Chapter Three: In Dreams
Duty was a double-edged sword. That was the realization that increasingly absorbed Ignis's attention.
His entire life had been spent in pursuit of greater accomplishments than most individuals could boast of from the moment they were born until they left nothing more than a legacy behind them. In his thirty-three years, he had trained under some of the most impressive instructors Eos had to offer, served two kings, and coordinated the reconstruction of the entire kingdom—and that was barely scratching the surface. His duty never abated, whether he was acting in an official capacity under the marshal's leadership or taking the initiative to perform whatever tasks were required that few would be willing to shoulder. Each day, he woke to a new list of self-imposed goals, all of which were designed to dovetail with those that would bring them yet another step closer to the rejuvenation of their former lives. There was no going back in time, nor could they truly reclaim what they had lost, yet it was a worthwhile endeavor to get as close as possible.
That, after all, was the duty appointed to him by both King Regis and Noctis. That was what he had promised the latter when they parted ways, if not quite as vocally as he could have. In the heat of the moment, it hadn't seemed so important to confirm his understanding of his destiny in words, though. They had spent long enough in each other's company to communicate without them, regardless of whether it would have been more ideal to have had many years beyond what the Six had granted them. That being the case, Ignis knew his place and was aware of what his duty entailed. Much of the time, that was what kept him on the straight and narrow while others struggled to find where they belonged in this new and strange world that they were embarking on together. Gladio was feeling it, loath as he was to concur when Ignis attempted to make him admit that; even Prompto was not immune to the occasional belief that things had changed and left them behind in the process.
But not Ignis. He was too well trained, too well acquainted with the dimensions of his duty and how it would be altered should he find himself without the monarch that had become more than a friend and brother. His determination had been crafted and tuned to the point where nothing could stop him, not even the unthinkable. Admittedly, there were innumerable instances over the span of his life where he'd been certain that his journey had come to an end, be it in the aftermath of his sacrifice to rescue Noct from Ardyn's clutches (however unnecessary that had turned out to be in hindsight) or the ten years he had spent wondering if each day would be his last. In spite of those internal fears and close calls, not once had he shirked his responsibilities; not once had he given up in the face of adversity. Well, he nearly had in Altissia: without his sight to combat the recurring visions of Noctis, older and more experienced and dying alone on his throne, he had thought he might go mad if he did not at least attempt to curb their course. In a sense, that was merely yet another aspect of his duty, so he did not regret that brief weakness for a second. To keep Noct from harm, even and perhaps most especially when Ignis had information that his friend and liege did not, had always been his purpose. To see him safely to Accordo, to help him retake both Crystal and throne, to ensure that he ascended to the lofty position he was meant to inherit—that was Ignis's duty. Shameful as it was when he reflected upon it now, his pleas that Noct set aside his divine destiny had worked towards that goal.
The fact that his efforts had failed, of course, was neither here nor there.
The important thing was that he had tried, that he had at every turn followed his calling to its logical conclusion. Ignis did the same now, oftentimes forcing himself down the path he knew he should be on despite not necessarily wanting to travel along it. Doing so kept him sane and focused, and really, that was all any of them could hope for anymore. Given the alternative, he should have considered himself quite lucky indeed.
Unfortunately, that was rather difficult when duty also meant sitting in the council chambers listening to the marshal read through Talcott's latest memorandum long after the rest of the Citadel had retired for the evening.
"Communications have been stable enough over the last few months to test television signals," he was saying, either oblivious to or ignoring the way Ignis's attention was beginning to flag as the minutes ticked by. "So far, everything is holding steady. The radio waves from the Citadel are stronger than before, but they're working on boosting the range as we speak. If their progress continues at this rate, then broadcasting should be back to full operation within the next couple of weeks."
"Not exactly what I would have expected them to prioritize," admitted Ignis wryly. The marshal's chuckle sounded as exhausted as he imagined his own voice did.
"Not at all, but I suppose it can't be helped. People need a distraction."
Humming in agreement, Ignis mused, "Better this than nothing."
"You can say that again."
Of the various leisure activities they'd had at their disposal eleven years prior, few remained. There were no more frivolities, at least none that were functional, and the chore of restoring the Crown City had overshadowed their importance. They had too many other problems that needed solving to waste time and manpower on trimming park lawns, after all. As such, there was little opportunity for the people of Insomnia—or anywhere else—to take a break from the daily bustle of rebuilding what they could of their lives and worry about entertainment.
Ordinarily, Ignis would have said that was a good thing. While they had made a sizable amount of progress already, there was a great deal left to do; there were moments when he was positively overwhelmed by the sheer volume of their task as they planned their next move. That being said, it wasn't often that he took a day off. To do so seemed tantamount to flouting his responsibilities, and that was unforgivable. In the past, he had survived off the kindness of strangers more times than he could count, both in the wake of blindly striking out from Insomnia or merely his literal blindness as he attempted to interpret the world around him in ways that didn't require use of his eyes. Perhaps it was reading too deeply into things, but to Ignis, it felt as though stepping back from his duty would be the equivalent of spitting in their faces. They had sacrificed a certain level of freedom for him—Noct had sacrificed his life. The least he could do was stick to his priorities like glue until they were completed, whether that was weeks, months, or years from now.
Well, he wouldn't be bored. That was comforting.
Others, however, were not the same as him. They needed that release, that relief from the burdens they were forced to bear if they wanted to repopulate the civilization they used to inhabit. If the best they could do was broadcast television programs that had gone out of style a decade ago, then it was a worthy venture. At least that would occupy the city's children, who had nothing better to do than play in the rubble.
"It may be prudent to invest some of our resources into fresh programming," he suggested wearily, already hearing the marshal scribbling a note in the margins of the missive. "Spreading news would be more convenient, and the citizenry will only be entertained by whatever media remains for so long."
"My thoughts exactly. Besides, if we play our cards right, we might be able to expand the network outside the borders of Insomnia this time."
"Without the Wall blocking the signal, it should be a relatively simple matter."
"You say that now, but we both know it's never that easy."
Ignis couldn't help smirking at that. No, it never was. Those days, sadly, had passed.
