Like Lambs
By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-
Warnings: Massive amounts of violent and disturbing imagery and themes. Mentions of homicide, suicide, infanticide, monsters, gore, childbirth, ritualistic murder. Sex, but not too much. Evil&Crazy!Noctis. This is labeled as being a horror story for a reason.
Author Notes: You know how when you play some games you can get the bad ending? This is the bad ending. This is the really fucking bad ending.
Like Lambs
When the dawn crested the skyline, glittering its promises back to Eos, Ignis could feel it. He could feel it in every pore, in every follicle, in each nerve. It was like the promise of a life, a promise of a hope. It was so fragile, so fragile Ignis wondered whether it would break to pieces in the palms of his hands. If he touched it, who would break first?
The dawn took the Red Giants, the Serpentinas, the Samurai with its soft glow.
And Ignis knew what he would find inside the Citadel, when he went inside. His king, his soul, his world… pinned to the throne he had promised himself to, a butterfly trapped until his lover pulled him free.
If he touched Noctis's wings, would they disappear?
No.
Not a butterfly.
There was something about the image that seemed off, seemed wrong. Butterflies were the harbingers of the death of a soul, the end of a life.
(not noctis please not him. i'll do anything please.)
A lamb. Soft and sweet, gentle. That was the little boy who had taken his hands and kissed them, who had looked up to him with eyes filled with hope and wonder. He had the joy of a soul unhindered by the daemons that would plague him. His eyes, like the ocean, like the endless and fathomless night sky.
When Ignis got his eyes back he would see that those eyes, the eyes he had fallen in love with and lost himself inside, were just pinpricks of black surrounded by red.
(and how he had shuddered and wished for noctis to stop, that he did not need those eyes. but how could he ever deny his king anything he wanted? even his weak mewling quieted as he allowed noctis to milk him dry night and night again, promising that he would make the perfect eyes. he would make ignis all of the pieces he needed. it would take a few tries for them to be just like they used to be.
yes, it would take time, because eyes take time to grow. and noctis would kiss the scars across his nose and eyelids and the phantom pain where his neck met his body, whispering about how perfect they would be because there was only the best for his ignis.
he would make them perfect.)
What they found inside of the Citadel was not his king, his soul, his world pinned to the throne. In the warm embrace of Eos's light, Noctis woke from his sleep. Ignis could feel his breath against his cheek, could smell that sweet musk that he yearned for, had cried for, had been willing to die for. And Noctis's mouth against his, the crushing weight of it on him…. It was harmony, it was beauty, it was everything in Eos, and everything Eos would ever be.
It was death.
(had he died for it?)
Etro, when she created Eos, did not make the Crystal for them. It was never meant for mortals.
It was meant for Death himself.
It would take Ignis three hundred years to find the book where it was hidden, the words of Etro Herself, nearly swallowed by time itself.
When she promised the Crystal, then the Ring, it had been under one condition— the Kings of Lucis would reign eternal. They would protect It, for It was the Star and without It there was no Eos.
(they had been wrong, they had been so wrong. the endless night was not what they would truly fear, and they would only know this when the dawn rose and their king did not sleep upon his throne in his eternal slumber. the night brought with it its daemons, but not even ardyn, ten arydns, a thousand ardyns, could compare to the beautiful monster Etro created.
this was all ardyn's fault. in exchange for his eternal peace, he had sold more than noctis's life. a tiny part, quiet and hidden where Ignis could not even name it, wished that noctis had died upon that throne, that he had been free. this was not life, this was endless death. his noctis had died long ago.)
An eternal kingdom, a line never to be broken lest Eos itself die.
An Eternal King.
And yet he seemed so perfect at first; it was like time had kissed him with its forgiving lips, had erased time with its hands, had promised that their future was just as bright against the dawn.
They had been like lambs, little lambs readying for the slaughter.
Ignis didn't even realize it, at first.
(none of them had.)
It began with sleeping spells, like the ones Noctis had when he was a child after the Marilith had attacked. Ignis would sleep for days, his skin turning cold and clammy and though he wasn't always asleep, he could not move. It was the most peculiar of sensations, knowing everything going on around him but unable to speak.
And every time Noctis would fret and call for whatever doctors were available, whoever was left…. And they would always stare.
Ignis could not see them, but he knew they were staring. He could feel their eyes burning like the fire of Ardyn's magic straight into the marrow of his bones, and he did not want to know why. Was his face so disfigured, was he so deformed? Was his skin so sallow and marred that it made even the most well-seasoned of doctors stare?
He had asked Prompto, once. Just once. He had asked what about him had changed; it wasn't uncommon for others to stare at him before, when he had been the blind man teaching himself to live again, but Prompto just hesitantly reached forward and touched his neck, withdrawing his hand like he had been burned.
