Astral language curves through the air, alien and beautiful and terrifyingly powerful. Prompto hears it through his spine and tastes in his mind and doesn’t understand a single word.
If he had to guess, though, Ifrit and Bahamut are having a bit of an argument right now.
It had all started out the way they had planned for. They had fought their way through the ruins of Insomnia to reach the Citadel, steeled for the fight against Ardyn, ready for the worst, and Ardyn for his part hadn’t disappointed.
Ifrit, the Infernian, more like a devil out of nightmares than any sort of god, and his flames had burned with rage and hatred.
Thank Bahamut for, well, Bahamut showing up when he did.
The Draconian had flung his swords earthwards, caging Ifrit in, and for a moment Prompto had thought that Bahamut was signalling Noctis for a blindside attack.
Instead, though, they were knocked down as Bahamut landed, the courtyard shaking underneath his weight, and then the Draconian knelt and snatched up Ifrit with one hand.
That’s when all the holy yelling started.
Noctis is staring-up at the arguing gods with a faint look of strain around his eyes that tells Prompto they’re giving him a migraine again.
“What are they saying?” Prompto asks him.
Noctis opens his mouth, then shuts it again, then rubs at his temples, then finally says, “I’m . . . not sure I’m hearing this right.”
There’s a clang of metal above them and Prompto looks up to see that Bahamut has flung back his visor and his raising Ifrit up to his face.
“Holy shit, is he going to EAT him!?” Prompto shrieks and then turns and buries his face in Gladio’s chest so he doesn’t have to watch this.
After a moment, Gladio pats him gently on the back, “It’s okay Prom, he’s . . . Bahamut isn’t eating Ifrit.”
“Maybe that’s round two, if you know what I mean,” Noctis says, voice cracking with nervous laughter midway.
Prompto turns and looks up again and, holy shit, are Ifrit and Bahamut trying to make out?!
“Could someone please explain what’s going on?” Ignis snaps, “What are those sounds?”
It’s Gladio who finally answers, “That’d be Ifrit and Bahamut getting along really well.”
“That’s not exactly very descriptive, Gladiolus,” Ignis says testily.
“Look, you know how the Cosmogony teaches that Bahamut is Leviathan’s consort, right?” Gladio says, “Let’s just say she’s not going to be happy when she finds out about this.”
Prompto watches Ignis’ face shift as he begins to understand the sounds he’s hearing, “ . . . so that noise is . . . ”
Prompto personally thinks he’d give anything to stop thinking about the noises so he’s almost relieved when Bahamut’s gauntlet nearly kills them.
It’s subtle, the smallest change in air-pressure, but Ignis senses it in time to shove Gladio out of the way seconds before a gigantic metal glove embeds itself six feet deep into the asphalt of the grand courtyard.
They’re all knocked down by the massive greave that follows after it, rippling the ground underneath with its impact.
“. . . For the sake of clarity,” Ignis says, getting up and dusting himself off, “you said Ifrit was about 40 feet tall?”
“Yes,” Gladio replies.
“And the Draconian was significantly bigger?”
“At least 750 feet, probably more.”
“Well,” Ignis says, “then I’m very glad I can’t see what’s going on.”
There’s a resounding metallic boom from the other side of the courtyard that Prompto assumes was the other gauntlet.
“We need to find shelter,” Gladio says, “we don’t want to be here when Bahamut gets out of that chest-plate.”
“Grab on,” Noctis commands. He warps them away to the edge of the courtyard just before a pauldron crashes down where they were standing.
There’s a loud whimper of High Astral, something that tangles in Prompto’s memories and reminds him of the first time he ever kissed Noctis, finally working the courage up after months and years of wanting, but also makes him think of a smouldering fire about to combust. He makes the mistake of turning around to try and make sense of it.
Bahamut is doing things to Ifrit with his tongue that Prompto is never going to be able to forget now.
“I suppose it’s too late for me to play the responsible adult and tell you all you’re too young to be watching this” a voice drifts down from above them, rich and dark, and Prompto’s blood freezes.
