Chapter Two: Shield's Lament

No one ever expected rebuilding Lucis to be easy, but damn, Gladio hadn't pegged it for being this hard either.

"It's too far to the left."

"At least it's on the wall," he grunted, rolling his eyes. "Who cares if it's an inch off?"

Iris huffed, although it definitely wasn't in amusement. "Uh, I do? Seriously, Gladdy, it looks stupid if it's not centered."

Stupid? Was she for real?

Apparently, she was. When Gladio shot her a deadpan stare over his shoulder, her arms were folded and he could see every bit of the daemon slayer she'd become glaring right at him. Well, in a sense. Unlike her adoring fans, he'd witnessed the major tantrums she'd thrown when she was a kid. What some people would call her ass-kicking face, Gladio recognized as nothing more than the prelude to something far worse: Iris getting whatever the hell she wanted. As always.

Still, it was effective. He couldn't help grumbling under his breath as he capitulated and shifted the sword she no longer had any use for a few centimeters to the right. Of all the things they had to worry about in this house, a centered wall ornament was pretty low on the list.

After everyone started making the slow migration back to the Crown City, they'd been left torn between moving into the Citadel or returning to the only home either of them had ever really known. The former had its advantages: they would be close to the center of the action in case they were needed, and it would be a hell of a lot easier to get to work every day when they didn't have anywhere near as many cars operational as they would have liked at that point. Those prospects had been enough for Ignis and Prompto, both of whom had set up shop in residences that hadn't been touched in years, by Ardyn or anyone else. Gladio could understand where they were coming from, considering that had always been Ignis's home anyway and it wasn't like Prompto had any reason to live where he had before. His family was long gone; none of them had heard a word since they left Insomnia about whether his adoptive parents had survived or not. That didn't seem to bother Prompto, but there was no doubt that he wasn't enthusiastic about chilling in an empty house that held no sentimental value for him whatsoever. So, it made sense that they would follow Cor to the palace. It wasn't like there was any shortage of space.

But, for as much as he loved the Citadel, it wasn't home to Gladio. It was where he'd trained, where he'd become part of the Crownsguard, where he'd learned about his own destiny, and where he'd become friends with the person it revolved around—but it wasn't home. That being the case, he and Iris had picked their way through the rubble and decay to find whatever remained of theirs, Iris with her fingers crossed and Gladio anticipating the worst.

To his surprise, it wasn't so bad. Shields weren't supposed to live too far from the Citadel, which meant they had grown up outside the center of the city but well within spitting distance of King Regis. As such, Gladio hadn't held out much hope that their home would be in one piece. From what Iris and Cor had told him over the years, the Niffs had done a damn good job when they took over Insomnia, and everything he'd seen the night they returned hadn't altered his assumptions. Of course, the occupation forces had made a show of cleaning up a little, but it was pretty obvious that it wasn't their priority. As long as the Citadel wasn't falling down and most people still had roofs over their heads, things were functional enough to be getting on with. That was why Gladio had been both shocked and relieved to see that their house, while a far cry from the shape their father had kept it in, had at least stayed standing. A few of the windows were shattered, and some spots were singed where the fires of war had left their mark; the crater down the road spoke volumes of why the whole building was leaning too far in one direction. All things considered, though, they could have been dealing with far worse.

That was a stroke of luck that had been even more beneficial to him than he had initially imagined. With the house in reasonable shape and the city in good hands, Gladio hadn't felt the slightest bit reluctant to leave the task of restoring the place to Iris. Sure, it would have been better to stay and help; there was plenty to do, not least of which cleaning up the mess inside from all the quaking and explosions. The process would have gone a lot quicker with two pairs of hands rather than one.

Instead, Gladio had departed almost as soon as they'd arrived.

The logical part of him, the one that sounded a lot more like Ignis than he would ever admit, said it was because they had too much work to do for him to sit around and make himself comfortable. Although the daemons had disappeared with the coming of the dawn, the damage they wrought hadn't. That meant there were messes to clean up all over the kingdom, not just in his own living room. From abandoned, expired supplies left behind by people who didn't need them anymore to the dilapidated buildings that shouldn't have remained upright under the beating they'd taken from daemons and humans alike, from the sundered landscape to the ruined infrastructure, everyone could draw the same conclusion: Lucis was a wreck. They weren't as far up shit creek as Altissia or Niflheim, but they had a lot of work to do if they were going to put everything back together again. Without a king—without Noct—they would need every hand on deck, not loitering around at home making sure the water ran clear. Maybe Gladio wasn't a Shield anymore, but it was his duty to act in his charge's stead now that the latter would never be able to. There wouldn't be any laziness, not on his watch. There was too much to accomplish for that.

That was the mantra he constantly repeated to himself, at least. Those were the arguments he made when his chest started aching for home and he was dozens of miles away; those were the reassurances he offered his subconscious when he wanted nothing more than to sleep in his own bed.