(don't worry about it, iggy. please… just don't think about it. it's better this way, it's better that you don't remember. and don't ask noctis; you know…. you know how he can get.)
How Noctis could get.
It was little things, at first. So small that Ignis would not have noticed it if not for the way Prompto and Gladio would pull him to the side, tell him that it was best if he spent the night alone. At first, Ignis had thought it was Noctis taking another to bed and it had burned him…
(later ignis would find out that it was true; noctis fucked his way through each woman who was presented to him, praying to Etro that She would bless him with a child, take away the curse inside of him. yet nothing came from them, nothing at all. he was barren, and with him the curse of the lucii would stay like the sword through his stomach, the knife at the lamb's throat.
the line of lucis could never end. It could never die.)
Then it was the feeling, the darkness that would come in the middle of their lovemaking where Noctis's hands would tighten at the junction of his collarbone and throat that seemed to burn with a fire Ignis did not understand. He touched the skin and felt nothing, had asked Gladio to tell him since Prompto wouldn't, only to find himself with his entire body pressed against the stone wall.
(let this go, ignis. you don't remember the dawn. you can't. just stop asking, you're going to set him off. goddamn it, please. don't make me beg.)
Regis had never been a cruel king; he had never taken pleasure in fear. He had taught his son to rule with a strong hand and a kind heart.
Somewhere, somehow, Noctis had lost that.
It wasn't Noctis's fault, at first. It had been such a trivial thing that could set him off, like the Queen's chair—the one his mother sat upon next to his father. He wanted it returned to its rightful spot, to leave the open and broken wall to allow the light to enter. The fresh air would be kind, the magic he used would protect it from the rain.
When the hadn't been able to locate it, Noctis's voice had gone low and Ignis could not see, but he could feel the fires whisper across his face like how Ardyn's had once done so long ago in Altissia. It was hard not to wince as he smelled the burning flesh and to listen to their screams. Their screams were so loud, echoing in the chambers and Ignis could feel the heat like the promise of the dawn, and he could hear something underneath the rumble of the fire and their choking croaks.
Noctis had cried that night, shaking like the gentle soul he was. The magic of the Crystal, it was imbalanced, imperfect since he returned.
He had taken something from it and in response it had something taken from him, something that couldn't be returned.
(it was hard that night to forget the laughter, that sickening laughter as noctis pulled Ignis down onto the throne. they did not need his mother's chair, because ignis could sit upon his lap where he belonged… where he always belonged.)
Soon after Insomnia was fit for humans again, Noctis held his coronation with Ignis at his side.
Noctis held his hand as the glasses clinked around them, describing the beauty of the the blue sylleblossoms, of the white lilies that were scattered across Insomnia. The people rejoiced in the streets, but Ignis had to stay in the Citadel. It wasn't because he was blind; it was because Noctis needed him close. If Ignis was too far from Noctis's side, he became…
It was better that he stayed with Noctis. Just getting the chance to listen to the laughter and the music in the Citadel's ballroom warmed a part of Ignis, reminded him of their childhoods. They even had the chance to dance together, with one hand twined in his, the other around his waist. He pressed his own hand against Noctis's shoulder, swaying to the thrumming of the bass, the screech of the violin, the cries of the viola.
Noctis told him of the sky, the way the petals seemed to glow in the starlight. He held him on his lap, running his hands across any part that wasn't covered in his suit. He allowed his hands to play against Ignis's skin, against his face, and it felt right in that moment. Noctis's voice, like a whisper of spring against his cheeks, made the tinkling and murmur of something Ignis could not quite place disappear. It was a soft melody, the calling of a time that was better. He could live like this, with Noctis telling him of the blues and the whites, the constellations that glowed in rapturous delight for their king and his consort.
(the blood red moon like a beacon was something noctis never mentioned. not once. when his eyes were returned, the perfect shade that took thirty two children with dusty brown hair and imperfectly flawed eyes, he had stared up at the sky to see it bleeding down upon them. no, noctis had never once mentioned the moon.)
His sweet king, the lamb that They had offered in exchange for the Crystal, the Crystal hidden in the catacombs of a place none would dare touch. It would be the Lucian Crystal, the unbroken promise to the Goddess of Death, forever. Ignis had asked about its location when Noctis promised of the sky and the dawn and the flower petals meant for them.
Noctis had smiled against his mouth.
(it's safe, iggy. it will always be safe.)
Ignis was relieved when Noctis took him to bed that night with him. Noctis had allowed Ignis to feel their heartbeats against one another, and Ignis kissed Noctis in a way that had made him feel more alive than he had since the moment he had first gone into the Crystal all those years before. That day he had lost something, but now with Noctis's hands on him, with Ignis inside of him, with their moans and sighs and pleading only echoing in the King's chamber, things were sure to be all right.
