[He pauses at her words, resistant at first - stubborn as ever and needing not to be a disappointment - before he catches himself and relaxes, closing his eyes as her presence and power warms him straight to the soul and soothes his nerves, bit by bit. Rather than chasing thoughts that had eluded him, he breathes in, out, and waits for it to come to him, like a butterfly alighting at the fringes of his mind. Details begin to form, and at last he can picture it.]
They were nobles. The prince was feeling discouraged, thinking he wouldn't be worthy of the Crystal when his time came. They talked about how the king should have another child, put aside the powerless one and try again. Poor kid.
[He can't help feeling sympathy for his predecessor. He'd walked that path, heard the criticisms. After his injury, re-learning how to walk, failing again and again to do things that his father could have done at half his age. But his father never caved to their requests, sometimes demands. He never gave up on Noctis. And this king...
He opens his eyes and looks up, and there's a teenage boy sitting on the bed, clad in robes not quite modern, but not as old-fashioned as Somnus. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, hiding his expression.
A tall man in elegant, flowing robes (and a slanted cape!) is standing where the wall extrusions are, setting a thin, rapier-type blade of beautiful craftsmanship into place. "There now," he says, sounding pleased. A curved crown of intersecting metal is tucked behind one ear. "Right within reach, should you ever need it. Scabbards are admittedly rare in our family, but the Warrior King used one, and he was without peer, so the stories say."
The boy mumbled something, and when the king prompted him to repeat, his voice is harsh. "I'm no warrior."
"Come now-"
"I'm not!" he shouts. "You know I'm not. What kind of prince can't even summon his sword? I'm sixteen now- I should be warping! Casting spells! But I can't- I'm useless!"
They bicker back and forth for a handful of moments, clearly an old argument of rehashed points. The son, tired of failure, of being told that success will come with time and practice when he's seen no evidence that it's true. The father, exhausted and heartsick by his child's self-doubt, wishing for his success if only so that some of the pressure might be lifted off his young shoulders. There is anger, guilt, heartbreak, until finally the prince snaps,
"Just do what they keep saying, okay!? Throw me away, have another kid! I'm defective- you can replace me, everyone wants that!"
There is a pause, a pained silence, broken at last by the king's shaken breath and striding footsteps. He closes the distance and grasps his son by the shoulders.
"There is only one of you, understand? There will only ever be one of you." His tone is firm, but kind, pleading for his son to hear him. "You are without equal, and one day you'll see it. They'll all see it. Let us never speak of 'replacement' again." With the gentlest hands, he wipes the once-hidden tears from beneath his child's eyes. "My son is irreplaceable."
The vision freezes, at that moment, and Noctis blinks, those same tears mirrored on his own cheeks.] Oh, [he whispers, dumbfounded.]
no subject
They were nobles. The prince was feeling discouraged, thinking he wouldn't be worthy of the Crystal when his time came. They talked about how the king should have another child, put aside the powerless one and try again. Poor kid.
[He can't help feeling sympathy for his predecessor. He'd walked that path, heard the criticisms. After his injury, re-learning how to walk, failing again and again to do things that his father could have done at half his age. But his father never caved to their requests, sometimes demands. He never gave up on Noctis. And this king...
He opens his eyes and looks up, and there's a teenage boy sitting on the bed, clad in robes not quite modern, but not as old-fashioned as Somnus. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, hiding his expression.
A tall man in elegant, flowing robes (and a slanted cape!) is standing where the wall extrusions are, setting a thin, rapier-type blade of beautiful craftsmanship into place. "There now," he says, sounding pleased. A curved crown of intersecting metal is tucked behind one ear. "Right within reach, should you ever need it. Scabbards are admittedly rare in our family, but the Warrior King used one, and he was without peer, so the stories say."
The boy mumbled something, and when the king prompted him to repeat, his voice is harsh. "I'm no warrior."
"Come now-"
"I'm not!" he shouts. "You know I'm not. What kind of prince can't even summon his sword? I'm sixteen now- I should be warping! Casting spells! But I can't- I'm useless!"
They bicker back and forth for a handful of moments, clearly an old argument of rehashed points. The son, tired of failure, of being told that success will come with time and practice when he's seen no evidence that it's true. The father, exhausted and heartsick by his child's self-doubt, wishing for his success if only so that some of the pressure might be lifted off his young shoulders. There is anger, guilt, heartbreak, until finally the prince snaps,
"Just do what they keep saying, okay!? Throw me away, have another kid! I'm defective- you can replace me, everyone wants that!"
There is a pause, a pained silence, broken at last by the king's shaken breath and striding footsteps. He closes the distance and grasps his son by the shoulders.
"There is only one of you, understand? There will only ever be one of you." His tone is firm, but kind, pleading for his son to hear him. "You are without equal, and one day you'll see it. They'll all see it. Let us never speak of 'replacement' again." With the gentlest hands, he wipes the once-hidden tears from beneath his child's eyes. "My son is irreplaceable."
The vision freezes, at that moment, and Noctis blinks, those same tears mirrored on his own cheeks.] Oh, [he whispers, dumbfounded.]