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“Fate really has it out for you, huh.”
The words reached Lunafreya only through a thick veil of fog, muffled and meaningless. Still, she jolted when they brushed her ears, trying to pry her eyes open to little avail. All she could see was shadows, indistinct and ominous.
Everything hurt. Everything was too hot. Every ounce of her body begged for some sort of relief.
No relief came.
“Back with us, Princess?”
Eyelids stuttering back down, Lunafreya’s lips parted around an aggrieved sigh. Back with? She’d never left. Sleep had no place in her itinerary; not with only two of the Six awakened and the threat of Niflheim looming ever-larger by the second. No; Lunafreya had only been… resting. Catching her breath. That was all.
“Guess not,” the voice said, and then something almost like a hand, except cold and hard and sharp, pressed against her cheek.
The noise that left her mouth was nearly a whine. In her fugue, Lunafreya had almost been able to forget the unbearable heat which suffused her, but the cool press of metal drew everything back into sickening focus. She was cooking from within; steaming in her own sweat. The rainwater saturating every inch of her body was liable to evaporate any moment.
It felt as if she were still in the depths of the Disc, staggering beneath the waves of oppressive heat which rippled off the Meteor as Titan glared down at her; as he growled out his reply to her desperate plea; as he shook the earth with the sound of his ancient voice—
—and took his toll from the very core of her, leaving her stunned and trembling on the ground before she could even realize her legs had given out—
“Don’t scratch yourself,” the voice said dryly, but Lunafreya continued to press her face urgently into the gauntlet cupping her cheek, chasing the blessed coolness of the metal.
Her fever was lower now than it had been after waking Titan. It hadn’t completely subsided, but she’d been hopeful that the worst had passed; had gone straight on to wake the Fulgarian next, foolishly thinking that Ramuh’s downpour might somehow… counteract the blazing weight of Titan’s vow.
But the Stormbringer had looked down upon her with kindness and agreed to offer Noctis a fair chance to earn his blessings, and then the toll had struck Lunafreya, forking its way from her heart to every extremity, searing every inch of her until all she could do was—
fall—
“Y’know, Izunia warned me I might find you here,” the voice above her drawled, and Lunafreya couldn’t help it—she flinched at the name. “Gotta say, Princess—Niflheim may want you dead, but it looks like the Gods have us covered.”
Us. This was no friend standing above her, then.
Of course it wasn’t; Lunafreya had lapsed in her duties. Had succumbed to her own weakness. Had forged ahead to wake Ramuh far too quickly, before her body was prepared, and—loath as she was to admit it—had fully lost consciousness for an unknown amount of time.
Nyx and His Majesty had entrusted her with this life, and here she repaid them by throwing it carelessly aside.
Grinding her teeth, Lunafreya tried again to open her eyes—and, at last, she managed to lever them open long enough to make sense of the colors blurring above her.
Commodore Aranea Highwind’s shadow fell across Lunafreya’s face as she leaned close, cold eyes piercing through the visor of her helmet, all else of her expression obscured.
“At this rate, are you even gonna live to see your wedding day?”
Lunafreya did not answer. She did not know. The familiar writhing grief deep in her chest was, at this point, almost bearable, but admittedly, when the treaty was announced, and when they began taking her measurements to tailor the gown, even though she could feel Gentiana’s sorrowful gaze on her back every moment, a part of her had still thought that she’d have just a bit more time—just a year, maybe two—
Yet how could she hope for a few more years of terror? Of plague? Of daemons ripping to shreds any who couldn’t find shelter before the sun vanished behind the horizon and took its protection with it?
Her eyes slipped shut, and she couldn’t say what contortions her face may have been making. Above her, Aranea hummed. “Guess that answers that question.” With a distinctive series of clicks and clangs, the dragoon removed her helmet, setting it in the watery mud beside Lunafreya. “So, which of the Six did you piss off, Princess?”
Despite herself, Lunafreya coughed out something that could’ve been a laugh. The worst part, she found herself thinking, was that neither Titan nor Ramuh wished her any harm. Whether the rest of the Astrals shared their benevolence or not, the Astrals’ opinion of her was ultimately irrelevant.
This was merely—the price. The toll which must be paid in exchange for communion with the Gods. They could no more change it than she.
