She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not;
And tenderness—but that I had for her;
Humility—and that I never had.
Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—
I loved her, and destroy'd her!…
Not with my hand, but heart—which broke her heart—
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed
Blood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed—
I saw—and could not stanch it.
("Manfred", Lord Byron)

Somewhere, deep in his dreams, Ravus is with Lunafreya still.

They cannot be called nightmares while she is shrouded in such light, brighter even than the dawn to which he must inevitably awaken. Yet each morning brings with it only the same pang of loss, all the sharper for its repeated recency. But Ravus treasures every tear he must conceal. The pain of parting is the only thing left of Lunafreya now: if he lets time heal his wounds, she will truly leave him.

Sometimes, Ravus relives the first recollection in his long memory. Though he is only a few years older than Lunafreya, he understands quite clearly how precious she is, how sweet, how… perfect. Even surrounded by love, his life felt empty before then, uncertain in its purpose. She fills that inexplicable void simply by existing, and it is with childlike wonder that he enters her newborn presence all over again. But, wandering into the nursery to check on her one night, Ravus finds her missing from her cradle, and wakes in a cold sweat.

Often, they are young, carefree, reveling in the warmth of the temperate Tenebraean summer. But then the sky is darkened by Imperial airships, and they run home hand in hand, only to find their mother already dying. This time, Ravus knows not to let go of Lunafreya, and tightens his grip instead, but she is pulled from his side all the same. And the man escorting her away, leaving Ravus behind to mourn the loss of his homeland alone, is not Regis this time, but Noctis. Rage and indignation remind him of his powerlessness to exact retribution, strongly enough to jolt him back to the present.

Just as frequently, they are adolescent, caught somewhere between ages. Lunafreya is both more a child and more adult than Ravus, still so young, yet already having forged her first covenant. She has been unconscious ever since, so he sits alone by her side, half-hoping for, half-remembering her eyes fluttering open. Her smile is so fragile, and so beautiful, it breaks his heart even to think of it. But this time, it never comes; he must awaken in her stead.

Occasionally, Ravus watches Lunafreya's initiation ceremony, her official ascension to Oracle. She has become a fine maiden, the pride of her people, the subtle envy of women and the secret desire of men. The inherent paradox of purity is such that those who look upon it inevitably wish to profane it. Do they not understand that a mere glance from her direction is enough to bless them more than they deserve? Lunafreya is divinity incarnate, and the light she brings to all mortals—to Ravus—is celestial, undying, eternal. But when he opens his eyes, he finds that it is only frail sunlight.

Most rarely, Lunafreya is dressed for her wedding, asleep on the Lucian throne. Her expression is one of contentment and longing in the same slumbering breath, anticipation of her groom's arrival. Ravus could play the part of king just as well as Noctis, but he dares not move Lunafreya from her place, and he can never sit beside her in such a way. To disturb her rest, or defile that hallowed white satin with untoward and unworthy touch, would corrupt his soul so that he could never join her after death. When he surfaces, his body is tense and aching, gripping the sheets with the force of his resolution, and he must force himself to relax and let go.

Yet, through all these imaginary scenes and many more, Ravus never perceives the faint glow around Lunafreya until their parting is once again at hand. And then he remembers all at once the permanence of their real separation, the finality of her last smile, her dissolution into nothingness, and calls her name as he has never called it before. Lunafreya—stay—oh Sister, please—I beg of you! One final moment, one last goodbye, one more chance to bare whatever is left of his heart: that is all Ravus ever asks, but it is never granted. They must part, again and again, in more ways than he cares to count, and he always awakens alone.

But perhaps that is for the best. No one else should ever see him cry; only Lunafreya could ever soothe his heart. Even at his most upset, her honeyed words were always enough to calm him down again, the solemn tenderness of her warmth enough to bear him up halfway to the stars. Even if, once the Empire took them into custody, he could never bring himself to speak aloud of any sentiment as soft as love. (But then, she never did—never could—return it in quite the same way.)

