If anyone thought it was improper that the king never made it back to his rooms that night, they didn't speak of it. Then again, no one else was around to see much. The king's three closest friends, two babies, and a couple bottles of strong whiskey were the only people to go inside his study, that night. None ever came out—at least not until past dawn—and the crownsguard who stood outside for the duration overheard varying levels of conversation and good-natured arguments, occasionally punctuated by crying babies, for the whole night.

Had they looked in around dawn, they would have found all six asleep in various states of disorder: King Regis sprawled across the lounge with one foot on the floor and one of the twins asleep on his chest; Master Amicitia sitting in one arm chair with his feet on the coffee table, his chin on his chest, and the other babe in his arms; The Marshal stretched across the arms of the other chair, one hand dangling with his knuckles brushing the floor, and his mouth hanging open; and Weskham, having apparently lost the fight for furniture, lying in an uncharacteristically undignified pose: spread-eagle underneath the coffee table with the empty bottles.

But no one looked in on them. Not then, in any case. Not until after the first baby woke the second with his cries and put an end to what little sleep the king and his retinue managed that morning.

It was certifiably impossible to sleep with two babies crying.

Regis groaned; he had drunk enough alcohol for a headache, but not enough to drown out the memories. It was just as well, given that drunkenly caring for two infants was inarguably a bad idea.

He patted his daughter's back groggily, holding her against his chest as he sat up. By the time he was on his feet, he was surprisingly well awake. Whatever it was about crying that demanded attention, apparently, also commanded wakefulness.

"Reina; hush, sweet Reina," he cooed, rocking her in his arms until cries subsided into sporadic fussing. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the room. There had been bottles of a baby-friendly sort last night, as well, but they were all empty, now. "Wes—"

"On my way, Sire," Weskham said, neither looking nor sounding much worse for having slept under the coffee table. He was already on his feet, straightening his coat as he moved to the door.

Clarus had marginally more trouble subduing Noctis, but by the time Cor returned with two servants bearing bottles of milk, both babies had stopped outright crying and were merely making their discomfort known with the occasional grumble. Clarus passed Noct off to the first nursemaid while the second approached Regis.

"Your Majesty," she curtsied, but Regis didn't give her Reina. Instead he held out his hand for the bottle. Perhaps he didn't know anything about raising children, but this was one thing he was capable of doing. If he was going to be a good father, he was going to do everything he could do for them—even if that was often not enough. Love, by itself, didn't mean much. Not at three months. It was what he did with it.

The nursemaid looked surprised, but handed the bottle over without complaint. Little Reina latched onto it, drinking with gusto, her hands—barely big enough to clutch one of his fingers—closed pointlessly a few times before finding the bottle. Tiny feet kicked from beneath her blanket, perhaps expressing her approval, perhaps expressing her annoyance at having to wait so long. Either way, Regis smiled down at her and she looked back up at him, big blue eyes fixing on his face, leaving no doubt as to where she was looking. It was so easy to be lost in those eyes, so deep he could fall straight in and forget about everything else.

"There we are," he said, brushing one finger over her tiny hand and forearm, "This is what you wanted, after all; that wait was not so unbearable, was it?"

She blinked but didn't look away. A miniscule crease formed on her smooth brow: such a considerable expression of concentration on such a young face!

What would her first word be, he wondered. And Noctis? When would they take their first steps? What sort of people would they grow into? What sort of hopes and dreams would they have? He wanted to know it all, but he wasn't in a hurry; it was like reading a very long book, but every page was a delight and there was no reason to rush for the end.

"King Regis."

"Hmm..?" He didn't look up—the eye contact was like a silent conversation and he couldn't think of any way to explain to a three-month-old that he had interrupted their conversation to begin one with someone else.

"Sire, the council is convening to discuss the trouble with Phoenix Incorporated—rioting continues, today, and this morning alone, three new fires have broken out in the outer city," Weskham said, his tone noting a certain reluctance to interrupt, though he did his duty all the same.

It was news Regis couldn't ignore: not for his children, nor in mourning for his queen. He needed to be king, which meant he needed to leave his twins in the hands of others. Phoenix Incorporated—which, for some reason still unknown to him, had decided that hazardous waste disposal laws didn't apply to one of the largest companies in the Crown City and had been dumping dangerous run-off in the outer city, which had, in turn, cause hundreds, if not thousands, to fall sick and subsequently shake the city with protests that were, at their heart, well-motivated but rapidly devolved to violence and mayhem.

"Very well," Regis sighed. Regretfully, he turned his eyes away from his daughter's, finding the maid who stood nearby and passing her over. He kissed Reina's forehead, then Noctis' and followed Weskham out, picking up his coat on the way. "Clarus."

