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I’m too young for this , he thinks, when he’s thirteen and on the front lines.
Blade through skin, rinse, repeat.
Dodge.
Parry.
Live.
I’m too young for this , he thinks, when he’s kneeling over the body of his dead commander. He’s splattered with blood and grime and his lip is quivering with restraint because he’s not a baby anymore, he doesn’t cry anymore. But he wants to. He wants to pound his little fists onto the dirt and scream and throw a tantrum and ask the Gods why they gave him a deadbeat dad and took his mother away too soon and forced him into a life of war when he should be in school.
A hand encloses his shoulder and Cor jerks back so fast he feels woozy. He wipes his snotty nose with the back of his sleeve and stands up. Clarus is watching him and this is the part Cor hates the most. The pity. The guilt. The shame. Because Clarus knows it’s a Tuesday night and he should be getting ready for school, rather than flaying Nifleheim’s Finest. But there is no school for Cor. There is only the front lines. There is Clarus, and Regis, and Mors, and the familiar weight of a katana that’s much taller than he is and just as wide.
I’m too young for this , he thinks, when he’s eighteen and named Marshal of the Crownsguard.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing, even though everyone else seems to think he does. Sure, he can bark orders and he already has a permanent scowl to match his personality but that’s all performative. He could tell the recruits to jump off the top of the Citadel and they’d listen and Regis wouldn’t bat an eye. Because what are you supposed to say to someone who's seen more death than even Death himself, before Cor was even of legal drinking age? Before Cor was even able to qualify for a driver’s permit?
That fact always sat heavy in Regis’ gut. Acid crept up his throat at the sight of Cor, knowing full well the shit he’s seen in the last 5 years was enough to make grown men weep, and yet Cor was walking around and making small talk with barista’s and filing paperwork and barking orders at incompetent rookies.
Cor insists he’s fine when he knows and Clarus knows and Regis knows he’s not. But he won’t admit that. Not to their faces. Not even to himself. He’ll go home and lock himself in his office with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a TV dinner and wake up the next morning in a cold sweat from one of the nightmares that cycles through his mind on repeat. Then he’d clean up and go to work.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Live.
I’m too young for this, he thinks, when he’s twenty-one and dying alone in Taelpar Crag because he thought he was worthy enough to take down Gilgamesh. He was sent by Regis to scout out the mysterious opening and report back with his findings, but Cor had ventured inside instead. He took on every trial, fought every daemon and undead along the way until he was standing face to face with the Blademaster himself.
He was able to get a few clean hits in, even managed to take Gilgamesh’s arm but that did little to help when the Blademaster simply summoned a new spectral limb and Cor found himself impaled right through the stomach on a sword that was somehow impossibly longer than he was. And he thought he had outgrown all the swords by now.
Gilgamesh circles Cor, watching him bleed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“It is not power you seek. That much I can tell. You are a servant of the current King of Lucis. You hold a high ranking position. So then what, pray tell, are you doing here?”
Cor snorts, winces, presses his hand firmer to the wound in his stomach. At least the sword was still keeping his organs from shifting around and causing him to bleed out faster.
“Thought I’d get in a quick sparring match before lunch.”
“You do realize your wounds are fatal and you will die here.” The Blademaster gingerly lifts his remaining arm and his swords dissipates into the crystalline ether. “So it would behoove you to answer as quickly as possible, lest you bleed out before I can take pity on you.”
Cor’s insides burn and now with the absence of the sword he can feel all the blood leaving his system through the neat hole in his belly.
“I was thirteen when I fought my first war. And I fought in many of them.” Cor coughs and his wound pulsates and he thinks he’d much rather die than explain his thought process but he finds it hard to stop. “They call me ‘The Immortal’ and I guess I thought I’d test that theory.”
“But you are not Immortal. From your fighting, I can tell that you are resourceful. You are quick. You are strong. And perhaps, a bit lucky.” Gilgamesh kneels and holds his hand out over Cor’s stomach, palm parallel with his wound. He watches as the skin starts sewing itself back together and Cor can feel every single nerve go into overdrive at the sensation.
Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for a whole bottle of Whiskey.
“You are not here because the Gods demand it. You are here because you refuse to die. You are here because you have come too far and have lived too long to let your efforts go to waste. You are not a child. You have not been a child since the second you stepped onto your first battlefield. You are wise, though it is a shame the reason why.”
