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awakening
Tonitrus, the Fierce
“A king famous for his personality; to his people, a kind, loving, and just king; to his enemies, a veritable demon of merciless brutality.”
„Come on, once more.“
The unyielding voice echoing through the wide hall is met by unpleasant silence.
For a moment or two Noct contemplates answering him with every ounce of rebellion that hasn’t been beaten out of his body yet. Then he throws a short glance at Drautos and smothers the alluring thought, before he summons a dagger out of his armiger and disappears in a whirl of bright blue magic, as he warps across the field towards the enemy.
“You need to be faster.”
Same voice, same unimpressed tone.
Appearing in front of the Glaive, Noct phases into his blind spot, while a sword impales the air where he dropped out of his warp just a fraction of a second before. He has trained long enough with Gladio to get it all down to infallible instincts, but silently congratulating himself in the back of his mind couldn’t possibly be further down on his list of priorities right now. Instead he desperately tries to block it all out – Gladio’s rigid form waiting beside the captain with his arms crossed in front of his chest, eager to bellow at the older man about his torturous evaluation; more glaives standing at the side and openly watching the disaster unfold and even more hidden out of sight to jump into the fight at the most unexpected and inconvenient time possible.
It might have even been fun – trying different opponents, learning new strategies and maybe even getting a tip or two at the end for future training sessions with his shield. Instead he is being pummeled into the ground for hours now with no end in sight.
“Use all of your senses.”
Same advice, same sigh hidden in between his words.
Quashing the flaring anger in his veins, Noct parries a strong hit with his summoned sword, before jumping back to create some distance in between himself and his opponent. He won’t be able to beat him, not after the countless rounds they have already been going at. Not with the nearly unbearable pain in his back that turns every move into a physical barrier.
Instead he tries to follow the advice with the same desperate will to get it right just this once that has kept him going so far through the heaviness in his limbs as well as the quivering need to lie down somewhere and never move again.
His ears are strained. There is his own heavy breathing rattling in his chest with exhaustion bleeding through every fiber of his body; there is the grinding noise of the glaive’s armor, mere moments before he strikes forward with unparalleled force to smash his weapon into his weakly build defense.
It’s enough to stop him from throwing Noct across the floor though, so he phases through the immediately following attack meant to finish him and builds up some distance again. He doesn’t want to beat his opponent. That’s not even the point of the whole training session with the glaives, he finally figured out after about the fifth fight against them. It’s about enduring what the enemy throws at you with using every possible resource at your disposal, until help arrives.
Which, transferred to this spectacular situation, will come in the form of his shield, ready and nearly combusting with pent up energy and the need to fight alongside Noctis. Not that he had the pleasure of stepping in yet – no matter how hard Noct fights back, no matter which moves he pulls out of his sleeve or how often he slips under the impenetrable defense of his opponent – minutes later he’ll end up on the ground gasping for air with the glistening tip of a sword mere centimeters from his throat.
“Always be aware of your surroundings.”
Despite the carefully chosen, neutral tone in his voice Drautos’ words seem to mock him now.
Because only seconds later, when his muscles tense in just the right way to take another direct hit from the glaive in front of him, his senses go crazy. Not in the conventional kind of way the captain apparently wants to pound into him.
It’s not the wind drifting against his exposed skin, when she jumps out of her warp and displaces the air surrounding her graceful form.
It’s not the glint of daylight reflecting off her sword and the glaive’s armor in front of him to blind him in the blink of an eye.
It’s not the sound of her feet hitting the ground nearly inaudibly from years and years of merciless training.
It’s the way his gut clenches up and pulls at his insides in a painful twist, leaving him slightly nauseous from the sense of foreboding that makes an appearance out of nowhere every so often but never early enough to avoid the unavoidable.
With a surprised grunt he raises his sword over his back, leaving himself too exposed for the glaive in front of him but managing to stop her from smashing the flat of her blade into his sensitive back, before he just evades both of them in a clumsy move and phases through the swords hitting each other to re-solidify behind his first enemy’s back.
They don’t waste a second to go after him, already anticipating the move he used too often to get out of a tricky situation. He knows it to be a mistake, he knows Gladio won’t be happy because he made sure Noct knows to never fall into a routine during a fight, no matter how convenient.
But it’s hard. With both of them together he can’t even remotely hold his line of defense, hit after hit pushes him further back, while they dance around each other and form an unbeatable stronghold. There is no getting through. Whenever he so much as thinks about striking them from behind or even above, she is there to take the hit. Whenever he tries to build up some distance to use another weapon from his armiger, something with a range of distance, the other glaive shoots out and strikes at him with a force Noct can’t believe he still has after hours upon hours of well-aimed hits.
He needs a plan. And fast.
Too bad that everything he has tried so far was either anticipated or didn’t throw them off their game long enough for him to send them flying.
“Never let yourself get cornered.”
The snappy retort is stuck in his throat, when another glaive warps to a point several meters behind of Noct and he ends up doing exactly what Drautos told him not to. The other two glaives split up and take their places to his left and in front of him, while he takes the time to get some air into his aching lungs. That’s it. Now one will attack up front, the other will sneak in and together they’ll take his full attention, until the third one will bring him to his knees.
At this point he should resort to his magic.
It is what Drautos, what the spectating glaives really want to see and why they even bother at this point.
Your father at this age…
Even the Kingsglaives, who weren’t born with it unlike you…
With just the right mind-set…
It’s not like he doesn’t try.
