a prompto prompt for you, since i can't get it out of my head: so by the end of his DLC, he's doing pretty well for himself. i know we all love damsel in distress prompto, but i feel like he must not've gone quietly into that Y frame. how many times do you think he killed ardyn between point A and point B? (<3 also you're fantastic and i hope you have a lovely day.)
Author’s Note: This… turned out not at all how I originally envisioned it.I hope this is okay??
Also, this is my first time writing Ardyn pov. I apologize in advance. ._.a
Whole civilizations have risen and set and provided less points of interest than the events of the past month. Whole centuries have brought him less pleasure than this glimmering dream the world has become, of late.
Ardyn feels like a child on the eve of the winter solstice, though it has been long since last he celebrated the darkest night, and longer still since his childhood.
They have squirmed so much more prettily than he ever dared to dream.
He has watched the precious little slip of a prince grow to manhood. He has marked well his wants, and his affections, and his shy attempts at romance. He has noted in his schemes the things that will hurt this boy the most, so that he might take them away.
And oh, he’s so very close.
He’s so very close to it all.
Ardyn can feel the anticipation prickling at his palms, roiling there below the surface. He cannot wait to shred the boy’s indifferent exterior, to leave the nerves raw and exposed. The death of the Oracle was an appetizer, nothing more.
The way the prince’s eyes have gone still and flat without her to light the world whets his appetite, but Ardyn craves still more.
He has so very many years of misery to repay.
And here, resting delicately in the palm of his hand, is his means to an end.
The escaped MT unit, the one they call Prompto, fights so endearingly to be free. He does not know that Ardyn has been pulling the strings of this puppet show since that first meeting beneath the cloudless sky in Galdin Quay. He does not suspect how much of the theatrics were for his benefit: conveniently placed lab notes, and weapons left out in the elements to be found in times of need.
The MT has followed every footstep laid out before him. He’s stumbled and fallen, and risen to stumble again. Each time he struggles to his feet, Ardyn scents blood in the air, a touch stronger. Each time he falters, the game becomes more amusing still.
And now, at long last: here they are, in Gralea. He’s laid out his trail of breadcrumbs, and the MT has followed, as obediently as though he’s been programmed.
The MT thinks himself clever.
He thinks that he’s overcome the odds to escape his home again.
He does not know that Ardyn has plans for him, yet. He does not know that in four days’ time, his prince will come, and the true game will begin.
The bank of monitors spreads before him, showing all there is to see. Ardyn taps at the microphone, hears the static squeal and smiles at the discordant edge to it. “Oh, I do hope you haven’t given up,” says Ardyn, idly. His feet are up on the console. He’s leaning back in the chair, so far he risks falling over altogether.
He cannot see the MT on the screens any longer, but that doesn’t trouble him. When last he caught sight of his quarry, ducking into a maintenance closet, the poor dear was bleeding from an axe wound and dragging one leg behind him.
Broken, doubtless. One of the many unfortunate risks to traveling by snowmobile.
“Come now,” says Ardyn, into the microphone. “What would Noct say? He’ll find what’s left of you, and imagine how his face will crumble.”
It’s a lovely mental picture. There will be tears, and recrimination, and self-loathing. He hasn’t decided what to do with the MT just yet. When the prince arrives, his purpose will have been served.
Perhaps another corpse in the path of the Chosen King is just the fuel he needs to propel him into the loving arms of the Crystal.
Ardyn is so caught up in the thought of it, in playing through the expressions the prince will make, that he almost misses the sound.
It’s a faint noise, the scrape of metal on metal. He turns his head, idly, to see if an axeman has come to patrol his hall, but instead he catches a glimpse of a freckled head, still swathed in a winter hat, poking down out of a vent on the ceiling.
The MT’s arm squirms its way through the vent, and the gloved hand is holding a gun.
Ardyn smirks at the barrel leveled his way, and then up at the MT’s face. “Goodness,” he says. “Would you like some help down? I’m afraid your poor leg won’t take the weight just now.”
He hears the rapport of the gun, and feels pain, just for an instant, before the world goes black.
When he wakes, perhaps fifteen seconds later, the MT’s feet are poking out of the vent as he lowers himself to the floor, slow and painstaking. He’s trying to cushion the fall as much he’s able, doubtless. That leg really does look a frightful mess.
Ardyn lifts a hand to his forehead, and touches the place where the blood from the bullet entry is still warm. The skin’s closed behind it, smooth and even.
He smiles, more to himself than anything else, and stands. He brushes himself off and rises, casual steps bringing him to the bottom of the vent.
Then he takes hold of the MT’s broken leg and yanks.
The bone shifts beneath his grip; the MT cries out in pain and scrabbles at the metal of the vent.
He comes free anyway, and Ardyn tosses him against the console panel like the discarded doll of a petulant child.
“But,” says the MT, eyes wide with terror. “But I shot you!”
“Why yes,” says Ardyn, pleasantly. “I suppose you did. And how unsporting. After all, I haven’t killed you, yet.”
The MT still has the gun. He lifts it now, in shaking hands, and pulls the trigger.
The world goes black again, and Ardyn feels himself fall against the hard tile of the floor. When he opens his eyes, the MT is gone, and a smear of blood leads out into the hallway.
Well. Perhaps he’ll have something to occupy his time until the prince arrives, after all.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” says Ardyn, as he forces the MT’s wrist into the restraint and snaps it home. “You lasted far longer than I expected you to.”
The MT grits his teeth and glares.
The poor darling must be in breathtaking pain by now. His skin is a patchwork of cuts and bruises, and that leg must be aching something awful.
He knows he promised himself that he’d leave a corpse for the prince to stumble across, but these past few hours of cat and mouse have given him a much better idea.
“Now,” says Ardyn. “Do be a good boy and wait here, won’t you? I have a bit of equipment I’d like to pick up.”
There’s plenty he can manage with his bare hands, after all. But by his count, he has seven deaths to repay.
It’s probably for the best that he can make all the curatives he needs.