Chapter Text
Ignis couldn’t see the daemons, but he could feel them—dozens of them materializing around him and the others. Their presence sucked the warmth from the air. His skin prickled with gooseflesh beneath his jacket and shirt sleeves, the hair on the back of his neck taut with alarm. Even without his sight, he could differentiate between the shrieking alberiches with their whip-like tails that whistled through the air and the chittering snagas that approached. There were reapers, skeletal feet grating against the metal floor, the whoosh of their scythes cutting air. Gargantuas spawned with a sound like the rending of entire buildings as they broke the barrier between dimensions, the pull of their gravity unmistakable.
We’re a bit outnumbered.
Typically there was a smell, also—something putrid and dank and death-like. Its absence was a bit odd, but perhaps the air circulation in the Zegnautus hangar was exceptionally effective. Ignis didn’t let it concern him.
As the alberiches and snagas closed around him, he summoned ice to his daggers and lashed out with both blades. Cold burst from his weapons, freezing the floor around his feet and exploding outwards. The daemons were thrown back; Ignis followed the sound of their stumbling and hissing, and attacked— His blades connected with rotting tissue and bone, and sliced through. That wave—seven or so?—screamed their death cries and fell. But there were more, immediately, pressing in to take the others’ places.
Another round of ice, then. Ignis readied himself, waiting just a few seconds longer for the maximum effect…and then struck, obliterating the daemons around him.
But it wasn’t enough. There were reapers closing in on him now, and he could hear the ghastly voices of wraiths joining the fray.
Ignis dispatched a third wave, and a fourth… This isn’t going to work.
Pinpointing Gladio was easy enough—Ignis could hear his grunts of exertion and feel the shockwave of air from the swing of his greatsword. He timed his movements to the pattern of Gladio’s steps, springing off the floor and flipping over the heads of the daemons. The swing of a reaper’s scythe came a little too close to his hair for comfort, but he landed on his feet at Gladio’s back, unscathed.
“They just keep coming!” Gladio swung again, scattering a handful of shrieking alberiches.
Ignis prepared more ice. “Is there a way forward?” He yelled to be heard over the sounds of the battle.
“The elevator!” Noct was off to the right. “It’s—” He grunted in pain as whatever he was fighting landed a strike. “It’s on the other side. A hundred…a hundred and twenty feet?”
“Lots of nasties between us and there, dude,” Prompto said, pausing to reload. “Lemme clear a path—”
An automated female voice came from somewhere overhead. “Emergency containment measures activated. Hangar doors closing.”
“Shit.” Noct’s voice was tight. “Guys, we gotta move!”
Ignis didn’t need to see to calculate the odds—the dense field of daemons, the distance and dwindling time commensurate with the panic in Noct’s voice. There was only one clear and obvious solution—
“Noct! You must go on alone.” Ignis didn’t like it, but what choice did they have?
“What?”
He hated being the cause of the shock in Noct’s voice even more. Noct could make it, but not if he waited for them. Ignis sidestepped a reaper’s swipe and plunged both of his daggers into its bony ribcage. “If you can obtain the Crystal’s power, we may yet turn the tide. Otherwise—”
He felt a sudden, dizzying wave of déjà vu and wasn’t at all certain as to why.
“Iggy’s right,” Gladio said, his swing colliding with several more daemons. “It’s our only chance.”
I’ve said these words before. I’ve heard these words before— He somehow knew what was coming next. Noct would protest and Prompto would—
“But what about you?” Noct hesitated, the anxiety in his voice for their sakes, not for himself.
“We’ll manage somehow!” Prompto shouted back. “Just go!”
Air hissed out through Noct’s teeth, then there was the familiar, reality-bending sound of his warp—
Noct would make it—he would go to the Crystal, and—
The wave of dizziness came over Ignis again, forcing the air violently from his lungs. No, Noct— Don’t— Something inside his head was screaming, his heart seizing up in his chest. It’s a trap, Noct!