This time, it is barely daybreak, though the nights have grown long enough lately that the light is no longer an accurate measure of time. In all likelihood, Ravus has slept later than he intended already. Rolling out of bed with a great effort, he moves through his morning ritual as if in a trance, images of Lunafreya still shimmering behind his eyes. For all the hollowness he feels inside, his body seems heavier than usual today, weighed down by immeasurable longing and grief.

Ravus ignores it as best he can. Someday, they will be together again.

Once all else is done, he affixes his armor to his magitek prosthetic after a brief hesitation and takes his leave. He may mean for this detour to be a peaceful communion with whatever part of his sister lingers in the sylleblossoms, but he of all people should know that the Empire has a way of disrupting plans. And longer nights mean stronger daemons, if this takes any more time than he expects.

Outside, the morning air is as brisk as his pace, but Ravus barely feels it, still absorbed in thoughts and memories as he makes his way to his destination. There is time enough for one final farewell, as he can never deliver in dreams; then he will depart, in all likelihood never to return. Given that the Empire has ordered that he be put to death, his presence in Tenebrae endangers all his people, and he has already stayed longer than is advisable.

Coming to a halt in the center of Lunafreya's timeless garden, Ravus tilts his head back to regard the sky. The pure perfume of sylleblossoms wreathes reassuringly around him, a stark contrast to the stench of blood and darkness to which Ravus has become accustomed. Closing his eyes, he drinks in the clear dawn breeze, feeling it absolve him of countless sins—all for the love of Lunafreya.

He was always willing to take any burden upon his own shoulders if it meant keeping his sister's soul untainted, often going behind her back to act in her best interests if she refused to do so herself. Ravus finds himself hopelessly lost without her, and the necessity of protecting her, to guide him. But amid her favorite flowers, if he concentrates, he can feel her watching over him, her gaze the same shade as the lightening heavens. Perhaps if he asks her to grant him clarity, she will answer his prayers, as no god ever has or ever could… yet the presence he has come to sense inspires too much foreboding to be hers.

"I thought I might find you here."

Ravus opens his eyes again as a familiar voice comes from some distance behind him, and turns to face his unwanted visitor. "Chancellor Izunia," he says stiffly, scowling. He has never been one for entertaining unexpected company, least of all his, but ignoring the likes of him has always brought more trouble than it is worth. "What do you want?"

"Ah, how kind of you to ask," says Ardyn, straightening up from a mocking bow with a smile and an unnecessary flourish. "However, I think you'll find that what I want is a very long story, and it doesn't concern you in any case. The question is, what do you want?"

"I want you to leave me alone," retorts Ravus, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword in a subtle threat.

"Oh, but that wouldn't be fair to you," says Ardyn, ignoring the gesture so thoroughly that he actually saunters forward a few steps. "I've also come to deliver a friendly warning, you see. Wouldn't you like to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"One always has a choice."

Ravus narrows his eyes. Ardyn is pretending to be innocent again, or rather, pretending to pretend. He has never concealed his scheming tendencies, but discerning his motives through so many layers of deception—not to mention senseless whimsy—has never been easy. Really, he is more mirage than man. "Tell me."

Bowing his head briefly, Ardyn begins pacing. "The Empire intends to send daemons after you," he says. "I imagine they'll lay waste to Tenebrae as soon as they're released. And you too, if you're still here." He stops, glancing up at Ravus. "Assuming, of course, you don't turn yourself in to me first."

Ravus lets out a short exhalation, half a humorless chuckle. "Then you are to be my executioner, I presume."

Ardyn laughs, as if the very idea is ludicrous. "I may be Imperial Chancellor," he says, "but the Empire does not control me any more than it has ever controlled you. Fear not; I haven't come here to kill you."

