Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
The mantra pummeled at the somnolence that held Ignis bound, keeping him from slipping fully under. He struggled, pushing against the weight of the sky, his existence reduced to an eternal fight against unconsciousness. His arms and legs were nothing but leaden, useless accessories, refusing to respond to his brain's garbled commands. Soon, it seemed as if battling this oblivion was all he'd ever been doing.
(Noct sits by the fire, laughing and joking, a despair as deep as the world in his eyes.)
(Noct is listening to them drift away into sleep, one by one. After a long, long time, he slides slowly out from beneath Gladio's arm and walks to the edge of the haven stone. He stands there for an endless moment, seemingly frozen in time—watching them, eyes gleaming, the low fire burying his silhouette in shadows.)
(Finally he turns, shoulders straight. The darkness swallows him up, leaving no trace—as if he had never been.)
(Ignis stretches out a hand…but he is already gone, and Ignis has forgotten what he was reaching for.)
(He watches the dying embers, feeling as if he's lost track of something important. As he racks his brain, a fluffy, gray-and-white, amber-eyed dog emerges from the flames. It stares into his eyes. Ignis sees, in that gaze, a second dog, its fur once a rich, luxurious black. But now it's thick with filth and matted in blood.)
(And no wonder, because it stands guard over a shadowed den, decaying and piled high with refuse. Something monstrous and unholy lives within, its stench nauseating, sludge and waste leaking slowly from the blackness inside to poison the earth all around it. Slinking, the faded black dog noses a few rotting scraps back into place from where they have strayed, reinforcing the fortifications of the thing inside. Once accomplished, it sinks down into the mire, whimpering, the foulness obviously causing it pain, but fearing to break free. Three of its pack rove nearby, wild and unbounded in the prairie grasses. The dog snaps and nips when they approach—preserving them from its own fate, even as it protects the one inside.)
(The first dog is now staring into Ignis' very soul, the glowing coals of the fire scintillating within a gaze as vast as eternity.)
(And with sudden clarity, Ignis remembers it all.)
He woke with a gasp. "Noct!"
The desert didn't reply. Brisk, desiccated winds blew hollowly through the rocks. High clouds had drifted in at some point during the night, dulling the stars. The fire was nothing but embers, and there was no moon. Loneliness and desolation sat heavily among the darkened hills.
Far across the wastes, a car pulled away from the black-on-black silhouette that was Cindy's garage. Its lights didn't switch on until it had turned out onto the highway, pointed toward Insomnia. It could have been any vehicle, really; the sound of its engine wouldn't carry this far, and the distance made details hard to distinguish.
But Ignis knew anyway. And he knew who sat behind the wheel.
He scrambled out of his sleeping bag, swearing as it caught on his feet. Noct's was empty, as he knew it would be. "Prompto! Gladio! Wake up!"
It was a testament to the efficacy of whatever Noct had drugged them with—some over-the-counter sleep aid, from the feel of it—that neither of them had already leapt out of their skin to land on their feet, ready for blood. In his desperation, Ignis dragged Prompto halfway out of his bag, then all but kicked Gladio awake. "Get up!"
"The hell, Iggy?" Gladio complained, his gaze bleary and confused. Squinting up at Ignis' face, it sharpened instantly, razor-edged instincts he had honed over a lifetime cutting through his torpor.
"Where's Noct?" he demanded, springing to his feet. There was a distinctly dangerous quality to his voice.
"What's going on?" Prompto groggily moaned, flailing the rest of the way out of his bag. "Noct's gone? You sure he didn't just go out to use the bathroom or something?"
"No," Ignis said shortly. "Gather up your—no, there's no time. Leave everything; we must go now."
Gladio had already dialed Noct's number and had the phone up to his ear, his expression grim. Seconds later, something blared from atop Noct's sleeping bag, its peppy ringtone clashing heavily with the fraught atmosphere at the haven.
"Damn him," Gladio growled viciously. He hung up and began yanking on his boots, still slightly off-balance from the drugs. "Iggy, do you know which way he went? We can outrun him if it hasn't been too long; otherwise we can take the dropship—"
"Hey, you guys?" Prompto interrupted. He'd picked up Noct's phone and now stood next to his empty bag—an island of stillness in the midst of the storm—as a strange, dread-tinged look crept over his face. "There's a voice recording on here. It's time-stamped from almost an hour ago."
Ignis snatched it from Prompto's hand and hit play.
"Hey guys." Noct's voice floated thinly from the speaker, sounding tired and despondent but also, jarringly, resolute. "Um. So you might've figured some things out by now. If not, I guess you will soon.