Warping, phasing, his armiger… It feels like second nature. He knows what they all mean. A pulling behind his navel, something cold rushing through his veins and up to his fingertips, where a blue glow grabs the solidifying metal out of thin air when he calls upon the power of Lucian kings and receives something in return.
But the more he concentrates on it, the more he tries to follow to the bottom of whatever calls to him, the faster he seems to run out of what was gifted to him. Warping takes more of an effort, phasing leaves little scratches where they would have hit him and switching from dagger to sword back to dagger and then another weapon takes too long.
And despite his father’s words at dinner last night he feels further away from receiving whatever blessing he is missing than ever before. His hands are trembling while holding the sword a little lower in his tight grasp. His magical supplies are dim and impossible to hold onto for longer periods of time. His stance is too tense, too rigid in his current position.
Nonetheless he plans one last, all-out strike. Last, because he won’t have any energy left to keep standing after this. But if he does it right, if he moves at just the right time and unexpectedly to three fully trained glaives, he might pull it off.
The tiny piece of resolve in his chest grows, until it forms into a sturdy little thing that sits tight and refuses to move, even as they begin their attack and one of them warps forward to meet his lousy, defensive stance.
When the weapon is close enough and the glaive reappears out of thin air, already turning around to strike in mid-air, Noct lets his trusted sword disappear in a burst of blue crystals filling the space in between them and… begins.
The dagger floats in the air, centimeters besides his neck, before it is being grabbed for a fleeting second only to be thrown across the room dangerously close to the ground a moment later. It doesn’t sink and hit the ground mid-flight nor does it go unnoticed by his enemy. Not that it helps him this time. Noct throws himself into the warp before the glaive is able to change the course of his direction and reappears in the second his dagger flies in between his next enemy’s legs. For a moment he is weightless – with his back to the ground staring up at her defenseless back he subconsciously throws the dagger off to his left, before gravity pulls him roughly to the ground and consequently enables him to kick his feet into her knee pits.
She falls down to her knees.
The pure wonder of achieving something so impossible lends him enough adrenaline to throw himself into the next warp, where his dagger flies straight at the third glaives face – who appears fully prepared and ready to slam Noct down in his victory run.
He expects Noct to do the same mistake as before: fly at him, counter his first strike and then warp further away to desperately catch his breath and try to catch him off guard with a ranged attack weapon.
And if Noct had any hope left that he would be capable of continuing, he might just have done it. Instead he warps to his flying dagger, evades the incoming attack by a hair’s breadth and warps again instantly – just not in the direction the glaive expected. This time they are random at best.
He doesn’t even waste his energy with changing his weapon, slicing at his opponent the second he drops out of warp only to jump again before the glaive is able to fully turn around. It works. For some blissful seconds Noct rides on the high of having the upper hand once, slice after slice raining down on the glaive, who’s armor is too heavy for him to keep up with Noctis’ speed and agility. His hits aren’t doing much, barely gracing the man’s skin in unprotected places, but it’s more than he has managed the whole afternoon combined.
With superficial hits he won’t bring his opponent down though.
So when he can feel his body drifting away from him, when the dark smudges at the edge of his vision become a little too present and endearing, he drops out of another warp directly in front of his enemy, still hovering in the air, and switches his dagger for his slowly materializing sword and hits.
His enemy is too thrown off by his non-existing strategy, by his plain randomness that doesn’t seem to have a certain target. Not his weak points, not his stature that hinders him at some angles, not his type of weapon.
One more hit and he’ll throw him off his feet, so Noct swings around in a full circle to build up enough force as soon as his feet hit the ground to steady him, closes in on the defensive stance in front of him –
and is thrown across the floor by his other enemy he so carelessly neglected.
When his body comes to a stop after sliding towards the other end of the training hall towards the doors, he stays on the ground. For all he cares they can try to finish him off – there is no fight left in his trembling arms, no energy to lift himself up with cuts all over his body, no way to fight off the pain in his back any longer. Not after the moves he just made, not after landing hard after his involuntary flight.
Opening his eyes is a little harder, lifting his head enough to glance over his bare arms even more so. Nyx is the first one to take off his helmet, the other two glaives step closer, one eye on Noct, the other on their captain.
Gladio is eager to step forward but halted in his steps, when Drautos’ unforgiving voice echoes over the tense silence once more.
“Better. Now peel yourself off the ground and keep going. Do you think the enemy will wait until you regain your strength? Get up.”
Drautos ignores Gladio whirling around and raising his voice, ignores the slight frown on Nyx’s face as he musters his captain in poorly concealed disdain, ignores Crowe joining his side to take off her helmet as well in a silent but obvious gesture.
He only has eyes for Noctis, as he throws a small vial in his direction and shouts with a fervor he rarely ever shows, “Stop hesitating and finally fight with your damn magic!”
It’s a Firaga.
Despite the exhaustion he can feel his magic responding to the spell, sensing the heat and the fire long before it will hit the ground and bathe the hall in an eerie sea of flames. He knows what Drautos expects, how he wants him to fight back. They talked a million times about it, but not once did he succeed in elemancy. And with his power sucked dry, all he manages is to raise the heavy sword in his hand while sitting up and to haul it at the ceiling above him.
If he throws it at just the right angle and with the perfect speed, his sword will bury itself far enough into the ceiling for him to hang off of it and casually flip Drautos off for being an ass. Because honestly? He’s so done. Another lecture by Ignis or his father doesn’t sound as bad in his head as it did an hour ago.
