Chapter Text
Your name is Noctis Lucis Caelum, and your father is King.
At least, that’s what everyone tells you.
You’re eight years old, and you’ve spent most of your life alone. Tutors, guards, and servants all come and go. They treat you with the respect befitting of your station, but no one takes the time to talk to you.
You’re just a little kid to them, even if you’re the prince. A prince who isn’t wanted, not even by the King. So what’s the point?
You have no friends, you have no mother.
You wouldn’t even believe you have a father if people didn’t always remind you: your father is King, Noctis. Behave.
If anyone looked at you, really saw you, they’d know you were lonely. But no one does, so you go through your days wandering the castle and imagining a world where you might’ve been an older sibling, or a universe where you could’ve been someone’s best friend.
A world with someone else, anyone else, who would understand you, look at you, be with you.
Your father certainly doesn’t. He probably doesn’t even know your age. You can go weeks, even months without seeing him, and even then you’d only catch a glance of him, a word or two at most.
He only spends time with you on your birthdays, but he missed the last one because of a very important meeting. Well, that’s what Clarus told you when you asked. You don’t know if you believe him.
Clarus is nice enough, but he spends all his time with your father, so he might as well not be there. He has a son who's supposed to be your Shield when you are King (you don’t want to be King), but you’re pretty sure he hates you. He calls you ‘brat’ every time you look him in the eye, so you always stare at the ground when he’s near.
You skip down the hall, a hall you’ve skipped down hundreds of times before, and peak into each door you pass. You always hope for an empty one, but they’re usually locked, or filled with people who shoo you out and scold you for interrupting.
Today, you try a door near the end of the hall which is always locked. You try it every week anyway, even though you know it won’t open.
But today, it’s unlocked.
You look around to make sure no one’s watching, and slip inside.
It’s a bedroom. Not anything like yours, which has colorful sheets and brand new toys on the floor. This one is dark and dusty and alone. You’re probably the first person who has been inside for a long, long time.
You explore the room, ignoring the feeling that you’re not supposed to be here with practiced ease. There’s a large black cloth covering one wall of the room, and you raise your arms to see what’s underneath. It takes a lot of effort, because you’ve always been small and frail, but eventually the curtains pull back.
It takes you a moment to recognize the face that reveals itself, since you’ve never seen it smile before.
It’s your father: the King.
He’s in a painting, arm around a woman you have never seen before but who you recognize anyway.
This must be your mother: the Queen.
As you gaze upon her face, you trace your own features with a trembling hand. You always wondered why you look so different from everyone in the castle, features foreign even to your father, but you got them all from her.
From your feathery dark hair, to the strange way your eyes slant, and the slenderness of your face even in childhood. All from her. A woman whose name you never even learned, because no one talks about her.
You inch closer to the painting, hypnotized by your similarities, but the door slams open and your heart jumps to your throat.
“What are you doing in here,” the King demands. His frown is as severe as ever. You wonder if the smile in the painting is fake.
He grabs you by the arm and drags you out. His grip hurts. You try to hold it in, but you let out a pained whimper. He snatches his hand back, like he can barely stand to touch you any longer.
He drags a calloused hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. His clothes are rumpled. Did he run all the way here? You must have done something terribly, horribly wrong.
“You are to never come here again,” the King says, glaring down at you. He’s a tower, unclimbable, unbreakable. “Do you understand, Noctis?”
You swallow all your questions and confusions away, and nod in obedience.
Later that night, after being left in your room alone, you imagine a gentle kiss on your forehead and a soft voice telling you good night.
You wish it was real.
…
Ignis is only a few years older than you, but he’s faster, smarter, stronger and you can’t escape him.
Your Father assigns him to be your new tutor, even though you already have three of those and a governess already.
You know Ignis is there to watch you and make sure you don’t wander the castle again (so you don’t disturb that room again).
The King must’ve been very, very angry.
You don’t hate Ignis, and Ignis doesn’t hate you, but neither of you are happy. You know why he’s here, and he knows that you know, and it’s just kind of miserable.
He helps you with your homework, but he loses patience quickly. You’re not as smart as you should be, you know that, but having him watch over your shoulder every day makes you worse than normal.
Sometimes you see him looking out the window, like he wants to be anywhere but here, stuck with you.
So yes. Ignis is now here, but you feel as lonely as ever.
