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One hot August weekend, the Fleurets go on a family trip. The weather is just too beautiful, Luna’s mother had said, and so had made the executive decision to take a few days off to show her two children the joys of the countryside.
Four-year-old Luna’s reaction to this sudden holiday is muted. Unlike the members of the Tenebraen top brass, she has the placidity of a child who frequently does not understand what is happening but is obedient enough to go along regardless. She reflects vaguely on how her mother had been in high spirits the past month, even joining her in the garden behind the Fleuret mansion the week before.
(“That’s right, Luna, just like that, cover the seeds with the soil and pat it down gently,” Sylva had said as she smoothed earth over the freshly-dug trench. “There, we’re done. Now all we have to do is water them, and they will grow strong and tall in the light of the sun."
"Yes, Mother," little Lunafreya had dutifully replied, hands caked with dirt, afternoon warmth on her skin.)
Their destination is a farm on the outskirts of Tenebrae, run by a friend from Sylva’s school days.
It is the first time Luna and Ravus have journeyed so far from the capital, and the two gawp at the sight of golden wheat and emerald crops stretching as far as the eye can see. There is none of the stone and dense, dark foliage that characterises the surroundings of Fenestala Manor; here, all is bright and open. The air hums pleasantly with noise: Luna can pick out the chirping of birds, and the insects' distinctive song.
Life, life all around them. Luna has never known anything so beautiful. If it was for a world like this, I would be happy to die protecting it, she thinks. She is only four years old.
Time passes in a blur. Later, when Luna is older, she will regret not being able to recall most of the details— but she will hold on to that sense of bliss, and treasure the few images that remain: her mother, chatting with her former classmate and laughing more freely than Luna had ever seen before; her brother, picking his way across a stream, his face scrunching in disgust at the fish sliding past his bare feet; the three of them sitting on the wooden porch, admiring the pinprick stars dotting the night sky.
On the third day, a messenger from the capital arrives, and when he leaves, Sylva stands straight and rigid, a queen once more.
"King Regis of Lucis has been blessed with a baby son. We must hurry back to prepare for the celebrations," she tells her children. Her eyes flick away from Luna, and her voice trembles, ever so slightly.
By the time they return, the seeds Luna and her mother had planted have already sprouted. The grounds are filled with colour, row upon row of Ulwaat berries hanging ripe and red, ready for picking.
It is summer again, that season where heat and light comingle in fated union and plant and creature alike revel in the weather, when Luna finally meets the prince who will bring the dawn.
Her first impression of Noctis Lucis Caelum, heir to the Lucian throne, True King, and saviour of mankind is that he is very– small. He is slight of build, with a timid slope to his shoulders, and he is curled up in his wheelchair in a way that suggests that he is trying to hide behind his father. Baby-soft black hair droops over his eyes. He looks nothing like a figure of prophecy, even a nine-year-old one.
Luna feels a twinge of disappointment, both at him and at herself. On the day before the Lucian royals were to arrive, Sylva had sat her and her brother down and explained that Noctis was still very young, and was coming to Tenebrae to recover from a terrible accident so would they please be on their best behaviour, Ravus. Nevertheless, it is one thing to be informed in advance, and another thing completely to be able to correctly realign one’s expectations. Luna finds that she was unfortunately unable to achieve the latter. Well, she thinks, it was unreasonable of me to think that the Chosen King’s true nature could be ascertained at a glance. The Astrals’ decisions are beyond mortal ken; all that is required of me is to do as they command.
But then he looks up at her with eyes the colour of the sky above that farm, and she understands.
Her mother had once told her that being an Oracle was a gift to be treasured. “Not all people are blessed with the joy of knowing their place in the world,” she had murmured while combing Luna’s hair. “Some do not experience it their entire lives. You and me, Luna? We are lucky enough to know since birth.” Luna had thought she knew what her mother meant. She thought that to be Oracle was to be like a soldier, and found common ground with those grizzled old men who would receive medals from Sylva and declare that “there is no greater honour than to serve my country”. Now, she realises the error of her ways. The Oracle is not and has never been a warrior. No, the first Oracle was an ordinary woman, one who was in a relationship with he who was to become the first Lucian king. This must have been what her mother had been speaking of all along: veins pulsing with heady conviction, one ancient soul’s delighted recognition of another, a sensual surrender to a woman who no longer exists. All that confusion and worrying and overthinking about what the gods want and what she herself has to do – all of it fades away, replaced with a sublime peace. It is beautifully simple.
