Prince Prompto sui Besithia Izunia should not have sat on the throne.

He was not the direct heir, people argued. That title belonged to his older brother, Loqi Tummelt - but that marriage had been annulled when it saw it’s end. The boy, his claim, all had been discarded to the winds in favor of his safety.

Prompto was a bastard. Born of a torrid affair between his noble father and a lowly scientist. Born sick, and small and neatly ignored the second Verstael deemed the boy unfit. Were it not for the Chancellor, well -- the child may well have died down there in a forgotten crib.

But when Iedolas passed he left no heirs. Verstael had abdicated his claim years ago and had no intention of reclaiming it  - he had only one son with a standing claim.

There was no civil war, though those who opposed the changes made to the Empire threatened to make one. They would get the distant relations in other countries to stake their claims, they would take the Tummelt boy and rail against his disinheritance, they would rend Niflheim in twain in order to have their way.

But then Chancellor Izunia had presented his choice for the future. A bright eyed boy of four, who clung to his pantleg and shivered in the chill of the Throne Room. The Chancellor spoke of the boy as if he were his own, introducing him with a soft smile. And the people feared him, the stories that were told behind closed doors of a man who commanded monsters, so they did not argue.

The people easily grew to love him. He was a sweet boy, a kind boy. The world needed more of those.

The warmongers grew to hate him. He was a sweet boy, a kind boy. The world had no more need of bleeding hearts.

They hated him when he was old enough to interview and be asked his opinion. They hated him when he shifted focus from warfare to welfare, focusing on the citizens the Empire had rather than the ones it did not. Prompto’s poor health meant he never enlisted in the service, as his father and uncle had before him. Instead of a sword he was given history books, science as a shield. They hated him because he was not a warrior, he was a scholar, and he ran his country with this in mind.

They loved him no better when a true peace treaty with Lucis was brokered at age sixteen. Ardyn had stepped aside and allowed his son to take the charge, for he had no love for the country and would rather see it blighted from the map. The young prince had locked eyes with the Prince of Lucis and scrapped and fought with him for a fair agreement, one that would not leave either side feeling like they’d won or lost too much. When the tabloids caught the two of them spending time outside the meetings, talking, laughing, bonding.

An attack comes a few days before he’s to leave for the first time. Prompto flattens to the ground with practiced ease, sweating bullets and shaking. Aranea’s already charging off, and he shudders.

( they miss the slow burn of a romance forming. their connection had been instantaneous and passionate, but their will to act on it had taken far longer. )

Nor when he began spending summers abroad with Lucis’ Prince. When the papers ran rumors that the young men were too close, and perhaps they should fear a wedded alliance. When Lucis’ king took a bride, they held their breaths and waited for their leader to make the mistake as being lesser. To marry him, to become subservient to the Lucians he seemed to love so well -- yet they never married.

( not in the public eye, at last. the emperor wears a ring on a chain under his clothes. a symbolic wedding, not a legally binding one. they love each other too well to allow that love to destroy all they’ve worked for )

Still, he turned down potential brides that came courting. Rumors flew that he was in love with his Shield, a woman ten years his senior and twice as unruly, but that proved a moot point when she married another, producing her heir well before his. They assumed then that perhaps this would be like it was with Iedolas, that their Emperor would take no bride and have no sons. Up until he turned up with a son he named his heir, a boy with dark blue eyes and unruly blonde hair. A boy every bit the bastard his father was.

 They tired of it. They no longer waited silently.

They sewed sedition in the minds of the weak. Spoke of greater times to the disenfranchised soldiers and the young, who knew not how bad things once were and could instead take their word that the problems with the nation were problems that their leader caused, not remnants of things he had fixed. They watched, and they waited.

And they waited.

 Ardyn died. Prompto took the title formally took the title.

The young Prince became unruly. Difficult to manage at times. The people within the palace knew it came from dealing with a father who was sick and another who lived half a world away, but the citizens only saw a sullen child acting out.

 Then the people drew comparisons between him and the children of the Lucian King, comparing his baby pictures with that of the press photos of Prince Orion and Anne Marie. They do not know the truth - that the boy is yet another product of his grandfather’s science, that he is how the Emperor cured the plague - but they know enough of it to make their decision.

Emperor Prompto sui Besithia Izunia should not have sat on the throne, and in their eyes he will die for sullying it. And Prince Aurum Liber Besithia Izunia will die before he has the chance to ruin their legacy further.

-

Prince Aurum returns from his school in Lucis in the summer months. Prompto laughs as his son grumbles about how he doesn’t need to go back, fourteen and thinking himself a man. That he knows enough not to go back. That he doesn’t need his father doting over him - either of them - but there’s a gentleness to him now that wasn’t there when he’d last set off. He doesn’t throw his bag into Prompto’s arms, he carries it himself. Only when he’s unpacked does he seek out his father for a hug, holding him tight. Prompto grins and ruffles his fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his forehead. Laughing when the boy scrunches up his face and tries to pull back.

“Oh no you don’t,” he teases, locking his arms around his son with a laugh. “You owe me six months worth of hugs, buddy! And I intend to cash in!”

He tolerates it with only mild protesting.

No doubt this was a product of the latest hospitalization.