Try as he might to forget, it was impossible to sit in this room and not recall the meetings he had attended when he was little more than a boy training to be a king's advisor. He could no longer see it, yet the image was preserved in his memory as perfectly as though it were just yesterday. The table where the council congregated, the king's chair at its head, the windows set high in the walls so they were not entirely unaware of the passage of time—it was all there, painted on the insides of his eyelids so that he could see it in his mind's eye. Back then, his opinion hadn't mattered a bit; he'd had the luxury of merely attending rather than the stress of providing information. He was there to take notes that he would later present to Noctis, not to offer insight or recommend any course of action. King Regis had his own retainers for that, although Ignis was certain that his suggestions would have been met with open-minded tolerance had he been brave enough to voice them on occasion.
But he hadn't been, and he had to admit that he was glad for it. At that age, he doubted he would have been able to come up with anything better than King Regis was already receiving. Indeed, there were still moments when he wondered whether he even remotely measured up to his predecessors' expectations and reputations.
There wasn't much difference when he was in the marshal's presence, as a matter of fact. While he was more vocal with his praise, particularly in situations when he knew that a small boost went a long way, there were nevertheless instances when Ignis's lack of sight betrayed him. Reading silence was harder than reading an expression, the latter of which he had been trained to do with ease. The former, he had to teach himself, and the results were at times…debatable. There was no question as to whether the marshal valued his opinion and acted on it in more than one circumstance, yet Ignis would have appreciated getting to the root of a matter more quickly by deciphering his audience's thoughts on their faces, not in the sounds of their voices.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. He had to accept what solace he could glean from his surroundings, and not having to concern himself with the same considerations that he had when King Regis sat the throne was a fair starting point.
Another would have been a speedy adjournment, but that, as well, was far too simple for them.
"Iris said that Gladio is back in town for a couple of days," the marshal continued as though that were the natural progression of the conversation. "We can send him out to survey the telegraph poles in Leide. They may need some restructuring, but they're sturdy enough to do the job in a pinch."
"I'm sure he'll jump at the opportunity," sighed Ignis. If only that weren't the case.
The marshal caught on to his point without further explanation, and there was a fleeting yet terse pause before he replied, "Once we have the kingdom connected, he'll have to find a new hobby."
That was an optimistic approach to the subject, and they both knew it. Gladio had not willingly remained in the Crown City for longer than a week at a time since their return; whenever Ignis turned around, he was gone again. Although he would never acknowledge it aloud, he had taken to referring to Gladio as the errand Shield in his less charitable moments. That wasn't to say that they didn't need someone to traverse the span of the kingdom to suit their purposes, of course. On the contrary, there were few people better suited to the task: they had all been living in the same undesirable conditions, but that sort of thing never bothered Gladio. He was the epitome of an outdoorsman, and as such, he was one of the best equipped candidates for the task of carrying messages and other news to the outposts.
Still, it didn't have to be him. He wasn't required to accept every single assignment. Unlike Ignis's penchant for avoiding vacations like the Starscourge, this was not a facet of Gladio's duty. It was neither expected of him nor encouraged when he used it purely as a means of coping—or, more accurately, not coping. If anything, it had become a point of contention between them, albeit born more from frustration than actual anger.
In Ignis's opinion, Gladio's place was here. The marshal agreed, as did Prompto and Iris. After all the time they had spent apart, Gladio's sister deserved to have her brother home for longer at the very least. Besides, there was far more he could accomplish in the city than out in the wilderness somewhere, not least of which coming to terms with a few things that he refused to admit had stumped him emotionally. That, of course, was exactly why he stayed on the run—or busy, as he called it. When faced with the prospect of his own feelings, Gladio had always been one to voluntarily throw himself over a cliff before dealing with it in a timely manner.
Honestly, there were days when Ignis thought he was perhaps the only one still functioning normally around here.
That was why he didn't complain when the marshal did not adjourn their two-man council meeting. That was why Ignis kept his mouth firmly closed as he read a few more of the updates they would need to take into account for their next projects. He hadn't asked for this to be his duty or his fate, nor had the marshal. As such, it was not his place to insist that they had been here long enough, just as it unfortunately wasn't his place to force Gladio to do anything he didn't want to.
As the advisor to the last king of Lucis and assistant to the first council ruler of their new order, his duty was simply to listen and to speak. What others chose to do was none of his business and, therefore, beyond his ability to change.
So, he didn't. While he occasionally poked his nose into Gladio's business (perhaps more than occasionally, if he was being honest, but friends were allowed that privilege even if duty dictated otherwise) or spoke out of turn to steer the council's agenda, Ignis focused singularly on the responsibilities granted to him by his liege. Some days, that meant examining record after record of Lucian infrastructure so that they could effectively restore what was necessary for their continued development, usually with a faithful companion to read for him. Others, it meant sitting in hours of meetings as their regional representatives debated the most pressing issues that required resolution.
Today, it meant nodding when the marshal assigned him the pleasure of speaking to Gladio about the future of their communications network and logging away the potential programs they could produce in the coming weeks.
That, luckily, was all it meant. Either the marshal realized how long they had been at that table or he was feeling the same itch at the corners of his eyes that Ignis was, because he did not attempt to address any more business tonight. After a few final objectives were divvied between them, he acknowledged that they had done enough for one day and dismissed Ignis with a hearty apology. There was no use telling him that he needn't have bothered or that he was glad to have been there rather than anywhere else: the Immortal was no stranger to his thoughts or habits, so it was unlikely that he was ignorant of Ignis's reluctance to be idle that evening. It had to be obvious in every line of his slumped shoulders and cadence of his sighed breath, in any case.
Or it would have been, if he were anybody else. Ignis was no fool: he knew better than to act on his weariness and uncertainty in places where it might be seen. It was a practice he had perfected in the early days of his tutelage, when he had exited the same room with his spine rigidly straight and his posture stiffer than a board. Maintaining appearances was a necessity, especially when he had been under constant scrutiny day and night. A mistake, even a slight one, could have functioned as damning evidence that he was unfit for the position he had worked so hard to deserve. As a result, those old council meetings had filled him with a sense of mingled excitement and dread. It was difficult not to be a bit on edge when his entire future was riding on his ability to prove that he was worthy of serving as Noct's advisor.
