by Jun Eishima
“Not once have I begged the gods for such a blessing. And I do not intend to kneel before you now!”
Ardyn summoned his own blades and flung them at Bahamut. When the weapon points connected with the god’s giant form, Ardyn infused them with daemonic fury. But all his assault managed was a tiny scratch across the giant masked face.
Thine impudence shall prove thine undoing, foolish mortal. Pitiful creature.
By the time Ardyn was conscious of the counterattack, it had already landed, and his body was hurtling backward. He could not move to retaliate. Pain seared through him as the war god’s great blades lanced deep into his arms and legs.
It was not a physical pain alone. Ardyn had felt an anguish like this once before, in the sanctuary with Somnus, when his brother and countrymen had thrust their weapons into him. The Draconian’s assault brought those feelings back, this time with a relentless, deep intensity many times beyond what he’d suffered at Somnus’s hands. Each wound burned with agony as it opened in his flesh.
If thou wilt fight against fate, so shall it be.
His vision blurred with the torment. A pale figure appeared before him. The pure-white, immaculate garments seemed familiar, as did the hair, with its faint gold luster. He then saw that it was Aera and that she bore the Trident in her hands.
“Ghosts do naught but haunt my tortured soul,” he whispered.
It was an illusion of the war god’s making. He would not be fooled.
Once Aera was lost, he’d brought her face to mind again and again, desperate not to lose its details. Every little mannerism. Every movement. Every sound of her voice. He’d recounted every minute thing about her until it was all etched in his memory forever. No illusion could fool him. The woman before him was not Aera.
“Enough of this,” he gasped between bolts of pain.
Aera stepped near. The Trident of the Oracle was before him. The woman’s expression was flat.
The threat was clear. Obey, or lose everything.
“If this is the fate you thrust upon me, I shall see it back to you,” he said.
Aera stared at him with cold, unfeeling eyes.
“I will not yiel―!”
The Trident pierced his bowels. He screamed as he was visited by agony anew, one that was far greater than any real pain. His breath caught in his throat. Between thrusts, he saw blood black as night dripping from the tines. He knew in his mind that this, too, was an illusion. Aera, the Trident, the spilling blood, and all the agony he felt―they were all conjured by the Draconian. But his mind could not push them away.
“Pierce my heart if you must, but you will never kill my resolve.”
He told himself that the pain was nothing. That he would not succumb to the god’s foul tactics. He would no longer be toyed with. What was another eternity in darkness when he’d endured one already?
“The path men tread was never meant for me,” he growled, and suddenly he was filled with a ferocious strength. He raged like a beast―a monster―and the blades lodged in his limbs snapped and broke to pieces. His spectral Arms again appeared around him, and he cut the false Aera to the ground.
Doth man know no recourse but the blade? Return to thy world. Embrace thy suffering.
The space at his feet shattered, and he was falling. Falling with no end in sight.
“Where am I?”
The world was murky and gray. He knew not whether he’d spent only a moment in that strange emptiness, or an eternity.
“Am I alive? Does it matter? Perhaps not.”
There was something familiar about the place. When he strained his eyes, he could make out the stone walls. The cramped space. The broken shackles and rent chains on the floor below. It was Angelgard. The cell.
“Nothing matters―none of it. Not the ‘blessed’ gods above nor the accursed kings below. To hell with them all!”
He stood. Unlike the day of his discovery by Verstael, his limbs felt strong and sure. The way to the surface still gaped open, and Ardyn’s step did not waver as he made his way out.
“All that matters is I have my revenge.”
No longer would he bow to the whims of others. He would be the master, and all others his puppets. He’d toy with them, more cunning and cruel than even the gods.
“I will spread this scourge across the earth, lure out this ‘King of Light,’ and kill him. Then, the entire world of Eos will be drenched in the darkness of despair for time eternal.”
It was not enough for Somnus alone to suffer. There were others upon whom vengeance must be wrought.
“And then, I shall fell the gods.”
In time, the day would come. He would tear off Bahamut’s mask, break his swords, and see him crawl across the ground in shame. The gods would bear the greatest humiliation they could ever know.
No matter how many decades or centuries might pass, what eons beyond imagining might be needed to draw his plan together, he would see it done and executed. That alone he vowed to himself.
And for the first time in two long millennia, Ardyn felt truly fortunate to have a body that would not know death.
M.E. 736
Noctis Lucis Caelum is born.
M.E. 741
Crown Prince Noctis, heir apparent to the throne of Lucis, is revealed as the True King.
His is a face known to Ardyn, seen in the vision shared by Bahamut seven years ago in which Regis, to whom the revelation was delivered by the Kings of Yore, holds the small boy in his arms. The child’s face bears an unmistakable similarity to that of Somnus. The same picture-perfect scene is doubtlessly cherished by all throughout the Citadel.
Regis establishes the Kingsglaive, a reformed Royal Guard to serve under his direct command and ensure the safety of the Chosen King.
All continues to proceed according to fate―or rather, the will of the Draconian.
