Chapter Text
O’er warred lands, under brimstone sky, bloodless Kin to the Chosen is begot
Vestal amongst daemons, blessed of face, this vitiated heart the Gods have sought
For only when darkness reigns, shall light cometh and Peace be wrought
Long live the King, and his Glaive sublime, for her Sacrifice will not come to naught
— Lost Articles of Nadir, 15:3
M. E. 756, days before the fall of Insomnia…
You take a deep breath before pushing open the opulent doors to the throne room. It’s been years since you first set foot inside the Citadel, but the vacuous faces carved into the black marble that lines the crown of the walls are as oppressive as ever. The Great Hall is empty except for the king seated upon his throne and Captain Titus Drautos of the Kingsglaive, on the dais below. Your captain barely turns to acknowledge your entrance as you bow low in deference to your king, addressing them from the foot of the stairs that leads up to the lonely throne. A platform designed with the intention of making men feel ill at ease in the presence of divinity.
“Your Majesty. Captain Drautos.”
King Regis waves a tired hand. “At ease. You know very well there is no need for such formality.”
Your brow furrows in question, but you obey your king, relaxing your stance. Still, habits ingrained from years of service to the crown are hard to shake, so you keep your arms latched respectfully behind your back.
Signaling an end to their discussion, the king rises. “Come. Walk with me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The king throws you an amused look as he descends the many steps of his throne, his cloak fluttering past Captain Drautos with disregard. Whatever they were discussing must not have ended in your captain’s favor, for despite how well he usually schools his face in blank indifference, a look of irritation passes his face.
“We will continue this another time, Drautos.”
You are almost certain Drautos is about to object when he seems to remember his station and fixes his expression, nodding in assent.
Despite all these years under his command, it is still disarming to catch the looks of wrath that flit across his face when he forgets himself in the king’s presence. Instances which you have long excused as part of your captain’s charmingly choleric disposition; instances which you have had trouble excusing as of late, the frequency in which have become discomfiting. The point of contention is the looming armistice, no doubt. His displeasure at how little progress Lucis has made in maintaining, much less reclaiming, its territories since the Kingsglaive was formed, an open secret.
King Mors may have drawn back the protection of the Wall to the outer limits of Insomnia thirty-one years ago, but to cede the remainder of the nation and its citizens along with it to the Nifs was akin to a slap in the face. Citizens of which the crown all be declared as second-rate to Insomnians — expendable.
But your captain is above all else, disciplined, and though he is likely seething, he replies, “Yes, Your Majesty,” with a shallow bow.
If the slight bothers King Regis at all, it doesn’t show. He strides out of the throne room, moving more lithely than one would expect of a man who is aided by use of a cane and a leg brace. Jogging to match his long strides, you follow him into the corridor that leads to the balconies overlooking the central courtyard. He is silent as you pass the saluting Crownsguards and only begins to speak once he is certain that he would not be overheard.
“I wish for you to accompany Noctis on his journey to Lady Lunafreya in Altissia.”
“No,” you reply without pause.
The king looks at you sharply, bristling at your curt response but does not lessen the pace he has set out. The silence continues until you abruptly stop to the metallic peals of swords reverberating in staccato from the shaded courtyard below. Instinctively, your fingers reach for the dagger strapped to the thigh of your uniform.
“My place is here with you, and with the rest of the Kingsglaive. My duty is to serve and protect, for hearth and home.”
King Regis stops to turn and study you. For the first time, you notice he seems a haggard man, decades older than the fifty he actually is. His once neatly slicked jet-black hair now hangs loosely around his face, ashen white. The royal raiment tailored specifically to his measurements hangs looser on his shoulders, a testament to weight he’s lost in recent days. Worry lines mar his face and his parlor is so pallid you can see the striae of blue capillaries curling around his temples like death’s cold hands.
“Yes, your duty is to serve. Do not make me command you as your king.”
You bite your lip at the reprimand. It has been a long time since King Regis has used that tone with you.
“I want to stay here with you,” you push. ‘I don’t want to lose you too,’ are the fears you can’t bring yourself to articulate.
“I know,” he sighs as he continues towards the balcony. You hesitate to follow, but it’s obvious he has no intentions of waiting for you. “Please. Indulge me.”
“But, why? He already has Gladiolus and Ignis. Noctis will be in capable hands.” Your mouth clamps shut as you round the corner and realize it’s Gladiolus himself and Noctis, sparring down below.
You watch intently as the sweat-sheened Prince matches his Shield blow for blow, blinking through attacks with ease. His grace comes as a surprise. Growing up Noctis was gangly and his gait awkward, posture suffering from a childhood injury and limbs far too lanky for his slender frame. He’s grown though, lean muscle covering every wiry inch of his bare chest from hours of Gladious’ rigorous training.
The sinew of his back strains under the weight of his weapon, but Noctis is nimble like a dancer when he whips the sword around, nearly catching Galdiolus off guard. Gone are the days where the Shield could easily knock the sword out of the Prince’s grip.
As you watch the scene before you, your back straightens with more resolve than ever. “If he can keep up with Gladiolus, he doesn’t need me,” you say softly, as you try to decipher the true motives of the aging king before you. “He never has.”
King Regis’ grip tightens around the marble parapet, leaning slightly over the balcony. “He needs you more than I. If— when I fall…”
You recoil at the statement but he continues on.
“Noctis will be Lucis’ salvation. My son, he carries a burden greater than mine. His path is not an easy one.”