This knowledge should have eased her mind, but, in her current state, she could only despair. If this were the result of a failure in diplomacy on her part, then there would be some room for hope, wouldn’t there? Some chance that things might improve?
But… no. As everything foretold in the Prophecy, this was inevitable.
Just as dear Noctis’s death also approached inexorably.
Perhaps sensing her distress, Pryna whined softly, pressing her snout insistently into Lunafreya’s slack fingers, which twitched in some paltry attempt at a scritch. She hadn’t realized the Messenger was here, too absorbed in self-pity to place the warm weight pressed to her hip.
Now that she thought of it—why had Pryna not warned her of the approaching ship?
Before she could ponder the question long, the cool hand vanished from her face, and Lunafreya regretted to admit that she chased it with a piteous whine. When she managed to open her eyes again—sure that Aranea was winding up to strike her, or perhaps fetching restraints—all she could see was black and red and silver as Aranea crouched low, fully imposing herself into Lunafreya’s personal space.
A hand gripped her shoulder and rolled her over, sending Pryna scrambling away with an indignant whuff. The slight rotation sent her head spinning so violently that she gagged. Swallowing bile consumed all her focus for a good few seconds.
When at last she regained her composure, she found herself half-raised from the ground where she’d laid before, one rigid gauntlet pressed against the length of her back to support her. As she stared blankly up at the clouds above, another armored hand snaked beneath her knees and lifted them from the mud, gathering the sodden, filthy material of her dress with a squelch.
“Alright, Angel,” Aranea grunted. “Up we go.”
The world spun as she was hoisted into Aranea’s arms, her clammy skin and drenched clothing dragging uncomfortably against the smooth plate. The movement dragged a weak moan from her lips, though she lacked the breath for much else.
Logic dictated that Lunafreya at least put up some paltry attempt at a fight. But the metal, though unyielding, soothed her flushed skin like a damp washcloth, and Aranea’s hand cradled her throbbing head so that her neck no longer ached with the strain of lifting it, and Pryna didn’t lunge for Aranea or even growl, so—so this must be fine. This must be permitted.
She let her weight list sideways until she was resting fully against Aranea.
“We need to talk about your self-preservation instincts,” Aranea said dryly, but she hiked Lunafreya a bit further up, settling her more firmly against her shoulder and chest, and began to walk.
Faintly, she was aware of the familiar thump of Pryna’s paws padding placidly after them.
The scenery refused to resolve itself in her vision; she saw only swaying blurs of green and gray and brown. Still, it was hard to miss the massive blob of vivid red which Aranea was carrying her into. Doubly so when they began to climb the ramp into the Imperial airship and Aranea’s boots clanked loudly on the metal gangplank. Pryna’s claws clicked after them from somewhere below.
Lunafreya tried to tilt her head down to keep eyes on Pryna—derive comfort from her presence, even if she couldn’t rest a hand on her head—but doing so only made the world twist dizzyingly, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut again. She let out a long, shaking sigh.
It may have been her imagination, or Aranea may have given her shoulder a squeeze, as if in comfort.
“Didn’t know you did Princess delivery, Lady A,” a voice said cheerfully as they entered the ship, and Aranea shifted her weight to kick the newcomer with a loud thud.
“Just get us ready for takeoff,” she said over his yelp, and he scrambled into the cockpit—as much to escape another retaliation, it seemed to Lunafreya, as to obey her order. “Wedge, boil some water for me.”
The sudden surge of footsteps—Aranea’s and Pryna’s and now these two men’s as well, echoing all around her—made Lunafreya’s aching head throb. It was almost enough to distract her from the ominously slow whir of the ramp rising behind them, followed by the damning clang of it sealing shut.
After a few more short steps, she was carefully lowered from Aranea’s arms and laid across a long, padded surface—far too uncomfortable to be a bed, or even a cot, but perhaps it could charitably be called a bench. Almost at once, the rainwater and muck which permeated Lunafreya began to seep into the thin material beneath her.
Yet again, she had to swallow a protest when Aranea and her cooling armor pulled away. At least her retreat left room for Pryna, who instantly leaped over Lunafreya to curl up at her side, head a reassuring weight against her hip.
Lunafreya fumbled blindly about, her arm weak as a babe’s and half as coordinated, until she managed to flop a hand limply down onto Pryna’s snout.