"I'm sorry for lying to you. I just wanted our last day together to be perfect, so you could have that to remember me by. Prom, you kick ass even in rainboots. Specs, I'm sorry about the corn skewers—and Gladio—you know you're completely ridiculous, right?" He broke into a quiet laugh. "And I mean that in the best way."
"So, Bahamut's found me," he continued, the fleeting moment of levity fading to what Ignis could only describe as something utterly devoid of hope. "And he...he's sworn to make good on...on his promise to hurt you, if I...don't comply. He wants me to...return to him, and...make the sacrifice." His voice was strained, the words coming with difficulty.
"Guys, I..."
There was a long pause, the crackling of wind buffeting against the receiver all that could be heard for a time.
Finally, he continued, the edges of his words coming out ragged. "I don't want to go. I never did. If I could've stayed, I would've happily lived out the rest of my life as islands with you.
"But I'm gonna choose the selfish route: the one where you guys get to live. My story was already over. I've been here on borrowed time...and I'm so grateful to have gotten it. I'm so lucky to have had these extra days with you, these added memories. Whatever…whatever happens to me now, I'll always have that to carry me through.
"So please…remember me like we were tonight, and not with guilt or sadness. Because I'll always remember you. Always. And I hope that, someday, you can forgive me.
"There's so much more to say about what each of you means to me…but I think you know it already.
"My friends, walk ta—"
He choked and broke off. For several moments, all they could hear were light bursts of background noise, accompanied by the phone's own internal interference. And something else, like soft, unsteady breaths.
Finally, Noct continued. His voice was quiet, still, but filled with determined intent.
"No. Ignis. Prompto. Gladio. Take care of each other. Live well and be happy. Please. For me."
There was the barest shift in sound, indicating the message's end. The last vestiges of their friend's voice was abruptly consumed by a blaring automated recording that unfeelingly directed them through the procedure for how to play the message again, or delete it if they so desired.
Prompto stood unmoving, hands hanging limply, tears running unchecked down his face. "No, no, no..." he whispered. Gladio's eyes were wide and wild, his taut expression hailing straight back to another campfire, another night like this, not many months before. Back to when Noct had first broken the news that he would be walking into Insomnia, and never walking back out.
Ignis stood rigid and inert, sand pattering against his legs in gusts, his hands clenched at his sides.
(The dog wades chest-deep through the putrid filth, dying, even as it nudges the fortifications painstakingly back into place.)
"No," Ignis hissed, furious. "No. We are not bloody well going to let this happen. Not again."
And he began to run. He ran harder than he ever had before, careless of the sand and dirt that kicked up into the air and filled his boots and caused his feet to slip out from beneath him. Every time he fell he simply forced himself back up again, heedless of the bristly shrubs that tore at his hands and the rocks that gouged his knees. Gladio and Prompto, weapons in hand, followed close behind, swerving around the occasional daemon that boiled up from the ground. Prompto, working out their destination, dashed on ahead, casting frequent glances back to make sure they were safely following.
They finally arrived at the bandersnatch den, throwing themselves headlong down the nearest slope in lieu of a more sedate descent on the far end. Panting and gasping, Ignis staggered to a stop while Gladio slapped his palm against the stolen dropship's cargo door release. They clambered inside, their boots echoing hollowly on the ramp.
"Lights," Gladio snapped. He tossed his shield and greatsword into a corner as he felt along the wall. Within seconds, his fingers were bumping up against a row of switches. Depressing them all with one swipe of his huge hand, he charged over to the control panel, the cabin fixtures flickering to life in his wake.
And he stopped.
"Shit," he growled. "Shit, shit, shit!"
The big man stood motionless, fists clenched. Suddenly he snatched up what appeared to be a thick flight manual and flung it furiously across the cockpit. It hit the bulkhead and exploded into a cloud of papery debris. He leaned over the panel, head bowed and breathing heavily, his fingers digging painfully into its edges.
"Gladio?" Ignis asked, filled with dread. "What is it?"
"See for yourself," Gladio replied with an angry, desperation-filled laugh. He gestured Ignis toward the console.
Ignis stepped warily forward, fearing what he would find but knowing he had scant little choice.
Besides, it wouldn't have taken an engineer to identify the problem. The source of Gladio's ire became quickly apparent as Ignis' gaze landed on the mess of sliced wires and cables beneath the darkened control panel—hacked apart with clean, indiscriminate lines that spoke of a long, sharp blade rather than a handheld knife. Specifically, one that was mid-grade and mass-produced—and had undoubtedly been purchased at a weapons vendor truck at Hammerhead.
