A/N: Sorry for the delay. The busy week turned into the week from hell, so I didn't accomplish as much as I would have liked. In any case, here we are: the penultimate chapter before the epilogue! I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter Eleven: Apocalypsis Ultima

Longwythe. The Three Valleys. Merrioth Haven. Hammerhead.

It got to the point where Prompto lost track of the familiar sights he should have been excited to approach, too focused on maintaining a steady pace and ignoring the niggling feeling that they were missing something. With each milestone they passed, each step they took, each road they traveled, they were that much closer to reaching Noct. Pretty soon, they'd be on their way home—their actual home—one king and queen in tow.

Hard to believe.

Even more difficult to fathom was that the Six were simply going to let it happen. Where were they? Shouldn't there have been some sort of celebration that they'd gotten this far without messing up their trials? Or was something else awaiting them as they had discussed at their last campsite? All three of them had been in agreement on that one: they needed to keep their guard up. It wasn't that they thought the Astrals were going to turn on them or anything; they'd proven themselves worthy, so the Six had no reason to squash them now. That still didn't account for the fact that nothing had really changed—they walked, they drew closer to Insomnia, they waited for the other shoe to drop. Lather, rinse, repeat. Seriously, it just wasn't the gods' style! It was never easy with those guys—they'd learned that the fun way on more occasions than he could count.

Despite their reservations, however, the Astrals didn't appear, not to accost them or to help them. It was like they'd vacated this world as they had Eos, and in their wake was an emptiness that didn't exactly lend itself to comfort. This place had been creepy enough as it was, pretty crystal aside. Without the constant fear of being sucked into some alternate reality to play games with their hosts? Yeah, that made the trip tougher, not easier.

Prompto tried to tell himself that that was why the maelstrom of his memories refused to subside as they trod closer to the Crown City, although he was positive that the lack of a distraction was only part of the problem. The real issue was in their surroundings; it was the scenery that he was studiously attempting to ignore that had the hair on his arms standing upright. All of it held a certain amount of sentiment, both good and bad, and it transported him back over a decade to a much happier—more ignorant—time. Wandering through Leide for Cindy when she'd been the focal point of his obsessions; laughing at the sand that had gathered in Noct's hair during the dust storms that constantly plagued the region. Going at their own pace, unconcerned by the idea that Noct's wedding was waiting for the guest of honor to arrive since it wasn't like they could go through with it until he got there. That leg of their trip had been the most fun, in a sense. They hadn't been introduced to what losing the war with Niflheim meant yet, nor had they been required to come to terms with how that loss would impact their futures. The days before they'd made it to Galdin… They were something else, all right.

Prompto figured Ignis and Gladio had to be reminiscing as well, because the further they hiked, the less they had to say. Eventually, the banter that had reignited when they'd set out was all but nonexistent, giving way to the uncomfortable sort of camaraderie that had become commonplace in the aftermath of Noct's disappearance. They worked well together; they didn't need words to communicate what needed to be done or what they were thinking. Even so, it would have been nice to make a bit of conversation that could take his mind off…

"So, Noct. I've been taking pictures of whatever catches my eye, but what do you want to see?"

The answer had always been a toss-up. A lot of the time, Noct hadn't had a preference: he'd enjoyed sifting through whatever Prompto captured, whether they were the same old shots of Ignis chauffeuring them around or Gladio falling asleep in the backseat. He'd hurry past photos of himself, but that was typical Noct. Unless it was something cool Prompto had snapped in the heat of battle (with monsters or fish, it made no difference), he generally shied away from being the center of attention. To anybody else, that wouldn't be the most encouraging characteristic for a king, but to them? Well, it was just…Noct. That was what made him who he was, and those evenings spent around the campfire taunting Ignis and Gladio for their appearances in Prompto's pictures were some of the best memories he had.

They were what had him smiling sadly when they strode under the crystallized gates that led them into the Crown City, as well. Something had to.

Part of Prompto's job on their journey had been to document everything—every place they'd visited, every person they'd met, every major accomplishment they'd claimed. It was a daunting task yet one that he had accepted gladly in light of his excitement at being chosen to accompany the guys at all. What he'd ended up with was a compilation of pictures so thorough that he doubted a genuine court photographer ever would have matched its magnitude. (The side of him that craved validation no matter how old he got liked to believe that King Regis would have been proud of the visual smorgasbord, not that he'd ever admit that to anybody.) During the Long Night, he'd whipped those photographs out every now and again to remember the good old days and what the world had looked like before everything went to hell. That had been a large part of what kept him going: if life had once been as it appeared in his pictures, then there was no doubt that they could learn to live that way again. The docks of Altissia could be restored to the majesty that had stared back at him from his own creations; the forests and plains that comprised Duscae would be green someday instead of the various shades of grey that seemed to move in once the clouds did.

Insomnia was the one place he didn't have any photos of from their trip—not when they'd left anyway. He had plenty from their return, given that they'd known their time with Noct was short and he'd wanted to make the most of it while he could. There was a special stack that housed his most recent pictures from those last few days at the end, but he rarely even glanced at them. He didn't need to be reminded of the shambles that the Crown City had been reduced to when it was the fortunately diminishing reality they'd lived for over a year. He didn't need to feel his heart racing or his blood pounding in his ears at the injustice that had left their home a wreck and their brotherhood worse. All that did was make him pine for a time when things had been simpler—when they'd been happy.

So, as they made their way through the ghost town that the Astrals had erected in Insomnia's image, Prompto couldn't help but wish he'd brought his camera with him.

This was more like what he wanted to recall: the towering white structures, the unbroken effigies of the Old Wall, the sunlight glittering off the buildings in a manner that would have been divine with or without the gods' interference. All of it was both familiar and surreal, which made sense when this wasn't exactly what they saw when they looked out at the city anymore. Where rubble was slowly being cleared out of the low-traffic areas at home, the streets were empty here. There were no overturned cars or any cars at all, and if this Insomnia had ever seen a stone out of place, he thought it might just be the end of the world. Everything was so perfect, almost too perfect, yet he nevertheless felt the incomprehensible urge to preserve the memory in print if for no other reason than that he wanted to show Noct.