She is the Oracle; she loves the world. The Chosen King will save the world, and so she loves him as well. Her duty and her destiny, intertwined in one elegant answer.
“Your Highness,” she curtsies. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Have you ever tried Ulwaat berries? They are a type of strawberry native to this country, and are often used as fillings for Tenebraen pastries. We can try some for dessert tonight, if you wish – I am sure you will enjoy them.”
Eyes glowing, Noctis accepts.
Weeks flow by, slow and sweet as treacle as Luna learns about her soul’s mate.
She discovers that Noctis is shy, but only with strangers: when with those he is comfortable around, he is as rambunctious as any other boy. He has a sweet tooth and hates vegetables, even though his father always coaxes him into eating them. School is a pain because he doesn’t like doing homework, although his grades aren’t too bad because he has a friend who’s really clever and coaches him through the exams. He confides in her, saying that he’s worried about being short for his age, and she reassures him that that is not the case, although she has no basis for saying so. One somber evening, he confesses that he was too young to remember his late mother. Luna says that she doesn’t have any memories of her father, either. And when she tries to read The Cosmogony with him, she finds that he is not very interested in reading old books about gods and prophecies, even if they have pictures in them. Instead, he likes playing games, and adores dogs.
“Wow, she’s like a white version of Umbra!” he had exclaimed upon first encountering Pryna. “Do you know where she comes from? Did you adopt her? They could be long-lost dog siblings!”
Luna, who knows the exact nature of Pryna and Umbra’s relationship, had simply smiled. “I would love to see Umbra in person one day,” she had replied, and that was enough to set Noctis off onto lengthy discussion of how cute and smart Umbra was, which of Pryna’s features resembled Umbra’s, how great it could be if they could meet, and dogs in general.
It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t seem to think much about what role he must play in the future, or about Eos, or about the Astrals, Luna thinks to herself while discreetly putting The Cosmogony away. I can do that on his behalf, and I will be happy to do so, because for an Oracle there is no greater honour than to serve her king.
They go out for walks often. One time, Luna takes him on a tour of the gardens around Fenestala Manor. The sky is a vivid orange; it is not quite evening yet. As she wheels him along the path, Pryna trotting several steps ahead, she allows herself a moment of pride at how well her sylleblossoms have grown. The flowers sway in the breeze, seeming to soak up the afternoon radiance.
Noctis gingerly eases out of the wheelchair and takes a few tentative steps into the field. The feathery petals flutter about his shins as if to welcome him, and he kneels to touch them, a tiny king greeting his tiny subjects.
Luna looks toward the horizon, where the sun is setting in a final glorious blaze, and basks in the knowledge that this is what love feels like. It is like a dream, she thinks, this all-encompassing sense of rightness. Everything in its place, an easy comfort enveloping her thoughts and actions.
But no dream continues forever, and the end to this one comes sooner than expected.
Reaffirming geopolitical allegiances aside, the first and foremost reason for Noctis’ trip to Tenebrae was to recuperate from his Marilith-induced injuries. Out of love for her old friend Regis, Sylva had agreed to perform the traditional healing rites for Noctis herself. The ceremony was to be held in the heart of the woods near Fenestala Manor, with the Lucian king and Sylva’s best men in attendance.
It was searingly hot that day, the temperature the highest recorded in Tenebrae for decades. “We’re looking at weather straight out of Leide, folks,” Luna heard one disbelieving announcer say on the morning news. “It’s as if the Infernian came back to life and decided to grace us with his presence.”
When she told Noctis this over breakfast, the boy protested. “I don’t want to go out then,” he complained, stabbing at his fruit half-heartedly. “Can’t we postpone the ceremony? I’ll die of the heat before these injuries kill me.”
“Our parents are very busy, but they cleared their schedules just for you. It would be disrespectful to ask them to change the date just because of the weather,” said Luna patiently. “Anyway, it is always cold in the forest. The heat won’t reach us there.”