This would be their fairytale ending, the one that the Kings would receive when the story was finished, when the evil had been killed.
Ignis rocked himself into Noctis's hot body, allowing his mouth to trail against his lover's chest, and though he could feel the scars under his hands he did not ask where Noctis had gotten them. They did not talk of what happened in the Citadel when the sun rose.
(memories would return in bits and pieces over the years. the magic of the Crystal ripped him apart and then pieced him back together in hopes it would please their eternal king. it was best that ignis did not remember it all if the shards bore truth to their promise. the pieces of Crystal cemented into his skin like bleeding amethyst just under the ripple of flesh sent heat coursing through his veins and it was best not to think, to stop thinking, to never think again. only noctis, forever noctis, forever his little lamb for the slaughter, the pinned boy king to his throne.
and ignis would later wish that noctis had let him die there with the heat on his skin at he was cradled in his lover's arms. so much of a better goodbye, a bittersweet serenade that would have held him close in the afterlife.
but no afterlife would have noctis, and so no afterlife would be enough. not for ignis.
and the Crystal would never let him go.)
It was better not to think of the dawn creating the skyline. It was better not to think at all.
Instead, Ignis allowed himself to surrender to the feeling of Noctis, his smell, his touch, his whispers. And, after their bodies had come together in its terrifying harmony of thrums and screeches and cries, their own twisted music that was made for them, Ignis had rested his head against Noctis's chest. He listened sluggishly to his lover's breathing as he whispered a song from so long ago, from a lullaby his mother had sung to him as a child clinging to her teet.
(under the light of the blood red moon,
the Crystal will take her sweetheart groom,
fire and bone and eternity to rule,
under the light of the blood red moon.)
After the book of the word of Etro, it took a dozen more years for Ignis to find the scrolls of the past, the song of his mother long ago. His King had taken the song as his own and would sing it each day as the moon above grew larger and larger, eclipsing the sun in its promises of dawn.
It was an old tune, carried down from its original Solheim tongue. Learning Solheimian had been easy, but hiding it from Noctis was so much more difficult.
This was his fault.
(under the light of the blood red moon,
the Crystal will take her King's sweet groom,
the one of fire and knowledge and bittersweet promises,
and in exchange for his never-wandering gaze,
the King would say farewell to the sweet touch of—
he ripped the scroll into a thousand pieces and pulled upon the magic from the crystal embedded into his skin to turn the paper to fine ash.)
He returned to his King, to his beautifully distorted and deformed King.
Had Noctis not loved him, had he been willing to accept the futility of fate, then things may have been different. Perhaps the Crystal would have left Noctis with the pieces of his soul, to allow him to rule for a million years under the promise of an afterlife with the one he loved. When Noctis closed his eyes, they would have been together. In his sleep, in his unending sleep, Noctis would have been at peace. He would have been alive inside the crystal, but his soul could have wandered.
They could have been together in the beauty of a dream. Ignis would have found him, Noctis would have found him. It was supposed to be their fate, to be together only in the afterlife, in Noctis's dreams.
Noctis did not sleep anymore.
Noctis would never sleep again.
Ignis realized that things were wrong, so so wrong, after the coronation when the rooms would quiet when he walked the halls, running his hands across the stone as guidance. He could not remember the halls the same way he had when he was younger, and so it would take time for him to become comfortable walking from one end of the Citadel to the other.
Ignis thought that it had something to do with the metal thorn of a crown Noctis had created for him; he knew there were expectations for there to be a queen, a successor… a little prince. But Noctis would whisper that it didn't matter, that he would find another way.
(there was one woman whose belly had distended, and for weeks noctis had been so joyful. they would be free, they would all be free. the line of the lucis would continue, and they would be able to breathe peace. the entire citadel stood silent when she felt the pain of labor, and ignis could still remember the stinging smell of blood and the wails as whatever was inside her wiggled out, the soft plop and noctis's screams filled with terror.
no baby. prompto tried to explain it to him, but ignis did not want to hear anything of its twisted skeleton, its gore-filled fingers that carved its mother's insides out on its way into the world. he could not hear how its eyes were wrong.
they were his father's eyes.)
Time seemed different with the rebuilding efforts, the way that some days it was difficult for Ignis to realize that weeks had gone by where all he did was sleep in his bed. The constant tiredness, the pull of something to the depths where not even dreams went…
It was peaceful there. It was a place where nothing could hurt him, nothing could hurt them. After having thought he had lost Noctis as the sun rose, he had prefered the sweet promise of quietness and solidarity.
His memory was quite fuzzy. He could remember the feeling of the sun rising, he could remember walking into the chamber… he could even remember the sound of Gladio's shaking shoulders and the little quivers from Prompto's throat. Those sounds had told him what he needed to know, that things were done. The story was finished.
