A/N: This is the tenth and final installment of a series of stories designed to fill in the holes of the XV plot. As such, and as far as I could make it, this series is canon-compliant. Footnotes are available on the AO3 version explaining certain plot decisions and references. This story's title and chapter names are taken from a song called "Gaman" from the amazing musical "Allegiance." It is a story about Japanese internment during WWII; I highly recommend having a listen when you get a chance. Thank you for reading this series, and I hope you enjoy this last one!

Chapter One: Sturdy and Sure

"I just need one…to take with me."

"This is my ascension."

"You guys…are the best."

Gladio let out a ragged cry as he swung at the Iron Giant with his king's voice echoing in his head—a plague and a comfort all at once. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes since Noct left them, yet his Shield already felt the loss as though his own arm had been torn off. Grief colored everything a grim, lackluster shade of grey, and he wasn't even gone yet. At least, Gladio didn't think he was.

They'd feel it, wouldn't they? Something would tell them that it was all over. It had been different when Insomnia initially fell and just about everybody they loved turned out to be dead; the trauma was so enormous that it was hard to fathom that the pain could be tied to one thing in particular. What were they supposed to grieve for first—their home, their king, their families, their friends, their former lives, their future selves that would never be? It happened so fast that it all hit them at once, each working through it in the only way they knew how.

Ignis had turned to logic and sense, but there was no surprise in that. His parents weren't really a subject Gladio knew a whole lot about, but he was pretty sure that an advisor of Iggy's caliber could only be born from an encyclopedia and a legal compendium. When times were tough, he went hunting for info. That didn't only account for his behavior after the empire rolled in, where he'd been adamant that they had to see for themselves before they could take anyone else's word for it; even after Noct had disappeared into the Crystal, he'd fallen back on old habits. Gladio didn't like the idea, and Ignis was well aware of it, but he'd gone on his little hunts for intel with Talcott anyway. Sitting idly by while the world was going to shit wasn't really his style, so Gladio wasn't sure why he expected anything else at first. The fact remained, though, that Ignis looked for comfort in intellectual exploits when the chips were down.

Prompto, on the other hand, just got quiet. That didn't seem like a big deal; actually, it was downright normal behavior. Normal had never been a word Gladio would use to describe the prince's awkward best friend, though. Half the time, it felt like he had some kind of battery for his mouth that never seemed to run out. Looking back on it, Gladio regretted how many times he'd told the kid to shut up or be quiet—he actually missed hearing his obnoxious outbursts now that they were tempered into the calmer, less naïve tones of the mature and the world weary. The toughest times were the quietest. Those were the moments when the light would leave Prompto's eyes, and he'd clam up on everyone as if saying something would make him a bother. Grief, like so many other things, was an emotion he preferred to shoulder alone.

Then there was Gladio. He didn't get quiet, nor did he go hunting for books and papers and a whole bunch of shit that looked good but didn't actually do anything to help. Nah, when Gladio was hurting, he did the total opposite.

When Gladio was hurting, he beat the hell outta stuff.

This time around, with this particular brand of misery, it appeared that the others were taking an example from him as they attacked without pause—without regret—without fail. While the Citadel still stood and their king was inside, they would defend it with their lives and anything else they had to offer.

For some reason, getting rid of Ardyn only increased the daemons' numbers. Gladio wasn't even talking about the small fries they'd dealt with for years: these daemons were pulling out all the stops. Everything they'd defeated or bypassed in the streets on their way here seemed to have woken back up, tugged on their big boy pants, and decided that the courtyard was the place to be. The Iron Giants, it turned out, were hardly the worst of their concerns.

Gladio didn't give a shit. Right now, there was a certain peace that came from losing himself to the flow of battle. With every slice of his sword, every swing of his fist, every dodge and swipe and kick—with each action, he descended a bit further into his own personal hell. And why shouldn't he? The Astrals had decided that he wasn't allowed to do his job, that it wasn't his place to be the Shield he was supposed to be. The one thing that had mattered to him more than anything—protecting Noct—was something he could no longer do. He'd sent his king off to die alone on some cold, torn up throne that he didn't even want. Hell was where he belonged, and Gladio was quite pleased to stay there.

