Chapter Text
At the heart of Insomnia, the Crown Prince celebrates his 15th birthday. The Citadel’s halls are decorated for the occasion, and the visiting dignitaries mingle about with themselves. But despite the laughter and voices that ring in the air, the champagnes passed around, the party hosted in his name, Noctis Lucis Caelum feels alone.
Although he smiles and thanks the guests with a passable attitude, he secludes himself from the crowd the moment his presence is no longer needed. Ignis and his father aren’t amused by his avoidance, but Noctis has done this for so long that they let him do as he pleases. They will only remind him that one day, he can no longer hide in the shadows when it comes to these events.
But that is a problem that his future self will have to confront. For now, he does what he does best and quietly excuses himself from the grand hall. He doesn’t have to wait long before he could hear the familiar heavy footsteps trailing behind him.
“You don’t have to follow me around,” Noctis says, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tuxedo.
“Yeah, I know,” grunts Gladio. “I wouldn’t have to if you aren’t sulking around.”
Exasperated, Noctis says, “I’m just heading to my room.”
“I know, but that doesn’t me I’m allowed to let you off my sight.” Gladio rebutted. As Noctis sigh, he continues, “Look, as soon as you’re holed up in your cave, I’ll leave you alone. Sorry, Princess, but orders are orders.”
Noctis doesn’t respond, but he makes sure his annoyance— or his “broodiness” as Gladio would like to call— with all the procedure is made known. Being a normal teenager is too much to ask for apparently; it’s a lesson that he’s learned a long time ago.
Just as his Shield promised, Gladio departed as soon as they’ve reached Noctis’ room. Here, the silence is more welcoming compared to the conversations brought up by nobles feigning interests. He has no one to impress, no hands to shake, smiles to give, and no expectations to meet. It’s just him and his lonesome, nothing more, nothing less; for tomorrow, his mundane routine will begin as if he just hasn’t celebrated his birthday.
It's so easy to forget that the Crown Prince is human, too— a normal teenager with a fancy title slapped to his name, with his possession being absolutely nothing, not even his consoles, his games, or his clothes. It’s so easy to forget that Noctis doesn’t want anything to do with the Crown to begin with, for all he wants is a normal life with a normal family and friend.
But no, the Astrals have to made him special, and his room is another statement to that fact: impersonalized and barren, a room befitting a prince and not a teenager.
Heaving a sigh, Noctis unfastens his tie, something that has made his overall attire more suffocating than it appears. Still, the simple little cloth doesn’t pressure him to act someone else as much as a room full of stuck-up nobles.
Just as he’s about to throw his coat in such a careless way that will make Ignis furrow his brow in exasperation, the room grows cold and eerie. A chilling ambiance that can only be on par with the Crystal’s chamber snuffs out the silence and comfort—two of which Noctis is very much looking forward to. Whatever it is, it stops Noctis from tossing his coat to the aside, his hands tingling as if he’s just cast a powerful (working) magic in the training halls.
Before Noctis can so much inspect his room or utter out a blatant “what the hell,” a hushed voice flutters past his ear, speaking in a language Noctis mostly encounters in mind-numbing literature classes: “O ye blessed by the stars, why does this soul sing of sorrow and woe?”
“Huh?” Noctis answers dumbly as he looks left and right to find the voice, but he doesn’t find anyone but himself. He asks to the wind, “Who’s there?”
The temperature drops in response. Noctis doesn’t understand what the hell it’s supposed to mean, yet the voice continues, “Confined to the kingdom’s walls, the soul is left alone. All earthly treasures laid at his feet, and yet his desire incomplete.”
Well, there’s his life narrated into poetry. Not the weirdest present he’s received thus far, but it’s sure as hell uncomfortable to know that someone out there has seen through his composure. “Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?”
“To know empathy is to understand the needs of the many. To know love is to sacrifice the self for the many,” said the voice. “A loveless king rule naught, for what king who knows little can do for his people?”
At this cold comment, Noctis bristles. Astrals, he doesn’t need any more of these royal duties talk when he already has an Iggy. “Thanks for the reassurance. I don’t need it.”
If the voice is deterred by his snappiness, she doesn’t show it. “O ye of little faith, We propose a solution—a means by which the soul will be rewarded for his desire, should he overcome the trial presented before him.”
“We? Whose we?” Noctis grumbles.
“The cold wind that comes to bless the land with Her Breath.”
“You’re not making any sense,” retorts Noctis.
“In due time, all shall come to light. Should the King accept this trial, his heart’s desire shall be made true.”
Noctis doesn’t expect this voice to disappear or clarify her riddles any time soon. Sighing, he asks, “What’s this trial going to be?”