The familiar feeling of dog fur against her fingers gave her the courage to try opening her eyes once more. As she’d surmised, they were inside an Imperial airship, although this one was considerably less empty than the hollow tin cans which typically transported Magitek troopers.
Commodore Highwind stood a few paces away, peeling the paper lid back from a cup of instant noodles. Having come back to her senses somewhat, Lunafreya shifted uneasily, her bloodshot eyes darting to the closed bay doors.
“Relax,” Aranea said without looking at her. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Angel. This girl doesn’t work after hours.”
Lunafreya flicked a glance at Pryna. The Messenger’s eyes were fully open and fixed on the Commodore, but her expression was placid; she didn’t growl or bare her teeth. Aranea’s words may not be particularly reassuring, but they must at least be true.
Small mercies.
A moment passed in uneasy silence. An indistinct figure, clothed head to toe in either black or gray—Lunafreya’s eyes couldn’t currently discern the difference—quietly slid into view, but only to pour some steaming water from a kettle into the styrofoam cup in Aranea’s hand.
Half-petting Pryna’s face burned through what little energy she could muster, so she simply lay there and watched, oddly entranced, as the dark blur of a man retreated back into the opposite corner, wisps of steam drifting lazily up from the kettle he held.
Abruptly, the whole situation felt ridiculous. Imperial soldiers didn’t boil water in kettles to make instant noodles. No, Lunafreya thought distantly, still watching the steam rise from the kettle as it was settled back onto its base. No, that was entirely too pedestrian. Imperial soldiers, they… they were… supposed…
Despite her best efforts, she drifted off again. When next she became aware of herself, Aranea was shaking her shoulder, and the sharp, thick scent of artificial chicken was wafting directly into her face.
“Eyes open, Angel,” Aranea said gruffly. “Dinner’s up.”
At her back, Pryna gave a petulant little bark. “Yeah, yeah,” Aranea said, her voice muddled and indistinct in Lunafreya’s sleep-addled ears. “We’ll rustle something up for you, mutt. Just be patient. The half-dead woman gets priority.”
It was well beyond Lunafreya’s ability to sit up on her own power, but she cooperated when Aranea shoved a hand beneath her to prop her upright. Once she was lolling back against the wall, her legs still splayed out along the length of the bench but her torso at least somewhat vertical, Aranea plopped down next to her, armor squelching on the rainwater-soaked cushion where Lunafreya’s head had rested a moment before. When Lunafreya slid down the wall, core muscles unwilling to hold her up, she ended up slumped bonelessly against Aranea’s shoulder.
“Hope cup noodles aren’t below you, Your Highness,” the Commodore said, though the jab lacked heat.
It took Lunafreya an embarrassingly long moment to realize that Aranea was holding the noodles out for her to take. Right. Eating meant moving. With greater exertion than she was willing to admit, Lunafreya lifted her hand from Pryna’s head, pulled it up to chest level, and decisively grabbed the cup noodles from Aranea’s loose grip.
Immediately, she regretted it. Though the cup was at a manageable temperature for any normal person, against Lunafreya’s sweat-slick palm, it felt like a live coal. Its weight, meanwhile, made her whole arm tremble with the effort of keeping it aloft, as if it were a dumbbell rather than a simple cup of soup.
She sat there for a torturously long moment, wincing as the heat seeped further and further into her already-feverish fingers, lacking the energy to lift it to her lips yet also lacking any place to set it down.
“Right,” Aranea sighed after some indeterminate amount of time. “Should’ve guessed.”
The styrofoam furnace was pried from Lunafreya’s sweaty fingers without fanfare. It was all she could do not to wilt with her relief, even as she instinctively grasped at air, trying to reclaim the desperately-needed food.
“Easy, Angel. It’s coming right back to you.” At her side, the hard planes of Aranea’s armor shifted without warning, a spiked pauldron briefly scraping Lunfareya’s neck as her shoulder slipped away. Without its support, Lunafreya tipped sharply sideways, letting out a surprised yelp—followed by a grunt as she landed against Aranea’s chest, her head pillowed on a breastplate that couldn’t possibly be comfortable to wear, if this was how it felt to lean on.