Ignis and Prompto were somewhere in this mess. He couldn't see them, but their shouts of exertion and pain reminded him that he wasn't alone as he offered up his own blood to protect what little he could of his charge's mission, if not the man himself.

"Hey, Gladio. Your dad… I'm grateful to him."

"The hell is this so hard?"

"I am over it. I'm here, aren't I!?"

Another swing, this time colliding with the Iron Giant's knee. Its deafening roar rent the air as it fell forward; the ground shook so hard that Gladio nearly lost his footing and had to use his sword to prop himself up. Ordinarily, it wouldn't even have made him blink, but there was so much movement and vibration and noise from the enormous host they were up against that his feet weren't as steady as he would have liked. Oh, well—he'd dealt with worse.

Before the daemon had a chance to ease back onto its feet, Gladio was lunging forward to stab his greatsword through its ugly face. It was only with a firm hand and a hell of a lot of luck that he didn't lose his grip when the blade caught in his opponent's flesh, the latter jerking backwards from the blow. Gladio was yanked along for the ride, his feet leaving the ground for half a second, and roughly threw all of his weight in the opposite direction. In an instant, his sword was released, his back hit the pavement, and the daemon was wheeling around above him. The blade of its giant weapon rotated overhead just as he rolled out of the way, using his impetus to regain his footing and shift back to the offensive as soon as the daemon's sword was embedded in the ground.

It was too easy at that point to hop on for the world's weirdest chocobo-back ride, since the Iron Giant was bent low while it tried to break free. By the time it managed to rearm itself, Gladio was holding tight to its shoulders with one hand and driving his own sword through its thick neck with the other.

There was an ear-shattering roar, then the creature fell forward and was still.

Bracing for impact was pretty useless when your enemy had a tendency of turning into black ooze the second it was defeated, so Gladio and his sword were both sent flying in the process. This time, he didn't have a chance to maneuver himself to land well. So much for all that training.

Instead, he hit the ground so hard that his teeth rattled in his skull. Pain flared up his spine, and all the wind was knocked out of his lungs for just long enough that he was rendered immobile.

That was the only reason he saw it.

"The time has come."

It was like nothing he'd ever witnessed before. If it weren't for countless years of education and all the damn times he'd seen those statues around the city, Gladio didn't think he would have recognized what was happening when white blurs of light shot through the darkness towards the Citadel, towards the throne…

Towards Noct.

The Old Wall had been summoned by the only person who could do it. The end was at hand.

"Gladio, watch out!"

Prompto's warning cut through the haze of grief and pain (not just physical, either) that had descended upon Gladio, but there wasn't enough time for him to move. Not when another Iron Giant loomed overhead, its blade already swinging down like the scythe of a reaper—

And there were flashes in the distance as white light erupted within the Citadel, over and over and over and over—

And Gladio closed his eyes, prepared to die with his king before he'd cower in the face of his own demise—

But it didn't come. There was no sharp slice, no excruciating pain, no blessed knowledge that he was going to precede his charge into the afterlife the way his duty dictated he should.

The end wouldn't take him yet. Gladio wasn't sure whether to be happy about it.

His eyes popped open just as the daemon screeched in something like surprise, its towering figure staggering to the side with a familiar dagger poking out of its leg. Gladio didn't get a chance to appreciate the fact that Ignis was a goddamn miracle before a tuft of blond hair slid into his line of sight, firing off a starshell that sent the Iron Giant rearing backwards.

"Nice. You're being helpful for a change."

"You all right, big guy?" he asked, his voice too shaky as he pulled Gladio upright. The latter didn't exactly need the help he offered, but given that Prompto had just saved his life, he figured he could at least give him that much.

"Fine."

"Thought you were a goner there…"

If only.