A scythe cut into Ignis’s shoulder. He saw red, staggering to the side, the pain oddly dull for the injury he’d just received. Ignis whirled, calling flame to his daggers and cutting through bone as he dispatched the reaper who’d struck him. Its skeletal remains clattered to the floor near his feet. Before he could move to engage the next adversary, there was a sucking sound, air displaced—
Ignis didn’t react in time, caught by the heavy blow of a gargantua’s sword and swept neatly off his feet. His back throbbed, body spilled to the floor like a ragdoll, strangely numb to the pain. Ignis stared upward, gasping for breath, blinking behind his glasses by reflex— For a moment, he saw static—static?—and a wisp of magenta light—
Out of blackness, the world formed before his eyes, if fuzzy and indistinct—wavy outlines of gray, though he saw the daemons well enough—the blood on their claws, the hazy miasma swirling around them. None of this was right—not the world, not his vision, not the way Gladio and Prompto battled onward heedless that he’d fallen, and—above all—not them letting Noct go on to face Ardyn’s trap by himself—
It was a trap. He didn’t know how he knew, except for the awful feeling in his stomach, the panic squeezing his chest. They’d be too late if he didn’t do something. Noct would be gone if he didn’t—
Ignis couldn’t let it happen again. He wouldn’t.
Narrowly avoiding another slash of the gargantua’s sword, Ignis rolled to his feet. He couldn’t make out any features of the hangar, nor its layout, but Gladio was right beside him and Prompto wasn’t far off. He didn’t spare a second to wonder how he could see them at all.
Ignis grabbed Gladio’s arm. “We haven’t time to waste!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Gladio shrugged him off, face twisted into a grimace. “Prompto!”
“Yeah, I’m doing it!” Prompto leveled his auto-crossbow at the daemons blocking their path. “On your right!”
Ignis flinched away from Prompto’s line of fire, crossbow bolts drilling into the enemy, their bodies littering the floor.
Before more daemons could close in, Ignis brandished his daggers, lightning sizzling down his wrists to the ends of his blades. “Let’s go!”
He sprinted, zipping from one enemy to the next until the void swallowed him again—gray nothingness in all directions. But, presumably, that elevator was close by?
“Iggy! Hold up!” Gladio caught up with him seconds later, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “This way.” He steered, Ignis followed. There was the tap of buttons, then machinery clanking, a lift whirring—
Ignis’s heart pounded in his chest, cold pulses of fear flooding his veins. “It’s a trap,” he said between breaths. “We shouldn’t have let—”
Gladio looked at him sharply. “But you said—”
“I know what I said!” But I was wrong. Everything is wrong—
“Gravisphere!” Prompto joined them, chucking his specially made projectile into the fray. It exploded with peals of amber and violet light; Ignis felt the magic tugging at his clothes like an insistent breeze.
The daemons weren’t so lucky, sucked into a pile, struggling and failing to get free. It bought them seconds in which the lift arrived, doors parting with a shriek of metal. Gladio hauled them both inside.
“What are you not saying?” Gladio asked, in his face. Ignis could see the sweat beading on his brow, a fresh gash high on his left cheek.
“I don’t know,” he said. The lift shuddered and moved, dropping them down to the floor below. “Just be ready to run.”
“Iggy?” Prompto looked at him, face creased with concern.
“No.” Ignis shook his head. “I’m not OK. None of this is—”
The elevator jerked to a stop.
“Yeah, fine. Explain later.” Gladio grabbed his arm.
This part of the hangar was just as indistinct—a blank darkness until shapes slammed into him, as if forming out of the nothingness—a railing that his hip clipped…a wall…deactivated machinery… They ran, Ignis trusting Gladio to lead him, the three of them racing past the daemons until Gladio pulled him to a sudden halt.
“No chance prying those open,” Prompto murmured, glancing up at something Ignis couldn’t see.
“Control panel?” Gladio asked, looking around them.
Ignis tried to concentrate. If, truly, he’d been here before— It clicked. “Service door, on the left?”
“How did you…?” Prompto looked at him curiously.
“Stop asking questions.” Gladio pulled Ignis by the elbow.
There was a panel on the wall—buttons, a glossy-smooth reader Ignis’s fingers danced across. He stepped back. “Prompto, might you?”
“Yeah, sure.” Prompto took his place, scanning his wrist. The lock unlatched.
Gladio opened the door and they spilled through to the other side. There was nothing but darkness, the dread mounting in Ignis’s chest. They couldn’t be too late. Not this time—
As the elevator at the center of the spire carried them upwards, Ignis paced. None of them dared to speak as the seconds ticked by, each one longer than the last.
Finally, the lift slowed to a stop and the doors opened onto a gantry—he only saw the rough shape of it, disappearing into formless black. The Crystal, though, he saw in sharp, perfect focus—blue and faceted and glowing from within. It hung in the center of the emptiness, shedding its light on the man who stood before it, silhouetted in his fedora and coat and layers, smiling in the shadows.