A grim realization that his father, young though he may be, was a very sick man.That he wouldn’t be around forever - and there was a very real chance that it could happen at any time. This time, he’d fallen and simply could not get back up. Aranea had found him on the floor of his study, confused and half-waking, unable to so much as lift himself onto his elbows. Noctis had abandoned whatever he was set to do to come to his side, afraid this may be the last time - but he’d pulled through, brushing it aside as though it were nothing, continuing to march stubbornly ahead.

Yet Aurum knew. His eyes are on the stylish cane that his father now carries as he pulls back, reaching out to hold his hand.

He calls Noct a few hours later. Lets him know Aurum got home safe and all is well. There’s an unspoken apology that Noctis couldn’t go with him -- an emergency had cropped up in the outskirts of Leides, something about the old mines and some old bases being filled with daemons. 

It’s no matter. They plan to reconvene later in the month. This is old hat, they’ve long since grown used to having their plans ruined by some emergency or another, such is the life of a leader. Distance no longer means anything to them, they’ve been doing this for decades now and knows that home comes before all else.

---

The palace is under siege when he wakes.

Some of the new housing staff has killed the more loyal retainers. Rigorous background checks cannot read the minds and hearts of those easily swayed, only see where it may happen. Aranea bursts into his room, covered in blood and burnt from getting there, and he knows from the expression on her face that this is more than a mere assassination attempt.

He yells at her for coming to him. Even if her daughter is to be his son’s shield, she should have gone to him.

He’s out of bed in seconds. Foregoes changing, instead charges through the fray to get to his son. His staff are experienced, they know what they’re doing -- but the doors to the Keep are being battered by battering rams, there is an army waiting outside their doors and his own simply won’t mobilize fast enough.

They haven’t reached the boy’s quarters yet. Aurum is wide-eyed and frightened, Arache looks no better off. Both have enjoyed a time of peace and don’t know what it means to fear war. He gathers the children into his arms briefly, tells them it will all be okay and then they’re hurrying through one of the many secret exits. 

The way is blocked. Men bigger and stronger than Prompto is, even in his prime. They laugh as they step forward, intending to shove backs to the walls and slay the whole royal family in one fell swoop.

They’d talked about this nightmare scenario, he and Aranea. On late nights when the unrest threatened to bubble over, when there seemed to be no end in sight to the protests or the vicious whispers of rumor.

They’d talked about what to do.

There’s a sound like shattering glass as he calls forth the magic of the Empire’s cracked and broken crystal. The men reel back, narrowly missing a round of fire that leaps where they stood. Prompto’s eyes glow a dull red, his breathing quickening with the strain of the magic.

She grabs the boy and her girl and leaps over their heads. In an instant a shield blocks off the path, leaving Prompto trapped on the other side with the enemy. Aurum stops short and tries to turn back, the color draining from his face.

He’s a smart boy. Smart enough to see a suicidal distraction for what it truly is.

“Aurum, go,” Prompto shouts, digging his heels into the ground.

“Dad-!”

“I said go!” He thunders, louder than he’s ever yelled at his son in his life. “I’ll be okay! Your old man has a few tricks left up his sleeves yet!”

He doesn’t need to see him to  see the disbelief in his eyes. The terrible knowing of what is to come. But Aranea hauls him forward (you’re supposed to be his shield! he shouts, desperation wining out over that carefully crafted stoicism) and he has no say. The Emperor would only slow them down -- he’s not yet an old man, but he’s a sick man. And he knows all too well the limitations of his body.

And if his life is cost of letting his son live, it’s a price gladly paid.

Come dawn, the castle has been left in ruins. 

The Emperor lays on the floor of his home, unable to lift himself up - unable to move at all. There’s a sword through his side, rubble across his chest - and he can do nothing but listen to the sound of it burn around him. 

So this is how it ends.

To his left, his phone is ringing. Frantically. Has been for nearly an hour now. The cracked phone sits just outside of his reach - he’s tried to reach for it, to answer, but he’s tired. The air is thick with smoke and he knows it doesn’t matter who comes now, it’s far too late. The magic burned him from the inside out, eating away at the unnatural parts of him and leaving the human parts too weak and broken to survive on their own.

Too late.

His eyes slowly drift shut.

Once awakened he trembles, heart palpitations ringingeardrums, adrenaline threatening to suffocate; tears stinging his eyes. Palmspressing against dampened eyelids and he’s whimpering, voice hoarse as itreaches and begs for solace. He moves, frantic and fearful because he had to confirmthat the nightmare was just a nightmare – that his best friend was soundlysleeping away, peaceful and safe.

Surprise is evident in his being when his gaze is alreadymet with the other’s.

“Sorry, I just…” The chuckle that spills is dry – shaken. Heneed not hide from his roommate, the one that’d become a necessity to his life,yet he hesitates. Should he speak may the darkness return, mercilessly tearingaway his picture of peace, swallowing all he held dear whole, assuring that asimple nightmare become real.

“Didn’t mean to wake you, I–”

“You can hold my hand if you need to.”

Breath stills, a minute passes… And he concedes. Legs shifting away from blankets and soon he’s pacing across their room, stopping just beforethe other male’s bed; kneeling beside his covers and carefully cradling hishand. AJ wasn’t fragile, not an illusion, though the blond continues totremble; the night terror permanently seared into memory.

His head finds refuge upon his friends leg, still kneelingbeside his mattress; still clutching his hand.