Ardyn is perched above them, lounging in one of the arched windows that overlook the courtyard, smirking down with that smile that Prompto’s learnt to hate more than anything else in the world. His gun is in his hand without him even consciously summoning it and he lines up the shot even though he knows it’s useless.
The sight of Ardyn toppling back as Prompto’s bullet hits him straight in the chest is still incredibly satisfying.
“On your guards,” Gladio yells and there’s the familiar sound of the warp spell and then Ardyn is standing behind them, tilting his head and smiling again.
“I admit, I probably did deserve that.”
Prompto swaps his gun out for the Auto Crossbow and to his left he can hear Gladio quietly murmuring positions and distances to Ignis. To his right Noctis draws Ultima Blade.
Ardyn just stands there and raises an eyebrow, “Well, we can fight if you like but it’s all going to be disappointingly anticlimactic, believe me.”
“With how fast you’re about to go down?” Gladio growls, “You son of . . . ”
Gladio’s impressively long string of insults get drowned out by Ifrit’s voice, growing increasingly louder. The Infernian’s words are still in High Astral, incomprehensible and unsettling and lovely, but the cadence and repetition of them is jarringly familiar.
“Marvelous, I think I’ve just learnt how “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” in Holy Astral!” Adryn says cheerfully, “It’s true what they say, no matter how old you get you never do stop learning.”
Prompto raises his crossbow, maybe if he shoots Ardyn again he’ll finally shut up, and that’s when he realises two things. The first is that there’s a spreading redness across Ardyn’s midsection, at the point where Prompto shot him. The second that there’s actually enough light for him to see that Ardyn’s bleeding.
He looks up at the sky and gasps, “Guys!”.
“Ah, so you’ve finally noticed,” Ardyn says smugly.
Prompto ignores him, too busy making sure he’s not imagining this. Overhead, the dense black clouds are clearing. He can see a slice of moon and a scatter of stars on the western side of the sky and to the east . . . to the east there’s a blush of rose and gold.
“Holy shit,” Gladio gasps out, “it’s the dawn!”
“Hey Specs,” Noctis says softly, “I can see the stars again.”
“The gods are terrible things,” Ardyn says, looking up at the parting clouds, “The Starscrounge came with the Meteor but it was Ifrit’s rage and jealousy and Bahamut’s guilt and longing that made it so potent. Now they’re busy resolving their issues, well, the sun will take care of the rest.”
Ardyn takes a step towards them and Prompto’s raising his crossbow, hurrying to take aim because, shit, shit, shit, they let him distract them - but there’s the soft woosh of a warp and now he’s behind them, walking calmly towards the sunlight inching its way through the gaps of Insomnia’s ruined skyscrapers.
“Wait,” Noctis calls out, “Don’t take this the wrong way, douchebag, but what do we put on your tomb?”
Ardyn turns around at that, smile fond, “Why really, that’s very kind of you, my dear Noct.”
“Shut up, this isn’t about you,” Noctis says, “I’m just not going to let anyone cover this up again.”
Ardyn tilts his head, “Fair enough. I should warn you, I was never good at remembering it all. Let’s see . . . His Most Blessed and Royal Majesty, Ardyn Lucis Caelum IV . . . or was it XIV? Protector of the Sacred Grove, King of Lucis, Master of Insomnia, Servant of the Si . . .” he pauses, “No, leave the bit out. Something, something, blah blah blah, By Grace of the Go . . .”
Ardyn laughs suddenly, “Does it matter? Just make something up! Put ‘man of no consequence’ if you’d like, just let the people know what their gods did to them.”
He bows to them, an elegant flourish that doesn’t seem entirely mocking, and then turns and begins walking away again.
His form blurs as he steps into the sunlight and then he’s dissolving, the purple-black of the Starscrounge billowing out around him as his body fragments into shards of light.
