Chapter Seven: Apocalypsis Gladiolus

"Man, I'm hungry."

"Aren't we all?"

Sighing, Gladio murmured, "If the Astrals were gonna invite us, least they could do was offer up some dinner."

"Mm… Dinner…" hummed Prompto wistfully.

Ignis, on the other hand, wasn't one to lay it on their hosts' doorstep. Big surprise there.

"It would have been prudent to bring along some of the camping gear," he mused, sounding more frustrated with himself for not thinking of that than the Six for not considering that people couldn't really survive without something in their stomachs. "It is of little use to us at the outpost."

"Nah, would've weighed us down," Gladio disagreed, to which Prompto immediately—and predictably—joined in.

"Not like we have any place to store it either. We'd be hauling all that stuff to Insomnia with us. Although," he added with a sidelong glance at Gladio, "why didn't we just bring the car again?"

"Did you want to explain to the Blademaster why we were trying to drive through the Tempering Grounds?"

"Oh. Yeah. Good point, big guy."

"In any case," interjected Ignis, rolling his one good eye, "we should have brought something for the road. It'll be a long journey without food or water."

Yeah, he wasn't kidding about that. They hadn't been out here for more than a couple of hours by Gladio's estimation, yet his body was already protesting all the walking without the fuel to keep it going. Of course, they hadn't exactly done themselves any favors in that department as it was: in their rush to leave, none of them had bothered grabbing more than a slice of toast or, in Prompto's case, one of the last bars of chocolate they'd managed to scrounge up from some of the old machines back when they'd first returned to Insomnia. That stuff was in high demand and low supply, so they only whipped them out on special occasions. Bringing Noct home, even the mere possibility of it, definitely qualified.

What none of them had counted on was the Astrals forgetting that humans operated on a different system. Gladio had no doubt that the Six hadn't eaten since their old lives in the world their predecessors had destroyed, in which case, power to them. He couldn't imagine what a god would have to ingest to survive, but he had a feeling it would put one hell of a strain on resources, whatever it was. Besides, there was no way they would have been able to sleep as long as they had if their metabolisms worked like a normal person's—there was hibernation, and then there was just ridiculousness. Their obvious and unspoken assumption that the three of them could simply do the same in an Eos with nothing to scavenge whatsoever? Yeah, Gladio should have expected that kind of forethought, given who they were dealing with.

Then again, was it really so surprising? Everything about this place was sideways if not completely backwards. That wasn't to say that it wasn't a good spot to take in the scenery or anything: any other day, he wouldn't have minded wandering around and absorbing all the sights. The crystal was nice, albeit a little rough on the feet, and the whole never-ending dawn motif was pretty cool. Still, it wasn't home, nor was it peaceful like Ignis had tried to bullshit him into accepting earlier. One fact was too inescapably clear to ignore, at least for Gladio: this was the world of the gods. Humans didn't belong.

That was the sense he got from everything, no matter how magical or wonderful it appeared. First, there was no food or water. Then there was this situation with Ignis's eyes, which… Okay, admittedly, it was awesome. Gladio had been beating himself up about that for years, although not for the reasons that the others had probably thought. In the aftermath of Altissia, he'd done a few things he regretted, driving that wedge between him and Noct chief among them. How was he supposed to stand there and act normal when the entire world had been turned on its head, though? It hadn't been Ignis's job to put that ring on and save Noct from Ardyn; it hadn't been Ignis's job to sacrifice his sight to keep Noct alive another day, regardless of what they hadn't known would happen later. When it all boiled down, Ignis shouldn't have been the one put in that position, and that was all on Gladio.

Because it was his job.

Wasn't that why he'd gone out of his way to undertake the Blademaster's trial and gain the power to be a true Shield for Noct? So that he could protect him in any circumstance? That had been his singular goal. (Well, maybe he'd wanted to shore up his pride a bit too. He was young and stupid back then—it happened.) He'd left the Tempering Grounds believing that he'd achieved it, fears and doubts notwithstanding.

Then he'd made it to the altar and realized that it didn't matter how much power he accumulated—he still wasn't good enough to take care of his friends let alone his liege. In that instant, seeing Ravus there for the first time since Gladio had been on the receiving end of his freakish strength, his dignity hadn't been his priority. Pride and competence and his ability to prove his worth hadn't been his priority. Noct, unconscious and soaked to the bone? Ignis, struggling to breathe and burned like no one's business? Those were his priorities, and he'd shoved aside anything remotely resembling emotion until they were all safely settled back at the hotel.

It hadn't lasted. It never lasted, not when he had hours to sit in silence and think. Well, relative silence: Prompto had spent the whole night running laps between Ignis's room and Noct's, wondering what they should do when Gladio sure as hell didn't have any answers for him. They'd tried elixirs and potions on both of them, and nothing had worked. At that point, Gladio had accepted that it was a waiting game—waiting for them to come around or for the other shoe to drop, however, had been a toss-up.

For his part, he'd remained at Noct's side until the voice in his head that sounded eerily like his old man had finally driven him from the room. He could tell that Prompto was equally surprised and disapproving when he'd left, but what else could a guy do? He hadn't been able to refute the uncomfortable truths his mind had thrust upon him back then any more than he could now: he was a failure. Gladiolus Amicitia, Shield to the Chosen King, was nothing but a big waste of space. His prince had nearly been killed, the Oracle's body was somewhere out in that mess, and Ignis was scarred beyond repair. His job had been to ensure none of that happened, and he'd failed. Shit, Ignis had done more than he had. While Gladio had been racing through the city to reach Noct in time, he'd been there and done what was necessary.

Gladio should have been the one to add a few more scars to his face, not Ignis. He should have been the one who stood between Noct and that madman, not Ignis.

He hadn't. And it would haunt him every day for the rest of his life, whether Noct was encased in crystal or on his throne where he belonged.

So, being in a place where Ignis was given this gift, where he could see again even if his eye stayed the same milky grey it had been for eleven years now? It was tough to swallow, and not simply because he shouldn't have had to suffer like that to begin with. What really lit Gladio up was that this wouldn't last: in a land of Astrals where everything was perfect and shiny, Ignis got to witness it. When they went home, that would all be over. They'd return to the way things were, hopefully with their brother in tow, and Ignis would be in the dark. Gladio could tell he was just as aware of that—it was impossible for someone as smart as him not to be—although he was obviously trying not to let it show. Wasn't that typical?

Gladio wasn't capable of that sort of restraint, which came as no surprise. As they picked their way through the miniature canyons that made up the Mencemoor, it was ever on his mind; the fact that Ignis didn't need a guide in front of him or someone offering a heads up on rough terrain was a constant reminder. Ignoring the inevitable loss he'd once again have to face wasn't an option, much as Gladio tried to remain positive. This made their journey easier, after all. He was managing fine on his own, and while Prompto stuck close to his side, it seemed more out of habit than anything else. There was no danger in the difficult path they'd chosen to take or the utter silence outside their footfalls and strained breathing.

Even so, just like that fateful night in Altissia and Ignis's temporary sight, it wouldn't last. The good stuff never did.

Maybe it would have been easier to write off if he had something else to distract him. That silence? It wasn't the peaceful kind. The Six probably disagreed, but what did they know? They'd been out cold for centuries, letting humanity tear itself apart and Ardyn pick at their remains like the rabid chickatrice he was. If anybody could tell the difference between a pleasant hush and an eerie void, it had to be them, and the reality of the situation was that no world populated by people was meant to be this damn quiet.