So he closes his eyes and tries to warp after his weapon – a move as ingrained as breathing itself and still he has as much trouble with it as simply sitting upright.
It takes longer for him to mentally find his weapon and follow it with his body, nearly too long. The hall around him fades into bleak colors, all sound dims as if he is swimming underwater. In the back of his mind he notices something going on – movements from the corner of his eyes before he warps, voices getting louder, startled, then alarmed. Manifesting with a tight grip around the hilt of his sword his senses return, mere seconds before the vial is about to hit the ground where he just disappeared from. Close to the suddenly open door. Too close to a clueless Prompto waltzing in.
Suddenly the screams make sense. Too bad their warnings go unheeded, too late to do his friend any good.
Nyx and Crowe summon their weapons to warp.
Gladio abandons his furious grip on Drautos’ clothes and rushes forward.
Drautos looks frozen, paler than before.
Prompto hears their frantic voices shouting at him, but when realization finally hits him and his eyes widen as they spot the little vial flying towards him, the door falls shut behind of him, sealing his fate with a click that seems to echo through the whole room.
For a second Noct feels as frozen as Drautos and sees the scene unfold in his swimming head.
The flask hits the ground with an inaudible, anticlimactic shatter and before the glass fully breaks and spreads tiny shards around the blonde’s boots, an orange glow lights up Noct’s face in a mocking, beautiful way as the flames take over. No one is able to get close to him, the heat is unbearable even up here and all he can do is continue clutching onto the hilt of his sword watching his friend be consumed by flames licking at his clothes and burning the skin beneath it down to his bones, while earth-shattering screams rip out of his throat, until he falls silent.
And then, when the realization and shock finally settle in his powerless body, he lets go and falls down to follow his friend, his brother into a world of pain.
Except that he actually falls before the flask hits the ground and lands in front of Prompto in a swirl of blue shards, knees bent and dagger tightly gripped in his right hand, ready at his command. For a crucial moment he wonders in the back of his mind when he began to warp and at which point he changed his weapon, when all he was able to a second ago was cling to the hilt of his sword and not fall unconscious.
Then he shoves the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. Not, when his friend is in danger, unable to be saved and about to die because of the stupid, bigoted will of a man who tends to loose sight of the importance in certain affairs all too often according to his father.
He is about to scream at his friend to grab his hand, already turning around to pull him closer and prepare a warp, when there is… nothing. No magic to pull from, not even a drop for a last, desperate act. And now that he pays attention to it, it’s obvious how far into stasis he is. His fingers are trembling, his right hand unable to hold the dagger steady and his legs are about to give out. It’s bad. Really bad.
But not worse than Prompto’s look in his eyes, when Noct turns around to figure out what to do in their last possible moment. It’s… disturbing. Not quite unexpected. And yet…
Worry and hope are slowly bleeding away and an acceptance takes place in their stead that feels too easy, too used to, too ‘I’m fine with it, it’s not worth the trouble’. It flares up whenever someone doubts his place at Noctis’ side, whenever harsh comments and jealousy make their way through the tight defense surrounding the prince and reach his best friend’s ears.
It twists his gut and makes him raise his free hand sideways, when the flask shatters behind of him accompanied by distant screams and the roaring of flames. It turns his determination to something else, when his mind blanks out and he simply… acts.
Because letting Prompto die is not an option.
Never was and never will be.
At first it feels like the rest of his magic does: flowing soft and bendable through his veins, instantaneously, something to always rely on if there is just enough left.
Then it doesn’t feel like it at all.
Because as much as he can feel the heat on his skin, as much as the flickering shadows on Prompto’s terrified face are alive, it’s still magic in the end. And boy, does it differ from what he has ever felt before.
It’s not easy. Not at all. It’s not submissive, not like a river and more like the Altissian Sea in a tormenting storm. It’s raw, powerful, all-encompassing and overwhelming. He can feel the flames being alive in some twisted way, crouching closer and higher towards their victims to feed off of them. He can feel the way they bend, the way magic flows through them willing them forward and he latches onto it in a last desperate attempt to stop them from burning the two of them alive.
The flames halter in their disembodied steps with obvious displeasure and the magic rears up to squash him under the load smashing into him. It’s too much. Even with his reserves exhausted to the last drop it is too much. Raw magic runs through his veins and leaves them burning with pain and unbearable heat and for a moment he fears that he has failed and the flames have reached them – until the magic centers at the palm of his hand and follows his unspoken command with childish, malicious glee.
Let him feel, it whispers in the back of his mind with deep and fierce words.
Let him burn.
And he does.
He can rather feel than see it through the reddish glow swirling around him, but every inch of his body suddenly seems connected to the fire, as he wills it towards him and away from Prompto. He feels it edging around his screaming friend but never touching him, not once, before it surrounds Noct in a quickening whirl and is finally sucked up into his raised hand.
For several seconds he burns from the inside out. His screams are being held back by the flames clutching at his throat trying to escape, to be let out of this perishing, fragile prison. His body bends forward with an audible gasp for air that only fuels the flames and aware of the pain tearing the palm of his hand apart, he presses it close to his chest in a tight fist.
It’s too much, he has to get rid of it, now-
Bodies are moving towards him. Words reach his ears but not his brain. Hands are raised, commands are given. They need to get away, now, because he can’t hold it back, not even for a second, it’s too much raw magic fuelled by something else than just a simple fire spell contained in a flask.