“Freedom shall be given unto him, at the expense of losing his all for but a fleeting moment. Should he learn the intricacies of love and empathy, and this trial shall fall into his favor. If he fails to learn within five years in time, this soul shall no longer be named the King of Kings.”
“What?” Noctis blurts, shocked. Learn how to love others or else lose his title as king? That’s it? It’s ludicrous, to say the least, that a simple-sounding challenge will have a severe punishment—one that’s going to last for a lifetime.
But that means getting to experience life outside of the Citadel, even if it’s temporary. No more trudging through his day, knowing that the burdens of his father will be placed on his shoulders. No more chastisement from Ignis whenever Noctis doesn’t stick with the schedule. No more secretive surveillance whenever he goes outside.
He sees this as an absolute win, and he says this much to the voice. “Alright, I accept your challenge.”
If Noctis hasn’t complained about the temperature before, he certainly is now; for a gush of cold wind barges into the room, the coldness it brings seeping into his bones as if his word’s been perpetually engraved on ice. As he instinctively wraps his arms around himself and slouches over in a desperate attempt to stay warm, Noctis feels a faint movement amid the howling winds.
And there She stands, Her blue skin adorned in jewelry and garment and her hair as white as snow. It hits him then—the name of the voice and of the Astral that stands before him.
Just as Her name is about to slip from his tongue, the Astral declares, “So let the covenant be forged. I, Shiva, Bearer of Frost, stand witness to the journey of the King of Kings.”
The world grows dark as the numbness overtakes his senses from the sheer frigidity of the room. He doesn’t feel his body shrinking, his teeth growing sharper— no, he doesn’t feel the change occurring on his body. It’s only the numbness he registers, the absence of the sheer cold that suddenly floods into the room without warning.
“Rest.” the wind whispers to his ear. He obliges without protest.
He awakens as a cat. A cute black cat— mind you— but still… What the fuck.
He’s been roaming around the streets for days, finding basic necessities like food, shelter, and answers. Noctis doesn’t recognize the streets or the winding alleys, but he can tell that at some point, he’s no longer in the upper district of the city. He considers going back to that area, but there’s only so many times he can scavenge for edible food and escape from aggressive stray cats and dogs.
Days and nights go by, and Noctis already feels as if he’s used ten years’ worth of energy. He’s garnered a cut or two after evading a dog’s claw a second too late. And his back— Astrals, his back is acting up at the worst possible times. What were the Astrals thinking: dropping him in the middle of nowhere as a godsdamned cat?
As much as he hates to admit it, he misses the comfort of the Citadel. He misses his room, Ignis and his food, Gladio and his tough advices. Shit, anything’s better than living on the streets with no guarantee of having food every twenty-four hours.
Shiva really meant it when she said ‘lose everything.’ Noctis thought with a deprecating smile. Dad’s probably deployed a search party in a clandestine manner; he hasn’t caught wind of his status in the screens, so far. He wishes he has a way to tell them to look for a cat instead of a person. Hell, he wishes the Astrals are kind enough to drop a hint of his condition and whereabouts. The last thing he wants is to upset his father.
As if sensing his mood, the weather turns for the worse: the sky grows dim and grey, signs of a heavy downpour fast approaching. With a sulk, Noctis limps off in search for a temporary shelter. He hopes that this rain will go away soon enough.
It doesn’t.
The downpour’s powerful enough to cause flooding. Whatever box he manages to find has been washed away by the current. Now, as he frantically searches left and right around his area—a residential district, from the looks of it— he realizes that the only way to protect himself from the harsh weather is to climb up the gates of some person’s house. If it wasn’t for his back, he would’ve not squandered any second to do so.
But he can’t. His back still bears the phantom pain even after seven years has passed. And with the rain relentlessly beating it down, the persistence intensifies enough to leave him nearly paralyzed in the middle of a flooding. The only thing that’s keeping him moving is his grit, but at this point the weather will outlast his determination.
Astrals, this is how he’s going to die, isn’t it? Accepting a challenge without fully considering a risk of drowning as a cat. Honestly, what a way to go, dumbass.
The wind howls, its touch onto his fur akin to the Glacian’s frost. He doesn’t want to slip out of consciousness… Not yet, no. But everything hurts; every inch of his body is begging for a respite that he can’t have just yet. He wants it to stop. He wants the blasted rain to go away and stop aggravating his back, wants to tell Leviathan to fuck off and go back to Altissia.
He wants to go back home.
But he can’t voice his cries, not when it’ll be drowned out by the rain. Not when he knows that nobody will hear it.
Cold. It’s so cold.
Will the rain drift him away to some place safe?
Probably not.
Noctis doesn’t remember closing his eyes. Even if it mattered, the painful throbs chases after him in his slumber.
“Shh, it’s okay. I got you.”