When the worst of Cor’s wound is on the mend, Gilgamesh stands and steps back, looking at the empty space where he used to have an arm and nods towards it.
“Immortality is a curse. To live for hundreds of years, to watch those you love die, over and over until you are numb to death, is a curse. You, are not Immortal. You will die when your time comes. Then, and only then, will you find reparations for what you’ve had to endure as a child.”
Cor never saw Gilgamesh again after that day, and he sure as hell didn’t tell Regis what he found, but he kept those words and held them close to whatever was left of his heart.
You will die when your time comes and for Cor, that was enough.
~
I’m too old for this, Cor thinks, when he’s twenty-seven and standing outside one of Insomnia’s finest nightclubs. There are teenagers and people in their very early twenties milling about and Cor sticks out like a sore thumb.
“Marshal! Hey!”
Through the throng of what had to be the biggest group of people with fake ID’s, Cor sees the reason he’s even here in the first place.
Nyx Ulric smiles and plants himself right in front of Cor. “Sorry, if you were waiting long. Traffic was a nightmare getting here from Little Galahd.”
“‘S fine.” Cor mutters, hands shoved in his pockets. “Is this really where people go on...dates, these days?”
Nyx laughs and his eyes crinkle in the corners and Cor loosens up a little.
“I mean, people our age, yeah. Though…” His eyes rake Cor up and down before settling back on his face. “...something tells me you’re not the clubbing type.”
“Not particularly, no.”
A group of kids come barreling out of the void black door all in various states of undress and splattered with neon paint, laughing and shouting and Cor thinks maybe if he’s fast enough he could slip away unnoticed—
“Not so fast, Leonis. I promised you a dance and a drink and you’re getting it. C’mon.” He takes Cor’s hand in his and the two walk inside the establishment, heading right for the bar. Immediately, Cor is hit with the stench of cheap booze and weed.
“You do realize we work for the government, right? And I spotted at least ten violations before we even walked in here.”
Cor has to almost yell over the sound of shitty electronic music and Nyx probably only catches about every other word.
“We’re off the clock, Cor! Which means tonight, you’re going to act your age and get drunk with me and if you’re lucky I’ll suck you off in the bathroom.”
Heat spreads from Cor’s cheeks down to his neck and chest and Nyx laughs, then slides a shot of whiskey into his palm. Cor tilts his head back and revels in the way the liquor slides down his throat and leaves a burn in its wake.
Nyx takes off his jacket to reveal a black mesh top and—
“Is that glitter on your nipples?” Cor deadpans and Nyx grins.
“Sure fuckin’ is.” He then leans in close and his lips touch the shell of Cor’s ear. “ Edible glitter.”
And if anyone in the office the next day notices Cor’s mouth giving off a sparkle in certain angles, well, they were smart enough not to bring it up.
~
I’m too old for this , Cor thinks, when he’s thirty and has a five year old Princeling hanging off his bicep like he’s a human playground. The expression on his face must have conveyed that feeling perfectly because shortly after thinking it, Regis is calling for Noctis to go to him. The King’s amusement is hidden behind years of schooling his face for council meetings.
Cor sighs and shakes his head and follows the two back through the Citadel gardens, ignoring the slight tenderness in his arm from swinging Noctis every which way. His bones ache in the mornings and when it’s cold enough, the scar on his stomach pulls taut and burns and Cor can sometimes imagine the feel of a red hot blade piercing through him.
And the truth is that Cor loves Noctis. He loved him from the minute Aulea announced she was pregnant. He loved him when he came into this world screaming bloody murder, and he loved him even when he was getting sticky hands and dirty shoes all over his clothing during meetings with the King.
“Uncah ‘or! How come you...you...you aren’t coming? To…” Noctis fumbles the word in his mouth and looks up to his father for guidance. Regis simply smiles and ruffles his hair, which causes a grin to break out over Noctis’ face.
“To Tenebrae.” Regis answers. Cor kneels down then and looks Noctis right in the eye.
“Because I have to go to Niflheim while you and your old man meet with Princess Lunafreya.”
“I am only five years older than you,” Regis huffs and Cor glances up at him. When he stands, his knees crack and Regis blinks.
