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718. July.
When Regis was twelve, a botched assassination attempt left his father in a coma for nineteen days. The Citadel doctors said the king wouldn’t die, and Regis believed them. He knew his father would be fine; there was nothing to worry about.
And yet he paced his room every night, going wall to wall. Nineteen steps from the door to the wall near his bed, but nineteen wasn’t a good number, so he made it twenty. Forty steps there and back; halfway through the fourth interval, he switched his bedside lamp on and off forty times. He repeated the entire sequence forty times each night. Without interruptions, he always guessed it would take him about two hours, but there were always interruptions.
“Your Highness, you should get some sleep.”
“Your Highness is everything okay in here?”
“Highness, please get some rest.”
Over and over and over again. Sometimes half the night would be gone by the time he finished because he always had to start over. Over and over and over again.
Forty steps for the forty heartbeats he wasted staring at his father seizing on the floor , forty switches for the forty seconds it took the medical staff to reach his dad, and forty intervals for the forty seconds his father stopped breathing .
All because Regis wasn’t fast enough.
He couldn’t protect his father, the king , from harm.
What a waste of an heir.
So even on day nineteen, when his father finally woke up, Regis kept up his routine. His father didn’t want overnight visitors, so Regis had the time. This was his penance, after all. He had to do it for forty nights in a row. He couldn’t stop, or something terrible would happen all over again. And again. And again. Over and over and-
And it would always be his fault.
But on night forty-one, he couldn’t let himself fall into bed.
He couldn’t let himself stop.
Something terrible might happen.
On night fifty-one, he tripped on his bedpost and scratched his forehead. The following day he had breakfast with the king-no. His Majesty. Regis had breakfast with His Majesty and his mother while skirting an ugly awful disgusting red scratch on his forehead.
His father didn’t say a word. Regis knew that meant he was a shameful heir.
So he started counting his steps during the day. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen (skip nineteen and do eighteen twice) twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five thirty-six thirty-seven thirty-eight thirty-nine forty.
Every step a penance. Every sequence a prayer to Bahamut.
Night sixty-three kept him up the whole night. He couldn’t stop. His father had nearly fallen during a council meeting only a few minutes after Regis stopped walking on twenty-seven because Clarus interrupted him. He hadn’t done it right, and his father had suffered.
So Regis tried to do forty sets, each set a sequence of forty intervals, with forty light flickers every fourth interval and forty steps carrying him back and forth each time.
He’d nearly finished four before his alarm went off. He let it ring until he got back to his bed, then he turned it off and kept walking. Twelve intervals in to set five, he heard a knock. He froze, his back to the door and his hand extended to his bedside lamp. He…he couldn’t. There couldn’t be an interruption. The flickers were…he had to.
So he didn’t answer the door. He didn’t say anything when the door opened. He needed to focus. He needed to count it out exactly right.
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen eighteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven-
A hand wrapped around his wrist. “Regis what the fuck .”
His fingers kept spinning as if he was turning the knob on his lamp. Two snaps per flicker, with that strange burning session with every one. Twenty-eight. Off. Twenty-nine. Off. Thirty. Off. Thirty-one. Off. Thirty-two. Off. Thirty-three-
Hands spun his shoulders, and his eyes recognized the blob of Clarus Amicitia looming over him. He kept snapping. Off. Thirty-four. Off. Thirty-five. Off. Thirty-six. Off. Thirty-seven-
“Regis, look at me.”
Thirty…six?
And then he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t remember. His father was gonna-
“His M-Majesty…we…we have to d-do something!”
“Regis what are you-”
“Something is-is gonna happen! He’s…it’s gonna…my….”
He couldn’t remember much after that.
He woke up in the infirmary. He had bandages on his fingers, and he finally felt the tension flaring through his legs. When he turned his head, His Majesty and his mother were at his bedside.
“I’m s-sorry,” he stuttered out.
His mother ran a hand through his hair. His father stared at him blankly before getting up and walking away.
-
748. October 16. 11:29 am.
It took forty minutes for the school staff to realize Noctis wasn’t in the building. Forty minutes ago, Noctis left to go to the bathroom during class; forty minutes ago was the last time anyone saw him in the middle school building.
Forty.
Regis tenses as one of his attendants whisper in his ear. He closes his eyes tight and takes the deepest breath he can muster, even though his lungs feel like their shrinking. He opens his eyes, bids the Council farewell, and leaves the room with Clarus following closely behind.
One two three four five-
“Your Majesty?”
Six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve-
“Majesty, slow down.”
Thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nine-
He freezes halfway down the long hall to the elevator. He’s stuck there for six heartbeats before he hears Clarus swear behind him.