Ignis fell back against the bulkhead, feeling suddenly faint. In less than an hour, Noct had effectively cut off every viable avenue of pursuit.
"Hey," Prompto said sharply, from where he was pacing along the wall. "Instead of moping and throwing things, how about we get busy calling Aranea?"
Ignis lurched back upright, forbidden hope sparking to life in his chest. Why hadn't he thought of that?
But then his face fell. "I…I don't actually know her number," he admitted, vaguely horrified with himself.
"I do," Gladio said, and immediately began to dial.
He held the phone to his ear for some time before it went to voicemail. Implacably, he dialed again. And then again.
On the fourth try, Aranea answered, her voice positively awash with bad-tempered displeasure. Gladio pressed a button, transferring her to speaker.
"Whoever the hell this is, you'd better be feeding me a ruddy fantastic story for breaking my crew rest," she growled. "And as I technically can't fly on mission now, it'd damn well better be one that makes me laugh."
" 'Nea,' Gladio said, his voice brusque. "It's Gladio. I need you to pick us up at the coordinates I'm about to read off. You ready?"
"Okay, I'm sorry—cool your heels and let's back all the way up. First of all, Gladio, how did you get this number? And secondly, why by Ifrit's blazing balls would I agree to fly out to wherever the hell you are at two o'clock in the morning? You're doing a swell job at the making me laugh part, so at least you've got that going for you."
"You'll do it because Noct's gonna die if you don't," Gladio bluntly replied, standing rigidly in front of the control panel. "And I know you don't want that to happen. Not only 'cause it'd be politically inconvenient—but also because you're a good person with a good heart."
His voice lowering, he continued, "You'll do it because you know the Empire's darkness goes a lot deeper than most people realize." A smile ghosted across his lips, small and brief. "And because you, Aranea Highwind, choose your own path.
"And," he finished, with faith-filled assurance, "I think you'll do it 'cause you know it's right."
Silence stretched on the other end of the line. Ignis' fists reflexively clenched and released as he prayed to whatever god was listening and didn't want them dead that the phase effect hadn't toppled her.
Eventually, Aranea asked, "Did we know each other in a past life or something, big man?" She spoke with the same lilting, almost flirtatious mischief that she typically employed with all of them; but there was a strange, considering note to it now.
"Maybe we did," Gladio said. "Aranea, will you help us?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine," she testily replied—though behind the veneer of irritation, Ignis noted a distinct shade of anticipation. "Truth be told, I was thinking of breaking it off soon anyhow; the Empire makes for a real crappy boyfriend.
"So where are you, and where're we going?" she continued. "I'm just gonna make a wild stab in the dark here and assume Imperial-occupied Insomnia, yeah? Might as well kick off my new career with guns blazing."
Gladio relayed their coordinates, reading them off a chart he'd pulled from a drawer.
"Lucky for you, I'm out at Formouth," Aranea replied. "Practically spitting distance. It's gonna take me a few to round up my team and run preflight, but after that I can be at your location in less than twenty."
"Thanks, 'Nea," Gladio said. "You're first rate."
"Save it for after we've rescued your boy," she replied. "Aranea out."
Ignis collapsed into the pilot's seat, fear combined with relief combined with the remnants of the drugs making his knees weak. He forced himself to unclench his teeth, to be still in mind and body. There was a wild, terrified energy within him that urged him to leave at once, to run and run and run until he reached the Citadel—he had no doubt, now, that it was Noct's intended final destination—to quit idling the minutes away; there was no time to lose. But his rational side had thankfully prevailed, knowing they maintained a far better chance of overtaking their friend if they waited patiently for Aranea.
It was going to be close, though.
"There's something I don't understand," Prompto said, resuming his pacing. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but his face had hardened, full of the steely determination Ignis had come to know so well during the Night. "How'd Bahamut track him down? I thought the gods couldn't find him if he were Silenced."
"Shouldn't've been able to," Gladio replied, voice tight. Leaning over, he retrieved his discarded weaponry and angled it more respectfully against the wall. "Foundational wildlife theory—there's a whole section on it in Crownsguard Basic. Silence blocks planet-based magic, hard stop. We saw it work on Titan and Shiva and Ramuh, so it should've worked on Bahamut too. It must've worn off a while back and Noct was just feeding us more tales—"
"It shouldn't have worked on Bahamut," Ignis broke in, his voice nearly a whisper. Realization seized him by the heart, followed by a flood of self-disgust. Stupid, stupid, he had been so utterly obtuse. "The Draconian is not of this planet. Gentiana told us herself."