Silver glittering against black mist and it’s so achingly beautiful that Prompto finds himself fumbling for his camera. When he realises what he’s doing almost drops it, suddenly so angry his hands are shaking. That was the monster who kidnapped and tortured him and nearly ended the world and now he’s won, Ardyn’s won and gotten his beautiful death and fuck him fuck that fuck everything.
“Six, what an arsehole he was,” Noctis says, “fuck it, let’s put that on his tomb.”
Prompto he turns to look at Noctis, his face edged in the first rays of the new dawn, and his anger ebs away nearly as quickly as it came because he realises they’ve won too. They’ve saved the world and yet Noctis is still standing next to him, battered and filthy and alive, and Prompto’s eyes blur as he reaches out to haul him into a hug.
Gladio beats him too it, pulling Noctis into a bear hug and swinging him around, “Ramuh’s Balls, Noct, the sun’s back and look who’s still breathing.”
Noctis laughed, “I’m a screw-up until the end, aren’t I? Couldn’t even stick the prophecy.”
“Fuck that, it was a fucking stupid prophecy anyway,” Gladio says and kisses him.
Prompto feels a hand on his shoulder and turns as Ignis comes up beside him, tucking his arm around Prompto’s.
“Shall I assume by the undignified squawking noises that Gladio’s decided to monopolise Noct?” Ignis asks.
Then it’s Ignis’ turn to make an undignified squawking noise of his own as Gladio reaches out and drags them both into the hug.
Gods, it’s a good hug, Prompto thinks. They’re tangled together, arms slung over shoulders and hands clinging at waists, and maybe he’s crying but that’s okay because maybe everyone else is crying too. It’s a hug good enough to almost make the last ten years worth it.
He feels he could stay that way for hours, just holding on to them, but then a loud and booming moan completely breaks the mood. It’s a sound that simultaneously reminds Prompto of the vastness and wonder of a clear blue sky over the desert and the filthiest porn that Gladio had ever sent him.
Noctis cranes his head around and then horror fills his eyes, “How the fuck are they even . . .”
“Kindly stop right there,” Ignis says firmly, “I do not need any of this described, thank you very much.”
Prompto closes his eyes tight, “Can we get out of here already? I want to find somewhere to watch the sun rise without having to suffer any more mental trauma.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Ignis says, tucking his arm back around Prompto’s, “Lead the way.”
They limp off back towards the gates, the sounds of the amorous gods gradually fading behind them.
“Hey, wait a sec,” Noctis says, halting suddenly, “Prompto just killed the Accursed, right? Doesn’t that make him the Chosen King?”
“Wait, what?” Prompto says, turning around to look at him, “I mean, didn’t he kind of kill himself?”
“Technicalities,” Gladio says, shit-eating grin spreading across his face, “he’d have died from that bullet anyway, Your Majesty.”
Ignis pets his arm, smirking, “A King should learn to take both his due blame and his due credit.”
Prompto groans, “Iggy please, no, not you too.”
“Hey, can’t argue with divine prophecy,” Noctis says, way too pleased with himself.
“You’re going to need a style of address and some titles,” Ignis says, “I’m sure Noctis could afford to lend a few.”
“Hell,” Gladio says, “Prom just saved the world, I bet what’s left of Concordia and the Nilfs would be happy to throw in a few of their spares.”
“HIs Most Magnificent Majesty, Prompto Argentium I, High King of Eos,” Ignis intones, voice ringing out against the empty concrete buildings surrounding them, “Champion of the Sacred Grove, Savior of Insomnia.”
“Hero of Concordia,” Noctis adds.
“Cutest Freckles in Niflheim,” Gladio suggests.
“Guys,” Prompto says, “Guys please I am begging you . . .”
“Duke of Wiz’ Chocobo Post,” Ignis says, ignoring him.
“Protector of Hallowed Hammerhead,” Noctis says, laughing.
“Guys!” Prompto yells but he’s laughing too now.
They keep coming up with new ones, each sillier than the last, as they walk together into the light of the new day.