M.E. 745
Shiva, the Glacian, awakens in Ghorovas Rift, in the region of Vogliupe. She begins an assault on Niflheim, engaging with the imperial forces at their border. Niflheim is ultimately victorious, but at the cost of the greater part of their military forces.
For Ardyn, the goddess’s attack is an unexpected stroke of providence. He had been gently prodding Verstael along a new line of research, in hopes of creating a new type of daemon-infused magiteknology tailored for engagements against the gods. The encounter with Shiva provides a perfect opportunity to test and confirm the weapons’ efficacy. Whether similar results might be expected against the Draconian, none can say. Still, the progress made is undeniable.
M.E. 755
A cease-fire is declared between Niflheim and Lucis. Ardyn visits Lucis personally to negotiate the end to hostilities. The Regis he encounters there, twenty-one years after their last meeting, looks astonishingly haggard and gray for his age. His efforts to stay the imperial incursion by way of sustaining the Wall and the city’s other defenses seem to have taken a great toll upon him.
M.E. 756
Insomnia falls.
The Niflheim Empire’s plan goes off without a hitch. The day before the invasion, Ardyn enjoys a first encounter with Prince Noctis at Galdin Quay. Seen in the flesh, the young prince is the spitting image of Somnus. So close is their appearance that Ardyn is filled with zeal anew: he is determined to see the boy suffer in every conceivable manner before his ascension as True King and ultimate demise.
Later that same year, Noctis is pulled in by the Crystal to begin his awakening as the Chosen King.
M.E. 766
The Crown City was shrouded in darkness, covered in night like every other corner of the star.
Oh, how long it had been. And how curious that it should have felt long at all. Thirty-two years since the Draconian’s decree. Thirty-two years since the discovery of that incomprehensible destiny thrust upon him. After two millennia in that cursed stone cell, those years should have felt like a brief m
oment, passed with hardly a notice. Instead, they had dragged on, a wait of unbearable length.
Once the day was gone and the world knew only night, the areas surrounding the Citadel were a place where daemons lurked and men dared not draw near. There, upon the throne now claimed as his own, Ardyn waited with singular purpose, ever eager to receive the man bearing the Crystal’s blessing and the title of True King.
Do hurry, Noct, was his constant wish. I am ever so anxious to see you again.
Thus Ardyn sat in unwavering desire, waiting for the one fated to approach his throne. When the day finally came, and the doors were pushed wide by hands wearied beyond their years, he knew precisely how he’d begin.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
The observation was true not only for the guest but for the speaker, too.
“The one you hope to see,” Ardyn continued, “is not here.”
Nor is the one I wish to see, he added, though not aloud.
The visitor before him was not the one he had long awaited. This was something quite different from the reunion the God of War had promised. A laugh Ardyn could not suppress rose from his chest. It seemed the gods could not dictate the future with the precision that they claimed. Either that, or the fate they decreed had gone off course. It was a reunion that could not be explained in any other way.
“Ah, but do pardon my surprise,” he said, “at this most unexpected development.”
There she stood, in defiance of death. A death of which he was certain, for it had come at his own hands, that day in Altissia.
“How very nice it is to see you again, Lady Lunafreya.”
The sound of popcorn kernels crunching between Aranea’s teeth reverberated through her skull. She tasted salt and stale oil and little else. She’d have been happy to ascribe the underwhelming flavor to dulled senses―gods knew how long it had been since she last slept―but honestly, the popcorn was just disgusting. It was almost impressive in a way. Who would have thought the City on the Sea could boast food so repulsive?
In any case, it was obvious now why the popcorn had gone virtually untouched. A wry smile crossed her lips. During the cleanup, they’d found bags of the stuff, along with tins of chocolates and cookies that had similarly been spared a watery fate. They’d been picking over the remains of a street vendor’s stall, and the owner of the place, an absolute saint of a confectioner, hadn’t uttered a word of discontent as they handed out the salvaged merchandise to little onlookers―kids who hadn’t made it out of Altissia, but who’d somehow survived the devastation.
While the other treats had disappeared quickly, filling hungry young bellies, the popcorn remained. But the bags were sealed, and it didn’t seem right to throw away perfectly edible food, so Aranea had taken the stuff back with her, only to realize later how contemptible it really was.
Her location wasn’t helping. Popcorn was a snack best suited for movie theaters and amusement parks, for times of fun and relaxation. Not so much for scarfing down while sleep-deprived in the cockpit of an imperial dropship.
Theaters and theme parks. Aranea sighed. There weren’t many of those left in Niflheim. Nor were there the audiences or visitors to fill them. There was a time when such diversions weren’t unusual, back when the empire still had a shred of dignity to its name.
When had her country gone so far downhill? As Aranea pondered the question, words from her childhood floated to mind.
At this rate, what’s going to become of the empire?
The emperor is acting so peculiar these days.
She’d overheard plenty of comments like that when she was small.
Never was there a more wise and just ruler. But now . . .
A sigh had accompanied those words.
His Radiance is the ruler we’ve always adored. It’s his advisors. Fools to the last. They’re the ones to blame.
