meadowlarklogs | noctis catch-all

[ 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.]

Shiiii--

[it all happens so fast. prompto can feel ardyn's fingers against his chest for a moment, like knives, before he's pushed forward unless to be used to throw noctis and aranea off. he bowls over with a loud shout--muted by the rocketing firework--and he's struggling to force his way up, on a position to either defend or attack. he's not sure; the world feels like it's still upside down.]

[his first reaction, soon as he's on his knees, however, is to check up on noctis, hands mirroring his fretty shaking in altissia as his eyes land on the blood on the shirt, on the injured arm, on noctis's pained expression.]

Noct!

[but it lasts briefly, whatever sense of control, as ardyn speaks--towering above them. his blood goes cold and it's like the rugs been pushed from under his feet. it's not fair, he was going to tell him after the festival, he was going to--]

[he can't really look at aranea, either, and as much as prompto's trying to ignore how content ardyn sounds as he says his peace, he keeps a shaky hold on noctis.]

I was gonna tell you. I swear.

[does it matter, at this point?]

[ It was supposed to be a peaceful evening. A night at a festival, with lights and food and casual conversation. But of course, nothing ever goes as planned. Would that he’d been alone in discovering this scene, a maelstrom of rage and blood contained to this little side street, but in keeping with the theme of things escalating at a startling pace, Prompto spots the altercation first and dashes off to the aid of his friend, leaving X’rhun a precious few seconds behind.

It is enough of a delay to see the boy thrown into Noctis and the woman he is with – X’rhun knows her face but not her name. As much as the crashing of bodies to the pavement makes him wince, it provides a gap in the struggle, one that X’rhun slots himself into as he runs to the scene. He steps between the prince and his allies and Ardyn, a hand flying out to press against Ardyn’s chest, someplace well away from the angry slash across his skin. If he means to approach them further, X’rhun means to stop him. ]

That is enough, all of you!

[ Prompto and Noctis will have to work out whatever it is on their own time, unfortunately. He has no idea how this started or who means to finish it, so he keeps his hand upon Ardyn while turning his gaze towards Noctis and the others. ]

[ Aranea can't do much other than try, somewhat futilely, to dodge when Prompto is thrown at them bodily. The collision sees her hit the ground, not hard enough to do any real damage, but merely momentarily disorienting. It's these sorts of lost little moments that mean the difference between life and death in combat, Aranea knows, and Ardyn follows no rules of engagement that she can decipher. She's back on her feet in an instant - as soon as she can, not a second more wasted - and she'd be perfectly fine attacking again, this truce has already gone to shit --

An nth person on the scene belays that. His hands are on Ardyn, not any of them. She doesn't assume a biased party, merely someone taking the correct choice and ending the madness. (And, it has to be said, in a more effective manner than her fist at Ardyn's temple.)

For now, she bides her moment, keeping herself safely out of arm's reach of, well, everyone. ]

... Yeah. Doesn't seem like this "truce" is gonna work. Not if it takes us two seconds to start wailin' on each other. [ The cut on her lip from her ill-fated encounter with Hei has reopened in all the scuffle, and she spits a small globule of blood mixed with spittle on the ground by Ardyn's feet.

Because that is certainly helpful. ]

[ Forming a single coherent thought that can bubble its way up through a haze of blinding pain and emotion is temporarily impossible, and it's instinct that he falls back on. Instinct that tells him, upon finally being freed of the slow grinding of his bones against one another, straining against tendon and cartilage, and being tossed to the side like forgotten garbage, that there's still something unaccounted for in this mess.

His good hand scrambles for the knife that's fallen to the ground, immediately clutching it with white-knuckled determination in blood-flecked fingers. The point is aimed up at Ardyn, arm slowly lowering when he draws himself back up to his feet with Prompto's aid just to keep his target steadily within his sights. His teeth are grit, eyes refusing to look anywhere else even when his friend tries to start in on some early kind of explanation that he's in no way ready for. ]

Don't--

[ There's no telling who the aborted command is aimed at, a quick step taken back just in case when X'rhun approaches -- in his mind, that makes two enemies instead of one and that's all that matters. ]

You... get him the hell out of here before I shove this knife into his skull.

[Eyes remain locked on Noctis, the two of them not unlike predators ready to tear each other’s throats out. It doesn’t matter if Prompto and Aranea go tumbling to the ground next to them, doesn’t matter that the both of them have their own versions of protests to fling at him like stones. Hardly even matters that X’rhun has made his presence known, stopping beside him, pressing his hand hard against the chest while careful to avoid the blood. He won’t be able to avoid all of it, when it soaks so deeply and spreads across his shirt like oil.

He barks out a laugh, letting the young king’s glower merely glance off of him. Reaches out with his own arm to push aside X’rhun’s hand in a thoughtless manner, as if he were no barrier at all — he isn’t, not right now, Ardyn not feeling generous enough to relent.

