Archive of Our Own ^beta

Noctis had been nearly ten when he realized that his father was going to die. 

He’d known before that, in a distant, abstract way where the possibility was off in some hazy future he didn’t have to deal with yet. He didn’t remember what exactly had caused this realization - it could have been his increased training in the ways of the Oracles, or how tired his father looked when he thought no one was watching - but every moment after it had been increasingly haunted by that knowledge. Once Regis was gone, the mantle of the Oracle would be Noctis’s, and his alone.  

He’d still have Cor and three divine Messengers to protect him and provide moral support, but he’d have to deal with the Empire’s slow strangulation of Tenebrae and heal people and be the Oracle and everything that went with it without his father to guide him. 

The fear had been paralyzing. He’d wondered if he’d feel relief, once nearly everything he’d feared had come to pass, but instead the grief is too overwhelming to let anything else in.

His father is dead, killed by the exhaustion of being strong for everyone and Besithia’s experiments on top of the burden of healing so many. He’s feared this day as long as he’s known it was coming, and now that it’s here, he’s curled up in his bed with Umbra and sobbing. The servants have already taken Regis’s body away, to prepare it for the funeral. He’s going to have to do the rite. He’s done it with his dad a dozen times, but now…

Now his father is dead and Noctis Caelum Fleuret is Oracle of Tenebrae. 

The Oracle is supposed to be a symbol of hope for the people. So far, the new Oracle has spent all his time crying his eyes out, face buried so deeply in his dog’s chest that black hair and black fur blend together. Umbra is a Messenger of the gods, but he’s one of the three beings Noctis is comfortable seeing him like this. Pryna is across the sea, bringing the notebook to Luna. Cor and Gentiana aren’t on the list - no matter how much he values their guidance, he’s just not that level of comfortable. And his father is dead.

He’s fifteen, and Regis died of being the Oracle and now it’s Noctis’s turn. At least the Empire usually waits until they have a replacement Oracle to start doing nasty things to the current one. And there’s only so much they can do without the people finding out, since the Oracle is one of the most prominent public figures in the entire Empire, let alone Tenebrae. Once, Noctis would have given almost anything to be out of the public eye and not have to worry and second-guess everything he does. Now, it’s the only thing between him and Besithia’s facilities. 

He’s not sure he’ll live long enough for Besithia to become his problem anyway. 

He hears a bark from the hallway.  

Pryna! 

Normally, she would just yip a few times to be let in but now she’s whining and pawing at the door. Noctis launches himself off the bed, a trident materializing in his hand, and yanks open the door. A medium-sized white dog shoots through the gap and presses herself against his legs. The hallway is empty. Without pausing for a reunion, both Umbra and Pryna start cuddling him aggressively.

Oh. She’s just worried about him. He returns the trident to its plane and shuts the door again.

Umbra nudges him over to the bed. Pryna jumps up and plants her paws on his chest, tipping him back until he sits on the edge. She immediately gets on the bed and starts licking his face.

Noctis yelps. Umbra joins in. He pushes them both away. 

“I thought Messengers of the gods were supposed to be dignified.”

Umbra flops down at his side, chin digging into Noctis’s thigh. Pryna sits on the other side and looks at him expectantly. He takes a deep breath, wipes their saliva off his face, and takes the notebook from the harness on her back. 

The notebook was Luna’s idea, when she visited Tenebrae seven years ago. A way for them to communicate without anyone else listening in. Even though there are some things he can’t tell her, even if it’s just on paper, being able to talk without fear of being overheard is a lifeline. 

There’s a picture taken by her friend Prompto, who takes pictures of everything. He helps any injured creature he can, and years ago, one of those creatures was Pryna. Luna describes him as a literal ray of sunshine. He also has good taste in video games, and since he’s the one who introduced Luna to gaming, she does too. The picture has him, and Luna, and her Advisor, and her Shield, and her Shield’s little sister. They’re all in Luna’s room, wearing formal clothes and collapsed on the furniture, looking like they never want to move again. Prompto’s head is hanging off the couch. Ignis is leaning back in his chair, mildly disheveled. Gladio has his feet on the coffee table. Iris is curled up in his lap, head pillowed on his arm, asleep.  Luna has her arms behind her head and her shoes abandoned on the floor.

Her letter is below the picture, almost like a caption. Ink on paper always reminds him of the similar contrast between his hair and Umbra’s fur and the white of everything Oracle related to ever exist, his clothes and room included. 

When Luna, her mom, and their guards had visited, robed in Lucian royal black, they’d looked like inkblots on a page, or sentient shadows against the whites and pale blues and greys of Fenestala Manor. It had been nice to have so many people who stood out the way he did. 

It had been even nicer to have a friend.

Dear Noctis,

I’m sorry your father’s health is still getting worse. I wish I could be there. I wish I could do more. Things are going well in Lucis. I still haven’t bested Gladio in a spar, but I came very close a few days ago. His day of reckoning will come, Noct. I swear it. 

Iris is equally determined to “Kick Glady’s ass.” He asked her where an eleven-year-old learned that kind of language, and she pointed at him and said “You!” Sadly, Prompto and I were too busy laughing to document the moment as it deserved. Our pictures are too blurry to do justice to the look on his face.

Every time I think I understand everything there is to know about running a nation, something else comes up. There’s so much politics and so many reasons why we can or can’t do something. Without Ignis’s help, I don’t think I could keep up, let alone stay involved. Prompto has discovered a new game, King’s Knight, and dragged both myself and Gladio into it. Ignis is proving more resistant. I like it, but all the complexities of the battle system can be a bit much to wrap my brain around after a long day of school, meetings, and training. 

