Chapter Text
Once, Ravus looked at you. Said: “Do you remember how we first met?”
You laugh in his face at the sentimentality of it all. Ravus, indulging in intoxicating melancholy? Completely unheard of. Clearly, his uptight expression tells you he appreciates none of your gloriously wide-mouthed barking laugh, though it’s remedied with a bat of your hand. “Yeah I do, Your Highness,” you tease, seizing him in a quick flush that you’re certain if you bring it up five years later, he’ll blame it on the harsh Tenebraean sun as always. “How could I forget?”
Yes, how could you forget the resplendence of the Oracle’s ascension? All sublime whiteness promenading the red carpet stretched all the way to the Citadel, upholding mother’s trident, knowing this is the duty of your predecessors, and you are the ending of the Oracles. The Crown Prince stands at the pinnacle with the king, watching you watching him. There will come a time where darkness will consume the stars and the King of Kings will extinguish his life to light up the skies once more. The Astrals spoke his name when you were three, and you reverently recited Ravus Nox Fleuret under your breath.
"Then, you should remember this as well,” Ravus spoke after a while, and drew your chin closer when he sealed what he promised the Astrals with his lips on yours.
Here, distant memories of your first kiss are nothing more than glorified film reels unravelling only for you, the lone occupant of this rundown cinema. It was a clumsy kiss slobbering too much saliva whilst smouldering passion substituted utterly lacking finesse and technique. What seems to be your first kiss at 18 seems to be Ravus’ own at 26. A regal man like him surely wouldn’t make a habit of playing tonsil hockey senselessly, you figured—though in some ignoble parts of your heart, you are glad you trained with him to perfect what he has become today: A serial kisser with a habit of using his tongue to shut you up.
But here, here where the bars are behind your back, there are no kisses keeping you company. None of Ravus’ cutting tongue shredding your arguments both verbally and physically, sweet summer days ensconced in his broad frame as he bends just so your tiptoed kiss reaches his lips. Here, Noctis makes a mockery of his gallantry by tossing aside all forms of reports he brings with him. Down on the table they go, never to be picked up and never to be read by his own two eyes to ascertain what daring feats Ravus and his royal entourage were up to.
Hands folded atop one another on your lap, your lips acquire a mocking twist. “Shouldn’t you be reading those reports? Or are you simply afraid to see the damage he’s wreaked upon your bases?”
As usual, Noctis presents you a double-edged smile. This time around, there is a bitter bite in it. “You must be really bored to suggest something like that to me. What, you wanna do the reading for me?”
You simper even as you educate the painfully ignorant prince in case years on the battlefield had him forgetting the finer aspects of becoming a human being. “One must not complain about their circumstances, and strive to make the best out of situation. You gave me little liberty in the first place, not that I can demand more as a prisoner.” His smile turns caustic in the corners, and you deny yourself none of the gratifying internal celebration when you venture further. “At least there will be something for me to read, even if they are boring reports to you.”
Noctis’ laughter comes with a hiss, edged with another smile you couldn’t fathom. “You’re always so weirdly gifted with your tongue, Oracle.” Fingers splay over his cheek as he cups his chin, accentuating the light in his bright blue eyes. “All right, you won me over with your pretty words.” Chin dipping agreeingly, he removes himself from the table. “Let’s come to a truce, yeah?”
The curl of your lips is cruel. “Name your terms, Noctis of Niflheim.”
Keys are produced from the inner trappings of his armour, a hard-to-reach place just to make sure it doesn’t fall into wrong hands. A hollow clack and excessive creaking of the cage later, Noctis invades your personal space how he invaded Tenebrae: With unrelenting tenacity. The mattress sags with the weight of his armour as he takes his place by your side, fanning sheaves bearing CONFIDENTIAL and CONFIDENTIAL and CONFIDENTIAL all over his thighs. An enemy he may be, yet he makes moving in bulky armour seem all effortless grace and elegance. He is far stronger than what he presents himself to you, a wayward prince lacking an adult’s attention span. The belated realisation toys with your feelings.
You must take care not to forget he is the master of your new fate.
“Because I’m such a thoughtful guy,” says Noctis without an ounce of exaggeration, sorting the stapled stacks into sections, “I’m giving you something to do.” At this, he stops. And gives you a look bordering on fondness. “You get to read these reports aloud to me, and I get to decide what to do with it. It’s a win-win situation. You won’t get bored in here, you know what Ravus is up to, and I…” he trails off almost like he’s giving careful consideration to the matter, but his offhanded shrug belies his intention, “well, I guess it’ll make things easier for me to know his whereabouts just in case I wanna drop by to say hi.”
