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burstmodes) wrote2020-02-04 10:28 am
burstmodes) wrote2020-02-04 10:28 am
burstmodes) wrote2020-02-04 10:28 am
reeler )
mermaid au.
For the most part, he was content with his life, growing strong on shellfish and the occasional wayward land animal. They sang deep in the roots of the trees that grew from the water, lazily spending hours combing through their hair when they sunbathed on particularly bright days or straightening their scales to race across the pools. When the shadows of the world fell upon them and their home, Prompto was still a finling—too young to know better and only somewhat educated in the ways of humans. Often, those on two legs would come to hunt or sit on the cusp of the lake and try to lure fish to them with invisible string, and some of the more daring ones would stand knee-deep off the shore like they were inviting trouble.
Prompto preferred the quiet, preferred to watch from a distance, but on a rather nice day, he notices something different about the ones that visit the Vesperpool. A man and a boy with pale skin and hair as inky as the deepest waters wandered close. (Some part of him envied it, constantly wishing he could blend more like those of his shoal and always coating his fair hair with mud to lessen the sheen of it in the sun.) The others swam and sank to the bottom to get away from them to observe at a distance, but it's the younger one that seems to call to him, peeking from nearby reeds as the hours drag on and they catch fish with their trinkets and say nothing in the silence of the Myrlwood. When the man leaves, Prompto slips closer, silent as he pulls gently at the line in the water and watches the colorful bulb bob from underneath. He does it again, trying not to laugh and chasing after it as it swims away from him, and when he reaches up to grab at it, fingers graze his in the chill of the water and jerk back.
He jerks too, the heat of that touch sinking through to his chest, and he nearly outs himself. Yet, he clamps his lips shut and forces himself to settle deep beneath the rickety dock, gazing up at the blurred image of a face contorted in surprise. There's the muffled sound of a voice calling a word, a name, a distraction long enough that he can cut the string with his too-sharp teeth to steal the floating ball, and when Prompto presses his ear to the cool wood holding his treasure, he lets it wash over him like the tide.
Noctis. Noctis. Noctis.
The years fall away, but Prompto never forgets. Even when his family moves on to find safer waters, he always returns to that spot once a year, desperately hoping to see the man and the boy. But there's always nothing. A sinking disappointment, better to forget because he doesn't belong to that world. Still, there is always the choice of joining them, a right given to every finling before adulthood and one many decline—not all though, for that is how humans have come to live on land. (At least, those are the stories passed from parent to child.) And many seem surprised that Prompto accepts so quickly when it comes his turn to choose, yearning for freedom and the chance to see more. To see a dark-haired boy and tell him his own name.
His first day as a human is... rough. Walking takes time to grow accustomed to, and after a while, he realizes that if he just barrels forward, running is much, much easier. He learns that money is required for most things too, something called a gil that he collects from selling bits and pieces of things he'd hoarded over the years from the Vesperpool: shiny rings, glittering rocks, cups and dishes that shone as bright as his hair. It's enough to take him far from the Myrlwood, traveling East and deeper into the cities of humans. Conversing with them is difficult, so he keeps to himself most of the time and only inquires about the name when he thinks he can trust the person not to steer him in the wrong direction. For the most part, it yields nothing. No one has heard of him, knows of him, and the more time that passes, the more sullen he becomes until he's wandering through the streets of Lestallum.
There's a parade or a party taking place, their lanterns already lit in an attempt to make the city much more festive. It's in the throng of people that he hears whispers about a king and his son, a prince. Prince Noctis. Noctis...? Prompto turns and asks where to find them, him, but there's too much excitement to get a definitive answer, pushing through to the sides of the street and trying to peer over everyone waving their arms and cheering. What was so important about this? What was going on? There had been talk of war lately, but Prompto knew nothing of those intricacies and cared too little to ask further. Was this normal? Why was his heart racing? A glance to the left and — ]
Noctis! [ He shouts it out before he can stop himself, earnest and pleading, and his fingers are reaching for the chain around his neck, for the plastic lure he'd fashioned into a necklace to keep safe when he swam. The bright colors had dulled considerably over the years, but he'd taken such good care of it... ] Noctis!
