Nif Prince Prompto comes to Insomnia for negotiations and is more than a little smitten with the Lucian King Noctis ;)))
Prompto is ninety percent sure he’s going to be beheaded. His phone keeps ringing, blasting the victory jingle from King’s Knight, at an incriminating volume. He’d been told to switch the device to silent mode and run an audio recorder by his father’s order.
He’d just forgotten about his alarms.
Now, with every single member of the Lucian delegation looking less than two seconds away from laughing at him (granted that his father’s glare doesn’t do away with him first), Prompto is pretty sure he’d rather be put to death than continue to be humiliated. The King is the only one still maintaining some semblance of decorum, leaving Prompto to fumble with his phone mostly undisturbed.
The King’s Shield coughs to cover a laugh that echoes a little too loudly when Prompto finally manages to shut off the device. The deafening silence in the wake of his mistake makes his breath come too quickly, half a lungful maybe before it’s stuttered back out. He doesn’t dare try and apologize.
His father is already on his feet, bowing just barely enough to show deference to the Lucian council. The king of Lucis himself, Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, does not even bother with so much as a slight inclination of hid head in response. He’s imperious in appearance, if not posture - tall as is and taller still when robed in modern black from head to toe, crown glittering where it comes to points of silver - and Prompto is still less intimidated by him than he is by his own father. Maybe it’s because of his disposable nature, or how the king is somehow more transparent than his father’s unpredictable brand of parenting, but the fact that he’d managed to insult them all still stands.
If he hadn’t already been stripped of his title in everything but name, he surely would be after such a slight.
He’s barely managed to wrestle control over his mental faculties back from his raging anxiety when a document is slid before him. He doesn’t have to read the bold black script to know it’s Niflheim’s terms for surrender. He just finds the line he’s to signature and signs it for the last time as the crown prince of Niflheim.
The moment his pen lifts from the paper, he’s lost all rights as a citizen in just about every territory short of those in the Accordo protectorate. He’s not a person, from that point onward, but a belonging. He’s a peace offering of sorts, even if he’s fairly sure Lucis isn’t exactly comfortable with Niflheim’s practice of trading their nobility for remission. He’s fairly sure they consider it at least within the umbrella of unwilling servitude, if not flat out slavery, to reduce any person to that of an item to be exchanged on paper.
When the Niflheimr delegation departs, he doesn’t stand with them, eyes fixed resolutely on the grain of the audience chamber’s grand table. He’s pretty sure he’d managed to miss just about all of the proceedings after his Grand Fuck Up, what with his head long since filled with cotton instead of wit, but a part of him is vindictive in how terrible a fate he’d been dealt hasn’t yet ended with his head rolling in one way or another.
He’d disgraced his father and all those who stood at his back. He’d made them look the part of swindlers but giving Lucis something like him. Prompto doesn’t bother with flattery and easy subservience. He’s stone silent like that of Insomia’s Old Wall remnants.
His name is something he’ll not give up to Lucis, even if he prays for peace to protect his people. He’ll whisper it to himself, if need be. He refuses to let his sense of self be destroyed the way his father wishes it to be. Lucians are a proud people more likely to interrogate him as he is than debase him as a token of their victory.
Then, there’s a laugh and soon enough Prompto is more than confused why it doesn’t seem immediately malicious. He chances a glance upward and the king of Lucis is lounging in his high backed chair, trying to shush his Shield and Sword like his life and line depends on it. He’s harried and pink in the cheeks despite most of his council having departed, save for a few trusted confidantes. There’s a loud whisper-war filling in the quiet between cackles until the High King of Lucis and conqueror of the Empire of Niflheim, Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, smacks his head into the table with a groan (then it’s just excessively gleeful laughter with the victor of the argument very clearly being the Shield).
Prompto is very clearly out of place.
Among the oppressive black marble and dark stained wood of the Citadel, he’s a beacon of vehement amity, a forced peace paid for in the blood of those who did no wrong in the centuries-long war. The white, shapeless coat he wears is more than big enough for the rest of his body to seek solace inside, made to wreath him in the Empire’s colors as garishly as possible even as they all but throw him into their enemy’s arms. There’s the tiled crests of the Aldercapt Imperial Dynasty at his breast and at the hem of his sleeves embroidered in tawdry red, heavy pieces made of gold shining against his hair and throat like he’s some sort of ornament rather than a force of nature in the field.
The king’s Sword sighs and it’s a well worn sound, stalking around the table to stand before Niflheim’s freshly disowned heir. He’s deceptively calm when he asks, “Do you swear loyalty to the Crown of Lucis, or Niflheim?”
Prompto waits, heart beginning to hammer all over again like it’s some sort fo trick question with no right answer. He swallows down his trepidation to reply, “I swear loyalty to my people and not a crown, whether they were instated by divine right, or rotted blood.”
The Shield whistles in admiration. “More guts in that one than the whole lot of those rats.” He does not move from a readied stance.
“As agreed by both parties, you are now property of the Crown. Fortunately for us all, Lucis does not condone slavery,” the Sword informs. He pulls a small packet from the air in a shower of blue sparks and proffers it toward Prompto. “As such, we henceforth announce that Prompto Aldercapt, first son of the late emperor of Niflheim, is legally dead.”
The title of the first page reads in bold: For the Reinstating of Identity Postmortem. Prompto stares at it longer than strictly necessary before squeaking, “So, uh, am I going to be executed now? Is that how this works?”
The king makes a face not unlike when someone had gotten ice slipped down their shirt and asks, carefully neutral, “Do you understand what being a prisoner of war means, Prompto?”
“That I’m good as dead and no longer have personhood, yeah,” he replies, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I thought I was already legally dead, though,” he tacks on.
“Not completely, but we’d like to make you an offer,” Noctis’s Sword cuts in, business minded and more than ready to get this over with, “granted that you do not prove to be a threat to the Crown, we are more than willing to assist you with creating a new life here, in Insomnia, under our watch.”
“Oh.” Prompto feels like his whole world has been flipped further onto its head. He struggles for the right words, eventually settling on, “Okay. Yeah… I’d like that?” He doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but he’s been floating in a sea of insecurity and very confusing government dalliances for so long that fairly straightforward offers feel fake.
The king beams at him and lets his Sword guide Prompto through each of the sections of the document, not stopping either of them until they’re on the last page by saying, “Oh, yeah, Prompto, I play King’s Knight, too. Nice ringtone.”
The ensuing near full-body blush is arguably endearing, even if Prompto is determined to bury his face in the sleeves of his terribly unflattering coat. The half distinguishable mumbling is just the nail in the coffin. “May the Frostbearer freeze me where I sit, so I never have to deal with being such an idiot again.”
Noctis laughs and it’s too real to stop. He sticks Prompto with an encouraging smile to let him know it’s not a malicious sound. “I sure hope Shiva won’t take you up on that. I’d be out one hell of a video game buddy.”