There are words spoken to him from somewhere else, in his mind, a connection to something outside his vicinity. It’s powerful, pulsing in a rhythm his heart falls in step with almost instantaneously. So much magic, so much power, so many ways to fight, to beat them, to stamp them into the ground, just turn around, just go, just fight-
His clenched muscles relax.
His hunched form straightens.
They fall silent, anticipating but not expecting.
‘Stop hesitating and finally fight with your damn magic,’ Drautos’ words resonate in his mind and conjure a wicked grin onto his pale face, before he looks over his shoulder and embraces the shove forward with open arms.
Nyx is the closest to fight. Despite braving it forward with step after step, always the hero, always the guy looking out for everyone and doomed to succumb to his unspoken fate, he clutches his dagger with a skillful grip that testifies his yearslong training. It won’t be enough though. Not when his is a sliver of hope compared to the bastion of light Noct holds in his hands. Quite literally.
Finally the captain’s words make sense.
There are so many ways to battle than merely warping and conjuring weapons, when you have magic to plow from whatever he has gained access to in his desperate attempt to save his friend.
Ways he doesn’t know… but they do.
The deep whisper is back, still fierce, still unyielding, and with the presence in his mind another more physical manifests behind of him. Not visible, not really, but he can feel it in the way his magic (is it his or just borrowed?) reacts to him, when a bluish shape of a hand grasps his own that is still tightly pressed to his chest.
Give it an outlet.
The small dagger, long forgotten in his right hand, comes alive again when he throws it forward to warp the little distance that is left between the glaive and himself. Appearing in front of him faster than the glaive is used to from him he gets rid of his enemy’s dagger in a fluent slice targeting his wrist, not his weapon.
Noct uses his confusion and apprehension to phase closer when he takes a step backwards and places his hand on his chest. For a second, before he lets loose, he can feel Nyx tremble under his touch. The magic he receives from the king flows in timid currents through his veins, into his racing heart and back out into his limbs, ready to fight or retreat depending on the situation.
Then Noct opens up and lets go.
Just a little bit and he pulls the roaring flow back a mere moment later like the voice tells him to, but it’s enough to throw the glaive backwards through the training hall and into the opposite wall with a sickening thud. The last flames lick at Noct’s hand, eager to be free once more and to wreak havoc, but with the foreign presence at his side it seems easier to reign them in.
Bend the magic to your every will.
It doesn’t make sense at first until Crowe shoots forward from a blind spot and tries to knock him out. Too late to catch her off guard, too fast to get her with the flames waiting to attack. Elemancy. That’s what he is using. And at least he knows that it isn’t limited to a single element.
Memories enter his mind and all sound dims to call forward the peaceful splashing of a tiny river with a child submerging his hands into the cold stream. Drops of water fly back over his shoulder at a laughing man standing nearby, ready to grab the oblivious boy should he lean too far forward.
The warmth in his chest stays, the burning pain makes way for an oppressive heaviness weighting down on his lungs but making him feel light and adrift, almost dream-like. The magic manifesting the dagger in his hand changes and pulls his trusted sword out of his thrumming armiger. She’s in the air now, her surprise attack failed and in an instant she switches her tactic and pushes her hands forward. Summoning. If the female glaive is infamous for anything, it’s her fiery tornadoes with which she destroys her enemies on a daily basis.
And even though he is the crown prince, even though she showed more mercy during their last fight than she probably had wanted to let through, she attacks with everything now. Something Noct can’t hold against her, when her partner is panting heavily on the other side of the hall while grabbing his wrist with a pained face and burn marks all over his front.
But he can’t stop. The magic is still threatening to rip him apart at the seams and silent instructions in his mind paired with this new but still oh so familiar presence by his side make it easy to do what has to be done.
Protect your people. Tear down whoever stands in your way.
Turning his body around and grabbing his sword with both hands he swings it in a wide arc, until he faces Crowe and the flaming winds surrounding her once more. He calls forth his magic, this time stronger, more commanding, and his sword bursts apart into a body of water that grows the more he pulls it around himself in a growing circle.
She can’t stop her attack nor can she break her momentum in time, so hot channeled flames meet ice-cold gushes of water. The recoil is stronger than anticipated and would have thrown him off his feet, if he hadn’t pushed his broad hands against his back and held him upright.
Through the steam not much is visible and Crowe knows well enough when to hide her magic and wait for the opportunity. Noct isn’t above copying her strategy and blending into the mist the way Gladio taught him to as compensation for his small physique. The broad figure at his back has other plans though.
No mercy. Use the opportunity. Destroy your enemy.
Before he can begin to recoil, before he can gather his wits and realize what he has just done, the calm magic in his veins flares up again in painful agony and has him bend forward with a concealed groan. Instead of shallow waves the magic - borrowed, owned, forced upon him – turns into a lethal storm bringing back what has been pushed far away from his consciousness.
The pain in his back alone almost floors him, let alone the skin of his left hand. He doesn’t dare turning it over to look at his palm for fearing it doesn’t just feel like his skin is being peeled off. Combined with the sheer exhaustion he reels on the spot, before his legs give way and he is being caught by two slim but sturdy arms holding him upright in the slowly fading mist that still makes it impossible to gather from where Crowe has emerged.
Lure the unwary. Plow through those unworthy.
He can feel his intention and more so the sword he tries to manifest in Noct’s hand, instead though he balls both to fists despite the pain and presses them to where Crowe holds him close to her chest, unaware of the looming danger she is in.
