When Gladio was young, he spent a lot of time gorging himself on very age-inappropriate novels about the various historical (or arguably historical) Shields dying in heroic last stands, their Kings or Queens rewarding them with grand farewell speeches (and sometimes kisses). A lot of his youthful friction with Noct came down to how unsuited Noct, in all his resentful teenagerhood, was for this kind of fantasy.
Now it looks like he'll be getting his last stand on, only the farewell speeches and the last rites won't be for him. Noct's leading them toward his own death, with all the regal gravitas Gladio ever wished for and more, and Gladio hates every minute of it.
He hates, and appreciates just as much, that Noct expects Gladio to outlive him, that Noct has no doubt that Gladio will die for him gladly, that Noct respects his devotion, his readiness to play his role to the bitter end.
But after Prompto and Ignis go to sleep, Gladio and Noct spend a couple of hours going through the photos on Gladio's phone: Alma and the baby, Iris and her girlfriend, all the Hunters and Glaives and Lestallum factory women, and other people who are part of Gladio's community. Noct pores over the images and the stories with pure, uncomplicated delight - and tells Gladio he fully expects him to return to them and live on after the job is done.
When Noct's yawns become too mighty for him to contain, Gladio hugs him - shit, why didn't he do it more before? Why did he waste so much time?
"Gladio," Noct says, smiling at him, and he looks so tired and so clear at once, like the years washed all the cobwebs of doubt off him. "Look after Ignis when it's done, will you? I asked Prompto, too. He'll need you both."
They dart identically guilty glances at the tent, where Ignis is likely getting reacquainted with Prompto's sleep-cuddling tendencies.
"What the hell happened to him," Gladio asks, dreading the answer, "in there? Wasn't he with you?"
Noct shakes his head. "It was - it's hard to explain. He was, in the beginning, but then - I slept, and I dreamed, and sometimes he was there, and sometimes he - wasn't. I don't - I asked, and he wouldn't tell. I don't know, Gladio. Promise me you won't leave him alone?"
"Of course," Gladio says. He can't imagine it will be easy; he has barely adjusted to this new Ignis, returned after so long, whole and broken at once; this new Ignis who's going to be left behind by Noct after living through fire to stay by his side. But family is family, and Gladio will do his best.
(He doesn't call Alma. The way the world is now, they say their real goodbyes every time one of them leaves home. If Gladio doesn't return from Insomnia, Talcott will bring her the news - but Gladio fully intends to see her and little Enid again.)
The morning comes too soon. There's fighting aplenty to be had when they enter the city, and Gladio's just glad that Noct came out of the Crystal with all his prowess intact, and some new oomph on top. Prompto takes over Ignis-minding without being asked, to Gladio's relief.
Ignis, uncomfortably, needs minding. It's not just his blindness - they did enough blindfolded drills back in their youth that Ignis should have more grace and more spatial awareness than this. He moves like he's forgotten how to occupy both his body and the physical space it inhabits. Like all the noise and murderous intent around him is just a distraction, and he doesn't even bother to reach for his weapons. And yet through all of it, he's unmistakably tracking Noct, turning towards him. It's unsettling. Gladio wants to ask what he's seeing like this - and doesn't.
The closer they are to the Citadel proper, the more surreal Gladio feels. The desecration of the streets of his childhood and youth - yawning black holes in the buildings, rusty stains spilling across the cafe pavements, lone blinking lights, rubble and debris, a broken high-heeled shoe stuck in a grate. A cat skeleton, picked clean. Bleached bones, too small.
And daemons, daemons, daemons. Bubbling from the ground, hiding in the side streets, oozing up and coming endlessly, somewhere between a nightmare and a cheesy arcade game, and Gladio he just wants to do thorough enough work that it will be over. Over at last.
They fight a god; it's rather anticlimactic, as such things go. Ignis spends the battle sitting behind a barrier, listening with a half-distracted ear, and Gladio works very hard on not noticing how Shiva makes a tiny, acknowledging nod in his direction before disappearing.
Finally, the Citadel. Ardyn's idea of throne room decoration might have shocked Gladio if a good portion of the nightmares of his last ten years hadn't been taken by purple light bleeding through charred skin. Still, it distracts him from the foul magic that slams into him and knocks him out. He wakes up to the almighty roar outside - the broken grand window of the throne room is flashing with colors, royal blue and pulsating red, and it sounds like the entire world is breaking itself apart. Noct must be fighting Ardyn, and Gladio surges to his feet to rush back into the fray -
Ignis grasps his hand, fingers shockingly cold. He's kneeling on the floor, and his head is tilted toward the Crystal.
"What the hell," Gladio says. Prompto is crouching low, shaking his head muzzily, trying to watch them both. Another crash shakes the city outside.