"What?" Gladio demanded, his brow wrinkling, even as Prompto paled.
"Oh, gods," the blond moaned. "She did tell us, didn't she? We were so distracted with the whole Noct killing himself a thousand times thing that we forgot about the fact that Bahamut was some ancient destroyer from another universe or whatever—"
Gladio stared at them both. "I have no godsdamned clue what you two are talking about, but it doesn't matter now either way. Let's focus on the here and now and go get Noct free of that depraved scumbag once and for all."
"Yeah, but how?" Prompto asked. His voice wobbled, on the verge of despair.
They both looked at Ignis. Fragments of dreams returned to him, bobbing quietly back up to the surface—
Sheltering the monster within…its foulness causing him pain, but fearing to break free
(A brush of gray and white fur; amber eyes, gazing at him from within the flames)
"He must stop feeding the beast," Ignis softly replied.
xxx
Noctis stood atop the night-shrouded overlook, staring out over the city of his birth, a thousand memories flickering through his head like channels on an old rotary dial television.
In another life, the charred site of their final campfire together—now tucked away in a future that would never exist—would've been just at his feet.
Back here in the past, the ground was weedy and unbroken, offering no hint of the hallowed last words and moments that had been (would never be) shared from atop it.
But it was time. Time to stop being selfish. Time to stop dragging his friends into a fate that had been reserved for him alone. He had made his decision, and it was the right one.
So, with a long, shuddering breath, he forced his mind away from a happiness that was behind him—that could never again be his, so he may as well accept that—and back to the city below.
Insomnia looked strange; he had never seen it in the months it had been human-occupied, before daemons had overrun it in the Night. In fact, he'd only laid eyes on it twice since he'd left. The first had been the day after the invasion, when Niflheim was still in the midst of mobilizing and chaos had reigned. The last had been ten years later, when sides no longer mattered; when this once-shining gem of progress and prosperity had been reduced to daemon-infested ruins, the bastion of modernity it had represented hardly even a passing thought anymore in a world preoccupied with survival.
Looking at it now, half the power grid appeared to still be offline. The main avenues had been jury-rigged with floodlights and generators, displaying the city's critical arteries in sharp relief. He fleetingly wondered how Ardyn had managed to supply power to the Citadel for their final battle, a whole decade later.
I grow impatient, little king.
"Yeah, no shit," Noctis muttered aloud.
Turning, he made the trek back down the bluff to where he'd parked the Regalia, sheltered beneath a natural overhang. Parts of it were still dented and scratched, the paint sanded away; he'd stolen it before Cindy could finish with the body rework. But just because he was walking to his death didn't mean he had to drag his dad's beloved car along with him. His friends would find it and take good care of it, after he was gone.
Circling to the back, Noctis popped the trunk. It took some digging, but after a few minutes he found what he'd been looking for. Pulling the sheathed Sword of the Father free, he held it balanced across his palms, staring down its length. He felt the buzz of Bahamut's perverse approval burn through him, and smiled bitterly.
Then, shifting it to one hand, he squared his shoulders, hiked down to the road, and walked up to the Imperial checkpoint.
"Halt!" a voice snapped, imminent with violence.
Noctis did. The command was quickly accompanied by barked orders, crackling radios, and the clattering of armored feet. The human troopers wasted no time; in seconds they were on him, forcing him to his belly on the pavement. The Sword of the Father was torn from his unresisting grasp, his arms yanked painfully behind him as rifle barrels pressed against his head. Hands ran roughly up and over his body in search of hidden weapons. Noctis lay still, allowing the manhandling, his mind existing neither in the past nor the present, but fixed doggedly on what was ahead. The end of the road—both literally and figuratively, he thought to himself with a dark little laugh.
The troopers swarmed about, speaking in brisk tones and murmuring into radios. Presently he was dragged back to his feet, gravel and bits of old, broken glass falling from the folds of his hunter garb to patter onto the concrete.
An armored trooper approached him, removing its helmet to reveal a hard-faced, plain-featured man—some sort of lower-ranking non-commissioned officer, by his insignia. His expression immediately spoke to Noctis of small-minded self-importance, a man who was forever grasping after power beyond his reach. Noctis had been able to identify the type before he'd even learned to tie his shoes.