Since then, he had come a long way. No one eyed him in the same skeptical examination they used to, as far as he could tell. He could not see the expressions of those who approached him each day, yet he had grown accustomed to discerning negative reactions to his presence. Thus far, he had garnered any number of responses from his peers and subordinates: admiration, respect, even a surprising amount of awe. Not disdain, however. That was one thing he had not been subjected to since the first dawn after Noct's sacrifice.
As Ignis slowly made his way from the council chambers to the elevator, the route burned into his memory so that he could have walked it blindfolded even with his sight, he couldn't help but reflect on that development. In years past, he never would have thought that his reputation would be anything more than that of a loyal and (hopefully) capable retainer. He would walk into the council meetings pretending to be less nervous than he was; he would listen to the conversation and debate flow around him as if he wasn't even there. The king would speak above them all from his seat at the head of the table, the one that no one sat in now lest they dishonor his memory. Without a body to bury, that was more of a concern than they had ever imagined. Everything had become a monument to what they had lost, including the chair that the marshal refused to occupy. It was only fitting, Ignis supposed: in his mind, he could still hear King Regis issuing orders from that direction despite the decade that had passed since their last meeting had adjourned. On that occasion, he had been nothing but Noct's chamberlain, meant to guide him to his wedding and back but not ask questions about what would happen to them then.
Now… Well, now was a difficult pill to swallow, all things considered.
Ignis shook that thought from his mind as he jabbed the button for the lift and waited for its arrival. He had more important things to worry about than that.
Especially today.
Given that it was the first of many milestones they were doomed to encounter, he believed he had done an adequate job of keeping himself focused on less depressing matters. All day, he had leapt from meeting to meeting with a level of agility that Prompto had initially mocked before he began complaining that it was too much. What he meant, Ignis honestly had no idea. They had managed a great deal, but it was no different from usual. Between the volunteers who remained in the Crown City and their counterparts in the major outposts, they were always busy with something. In fact, they had a number of issues on their docket that hadn't quite been settled beyond a cursory glance.
The phone grid, for example. That was a trying quandary, one that he forced himself to recollect while he ascended towards his floor. Although they had given it their all, the question of how they could possibly manage to increase the supply of devices and expand their service network under the constraints they were operating within had yet to be answered. Until fairly recently, the sorts of phones that he had grown up using had circulated solely around the Crown City; outer regions had more rudimentary technology, seemingly ancient artifacts that were unreliable at best by comparison. Their first order of business now that much of the cosmetic work had been done was to change that, not that they were any closer to doing so today than a year ago. They needed industry to make it happen, from building the devices to delivering them to where they would be most valuable. The resources they had at their disposal for the time being simply weren't enough to accommodate, and it had fallen to Ignis to locate a way to bypass that issue as soon as possible.
At the moment, the most feasible idea he had come up with was scavenging the still abandoned parts of the city to find any phones that might be donated posthumously to the cause by their former owners. It was a bleak prospect and more than a bit tasteless, but at least it would work.
Then there was the enormous undertaking of sorting through the photos Prompto had taken of Duscae last month. From what the rest of the council had intimated, there admittedly wasn't much to see: most of the wilderness had been ravaged by the daemons or wild animals that had been left to their own devices in the Long Night. The major outposts were salvageable, albeit with a vast amount of time and patience, but that was not their primary concern. At the heart of their kingdom was the most fertile land available in all of Lucis; Duscae was replete with rich soil, plenty of room, and abundant access to sunshine. In a perfect world, it would have been the solution to the problem their dwindling supplies had caused.
But the world was not perfect. If it were, Ignis would not have to count his immaculately measured footsteps on his way down the corridor or fumble to find the knob of his own apartment door.
Carcasses and decay—that was what awaited them in Duscae. Under ordinary circumstances, that would have been fine: they had made it through ten years of darkness with little more than what they were able to grow in controlled environments, after all. No one was dying of starvation, nor were they even approaching the likelihood of going hungry.
There was no denying, however, that they needed to fix their transportation system or their food shortages—preferably both. If they could reestablish control over the farmland of the central regions of Lucis, then that would mean their supplies would not have to travel such extensive distances to make it from Lestallum to Insomnia. They could then create a more effective transit network until they could repopulate existing production facilities and increase the output of their recovering infrastructure.
It would take time and patience, which Ignis had been quick to remind the rest of the council on numerous occasions during the last year. Today had been more of the same, and while he could not claim to have witnessed the destruction with his own eyes, Ignis was determined to construct a plan of action that they could put into effect in the coming days.
And why shouldn't he? Unlike Gladio and Prompto, Ignis maintained a steadier presence at the Citadel so that he could take a more active role in the rebuilding of their kingdom than what would have been possible had he chosen a different course. A Shield could be of use anywhere in Lucis, as they had quickly discovered: between his strength and intelligence, Gladio was regrettably a prime candidate to lead those who were leaderless, especially beyond the walls. Similarly, Prompto had ascended from the common elements of society to a trusted friend of the Chosen King. That afforded him a certain amount of sway amongst the populace, and that was without counting the admiration he had engendered over the years through his altruism and determination alone. Both of them were suited to their positions—traveling, aiding, and bearing witness to that which they could not restore.
Ignis was different. On some level, he thought perhaps he always had been. As advisor to the future king—former advisor to the former king, that was—it was his duty to ensure that the government was put back together in a manner befitting the monarchs they had inherited it from. It was something that he was perfectly trained for when his companions weren't. Knowing now what King Regis's role had been in orchestrating their salvation, Ignis had no doubt that that had been done on purpose as well.
That sense of duty, of responsibility, was what kept him going. Gladio had his projects, and Prompto had his photographs as he monitored their progress—Ignis had the council. He had an oligarchy that would never be able to take the place of the monarchy they could not preserve. He had plans and records. He had order. He had predictability.
He had everything he could possibly need to fulfill his duty and hated every moment of it.
Because in spite of his devotion to that which had been assigned to him by his liege, Ignis yearned to do more. He had spent so many years safeguarding Lucis during the Long Night; he had spent so much time reteaching himself how to perform the most basic of tasks so that he wouldn't become a liability. In so doing, he had protected his position as an asset to the kingdom, but he couldn't claim to be anywhere near as productive as those on the council who had full use of their faculties.
