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The truth is, they haven’t really talked about it, not since the park in Altissia, with the sea and the city laid out below them. And that was a long time ago. There are years between then and now, a whole war, and some days he can’t quite believe they made it this far.
Actually, most days he can’t believe it, but he’s gotten pretty good at getting over that. Fighting for the future is one thing. Seeing it is… Well, it’s better than anything he could have hoped, even knowing how it will end. How it must end, eventually.
Still, the fact remains that they’ve never talked about the after, because there wasn’t supposed to be an after. And he’s not complaining about it––not now, not ever, not if it means he gets this, even for a moment––but it’s still. Well.
Honestly, it’s a little awkward.
He knows his place, of course: at her side, as promised. Steady as the tide, a bulwark between her and the evils of the world, because she should never have to face them alone. And that had been fine, that had worked when she was the ghost of a princess and he was the ghost of a soldier, and their only duty was to bring respite and healing where they could, to be a light among the shadows as the dark closed in.
But this is a new dawn, and, well. They’re both creatures of the night, aren’t they? They were never meant to survive to the light of day.
So, yeah. It’s a little weird.
In the end, a minister broaches the subject.
Nyx doesn’t particularly like the man; he’s got the air of a weasel about him, something slippery and clever and too invested in things that don’t concern him. But then, Nyx doesn’t particularly like politics in general.
The minister––Nyx feels somewhat bad for not knowing his name, but it has been scant days since the coronation and he can only remember so many details at once, so he mostly focuses on Lunafreya’s safety and the looming admission that he must soon let her go; there is little place for a Lucian Glaive among the political dealings of Tenebrae––brings it up towards the end of a long day of hearings and requests and other mind-numbing responsibilities that now lie squarely in Lunafreya’s lap. It’s a little unfair, in Nyx’s opinion, that Ravus has abdicated. Unfair, but hardly unexpected, given his role in the war with Niflheim. Nyx is fairly certain the population of Tenebrae wouldn’t accept him even had he taken the mantle of the crown, and Nyx wouldn’t blame them.
That does little to lessen his irritation at the man.
So Lunafreya sits at the head of the table, advisors and ministers and other council members arrayed around her as they discuss things like food shortages and trade and––
“And there is the matter of marriage, Your Majesty.”
And that.
The weaselly man leans forwards from where he sits far down the table, all eyes turned to him. Lunafreya does not move, but her shoulders go stiff, and Nyx knows immediately this conversation is going to be all sorts of unpleasant.
“Of what marriage do you speak, Veritus?”
Oh, right. That’s his name.
“Forgive my bluntness, but now that the coronation has taken place the kingdom wants for a consort and an heir.”
“So soon?” asks Lunafreya. “Surely there will be time for such things.”
“I fear not,” Veritus says, silky and thick with false concern. “You must understand, after such struggle a marriage would be a symbol of the future. A great comfort to the people.”
“A marriage to whom?” asks a minister midway down the table, and Veritus pauses before he answers.
“You were promised to the King of Lucis, were you not?”
“That was years ago,” another minister interrupts, Gerald or Gerard or something. “Circumstances have surely changed––”
“And yet an alliance with Lucis would be of great benefit in our rebuilding.”
“King Noctis is a dear friend,” Lunafreya states firmly. “We have spoken of this promised marriage, and agreed the old betrothal be ended.”
“When was this decided?” asks the advisor at Lunafreya’s elbow, a severe-looking woman.
“We met in Altissia.”
“But that was years ago,” protests Veritus. “A time of uncertainty, of war. Now that we have finally achieved peace––”
“It would be a good pairing,” says Gerald-or-Gerard. “You make a handsome couple. And the kingdoms––”
“It has been discussed,” Luanafreya interrupts icily. “There is nothing to be gained in further arguing this point.”
“I disagree,” insists Veritus, and other heads nod around the table.
“It would be unwise to allow a moment of fear dictate the future of both Tenebrae and Lucis,” says the severe-looking advisor, and the room goes chill as the accusation of cowardice rings through the council chamber.
Luna’s chin rises, and Nyx keeps his eyes forwards, jaw clenched tight. His role here is not to argue with the councilors, it is to stand back, to keep an eye on threats. Drautos’ old warning echoes in his ears, and he thinks the man could almost be proud now to see him do his duty. Except for the whole traitor-to-the-crown thing, of course.