It was a stupid idea, of course: it wasn't like he wouldn't see all of it on their way out. Still, it would make a nice end to the photo album of their journey, right? He could throw it all together and make it a wedding present for his best pal and Lady Lunafreya. Even though Noct wasn't the most sentimental guy—not when anyone was looking, at least—she'd probably want something to look back on. They'd come too far to leave it at the darker photos he'd snatched or the destruction that had been waiting for them when daylight broke.

The Astrals' version of Insomnia definitely would have been a nice addition for the final page, that was for sure. You didn't have to be some sophisticated photographer to appreciate the sight.

Prompto probably would have appreciated it more if he wasn't dead on his feet, though. All of them were about ready to drop, much as Ignis and Gladio tried to hide it. Their legs were aching, their muscles were sore, their bodies were utterly exhausted—all in spite of the fact that they had been stopping at havens throughout Leide to ensure that they were ready for whatever the Six had to throw their way once they made it to the Crown City. Call them pessimistic, but they couldn't believe that they would be allowed to just waltz into the throne room and haul Noct out of there regardless of whether they had passed their individual trials to the gods' satisfaction. No, a shudder ran through Prompto's spine at the mere thought, and he was certain that the Six were hovering overhead somewhere with that shoe.

It didn't help that things were so chill as they traversed the familiar streets that would ultimately lead them to their goal. While it would have been an awesome photo op, there was no denying that they didn't belong here. That wasn't to say that they'd belonged anywhere in this world—the Astrals were making that abundantly obvious with or without their constant mishaps. Even so, there was something about being in a place so much like home, a place that should have been theirs, yet simultaneously remaining so far removed from it all. They knew everything, from the streetlights to the shops to all the other haunts they'd frequented when they were younger, but they weren't the same. There was the corner where Ignis had always picked Noct up after school so that he could drive him back to the Citadel or his apartment or wherever it was he wanted to go. And there was the road Noct had repeatedly complained was too steep every time he had been forced to accompany Gladio on his early morning runs so that they could avoid the rush. On the other side of the street was the arcade where they had spent far too many hours when more pressing responsibilities were clamoring for their attention, Ignis standing outside with that look on his face that practically screamed that he disapproved. Prompto recognized everything, and he could tell from a glance at the others that they were equally nostalgic at the sight. Gladio was grinning at those old jogging routes in obvious amusement, and Ignis… Well, this wasn't the first time Prompto had been glad that he never had to witness what the Crown City had become. The only Insomnia he had was the one from his memory, the one that existed around them here the way it wouldn't at home, which Prompto figured made him one seriously lucky dude. He'd borne enough burdens—he didn't need the burden of knowing.

As if reading his thoughts, Ignis's eyes skirted in his direction and a minute smirk creased the corners of his eyes. "It's quite the dazzling view."

"Yeah," Prompto agreed with a wistful sigh. "You can say that again."

There was a brief pause in which it appeared that Ignis was battling himself over whether to say more or not, but the illogical part of him that the Six had tested must have won because he haltingly continued, "I suppose…if it is to be my last… Perhaps that would not be so terrible."

Gladio's shoulders immediately stiffened. "Let's not count our chocobos before they hatch. We've still got time."

"Not much, I'm afraid," observed Ignis, impassive as ever. "It won't be long before we reach the Citadel now."

"Then we're probably gonna have to make it back to the Tempering Grounds," argued Gladio stubbornly. "Got a lot left to see."

"Perhaps."

It was pretty obvious that Ignis didn't believe it, and Prompto was admittedly having a difficult time as well, but neither of them were prepared to debate the point further. Regardless of who ended up being correct, the fact of the matter was that Ignis wouldn't be like this forever—he'd go back to normal as soon as they returned to the real Lucis. It wasn't fair—it wasn't right—yet there was nothing they could do to stop it. To put it in terms that Ignis would approve of, they were better off admitting the inevitable now so that they could prepare themselves. If Ignis wanted to think that this was it, if he was content with witnessing the ethereal city surrounding them before the darkness overtook him again, then Prompto wasn't going to deny him that.

Nor was he going to deny himself, because oh man, this place was so awesome! Talk about splendor of the regal variety. Just like the Six had pulled out all the stops on their trials, they had outdone themselves with Insomnia. Not once on their approach to the Citadel did they encounter anything less than absolute utopia of the sort that he used to think actually existed. As a kid, everything in the Crown City had always seemed so amazing; he'd blocked out the trash in the streets and the overcrowded outer districts to focus on the marvels of their urban paradise. It wasn't until he'd gotten older that he realized there was no perfect place, no perfect home, no perfect family. Everything had flaws, and while Insomnia wasn't immune, it definitely had plenty going for it even with all the imperfections that made it what it was.

Imperfections that didn't exist when you were a god and could literally snap your fingers to get rid of them. At least, that was what Prompto assumed. Was that a thing? Could they simply snap their fingers and poof! No scratches anywhere?

That had to be it. Otherwise, what was the point of being a god?

Clearly, the Astrals agreed with him, because they had one more marvel waiting—the last marvel they had left to encounter.

