meadowlarklogs | noctis catch-all

[Speak of the devil.

He arrives in what can only be described as a self-contained flourish. His usual uncaring gait, coupled with an easy grin that might tug a little too tightly at the corners of his mouth. A grandiose wave of the hand in greeting, a sweeping gesture, as faux lantern light sways in the air above their heads. The ex-Chancellor is dressed in dark colors, but possessing none of his usual layers, nor the normal profile of a long coat. It is, unfortunately, too hot for it — and now that he can experience the discomfort of brackish heat, even Ardyn has to bend to the will of a mortal body and shed what’s unneeded.

So he's here, as he said he would be, and his lackadaisical prowl through the festival has brought him to his intended destination — Noctis. But the boy is not alone. The Commodore appears to accompany him, and he quite wonders if this was planned or if it was coincidence.]

There you are. And you’ve brought company! Hello, Commodore.

[ what THE FUCK ]

...Chancellor.

[ If nothing else, she's able to gain some sense of purchase rather quickly - going from quizzically frowning at Noctis, wondering why he's trying to get rid of her, wondering if she wouldn't be better off just going - and then, fucking Ardyn. In earlier days, it had been simple (if frustrating) to be chillingly professional in his presence. Back when he still signed her paycheques, that is.

She looks back at Noctis. A hand on her hip, her pose is a bit less compromising now. ]

This is your company? [ Oh boy.

Well, now she knows (or believes she does) that Prompto hasn't been as forthright as he told her he would. That little realisation lays some tension in her already telling jaw. ]

[ Any chance of sparing Aranea from the encroaching threat and mire of trouble is swept away by Ardyn's approach, treating himself to an internal curse and a narrowing of eyes... but one he's quick to correct, actually attempting to face this with as neutral an expression as possible. Easier said than done, especially when the first firework sounds in the distance and the loud distraction ratchets up his discomfort. Irksome, like an itch he can't scratch. ]

... yeah. But I didn't bring my own company along with me, we just happened to run into each other. [ Which causes him to glance back over to her, now. ]

I know how it looks, but I need to talk to him. Alone -- you don't need to get stuck overhearing it all.

[As always, he delights in being the cause of such tension. Aranea is more obvious about it, but Noctis reads just as easily to a man like Ardyn, seeing the strain behind the attempts at a schooled expression.

The burst of a firework overhead heralds the start of a grand finale. Yet between the three of them, it sounds the mark of something a little less-than-celebratory.]

Quick to detach that third wheel, are we? [He huffs out laughter, sliding out from beneath a white line of teeth.]

Sorry, Aranea, it seems like this is to be a very private sort of conversation.

- right.

[ Over her shoulder, a burst of fireworks, a loud snap followed by an explosion of light, like confetti. Thrown utterly off guard by this situation, her stomach churning unpleasantly, she gives the disruption a nasty little look. As she thinks.

Here, she's unarmed. Has none of her resources. Her men aren't just an arm's length away. Nothing of what had propped her up on Eos. Like that day in the kitchens, a cooking knife against Ardyn's throat, it makes more sense to acquiesce. To retreat and regroup, if she thinks about it tactically.

Aranea isn't quite sure what is stopping her. ]

You can just pretend I'm not here.

[ In other words, she's not moving. In fact, her stance seems a bit too ready, but for what? A mystery, that. ]

[ She's treated to another sidelong glance, a furrowing brow betraying just what he thinks of that idea. He isn't stupid enough to miss her intent in sticking around, advisable or not, and there's a part of him that is grateful for the potential backup. A part of him. Another nagging part reminds him that this could be trouble on her head that she really doesn't need; hell, he doesn't even want to deal with this.

But the idea of broadcasting that or arguing with her in front of Ardyn really doesn't appeal -- they're better off presenting a united front, surely. ]

... then I'll get to the point. We haven't clarified our relationship here and I think we should. A truce.

Our fight's meant to be set in Eos, not here.

[Straight into it, then, with the Commodore as an audience. So seems to be the case, but Ardyn hardly cares; Aranea is just going to potentially become privy to information she was oblivious to before.

He ignores her presence (for now), eyebrows raising as he steps nearer.]

