[Memory returns to him, sinking into the crevices of his mind, easily slotting back into place. He remembers his death at Noctis’ hands, just as he remembers the strange grouping of foreign experiences he held, the ones that didn’t hail from Eos, and yet he carried them all the same. More than a year of displaced experiences — of thinking that his star was destroyed, of feigning living a mundane life, pretending to adjust. The people he had met, the battles fought, those he would call enemies, and the one man he would call a friend. (Maybe more than that, his wretched heart tells him, but he sets aside regrets with the same practice he had in those years of darkness, thinking of nothing more than fighting Noctis, than finally, finally ending it all.)
Now that he is here, what was there to expect? He did not know if this was some fallacy, or some trick of the gods. If it was, it was a rather dusty and unfunny one, he thinks, as he nearly stumbles over uneven ground on this pathway made of stone. The torchlight is all that guides him, and it is all that Ardyn follows; he feels his magic still thrumming in his veins (no longer coupled with the Starscourge — how freeing, how terrible) but does not call forth a weapon. Not unless such a thing is needed.
A hand presses against the cold walls of the short corridor leading to the main passageway, and Ardyn thinks he may hear footsteps from around the corner. The flickering of shadow stretching into view, drawn by some manner of figure blocking the torchlight. And yet he cannot bring himself to feel tense or wary, instead only that annoying feeling of exhaustion and frustration running through his bones.
It’s with some display of stubbornness — of daring fate to throw whatever it must at him, he doesn’t care — that hastens his step. He decides to meet the individual first, surprising them before he can be surprised, and so Ardyn walks faster until he’s right at that corner, turning sharp.
And who he sees, a shadowed silhouette with his back against the weak flames of a torch, nearly stills his heart.]
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Now that he is here, what was there to expect? He did not know if this was some fallacy, or some trick of the gods. If it was, it was a rather dusty and unfunny one, he thinks, as he nearly stumbles over uneven ground on this pathway made of stone. The torchlight is all that guides him, and it is all that Ardyn follows; he feels his magic still thrumming in his veins (no longer coupled with the Starscourge — how freeing, how terrible) but does not call forth a weapon. Not unless such a thing is needed.
A hand presses against the cold walls of the short corridor leading to the main passageway, and Ardyn thinks he may hear footsteps from around the corner. The flickering of shadow stretching into view, drawn by some manner of figure blocking the torchlight. And yet he cannot bring himself to feel tense or wary, instead only that annoying feeling of exhaustion and frustration running through his bones.
It’s with some display of stubbornness — of daring fate to throw whatever it must at him, he doesn’t care — that hastens his step. He decides to meet the individual first, surprising them before he can be surprised, and so Ardyn walks faster until he’s right at that corner, turning sharp.
And who he sees, a shadowed silhouette with his back against the weak flames of a torch, nearly stills his heart.]
X’rhun?