Snippet of Ocean’s Child
(This is a sequel to “Those Who Walk Twice (Beneath the Blue Sky)” and a part of my reluctantly budding King’s Skjald-verse. Couldn’t resist throwing this out there cause I’m really quite enjoying the way Gladiolus-Thors gives all the adults around him a headache.) Tagging: @wolfsrainrules
  As Regis tried and failed to win a stare down with too-old amber eyes, he mused tiredly that really, he should have expected this. Gladiolus had made it very clear that he blamed himself for Noctis’s condition, that he believed his presence would have somehow changed the devastating events of that night despite the fact that Gladiolus was just a child. Regis should have known that the stoic eleven year old would find a way to follow Noctis to Tenebrae, with or without permission. Even if it meant folding his lean, tall-for-his-age body into the uncomfortable space beneath the back seats of the car where Regis wouldn’t dream of looking —he’d checked the trunk for stowaways, he wasn’t a complete idiot, but he hadn’t thought Gladiolus could even fit under the seats, let alone stay there for hours—.
   Gladiolus had even brought a pack of supplies and a sword —Clarus’s gladius if Regis didn’t miss his mark—, and was currently staring at Regis with the same ferociously blank expression Cor had always worn right before he disobeyed orders to go fight something he shouldn’t. Or, in this case, follow Regis and Noctis on foot if he tried to send Gladiolus home without them, “Gladiolus…”
   “I’m his Skjald,” snapped the boy tightly, the language of his previous life clashing harshly with the smoother King’s Speech that Regis could understand. A sign that Gladiolus was too stressed to be reasoned with —he never consciously used his previous life’s tongue around Clarus or Regis, only Noctis, otherwise it was a slip-up caused by exhaustion or fury or stress—. Gladiolus took a deep breath, one hand gripping the hilt of the gladius with white knuckles as he repeated slowly, “I’m his Shield. My place is ever at his side.”
   “You are only eleven, Gladiolus-,”
   “A king learns only when he has someone to lead!” Blurted the fire-eyed boy in front of him, “You said so yourself! I promised to stand by his side even when he stands still, that means I follow him, even when he is injured!” Regis exhaled slowly, trying to stay patient even as Noctis watched their argument with wide eyes from the back seat of the car. Gladiolus’s eyes narrowed, dark and sharp with a maturity he shouldn’t have mixed with an impulsivity he shouldn’t have been brave enough to follow through on at this age, “You’ve been fine with my guarding Noctis since I was seven.”
   “That was in the Citadel. Surrounded by guards who were to ensure you never had to fight until you came of age.”
   Gladiolus’s jaw tightened, “So now, when there are no other guards to keep him safe, you expect me to stay behind? You expect me to break my oaths because I’m a child?”
   Regis paused. Leaned back slightly and really looked at Gladiolus. At the boy who was already tall enough to be mistaken for a scraggly thirteen year old, with his father’s dark brown hair the length of his shoulder blades half hanging in his face from where it had escaped its customary low tail, and his mother’s amber eyes that were always too old for his young face —always too keen, too knowing, like even now the warrior he’d once been lurked behind that gaze, assessing and waiting—. Gladiolus was too young to wear the tattoo symbolizing his line, but his shoulders were set and his back was stubbornly straight, like he could already feel the weight represented by the inked-on feathers of the great eagle that served as his family’s coat of arms and mark of pride. Clarus’s old gladius was strapped over his shoulders rather than at his hip —better for an initial strike, better maneuverability for a boy who was too small to wield proper great swords yet—, he had the strap of a backpack bulging with supplies clenched in one fist, and at his side was a small pouch Regis wasn’t certain he wanted to know the contents of.
   Eleven years old and he already looked every inch the deadly, dedicated Shield he was supposed to still be growing into.
   Eleven years old and he already looked ready to kill and die for his future king.
   Regis closed his eyes and felt very old. I’m sorry, Old Friend, there is no turning your son from his chosen path. Not without risking Gladiolus escaping whatever minders Regis managed to find and taking off after them on foot, through dangerous territory and over unknown waters. He could not return to Insomnia to drop off Gladiolus personally either, he was on a tight schedule if he wanted to bring his son safely to the Oracle’s care without being discovered by Niflheim.
   Regis opened his eyes, “Alright, Gladiolus. You win. But you must stay close to Noctis at all times and do exactly as I command,” Regis let his features harden, a king staring down a subordinate rather than a surrogate uncle talking to a wayward nephew, “am I understood?”
   Gladiolus pressed a fist of his heart and dipped his head, “I understand, Your Majesty.”
   Regis sighed and turned back to the car that he had stopped in the middle of nowhere after Gladiolus had finally been forced to uncurl from beneath the seats from the pain, “Get in the car, Gladiolus.” Gladiolus eagerly slid into the back seat next to Noctis, who hugged his Shield Brother and chatted softly with him as Regis started the car and pulled back onto the road with a dull feeling of dread.
   That evening in a cheep hotel where no one would pay attention to a father giving a piggy back ride to his youngest son while his other happily opened doors for them, Regis set up the secure line and called Clarus.
   The phone had barely gotten out half a ring when Clarus answered with a voice tight from barely suppressed hysteria, “Tell me Gladiolus is with you.”
   Regis leaned back in the single, cheap, under-stuffed armchair that inhabited their hotel room, “Deep breaths, Clarus. He’s with me.”
