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rose_in_winterCharacter(s): Edge
Rating: G
Contains: Endgame spoilers
Wordcount: 1262
Notes: written for the prompt "regrets"
Betas: N/A
Summary: As he prepares to assume the mantle of King of Eblan in reality as well as name, Edge considers his regrets.
It's not that Edge has been staying away from Eblan. He just hasn't had time to come back, between the underworld and comatose moon people and saving the world.
Except that that's a rank lie, and he was avoiding Eblan.
He didn't want to come back and see memories of his parents everywhere, or listen to Gramps lecture him because he isn't living up to some tradition or another, and worst of all, by far worst of all, he didn't want to look at the thrones where his parents sat and see them empty, and know what a disappointment he was to them.
The homecoming is done, and Gramps has been dispatched to gather whatever it is that Edge needs to review in the morning before he can hold court, and Edge is lurking in the shadows outside the throne room—definitely lurking, because that is something a ninja does, and not at all avoiding having to open that damn door.
He stands there for a long time—he doesn't know how long, but the castle grows quiet around him, and there is no one to see their prince—now their king—staring at a door like it's an insurmountable obstacle. He can slide through spaces that are "too small" for a human to pass through or pick a lock or just plain drift on a smoke spell through the air, but he can't go into this room.
It's stupid. It's the kind of thing Kain would do, stand here brooding, and that thought is horrifying enough that Edge wrenches open the door and ducks inside the moment it occurs to him.
Someone cleaned this room while he was gone, picked up the crumbled masonry from the Red Wings' attacks and repaired the wall. The whole place is swept clean and ready for him tomorrow. His gaze goes to the dais at the far end, drawn like steel to a lodestone, where his parents ruled side by side.
Only his father's throne stands forward now; he strains his eyes in the dark until he just picks out the shadow of his mother's throne, drawn back and draped in dark cloth, at the back of the dais. In his great-grandfather's day and before, the Queen's throne was always to the back; she could listen but not speak. His grandfather married a woman of Fabul who didn't tolerate that and pulled her seat up next to his grandfather's. His parents continued that tradition. When Edge marries, he will do the same; not for him some shrinking violet.
He makes himself put one foot in front of the other until he reaches the dais. The throne has a new cushion. There is nothing left here of his parents.
He folds himself into a kneeling position alongside the throne—he won't take it, not until he has to when he is here tomorrow. And that's the bottom of it all, isn't it? He's five years older than Cecil and has far less experience, because his parents let him run wild and didn't task him with any of the myriad duties a crown prince should perform. They were young when they married, and still young when his grandfather passed away, and his mother had firmly believed that he would have time to learn when he was older and settled.
She wasn't wrong often, and it feels disloyal to think now that she was wrong, but he thinks it anyway. He's going to make an ass of himself and ruin their legacy, and it's not their fault, because he could've chosen to study, but he didn't. He amused himself getting into every tiny nook of the castle and chasing the village girls and did none of his duties, even when he could see that his father was tired and his mother was worried, but they hadn't stopped him.
He'll never have the chance to show them he could be better, because Lugae took them from him.
Edge leans his forehead against the arm of the throne, which is pleasantly cold through his hood. This is all so pointless that he wants to laugh at the same time he wants to cry. Rydia wouldn't be sitting here moping; she's probably already halfway through restoring Mist. Cecil and Rosa have probably already cleared the entire list of decisions that had been awaiting the new King of Baron. And if Yang isn't already current on everything he'll need to run Fabul, his wife will be.
They're all moving forward, and he's sitting in the dark like a child, wishing he could talk to his parents one more time, get just one piece of advice from them.
At the same time, he knows he'll never be the kind of king his father was, because he isn't the kind of man his father was. And maybe that's not so bad; Eblan has been isolated, as all the kingdoms have, and that's part of how Golbez was able to seize all the Crystals. Edge isn't naive enough to think that the alliances he and the others will form will outlive them—maybe as far as their children's generation, but not much farther—but maybe they can make it better for a little while in ways his father couldn't.
He catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and in one fluid motion he is on his feet with his swords drawn. Gramps moves slowly into the shaft of moonlight coming through the high windows, his hands held up and empty.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only wanted to see if you were well."
Edge sheathes his swords. "Be careful, Gramps. Who'll chastise me if I don't realize it's you sneaking up on me?"
"A worthy question, Your Majesty." Gramps draws near, and falls silent as he looks at the throne.
"I didn't want to be here for the first time tomorrow," Edge mutters, as the silence spreads between them.
Gramps nods. "They were so proud of you, Your Majesty. His Majesty told me once that his only regret was that he would not be able to see the kind of king you would be."
Edge laughs, short and brittle. "Don't you think he'll be glad not to see the mess I make?" He's not usually so maudlin, but the weight of everything he needs to be for everyone in Eblan is so heavy, and he hasn't even really taken it up yet.
"Your Majesty thinks so little of the training your parents gave you?" Gramps asks, and like any good ninja, his blade cuts deep before Edge even sees it coming.
"I guess not," he says after a moment, when he can steady his voice.
Gramps nods and turns away. "I will see you in the morning, Your Majesty."
"Good night, Gramps." He watches the old man leave, and looks one more time at his father's throne. When he was a child, his father used to let him sit on the throne, and he thought sometimes it would swallow him up, it was so huge.
He might be a man grown now, but he still thinks that throne could devour him, if he let it.
He brushes his hand over the arm of the throne one more time and turns toward the door. He'll just have to be too light on his feet for the throne to catch him, that's all. He's a ninja of Eblan; light on his feet is part of the job description.
