The Dawn of the Future

by Jun Eishima

  　But now he was ascending it in truth.

  　“And that the True King would allow it,” he mused. “Even after two thousand years, it seems life can still manage to provide a surprise or two.”

  　He settled down onto the seat.

  　“He cannot forgive and continues to hate. Yet he would see me find peace. My, how the wayward prince has grown.”

  　He recalled Noctis as he had appeared during their first encounter at Galdin. The young prince had been almost an entirely different person.

  　I can’t forgive you or let go of my hatred. But I want all the lives on this star to be saved, and you are one part of this world.

  　Those words had struck him deeply. Noctis was but a whelp, yet Ardyn, with two millennia at his disposal, had never been able to find it in his heart to offer Lucis quarter despite his hatred. Noctis’s magnanimity seemed only to emphasize Ardyn’s own shortcomings.

  　Still, he wasn’t headed to the throne now to anoint himself the hero. Not after all these years. He would use the ring, yes, but not for Noctis or for the world or for anyone else. This was an act taken to fulfill his own selfish ends.

  　“My revenge is finally at hand,” he muttered as he slipped the ring upon his finger.

  　“Kings of Lucis . . . come to me!”

  　He thrust his sword down at his feet. The Lucii appeared, weapons in hand, each in turn charging directly at Ardyn.

  　It was like a blue-white flame boring a hole straight through his chest. In the courtyard, he’d claimed to have lived through the worst agony the world had to offer, vainglorious of everything he’d endured. Not a moment of it compared to the pain he suffered now. Not even the false Aera with her false Trident conjured up by the Draconian had managed to impart such torment.

  　At each stab from the spectral monarchs, his consciousness very nearly left him. The kings had warned he might crumble to dust, and now Ardyn understood that it was no metaphorical threat.

  　Still, he had to endure. He could not faint yet.

  　“This . . . will not . . . stay me,” he said through gritted teeth.

  　He forced his eyes open against the pain. Above him only the Mystic remained, hovering still.

  　“Come at me, Somnus!”

  　And then, when the Blade of the Mystic pierced his heart, he heard a faint whisper.

  　“Farewell, Brother.”

  The sky was still dark, and Noctis was not sure why. Wasn’t all the scourge supposed to have been drawn into Teraflare? Though the spell had been executed, darkness persisted.

  　Either the Draconian’s spell hadn’t been fully charged, or the pall cast over the Star was so thick that even the Bladekeeper’s attack could not consume it all.

  　As Noctis approached the Bladekeeper, the god’s voice resounded in the dark sky.

  Still the mortal fool would persist in his defiance.

  A wayward king seeks to turn god-gifted strength against the selfsame god.

  Abandon such folly. What can one frail creature hope to do against the divine?

  　Noctis tightened his grip on his sword, undeterred by the Bladekeeper’s derision.

  　He shouted back, “I do not pretend my power is my own! But it is no gift of yours!”

  　In all likelihood, the ring itself had been fashioned by the Draconian. But the power gathered within was of the kings of Lucis. It was a power born of mortal life and death. The ancient monarchs each gathered this strength, honed it, and passed it on from one generation to the next.

  　Though not almighty gods, humans were by no means frail. Noctis recalled the many past foes over whom he thought he might never prevail. He had persevered, slowly amassing strength, until each foe that once intimidated him was easily surpassed.

  　“Watch as the mortals you mock prove your own undoing. This is one battle I refuse to lose,” Noctis growled. He hurled his blade straight at the Draconian, warping in for a strike. It was similar to his strategy against the Hydraean during the trial in Altissia. Back then, it had been all he could do to cling to the Tidemother’s scales.

  　The blade drove deep into the Draconian’s shoulder. Not a moment later, Noctis was knocked away by a force far beyond that of the Hydraean. Bahamut’s strike was too swift and too powerful to phase through or parry.

  　Noctis plummeted. Soon he would slam against the ground below. Death’s embrace was at hand, and there was nothing he could do.