Re: FILL: Chocobros, titles (2 of 2)
If he had to guess, though, Ifrit and Bahamut are having a bit of an argument right now.
It had all started out the way they had planned for. They had fought their way through the ruins of Insomnia to reach the Citadel, steeled for the fight against Ardyn, ready for the worst, and Ardyn for his part hadn’t disappointed.
Ifrit, the Infernian, more like a devil out of nightmares than any sort of god, and his flames had burned with rage and hatred.
Thank Bahamut for, well, Bahamut showing up when he did.
The Draconian had flung his swords earthwards, caging Ifrit in, and for a moment Prompto had thought that Bahamut was signalling Noctis for a blindside attack.
Instead, though, they were knocked down as Bahamut landed, the courtyard shaking underneath his weight, and then the Draconian knelt and snatched up Ifrit with one hand.
That’s when all the holy yelling started.
Noctis is staring-up at the arguing gods with a faint look of strain around his eyes that tells Prompto they’re giving him a migraine again.
“What are they saying?” Prompto asks him.
Noctis opens his mouth, then shuts it again, then rubs at his temples, then finally says, “I’m . . . not sure I’m hearing this right.”
There’s a clang of metal above them and Prompto looks up to see that Bahamut has flung back his visor and his raising Ifrit up to his face.
“Holy shit, is he going to EAT him!?” Prompto shrieks and then turns and buries his face in Gladio’s chest so he doesn’t have to watch this.
After a moment, Gladio pats him gently on the back, “It’s okay Prom, he’s . . . Bahamut isn’t eating Ifrit.”
“Maybe that’s round two, if you know what I mean,” Noctis says, voice cracking with nervous laughter midway.
Prompto turns and looks up again and, holy shit, are Ifrit and Bahamut trying to make out?!
“Could someone please explain what’s going on?” Ignis snaps, “What are those sounds?”
It’s Gladio who finally answers, “That’d be Ifrit and Bahamut getting along really well.”
“That’s not exactly very descriptive, Gladiolus,” Ignis says testily.
“Look, you know how the Cosmogony teaches that Bahamut is Leviathan’s consort, right?” Gladio says, “Let’s just say she’s not going to be happy when she finds out about this.”
Prompto watches Ignis’ face shift as he begins to understand the sounds he’s hearing, “ . . . so that noise is . . . ”
Prompto personally thinks he’d give anything to stop thinking about the noises so he’s almost relieved when Bahamut’s gauntlet nearly kills them.
It’s subtle, the smallest change in air-pressure, but Ignis senses it in time to shove Gladio out of the way seconds before a gigantic metal glove embeds itself six feet deep into the asphalt of the grand courtyard.
They’re all knocked down by the massive greave that follows after it, rippling the ground underneath with its impact.
“Holy shit,” Prompto yelps, “is Bahamut stripping!?”
“. . . For the sake of clarity,” Ignis says, getting up and dusting himself off, “you said Ifrit was about 40 feet tall?”
“Yes,” Gladio replies.
“And the Draconian was significantly bigger?”
“At least 750 feet, probably more.”
“Well,” Ignis says, “then I’m very glad I can’t see what’s going on.”
There’s a resounding metallic boom from the other side of the courtyard that Prompto assumes was the other gauntlet.
“We need to find shelter,” Gladio says, “we don’t want to be here when Bahamut gets out of that chest-plate.”
“Grab on,” Noctis commands. He warps them away to the edge of the courtyard just before a pauldron crashes down where they were standing.
There’s a loud whimper of High Astral, something that tangles in Prompto’s memories and reminds him of the first time he ever kissed Noctis, finally working the courage up after months and years of wanting, but also makes him think of a smouldering fire about to combust. He makes the mistake of turning around to try and make sense of it.
Bahamut is doing things to Ifrit with his tongue that Prompto is never going to be able to forget now.
“I suppose it’s too late for me to play the responsible adult and tell you all you’re too young to be watching this” a voice drifts down from above them, rich and dark, and Prompto’s blood freezes.