When she squirmed slightly, Aranea only wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her closer, propping her up a bit more so that her head was instead tucked into the crook of Aranea’s neck.
“Work with me,” Aranea said, and Lunafreya could feel the words vibrate in her throat.
With Lunafreya’s help, such as it was, they managed to get her situated with her back flush against Aranea’s chest and side, her legs stretched out along the bench, and her head resting back against Aranea’s shoulder. Pryna immediately wriggled her way into Lunafreya’s lap; Lunafreya, who was still soaked through and had begun to shiver in the air conditioned ship even despite her fever, stroked a grateful, shaking hand down her spine.
Though she was tracking Aranea’s movements warily, and clearly saw her pick the cup noodles back up, it wasn’t until steam tickled her nostrils and styrofoam scraped her lip that Lunafreya realized what was happening.
She was being fed like a child.
An ice-cold spike of shame pierced her feverish haze, and she tilted her head sharply to the side, pressing her lips together before the broth could be tipped into her mouth.
The cup retreated. “Hey. Don’t be like that.” Unexpectedly, there was no hint of mockery or even amusement in Aranea’s voice. “I’ve been a soldier for a decade, and a fighter even longer. You think this is the first time I had to help somebody eat?”
From the other side of the room, a low, calm voice added, “Nothing we haven’t seen before, Lady Lunafreya.” The dark-clothed figure from earlier, still standing in the corner that he’d returned the kettle to.
Mortifyingly, on top of requiring assistance to merely sip broth, Lunafreya now found herself blinking back tears. Of course it was nothing they hadn’t seen before; they were warriors. They’d braved daemons every night; daemons which Lunafreya was meant to be eradicating. They’d spoonfed one another while recovering from grievous injuries that Lunafreya’s magic should have been tending.
All the while, Lunafreya sat in her manor, doodling in her notebook and idly telling herself that she would be ready to do her part when the time came.
But, when she was honest with herself, a deep, secret part of her had always hoped that the time may never come. Even though that would mean thousands—nay, millions of people like Aranea and her men must continue to fight and die in the dark. Forever. Century after century. Millennium after millennium.
Merely so that she and Noctis might live on for a few more paltry decades.
Even now, she lay here, docile as a lamb in the enemy’s arms, as if more people were not endangered every moment she tarried on her way to rouse the Hydrean. Simply because she was tired. Was frightened.
Was too pathetic to pay the toll which had been demanded of her since before her birth, or indeed the very advent of her house.
But none of those things could change unless she nourished her failing body, so Lunafreya reluctantly turned her head.
The styrofoam cup dipped closer at once, and Lunafreya parted her lips just enough for Aranea to pour a shallow stream of warm, salty broth into her mouth. She managed not to gag at the taste, nor did she cough as she swallowed. Though the flavor made it abundantly clear that she was only drinking powder dissolved in water, the broth still soothed her throat on the way down, and it rested easily in her stomach. Without further prompting, Lunafreya leaned forward and latched onto the cup again, gulping down a larger mouthful this time.
“There we go,” Aranea praised distractedly, patting Lunafreya’s shoulder without seeming to be aware she was doing so. “Just get it down. Once you’ve got something in your stomach, we can get some painkillers in you.”
Painkillers. The thought was abruptly so tempting that it made her feel liable to weep. It was questionable whether anything could really be done for the pain—the searing fire and spasming lightning were not physical maladies, but were aftershocks of power mortals could not bear, left in her by her communion with the Gods—but the idea of any semblance of relief, even if only for the aches she’d gained by lying unconscious on the ground, was… was…
Too good to be true.
Was this not a member of the Imperial Army currently cradling her? Why would she offer Lunafreya any aid—much less pain relief, which was unnecessary even if she did want the Oracle alive for her own purposes?
What was her endgame?
What was Lunafreya missing this time?
“Why…” It was only one syllable, yet Lunafreya expended every ounce of air in her lungs just rasping it out. Her eyelids fluttered again; stubbornly, she propped them back open, letting her head list back until she was staring up at the pale face above her. “Why… are you…?”
…helping me?
Those last few words dwindled to nothing but breath, but the three she’d managed seemed to suffice. “Don’t get me wrong,” Aranea drawled. “At the end of the day, my orders, per the Empire, are to kill or capture you.” Her eyes met Lunafreya’s, deceptively casual. “You do have the king’s ring, don’t you? My boss wants that thing something fierce.”
