Double update to make up for yesterday and to hopefully get this thing all out before the long weekend. (I'm.... a little sorry for this part? But not really.)
There's another two parts to go (though I can't promise it gets better). This thing DEFINITELY got away from me.
-----
Gladio stares down at the text from Ignis, a sliver of unease lancing through him.
[Throne room]
Nothing else. Iggy’s usually more specific, especially when they’re not being casual.
Maybe it’s nothing.
He’s just outside the main training room when he gets it, so it’s only a few minutes before he makes it up the stairs and down the winding hallways to the primary receiving areas. He runs into Prompto just outside the main hall, puffing slightly as he jogs through the door.
“You think he found Noct?” he asks brightly. There’s a serious tilt to his eyes, but Gladio can see the incessant optimism shining through.
“Guess we’ll see,” he grunts, trying not to let his uncertainty show.
It’s just a few more halls before they reach the throne room. As they approach, Gladio notices one of the big doors hanging open.
It’s… quiet. Unnaturally so.
He hesitates at the door, something in him saying that he doesn’t want to go forward. He can’t pin it down, can’t make sense of it, but he knows that if he walks through that door, everything will change.
Prompto makes the decision for him.
There’s a shuffle as the other man steps past the doorway, then an abrupt silence.
And then…
“NOCT!”
There’s nothing bright in that shout as it splits the air, cracking like a whip and full of pain. Gladio’s feet drag him forward without his permission, and he steps through the door.
He’ll never forget the sight for the rest of his life.
Noct is so still. He’s dressed in the same battered, worn fatigues they’d seen him in last, dirty and torn in a few places and looking strangely small on his frame. His older frame. His hair is longer, hanging over his face as his head falls forward, and there’s the whisper of a beard along the side of his jaw. His arms are resting quietly on the armrests of the throne. One hand is limp, lying half-curled against the wood, and the other is laced tightly with Ignis’.
Ignis sits curled motionlessly on the other side of the armrest, his face tucked so tightly against it that Gladio can’t see anything of it. His knuckles are white with how hard he’s gripping Noct’s hand.
Gladio’s eyes are drawn, inevitably, magnetically, to the massive sword thrust straight through his King’s chest.
Everything is white noise. He can hear Prompto screaming, can see him dashing up the steps, calling Noct’s name over and over and over, grabbing hold of his free arm and shaking him. He can see the rise and fall of Ignis’ chest, the way his hands curl impossibly tighter around Noct’s, how his shoulders hunch up further. He can hear the beat of his own heart, pounding louder and louder in his ears until there’s nothing else.
Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…
And then the world comes rushing back, like a bubble bursting.
“NO!”
Gladio trips forward, stumbling like he never has in his life. Rubble catches at his feet, reaching with knife-like fingers to trip him. He falls twice and doesn’t feel the impact. His hands scrabble at the stairway banister, tearing his palms where the stone has broken, but he doesn’t care.
He has to get—
If he can just—
He goes to his knees in front of the throne, breath wild, hands reaching, because all he needs to do is get there and Noctis will be okay—
When his hands reach cold, unmoving flesh, everything freezes.
He… he can’t…
Noct’s face is still under his hands, expression slack, eyes closed and unmoving. No air moves out of his lungs. No blood moves through his veins. There’s just… nothing.
Time stands still for an eternity.
“Phoenix Down,” Gladio rasps. When no one responds, he wrenches his eyes from his king—his dead king—to stare blankly at Ignis. “We need… We need Phoenix Down.”
Ignis doesn’t move.
Gladio shifts his gaze to Prompto, something rising in his chest—something with teeth. “We have to—there’s no time, why are you—”
Prompto stares at him, eyes wide and wet and uncomprehending.
“It won’t work.” Ignis’ voice is nothing like it should be, rough and small and empty. “The magic is gone.”
Gladio’s hands spasm, two fingers brushing through a lock of Noct’s hair and scratching across his beard.
“He’s gone.”
Prompto is draped over Noct’s arm, an unending litany of no no no please no falling from his lips. Ignis is silent, still, so cold that you’d think he was frozen in ice, and Gladio—
Gladio snaps.
It might be words. It might be shouting. It might be a silent scream. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, as something tears its way out of his throat, biting and ripping and shredding as it goes. The world seizes around him, ballooning out and then compressing down into nothing.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
Your entire purpose is gone.
Gone.
Dead.
And you weren’t there to stop it.
When reality comes crashing back, he can’t feel his hands. He looks down to find them a bloody mess, torn to shreds with pieces of stone embedded in his knuckles. His gaze travels down to the floor, where his sword—not his sword, never, his sword was lost when the Armiger was closed to them—where the sword he’s wielded for years lies shattered, the hilt thrown to the side and twisted pieces of sharpened metal strewn among the broken stone. Stone that bears the marks of a blade, over and over again.
Prompto’s voice carries from very far away. “I-it’s… his own sword—w-why would he—”
“Not his own,” Ignis says blankly. “The Sword of the Father. I suspect…” There’s a long silence. “I suspect that there was a price to pay in order to dispel the darkness.”
“But… but he already—How is that fair?” Prompto sobs.
“There is very little that is fair when it comes to gods.”
Gladio stares down at his hands. They’re shaking, dripping blood onto the floor.
Ptt. Ptt. Ptt.
He still can’t feel anything. There’s a ringing in his ears, high pitched and incessant, like an old TV left on.
Is he even breathing?
He finds he doesn’t care.
“What… what do we do now?” Prompto’s voice is tiny, like a child’s.
Nothing. We do nothing.
“Continue,” Ignis’ voice says, though there’s nothing of Ignis left behind it.