“But why—”
“I did not choose the life of a Glaive for you. I did not choose for you to walk in the footsteps of your parents. I acquiesced only because I love you, but these powers I have given, I can take away just as easily.”
Looking down at your hands, you feel the weight of his words wash over you and feel smaller than you’ve ever had. This power is the only connection you have left to your parents; mere commoners that lived on the outskirts of Lucis’ vast territories, commoners who had wanted to raise their child behind the safety of Insomnia’s Wall. A magical Wall that meant the difference between living a life untouched by war and living a life under constant bombardment. A life where resources were scarce and each day was a question of whether another would follow. And so, they joined the Kingsglaive for that very privilege. Little did they know, only after a few years within the cocoon of Insomnia, they would be one of the few who lost their lives in service during the attack on Tenebrae.
“Please, don’t. It’s all I have left.”
King Regis’ expression softens and he places a hand on your shoulder, “You know that is not true. You’ll always have a place by my side and Noctis’, though distant you have grown. But now, I need you to stand by him. This power—” His hands glow blue with magic as he places them over yours. The tendrils intertwine your fingers and you feel its coolness seep through your skin, prickling as it climbs higher and higher through your arm. “—connects us both. If something goes awry during the armistice with Niflheim, you shall be the first to know. I trust you will know what to do when the time comes.”
“I can serve you better in Insomnia. Captain Drautos would be better suited for this mission.”
“Captain Drautos will be otherwise occupied,” the king snaps. Seeing you recoil, he softens once more. “It pains me to see the two I consider my children grow so estranged that you would refuse me of this. There was a time, once, when you were inseparable.”
Averting his gaze, you focus on the sparring men. You watch as Noctis warps in front of Gladiolus and knocks his Greatsword away, whooping jubilantly as he manages to knock the lumbering man on to his back. However, Gladiolus is quick to rise and closes the distance between them, ensnaring Noctis in a chokehold as he proudly musses the Prince’s sweat-matted hair. The sounds of their laughter rings throughout and you can’t help but smile bitterly.
Yes, there was a time when you were inseparable, when the Prince’s smile and laughter came just as freely in your presence too. Perhaps you reminisced through rose-tinted lenses, but sometimes you found yourself yearning for the days when the both of you ran carelessly like little barbarians throughout the Citadel, dodging disgruntled servants and avoiding shrieking nannies, hand in hand, giggling as you both tumbled into the king’s study. Regis would frown and chastise, but not before gathering the both of you in his arms and swinging his beloved children around wildly until you all collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs on the ground.
Fingers tightening around his, it hits you again just how much you’ve grown to love this man who’s been a better father than you could have ever hoped for in these past twelve years.
“The crown is my burden alone, but let this old man be selfish, just this once. This, I do for my son as much as I do for you, daughter.”
The tenderness in his voice is overwhelming and you feel as contrite as a spoiled child who threw a tantrum before finding their misplaced toy. How could you refuse the man who’s taken you in as his own? It was no easy feat, especially in the aftermath of losing their only remaining ally, Tenebrae, to Niflheim, for a weak king to ask of his council. And though you know not the reasons for his actions, he was the man who embraced a crying eight-year-old girl and brought her into his family instead of letting her fend for herself in one of the many overrun orphanages of Insomnia's underground slums.
“Okay, papa,” you mumble softly into your surrogate father’s chest as he brings his arms around you.
He rests his chin atop your head and murmurs, “I only ask that this remains between us, for I hope what I fear may not come to pass and that my actions today are just those of an overly protective father.”
A feeling of warmth engulfs you whole. You want to savor it, tuck the memory deep in your heart because you can’t shake the feeling that this might be the very last time you ever see him.
So you cling on tighter, just for a little while longer.
King Regis warily enters the sterile room that houses the burden of his line and the salvation of his people. Immediately the hairs on his nape prickle to attention. Despite the years as its primary wielder, as its sole channel, the thick thrum of magic that emanates from the Crystal still makes his body tremble ebrious with power.
“It is futile to send her away,” the voice within the Crystal booms.
“I doomed her when I selfishly took her in to fulfill the prophecy of yours — a sacrifice of a bloodless kin in the stead of the anointed to bring forth the Light. I condemned an innocent for my own son’s safety, and now I have condemned the rest of Lucis for Insomnia’s sanctuary. I refuse to be further complicit in her doom. As unintended as it may be, I’ve come to love her as my own.”
“Regardless, young King, you know what must will come to pass. You delay only the inevitable.”
Regis turns away from the eerily lucent Crystal, his hands tightly clenched upon his cane to lessen the strain on his crippled leg. The magic clings to his skin like morning dew on spider web. His head throbs with the pounding of war drums. His crown has never felt heavier.
“Come what may, I will not knowingly put her in harm’s way. Even if all this will accomplish is to delay the inevitable, I will still gladly commit it.”
He no longer stands proud and defiant as he once did. His back is slouched and his shoulders are slumped, a look of perpetual weariness now permanent upon his visage. Pausing at the entrance of the vault, he looks once more upon the accursed Crystal that’s taken everything from him — his father, his mother, his wife, and now, his children.
“There is no other way?” he asks in a final appeal.
“What is ordained must come to pass,” Bahamut thrums, voice steely cold, “You saw the alternative — the Oracle slain at the hand of her beloved and the world plunged into eternal darkness.
What is ordained must come to pass.”