Gladio decided not to say that, though. Instead, he smirked wryly and grunted, "C'mon, it's me we're talkin' about here."

That seemed to cheer Prompto up enough to put something resembling a smile on his face. Gladio would count that as a small victory, whether they won today or not.

It was a passing thought, one he probably shouldn't have bothered with given what was going on around them. Maybe he was tempting fate; the Astrals had proven to be a big enough bunch of assholes that he really should've kept his mouth shut. But no, he just had to say something—and he paid for it almost immediately. The moment they turned back to the battle, Gladio scanning the ground for his fallen greatsword while Prompto readied his gun, it felt like someone had ripped open his chest and torn out his heart.

Because Ignis was standing not far off, a dagger gripped tightly in one hand while he reached for the other—the one that was still lodged in the daemon's leg. The one that should have magically reappeared in his grasp the way it always had and presumably always would.

The dagger that didn't respond to Ignis's summoning.

Prompto seemed to realize the implications half a second after Gladio did, his firearm dipping as though he'd suddenly lost the strength to hold it. "N-No…"

Yes.

Much as he didn't want to think about it—didn't want to even entertain the notion that…that…

He couldn't deny it. The words wouldn't form, but there was no other explanation for the fact that Ignis's weapon was ignoring his silent call, wiggling back and forth in the Iron Giant's leg as it regained its footing and set its sights on the owner. There was no excuse for Gladio's greatsword not appearing in his hand when he reached for it; rather, it innocently reflected the lights of the Citadel where it had landed at the bottom of the steps.

Their king was gone, and with him, their access to his magic.

For a second, Gladio thought that this was it. Ignis had bought them a few minutes, yes, but now they were truly going to die. There was no sword in his hand, no voice in the back of his head reminding him that he had a duty to fulfill. It was the first time in his life that he felt utterly and completely helpless—worthless.

When Insomnia fell, he knew he could at least protect their prince until he had a chance to take back what was his and become a king in more than just name.

When everything went to hell in Altissia, he knew it was up to him to keep everyone on the right track until they figured out what the hell they were going to do with the steaming pile of shit they'd been served.

When his charge vanished for ten years, he knew that his duty was to protect what he could so that there would be a kingdom when he returned.

What was he meant to do now? Without Noctis, what was there to protect? What was stopping him from just taking a seat and letting the daemons do what they would? The Six had doomed him to failure, doomed him to being one of the few Shields who lived to see the death of their king—the death of his little brother. There was no reward in living, not like this. Seeing the sun? Their sun was gone now, extinguished inside the Citadel just like the flame inside Gladio's chest. The ball of light that would rise in the morning was nothing more than that—it would help people to see, and it would keep the daemons from coming out. But there would be no warmth in it, no joy. They'd get their sun back, but the cost was too great to appreciate it.

Was that really the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life? Why not just stand there and let the darkness finally take him?

Ignis flipped backward to narrowly escape the arc of the daemon's blade, and Prompto was suddenly beside him, firing off a few shots to buy them time. All the while, Gladio simply watched as more Iron Giants and every other foul thing imaginable rose up out of the ground to kill them. He could let it happen. He could end it all—the only thing he had to do was nothing.

But…

"Prompto. Gladio. Ignis. I leave it to you."

Dammit, Noct.

Before he had a chance to think through his decision, Gladio's hand was closing around the hilt of his greatsword. Its weight was suddenly greater than it had ever seemed before, not that he was going to let that stop him; he'd benched way heavier stuff than a stupid sword. It was a good thing, too, because he would need every ounce of stamina that years of training had afforded him to heft the weapon into position and throw it straight at the Iron Giant's hand where it was aiming a swipe towards Prompto.

