Chapter Text
The notebook from Umbra sits opened on Luna’s lap, while the letter from Pryna hides in the inner folds of her capelet, its familiar weight resting against her chest. She looks away, towards the horizon. On this day, the dawn ushers in a gentle breeze that sweeps in from the west, smoothing the bumps and peaks along the water’s surface like a comb through fur. That same wind curves through the narrow canals and glides past her, carrying the thick scent of algae and salt.
Their gondola sways from the turbulence, though the shifting proves too slight to unsteady her hand. She refocuses her gaze onto the curt, hastily-scrawled message staring up at her from her lap. Beneath it, on the blank half of the leathery page, Luna writes, Dear Noctis . But on the next line, her pen lingers several seconds too late, drilling an inky hole into the parchment.
From the opposite half of the boat, Gentiana observes her through closed eyes. Her dark hair lifts in the breeze, encircling her shoulders like a shawl. Luna shivers, despite her own covered shoulders; no doubt Gentiana’s presence only worsens the morning chill. “Why does hesitation still your hand?” Gentiana asks. “His is but a simple message.”
“I know it is. But that’s the problem.” Luna sighs as she withdraws her pen. She pouts at the words, re-reading them for what feels like the dozenth, two-dozenth time:
Glad to hear that you made it to Altissia. Ignis says it’s beautiful there. Hope you’re doing well.
-Noctis
After years of these messages, Luna knows to search for the hidden words, the sentiments left unsaid. In this instance, the omissions are glaring. No mention of the recent announcement of their betrothal. No reference to Altissia as the city where they will likely be wed. Luna swipes across the words “hope you’re doing well” with the pad of her thumb. The ink is too dry to smudge, but some of the black seeps into her skin, leaving a barely perceptible stain. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t he mention our engagement?”
“Humans are poor listeners of the heart. The prince knows little of his own desires.” Gentiana offers a smile conveying all the wisdom and prescience afforded to a deity. The words inspire the opposite reaction in Luna, who fails to hide her frown. Such mortal, trivial worries must seem foolish to a goddess. Yet her cryptic response frustrates Luna nonetheless.
The side of the gondola scratches the corner of a stone building as they make a sharp turn, the tight passageway spilling into the vastness of the city harbor. The water glows a warm orange in the light of the waking sun. Some of the color spills onto the opened pages of her book, reminding her of the marmalade she ate with her toast as a child, before the Empire burned the orange groves. She still remembers the way Noctis wrinkled his nose as he scraped the gooey jam off his own bread slice. She also remembers his stuttering, red-faced apology afterwards, upon realizing that Luna prepared the marmalade herself.
Across the harbor, the workers at the dock unspool the rope that will anchor their boat. In the precious few minutes that remain, Luna hastily writes:
I am doing well. How are you? For your sake, I hope Gladiolus is not training you too hard. Altissia is even more beautiful than it appears in photos. It fills me with joy to know that you will soon be able to admire it for yourself.
With love,
Luna
She gives the notebook to Gentiana, who will return it to Umbra during the healing. Their fingers brush as the book exchanges hands; Gentiana’s permafrosted skin yields to Luna's touch, the warmth softening the cold. Upon docking, it's a short walk through the harbor then across an arched bridge till they reach the house. As she crosses the threshold, Luna glances over her shoulder to say goodbye—only to find that Gentiana has already left.
Inside, the air is stagnant, heavy with the odors of blood and feverish sweat. A pair of women, one young and one old, lead Luna to the innermost room of the house. There's a worn bed in the room's farthest corner, and atop the otherwise bare mattress lies a young boy no older than twelve. A folded wet cloth sits on his forehead. He trembles violently, though the room is unbearably hot, and moans from some noxious ailment. Her eyes flicker towards the basket at the foot of the bed, which holds a pile of brittle rags, each one stained the deep red of ripe tomatoes.
Luna takes the boy’s hand within her own and summons a single tendril of healing light, which flows forth like warm honey, sinking beyond the boy’s wounded flesh. Once the light reaches his chest, she senses it almost immediately. The darkness within, the encroaching scourge blotting the stars. It inches up her arm, twisting through her like a fire whirl. Inside it, she feels none of the comforting warmth of the sun; instead, there is only a red fury, the infernal heat, and its promise of destruction.
She bites her inner lip and tries to hide the pain, which of late seems to grow worse with each healing. It feels almost as raw as the first time, when she was but seven years of age. That first pain consumed her in an instant, like a volcanic eruption, all thought smothered in a curtain of smoke and ash. Noctis was asleep at the time, but awoke upon hearing the scream that tore from her throat. Though he pulled at her shoulders, she remained stubbornly curled around his lifeless legs, a hand on each knee as the light drained from her palms. She awoke after a three-day sleep and cried upon seeing Noctis at her bedside, still strapped to his wheelchair. Then there was darkness, and the feeling of his fingers brushing her tousled hair as the tears seeped into her pillow.