Crossing his arms, Ravus searches Ardyn's face for any hint of untruth, but finds none. Still, his relaxed posture, the upturned corner of his mouth, and the gleam in his amber eyes—almost gold in this light, yet inexplicably full of darkness—are more than enough to hint at an ulterior motive. "I have no reason to believe you."

"But of course you do," returned Ardyn, tilting his head. "You're so fond of telling anyone who will listen that you have a calling. Dying here and now, or soon, would cut that tragically short. And who am I to get in the way of destiny?"

Ravus's lip twitches in an automatic snarl, and his grip tightens on his saber. How dare he speak of destiny at a time like this? "Who indeed."

"Why, Commander," says Ardyn, feigning surprise. "Or should I say, former Commander—really, I think I'll just call you Ravus, if you don't mind." But, predictably, he does not wait for approval before he continues: "What reason could I possibly have to oppose fate?"

"I wouldn't know," says Ravus coldly. "But you do have a tendency to interfere in situations that have nothing to do with you. Such as this one."

"Oh, Ravus," says Ardyn, spreading his arms. "It may not be obvious to the casual observer, but I think you'll find that almost everything in this world has something to do with me. Those of your exalted lineage more than most."

His meaning cannot be mistaken. Ravus tenses, Lunafreya's body flashing through his mind like lightning, her blood falling on his soul like rain. He knows better than to think Ardyn had nothing to do with her death, but he forces the burning down until he feels only ice inside. "Those of my lineage?" asks Ravus, voice hushed and tremulous. "What did you do to Lunafreya?"

"Oh dear," says Ardyn, glancing down as if speaking to himself, but his expression is one of irrepressible amusement. "Well now, it seems I've let something slip. Nothing indecorous, I assure you," he adds, looking up at Ravus again in artificial sincerity. "I hardly touched her."

"But you did touch her."

"In a manner of speaking," says Ardyn, evasive as ever, and a twisted smile plays about his lips. "But more to the point, she touched me." Ardyn takes off his hat as if to pay his respects, but the wistful remembrance on his face is a cruel parody of that in Ravus's heart. "Luna was such a dear, sweet girl, you know. I've never seen anyone more selfless, or half as eager to please. I'm sure our Chosen King would have been a very lucky man."

Ravus takes a deep breath, slowly in, then out all at once. Ardyn is a master of illusion not only in form, but in fantasy: he reveals little at first, observing the conclusions to which his adversaries jump, and then plays on their assumptions. "Noctis was fortunate to have secured her affections," mutters Ravus, glancing away. He has never been especially adept at concealing his emotions, but he cannot give Ardyn the satisfaction of conclusive proof. Even that is enough for someone so observant to work with, but it is better than losing his temper altogether.

Replacing his hat on his head, Ardyn ducks back into Ravus's field of vision, looking at him sideways to examine his expression. After a pause, he chuckles, as if having found whatever he was looking for. "I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but…" He straightens up, leaning in as if about to impart a secret. "Green is an awful color on you."

"Don't misunderstand," snaps Ravus, taking a couple steps back. "I loathe you, but I envy no man."

"Oh?" returns Ardyn. "Not even Noctis? You needn't lie to impress me, you know." He begins his pacing again, gesturing to no one. "Jealous brothers always detest their sisters' husbands, and sometimes even seek to eliminate them. But you make no secret of your desire to replace h—"

"Even if I envy Noctis," interrupts Ravus, raising his voice to talk over Ardyn's offensive babbling, "he is said to be the Chosen King. And if the legends are true, he is more than a man." He does not normally resort to arguing semantics, but through his pointed and persistent implications, Ardyn has effortlessly instilled in him a kind of restless insecurity the like of which he has never felt… and refuses to understand.

Ardyn senses Ravus's unrest, judging by the momentary flicker of satisfaction across his face, but thankfully leaves it unacknowledged. "You're right, of course," he says. "My mistake. But do you believe those legends?"

"Lunafreya did."