Of course, she was right. By the time they make it several paces past the tree line, all traces of that surprising heat have vanished, and tufts of snow drift lazily through the air. Noctis shivers. “It’s almost like we stepped into a different world,” he says as Luna hands him a puffy jacket she had prepared for this very eventuality.
Some would say he is not entirely off. Luna had once asked a teacher why the temperature inside the woods was so odd, and had been told that it may have been because one of the Oracles had received the Glacian’s favour. “They frequently met by the waterfall, in the woods,” he had said. He added that the waterfall itself – a strange thing, not very high but curving in a wide circle, closer in appearance to a water feature – had long been a place for Oracles to commune with Astrals, and was treated as sacred for that reason. “After the Oracle passed away, people started to notice how cold it was, and hypothesised that it may have been because Shiva’s spirit still dwelled there, waiting for her. It’s far more likely to be a localised weather phenomenon, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Makes for a good story, though.”
Luna had been critical of the idea at the time. She did not want a love like that, she said. A love important enough to be carved into history’s annals is also a love which must bear history’s burden. You’d be so busy thinking about what you could gain, what you could lose, that each tryst would be as fraught as a negotiation between countries.
Her teacher had laughed at her response. “You’ve made a mistake: the Oracle and Shiva were good friends, nothing more. But you don’t need to worry about that, either way. You’re destined for better things, and whatever you want will surely be the best for Tenebrae – no, Eos itself – as well.”
Although Luna had flushed at his words, the teacher’s reply had not appeased her. Simply because a choice of partner was a good one did not mean the decision-making process was any less considered, reasoned Luna. A relationship like that, weighed down with obligation and the question of legacies, would have no space for emotion. No, she believed that love should be like a flower, free to bloom and wilt without a care in the world— childish thoughts from a childish mind. She doesn’t think like that anymore, obviously. She now knows that for her at least, love and duty are one and the same, and even if she makes no attempt to balance her desires with her responsibilities, the hand of fate will still guide her down tracks laid millennia before to the correct conclusion. Even so, a part of her still feels like her childish self had made some valid points back then.
The sound of Noctis exclaiming over their surroundings brings Luna back to the present. The trees around them stretch up impossibly high; Luna used to think them tall enough to reach the realm of the Astrals itself. Their trunks, some as wide as the towers which overlook the Tenebraen capital, stand solid, and the arches of their branches transform the forest into a cathedral of light.
Noctis turns to her, face shining with wonder. “There's nothing like this back home! Insomnia's just full of boring buildings. I wish I could run through these trees, like a hero on his chocobo... It’d be like something out of a game!”
Luna smiles. “My lord, I am not sure I am as fast as that. However, I would be glad to try.”
She breaks into a run, pushing Noctis in his wheelchair with all her meagre strength, and he squeals with delight as they clatter towards the meeting-place.
King Regis meets them nearby, a dignified figure clad in a smart winter coat who watches his son with a paternal gentleness. He leads them to the clearing where the Queen is arrayed with attendants from both the Tenebraen and Lucian courts. There is something holy about this, Luna feels, something about seeing their two nations united and waiting upon Noctis that feels inevitable and whole. She looks up, and—
Above the canopy, through a gap in the leaves, Luna sees a shape which blocks the sun.
There is a faint thrumming in the air, not of some secret sacred energy like she had originally thought, but rather of the Solheim engines which power Imperial dropships. Luna has barely had time to process what is happening before things start dropping down, things which fall to the ground and unfold into humanoid bodies of tarnished metal.
She hears screaming, shock and anguish and outrage mixed together. A dumb horror dawning on her, Luna whips around, looking for her family, and sees Ravus fall to his knees. A magitek trooper walks up to her brother and points a flamethrower at him. Its movements are deceptively slow, almost lazy, as if it understands that he cannot escape.
“No!” Luna cries out. Yet she is rooted to her spot, unable to leave Noctis on his own.
Flames spill out from the weapon’s barrel, at first a trickle, then soon an all-engulfing surge, and it’s all too bright, too much, she doesn’t want to see— The wall of fire dies down, and instead of her brother, it is her mother standing there. An irrational relief washes over Luna. Thank the Astrals, Mother was able to get to Ravus in time. That thought is followed by a discordant note, a flash of confusion: who is that armoured giant with her? Luna knows all of her mother’s guards by sight, and none of them are that tall or wear helmets for ceremonial occasions. Then the massive figure moves away, and Luna sees its equally massive sword, and how her mother crumples to the ground.