[ Prompto makes an effort to show it off, as if he would remember that day as vividly as he did upon seeing it, but someone knocks into him hard enough to cause the chain to snap, arm flinging out and his treasure with it before it slips from his fingers and goes flying. He watches it sail and land and hit, his heart sinking into his chest as he yells Noctis' name over and over again, and he's so desperate to rescue it that he tries climbing over the barricade and immediately falls face-first onto the cobbled road and knocks himself out. ]
no subject
Yet Noctis could not remember a time where anything had felt more real than those few moments where his fingers had sunk into the cool depths of the water and had found, rather than the silvery brush of fish scales or rubbery seaweed, the gentle, softest brush of a hand just like his own. His father had called him quickly then, intent on getting them back to the castle before dark, but Noctis had wanted to stay. He had wanted to bury his face in the water, to stare down and see just what it had been that not only touched him, but--stole his favorite lure, the last one his mother had bought for him before her death.
Though he'd returned to the spot a few times afterward, he'd never found the thing again. Perhaps his fishing line had snapped when he'd reeled it back, or maybe it had tangled into the sand or the rocks. Maybe that colorful bobble was lost forever now, though he always hoped he might find it washed up into the rushes or lying nestled in the sand. His father worked adamantly against his suspicions; there are no people in the ocean, the king had assured him firmly. You are imagining things.
Years and years pass, and Noctis' carefree, happy childhood slowly melts into one full of rigidity and structure, one tempered by the growing discomfort of rivaling kingdoms and the threat of a real war. (War, as terrifying as it may be, is another one of those things he's only really read about, and never really bothered to pay attention to.) The king allows those friendly castles to send their daughters for Noctis' perusal--he finds little interest in any of the princesses. They just don't draw him in, don't understand his wry sense of humor or the way he takes solace in simple, quiet things.
They just don't feel real. That hand in the water, even if it really had just been some dream or story of his younger years--that was real.
It's another one of those name day celebrations that the kingdom puts together every year, with the bright glowing lanterns that look like stars in the sky; it's supposed to be some kind of literal play on his name, and Noctis has always liked looking at them, even if he dislikes all the sitting still and the prim, pristine dinners and dances. He doesn't really feel like he's some light in the night for anyone. He doesn't even know if he'll be a good leader.
Normally there's the quiet clapping, the praise and gentle applause from the crowds as he walks his way down the long path from the end of the castle town back up to the great gates--normally he smiles, a little bashful, and makes his way slowly, nodding and bowing his head to the commoners pressed up against the barriers that keep the path clear.
This year, there's a voice, an urgent voice, squawking his name--Noctis! Noctis!--and he whips his head around. The guard nearest to him steps in closer.
An arm shoots out, and then a whole body, and there's a clattering, like glass, on the road; his boots stop, his hands lift up. And there, right out of reach, is that beautiful glass bulb from his mother, the one that had gotten lost in the waters so long ago.
What is this feeling? His eyes begin to water, soft, meandering tears that threaten to slide down his cheeks and wrap around his chin. Yet there's still somewhere there, someone sprawled across the cobblestone, a bit of blood smeared down their temple.
One of the guards lifts a spear in warning. Noctis puts his arm out, firm and straight.]
Take him to the castle. We must tend these wounds.
[ The crowd quiets, though there's a few soft, appreciative murmurs. The prince is so kind, someone says. Praise Prince Noctis! a man shouts.
And Noctis bends to scoop up that lure, holding it gently between his palms as the guards haul up the injured boy, and carry him back with them to the castle.
He's still holding it in his hands, careful and gentle, when he comes to see if the boy is awake, from where he lays on his back on a chaise lounge in one of the sitting rooms.]