The marshal spearheaded their endeavors and made the final decisions on how they were going to govern Lucis in the absence of any other leadership, inherited or elected.
Gladio was instrumental in the rebuilding process, whatever his ulterior motives might be.
Prompto was their eyes around Lucis, traveling where he was needed and documenting their growth so that they could make plans for the future.
Monica managed and deployed what remained of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive to wherever they would be of the greatest use in both their protection and reconstruction.
Dave, Cid, Holly—they all had their roles. Each was indispensable, a beacon for the people who had operated under them for ten long years.
Then there was Ignis, valuable in his own right yet not quite irreplaceable. That was but another reason why he attempted to work as hard as he could to bring up the rear, as it were. Much as he wished he could do more than he had, he was aware of his limits. Fighting was something he knew like the back of his hand, as was navigating the Citadel. Construction, however, was an entirely different beast. Perhaps he could have done better had he grown familiar with the concept before he lost his sight, but that couldn't be helped anymore. Ultimately, he was of the most use behind a desk or at a table, organizing their communications and deciding how they were going to combat the distance that had existed between Insomnia and the rest of Lucis a decade ago.
All he could conceivably do was fill in the gaps, and there were plenty for him to be getting on with. There was more than enough theoretical strategizing to be done while the others saw to the manual labor, which meant he needed to stop wallowing and focus on the here and now.
That was admittedly easier said than done.
Stepping into his apartment was like flipping a proverbial switch, and in the blink of an eye, Ignis felt the weight of all that he had been attempting to avoid crashing down on his shoulders. Thankfully, it was nowhere near as heavy as it had been a year ago when he had first returned to his quarters, imagining how it must have looked since there was no way of knowing in his present condition. That, in a sense, was the beauty of what had happened to him; he had to find some where he could. Not having to witness what time and neglect had done to everything he'd once held dear certainly qualified. There was a sizable difference between juxtaposing the memories of his home with descriptions of what it had become and actually seeing it for himself. While it would have been a simple matter to picture it in his mind's eye, he had avoided doing just that and was all the better for it. His fingers had brushed away the telltale dust indicative of years spent in disuse; his arms had borne the clothing that desperately needed to be aired out. Honestly, there was nothing else to see: colors would fade, screens and keepsakes would be shattered, and mold would grow in the corners he used to keep impeccably clean. The knowledge was bad enough without the added benefit of committing it to mental images.
As with so many other things, Gladio had assumed that burden for him. So had Prompto, although his cheery disposition had more effectively hidden the dismay in his voice than the former Shield's. If Ignis hadn't known any better—or known both of them so well—he would have thought that his belongings weren't in the disarray he had been expecting. Gladio's silence had practically screamed the opposite, however, and none of Prompto's decidedly flat jokes had done anything to raise his spirits. That made two of them, especially considering how much had to be thrown out when they were discovered to be broken beyond repair. He had admittedly been fortunate compared to others: his most treasured possessions had somehow made it through in one piece. Where photo frames had shattered in the trembling of Niflheim's bombardment on the Citadel, the pictures inside had apparently been left undamaged; although he couldn't see them, it was still comforting to run his fingers over the new casings and remember what they looked like. Some of the ornaments in his bedroom had been tossed pell-mell around the chamber, but most of them were sturdy enough not to be bothered overmuch. The box where he kept his most prized belongings, from his family's gifts to the crafts Noct had made for him when they were young, had sat untouched in his closet. Perhaps he had lost anything that would be of use to others, but to him? He had plenty to be thankful for.
It was not merely sentimental value that had Ignis resting a hand at the corner of a frame he knew held a photograph of himself with Noct at the erstwhile prince's graduation ceremony, though. It was not what had him pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing as he envisioned it: standing beside his brother with an arm around his shoulders while the latter pretended to be more put out with him than he had been in reality. It was not what had his one good eye (comparatively) blinking back a tear that he refused to shed tonight.
Because underneath it all—the business, the meetings, the duty—Ignis was still grieving just as deeply as Gladio. Yes, he stomached it far better; he had not allowed it to sway his ambitions anywhere near as much. Even so, the lectures he had issued the former Shield were but words. It was easy to tell him what he was doing wrong when Ignis was determined to ignore his own emotions in the process.
By day, he could compartmentalize. He could pretend to be more centered and present than his counterpart. After all, the difference between them was that Ignis had a set job to do. Gladio's had been wiped away with Noct's existence, and he was clearly floundering in the dark to find another course for his future. Ignis, on the other hand, had a position that was not so closely tied with his liege's presence. As such, he woke in the morning to the understanding that even without Noct, his had to press on; even without Noct, he had responsibilities that were his alone to fulfill. Plus, wherever he was, Noct was counting on him to do so. That was all the motivation he needed not to get bogged down by grief, no matter how fresh it remained.
But that was by day. By night, when he did not have to maintain appearances, there was little difference between him and the ten-year-old boy who had been frozen in terror at the sight of his best friend dying from a daemon attack.
It had been infinitely worse in the immediate aftermath, which he had to feel grateful for. Once they restored power to Insomnia and could return to some of their past exploits, like watching movies (or listening, in his case) and playing games, there were alternative avenues he could travel in order to temporarily distract himself. Some nights, he would sit up late and go over the recordings he had made during their recent council meetings so that he could take more accurate note of what his priorities should be the following day; others, he would sit in Prompto's room and smile at the nostalgia as he listened to him curse Gladio's innate ability to best him at King's Knight half a kingdom away. It wasn't the same, not when they had lost so much, but it was of some comfort. That had to count for something.
Usually, it did. Ignis couldn't deny that many of their old pastimes had ceased to be as entertaining as when the three of them were younger, yet he took solace from the fact that that was a natural development rather than the byproduct of mourning. It wasn't the games or the camaraderie that had changed so much as themselves. Eleven years had vanished; no one could cling onto their past for that long, not considering all they'd had to prioritize in that time. Besides that, it was impossible to enjoy what they once had without Noct there to share it with them.