“You need to go,” he whispers and all of a sudden the dull haze he was trapped in falls away. Her heartbeat is pounding against his closed fist in a steady rhythm, the crackling of single flames around them fills the oppressing silence and in the distance he can hear people shouting commands over each other.
“-our Highness?”
Her broken off voice carries through his exhaustion but not quite enough to make sense, so he tunes her out with half an ear listening to the figure looming over her right shoulder. Despite her holding him upright, despite her clearly helping him, he is still set on destroying her.
And if Noct has an ounce of control left in him to keep the endless magic at bay, he’ll rather be torn apart by it than do as he bids no matter the consequences.
Because the more he crawls back from the overwhelming and all-encompassing flow of raw power, the more he recognizes familiar characteristics in the bluish glowing figure. Like the samurai-ish armor of his, topped off by the disc on his helmet or the mace hovering close to the ground with the tip downwards, but still more dangerous than all the other weapons in the training hall combined.
One of the Royal Arms.
“I’ve got him secured, but he’s out of it,” Crowe’s voice rings out, while he can feel her tense muscles slowly relax in a false sense of security. He wants to warn her, tell her to get away from him while she still has the chance, but instead there is only one word leaving his throat in a choked and cut off voice.
“Tonitrus.”
While the king of old inclines his head in a soft gesture despite the agitation radiating off of him and lighting Noct’s blood on fire, the magic sets in his bones and begins to tug painfully. He doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to follow. Somewhere behind of him. Prompto? The other glaives? His shield? Is Crowe not enough?
Of course Noct knows about the infamous Kings of Lucis. Eleven in number they are covered in dull history lessons around Insomnia, let alone in hours upon hours spent in the library for the crown prince of Lucis.
But seeing him now of all times, when no other has ever shown themself despite his father’s claim that they not only use the ring to communicate with their royal lineage is… surprising, to say the least.
Especially, since he doesn’t particularly stand out among other kings and queens. Sure, every one of them has their own story to tell, their own traits that followed them post mortem, but he isn’t the first king like Somnus or the first queen like Crepera. He isn’t as tragic as The Warrior or united the Lucian continent the way The Conqueror did.
Instead he was infamous for his personality. A king of his people, just and kind, but the nightmare of his enemies, whom he destroyed with merciless brutality.
And suddenly the tugging of his magic and the king’s harsh pressure make sense.
Because he isn’t going after Crowe or the others. He never really was.
There is an enemy in the Citadel.
Someone the king himself deems too dangerous, someone who has to be taken out.
So with that realization, with that assurance, he finally let’s go.
It’s something he can’t remember but feels looming on the edge of his memory, there when he isn’t consciously thinking about it but gone the second he focuses on that blank spot.
It’s like riding a bike. Something that seems impossible to achieve at first, but once learned, once tasted, it’s impossible to not hold that precarious balance in his hands.
It’s like a rush – worse than adrenaline, worse than feeling the freedom of flying, worse than anything he ever was subjected to. An endless amount of pure energy, hovering in the air surrounding him at all times, dives into his very being and flows like the blood through his veins and into his stopping heart. When it beats again, heavier and stronger than before, everything stills around him. Crowe stops talking abruptly, other voices follow the suffocating silence, until the crackling of magic is the only sound.
It’s too much and at the same time… it isn’t. Not ever since the king of old placed his hand on the prince’s ready shoulder to open him for whatever power he just summoned. He can feel it peeling away at his skin, clawing its way out to be released and drawing purple lines across his body. It doesn’t hurt though. Not one bit.
Instead he feels more at home than he has in the past years.
Because it’s cozy warmth beside much needed closeness above the humbling thought that he never is alone. Never really was. Not with all of them standing by his side, ever-present even though they decided to stay unseen unlike Tonitrus and despite the fact that he is barely able to hold onto the combined force of the crystal and the ring whose bearer he is yet to become.
Go now. Do your duty.
On the edge of his flittering consciousness he can feel Crowe recoil, when a weapon is summoned into his hand that she is painfully familiar with but hasn’t seen being wielded even once in her life.
A large, nearly unbearable mace, which weight pulls the tip towards the ground involuntarily. Nonetheless he holds it solely with his right hand – a silent, unconscious tribute to a king of old who lost his own arm once upon a darker, crueler time.
Then, with surprising ease, he lifts the white glowing weapon, points its tip backwards towards the lingering, apprehensive glaive and throws it in a whirl of shattering crystals towards the only person in the room who has Tonitrus’ undivided attention.
Something foul, rotten like a carcass…
He materializes five meters away from him.
Enough time for Noctis to grab the slim handle, as if it were made for his small hands, and to point the weapon at the man’s face along with every other weapon Noctis’ armory possesses hovering around him.
Enough time for his enemy to pull his own weapon forth and point it at Noctis’ chest without even the tiniest hint of a doubt in his cold eyes. Then it shifts – hesitation crosses his face in a flash barely visible, the grip around the hilt of his weapon tightens too much to swing it at its best efficiency and still he remains like that, mouth open and talking in vain against the all-encompassing rush of blood and magic in Noct’s ears that roam ceaselessly through his beaten body.
Tonitrus has enough of Noct’s study and ends it with a mere thought that burns through Noct’s staggering will to kill beat his enemy. In a blinding whirl of dissipating magic the rest of his offered weapons are called back into his armiger, while he rushes through the glittering shards towards his blinded enemy.
