Chapter One - Departure

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Noctis buries Clarus on a Sunday.

It's a few days after it all happened. Clarus' body has been lying under the tree where he died since Thursday, eyes closed and eyelids veined and blue, his sword stuck in the ground beside him. The sky above is a dusty, murky brown, clouds rolling lazily in the evening light as warmth begins to seep from the world, and Noctis digs, and digs, and digs.

Usually, there would be somebody here to help with something like this. Noctis is no stranger to physical labour - heaven knows life hasn't ever been easy out here - but Clarus is dead and Cor is simply gone and Noctis digs alone, plunges his shovel into the ground over and over even as the muscles in his shoulders strain and ache. The tree is only a few hundred feet from the hideout, and it's where Noctis decides Clarus can rest - under the hulking skeleton of a tree he died fighting beneath, his sword a makeshift gravestone, buried six feet beneath the sand. A suitable burial is the very least that Noctis owes Clarus, after all.

Clarus doesn't move, the whole time. This should be obvious, but it still doesn't feel like it's sunk in that this is just it - that the Shield is just going to lie there, gathering sand, until he's buried. That he still hasn't gotten up to ask Noctis why he's moping around, why he's been skipping training to curl up in the basement of the hideout and cry until he can't breathe. That the hole in his chest and the blood on the sand are real, not just an illusion or some kind of training exercise or something - anything.

But Clarus stays dead. And Noctis digs on.

By the time the hole is fully dug, night is properly falling, the sun only a little red blur on the horizon lighting up thin streaks in the sky. There's a pile of sand and dirt to the side of the little grave, and Noctis kneels down to stare Clarus in the face one more time, to take in the scars and the blood and the sand. Beneath everything, the man's face is still so painfully known, so obviously familiar. The worry lines around his mouth and carved into his forehead from years and years of living like this. Vaguely gaunt cheeks. A hard, unforgiving jaw beneath an unsmiling mouth.

And he's dead. Just like this, in the sand, the bodies of the hundreds of MTs he was fighting all piled up a few hundred feet away where Noct spent all of today dragging them in the hot sun. Dead. Never coming back.

Noctis stands up, says, "I'm so sorry, Clarus."

Then, he nudges him over with the toe of his boot, and Clarus rolls face-first down into the hole.

Filling it is easier than it should be. Shovelling the dirt and sand over one of his only two companions for- well- ever should be difficult. Watching him disappear for good, lined face and veiny eyelids disappearing under the sand, should hurt. But Noctis has used up all his sorrow now, thrown it all down into the hole with Clarus' body, and now he's just numb. There are no more tears - it's too cold for rain. The sun slips down past the horizon.

When it's over, Noctis drags the shovel back to the hideout, doesn't look back on the walk to their little home. His little home, now. The desert gets cold at night, and sand whips up on the air, skittering east towards the ruins on the horizon. All there is is ruins here - Solheim is barely more than a skeleton now, the trees are bare and dried out, the ruins barely holding. Barren and empty, aside from the occasional patrol of MTs or airship overhead. Empty, aside from the three of them. Empty, aside from Noctis.

He leaves the shovel outside of the hideout, slipping down through the trapdoor and down the ladder. He never really bothered to ask Clarus or Cor what this place was - just assumed it was an old bunker or safehouse set up before the Fall, or maybe an ancient structure from the days of Solheim's prosperity. No chance to, now.

Stop thinking about it. Stop. The main room - equal parts kitchen and living room and everything else, really - is dimly lit by a few lamps hanging from the dusty ceiling, and the three level bunk bed on the corner doesn't really look so cramped anymore now that it's empty. The radio on the wall across the room is still silent. Noctis heats up a can of beans at Cor stole a while ago, when he was still here and Clarus was still alive, and sits on the dusty couch, feeling numb.

Nothing moves. Nobody speaks. The revelation that it says in books that you're supposed to have - of some great mission, or quest, or some final wish you're meant to fulfil when a loved-one dies - doesn't come. The radio stays silent. The clock on the wall creeps past seven, then eight.

And as the clock ticks past nine, Noctis starts packing.

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"Fledgling. Fledgling. Come in. Fledgling."

