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kavvehs · 1 year

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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈'𝐌 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋 — 𝐧. 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐦

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST

the chosen king’s fulfilled prophecy welcomes in the light—and an aching heart.

cw : MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, major end-game spoilers, gender-neutral!reader, crownsguard / kingsglaive!reader, loneliness, angst, minimal comfort, unrequited feelings, grief, reader has battle scars, choking, questionable / unhealthy coping mechanisms, reader’s background is implied but left up to interpretation, description of a panic attack.

wc : 4.3k

Your happiness had always been fleeting when it came to him.

Memories playing behind your eyes became commonplace in your newfound routine that they melded into an unlikely and oftentimes unwelcome companion. They followed and nipped at your heels frequently, constantly, that they might as well have been your missing shadow. To some extent, perhaps they were. You didn’t remember them being so tormenting, however, with reminders of his easy smiles when you were given the opportunity to rest or the flashes of his figure walking in your peripheral. Even on your own, it was impossible to travel someplace his boots hadn’t touched when they tracked all the way to the ruins of an archipelago. It was almost embarrassing how many times you fought off the habit of switching into the proper stance for a link strike, only for a daemon to fall and leaving you to be the only one present.

Removing any and all emotional impulsivity, especially on the battlefield, to maintain a clear head and a single-minded focus on the safety and reign of your prince was a demand given by the Crownsguard. Namely on the battlefield. You, however, wore your scars and now-faded daemon-born wounds with pride, contrary to the exasperation that dripped off the mental image of your instructor. But now, past the age where the light shone bright, things were vastly different that you weren’t allowed to be lenient. You knew that biting back the cause of the blur in your vision and the ache in your chest would only develop into a bad habit. You went through with it, anyways, knowing fully well you couldn’t convince yourself to break it. Or maybe you weren’t ready to, not just yet, and each passing night was another you spent reinforcing it.

It was a coincidence that you were on your way back to Hammerhead when your phone buzzed. You considered, if only momentarily, outright ignoring it, but the hypotheticals swarming your imagination decided otherwise. You shifted your weapon, heavy and sticky with pungent gore, into your opposite hand to smuggle the device from your pocket and answer it with a measly greeting. Maybe it was the creeping exhaustion getting the best of you, but you allowed yourself to hope. To be a little reckless. The knowledge you’d have another mission kept your feet from dragging before; Talcott’s news had you sprinting like your life depended on it. All consideration flew out the window, stealth long foregone. Looking back, you refused to believe it was some sort of angle from the divine, not when they’ve done nothing to earn your good graces.

After ten years of indulging in it, you liked to think that you had a good grasp on that bad habit of yours. And yet each memory associated with Takka’s Pit Shop hit you so violently that you nearly stumbled through the doorway and fell flat on your face as unceremoniously as one could imagine. Almost. You were better than that. Your heels dug into the concrete and you steeled your expression before the tears could bubble, steeled your heart and shoved it a little further into that little box you couldn’t stop it from peeking out of. Taking one impossibly heavy step after the other, you waded your way through the swamp of memories as if they weren’t dragging you deeper and deeper into your own self-inflicted agony. It proved to be a sudden reminder of why you tended to avoid the restaurant.

Past the countless crates of dwindling supplies and parts and the tables covered in potions and weapons, it was almost exactly how you remembered it. The grills and stoves were covered in fine layers of dust, yet reeked of grease and meat that simultaneously burned your nose and prodded at your hunger. Only one of the many booths were occupied by actual people, but indistinct chatter and the clatter of dishes wandered through one ear and out the other. The outline of Takka’s figure hovered behind the counter, offering the menu and new hunts to your group between requests for ingredients. The familiarity of a forgotten routine hit you like a back-strike from a daemon and you suddenly became ten years younger, unburdened by the responsibility stained deep within the material of your uniform, of your title as a Kingsglaive.

