Noctis looks to Shiro briefly, nodding solemnly before his gaze falls to the Ring. He wishes that it was anything but this place that he saw. His prison for the next who knows how long.
Deep down, he just wishes it was over already.
"Heard you from the start." He says, voice raspy even in this place. Who knew how long he was here in reality? Days? Weeks? Months? ...Years? "Lot less clear than in here."
There's not really much to stare at other than his own hands or Shiro, so he closes his eyes instead. "...That man. He's my uncle," he begins to explain, before suddenly the recollections start again. This time, though, there is an image of the Citadel's entrance. The four from earlier, younger by likely months—far less scarred physically and emotionally. Noctis stands with an elderly gentleman on the stairs leading to the entrance, his father, as the former king places a hand on Noct's shoulder—the very same Ring he now bore glimmering in the light of a midday sun on the hand that holds his walking cane.
It switches then to a meeting room of sorts,an even younger Noctis—somewhere in his teens—approaching a rapidly-aging Regis, his Shield standing guard beside him. Clarus shares a rare smile as Noctis' voice rings out, "Gladio, your dad... I'm grateful to him."
And lastly, it switches to a scene of Tenebrae set ablaze as the Empire attacks. An even younger Noctis—eight at the time—being carried by a much younger looking Regis past a screaming Ravus, yet the young prince only had eyes for the blond girl his dad was trying to lead away by the hand. A few years older, far more accepting of her fate as she lets go. 'Luna!'
Ignis, wishing him luck before they split up in a crowd, then turning to face him in a hotel room of sorts. Scarred. Blind.
"I've seen enough lives torn apart or stolen because of him. And just because it's a memory—"
—doesn't mean it's not real, is what he tries to say as he reaches out, too. When the memory resets and Noctis snaps a little as that very hand holds his father's sword again. No. Not again. He can't see this play out again from his own perspective—!
He's so upset that instead of simply fighting, he seems to almost glow with a white light as all of his ancestral weapons float about him. Using each one against a different daemon one-by-one. It's probably pretty terrifying, seeing what he's like in battle when unleashed. Yet he doesn't care to stop.
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Deep down, he just wishes it was over already.
"Heard you from the start." He says, voice raspy even in this place. Who knew how long he was here in reality? Days? Weeks? Months? ...Years? "Lot less clear than in here."
There's not really much to stare at other than his own hands or Shiro, so he closes his eyes instead. "...That man. He's my uncle," he begins to explain, before suddenly the recollections start again. This time, though, there is an image of the Citadel's entrance. The four from earlier, younger by likely months—far less scarred physically and emotionally. Noctis stands with an elderly gentleman on the stairs leading to the entrance, his father, as the former king places a hand on Noct's shoulder—the very same Ring he now bore glimmering in the light of a midday sun on the hand that holds his walking cane.
It switches then to a meeting room of sorts,an even younger Noctis—somewhere in his teens—approaching a rapidly-aging Regis, his Shield standing guard beside him. Clarus shares a rare smile as Noctis' voice rings out, "Gladio, your dad... I'm grateful to him."
And lastly, it switches to a scene of Tenebrae set ablaze as the Empire attacks. An even younger Noctis—eight at the time—being carried by a much younger looking Regis past a screaming Ravus, yet the young prince only had eyes for the blond girl his dad was trying to lead away by the hand. A few years older, far more accepting of her fate as she lets go. 'Luna!'
Ignis, wishing him luck before they split up in a crowd, then turning to face him in a hotel room of sorts. Scarred. Blind.
"I've seen enough lives torn apart or stolen because of him. And just because it's a memory—"
—doesn't mean it's not real, is what he tries to say as he reaches out, too. When the memory resets and Noctis snaps a little as that very hand holds his father's sword again. No. Not again. He can't see this play out again from his own perspective—!
He's so upset that instead of simply fighting, he seems to almost glow with a white light as all of his ancestral weapons float about him. Using each one against a different daemon one-by-one. It's probably pretty terrifying, seeing what he's like in battle when unleashed. Yet he doesn't care to stop.