He is better than this, Noct tells himself, and still he merely raises his sword to deflect Noct’s attack he usually would have returned with ease by now. Tonitrus isn’t blinded by it though and keeps guiding his mace in wide arcs and slashes to wear their enemy down for the final blow.
And all he does is merely parrying the unexpectedly strong and even faster attacks coming in over and over and over again. It crumbles Noct’s resolve but only annoys the king of old who is set in his way.
Maybe he is wrong, a little voice in his head whispers and clears the fog for the first time since Noct gave himself to the king’s will. His attack falters, fails, but instead of using the opportunity to bring the rogue prince down, his enemy stays on guard with his sword raised high and stance unexpectedly defensive.
It doesn’t fit to the blurry, old image in his mind. There is no malicious glint in his opponent’s eyes. There is a certain lack of blood on the man’s hands. There is no dead body beside of him, pale green eyes on her beautiful face staring off into a distance the Fierce can’t follow her-
“-Noctis!”
And with his father’s voice, out of breath and with a desperation in his tone that sounds too close to the broken words he uttered to his bloody and broken child once upon a time, everything finally stops.
The rush in his veins fades away, the energy at his fingertips flees into nothingness and the unwavering presence by his side disappears together with the mace into a whirl of lingering feelings and a taste of betrayal in the back of his throat. The magic is sucked away and suddenly words are able to reach his ears again without sounding as if he were stuck deep underwater unable to escape.
And then, with growing horror, he realizes the target of Tonitrus’ misguided anger.
Red streaks grace the face of the captain, fine trails of blood are visible behind his hairline and more so beneath the deep cuts in his skin below the plain shirt and the rolled up sleeves. For a simple training session with the prince the usual attire was unnecessary and would only get in the way. Against a king of old, one of legends, one called the Fierce… he held himself surprisingly well.
Even if Tonitrus fought him in the body of a child, really.
Even if his skin is covered in sweat and his body heaves under deep, trembling breaths.
Even if he is still in full defense mode, with his sword raised high and his muscles tight with anticipation.
“Noct-“
“Captain, we-“
Multiple voices begin to talk at once and get shut down quickly by Drautos’ booming “Halt!”, which freezes the fading onlookers at the edge of Noctis’ vision before they can come within their reach. Noctis’ reach, to be exact, if the cautious and mistrustful look in the captain’s eyes is anything to go by.
Not that it matters much, he muses, as the heaviness in his limbs overshadows the returning ache of his body and he finally falls victim to the strengthening pull of gravity. Before his body hits the ground he can hear the clattering sound of metal hitting the floor of the training hall and multiple shouts, but strong arms pull him into the warm, looming embrace of oblivion.
Music tip:
Karmina – All The King’s Horses
He doesn’t wake, when they gently pull him out of Drautos’ arms to take care of them both.
He doesn’t wake when they place him in his chamber either, nor does he when Regis, with heavy step and weary sigh, explains to his frantic entourage the meaning of the happenings of the past afternoon. He wakes, however, when Clarus has forced his sword and shield both to bed hours ago and has given up on raising the blonde tuff of hair from the couch in his Highness’ sleeping quarters.
He blinks himself into existence slowly, as his eyes need a minute or two before he is able to take in the pretty ornaments on the ceiling of his room without the blur in front of his eyes. Distantly he is aware of the soft snoring to his right, but his trembling left hand takes in all of his attention. His memories don’t return one by one, carefully and easy on his stricken soul. It is overwhelming and pulses into existence together with the pain, though it isn’t as mind-numbing and devouring as before.
A white, clean bandage is wrapped around the palm of his hand and he can’t even try to keep it steady for a few seconds, before the trembling takes over again. His right hand feels weighted down by the exhaustion resting in his bones – but it is as steady as ever on top of the blanket.
He remembers it.
The fire. The feeling of burnt edges scraping at his fingertips, when he closed them to a fist. The smell of burnt flesh in his nostrils. The searing pain crawling its way up through his arm and into his heart, before the magic in his veins finally overtook his body and pulled him away, far away from really being there. But at the same time-
It was him. His attacks, his thoughts, his movements, even though encouraged by an entity whose presence was revealed to him in between saving his best friend and being eaten alive by too much raw, unchanneled power.
Something troubling begins to settle in his chest, little thoughts that make him press his lips tightly together until the burning in his eyes fades away oh so slowly. Then, finally, the blonde bundle to his right shifts on the small couch that adorns his bedroom on the far wall between the tall and wide windows and the drawn, heavy curtains.
In an instant Noct sits upright to throw his legs over the edge of his bed, when he puts too much pressure on the palm of his left hand and everything explodes into white, searing hot pain. He nearly gives in to the aching whine bubbling up his throat, but holds onto the thought that Prompto is sleeping three meters away from him. A confrontation he isn’t ready to face yet. Not by a long shot, if the suffocating feeling in his chest upon seeing the dried up tear-stains are anything to go by.
Instead he slips from his bed and into his fine slippers, fitting to the sleeping clothes they have dressed him in after his training clothes must have been unsalvageable even for Ignis’ skills.
Blood, sweat, tears upon tears and then the burnt up edges, just like his skin-
He flees.
As fast as one injured and mangled prince can, when old and new injuries alike tire him down relentlessly and make the thought of crawling back into bed so appealing opposed to wandering into the hall with a dressing gown thrown over his sleeping clothes. He doesn’t care about the guards seeing him like this – it wouldn’t be the first time by far and at the end of the day, as much as the thought hurts sometimes, this is still home to him. As long as no officials see him, it is alright.
