A/N: A bit of an early chapter this time! I'm seeing the new Avengers movie early tomorrow and wanted to make sure I had this up as soon as possible since I couldn't last week. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for your patience! :D
Chapter Nine: Apocalypsis Ignis
When Noct was younger, he'd asked Ignis what purpose the Astrals served.
Hardly older than a child himself, Ignis hadn't quite known how to react. The Six were simply the Six, the beings that watched over them and had bestowed upon the royal family of Lucis a fraction of their power. They had been the sentinels of Eos since time immemorial, as the Cosmogony claimed, and would presumably remain so for the rest of eternity. All that they had, all that they were, they could attribute to the gods that had shaped humanity into what it had become. That was what his instructors had taught him, and he'd not inquired as to whether there was something else worth discovering. What more could mere mortals possibly require?
As far as Noct had been concerned, a great deal. His queries had been unwavering in their intensity and unfaltering in their rapid application—what was the point of them? Why weren't they there? Why didn't they intervene against the empire? Why did they allow suffering when they could have stopped it? Why, if they were such powerful guardians, did they never seem to guard anything?
On and on the interrogation had stretched until Ignis was too speechless to formulate a response. After all, what could he say? Back then, he had been a pupil, a novice: his job was to listen and obey, not issue the sorts of questions that Noct had the privilege to voice. If he was being honest, that distinction between their stations was the furthest thing from his mind at the time. That he had been entrusted with tutoring his friend and liege in the history of the Astrals at all had been too exciting a prospect to leave room for other musings—or questions of his own. Perhaps he had been shortsighted, given his age, but he hadn't considered whether Noct would foster a deeper curiosity beyond a few definitions or some awkward and ancient phrasing. That, he would have been more than capable of fielding.
This, he had not been prepared for.
His inability to cobble together the answers Noct had craved wasn't owed singularly to his confusion regarding where the latter's sudden vehemence had originated, although that played the largest role. As if sensing that his teacher was not so educated as he pretended, Noct hadn't offered him more than a moment to consider his reply in his haste to drive home the point.
"Why did they leave us the Crystal if they weren't gonna help protect it?"
While the force behind his inquiries had already been startling, Ignis was even further taken aback when he outright demanded a response to that one. Through fire and lightning, water and darkness, Ignis could still see it: Noct's eyes blazing beneath his shaggy hair, his fists clenched in his lap, his lower lip jutting out slightly in a pout that he was failing to subdue. It was the kind of fire that Ignis hadn't witnessed since before Noct's injury two years prior; if it hadn't been directed at such an unexpected subject, he would have been relieved to learn that some of the old Noct yet lived deep within the boy who had been struggling to recover ever since.
There had, however, been one unarguable advantage to his outburst: he'd given himself away. For all his subtlety, there was simply no masking the distant grief that was hiding behind his anger and his pain.
The chink in Noct's armor had always been his father.
The years passed, yet Ignis couldn't forget the days when Noct had been glued to King Regis's side. If His Majesty was in the Citadel, he would trail around in his wake even if it meant concealing himself so as not to be seen during official business; if the king was out, Ignis was hard-pressed to remove him from his perch on the front steps where he waited for his father to return. When he did so, Noct would fly to his arms as though they formed the door to paradise, and Ignis had eventually abandoned his post beside his friend to preserve what fleeting privacy the two of them could steal. It hadn't taken the consciousness of an adult to understand that they were utterly devoted to one another in spite of their circumstances.
But that had changed. As the empire grew more hostile and ambitious, and especially as King Regis's health had begun to decline, the two of them had not been so inseparable anymore. Days would slip by, in some cases, where they didn't see each other for an instant. Noct would linger outside the Citadel only to retreat with his head bowed and tears in his eyes when his father didn't come home or rushed past him on some errand; he would sigh over his work and perform as well as he could when his thoughts were elsewhere. He would be everything he should, yet it nevertheless wasn't enough to bridge the ever-widening gap between father and son.
Was it so unheard of for someone in his position to believe that the gods had failed them as a result? Not only had royal duties stripped from him the attentions he had been accustomed to receiving, but with each increasingly rare visit from King Regis, there had been no ignoring the steady toll maintaining the Wall was taking on his body. Age had set in well before Noct's teenage years; it hovered like a phantom above him, gradually leaching the color from his hair and the strength from his limbs.
All for the sake of the gods.