Because the not so logical part of him knew that they were merely excuses. That part of him was well aware that they were how he justified the amount of time he spent away from the Citadel and everybody in it. He could only insist so often that they wouldn't get shit done if they were cloistered in council chambers all day, making decisions instead of acting on them. There were only so many occasions where he could point out that someone had to be on the proverbial front lines, giving orders and making sure everyone was carrying their share of the load. It never changed the fact that Gladio was somehow always the one who made the journey from Insomnia to the other outposts, that Gladio delivered the messages to places where they hadn't quite gotten communications back in order. It was always Gladio assisting the hunters with reestablishing Meldacio as their headquarters or teaming up with the ladies at the power plant in Lestallum to increase the power to outlying regions. When they needed meteor shards—whatever was left of them after all this time, anyway—he was the one to go find them. When wild animals moved into territory where they were operating, he was the one to chase them off or turn them into dinner.

The kicker? It wasn't even a job that he alone could do. Now that daemons didn't come with the darkness, it was fairly easy to get stuff done without putting your life on the line in the process. It was simply a matter of replacing what was lost, not fighting for their survival every time they left the relative safety of the outposts. No one truly required the help of a former Shield in particular, regardless of how frequently he volunteered.

Gladio didn't let that stop him, though. Whether his specific talents would make a dent in their nationwide to-do list or not, he went wherever they could use extra muscle so that nobody else on the council would have to bother. And was that such a bad thing? They were making progress—Gladio was making progress. That was what really mattered here. Plus, it wasn't like he was gone forever: Iris was still here, as were his friends, and the Crown City was home no matter how painful it was to be there. He'd resigned himself to the fact that there would be occasions when he wouldn't be able to stay away.

He just didn't get why today had to be one of them.

If Iris remembered the significance, then she was doing a great job of keeping it to herself. From the time he'd woken up that morning (in his own bed for a change), she hadn't said a word about anything she knew he wouldn't want to hear. In fact, up until now, she'd been downright sweet. He really should've known she wanted something.

Like for him to help with obnoxious housework.

"That good enough?"

"Lower."

"Can't go lower without moving the nails."

"It would look better right over the mantle."

That one made Gladio snort, which he regretted immediately when Iris swatted him on the back of the head. It wasn't that she was all that tough, not compared to him. Years of fighting daemons hadn't exactly altered her physique in the slightest; the muscles she'd acquired were a lot leaner than his own. In some ways, it reminded him of—

Don't even go there, champ.

Shaking the thought aside before he could follow it down that rabbit hole, Gladio focused on the task at hand. While Iris was no behemoth, she did stand a pretty good chance of knocking him off the chair he was using in lieu of a ladder. Never let it be said that the Amicitia family wasn't resourceful.

"Hey, just because it's not your giant freak show sword doesn't make it any less awesome," she chided, letting out a frustrated sigh when Gladio eyed her skeptically.

"Could've painted the damn thing pink and it still couldn't look any less intimidating."

His mocking was met with a dismissive wave of her hand, and the smirk that tugged at her lips heralded her usual retort: "Yeah, tell that to all the daemons I killed with it. Oh, wait—you can't."

"Not this again," Gladio grumbled, hurrying to adjust her stupid trophy before she had a chance to regale him with the tales of her many—and undoubtedly exaggerated—exploits. Fortunately for him, he could preemptively anticipate her comebacks with ease.

Unfortunately, that hadn't stopped her since she was old enough to talk.

"They're not around anymore," she haughtily observed.

Rolling his eyes again, Gladio muttered disinterestedly, "Y'don't say."

"I killed them. With that super unimpressive sword."

"We all get lucky sometimes."

"Gladdy!"

There was that fist to his skull again, although he'd be lying if he said it didn't make him smile just a little. They may have grown up, but there were still moments when it was like they were kids again, Gladio the older and wiser one while Iris did her best to imitate a firework. He knew she wasn't the girl who'd gotten lost at the Citadel and needed a prince to rescue her anymore; he recognized that she had come a long way before Insomnia fell and even further during the Long Night. Even so, to peer over his shoulder at her irritated scowl was to stare down at the same kid who had pitched a fit to meet royalty all because he'd been talking shit about them at home. Whether she was approaching twenty-six or ninety-six, he'd never be able to banish that image from his mind.

Not that he would ever tell her that. While Gladio didn't fear Iris or the reputation she had rightfully earned over the last ten years, he wasn't stupid either. Why invite a fight that he probably wasn't going to win anyway? For one thing, she was his little sister; there was an unspoken rule that she won everything, wrong or not. For another… Well, it was just the two of them. Fielding her disdain or helping mount some dumb sword on the wall or staying up late to listen to her babble at him over the phone—they were all each other had and needed to stick together now more than ever.

That didn't mean he couldn't give her a hard time, though.

"I'll bet the daemons were really runnin' scared from your butter knife, here."

Scoffing, Iris shot back without hesitation, "Smaller is faster."

"Smaller is just smaller."

"According to Cor, only the most talented warriors carry lighter weapons. He says it's a sign that you aren't compensating for strength you don't have."

Damn. Talk about cold.

Unwilling to give her an inch, Gladio retorted, "Pretty sure you wouldn't be able to lift the bigger ones if that were true."

"Bigger isn't always better!"

"Were you ever planning on upgrading to an actual weapon, or did you figure this was good cover?" he teased with a gesture towards her sad excuse for a katana. Even Iris couldn't help laughing a bit this time.

"You know what they say," she replied, her reluctant grin turning nostalgic, "it's better that the enemy underestimates you than overestimates you."

…Well. Shit.

