[Noctis jumps at the feeling of fingers on his wrist, startled by it - and the subsequent memory - enough to drop the spell abruptly. The burns on his skin pulse like a heartbeat, and he's frozen in place for a long moment as the vision clears from his eyes, until he at last turns towards Regis, looking like a ghost had just jumped between them. Bits of ash flake off the scars, as if the wounds are burning themselves off of him. Still, he doesn't notice, fixated only on his father's face and the memory he just witnessed.]
...Dad?
[That was... the first time he put the ring on? He'd seemed so pensive about it, worried about what would change and how he would endure the weight of it. That feeling was familiar, achingly so, and Noctis is struck wordless by it. He never thought... even for a second, he never imagined his father would hesitate like that. He'd always been so unshakeable, save for a handful of moments where he'd been understandably rattled by some terrible circumstance. The attack of his childhood comes to mind, when his father leaned over him and called his name so desperately. Or days where a particularly difficult council meeting about the war left him rattled and frustrated, and he thought that only Clarus was left in the room and that his son wouldn't see him look so tired or so pained. Even when the ring and the Wall were killing him, aging him terribly, even when it hurt to walk, his dad was so sure of himself.
But... he'd hesitated. He'd... worried. About putting on the ring. He'd been young and scared of what it meant to be king once, too.
Noctis doesn't know what to say, can only stare wide-eyed at the other man, amazed that of all things, they could have that in common.]
no subject
...Dad?
[That was... the first time he put the ring on? He'd seemed so pensive about it, worried about what would change and how he would endure the weight of it. That feeling was familiar, achingly so, and Noctis is struck wordless by it. He never thought... even for a second, he never imagined his father would hesitate like that. He'd always been so unshakeable, save for a handful of moments where he'd been understandably rattled by some terrible circumstance. The attack of his childhood comes to mind, when his father leaned over him and called his name so desperately. Or days where a particularly difficult council meeting about the war left him rattled and frustrated, and he thought that only Clarus was left in the room and that his son wouldn't see him look so tired or so pained. Even when the ring and the Wall were killing him, aging him terribly, even when it hurt to walk, his dad was so sure of himself.
But... he'd hesitated. He'd... worried. About putting on the ring. He'd been young and scared of what it meant to be king once, too.
Noctis doesn't know what to say, can only stare wide-eyed at the other man, amazed that of all things, they could have that in common.]