A resounding clang erupted as the two made contact. The daemon's hand went in one direction, the sword in the other, and Gladio was already moving. Reaching out to catch his weapon as it soared past him, he used its momentum to redirect it back towards the monster. The result nearly knocked him off balance, but it was worth it to see the Iron Giant stumble around with a huge gash in its back. Beyond it, he could hear Prompto firing shot after shot, some of the bullets ricocheting off into the darkness while others struck their mark with deadly accuracy. As he was keeping the daemon busy, Gladio reached down to wrench Ignis's dagger out—which took a hell of a lot more effort than usual, he noted with a pang of sadness—and dodged out of the way right before a Deathclaw's tail came careening straight at him.

Luckily, it hit the Iron Giant instead.

Unluckily, that sent it falling forward with Prompto in its path.

"Hey, Prompto—heads up!" he shouted, already running in the hopes of getting to him before it was too late. It would be a stretch, but Prompto would have done the same for him.

It was Ignis who got there first, however, diving in to knock Prompto off his feet and out of the way just as the daemon crashed down onto the pavement. Seeing its now vulnerable prey, the Deathclaw didn't bother waiting for the Iron Giant to regain its feet and instead climbed right on top of the struggling monster.

Just goes to show these pieces of shit don't appreciate anything.

With his quarry fully focused on Ignis and Prompto, Gladio saw his window of opportunity and took it. The Iron Giant was all but incapacitated, unable to do more than wriggle around impatiently with the heavier daemon on its back. Forcing himself into a sprint, Gladio leapt onto its head and pushed off with a pained grunt as his spine protested the angle of his spin. He didn't pay it a damn bit of attention, though, arching his grip and bringing his greatsword around to slash across the Deathclaw's front legs. The latter let out an enraged roar when the blade got stuck—all part of the plan—and he hopped up to plant his feet against the flat of his sword so that he could jam Ignis's wayward dagger right into its face. …If you could call it that.

In that instant, something happened that Gladio couldn't explain. There was a sudden vibration, a shudder that ran beneath the pavement, and a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard pierced his ears until he was pretty sure he was going deaf. If he had to describe it as anything, he'd liken it to the screeching that MTs made when you killed them—the screaming of the humans they once were, that is. Only this time, the noise was amplified—it was so loud that only a miracle could have kept the world itself from shattering.

Everything after that was…fuzzy.

Gladio remembered hitting the ground. He recalled hands reaching for him, as well as his own reaching back. In his mind's eye, he would always be able to see the way he clung to Ignis and Prompto, equal parts afraid and grateful that the world finally, blissfully, appeared to be coming to an end…

When he woke up, the first thing Gladio saw was a star.

Then another.

And another.

It wasn't much, just a patch of clear sky amidst the dark clouds, but it was there all the same. After a moment, he realized he knew that particular constellation. Back when they used to camp (despite complaints about the hard ground and open air), those stars had smiled down on them. Their light was so bright, so varied, that it looked like there was a dim haze of pink behind them more appropriate for the dawn than the darkness. It was a marvel to behold. He'd forgotten just how radiant the sky could look at night.

Then again, after ten years, that was pretty much a given.

A groan beside him drew his attention, and he glanced over to see Prompto pushing himself onto his knees and rubbing his head with a pained expression. On his other side, Ignis was already sitting up and seemed to have been awake for a while.

Some things never change, he thought dryly.

"The hell happened?" moaned Prompto with a wince. There was a jagged cut on his temple, running straight from his hairline down past his ear; the bleeding appeared to have stopped, but the skin around it was still an angry red.

Ignis, who looked like he was merely ruffled more than anything else, faced forward with a slight crease between his eyebrows. "It…would appear that our battle is over."

That did it. Somehow, it was that comment that pierced through the numb shock that had kept Gladio from feeling anything other than that dim sort of curiosity over the stars, and it suddenly hit him—they were alive.

More importantly, the daemons weren't. The courtyard was empty, all traces of their enemies apparently having disappeared while they were unconscious. In fact, it was pretty unnerving how…ordinary everything looked. As the clouds dissipated overhead, allowing more and more stars to shine through, everything around them shifted until Gladio wasn't really sure if they'd ever left at all. There was no debris; the ground wasn't churned up from the daemons' claws and blades. All the lamps were lit, the friendly glow illuminating an emptiness that was both disconcerting as well as comforting.