The distance between you and your Father has grown wider. You never see him anymore, and you barely even hear of him. He remains silent whenever he’s asked about you on TV. Even Clarus’ son looks at you with some pity after a point, but no one says anything.
Except…you can’t stop thinking about your mother, and the room.
You’re terrified that the King will catch you again, so you don’t venture anywhere close to that hallway. You look around, investigate, trying to find out anything about the dear Queen whose name is never mentioned.
But, of course, there is nothing.
Whether you eavesdrop, sneak, or ask, no one says a word. It’s like the spectre of the King has his hands over their mouths, swearing them all to silence.
As a last resort, you go to Ignis and hope he doesn’t tell your father.
Ignis gives you a curious look over the top of his glasses when you approach, but he doesn’t put down his book. You don’t blame him; you’ve never come up to him on your own free will before.
“Ignis,” you say. You pronounce his name carefully. He had given you twice the amount of homework once when you accidentally called him ‘Iggy’ a few weeks back. “What do you know about the Queen?”
If Ignis is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he puts the book down and fully faces you. “Queen Aulea, I presume?”
Aulea, you repeat the name in your head over and over and over again until there is no chance you would ever forget it. Aulea. You’re eight, and you just learned the name of your Mother.
You nod your head, perhaps a little too desperately.
Ignis raises an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, I don’t know much about her. She passed when I was very little, and the King doesn’t like talking about the incident much.”
You realize that you don’t know when or how she died, either. You ask for more details before you can think better of it.
“Well, considering they announced her passing and your birth at the same time, it’s safe to say that she succumbed while giving birth to you…”
His voice trails off as he finishes, growing pale as he gazes at you with wide eyes.
…is this why the King hates you? For what you did to Aulea?
Ignis clears his throat, standing up straight. He looks more nervous than you’ve ever seen him before. You think it’s because he just realized that you’ve always been a mistake. “Noctis, I—”
You run out the door before he confirms your worst fear. You shouldn’t have asked him anything. You should have listened to the King and left it alone.
You should have.
You shouldn’t have.
You should—
Ignis finds you hours later.
You’re hiding in the royal garden. Night has already fallen, and you’ve missed the normal round of tutors and dinner. It’s only Ignis that appears in front of you, so he must’ve found an excuse for your absence.
Ignis slides down next to you, under the flower bush you’ve sequestered yourself under. Your eyes have already dried, but he must see the tear tracks shining from the lamp light, because he sighs and wipes them away with a soft handkerchief.
He then stares at you, for once looking just as lost as you feel. You draw stick figures into the dirt below, so you won’t have to look at him.
“My mom passed away when I was born, too.”
You glance up. Ignis had taken off his glasses when you weren’t looking, and it makes him look younger than he always pretends to be.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. He gives you a smile and raises his arms. You throw yourself at him before you can even think to hesitate, and he bundles you up in the warmest embrace you’ve ever experienced.
You don’t think your Father has ever hugged you like this. You don’t think anyone has ever touched you with so much love before.
“It’s not your fault,” he repeats into your ear. You don’t really believe him, but you stay curled together under the flowers for a long time. His legs must be sore from the way he’s sitting on them, but he doesn’t say a thing.
The sound of his breathing lulls you to sleep. A hand cards through your silky hair, and a whisper of good night follows you into your dreams.
…
Things are easier with Ignis, but even he can’t always be with you.
The worst times are when you’re training. Your instructor is always harsh with you, even though you’re trying your best. You hear whispers of how your Father was more advanced when he was your age, and you hate that you always hear about him and never your mother.
Ignis has been gathering whatever materials he can find about Queen Aulea, but that’s not enough for you. Even his Uncle is hesitant to talk about her with him, as if the King is around the corner, rage and grief at the ready.
You understand why the King grieves his Queen. It’s perhaps the only thing you understand about him. You just wish you are allowed to grieve for her too. But maybe you don’t deserve to—it’s not like you ever met her.
Clarus’ son Gladiolus starts joining your training sessions when you’re eight-and-a-half. He’s there to watch you and learn how to protect you. He looks just as displeased about it as you feel.
He spends most of his time glaring and scoffing at you everytime you try to focus on your movements. It makes you do worse, which makes everyone more annoyed with you, and you just can’t ever win, and—
Yeah, training is the worst part of your day.
Like Ignis, Gladiolus is only a few years older than you, but he towers over you, just like the King.