Noctis snaps awake with a jolt, forehead aching where it was pressed against the kitchen table, and takes a second to glance around, trying to remember where he is. The hideout - a half-packed rucksack on the bed, piles of old letters spread out over the table from where he must have fallen asleep trying to sort through them. The clock on the wall tells him that it's well past midnight. The desert is silent outside.

"Come in. Fledgling."

And that's the radio.

Noctis practically vaults over the table to cross the room to where his receiver is hung up on the wall, because god, he knows that voice-

"Fledgling-"

"Marshal-" It comes out broken. "Marshal. Where the fuck were you?"

"Calm down."

"I won't fucking calm down-"

"I don't have long."

That shuts Noctis up. He's never heard Cor sound even the slightest bit fearful, not ever, not even in all of these years living in the middle of the fucking desert. Angry, sure. Worried, occasionally. But never afraid.

But now-

"They're going to find me soon."

"Cor- Marshal. Marshal. What happened? Where are you?"

"Irrelevant. I need you to listen to me. I've been searching for something - something important. And I got it. But I need you to put Sentinel on, kid, trust me. He can help. It's imperative that this object finds its way into the hands of the Resistance-"

"Marshal, Sentinel is dead."

Abrupt, horrible silence.

After a second, Cor carries on, a little quieter this time, "Then you need to do it."

"I-"

"No time to talk," Cor cuts in. "Our Sentinel might be dead, and I will be soon, but you are not."

"But-!"

"Fledgling." He sounds abruptly very tired. "For once, in all the years I've known you and protected you, listen to me."

Noctis shuts his mouth.

"As I was saying-" And oh gods, there's yelling and shooting in the background- "I've found something very, very important. I need you to travel north - the Lucian border - find the leader of the New Wave, he can help you. You can trust him."

"Wait, what does that mea-"

"-And Fledgling, this part is very important - tell him that the Marshal found one of the Talisman in Gralea."

"Marshal-"

An explosion. Closer now.

"Walk tall. Hold your head high - remember that you have a throne to reclaim, and remember that Sentinel and I are with you-"

"Cor-"

"Stay alive, find the New Wave-"

Another explosion. Crackling.

The line goes dead.

The desert is still silent, the radio crackling vaguely with static. Noctis hurls it against the wall with a yell, feels his knees hit the ground. The abrupt realisation that he could scream all night at that nobody would hear - that there's nobody out here, not Clarus nor Cor, not even via the radio - is terrifying, far more than it should be. Let it be known that Noctis has had to face a lot: pain, death, fear, that awful feeling that came with hearing Cor mention the prophecy that ascended even fear itself.

But he's never had to face it alone.

Fuck. Noctis picks up the radio again just to throw it again, hard against the wall. It still doesn't break, barely even dents, and this place smells and feels so much like Clarus and Cor, like the pair of them. Noctis wants to desperately to pick the radio back up, to call Cor back and to beg to hear his voice one more time. To just be able to say sorry would be enough. To say thank you. To promise to live. Anything.

The tears come, then.

Noctis doesn't cry often - the last time he did was on his twelfth birthday, when Clarus travelled right up into Accordo to get him a present. It was only a little compass, but it had a sun and a moon on the back, pressed into the rusty metal. Pre-fall stuff like that compass was rare, anything with a moon motif or anything alluding to the Lucian monarchy strictly banned, and Noctis had cried and cried and hugged Clarus until the man had eventually hugged back.

That was four years ago, and Noctis had been so sure he wasn't a child anymore - but sixteen is sixteen, and loss is loss, and Clarus is buried and Cor is dead and Noctis cries for both of them. Cries for that compass, sitting on his bed. Cries for himself.

There's nobody out in the desert to hear it, after all. No Cor to show up and silently offer a tissue. No Clarus to tell him to man up.

Nobody.

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You were born a human being, Cor had once told Noctis, he remembers. You'll die a prophecy.

Noctis remembers being confused by that. How can you die no longer a human? It didn't make much sense at the time, but he had believed it - after all, Cor was right about most things. Noctis had figured that at some point down the line, something would change and he'd magically become something called a prophecy. It had sounded exciting at the time, like something out of the one of the comic books that Clarus would something steal from one of the border towns.