"You are under arrest for willful intrusion into a restricted area—property of Iedolas Aldercapt, Supreme Emperor of Niflheim, Lucis, and the Accordan Isles," the officer formally stated. His gaze scoured Noctis' body, taking in his rumpled hunter's gear and disheveled hair. A corner of his lip curled up in derision.
"If you cooperate, however," he continued, hardly even bothering to hide his contempt, "you may be convicted only of trespassing and possession of a deadly weapon, rather than the suspected terrorism charge I could easily slap you with. Insomnia is strictly off-limits."
"I'm well aware," Noctis coolly replied, ignoring the man's near-predatory scrutiny. "Who's stationed at the Citadel? I'd like to speak with them."
The officer's expression stilled in surprise. But it quickly turned vicious. Lifting his rifle, he slammed the butt of it across the side of Noctis' face. Noctis staggered, pain exploding across his cheekbone and setting off a Citadel-grade fireworks show behind his eyes. The troopers crowding around caught him by the arms and hauled him back upright.
"I ask the questions here, scum, and I don't take orders from prisoners," the man breathed, bringing his face close to Noctis'. "So, I'm only going to ask this once: who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Ah. A bully, then. Noctis tentatively worked his jaw, exhaling through the ringing aftershocks that always came with a blow to the face. He nudged his focus back toward the road, sending it all the way down to its end—out of sight but not so distant, reminding himself that the pain was nothing; he'd had worse. So much worse.
"How about suggestions, then?" Noctis returned, haughtily composed despite the throbbing in his jaw. "I'm thinking your higher-ups might not take kindly to you stealing their thunder over the apprehension of the King of Lucis."
The man laughed boorishly. "Oh, the missing Insomnian king, are you? Yeah, and I'm the ruddy Oracle." His eyes swept Noctis up and down, openly leering, now. "Where's your crown, baby boy? You give it to the first Lucian trash to take you out behind the stable and offer to make you a man?"
The troopers surrounding him shifted, either too disciplined or too scared to laugh. Or perhaps they found the comments as far beneath them as Noctis himself did.
Then, a young soldier stepped forward—one who, up until this point, had been maintaining charge over his upper arm, jostling for space alongside six or seven companions. Noctis had noticed his stare from the moment they'd dragged him up off the pavement.
"Sir," he murmured, and whispered urgently into his superior's ear.
Noctis watched with a distant, unfeeling sort of amusement as the officer listened, an odd expression overtaking his face. Eventually the man's gaze swung back to him, but now with distinct traces of misgiving.
Drawing away from the young trooper, he turned to mutter to a group of subordinates. One of them brought out a phone, and they all squinted down at its display. Someone standing at Noctis' back reached around from behind to lock his chin in place. The officer's gaze swept over him again, peering back and forth between Noctis' face and the phone, his expression growing increasingly uncertain.
Finally, he put it down, openly gawking now, and considerably more subdued.
"Bugger me," he said beneath his breath.
"Your commander," Noctis repeated, voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Now. If you'd be so kind."
The officer gaped at him a moment longer. Abruptly he stepped back, turning to speak rapidly into a radio.
Then, without another word to Noctis, he whirled around and stalked away.
A veritable platoon of troopers took the man's place. They surrounded him with weapons drawn as someone clamped what felt like Magitek-grade cuffs around his wrists. Before long, an armored truck had pulled up, itself flanked front and back by a large cavalcade of armed transports. Noctis smiled sardonically, wondering if he should feel honored. His reign may have been among the shortest in Lucian history, but he'd still be filling some of his last moments with the pomp, circumstance, and all-around spectacle befitting of a king.
Then he was pressed into the back of the truck, steel-plated hands lifting him from behind as others pulled him up from within. They sat him down on a hard metal bench against the wall; at least a dozen troopers followed, positioning themselves to either side. Some watched him in disgust, others with open curiosity.
Inclining his head, Noctis ignored it all. There were no windows in back, but a thick plexiglass sheet separated them from the cab. He kept his gaze trained on a point at its center, staring past the driver and out through the windshield. The half-dozen or so escort vehicles ahead of them began moving slowly up the road, heading for the channel overpass. Shifting into gear, the truck jolted forward, trailing along after.
They picked up speed as they hit the open causeway, spanning several miles across the sound before it reached the city limits. Drowning in memories, Noctis watched the streetlamps whisk by—darkened and dead now, daemon-repelling floodlights rigged up in their place. He had gone late-night joyriding with Prompto down this highway once, toward the tail end of their final year of high school. It hadn't lasted very long, as the Crownsguard had caught wind of it early on and they'd turned back only to discover a very unimpressed Gladio waiting for them down the road. But only a few months later, his Shield had gone and taken him out to some of his favorite local, lowbrow dives, along with a few of his older Glaive friends. And if such activities hadn't necessarily been against Regis' express wishes, they hadn't exactly been with his blessing, either. To a sequestered, eighteen-year-old boy already carrying far too much of the world's weight on his shoulders, that night of easy friendship—not to mention the casual acceptance they'd all extended him—had meant the world.