For some reason, it is Noctis who yells. “Queen Sylva!”
Dimly, Luna registers Regis rushing over to her and Noctis. “You’ve got to leave,” she seems to hear him saying. The monster who struck down her mother appears behind him – Regis’ ring flares, and after a quick exchange of blows, he sends his opponent flying. Unlike the Oracle, the Kings of Lucis can always fend for themselves, devastating magic and weapons of war their birthright. Without stopping to breathe, Regis grabs his son with one hand and Luna with the other, and they run, stumbling over the soft grass and roots fanned out across the ground.
“Please! Help us! King Regis!” Ravus’ plea comes to Luna faintly, as if from a great distance, but it is enough to snap her out of her shock. What am I doing? I cannot abandon my family, my home, like this. Noctis will live, the prophecy can wait… Astrals above, allow me this one selfishness. I will pay whatever price I have to— just let me be by their side.
Luna detaches her hand from Regis’, and returns to her mother.
Sylva lies prone on the ground, Ravus kneeling beside her. Her skin and clothes are burnt, scorched with the full force of the fire meant for her son, and her midsection is stained with blood. Her eyes, usually a piercing blue, are watery and unfocused as they find Luna’s.
"Luna, my beloved daughter—" Her hand clamps around Luna’s wrist, the strength of her grip belying the weakness of her voice. "Do not mourn for me. Do not be foolish. There are so many things left for you to do... You cannot die here." She falters, and her gaze drifts from Luna to fix upon some point beyond her.
Luna looks around, and sees the figure of a little boy and his desperate father shrinking into the distance. When she turns back, she finds her mother slumped on the ground, and she finds that she cannot summon either words or tears to mark her passing.
The bulk of the magitek troopers have left to chase after the Lucian royalty, but the woods continue to burn, delicate ferns and blades of grass dancing with the flames and turning to ash. Luna is suddenly reminded of a picture from one of her first textbooks, an illustration depicting the fiery surface of the sun.
Despite everything, life proceeds much as it did before at Fenestala Manor.
Her mother is absent, as she often was. It is just that the absence is more complete now, the glimpses that Luna catches of her no longer being in labyrinthine corridors but instead in nightmares.
Ravus’ sulkiness and disaffected manner have been firmly in place since his teenage years; that is nothing new. “He’ll grow out of it, it’s just a phase some boys go through,” Sylva had said when a little Luna had come to her study once, crying about how Ravus no longer wanted to play with her. Nowadays, though, while Luna still weeps over her changed brother, there is nobody to tell her that the anger that simmers in his eyes will eventually fade, that he will mature into an upstanding adult rather than a monster.
But other than that, Lunafreya still continues her studies, diligently preparing to take her mother’s place; Maria still serves the family devotedly, cooking up a feast on the few nights that Ravus deigns to eat with his sister; and Pryna still keeps her company, a steady presence who rarely leaves her side. If Lunafreya notes the glint of magitek armour in the distance when tending to her garden, well, what of it? It is not as if she had been allowed to leave the manor as she wished in the past, and Tenebrae had become a vassal state long before she had been born.
Perhaps the largest difference is this, then: that life used to come to her in shining moments, some more incandescent than others, but now the years flow by like water, and some part of Luna is perpetually terrified that she will drown. Some nights, her mind will prickle with anxiety, and she will lie in bed and flick through the goings-on of the years past as if through the pages of an opulently-bound history.
--ME 745, one year after her mother’s death: Lunafreya forms a contract with the Glacian. A woman she had seen around the estate very occasionally, whom Sylva had only ever introduced as “Gentiana, messenger of the Astrals”, came to her room and explained in hushed, desperate tones that she was Shiva and that she needed to covenant with an oracle to anchor her to a mortal vessel. “I am sorry to ask this of someone so young— but even now I can feel the Empire’s weapons piercing my divine body, it will not hold for much longer—”
Lunafreya, who had been raised by someone famed for her generous hospitality and excellent matters, simply grasped the woman’s ice-blue hands, looked into her fathomless eyes, and promised to help. It was only afterwards, during the weeks spent recovering from the binding, that the thirteen-year-old finally understood that she had encountered a goddess in the flesh, and that she had given up part of her human soul for the honour.