The Citadel was especially glorious where it adorned the center of the city like a crown. Not King Regis's crown—this was more the fairy tale variety than the low-key symbol of authority that he had worn. That was something that Prompto had never understood, although he recalled that Noct hadn't minded a bit. If they were royalty, why not go all out? Why stick with some dinky little twig when they could have an enormous, heavy, jewel-encrusted heirloom that would put any other kingdom's too shame? (If there were any other kingdoms, which there really weren't with the empire around, but the point remained.) According to Ignis, it was a sign of their modesty and a silent promise that the royal family of Lucis was there to protect their people, not garner praise that was actually owed to the Six instead of their earthly counterparts. While it made at least a little sense, however, that didn't change the fact that it would have been so much more awesome to have something like… Well, like the Citadel of the gods' construction. The crystal that crawled up the walls to the palace's apex looked like a million glittering diamonds where the sun struck it from the east; each window winked down at them as they approached the gates, dark on the inside but easily mistaken for polished onyx rather than vacant space from this distance. The effect was pretty amazing, and that was counting everything they had seen up until now. The rest of the world? It had nothing on the soaring pinnacle of greatness that acted as the obvious centerpiece of the Astrals' domain.

"Would you get a load of that?" murmured Gladio.

Humming in apparent agreement, Ignis couldn't seem to find more to say than, "Magnificent."

That, in Prompto's opinion, was probably the best any of them could come up with. There were simply no words for the wondrous display or the magic that it exuded. It was the sight, the aura, even the knowledge that this was the center of the universe—both theirs and the gods'—that brought it all together, and unlike their own kingdom, they didn't need a Crystal to create that divine image. Here, there was no pillar of light reaching skyward to form the Wall that had protected the Crown City before Niflheim's attack; the magic that had once declared Insomnia the last bastion in Lucis was absent, yet the sensation it had always engendered in them hadn't gone anywhere. In a sense, that was what this world had in common with their own: they didn't need magic in order to make this the most beautiful place on earth. If anything, they did that every single day that they didn't give up and sink back into the darkness, albeit the kind that only existed in their heads.

Maybe it was the surrealism that emanated from their surroundings, or maybe they were merely as mentally exhausted as they were physically. Whichever it was, they'd messed up. They'd goofed. They'd agreed to maintain the walls of their caution and keep an eye out for anything suspicious, anything that might indicate the gods were about to smack them around again.

And they hadn't. In fact, they'd allowed such a glaring blind spot that it put Ignis's to shame.

Because when they swung open the gates to the Citadel, the gates that had both bid them farewell and heralded their return too long ago to appreciate, they discovered that the palace wasn't all that had been waiting for them to show up. They discovered that it wasn't as simple as ascending to the top of a fancy tomb-type thing for the kings of Lucis, old and new-ish. Instead, they staggered to a halt in the face of the one sight they hadn't counted on in the time it had taken them to get there.

Ignis, being the smartest of their group and probably the rest of the world as a whole, had laid out their plan. He had thought through every contingency, almost to the point where Prompto was just waiting for his brain to explode and shower them with oozy intelligence. If they were lucky, a little of it might sink in to them. It hadn't happened, but they'd followed Ignis's line of reasoning regardless. After all, it was reasonable to assume that they would have nothing to fear from Ifrit when they arrived: the guy was up in his ashy heaven. Or hell. Or wherever it was that traitor gods ended up after they kicked it. Shiva had also been stricken from Ignis's list of mental possibilities when it came to who was most likely to boot their asses back a few paces. Given that she was the one who had brought them here, it would have been more than a bit hypocritical of her to pull that crap. The Six were fickle, but they weren't that fickle.

That left one Astral that they had sort of counted on while simultaneously hoping it wouldn't come to that. They had good reason, too, considering the fact that Bahamut hadn't seen fit to descend from his lofty perch at all since they'd begun their journey. Okay, so he'd helped them with Ifrit, but could they really call that helping? Besides a fancy light show and cutting off an antler—with Noct's help—he hadn't really done a damn thing. When Prompto added his inability to contain Ardyn to the mix, he had to say that it didn't make for an impressive figure. Sure, he was a force to be reckoned with; his was the prophecy that had dictated Noct had to allegedly die in order to save the world. They simply hadn't brought themselves to think too hard about what would happen if he decided to step in and test them. It was far more likely that the others would team up for a final showdown instead.

As they approached the grand steps that led to the doors of the Citadel, Prompto genuinely couldn't tell if they'd been right or wrong.

Standing before them wasn't the adversary they had expected, whether it was the Draconian or the rest of the Six who were at all invested in what Prompto and the others were attempting to do. Standing before them wasn't a god at all, and for a split second, Prompto wondered if he had fallen back into the vision Ramuh had thrust upon him near Fociaugh Hollow. That was the only explanation for Noct's presence that he could think of besides the three of them going insane.

Wait… What?!

Years ago, before he'd learned how to temper his excitement into something a bit more cautious as Ignis had frequently instructed him, he would have run straight to his friend to give him hell for freaking them out like this. The old him would have slapped his best friend on the shoulder and made a joke about him not making this hunt easy. Back then, he would have thought nothing of the sword in his hand or the blank expression on his face.

But that was then. Now, Prompto knew better than to leap without looking.

They all did. Ignis halted a few feet from Noct, raising a hand for them to do the same. From this proximity, the differences they hadn't been able to catalogue at the gates were starker. Yeah, it was definitely their brother; he looked exactly as he had the night he'd died. The stubble he hadn't had time to shave shadowed his jaw, making him appear more like his father than he ever had when they were kids. His hair wasn't sculpted into the fashionably messy coif he'd preferred before he'd gone into the Crystal; it hung lank in the back while the sides were carelessly tucked behind his ears so that they didn't obstruct his vision. The suit, the sword, even the smudges of dust on his cheeks were identical to that night, so much so that it sent a jolt through Prompto at the recollection. If he'd had it his way, they wouldn't have lost Noct at all—given that that was impossible, though, he should have had a better send-off than battling the forces of evil and dying alone on his throne. Talk about disrespectful to the King of Kings.