Then again, perhaps Gladio was the one who didn't know up from down anymore. In the past, he'd appreciated the silence: that was part of what he'd enjoyed about camping, even if the ambiance was constantly broken by Prompto's whining or Ignis's reprimands or Noct's sarcastic comments. There wasn't much that could rival an evening of merely chilling by the fire, sometimes playing a game of King's Knight and sometimes not. On occasion, it was just nice to sit around and watch the stars as the backdrop of the sky changed color behind them. In those moments, being a Shield hadn't been so hard. His charge had been by his side, and things were all right. Quiet? It hadn't been so bad.

That had changed after all was said and done, though. When Noct left them and Gladio was on his own again, the silence hadn't been the same. It wasn't necessarily different from before—there was no eliminating the wind that rustled the trees and what remained of the Lucian wildlife going about its business—but there was a certain heaviness to it that seemed to strangle him these days. He spent most of his time trying to hold his thoughts at arm's length, especially when he was still attempting to figure out what the hell he was supposed to be when they finally got Lucis back on its feet. With nothing to keep him occupied, with nothing to call his attention to other things, he was trapped in his head.

Not a nice place to be, he mused humorlessly to himself.

But, while they traversed the field of stone that began to look like waves on the ocean after staring at it for too long, that was all he had to do. Ignis was busy absorbing their surroundings, probably so that he'd remember in perfect detail when they returned to normal; Prompto was too hungry to speak and appeared to be letting his stomach do it for him. That being said, Gladio had nothing better to do than reflect on what a shitty excuse for a Shield he'd been, both to Noct and everyone else he should have been able to protect.

For all he knew, the downward spiral wouldn't end there either. It was yet another dimension of their struggle that had been gnawing at his insides since they'd departed the Citadel, although it had been easier to toss out as paranoia when the excitement of their discovery had been fresh. Right now, he had something to be doing; he had a destination plotted, uncertain though they were about what exactly they would find there. How long that would last, however, he had no clue. Every time he thought he'd finally gotten over the past, that he had found a path for himself and was ready to walk it, something else cropped up to throw him off course again. It was like being set adrift at sea, only there were no lighthouses to guide him home.

Because home didn't exist anymore, not really. Home was Insomnia, sure; home was the house he'd grown up in. Those were places, though—things. He didn't have to be in the Crown City to feel at home, not as long as the guys were with him and Iris was safe. That was what had made it more bearable to continue on their journey when they'd wanted to turn back and see what they could salvage of the capital eleven years prior. The decision to do so had been out of their control, and they'd been forced to take solace in each other instead. Gladio figured they hadn't done too bad a job of it for the most part. There had been a few moments, of course; they didn't get along all the time. Still, they'd made it this far. That had to count for something.

Except a piece of the equation had been left out for a year. A bit of home had been set on fire and scattered to the wind, and not even the presence of his friends could really anchor him the way it used to.

It all came down to that inescapable feeling, the sensation of not being a Shield anymore when that was all he'd ever worked towards. Whenever he had a second to breathe or half an instant of silence, those old thoughts and fears started eating away at him until he wasn't sure how he managed to shake them off most days. It was like being that same idiot who'd ventured out from Insomnia without knowing what he was doing, although at least he'd been arrogant enough to cover it then. As the years passed and his ego fell by the wayside, all that remained was the garbage he hadn't had the courage to face before. The stench of it was so pervasive that it seemed to have become a part of him by now—the wondering, the second guessing, the disgust even if he had a goal in mind. Gladio masked them as best he could by staying busy, by shouldering missions that would occupy both his hands and his attention, but it didn't always help.

It definitely didn't this time. Hiking through the Astrals' version of Eos, that unnerving crystal throwing up ghostly reflections to follow them on their path, Gladio couldn't tamp down the niggling concern that maybe this was just too good to be true. His luck, after all, hadn't been so great lately, and it increasingly tended to originate from the Six. At the end of the road, was this going to be some big, divine joke? Had Gentiana been serious about Noct waiting for them, or were they going to reach the Citadel to find that their liege had simply become a giant, shiny rock? Now that would be a sight and a half, the three of them dragging it back to the real world to sit on a throne forever, never moving or actually ruling at all.

As if there wasn't enough floating around in his head, Gladio couldn't decide which was worse: Noct being dead or a glorified statue. The selfish side of him was unequivocally opposed to the former, but… Well, there was some closure in that, which was better than nothing. There was some finality, even if they didn't get to see a body. Knowing that he was trapped in crystal and that they couldn't get him out, on the other hand? That meant Gladio would while away the rest of his days guarding someone he'd never be able to reach. That was fine by him, of course: he would gladly spend every hour he had left in this world—or, technically, the other one—watching Noct sleep if it meant holding onto him a little longer. Even so, it was simply…easier somehow to say that he was gone and had ended up in a better place than the one he'd left.

Oh, what was he talking about? That was why they were here, wasn't it?

Huffing in irritation, Gladio slammed his foot against the crystal a little harder than was probably necessary. It would have been more satisfying if he could crack it even slightly, but the damn thing appeared to be stronger than the last Crystal they'd bothered with.

Figures.

The sudden sound, in any case, caught Ignis's attention—as if that wasn't the absolute last thing he needed right now.

"Everything all right, Gladio?"

All right? Well, that was one way of putting it. At first, he was going to leave it at a curt nod; that would have been the smart route.

Instead, he muttered, "This place ain't exactly paradise, is all."

It was vague, but he could tell Ignis and Prompto caught on to his meaning anyway. The two of them exchanged a tentative glance before the former carefully replied, "No, I suppose it isn't."

"If it were, there'd be chocobos," suggested Prompto. Knowing him, Gladio didn't believe for a second that it was really a joke like he made it seem. "And food. Lots and lots of food."

Gladio scoffed. "Hell, at this point, I'd just take some noise."

From the looks of it, he wasn't the only one. Prompto's grimace was indicative of his agreement, and while Ignis's poker face didn't waver for an instant, it was clear that he wasn't the biggest fan of their surroundings either. The seeing was nice and all, but he'd spent too long relying on sound to get him where he was going. If it were Gladio, he'd be going out of his tree listening for something that wasn't there. This was Ignis, though, and Ignis would never say that he was uncomfortable—he simply had to take the tactful approach.

And it drove Gladio crazy.

"Paradise appears to be subjective," he pointed out, unruffled on the surface. "To the Astrals, this must indeed be quite the retreat."

"Would've thought they got enough retreating on Eos. Not like they had to come all the way out here to do it," grumbled Gladio scathingly. He hadn't meant to direct his ire at Ignis, but without the Six there to receive his indignation, it wasn't like he had many other options.

Given that the guy had been trained to nod and smile no matter which diplomat was verbally flogging him, Ignis didn't take it personally. All he replied with was a didactic, "To fathom the mind of a god is improbable; six, impossible."

Oh, yeah. That much was certain, and Gladio couldn't refrain from snorting in contempt as he shoved past his companions and continued along the route they'd set at the Coernix Station.