--ME 746, two years after her mother’s death: Ravus enlists into the Niflheim army on his eighteenth birthday, the very day he becomes eligible. They have a terrible row, and Ravus moves out of the house the same night.
--ME 748, four years after her mother’s death: Lunafreya formally ascends as the next Oracle, becoming the youngest-ever to do so. Iedolas Aldercapt is no fool: he knows the strategic value of Niflheim having a young, pretty figurehead – especially one who can offer respite from the blight plaguing Eos. He, too, needs a miracle-worker, and it is in Lunafreya’s own interests to oblige. Acting out the role of Oracle for Niflheim is not much different from acting it out for an ancient prophecy, after all; the director may seem to have changed, but the script remains the same.
The ceremony goes smoothly, the parade is a rousing success – the onlookers’ high spirits undampened by the Niflheim troops mixed into the crowd – and nobody speaks of she whose position was so violently vacated just four years ago. Everyone is familiar with the rules of the game; they know that what the Empire permits in its supposed magnanimity can be crushed at the slightest hint of ingratitude. When Luna returns home, she finds a small package waiting on her nightstand. Inside is a beautifully-crafted silver necklace and a short, stilted message from her brother saying that he is proud of her. The week after, Lunafreya embarks on the first of her many tours of the realms, reaching out to those infected with the Starscourge.
It surprises her that the work is harder than expected; the exhaustion which comes with travelling and treating the ill she had anticipated, but not the mental and emotional strain resulting from being in the public eye for such prolonged periods. The waking hours come to hold a special dread for her: once the lights come up, she must be ready to perform. Anything that the audience gives her must be accepted with grace and a smile, whether it be effusive thanks or venomous bile – both equally tiresome in many respects. It is not as if she cannot understand; although she is simply doing her job, it is a duty that no other can carry out; and she cannot shake a certain disgust at being seen as a representative of Niflheim; but understanding does not always make things easier. On the harder days, she wishes that she too could have staff and advisors to support her, same as her mother, but that is simple weakness.
Instead, Luna welcomes the night. The blank mask-visages of the magitek soldiers become less stressful a sight than human faces, with their mouths that do not speak and eyes free of emotion. The dull hum and rattle of the Niflheim transports start to seem like mere background noise, washing out the incessant babble of the daytime. And most of all, she comes to rely on Gentiana’s serene companionship.
Most evenings, when Luna is too tired to talk, Gentiana will sit with her in the cramped airship quarters, easing her into sleep with cool fingertips and whispered words. Other times, the Messenger will appear with a flask of hot tea, and they will chat into the early hours. Luna finds that there is something quietly intoxicating in talking to someone without worrying about whether she is meeting their expectations or successfully navigating a political minefield. Gentiana is a delightful conversationalist in her own way, too, painting pictures of bygone days and far-flung travels with her flowery words. And it is a great comfort, when Luna starts to feel herself to be more myth than person, to speak to someone whose very body is a refuge for divinity but who remains so wonderfully human. Over the course of their late-night conversations, it emerges that, like Luna, Gentiana took on her duties very young – too human, she confesses once, and they toast in quiet commiseration – but she adds that it was all worth it, especially now that she has found this friendship with Luna. She says that Messengers typically stand apart from both humans and Astrals, and that this is the first time in her centuries-long life that she has felt so close to another person. A blushing Luna asks why Gentiana had broken from tradition to spend so much time with her. “Because it seemed like you needed it,” comes the reply.
Sometimes, Luna thinks she can feel something starting to bloom inside of her, but she ignores it. She has not tended to her garden in too long.
By the time Noctis starts attending high school, Lunafreya is the most accomplished gardener of her generation. The grounds behind Fenestala Manor are a blaze of vivid blue, grids of sylleblossoms laid out with mathematical precision. Lunafreya has sprinklers installed and hires a small cadre of gardeners, personally trained by herself, to take care of the flowers in her absence; she cannot take up the burden alone, not when she is so frequently away. The Nox Fleuret gardens become a tourist hotspot in the springtime, especially when Niflheim reopens the nearby train station as part of their territory-unifying infrastructure efforts.