  　And then, when all seemed lost, his fall was arrested. He hung suspended in the sky.

  　Noctis looked down. He saw the Infernian, risen again to stop Noctis’s plunge. The rest of the Six, too, struggled upright to rejoin the fray.

  　“Five more are the gods who watch this star,” rumbled the Infernian. “And they abide none who seek to harm the world. Not even the sixth.”

  　The five deities were weak from countering Teraflare. Noctis could see that almost all of their strength was spent. Still they stood and continued to lend their aid.

  　“Fly, O Chosen,” the Glacian called, her hands spilling waves of countless ice shards across the sky. Noctis warped from one to the next, once more approaching the Draconian to strike.

  　It was a pattern he repeated over and over: a strike at the vast deity, a leap back to safety, then up the icy steps again.

  　When the Draconian swung one giant arm to knock away the ice, the Hydraean swooped in to carry Noctis back up. When Noctis struck again, his blade found home together with bolts of judgment issued from the Fulgurian’s staff. The Archaean’s great fists served as shields to drive back the Draconian’s counterattacks, and a whirl of hellfire enveloped the Draconian’s lustrous black mail in searing tendrils of flame. The Glacian unleashed a new wave of ice shards for Noctis to climb.

  　He attacked relentlessly together with the power of the five gods. Again and again, he executed a sequence of swings, thrusts, and warps. His fatigue mounted, but never did he waver in the assault.

  　Everything I have, he told himself, the mantra already repeated in his mind more times than he could count. Nothing would be held back.

  　Finally, the Draconian seemed to falter under the incessant assault. There was a loud, sharp sound, and a crack traced its way across the god’s mask. This was their chance.

  　“God of Fire and Goddess of Ice,” Noctis called, “Lend my blade fury!”

  　Gelid wind and infernal flame wrapped Noctis’s glaive with redoubled power. When the blow connected with the Draconian’s mask, the crack snaked from one edge to the other. Then the mask was broken and falling away with a terrible shrieking noise of rent metal. Noctis saw the face behind it and froze.

  　At first, the only word he managed to utter was, “How . . . ?”

  　It was a visage he’d not laid eyes upon directly, but the similarity was undeniable. It was like Somnus’s face. It was like Noctis’s own.

  　“Was it all planned? From the very beginning?” murmured Noctis.

  　Had Somnus been fashioned in the god’s own image to serve as Founder King? Or had it been coincidence? Perhaps the younger brother of House Caelum had simply grown up to look so much like the Bladekeeper as to garner the god’s favor. The workings of the Draconian’s mind were something Noctis might never grasp. Regardless, the resemblance was clear. The countenances of the first and final kings of Lucis were eerily similar to Bahamut’s own.

  　Anger at the god swept through Noctis once more. “How long do you expect us to abide the games you play with our lives?!”

  　A god who treated the mortals he watched over as merely tools or playthings was not deserving of faith. Someone had to stop the Bladekeeper, and Noctis would be the one to do it, shared likeness be damned. He lifted his glaive high and rushed in.

  I know this place, Ardyn thought. He’d seen it once, in the future shared by the Draconian, wherein Ardyn died at Noctis’s hands. But the sense of familiarity didn’t derive from just the vision. Somehow, he’d known this place
for ages. He’d not seen it with his eyes, but his soul had been trapped here for millennia.

  　He seemed to be gently falling through space but knew not whether the sensation was real or imagined. Before his eyes floated the Draconian―the one that existed here in the world beyond.

  Begone. This is no place for the Accursed to tread.

  　“Believe me,” said Ardyn, “of that much I am painfully aware.”

  　He clenched the hand wearing the ring into a fist, and slowly and deliberately held it forward. The world before his eyes wavered as the thirteen Kings of Yore shimmered into view. Twelve hovered in formation. The last was at Ardyn’s side in a silent gesture of fraternal support.

  　“Hmph. Who could have foreseen a day when I’d ask you for aid?” Ardyn said.