While the similarities racked up, however, the distance in his gaze was undeniably not Noct. If anything, he was one of the most animated people Prompto had ever met in his life, second only to Iris. (No one could match that girl's energy, especially when she was little. Yikes!) It didn't matter what Noct was feeling—anger, boredom, sadness, regret, happiness. They all shone in his eyes regardless of how hard he tried to hide it; his face betrayed him every time. Well, every time but this time. Prompto glanced over at Ignis to see his brows furrowed in concentration as he struggled to read Noct to no avail, which was somewhat encouraging. It meant he hadn't lost his touch, although the sentiment was bittersweet at best.

If this isn't Noct…

"Who are you?" Ignis called before he could finish that thought, a low fire blazing in his good eye as he surveyed this phantom from the past.

Silence was the fake Noct's only response, and Prompto felt more than saw Gladio bristle on his other side.

"He asked you a question," the former Shield pressed with an even tone that Prompto didn't think he could hope to imitate.

Either his composure was the key or his veiled demand triggered something, because the Noct in front of them replied in an uncharacteristic monotone, "You come in search of the King of Kings."

Yup, definitely not Noct.

He had his moments where he could be pretty full of himself, but there hadn't been one occasion in all the years they'd known each other where he referred to himself in the third person, not even as a joke. So, it was just a matter of figuring out which god had decided to imitate him.

Somehow, Prompto thought he might already have some idea.

"We have. We were invited," Ignis added cautiously.

"Invitation does not nullify the promises made to the King of Kings," not-Noct automatically rebuffed him.

Ignoring the fact that he was probably talking out of turn to an Astral, Prompto blurted out, "Maybe not, but we're still here."

"Yeah," Gladio seconded. Prompto wasn't sure when he'd put his hand on his sword, but he watched it tighten on the hilt in preparation and reached for his own weapon as well. "And you're gonna let us pass."

There was a pause—the ominous kind of pause—then not-Noct argued, "Only once the vassals of the King prove themselves worthy can the King be released to their custody."

Uh… Haven't we done that already?

Prompto had been laboring under the delusion that their previous trials had served that purpose, that whatever lay ahead would be icing on the cake rather than some huge deal.

Silly him.

Ignis was apparently equally irritated at the prospect, because his tone was laced with disbelief when he retorted, "And what must we do now? We have proven ourselves worthy in each of the trials we have faced thus far. What must we do to set the Draconian's mind at ease?"

Oh, good. They were on the same page, then.

In their travels over the years, they'd never really had any interaction with Bahamut beyond what Noct had told them about him. Even that wasn't much: the guy was a mystery. A giant mystery. Shrouded in even more mystery and a really stupid—but kind of awesome—suit of dragon-shaped armor. Unlike the other Astrals, he stayed out of the picture; no one knew a whole lot about him except that he was the leader of the pack where the Six were concerned. He didn't offer advice, didn't descend to walk amongst them (that they knew of), and didn't feel the need to explain why things were the way they were. Either you trusted him or you didn't, and when the most glaring example of the latter happened to have been Ardyn, Prompto was leaning towards the former.

Or he wanted to. It was pretty tough to trust someone who dressed up as their previously dead friend and raised a sword in their faces.

Oh. Shit.


The change was immediate. One moment, the caricature was addressing them in as civil a manner as a wrathful god could; the next, any divine presence that had resided in this specter of their brother was gone. In the vacuum the Draconian left behind was nothing more than a puppet, and that puppet lunged for them with an alarming level of malice well before they were able to steel themselves for the assault. That, in any case, was what Ignis could glean from this unfortunate marionette's actions: its expression was blank, empty in a way that Noct never had been even in the most trying of circumstances. It was yet another scrap of evidence that this was not their friend and liege, but a facsimile of the person they'd been seeking all this time.

Perhaps that should have been comforting. It wasn't truly Noct that was relentlessly attacking them. He would never do such a thing.

That didn't make it any simpler to counter him.

Gladio, unsurprisingly, was the first to react. Unlike Ignis and Prompto, and certainly contrary to the lesson he was meant to have learned in his trial, he had been ready. He hadn't bothered with formalities or offering the Draconian the benefit of the doubt, nor did it appear that he had anticipated the latter to extend the same courtesy. As such, he was in motion immediately, stepping between them and the false Noct's blade while Ignis and Prompto armed themselves.

"Uh, guys? Is he for real?!" Prompto called over the clashing of metal. While his voice betrayed naught but surprise, the wavering firearm in his grasp made it obvious that he suffered the same apprehension as Ignis.

"The hell do you think?" Gladio ground out with a shout of exertion as he shoved Noct back a few steps and retreated to put some space between them. "He ain't kidding around."

Prompto shook his head, readying his weapon when Noct charged forward even though Ignis knew he wouldn't shoot—not unless he had to. "But why?"

That, it seemed, was the million-gil question. None of their trials had been so ambiguous in their meaning or their execution, and Ignis was at a loss to provide the explanation that Prompto desired. Indeed, he was hoping for one himself—had been hoping that the Draconian would deign to deliver one prior to this unexpected show of force. That may have been too optimistic. Yes, they had gotten this far; they had traversed emotional and physical hardship alike to come within spitting distance of their destination only to be stopped at the doors. Still, the leader of the Six desired more.

The sole problem was that Ignis, for all he prided himself on his intellect, was unable to fathom what else he could possibly be searching for.

Was it not enough that they had given up everything in the first place in order to accompany Noct on his journey? Was it not enough that they had stood at his side and acted as his vanguard both during their pilgrimage and the Long Night that had followed? Was it not enough that they had continued as Noct had instructed, toiling away so that they might rebuild the kingdom that he should have survived to rule?

Was it not enough that they were here after enduring the trials that they had already faced?

Apparently, it was not. It was never enough, and the ringing of steel as he raised his daggers to defend against Noct's renewed blitz sneered at him for believing that anything could be. Mere hours ago, they had been bemoaning the disconnect that existed between the Astrals and their human subordinates, that endless chasm that separated their all too mortal struggles from the lofty dealings of the gods. It had been foolish of them to assume that such removed beings would ever be willing to accept their suffering as the evidence of their worth that it would have been had they encountered human adversaries.