Shared glances were your only welcome and returned greeting as you dropped into the seat beside the Shield, accepted by the mix of confident anticipation hovering around you all and the suffocating silence. Reminiscing on how much time had passed sounded like an actual nightmare so you didn’t bother, but your body soaked in the feelings that came with it like a sponge. You could reach out and reassure yourself that the four of you were still here, after all this time. Gladio’s comfortably and most likely instinctively arm curled over the seat behind your neck, but the space next to you was terribly, uncharacteristically empty. You could still feel the phantom of his leg hooked over yours so casually as dark hair poorly hid his burning ears, or how he leaned against you like a pillow while he picked his vegetables off of his dish and plopped them onto yours.

You half-expected someone to speak up, for Prompto to say something positive in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood, though it never came. You could see his jaw, framed by facial hair, working towards verbalizing whatever was churning back and forth in his head that never came. Ignis’ fingers drummed over the table in a slow rhythm that could have been mistaken for boredom or giving himself something to do, but it was an action you knew exposed everything his expression did not. Gladiolus, meanwhile, tossed less than subtle glances out the window and over your head every few seconds, frowning when the subject of his attention was nowhere in sight. It was when the front gates squealed, loud and sharp, that everyone sat straighter and rose to their feet in an instantaneous reaction.

He maneuvered so smoothly around Talcott’s truck with long strides and even steps that he might as well have been gliding, strands of black bouncing with each movement. He eventually stopped and stood tall before the four of you, taking everyone in with a breathtaking fondness. Prompto beamed and tugged on your sleeve with poorly restrained enthusiasm while Ignis spoke on everyone’s behalf on your other side. Countless words fumbled along your tongue, but none of them became coherent enough to meet your lips as your heart fluttered in your chest. The advisor’s, however, were a million years away and only grew farther as the world shrunk in on itself. Your friends faded into faint presences and the dangers stalking in the darkness went with them until the only ones remaining were you and him.

The reunion between you and your prince had always been a figment of your dreams; other times of your nightmares when the fear of being too weak to witness his return crept up your spine and soaked deep into your bones. You refused to let the hope of it all slip through your fingers, however, no matter how steadily or how much time passed because you knew he would come. It was destined, but the part of you that kept scuttling back after being kicked to the curb pleaded to whatever Astral would listen that even a sliver of his motivations would be to return to you. For so long you prepared the words, the actions, of what you would when you could reach out and touch him, but now they had become so distant. Not because you lacked the confidence or had forgotten them—they were so meaningless to someone so untouchable.

The man before you wasn’t a stranger nor was he your prince, but you knew it was him deep down all the same. He was dressed for the part, you would give him that, with dirt and ash staining the same clothing you last saw him in, down to the slash in his coat from the monster Ravus had become. You expected him to remained as young as he was back then, you realized in that moment, but he wasn’t. He was so much older, so much wiser, than the prince you were helpless in pulling out of the Crystal. His hair was much longer and brushed almost entirely out of his face and fluffy in its own flattened way, and his eyes still sparkled like stars in the night sky, yet held a strange sadness and longing beneath enlightened wisdom. Yet that smile and the soft rumbling of his voice was so familiar that it hit you without a shred of doubt.

The man before you was your Noctis, yet all of the delight bubbling within you was gnawed and spat on by an inexplicable, gut-churning dread.

Your king took the lead and you all fell into step behind him, beside him, in a routine you believed had become long forgotten, as if no time at all had passed. It was almost too easy when your steps, once heavy and losing their sense of direction, regained that airiness and purpose until you didn’t care where you were led. If he was there, you knew everything would be alright. You would be alright. The words tumbled so effortlessly from your tongue and your very soul quivered when a laugh rumbled from deep within his chest, a smile cast your way over his shoulder that was so genuine and utterly handsome. Though the solemness of his questions was distinctly palpable, the answers seemed to replace it with something considerably more hopeful and resolute that spread among those within Hammerhead.