Behind her veneer of delicacy is a brutal clear-sightedness, carefully cultivated: she cannot ensure the fulfilment of her obligations, otherwise.
In Tenebrae, her schedule is austere as a monk’s. She wakes at the crack of dawn, performs her daily ablutions, and takes one and a half hours for meditation and spear practice. In the morning, she reads through reports on the progress of the Starscourge through Eos and collates formal requests for the Oracle’s assistance. If Pryna is back from Insomnia, she will hear an update on Prince Noctis as well. Half an hour is given over to lunch, though she is usually still studying the documentation as she eats. The afternoon is devoted to replying to correspondence, making logistical and administrative arrangements for her next tour, and research into Astrals and the Starscourge – the latter only if she has a spare minute. Dinner is at eight, and on every other day, she will go out to inspect the gardens at nine. Afterwards, she will continue to work, often retiring only at midnight.
Each day is perfectly divided up, the time allotted to each task the exact amount needed to complete it. Sometimes the ratios have to be adjusted – Lunafreya knows that sooner or later she will have to give proper consideration to how she will covenant with the three remaining Astrals, although to minimise disruption to her other duties she is currently aiming at one per year – but she is already practiced in this regard.
And if, on the rare occasion that she has space for idle thought, if those idle thoughts tend toward one direction more than the other— if she dwells not on princely suns but on other celestial bodies, softer, more enticing, and rather closer to hand— it is no cause for panic. She has checked and re-checked the prophetic papers, and there is no indication that the relationship between the True King and the last Oracle must be a sexual, romantic, or even particularly close one. It seems sufficient for her to provide the requisite guidance with regard to his duties and to assist in communing with the Astrals. Anyway, she reasons, it is completely understandable, perhaps even inevitable, that things should have turned out this way when Noctis by all accounts remains a boy, ordinary in all respects but his destiny, practically a figure out of a fairy-tale in how different his life experiences are to hers, and in all these years Luna’s only constant companion has been the compassionate, steadfast, wise, and undeniably attractive Gentiana. There is no shame in this product of her body’s fundamental chemistries, or so she thinks at the time.
On this basis, Luna does not indulge any cravings, but nor does she starve them. She does not speak of them, of course, but if her eyes drift to the line of Gentiana's neck or the fullness of her lips, she lets them linger; and if she feels her mouth go dry with want, she will allow herself a little pleasure at the sensation. She is nineteen, and it is only natural.
Things change one sweltering night that year.
It had been baking-hot outdoors, but things are even worse inside the airship, which is not equipped with air-conditioning on account of not being designed to transport humans. Lying in bed in clothes soaked through with sweat and wrapped in sheets damp with humidity, Luna despairs at not being able to rest properly after a particularly tiring day. Even after she finally manages to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, the infernal heat haunts her, calls forth visions of flame and death.
Gentiana comes to her then. Half-awake, Luna notes the presence at her bedside and gentle hand on her face, and curls into the Glacian’s chill. Drunk on the intimacy, her fatigue-addled brain forms words of love, and her traitorous mouth utters them; and so in retrospect it should have been no surprise that when her foolish eyes open, it is to see Gentiana’s face stilled in quiet shock. The Messenger extricates herself with a tactful murmur that the Oracle must have been dreaming of her king, and departs the room.
The next morning, Luna finds a posy of freshly-picked sylleblossoms and a leather notebook on her doorstep, and it is then that she knows that she has erred.
They never speak of that incident again.
Gentiana remains with her but there is a distance now; the Messenger retreats into riddles and enigmatic pronouncements and touches Luna, fleeting brushes of skin against a hand or cheek, only when she thinks her asleep. Luna’s feelings do not fade – the sight of the other woman can still strike her dumb with wanting – but she dares not let them break the surface, not after she has seen the aftermath of that awful moment of honesty. She is afraid to even look at Gentiana for long, terrified that the Messenger will leave if it becomes clear that she is not entirely enthused about offering herself up at the True King’s altar.