Still. He’d kinda rather be anywhere else right now.
“You will watch your tone, councilor,” says Queen Lunafreya Nox Fleuret quietly. “This conversation about my future––”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, it is not only your future––” Veritus breaks in, and then goes silent as Lunafreya turns her gaze on him.
“I will not allow this country to be left unguarded or friendless in our time of need,” she says, voice hard as it echoes through the room. "It is my home too. But I will not yield to a choice made when we were but children. Too much has changed these past five years.” Her voice softens. “Such a demand would be unfair to both Noctis and myself.”
The severe-looking woman snorts. “Majesty, you cannot––”
“Cannot what, councilor?” Lunafreya snaps, and the whole of the council jerks back as though struck. “Live my life? Make my own decisions? Cannot be trusted to see to this nation’s needs? Why not? Is it because I have spent too long a captive in this very palace to know the horrors from which we heal? Is it because I have dared to travel and heal the ills of those who live in this very country? I would hear why my loyal councilors, who have sat happy and fed under the rule of a foreign conqueror, do not believe me capable of fulfilling my duty as Queen and Oracle. Please, speak your minds. Clearly you have much to say.”
In the silence, Nyx swears he could hear a pin drop. A handful of councilors exchange looks, uncertain.
“If there is to be no marriage to Lucis, Majesty,” says a young woman sitting next to Veritus, “there must still be a marriage. Who––” She swallows, and Nyx watches her gaze drift towards him before snapping back to the queen. He does not meet her eyes, does not meet anyone’s eyes. He stares straight ahead and does his best to ignore the voice in his mind that has grown steadily louder these past few days, the one that speaks of Lunafreya’s duty to her country and his own gross inadequacy. “To whom?” the woman finishes lamely.
“Whomsoever I wish,” Lunafreya responds, absolutely zero fucks given, and even with all his uncertainties running riot round his mind he only just manages to stifle a snort, because he doesn’t know how he could ever expect anything less than this stubborn determination to do what she deems best.
“Next topic, please,” she says into the silence, shuffling papers in front of her, and for a moment no one moves. Then the young woman next to Veritus clears her throat.
“Yes, um. There are roads in the northern districts––”
And the meeting moves on, stuttering and slow as they leave the topic of marriage behind, and only then does Nyx look down to Lunafreya sitting to his right. She doesn’t look to him, but the hand resting on the armrest of her chair unclenches and that old warmth swells in his chest. There is, he thinks, nothing she cannot do, no battle she will not win through sheer stubbornness alone, and maybe it drives him crazy but he loves her all the more for it.
It’s gonna hurt like hell to give that up.
It ends not long after that, the last few items on the agenda cleared up, and only once the councilors have scattered, taking their collective leave as quickly as formality will allow, does Lunafreya relax. She sinks back in her chair with a sigh, fingertips pressed against her temples, composure slipping away. Nyx rolls out the stiffness in his neck and meets her gaze. There has always been something timeless about her, but there is something tired about her now too, a grey around her eyes, a pulling frown at the corners of her mouth that has no place there.
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
She smiles, and for a moment that shadow of exhaustion fades. It returns too quickly for his liking.
“They’re not wrong,” she says with a sigh. “The affairs of state are unpleasant, but the need for a husband, for an heir–– it will ease many hearts.”
Nyx drops into the recently-vacated seat of the severe-looking advisor. Screw all that, he wants to say, but she won’t. She can’t. She’s been the bright hope of Tenebrae for so long; she cannot be anything less.
“What about you?” he asks instead. She smiles again, but it is frail, tired.
“I miss the road,” she says. “But there is little to be gained from missing what one cannot have.”
“Yeah,” Nyx agrees. It’s a bitter admission, heavy on his tongue.
They sit together in the quiet, and Nyx wonders if she is also bracing herself to give this up. If she is busy pressing memories like dying flowers, tucking them away dry and lifeless into the pages of her past.
He wonders if she’d also give anything to return to what was, to the cramped quarters and the open road and the uncertain tomorrow.
At least they had each other, and what did they need with tomorrow when each moment was enough?
But this is different, this slow-steady structure of rulership. It’s none of the freedom and all of the fear––fear that something might happen to her, fear that the new king of Lucis will reform the Glaive and demand him back, fear that he must give her up and he doesn’t know how to.