As far as he was concerned, Gladio couldn't begin to imagine what the Astrals had been thinking, bringing Noct to a realm like this. Maybe it was their idea of a better place, but he begged to differ. The silence was stifling; the surreal landscape was as familiar as it was strangely distant. This wasn't the kingdom where Noct had grown up, nor was it the land they had explored together when they were young and stupid enough to assume that Ardyn was just some creepy old man without any ulterior motives. This place was other, the residence of gods that Noct didn't fit in with, whether he was their servant or not. He didn't belong here, didn't deserve to be stuck in this world even if he wasn't aware of it. Waking him up ultimately didn't matter: he should have been at home regardless. He could sit on his throne, sit inside his crystal, or sit beneath the ground in the grave they should have been able to give him for all Gladio cared—as long as he came home.

This realm wasn't going to cut it.

He doubted he was alone in his assessment, yet there was no agreement forthcoming from either of his friends. In fact, he ended up getting the opposite.

"We must be patient," Ignis chided, his tone gentle yet patronizing to Gladio's ears. "Allowing emotion to get the better of us will only end in disaster, especially when we don't know what we'll find when we reach the Crown City."

"Nobody's gettin' emotional," Gladio ground out.

"Clearly."

It took every bit of willpower his father had instilled in him not to rise to that bait. Ignis had never been keen on poking at his nerves when he noticed they were fraying thin; they had worked together for so long that stepping on each other's toes was harder than the alternative. Over the last year, though, he'd gotten to be an expert at plucking on the one chord that would send Gladio over the edge. He could usually walk away and come back when his temper cooled, but that wasn't a possibility at the moment.

As such, it was difficult to contain the sudden flare of heat within his chest. Why couldn't Ignis understand that what was going on in his head wasn't anyone else's business? Why couldn't he seem to get that if Gladio wanted to be pissed off, that was on him? Ignis always mentioned how the Six had been dealt a shit hand just like the rest of them, but had they really? Had they truly suffered as much as the people they'd left out to dry all this time? Yeah, the Infernian had turned on them along the way—that guy was a fickle bastard in the first place, so it wasn't much of a loss in Gladio's opinion. That didn't give them the right to do what they had, to pass the buck to Noct until he'd been forced to give up everything in order to meet their silent demands and then dump him in a spot like this.

But sure, don't get emotional.

The problem with Ignis? Gladio didn't have to voice any of that for him to hear it. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the guy could read minds.

"For now, all we can do is focus on Noct."

"The hell you think I've been doing?" he huffed incredulously, not slowing his pace for a second. He'd gotten good at running, shameful as that would have seemed to him when he was younger. Now wasn't the time to stop.

Skeptical wasn't even the word for it when Ignis nevertheless continued, "We've all done our best. We cannot afford to fall apart now."

"Who's fallin' apart?"

"No one, and it would behoove us to keep it that way."

"Ain't a problem."

"Isn't it?"

Is he serious?

Okay, he'd tried—he'd tried so hard not to react, not to lose his grip on everything that held his mouth in check. That, though? The insinuation that had Gladio wheeling around to glare at Ignis where the smug bastard had stopped a few feet away, inscrutable and unaffected as always? That was more than he could take.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he growled, temper flaring like it had so often over the weeks and months that had passed since Noct vanished. This time, however, it wasn't about his constant absence or his distance from all the political crap Ignis said he should be a part of. No, this had nothing to do with that and everything to do with thoughts that he had no right to judge.

So much for that.

If Ignis cared that he was overstepping, he didn't show it. Instead, he stood firm and sounded equally determined when he retorted, "I feel the same as you. We both do. But losing sight of our goal is not an option."

Scoffing, Gladio folded his arms over his chest and rejoined, "I'm not losin' sight of anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

While he'd encountered some rough obstacles in the past, not many measured up to the discomfort that swept through him at the reminder of a day a hell of a lot longer ago than he cared to dwell on—a day when his charge had told him the exact same thing, although Gladio hadn't believed him then. That definitely didn't help, and the words caught in his throat, making it impossible to swallow or speak around them as Noct's voice echoed in his head and his heart.

Not now.

Ignis being Ignis, he didn't give him a chance to compose himself. Admitting defeat wasn't his style, even if he had to play dirty.

"Being here and being present are two entirely different matters," he qualified, his expression calm despite the fire in his colorless eye. "Don't forget, it's not the Six we should be angry with."

Gladio figured he deserved a goddamn medal for not blowing his top right then and there. He was a hothead—Cor had been telling him that since he was a kid—but he wasn't stupid. The logical side of him got that and had been mentally eviscerating Ardyn rather than the Astrals every single day.

But the more clues they uncovered and hoops they had to jump through, Gladio found himself growing angrier and angrier with their divine overlords than he had been at the start. Ardyn hadn't taken Noct away from them, at least not directly; Ardyn hadn't stuck him in a crystal and thrown him into some creepy imitation of the real world as if it were a gift. That he was allowed to blame the Six for, whatever Ignis had to say about it.

"I call 'em like I see 'em, and they're just as guilty as the chancellor. Not like any of this would've happened if they'd pulled their shit together before the war," he shot back in disgust.

"It's far too late to correct the mistakes of the past. You of all people should know that," sighed Ignis with a shake of his head.

For a second, it was like the earth stood still—well, more than usual since it didn't appear to be spinning here.

"Me of all people," echoed Gladio once he had his wits about him, eyes narrowing. Ignis must have predicted where he was going with that, because he hurried to amend his slip of the tongue.

"I was merely saying that we've lost a great deal," he reasoned, the strong scent of bullshit wafting around every word. "There's no going back, however much we might like to. Bemoaning the results of the Astrals' folly, as well as our own, is an exercise in futility."

There it was again, and Gladio didn't pass up the opportunity to observe, "Our own, huh? Funny, I thought this was about the Six."

A pause, then, "The two are inextricably linked."

"Oh, yeah? How's that?"

The flat look he received would have shaken a lesser man down to his bones, but whether it was nerve or idiocy, Gladio stood tall in the face of Ignis's disdain. He'd been doing it for a year, so why disappoint now?

Luck still wasn't on his side, though, because Ignis wasn't pulling his punches. Nope. He was aiming for the throat.

"You aren't blaming the Astrals, Gladio. We all know that."

The silence that followed was longer, and he was pretty sure he could have cut the tension with his sword and served it for dinner. Where Ignis's eyes bored into him as if he was searching for something Gladio had gotten good at hiding, Prompto's examined just about anything else. There had been a few instances where he'd thought for sure that the latter would speak up, either to tell them they had better stuff to be doing or to implore them to stop before they gave him a headache. Each time, he seemed to think better of it, and he stood off to the side scuffing his boot against the ground as if he were the same twenty-year-old wimp he'd been when they'd left the Citadel. Somehow, that only made this worse.

As would whatever else Gladio could possibly add to the conversation. So, fully aware that he didn't have an adequate response that wouldn't embarrass them further, he turned his back and started walking again.

"Should put your glasses on," he threw callously over his shoulder. "Eyesight's messin' with your head."

"I see things as clearly as ever," Ignis called after him, not moving an inch.

If it weren't for their present circumstances, Gladio would have left his ass behind, but his hands were tied on this one. The best he could do was keep his damn mouth shut for a change where he was forced to stop again.

Well, until Ignis pressed, "We all carry the burden of responsibility, but we've been given the opportunity to fix this. That is the important thing."