“Noct!” Gladio pushed past him, running. Prompto went with him.
But Noct was already gone. The air rushed out of Ignis’s lungs. He took a step forward and nearly stumbled, as if all the life had drained from his limbs.
Too late…again.
His hand found a rail he couldn’t see; he grasped it as he propelled himself forward on will alone, his chest aching. He’d felt no pain until now. This was like a knife embedded in his heart, wrenched in a cruel twist. No. Not again. If only—
Gladio swung, Prompto fired— Ardyn crumbled to the ground, but only for a moment. Then he picked himself up, none the worse for wear, and sauntered past them.
Ignis straightened up, braced to fight as Ardyn paused in front of him.
“What a pity.” Ardyn smiled, callous and mirthlessly. In his right hand, he toyed with a blade Ignis had seen before—at Leviathan’s altar. “So close, and yet—too late again.” His eyes shimmered. “But for your persistence…” He took hold of Ignis’s left shoulder, “a gift.”
The blade slipped between Ignis’s ribs—pressure and hot pain. He gasped, his breath gurgling, tasting blood.
“On second thought, how rude of me. This would be more fitting, surely.” Ardyn lifted his hand, summoning a sword in a shower of magenta sparks, refracting and crystalline. He plunged it neatly alongside the dagger, running Ignis through, steel coated in red.
Ardyn’s hold alone kept him upright, limp against the railing as the warmth began to drain from his body.
“Does this remind you of anything? O Hand of the King…”
The world shattered into nothingness and reformed into blue.
This, Ignis saw perfectly—the Citadel, the throne room. The Crystal hovered above the throne and Noct was seated beneath it, though it wasn’t Noct the way Ignis knew him. His jaw was wider and square, a rough beard running along the edge and above his upper lip. The ridge of his brow was more pronounced, which should have brought a sharp intensity to his eyes, except… Except his face was twisted into a grimace of pain, his eyes shadowed and dull. King Regis’s sword pierced his torso, pinning him to the throne, his blood darkening the black suit he wore.
“Noct!” Ignis ignored the ache in his chest as he scrambled up the stairs, slipping on the marble, bruising his knees in his haste. There were far too many steps—he cursed their designers as he righted himself and ran, finally reaching the top and crashing into the throne.
Air threaded between Noctis’s lips, his lashes fluttering weakly.
“Noct!” Ignis hovered over his king, digging into his pockets for the curatives he always carried, but there was nothing—his pockets were empty—they were never empty—
“Ignis…” Noct’s hand twitched, the ring glinting on his finger.
Ignis caught his hand in both of his own, dropping to his knees and shaking. Panic seized him, his heart hammering in his chest. What could he do? What should he do?
Noctis reached higher…and something in Ignis stilled. He leaned forward— Cold fingertips touched his face and Noct smiled, even as the light dimmed in his blue eyes. “In case I don’t get to tell you again.” Noct’s hand scraped a line across Ignis’s cheek, just beneath the edge of his glasses. “I love you, Specs.”
Then he slumped, limp, and Ignis surged upright, pain and tears pouring from him. “Noct—!!”
—He woke, gasping, in the dark, drawing one shuddering breath after another. Ignis blinked, staring into blackness despite the warmth of light he could feel on his skin.
Oh. That dream again.
“Sir, are you alright?” The voice, from his right, belonged to a young man he knew well, anchoring him into the present, pulling him out of the past—Talcott Hester.
Ignis took a slow breath—in and out—to calm himself, though his heart didn’t obey, still tapping a staccato rhythm in his chest. “I’m quite alright, Talcott, thank you.” He sat up, pushing his blanket aside and plucking at his sweat-dampened shirt. “Kindly remind me where we are, please?”
“Thommel’s Glade,” Talcott said, hovering at his side. “Yesterday, we were—”
“Yes, I remember.” It came back to him gradually—where and when he was. Not in Zegnautus Keep, nor in the Citadel’s throne room. “The Tomb of the Just.” He’d thought to visit it again, and Talcott had been as happy as ever to be dragged along. Though it proved a fruitless trip in the end. The tomb had no more secrets to divulge, at least to him.
“You…” Talcott hesitated. “You seemed to be having a bad dream.”