Ignis couldn't tell him that, though. He couldn't agree with the sentiment regardless of how it shone from Noct's eyes and the nearly imperceptible wetness that had gathered in their corners. Despite his youth, Ignis had comprehended that he was treading along the edge of a knife in that conversation. If he erred too far to one side, he would be confirming Noct's obvious fears for his father, which was unacceptable. It was Ignis's job to recognize better than anyone how greatly the prince missed King Regis's presence at a time when the latter had been too preoccupied with politics to communicate his affections the way he had before. Stoking his son's concern, even slightly, would be unspeakably cruel. If he swayed in the other direction, however, he would be blaspheming. That sort of thing might not have mattered to most, but back then as in more recent years, Ignis had been cautious not to tempt fate. There was no crime more deplorable than committing treason against his prince, and defiling the reputation of the gods meant to aid his reign had seemed like nothing less in those days.
So, Ignis had filed carefully down the center of the road and left his response at a hushed, "Sometimes we must do for ourselves what the Astrals aren't able to."
Noct hadn't been a very receptive audience to that, not that Ignis had assumed he would be. He had been too young to fully appreciate his meaning, although to an extent, so had Ignis himself. All he'd been taught was that it fell to the kings, not the Astrals, to safeguard their interests in Eos through the divine presence of the Crystal. What that duty had been doing to King Regis was regrettable, to be sure, yet there was no alternative. There was no escape, much as Ignis would have liked to provide one. Eventually, the task of sustaining the Wall and defending the Crystal would be Noct's, and he didn't need to be wasting time and energy wondering where the gods were when he would have been better served by building confidence in his own abilities. That in itself had been lacking for years by that point.
Had he ever learned to trust their deific sentinels? Or had he gone to his doom with the disquieting certainty that he was alone—as alone as his father before him and every other Lucian monarch that had preceded his short-lived sovereignty? If for no other reason than his own shameful comfort, Ignis hoped that it was the former. They had traversed kingdoms and empires, forfeited family and friends, and undergone the transformation of soldiers on the battlefield to earn the favor of the gods. At the very least, Noct deserved some semblance of reparation for all he'd sacrificed, all he'd gambled, all he'd become. Surely, the Six weren't so detached from humanity as to deny him that.
Chuckling morosely at his pitiful bout of optimism, Ignis sipped from his third can of Ebony with a heavy sigh. His metabolism must not have been accustomed to such heavy doses of caffeine anymore, because it wasn't sitting right in either his stomach or his head. Rather than calming his nerves while concurrently sharpening his focus, it was turning his cognition to nonsense and made his heart beat faster for no reason. That, in any case, was what he had to assume. What else would have accounted for the reminiscing he engaged in while Gladio and Prompto's soft snores filtered out from between the flaps of the tent? Hadn't he just gotten through imploring the former Shield not to allow his emotions to run rampant and distract him from their goal?
Of course, he had. That was his duty for as long as he was destined to remain with their entourage. It didn't seem to mean much to his own conscience, however, which was apparently convinced that he had plenty of time for self-reflection in light of his undoubtedly impending trial. And what he found when he delved deep within himself was both comforting and terrifying in equal measures.
Yes, it had to be the Ebony.
As it sent his unprepared psyche into overdrive, he had no choice but to follow the avenues of his memory to places that he had been avoiding after dwelling on them for ten years. His lack of adequate rest didn't help matters; it merely intensified the sensation of both familiarity and fathomless despondency when he mentally strolled through the throne room he hadn't seen in over a decade. The Astrals might think him weak for believing so, but Ignis couldn't quash a pang of longing when he considered all the milestones that had occurred in that simple yet elegant chamber. That was where they had departed for Galdin Quay, leaving home and all they'd ever known behind. That was where the king had erected the Wall that had allowed Ignis to flourish as a scholar, an advisor, and a friend over the years. That was where the fate of their world had been decided, the test of his loyalty conducted, and the loss of his brother guaranteed.
Most importantly, however, it was where the two of them had first met.
Ignis's life had changed that day, and not solely because he had made the acquaintance of the person to whom he would be by honor bound for the rest of it. No, it went far deeper than that: his entire existence had essentially revolved around Noct every second of every hour of every day since then. As children, they had played and learned together until Noct went off to public school and Ignis remained behind to study the intricate workings of the Citadel. Even then, they had hardly been away from each other's sides, Ignis taking his duty as Noct's brother seriously and the latter unfailingly ecstatic to have someone near his own age who desired closeness with him rather than the monetary compensation that was inherent in the position.