You hated how you could remember that single night out of the hundreds as if it was burned into your memory; engraved and carved into your skin until it left gnarly scars you could never hide beneath clothing or smiles. The relief and joy settled into worry and then dissipated into dread and heartbreak so quick it was a wonder if you ever felt that way to begin with. The clatter of silverware had fallen into silence as Noctis spoke—or rather, tried to. The campfire illuminated his face in a gentle orange light that you considered picture perfect in that moment, each word stumbled over like a fawn using its legs for the first time. His gaze refused to linger on any of his Kingsglaive for more than a few seconds and hesitance tinged every part of him. It wasn’t born by the responsibility forced upon him, but it was certainly the catalyst to revealing it for everyone to hear.

The savory aftertaste of the meal so tenderly crafted lost its flavor within seconds as silence permeated the night sky until the crackling of the fire filled it in. Your respect for Ignis and your self-restraint were the only reasons you didn’t let his belongings clatter to the ground. Your king continued to speak between commentary from your friends, voice soft and resolute, yet finished with another stab to your heart that was barely being held together with duct tape and glue. Everyone was so...so accepting. Hurt, you could see it too well, but they were all so strong. Why? Why did they have to be that way? Why did you have to be the odd one out again? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything to stop him? Why weren’t you? You weren’t sure who nudged you or when the attention shifted onto you, but you swore to follow him and would always be there. That much was the truth; your trembling smile was not.

It isn’t healthy to be strong forever. Let yourself be “weak.” Someone told you that once upon a time, but who? Nyx? Cor? Cid? Aranea? Perhaps someone from back home, before you were considered an outsider? You didn’t remember and it didn’t matter. Not when that advice felt so insignificant and worthless. Everybody was visibly crestfallen, yet twice as adamant and determined. Inspired, even. Everyone but you. Why were you the only one struggling? Why couldn’t you be as strong and composed as them? You didn’t want to struggle. You couldn’t. The daemons within the Crown City would kill you and you were sure you would have because your mind happened to slip elsewhere if it wasn’t for the potions on hand. Maybe the Chancellor would toy with you and your insecurities like some kind of puppet if you weren’t careful.

When you sat down in the underground shelter, the anguish you had kept locked up for so long, had slipped out and made itself known. The panic was quick, pumping through your veins like adrenaline, and you shot forward. Your fingers curled around and pierced into soft skin and the small part of yourself that somehow remained stared back with eyes too bright and emotions too vivid. Then you squeezed until your joints hurt and your muscles rippled. The little you, the lost and hurting yet helpful part that bore your face of ten years prior, choked and gasped for air as their eyes fluttered and rolled back. They desperately scratched at your wrists and writhed while their mouth moved, but only puffs of hair that sounded suspiciously like a name came out. You pushed them down with your remaining strength, slammed the top, and nailed it shut.

As you stood at the crossroads of the beginning to the end, you hated the man before you. The acceptance radiating off of him burned far greater than Ifrit’s flames as he gazed upon the four of you within the minimal light the Citadel welcomed. What few interactions you had with His Majesty had become yet another haze in your memory, but Noctis had never looked more identical to his late father. He stood tall in an outfit he would have once squirmed in and complained about until his voice ran hoarse, and you couldn’t see, let alone sense, any of the uncertainty the Noctis of ten years ago wore on his sleeve. You refused to believe that his eyes—damn him and that fondness, knowing he’s walking into his own coffin— lingered on you longer than it had on the others; you refused to give yourself that sort of hope.

As he ascended the stairs and the rain rolled down his back, everything in your body demanded you to stop him; to run after him; to abandon the oath you swore yourself to in favor of a much more selfish, personal one. But how could you? Why would you? Everyone, yourself included, dreamed of the day that you could be able to bask in the warm such an attain a victory that once felt so distant. That would defeat the purpose of standing beside him all this time and aiding him in reclaiming the Citadel, after all. The single person capable of driving the Starscourge from Eos was finally at the precipice of doing exactly that, and you would stop that? For what, feelings that he was never aware of? Feelings he could may have become enlightened about to be aware of, but went unspoken and undeveloped? You’d damn the world in an endless darkness and misery for that?