On another occasion, Ignis had taken him down to the highway's end, back during a period of his life when he had been struggling terribly with the idea of his impending fate (which, at the time, consisted of slogging through a long and boring life full of politics and paperwork. The cosmic joke had most definitely been on him.) Despite Noctis' (admittedly) rather bratty attitude that day, Ignis had simply led him out to the car, driven him to a sheltered little overlook he knew, and then—rather than the lecture on duty and commitment Noctis had expected—they'd spent several hours stargazing and talking about movies and sharing sugary junk food. He still, to this day, loved his friend for that much needed escape.
Then they were across, emerging into the artificially lit night of the city proper, and Noctis had to shut down his brain as a sudden painful lump caught in his throat. The memories swamped him now, piling on, dragging him back to his past, battering at his resolve, distracting him from his goal.
Clenching his still-aching jaw, he forced it all away. This night was all that mattered, all that remained. He had just two things left in his entire life that he needed to accomplish. And the first was to get to the Citadel.
In that respect, at least, his Imperial captors were proving rather helpful. Noctis blinked himself back to the present, allowing himself to drift, unthinking, as they carried him deep into Insomnia.
Eventually, the rumbling pitch of the engine began to wane. Noctis glanced back through the windshield, forcing his breathing to slow. No more than twenty minutes had passed, but it seemed his procession had reached its destination already. They were eight blocks away from the Citadel, still, but it would do.
Some parts of the city, reduced to rubble in the attack, were difficult to place, but Noctis knew this quarter by the distinctive mosaic patterns in the brick. Partially leveled by what seemed to have been a rather excessive use of firepower—courtesy of some trigger-happy medal-seeker, no doubt—this particular square had once been a vast memorial plaza in the park district, named for his great-grandmother. He and Prompto had practically lived out all of age sixteen at the sprawling destination mall here, theater-hopping and blowing all their change at the arcades and making an art out of avoiding the hulking Crownsguard lurking in the corners…
His recollections were cut short as the truck lurched to a halt. The doors opened, and Noctis was hauled back out as impersonally as he had been shoved in. Stumbling, he fought to stay on his feet, but the aggressive jostling, combined with his manacled arms, tripped him up. He staggered, going down when his ankle rolled in the wrong direction. But a host of hands held him up, dragging him onward.
They reached the center of the brightly lit square, where he was pushed unceremoniously down to his knees. To his surprise, his escorts backed quickly away. With nobody immediately around to stop him, Noctis levered himself awkwardly back up to his feet, his arms still restrained tightly behind him.
"Looks like someone was feeling a little homesick," said a coolly impassive, vaguely familiar voice.
Noctis looked up and found himself face-to-face with the dreadnought commander from Altissia.
"Great," he muttered, half under his breath. Slightly louder, he remarked, "They've really got you all over the place, don't they, Commander? Must be exhausting."
She merely gazed back at him, exhibiting neither triumph nor surprise. If anything, she seemed bored. The sheathed Sword of the Father hung carelessly from her hand.
"Daddy's dead, little prince," she said. "It was a mistake to come back here."
A sudden fury nearly overcame him at her cavalier attitude toward his father's death—no, his murder; Noctis had seen it himself—but he shoved it down. Instead, he smiled placidly, becoming a boulder in a stream.
"No mistake," he said, frankly meeting her eyes. "I'm exactly where I mean to be. Thanks for that, by the way."
She eyed him, just a shade longer than what could be considered a casual glance.
"Interesting," she finally said, despite sounding as if it were anything but. "Not exactly the frightened little child I expected. No matter; you're about to die either way."
She reached into her hip holster and pulled out a handgun. Stepping back, she leveled it at his head.
"Any last words for the historians?" she asked.
And Noctis laughed. It wasn't a very kingly thing to do, but he couldn't help it. The absurdity that some Imperial could come along and simply end him, after all that had been said and done, was incredible. There was no way Bahamut would allow that to happen; he couldn't possibly be so lucky.
Plus, he was thoroughly sick of everyone talking down to him. He was thirty-one, for the Astrals' sake, and had lived far more than his share of lifetimes. And, his face hurt.