In retrospect, while he supposed there were instances in which he may have done too much to ensure Noct's happiness, he likewise couldn't bring himself to regret his efforts. After all, there hadn't been any harm in looking the other way if the prince pilfered a few too many cookies from the Citadel's kitchens or hastily covering the mark he'd left on a painting of the prophecy in his boredom. Ignis had indeed promised him everything under the sun—within reason—but had never gone so far as to neglect his responsibility to be a good brother and also keep him on the straight and narrow. Noct was destined to be a king one day, not to mention a proper prince in the meantime, yet that didn't exclude him from the trials and tribulations that would similarly transform him into a grown man like any other. That required a very different training from the one that both of them had been offered at the palace.
As Ignis had gotten older and realized what it meant to become the sort of man that everyone had faith Noct would embody, he had wanted only to impart his newfound experience to his brother regarding all that the nuances of age entailed. That had been a profoundly optimistic venture, as well as one that was easier said than accomplished when the prince had been so reserved in the wake of his injury. It had been in those harrowing weeks afterwards that Ignis made a different vow, a vow that wasn't required by his instructors or the king so much as his conscience: he had sworn to himself that no harm would come to Noct so long as he lived, albeit in a varying context. Eventually, the prince would have his Shield and his advisor, both of whom would be tasked with protecting him, but Ignis refused to let the boy behind the royal suffer needlessly either. Too few cared about that person—the person who had graduated at the top of his class and who had spent the last years of his relative freedom performing community service as opposed to engaging in political proceedings, even though Ignis had frequently reminded him that a balance was necessary.
Huffing a humorless laugh, Ignis set aside his empty can and absently reached for another. Too few, indeed. Years later, it still seemed as though none but the king and Noct's close circle of friends had truly understood who he was beneath the pomp and circumstance of his station. Everyone else saw the veneer, the façade that they had constructed in their heads when their prince had proven an elusive target for the press. To the young ladies of Insomnia, he was but a handsome dream, a fairy tale made real; to the Citadel retainers, including many of those who spent a good bit of time in his presence, he was their liege. Yes, he and Gladio—and Prompto, to a degree—had seen him in a similar light. Like it or not, he was their prince and future king. Whether they called him Highness or purely acknowledged his duties as heir to the crown, they were unable to look at him without even distantly recalling the role he had been ascribed at birth.
Still, they had made every provision for the boy masked by a shell of royalty that they could in their own ways. Prompto had catered to his less than regal desires, accompanying him on his forays into the realm of the common folk. Gladio had worked perhaps a bit too indefatigably to make Noct strong so that he could look out for himself, and not purely in a monarch's capacity—he would have his Shield for that, so it wasn't something he would necessarily require so long as he remained in the Citadel. Sparring with Gladio and enduring his endless stream of mingled encouragement and teasing, however, was enough to fortify the frailest creature's confidence.
Then there was Ignis, who simply did whatever needed to be done in the moment.
Perhaps that is my weakness, he mused wryly to himself.
Admittedly, it wasn't an entirely exaggerated notion. Despite his part in their group dynamic, he had always suffered a blind spot where Noct was concerned, both before and after his sight had abandoned him. He never thought through his actions, never considered the consequences for himself—when Noct needed him, he was there, consequences be damned. That was what had happened in Altissia, in Gralea, for ten years in a land of shadows. If they retrieved Noct and brought him home, he would undoubtedly do it again.
And gladly.
He would wear a smile in the face of his own demise if it meant the opposite for Noct. He would cheerfully waltz through the invisible gate that separated this world—or, more appropriately, their world—from the next. He would nod to the Astrals on his way by, falling into oblivion content in the knowledge that he had fulfilled the duty he had assigned himself. That, at least, would be of some comfort to him when everything else faded into obscurity.
Either he'd become too engrossed in his own musings or the nature of his thoughts had simply distracted him, but Ignis didn't register the distant sloshing of water immediately. It instead played into the memories that assaulted him from all sides, bringing to life the events of Altissia once more until he was forced back to the present by a sudden and startling splash.
Where…?