Does he take you for a fool? He certainly does, doesn’t he?
Noctis props his cheek with his hand like a lover listening to his beloved. Eyes are sultry and hooded, preying on your reactions. Unaffected, the carefree joy of a prince whose sole job is to spill blood. He kills every life you save—every quaking elderly whose bony hands rattle with Gil as they scrounged up what they afforded as a token of gratitude to the Oracle for your service in healing the needy; every weeping child whose leg, chest, head spotted from the Scourge; every single one of Eos’ denizens queuing for three hours straight under the blistering heat just so they could chant your name, just so they could catch a glimpse of hope, just so they’d still believe in the future.
Yet you guard yourself from advertising your thoughts.
A princess by birth, the Oracle for your title, you are a dignified captive.
You will neither pleasure him with your tears, nor with your snarls.
“When you do meet him,” you say, each word enunciated with the precision of a sniper, “please send my Ravus—“
“Your Ravus?” Noctis cuts you off with a forced quirk to his lips.
“Mine,” you echo solemnly, “and he will be mine forevermore.”
That is what you promised him, the same way he promised you were his, the same way the Astrals promised he would come to your rescue.
And, quite as easily as Ramuh calling thunderstorms to Duscae, the mood changes. Noctis exhales long and slow, and his next draw of breath leaves you holding your own.
“…what a lucky guy, I’d kill to be him.”
Days come and go, not that you had any means of indication to the passing of the day. As with everything else gradually introduced in your new life, assumption is the key to living. Following your circadian rhythm religiously, awaking and sleeping at set hours your body is accustomed to, you established an erratic rhythm of sorts. Not perfect, but it’s a start. A human’s adaptability is an amazing thing.
MTs hobbling into his office bearing trays of the Imperials’ meals are a common sight. Noctis must’ve thought them harmless enough to bring your meal for the assumed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Its index finger rolls back to unveil a skeleton key, unlocking your cage with ease. Tray is set on the bed, and door is locked once more. You are disinclined to acknowledge their presence, not that they hold half of the emotions needed to process hurt, anger, or resentment at your unjust treatment. If not, they surely would’ve stopped themselves the moment they overran Tenebrae and set fire to your flowering fields, no?
The hollow clack to your cage resounds three times an assumed day, and you enjoy what’s left of your years with every sip of creamy broth, tender tendons snapping between your teeth, savouring the spices seasoning a slab of meat. As much as it shames you to admit, you are but a human underneath all the gossamer veils of an Oracle. Humans always enjoy a good meal, especially when one is bored out of their wits and eating is their only reprieve.
A prisoner you are, but it seems Noctis never once forgot your royal bearing, lavishing you in fineries fitting for a princess. And if he weren’t your captor, you would have appreciated him on a deeper note.
When Ravus comes, and he surely will, rather than having him worrying about your emaciated figure, you’d prefer having him concentrating on grinding Noctis into a bloodied pulp under his heel.
“Oh. So you are the one I was cooking for.”
You know nothing of this man but the light in his eye suggests he knows everything of you. Eye, you said, not eyes, for the other is reminiscent of the Disc of Cauthess, a bitten maw all angry edges and jagged lines scoring his left. One-eyed he may be, yet he’s seen more than those with two. His intrusion has you sitting upright just to shake off the pinpricks jutting your spine. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”
“Ah, my apologies, Oracle. I am Ignis Scientia, Noct’s advisor on the dotted line—though I am unofficially his caretaker,” he introduces himself with a slight bow, all polished features of leather shoes and three-piece ensemble. His charming smile complements his high cheekbones, and you find it infectious enough to afford yourself a smile, however guarded it is. “While I normally cook for Noct, lately I find myself cooking for two. Imagine my surprise when he casually brought up the matter over evening tea that he kidnapped the Princess of Tenebrae as though it could be likened to picking Ulwaat berries from your neighbour’s fence.”
You would’ve laughed alongside his small chuckling, but it’s no laughing matter. You are the victim of the unfortunate circumstance, and no, stealing Ulwaat berries isn’t the same as holding a princess hostage. That is a declaration of war, and it is a declaration Ravus is willing to rise to.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Scientia,” you meet his propriety with your own, rising from your seat on the bed as his eye follows your gait. The 197th bar separating you and him is cold under your touch, and you hope it reminds him of your prisonlike predicament. “Thank you for cooking all of my meals, they’re the only part of the day I look forward to. Well,” you stop yourself short, “each assumed day.”