(He doesn’t like you much, just like the King.)
Your hands are sweaty, and the practice sword keeps slipping out of your grip every time you try for a swing.
The instructors tell you that you’re nowhere near ready to try to learn warping. Sometimes you look at the Kingsglaive’s field in jealousy, but other times you’re grateful for the relief.
One particular instructor, your sword trainer, is the harshest among them. He yells at you and mocks you, and hits your wrists and arms whenever you mess up a move. You get sick everytime you think about him. He only hits you when Gladiolus isn’t looking, which you don’t really understand, because you think Gladiolus would find it deserving.
You bruise easily, but no one ever asks about them. Only Ignis looks at them. You say it’s from training when he asks you, but you think he only half believes you.
One day, while you sit on the floor in the hall, praying for your muscles to magically become un-sore, you hear talking around the corner. You’ve gotten used to eavesdropping on your hunt for information about Queen Aulea, so you hunker down and listen.
“He’s just a spoiled little prince,” you hear Gladiolus say, “who’s never worked hard a day in his life. I hope he never becomes King.”
He’s speaking to someone you don’t know, but you don’t care. You already knew he thought this way about you, but it hurts to hear it out loud.
You want to disappear.
The weeks continue one like this, a cycle of disappointment and dread, peppered by brief reprieves of Ignis’ company when he isn’t busy with one of his increasingly many duties.
Then one day, Clarus comes into one of your tutoring lessons with Ignis. It’s rare to see him without the King. He's unfortunately accompanied by Gladiolus and a girl that must be his daughter, what with how similar they all look.
“This is Iris,” Clarus says, more exasperated than fond. “She insisted on coming today.”
Iris walks up to you with sparkling eyes, despite Gladiolus' best attempts to step between the two of you. “You’re a real life prince!” she says, eyes wide.
You already hate her, even though you pretend you don’t.
You leave to go sit in the garden to calm down, feeling Iris’ awe follow you there. Blessedly, Ignis leaves you be, but maybe he would rather spend time with Gladiolus instead of a little kid like you, anyway.
You spend the next hour free of your duties, wishing for something you can’t name, then slowly pick yourself up to head back to your room.
But then you see Iris turn a corner down the hall, tottering back towards the garden, no one else in sight, and you follow after her out of curiosity.
You slip through underground passages that you know like the back of your hand, ones which you doubt even your Father is aware of. You don’t know what exactly Iris is doing, but you don’t see why you shouldn’t follow her.
The passage leads you outside, into the cold. The sun is already starting to set, and clouds rumble above the tall tree tops.
You sometimes come out here to play, since you usually aren’t allowed outside the palace walls. Your father certainly doesn’t bring you anywhere, and even Ignis says it’s too dangerous for a child of royalty to be out in public, even with protection.
So, no one knows about your secret play time.
You study the ground and try to trace Iris’ footsteps, but you quickly lose sight of them and wander aimlessly around in circles.
You’re starting to get worried as it gets darker, and sprinkles of rain drip into your hair. You’re about to head back and call for help when you hear a short shriek, followed by the sound of muffled sobs.
You find Iris at the bottom of a small hill, streaked with mud and tears, looking so lost and alone that you slide up right next to her and open your arms. She jumps into them without hesitation.
Ignis hasn’t hugged you since that very first time in the garden, but the sensation of wrapping your arms around her comes more naturally than it should. You’re glad.
You lead her back into the palace, holding her hand. It’s smaller and softer than yours, shaking from the cold, and she’s mumbling something about “Gladdy” being mad at her.
You’re a little relieved that you’re not the only one nervous around Gladiolus, and the nickname makes him seem a little less scary than usual.
You’re barely a foot inside the main hall before Gladiolus marches right in front of the both of you, thunder across his face.
You quickly let go of Iris’ hand, burning, guilty, dreading.
Gladiolus looms above you. “This is your fault. I know it is.” He clenches his hands at his sides, though you imagine he’d put a fist in your face if he could. “You think you can get away with anything, don’t ya? Getting my little sis hurt like it’s all just a game.”
You want to cover your ears and hide. Iris kicks Gladiolus in the shin, which makes you both stare.
“He saved me,” she says. Alarmingly, she’s on the verge of tears, and Gladiolus’ whole demeanor changes. He kneels down to try to comfort her, suddenly so soft.