And so they let him be, a short greeting and careful eyes set on his form as he leaves his chamber and wanders down the corridor towards his father’s rooms is all they grace him with. For a moment he is confused, as none of them moves to follow him like a silent shadow, especially now, just awoken from his injury induced slumber –
It makes more sense, when he opens the door to the following corridor that eventually leads to his father’s chamber. It is the only one on this floor that ever made it to the public’s eye via a photograph. But the statues of the old kings, the mightiest eleven of them, built over a century ago, are a treasure that shouldn’t be withheld from the people. Statues that line the wall to his right with paintings larger than Noct gracing the wall behind the respective queen and king.
And a lone captain, who sits on a bench opposite of the Fierce’s portrayal.
No harm awaits him here.
No need for the guards to follow him.
For a moment he just stands and waits, after he closed the door as quietly as possible. Drautos doesn’t move an inch. Instead he keeps on sitting on the bench, an unbothered look on his face that looks too calm for him, too devoid of emotions. Something he is not. Never was.
So naturally it has to bother him in some way. Anger? Fear? Doubts? It has always eluded Noct to figure the Captain out and since they only ever colluded in a work-related way…
“Good evening, your Highness.”
He finally breaks the silence and shatters the illusion, when he forces his gaze away from Tonitrus and towards Noct. It’s… unsettling. Impenetrable. And still…
It tells so much. His stomach squirms under the scrutinizing gaze, unable to form a connection between what the Captain’s face is trying to tell him and known, humans emotions. He is not an expert on that, not by a long shot. So instead he follows the silent invitation and shuffles forward with strong and steady steps that have become ingrained over the years of training proper etiquette for being in the presence of… everyone.
When he finally sits down and utters a silent but relieved sigh at the alleviation of his suffering body, Drautos adds, “You woke up sooner than we expected.”
Before Noct is able to form a reply, he continues.
“With the help of the Fierce, I reckon?”
There is something about that tone of his that rings every alarm bell in his mind, before he recalls why and with whom he is here. Drautos in no enemy. If anything…
“I’m sorry for what he did to you.”
The smile on Drautos’ face, crooked and with nearly not enough humor to erase the edge, is as unsettling as it is relieving in a way. Finally he looks away from Noct to continue his haunting stare at the statue. “Nothing that didn’t happen on the battlefield before. And from what I understand he possessed you in a way.”
It is more formed as a question than a statement, but the mere thought of being overcome by a spirit and nearly slaughtering his father’s commander, glaives and his friends on top of that is something he isn’t willing to dive into yet. Instead-
“He thought you were the one who murdered his wife.”
And while Drautos succumbs to the awaited surprise blooming on his face, Noct takes refuge in the fact that this is the only thing he really is certain of right now. “Igg- Ignis taught me about them ages ago and at first it didn’t make sense, all he thought about was the traitor in our midst, I thought-“
He takes a break, stumbles mentally. Drautos’ piercing gaze on him he evades while staring at his clenched hands in his lap.
It’s obvious what he thought and silently Noct thanks the Captain for not commenting on it.
“But then it didn’t match with what he envisioned. There was- the look in the guys’ eyes was… pure evil. The blood on his hands, the girl at his feet- That wasn’t you. But I realized too late. I’m sorry.”
Noct doesn’t usually talk about feelings, especially not to people out of his inner circle, but this is something weighting heavily on his chest. Also since there is an additional talk waiting for him, so much harder and heart-breaking only thinking about the way Prompto will try to put it into his head that he isn’t as much worth as everyone else of their little group, this one is surely the lesser evil.
Even though it waits with surprises at every corner, it seems.
“You did very well.”
It’s not what he expects Drautos to say, so his head swivels around to face the Captain’s tight stare at the Fierce. “Even before you let yourself be guided by him. You still have to work on your timing, it’s still a little off, and you need to let go of your hard-headedness to do everything on your own, but other than that you did as well as expected.”
All Noct is capable of is blatant staring.
And a dumb “My what now?” Ignis would shake his head over in pure desperation.
The exasperated smile, as crooked and as unusual as the first one, fits to the rare praise Drautos suddenly has for him. Words like this he never ever receives. Not from him. It intensifies the sickening feeling bubbling up in his stomach and mixes with something else that tastes suspiciously like worry on his tongue. He is alright, isn’t he? No outward wounds, no blood staining his skin the way it did before –
“You know the trial wasn’t about finding out how long you are able to fight until you literally drop dead on the floor, don’t you?”
Noct feels his cheeks growing red in poorly hidden embarrassment.
He saves himself an answer.
“The most important goal for your Crownsguard – as much as you hate to hear it – is to keep you protected. Still they are not around you 24/7 and there might come a day when you are in grave danger. It’s why we train you the way we do and with every weapon at our capability in case something is up with the crystal and your magic. Every possibility, every situation we can think off – It won’t be of any help, if you decide to throw it into the wind and not call for help when you need it.”
Baffled he stares at the Captain once more, torn between indignation and annoyance at not figuring it out. “You wanted me to call Gladio for help.”
A silent nod, while the corner of his mouth twitches. The annoyance grows.
“You can’t seriously think I would have asked for help at an assessment.”
“Because you want to beat three fully trained glaives on your own after fighting the same for hours and edging around going into Stasis for the last three fights.”