“A recurring one as of late.” Ignis sighed, bending one of his knees and drawing it towards him to rest his arm on top. “I’m fine. I apologize for startling you. The disorientation will pass now that I’m awake.” If only the images would fade as easily, but he had nothing to replace them with. He felt around for his visor and slipped it on, then reached for his phone. Ten years and his memories of Zegnautus Keep were as vivid and painful as if the events had happened days or weeks ago, rather than years. It wasn’t rare for him to dream of it, to relive it with his subconscious mind twisting certain elements—twisting his regrets—to torture him. But over the last month, the last two weeks, more often than not…
He found his phone and tapped it awake. “Time and date.”
A synthetic, androgynous voice answered him: “Zero-five eighteen, M.E. seven sixty-six, Thursday, August thirtieth.”
And that, more than anything else, sent his heart into a cold spiral. Perhaps the reason for his dreams wasn’t so strange at all. As silence returned, neither of them speaking, the hollow pain in Ignis’s chest, still fresh from his dream, deepened. It pressed against his ribs, sharpening with each breath he drew until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
“Pardon me a moment,” he said, getting up, forgoing his gloves and jacket for the time being. They’d made camp just inside the entrance of the tomb, if he recalled correctly, as daemons never crossed the threshold, light or no light. Ignis found the wall, trailing his fingers along the stone until he came to the doorway.
He only slipped the barest distance around it, leaning back against the carvings and reaching for the Armiger.
There was always a sharp stab of fear, that split-second—what if it doesn’t work this time?—that would ruin him in an instant. But the daggers materialized in his hands, their hilts solid, grips warming against his palms. Residual magic sizzled up his arms, a familiar reassurance that loosened his chest and allowed him to breathe again.
Noct…
As long as he could access the Armiger, he knew Noct was alive, Noct was safe, Noct was somewhere. It was a daily ritual. Hourly, sometimes, on those bleakest of days when the body count was too high, the food stores too low, and all he had were scraps of hope to cling to.
Today wasn’t one of those days…it was a torture all its own. And still, the vision of blue remained—of Noct on the throne, bathed in the Crystal’s light, dying for the world.
Sometimes familiar wasn’t enough. Ignis banished his daggers back into the Armiger and reached for something else. Something he wouldn’t have summoned before without Noct’s permission. Now, perhaps he was being too bold, but he couldn’t be terribly bothered by the thought of offending the Lucii. Not when they’d taken his king and given him a death sentence. In any case, he wasn’t forcing the kings and queens of Lucis to heed his call. He could only ask and wait…
It took longer than the daggers, but the glaive came to him, materializing in his right hand, its wrapped hilt smooth against his skin. He needed two hands to hold it, catching the flat of the katana’s blade in his left hand. Not because it was heavy, but because he wasn’t of a blood to wield it, apart from Noct. It was an elegant sword, long and sleek, perfectly balanced. He appreciated its craftmanship as much as the yearning imbued into the blade.
“Oh, wow, is that…?”
Ignis arched a brow, but Talcott couldn’t be blamed for his curiosity. They’d spent years visiting the tombs together and it never once occurred to him to make a practical lesson of it. “The Katana of the Warrior, yes. May I say I don’t make a habit of risking the Lucii’s wrath. Only on…special occasions, as it were.”
Talcott came closer, though the sound of his footsteps stopped at a respectful distance. “It’s amazing. I remember seeing King Regis’s sword during ceremonies. This one, I’ve only seen in drawings.” He paused, Ignis sensing the youth’s gaze on his face. “But, I thought…?”
“Quite right. Only the line of Lucis Caelum can wield the royal arms.” Ignis closed his hand around the hilt, its grip familiar. “Although the king can, temporarily, imbue his retainers with sufficient fortitude to bear it, in the heat of battle, for a short while.” Already, his arms ached from holding it. “It was one of the last we recovered. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve held it in the fray. Yet, even now, I…” There was a sorrow to the blade, something he recognized from the first moment he ever touched it at Noct’s behest. “Well.” Ignis swallowed. It had been long enough. He released the katana back to the Armiger, letting it vanish from his fingers, immaterial once more. “It would be far too pretentious of me to presume any kind of synergy with the glaive of a king.”
“There…kind of is, though,” Talcott said, his voice tentative, the words offered cautiously. “I mean, this one in particular. The sword of a king who was ‘changed forever when his beloved was taken from him prematurely,’” he said, quoting from the ancient texts they’d studied together. Each word sliced into Ignis’s heart like a dagger. “‘It’s drawn and strikes in a single heartbeat.’”