"Yeah? So, what happens if we get to the Citadel and he ain't there?" spat Gladio, fists clenching at his sides. It wasn't really what he'd meant to say, but it sounded a whole lot better than wondering what happened if they got there and he was.

He must have unintentionally struck a nerve, because it was Prompto who hastened to reply, "Then we do what we've always done: we keep on going. For Noct."

And what if we can't?

That probably hadn't crossed either of their minds. Why should it when they'd done their jobs? Ignis had stood by Noct even when Gladio hadn't, offering advice and support and anything else Noct required on his way to a kingship he hadn't been prepared for yet. Then there was Prompto, who had taken everyone's expectations and shot them to hell. He'd been able to hold his own—there was no denying that one. Between his natural ability with a gun (which Gladio never would have anticipated) and the training Cor had concocted on the fly, he'd turned out to be a damn good bodyguard in spite of his tendency to distract Noct when he needed to get his head in the game. Neither of them had failed their respective missions.

Not like Gladio.

They'd been so eager to get Noct back that he hadn't stopped to think about what would happen when they did. When they returned to Insomnia, when they brought Noct home, when he was installed as king—where did they go from there? Ignis would do what he always had, and so would Prompto.

Then there was Gladio, a failed Shield by every definition. Prophecy or not, he'd dropped the ball. Nobody could convince him otherwise. When Noct had been unsure, Gladio had thrown him in what he'd believed was the right direction. When he'd been grieving, Gladio had shoved his behavior in his face and made it worse in an attempt to keep him motivated. When he'd gone into the Crystal, Gladio hadn't been at his side.

When he'd died on the throne, Gladio hadn't borne witness or had the guts to go before him.

So, what did he do if all their efforts amounted to what they hoped? Things would never be normal; he wouldn't be able to deposit himself at Noct's right hand and just move on as if he deserved the position. There wasn't enough training or apologizing in the world to make up for his inability to act in the instances when it mattered most.

And that wasn't him getting emotional or whatever: it was being realistic. The Six had dictated Noct was supposed to die, just like all the other Lucian kings, but a Shield's duty wasn't to stand outside and wait for it to be over. A Shield was the vanguard, not the one who went chasing shadows or fixed shit after the fact.

Looks like the Blademaster's right. Guess I'm nothing but a wanderer after all.

A hand on his shoulder shook him from his reverie, and Gladio peered around to see Ignis behind him with an all too knowing look on his face.

"Whatever we find," he remarked, calm and quiet and the total opposite of Gladio's thoughts, "we shall weather the storm as we always have."

It was a good thing Prompto appeared on his other side since words utterly failed him. His smile was strained, but there was no mistaking his sincerity when he agreed, "Yeah, what Iggy said. We've already made it this far. Nothing's gonna stand in our way now."

It was such a Noct statement to make that Gladio was struck dumb. Neither of them seemed to expect an answer, thankfully, not with one of his usual retorts or anything more genuine either. That was about as comforting as it was going to get: there was so much clamoring around in his head that he didn't think he could put any of it into coherent sentences, nor would he want to for fear of sounding exactly like what he knew he would. Being a sap hadn't fit into his agenda, not in the last thirty-four years and certainly not today. Fortunately, he didn't have to resort to that.

Unfortunately, someone must have decided that he didn't have enough people ganging up on him.

Before he had a chance to even consider opening his mouth and letting something out, the ground quaked beneath his feet, sending him toppling to his knees. Ignis and Prompto weren't far behind; raising his head, Gladio just barely managed to reach out in time to keep Prompto from losing his balance as they huddled together.

"W-What the hell was that?!" he shouted, hardly audible over the sound of the earth rumbling all around them.

Gladio braced himself against the crystal and called back, "An earthquake? Here?"

It shouldn't have been possible. Paradise or not, natural disasters couldn't be something the Astrals actually wanted. (Except maybe Leviathan, but she didn't really qualify as normal.) This was supposed to be the land of sparkles and sunshine, not a typical day in Duscae. If it weren't for their surroundings and the conversation they'd been having mere seconds ago, Gladio would say…

He'd say…

Oh, shit.

"Get outta here!" he yelled as he shoved Prompto forward and moved aside for Ignis to follow him. All of a sudden, coming so close to Cauthess seemed like a stupid idea.

Ignis appeared to be thinking along the same lines, because he didn't waste any time asking what he was on about. Rather, he set the pace, staggering along ahead of them with one hand against the stone outcroppings while the ground heaved under them.

That day in Altissia had nothing on this. Crashing waves, collapsing cities, careering airships—none of it held a candle to the feeling of solid earth being torn asunder where you stood. To both his amazement and his annoyance, the crystal didn't shatter as everything else had in the wake of the Hydraean's wrath; it was weirdly pliable, stretching like elastic even though it was still hard to the touch. It roiled and churned, imitating boiling water and nowhere near as pretty to look at as it had been earlier—nowhere near as divine either. While Gladio hadn't been a fan to begin with, there was something ugly about getting their wish for noise. All the stuff they'd been in awe of took on a different shape, a different character that reflected everything he'd been thinking about the Six. Where it had seemed nice and majestic at first, its true nature was showing now, and it was as malignant as it was formidable.

Leaning against the towering pillars of rock didn't keep them upright. Going it on all fours just meant their jaws hit the ground instead of their knees. There was no way to avoid it, no way to keep from being tossed around on the maelstrom—

And no way to stay together.

As hard as they tried to remain within shouting distance, it simply wasn't possible. Every time Gladio looked up from where he was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, Ignis and Prompto were further away. Leaping forward, reaching out, calling to them was pointless. They couldn't hear him over the deafening roar of the beast the world had turned into, nor could he understand the words they were crying out. It was all swept in the other direction, carried off to where it wouldn't be of any use.

That wasn't the worst of it, though. The worst was what happened when Gladio was too busy attempting to read the panic in Prompto's eyes and the warning on Ignis's lips to pay attention.

Whatever was doing this must have been hoping for an opportunity to catch him off guard. As soon as it was certain he was distracted, it made the distance between him and the others explode in a flash of sound and color—

The blast knocked him off his feet, plunging him backwards—

Something heavy and solid hit his chest, knocking the wind out of him—

And then it was quiet.

For a minute, Gladio was positive he'd lost consciousness. It was the only reason he could fathom for the tumultuous chaos disappearing in the blink of an eye as though it had never been there at all. Yeah, that had to be it. His skull was dully aching where it had connected with the ground, sending little shockwaves of pain through his neck and back as he struggled to sit up. It wouldn't have been impossible for him to have blacked out and woken up again when the earthquake—or whatever it was—stopped. That would explain the sudden silence, the searing agony in his head when he registered the sunlight through his closed eyelids…

What it didn't explain was where Ignis and Prompto had gone.

Or where he'd ended up.

Because when Gladio managed to pry his eyes open, blinking until they adjusted to the bright illumination directly overhead, he wasn't where he'd started. There were no trees or landlocked promontories, no elevated roadway in the distance to mark their route. The far-off forest of the Nebulawood was gone, and in its place was nothing but…rock. Just rock. Dark, jagged, uneven rock.

And no crystal to cover it.

"What the hell…?" murmured Gladio, wincing as his own voice seemed to split his head even further down the middle.

This…wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. He was supposed to be with Prompto and Ignis, yet a scan of his new surroundings showed him they were nowhere to be found. He was supposed to be in the middle of a damn earthquake getting smacked around by crystal grass, not…wherever he was.