"They are in the audience chamber, Sire," Weskham said as Clarus joined them in the hall.

Regis said nothing. He wasn't dressed for court but there was little to be done about that, now. In fact, he was still wearing the same suit he had worn to Aulea's funeral and, subsequently, slept in. It was more than a little bit wrinkled, but he would just have to make do.

Together, the three of them crossed the Citadel to the audience chamber. The hallways were largely empty and the silence was broken only by the sound of three sets of shoes on black marble floors and the occasional murmured greeting as they passed a servant. On the ground floor, they stopped outside of the audience chamber.

"Sire—" Weskham stepped in front of him and tugged his vest straight. The king waited without objection as his steward brushed off his shoulders, re-knotted his tie, buttoned his coat, and then procured a comb to run through Regis' hair. Regis might have saved him the trouble; he suspected that no amount of fussing was going to make him look less like death warmed over, but he also knew that no amount of telling Weskham that would stop the relentless pull of his comb.

Once Weskham deemed his appearance suitable or, at the very least, as good as it was likely to get, he gestured toward the doors and the two crownsguards standing there opened the way into the audience chamber.

The doors were tall enough that a rider sitting astride a chocobo could have passed through unimpeded and then some. Beyond, a black river of gleaming tile flowed straight up to a sweeping staircase, which split in two, twisted, and reconvened, culminating in a throne of red and gold. Behind the throne, a sculpture of gold depicted the Lucian royals twining with the Astrals: a permanent reminder of the Gods' blessing on the royal bloodline.

Regis squared his shoulders. His head felt heavy and muddled, but he kept Clarus' words in his mind: mourn her sensibly. There was no space for him to lose sight of his duty; too much was riding on his shoulders. He took the first step into the audience chamber and Clarus fell in beside him; they left Weskham outside as they advanced to the king's throne together. At the top of the stairs, Clarus separated to join the council off to one side.

"Your Majesty." The attendant at the door across the room called his attention nearly before the king was at his throne. "Bastien Kurick begs grace for tardiness and sends word of his overburdened schedule."

Bastien Kurick was chief executive officer of Phoenix Incorporated and, given the mess his company had made of the outer city, he had been summoned before king and council for that morning. That he complained of too much on his schedule wasn't surprising, given that he was likely trying to sort out how to mop up his mess while burdening everyone else before his own people, but it was flippant to send that as an excuse.

"He intends to buy himself more time," Master Hamon Carina, one of Regis' councillors, spoke up, with a healthy dose of indignance.

It was a distinct possibility. There were others, of course, which the rest of the council was quick to note.

"Or he hopes to exert some control over matters here," Kelmis Eridanus observed.

"Very likely some mixture thereof," Clarus said.

Regis didn't immediately pass any sort of judgement. He turned and sat down deliberately on his throne, settling himself neatly with his hands on the arms while all eyes fixed on him. This was the moment when, under normal circumstances, he would have made some declaration, given some instructions, and seen that progress was made on his behalf. It should have been simple. It wasn't always simple, but there was no particular reason why this should not be: a noncompliant subject making a show of force against king and council was a straightforward problem. So why was his mind refusing to work?

Aulea…

He should have been looking at the court, making a decision. Instead his eyes glazed and her face appeared in his mind, blocking out everything else.

"Your Majesty?"

Clarus' voice broke through. The image of his queen's face shattered and his eyes refocused on his court. He kicked himself mentally, pushing his brain to focus on the task at hand. A show of force deserved a show of force in return, did it not? A threat in return, an insistence that Kurick show himself, or else…. Or was that too harsh? Had his sense of empathy and mercy fled with the death of his wife?

"Perhaps it is possible to give Kurick what he wants without appearing weak," Clarus suggested. "We grant him one day further, but tomorrow we send the Crownsguard to ensure he arrives on time."

Regis' brain felt too fuzzy to tell whether or not Clarus' suggestion was a reasonable one. Did it even matter? He trusted his friend and advisor, in any case; he trusted Clarus' judgement even if he didn't trust his own.

The king gave a short nod and the attendant at the door took Clarus' words and left the hall. Regis shifted in his chair, feeling a rising sensation of panic. Was this how his mind was going to operate, from now on? How was he supposed to keep to his duty if he couldn't even make a simple decision regarding the treatment of Bastien Kurick? He knew he needed to keep his focus, to keep working in spite of how much he hurt inside. But if felt like grasping at mist in the black of night.

"Your Majesty: Lieutenant Ackers with a report from the outer city."