She hadn't exactly killed the mood or anything, but a chill nevertheless ran down Gladio's spine at the words his father had hammered into his head—into both their heads—for as long as he could remember. Even though Iris hadn't been trained at the Citadel for any kind of combat position, their dad had been diligent in making sure that they could each protect themselves. He'd seen to it that she had access to the same equipment Gladio used as soon as she was old enough, and when he wasn't busy with his charge, Gladio had been the one to show her how to block a punch and throw one in turn. (Of course, she got stuck on the lesson where she should wait for someone else to strike first, to absolutely no one's surprise.) Together, they had planned to make the Amicitia family proud and uphold their family's honor like countless generations before them.

And they were. Somehow, some way, they were.

Or she was.

In spite of his best efforts to conceal his sudden lack of humor, Iris must have noticed that she struck a nerve, because she didn't try to pursue that argument any further. Rather, she pointed awkwardly over his shoulder and offered, "Hey, it looks pretty good. I think you've got a knack for this."

"Centered enough for ya?" he sarcastically inquired, grateful for the change of subject. His sister could be obnoxious in her utter inability to let things go when he desperately didn't want to talk about them, yet she had her moments where he appreciated how her age had tempered her enthusiasm for pissing him off.

Mostly.

In lieu of answering right away, Iris put a finger to her chin and hummed pensively, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Oh, no. They weren't playing this game.

"If it's not," he pointed out with a raised eyebrow, "you can always fix the damn thing yourself."

"I could if I wanted to," confirmed Iris, though he couldn't help noticing that she didn't take one step to actually do so. Either she wasn't anywhere near as bothered by her sword's place of glory as she'd been letting on or he'd actually done a passable job. Honestly, he was beyond caring as long as it meant that he didn't have to listen to another hour of her telling him that he was doing it wrong.

Which, it seemed, he wasn't. Once the joking subsided, Iris surveyed his handiwork with a smile playing around her lips, one that was genuine when her eyes met his a minute later.

"It's perfect," she decided with a resolute nod. "Thanks, Gladdy."

Shifting awkwardly under her overwhelming sincerity, Gladio shrugged a shoulder and averted his gaze. "Sure, no sweat. Just handle it without me next time."

Well, that was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Iris's smile turned downright devious when she retorted, "Why would I when I've got Insomnia's best interior decorator for a brother?"

There was no response for that. Nothing could possibly match how ridiculous it sounded, so Gladio didn't even make an attempt to rebuff her. In fact, he figured that was as good a cue as any for him to haul his makeshift ladder back to the kitchen where it belonged. If he was lucky, she'd take the hint.

His silence, however, simultaneously provided her with a strategic opening—and she wasn't stupid enough not to take advantage of it.

"Just think of all the places around here that could really use a facelift!" she insisted as she followed on his heels. "I can see it now: big tough Crownsguard operative deciding on flowers and tablecloths. You could come up with a whole new style."

"What, post-apocalyptic not cuttin' it?" he grumbled, the clatter of the chair hitting the floor nowhere near loud enough to drown out her snort of laughter.

"Oh, please. It doesn't count as post-apocalyptic when we're rebuilding everything, silly."

Okay, she had a point there. It still would never convince him to entertain the notion of helping anyone besides her decorate anyone else's house besides theirs, but hey, he could give her that much.

Only that much.

Deep down, however, another voice reminded him that he didn't quite agree. Not entirely. There was just something missing, something that couldn't be rebuilt or refurbished or styled back into existence. It was gone, and with it, Gladio's belief that the rest of the world wasn't right on its heels. After all, he hadn't returned from the brink like other people. He put up a good front; he slapped a smile on his face for Iris's sake and so that he could perform whatever duty he could claim anymore. Other than that, though, it seemed as if he was living at the edge of the universe. Repairing old buildings and restoring the city, seeing Meldacio and the other outposts opening their doors again—that stuff could only provide so much comfort. At the end of the day, the world had stopped spinning regardless of the way the sun rose and fell.

Ultimately, the apocalypse wasn't an event so much as a state of being. Others might have been able to shrug it off like a worn jacket, but not Gladio. Never Gladio.

He was a ghost among men.

"Uh, hello? Are you even listening to me?"

Blinking, Gladio dragged himself from the prison of his own thoughts to find Iris watching him, her expression exasperated despite the concern belying it. Great, he'd done it again.

Usually, he was pretty good about staying present, focusing on the here and now rather than the back then that constantly haunted his steps. At the beginning, when they had first moved into the Crown City and gotten to work, he'd had a tough time with that. There was nothing harder than mourning a friend and destiny, especially when the two were so thoroughly intertwined. Still, he'd taken some solace in the mindless process of routines, whether he was spending hours in council meetings or hauling meteor shards around Lestallum. Having an outlet had transformed his perspective, and the occasions when he'd lost himself in his head had dwindled until he discovered the perfect recipe for his own sanity: not thinking about it. Ever. It would neither change anything nor allow him to function any better.

See, that was why he had wanted to stay away from Insomnia today of all days. That was why he had planned to take whatever job was available as far from the city as possible. It had already been lined up and ready to go: there were some hunters dragging furniture and debris out of the ocean around Galdin, which was perfect when he didn't want his brain going into overdrive on stuff he'd rather not dwell on.