Not seeming to care whose body that knife becomes embedded in, he merely makes an attempt to step forward and close the perilous gap between them.]

You’re more than welcome to try if you think you can.

[ Ardyn bats his hand away, and brief though the contact is, it sends a spike of anger through him as brilliant crimson as the blood staining his palm. X’rhun realizes then that mere words are not going to fix this, and he gets the feeling that he may as well be tossing a bucket of water upon Ifrit for all the good mediating will do him. Briefly, he wonders if he could take Ardyn if he had to. He doesn’t have his magic or his blade, but neither does his friend. He could probably manage it if he really had a need, or else he would provide a nice distraction for a moment. Still, he would rather not have to turn on one party to protect the other.

Gods, what can he do? He surges forward once more, as if he means to slot himself between Ardyn and Noctis again, the knife in the latter’s hand be damned. ]

I said enough!

[ Crimson light blooms suddenly in the little side street. Not born of the fireworks overhead, though they are still bursting in the distance, but from a single, simple shape springing into being between the prince and the chancellor. A square of translucent red light, half as tall as Ardyn on all sides and no thicker than a piece of paper, but surprisingly solid. It sits suspended in the air between both their faces.

X’rhun needn’t wonder too long where that came from, thanks to the bright blue light pouring out of his own chest, showing even through the fabric of his clothes. Thank the gods he’s the pragmatic sort and just sort rolls with it, allowing this strange projection to run interference while he steps up to grab a hold of Ardyn’s arm, for all the good that will do at staying him. His focus is split, somewhat, between the situation at hand and the apparent manifestation of his power. He can’t put an end to this alone.

So, to Prompto and the woman flanking Noctis, he says, ]

There are two of you and one of him. Get him out of here.

[honestly? it's a good thing that at least one of them reacts faster than prompto's own attempt to stop noctis or land himself between the two (least noctis got hurt more). his eyes are wide as x'rhun's new power shoots forward -- a shield?]

[he tries to gather context but finds himself falling short. what truce? he supposes there's no way it'll keep on, after this.]

[one thing he knows for sure is that no matter on whose side x'rhun is on, it looks like he doesn't want ardyn and noctis to gut each other. the words are purposeful and commanding enough that they kick prompto into action, however, scrambling to grab hold of noctis and pull him back.]

Noct, we should go. C'mon.

[he manages, although without noctis agreeing to move, it'll be difficult work. he isn't like gladio who can easily lift the prince, but he'll keep pulling him back by his shirt and shoulders. if he can't get the knife, hopefully noctis will put it away or dump it or something.]

[ Well, that all happened. She gives X'rhun a quick glance - not knowing him, unsure if she trusts him - but she also knows she doesn't want to stick around where Ardyn is, nor does she especially want to follow Noctis and Prompto wherever they're going. There's grief there to be dealt with, omissions of truth, drama - she hates this, she suddenly has a great deal of sympathy for Ignis and his omni-present headaches if he has to deal with this so often. ]

Whatever. [ It's quietly said, huffed under her breath in a truculent tone.

She doesn't even say goodbye to any of them as she shifts off, heading in a direction she hopes none of them are going. ]

[ Prompto's grip strains seams and causes the collar of that shirt to pull uncomfortably against a tight throat but Noctis's eyes only stay fixated on Ardyn... on the new magical barrier that appears between them. X'rhun...? The blue light from his chest is a giveaway; this is the magic that he's been granted and it's more physically impressive than any he's seen so far. It's just one more reason to walk away from this, another being his best friend at his side, his new injury, the threat of police intervention...

His teeth grit as he hears Aranea's immature dismissal, briefly flicking his gaze to X'rhun again as if trying to gauge where he stands on all of this before he's locking eyes with Prompto. The flicker of anger, confusion, and distrust is obvious.

There's nothing to say as he rolls his shoulder and jerks away from his friend's grip, feeling a strong desire to keep any of his other feelings quiet as he hurriedly tucks that knife away just so he can carefully support that newly swelling arm with a quiet hitch in his breath. He turns on his heel then, having no idea where his destination is but a beeline for a nearby alleyway, with good cover and more seclusion, seems like an instinctual choice. ]

[he spares aranea but a glance and she's gone, his eyes quick to return to meet noctis's. his feelings are plain to see even if he says nothing. the roll and jerk is enough to make prompto let go, feeling at a loss on what to do. looking at x'rhun and ardyn, he says nothing. he has nothing to say, as much as he's appreciative that the man that has claimed friendship to both himself and the chancellor is giving them a chance to move away from his violent mess.]

[his loyalties are with noctis, regardless, and he just ends up following after his friend despite his uncertainties.]

Noct, wait up! We gotta get you to a hospital for your arm.

noctis catch-all

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