Ignis’s lips parted around the breath he drew carefully. “You’ve studied well.”
“I had a good teacher,” Talcott said.
He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the stone. “A king who lost his queen. While I… I’m merely a chamberlain who’s lost his king.” He allowed the bitter smile, canting his face in Talcott’s direction. “Too pretentious, as I said.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Ignis shook his head at himself and moved past Talcott back into the tomb. “You’ve places to be.” He pulled on his gloves and started gathering his things. “I must thank you for accompanying me yet again.”
“Of course, sir. It’s my pleasure as always.” Talcott followed him.
For a moment, they worked in silence, tidying up until Ignis was satisfied they’d leave no trace of their visit. At the entrance, he pressed his fist to his chest and bowed facing the Just’s sarcophagus. “For your merciful benevolence, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Talcott bowed beside him.
It was a short trek back to the nearest output, wordless except for the daemons they fought along the way. Soon, Talcott was warming up his truck, ready to make his rounds for the day.
Though, he hesitated before climbing into the driver’s seat and Ignis wasn’t terribly surprised.
“Sir, are you sure you won’t reconsider? Miss Iris and Master Prompto have taken care of everything. You won’t have to lift a finger. Of course, we invited Master Gladiolus as well, but…”
Ignis gave the youth a nod. “I promise I’ll find my way back to Lestallum tomorrow or the day after. Thank you again, Talcott.”
“Yes, sir.” If he was disappointed, he didn’t let much of it into his voice.
Ignis stepped back as Talcott climbed into his truck and shifted into gear. He waved even though he couldn’t see Talcott wave back.
As the truck drove off, Ignis remained a moment longer, listening to the sound of its engine fade into the distance. Perhaps he should have gone this year. But…
A king who’d lost his beloved… Pretentious and transparent, apparently. Clearly, he needed a bit of time alone.
Ignis caught a ride out to Hammerhead, though he didn’t spend any time at the outpost, turning east along the road. Brackham Haven was near Ostium Gorge, near the bridge to Insomnia, south of the once-Imperial blockade. It took the better part of the day to get there with the scores of daemons he encountered on the way. But he made it without incident, if with the dust of Leide coating his clothing.
Once, a decade ago, they’d pushed the Regalia along this road under the blazing sun. What a carefree man he’d been then; what a carefree world he’d left behind.
The haven’s glow was lost to him, but the stone was warm beneath his fingers, sustained by old magic even now.
Ignis washed up and set out camp for one. He was in the middle of arranging his cookware when his phone chimed with a chocobo’s soft kweh, indicating a text message received.
Ignis took out his phone, swiping his pattern for messages.
Prompto’s voice came back to him—a recording, rather than a normal text. “Hey, buddy! Just, you know, checking in. Text me back, OK?”
No doubt he’d sent something similar to Gladio. They could go weeks without talking sometimes—with just the occasional status by email. But not on a day like today.
Ignis pressed his thumb on the screen until the phone beeped that the recording had started. “This is me texting you back,” he said. “Thank you for your message, Prompto.” He tapped again, listened to the playback, and swiped to send the message off.
That done, he finished setting up his cookware and prepared dinner from his rations. It was a humble meal—meat from a can, dried spices instead of fresh, simple flatbread rather than the hearty loaf he would have liked to bake. But, the sentiment came through enough, he figured. He faced his chair towards the road he could not see and ate his sandwich, washing down the bits that stuck in his throat with water from his canteen.
The bottle Ignis pulled from the Armiger was too light, nigh empty—far more air than liquid left sloshing against the glass. Maybe he shouldn’t drink any this year at all, though the thought of that—of not marking the occasion with even such a meager tradition as this, made the ache in his chest turn sharp again. It was pressure on his lungs, the burn of breath held too long, the weight of the darkness surrounding him. The camping chair creaked as Ignis shifted, pouring only a splash of wine into his glass. He imagined he could see it—the dark burgundy of the wine, the elegant stemware that had no real place among the camping gear, the flickering yellow-orange flames of his campfire. He imagined there was someone sitting near him, firelight in black hair. But he saw nothing except a gray glow, formless and indistinct, before him.
Ignis set the bottle aside—the cooler next to his chair doubling as his table—placing it with his dish, napkin, and utensils. Wistful, he let his thumb glide across the embossed lettering on the label—vintage year M.E. 735—before he let go. Drawing a breath, Ignis raised his glass in toast—
“Happy Birthday, Noct.”