"Do it," he said, a slightly unhinged smile tugging at his lips. "Please, by all means. It didn't work out so well for you at Caem, but hell, maybe this time we'll all get lucky."
For a brief second, her blank, inscrutable composure seemed to crack; a tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyes.
But only for a second.
"I'll take that as a no," she said, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet exploded from the barrel; with surreally heightened senses Noctis heard it, felt the tiny puff of air, smelled the acrid burn of gunpowder.
But he didn't die. In fact, nothing much happened at all.
Blinking hard, he forced his blurring eyes to focus. And for the first time, he saw something approaching emotion in the commander's face. Her eyebrows drew together in consternation as her gaze fell to her sidearm. It stayed there for several moments, only to dart back up to him. Finally, it landed on the empty space between them.
And there it stalled, her lips parting in shock.
Noctis squinted, feeling as if his brain had been chasing the tail end of the curve for some time now—events were flowing, and he was simply being washed along in the current toward his fate.
But then his own gaze lit on the object of the commander's attention. He, too, stiffened with disbelief.
A bullet had, indeed, been fired—but rather than cutting a straight line to its target, as bullets are wont to do, it had simply…stopped. In midair. It now hung there, as fixed and unmoving as if it had been sitting neatly on a shelf, inches from Noctis' forehead.
"What—" the commander began. "How are you—" she said, trying again.
Finally, her incredulous stare landed on the heavy Magitek cuffs clamped around his wrists. Something seemed to occur to her, and it snapped back to his face.
"You've defeated the inhibitors somehow," she accused, eyes narrowing, her stance suddenly defensive. "So this is an example of the fabled Lucis Caelum magic, is it? Congratulations, Lucian scum, you've managed to surprise me. Enjoy it for the last five seconds of your life."
Gesturing sharply, she called to her riflemen—a full platoon's worth, at least. They jogged hastily over, their armor rattling noisily.
"End him," she ordered.
Noctis smiled serenely. He had very little idea of what was going on, but it was becoming harder and harder to care. He had lost control of his life to such a granular level that none of it seemed to matter anymore—not his impending death, not the blatant violation of physical laws playing out right in front of his face. And so it came as little surprise when the next round of bullets they let loose at his head stalled in much the same manner.
Then, as they all stared, the hovering projectiles disintegrated into dust, their remains whisked away to nonexistence by the nighttime winds.
Noctis shrugged into the stunned silence. "Don't blame me," he said. "Talk to the gods. I'm just along for the ride."
And that was when the daemon exploded through the pavement.
Noctis staggered back in surprise, tripping over a loose flagstone and landing hard on his elbows—the same moment he realized his restraints had apparently gone the way of the bullets, as no sign of them remained. But there was no time to ponder on it, even if he'd actually wanted to. The daemon, three stories tall, was like nothing he had ever seen before—not even during the Night. It reflected almost no light, making it appear bereft of form and dimension. It hurt his eyes to look at.
Then it...roared? The sound that emerged from it could be described as neither a hiss nor a snarl, but was more of an uncomfortable vibration in his eardrums. It was a noise that momentarily blanked out the mind, the auditory equivalent of a strobe light. Wholly ignoring the blazing floodlights that should have kept it at bay, it began laying waste to everything and everyone within the square.
Noctis scrabbled backward, then turned to stumble the rest of the way to his feet. Armored troopers shoved and jostled all around him, yelling and firing their rifles in wild-eyed panic. The commander was shouting orders, her voice scathing as she tried to whip them back into some semblance of discipline. Her aim, impressively enough, remained steady as she fired round after round into what might have been the thing's head. The Sword of the Father lay forgotten at her feet.
I suggest the little king seize this opportunity to escape while he yet is able.
Noctis dove for the blade. He snatched it to his chest and rolled away just as a crush of armored feet trampled across the space he had only barely vacated. MTs were joining the fray, flooding into the square from the surrounding buildings and encampments. The commander vanished somewhere in the chaos.
Noctis whirled as an MT stamped up to him from behind, the telltale sound of its servos as it raised its arm to strike acting as his only warning. Unsheathing the Sword of the Father for the first time since he'd died on it, he flung it upward in a two-handed block.
It was much heavier without his magic, more unwieldy—but at the same time, the fact that it was no longer actively draining his life away was a significant perk. With a shout, Noctis shoved the automaton back. Darting into its range, he ducked beneath its blade, ending it with one clean strike through its torso. It fell to the pavement, its expression unmoved.