A truce. [Ah, now that is amusing. As if any degree of peaceful measure can be dredged up and out of Ardyn, harboring all those centuries of hate.] Is that what you’ve called me out here for? Maybe we need to define exactly what your expectations are — do you think me likely to kill you here, in this world?

[That’s jumping the gun, far, far too much. It was never a consideration; but if Noctis speaks of a truce by means of staying his hateful hand, then that might be a little more difficult.]

The fact that we have to define expectations is why I'm here. Because no, I don't think you're going to try to kill me.

[ He's a little heavy-handed on that "try", allowing it to hang on his tongue for an extra half-second as a message. He doesn't have his powers here but neither does Ardyn, and he would never make that task easy for him. But it is telling that he anticipates something else, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what that might be. ]

I don't want anyone else getting hurt either. It's not necessary. [ Red fireworks color the scene a bit too aptly; he can't really appreciate the imagery right now. ]

[Fireworks that practically hemorrhage red in the sky, dousing its hues on all of them below. It saturates Ardyn’s hair in a deep, bloody crimson, before dying out.]

Of course you don’t.

[Noctis, hoping to protect his merry little retinue, or maybe even any friends he’d earned during his stay in this place. Generally, Ardyn has no underlying reason to go out of his way to hurt any of them, unless it’s to further a very specific goal — he did as much on Eos, and he’d hardly hesitate to do so here. Yet in New Amsterdam, the routes are limited, blocked off, leading him nowhere if he diverges down that route.

And yet this isn’t rule of his. “Cruelty for cruelty’s sake” is hardly a foreign concept to the man, and he’s indulged in it more than once. Just because he will not kill Noctis doesn’t mean he will not hurt him, in both body and mind and spirit, and assailing his friends is the quickest and most effective way of going about it.]

And what have I to gain from it?

[Calling a truce requires an incentive for it, and he sees no reason to not cater to his whims when they strike him.

But. Also.]

And that’s not even accounting for how this might apply when your nearest and dearest think it reasonable to attack me. Prompto, and even- [A gesture at Aranea.] -the Commodore herself. I can’t change what’s already been done, and yet they still feel the need to bring knives to my throat for past transgressions. Isn’t that right?

[Lookin’ at you, girl.]

[ Aranea expects an uncomfortable encounter. She expects to be toeing the line between tense and bored, She doesn't expect Ardyn to bring up their encounter in the kitchens some scant few weeks ago. It's a stupid little mistake, underestimating his penchance for slitting a throat and claiming it's merely a smile. Ardyn's hands flick toward her and the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. This - this standing, this diplomacy, this inaction - it isn't what she's good at. There's a reason she leads from the frontlines.

Angrily, Aranea's mouth twists. She casts one quick, harried glance toward Noctis before stepping forward, hands halfway to - to something -

But - no. No, Noctis has made his will very clear. Making these decisions isn't her job. She doesn't want to be the one to offer a truce anymore than she wants to be the one who ultimately breaks it. She'll have to carry her crime around with her. And it won't leave off the fact that she'll have to explain, she'll have to justify why her professional dislike at some point became a bitter, violent hate.

Foot slamming back, she pivots. Rather unhappily, her hands end up back in the front pockets of her coat. It's a defensive pose, contrasting her usual open body language. ]

... yeah.

Look, whatever rules you have in your little truce -

[ Say it, she has to tell herself, and more than once. Say it. ]

- I'll abide by it.

[ ~~Just kill her now.~~ ]

[ Ardyn's suggestion that he make it worth his while is an expected one but what exactly can he offer to a man so consumed? Handing him a blank check is too dangerous and handing him a filled one runs the risk of being worthless. Damned either way, as in his last encounter with this man.

The revelation that Prompto and Aranea have personally antagonized him -- or, his mind immediately justifies, been provoked by him and responded -- isn't a surprise either but it settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. It complicates negotiations, sure, but more importantly it sparks considerable concern for the woman next to him and for Prompto. His arm comes out without even a conscious thought, halfway to blocking Aranea before she stops herself first. The look he gives her for that, and for her followup promise, showcases both his gratitude for it and a severity that he doesn't normally wear. It's a little easier to believe he's actually been trained to accept the mantle of leadership in moments like this. ]

Thank you, Aranea. I mean it.