It was the end….
And yet, Ignis remembered his feet upon the stone, how he had stepped forward and toward the dais… the squelch of blood under his feet, the sword stuck deep into the chair—
(i'll do anything, please.)
Nothingness. Warm breath and it was Noctis surrounding him, inside him, holding him and breathing life into him.
(it had hurt.)
After the little prince, something inside of the Citadel began to die. Ignis kept up with the things that brought him pleasure; cooking, training, listening to others read him the books that he could no longer see for himself. Prompto and Gladio had taken to avoiding the Citadel. They always seemed so busy, working so hard to bring Insomnia back to its former glory. It was such a beautiful city, before. Ignis was almost happy that he hadn't been able to see much more of the smoke that had slashed the sky open when it had first fallen.
Still, Ignis wanted to keep the pieces rooted together, to keep the beauty of what had been thousands of years of Lucian dynasty protected from those who did not care for its beauty or its peculiarities. He wanted them to make sure that the flashing walkway lights were still Cactuars, that the buildings on the east perfectly reflected the sun onto the old walls. Even without the dome overhead, the way that the dusky pinks and purples of the Crystal's magic made everything look so beautiful, like a never-ending dusk.
Ignis could not recount the shade, not in the detail he once could. However, he could remember the way it felt. He wanted them to get it right, to make sure that it was right.
It was what had taken him out of his quarters so early in the afternoon, and it was what had caused him to knock into the young woman. He heard her feet against the floor but there was not enough time to give warning as she turned the corner and careened into him.
He had felt so guilty, so terrible guilty for causing her to fall. It was an accident, surely, yet Ignis realized at that moment that the only people who had touched him since the dawn were Noctis, Prompto, Gladio, and the doctors.
He didn't think that she would scream, would act as though the world was crashing around her ears or that the hall was filled with daemons.
Monster. She screamed it once, only once before bursting into uncontrollable sobs. Ignis was quick to his feet, summoning his daggers with the accuracy borne of his years fighting daemons.
He tried to reach into the magical void that had taken his sight but had left him with the will to continue on, and he tried to scan the corridors. He asked her in hushed tones where it was, but her sobs only became louder, more pained.
The newly formed Kingsglaive rushed toward them and Ignis felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and it was then that he realized that there had never been a monster, there had never been a daemon with them.
(why is she so terrified of me, gladio? we have been friends since we were children; please. i have to know.)
When Noctis heard what the young chambermaid had done, he had gently called her to the throne, up the two long sets of steps and across the pieces of what had collapsed from the ceiling in the room during the raid those long years ago. She had scuttled up the stairs, and Ignis could remember how Noctis's voice had been so kind, like they were the only two people in the world, despite Ignis having stood next to the throne.
(why did you scream, lianda?
because i was frightened, your majesty.
of what?
nothing, your majesty. please. forgive me.
lianda… your king has asked you a question. do not lie to me.
him. he frightened me, king noctis. i didn't mean to.)
Ignis listened to the way Noctis brushed her hair from her eyes, how her breathing calmed under the soft touches of her King.
And then it was the gurgle, the wet sound of blood and pulp, and someone from below screamed—Prompto, Ignis could tell from the choked scream of Noctis's name that died on his tongue as someone else grabbed him, the commotion as Lianda fell down and then over the side.
Ignis could hear her neck crunch followed by Noctis's soft request for a new pair of gloves made Ignis vomit his lunch up next to the throne.
(iggy don't worry about it, you don't have to clean it up. you should come back with me to our quarters. you must have eaten something bad. i'll have gladio handle it. we clearly need better staff.)
Noctis did not sleep, and so in exchange Ignis did so for him. It was easier that way.
It was when the magic began to speak, and Ignis tried to listen.
It was when Noctis decided that Ignis would see again, and Ignis hid his head in his pillows as 31 children ripped from their mother's arms burned outside of his chambers.
It was when the perfect one was found, and Ignis listened as they cut her face open. He felt that hot splash of blood against his face and the light, the light of the blood red moon.
He could see again.
(this can't be real, noctis. please tell me this is just a terrible dream and we'll wake in each other's arms, frightened and shivering but alive and whole. please tell me that we are in your apartment, surrounded by half-eaten cup noodles and there was no war, no ardyn, no lunafreya, no altissia, no leviathan, no bahamut, no Crystal. please, noctis. please.)
Ignis begged, but Noctis could only smile. Yet it wasn't the same smile as what it had once been, the carefree and warm smile of a lamb, not knowing Etro's plans for it.