Ardyn is perched above them, lounging in one of the arched windows that overlook the courtyard, smirking down with that smile that Prompto’s learnt to hate more than anything else in the world. His gun is in his hand without him even consciously summoning it and he lines up the shot even though he knows it’s useless.
The sight of Ardyn toppling back as Prompto’s bullet hits him straight in the chest is still incredibly satisfying.
“On your guards,” Gladio yells and there’s the familiar sound of the warp spell and then Ardyn is standing behind them, tilting his head and smiling again.
“I admit, I probably did deserve that.”
Prompto swaps his gun out for the Auto Crossbow and to his left he can hear Gladio quietly murmuring positions and distances to Ignis. To his right Noctis draws Ultima Blade.
Ardyn just stands there and raises an eyebrow, “Well, we can fight if you like but it’s all going to be disappointingly anticlimactic, believe me.”
“With how fast you’re about to go down?” Gladio growls, “You son of . . . ”
Gladio’s impressively long string of insults get drowned out by Ifrit’s voice, growing increasingly louder. The Infernian’s words are still in High Astral, incomprehensible and unsettling and lovely, but the cadence and repetition of them is jarringly familiar.
“Marvelous, I think I’ve just learnt how “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” in Holy Astral!” Adryn says cheerfully, “It’s true what they say, no matter how old you get you never do stop learning.”
Prompto raises his crossbow, maybe if he shoots Ardyn again he’ll finally shut up, and that’s when he realises two things. The first is that there’s a spreading redness across Ardyn’s midsection, at the point where Prompto shot him. The second that there’s actually enough light for him to see that Ardyn’s bleeding.
He looks up at the sky and gasps, “Guys!”.
“Ah, so you’ve finally noticed,” Ardyn says smugly.
Prompto ignores him, too busy making sure he’s not imagining this. Overhead, the dense black clouds are clearing. He can see a slice of moon and a scatter of stars on the western side of the sky and to the east . . . to the east there’s a blush of rose and gold.
“Holy shit,” Gladio gasps out, “it’s the dawn!”
“Hey Specs,” Noctis says softly, “I can see the stars again.”
“The gods are terrible things,” Ardyn says, looking up at the parting clouds, “The Starscrounge came with the Meteor but it was Ifrit’s rage and jealousy and Bahamut’s guilt and longing that made it so potent. Now they’re busy resolving their issues, well, the sun will take care of the rest.”
Ardyn takes a step towards them and Prompto’s raising his crossbow, hurrying to take aim because, shit, shit, shit, they let him distract them - but there’s the soft woosh of a warp and now he’s behind them, walking calmly towards the sunlight inching its way through the gaps of Insomnia’s ruined skyscrapers.
“Wait,” Noctis calls out, “Don’t take this the wrong way, douchebag, but what do we put on your tomb?”
Ardyn turns around at that, smile fond, “Why really, that’s very kind of you, my dear Noct.”
“Shut up, this isn’t about you,” Noctis says, “I’m just not going to let anyone cover this up again.”
Ardyn tilts his head, “Fair enough. I should warn you, I was never good at remembering it all. Let’s see . . . His Most Blessed and Royal Majesty, Ardyn Lucis Caelum IV . . . or was it XIV? Protector of the Sacred Grove, King of Lucis, Master of Insomnia, Servant of the Si . . .” he pauses, “No, leave the bit out. Something, something, blah blah blah, By Grace of the Go . . .”
Ardyn laughs suddenly, “Does it matter? Just make something up! Put ‘man of no consequence’ if you’d like, just let the people know what their gods did to them.”
He bows to them, an elegant flourish that doesn’t seem entirely mocking, and then turns and begins walking away again.
His form blurs as he steps into the sunlight and then he’s dissolving, the purple-black of the Starscrounge billowing out around him as his body fragments into shards of light.