[ Then back to Ardyn, again. ]

Prompto and Ignis will too; I can make sure of that. What else are you asking for?

[He’s gone and raised Aranea’s hackles, which was likely the point, given Ardyn’s proclivities to utilize his words like barbs, or needles sliding beneath skin. That would quickly put the idea of a truce under the knife, having made his point via the flaring tempers of others. Yet she’s quick to show restraint, and he can’t help but experience the smallest tinge of disappointment as a result.

More fireworks burst overhead, and he has to raise his voice to be heard. It adds an emphatic quality to an already ostentatious timbre.]

I wonder.

[He’s being asked what he wants, as if he could be satisfied by anything the boy would have to offer him. All that could possibly sate him exists on Eos — upended constantly by his arrival to one foreign world, and then another — and while he could maim and maul and gut Noctis where he stands, and likely feel quite good about it, this would be no adherence to a Prophecy that he’s been shackled to for millennia.

Thus the question feels so shallow, like its own kind of patronization, even if that isn’t the young King’s intention. And when Noctis adopts a more assured stance, how desperately Ardyn wants to tear it down, crush it underfoot, to illustrate that he’s not as strong or sturdy as he thinks he is.

Maybe he will.]

What if all I require is your strictest word that no matter what’s transpired on our star, you will still honor this truce? Those are not unreasonable terms, are they?

Edited 2019-01-08 20:08 (UTC)

[ Feeling her blood run cold, Aranea finds herself reaching for Noctis’s sleeve, fingers knitting amidst the fabric in half a tug. Her fingers are tense; clawed, even. ]

Noctis — [ - but what?

She has no rudder, no answer, and it shows. ]

[ Ardyn's theatrics shine through in his tone, lofty and affected as ever, but there's an undercurrent of amusement so often present that seems anything but forced. Almost like a quiet excitement, the voice of a man holding a winning hand and waiting for his big reveal. Noctis, in this situation, hasn't been dealt anything decent enough to allow him to do more than call what he hopes is a bluff or walk away now, betting on a new round another time.

Who the hell knows what Ardyn might do in the meantime then, now that they've discussed things this openly?

His mouth is already open to respond when fingers tangle in his short sleeve, feeling the brush of nails on skin that has him again turning his head. She's unsettled beyond what he'd expect, feeling that same sense of unease that had come with his earlier interactions with Prompto, questions hanging in the air and answers dangled further beyond them.

He'd known something Noctis doesn't, and he's realizing very quickly that he doesn't know all of what Aranea's been privy to either. ]

Hey --

It's alright. I've seen what the empire's done to the people close to me and to Lucis. I get who was behind a lot of it too. That doesn't mean I'm gonna' just let it carry over here; that's not what settling the score looks like for me. So if that's what you're asking for?

Fine, I agree. You leave us alone -- all of us, Aranea included -- and we'll leave you alone.

[A widening smile, amber eyes glinting in the fake lantern light, and Ardyn seems pleased. With that, he raises his hands in another sweeping gesture, cranking the theatrics to eleven. As if he were orchestrating the festivities to celebrate this fledging truce, encouraging the dandelion explosions in the sky.]

Then a truce it is! I accept your terms, Your Majesty, since you are so gracious enough to accept mine.

[He’s noticed Aranea’s anxiety, the look of someone who knows there’s a storm inbound. All the better for it. His next few statements, dripping in faux joviality, are directed at them both.]

Let us forget a conflict that’s been brewing for ages. We shall look ahead, and not let our differences fester in the past. After all, what’s a bit of war and bad blood in the grand scheme of things? Worrisome events from home are just transient things; and so are the lives of those you care about, correct?

[A smile not unlike that of a snake.]

The invasion of Insomnia, the death of your father. [That’s not news, of course. He can’t say the same for the rest.] The destruction of Altissia, and the late Lady Lunafreya, her life cut short courtesy of a knife to the middle. And that’s not even accounting for her brother, twisting so gracelessly into a daemon—

Ah, well. None of that matters now, does it? Forget I said anything.

