no masters or kings when the ritual begins;

[trash_uncle]

'I've never been called 'Your Majesty' before; Would you do me the honor?'

He hadn't expected the man to agree: but then again, everyone had their breaking point. He knew that better than most.

"This world means nothing to me--"

The ring had been held out then and what a small, tempting thing it was, the small gem being the focal point of the tableau painted before him. A man whose love and loyalty to a single person had eclipsed his care for the rest of the world. Pride cracking and breaking, choosing to prioritize a man's life over that of the world and its future, offering out the object needed for the Chosen King's ascension to their enemy. Shakily dipping to a knee, lips pressing together in a tight line, as though struggling, before whispering out:

"Your Majesty."

Choosing one life over the entire world.

It wasn't expected. But in a way, Ardyn preferred that. Surprises were few and far between, this far into his life.

He'd planned on leaving the young retainer bloodied and dying: a physical motive for the prince to ascend, rather than continue prolonging this game. (Emerge from the crystal and be struck down, thwarting the gods' prophecies, or finally be killed and earn oblivion himself. Either option, he was looking forward to.) But now-- now there was another possibility.

As the battered man kneels, ring held out as an offering of loyalty, Ardyn takes a careful step forward, rolling the words over in his mind. 'Your Majesty-' It struck him somewhere in the chest, thrumming like a string had been plucked, reverberating out and into his limbs, his fingertips. A numb, tingling feeling of sheer pleasure at the unexpected acquiescence. He could still kill the man. Still let Noctis ascend. Or--

(take it for yourself. rule as you were always meant to, as the gods denied you. take the ring, the crystal-- take the man. take what the so-called chosen had, make it your own.)

The thoughts echo harshly in his mind- his own, or those of the scourge and darkness manifest within himself, he's never known or cared. The result is the same- nodding along as though to suggestions only he can hear as he carefully reaches out to pluck the ring from Ignis's offering hand. "And I suppose you'd be my first sworn subject, then." With little fanfare, he slips the ring onto one of his own fingers- a small flash of light attempts to gleam from the gem held between the small ornate setting, but it dies quickly enough, coated with a light film of a dark, sludge-like secretion.

Ardyn's lips quirk up, head tilted slightly. This would be an even better offense to the gods and the Kings of Lucis still trapped within the realm of the crystal and the ring.

He holds his hand out towards where Ignis kneels, as though prompting a formal kiss to the gem set on his finger. "Swear it, and your little princeling will go unharmed. You'll have my royal oath." Again, there's that thrum of excitement, of pleasure-- one he'd hardly felt in centuries.

Oh, yes. He could quickly get used to this.

Comments

[trash_uncle]

"Does it not?" There's a faux-questioning lilt to his voice at that- as though he already knows the answer, and just wants to wrench words out of the man captive and submitting before him. "Then, my dear little hawk: What would you say does?"

With a flourish, he's crouching on the balls of his feet, one hand clasping at ignis's chin dangerously to hold it up and keep eyes contact: his own sharp, golden stare matching with the verdent green offered. He's leaned forward slightly, and the layers of his clothing- scarf, jacket, vest, everything- practically mold his silhouette, give him the appearance of a raven trying to choose whether to peck out one eye over the other.

"Is it that Gods' acknowledgement?" His words are icy, grip growing firmer for a moment, before relaxing. "Or simply a possession of the right objects? Or is it the loyalty displayed by subjects?" His head tilts, voice growing a bit more careful- something of a razor's edge in sound alone, barely held back. "Aldercapt certainly believed he could become King... and I believe before he had that unfortunate incident at the treaty signing, so did our dear High Commander."

He brings his opposite hand up, using his knuckles to stroke down Ignis's chin- and being sure to dig in with the one bearing the ring. "This trinket in particular seems to be what most of them fixate on."

Finally, he lets go, standing back up again and staring at where the man kneels, as though considering. "Now, now. Finish your sentences. Because I certainly do prefer it."

[handsprings]

He isn't sure — at all — where he'd been going with his previous train of thought, foresight allowing only for a few seconds here and there before his brain catches up to him and screams that he cease this at once, keep his mouth closed; with the other man so close to him, looming above and around him he swears he could count every individual hair follicle that shadows the line of his jaw, every pore from the line of his brow to the bridge of his nose and more still, damn near see his own reflection in those bright, yellow eyes.

If there were ever such a thing as personal space, Ardyn Izunia has never possessed knowledge of it, or perhaps he simply delights in invading others' so far beyond an acceptable level of discomfort that the boundary line has all but been obliterated. A fifty-fifty chance on either, though he would put every gil to his name on the latter if pressed.

The fingers that grip the very edge of his chin may as well be talons with the force put behind them, the way they feel as though they could pierce pale, beauty-marked skin with the smallest effort, the slightest shift of pressure from one finger to the other and back again. His attempts at maintaining his own stability without lending any of it to the man that now holds him captive are becoming … a bit futile, fruitless in a sense that he knows he will not win this, no matter how he chooses to look at it. The usurper was won on a technicality, and by his own submission has sealed his own fate, even if it keeps Noctis from his, and keeps him safe.

I am sorry, his consciousness calls out again to the surrounding darkness as a small sound escapes him, a breathless and devastatingly helpless thing.

It takes everything in him not to pitch forward when the other stands so abruptly, swallowing hard around the lump settled in his throat, suspiciously close to the same point at which the ring had dug in. He doesn't make an attempt to give an answer to those first few questions, well aware of rhetoric when he hears it — and so he focuses on the last little bit, the way his body goes numb at the implication, a peripheral sort of tingling as a pinched nerve recovering sensation.

He swallows again, throat dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and making speech difficult. "Perhaps if I knew of something you … desired." He pauses, still not looking back up now that his focus isn't being forced upward, the ground beneath his knees just as hard and unforgiving as the man in front of him. "We could find a way to celebrate your ascension as you see fit."

Well. There goes the fucking neighborhood.