Lunafreya stared back at her and made no attempt to respond.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Aranea’s mouth. “Last couple months, though,” she continued, taking Lunafreya’s silence in stride, “things haven’t seemed quite so clear-cut. Aldercapt’s gone off his rocker, Nox Fleuret is unravelling even faster than before… who knows what the hell is going on in Izunia’s head. My paychecks are starting to seem a little less reliable.”
Gently, her hand pressed to the back of Lunafreya’s head, tilting it back down so that she could ply her with more broth. “Might not be a bad idea to play both sides,” she mused as Lunafreya drank. “Curry a little favor with the King and the High Commander at the same time. I dunno who’s winning that fight, but I’m starting to think Aldercapt is out of the race entirely. Tying myself to him? Yeah, probably not the play.”
Silently, Lunafreya sipped her broth. When Aranea experimentally tilted the cup back even further, she even managed to get a few actual noodles and some rehydrated bits of carrot into her mouth as well. Chewing was a monumental task, and swallowing somehow even moreso, but she managed it with newfound determination.
Loyalty was an admirable quality, as was conviction, but she had no intention of letting an ally slip through her fingers by demanding such things of them. Not when a traitor from the enemy’s side who seemed motivated mainly by self interest was so close at hand.
She tipped her head back one more time, gazing up at Aranea with much clearer eyes, and said, on a tremulous exhale:
“Take me to Altissia.”
A low, noncommittal hum rumbled through Aranea’s chest and into Lunafreya’s slumped body. “So you can wake the Tidemother,” she guessed, “and die a little faster.”
Lunafreya refused to be cowed. She met Aranea’s gaze unflinchingly—let her expression speak to her resolve where her tongue might fail.
It didn’t matter that she was afraid. It didn’t matter that she was in pain. This fear, this pain, had been written in the prophecy already; Lunafreya had been given plenty of time to acclimate to the idea. She’d grown to accept it.
Such was her duty—and honor—as the last in the line of the Oracle. To face the inevitable and gently guide it into place as painlessly as possible. Even if, as everything, it seemed a bit too cruel.
None of this was spoken aloud, but it must have gotten across to some extent, because Aranea’s nonchalant expression grew solemn as she studied Lunafreya’s face. Slowly, she slipped her hand up from Lunafreya’s shoulder to her cheek, cupping her face; this time, Lunafreya managed not to lean into the touch, though she’d be lying if she claimed that the urge wasn’t there.
“It’s a shame,” Aranea said quietly, and her thumb skated along the length of Lunafreya’s cheekbone, tracing her eye. “You’re a tough lady, Angel. World’ll be worse off without you.”
Somehow, that, of all things, was what made Lunafreya’s breath hitch. With Aranea watching her so closely, she could hardly let any such emotion show on her face—not in front of anyone, much less in front of someone who so recently had at least been willing to entertain the idea of killing her.
It was a heartwarming sentiment, but objectively untrue. The world would not be “worse off” without her. The world had been waiting for her to be born, and then to die, for thousands of years. It was written.
But—
But I want to live.
For the briefest moment, Lunafreya allowed herself to think it, plainly and without pretense. No justifications; no automatic denials; no scolding herself for entertaining such a selfish thought. She simply closed her eyes, breathed deep, and let the thoughts wash over her, safely ensconced in the arms of her enemy.
I’m tired.
I’m scared.
It’s not fair.
I want to stay.
I want to live.
Then Aranea kicked the wall next to them with a heavy metal boot, sending a startling clang reverberating throughout the cabin. “You heard the lady!” she hollered up into the cockpit. “Set course for Altissia!”
“You’ve got it, Lady A!” the cheerful voice from before responded, and the ship lurched beneath them, lifting off the ground quickly and smoothly.
The lip of the cup pressed again, insistently, to Lunafreya’s mouth.
“Just a bit more, Angel,” Aranea said. “Get to the bottom of the cup, and then we’ll see about those painkillers, hm? Give you a pleasant ride to your death, at least.”
Lunafreya, grateful that Aranea was politely ignoring the tears dripping down her face, drank the rest of the soup without complaint.