The daemons were gone.

The sky was clearing.

Dawn was on the horizon.

Which means…

"Not just yet," Gladio murmured, staggering to his feet and turning towards the Citadel. "Still got one more fight ahead of us."

Scrambling upright, Prompto followed his gaze. His apprehensive gulp was audible. "R-Right…"

Neither of them made a move to advance, though. Gladio couldn't identify what it was that held him in place, so close and yet so far from where they needed to go. Well, that was a lie—he knew exactly what it was, not that he was ready to give it words yet. Doing so would only hasten the moment when the numb, shocked hole in his chest would fill up with grief. Right now, he didn't have to feel anything because he didn't have to see it. The knowledge was there, but he could pretend for just a few seconds longer. If he knew Prompto the way he thought he did, then it wasn't just him.

Ignis was the one who forced their hands—go figure. Unlike them, he couldn't take a moment to just appreciate the sight of their home before them, battered but having weathered the storm nevertheless. Standing still had to be torture, delaying the inevitable with no real reward. So, much as Gladio thought Prompto could use another minute or two (just Prompto, of course), he couldn't fault Ignis for brushing himself off, clearing his throat, and starting forward.

"Come along, then," he ordered in a voice much stronger than his expression warranted. "We mustn't keep His Majesty waiting."

Snorting humorlessly, Gladio sighed, "No. Wouldn't wanna do that."

None of them commented on the fact that Noct really wouldn't give a shit how late they were. Hell, any other time, he'd probably welcome the opportunity to take a nap when they couldn't give him crap over it. He wasn't the kind of king to sit around waiting for his retainers to drag their sorry asses up the stairs and move back through the lobby like ghosts.

Good thing, too, because Gladio was positive they looked pretty damn pathetic. Although there hadn't been any outward signs earlier, he noticed the way Ignis was favoring his left leg; more than once, Prompto reached out to steady him when he swayed slightly on his feet. It wasn't enough to send him toppling over, but it was obvious that he could use a potion sooner rather than later.

Later would have to do, though. They'd already put this off long enough.

So, they ignored their injuries. They ignored their slowly shattering hearts. With their heads held high, they walked tall towards the Citadel just as their king requested. There wasn't any helping the way their feet dragged the ground, heavy with the weight of their final burden, but they didn't stop—not once.

Cruel irony dictated that the journey to the throne room had to take way less time than it had earlier. For some reason, the knowledge that it would be Noct waiting for them rather than Ardyn made the lobby smaller and the elevator faster. It felt like only a few seconds had passed before they were standing outside the same doors where they'd paused earlier for Noct to choose one last keepsake to take with him.

That was where they hesitated once again, even Ignis. When Gladio glanced sideways at him, it was to see that the advisor's face was pale behind the determined set of his jaw. Decades of loyal friendship and service had all culminated in this moment, and Gladio knew he couldn't force Ignis to be the strong one this time. He'd sacrificed everything for Noct—for all of them—so the least Gladio could do was take this one load off his shoulders.

Breathing in as deeply as his lungs would allow, the Shield of the last king of Lucis stepped forward and opened the doors to the throne room.

He didn't let himself break stride after he entered, knowing that if he did, he very likely wouldn't make it all the way to the throne that already held his worst nightmares. Instead, he watched as his mind painted a different picture: for just that moment, he pretended that the council was settled on either side of the chamber, his father smiling down at him where he was stepping forward to accept the honor of serving the King of Kings. Perhaps, in a just world, those eyes would still be watching from whatever the Six thought passed for heaven. If his father were here with him, that would explain how Gladio found the strength to cross the chamber and ascend the dais before the throne.

It wasn't until he reached that spot that he raised his eyes to the seat of power itself, his breath catching in his throat and all his resolve wavering. Distantly, he heard a muffled gasp that seemed to come from miles away. It didn't matter—nothing did. The important thing was that Gladio was here for his king, and that his king was here waiting.