Unlike Noctis, his retainer smiles with candour at your flattery. He is an Imperial despite being ill-placed within the confines of these high walls and dark décor. “Please, just Ignis is fine,” he corrects you softly, eating up the meters separating you and him. Standing this close, his greying eye is a thunderstorm looming in the horizon. You wonder what colour it was before this. “However, I’m afraid it is I who owe you my gratitude, Oracle. I’ve never seen Noct quite like this. So thank you for being here.”
You do not want to know.
You do not wish to know anything about him.
What else do you have to know about him anyway, other than the cold hard fact that mother and father are both rotting at the entrance of the manor?
Yet the kind look on Ignis’ face itches your curiosity, and you hate yourself for starving for contact, seeking it from this stranger who served Noctis. Fingers over the bar tighten. “Like what?”
“Like he’s alive,” says Ignis like alive breathes meaning into the simplicity of the word. “It isn’t my place to say much but I have never seen him quite taken with something else other than matters of the war and such.” Arms crossed over his chest, one of his gloved hands is actively drawing abstracts in the air. “I hadn’t the slightest idea why such abrupt change happened to him. Now, I can see why.”
Are you a pet project? For the wayward prince to experiment and experience life through another being, like a child playing house with their dolls just to emulate everyday conversation. To be clothed, to be fed, to be coddled. To talk, to listen, to learn. To keep him company.
To Noctis, you might as well be.
Your hand empties the bar and settles by your side where Ignis couldn’t see the fist it assumes. “…he is alive only because he took mine.”
Strangely, the smile never left the advisor. Neither did the light in his thunderstorm grey. He only procures a broad eyepatch from his breast pocket, Niflheim silver engraved on black brocade, and secures it over his scar with the expertise of a man who’s been doing it all his life. Carrying himself with the dignity of a broken man rebuilt anew, he meets you right in the eye. Only then you realise you mistook his callousness for candour.
“As he did with many others,” Ignis breathes his farewell, and parts with a bow.
You are not a toy. You are not a pet. You are not a project. You refuse to let your life be penned by a man whose actions remain unforgiven. He thinks you know nothing of the fleeting looks thrown over his pauldron, none too discreet. In and out he goes, from his bedroom to the empire he’s building on Eos, returning rank with sweat and bangs all limp. Always, always after throwing his helmet aside, he looks at you, and looks. Looking is never a crime, but he makes it so.
The sufferings of the Oracle are a great many, mother told you.
And this, you suppose, is simply one of it.
A blinding flash and later, your lips acquire a sour turn. The firsts of your suffering in many more to come. “What did you just do?”
The yellow polaroid in his hands whirrs, spitting a glossy 2x3 that Noctis unconcernedly blows on. “Ever watched those black-and-white movies?”
Cradling your chin, you mull over his question. A genuine probe into your interests, or another one of his manipulative methods in picking your psyche again? You don’t know. “Not many,” you dare yourself to admit, uncrossing your leg only to cross it the other way round. “Only some.”
He’s still blowing on the picture, periodically holding it up to the light for his scrutiny, and then rinse and repeat. The echo to his mundane action would’ve bored you to death if you weren’t already bored to death.
“They had scenes of people keeping pictures of their beloved when they go to war,” says Noctis, fixed on the film. After a moment’s consideration, he stops, looks at you with a misplaced fondness yet again, and shrugs before turning to his odd job of flicking and flicking away. “Kind of wanted to try it once.”
You swallow at the goosebumps prickling your nape. You’re certain the twitch born on the corner of your lips signifies nothing good.
Ravus never indulged in sentimentalities unbefitting a king, snapping pictures and the like. Never immortalised a moment’s peace with you and him on Fenestala’s patio, sipping tea between bites of cloudy choux puffs and buttonlike macarons. Not a man who’d spare thirty seconds for a selfie, ever so sullen at your poisoned tongue coaxing his mouth open. Kisses are bribes for pictures, the clandestine currency traded between Tenebrae and Lucis. Kisses are the only way for the scowling prince to grudgingly accept your one-sided offer. Kisses are more than enough to leave you dazzled for days and more days after he leaves and never to return for months and more months.
A man like him has no need for pictures.
He just calls you whenever he thinks of you.
And begins every conversation with, “I miss you.”
You run your fingers over silken sheets, skittering them uphill and downhill, trying to remember the texture of his skin. Ravus was warm, an embrace so suffocating yet so comforting, fitting you perfectly in every crook of your soul. Distance matters little when you could feel him with you if you searched in your cor cordium. The heart of your heart.
Noctis had been staring at you, and you are unafraid to hold his gaze. Holding your chin parallel to the ground, your answer comes just as easily. “I am not your beloved.”
Except—your answer has Noctis gifting you an affected smile, tiny as a nick. He is achingly beautiful, even if he is a mess. “But you’re the closest I could get.”