make eye contact, and Lunafreya can still see a touch of the color in his that she had once feared. They're a muted shade now, not quite so shocking and vibrant as they had been, but she expects that, after such a transformation, no one will ever see his eyes as they were meant to be.
"Dear Lunafreya..." Ardyn sighs, appearing crouched at her side in a burst of faint red light. She's never cared for the trick, not from her children and certainly not from him. "You know not what you do for an undeserving heretic."
Is that sarcasm she detects, or honesty?
Of its own accord, a comforting hand rests atop his shoulder, fingers playing softly through the ends of auburn hair. There had been a time where, if they touched, his flesh would smoke and burn like kindling against flame, unable to stand the force of divine light pulsating beneath her fingertips. No longer.
She watches, waits, feels his chest expand and contract with each breath. Before she knows it, Ardyn has placed his warm hand atop her own, eyes drifting shut.
"You still love her." The queen smiles sadly. She no longer speaks of her daughter.
Astonishing that their lives have intersected so intimately. The visions she had been blessed with as Oracle had not foretold such things, the gods having been set on but the sacrifice of those who deserved better than the fates with which they were tasked. Where fear had once festered, she now bears only fondness, making no move to withdraw as Ardyn tightly grasps her hand.
"Always."