(how could you let him do this? gladio, prompto—
you don't understand, iggy. it's the eyes. we can't stop him. we've tried. please, believe me… we've tried.
all those babies… all of those babies.
we need to stop him. he isn't himself, he isn't…
we can't.
we have to. he may be our king, he may be my everything, but this is not noctis!
ignis, you don't understand. we can't.
gladio's right… noct… there's something inside him that's broken. we've been trying to find out what the problem is…. fuck, all of those babies…
we think…
spit it out, gladio.
we think it's because of… because of you.)
Noctis had black over the mirrors of their room, and though Ignis wanted to defy him, to run away or to pull out his knife and lay it against his skin, there was something thrumming inside of him making his entire body quiver. Even though they had already washed the blood from his face he could still feel it there, warmer and thicker than tears.
How special it was to make the perfect set of eyes. 31 pairs, useless. Only one set so perfect that Noctis would choose them for his consort, one set that had been handpicked by the king himself.
Oh, and how vividly he could see the world painted in its red glow.
Ignis knew better than to try to pull them out.
Noctis would only make more.
Ignis allowed Noctis to wrap his arms around his body, and maybe it was nothing but a nightmare; perhaps this was just a terrible nightmare because the King he knew his Noctis to be was kind and warm and sweet. It was the little boy who lifted Ignis's hands to his face and kissed them because it was what he saw sweethearts do on the television. It was the little boy who starfished around him at night, when the nightmares would frighten him.
And Ignis could not fight against his sweet Prince when he turned to see Noctis's face. It was almost right, it would have been just as Ignis had always dreamed Noctis would look like as he aged. King Regis had always been a handsome man, but Aulea had given her son her eyes.
This Noctis did not have them anymore. The soft blue, the nights staring up at the sky to count the constellations and to whisper about the future were gone along with the beautiful moon.
He didn't even try to hide them, the red standing out so starkly against Noctis's pale skin that it looked like he had blood in his eyes.
Sweet companions to the blood red moon.
(don't look away from me, please. ignis, you're beautiful. please. let me see those green eyes; they're perfect. you're perfect.)
And he could not deny his King, even as the anger and horror and terror made his eyes water. Gladio thought that this was his fault, though there hadn't been time to explain it then, not with the King calling for Ignis to come to their chambers and only the short walk between them.
(you killed them. noctis how could you, they were babies.
you're more important. you'll always be more important. can't you see how much I love you; look into my eyes. you can feel it, can't you?
they were mine, noctis… they were mine. they were just babies...
and you're mine. don't you see? it was worth it.
and then he laughs and laughs and laughs.)
Ignis looked into his eyes, into the red swirling depths of Heaven and Hell, of Virtue and Sin, of Love and Lust, and he found the air unbelievably stifling, like there was a fire under his skin, like his neck itself was burning. And Noctis leaned forward and placed such a chaste kiss that left Ignis breathless. It was the magic in the air, he would realize after Noctis pulled open his shirt and gently nudged him onto the bed, letting his knee fall between Ignis's legs and pressed against his hardening cock.
The magic made everything better, bathed in the sweet embrace of roses instead of blood.
When Ignis woke from the heady intoxication of Noctis's magic after they had taken each other again and again, he had pulled himself into the bathroom. He flicked on the light to see what had kept the doctors so quiet, what had made Prompto and Gladio so nervous, what had made that poor chambermaid with her shattered neck and gurgling tongue at Noctis's feet scream.
There was a reason why Noctis had draped the mirrors in black.
(iggy, when you felt him… you took out the sword. you begged the crystal to give him back, to let him live… you were lying there on the floor, covered in his blood… and you offered anything.
anything?
there wasn't any time. we couldn't stop you… you had already cut too deep. and the Crystal accepted it.)
It glowed under his skin, sickly purple against pale flesh. The entirety of his throat melted down in a thick cord to his shoulder of purple, of that rippling magic. Noctis's armiger weapons were always perfectly sharp, enough to cut without too much pressure. It wouldn't have taken much to cut as deep as it had.
His face…. Etro, his face.
The burn scars were purple, too. Like a rolling cascade of magic under his skin, a sickly bruise that would never heal.
The girl had been right.
He was a monster.
The Crystal knew that its eternal master would never bring harm to his beloved. It was the safest place to hide, to curl inside of Ignis's living flesh. and so as Ignis slept and fed the crystal, Noctis would stay awake and guard. It was better to have the King protect than the King dream.
(if they had left it be, if ignis hadn't begged for noctis's life, they could have been happy in the embrace of noctis's dreams. at least, that is what ignis tells himself as he searches through more and more scrolls to find the answers to ending their lives, to giving them peace.
noctis's soul was already half-gone to the other side, and what was left was not enough to keep him sane, to give him peace. he was supposed to sleep, his body acting as a tether to keep its promise to Her. he was supposed to sleep for eternity, and Etro would have been satisfied.
but the Crystal did not think, it only reacted. a dying body, the king's consort…. magic moved, magic changed, and a promise was made.
i'll do anything, please.
a boy king pinned to the throne, and ignis was the pin. noctis was the sacrificial lamb prepared upon the altar, and ignis was the dagger.
anything.)