Then Iris had called, reminding him that it had been a few weeks since they'd seen each other and fooling him with some crock about needing his help with the house. It wasn't until he'd practically come running that it occurred to him what she really wanted him here for, and it sure as hell wasn't interior decorating.

But he couldn't talk about this. He couldn't vocalize the shit that had gone down that night, not now or ever if he had it his way. As much as he appreciated her company and was admittedly glad not to be as alone today as he would have been in Galdin, that relief didn't bring him any closer to putting into words what he knew she was waiting for.

It was hard enough for him to fold his arms over his chest and sheepishly reply, "Sorry. What?"

Iris didn't hold his distraction against him, although her eye roll was a pretty poor imitation of her usual exuberance. Rather than berate him for not listening, she simply repeated, "I said, I was gonna meet Talcott at that restaurant near the Citadel. You know, the one that used to have those skewers you like?"

Used to was the operative phrase. Food hadn't exactly been scarce during the Long Night, not when they could make do with hauling some dirt into Lestallum and turning the overlook into a makeshift farm in a pinch. In the aftermath, however, things were different. Transporting the goods was the problem since everyone wasn't stuck in the same place, so the Crown City was definitely lacking in the cuisine department. The alleged nonperishables that they'd left behind were a few years out of date; their shipments were still irregular enough that they occasionally had to ration until the next load could be delivered from Duscae. As such, most of the restaurants in the city still hadn't reopened their doors, although a few were making as much progress as they could. They were even charging gil for it now that they were accustomed to the currency from outside the wall.

Charging gil. For food. When they'd just survived eleven years of hardship. Yeah, businesspeople sure had a different mindset.

As did his sister, who sounded a hell of a lot more cheerful about the place than he felt when she continued, "Anyway, I thought maybe you'd want to come with. They haven't got a lot, but it's…edible."

Not quite the ringing endorsement that he'd been expecting, but at least she was trying. Gladio, on the other hand, wasn't in the mood to try.

"Think I'll pass this time. Thanks, though," he replied, injecting as much gratitude into his tone as he could so that he wouldn't seem too surly. If the way Iris's face fell slightly was any indication, then he didn't do as hot a job of it as he was hoping for.

Scuffing her shoe against the tile and looking for all the world like that little girl he'd grown up with again, Iris watched him closely as she asked, "You sure? It could be fun. They've even got the televisions working again, so they play old movies and stuff from when we were kids."

Memories. Not something he wanted to relive right now.

"Nah, you go on. I'll grab somethin' around here."

Gladio didn't need to see her raised eyebrow and unimpressed expression to get that he wasn't fooling her for a second. He wouldn't necessarily say that he was attempting to, though. It was damn near impossible to hide anything from her when his sister had been an insufferable pest since the second she was born. No, this wasn't about pulling the wool over her eyes or making her think that everything was just hunky dory. It wasn't—any idiot could tell that. Gladio had his reasons for avoiding the public eye today, and he wouldn't be moved no matter how much Iris whined and pouted. On anything else, maybe. But not this.

It was lucky for her, then, that she didn't test him. She didn't press him for information at all besides asking what he was going to do with himself if he didn't plan on leaving the house, and Gladio was admittedly relieved that he was finally being asked one question that he could actually answer. Of course, it wasn't much of one, but Iris didn't call him on it.

Training was the best excuse he could think of, after all. In a lot of ways, it was the only thing that could really help him focus when there was too much noise in his head, and it had been downright deafening in there for the last few days. He was overdue for a go with the training dummies they kept in the basement; the sooner he had a chance to blow off some steam, the better.

Iris didn't agree. Spitfire though she was, she hadn't agreed since they made it back to Insomnia. She'd mentioned it once, in the beginning when they were still walking on eggshells around certain subjects. Somehow, she didn't get the point of him lunging around the backyard preparing for a battle that was never going to happen. She didn't understand the reason for throwing himself into the same old routine he'd had for years before they left the Crown City in the first place when it wasn't like he was going to use those skills anytime soon. They finally had peace; they had light and life without having to worry about whether daemons were going to barge in and steal it all. What was the use in training if they weren't even at war anymore?

None of his arguments had convinced her, not that they had been too great in hindsight. Annoying as it was, Ignis wasn't wrong when he said that Gladio could stand to practice his verbalization skills. He got by fine most of the time; he could communicate well enough under ordinary circumstances. When he was angry, though, when someone was plucking on his last damn nerve… Yeah, in those moments, he tended to lose himself to the passion of his opinion without giving a whole lot of thought to whether he was making the kind of sense that would persuade someone else that he was right. Iris was no exception, regardless of the fact that they had grown up together. She got it to a certain extent: being raised by their father meant that she couldn't help but register the finer points of being a Shield. That didn't change the reality that she was still a civilian—a tough one, but a civilian nonetheless. As such, she wasn't equipped to value training and physical force the way Gladio was. That was how he'd always lived his life, and to be honest, he'd made it this far thinking that it was also how he would go out. Being a Shield made it sort of necessary a lot of the time.

He'd thought so, anyway. The Six had sort of screwed him out of that one.

Ultimately, it didn't matter if he'd use his skills outside of training ever again. It didn't matter if his destiny turned into one that involved a lot more words than action like Ignis and Prompto's were starting to. Gladio didn't need to fight enemies, but he did need to move. In instances like this, when the weight of the world and all the things he hadn't been able to do sat heavily on his shoulders, it felt like his skin was on fire. Millions of needles pricked him from every angle at once, and it was all he could do not to scratch the sensation off in an effort to be free of the burden he'd never leave behind. Distracting himself with housework and rebuilding the kingdom? That only went so far.