Which was why Ignis did not try. He did not trick himself into believing that free time was anything more than that, nor did he put any effort into attempting to make it so. If he wasn't working, he filled the empty hours with whatever would take his mind off of less desirable thoughts, that was all. For now, that was quite enough to concentrate on. He had to stay focused, motivated, and steadfast. He had to remember what was at stake if he shrugged aside his responsibilities or failed to uphold the legacy that he was tasked with preserving for Noct in his absence. He had to… He had to…
He had to cook dinner. Yes. He should cook dinner.
Nodding shakily, Ignis reluctantly turned his back on the photograph, eyes of the past boring into his skull as he trod the familiar path into his kitchen and flipped the light switch. It was sheer force of habit more than anything else: he had gone too many years adhering to a certain routine, and the last decade had not quite stolen that from him like it had other things. The illumination did not make a dent in the darkness that constantly surrounded him; he had to sightlessly navigate the space between the refrigerator and his cupboards regardless. Still, it was nice to know that the overhead lamp was on. It made him feel more at home, whether he could see it or not.
He could say the same for the numbing process of chopping vegetables and seasoning fish and counting the seconds until it was time to flip both in the pan he was heating over the stove. The sizzle of oil was like a lullaby to his senses, soothing his nerves in a way that would have relaxed him any other evening. There was nothing that could do that for him tonight, but that was just fine with him. Not dwelling on the past didn't mean that he wanted to avoid remembering entirely now that he didn't have an audience to perform for. They had come too far for that—Noct deserved better.
His prince—his king, his brother—deserved the meal he laid out on his kitchen counter more than he did. In an age long gone, Noct would have earned it: he would have caught the barramundi himself and pleaded with Ignis to use that for their dinner at camp rather than any number of the more wholesome, vegetable-rich dishes that Ignis preferred. He would have insisted on ordering the fries that Ignis pulled out of his oven, dousing them in ketchup and pretending that the latter counted as a nutritious condiment. Noct would have rolled his eyes when Ignis refused, smirked when he gave in, and grinned with every bite.
Noct wasn't here, though. Gladio and Prompto weren't here, not that that was very different from the new norm. It was only Ignis, eating his brother's favorite meal in honor of his sacrifice and wishing that he could trade one for the other.
Elsewhere in Insomnia, people were celebrating—actually, truly celebrating. Then again, they had a right to, didn't they? There was no reason for them not to toast Noct's name over aged liquor and drink to his lack of health. They were perfectly justified in raising a glass in remembrance when they were blessed with the luxury of going about their days without a care for him otherwise. They hadn't lost a brother in their king, hadn't lost as good a friend as a liege. To them, Noct was Noctis Lucis Caelum, the King of Kings and purveyor of their good fortunes. He was a distant, vague silhouette at best for those who did not know him well; his reputation spoke for him more than any real memories of what he was like. While Ignis reminisced about days spent in the Regalia and nights at camp, his arms elbow deep in soapy water as he scrubbed his dishes clean and set them back in their rightful place, they paid tribute to the one who had delivered them from the dark. While Ignis retreated to his bedroom and perched uneasily on the edge of his mattress, absently tracing the outline of his Crystal shard on the chain around his neck, they fabricated stories of fleeting encounters and hollow admiration. While Ignis dropped his head into his hands and mourned the life he could not save, that had been doomed to oblivion long before he'd had a chance to live, they rejoiced that the Chosen King's friends had to grieve instead of themselves.
How lucky they all were to possess the inclination to celebrate.
The closest Ignis was going to get, apparently, was a solitary dinner and the buzzing of his phone where he had deposited it in its usual spot on his bedside table. Whether it was the acknowledgement that he desperately needed a distraction or simply the fact that whoever it was likely wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't answer, he plucked up the device with deft fingers and tapped the button on the side before putting it to his ear. A part of him groaned inwardly at the sound of Prompto's voice on the other end, but he didn't hang up. Perhaps this was precisely what he required to draw him from his rapidly darkening thoughts.
"Hey, Iggy! What'cha up to?"
Saying that he was contemplating just how early was too early to sleep probably wasn't what Prompto wanted to hear, so Ignis kept that to himself. Instead, he cleared his grief from his throat and replied evenly, "I've only just returned to my chambers."
"Seriously?" The grimace of a schoolboy filled Ignis's memory, and he smiled as Prompto commiserated, "Dude, Cor's really living up to that whole immortal thing."
"He certainly is spry for a man his age," joked Ignis wryly. The marshal was getting on in years; he was older now than King Regis had been when he met his untimely demise. That had not done a thing to impede his stamina, though. If anything, he seemed even more driven in the wake of Noct's death, which was saying a great deal.
"Hope I'm that lucky," mused Prompto, although Ignis suspected he was speaking of the marshal's dedication more than his unfortunate lack of hobbies.
Still, he couldn't help poking a bit of fun. "You'd prefer to spend your evenings poring over documents and enlightening the council? I had no idea, Prompto."
If the feigned retching over the line was any indication, then his assumption was correct. Indeed, Prompto hardly spared a second before he retorted, "I think I'll leave that to the professionals. Taking pictures is definitely more my speed."
"I believe the marshal would agree with you."
"Hey!"
Ignis smirked, the first rays of humor since he'd returned to his apartment breaking through the clouds of his anguish. Their teasing was merely that: they were all well aware that Prompto could hold his own as competently as the rest of them these days. Even Noct had mentioned before the end that he wasn't as jumpy as he used to be in the initial months of their journey. The hastily trained, easily spooked Prompto was a thing of the past, and in his place was someone who had grown immeasurably in what could only be described as a trial by fire. For his part, Ignis harbored a deep well of pride in him for that. Between the two of them, Prompto and Noct had been the youngest of their group in more than just their ages. When they had set out from the Crown City, neither was anywhere near as mature as Ignis would have hoped, what with Prompto acting as a member of the Crownsguard and Noct getting married. They hadn't quite risen to meet his expectations, however, and Ignis couldn't help but regret a bit of his disappointment at the start. While Noct had been far more capable than met the eye, he had retained that childlike quality of looking to Ignis to act for him much of the time. Many decisions were his own, yet he was equally likely to leave the choices to his faithful advisor and friend, as well. What Noct had lacked in confidence, Ignis had made up for in loyalty and devotion; that was what had made them optimal partners both as children and adults. In hindsight, perhaps he should not have scoffed so openly at it in light of the suffering they were all destined to undergo.