  　“My sword is yours, Ardyn. Today we fight as brothers.”

  　Ardyn.

  　They’d still been taking turns at chess when Somnus last called him by name. Two boys so inseparable that a day spent apart invited jests of impending rain from a clear sky. Brothers.

  　“Today we fight to end it all.”

  　Their childhood rapport. Their contesting ideals. The hatred in the wake of betrayal. All of it would be gone.

  　The power of kings flowed into Ardyn via the ring. Then, in a burst of light fierce enough to rend Ardyn’s soul, the thirteen shot forth, converging into a spearpoint thrust, an arrow flying true, a savage bullet lusting for the heart. They ripped into the Draconian’s armored chest with such force that by the time the god flinched, the battle was already won. Perhaps it had all occurred in an instant, too quickly for Bahamut to react. Or perhaps on this side, souls were simply unable to twist and dodge as freely as desired.

  Insolent fool. With the death of the Bladekeeper comes the loss of the Crystal. All of the Six shall fall.

  Why persist in this fatuity?

  　“You ask . . . as if I give a damn,” came Ardyn’s labored response.

  　Let the gods perish. Let the iniquitous Crystal break into a million pieces and Ardyn’s soul with it. Naught else mattered.

  　“As if . . . this isn’t what I’ve wanted . . . all along.”

  　Consciousness was fading along with his soul. Next he would shatter, and soon after, the shards would vanish into nothing. Ardyn knew and welcomed his fate. If every memory of his existence should disappear forever, all the better.

  　“Nay, my love. Even if all others forget your name, I will always remember.”

  　Ardyn flinched. “Aera? Is it truly you?”

  　Another illusion. Surely it had to be. Another product of his wretched imagination. But whether false or true, at least Aera was here before his eyes. He once more admired her golden hair, fluttering in the breeze, and gazed into her eyes the color of the sea, the loveliest color he’d known in all his days.

  　“Oh, Aera,” he told her. “Pray be with me always.”

  　And in that final moment of existence, as his soul crumbled to dust and began to disperse, Aera spoke, and Ardyn heard her.

  The darkness split. Fissures ran through the sky itself, and shards of the heavens began to rain down upon them.

  　“What’s happening?!” Noctis cried.

  　The Star―their very world―shuddered and screamed. Between the cracks in the sky, something else shone through. It was the color of the deep sea. A color Noctis had seen before.

  　“That’s the realm beyond. Why is it . . . ?”

  　He could guess one thing with confidence: Ardyn must have managed to defeat the Draconian.

  One foolish act trumped by another greater still.

  Such havoc serves only to harm those who wreak it.

  Without the guidance of the Light, mankind will fail, doomed ever to repeat the cycle of folly.

  　The Bladekeeper’s voice resounded with intensity anew. But to Noctis’s ears, it was the obstreperous posturing of one on the verge of death.

  Always have mortals lived under patronage divine.

  Though guided by the Light, they war among themselves and defile the Star.

  How could mortals hope to survive alone in a godless world?

  　If divine patronage meant man was subject to destruction at a god’s whim, then they were better off without it. They’d been treated as tools, disposed of once their utility was over. If the gods thought such selfishness to be guidance, it was better for mankind to live on alone.

  　Noctis looked upon the Bladekeeper and said, “We may be foolish and repeat our mistakes, but we do not stand still. Mankind is always moving forward.”

  　And then he gripped his glaive and yelled a battle cry, sending himself hurtling toward the Bladekeeper with one final warp-strike. He felt the impact shudder down the length of his blade. A crack snaked its way through the god’s armor plating as in the mask before. When the blade was lodged deep, and it felt as though it could go no farther, Noctis leaned into the grip with all his might. A wail of pain erupted from the Bladekeeper. Noctis held the glaive tight as the god thrashed against him.