The strangest part was that he already knew. He hadn't seen the place in ages, not when it was light out anyway, but there was no forgetting the look of it.

The Disc of Cauthess kind of left an impression.

Either he'd hit his head harder than he'd thought, or this had to be a dream. There was no other explanation for what he was seeing, especially when his brain finally caught up with his eyes and registered that nothing about this could be real. It would've been one thing to find himself inside Cauthess without his friends—weirder stuff had happened, after all. They'd been waiting for the Six to rear their ugly heads, and while Gladio couldn't exactly regret the truths he'd spilled out there, he also couldn't deny that he hadn't been the most reverent of the Astrals' underlings either. Who was to say that they hadn't decided to dump his ass inside this empty canyon to think about what he'd done for a bit?

Except, like every single complication they'd encountered on this trip, it wasn't that simple. The crystal might have been stripped away, leaving the ancient rock around him dull and shapeless, but it was replaced by something that definitely shouldn't have been there if he was still in the Astrals' realm: the Meteor. Gladio didn't know how or why the damn thing was there; it hadn't been a few seconds ago. Yet there it was, towering over the stone courtyard he'd been dropped in, the heat of its fire glowing blue and red against a sky that didn't reflect the dawn that the Six had formed for their idea of paradise. It was as if Titan hadn't vaporized it years ago, potent and perfect as ever.

So were the puffy white clouds that sailed in and out of view over the lip of the crater where there had only been blue before. So was the sun where it was beginning its slow descent towards the west.

Call him crazy, but Gladio got the feeling he definitely wasn't where he'd started out.

The awkward sensation of déjà vu merely worsened when he raised a hand to his face, intent on smacking himself around a little if that was what it took to wake up from this nightmare of days past. Most people hated the thought of having scars like his, of seeing them in the mirror or feeling them with the tips of their fingers. To them, they were something to be ashamed of; if you had some permanent etching on your body, it had to be from a mistake or an accident that you didn't want to talk about. For Noct, that hadn't been too far from the truth: his run-in with a daemon when he was a kid hadn't left him the same, and he'd never really gotten over his aversion to letting people spy the line that ran across his spine thanks to the Marilith's blade. Not Gladio, though. Unlike most, he was proud of the various nicks and scratches that hadn't fully healed; he reveled in the sight of them, even if they'd been kind of jarring at first. Mistakes were how you learned, just as accidents were trials to be overcome. That wasn't something to hide—it was something to celebrate.

Which was why his heart damn near skipped a beat when his hand brushed his forehead and didn't smooth over the gash the Blademaster had gifted him. A second pass—a third turned up the same, not to mention the close-cropped hair near his ears that scratched his wrist with every desperate attempt to figure out how a scar he'd had for a decade could up and vanish like that.

…Can't be…

But it was. With shaking hands and wide eyes, Gladio ran his fingers through his hair, or what was left of it. This definitely wasn't the style he'd been sporting on their way to the Tempering Grounds: the strands were shaved close at the sides while the top was slicked back so that it joined the rest in a trail down his neck. It was the sort of thing he'd done when he was younger and actually had the presence of mind to prioritize his appearance. He hadn't necessarily let himself go or anything, but he hadn't felt this immaculately groomed in years, not since haircuts had gotten to be too annoying and time-consuming to deal with—there was more important stuff to worry about during the Long Night. These days, he was fine with tying it up so that it wasn't in his face, yet there wasn't any point now. There wasn't enough in front to bother him much less wrap in elastic.

If he thought that blast from the past was insane and out of place, though, it was nothing compared to what he saw when he glanced down at himself in utter shock. The environment, for better or worse, wasn't all that had changed: so had his clothes. Gone were the jeans and tank top that he'd donned for this venture rather than official attire. Instead, he was wearing the Crownsguard uniform he'd been given by his father a few days before they'd departed for Noct's wedding. They'd all gotten something similar, as it wouldn't have been appropriate to engage in their first technical diplomatic mission in their usual outfits. (That was what Ignis said. Gladio didn't see much difference, and the getup he'd worn around the Citadel had been acceptable enough to him.) Despite that, Gladio's was different. Where Prompto was meant to look inconspicuous and Ignis had to fit the part of a royal advisor, the plans for his own attire were designed with another idea in mind. His intimidating physique was on display through the leather of his jacket, unmarred like his forehead and a warning to anyone who got within attacking distance of Noct; the lines of black that had embraced his collarbones for about sixteen years peered out from behind the fabric, a badge of honor and station that couldn't be stripped from him, even if he tried to hide it most days to avoid the inescapable reminder of how he would be regarded by history.

A failed Shield, and now a lost one.

Lost might not have been the right word for it, in hindsight. He knew exactly where he was, from the shattered flagstones that littered his path through a narrow passage in the side of the crater to the dilapidated tomb that had been recreated when it should have been destroyed by the Archaean's bad temper. That, however, didn't appear to have happened yet. It was right where they'd found it eleven years ago, a little lopsided and clearly bereft of the weapon Noct had claimed, but otherwise intact.

That was more suspicious than anything else. An empty grave, no friends, and no way out? Yeah, that wasn't a trap at all.

"All right," sighed Gladio, inching towards the edge of the effigy with all the care in the world. He'd already played this game, and he was well aware of how it had ended the first time. "What's the deal here?"

A minute passed without incident, not a sound permeating the silence that had descended around him. If he wasn't so painfully familiar with the differences between the two, he would have said that he truly was still in that hellhole of an afterlife or underworld or whatever they wanted to call it. It would have made sense, especially if this was some kind of punishment for his verbal transgressions.

Whether it was or not, it didn't take long to find out. As if in belated answer to his question, the same rumbling he'd heard before he was separated from Ignis and Prompto rang out, and he preemptively dropped to his knees in preparation. He wasn't caught unawares, although it wasn't completely due to his quick thinking: the lithified Meteor at the center of Cauthess couldn't fool him as it rose from the ground, seemingly of its own volition. Stones rattled around him, shaken loose from the carved pillars of the defunct crypt, and Gladio had to cover his face against the dust that carried up to him on the wind. It had been the stuff of nightmares a decade ago, but now? Now it threatened to choke him, and not simply because it filled his lungs with ancient particles that hadn't been moved in centuries.

It had more to do with the inscrutable yellow eye that glared down at him from beneath the shadow of the Meteor, piercing as it had been when a god had decided to test a king to see if he was worthy of a divine blessing or five.

Something told Gladio he wasn't going to get the same negotiable courtesy that Noct had, if he could even call it that. What, had Titan believed he wasn't being as respectful as he should and brought him here to teach him a lesson? Or was this what the Blademaster had meant when he hinted that they weren't going to be allowed to see Noct as easily as they had hoped? Talk about a joke. The Archaean had been stuck in that crater for so long that the locals made it a holy site, complete with shit named after it and T-shirts and everything. If he wanted to show Gladio a thing or two, it would have been smarter to pummel him on more equal turf—by which he meant slightly less unequal, since fighting Titan at all was a one-sided battle. Either way, displaying his impressive, divine strength would have been a lot less problematic where they'd been than in this hole.

Unless they didn't want to mess up all that crystal. Considering how much time they'd sunk into fixing things in Eos, Gladio figured it must have taken them forever to get their little retreat just right. They probably weren't big on duking it out there.