I say it’s the military. Too much ambition at the top. All eyes on the borders and none at home.
Another sigh. Such was the mood that permeated her earliest memories of childhood. Still, the city had been brimming with life at the time, and to a child the decline was not yet apparent. There were playgrounds for her and the other children to enjoy, and the adults had their own favorite haunts, places for a quick drink or a long, leisurely glass.
By the time she’d taken up the life of a mercenary, the playgrounds were vanishing, their old equipment deemed unsafe and carted away. The emptied lots lay dormant for a while, before being repurposed as armories or stockpiles. Theaters and athletic fields were the next to go, and then the neighborhood shops. Trade in stylish clothes, trinkets, and other luxuries vanished almost overnight. Children’s toys and picture books grew rare. In short, if something wasn’t an absolute essential, it became all but impossible to find.
Still, the empire continued to speak of itself in terms of grandeur. New territories were being annexed all the time, and soon Niflheim’s rule would span all of Eos. It led one to wonder why imperial subjects endured such spartan lives. There was endless talk of glory, yet little glory to be had at home. And it was unlikely things would ever improve―any sum that found its way to the imperial treasury was quickly funneled into whatever bizarre experiment the military researchers dreamed up next.
To be sure, those experiments had endowed Niflheim with unparalleled might. But it was hard to think so highly of them now that legions of daemons led the forward assaults. It was hard to feel eager for progress when it came at the price of endless accidents and disappearances. When personnel at some far-off research lab vanished without trace or official inquiry, that was bad enough. But when the public never heard a whisper about it, something was rotten. The government had an iron grip on the flow of information, and it wasn’t hesitating to squeeze.
It’s his advisors. Fools to the last. Which frowning face from her childhood had foreseen this? Who had possessed the prescience to assert that the empire’s troubles would result from its military ambition? She wondered what they might say now about the sorry state of their homeland today . . . if they were even still alive.
Aranea sighed.
Or rather, she intended to sigh. Instead, it came out as a yawn. From her two o’clock came an echoing yawn, and from her ten yet another. Biggs and Wedge sat ahead of her, equally bleary-eyed and begrudging the handfuls of popcorn they downed.
Even if they had attempted to get a decent sleep, they would have been thwarted by the constant vibration and earsplitting rumble of the magitek engine. It was the last sound you wanted around you when you were trying to relax. Of course, relaxation wasn’t exactly advisable while operating an airborne dropship. So the three of them continued their battle against exhaustion, with victory always an uncertain prospect.
Sleep wasn’t even a particularly formidable enemy. Aranea had fought it countless times before. Rather, the problem was the current means of doing so. It took every bit of her willpower to cram the next fistful of disgusting popcorn into her mouth. If she’d had any other options, she’d have sealed the popcorn away in an airtight container and thrown it into the furthest corner of the cargo hold. Thirty years without having to endure the greasy reek of synthetic butter again would have still been far too soon.
Wedge gave a small grunt; they must have been drawing near Gralea’s airspace. They’d be on the ground in minutes, back at base, and it’d be mission complete for the Third Army Corps’s 87th Airborne Division. Nothing unusual to report. She swore to herself that would be the extent of her debriefing. If the brass were expecting any more detail, then tough luck.
Biggs was counting down on his fingers in an exaggerated manner. Three . . . Two . . . One . . . When he reached the end of his count, he stopped and turned around.
“Congratulations! We just set a new record for overtime logged.”
Ah. So that’s what he’d been doing. That was Biggs for you―eyes on the i
nane. It was typical for him to pay attention to absurd little details and trivialities, though he always claimed there wasn’t anything trivial about them at all. Aranea had to admit that the man’s quips had eased more than a few tense situations, and that he could be relied on for the three of them to share a good laugh.
“We’re on hour thirty-six since this mission started,” he added. No laughter accompanied his comment this time.
Aranea rubbed a finger against her brow and replied, “Hits you like a ton of bricks, doesn’t it? I think I’m about done with assignments where they won’t even give us a damn break.”
Thirty-six. Hearing the actual number only made the exhaustion weigh heavier, something she wouldn’t have guessed possible. Recalling the events of their record-breaking mission was even worse―every second they’d spent in Altissia was one more tiny weight dragging her down.
The situation was hard to wrap one’s head around. “Recovery efforts,” they’d been told at the briefing, “from the damage caused by the Hydraean.” Even once they were on-site, it was still difficult to comprehend. The once beautiful City on the Sea was devastated. The buildings with their ornately decorated walls were now nothing more than piles of stone and mud. The covered bridges had collapsed, their supports snapped and roof peaks jutting from the water. Even neighborhoods that had escaped the brunt of the Astral’s rage were still ruined by flooding.
They’d spent the entire time without sleep or even breaks, cleaning up debris and pulling submerged gondolas and assault craft out of the water. The gondoliers had managed to escape. Those manning the assault craft hadn’t been so lucky. Each ship that was winched from the water had the bodies of its crew members still inside.