  　And suddenly, the sword was free, and the Bladekeeper was fading, his mammoth form breaking apart into countless tiny fragments. The lustrous black armor fell with an ear-splitting clangor. The deity shuddered and spasmed, as if determined to fight to the bitter end. Finally the thrashing quieted, and the Draconian lay still.

  　There was a roaring sound, and Noctis looked up to see all the scourge in the sky and across the world rushing in great, sweeping waves toward the Citadel. They amassed at a point of blinding brightness: the Crystal. As the Crystal drew in the darkness and shed its blue light, the Citadel began to shake violently.

  　“The whole thing’s gonna fall,” Noctis muttered.

  　The shaking grew more violent still. Noctis saw his companions and Lunafreya down on the jagged expanse of the courtyard. If the Citadel fell, they’d have little chance of survival. Even if the Citadel stayed afloat, the intensity of the vibrations might send them flying off the side.

  　He had to act quickly.

  　“God of Earth! Lend me your strength!” called Noctis.

  　The darkness continued to flood into the Crystal like a foul current. It seemed the stone was intent on consuming every last bit of the Starscourge. It wrenched itself free of the Citadel, shooting through the structure’s walls, then flew high into the air. The darkness followed, still flowing in as the Crystal shed its intense rays of light.

  　The light grew and spread, and the darkness steadily shrank away.

  　Then at the moment when all darkness and light had become one, the Crystal shattered. Particles of darkness and shards of light scattered together throughout the sky, then melted away into nothingness. The border between this world and the Beyond trembled, grew thin, and then vanished altogether.

  　With another great shudder, the Citadel started to crumble. The walls, floors, ceilings, and stairways were being ripped apart into a rain of debris that hurtled toward the earth.

  　“Hurry!” Noctis called, as he rode the Archaean’s massive palm to the edge of the courtyard. He jumped down, gathering Lunafreya in his arms and lifting her up to Titan’s palm. Prompto sprang onto Titan’s hand, pulling Ignis up after him. Gladio climbed on next. The courtyard began to wrench apart, and Noctis threw his glaive onto the Archaean’s palm in a warp-strike, the great flagstones falling away not a moment later.

  　Titan ferried them safely to the ground. As they were dropped off, they looked to the sky and saw the now abandoned Citadel, a mere husk of its former glory, plummet to the ground.

  　For a good while, the narrow escape left them all quiet. Gladio’s lips were pursed tight. Even Prompto’s usual garrulity had vanished; he seemed to have forgotten how to speak at all as he watched the Citadel meet its demise. Ignis, though unable to see the fall, would have known what happened from the rumbling and crashing of the impact. His head was bowed as if in silent prayer.

  　Lunafreya still lay unconscious. Dark
thoughts reared their ugly heads in Noctis’s mind, whispering that she might never awaken. After all, it was the Draconian who had granted Lunafreya new life. With the god dead, would she not perish, too?

  　From behind, he heard the voice of the Glacian. “O Chosen King.”

  　He turned to find her in her guise as Messenger.

  　“The time for parting is nigh. The world is now in mortal hands. No more gods. No Crystal.”

  　“Gentiana . . . ”

  　“Under the king’s rule, the Star shall surely . . . ”

  　Gentiana trailed off, as if another thought had occurred to her. She turned, lowering one porcelain white hand to brush her fingertips across Lunafreya’s eyelids.

  　“A farewell gift, O King. Blessings for a friend.”

  　And with those words, Lunafreya’s eyelids twitched ever so gently.

  　“Luna!” cried Noctis.

  　Lunafreya opened her eyes.

  　“Noctis . . . ” she whispered.

  　Oh, thank the gods, he tried to say, but found himself unable to speak. He simply held Lunafreya in silence. He thought he heard a whispering voice say, May happiness fill your life together, but when Noctis looked up, Gentiana was already gone.

  　In Tenebrae, the Messenger had once told a young Noctis that it was “heartening to see the future king and the Oracle enjoy such familiarity.” The Messenger had smiled as she said the words, and he could still remember her gentle eyes upon him even now.