Luna drains the last bit of poison from the boy’s body. Though a messy brushstroke of dried blood still clings to his skin, the deep gash that once marred his chest is now smooth and unblemished. The next moments are muddled, like words on a waterlogged page; she remembers only that the young lady wept as the boy's chills faded and the color returned to his freckled cheeks. After a moment of rest, she excuses herself from the house. There’s a slight quiver in her hands as she exits, which she quells through the clenching of her fists.
Outside, the lingering chill melts into a tepid warmth. Visitors and residents alike now crowd the sidewalks, and immediately Luna feels the weight of their admiring stares. She flashes a polite smile and quickens her pace. People whisper as she walks past—gossiping about her engagement, no doubt. As if in confirmation of her thoughts, she hears a hushed “crown city”, spoken just loud enough for her ears to catch. Reminded of the unread letter in her breastpocket, she quickens her pace even further.
The narrow boat dips and rocks from her weight as she takes a tentative step onto the bench and then another to the floor. The lift of the oar brings a spray of cold droplets; when she finally pries the letter from its hiding place, she uses her hands to shield it from the water. The envelope, coated in the waxy veneer of all crown city paper, is plain save for the cartoon sketch of a baby chocobo in the bottom corner. The sight of it always brings a smile to Luna’s lips. She uses her finger to carefully undo the seal and then pinches the papers out from the fold—two sheets this time, less than Luna expects considering the recent news. The stationery is a soft pastel blue, like the picturesque skies in postcards or old paintings. In contrast to Noctis’ uneven half-cursive scrawl, the print on these pages is full of neatly-traced lines and curves. Luna presses the papers flat against her lap and smooths the creases as she begins to read:
So a quick update on the developments from last week. The invitation wasn’t a prank after all! I don’t know if the King had a moment of temporary insanity or what, but for some reason, he really let a total rando like me into the throne room. It’s a good thing Gladio and Iggy were there to do all the talking because I was way, way, way too nervous to say anything other than “hi” and “nice coat.”
Anyway, the King asked us to keep a closer eye on Noct from now on, though he didn’t really say why. Knowing Noct, he probably did something dumb, got caught, and then didn’t tell anyone about it, haha. But I guess this means I’m officially in the group, right? Like “in” in the group. Though I have no idea what I did to deserve it. I mean, as far as bodyguards go, you’d think the army would have tons of guys who are stronger than a puny dude like me, right? I know I’m probably imagining things, but do you think Noct said something to his dad to make the whole thing happen? I dunno. Thinking about it makes my head hurt.
Okay, so I wrote that first page last night before passing out from exhaustion, but I just heard the news this morning and HOLY ****! You and Noct are getting married! And I can go to the wedding and finally meet you in person!
I’m happy for you guys and all, but I was wondering how you feel about it? I know you two have been friends forever, but are you weirded out at all? I tried asking Noct just now, but you know how he is. All the emotional expressiveness of a rock, that prince of ours. I kept asking and asking, but then he gave me this weird look and then walked away without saying anything. I mean, he obviously adores you, so I’m sure he’s excited. He’s probably just in shock or something. I know I am!
This is getting pretty long (as usual) so I’ll end it here. Congrats and see you at the wedding! =D
(100% platonic) Kisses,
Prompto ♥
Luna folds the papers once more, frowning despite her friend’s kind words. She notices a square silhouette wedged in the corner of the envelope and fishes the object out. It’s a polaroid of a square slice of chocolate cake, stacked with layers of mousse and crumb topping. One corner has a noticeable chunk missing. On the back is a message written in marker: Iggy made this cake to celebrate. He should totally bake this for your wedding! With a heaviness in her chest, Luna places the photo and letter back in the envelope, which she then tucks into her pocket. Something about the tone of the letter bothers her, though she does not know why.
She slouches forward, feeling suddenly tired. Her fingers still tremble slightly from the strain of the healing, and now there is a throbbing at her temple to match it. She should feel happy. The empire could have easily chosen a husband far, far worse than Noctis. They will likely lead a happy life together, for however long she has left in this world. And yet her chest seizes at the thought of the wedding, as if her body were trying to collapse inwards. It is a strange circumstance that their reunion should inspire the same feeling as their separation, all those years ago, tears streaming down Noctis’ cheeks as his father carried him farther and farther away, till the iron-plated backs of the Niflheim soldiers obscured them from view.
Noctis, she wonders. Do you hurt as well?