[ Of course, Ardyn hooks his little truce by the mouth and then bashes its head in anyway. Aranea feels the previous churn in her stomach turn into an all-out tempest. His slippery, saccharine tone belies the venom he's spewing - ugh, she hates him - and Aranea isn't sure what infuriates her more right now, what he's doing or the theatrical fireworks that are serving as his backdrop.

The High Commander's fate is news even to her. That's how the Empire of Niflheim executes people now? The horrors don't ever seem to end, do they? There's always one more thing to be disgusted by. But - for the here and now -

The hand at Noctis's arm becomes a vice grip at his elbow. Her fingers dig in deep, the flimsy wall of fabric of his sleeve a convenient barrier. Aranea does her best to hold him where he stands. ]

Great. [ this is fine. ] Truce acknowledged, or whatever. Let's go, kid.

[ Every little word is its own barb that tries to wheedle its way beneath his skin but that's what he's prepared himself for, the mocking "Your Majesty" glancing off and Ardyn's expression being one that he's ready to ignore. Even the comments about Insomnia, though scraping along a raw wound, don't force him to flinch. His father... all anticipated blows. Ardyn wants him to crack, he reminds himself, wants him to show emotion because it'll satisfy a dark sadistic part of him -- if any other part even remains.

Then he says Lunafreya's name.

Instantly it feels wrong, like a sword scraping across stone or a note played out of key, it shouldn't happen, he shouldn't say it. It's a beautiful name that his voice doesn't do justice to, and hearing it spoken in such a way sets him ill at ease even before Ardyn's next words clarify his reason for invoking it in the first place. The barb finds its mark, numbing his body and instantly spurring on a cold sweat, as shock briefly holds back an immense well of anger. He--

Almost instantly he's wrenching away from Aranea, shoving a little more roughly than intended at her wrist. ]

Luna? What the hell are you talking about? [ And just as suddenly he's turning his gaze back on Aranea, recognizing her lack of shock -- is that its own confirmation? He's holding onto some kind of desperate hope, searching her features for the truth. ]

[Every word is a hook that roots them to their places, fastened to this very moment; one that Ardyn is intent on turning into something cruel as he stretches both of them through the wringer and back again. These next few seconds are precious, wonderful things — he gets to see the dawning of the truth weigh down on the young king with such ferocity that it might make him crack.

Might make him see just how laughable this whole idea of a truce is.

Knife cleanly inserted, he gives it a twist.]

Oh, she didn’t tell you? Honestly, how utterly kept in the dark you've been, Noctis. Am I really the only one with sense enough to be truthful with you?

[A purposeful shrug of broad shoulders, but a sharply expectant look at Aranea.]

Why don’t you tell him, Commodore? About the Oracle’s untimely — but very orchestrated, if I do say so myself — death?

[ fuck her FUCKING LIFE ]

Shut up.

[ Aimed at Ardyn. It won't land, Aranea doesn't expect it to, but it makes her feel a tiny bit better - as tiredly (but sharply!) murmured as it is. He's put her in an unpleasant position, sure, but maybe it would be better to hear the details from her, as opposed to Ardyn. It was supposed to be Prompto, and part of her is assuredly angry about that - about what she perceives as deliberate, cowardly inaction; about the fact that he told her he would do something and then didn't.

Running a hand over her scalp, just brushing the edges of her buzzcut, Aranea draws herself up and doesn't hesitate. The words are a bit beyond her. She fears she won't soften it enough for it to be palatable; the wrong word could send the prince into a tailspin that will leave their truce dead and abandoned on the floor before it's even begun. ]

I wasn't there. [ That... that's important. She adds, cocking a thumb in Ardyn's direction. ] It was this guy. He stabbed her in the stomach on the altar. ...I guess she thought healin' you for the Covenant was more important than herself.

[ Ultimately, Aranea is blunt, partly because Ardyn's words have already put a price on softening it. He put all the power in honesty. She's helpless but to play into his sick little game.