So…they'd gone back in time. For real. All to…stare at each other.

Coughing through the hazy cloud around him, Gladio opened his mouth to tell His Enormousness exactly what he thought about that—

And froze, the words knocked right out of his damn head as effectively as he'd been yanked out of his own time. He'd been prepared for a lot of things on this journey of theirs, so many that even this wasn't anywhere near as surprising as it should have been. When you grew up in a world with magic and gods and dead kings that lived in a ring, there wasn't a whole lot that could still surprise you. Gentiana's unexpected clue had been about the extent of it, and everything that had happened after was simply icing on the cake.

Discovering that he wasn't as alone with Titan as he'd thought, on the other hand, packed a stronger punch than anything he'd ever felt in his life. It shook his brain loose from its moorings until he was pretty sure the vertigo alone was going to be his undoing, both physical and mental. It stole his sense and deposited a flame of fury in his chest that he hadn't felt in… Actually, never mind. He didn't want to think about the last time he'd been as pissed as he was now, staring down into the crater at the Archaean's feet to find the one person he'd grown to both anticipate and dread seeing in equal measures.

Noct was there. He was there, and he was alive.

And he was unconscious, because why not make today that much worse?

This had to be a setup, a divine setup born from the Six reading his mind. How else would they have known that this was everything Gladio had dreamt about for years, and not purely during the Long Night? His evenings after their initial encounter with the Archaean had been plagued with thoughts of what would have happened if Noct didn't gain the Astral's favor or if he'd passed out from those inconvenient headaches. Titan hadn't gone easy on him regardless of the gods' alleged affection for the kings of Lucis, and more than once that day, Gladio had worried that that was going to be the end of their road—that they'd made it from the Crown City to Lestallum, gathering the weapons of Noct's ancestors as the marshal had instructed, only for it to turn out the way he was seeing it here and not as it had in reality. Contrary to what he'd been touting to get Cor to agree to help him take on Gilgamesh, his steady path towards the insecurities that still gripped him at times hadn't begun with Ravus, but with this. His best had been enough in that singular instance, both to protect Noct and get him through his trial in one piece. He simply hadn't trusted how long that was going to be the case when they weren't merely gathering approval—they were fighting gods for it.

And those bastards sure knew what they were doing, then and now. It wasn't Noct whose head pounded this time, not that he would have felt it anyway where he lay prone too far away for Gladio to reach. He didn't even have a chance to try: the persistent ache he'd been able to ignore in light of his new circumstances returned with a vengeance, hellbent on making him bow before the so-called greatness of Titan as the Crystal shard that had remained around his neck in spite of his transformation burned into his skin.

"The hell do you want?!" he growled past gritted teeth, holding his head in his hands and willing the double dose of pain to abate in vain.

Through his eyelids—when had he closed his eyes?—Gladio was only distantly aware of the grating, deafening shift of the rock. If it weren't for the pain, he'd be able to picture it: Titan turning towards him, towering over him and Noct like the helpless, worthless humans they were in comparison to his might. All of a sudden, Gladio had a brand new appreciation for what Noct had gone through to get this guy's blessing. He wouldn't say his prince had been weak per se, yet he was still too wet behind the ears for half of what he'd shouldered in those first few weeks of their journey. It had been Gladio's duty to ease the transition their experiences made necessary, and he'd embraced it fully, reforming himself into the sort of person who could stand no matter what came at them.

This? This was insanity. This was more than any person could take, Shield or not.

Except Noct, divinely destined King of Kings and self-proclaimed pain in the ass.

It would have been easier to handle if the misery didn't come in waves, shocking him every time as the agony increased tenfold. As soon as it ebbed, as soon as he stupidly thought that it was over, it washed over him yet again as a reminder of who was boss here. Unfortunately, it wasn't him, and the real boss played as dirty as Ignis when the latter put his mind to it.

Titan must have considered that a challenge, because he was apparently prepared to take their standoff to the next level.

Images of the past inundated Gladio's mind before he could brace himself, barraging his consciousness until he couldn't be sure whether that was what truly kept him in such brutal pain. Here, he was sliding down a seemingly endless hill to grab Noct by the wrist before he fell to the bottom of the crater; there, he was launching Noct over a ledge so he could make a run for it while Gladio held the Archaean off with nothing more than the brute strength he'd been reprimanded for relying on by more than one person in his lifetime.

"Only he who possesses both muscle and mettle of equal caliber deserves the honor of fighting beside the Chosen King as his sworn Shield."

"You may have the strength to defeat the darkness, but do you have the spirit to survive these trials?"

"Knock it off," he shouted, utterly enraged for no other reason than that these weren't Titan's memories to manipulate. Those weren't his experiences, his successes and his failures to relive as he liked.

It didn't make a damn bit of difference. Either it was the natural order of things at this point or Gladio really was being punished as he'd thought, because the discomfort didn't let up—it intensified immeasurably.

With it, he was subjected to even more reminiscing on the sort of stuff that shouldn't have mattered to the Archaean: running through Altissia with Prompto on their way to the altar, carrying Ignis back to the hotel while Prompto hauled Noct along beside them, walking the train to Cartanica alone as he tried to decide what the hell he was going to do about a reluctant prince that needed to grow up sooner rather than later. There were angry words spat without thinking, comforting ones that had never been spoken when they should've, all the little things in between that he hadn't given voice to when it would've meant something…

And his own personal ghosts, back to haunt him again.

"Stand tall, for the Shield of the King must kneel in subjugation before no man."

"He was scared of failing as leader of the Crownsguard—and as Shield of the King. He couldn't leave His Majesty alone, weakened by the Wall as he was. After all, what good is a Shield with no one to protect?"

Oh, hell no. He wasn't going there. Of all the things this bastard could make him remember, his father was not going to be one of them. They'd chosen their own paths, and yeah, maybe his dad's had been the more successful of the two. Still, Gladio was willing to live with the consequences and his own shame.

That, apparently, was what Titan was coming for next.

"Will you stand tall, even when your flesh fails you, or will you fall to your knees?"

"Be true, for the Shield of the King must deceive none—not even himself."

"You lack his conviction."

"'Do you dare risk all for naught in return?'"

"You are strong—yet so long as fear binds your heart, the power you possess is wasted on you."

"No," breathed Gladio in sudden comprehension. It took everything he had, yet he managed to maneuver himself onto his feet—bent and crouched, but on his feet regardless as he stared up at the Archaean in defiance. "I kneel before no man!"

The utter torment that assaulted him for that was staggering, and Gladio nearly toppled right back to the ground with the force of it.

"It took me a while, but I realized something: you're right—I am afraid," Titan spoke to him in his own voice, echoing off the walls of his skull to add to his misery. "Afraid of accepting the fact that maybe I'm not really cut out for the job I'm expected to do."

Oh. So that was his problem. Or, more appropriately, Gladio's problem. It was why Titan had dragged him down here and shoved Noct in front of his face, but not the Noct that had been able to stand on his own two feet without anybody at his side; not the Noct that hadn't relied on Gladio's strength, Ignis's intelligence, and Prompto's support so much as merely their friendship. No, the Archaean wanted him to witness a Noct that was in danger of getting crushed every second, incapable of spotting the danger around him.

A Noct that needed his Shield, whatever his own fears might be.