“Goodness, Cor. Do some stretches, for Shiva’s sake.”
Noctis giggles at the exchange but is ultimately satisfied with the answer and bolts away to go terrorize his chamberlain and future shield in the meantime.
“Are you sure you’re willing to go to Niflheim, Cor? The reports we’ve heard are….harrowing, to say the least. You could benefit from having backup. Take a Kingsglaive, if you must.”
Cor snorts and crosses his arms. “If it’s the ‘Glaive I think you have in mind, then he’d be more of a distraction than any actual help.” He mutters and Regis smiles, not unkindly.
“He’s our best ‘Glaive, Marshal. But I’ll be sure to let your boyfriend know you don’t think he’d be an asset on this mission.”
Cor huffs and fight the urge to roll his eyes. “Titan alive, I’m not sixteen, Regis. Can you not use the term ‘boyfriend’?”
Regis laughs and sits back on one of the benches scattered about the garden, setting his cane on his lap and letting his leg stretch out. “Would you prefer the term partner? Significant other?”
“How about ‘pain in the ass’?” Cor quips snidely and Regis looks all too pleased when he says :“I’m sure he is.”
Cor chokes on his own spit and Regis slaps a hand on Cor’s back, cackling into the warm summer air.
~
I’m definitely way too old for this, Cor thinks, when he’s thirty and running through Niflheim’s base of operations with a blonde haired blue eyed toddler in tow and about fifty guns and missiles all aimed at him.
Fuck, I really should have done more cardio.
~
“Nyx! He’s crying! What do I do!”
“Sing to him! He likes that one chocobo song.”
“I’m too old for this, Nyx.”
“Yeah yeah, take it up with Prompto.”
“....Baaabyyyy choco-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo.”
~
I’m too godsdamned old for this , Cor thinks, when he’s thirty-five and sitting at the world’s smallest plastic table in the world’s smallest plastic chair. His knees are pushed up against his chest and the youngest Amicitia sibling is currently pouring fake tea into a teacup for him.
“Pom-pom, want tea?”
A newly ten year old Prompto smiles, tooth-gaps and all, and nods his head while holding out his teacup. Iris makes a thoughtful face as she pours it full of air and then sits back once she’s satisfied. She holds her own cup up and clears her throat.
“To Pom-Pom! Hap birf!”
Prompto giggles and clinks his teacup with hers. The two look over to Cor, crocodile tears ready to fall, and Cor sighs in resignation before clicking his cup with theirs and taking a sip.
From across the Citadel gardens, Nyx is smiling and watching his son and his not-husband.
“He makes for a good father, does he not?” Clarus asks, spooking Nyx out of his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh, uh, yes sir. He does. Though he’ll deny it every chance he gets. But I know better. He was humming one of Prom’s favorite songs the other day. Completely unprovoked too.”
Clarus chuckles and watches as his daughter tries to rope Noctis and the others into her celebratory birthday tea party for Prompto.
“Yes well, in a way I imagine it’s him trying to reconnect with his own lost childhood. Cor never did tea parties and birthdays. He didn’t get to experience cartoons and children’s songs and adolescence. But he does now, with your son.”
Nyx’s smile fades and he looks back to Cor. There’s a scowl on his face and he’s about ten seconds from flipping over the table and hauling Iris and Prompto over his shoulder and into the nearest fountain. But underneath all that, Nyx knows that Cor only harbors love and safety for Prompto. For all of the kids, really. He can remember laying on the floor of their shitty apartment and feeling utterly hopeless with raising Prompto, only to get a pep talk from Cor of all people. But he knew more than he led on, from years of helping Regis with his own child, and in turn helping out with Gladiolus and the little Scientia kid. (Though Nyx was convinced that Ignis was more capable and mature than all of them combined)
“I think I should perhaps go rescue Cor from my daughter before someone gets thrown into the infinity pool.”
Clarus walks over and offers to relieve Cor from tea party duty and Nyx had never seen Cor stand up so fast. He makes his way over to Nyx and stands beside him, gratefully taking the spiked drink that Nyx offers.
“I hope you didn’t get too full on tea,” Nyx snickers and Cor raises his brow.
“Interestingly enough, air tea has no calories or weight to it, so I think I’m good.”