Maybe he can make his parents proud after all.
Rating: G
Contains: Endgame spoilers
Wordcount: 1262
Notes: written for the prompt "regrets"
Betas: N/A
Summary: As he prepares to assume the mantle of King of Eblan in reality as well as name, Edge considers his regrets.
It's not that Edge has been staying away from Eblan. He just hasn't had time to come back, between the underworld and comatose moon people and saving the world.
Except that that's a rank lie, and he was avoiding Eblan.
He didn't want to come back and see memories of his parents everywhere, or listen to Gramps lecture him because he isn't living up to some tradition or another, and worst of all, by far worst of all, he didn't want to look at the thrones where his parents sat and see them empty, and know what a disappointment he was to them.
The homecoming is done, and Gramps has been dispatched to gather whatever it is that Edge needs to review in the morning before he can hold court, and Edge is lurking in the shadows outside the throne room—definitely lurking, because that is something a ninja does, and not at all avoiding having to open that damn door.
He stands there for a long time—he doesn't know how long, but the castle grows quiet around him, and there is no one to see their prince—now their king—staring at a door like it's an insurmountable obstacle. He can slide through spaces that are "too small" for a human to pass through or pick a lock or just plain drift on a smoke spell through the air, but he can't go into this room.
It's stupid. It's the kind of thing Kain would do, stand here brooding, and that thought is horrifying enough that Edge wrenches open the door and ducks inside the moment it occurs to him.
Someone cleaned this room while he was gone, picked up the crumbled masonry from the Red Wings' attacks and repaired the wall. The whole place is swept clean and ready for him tomorrow. His gaze goes to the dais at the far end, drawn like steel to a lodestone, where his parents ruled side by side.
Only his father's throne stands forward now; he strains his eyes in the dark until he just picks out the shadow of his mother's throne, drawn back and draped in dark cloth, at the back of the dais. In his great-grandfather's day and before, the Queen's throne was always to the back; she could listen but not speak. His grandfather married a woman of Fabul who didn't tolerate that and pulled her seat up next to his grandfather's. His parents continued that tradition. When Edge marries, he will do the same; not for him some shrinking violet.
He makes himself put one foot in front of the other until he reaches the dais. The throne has a new cushion. There is nothing left here of his parents.
He folds himself into a kneeling position alongside the throne—he won't take it, not until he has to when he is here tomorrow. And that's the bottom of it all, isn't it? He's five years older than Cecil and has far less experience, because his parents let him run wild and didn't task him with any of the myriad duties a crown prince should perform. They were young when they married, and still young when his grandfather passed away, and his mother had firmly believed that he would have time to learn when he was older and settled.
She wasn't wrong often, and it feels disloyal to think now that she was wrong, but he thinks it anyway. He's going to make an ass of himself and ruin their legacy, and it's not their fault, because he could've chosen to study, but he didn't. He amused himself getting into every tiny nook of the castle and chasing the village girls and did none of his duties, even when he could see that his father was tired and his mother was worried, but they hadn't stopped him.
He'll never have the chance to show them he could be better, because Lugae took them from him.
Edge leans his forehead against the arm of the throne, which is pleasantly cold through his hood. This is all so pointless that he wants to laugh at the same time he wants to cry. Rydia wouldn't be sitting here moping; she's probably already halfway through restoring Mist. Cecil and Rosa have probably already cleared the entire list of decisions that had been awaiting the new King of Baron. And if Yang isn't already current on everything he'll need to run Fabul, his wife will be.
They're all moving forward, and he's sitting in the dark like a child, wishing he could talk to his parents one more time, get just one piece of advice from them.
At the same time, he knows he'll never be the kind of king his father was, because he isn't the kind of man his father was. And maybe that's not so bad; Eblan has been isolated, as all the kingdoms have, and that's part of how Golbez was able to seize all the Crystals. Edge isn't naive enough to think that the alliances he and the others will form will outlive them—maybe as far as their children's generation, but not much farther—but maybe they can make it better for a little while in ways his father couldn't.
He catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and in one fluid motion he is on his feet with his swords drawn. Gramps moves slowly into the shaft of moonlight coming through the high windows, his hands held up and empty.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only wanted to see if you were well."
Edge sheathes his swords. "Be careful, Gramps. Who'll chastise me if I don't realize it's you sneaking up on me?"
"A worthy question, Your Majesty." Gramps draws near, and falls silent as he looks at the throne.
"I didn't want to be here for the first time tomorrow," Edge mutters, as the silence spreads between them.
Gramps nods. "They were so proud of you, Your Majesty. His Majesty told me once that his only regret was that he would not be able to see the kind of king you would be."
Edge laughs, short and brittle. "Don't you think he'll be glad not to see the mess I make?" He's not usually so maudlin, but the weight of everything he needs to be for everyone in Eblan is so heavy, and he hasn't even really taken it up yet.
"Your Majesty thinks so little of the training your parents gave you?" Gramps asks, and like any good ninja, his blade cuts deep before Edge even sees it coming.
"I guess not," he says after a moment, when he can steady his voice.
Gramps nods and turns away. "I will see you in the morning, Your Majesty."
"Good night, Gramps." He watches the old man leave, and looks one more time at his father's throne. When he was a child, his father used to let him sit on the throne, and he thought sometimes it would swallow him up, it was so huge.
He might be a man grown now, but he still thinks that throne could devour him, if he let it.
He brushes his hand over the arm of the throne one more time and turns toward the door. He'll just have to be too light on his feet for the throne to catch him, that's all. He's a ninja of Eblan; light on his feet is part of the job description.
Maybe he can make his parents proud after all.