All right. He wants proof I can do this? I'll give 'im proof.

He simply had to believe it himself.

While that part was easier said than done, Gladio nevertheless jerked his head upright to glower once more at the mighty Archaean when he threw a little of the guy's own medicine at him. Titan could play with Gladio's head all he wanted—he'd respond in kind.

"I may be all muscle and no mettle, but I'm gonna keep protecting Noct the only way I know how."

And just like that, without caring about the pain or the consequences or the senseless recollections that Titan decided to dredge up from the depths of his conscience, Gladio leapt over the edge of the cliff into the unknown below.

To put it in Ignis's words, it was a foolish idea for anyone and especially for Gladio. But hey, what else was he supposed to do? Rocketing towards the ground, towards where Noct was waiting for him, he finally got why he'd been brought here. It wasn't for punishment, although there was no doubt in his mind that that played at least some role in the Archaean accompanying him on a trip down memory lane. Petty revenge wasn't in the Astrals' playbook; if it were, Ardyn would have been a blot in the history texts, not a stain on their collective past. Rather, this was something Gladio was a bit more familiar with: it was a test. It was a trial, a chance for him to show the Six that he had what it took to be for Noct what they hadn't been for humanity—protection. He planned on being a good Shield, his shoddy service record notwithstanding? Then he needed to prove he could be. He wanted to take over for the Astrals and safeguard the King of Kings in their own realm rather than letting him rot here under their watchful eyes? Then he needed to prove himself worthy of that honor. This wasn't about Noct garnering their support anymore, but about Gladio doing it. Presumably, Ignis and Prompto would have to do the same, which was going to be one hell of a sight.

But first things first. He could warn them later.

For the time being, he cast aside the subtly diminishing ache in his skull to whip his sword out of its sheath, battling the wind on his way to the bottom of the crater. He hadn't been considering the logistics of his fall when he'd made the plunge, but that was no big deal. Sometimes, you just had to take a leap of faith.

This one, thankfully, worked out for the best. Gladio's arms protested violently when he swung his blade around and embedded it into the solidified dirt at the side of the enormous impression, his fingers gripping the hilt so tightly that he was pretty sure it would leave a permanent indentation on the leather. Initially, it didn't seem to do much good: his momentum worked against him, and his sword cut through the soil rather than slowing his descent as planned. It wasn't until he dug his heels into the earthen wall that he was able to save himself from becoming a bloody splat on the rocks mere yards below, which was a relief when he got a load of the Archaean's foot hovering over the platform Noct was lying on.

Not gonna happen.

Gladio wasn't sure which side took over first—Shield or brother or a bit of both. Whatever it was didn't give a shit about the twinge that shot up into his shoulders when he wrenched his blade from where it was holding him upright and let himself fall the rest of the way to the ground. It didn't care whether he maneuvered himself so that he didn't feel the worst of the impact or whether he rolled to his feet without pause; it wasn't listening to the rhythmic pounding of his boots against the stone that rang out oddly in time with his beating heart. In that instant, his priorities narrowed down to only one person—their comfort, their safety, their survival—and it sure as hell wasn't him.

Shields didn't put themselves before their lieges. Brothers didn't leave each other behind. They were connected, through life and death and the giant goddamn foot barreling towards Noct when the latter couldn't defend himself.

Lucky for him, he had Gladio there, not that he was of much use. The best he could do was dive in at the last second, sword raised to clash against the Archaean's stone appendage with a deafening clang. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't his smartest idea: his muscles spasmed with the sheer effort it took not to crumple under the weight of Titan's wrath, and a hoarse cry was ripped from his throat against his will as he struggled to keep the god on one side of his sword and Noct safely hidden behind his back. His prince—no, his king—wasn't getting turned into jelly today. Not so long as Gladio still drew breath.

He couldn't help but think that this was more than slightly counterproductive, though: Titan had released him from his crystal and put him back the way he was when they were younger all to test Gladio? Or was it a replica, a vision like the rest of this place had to be? The pain was real; there was no denying it when he almost fell over batting the god's attack away. His irritation, too, was more realistic than the hand that reached down to swipe him aside. Still, he couldn't quite believe that this place wasn't a figment of his imagination or a trick of the mind, that the Archaean had really gone to the trouble of taking them back in time so he could stick his divine foot in Gladio's face.

In spite of his doubts, he wasn't about to gamble it. He'd risked his own safety since he was a kid, be it on their journey or simply protecting Noct from some bully in a bar. That had been his duty and his honor, and he would toss himself into the fires of hell before he'd ever let them get close enough to make Noct sweat. He was a Shield—maybe not an effective one, but that wasn't the question here. The question was whether he was willing to fortify his stance and stab his sword into Titan's palm, shouting with the strain of holding on as it pushed him back like little more than a bug.

Illusion or not, Gladio would protect the prince collapsed behind him even if the Archaean and the rest of the Six tore him to shreds over it. At least if they did, he wouldn't have to live with the failure like he had last time.

So, while his muscles ached and every nerve was alight with agony, Gladio didn't let up for an instant. There was no stopping the steady force that shoved him ever closer to the side of the crater, seemingly intent on crushing him against it. Of course, Gladio wasn't dumb enough to try: instead, he reared back to pull his blade free and ducked between Titan's humongous fingers in a mad dash for where Noct hadn't budged an inch. It was with a bitter pang of regret that Gladio realized this would have been much easier if they still had access to magic in the process. A little bit of ice, a flask to hold it in…

It was a nice thought to take with him when he went soaring through the air, struck hard by Titan's retreating fist.

What wasn't so nice was the feeling of serrated stone against your skin when your bare chest slammed into it. Yeah, that was going to leave a mark.

Gladio tried not to focus on that, however, staggering to his feet and wheeling around once again. Shields didn't tire or slow down because of a few bumps and scratches. The blood that began to ooze from the shallow cuts on his skin was his motivation; the trembling of his limbs, his challenge.

The bastard who'd caused them? His target.

With a cry of frustration and rage, Gladio didn't bother beating around the bush now. Perhaps the one thing he had that Titan didn't was speed, and he used it to his advantage as he leapt into the air and brought his sword down hard on the Archaean's arm where it had returned for Noct. Admittedly, it wasn't very satisfying when the god didn't shout in the same pain that Gladio was feeling, but it did what it was intended to. Titan's fingers twitched, flicking heavily to the side in a failed attempt to swat him away.

In this instance, Gladio was already ahead of him. With the Archaean momentarily distracted, he dove towards Noct, grabbed his arms, and dragged him as far from the pissed off deity as possible. It wasn't much, yet if it made things even slightly more difficult for Titan while Gladio figured out what the hell he was supposed to do here, it was worthwhile.

Until he was sent flying again, this time with Noct alongside him. Damn, he hadn't pegged Titan for the type to sucker punch a guy when he was down, but here they were.

That was the part that didn't make any sense. Given the crap the Archaean had put in his head, Gladio had been certain that the Astral was trying to test his strength, of body or mind or whatever else he could think of. Now, however, he wasn't so sure. The longer this went on (and the more tumbles he endured), the more it seemed as though Titan was trying to crush his strength, not test it. It was pretty obvious that muscle was no good here, not when it was nothing compared to the might of a giant rock god. There wasn't a thing Gladio could do, not when he'd been repeatedly rebuffed before and not when he saw the bottom of that immense foot moving into position above them as he rolled over.