Ignis slipped into the bed, calling forward his daggers. Noctis's eyes were closed, but Noctis did not sleep.
Noctis never would sleep again.
And so Ignis found himself staring into blood red eyes and the smile that once spoke of passionate nights and sweet mornings, and Noctis was quick to tap his finger against the dagger to send it back into the ether.
(i'm not hurt, iggy. there's no reason to be hurt with you at my side. you can't kill me. i already tried. i'm broken, iggy… and we can't fix it.)
He did not fight Noctis as the other man pulled him close and attacked his neck with kisses and bites, though he could feel the pull of the magic across his face and throat. This was the King and his Crystal, the unholy and holiest of unions.
No one would dare come between them, and no matter what Ignis wanted, he knew….
He always knew.
They kept the black coverings in the Citadel, draped for a funeral that would never happen.
(ignis, how long do you think it takes for a soul to die?)
Prompto and Gladio… they did their best. They tried to keep Noctis away from the spotlight of the court, to try to find out what they could do, if they could do anything. The people were slow in returning, and Ignis thought it best that they never did return. It was best if they walled off the city, if Ignis used what was under his skin to raise the shield, only this time instead of keeping the people out, he would keep Noctis in.
It was a charade, a game to Noctis. He knew it was wrong, he understood it, but he couldn't care.
He could see the terror in his People's eyes, the boy king who had risen from the dead and promised their salvation in the dawn. Yet the moon was a constant, never-disappearing reminder. It never moved, refusing to properly rotate around the planet. Instead it stayed perfectly aligned to Eos, casting the perfect eclipse across Insomnia every day.
And every day Noctis would take his lunch with Ignis at his side, and Ignis would watch them rebuild the banks and the movie theaters, the financial districts and the arcades. He had asked Noctis if he wanted to explore, to see the city, the crown jewel of Lucis… and every day Noctis would smile.
And every day that smile seemed to grow wider until Ignis had to look away, to pull his sight away from Noctis's pearly white teeth and too-wide mouth.
The people… the civilians knew that there was something wrong with their sweet King, the little boy some remembered before the Starscourge. But he was their hero, he had brought the dawn.
They would give him anything he wanted.
Then, one day… Prompto and Gladio were gone. It wasn't for long, and immediately following their departure Ignis had fallen into a sleep so fretful, so long, that when he woke he could almost feel the time upon his tongue.
Noctis needed them to stay with him forever, stay loyal to him forever, and had made sure of it.
(the idea came from the MTs and the Crystal hidden inside of ignis. the magic flowed freely to noctis now, and so he did with it as he wished. twisting metal into flesh, taking brains and eyes and hearts to put into the machines, to give them the chance to live just as long as ignis would need them.
that was their purpose, now. gone were their friends, their closest companions, and in their stead were shells of metal and human insides, held together by ignis's refusal to let them die. he could see them in their eyes, and though they begged him to let go he couldn't. these were his friends, these were their friends. it wasn't noctis's fault. it wasn't his fault.
ignis didn't want to be alone.)
Time passed and the world outside changed, but Noctis didn't. Noctis never aged, never bled, never cried. He could laugh, but with more time that sound warped to where it would shatter glass. The others, the humans… they had realized when Noctis began to call for the pieces of their children, to see if he could make another Caelum. He had created eyes, he had created his friends, he could create an heir.
Ignis prayed that Noctis would just let him die, that the crystal would realize that Ignis had made a mistake. This was a mistake; they could have been happy, they could have been together. They could have had an eternity in the beyond in the dawn.
And instead they sat inside the Citadel, the machine guards with blue and brown eyes at Ignis's feet as Noctis pulled apart offering after offering. The humans… the Starscourge was but a memory, but as long as the King was pleased it would not return. The world would continue, for he had gifted them the dawn. He could take it away again.
He needed an heir, he needed something living and squirming, full of his blood that would allow him to break his curse to Etro. He could figure it out, Ignis wanted to believe him. This wasn't to be cruel; Noctis was not cruel.
But the truth was that Ignis wanted death, more than he wanted anything else…. And oh, how he had tried.
(could he? ignis tried to rip out his own throat to see if he could end it, only to find that the crystal would not let him. fire, drowning, throwing himself from the tallest tower, the most toxic of poisons…. it would bubble from his pores just as he swallowed it… and each time noctis would pick him up, wipe his mouth, smile that too wide smile that reminded ignis of an imp, and tell him that he would never be able to leave him. they would be together forever until they could continue to lucis line.)
