bookshelves loom, and lighting chants ( it’s late , it’s late ). as twilight punctures stability, the world becomes a mirage — an authority of the night as it channels the room and skims drooping eyelids. a network of lethargy flutters about the posture of the youth with each blink, so young and blameless ( as were we all ). tamper with fate the immortal shall, an eccentric insult to the decay of memory. the young prince shall forget his face — his name — every time he is acquainted with the phenomena of dreams; body stolen from reality, and replaced with inertia. ( the boy is not to move again , until morning ). such is the consequence of his precocious disorder, not a mistake of his age. if he does not escape his visions, how will the chosen fulfill his calling? the accursed must lend a hand.

“ i don’t … hate you , ardyn —— but everyone else tells me i should . ”

nonsense was his confession, a revelation of his fatigue. ‘ hush now , you’ve not told a soul about my little visits . but you will come to hate me , that much is foretold . ’ corruption smooths over the boy’s forehead, splay of onyx hair divided between fingers. soft lashes assume the tenderness of ardyn’s gesture, displacing youth’s consciousness to the pillow on which he rests. the once exuberant hues of a child born to purpose now hide beneath a veil of respite. it must trouble the boy, to see his father so tense. little does the king know who situates himself nearest the innocent, vulnerable and meek to this outsider.

“ noctis —— ” he whispers to everyone and no one, the cosmos and the prophecy. “ — you mustn’t always trust the words of others . you could not begin to understand what even those closest to you may say behind your back . you can trust no one but yourself . ” he pauses; the air is hung with deceit and honesty.

“ —— yourself and i , that is . ”