That was then, though. Now, Noct was gone and Prompto was a force to be reckoned with. Even Gladio had admitted that on occasion, although it was always with an underlying sarcasm that failed to prevent his confession from being construed as fondness. The marshal was one of many who recognized his talents and utilized them to their fullest extent, whether that was by sending him out to gather intelligence or inquiring after his opinion on certain matters he had grown familiar with. When it came to the latter, Prompto generally reverted to the same bumbling neophyte he had been eleven years ago, albeit one who was a bit better at hiding it.
Regardless of how it grated on his nerves in formal settings, Ignis had to say that in private conversation, it was somewhat entertaining to pretend they were still an untested advisor and inexperienced bodyguard. At times like these, he could almost convince himself things were normal.
Almost.
"Was there a reason you felt the need to call when you're only one floor away?" Ignis inquired before Prompto had a chance to defend his meagerly slighted honor.
There was a pause on the other end in which Ignis could imagine him rolling his eyes, but his tone was free of irritation when he answered, "You bet! Gladio and I were just about to put this new King's Knight app to the test and thought you might want in."
"I wasn't aware that there was a new edition," Ignis mused, frowning in confusion. They had barely managed to get the television signals operational again, yet there were updated mobile games running on their networks?
So much for triage.
"Yup! Just came out a couple days ago," confirmed Prompto without a care in the world for how utterly backwards that was. "Figure we might as well give it a shot if they're putting the effort in, right?"
That was certainly one option. The other was to inform the marshal so that he could notify the technicians working on their communication systems that their job was to focus on functionality, not whether the new citizens of Insomnia were able to waste countless hours in admittedly enjoyable raiding parties. Older consoles like the ones Noct had collected were one thing: they merely required electricity and a screen to use. This was something else entirely.
Prompto's excitement nevertheless gave him pause in saying so, and Ignis heaved a sigh as he resolved to wait until tomorrow to let the marshal know that they had yet another issue to resolve. They had already spent so much of the day on matters of state; they could both use the break, even if it was only for a few hours.
And, if he was being honest, he couldn't deny that snatching away a source of entertainment that had managed to capture Gladio's interest on a day like today sounded callous even to his own sensibilities.
So, Ignis simply agreed, "That is the idea, I suppose."
"You know it! Soooo, what d'ya say? Wanna come down and watch me kick Gladio's perfectly sculpted pecs right out of his high score?"
The legitimacy of his claim was debatable, but that wasn't what had Ignis shaking his head. No, for as tempting as the offer sounded, he simply couldn't imagine having company at the moment. A day of ceaseless work and the emotional toll belying his carefully impassive façade had left him exhausted, and all he really wanted right now was to crawl into bed and hope that the next morning would arrive sooner than usual.
Besides, a rousing evening of gaming and pleasantries on the one-year anniversary of Noct's death felt like picnicking on a grave: indecent.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to join you," he replied after a pregnant pause. Prompto's immediate outrage was predictable.
"Aw, come on! What could be better?!"
Innumerable responses occurred to him, but Ignis settled for a blasé, "Perhaps another day."
Any other day.
Either Prompto couldn't sense his unspoken thoughts or he was being deliberately obtuse, because he didn't hesitate to wheedle, "Dude, you've been hanging out with Cor too much. You need to let loose and have some fun!"
"I have plenty of fun," countered Ignis despite knowing it was a lie the instant the words left his mouth.
So, unfortunately, did Prompto.
"Oh, really? Name one fun thing you've done this week. Go on, just one."
Well, that was simple enough. "I harvested the carrots Iris planted in the palace gardens."
A moment passed where there was no answer forthcoming, yet Ignis did not believe for a second that Prompto had hung up. That would have been far too convenient.
"That's so not fun."
"To each his own."
Groaning hyperbolically, Prompto bemoaned, "You've been stuck in meetings so long you don't even know what fun is anymore! Who are you and what have you done with Iggy?"
"He's right here," he huffed, "merely exhausted from apparently not knowing what fun is anymore."
"It's not too late. All you gotta do is come down here and relax. Or I can come to you—either way, man. I'm here for ya," lilted Prompto.
Of that, Ignis had no doubt. Life at the Citadel wasn't perfect: it was riddled with problems, from the vast spaces that needed to be cared for to the stiflingly dismal reminders that the mere atmosphere evoked in anyone who knew the palace well. But Ignis wouldn't trade it for the world, not when he had his friends and so many of the people who had helped raise him at his side.
And they would still be there tomorrow.
The gesture was what truly mattered, so he didn't have to simulate sincerity when he gently murmured, "Thank you, Prompto. I appreciate the offer, but I think I'd rather call it an early night. There is much to be done in the morning."
"There's always much to be done in the morning."
"All the more reason to rest up."
"Ugh, sleep is for the weak, Iggy."
"Only the weak of will."
"Was…that an insult? Because that totally sounded like an insult."
Chuckling, Ignis assured him sardonically, "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Sure, you wouldn't," snorted Prompto, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Who was Ignis to disappoint him?
"Any dream you inhabited would undoubtedly be a nightmare."
"You really know how to flatter a guy."
"Thank you. It's the culmination of years of practice."
"Just like your skills in subject changing?"
"Ah, you've caught me," sighed Ignis in mock solemnity. Even so, the exasperated laugh in his ear contained just the right amount of resignation for him to be certain of his victory.
"Fiiiiiine, you win," Prompto surrendered, not seeming at all keen on it in spite of his words. There was a hint of humor in his voice, however, when he teased, "You know what they say, though, dude: all work and no play…"
"Makes Ignis a dull boy."
The sound of Noct's voice in his head wiped the smile right off his face, and Ignis pressed his free hand to his temple as though he could shove the memory of their ride to Altissia out of his mind.
He couldn't, of course. When his subconscious decided to torment him with visions of the past, there was no stopping it, try as he might. That seemed to be both his blessing and curse: to relive what he could no longer grasp until it nearly drove him mad in the late hours of the night when all he wanted was a few peaceful hours of sleep. Instead, he was haunted by the past, haunted by a voice he would have done anything to hear just once more.