There was nothing human in this trial, not the motives behind it that they could not decipher or the nature of the examination itself. If there were, then the Draconian would not have pitted them against a foe that looked so much like Noct—that may very well have been Noct for all they knew. After all, the gods were capable of a great many things, the extent of which they would likely never uncover. Whatever their purpose was, Ignis wouldn't put it past them to animate Noct's body so that the Six could observe one final test, especially now that they had arrived at the location where he was bound to be interred.

The more Ignis thought about it—the more he dodged and ducked and parried to avoid both injuring this phantom and incurring any damage in equal measures—the more it made some semblance of sense. Noct appeared exactly as he had when he'd emerged from the Crystal. Except for Prompto's, he had been fashioned into the image of how he had looked as a prince newly come of age in their other ordeals. Now that they were within the shadow of the Citadel, or would have been if there were shadows to be found here, the Astrals could easily have mirrored that form once again. In fact, Ignis thought that would have been the more painful of the two: battling a younger Noct, a weaker Noct, would have eaten at his heart more thoroughly than it was to trade blow after blow with this older incarnation. If they were to stand trial in this, their final endeavor, then he would have expected the Draconian to use whatever tools remained at his disposal to throw them off guard. A Noct in his youth, a Noct who hadn't wielded the Ring of the Lucii, a Noct who needed them more than he had after his transformation—that would have broken them.

This Noct, on the other hand, was the one who had walked tall into destiny despite his uncomfortable awareness that he would walk no further than that. This Noct was the one that Ignis had not gotten to see in person but whose visage Pryna's vision of the future had seared into his memory. The premature aging of his skin, the streaks of grey, the way his hair had lost much of its luster and his frame was even thinner than it had been when they were young men—all of that was Noct, just not the version of him that Ignis had been fortunate to look upon for himself. The only contrast to the Noct of his memories and his nightmares was the emotionless void in this impostor's eyes as he accosted them.

Accosted was rather a pleasant word for it, all things considered. Although Gladio and Prompto were similarly reluctant to harm their adversary, whether he was the real Noct or not, it appeared that the latter was unwilling to return the favor. The force with which he brought his sword down upon Ignis's crossed daggers hinted at his desire for a more decisive victory. It didn't seem to matter whether Prompto was leveling a shot at him only to dive to the side instead or Gladio used the blunt end of his blade to shove Noct off balance; he regrouped and resumed regardless.

Perhaps that was what assured Ignis that this being, whoever it was, could not possibly be their brother. Their Noct would never attack them like this; he would never bear down on them the way he did Prompto, seeking to slice him in half but thwarted at the last moment by a bullet ricocheting off his blade. Their Noct would have engaged in some sparring, of course, even a measure of disgruntled training wherein one of them might grow too enthusiastic with their task. Not once in all the years Ignis had known him, however, had he demonstrated a proclivity for true malice. Even at his most distraught, he had tended towards lashing out with words or emotionally closing off more than anything else. The idea of raising a weapon to any of them would have repulsed him, which meant that this either wasn't their Noct at all or the Six had somehow stripped his senses from him.

Unlikely.

Ignis shook that thought aside as soon as it occurred to him, ducking below the impostor's riposte and kicking in a wide arc to sweep his feet out from under him. The gods had engaged in behavior that Ignis would call appalling in certain situations, but he had neither witnessed nor heard of them controlling the minds of humans. Indeed, he highly doubted that they had the capacity to do so. If they could, any number of atrocities might have been prevented; any number of hardships, from those caused by Ardyn to the betrayal of ancient Solheim, could have been avoided. No, the evidence pointed towards the Astrals having a bit of fun with them while Noct slept somewhere above. They simply had to reach him.

But first things first. The Draconian wanted something from them, something they needed to decipher quickly.

"Hey, Iggy—heads up!"

Gladio's warning rocked Ignis back into the present, and he rolled to the side to narrowly escape the sword that clashed against the pavement where he'd been kneeling a fraction of a second later.

"You okay?" Prompto called as he scrambled to put a few extra yards between himself and their opponent.

"Fine," answered Ignis brusquely, feeling anything but. This wasn't working, and if they didn't determine what the Draconian was hoping to glean from this impromptu battle, then it wouldn't be long before they fell.

This didn't have to be the real Noct for him to defeat them, although the real one would undoubtedly have been able to do it as well after all he had become. The phantom had the full might of the Astrals behind him; his power was already vastly immense compared to their own. Ignis was finding it increasingly difficult to rise to his feet, his knees in agony from how many times they had struck the ground in an attempt to deflect Noct's attacks. He wasn't the only one flagging either: Prompto's chest was heaving with the exertion of defending himself while simultaneously failing to incapacitate their assailant. Gladio appeared to be soldiering through the worst of the physical torment, but it was obvious from the crease between his eyebrows and stiff set of his jaw that the emotional toll was astounding. If he was being honest, Ignis could but imagine what he must be feeling, a Shield sworn to protect his liege when the latter was endeavoring to strike them down. It was perhaps the cruelest trial the Astrals had conjured thus far, not to mention one that showed no signs of abating in the near future.

It would need to, though. If it didn't…

If it didn't…

We've come too far to fail now, he reminded himself sternly, redoubling his grip on his weapons.

That was the mantra he repeated unfailingly as he shoved Prompto out of the way and dove in the other direction. It played over and over, a tune in the background of the slashing steel and crashing limbs when they were sent flying by their refusal to harm a hair on Noct's head. It was the soundtrack of their suffering, the milieu of their pain.

But it kept Ignis going. Logically, that was all that mattered.