As he got older, though, he started to understand it more. Nobody ever properly read him the prophecy; and isn't that the case with most things to do with Noct, apparently - never quite getting the whole truth, only parts of it, segmented and vague enough to never quite show the whole truth. Either way, however, it wasn't all that difficult to understand that the Gods had given Noctis some kind of duty, for some stupid reason, and that some day they were all going to have to leave Solheim - vast, empty, ruined Solheim, with no people and too much sand - and travel north to fulfil it. Sometimes, the concept had seemed exciting; maybe Noctis could visit the shops in the border towns, too, someday. Other times, it was scarier than even the worst daemons.

Well, you're on the border now. Isn't this exciting?

Safe to say, it isn't exactly the most enjoyable experience.

The first town Noctis comes across is tiny, a collection of squat little houses huddled in the skeletal remains of some huge old castle or wall. The sky above is open and empty, bright blue, and the sand burns beneath Noctis' feet in the midday sun. The village isn't even really past the Sol-Accordo border yet, sitting firmly on it and still nestled in the remains of the old kingdom, and Noctis, with his tan and his desert clothes, figures he should blend in well.

(This is, likely obviously, not the case.)

He's barely been in the town for five minutes when people are shutting their doors and covering their windows, little kids ushered inside by their mothers. It's still all sandy and- well- very Solheim, boiling hot and likely a horrible time to be inside, but it seems like the whole little village retreats in on itself all at once just at the sight of Noctis. It takes another twenty minutes for a man - also in desert garb, with a scarred face and worried eyes - to approach Noctis warily from across the road. Somebody locks the door to the building he leaves behind him.

"I thought this place was deserted," Noctis says, drily.

The man stays a solid five feet away from him at all times. "Who are you?"

"Uh… sorry?"

"Not to be- not to be forward." A nervous laugh. "We're just not used to visitors."

"Oh, yeah?" Noctis gestures to the man's face. "What happened there?"

The man laughs again, more nervously, and avoids the question.

Both of them stand there for a few seconds, before eventually Noctis just sighs and says, "Look, I'm just passing through. Just need some water, if there's any to buy in this town, and then I'll be gone."

"You're… not Imperial, then?"

"What? Gods, no." Noctis winces. "Sorry, no, of course not. Just a traveller."

The man visibly relaxes, but still not fully. "We aren't used to visitors who aren't MTs or Imperials. In these times, and all."

Noctis nods along, like he knows what that means.

"And… well, I'm sure we can refill a canteen if you have one?"

Gratefully, Noctis hands his over. "Thank you. And sorry, again, for the misunderstanding."

Nervous laugh, again. There's still no humour in the damn thing.

The man skitters off, knocks a particular pattern into the door to get the person behind it to let him in, and Noctis stands for a few minutes out in the heat, waiting awkwardly for the canteen. It's still deadly silent out here. Noctis wonders if the troop that killed Clarus passed through this town before reaching their hideout. Whether they hurt anybody here, or they're all just so used to hiding that they don't suffer casualties anymore. It's been thirteen years since the Fall, after all. Surely by now, as grim as it might sound, if things are so bad out here, people have gotten used to it.

When the man finally returns, there's a little girl trailing after him, though he's obviously tried to shake her. She hides behind the man's leg as he hands over the canteen, and both she and the man flinch as Noctis crouches down in front of her. He feels too young for this, like no townspeople should have the right to be this scared of some sixteen-year old passing through.

"What's your name?" Noctis asks anyway, quietly. "I'm Noct."

"Claire." The little girl looks up into his eyes, her own wide with wonder and a little fear. "Are you going to the North?"

"Yeah. I have to… I have to meet some people."

"It's bad up there," she says quietly. "It's really bad. The robot people come from up there."

"I know," Noctis says quietly. "I know."

"Are you from there?"

"No- I mean- I was… born there. In the North. But I've lived down here for a while now. I'm just travelling back up there again."

She bites her lip. "It's really bad."

Noctis glances back up at the man, the sadness in his eyes, the scars on his face. Wonders if this girl will end up with scars like that one day. Wonders if this town will die out like this, the people hiding with every newcomer, hidden in the ruins of a forgotten kingdom.

"I know." Noctis forces a grin that feels very fake. "But I'm strong."

(He is not.)