Almost before he was aware of moving, Ignis was on his feet, his eyes drawn towards the Slough. He couldn't possibly have heard what he believed he had. It was likely a figment of his imagination, an unfortunate byproduct of allowing his mind to wander. In the aftermath of the Hydraean's attack on Altissia, he had suffered similar spells of paranoia: they would be comfortably seated inside the train to Cartanica when, without warning, his senses would be submerged beneath the swelling waves of recollection. It hadn't made a difference that they had been surrounded by desert or that no one else had reacted to the same sounds that had haunted his ears. The specters of that night had plagued him nevertheless, unwilling to extend to him one moment of peace in his idleness.
That had to be what was happening now: too much caffeine, too little sleep, and too long without anything to occupy his time had culminated in the past catching up to him. In a place such as this, there simply wasn't any other alternative. The crystal sheath laid out over Alstor Slough was unbroken and unbothered, and their only supply of water was neatly stored in closed bottles next to the rest of their rations. Inside the tent, Gladio and Prompto didn't so much as twitch at the noise that appeared to exist purely in Ignis's head; they had fallen asleep without pause and hadn't stirred since. No, it was a mere trick of the mind. It had to be.
His conviction, however, was transitory at best.
Unable to calm the nerves he had set on edge with his own irresponsible binging on Ebony, Ignis managed to pace the length of the haven only once before he heard it again, nearer this time than it had sounded before and accompanied by the sort of earsplitting clamor that had razed the majority of a city to the ground long ago. The foreboding cacophony had him whirling on his heel and again scanning the horizon for any indication that he had merely fallen asleep and was dreaming about days that were better forgotten, but there was nothing. There were no towering serpents, no displaced waterfalls, no enemy ships sent careering through the air by the gods themselves. All that awaited his gaze was the same endless sunrise and even scenery as far as the eye could see, strain them as he did. Even the odd dissonance, as if in an attempt to malign his sanity, didn't echo over the landscape in the manner it should have.
Gladio and Prompto slept on.
That remained the case as he crept past the tent on silent feet, climbed off their sheltered plateau, and picked his way cautiously towards the nearest shallow pool. He would never quite fathom what possessed him to do so, but it was as though a magnet had been attached to his shoes, attracting them to its partner somewhere in the Slough. There was no question in his head of staying where he was or even of waking his companions before he ventured off on his own, which he dimly realized wasn't exactly the most sensible course of action given their predicament. Even so, gone was the ironclad determination not to part from the others that he had harbored in the wake of Gladio's disappearance. In this, somehow, he was increasingly cognizant of the fact that he must go alone.
If this was the Astrals' way of calling to him, then at least they had chosen a more peaceful route than their initial attempt at garnering attention. While his reminiscences of their role in all that had transpired in Eos weren't what he would call flattering or overwhelmingly deferential, they were a far cry better than the verbal abuses the Six had suffered by Gladio's tongue. They were well within their right to flex their proverbial muscles in order to prove a point, in the former Shield's situation. In Ignis's, however, there was little need. He was, after all, a willing participant in this ever-unfolding production.
But why here? That was his foremost ponderance as he crossed the crystalline path and veered right in the direction of the solid water. There had been some method to what had happened at Cauthess: it was where they had encountered the Archaean for the first time on their journey, though he had subsequently followed them elsewhere. The Slough, on the other hand, bore no remarkable resemblance to holy ground. Actually, Ignis had suspected that they would not meet another deity until they approached Fociaugh Hollow. They had traipsed throughout Duscae hunting for the runestones that would bestow upon Noct the full might of the Fulgurian's blessing, but it wasn't until they'd reached the ancient cavern that they had accomplished that feat. That being said, he couldn't imagine what it was that chose to summon him all the way out here—if that was the case.
Perhaps it wasn't so unlikely that he was losing his tenuous grasp on sanity, after all.
That was how it felt when he stopped at the edge of the meager dip in the ground that constituted one of the Slough's many ponds and stared bemusedly downwards. It, like everything else, was buried beneath a thick layer of crystal that seemed more like ice in this context. His reflection stared back at him, but it was muted, distant despite the mere feet that stood between him and the still water below. Ignis half expected to see life beneath its surface, a school of fish or an errant frog that might have survived the Astrals' disdain for animation in their perfect, sterile world. That, at the very least, would have accounted for the noise if he didn't contemplate it too deeply.
No movement caught his attention, however. Above or below, the mere was as bereft of life as the rest of the tableau before him. Not one ripple broke the calm, and although it would have seemed a pleasant sight in another life, Ignis couldn't help the tingling sensation at the back of his skull that warned him he was not the only one here. There may not have been footsteps—there may not have been the sound of human breath besides his own—but he was not alone.
