slainfury / Then he blinded the eyes of Zedekiah; and the king of Babylon bound him with bronze fetters and brought him to Babylon and put him in prison until the day of his death
darkened vision is disturbed by an emanating light, though faint at first the pulse intensifying. the salt of raging black seas and relentless winds of the storm are halted, his being shielded by an unexplained force. a familiar warmth, delicate hands caress a face so isolated, so purposely withheld from affection. yet the familiarity of the gesture is welcomed, daresay longed. though above the sea, he is drowning in an essence. he wants for nothing more than to sink into this embrace as his throat tightens ; mother.
face pristine and preserved / yet signs of aging from weariness. perhaps sorrow for the pitiful plight of her firstborn, the king who never was. o mother, the boy who harbors ‘neath the hollowed steel shell of a man cries out. forgive me for my foolishness, for all my failures.
the face transforms, of a figure younger and more beautiful. the boy who hoped, the brother who loved wants to weep. sweet sister. once a mere babe in my arms / a corpse not yet cold as the light departed from your fingertips ; helpless to fate’s manipulation all the same. virtuous, willing martyr of a needless cause. it did not have to be, it should not have been. i could have stopped it.
( in my dreams, i emerge the victor. sorrow melded with steel and a previously withheld power is unlocked. the empire falls and niflheim burns. the armies crumple to dust in the wind and, in this tale, glauca is slaughtered instead. i am the chosen king, i am i am i am. )
yet the crown rusts and the cloak strangles him, white-hot flames ignited once more. his face is caked in the blood of his mother and hands coated in that of his sister, quivering voice making helpless pleas begging departed souls to stay. and once more, the creature of powerlessness accompanies him. the embrace has transformed into a captive hold, the touch ice and unforgiving. he struggles / he chokes. there are ghosts in his lungs and the ones before his eyes are vanishing, nothingness at his vain grasp. his stirring turns violent. it is a resistance against the darkness which has taken all else before him ; not me. a remnant of the arrogant boy king survives. you won’t take me.
he awakes with a startled gasp, adjusting to the change in scenery. yet there is something seemingly hyper aware, as though he needs little time to recall the prior events. a tender soreness plagues his bruised back ‘neath dampened clothing, a strange ache in his chest when he remembers the ebony cloud of poison which overcame his senses. and with it, the snide and conceited grin of the one who conjured it. a poison of his own stems from the glare of mismatched eyes – steel blue and pale violet contrast – unified in absolute abhorrence. in a different circumstance perhaps, he would have teetered onward in silence and refusal to quarrel. the chancellor never was worth even the most vile of breath. but the rage unearthed possessed his normally restrained behavior, alongside long-earned arrogance. if it was a response he wanted, then one he shall receive.
❝ spare me the quip, chancellor. your words hold the same charm as that of a broken record, or has anyone ever told you that? ❞ venomous sarcasm is the forefront which disguises the utmost subtle snarl. in spite of his wishes, that sort of defiance will do anything but silence the other. so be it, for it felt as though this were a long anticipated brawl of sorts. ( you are a man ; all men bleed / all men die. you, too, can be killed. ) ❝ your mouth twitches whenever you spew such gibberish to his radiance ; a devil of a smirk hides there. you never enjoyed me, only the thought of me in this predicament. are you finally satisfied? ❞
a question which was not intended to be answered. instead, a familiar scowl plagued his features as he continued – droning with a sense of knowingness – not willing to be frightened by mere words. he was no spineless soldier, no trembling boy in chains. ❝ how presumptuous of you – in the empire’s utmost desperate time of need, with a shortage of worthy men, you would dare murder his radiance’s chosen high commander? i always thought you selfish, but never foolish. no, never stupid. ❞
but then, only then, would the rat before him see a true wolf in a grin of his own. ❝ but i suppose it is only befitting, this day has consisted of nothing but poor choices among us all hasn’t it? tell me, ardyn, why resort to making a ragdoll of me? i pray it has little to do with the possibility that the chosen king has absconded with the ring, having once more slipped through your fingertips. ❞
perhaps something is to be said for letting things end, if the boy has come to this point of letting his arrogance and frustration rule him rather than any sense of self-preservation. not that finality is something the immortal vessel of darkness has bothered fretting over for time immemorial. had there ever been something truly precious enough to warrant such pointless worry? (you know there was, once. you know he had.) but that had been when life still had an end to it to justify the fear. but that long-dead fool, and anything else, had lost the privilege of his care the day the man became a monster.