Whether she knew that or not, whether she understood or not, Iris didn't question it this time. She pointedly refrained from asking what for when he said he'd be out back with his sword; she didn't even offer one of her snarky propositions to join him. All she did was nod her head in silent acceptance as he grabbed his weapon from its usual spot near the door and descended to the basement to grab what he needed.

Like any good servant to the king, his dad had kept an extensive collection of arms and equipment in the makeshift training room downstairs, mostly so that they could work on Gladio's form when they weren't at the Citadel. All things considered, he figured he owed much of his own talent to his father. For as long as he could remember, his dad had been pushing him to be the best that he could be, both academically and physically. The sparring, the lessons, the reading—it never ended. If Gladio was at home, his father had something waiting for him so that he wouldn't sit idly the way normal guys his age frequently did. And that had been cool with him: Shields didn't need time to be lazy. They didn't need social lives, not when their very existences were tied to those of their charges. When he was a kid, Gladio had thought it was the highest compliment to be so extensively trained and motivated. It had simply meant that they wanted what was best for him and, by extension, the king he was bound to serve.

He tried not to remember those first few months after he'd actually met the guy. They…weren't exactly his finest moments, he could say that much.

That fleeting bout of uncertainty had passed, though, and Gladio had thrown himself into his training with renewed vigor once he realized that maybe he hadn't gotten as unlucky in his assignment as he'd believed. If he couldn't make it to the Citadel or it wasn't his day to train there, then his father's stash was always open to him. In fact, his dad had welcomed him to use it, and he had plenty of fond memories of the two of them duking it out down here while they pretended Iris wasn't watching them from the top of the stairs.

Those were the days. He hadn't thought so then, but he had had ten long years to think about them while his training consisted of constant combat and a myriad of close calls. It sure made fighting his father seem like a cake walk.

Now, there was no sparring with the man he had looked up to since he was too young to know why. There was no trading blows and witty barbs at the end of the day to burn off a little residual energy. There was no telling Iris that she was too young to give it a try or blinking tears away when he hurt himself or pretending that he wasn't even slightly nervous that he wouldn't be able to do his job anywhere near as well as all the Amicitia men who had preceded him. Those days had passed, relegated to whatever memories he could preserve as they faded further into the depths of his mind. They'd all grown up, and there was no going back no matter how desperately he wished that he had taken care of some business before they'd gotten this far.

He couldn't, though. All he could do was keep moving forward—King Regis had said it the day they left Insomnia, and his father had drilled it into his head so often as a kid that Gladio couldn't even count the number of times he'd mocked him for it.

As he hauled a couple of training dummies out into the yard, he couldn't help thinking that his father would be saying the same thing as always if he were here right now. After all, kicking some fake ass wasn't exactly what he would call moving forward. There was plenty he could be doing in Insomnia, whether it was hunting down Ignis and Prompto or just going out with Iris to have a good time for a change. People weren't running scared anymore, hiding from the shadows so that they didn't become one themselves. They were having fun when they could, going places and doing things and getting their minds off their problems for the first time in over a decade. Life was going back to normal.

And Gladio was raising his sword, swinging it in a wide arc, and sweeping one of the dummies out of his way as if it wasn't even there.

The one difficulty with training alone was that there was only so much you could really do before it got old. The same workouts, the same drills, the same routines blended together until Gladio couldn't bring himself to believe that any of them were doing him a damn bit of good. His muscles didn't burn with the strain anymore, if he could call it that in the first place. They were accustomed to the paces he put them through when he dove over what was left of their rear hedge and rolled beneath the shattered remains of the fence that he'd piled up to create what passed for an obstacle course. The Citadel's equipment would have been better suited to his purpose, but he wasn't about to head into the middle of the city. Not today.

Besides, while going through the motions of training was of no strategic use whatsoever, there was also no denying that it had something of a therapeutic effect on him that he had been in search of since he'd gotten into Insomnia last night. The familiar flow allowed him to lose himself to the rhythm his father had taught him as a kid: jump, duck, roll, lunge. Nothing fancy. Nothing over the top. Just jump, duck, roll, lunge.

Jump. Duck. Roll. Lunge.

Jump. Duck. Roll. Lunge.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

In that cycle, there was no room for thought. There was no room for what if. There was no room for could I have or should I have. There was no room for what for or what now or the uncomfortable sensation of not knowing or wanting to know the answer to that. It was pure, mindless action, and he needed every second of it.

Which meant his brain was going to do everything it could to mess him up.

At some point, Iris had gone to meet up with Talcott, leaving the house empty and dark in the rapidly dimming light of the afternoon sun. It towered over Gladio as he pushed himself towards the edge of awareness, the edge of any consciousness of the world around him. In a sense, the solitude was almost a relief, especially when he hadn't been able to ignore the way his sister's eyes seemed to bore into his back where he knew she had been watching from her bedroom window. The house didn't judge him like she did; the house didn't shake its head and wonder whether he was ever going to get over things that he couldn't change. It was simply there, a beacon in the shadows that had withstood the test of time and survived the fires of defeat. That was comforting, in a sense. Between the two of them, they'd seen some pretty serious shit.