Regis looked up again as another attendant took the place of the first. It took him a moment to process the words and a moment longer to remember why he had been called to court in the first place. Riots and fires set in the outer city. He lifted his hand to indicate that the crownsguard should be admitted.

Dustin Ackers was a promising sub-officer of Regis' own age or thereabouts. While there were certainly far too many crownsguards for the king to keep track of, let alone remember names or ranks of, Lieutenant Ackers had been coming up in reports from Clarus with increasing frequency as of late. By now, Regis knew him by name and face. He would have liked to know more of those who served him on such a basis but even with an extraordinary memory for people, it was simply impossible. There were thousands in the Crownsguard.

"Your Majesty." The lieutenant stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to Regis' throne and bowed. "Yesterday's fires have been extinguished, but three new ones have broken out this morning."

Had there been fires, yesterday? Regis couldn't recall. What had happened, yesterday?

Before he could stop himself, Regis' mind conjured up images of the mausoleum where he had stood all day, staring at the freshly engraved plaque bearing Aulea's name: the distant smell of flowers, the stark beams of light cutting through the dark of the immaculate stone chamber. If the outer city had been burning the day before, no one had come to tell him. Probably because they suspected he wouldn't have heard anything that was said to him...

Much as he hadn't heard anything Lieutenant Ackers had said.

Regis blinked and forced his brain to focus on the words.

"…danger of explosion if the flames reach the Phoenix warehouse," Dustin concluded.

His heart skipped a beat or two, then added a few extra in between to make up for the lost time. Why would the warehouse explode? Were the rioters nearby? Presumably the lieutenant had answered both of those questions, but Regis hadn't been listening.

He moved his hands, sticky with sweat, to the arms of his throne. This was one of those times when a quick decision was not only appropriate, but dire. There were lives at stake. Probably. Presumably there were people in the region. Hellfire. Why hadn't he been listening?

Clarus was looking at him. Indeed, everyone was looking at him, waiting for the decision that he didn't know how to make. Eventually the King's Shield turned his eyes back to the crownsguard standing before the throne.

"At the current rate, how long before the flames potentially reach the warehouse?" Clarus asked.

"If unimpeded, perhaps two hours, sir. The firefighters expect to be able to stretch that, but if the winds change it won't be much longer."

"And you estimate there are a few thousand in the blast radius?" Clarus pressed for repeated details and Regis realized what he was doing.

Thank you, Clarus! He could have kissed him.

"Yes, sir."

"Evacuate the region," Regis said. That, at least, he could decide upon. There were lives in danger and they needed to be relocated. "If there is enough time, evacuate a buffer, as well. Take no chances with their safety."

"We will need more men, Sire," Lieutenant Ackers said. "Some of those streets are filled with protesters, still."

His response ought to have been immediate, but for some reason, even as he reached for the words to tell the crownsguard that he could have whatever reinforcements were needed, Regis second guessed himself. How many did they need? How many were there to spare? He felt as if he had been out of place for months rather than just a day and now he had no idea where their resources were spread.

Clarus filled the moment of hesitation. "Take them. Marshal Leonis will give you the reinforcements that you require," he said, smoothing over the out of place pause left by the king.

"Very good, sir." Lieutenant Ackers bowed and left.

Regis stopped himself from giving Clarus a grateful look. As much as he wanted to offer his thanks to his friend for always being exactly where he was needed, Regis couldn't bring himself to admit how badly he was struggling.

It didn't improve, from there.

Regis would have been hard pressed to recount precisely what did occur, following the dispatch of Lieutenant Ackers. There was some discussion, he vaguely recalled, of mounting a cleanup effort to remove contaminants dumped by Phoenix and some trouble with rioters in the area, but he couldn't recall what conclusion was reached. It certainly wasn't a decision made by him, because every time he tried to think of anything, the only thing at all in his brain was Aulea.

Eventually Clarus called an end to things under the pretense of breaking for lunch, and they left together. Weskham caught up with them outside and fell into step beside him. Regis didn't see the look that his steward and his Shield exchanged behind his back and he wouldn't have registered its meaning even if he had. His mind was muddled. Everything was mixed up with Aulea and everything that had to do with Aulea was pain, but in between that there was budding self-loathing. Why couldn't he do anything, anymore?

"Your Majesty—Regis."

He stopped walking and turned to look at Weskham, who was standing in the doorway that led to the dining hall.

Ah, yes. We stopped for lunch. Regis noted distantly. Where had he been walking? Back to his study, perhaps; he hadn't really registered where his feet were taking him. Now that he did think about it, food sounded terrible. It wasn't that he wasn't hungry—a rumbling ache in his stomach told him he was—but any image of food that his mind conjured up turned the rumbling into a rolling.