and through the ages the trickster has had his way with many other fools, but poking at this one with jibes and taunts had done more than ardyn had ever imagined it would to alleviate the tediousness of conning an empire, and provide some diversion before too much time spent planning the steps to be taken ahead into his future turned to contemplating the endless stretches of time that still lay before him. most others are pitifully easy to manipulate, to lure into making a mistake; not so with the young commander and his unrelenting stubbornness borne from – what must be said to be refreshing, for it is not quite as misplaced as the usual kinds – familial loyalty. until now, it would seem. and he knows that his anticipation of this final conversation (confrontation, rather) will prove to have been worth the wait. at last it seems he might see something akin to the fiery defiance that had been witnessed in the eyes of that vain, young fool on a field of flames as the demon walked through grass stained by the blood of the boy’s mother. what pleasure he would take in snuffing it out once again, this time forevermore.
a chuckle emanates from deep within his throat as ravus rises. true to his word, the fallen one cannot help but take his fun, and reply with the obviously undesired joke. “oh, i have heard such things from a countless number. but none had been so dear to me and told it so sweetly as you.” a devil of a smirk indeed. that smirk returns to the devil’s face as he steps back towards the dead angel’s brother. only that, and nothing more. nothing greater, despite all the posturing of a lost, lonely boy. “but you are far too harsh on yourself. i would not wish you to die with the mistaken impression that i think so little of you. believe it or not, you’re by far the most personable leader those toy soldiers ever had. things will never be as fun without you.”
another laugh, open-mouthed and heartier, and a sad, almost truly despondent shake of his head. “yet in the scheme of things, that does not outweigh your failure and allow you to retain your position. i’m afraid that it is you who is presuming too much. to kill you here and now would not be murder, but justice. the only reason our emperor would turn his rage on me is that i denied him the spectacle of the execution.” stepping closer, he leers at the other with a grin of deceit and despair, belying the pretence of any friendliness his tone might hold. “or perhaps you have not fully recollected your thoughts? i can hardly blame you, after suffering such a loss. but the fault lies at your door. with you so eagerly volunteering to take the lead, many citizens far beyond the empire’s borders looked to you to protect their beloved oracle from harm. not to mention our esteemed leader’s wish to see the hyrdraean slain before throwing its lot in with insomnia’s doomed last hope.”
even as he speaks of his ill-begotten descendant, he finds himself forced to contemplate the question put to him. is he satisfied? not with where the one before him is now. unique a fool as ravus is, he’s still a fool, and even at its most laughable, seeing them trapped by the fruits of their own actions is middling sport at best. but he is able to simply smile at the mention of noctis’ escape. after all, he’d ensured it was made possible, despite the ungratefulness of the young king’s advisor. yes, that’s something he will have to bring up before this spat runs its course...at least catching up with that hardened party will undoubtedly relieve the minuscule hole the last fleuret will leave in his absent heart. but the angel can first bring the devil true joy and satisfaction when the blood of the first and last son of tenebrae finally runs through his fingers as he pulls that very-present heart out through his throat to dine on it. and now it is time to feast.
“let me worry about the king. you just worry about yourself and the sadly inevitable fate that awaits you at gralea, for all the good it will do.” he speaks again, and even lifts his right hand to affectionately pat ravus’ cheek, one last slap in his face. and as he brings it away, the air around him shifts; then suddenly, gone is the usurper, the creature twisted by nightmares, the devil who is so close to emerging from the pit and bringing its hordes of darkness with him. now, in his place, stands the brightest soul, the girl who had never known the faintest caress of such sweet shadow. the sister returned to her poor excuse of a defender (how strange that i have known that sentiment, that history is full of brothers who disappoint those they profess to love). “worry about me.”
lady lunafreya’s expression shifts into a frown, then softens, eyes wide with sadness and holding a plethora of platitudes and damning questions. her left hand rises to trail across ravus’ cheek, feather-light yet no doubt (he hoped distressingly) real. “why?” she asks, searching her brother’s gaze for answers that he will never be able to give her. “why did you abandon me, ravus? why didn’t you save me? where were you? you had told me not to go, but still promised to protect me.” the hand falls, and she steps back, features contorting with simmering anger that is contained to a scowl. but when she speaks again, there is something in the bottom layer of her voice, an unholy and unearthly rage, a serrated blade to cut to the core of the failure of a brother’s shame and guilt.
“why did you let me die?”
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