There's a surge of aching want in him that's so hard to swallow down that he's glad he's turned away from Ignis to pray. Those eyes see him all too well, do they?
His conversation with Gladio comes to mind in the worst ways. How Ravus was only moments from knowing the sacrifice Ignis will make in Altissia. And all of him screams to reach for Ignis as he does, to lay his palms, clean and free of blood and grave dirt, on his skin. To let the pads of his fingers trace the delicate skin of his eyelids, and the soft rings beneath his eyes. To tell him to cherish that belief so deeply. To tell him that he's right before he can never truly know again.
But he can't. He doesn't. He swallows down the fervent desire, and keeps to his task. One that evokes more painful memories, more dull yearning aches. Missing home. Missing his mother's voice. Even missing the somber air of a funeral. A proper one. Maybe one day he'll give Ardyn more than just the blessing of a leftover heir to the Oracle's line. Perhaps he'll need to ask Charlie about the customs of the dead in this land.
But that's a task for later. Right now, he's done about all he can. Glancing back at Ignis, Ravus makes to stand. He really should gather Ardyn's missing head for burial too. But before that, he comes up beside Ignis, and waits for a natural pause in the digging. While he does, he gives a thoughtful hum.
"That you know Tenebraen at all is surprising. Well, rather, given it's you, it's less so. But in the general sense. The language isn't common at all outside of our borders... It does my heart no small joy to know another might speak it with me again." The few he might have ever had the chance are dead or gone now.
"Death should be tender," Ravus says, glancing to Ardyn's body. "To ease the path of life. My mother used to say that. I think because as the Oracle, she saw the endless suffering of all who begged her aid. But even so, I find it a sentiment worth continuing. It's the same prayer she would give to those she couldn't save."
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His conversation with Gladio comes to mind in the worst ways. How Ravus was only moments from knowing the sacrifice Ignis will make in Altissia. And all of him screams to reach for Ignis as he does, to lay his palms, clean and free of blood and grave dirt, on his skin. To let the pads of his fingers trace the delicate skin of his eyelids, and the soft rings beneath his eyes. To tell him to cherish that belief so deeply. To tell him that he's right before he can never truly know again.
But he can't. He doesn't. He swallows down the fervent desire, and keeps to his task. One that evokes more painful memories, more dull yearning aches. Missing home. Missing his mother's voice. Even missing the somber air of a funeral. A proper one. Maybe one day he'll give Ardyn more than just the blessing of a leftover heir to the Oracle's line. Perhaps he'll need to ask Charlie about the customs of the dead in this land.
But that's a task for later. Right now, he's done about all he can. Glancing back at Ignis, Ravus makes to stand. He really should gather Ardyn's missing head for burial too. But before that, he comes up beside Ignis, and waits for a natural pause in the digging. While he does, he gives a thoughtful hum.
"That you know Tenebraen at all is surprising. Well, rather, given it's you, it's less so. But in the general sense. The language isn't common at all outside of our borders... It does my heart no small joy to know another might speak it with me again." The few he might have ever had the chance are dead or gone now.
"Death should be tender," Ravus says, glancing to Ardyn's body. "To ease the path of life. My mother used to say that. I think because as the Oracle, she saw the endless suffering of all who begged her aid. But even so, I find it a sentiment worth continuing. It's the same prayer she would give to those she couldn't save."