FILL (5/7): Gen or OT4, Noctis doesn't reunite with the bros
There's another two parts to go (though I can't promise it gets better). This thing DEFINITELY got away from me.
-----
Gladio stares down at the text from Ignis, a sliver of unease lancing through him.
[Throne room]
Nothing else. Iggy’s usually more specific, especially when they’re not being casual.
Maybe it’s nothing.
He’s just outside the main training room when he gets it, so it’s only a few minutes before he makes it up the stairs and down the winding hallways to the primary receiving areas. He runs into Prompto just outside the main hall, puffing slightly as he jogs through the door.
“You think he found Noct?” he asks brightly. There’s a serious tilt to his eyes, but Gladio can see the incessant optimism shining through.
“Guess we’ll see,” he grunts, trying not to let his uncertainty show.
It’s just a few more halls before they reach the throne room. As they approach, Gladio notices one of the big doors hanging open.
It’s… quiet. Unnaturally so.
He hesitates at the door, something in him saying that he doesn’t want to go forward. He can’t pin it down, can’t make sense of it, but he knows that if he walks through that door, everything will change.
Prompto makes the decision for him.
There’s a shuffle as the other man steps past the doorway, then an abrupt silence.
And then…
“NOCT!”
There’s nothing bright in that shout as it splits the air, cracking like a whip and full of pain. Gladio’s feet drag him forward without his permission, and he steps through the door.
He’ll never forget the sight for the rest of his life.
Noct is so still. He’s dressed in the same battered, worn fatigues they’d seen him in last, dirty and torn in a few places and looking strangely small on his frame. His older frame. His hair is longer, hanging over his face as his head falls forward, and there’s the whisper of a beard along the side of his jaw. His arms are resting quietly on the armrests of the throne. One hand is limp, lying half-curled against the wood, and the other is laced tightly with Ignis’.
Ignis sits curled motionlessly on the other side of the armrest, his face tucked so tightly against it that Gladio can’t see anything of it. His knuckles are white with how hard he’s gripping Noct’s hand.
Gladio’s eyes are drawn, inevitably, magnetically, to the massive sword thrust straight through his King’s chest.
Everything is white noise. He can hear Prompto screaming, can see him dashing up the steps, calling Noct’s name over and over and over, grabbing hold of his free arm and shaking him. He can see the rise and fall of Ignis’ chest, the way his hands curl impossibly tighter around Noct’s, how his shoulders hunch up further. He can hear the beat of his own heart, pounding louder and louder in his ears until there’s nothing else.
Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…
And then the world comes rushing back, like a bubble bursting.
“NO!”
Gladio trips forward, stumbling like he never has in his life. Rubble catches at his feet, reaching with knife-like fingers to trip him. He falls twice and doesn’t feel the impact. His hands scrabble at the stairway banister, tearing his palms where the stone has broken, but he doesn’t care.
He has to get—
If he can just—
He goes to his knees in front of the throne, breath wild, hands reaching, because all he needs to do is get there and Noctis will be okay—
When his hands reach cold, unmoving flesh, everything freezes.
He… he can’t…
Noct’s face is still under his hands, expression slack, eyes closed and unmoving. No air moves out of his lungs. No blood moves through his veins. There’s just… nothing.
Time stands still for an eternity.
“Phoenix Down,” Gladio rasps. When no one responds, he wrenches his eyes from his king—his dead king—to stare blankly at Ignis. “We need… We need Phoenix Down.”
Ignis doesn’t move.
Gladio shifts his gaze to Prompto, something rising in his chest—something with teeth. “We have to—there’s no time, why are you—”
Prompto stares at him, eyes wide and wet and uncomprehending.
“It won’t work.” Ignis’ voice is nothing like it should be, rough and small and empty. “The magic is gone.”
Gladio’s hands spasm, two fingers brushing through a lock of Noct’s hair and scratching across his beard.
“He’s gone.”
Prompto is draped over Noct’s arm, an unending litany of no no no please no falling from his lips. Ignis is silent, still, so cold that you’d think he was frozen in ice, and Gladio—
Gladio snaps.
It might be words. It might be shouting. It might be a silent scream. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, as something tears its way out of his throat, biting and ripping and shredding as it goes. The world seizes around him, ballooning out and then compressing down into nothing.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
Your entire purpose is gone.
Gone.
Dead.
And you weren’t there to stop it.
When reality comes crashing back, he can’t feel his hands. He looks down to find them a bloody mess, torn to shreds with pieces of stone embedded in his knuckles. His gaze travels down to the floor, where his sword—not his sword, never, his sword was lost when the Armiger was closed to them—where the sword he’s wielded for years lies shattered, the hilt thrown to the side and twisted pieces of sharpened metal strewn among the broken stone. Stone that bears the marks of a blade, over and over again.
Prompto’s voice carries from very far away. “I-it’s… his own sword—w-why would he—”
“Not his own,” Ignis says blankly. “The Sword of the Father. I suspect…” There’s a long silence. “I suspect that there was a price to pay in order to dispel the darkness.”
“But… but he already—How is that fair?” Prompto sobs.
“There is very little that is fair when it comes to gods.”
Gladio stares down at his hands. They’re shaking, dripping blood onto the floor.
Ptt. Ptt. Ptt.
He still can’t feel anything. There’s a ringing in his ears, high pitched and incessant, like an old TV left on.
Is he even breathing?
He finds he doesn’t care.
“What… what do we do now?” Prompto’s voice is tiny, like a child’s.
Nothing. We do nothing.
“Continue,” Ignis’ voice says, though there’s nothing of Ignis left behind it.