Yes, a small part of you whispered. The other: No. He wasn’t even yours and now he never would be because you were too cowardly to say something. Once upon a time the only concern among more day-to-day tasks was that he was your wayward prince and you were trying to create a place for yourself in a city that spat on your very existence. You were never sure where to start when it came to delving into something deeper with him, but it never mattered. You were his friend and he was yours, your light, and that was enough, but you wanted more. You still wanted more. Then his engagement to Lady Lunafreya was announced, an arrangement of peace, and it all tumbled downhill. The Oracle deserved better than to be caught up in your tangle of feelings and the conflict it would create if you vocalized them. So you didn’t.

A low, gravelly moan reverberated through the air behind you while elongated talons scraped against the concrete covered in splatters of a materializing violet liquid. Alongside your brothers in arms, you turned your back to the staircase and gave attention to the daemons that crept from the darkness of which they were born from at your feet. Your fingers curled around your weapon a little tighter than absolutely necessary as your battle-instincts jumped into action. Soon enough, you couldn’t even hear his footsteps. Whether it was from the pelting rain or the steadily growing distance, you didn’t know. You didn’t check. An obnoxious and utterly distracting heat pooled at your eyes and seeped down your cheek, but you furiously blinked them away. You took aim, bent your knees, steeled your weeping heart, and attacked.

The light that blessed the world again was meaningless, or maybe that was just you.

You fought hard for a chance to see this day. You fought hard for a chance of survival against the odds that seemed ever stacked against you. You fought for a fruitless ideal that manipulated itself until it warped into a painful truth, and yet your so-called victory hardly felt like one at all. It was undeniably better than failure, but just barely. Thousands of people were dead, the survivors traumatized and left to pick up the pieces, the gods nowhere to be found, and the world was but a remnant of what it once was. The light was terrifyingly warm as it crashed over you in waves and while it beat the cold shadows and warded off the reminders of what once lived with, it was tormenting all the same. It caressed your marred skin like white magic and the bitter part of you wondered if this was some half-assed attempt at an apology from the Astrals.

Insomnia had seen better days and it would only be with time that it would regain its lost glory, even if you didn’t spearhead the recovery and rebuilding process. Ignis had too much faith in you and your leadership qualities, or maybe he was just trying to direct your focus elsewhere. The entire city was in shambles, with so much debris and torn clothing scattered about haphazardly that it would take an extensive amount of time and work until the streets alone were relatively safe for public use. The looming buildings you recalled once marveling and gaping at were carved in half, shops you loved destroyed, and monuments but a memory and facet for historians to drool over, but it still claimed the sleek magnificence only the Crown City possessed. Not even the distance between it and the haven you were staying at could change that.

You knew you were only twisting the knife until the wound became self-inflicted and infected, but you couldn’t look away no matter how hard you tried. Insomnia seemed to have a newfound respect for you, horribly enough. A whisper of a thousand voices at once beckoned you to return to the space you carved for yourself there, but your boots simply dug into the dirt. Perhaps there was a place for you there, if only by your friends’ sides, but without him would it still be home? You weren’t ready to face your friends, not just yet. Just a little more time you stopped keeping track of. You long lost count of how long it had been since you stepped in the throne room and left as a group of four, but your hand became accustomed to having your weapon at your side rather than some otherworldly arsenal. You weren’t sure how to feel about that yet.

Was it wrong for you to wish that he was still sleeping in that Crystal? There was no changing the inevitable, but delaying it wouldn’t do any harm, would it? You would still be able to dream in beautiful ignorance and motivate yourself to get up with a purpose. Maybe then you’d be able to face your friends and be able to look them in the eye without the stab of poison and shame pumping in your veins. No, Noctis wouldn’t have wanted that and you were sure he would have been disappointed if he heard you now. He gave himself up to give the world a chance and free it from the beasts that inhabited the darkness and reigned over this twisted fate. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, your hurt was just a small price to pay for it. Who knows, he could be happily married to Lady Lunafreya in the heavens or whatever afterlife awaited them.