He shook his head and continued down the hall, consciously steering toward his study, this time. "I do not wish to be waited on," he said, which was half true. How long would it take before the word of what had happened in court that morning spread through the whole Citadel? How long before his whole household and the entire Crownsguard was murmuring about how the king was cracking under the pressure of his wife's death?

Neither Clarus nor Weskham made any objection. They followed him back to his office; Weskham delayed outside for a moment to speak with an attendant before joining them and shutting the doors behind him.

Regis dropped into the high-backed chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands. He didn't feel like shedding tears. In fact, he didn't know what he felt like doing. Being better, he supposed.

"Regis…" He heard Clarus approach, but he didn't look up.

"I know, Clarus," he sighed. "I need to do better."

Clarus didn't respond. No one responded and Regis didn't move.

He had no time to fall apart. His city was burning, his people were looking to him for guidance, and he was falling apart. He had never wanted so badly to give up, before… but he couldn't. What did giving up even mean, for him? The king didn't set down his burdens unless he was dead.

"I am trying," Regis said, half to himself.

Clarus' hand settled on his shoulder, a wordless expression of support and faith. That was Clarus: he had always believed the best of him and, through most, if not all, of their lives, he had been proven right. There had always been responsibilities, always expectations on Regis' shoulders. He had grown up knowing that one day the crown would be his, that one day he would wear the Ring of the Lucii and shoulder the weight of the Wall and that no one but himself would be able to carry those burdens. But he had never expected to carry them alone.

Aulea.

How could one person, without ever holding his mantle, make that weight so much lighter in life and so much heavier in death?

There was a knock at the door. He knew without looking that the footsteps he heard going to answer it were Weskham's, because Clarus didn't move from his side, though his hand did fall from Regis' shoulder. After a moment, Weskham returned and set something on Regis' desk in front of him. He looked up to find a tray of food.

Regis sat back in his chair, his mouth twisting as he shook his head. How could he stomach that food? Doubtless it was all masterfully prepared, but he couldn't imagine a single thing to eat that sounded worth the effort.

"You need to eat, Regis," Clarus said. "You've already skipped breakfast."

"If I might be so bold, Sire: you did not have more than a bite to eat all day, yesterday, either," Weskham observed.

Hadn't he? Regis couldn't recall. It seemed so far away and so insignificant. What did it matter if he ate or not?

"You need to keep your strength up, Regis," Clarus pressed.

That much, at least, he knew. Without strength he couldn't hope to keep up his duties, not that he was doing an admirable job of it, so far.

"Very well," Regis said, making an effort of picking up his fork.

He sifted through the bowl of stew, aware that both his companions were watching him closely. After stalling a few moments longer, trying to decide whether carrots or meat sounded less unappetizing, he settled on the former and took a bite.

It tasted of nothing.

Or, more accurately, it tasted just like a carrot, if that carrot had been sculpted of ash. He might have spit it out if Clarus wasn't standing over his shoulder and if he hadn't recognized the importance of eating food in the long run.

The meat turned out to be worse, still. At least the carrots were soft enough that he hardly had to chew them, but the meat, though tender, required him to come face to face with the fact that taste just wasn't something his mouth wanted to do for a prolonged period. After that he picked his bread to pieces and only ate a bit of it, leaving the rest in tatters on his tray. When he stopped pretending to eat, neither Clarus nor Weskham made any objection. Perhaps they were just satisfied that he had made some attempt.

"If you would like to get some rest, Regis," Clarus ventured, hesitant. "I could handle the court in your absence."

Regis looked up at him. "Is my inefficacy so acute that you believe the kingdom would run more smoothly in my absence?" He asked, his tone quiet and bitter rather than accusatory. It was probably true, but this was the first that any of them had mentioned his uncharacteristic inability to make even the simplest decision.

The moment's hesitation that preceded Clarus' response was enough of an answer.

"Sire, none of us had a particularly sound nor lengthy sleep, last night," Weskham said. "And you have more pressure to contend with that the rest. If you required some time, none would deny you that."

Regis shook his head. "No. I must continue. A king pushes onward always, never looking back. Is that not so?"

Weskham bowed his head in deference. Clarus' mouth tightened, but he made no objection.

"I will make it through," Regis said. "But if you see me falter, Clarus, do not hesitate to take initiative. The kingdom comes before my pride."

"As you say, Your Majesty," Clarus said.

Before the day was done, the King's Shield would have ample opportunity to make good on his word.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave Questions/Comments/Criticisms in the review box below.