A ways away from the village, Noctis glances over his shoulder. None of the people are back out on the streets yet, the town still silent, shadowed by the crumbling walls surrounding it. Light seeps through cracks in the one fully remaining wall, dappling the sand with sunlight in a gargantuan shadow. The image of MTs trooping into that town - kicking up dust, scaring people into their houses, soulless and monstrous - is unsettling.

But there are worse things to worry about.

The next landmark Noctis passes is a sign, stuck in the sand in seemingly the middle of nowhere. Maybe there was once a road leading through here, but it's long-since been buried beneath the sand. The sign itself is weathered, barely legible, but Noctis can just about make out the words beneath the crusted-on sand and faded paintwork.

'Welcome to Accordo!'

On the other side, beneath the same jolly font proclaiming Welcome to Solheim! is a far newer and far more obvious message: in crimson spray paint, sprawled across the sign;

'NO MAN'S LAND.'

Noctis suppresses a shiver and carries on. Nice to know that the MTs even patrol no-man's land, outside of the land they've already conquered. They probably rarely even find the odd case of lawlessness, let alone the hideaway prince they've been searching for for thirteen years now.

The next town is much the same - more scared people, locked doors and covered windows. No greeting this time, either. Noctis walks on anyway, disgruntled and a little scared. The radio feels too cold against his hip, even in the heat. It stays silent the whole day (and Noctis ends up walking for the whole day, though it's not like it's too difficult, what with Cor and Clarus' training being what it was for all these years).

Stop thinking about them. Stop. It won't make them come back.

By the time night falls, Noctis finds another town, this one larger, easier to blend in to. There isn't any hiding inside or running away when he slips down the main street, but there are a lot of suspicious glances, a lot of threatening glares from across streets. Noctis does his best to ignore them all, and to keep his hood up and his eyes downcast. Best not to draw any attention. Besides - most people are completely ignoring him, which is best, for now.

There are more travellers in this town, too - a girl with red hair bartering at stall, a pale kid running along with the darker Accordian youths and laughing brightly, some shifty-looking, scar-faced blonde kid around Noctis' age leaning against a wall. In the case of the last one, he and Noctis make eye contact for just a second. Maybe it's sympathy behind that look, or suspicion - it doesn't last long enough for Noctis to figure it out. There's a glint of something metal in the guy's sleeve that makes Noctis just pick up his pace and walk faster.

There are no comic shops, nor much of anything else, really, aside from weapon venders and food stalls with the bare essentials. The travellers here make more sense as Noctis wanders the streets - this place seems to mostly be a checkpoint, a pass-through, and though most people look Accordian, there are also probably millions of travellers in their midst. There's a Niff flag flying above the town, too, as there is above every town, but it's torn and weathered more than it probably should be. Noctis takes that to mean that this place might still have a spark left.

He finally gets the chance to consolidate when night has fallen completely, having purchased a room in the only inn this town has. It's nothing special - small and cramped and dusty - but the room is bigger than the entirety of the hideout, so it's practically luxury. Noctis collapses on the bed and just lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to regroup. Twelve hours ago, he was leaving the hideout for good. Twenty-four hours ago, burying Clarus. A week ago, Clarus was still alive. A month ago, Cor was too. Now they're both dead and gone, and the world is a scary place, and Noctis is sixteen and very, very scared.

But there isn't any time for fear - never has been. There is time for missions from the gods, are for radio transmissions and codenames, and for pain, and for anger, but not for fear. Never for fear. Cor was always pretty clear about that.

Sleep doesn't come easily. This journey is only beginning, after all - the whole world is Niff territory, and Noctis is a hideaway prince with no throne to return to and a father long-dead. But there are surely people out there - people like Cor, and Clarus, and whatever the New Wave is. People still willing to fight. People still willing to die.

So instead of thinking about his dead father, and dead caretakers, and dead mother, and dead kingdom, Noctis thinks about them, instead. What will the New Wave be like? War-hardened, weathered old revolutionaries? Young, fire-eyed rebels with hope that most people never seem to have anymore? Lucians? Tenebraens? Accordians? Even Niffs? Surely they're brave, and likely older and wiser than Noctis is. Probably strong fighters. Probably jaded and harsh, like Cor. Hopeless and frowning like Clarus.

When Noctis falls asleep, he dreams of the blond, scar-faced boy, and wonders if he's ever fought for the rebellion. Blond hair and pale skin like that could only come from one place, after all.

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