Illogically, frustration mounted within his chest as he struggled to both fend off their attacker and solve the puzzle that the gods had left for them before the doors of their home. This trial wasn't like the others—not that that was a tremendous surprise. Even so, there had been a method to the Astrals' actions before; there had been a common theme threaded between their tests despite the variants of their circumstances. In this case, that seemed to have been tossed out the proverbial window. This trial wasn't about how they were going to protect Noct when their instinctive approaches were of no use. It wasn't about how they were going to protect Noct when brute strength failed or logic was absent or their positions in life did not afford them certain privileges. It wasn't about their brotherhood at all, the one thing that they admittedly had no idea how to operate without. That was the reason why they'd wandered Insomnia like ghosts for the last year, why they hadn't truly moved on regardless of how painstakingly they pretended the opposite.

That was…the reason why they were here.

Realization didn't creep up on him. It didn't wriggle in the deepest recesses of his mind until he acknowledged its presence. Instead, recognition came tumbling down from the heavens faster and heavier than a battering ram, slamming the riddle into place until Ignis's head was ringing with it. That was why they were here—that was why the Draconian sought to set them against their brother rather than allow them easy passage to his side. That was why they'd been brought here rather than the fight coming to them.

Their abilities were no longer in question. Their motives were no longer considered too fragile.

Their brotherhood, on the other hand, was.

For how would they protect Noct when their brotherhood failed?

Whether their liege's blade was turned on them or his mere absence stopped them in their tracks, whether by the Six or mortal enemies, whether they remained such close companions or the steady march of time stole from them their proximity—what would they do when their bond was eventually, inevitably, irreparably severed?

The thought momentarily paralyzed him, and the false Noct spied the opening immediately. Ignis knew, of course, that he needed to move. He recognized that there was no point in standing idly and allowing their adversary to win. Contrary to what he had initially believed during his own trial, he was no longer of the mind that his death would bring about any sort of satisfaction, not for Noct or anyone else. Nevertheless, his limbs were laden with an invisible burden that refused to subside no matter how heartily he attempted to pry it loose, leaving him vulnerable as his conscience sped through innumerable possibilities in the span of an instant that seemed to last forever.

Yes, they had all carried doubts when it came to their relationship with Noct. Their brotherhood had not withstood the test of time, nor had it overcome the greatest daemon to plague Eos in their history. If they managed to piece together the shattered remains of that bond, what form would it take? Would it be able to shoulder the weight of Noct's royal destiny, or would it disintegrate as professionalism and duty superseded it? Those were old fears, ones that Ignis hadn't realized he'd fostered until he'd initially grown into responsibilities that Noct hadn't been old enough to attend yet. He wouldn't say that it had driven a wedge between them; they'd been friends and brothers for too many years by then. Even so, there had been a certain distance to their interactions that Ignis simply couldn't bridge. They cared for each other, loved each other as much as they did their other friends, but the shadow of age and station had been ever present at their rear. That was when he had begun to wonder what it would be like when they had both come of age, Noct sat the throne rather than his father, and their daily interactions were forced into a mold more impersonal than they were accustomed to.

And it was what the Draconian was playing on now. If Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto were relegated to the role of any other retainers—which he had no doubt would not be the case, in spite of his irrational concerns—how would they maintain the closeness with Noct that had set them apart from the other attendants in the Citadel? Perhaps it was a bit more symbolic than was strictly required at this juncture, but Ignis could decipher the metaphor all the same: how would they simultaneously defend themselves and their positions at Noct's side when the specter of duty would be battling them at every turn?

By doing what we always have, he firmly resolved.

Whatever had been holding him in place snapped, and Ignis raised his daggers to intercept the phantom's thrust with a grunt of pain when the latter's sword nicked the side of his wrist. It wasn't a deep cut, barely enough to break the skin, but it still weakened his grasp. Fortunately, Gladio and Prompto were there in an instant, the former knocking him out of the way to replace him while Prompto used the fleeting chaos to hook his elbow around Noct's windpipe and yank.

The sound that emitted from his mouth was one that Ignis would never forget, just as the sight of him being dragged backwards toward the ground would be seared into his memory long after he relinquished his eyesight to this splendorous world of the divine. The regret that lodged itself in his throat was unfounded, he knew—this creature was not Noct and would have skewered them alive if they allowed it. That did not ease the guilt with which Ignis leapt forward and drove both of his blades into its sleeves, effectively pinning the impostor to the ground.

"All right!" whooped Prompto breathlessly. "Did we win?"

Grunting in pain when the phantom Noct's knee made contact with his ribs, Gladio shot him a scathing glare and retorted, "Doesn't look like it."

"We haven't fulfilled the Draconian's requirements," Ignis reminded them. Panting for breath, he adjusted his grip so that he could lean on Noct's wrist with one knee and toss aside his daggers to grasp the other. Call it insanity or mere force of habit, but using weapons to restrain him didn't sit right with Ignis. This ghost had too familiar a face, too familiar a manner…

Even though he was nothing like their Noctis at all.

It was akin to subduing a wild animal. Prompto had demonstrated the presence of mind to kick Noct's sword as far away from them as possible; without the power of the Crystal, he had no magic to replace it. He was just as mortal as the rest of them, not to mention equally fragile in this state. That didn't appear to be on his mind at all, however—if such a being had a mind to begin with. His thrashing indicated the opposite, more the behavior of a creature in panicked rage attempting to flee its captors, and Ignis was uncomfortably aware of every shift of the charlatan's muscles beneath his hands. The illogical part of him—the part that the Six had encouraged with his brief journey back to Altissia—desired nothing more than to release him. It felt too unnatural to handle Noct this way regardless of the knowledge that this wasn't him. That side, which he so infrequently gave voice to, ached at the sight of Gladio driving his fist into the false Noct's stomach to render him immobile even for a moment.

But it wasn't Noct. It was the symbol of their fears.

And they needed to face it now, before the Draconian added more to this endeavor.