"We need to wait here," Ignis says, eerily calm. "This battle is for blood royal, not for us. Noct will be here soon."
"Isn't it why we're here, though," Prompto says. "To help him?"
"Not like that."
Gladio makes his way to the window, and he has to admit Ignis is right: compared to the storm outside, even their tussle with Ifrit seems rather mild. It's a maelstrom of clashing colors; the winds buffet him, stealing his breath.
Prompto joins him, guiding Ignis. He looks, exhales in awe, and mutters something wistful about his camera.
Ignis, though, turns away from the window toward the Crystal, motionless and yet giving an impression of straining with his entire body.
"Ignis," Gladio says. "You're the one who spent ten years hanging out with Bahamut. What can we do?"
He clenches his fists, because it's been in the back of his mind ever since Noct made his confession back in Hammerhead, and he doesn't believe that Ignis is indifferent, not for a second. "I know this is what he has to do, to save the entire world, but damn. Our entire lives have been about leading him here to die?"
"The thing is," Ignis says, and falls silent. Then shakes his head, and begins again. "We weren't really needed, you see. Not in the grand scheme of things. For the gods, nothing mattered but bringing Noct and the Ring into the Crystal."
He turns to Prompto, finds his shoulder with hesitant fingers. "Can you take me to the throne, please? The light is too loud here, and I can't - "
Prompto, who was never able to escape Ignis' gravitational pull, complies, and Gladio takes his other flank, tearing his eyes from the spectacle outside with difficulty. And Ignis continues, sounding far-away, almost asleep. "And even Noct did not matter. They watched him his entire life, and still did not know him beyond his fate. Never saw him, never loved him. The gods talk to us in human terms, but they don't understand them; they're beings of light and power. Of physics, if you may."
The throne; in unspoken accord, Ignis takes his position on the left hand, falling into parade rest, and Prompto joins Gladio on the other side. It's weird how easily his body falls into the guarding stance, given that it's his first - and last - chance to guard Noct in his rightful royal seat.
The truth of Ignis' words sting. Gladio never was particularly religious, not even before he routinely engaged in fisticuffs with Eos' pantheon, but he still believed in their justice.
"No mercy, then," he says, and chokes on his words. No justice and no mercy, not for his king; but the world can't take any more darkness without dying, and he can't - he can't - "And nothing we can do."
"We can be here," Ignis says. "We can be here so he won't be alone." He rubs at his eyes and adds, almost too quiet, "It's lonely, dying alone."
Prompto makes a choked-off, miserable sound by Gladio's side, and Gladio - and Gladio, who knew Ignis since he was a quiet, fussy boy with a hidden prankster streak, suddenly knows that Ignis is lying about something.
He doesn't have time to ask, as the throne room doors bang open, and Noct - disheveled, dirty, bloodied, limping even harder, victorious - walks in.
"Noct," Ignis says, in a clear voice, the two of them forgotten. "Your Majesty. Welcome home."
"Hey," Noct says, quietly. His steps ring unevenly against the marble of the throne hall. "Are you guys supposed to be here? It won't be pretty."
"We know," Gladio growls. "Doesn't matter."
Prompto laughs, a brittle, staccato sound that almost startles Gladio into a flinch. "You and Ignis ditched us once already, so no more, okay? We're with you until the very end."
"As it should be," Ignis says; he's still at parade rest, his body half-forgotten, and his burning eyes track Noct with unsettling ease.
"It's not like we did it to hurt your feelings," Noct says, climbing the stairs. Up close, his eyes are clear; he's settling into peace, and there's no hesitation in his steps. He walks tall, as a king should, and Gladio is so full of love and pride in him, a decade late and a gil short, that he can barely breathe around it.
He bows to Noct when he comes up, low and proper, fist to his chest (Prompto, who never quite had the time to get etiquette down, hastily copies him) - and then sweeps Noct up into as tight a hug as he can manage. The chains and buckles of the royal raiments dig into his chest, and he tries to remember, to store the tactile memory forever.
"You are the best king this world ever had," he whispers, fierce, into Noct's ear. "Thank you."
"Knock them dead, dude," Prompto says, clutching Noct in turn. He's crying openly and freely, and Gladio loves him and envies him. "The gods don't deserve you."
And Ignis - and Ignis leans down to Noct, the churning light in his ravaged eyesockets throwing bizarre shadows on Noct's cheeks, and whispers something into his ear, too low for Gladio to hear.
A chill rises in the throne room, shadows lengthening from corners, purple darkness coalescing into the vignette around the four of them. And there's no putting off the inevitable anymore.
Noct sits on the throne - his father's throne, his own throne, the last king of Insomnia, Noctis Lucis Caelum, the last of his name. He closes his eyes.
"Kings of Lucis, come to me!"
And so they come, in steel and light and blood.