They're a week and a half into their road trip across Lucis, and Prompto's barely awake.
It's been a hell of a day – two hunts, three shiploads of Imperial soldiers, a resupply trip to Longwythe, and a flat tire four miles out of town. So now here they are, back in Longwythe, footsore and dead tired. Noct's already sprawled out on the narrow caravan bed, dead asleep. Gladio's draped over the couch, nodding off. Iggy's in the kitchen, inventorying their food supply. How he's even conscious anymore, much less standing, is anyone's guess.
As for Prompto, he's got his sleeping bag spread out on the ground in the narrow walkway of the caravan. He's squirmed down into it and is fighting to stay awake, eyelids heavy, as he pages through the pictures he snapped today on his camera.
There are some good ones in there: Noct with his sword raised above his head, about two seconds from bringing it down on an unsuspecting coeurl. Gladio reading in the backseat, stretched out and content. Ignis at yesterday's campsite, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.
And then there's the one that should have been nothing more than blurred leaves and a swatch of dirt. Prompto knows; that's when he went down in battle and dropped the camera. He can see his own fingers in the foreground, one of them tinted red with blood.
And there, sitting on the ground in front of the blurry leaves, is a small, white cat-fox. Its ears are pricked forward, as though in concern. Its round, luminescent eyes are turned toward the camera – toward the place where Prompto just fell. It's making to rise, haunches tensed.
Prompto blinks down at it for a long time, not quite believing it's there. He's half convinced he's already drifted off to sleep, but when he sits up, the sound of Ignis in the kitchen is steady and reassuring; the soft shift of rice in the sack as he makes to resettle it in his pack.
"Hey, Iggy?" says Prompto, uncertain.
"Yes?" comes the reply. It's pitched low, out of consideration or the two who are sleeping already.
Prompto stands up, letting the sleeping bag pool on the floor. He turns the camera off, and then turns it back on again. He flips to the photo of the blurred leaves and finds Carbuncle there, still staring out at him.
Frowning, Prompto pads into the kitchen. He's barefoot, in nothing but his sleep shorts and a torn old t-shirt; his hair, still drying from the shower, is probably sticking out in ridiculous clumps.
He says, "Hey, uh. You notice anything weird on the hunts today?"
Ignis fixes him with a level look. "Apart from a frog with a twenty-five foot tongue, I take it," he returns, tone dry enough to drain Aster Slough.
"Yeah," says Prompto. "Besides that."
He holds out the camera, and Ignis takes it – peers down at the screen with pursed lips. "Remarkable."
"Yeah," says Prompto. "Right? I mean, I didn't see it while we were actually fighting, but there it is, right in the middle of battle. You'd think if it was an animal, it'd run away from all the noise."
"It's hardly just an animal," Ignis says, and lifts his eyes from the screen to regard Prompto with great consideration. "The Carbuncle is a protective spirit. It grants pleasant dreams and watches over those it deems worthy. Its presence at important points in Lucian history has been reported periodically since the reign of The Clever."
Prompto's not sure what to say to that. His brow furrows as he mulls the new information over. "And it's following us around?"
"So it would seem." One elegant gloved hand offers the camera back up, and Prompto takes it, cautiously.
"Huh," says Prompto. "Must be here for Noct."
But even as he says it, Prompto's thoughts stray back to earlier this afternoon. He remembers white-hot agony from a coeurl's claws – blood, hot and slick, all down his side. He remembers going down to one knee and trying to push himself up, then going down again, harder, the world greying out at the edges. He remembers the camera sliding from numb fingers, the flash as it hit the ground.
Then: the rush of healing magic shivering through him, refreshing as the air on a winter morning. Turning to thank Noct for potion, only to discover that his best friend was halfway across the battlefield, knee deep in a pack of voreteeth that'd joined the fray.
Prompto stares down at the screen, at the little creature captured in that moment, and he wonders.
Re: Fill: 4/? Prompto meets Carbuncle - Prompto/Noctis or Gen
It's been a hell of a day – two hunts, three shiploads of Imperial soldiers, a resupply trip to Longwythe, and a flat tire four miles out of town. So now here they are, back in Longwythe, footsore and dead tired. Noct's already sprawled out on the narrow caravan bed, dead asleep. Gladio's draped over the couch, nodding off. Iggy's in the kitchen, inventorying their food supply. How he's even conscious anymore, much less standing, is anyone's guess.
As for Prompto, he's got his sleeping bag spread out on the ground in the narrow walkway of the caravan. He's squirmed down into it and is fighting to stay awake, eyelids heavy, as he pages through the pictures he snapped today on his camera.
There are some good ones in there: Noct with his sword raised above his head, about two seconds from bringing it down on an unsuspecting coeurl. Gladio reading in the backseat, stretched out and content. Ignis at yesterday's campsite, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.
And then there's the one that should have been nothing more than blurred leaves and a swatch of dirt. Prompto knows; that's when he went down in battle and dropped the camera. He can see his own fingers in the foreground, one of them tinted red with blood.
And there, sitting on the ground in front of the blurry leaves, is a small, white cat-fox. Its ears are pricked forward, as though in concern. Its round, luminescent eyes are turned toward the camera – toward the place where Prompto just fell. It's making to rise, haunches tensed.
Prompto blinks down at it for a long time, not quite believing it's there. He's half convinced he's already drifted off to sleep, but when he sits up, the sound of Ignis in the kitchen is steady and reassuring; the soft shift of rice in the sack as he makes to resettle it in his pack.
"Hey, Iggy?" says Prompto, uncertain.
"Yes?" comes the reply. It's pitched low, out of consideration or the two who are sleeping already.
Prompto stands up, letting the sleeping bag pool on the floor. He turns the camera off, and then turns it back on again. He flips to the photo of the blurred leaves and finds Carbuncle there, still staring out at him.
Frowning, Prompto pads into the kitchen. He's barefoot, in nothing but his sleep shorts and a torn old t-shirt; his hair, still drying from the shower, is probably sticking out in ridiculous clumps.
He says, "Hey, uh. You notice anything weird on the hunts today?"
Ignis fixes him with a level look. "Apart from a frog with a twenty-five foot tongue, I take it," he returns, tone dry enough to drain Aster Slough.
"Yeah," says Prompto. "Besides that."
He holds out the camera, and Ignis takes it – peers down at the screen with pursed lips. "Remarkable."
"Yeah," says Prompto. "Right? I mean, I didn't see it while we were actually fighting, but there it is, right in the middle of battle. You'd think if it was an animal, it'd run away from all the noise."
"It's hardly just an animal," Ignis says, and lifts his eyes from the screen to regard Prompto with great consideration. "The Carbuncle is a protective spirit. It grants pleasant dreams and watches over those it deems worthy. Its presence at important points in Lucian history has been reported periodically since the reign of The Clever."
Prompto's not sure what to say to that. His brow furrows as he mulls the new information over. "And it's following us around?"
"So it would seem." One elegant gloved hand offers the camera back up, and Prompto takes it, cautiously.
"Huh," says Prompto. "Must be here for Noct."
But even as he says it, Prompto's thoughts stray back to earlier this afternoon. He remembers white-hot agony from a coeurl's claws – blood, hot and slick, all down his side. He remembers going down to one knee and trying to push himself up, then going down again, harder, the world greying out at the edges. He remembers the camera sliding from numb fingers, the flash as it hit the ground.
Then: the rush of healing magic shivering through him, refreshing as the air on a winter morning. Turning to thank Noct for potion, only to discover that his best friend was halfway across the battlefield, knee deep in a pack of voreteeth that'd joined the fray.
Prompto stares down at the screen, at the little creature captured in that moment, and he wonders.