stardust for blade rust

The boy was foolish.

It was hard for Vayne to discern whether by nature or upbringing. Yet, as he watched the allies of the prince—a King in time, he couldn't help but scoff, How blissful to forget such a title—swarm him as moths would a flame, his fists tightened behind his back, his composure momentarily slipping.

Several bodies tensed, their eyes sharp as they tried to determine his following action. Noel, in particular, adjusted his body to shield Noctis from view. In response, Vayne raised a hand to open a torsion, and with but a curt, parting nod, departed.

Needless quarreling within the ranks would serve him not given the current circumstances. The corridors around him were cold, the space-in-between unpleasant as he searched for somewhere else to stand idle. The glimmering floors reminded him of dyed skies, remnants of light swaying underfoot, almost as if wading through an ocean of stars.

The face of Noctis appeared in between their swirls.

Vayne stepped down harder, the exit within sight.

No other souls wandered about in the grassy clearing he found himself at, the sun having set some time ago. It should have been for the best that he found solace while such feelings curled inside his chest, but as Vayne sat on the earth and gazed up at the heavens, he wondered almost childishly if it was possible to pluck the lights from the gods, the warmth they radiated no doubt comforting.

(How awful the sensation of envy was, reminding him of everything he could never once more obtain.)

The man was suffering.

It wasn't hard for Noctis to see, given all his years spent watching others from a distance and huddling to himself when he saw them staring back.

Though he spoke in elegant tongues with a head held high, pride laced through the dark locks that framed his face, a picture of true and ancient regalness, Noctis could see the weariness behind those eyes; however well Vayne thought those feelings hidden and burned. 

Some days, it reminded him of how his father used to be, standing tall and withstanding the weight of the world before the crystals condemned him to the fate all those in their line bore.  

And, on other days, when Noctis gazed at Vayne's form—robust and resilient—he saw the ghost of who he could have been— frail and vulnerable—had it not been for his dear friends to guide him as he waded through the waters of the night.

(Maybe it was simply pity he felt for the man.

Or maybe he just wanted to help out a kindred spirit.)

It was natural to desire the death of a reflection.

Though it mirrored the mourning of the soul it copied, it was nothing but a false imitation, meant only to deceive and prolong its life in the shadows.

The swords around Vayne reminded Noctis of the halos the saints wore in the books he saw, their faces serene in the face of turmoil, long having accepted their fate. 

And at the same time, it was comforting, hearing and feeling a heart so much like his own. Though foreign, the melody it drummed was familiar enough, a soothing balm to the frigid isolation that lay frozen deep within his—their chests.

A king should never kneel, had been said once, but by whom he could no longer remember. 

Vayne struck as Noctis watched.

There was a terrible cry, and the enemies behind the boy vanished, withering to dust. The man did not offer him a hand up, but Noctis could feel it in the way Vayne's head turned back slightly, briefly inspecting the injuries the prince had obtained.

Noctis rose to his feet, brushing his pants off with a small laugh, one that he had learned from Prompto, "I'm not made of glass, y'know?"

He could hear the eye roll, "One would be led to believe otherwise, Noctis." Vayne faced forward once more, his figure comforting against the desolate landscape. "Their reinforcements will arrive long before ours."

Noctis called for the royal arms, the swords faintly glowing as they haloed around him. "We can take them."

"Hm," there was a smile hidden in Vayne's tone, no longer retaining the harshness it had so many moons ago, "Arrogance suits you rather well."

Their hearts beat as one, the martyrs' gods in their new land.

"Yeah," Noctis said as he readied himself, Vayne mirroring him. "Thought we could match."

It was still far too early to tell whether envy would win and rot the light on their blades till it tore apart the skies.

But for the moment, as they echoed the hidden desires they longed for, perhaps it was possible to imagine the bond they could weave together, the unwritten time granting them one last wish.