Someone scoops Noctis into their arms. Like him, the person is drenched and shivering from the cold. When they lay their hand on his back to shield him from the downpour, Noctis weakly hisses in protest.
“Sorry, sorry.” The sprightly voice apologizes through chattering teeth. “I’m getting you inside, okay? Bear with me, little guy.”
Even through his weariness, Noctis registers how the person wades through the flood. It’s an awkward movement, almost similar to how he had walked when he was recovering from the Marilith attack. But now, the rain doesn’t pellet his back more so than usual. Whoever this is must be using themselves to cover him.
“We’re almost there,” the voice reassures. “Stay with me, okay?”
Noctis tries.
He awakens to warmth—an absence of the coldness brought about by the storm. It takes place as a barren living room, illuminated by a lone candle and nothing else, and a large towel wrapped around himself. The couch, too, is warm, but its softness isn’t like the one back in the Citadel.
Confusion hits Noctis upon realizing that this room isn’t one he recognizes. How did he end up here? Wasn’t he just in the streets, a second away from drowning and suffering from hypothermia?
He doesn’t have to guess for long; the answer comes in the form of a boy around Noctis’ age emerging from the small kitchen, holding a small bowl of milk. Like Noctis, a towel is draped over his shoulder. Unlike Noctis however, there are many things to consider: blue eyes, blonde hair, a freckled complexion— familiar features that spark a memory from a long time ago. His eyes however stand out the most, conveying a worry that Noctis may have seen once or twice in the past.
Walking with light footsteps, the boy with blonde hair and eyes that are a mesh of blue and violet gently sets the bowl beside the prince. He doesn’t notice Noctis being awake until the prince mewls his thanks.
Noctis doesn’t expect the other to flinch from shock, however.
“You scared me!” The person exclaims, softly laughing after his nerves have calmed down. “Could’ve given me a warning, yanno?”
Noctis mewls again before trying to stand up and drink what Prompto offered him. Immediately his back screams from protest as soon as he’s attempted to turn. With a pained hiss, Noctis flops his head back onto the cushion and grumbles in annoyance.
“Ah, I’m sorry. I cleaned up your scratches, but I don’t exactly know how to treat your back. I’ll take you to the vet once this storm passes though.” The boy says, apologetic, as he pushes the bowl nearer to Noctis up to his nose. Then he grabs a nearby pillow and replies, “I’m going to elevate your head, okay?”
Raising his head doesn’t hurt as much as moving his entire body. Noctis lets the other slide the pillow under his head before trying to reach for the bowl of milk. His attempts work at least. He must’ve looked stupid but he doesn’t care about his appearance at this point. Not when there’s something worth drinking sitting right in front of him.
“Sorry—” The boy says the word a lot. “I know it would be better if its heated, but the power’s out. I hope you don’t mind it being cold.”
No, Noctis doesn’t mind it. He voices it that much with a soft mewl, which earns a chuckle from the mysterious blonde.
“You’re adorable,” he compliments with a sweet smile. Oddly enough, it turns into a wistful one within seconds. “I bet someone out there misses you.”
He guessed correctly. Noctis has a handful of names who must be worried for his safety.
“Wait, do you have an owner? Why are you even out in the streets anyway? In this weather, no less? Why—” When Noctis pulls away from the bowl, the boy pauses, closing his eyes and slowing down his breathing. “Okay, Prompto, chill out. You’re interrogating a cat, not a person.”
Prompto— the name rings a bell. Hell, everything about him is so painfully familiar. He’s definitely seen him somewhere before. But the question is this: where?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Prompto starts, his eyes directed to his hands rather than Noctis’. “You can stay here until the weather’s calmed down. I don’t know how long it’ll be raining, but hopefully not long enough for the whole house to be flooded.”
The way Prompto says it so casually worries Noctis. Isn’t the city’s sewage system good enough to prevent extreme flooding?
“The light will be back in a couple of hours or so… I hope.” Prompto trails off. “Man, I haven’t talked to someone this long since Pops visited. I hope I’m not annoying you.”
Surprisingly, he isn’t. Prompto’s chatters aren’t like the nobles’. There are no deception nor venom laced in each word, coupled with an underlying demand and hidden intentions. He’s not asking the typical questions his classmates are bringing up either. No, it’s different.
Prompto’s different in a good way. Noctis doesn’t mind it if the guy decides to fill in the silence every now and then.
Suddenly, the thought hits him.
“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, have I?”
Blonde hair peeking out from the wall. A camera hanging from his neck.
A chubby kid who has kept to himself, that is until he’s gathered the courage to step away from the shadows and say,
“Hey, Prince Noctis!”
“My name is Prompto.”
“Nice to meet yo—”
Holy fuck, it's him.