But more were turning toward him, their automatic recognition filters kicking in to match him to the long-hunted King of Lucis. Human troopers screamed and died as a whole new batch of daemons boiled up from the ground. The original was now pooling across the square, swallowing its victims up from beneath. It was like a rippling surge of nothing, echoes of a half-remembered nightmare. Watching it, Noctis felt the hairs on his arms stand up.
And he was torn. He had been intent on saving humanity for so long that it didn't feel right to walk away and leave these people to the slaughter, Niffs or no. Even if they would most certainly never pay him the same honor. Uncertainly, he turned back toward the daemon.
A jagged, scraping agony tore through his head, sending him to the pavement like a disconnected marionette. Noctis couldn't even find the breath to scream.
You will come to me. Now.
Moaning through clenched teeth, he managed to pull in a shuddering gasp of air. Aftershocks from the pain, brief as it was, sizzled through his body, rebounding from his skull to his heart to the very ends of his fingertips and back again.
Staggering up to his feet, he ran.
The square was thick with combatants, and Noctis soon found himself forced into a number of detours. He sprang to the side as a pool of miasma began materializing beneath his feet, then quickly changed course to dart past the legs (all that were left) of what had once been a towering black marble effigy of his great-grandmother. Nearing the shadowed buildings on the far side, he leapt over the rim of a vast reflecting pool—now choked with algae—and splashed messily across. A daemon—one of the oozing, tentacled sorts that had, up until this moment, belonged exclusively to the Long Night—burst from the water beside him; without giving it a second glance, Noctis whipped his arm out and sliced it in half. Gouts of miasma sprayed from its severed limbs, spattering him in black liquid. Some of it misted away; the rest landed in oily globs on the surface, pooling with the sludge that already floated there.
Plowing his way through the rancid mess, Noctis rolled out the other side and back onto his feet. He descended a small staircase three steps at a time, soaked to the waist, bringing a cascade of dirty water along with him. Reaching a narrow, unlit alley, he ducked inside. But he didn't stop running. Bahamut was growing increasingly displeased. And Noctis knew what a displeased Draconian could do.
He thought back to the disintegrating bullets and shuddered, the last of his secret, deluded hopes crumbling away. There would be no escape. Not for him. There never had been.
Presently, after several more blocks (plus a handful of surprise MTs), Noctis burst from the webwork of back alleyways to find himself gazing up at the Citadel gates.
Slowing to a breathless walk, he couldn't help but glance around, taken aback. The dark, silent emptiness here was jarring in comparison to the wholesale destruction going on back at the square. In fact, it was distinctly unnatural. Noctis knew the Citadel would be the very first place the Niffs would have chosen as their base of operations, with its expansive facilities, defensible war rooms, and luxurious quarters. Yet, he could detect no signs of life—not even a patrol. Here, the city was oddly muted, unbroken by so much as the hum of a transport.
Deciding it might simply be best not to know, Noctis straightened. He inhaled deeply, letting out several long breaths.
Then, squaring his shoulders, he stepped through the gates.
And now the memories assailed him, more mercilessly than ever. Ahead was the large outer courtyard, where he'd sat through countless parades, speeches, and receptions. Where his dad had gifted him his first car. Where he had fought Ifrit and Ardyn. And where he had twice said goodbye—the first time to his father, though he hadn't known it then. The last—and still, to this moment, the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life—to his friends. His brothers.
Stop. Just finish it already, he snarled to himself.
Allowing himself one more breath, emptying his mind of all but these last few minutes of his life, Noctis strode purposefully forward.
The brightly lit outer lobby was filled with signs of activity, but the individuals who had produced it were nowhere to be seen. Paperwork stamped with the Imperial crest sat scattered across desks, uncapped pens left alongside it. Computer monitors glowed wanly, opened to spreadsheets and meeting minutes, cursors blinking impatiently. A half-eaten sandwich rested on a desk.
Noctis walked on past it, ignoring it all, and entered the elevator banks. He hit the call button. Every door slid open in unison, eerily silent; he ignored that too. Choosing the closest, he stepped through. He stared straight ahead at the wall as it carried him up and up, up to his end.
Yes. Come to me, Bahamut hissed.
The elevator opened soundlessly, and Noctis continued through into the hallway. He crossed over the scattered rubble, passed by the old bloodstains on the tiles, stared straight ahead into the uncanny silence. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Just before the throne room doors, he hesitated, remembering pained looks, a hushed conversation, shaky laughter over a well-worn photograph.
But that Noctis was dead. And this one soon would be.
Pursing his lips, he shoved his way into the room.