So had their guest.

Try as he might to keep his mind off it, Gladio wasn't as alone as he desperately wished to be. There was a presence around him that went beyond his nosy sister or the dummies that seemed to exude the aura of his father's scrutiny with every overpowered blow he dealt them. It didn't speak, yet it was all he could hear; it didn't move, yet it was all he could see. Time and time again, he would weave through the aging pseudo enemies only to find a familiar face waiting for him on the other side. He would swing his sword, aiming for a target that would never feel his own anguish, only to discover that there was someone blocking the way—himself.

Because he was certain that what he was seeing couldn't be there. Gladio knew damn well that it was his eyes and ears playing tricks on him, that his brain was acknowledging what his consciousness had refused to all day.

Noct, sitting in the grass after plunging his training sword into the ground.

Noct, growling in frustration that he could never get the upper hand no matter how many times they went at it.

Noct, averting his eyes as he admitted the truth of his apparent lethargy, the fear of his father's death.

Wherever Gladio turned, he saw Noct. There was no ignoring the phantom that appeared before his blade in silent reminder that he hadn't been able to save the one person he would never forgive himself for losing; there was no avoiding the specter that dogged his steps when he threw his sword to the side and sprinted as though all the daemons of Zegnautus were on his heels.

And his voice. Goddamn it, his voice. It was everywhere—in Gladio's ears, in his head, in his very soul. Whispered jokes about Ignis's obsessive mother-henning accompanied tearful admissions of the shortcomings Noct had never been keen on admitting he had. Nights of laughing and shouting in equal measures over video games, barbless digs at the books Gladio used to read on long journeys in the Regalia, halfhearted excuses when he was avoiding his responsibilities. Each and every one of them blurred together until Gladio couldn't stand it anymore, the cacophony in his skull growing too loud to handle.

Gladiolus Amicitia was no coward, but in that instant, all he could think to do was run.

The problem? There was nowhere to go. He was surrounded in this place, in the city that had always been his home and the house that had always held a special spot in his heart. If he left, Iris would be pissed, but if he stayed? His head was going to explode.

So, he did the only thing he could: Gladio ditched the training gear in the yard and stomped inside with the shadows of his past to his rear. He'd spent every single moment of the last year practicing, after all; Ignis wouldn't let him forget it. Whenever he was gone a little longer than he'd originally stated, whenever he was the first one out the door instead of waiting for the rest of the council to adjourn, he got an earful about how he needed to get with the program. As if he wasn't functioning just as well as always, day in and day out like clockwork. He wasn't the one who had changed, and he wasn't the one who required the lecture. Not from Ignis, not from Cor, not from Iris—not from anybody.

He'd gotten it anyway. Everyone seemed to have something to say, whether it was Ignis telling him to pull himself together (he had) or Cor claiming that he would be of more use in Insomnia than running around Lucis (he wouldn't). They all had reasons why he wasn't doing enough, wasn't being enough, and he was so sick of it that he would scream if he wasn't a hell of a lot better than some whiny teenage girl.

Plus, what right did he have to get upset about it? What right did he have to slam the door to his bedroom and stalk into the bathroom, yanking off his shirt and throwing it towards the clothes hamper with all the force he could muster? What right did he have to jerk the faucet in his shower to the hottest possible setting as though it was the one that had ruined his training session and not his own damn brain?

None. He had no right to any of it. Some days, he wasn't even sure he had a right to be.

And it was no wonder. When he pulled apart the layers of grief and failure, Gladio had no clue who he was anymore. The persona he'd been raised to embody had died beside his king as every Shield was meant to, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of that guy ever since. What remained in his wake was someone Gladio couldn't identify, a stranger in familiar garments. Months passed, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was constantly in the wrong place, living a life that didn't really belong to him. Walking the halls of the Citadel was like standing beside his own ghost, the latter always on his ass for not doing or being what he should. The phantom didn't mean it the way everyone else did, though. No, this was infinitely worse. Gladio's father had fallen in service to King Regis; every one of his ancestors had preceded their kings into the afterlife, but here he was. Noct was gone, and he was glaring at his shower as steam filled the bathroom. Noct was gone, and he was wearing a hole in the tile as he paced back and forth. Noct was gone, and he was trying to catch the breath that still somehow invaded his lungs through the haze of humidity around him.

Noct was gone, and his pathetic excuse for a Shield was still standing.

Slamming his fists down on the counter, Gladio bent his head low over the sink and took as deep a breath as he could manage when it felt like there was fire in his chest, suffocating whatever life remained inside him. This was why he hadn't wanted to come back to Insomnia today. This was exactly why he had planned on heading to Galdin or Lestallum or wherever he could find work that would empty his mind and allow him a few moments of peace. They never lasted—he wasn't that lucky—but it was better than digging his fingers into the hard marble surface as if he could sink into it and vanish if he really tried.

That would be easy, though, and Gladio didn't deserve easy. If anything, he was paying for his failure in spades, trapped here where he couldn't escape the memories.