Luckily, he had a plan. Or part of one, he should say. It rankled that he hadn't the opportunity to analyze their position further in order to construct a more appropriate course of action, but desperate times and all that. Hadn't the Six prompted him to trust his instincts and set logic aside in order to use his heart rather than his head? Ignis wasn't in the practice of doing so, nor did he intend to start. That didn't mean he couldn't take a leaf out of Prompto's book on occasion, though.

Like now, for instance.

"Prompto, talk to him," Ignis commanded through gritted teeth, rearing back to avoid Noct's attempt at headbutting him. They were indeed descending into the realm of beasts now.

The insanity of it all was obvious to the others as well, because Prompto stared at him as though he had suggested they dive off the top of the Citadel in the nude when he countered, "Talk to him? About what, not killing us?!"

"The Astrals aren't seeking reassurances that we can best Noct in combat," he insisted. Prompto, however, scoffed outright.

"Could've fooled me!"

It was instances like this where Ignis inwardly bemoaned the trials and tribulations of being the most intelligent one in the room. That wasn't to say that Prompto or Gladio were simpletons—both of them were sharper than most. It was simply that their wit lay in different areas. When faced with a difficult task, Gladio could scan a room and deduce an appropriate plan faster than even Ignis in many cases; Prompto's talents were less practical and more firmly attached to emotion, to the heart. His version of astuteness had less to do with the mind and more to do with feelings, which was why Ignis was convinced that he would be the most likely to reach Noct in this state. The Six didn't desire a warrior or even a strategist; they didn't want to witness a battle of wills so much as a battle of souls. In the event that Noct's soul was not the one that they had grown up with, the one that they had accepted as their brother, they had to grip that tenuous connection as tightly as they could to avoid losing him altogether.

If anyone could do that, it would undoubtedly be the person who had spent every day for the last year preaching to the rising sun in absence of his friend. It was the man who saw through the barriers that separated them to the common identity they all shared.

Brothers. Lucians. Humans.

Prompto was a commoner, but he had not allowed that to hold him back. In all the years Ignis had known him, that much had always struck him as Prompto's most admirable trait. Where he was concerned, Noct's position as the prince of Lucis and former king of their homeland was a nonentity. That he was royalty had been a distant concept at best, and Prompto had never once treated him as though he were any more or less than the next person. Their shared interests and understanding of one another had shattered formalities until prince and pauper were hardly distinguishable. There was simply Noct and Prompto.

Loath as Ignis was to admit it, that was one position that he and Gladio wouldn't be able to achieve. They certainly had their moments when they were able to ignore duty and merely exist in each other's company, brothers and friends without the concerns that frequently overshadowed their interactions within the confines of the Citadel. Regardless, there came a time when they had to set aside the personal nuances of their relationship and adhere to the roles they had been assigned well before they comprehended what that would mean for them both emotionally and professionally.

Except for Prompto. King or prince, schoolboy or exiled royal, Noct would ever be Noct to him.

And that was what Ignis was banking on.

"He's a different Noct for a reason," he implored Prompto, meeting his gaze and refusing to let him look away. "Ours will be, as well."

"What? They don't think we can handle that?" scoffed Gladio. There was a modicum of bitterness underlying his confidence, however, that Ignis could not ignore. He, too, must have cottoned on to their purpose here.

"Evidently not."

"Startin' to think they don't have any confidence in us."

"Or they merely wish to determine whether we have any in ourselves," amended Ignis with a significant nod in Prompto's direction.

The latter was understandably stymied, his eyes widening as he presumably registered what it was that Ignis was attempting to communicate. In the past, he would have turned away and insisted that either Ignis or Gladio were more capable of dredging up the words necessary to appease the gods; he would have viewed his contributions as underwhelming at best and hardly necessary in the endeavor. Ignis wouldn't have blamed him for his self-consciousness: his position was not mandated by a vow of loyalty or payment from their monarch's coffers. Honesty, even in a small dose, could have lost him his head with any other king on the throne, and they had all been well aware of that in spite of their positivity that it would never come to pass. The old Prompto would have been difficult to convince of the opposite, at least in those days.

Conversely, this Prompto nodded and glanced down at Noct with admittedly unveiled apprehension. This Prompto was forced to set aside his embarrassment at having an audience for the interactions he reserved for none other than himself and the dawn.

This Prompto was stronger, and Ignis hoped that the gods were listening.

"H-Hey, buddy," he began, his voice slightly higher than usual in his hesitation and their quarry's struggling. "You, uh… You don't have to fight us, you know? We're kinda here to help and all that."

If the phantom heard him, he was a talented enough actor not to betray it. Rather, his thrashing intensified to the point where Gladio was forced to literally sit on his chest in order to keep him from throwing them off. Ignis silently breathed a sigh of relief that this was not the real Noct; otherwise, he would have been concerned for the strength of his rib cage.

Swallowing tremulously, Prompto redoubled his grip on Noct's other wrist in response and continued, "Whatever you're mad at us about, we totally didn't mean it. Like, how were we supposed to know the Six were going to bring you here, right? If we had, we would've been here months ago. Uh, maybe," he added with a pensive frown. "On second thought, they might've tossed us out on our asses."

"Focus, Prompto," Gladio interjected through gritted teeth. His back had to be aching from how many times the impostor had driven his knees into it, but he was holding strong. For now.

"Oh, uh, right," Prompto chuckled anxiously. "Anyway… We're here to bring you home. It's…gonna be kind of different. Insomnia's pretty messy these days, and the food isn't anywhere near as good as Iggy's cooking. We've got Cor, but there's only so much he can do." Breaking off to snort indelicately, Prompto veered onto a different path than the one Ignis would have anticipated when he inquired, "Remember when we were kids and thought the guy could do no wrong? Well, I hate to break it to you, but he seriously needs a hobby. He spends all his time working—it's like having a second Ignis around, only he doesn't make us dessert."

"I'll take that as a compliment," deadpanned Ignis dryly, quirking an eyebrow at Prompto's humorous grin.

