Work Text:
Avad rested his elbows on the balcony, looking over Meridian like a man observing a kingdom that never fully belonged to him.
Curious, he thought, how a Sun-King can become hostage to forces so… invisible.
It wasn’t machines.
It wasn’t cultists.
Not even politics.
It was screenwriters.
“Of all the entities that shape destinies,” he murmured to himself,
“the most merciless are the ones who do not carry spears.”
He sighed.
Ersa.
To this day, he did not understand. Strong, fierce, impossible to ignore. A storm in human form. And then — removed from the board like a disposable piece.
“She could have lived.”
“I could have been happy.”
“Why?” he asked the wind, as if the creators might hear him.
“Was it necessary? Or just… dramatic?”
“It must be because happiness rarely serves the story.”
Meridian’s silence, as always, remained diplomatic.
Avad straightened, crossing his arms.
“And then Aloy.”
Ah, of course. That part still hurt in annoyingly specific ways.
“They made me fall in love.”
Not a passing interest. Not a political flirtation. Not one of those lukewarm affections royalty learns to cultivate.
“If there was no intention of romance, what exactly was the point?” he muttered.
“Interactive emotional torture?”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
It was not as if he had a choice. Aloy had that infuriating combination of courage, intelligence, and complete immunity to his charm.
“And how exactly is it my fault,” he continued, his voice now edged with bitterness,
“that I was written as a romantic interest…
in a story that never asked for one.”
In his opinion, it was a fair accusation.
The wind once again refused to comment.
Avad took a few steps along the balcony.
“And then they decided I would be… inconvenient.”
He grimaced.
“A king. Educated since birth. Diplomat. Strategist.”
Pause.
“And yet also a man who apparently does not know how to pick the right moment.”
Avad let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Inconvenient.”
He walked slowly.
“I marched to Meridian.”
His voice hardened, not in anger — but in memory.
“I fought in the streets of my own capital.”
His eyes fixed on something distant, something that still smelled of smoke and hot iron.
“I bled for this throne before I ever sat on it.”
Pause.
“And yet one poorly timed conversation…”
He made a vague, almost indulgent gesture.
“…was enough to turn me into the clueless king.”
Heavy silence.
“Curious how battles shape kingdoms…”
He touched his own chest.
“…but dialogues shape reputations.”
Pause.
“In my defense… I did not know the true scale of the situation.”
His gaze drifted aside, as if following memories that did not belong entirely to him.
“I only understood what was truly at stake after Erend returned from the Forbidden West and handed me a Focus.”
Another pause.
“Before that, I had… incomplete information.”
A dry half-smile appeared.
“Unfortunately, decisions tend to be made before all the facts are available.”
He crossed his arms, thoughtful.
“But I suppose that matters very little when the moment comes to choose between the fist… and understanding.”
“And a single choice, made at the wrong time…”
He looked toward the horizon.
“…seems to be enough to define a man forever.”
A quiet sigh.
“Curious.”
“Reclaiming a capital was not enough.”
“Surviving a civil war was not enough.”
“Ruling with diplomacy was not enough.”
A slight tilt of the head.
“But one poorly timed conversation…”
A small pause.
“…that, apparently, was unforgettable.”
Another sigh.
“I was not built as a hero.”
A thin smile, melancholic, dangerously serene.
“I was built as contrast.”
Avad turned back to Meridian one last time.
Golden city. Reclaimed throne. Undeniable victories.
And still…
“…there are fates worse than defeat.”
The breeze crossed the balcony, soft, indifferent.
He closed his eyes.
“To be remembered as a man who felt too much…
in a story that prefers men who only wage war.”
A long silence.
When he spoke again, the sarcasm was gone — leaving only that solar melancholy that never seemed to leave him.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
He walked slowly through the hall, hands clasped behind his back.
“I am the Sun-King. I command armies. I negotiate alliances. I rebuild an entire kingdom after a civil war.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“And yet, apparently, I am not worthy of… a single thought.”
The words echoed with almost offensive weight.
Avad rubbed his face.
“I lead an entire kingdom, and still cannot interpret a single look.”
He shook his head.
“Incredible.”
At last, he stopped, staring at the horizon.
There was something almost comical about all of it. Tragic, yes — but with that touch of irony only fate seemed capable of.
“Perhaps,” he admitted quietly, “this is my true role.”
Not the hero.
Not the romantic interest.
Not even the fully realized king.
Something subtler.
A constant.
A feeling that exists even when it is not returned.
A presence that remains even when off-screen.
Avad smiled faintly.
“What a cruel game you have made.”
And yet…
He turned his eyes beyond Meridian.
“…well played.”
Avad stood still for a moment.
Then he blinked.
Something crossed his mind.
“A… what?”
The image formed against his will: himself hanging in the middle of a square, colorful, decorative, while a crowd eagerly waited for the moment to strike him with festive enthusiasm.
He placed a hand over his chest, offended.
“A piñata.”
The word came out loaded with wounded dignity.
“I, the Fourteenth Sun-King, reduced to a symbolic container for narrative frustration.”
Avad began pacing in circles along the balcony, growing more indignant with every step.
“First they shape my destiny. Then they destroy my loves. Then they compromise my diplomatic reputation.”
Dramatic pause.
“And now I am promoted to children’s entertainment.”
He raised a finger, as if arguing before an invisible council.
“Note that I do not even receive the strategic benefits of a piñata.”
More steps.
“It, at least, contains rewards.”
He stopped.
Silence.
“…I contain nothing but emotional suffering and unresolved dialogue.”
Avad narrowed his eyes at the horizon, very clearly directing his irritation toward extremely specific metaphysical forces.
“The creators are cruel.”
Another pause.
“…though I must admit the metaphor is disturbingly accurate.”
A resigned sigh escaped him.
“Everyone passes by me. Everyone unloads something on me. And I remain here, smiling politely, while taking blows from destiny.”
He tilted his head.
“By the Sun…”
A faint smile appeared.
“…at least I am a handsome piñata.”
The humor faded slowly, like sunlight at dusk.
Avad sighed.
“Ersa is gone.”
Pause.
“Aloy left.”
Another pause.
“And I?”
He opened his arms, the gesture contained but heavy.
“I remain.”
Avad stepped closer to the balustrade.
“The fate of some men is glorious.”
He looked at his own hands.
“Mine is to be an emotional event easily discarded.”
Silence.
Then, more quietly:
“Not even a passing daydream.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Others cross her thoughts.”
A shadow of bitter humor appeared.
“I never even crossed her mind.”
He took a slow breath.
“Remarkable.”
And after a long moment:
“…I am politically indispensable. Emotionally devastated. Narratively... invisible.”
“And she will return from the West with another name in her thoughts.”
“And I will remain here — as always — politely irrelevant.”
The smile that appeared was thin, tired.
“Neither loved. Nor hated. Simply… conveniently forgotten.”
A pause.
Then, almost thoughtful:
“Curious.”
His gaze lifted slowly.
“You are still there.”
“You read until the end.”
Silence.
“Or perhaps…”
A faint smile, barely visible.
“…I have simply learned to imagine company.”