Silver glittering against black mist and it’s so achingly beautiful that Prompto finds himself fumbling for his camera. When he realises what he’s doing almost drops it, suddenly so angry his hands are shaking. That was the monster who kidnapped and tortured him and nearly ended the world and now he’s won, Ardyn’s won and gotten his beautiful death and fuck him fuck that fuck everything.
“Six, what an arsehole he was,” Noctis says, “fuck it, let’s put that on his tomb.”
Prompto he turns to look at Noctis, his face edged in the first rays of the new dawn, and his anger ebs away nearly as quickly as it came because he realises they’ve won too. They’ve saved the world and yet Noctis is still standing next to him, battered and filthy and alive, and Prompto’s eyes blur as he reaches out to haul him into a hug.
Gladio beats him too it, pulling Noctis into a bear hug and swinging him around, “Ramuh’s Balls, Noct, the sun’s back and look who’s still breathing.”
Noctis laughed, “I’m a screw-up until the end, aren’t I? Couldn’t even stick the prophecy.”
“Fuck that, it was a fucking stupid prophecy anyway,” Gladio says and kisses him.
Prompto feels a hand on his shoulder and turns as Ignis comes up beside him, tucking his arm around Prompto’s.
“Shall I assume by the undignified squawking noises that Gladio’s decided to monopolise Noct?” Ignis asks.
Then it’s Ignis’ turn to make an undignified squawking noise of his own as Gladio reaches out and drags them both into the hug.
Gods, it’s a good hug, Prompto thinks. They’re tangled together, arms slung over shoulders and hands clinging at waists, and maybe he’s crying but that’s okay because maybe everyone else is crying too. It’s a hug good enough to almost make the last ten years worth it.
He feels he could stay that way for hours, just holding on to them, but then a loud and booming moan completely breaks the mood. It’s a sound that simultaneously reminds Prompto of the vastness and wonder of a clear blue sky over the desert and the filthiest porn that Gladio had ever sent him.
Noctis cranes his head around and then horror fills his eyes, “How the fuck are they even . . .”
“Kindly stop right there,” Ignis says firmly, “I do not need any of this described, thank you very much.”
Prompto closes his eyes tight, “Can we get out of here already? I want to find somewhere to watch the sun rise without having to suffer any more mental trauma.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Ignis says, tucking his arm back around Prompto’s, “Lead the way.”
They limp off back towards the gates, the sounds of the amorous gods gradually fading behind them.
“Hey, wait a sec,” Noctis says, halting suddenly, “Prompto just killed the Accursed, right? Doesn’t that make him the Chosen King?”
“Wait, what?” Prompto says, turning around to look at him, “I mean, didn’t he kind of kill himself?”
“Technicalities,” Gladio says, shit-eating grin spreading across his face, “he’d have died from that bullet anyway, Your Majesty.”
Ignis pets his arm, smirking, “A King should learn to take both his due blame and his due credit.”
Prompto groans, “Iggy please, no, not you too.”
“Hey, can’t argue with divine prophecy,” Noctis says, way too pleased with himself.
“You’re going to need a style of address and some titles,” Ignis says, “I’m sure Noctis could afford to lend a few.”
“Hell,” Gladio says, “Prom just saved the world, I bet what’s left of Concordia and the Nilfs would be happy to throw in a few of their spares.”
“HIs Most Magnificent Majesty, Prompto Argentium I, High King of Eos,” Ignis intones, voice ringing out against the empty concrete buildings surrounding them, “Champion of the Sacred Grove, Savior of Insomnia.”
“Hero of Concordia,” Noctis adds.
“Cutest Freckles in Niflheim,” Gladio suggests.
“Guys,” Prompto says, “Guys please I am begging you . . .”
“Duke of Wiz’ Chocobo Post,” Ignis says, ignoring him.
“Protector of Hallowed Hammerhead,” Noctis says, laughing.
“Guys!” Prompto yells but he’s laughing too now.
They keep coming up with new ones, each sillier than the last, as they walk together into the light of the new day.