"It's totally a compliment, dude. But yeah, he's running himself into the ground. If you ask me, he could definitely use a vacation. That should probably be your first order of business. You can make some royal decree that he's gotta take a few weeks off for…is sanity a good enough reason?"

"Sounds like a good reason," Gladio chimed in, a slight smirk spreading across his face as well. It would have been utter madness if Ignis didn't notice how Noct's struggles had begun to weaken and a frown creased his forehead as he surveyed the three of them through narrowed eyes.

This is it.

Nodding in encouragement, Ignis agreed, "Perhaps we could all use a bit of a holiday. The Astrals know that we've earned it."

"And it's really saying something when Iggy needs a break," laughed Prompto as if they weren't currently restraining the image of their best friend and speaking nonsense.

"Pretty sure His Majesty will, too," Gladio hinted, looking askance at Ignis when the specter's eyebrows twitched. He wasn't the real Noct—he couldn't have been—but he certainly comprehended that they were speaking of his counterpart now.

Good.

"Quite right," Ignis murmured with a smile in their phantom monarch's direction. It was painful to peer down at him as though he were truly the man they had been searching for, but he merely reminded himself that it was necessary in order to earn a greater reward and swallowed his bitterness. "Of course, His Majesty will also have his bride to consider."

Prompto's grin widened, mischievously so. "Dude, that's gonna be the wedding of the century. If you thought people from all over Eos were going to show up before, it'll be nothing compared to the ceremony you'll have to put up with this time."

"It will be a regal affair, indeed. Utterly unforgettable, I imagine."

"And then loverboy'll have to ask permission from the old lady before he can go out and play," chuckled Gladio. "No more doing whatever the hell you want once you're hitched."

The impostor stared at him as if he was speaking another language. For all that he reacted, he might not have known who Lady Lunafreya was let alone that they were engaged to be wed. There was no recognition in his eyes, not at the mention of his fiancée nor the arrangement that they had been obligated to fulfill before the world turned upside down. Ignis couldn't be sure whether he understood what they were saying or not, nor could he ascertain whether they were proving anything but their lunacy to the Draconian. Still, they had his attention, and not in the manner that preceded another assault—that was progress. At this juncture, they would have to take what they could get.

Emotionally, it was not so simple.

Prompto obviously felt the same, although that was only to be expected. After hearing him speak of his own trial, which he had described but vaguely, Ignis supposed that this particular conversation was more difficult on Prompto than Gladio or himself. They had been trained to learn when to let go; they had been taught to recognize that their relationship with Noct would change, altered by his status. In practice, it was tremendously trying to acclimate, even with all the preparation they had been subjected to. That was yet another reason why Prompto's testimony in this instance was perhaps the most valuable, albeit painful at the same time.

"Yeah," he sighed, his demeanor shifting to one of detached mourning rather than the carefree jests that he had been prone to before. "Things sure will be different."

In that, he was correct. Wasn't that the fate of every mortal to walk the earth? Change was inherent in their existences, the sole constant that they could rely on in times of crisis and pleasure alike. Their appearances would not stay the same; they had each aged in their own way, and there was no returning to the stamina of their youth no matter how many hours Ignis spent regaining what muscle mass he had lost in his frequent council meetings. The Crown City would evolve, both for good and ill, and the people that they knew would eventually retire to wherever it was that the souls of those who passed inhabited. Friends came and went, brothers ascended and married…

Yet they would remain. They would always remain.

That was what had Ignis shaking his head, not in denial as much as an altered perspective. When Prompto met his gaze with a confused frown, Ignis managed something akin to a smile and corrected him, "They are merely cosmetic differences."

Grunting amenably, Gladio looked to the false Noct when he muttered, "Gonna take a lot more than a wedding and some baggage to get rid of us."

"Time may change us as it has these eleven years past, but that won't change who we are to one another."

The phantom blinked slowly, hanging on their every word, and Ignis watched his eyes dart to Prompto. It was almost as though he knew that the latter was their weakest link in this battle of the heart, that he was the vulnerable one in their group. Doubtless the Draconian was examining him for any sign that he could not handle this, any indication that he did not agree and would allow the distance that would predictably grow between them to inhibit his ability to keep Noct safe.

If that was the case, then the Astral was mistaken. They all were, because Prompto did not give in to despair. His expression didn't falter for an instant, nor was his posture set in that reluctant capitulation that had characterized discussions like this before. No, the gods were witnessing the same Prompto that Ignis and Gladio were: a strong one more than capable of going after what he wanted, even if that meant defying the natural course of the universe.

"Right," he agreed, his voice more confident than before. "We're gonna get you home, Noct. And after that, we're not going anywhere. Ever at your side, right?"

Their adversary didn't say anything, but it wasn't necessary anyway. He wouldn't have gotten far given that Gladio chose that moment to swear, "We've got your back."

"Always," added Ignis, sharing a glance with his companions in silent solidarity. They could do this—they would do this, even if the Noct they saved was not the Noct they had lost. When it came to halting the flow of time that drew ever nearer to the day when they would be separated once again, quite possibly in the most permanent context imaginable, they were powerless. Only the Six could achieve such a feat, and he doubted that they would be sharing their secrets anytime soon.

But they had plenty of that—time. They'd had a year to put Insomnia back to rights, though they still had a long road ahead; they'd been given an immeasurable expanse in which to operate here, away from all but the prying eyes of the gods.

They would have their day with Noct. They would have their opportunity to say what they hadn't and make good on the promises that they had issued when last they'd stood at their king's side.

They had time. Now, they would make the most of it.

Whether the gods heard their shared musings or their words had been enough, Ignis would never know. All he could say was that he would never forget the expression on the impostor's face if he lived to be a hundred.

Hope. Affection.

Satisfaction.

And in the instant before he vanished into oblivion, they heard the telltale shattering of ancient crystal as the doors to the Citadel opened for the retainers of the last king of Lucis.