The very idea was a joke and a half. When Gladio raised his eyes to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him in mingled disgust and anguish, he was reminded for the millionth time that he had evidence of his ineptitude written into every line of his body. Black ink waved mockingly from his reflection, once a sign of his station, of the great destiny that he had inherited from his own dad and his father before him. Ever since he'd taken a seat in that chair in their family's preferred parlor, ever since the needle had touched his skin to make its first mark, he had seen it as something of a badge of honor. This was what set him apart from the rest of the Crownsguard and made him a Shield to the future king of Lucis. Whoever he met or wherever he went, a glimpse of his tattoo would tell them that his was a far more valuable lot in life than anyone else would ever find. Even though it had become a joke between him and Noct when they were younger, that was admittedly why he'd chosen to wear fewer clothes than the others on so many occasions. Gladio liked that attention, and not just the type that his physique garnered from the ladies. While that was definitely nice, it was about so much more than that. The Crownsguard had their uniforms; the Kingsglaive, their badges and magic. He had this. Through thick and thin, in this life or the next, he would always have his brand.

Nowadays, it was hard to believe that he had blindly admired the eagle on his collarbone for so many years. It was difficult to remember the feeling of satisfaction that it used to give him when he spotted it peeking out from underneath his jacket or spied someone squinting to get a better look from afar. Then again, just about everything was like that anymore. Hanging out with the guys? More of a hassle than a pleasure. Working at the Citadel? Too painful to take in more than small doses. Spending time at home? So stifling that he felt like he was crawling out of his skin.

Hell, even the occasional date wasn't enough to interest him anymore. Don't get him wrong, he was still pretty good with the ladies. He'd met more than one interested party in his travels, and none of them cared whether his tattoo meant something or not. They wouldn't have minded if he was merely one of the nameless, faceless hunters that passed through the newly rebuilt outposts without saying a word. There was something freeing about that, something that he should have reveled in when he had the chance.

Instead, he shied away from the kind of interactions he used to jump at. If someone made a move, he made a few of his own—in the opposite direction. He hadn't done any real flirting in so long that he couldn't remember the last time, not with a random face in the crowd or even that one girl in Lestallum he'd been positive he could see becoming part of his future. Well, back when he'd thought there was a future. At this point, it was like he was treading water, waiting for the world to start spinning again when it seemed determined not to move an inch.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, it was his own damn fault, too.

That thought alone had him deflating, the anger and frustration that had welled up inside him beginning to subside as he watched his shoulders slump in the mirror. Shit. He was on a roll today, allowing himself to get lost in a place no self-respecting Shield would have access to. It inhibited action and encouraged pitying yourself to the point of worthlessness. What the hell would his dad think of him if he could see what he had become?

Actually, Gladio didn't need to ask that: he already knew what his father would believe, and it wasn't anything good. They may not have seen eye to eye on everything, but listening to Cor, he could sometimes hear his dad's voice coming out of the marshal's mouth. He'd certainly left an impression, not that the latter had learned much until it was too late. They were a lot alike that way, Cor and Gladio. They both ran in without thinking, and both of them had practically been slapped by the Six for their foolishness.

Cor had said that, among other things. At the beginning and a few times since, on occasions when Gladio had apparently behaved badly enough that it warranted sitting him down for a chat like a goddamn toddler, the marshal had made no bones about telling it like it was. As far as he was concerned, Gladio had nothing to be complaining about. He'd done his job; he had seen Noct to his fate, regardless of whether that brought them to a place where he survived it. That supposedly hadn't been his duty as Shield. Rather, he was meant to take his king as far as he could before letting the gods have their way with him. That was, after all, the whole point of the King of Kings.

The King of Kings. What a load of garbage. Gladio didn't buy that for one second. He hadn't bought any of it, not when Cor had thrust it upon him as though it was some kind of comfort and not in the months he'd had to process. What else was a Shield but a safeguard against harm? What else was a Shield but a wall between their king and a gruesome end? Alone. On a throne. With nobody by his side but a bunch of dead leaders and the promise that their world would be a better place once he was gone. Yeah, that sure sounded like what the old texts were going for when they instructed Shields to stand by their monarchs for all time.

Informing the marshal of that hadn't been one of his more intelligent ideas. Ignis had verbally kicked him over it afterward, yet Gladio hadn't been able to muster any regret for saying what he felt. He wasn't a kid anymore, nor was he the young Shield that had set out from Insomnia with absolutely no experience under his belt but the training he'd received in the safety of his own home. If anyone had earned the right to speak their mind, he considered himself a decent candidate. It wasn't like he had to watch his mouth for the sake of his position—it wasn't like he had a position in the first place. Cor's venomous glower and insistence that he was behaving in a manner unbecoming both a Shield and an Amicitia alike wouldn't change that.

Gladio nearly lunging at him in rage wouldn't have either. Needles to say, it was a good thing Ignis and Prompto had been there to stop him before he could make that mistake. Maybe his reputation didn't matter anymore, but he really didn't want to be on the receiving end of Cor's brand of discipline.

Things had been decidedly cool between them for a few weeks in the aftermath, although neither of them had uttered a word about the exchange. They had work to do, and while there would be time to mentally spar later, it didn't bode well for them to be at each other's throats when they needed to be devoted to rebuilding Lucis. So, with the exception of the seemingly random yet painstakingly planned occasions when Cor dressed him down for his absence, they focused on their duty to what remained of their kingdom. They focused on doing what Noct would have wanted if he were here to say it himself, on doing what he had said when they parted ways for the last time.