Ignis began to read. Every book inside the Citadel, every book outside of the Citadel—anything at all that would give so much as a whisper to what he could do. It was too dangerous for Ignis to leave Noctis; the Crystal could never be too far from its King. But, if he tried… if he just pushed harder….
It was only once, but that was all it took. Just a little too far, a trip to the old ruins of Solheim in hopes to find something that would help them…
Insomnia was burning, the city aflame. The Citadel stood the only ruin in the city of ash and death to have survived. The perfect circle of grass met with the inches of ash and charred bones and teeth showed just where the barrier had cut between Noctis's world and Insomnia.
(why'd you leave? how could you leave? didn't you think i'd notice? ignis answer me. you can't leave. we can never leave. we're here forever. please don't leave me.)
It was better this way.
Ignis wondered what the outside world thought of the newly erected dome overhead; did they understand it was not a deterrent to the world that Insomnia once was, but meant to keep them safe?
The halls of the Citadel were so empty, and Ignis wondered if he could pretend like they were still alive and only playing a game like they had when they were little boys. Those times where the only thing to fear were bruised knees and battered egos. Ignis could remember the halls and he would bend down to rest his cheek against the floor.
It was lonely, it was so quiet that the sound of silence became his closest companion, the whispers of the magic like a lover. Noctis was always close, and it was better for them to just lay in each other's arms and in the magic. The closer their skin was the more Noctis seemed to be himself, the more he would nestle into the sheets and kiss Ignis's belly button, allowing himself to fall in love and then hatred for the thing, the man, the king next to him.
And each time he saw those red eyes, it only served as a reminder.
(it took ignis a millennia to read through the whole collection of libraries scattered through insomnia. the soul... it was the soul. the books said it was that. when he had realized that while ardyn's insanity was exacerbated by the daemons, he always had his soul… he had kept that, the part of him that had allowed healing. there was nothing ignis could do to save noctis that he hadn't already tried time and time again.
there was no way to bring back a soul.)
The humans would come, sometimes. They would poke and prod with their machinery, their weapons. Ignis knew they were strong, had seen through the magical wall, but he was stronger. His will was to keep Noctis safe from them—or was it them safe from Noctis?— because they were stupid and foolish humans. They feared what they did not know, and they needed something from Her… they needed a way for Noctis to sleep.
There was a whisper of time, but most of the memories were gone. The magic kept the Citadel in its exact shape as the day the rest of Insomnia had burned to ashes, but it did not mean that the magic could bring back the blue of Noctis's eyes.
Sometimes Ignis would reach into the secret armor on the twenty-third floor to remove the well-worn photo album. It could have been yesterday that Prompto had been filling it to the brim with pictures of that fateful summer.
Ignis could remember them only in the pictures. He tried to imagine the memories behind each picture, but they were gone.
Noctis did not remember.
Noctis did not need to remember.
Ignis tried for them both.
The tears had long ago dried, and the only comfort there was in eternal life was with Noctis. Even though his sleeps became longer as Ignis used more and more of the magic to keep the wall in place, Noctis would not sleep. Instead they would sit curled up next to one another in the throne room and just stare up at the sky, at the blood red moon that tainted everything it touched. They would see the red dawn, the eclipse, the red dusk, the black night with the stars stained in blood.
Ignis knew it was supposed to be blue.
(he had re-read all the books in what was left of the citadel and the hidden corridors over and over again over the next two millennia, only finding two worn metal sets of armor, their eyes still burning bright…. he had carefully extracted each piece and burned them to ash. hopefully they could be free, even if he could not.
the books were useless; there was nothing there. there was nothing he could do; Etro did not prepare for humanity. She had not expected that their free-will, their fickle love and their petty desires.
ignis had ruined them all and now all he could do was cocoon them inside of their insomnia and wait for the day they could emerge.)
How long could he last? How long could they last?
It was easier and harder, now. The mortals wanted something and they would send their warriors with their bombs and their missiles. It could be decades before Noctis moved, before Ignis woke, before the world stopped spinning and he could have that sweet hint of what was supposed to be.
Then began the offerings.
The battalions, the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the untouched and unbeaten.
The mortals sent their Warriors of Light, and Ignis could not keep them from ripping open the defenses of the wall. It was too much, too big.
The Citadel. He could protect the citadel. It was all they needed, and it would not take so much of his energy.
Didn't they know, didn't they understand?