Ardyn peers at Ravus closely. Too closely. "Is that why you came here?" he asks. "To seek her counsel, and ask her guidance from beyond the grave? To partake of her piety? Or perhaps," he adds, stare sharpening inscrutably, "you came to beg the lovely Luna's forgiveness for your greatest failure yet."

Ravus's body seizes up, then jolts to action, reacting as though Ardyn's words were a threat. Shifting into a combat stance, he slides his saber an inch or two out of its scabbard before he registers that he has moved at all. "Don't say her name!"

He is not bluffing, and they both know it. Yet Ardyn simply regards him for a few silent moments, completely—and infuriatingly—unperturbed. "Your beloved sister, then," he says, with the merest hint of a sneer. "And Noctis's betrothed… at least, till death did them part. Better?"

Even as Ardyn speaks, Ravus shakes his head vehemently. "Even death cannot part them," he says, spitting out the bitter words. "Lunafreya cannot rest until Noctis's calling, too, is fulfilled. Their fates must remain intertwined until then." Ravus bows his head, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I can only hope he proves himself worthy of her sacrifice."

"If you truly believe that Noctis is the One True King, then you should have nothing to fear," says Ardyn. "After all, what could possibly be more powerful than the will of the gods who chose him? Your sister certainly seemed to have faith."

"Too much so," says Ravus. "Enough for the both of us."

"And now you're left to carry the burden all alone," says Ardyn, blinking lazily. "For now, at least. Will you name your daughter 'Lunafreya', and allow her to carry the same burden her namesake once bore? Or will you be forever dissatisfied that the original is beyond your reach, and let her blood run dry along with yours?"

"Our blood is a curse," says Ravus, glaring. "I have no wish to pass it on." It is more information than he owes, but he has never found a faster way to rid himself of Ardyn than to indulge him.

Ardyn nods. "I see," he says. "So you've resigned yourself to solitude. That's a good thing." He crosses his arms. "The fewer goodbyes one has to say, the sooner one can leave. Perhaps that's why your sister offered none to you in her last moments."

Ravus's heart freezes in his chest an instant before icy rage floods his veins. "What?"

"You must have been beside yourself with worry that day," continues Ardyn. "Yet, even as you moved heaven and earth to reach her side, she didn't spare her would-be knight in shining armor so much as a thought. In the end, I heard she spoke only of her King and his Ring."

"You heard?" roars Ravus, saber leaping out of its sheath as if by its own will, and his feet carry him a few more steps forward—but Ardyn stands his ground. "You heard? Don't lie to me, you bastard! You killed Lunafreya!"

"Now, Ravus," says Ardyn, raising his arms as if in surrender, but does not so much as glance at the blade now pointed at his throat. "I know this might be difficult for you, but do try to be reasonable. Your sister was destined to die from the beginning, and you know it." His eyes glint: who am I to get in the way of destiny? "How could anyone possibly have saved her, if even her stalwart brother failed?"

A spark of fury thrills through Ravus's magitek arm and rattles his sword, and he holds his breath. Were they not standing in Lunafreya's garden, he might try to strike Ardyn down then and there and avenge her, but turning this particular meadow into a battlefield would tarnish all his memories of happier times. Staying his hand takes all his concentration, and he can make no reply in her defense.

"You did understand the price of the covenant, did you not?"

Ravus grits his teeth. "Yes, but—"

"Then you know your sister's demise was no more my fault than yours, or the gods'," interrupts Ardyn, raising his eyebrows. "A comparatively swift death, if not an altogether painless one, can only be considered a blessing. Otherwise, who can say how much longer she might have suffered?"

Breathing labored with the effort of restraint, Ravus closes his eyes and tries to imagine the warmth of Lunafreya's touch to calm himself down… but all that comes to mind is her corpse, cold and limp in his arms. "You should be proud of your sister's sacrifice, Ravus," says Ardyn, and Ravus opens his eyes at the sound of his name. "She knew full well the fate of the Oracle, and embraced it willingly instead of clinging to life. Do try to respect her decisions, hm?"