Noct had been patient. Ten years ago, they would have found him pacing around the room with his arms folded and that surly frown on his face; their entrance would have been heralded with a sarcastic remark, not silence. A chuckle bubbled up in Gladio's throat unbidden, transforming into a choked sob when it reached his lips. Those days had died long ago. It was only fitting, then, that Noct had gone to join them.

If it weren't for the fact that his father's sword had impaled his chest, pinning him to his seat, it would have looked like he was sleeping. That would be classic Noct, after all—getting his throne only to fall asleep five minutes later. There was a stillness, though, that swept away any delusions Gladio may have let himself harbor and turned the peaceful image into nothing more than a macabre imitation of better days. The way his charge was draped over the sword, his hair obscuring his face as his head hung low, was anything but natural.

Gladio wasn't aware that he'd moved until he was staring down at his king rather than up. Somewhere beyond the veil that seemed to have been draped over his senses, he registered movement and knew that he wasn't alone. Still, his hand was trembling violently as it reached out to touch the hilt of King Regis's sword.

There was nothing in that moment that could give him the strength to remove it. Try as he might, his fingers simply wouldn't close around the handle, disobeying his every silent command. This one thing, this final show of loyalty to his king, and Gladio simply couldn't bring himself to do it.

He was in pain.

He was weak.

But he wasn't alone.

Prompto was suddenly there at his side, looking like he'd rather jump out the window and shatter into a million pieces on the ground far below than grip the hilt between his hands the way he did. It was obvious that he was at the end of his rope, just like Gladio, and they shared a nod that spoke all the words that were needed right now: make it quick.

They didn't have much choice in the end, just like everything else they'd done since leaving Insomnia at the beginning of their long journey. As soon as Prompto tugged the sword from its grotesque sheath, all of them ignoring the wet squelching noise it made, the king fell forward. Gladio went immediately to his knees so that Noct collapsed into his waiting embrace, hugging him close.

The emotion that welled up in the organ just beneath Noct's cheek was unfair. It wasn't right—they'd won. They'd done what the Astrals wanted, and none of it made a damn bit of difference. It wouldn't bring rhythm back into that heart, breath back into those lungs, or a smile back to that face. As it frequently did, winning felt an awful lot like losing.

Gladio didn't know how he ended up on the floor beside the throne, cradling Noct to his chest as though he could keep him warm all on his own. Somewhere along the line, Prompto had abandoned King Regis's sword and come to join them, Ignis doing the same on his other side. Now that they were here, it was like a dam had burst, and none of them could be bothered to keep their distance anymore—physically or emotionally. The ever composed Ignis had tears silently streaming down his cheek from his one good eye, unashamed and unabashed. His fingers were twined gently with Noct's, while the latter's other hand was tucked up under Prompto's chin.

And there they sat, reveling in the familiarity of closeness that they would never know again in this life. No words could express their shared grief now that it had finally hit them head on, so they spoke none lest they shatter the fragile, brittle walls they'd raised to survive not the battle, but this very moment. If they spoke, if they moved, if they even thought—it would make it real.

Time, however, was as cruel as the gods.

Ignis was the one who noticed it first. Gladio felt more than saw him stiffen, his eyebrows furrowing underneath the grime of their hard-fought war. There was a dread to that expression that made him reluctant to ask, especially when he was sure he already knew. It was hard to miss the way the floor was beginning to warm even as their king—their friend, their brother—grew cold. It was more than Gladio could take, and he refused to feel guilty for the momentary weakness that had him burying his face in Noct's hair to deny himself the confirmation of sight.

It was Prompto who finally put their thoughts into words, clutching Noct's hand so tight that it should have hurt—if there was any true justice in this world.

"Look, buddy," he whispered, his voice wobbling and cracking around the tears rolling down his cheeks. "Sun's comin' up."