The sudden and inescapable sense of yearning it elicited made it all the more difficult to ignore the idea that he was doing the exact opposite of what Noct would have wanted. Yes, his final words had rendered his intentions quite obvious: it was their duty to take care of what their friend had left behind that fateful evening on the steps of the Citadel. It was their duty to rebuild their lives and their kingdom, to guide their people back to prosperity, and to see to it that nothing like this ever happened again.
But the trials of his life hadn't changed Noct's nature, and he had remained the kindest soul Ignis had ever had the pleasure of knowing until the very end. If he could see them now, he would certainly not want Ignis to sequester himself in his room the way he planned to; he would not want Ignis to be solemn and mourn him when there were more enjoyable exploits to be pursued. If he could have it his way, Ignis would not be alone—not tonight.
In that, Ignis would have to ask his forgiveness. It was painful enough to hear that familiar taunting in his head, that easy barb that hadn't stung so much when Noct had first uttered it aboard King Regis's vessel. The last thing Ignis could stomach at the moment was more agony, particularly when he hadn't the energy to combat it.
So, he stood by his words. He wished Prompto luck in defeating Gladio, however unlikely it was that he would manage it this century, and hung up with a promise on his lips to join them the following day. There was no telling whether he would be able to uphold that vow, what with his hours at the marshal's side not exactly maintaining a regular tempo. Either way, it was simpler to go through the motions and say the words when Prompto's skeptical acceptance did wonders in banishing the specter of Noct's voice from his ears. Whatever got him through another night of seemingly endless tossing and turning before he finally fell into a fitful doze was more than welcome.
That was what he told himself, in any case.
Like duty, the dreams that had plagued Ignis for a year were bittersweet. Ordinarily, he wished purely to evade them: seeing Noct on his throne only to lose him once again was hardly something he cared to experience as frequently as he was forced to. So many times, he had imagined what it would be like to enter the throne room and find Noct there the way he was always meant to be, that familiar smirk on his face and twinkle in his eye despite the heavy burden that accompanied monarchy. So many times, he smiled sadly at the fate that had befallen his brother instead, his pride tempered by the unfathomable indignation that gnawed at him when he let it. How the gods could allow this to happen, he would never comprehend. The threat Ardyn had posed should not have been permitted to outmatch the might of the Six, nor should they have waited so long to bring an end to him and Noct in turn. The Starscourge was their folly, and as such, it should have been their responsibility to heal it. Not the Chosen King's, not the Oracle's—theirs. That reminder in conjunction with the ostensibly scheduled visions that greeted him when he fell asleep left him bitter and resentful, and he had eventually reached the point where he simply could not take any more.
Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, Ignis rejoiced in the traitorous flow of consciousness that saw him walking down the corridor towards the throne room as though it wasn't strictly off limits in the aftermath of their battle with Ardyn. Tonight, he basked in the warmth that spread through him at the touch of his Crystal shard, the warmth that told him he would not be alone when he opened the door and stepped into the grandest chamber in Insomnia. Tonight, he could smile, if only in his head.
For in dreams, Ignis could see. And for once, there was something worth viewing.
The world around him was not as crisp and clear as it should have been, although it was not his memories of the place that were foggy. Ignis had never questioned it very deeply, the ethereal quality that made the light streaming in through the windows that much brighter and the sharp edges of the Citadel's architecture less substantial. Then again, he had never questioned the fact that he was dreaming, either. Even in his sleep, he could not convince himself that what he was witnessing could possibly be real. If it was, then he wouldn't be able to see how the marble tiles beneath his feet shimmered like onyx or mites of dust hovered in the air before his face. He would not have spied the repaired glass where there had once been rubble beside the throne or the steps that led him up to the dais.
More than anything, he would not have absorbed the fond yet distant smile Noct leveled him with when Ignis pressed a closed fit to his heart and bowed deeply in their royal tradition.
They hadn't exchanged words yet, not on his first foray into this fantasy and certainly not on any of his subsequent visits. Somehow, they did not need to. There weren't any orders to be given; there wasn't any news to convey. The wealth of platitudes and reassurances alike that Ignis still wished he had gotten a chance to say did not seem so important in this place between sleeping and waking. If anything, they hovered in the air, implied without the necessity of speech. Ignis had to be thankful for that: it wasn't often that the two of them could simply be, standing opposite each other as they had the day they'd met in the very same room.
And then he was in motion. Ignis could never stop his feet from propelling him forward, and he mounted the steps until he approached the predictably empty throne with a sense of foreboding. After all, his dream was as unchanging as his inability to prevent it from gripping him in the first place, and his memory was impeccable.
As such, he was utterly unsurprised to find what always awaited him when he reached his goal: the photo Noct had taken with him the night he'd died. Ignis hadn't known which he'd picked until Prompto and Gladio had told him afterward, but he recognized it nevertheless. All things considered, he couldn't have chosen a finer keepsake for Noct had he the sight to do so himself. The four of them looked so happy, so innocent, so ignorant of all that would befall them in the months and years to come. To the four boys in the picture—for he could not call them anything else—they were on a simple errand: they would see Noct to Altissia for his wedding and come home to congratulations from the king and a whole new mode of existence under their married friend. The war had never seemed further from them in spite of the reason for their journey, and while it hadn't been all smiles since they'd left the Citadel, they hadn't had much to complain about. The Regalia was in one piece and they were on their way to Galdin—they knew nothing of what was happening at home or how it would change their lives forever. In that instant, that fleeting speck drifting imperceptibly along the grander scheme of the universe, they were but four brothers embarking on what had to be the most unorthodox form of a bachelor party Ignis had ever heard of.
It was no wonder Noct had chosen it when the end of his life was approaching before his own eyes, and Ignis couldn't help but extend a hand to touch that last piece of his liege.
At that point, the voice in his head that reminded him this wasn't real tended to go silent in anxious anticipation. The line between dream and reality would blur so that he couldn't tell the difference anymore, not until he woke in his bed with nothing but frustration and grief to keep him company.
Tonight was no exception. The vague murmuring in the back of his mind was insignificant compared to the draw of the photograph, and as it frequently did, the chaos that erupted when his fingers gingerly met the flimsy paper caught him entirely unawares.