“You did look pretty cute sitting there though.”
Cor narrows his eyes and takes another sip of the drink.
“What’s that?” Cor asks loudly. “Nyx, you want to join Iris’ tea party? Well I mean if you insist.”
Iris looks over when she hears her name and then gasps, quickly waddling about to make a new place setting for Nyx at her table.
“Oh you’re dead.” Nyx mutters and Cor smirks.
“Don’t keep the Lady Amicitia waiting, Nyx. It’s in poor taste.”
If he didn’t have a handful of impressionable eyes looking at him Nyx would have flipped Cor off but his look conveys the feeling because Cor just snorts and takes another delicious sip, watching as Nyx takes his seat and is immediately given a teacup and a bright pink fluffy crown.
It tickles Cor immensely.
~
I’m too old for this , Cor thinks, when he’s forty-five and standing outside of Hammerhead watching his home burn.
Most people don’t live through two King’s deaths. Cor has lived through three. He was there when Mor’s father died. He was there when Mor’s finally kicked the bucket. And now here he stands, feeling his tie to the armiger dissipate like the smoke rising from the tallest buildings in Insomnia. Regis was dead. Nyx was MIA. Prompto and the Prince were safely tucked away at Galdin Quay for now, but the rest of Cor’s world was crumbling around him.
Regis was dead, which meant Clarus was dead. His oldest friends were gone and Cor was aching. The cold forced its way into his bones and threatened to take up permanent residence. Monica had been trying to get him under some kind of cover but he refused. He wasn’t about to leave, not when Nyx was on his way. Not when his son was miles away from him. Not when another one of his Kings was dead.
I’m too old for this.
I shouldn’t be alive.
~
“Marshal!”
“Dad!”
Cor can feel the heat of the air before the actual fireball hits him. He thinks it’s like opening the door to the outside in the summer, and then actually stepping out into the sun. The heat is all encompassing and at some point he doesn’t know if he’s even still alive because he can’t feel the heat anymore.
For just a moment, he thinks that finally, finally he might find peace...but then he feels hands on him and frantic, muffled voices, and every inch of his skin is on fire. He thinks he might have cried out because the hands stop for a moment and the voices quiet down, but Cor doesn’t even know which way is up and all he sees is blinding white.
The next thing he remembers is waking up in a dimly lit room. It smells like charred skin and antiseptic and a bit like piss, so he assumes he’s back at the Kingsglaive Headquarters under Insomnia’s ruined streets.
“Hey, hey, take it easy.”
That’s the lazy lilt of his husband and Cor knows right away that he’s safe. If Nyx is here, then he’s safe.
“The kids brought you back. Told me about your stupid stunt, standing in front of that daemon dog. You could have died.”
“It was me or the King. And I don’t know about you, but I serve Noctis. And stop calling them kids. They’re in their thirties now, if you recall.” Cor mutters hoarsely, cracking an eye open to see the silhouette of Nyx in the chair beside his cot.
Nyx snorts. “Yeah, and we were still clueless kids when we were in our thirties so my statement stands.” He sighs then and reaches over to pet a hand through Cor’s greying hair.
“You’re too old to take direct hits like that, Cor. Prompto nearly had a heart attack trying to get a Phoenix Down to you in time.”
“And Prompto knows that I have sworn to keep Noctis safe no matter what. Even if it means risking my own life. I owe it to him. I owe it to Regis, to see his son through to the end.”
“I know.” Nyx sighs. “I know…doesn’t mean we have to like it though. I prefer my husband alive, thank you…”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
Cor reaches up then, runs his hand down along Nyx’s cheek and neck. The scars are ten years old now but Cor can still remember how they looked when Nyx came stumbling into Hammerhead after the Fall. They had been red, oozing, pulsating, and now they were silver and raised and a reminder of the lengths Nyx had gone to keep the Princess and Prince safe as well.
“I guess we’re a couple of idiots then, huh?” Cor asks, eyes half lidded and sleep threatening to pull him under again.
Nyx smirks against Cor’s hand and kisses his palm.
“Nah...more like a couple of old men."
Cor laughs at that, ragged and strained and utterly painful but he doesn’t care. Because he’s safe. And Nyx is safe. And Prompto will be safe. And he’ll live to complain about being old for years to come. And that?
That’s okay.