With a severe lack of elegance, you dropped onto your rear and tossed your legs over the cliffside to dangle over the waves that crashed several feet beneath. The scenery, once quite gorgeous and perfect for Prompto’s numerous gallery of photographs, blurred into a million hues of blues and greens and greys until they meshed into the most hideous combination of colors imaginable. You lowered your head as your lips quivered and your chest ached as if it was crumbling in on itself. You sucked in a breath between your teeth as your throat burned and constricted until it hurt to let out even the most meager of exhales. You furiously wiped at your eyes and the wetness that stuck to your lashes, but it had little effect when the rough leather dragged across the raw skin and only seemed to make things progressively worse.

And then the world shrinks. You’re alone. Your home is gone. Your friends are gone. Your prince is gone. Your king is gone. Your family is gone. You’re weak. You’re desperate. You’re hurting. It hurts. Everything hurts. It’s all you can feel. All you can sense. Noct, where are you? Prompto? Gladio? Iggy? Help. Please help. You’re bent over. Your hands are shaking. You can’t stop. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t-

Soft fur and a smooth cloth rested beneath your palm and a fuzzy snout nosed your hand, as if guiding you through the motion you hadn’t realized you had been repeating in the first place. Something smoother than leather but rougher than a concerningly dry leaf glided across your cheek again and again until lines of slobber remained. A weight sat heavy in your lap while dull nails dug into your thighs, all without the pain or discomfort that would have (and should have) come with it. A dark grey that wasn’t quite black engulfed your vision and two tall ears flicked when your uneven breath brushed over them. The world, albeit slowly, gradually, almost unwillingly, expanded around you until the haven and the clear sky with dancing clouds returned. Everything still hurt, but it was a distant feeling when amber eyes stared back.

Amber eyes watched you with such poignant and overwhelming empathy that it ripped another round of tears out of you without so much as your permission. The emotion in his eyes was far too human for comfort, too understanding and relating, but you couldn’t help but lean into it, lean into him. A curled tail slowly wagged behind him and thumped against your knee, inadvertently or not directing your attention to the rhythm it created. His patience was nothing short of divine and he didn’t so much as draw away as you sobbed and clung onto his fur and waited for the world to piece itself back together around you. He whined and nudged your jaw when your attention drifted or the panic set in with a violent and insistent return, simply watching with the most kind eyes you had ever come to know.

You liked to think that Umbra’s presence and constant appearance in your life was meant to be a comfort. He was, there was no doubt about that, but you also wondered if he was meant to be some sort of gift from a god who just so happened to take pity on you. You were a simple human with no fancy title or bloodline, yet the Messenger chose to walk beside you, care for you as though the roles weren’t reserved. You fed him, accompanied him, kept him from walking into a trap meant for game, and though you knew none of that was really necessary, he indulged you. He rode in the sidecar you attached to your bike, laid with you beneath the stars, assured you were fine and okay and safe when you eyed the shadows moving in your peripheral, and became an unsuspecting rock in times like now.

Sometimes you forgot that the Messenger had lost not only Pryna, but a best friend and beloved companion of his own in the late king. You had heard little from Noctis about him, how he and Pryna had been around since his childhood and time in Altissia. He, too, had lost friends and possibly many more that spanned even more before you were even born. Your home was decimated, your king resting alongside his ancestors and his wife, and your idea of normal was on the brink of being nonexistent and barely coming back together to form into something that bordered on sad and pointless. It may have been if it wasn’t for Umbra. You curled your arms around him and let your tears pour. You curled your arms around him and as he rested his head on your shoulder, something dripped onto your shoulder in return.

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