All the same, her hands are tensed, ready to grab Noctis at a moment's notice. She's expecting an explosion. Hopefully he won't give her one. ]

Edited 2019-01-10 12:00 (UTC)

[ Eyes remain fixated on Aranea, a silent pleading there for her to do anything -- anything -- but confirm what Ardyn's just said. All of his memories of Luna rush back in bright, blotchy flashes of white, her voice, her presence, everything about her just conveying a hope and a warmth that he'd sorely missed. That feeling was one he'd held onto almost obsessively after the attack on Insomnia, ever aware that they were striving to reach her; she knew what to do and she'd been guiding them, always strong and gentle in a way he'd never been able to fully emulate.

And then Aranea speaks and the image fractures, the description of her specific injury slicing right through a happier recollection like a blood-stained knife.

All he can do is stand there and stare for a moment, expression vacant and gaze distant. There's no moment when he registers his vision blurring but his eyes are glassy when they catch the light after a slow step to the side, half-turned from Ardyn but ever aware of his presence. It's the next explosion of a firework overhead that seems to snap him out of it.

His fingers are curled tight around the knife hidden at his waistband in a fraction of a second, no words spoken when he suddenly whips back around with his arm flung outward, blade swung in a vicious arc that has it slicing low across the larger man's chest. It's aimed to cut deep, just beneath the outer edges of those blue glows that haunt them with any chanced contact. To spill blood, just like Ardyn has so many times before, and there's barely a pause before he's rounding on him for another slash aimed higher this time, towards his face. ]

[He expects the thread to snap, and when the grand finale of light and gunpowder blossoms overhead, he isn’t disappointed. It’s hard to say whether or not Noctis is too fast, or Ardyn is simply not inclined to dodge it — but whatever the reasoning may be, the knife cuts through his clothes as if they weren’t even there, raking deep into his skin, and the sear of pain he feels is—

Like fire. A sensation that had once lived so lazily behind the veil of the Starscourge now has nothing to dull its edges, and the sting is shocking, searing, and nearly debilitating if it weren’t so wonderful in equal measure. Blood stains and darkens the front of his shirt, blooming out from the edges of the diagonal cut, and his smile grows wide as if trying to match it. As if this is exactly what he wanted.

The knife catches the blue, green, orange light of the fireworks, nicking at his chin next. Ardyn angles his head up with just enough grace that it whispers past the rest of its mark, the pointed edge just barely missing his eye. More red dribbles out from this second, less worrisome cut, but he ignores it for the sake of reaching out and curling fingers in a vice-grip around Noctis’ wrist that wields the knife. Nails dig in, the empathy bond kicks up with such furor that both connections slam into each other with sickening, shared anger, and Ardyn squeezes and twists with a force that means to sprain or bruise or break, and to make him release that angry blade.

The other hand goes for his neck, and a knee hikes up to aim at the young king’s gut, so that he can knock the air out of him for good measure.]

So much for a truce! A king that cannot even keep his word!

[ Later, Aranea will go over all of this in her head, because the politics of grief and emotionality are not her speciality. She could have handled this better. Different words (gentler? harsher?) might have changed the outcome. She could have even hit Ardyn over the head as soon as he got all forthcoming. In truth, though, was that it was always going to happen - the threads were only ever woven in one direction and were always going to coalesce in an ugly, reddened little tangle.

That means nothing in the here or the now, however, which is where Aranea firmly means to be. Noctis escapes her grip some moments ago with a knock at her wrist, the simmering shock of his emotions leaving her vulnerable as her chest flicks with a faint blue glow, on and then off.

In the distance, the fireworks crescendo: a burst of crackling, speckled light that crashes through-out the polluted sky.

Aranea makes her choice in a split second. Ardyn is bigger than Noctis, stronger, not fueled by any blinding, passionate rage - but by the slow simmer of toxicity, and he's very patient, too controlled. She doesn't have much faith in his odds of being taken down a notch, even as blood ribbons the asphalt, staining it. Moving from one side of the scuffle to the other, Aranea knits her fingers together in one tight, conjoined fist - thumbs out, not in - and aims a blow at Ardyn's exposed temple, as hard as she can.

Or that's what could happen.