Speaking of long days, there was a court function yesterday that we all had to dress up for. At least Iris was excited. I don’t remember having that kind of enthusiasm for parties at her age, but despite your father’s best efforts, I still couldn’t walk at her age, so that might have had something to do with it. There were nobles, a few ambassadors, those kinds of people, and we survived making small talk with most of them. And actually had a few enjoyable conversations, mostly with each other. Afterwards, we retreated to my chambers, collapsed from exhaustion (Prompto retained enough energy to take a picture), and haven’t really done anything since that didn’t involve food or games. It was lovely. 

Lunafreya

The picture is nice, but it’s her words that make him smile. Her letters usually make him wish he could be there, have stuff like that, but at the end of the day, he’s just happy one of them gets something like that. 

He needs to write her back though. Based on past experience, if he doesn’t reply soon, especially when he’s not in a good space, he won’t remember for at least the next month. And he wants her to hear about this from him.

Besides, Luna is the only one he can talk to about what’s happening. About what it’s like in the Empire. About his dad.

His pen hovers over the paper. Even after the daemon attack that almost killed her, she was still asking questions about everything, devouring the pastries someone had gotten them, and making him laugh. She’s so much better at dealing with her responsibilities as a royal than he is, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Her letters in the notebook are full of happy moments she wants to share with him, but there’s enough in there for Noctis to know that her injuries are still troubling her and her responsibilities are overwhelming. She’s not alone in the way he is, but… Lunafreya has been so strong for so long, and according to the dreams the Astrals send him, her trials are far from over.

He could flip back to the page where she wrote about getting released from physical therapy. It has a picture of Luna, taken by Prompto as usual. She’s in casual clothes, holding a half-eaten ice cream cone and smiling. Ravus is with her, also holding ice cream, looking the most relaxed he ever has. Not that Noctis would know. Luna’s brother is usually too busy to ‘indulge his sister’s photographer friend,’ so Noctis is left to imagine him scowling constantly.

She’s much older than the first and only time Noctis met her in person. She’s still younger than in the dreams he has at least one night a week, the nightmares of what’s to come that make him afraid to close his eyes. He sees the Starscourge cause an eternal night, daemons overrunning everything. He wakes the gods and watches Luna fight to get their blessings. He sees flashes of the prophecy playing out to its end.

Like in most of the pictures, Luna primarily wears black in the dreams. It’s more like a royal tradition than a personal choice, but it suits her. 

Noctis can’t stop thinking about how black clothes hide blood so well that between potions and stoicism, you can’t tell she’s hurt in the first place. It means she looks more asleep than dead at the end, except for the sword pinning her to the throne. Almost everything in the room is black marble or pitch-black darkness. Her pale face and white-blond hair glow as bright as the Ring on her finger. Sometimes, if it’s more of a dream than a vision, he can move once the light starts to fade. He runs up the steps and tries to pull the sword out so he can heal her, but he doesn’t have the strength. He presses his fingers to the wound and all the blood hidden by her unstainable shirt drips down his fingers to stain his sleeves. He pours healing magic into her body, lighting up the room like the sun they haven’t seen in years, but it’s already too late. Everything that’s Lunafreya is long gone, destroyed by channeling too much power for any one person to bear.

He’s woken up with the image of Luna transfixed by that sword burned into his mind more times than he can count.

Luna might be okay now, but everything is going to get worse. Noctis has barely seen a fraction of what could happen, but she’s going to suffer so much. She’s going to die.

He can’t add to her burdens. 

Dear Luna,

My father is dead. It’s not like I didn’t know this was going to happen, but it still hurts. I have a week to mourn him before I officially ascend as the Oracle. Honestly, I’m surprised the Empire even gave me that long. I can’t say that I’m not scared, or that I’m okay, but I’ll manage. 

Luna will need his help to fulfill the prophecy. He needs to awaken the Six, and to do that he needs to be a true Oracle, not a scared kid with some fancy lineage. (Noctis tries not to think about the price of the covenants he’ll have to forge. He’ll come to terms with it later, once he’s figured out how to be the Oracle and pain and fear aren’t taking turns trying to drown him.)

He will not let her down. 

I wish one of the Oracle’s powers was some sort of magic phone thing. Just once, I’d like to have an actual conversation with my friend. You know, the kind that doesn’t take weeks. 

I’m glad you got the chance to relax. With all the work you’re doing, no one can say you don’t deserve it.

She’s going to die to save the world and he’s going to die getting her far enough to do it. It’s not fair.

I miss you.

Part of him is already mourning her, his best and only friend, who he loves with all his heart. He’s been dreaming of her death for three years and he doesn’t know how to tell her what the gods have in store for them. 

If anyone in the world deserves to live, it’s Lunafreya Lucis Noxuri. He doesn’t know how to save her. He’s prayed to the Six ever since the dreams started, because that’s what Oracles were supposed to do, talk to gods. At first he asked for mercy for both of them, and then just for the Chosen Queen, and then for the Empire to fall and leave them alone, and finally he went through a phase of “I get the fucking point, just please let me sleep”, but nothing changed. He still asks them to spare Luna, but the only thing that keeps him at it is knowing that she’d do it for him. 

Gentiana says that the Astrals’ power is limited, that the kinder among them would spare their Chosen if they could whenever he brings it up. The gods can’t or won’t change it, and he can’t change anything. 

It’s not fair. 

He signs the letter Noctis, and closes the book. He’ll give it to Umbra later, once he’s done crying over people who never get the chances they deserve.