As such, she is utterly prepared when she receives a call from King Regis one year later. Lunafreya, who dreams only of hair as black as night and eyes as green as the woods around her family home, listens politely as the Lucian king explains that she is to be wedded to his son, and expresses the expected excitement and gratitude when he tells her how eager he is to welcome her into the family.
Once the telephone line goes silent, she takes stock of the situation: her brother Ravus, once her staunchest defender, is now the sharpest and most faithful sword in the enemy’s arsenal; the Starscourge has spread to all corners of Eos and the nights grow longer with each passing day; and the Chosen King shows no sign of taking on any sort of responsibility even after graduating from high school.
Lunafreya had always fancied herself a gardener, someone capable of nurturing life and guiding it towards its full potential, but with destiny nipping at her heels, she is forced to admit that her best bet is to become the compost from which Eos’ chosen can grow.
There is many a death that Lunafreya has contemplated – death from overexertion, death by leaping from a moving transport, death in Insomnia’s fall – but dying at Ardyn Izunia’s hand, which she had not predicted, is perhaps the most fitting of them all.
It is a demise of suitably mythic proportions: the victim a holy maiden, the perpetrator a man filled with the darkness she sought to alleviate, the backdrop a churning maelstrom.
In the most popular telling of the tale, Lunafreya is an ideal of a woman: young, pretty, and devoted to her man – a love that is all the deeper for going unconsummated. Her sacrifice is what makes the True King out of a Lucian prince, and it is said that the two are reunited in death, together as they could not be in life. It becomes the greatest romance of the land in the years after.
In another version, scholars highlight Lunafreya and Ardyn’s similarities as healers of the afflicted, painting Lunafreya as a person who attained a sort of divinity in her selflessness and who was slain by someone jealous of not being able to do the same.
Still another take casts the struggle in a more melodramatic light, portraying the clash as being between the first and last of Shiva’s human lovers – but this one is banned from broadcast for obscenity. And so it goes.
The story that Luna tells herself is rather simpler, as is typically the case. It follows a girl, who in trying to honour her mother’s dying wish, attempts to transform herself into a puppet, only to find one of the crucial strings missing. This does not matter much, since forward-looking prophecies and backward-looking histories both reflect only the appearance of things rather than the truth. Even if a woman looks at a wedding dress and weeps at the thought of a future with someone other than her beloved, there is no issue as long as she claims that the tears are for her husband-to-be. In fact, she learns that if she plays her cards right, nobody will ever challenge her, and she may not even have to endure the marriage itself.
Whatever the interpretation, though, the end of the last Oracle of Eos remains the same: covenant secured, Ring of the Lucii delivered, tragic death performed, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret exits the stage to rapturous applause.
As she is taking her final bows, borne away in Leviathan’s waves, she recalls this—
Ever since a certain incident, Luna has been fascinated by the question of whether a person’s memories could be partially excised – to preserve the gods’ secrets, for example. When asked directly, Gentiana had acknowledged that it could be done, but that the ability was one she used only sparingly. Content in this knowledge, Luna did not bring the subject up again— not until the night before her death, when she requests that the power be exercised on the Messenger herself in respect of the coming hours. Filled with pity and regret, Gentiana acquiesces without question. Both know that their time together has run out.
Nothing much happens, not at first: they sit in silence, heads tilted towards the window to listen to the lapping of the water against the stone walls. Luna remarks on the crispness in the air, the salt on the breeze; it is a lovely night, she says, and Gentiana agrees.
Luna’s gaze shifts then, to settle on Gentiana as she has not permitted herself to do in a long time, and admires the glitter of the gold embroidery in the moonlight, traces the lines of her dearest’s face; and finally, with a half-smile on her lips and a preternatural calm in her voice, she speaks the same words of love that had ruined them so many years before.
I say this only because I am going to die tomorrow and you will forget this in the morning, she starts explaining, but Gentiana is already moving to extinguish the lights.
In the dark, far from picture-perfect gardens and the rays of a too-bright sun, Luna contemplates the wonder of the ambiguous and the undocumented.
What greater joy, in twenty-four years loaded with fatal meaning, than to have been joined in a loving, meaningless partnership which would bear no fruit—
What blasphemous delight, for an Oracle to worship neither Astral nor saviour, but a mortal woman—
And under Luna's hands, Gentiana opens, opens, opens like the most beautiful of flowers.