Who's to say that an unexpected cavalry won't make her pull the blow at the last moment? ]

[prompto's here to enjoy the festival. having spent time with aranea initially and then running into x'rhun after promising to help him have a better understanding of the city--he was hopeful of running into noctis, at some point, get to have fun and fuck around with the available games and stands, like how they used to do in the crown city.]

[nothing, really, prepared him for what he's witnessing the second he turns a corner onto a mostly empty area, where stacks of unused boxes and containers line up to make space between the actual festival and the streets leading away from it.]

Fuck.

[noctis, aranea, and ardyn. one of those elements makes this an absolute nightmare, not to mention that the current altercation between the three is enough to blatantly tell a violent story. there's blood, on more than one of them, there's an aggressive hold, and there's momentum for a punch. prompto's dropping whatever beverage he had in his hand and getting in the fray of it all, too, because to see ardyn attacking noctis and aranea in the process of is enough to quickstart the panic mode in him: not knowing exactly what he'll do, other than barrel into the situation.]

Let him go!

[he orders, futilely, at ardyn, grabbing at the chancellor's hand that is tight on noctis's wrist. a flurry of anger, hatred, rushes through him, and honest to the gods he can't tell from who it is coming from--ardyn or noctis--]

[this is all such a huge mess]

[ Blood splatters a few telltale dots across his front, leaving pinpricks on his shirt and on his face, but far more on the ground at the foot of the blade's invisible arc and even more than that bracketed by their feet. It feels good to hurt him even if it's a short-lived high, immediately feeling the need to chase it without any appreciation for its mimicry of Ardyn's own far more matured need for revenge. This is a flash in the pan versus a fire that's burned very hot and very long, hidden away and biding its time. Nothing illustrates that more than the empathy bond Ardyn forces between them, either, a sharp stab of pain bleeding its way into a roiling mix of rage, pure hatred, and sadness.

That's the main emotion that will seep through into the older man, then into Prompto with any brush of skin against his. Even Noctis's fury can't override that sense of all-encompassing loss.

He barely registers when his best friend interjects himself, reeling from the bludgeoning hit of that knee that drives air from his lungs and stuns his diaphragm, but he is aware of the new spike in pain that accompanies Prompto's attempts to free him. His hand on Ardyn's wrist, jostling his own newly injured one, warrants a sharp, choked off yell as he forces himself to at least take advantage of the chance to wrench it back.

Fuck, that hurts. ]

You... bastard, you...

[The rage between them is utterly delirious. Ardyn’s is a deep, endless pit of the stuff, churning with tar and spilling over heated edges; Noctis' is a flash-spark that careens across this surface before roaring to life, enough to engulf and immolate them both, and Ardyn would welcome the connection were it not for the cold sting of sadness that accompanies it. That grief is not his, he thinks, as he clenches fingers tighter. He doesn't want borrowed sorrow, doesn’t need that cavernous pit of loss to swallow him whole when he was devoured by it already centuries ago.

Ardyn wrenches and twists at Noctis’ wrist harder. If he fills him up with nothing but pain, maybe the rest of it will drain away.

But it’s in this exact moment that all the moving pieces startle to life and come into play. In quick succession, Aranea’s fist knocks against his temple, sending his vision jarring and balance going tilted, and he feels the twice-grip of Prompto then Noctis’ hands prying against his own.

It’s the fist knocking against his skull that has him lurching to the side, feet shuffling to keep himself centered. Forced to take into account the intervention of others — not surprising, honestly — he knows that an adjustment has to be made. And that adjustment is this: the decision to grip at a fistful of clothing, clawed into the front of Prompto’s shirt, and to use this purchase to careen the boy right into Noctis and Aranea, easily done when they’re all so close to each other, to throw them both off-balance. Send them sprawling onto the ground while fireworks hang in the sky, and Ardyn can loom over them and reassess the situation from there.

Regardless of his success, he lets go of Noctis during the attempt, quite certain that he can be satisfied by the damage he’s already done. Blood continues to soak into the fabric of his shirt.]

Prompto! I’m appalled; you didn’t tell him about Lady Lunafreya either?

[He’ll bring everyone down into the mire with him, if they’re so bold to interrupt.]

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