They focused on moving on without him.

Well, they tried, anyway. It turned out the whole moving on thing was a hell of a lot harder when your heart kept holding you back. That was a problem Gladio never thought he'd encounter, but ever since Noct left them, he had been surprised to discover a ton of stuff hiding beneath the surface that he'd managed to curb thus far. The distant fear that he would fail, the discomfort of knowing that there were some things he wouldn't be able to accomplish, the anger at the fate they'd all suffered that had led them to this point—every ounce of it simmered low in his stomach, waiting for an outlet that he hadn't offered it before. To be honest, he hadn't given himself much of a chance. His father and each of his instructors over the years had ceaselessly emphasized that his job wasn't to think of himself so much as it was to think about Noct. Whatever insecurities he might have had when he was a kid needed to be shoved aside to make way for his charge's wellbeing instead, whether that was the support Gladio had to offer him or the kick in the ass he sometimes had to administer. Either way, a Shield didn't allow themselves to cater to emotions, their own or anyone else's. Their duty was to keep everyone around them going, most especially their king.

That was why he stayed busy. For all the memories Insomnia held for him, the Crown City was nothing compared to the inside of his own head. The emotions churning around in there were daunting, to put it in Ignis's terms, and he didn't want any part of them. When he was busy, he could concentrate on other matters; he could believe for a brief fraction of a second that he was making progress towards moving past this entirely. He wasn't, but hey, a guy could dream.

Figuratively speaking. In reality, Gladio dreaded closing his eyes at night more than opening them in the morning. There was no helping that when the same nightmare greeted him without fail.

Being in the throne room. Finding Noct in the seat that was always meant for him. Although he'd smirk at them and joke that they were late, it was brittle at best. It didn't carry the warmth or the affection it usually did.

Every time, Gladio would ascend the stairs. Every time, Noct would be gone when he reached the top.

But the throne wasn't empty.

In Noct's place was a picture. It was always the same one: the one he had taken with him before they strode calmly into hell. The one of the four of them around the Regalia when they'd picked it up from Hammerhead, before they'd gone to Galdin and the world had gone to shit.

Knowing what would happen didn't stop him from reaching out in his dream to take the photo. Hundreds of times, he'd watched the Crystal shatter in response, showering him with sparkling silver dust. After that, it was all a blur: the floor vanishing beneath him, careening into darkness, the silence pressing against his eardrums as if it was trying to squeeze his brain between them.

He wasn't alone, though. In that place, he was never alone.

Noct was with him, only Gladio couldn't see him through the shadows. There was no mistaking the hand on his shoulder that simultaneously urged him to turn and begged him not to. Nothing else penetrated the gloom but that familiar touch and the heartache that accompanied it. Without hesitation, Gladio would wrench himself away and whirl around—

And wake up.

Panting for breath, he would glance around whatever room he happened to be staying in or any one of the camps he frequented when he couldn't be bothered to head back to an outpost for the night. His skin would burn beneath the Crystal shard that gleamed in the light of his bathroom mirror now, framed in the hollow of his throat and winking under the fluorescents. His hand would immediately reach for it in lieu of the target he never could seem to catch, and he would hiss in pain when the heat of the stone stung his palm. It wasn't something he questioned, the inferno that erupted around his talisman whenever he had that dream. Admittedly, his mind was usually elsewhere.

Because, just like when he trained, he would spend the next few hours trying to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Days would pass, and he still wouldn't be able to get the remnants of the dream out of his head. It was no surprise when the ghost of Noct's hand on his shoulder haunted him with each step, seemingly content to tap his arm at the worst possible moments in an attempt to get him to turn around and acknowledge his presence. In the fleeting instances where Gladio gave in to his own weakness and glanced behind him, however, there was never anyone there. Logic couldn't mop up the disappointment that would flood his insides, and he would be forced to go about his business as if he wasn't well aware that his brain was an even bigger traitor than half the Kingsglaive.

So, he did his best to avoid the nightmares altogether despite the unfortunate fact that they'd come for him every night regardless. He ran himself ragged in the hopes that he would be too exhausted to dream, all to no avail. It didn't matter if he helped Ignis with the council or ran deliveries with Talcott and Iris; it didn't matter if he trained with the marshal for threats that didn't exist anymore or met up with Prompto on the rare occasions they crossed paths outside the city. Whatever he tried, he ended up in exactly the same place.

And they'd thought Ardyn had lost his mind. Pretty soon, Gladio thought he might just join the guy.

But he could ponder that another day. For now, he had enough on his plate simply getting through the next couple of hours until the vicious cycle began anew. Standing in front of a mirror that had long since fogged up from the steam in his bathroom wasn't what he would qualify as a productive evening, and there were still a few things he wanted to get done before he called it a night. His stomach was growling, the dried sweat from his pitiful excuse for a training session was starting to itch, and he was seriously overdue for getting reacquainted with his own mattress for a change. Iris would be home later and probably want him to spend time with her, knowing that he wasn't bound to stick around for long. His phone was already buzzing, and when he pulled it out of his pocket, Prompto's name and an invitation to play the newest incarnation of King's Knight flashed on the screen.

He could do this. He had to do this. All he needed to do was hold it together, stay busy, keep himself distracted…

And try to figure out who he was when he had no king to protect.