“Code Sky. I need all available Crownsguard to the Prince’s school. Briefing en route”.
Two heartbeats later, Regis realizes that Clarus must be talking into his headset.
“Cor, I need you on floor sixteen in conference room…five. Right off the elevator.”
One and a half heartbeats.
“Regis, it’s about…twenty-four steps.”
He nods absently. “I…yes. I can make it work.”
“Then let’s go. At a reasonable pace, though. Cor will meet us in the conference room.”
“Right.”
He taps his left index to his thumb forty times before he actually starts walking limping again. Eighteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-one…
He’s at thirty-six when Clarus opens the door. He’s been barking orders into his earpiece the whole walk. Code Sky isn’t…it shouldn’t happen. There are forty Crownsguard assigned to Noctis’ school, four per weekday, on a two-week cycle. There shouldn’t be any…he did everything right, so why…
Clarus leaves his side and swings out a chair from the table. “Where are we, Your Majesty?”
“Th-Thirty-nine.” Kings don’t stutter .
Clarus slides the chair closer. “Ready when you are.”
Regis takes his last step. Forty.
Clarus moves the chair behind him. Regis does his best to fall into it gracefully.
Clarus crouches in front of him. “Breathe, Reggie.”
Regis shakes his head. “There were forty assigned to his school. This…did I make a mistake?”
Clarus shakes his head right back. “I always review that shift schedule. Something must have happened outside of our control. That doesn’t mean you messed up. Not even a little bit.”
Clarus always gave him that ‘out’ after Regis got caught pacing. If there was something so important that Regis couldn’t not perform rituals for, Clarus let him do little things. He’d wake Regis up forty minutes early on days they had to be ready for a public event. He let Regis map out the entire Citadel and then reminded him when he could count his steps and when he shouldn’t. He let Regis have the small things. The safe things. The not-flipping-a-lamp-switch-until-your-fingers-bleed things.
“But Noctis needs us, Regis. He knows you’ll do everything in your power to bring him home. And I know you’ll do it. You’ll keep him safe."
Regis wants to refute it. He wants to bite back like he did when they were younger. When Aulea died. When the Crystal chose Noctis. When Noctis was bleeding out. All those times he failed over and over-
“Regis look at me.”
He blinks, and Cor is there.
“Do you trust me?” Cor asks.
He…yes. He breathes and nods.
Cor nods back. “We’ll find him.”
-
748. October 16. 3:11 pm.
Noctis is very cold.
-
748. October 16. 6:53 pm.
They don’t find him, and four hundred forty-four minutes later, the press gets the story.
“Breaking news: His Royal Highness Prince Noctis disappeared from his school today around noon. Police were notified around 1 after Crownsguard failed to locate His Highness on school grounds. Prince Noctis is twelve years old, 143 centimeters tall, and around 90 pounds.”
Wrong. Noctis is 145 centimeters and 82 pounds. At least the press doesn’t know everything.
“A small black vehicle was seen leaving His Highness’ school around 11 am this morning. Police are asking all citizens to keep a lookout for a compact black sedan.”
Wrong. No vehicles left the school after 8 am that morning. There wasn’t even a black car on the security cameras.
“The Citadel has refused to release a statement.”
Regis waves a hand, and the TV turns off.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to release a statement. It’s just that he’s scared his voice will shake on live television, and he doesn’t want the people to realize how pathetic their monarch really is. He couldn’t even keep his son safe.
He counts in his head as he taps his index finger against his thumb. “Report?”
Sergeant Magnus Frigus clears his throat. “We searched the entire school and found no evidence of a forced entry or exit, Your Majesty. Security footage from the hallway saw Prince Noctis leaving his class at 10:49. He walked to a nearby bathroom and left the camera’s view at 10:50. No other students or staff were still in that restroom when the prince entered, and no one went in until the Crownsguard stationed on-site entered at 11:21. The bathroom in question shows no sign of a struggle, and there’s no damning DNA evidence or residues from an outside presence in the school.”
“Any chance the security footage was tampered with?” Clarus asks.
Sergeant Frigus shakes his head. “Not that we found, sir. The school sent over the recordings, and intel didn’t find anything peculiar.”
Regis breathes. “I want to see it again.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Sergeant bows and leaves the room.
“Clarus, how many Crownsguard are at the school now?”
“Forty, Your Majesty.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes.”
Regis sighs. It’s the little things.
-
748. October 16. 10:35 pm.
They’ve been gone for a while now.