A hot tear streaks down Ravus's cheek, and he shifts in place. Her decision was not to die, but to save the world in so doing. If Ardyn killed her before her time… The tip of Ravus's sword blurs and wavers in his vision, inching closer to Ardyn's throat, but he only angles his jaw slightly to avoid the saber's edge.

"My, but she was a stubborn one, wasn't she?" asks Ardyn, his light and conversational tone a stark contrast to his purposely painful phrasing. Yet his eyes are clear and keenly intelligent, no hint of coldness or cruelty in their depths—only a deep and dreadful curiosity, mingling with genuine joy. In a way, the patronizing softness of his expression makes his words all the harsher: "Surefooted and sensible, but terribly, terribly headstrong. But of course you knew that already, having tried so desperately to stop her." Ardyn shakes his head. "Alas, it seems she loved her destiny more than she loved you."

At Ardyn's words, a sudden chill passes over Ravus like the shadow of death, taking his breath away with it as it departs. This is not Lunafreya's presence, but a frigid premonition, a certainty he did not feel so strongly before now… and the assurance of purpose he so earnestly sought. Ravus's wrath is no longer directionless, his focus no longer scattered: fate has shown him what he must do.

"Yes, she did," growls Ravus, with a tremendous effort. "And if she can learn to love it, then so can I." Destiny and duty demand, with a new authority that cannot be denied, that he do everything in his power to bring the Empire down—even if that means accepting the divine rule of an unproven king, and taking an indirect role in Ardyn's defeat. Having acted against Lunafreya's beliefs and wishes in her life, Ravus can never be so selfish after her death. Especially not after Ardyn has so readily proven himself an enemy.

"Oh, so you've decided not to kill me?" asks Ardyn, raising his eyebrows, as Ravus swallows his thirst for violence and forces his saber back into its sheath. "A pity. It's a lovely day for it."

"I intend to leave your death to the One True King," says Ravus, ignoring Ardyn's inane yet somehow ominous addition. "Noctis is Lunafreya's chosen one as well as the Crystal's, and… I must honor that."

Ardyn gives a faint. "Ah, so that's what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful, and Ravus realizes all at once that Ardyn spent their entire conversation establishing his allegiance until he could coerce him into stating his opposition outright. (Damn him.) "But I fear I've overstayed my welcome. It's been a pleasure, but I think I had best be off."

But as Ardyn readjusts his hat and turns his back in preparation to depart, Ravus takes a step forward. "Wait."

"Are you so loath to part ways?" asks Ardyn, glancing over his shoulder. "And here I thought you preferred total isolation." Though Ravus offers neither response nor explanation, Ardyn waits patiently for him to find his voice.

"Did she suffer?" The words fall from his lips before he can think better of them, and Ardyn turns around to look at him for a long moment. This is one of the only times Ravus has seen him utterly serious, all signs of gaiety absent from his countenance.

Finally, Ardyn turns his back again. "No more than you are now."

"Then she must have died in agony."

But Ardyn shakes his head. "You should know by now that living is agony, dear Ravus," he says, lifting his hand in a jaunty wave. "Don't forget that." And, rather than walk away, he vanishes on the spot, leaving only an outline of his body behind before the sunlight melts that away too. Ravus fixes his eyes unblinkingly on the space he used to occupy, clenching his fists in lingering frustration: was it wrong to let him go?

Forcing his mind to uncoil from around the thought, Ravus contemplates the perennial sylleblossoms instead. Lunafreya cultivated them just as she cultivated his compassion and the faith of her people, so that living was not agony until death took her from their midst. Now, the world stands on the verge of total darkness, with only the faintest glimmer to guide them. And if Lunafreya can no longer make it shine more brightly, Ravus will have to do what he can to purify his blackened soul enough to reflect it in her stead.

For as long as he lives. For as long as he loves her.

Forever.