(noctis wanted to protect ignis and ignis wanted death. death…. but what was he willing to give? this was his fault, that much he could remember. how, that had been taken by time. would it be worth it to let the mortals end their lives? they were tired…. But if they died, if the mortals could kill them then it meant the end of Eos, and Eos was life and perhaps their suffering for an eternity was foolish and this planet did not deserve life they all needed to die just to die and die and die die die die diediediediediedie—)
Noctis had taken the offerings, little white lambs with their little white flags and their little white tombstone teeth. Noctis would allow the door to swing open and they would file inside, only to be met with the curl of heat. It made Ignis's face ache when he pulled on the magic, but he could not remember why. The mirrors were gone and so Ignis did not know reflection. He had not seen himself in five millennia.
The little lambs left little gifts, and Ignis was careful to use the pieces of their white uniforms stained with red to create a soft bed for them to lay on under the hole in the Throne Room. What were hands? What were mouths? What was time or language or air?
One of them had brought some kind of sugar, and Ignis tried to get Noctis to eat it.
Hadn't Noctis loved sugar?
Another had brought music, but it was loud and painful and they preferred the silence.
(were these gifts or were they just the possessions of dying mortals?)
In one of the old books, there was a reference to Etro. It was a little piece of information, something that Ignis could only remember because it had rung somewhere inside of him, deep in his belly. In the time of the Crystal's birth, the kings of old would slit the throats of their sacrifices to feed its need for death. They would allow the blood to cover the Crystal, to give it its essence.
He told Noctis.
The next time the little lambs came, Noctis took one alive and beckoned him forward. He looked young, with dark hair and eyes that spoke of fear and a childhood marred by the terrors of what was outside of their cocoon. The little scars across the side of his face made Ignis wonder, just for a moment, if he had ever seen that face before.
But Noctis called him forward and into their little space, between the white sheets stained red to where Ignis laid. It was so odd to see the man with his dark hair and his dark eyes above him, staring down in wonder. It had been so long since he had seen one of them so close. Filthy, beautiful, torturous mortals.
The blade pulled taut against his throat allowed his blood to come out like a gush, and Ignis let it cover him, to caress him with its warmth. He allowed Noctis to climb on top of him, to bite and to kiss and to fuck him as the blood dried and the sky moved in tandem to the dripping gore.
His face stung when the next one bled for him, and he opened his mouth to let some of the drops enter his mouth. It tasted like copper and life, but what he wanted was death?
Noctis threw her body to the side, the collection of ashes from their little lambs growing.
Blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, black eyes. Blond, red, brown, black, pink, green, bald. Woman, man. It was all the same.
They always came in groups of four. Hadn't they once been a group of four?
(ignis sometimes remembered when the dreams would come, and he would fight against them and hope and pray and cry out to the Goddess who was not there to give them mercy. how had this happened?)
The end. He wanted the end. The ashes, the blood, the fire. The pins to the throne. Where were they? Flashes of color and distorted faces like imps and broken promises and failed dreams. Where was the blade to his throat, the offering of sacrifice?
They were supposed to be happy, in the promise of the night turning to dawn. It was sleep, and sleep— where was sleep? Why were there filthy mortals filling up their chambers, their black ash smearing everything white. Their blood was sticky and tacky, and why had Etro forgotten them? Why had Etro forsaken them? Where was sleep?
And Ignis clung to Noctis, because in a world of Insomnia the dawn was not a gift. It was the reminder that there would never be the sweet embrace of the end, the bliss of eyes closing.
It was a sacrifice.
(and it was then that ignis realized that noctis was not the only lamb bred for slaughter.
so he pulled noctis onto the throne and let the wall fall. the sound of bombs, the sound of the screams, the sounds of the fire. he wrapped his arms around his king and closed his eyes, wishing that Eos would simply die so they could finally feel the sweet, sweet bliss of death.)
Noctis once asked how long it took for a soul to die, for a soul to give itself over completely to the hope for death… and Ignis now understood.
They watched Eos burn and Ignis finally could understand. When Noctis turned his head to kiss him, eyes closed, Ignis could hear the sound of a melody lost in time. He could almost remember, like when the magic would remind him that there had been happiness before.
They had been happy, once upon a time.
(it took seven thousand, five hundred and twenty six years, eight months, twelve days, ten hours, five minutes and thirty two seconds for ignis to understand that Eos itself was the lamb, and they had always been meant to be the daggers.)
And on the raised dais in the throne room of their own never-ending Insomnia, Ignis held onto Noctis and looked up into the shattered ceiling where the light glistened down on them. It was almost like he could see the blue beyond the blood red moon.
Ignis and Noctis, hands and legs and whatever was left of their souls entwined upon the dais on their throne, bared their necks to the heavens.
Like perfect little lambs.
(do you think that we'll have peace?
i hope so.
i'm scared, ignis.
close your eyes, noctis, and try to sleep.
sleep?
it's like... fading away.
that sounds nice.
it is.)
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