It all happened so fast that, if Ignis did not have this vision memorized from start to finish, he wouldn't have known what was going on.
The Crystal shattered, millions of microscopic bits littering the floor in a deafening hail of glitter.
The ground vanished from beneath his feet, dropping him into darkness as complete as his waking world.
And in that darkness, his king was waiting for him. Ignis could never see him, although he supposed that made sense. The logical part of him knew that Noct wasn't truly there, that he was further from Ignis than either of them could have fathomed when they were children. The logical part of him was well aware that the hand on his shoulder wasn't real and that whirling around like he did would simply jostle him right out of this fantasy of his, as well it should.
Logic, however, had no place in dreams.
His mind must have agreed with him, because for the first time in a year, his expectations betrayed him: Ignis whipped around to find himself alone, yes, but there was no arguing the fact that he was still very much asleep. The uniform he'd worn the last time he saw Noct confined him, his skin crawling beneath the sturdy fabric. His bed was nowhere to be found, nor was his visor perched on his nose the way it always was when he left his apartment. There was no buzzing phone to tell him that it was time to start the day, to take one more step down the road to moving on that never appeared to get any shorter.
Neither was the presence at his side that of the familiar friend he longed for. No, this was something different, something…cold.
Whether it was the sudden drop in temperature that gave her away or the sheer power she exuded as one of the Six, Ignis did not know. Regardless, he would have recognized Gentiana's—Shiva's—presence anywhere. He just didn't understand why it was here.
This was not how his dream was supposed to go.
If the Glacian minded his distaste for this departure from the norm, she offered no indication. Rather, Ignis could sense her eyes scrutinizing his every move, and he froze in place as though the chill breeze had turned him to ice. Her unforeseen arrival struck him dumb; when he attempted to call out, he couldn't summon the words. In that instant, he was just as helpless as his dreams constantly rendered him, his soul laid bare for this absentee goddess to peruse at her leisure.
His encounters with Gentiana had been few, limited to necessity alone in instances where Noct was not there to receive her messages. In fact, he had always gotten the distinct impression that her occasional communication was merely a means to an end. When Noct required aid, when he was due to return and would be expecting his loyal retainers by his side, she would appear to them. Beyond that, however, she paid them no mind. She and the rest of the Six had been distant since the night Ardyn's reign came to an end, and Ignis had to believe that humanity was simply not deemed worthy of her time anymore.
Until now, that was.
Ignis might not have been able to muster the will to speak, but he had no doubt that the Glacian had approached him here for a reason. Thankfully, she did not wait long to impart it to him, her voice nothing but a whisper on the wind.
"O'er rotted Soil, under blighted Sky, A dread Plague the Wicked has wrought," she recited as if reading straight from the Cosmogony. "In the Light of the Gods, Sword-Sworn at his Side, 'Gainst the Dark the King's battle is fought. From the Heavens high, to the Blessed below, Shines the Beam of a Peace long besought. 'Long live thy Line and these Stones divine, For the Night when All comes to Naught. When darkness veils the world, the King of Light shall come."
…Is…that all?
Frowning, Ignis shook his head in stunned silence. He knew the ancient texts as well as anyone else sworn to serve the royal family of Lucis. They were, after all, inextricably tied to the Six. She had to be aware of that, in which case, why would the Glacian deign to visit him only to repeat what he had long since studied?
There was always the possibility that she wasn't actually there, he supposed, that this was merely another facet of his guilt manifesting itself by reiterating words that he would rather have forgotten. It was unlikely, particularly when there had been no change in his dreams before now, but it was possible.
At least, it had been. Seeming to read his thoughts, the Glacian continued. This time, however, her missive was entirely unfamiliar:
"When the land is bathed in light and, at last, hope restored, it will be the gift divine for the king to leave this world. His journey ends not in darkness, for his path is ever bright. And thus he sleeps eternal without fear of the night."
"What?"
He should not have spoken. He didn't realize until it was too late, but the spell that seemed to bind him to this dream—this nightmare—appeared to shatter the instant the word left his mouth. There was no warning, just the abrupt recognition of his sheets tangled around him as he jerked upright in his bed, his head turning this way and that as though he would be able to see Gentiana through the combined gloom of his bedroom and disability if he tried hard enough. He couldn't, of course, but that made no difference. Ignis was incapable of accepting that he had returned to reality, not with his chest aching and the Glacian's voice still echoing in his head.
Only those echoes were not his imagination.
"By the faithful servants of the King, this message is heard," she seemed to breathe, so close that he could practically feel her icy aura on the nape of his neck.
"What message?" he blurted out without thinking, although he wasn't punished for his boldness this time. No, when one of the Six had something to say, they would do so regardless of mortal impatience.
An impatience that she was keen on testing, apparently, because the Glacian's response was unhurried and impassive. Well, perhaps that was only to be expected: unlike the rest of them, she had eternity.
"The King of Kings, his Focus complete, has earned favor everlasting from the gods."
Ignis blinked, murmuring to himself, "His Focus?"
If he thought the Glacian would enlighten him further, he was sorely mistaken. Instead, she ignored him to press on, "Alongside the Oracle, he lies in wait."
"Hold on," Ignis interrupted her. His sudden and shameful desperation reverberated off the walls of his bedroom and flooded his senses when he demanded, "What do you mean?"
"Eternal is their slumber," she replied, her voice growing more distant by the second, "until the bond is restored."
"What bond?"
Nothing.
Ignis's heart skipped a beat, and he refused to feel foolish when he called out, "Gentiana! What bond?!"
Still no response. In spite of the sweat clinging to his skin, the temperature was rising like the sun outside his window. He couldn't see it, but he could feel its rays making the hair on his arms stand on end.
Fortunately, there was no one to witness the unmitigated mess he dissolved into as agonizing seconds stretched into intolerable minutes. No one was with him while his chest heaved and his fingers fumbled for his scorching Crystal shard. No one was with him when his mind latched onto the message she had left for him, incomplete and nonsensical as it seemed.
No one was with him at all. He was alone. He was all right. He was calm.
He was lying.
Before he could think better of it, before he could second guess himself over the dream as well as the hour, Ignis dove for his phone.