-
748. October 17. 2:17 am.
Regis is supposed to be resting. They got a hit from one of the security cameras. A small flash of light from the second-story window of the building near the bathroom Noctis was in. Within the next ten minutes, nineteen cars drove past the school.
(two eighteens two eighteens two eighteens two eighteens two eighteens two eighteens two eighteens)
Intel ran the plates and did a sweep. Most of the cars were mindless mid-morning commuters. Nine popped up with some relation to the school, and four of those held some variation of anti-crown sentiment.
(fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times fourth interval flick it forty times)
All four were cleared three hours ago.
Cor’s been back and forth between the school and the Citadel six times. Regis could tell in his face that the Marshall hated coming back with less each time.
Ignis and Gladiolus surprised him. They offered condolences and said they’d help in any way they could. He would have said no if he hadn’t noticed Ignis’ shaking hands and Gladio’s bloody fists. They’re still kids. They can’t help.
The King can’t even help. Regis just sits at a table and listens to Clarus and Cor give orders while trying not to freak out because there are three pictures on the wall and not at least four.
It took another four hundred forty-four minutes for Clarus to kick him out of the room.
He’s supposed to be resting.
-
748. October 20. 11:29 am.
Noctis hasn’t cried this whole time, and he really doesn’t want to start now.
-
748. October 20. 11:29 am.
He thought that maybe four days would do it. Four days would be enough penance, and they’d find his son alive and well. Cor would call that he found Noctis in some stupid building that Bahamut turned invisible until Regis’ time was up. It’s all about time now. The King is a cripple. He can’t do his sequences to make up for every ugly awful disgusting mistake he’s made.
He tried. Clarus had to come pick him up off the floor halfway through the second sequence.
He’s started counting more, though. He started going to forty every time, but all the Astrals-damned interruptions kept getting in the way. So he counts one two three four, then taps his left pinky.
One two three four . Left ring finger.
One two three four. Left middle finger.
One two three four. Left index finger.
One two three four . Left thumb.
One two three four. Right thumb.
One two three four. Right index finger.
One two three four. Right middle finger.
One two three four . Right ring finger.
One two three four. Right pinky.
Over and over and over again.
Interruptions are easy because at least he gets to four every time.
They haven’t brought his son back, though.
-
718-744.
His father never said anything. It was his mother who scheduled the psychiatrist and therapist appointments. His mother slept on a cot near his bed for three weeks to keep him from doing more than one sequence every night, minus the light flicking.
Then she died.
His father never looked his way. Clarus found little ways to help him balance counting and numbers and guilt and that ugly awful disgusting feeling in his chest that if he didn’t do every single thing right and count all his steps, then maybe more people would get hurt because of him.
His father stopped throwing glances at him during council meetings. It was Cor who helped him get those feelings out. Cor taught him that he could beat the shit out of a training dummy thirty-nine times, and nothing terrible would happen.
And when the 112th King died, Regis realized he didn’t need to pay penance. He could get by.
Regis got married. Aulea gave him a son. Everything was okay.
Then Aulea died.
Regis did too many sequences and fell on his knee, permanently injuring it.
He couldn’t pace out his fear, and Bahamut punished his son for it. Twice.
-
748. October 21. 12:09 pm.
He thinks something must be wrong because the men keep pacing back and forth anxiously.
-
748. October 21. 12:49 pm.
Someone messed with the security footage. A white van left the school at 10:56 am on the 17th.
The culprit was a security guard. His background check didn’t bring up any red flags because he didn’t have any. No anti-crown sentiment. No Niflheim affiliations. No hyper-nationalist search engine results. Just an average guy who didn’t mind 500 crown to flip the security footage from 10:54 to 10:59.
Regis stops tapping when Cor tells him there are four possible locations.
Bahamut must have a sense of humor.
-
748. October 21. 2:49 pm.
Very loud noises. Noctis scoots to the back of the closet he’s been tied up in for the last four days. He pulls his knees up to his chest and tucks his head in.
Four minutes later, someone jiggles the lock, and the door opens.
“Your Highness?”
Noctis peeks his head up, and Cor is crouched down in front of him.
He doesn’t cry.
-
748. October 21. 3:33 pm.
Regis is waiting at the bottom of the Citadel steps with Clarus, half a dozen Crownsguard, and some medical staff when the armed transport pulls through the Citadel gates.
He taps his left index finger to his thumb thirty-seven times before the vehicle pulls to a stop in front of them. The door slides open, and Cor steps out and then-
Noctis.
His son tries to run to him, but his legs give out and-
Regis warps for the first time in four years to catch him.
Noctis sobs into his chest, and Regis holds him so tight it must hurt.
He can’t bring himself to care at all.