Nyx hates it. He has no time for fear. Better to have it over with, so that it's not looming over his head.
(It will kill him, he thinks idly, but he can live with that. It is enough to have loved her. It's more than he ever could have dreamed.)
“You are thinking,” says Luna, and when he glances up from where his fingers worry against the smooth wood of the table he finds her staring.
“I do that sometimes.”
“A surprise, to be sure.”
“Ouch, princess.” Her teasing smile fades, and Nyx stutters. “Uh. Majesty.”
“I bear it from them,” she says quietly. “I would not have it come from you.”
“It’s your title,” he says, helpless.
“Are you not above such things, love?”
“I––” And here it is, the conversation they haven’t had, the conversation they desperately need. He wants to be anywhere but here. He can’t bear to leave her side. “Luna––”
“Hush,” she says, firm, and his words die in his throat. “We must discuss it eventually.”
That doesn’t make it any better.
“I know.” He does not need her to tell him; he’s been thinking about it ever since they returned to Tenebrae. “I know you have to, to marry someone, to go off and–– and rule, like you’re supposed to. It’s okay, really.” He tries to smile but his mouth will not fit the shape. Speaking it hurts more than he thought it would. “I–– We’ve always been on borrowed time.”
Her voice is unbearably gentle. “That is not what I am suggesting.”
It takes a long moment for the pieces of the puzzle to settle into place, and once they do it takes all his control not to stand up and leave, to turn and walk away from this, because it’s everything he wants and everything he can’t have.
She stares at him, expression carefully guarded. It is not guarded enough, not when he knows her so well. He sees that spark of hope in her eyes, the same foolish hope that has sustained them through the whole of the war, and he hates more than anything that he must crush it.
But he knows his position, and it has never been–– It can’t be–– He was not made for such things. Better heads might wear that crown.
“You are a hero of Tenebrae and Lucis,” she says before he can speak. “The last of the Luciian Kingsglaive, royal guard and my loyal companion through many dangers."
He huffs. “You make it sound so romantic.”
“I have said nothing that isn’t true.”
“I just–– I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Luna, I love you, but I’m not–– I can’t be what they want for you. I’m just a soldier.”
“Forget what they want,” she says, and her voice is fierce, demands he look at her. She reaches out and lays a hand against his cheek where the fire of the Lucii still burns. One day it will consume him, turn him to flaking ash. It is only her gift that has let him live so long.
It will not be such a bad way to go. He has long-since made his peace with his death.
Lunafreya does not give up so easily. “Forget what they want and tell me what you want.”
He does not mean to answer, but the steel of her gaze pulls it from deep within him. “You,” he says, hoarse, honest. That has never been in doubt. “You happy, and safe, and––”
“And why can you not give me those things? You have already done that and more.”
“I’m not a king, Luna.”
“You are a good man,” she says, and there is such conviction in her it takes his breath away. “I do not want a king. If I did,” she adds, smile faint, “I would marry Noctis.”
Nyx snorts in spite of himself. “I’d love to see that.”
She does not reply. Her fingers are cool against his cheek, her touch sure, and they have sat like this a hundred times, a thousand times, and still it seems a gift.
His heart clenches.
“You know my answer,” he murmurs, shifting his gaze away. The pressure of her hand guides him back to her. Always, he comes back to her.
“I would have you say it.”
There are a thousand reasons to say no. He's a king's warrior without a king, a man with little besides his name and his memories, burning from the inside out. For as long as he can remember, he has been nothing more than a soldier, fodder sent to fight and die so others might have this new dawn. He has only ever led his brothers and sisters into battle, into harm; he cannot lead a country.
But he has never quite learned how to say no to her stubborn independence. And he made a promise once, strong as any wedding vow.
He should know better, by now, than to argue with her.
“I’ll stand at your side as long as you’ll have me.”
Her face lights up, exhaustion burning away to be replaced with such joy he cannot bear think he would deny her that. She laughs, ringing bright, and leans forwards to kiss him, messy across the table but familiar and warm, and fireworks burst in his chest.
It will be work, he knows, work and dirty gazes and disapproval, one more challenge for the young queen.
But then, they’ve always been a stubborn pair.
They’ll manage.