Hearing it like that… Yeah, okay, the odds were not quite in his favor, but at an assessment, one to test his skills, he awaits no less. Drautos seems to know where his thoughts are going, so he continues without waiting for the pert answer he would have gotten in return.
“You are the heir of the Lucian throne, the next king in line. We are at war – for all we know, you could be forced into that position tomorrow already.”
Noctis’ breath catches in his throat and his eyes are stuck on the statue in front of them. One tiny part wants to punch him in the face for even thinking about his father’s possible demise looming at the horizon. The rest of him is silently thankful. He is the only one besides his and his father’s closest retinue, who doesn’t evade the topic like the plague. Even if every cough, every faltering step, every groan and every single attempt on his life, no matter how petty, is increasing the fear eating away at Noctis’ heart more and more and more.
So at least they are honest.
“But you can’t possibly know everything you need to know and do what the people await at your age. Despite your upbringing, despite the fact that your whole life has been geared to your royal duty, there are things you will only learn along the way. Like realizing that you can’t do everything on your own.”
“I’m aware-“
“Like realizing that your life is more worth than anyone else’s in this country.”
“I know that”, Noct replies stubbornly and with an ounce of annoyance dripping into his cold voice, while he clenches his hands into fists on his lap. Even though every fiber of his being is against it. If anything, it should be the other way around. Isn’t a king supposed to put his people above him? Ensure their safety and wellbeing any way he can?
“Do you, though?”
His thoughts vanish and his eyes catch Drautos’ piercing gaze.
“They are expected to die for you, any second from the moment on they chose to step into the line of duty. No matter how close you are to them.”
A cold feeling settles in his stomach, when he finally realizes what Drautos tries to tell him.
What this little pep talk is really about.
“If it were any other situation-“
“But it wasn’t!”
“Still you risked your life uselessly-“
“It was not useless!”
His voice cracks and filled with agitation and roaring anger at the implication that Prompto’s life wasn’t worth it, he jumps up from the bench to take two steps forward, before he swivels around again upon the Captain’s voice speaking up relentlessly.
“What would have happened, if the Fierce didn’t decide to save you?”
“I would have gotten him away somehow-“
“You wouldn’t have”, Drautos interferes, quieter now, calmer, and it rattles something loose in Noctis’ chest that sits tight in his throat. Because of course he wouldn’t have had a chance to get Prompto and himself out of there. Magic all used up, body on the brink of unconsciousness, no time to push the two of them away.
“No heir. The second Niflheim catches wind of that, they will overrun us with everything they’ve still got in store for us. Because no heir and a king that is physically and emotionally close to death anyway? A piece of cake. No government, no resistance. And by the time we manage to group together whatever we’ve got left, Lucis is long in their hands.”
Unable to retort anything Drautos’ isn’t gonna shoot down with cold, merciless logic, Noct holds his breath for a moment. Because, at the end of the day, he is right. Of course he is. But it doesn’t hurt any less, doesn’t make him want to revolt with every fiber of his body.
They are not just tools – Gladio, his shield. Ignis, his weapon of words. Prompto, his only connection to the real word, far away from castles and directives and expectations; pulling him back to the ground, when needed.
But at the end of the day, friendship and the obliviousness of their daily lives aside, they are exactly what Drautos paints them out to be – pawns to die in his stead. So the line of Lucis lives on. So he can lead the country one day – maybe tomorrow, maybe in ten years, maybe even never.
A shuddering breath leaves his throat. His shoulders sag, just for a moment in which he drops the façade they trained onto him, but it’s enough to cause a deep, troubled sigh behind of him. Rustled movement followed by two steps, before a hand is placed onto his shoulder. Broad, strong, unwavering.
“Don’t refuse to call for help, just so you can save them. Because you can’t. One day-“
He doesn’t finish. Instead he squeezes Noctis’ shoulder once in a silent form of unusual comfort, before he turns away from old and future kings to leave him alone with his misery. Something tight bubbles up in his chest, suspiciously like panic, which makes him spin around on his heels to face the back of the Captain with wide opened eyes.
“How then?!”
Drautos stops, hesitates a moment and then throws a questioning glance back towards Noct with a hand already on the door.
“How am I supposed to not-“ Words fail him, twist his tongue and raising his hands he evades the piercing stare. It’s not about caring in itself that is the problem here. Because a king is supposed to do exactly that with his people – care for and protect them from all evils. But not… more.
The panic subsides and makes way for cold realization. Right.
“Not to be their friends? Not to put your life on the line when it isn’t your place?” Drautos cruelly pushes on and Noctis can’t bear to return the hard stare the Captain pins him with. He does it nonetheless. Has to. Is supposed to.
Even so he is unable to eliminate the quivering in his voice and the desperation filling his eyes, when he finally admits to himself what the job description entails.
“How am I supposed to not feel?”
Friendship, worry, normal for once –
All of it.
For a moment Drautos doesn’t respond. His stoic façade fades, he lowers his eyes away to the side and merely shakes his head with a quiet snort, as if Noctis didn’t get it at all. Then he changes. Abruptly.
His muscles tense, the hand on the door tightens its grip on the handle and this time it is on the Captain to evade the piercing eyes of his young liege. With a voice far lower than before and without that crushing certainty he finally answers.
“You don’t. That’s it.”
A sigh.
“Makes it easier for yourself. And them. Especially them. Just… don’t.”
Then the door shuts audibly in the tension filled silence, as he leaves behind a lone prince with a scowl and a gnawing gut feeling.