FFXV Drabbles/Oneshots {📥}REQUESTS OPEN{📥}

Bloody Marble - Verstael Besithia

One: I'm still salty over Episode Ardyn and young Verstael. Two: I wrote this at 3 am, so sorry if it sucks or doesn't make sense 😗

Life was a nightmare, ever since you were born. Because of you being the child of the Infernian, you had been prosecuted and shunned by both Astrals and humans. All except for one man: Verstael Besithia. He had been the first human to willingly approach you where you were confined with your father. But that was only because he hadn't known Ifrit had a child locked away with him.

When you met Verstael, you had introduced yourself as the Infernian's daughter, and almost instantly he was intrigued. He had asked you any and everything under the sun, curious as to why you were exiled with your father. Surely, someone as young as you hadn't done anything wrong, at least not to incur the wrath of the other Astrals.

"Being the Infernian's child is reason enough, dear Verstael," you had told him, a sad smile on your features. He never left your side after that, always willing to lend a helping hand. It was so ... strange, a human helping you. You had been the outcast for so long you had forgotten what affection had felt like -- the last human giving you affection having been your mother.

But he was patient with you. And before too long, you were showing affection in return.

***

You were suddenly afraid of the man that stood before you. You could hardly recognize him anymore; he had been so overtaken by miasma that he was disintegrating before your eyes.

A gunshot rang out, and the man you had fallen in love with fully disappeared, leaving only his clothes behind. Regardless of the man still in the room, you collapsed next to the remains of your beloved, tears dripping onto the harsh concrete.

"Who-who're you?!" the blond boy yelled, pointing his gun at you. As you looked up to him, your breath caught in your throat. He was a carbon copy of Verstael from when he was young, and before you knew what you were doing you were on your feet, reaching out to him.

The boy shrank back, tightening his grip on his weapon, and you stopped. He wasn't your beloved, you had to remind yourself. No matter how damning the evidence seems to be.

"What is your name, young one?" you finally asked, taking a few steps back and watching him relax slightly.

"Pr-Prompto," he replied. "What about you?"

"My name does not matter, young one," you hushed him. "You wish to go home, yes?"

"How did you--"

"That doesn't matter, either," you cut him off. "What matters is I can help you."

"Why?"

"Because we all have a home we wish to return to."