What kinda trial is this?

It was all Gladio could do not to spit that at the Astral along with every other combination of foul curses he could throw together, but he figured he'd done enough to tick Titan off for one day. That wasn't going to keep them from getting squished, nor was it going to help him determine what the Archaean wanted from him here. His blows were worthless, as were the tricks that would have helped him out if they were up against some dumb animal. There was no fighting something that could wipe you out with a single strike, and although Gladio hated to admit it, he simply wasn't strong enough to withstand the onslaught much longer. His body was already beginning to fail him, refusing to rise from where he was crouched next to Noct and choosing without his input to provide cover instead. Not even that was any use—all it meant was that he would be turned into a pancake before Noct, if the latter was as real as he seemed.

This wasn't working. His calculations were wrong, and this was his actual punishment. That was the only guess he had. If that was the case, though, then what was he even here for? To play fetch with an idle puppet while the Six made them dance? That was a little out there even for them. The Astrals had gone to some serious lengths to gauge Noct's ability in the past, but this? This was impossible. This was ridiculous.

This was…exactly the opposite of what he'd been expecting.

Gladio would never know what made it all snap into place, yet with a surge of heat from his Crystal shard came a suspicion that he had no choice but to believe. For as long as he could remember, Gladio had trained to become the strongest person he could, both physically and by just about every other definition in the book. Years of his life had been spent in the Citadel's training rooms with weights and practice weapons and instructors and anybody who could possibly aid him in his quest for the power to do what he must to protect Noct. Other people would have scoffed at him; some of them had. They said he was wasting his youth, that he had plenty of time to become a formidable Shield without giving up all that the world had to offer. A part of him had wondered at various points if they were right, but it had never been enough to change his course. Ultimately, he'd enjoyed what he'd done, and he took pride in what it meant both for him and his liege.

Pitting him against the strongest of the Six, however, was a rotten trick. He was completely right: there was no way he'd be able to stand up to Titan's power. No amount of training or preparation could have allowed a human to take on a god and win. Noct didn't count: he'd had his lineage on his side, so the cards had been stacked in his favor long before Titan had woken his sorry ass up.

The same wasn't true for Gladio, whose certainty was growing with every moment he spent vacillating over which rock and hard place he wanted to get stuck between. How many times over the years had Cor reminded him that he should use his brains over his brawn on occasion in spite of his natural preference for the latter? How many times had Gilgamesh warned him that his brute force wasn't enough when he needed to face his fears head on? The Blademaster's trial was one where, even though he'd passed, he hadn't really done what he was meant to. He'd never branched out from that reliance on bodily strength, from the beginning of his quest right up to the very end. Hell, it was still what he resorted to in a pinch: there was no sitting in the Citadel and planning things out when his other muscles served him much better than what was inside his head. He could carry equipment, hunt monsters, or whatever else he physically could to keep his mind out of the equation. For the last year, that had been sufficient.

It wasn't now, not if he was going to prove that he could use his mind as thoroughly as his body to protect Noct. That had to be what Titan wanted, though Gladio considered it pretty hypocritical for a guy with unlimited strength to tell him he needed to think through it. That was Ignis's job—Gladio's was to smash shit.

Later.

At this rate, it would be much later. Real or imagined, Noct needed him. He was the King of Kings, the one who'd saved them all and brought back the light—no one was going to come at him, not even a god.

That was true mettle, as far as Gladio was concerned. Standing when all he felt like doing was lying down and giving up, hefting his sword over his shoulder when it seemed to weigh a million times what it usually did, turning his back on the Archaean's incoming attack when every bone in his body thought he should stand and fight—that was mettle. It was hurriedly eyeing the cracks that trailed up the wall to the uneven protuberance at the top, renewing his grip on their salvation, and driving it straight into the side of the crater before he could ponder too hard on the likelihood that the blade would break.

It was accepting that defending Noct required the willingness to lose a fight when he never had before.

That wasn't how it felt when the gap in the crevice widened, imperceptibly at first and then wider as he sliced further into the stone. Defeat was something he'd become intimately familiar with since returning to Insomnia; he knew it like an old friend, the annoying kind that you wanted to ditch but for some reason kept hanging around. That being said, Gladio could tell how it felt when your best just wasn't good enough: it squeezed your heart and crushed your lungs until you couldn't breathe for fear of making things even worse than they already were. In defeat, it was as though the clock stopped and everyone was watching your failure unfold around you. Outside, they pitied you—inside, they ridiculed you. There was no escape, either, because you could never outrun your own shame.

None of that applied here. Sure, there was the twinge of disappointment that he hadn't gotten to show one of the Astrals the kind of frustration he'd been living with thanks to their creepy opinions on what constituted a reward for sacrificed kings. Besides that, though, there was only a grim satisfaction and subsequent panic when pebbles rained down on them, shortly followed by boulders nearly as big as the Meteor itself.

There was no time to waste, not to watch Titan reel back in what he hoped was surprise and definitely not to see him immobilized by the avalanche that threatened to bury them in a less fancy tomb than Noct deserved.

"Come on. Let's get outta here," he grumbled, leaving his sole weapon sticking out of the rock and slinging Noct over his shoulder. He only had time to deal with one, and when push came to shove, his brother was more important than a sword. The marshal would forgive him.

Hopefully.

If he didn't, then Gladio had to believe that coming home with a decent consolation prize would even things out.

Of course, the mere thought must have alerted the Six to the fact that they were about to let him get away with something, because he'd barely made it halfway to the rapidly vanishing tunnel they'd traversed on their first visit a decade ago when his heavenly hosts decided to throw him a curveball. Again.

This one, at least, was a bit better than the others. That was what Gladio attempted to tell himself when the ground suddenly disappeared again, seemingly torn in two by the deteriorating remnants of the crater's wall. Yeah, it left him falling through darkness, unable to gain purchase on his invisible surroundings—but they hadn't been crushed. That was the main thing.

Then Noct vanished from his grasp. There was no tug to indicate that he'd gotten caught on something or even that the Astrals were taking him back to wherever it was they kept their playthings, merely the unexpected chill of losing what little body heat he'd been exuding and the far greater pain of that ever-growing crack in his own heart.

Dwelling on it wasn't an option, luckily. Almost as soon as he came to terms with the trick they'd played on him, light burst before his eyes, temporarily blinding him as he was unceremoniously dumped on the hard rock once more.

Except it wasn't rock. It was crystal.

And it was blurring in and out of focus, sparkling and shimmering in the perpetual dawn but somehow out of reach, as if…as if…

"True is the heart of the King's Shield," a voice whispered in his ear, and Gladio latched onto it like a lifeline in his desperate attempt to retain his consciousness for just a second longer. "He has proven his worth and his devotion to the Chosen King. To him, the path is unbarred."

Well, what do you know?

Chuckling weakly, he vaguely registered the fact that he'd fallen to his knees, shivering slightly against the icy breath on his neck and the freezing Crystal shard against his throat. The Glacian seemed to be waiting for an answer, and while he was pretty sure something sophisticated and refined was in order, Gladio could manage only four words before the world turned sideways and faded to black.

"Son of a bitch."


A/N: I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for the support you've shown both me and this story! Honestly, it's such an honor to write something that you enjoy, and your feedback is so very appreciated. Thank you so much!