“Why’re you being so mean to my new friend?” she blubbers, which stuns Gladiolus into a second of silence.
You slip out of the room as Gladiolus stutters out excuses after excuses. It’s too uncomfortable to watch, like you’re intruding even though they’re talking about you.
Only Ignis is waiting around the corner of the main hall, looking slightly guilty. You think your Father didn’t even notice you were missing.
Ignis rubs a towel gently on your hair, tutting something about getting a cold. You had dripped water all over the carpet, but he doesn’t seem as concerned about it as he normally would have been.
Neither of you talk about Gladiolus, just like you never talk about the King.
…
You end up getting a cold. Ignis stays with you the whole time. No one else visits except for a nurse.
It’s ok.
Ignis’ hand is cool on your heated forehead. You scare yourself with how attached you’ve become to him. A life without him seems unbearable; you don’t know how you survived before him.
You don’t think you matter as much to him as he does to you, but you bask in his care anyway. You only feel a little guilty over taking his time.
“You know,” Ignis starts, after sitting next to you in silence for a while, “Maybe we should ask if you can go to a school?”
You don’t understand why he brings it up. “I already have a lot of teachers. I don’t need to do more school. Do I?” The thought makes you panic a bit.
Ignis shakes his head, though he also smiles. “No, it will replace the private tutoring you already get.” He thinks for a few seconds, lightly brushing your hair away. He’s always checking your temperature, even though you’ve been feeling better lately. “I think you need to be with more kids your age.”
You frown. You don’t like feeling lonely, but the thought of being around so many people makes you antsy. Sure, maybe one of them could be like Ignis or maybe even Iris, but what if there are more Gladioluses and Fathers? You don’t think you can bear that.
You shake your head without a word. Ignis looks at you with an unreadable expression, but he doesn’t push.
Your Father would have never approved anyway. He doesn’t like talking about you, and so he doesn’t like other people seeing you.
That’s just how it is.
…
You’re in a car when it happens.
You’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. Ignis has been opening up to you recently, telling you stories and staying with you late into the night, so you don’t spend as much time alone as before.
Gladiolus hasn’t been nice, but he’s become less scary lately. He doesn’t talk about the incident with Iris. He doesn’t talk with you at all, actually. You can’t say you mind much. Training is still hard, but it’s bearable.
You still linger outside Queen Aulea’s locked bedroom. You’re already starting to forget her face, even though it looks so similar to your own. You wonder where she’s from, what she liked to do, if she’s the one who named you, if she would have loved you. Ignis can’t answer all those questions, but you think about them anyway.
But.
You’re in a car when it happens.
Your governess is next to you. You don’t like her much. You don’t know the driver. Your Father is in the car ahead of you with Clarus and Cor, already out of sight deep into the night. You should be arriving in the city soon.
You’re thinking about the conference you went to, one your Father was forced to bring you on, and the long lesson your governess will give you after, when a loud sound breeches your ears.
In the blink of an eye, you’re upside down. Gravity weighs your arms down, down, down, dangling above your head, and you can’t seem to understand what’s happening. Something wet is dripping. It’s coming from your head.
You look towards the driver, because for some reason you can’t turn your head towards the governess. Your vision is blurry. All you can see is black and red and nothing. You can’t hear a thing.
Swift hands unbuckle your seatbelt and pull you out of the window. Broken glass scratches at your arms, face, back.
The governess’ face hovers above you. Her mouth is moving. You try to shake your head to tell her you can’t hear, but it only makes you dizzier. Her face shifts in intensity as she looks at something above you, and grabs your arm, hauling you up and dragging you behind her through the uneven soil.
The driver is nowhere. Still in the car. Crushed.
The governess’ hand feels rougher than you’ve ever been handled before, even by the sword trainer who doesn’t like you, and suddenly she pulls you to her chest, and you both go down onto the wet ground, when did it start raining, her on top of you, heavy, shaking, then cold.
A roar. This is a nightmare. Shaking ground. You will wake up soon. Blood in your eyes, in your nose, in your mouth. Your back is on fire. It’s cold.
A bright flash of blue, and the sound of knives through skin. A screech, more agonized than the last.
You think you see your Father. Or, as much as you can see him under the body of your governess who’s gone gone gone. You can’t see his face. You hope you’re dreaming.
Your eyes slip close.
It’s so cold.