In wordless confirmation, Ignis started at the eruption of yet another splash, albeit one that was not quite so violent as the last he'd heard. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that it was just Noct casting a line into the water or Prompto skimming a stone across the surface in order to stave off the prevalent boredom he often shouldered when they whiled away the hours watching Noct enjoy his favorite hobby. It was so quiet that it nearly evaded his senses entirely; it would have if not for the decade he'd spent growing attuned to the noise of his surroundings.
Which was how he knew it had come from behind him rather than ahead.
Peering furtively over his shoulder, he noticed that insatiable pull against his feet returning, prodding him on like a man possessed. It took every bit of the carefully crafted willpower he had spent countless years accumulating not to obey its silent command, his eyes darting between the direction of his latest clue and the haven where it stood like a beacon of safety against the darker backdrop of the trees. He shouldn't stray further without alerting the others to his departure—he was well aware of that. They had already dealt with one unanticipated surprise; they didn't need another, especially considering how fragile their understanding of this world was. For all he knew, if this was the beginning of his own trial as he assumed, his eyesight could vanish entirely the moment he was far enough from camp to satisfy the gods' demands. That would be an unmitigated disaster, to be sure: without sound or the ability to adequately feel his path when a crystal barrier blocked anything recognizable to him, he would be utterly lost.
It wouldn't be permanent. The Astrals' previous test was evidence enough of that. Still, he didn't like the idea at all, not when he couldn't be certain that he would find his way back should his sight return after whatever they had planned for him.
Either that made no difference to the Six or they were sending him yet another of their trademark messages, because his feet submitted to the invisible tug before he had a chance to decide what he would do. They were entirely heedless of his unspoken orders to remain stationary, to allow him more time, to carry him in the opposite direction rather than further into the Slough. In that instant, they were not his to utilize so much as a tool of the Astrals, hijacked for their purposes as he practically staggered closer and closer to the slightly larger lake nearby.
Where nothing met him. Nothing but the familiar silence, the eerie stillness, and the unconscious sensation of divine eyes scrutinizing his every move.
The idea had his heart pounding even faster in his chest, hammering a desperate and annoyed tattoo against his ribs. Was this a game to them? Had they nothing better to do than tease him like this, appealing to his fears and his insecurities alike so that they could simply string him along without end? Gladio's trial had been straightforward and succinct: the Archaean had removed him from their present reality, dropped him into the middle of his ostensible doom, and prompted him to locate whatever existed within himself to escape. From the outside, it had not seemed so easy; they had been operating in the unknown, and until Gladio had been returned to them, they could only believe the worst. In general, however, it was a fairly forthright trial—which apparently wasn't in the cards for him. Unless, of course, slowly driving him to madness was the nature of his test. If so, the Six were already doing a marvelous job.
Because there, behind him, was another splash.
Breathing deeply, Ignis didn't even attempt to stall his advancement. He didn't wait for the imperceptible engine that had taken control of his body to engage, choosing to tread into his fate of his own accord this time. Maybe if he was fortunate, the Astrals would see that as his preparedness to continue with this heretofore farcical trial. He had no other word for the absurdity that had him trotting all over Alstor Slough and stopping at every pond as though their next meal might leap from the water to present itself for inspection.
The largest awaited him much as the others had, unchanging and steady in its adherence to whatever laws dictated the way of things in this place. It was jarring, in a sense, not to see a catoblepas or two wandering at its center; they were a staple of the landscape, always present whether their retinue was passing through the wilderness or merely driving by. Here, like any other organism that Ignis would have expected to find, they were glaringly absent. No mournful, grinding howls rent the air, nor was the surface of the lake constantly displaced from their lumbering footsteps. Water towers loomed in the distance, shacks and boulders dotted the plains—but the life that should have been there was gone. More than anywhere else they had yet traversed, the unreality and the bizarreness pervaded everything in this very spot.
It should have come as no surprise, then, that this was where his doom would be decided.
As suddenly as it had begun, the game ended with such abruptness that Ignis had no opportunity to steel himself. His gaze was firmly rooted on the hard crystal at the center of the Slough, ostensibly impenetrable like the rest of the gods' creations, when it exploded without notice.
His reaction was instinctive, owed to sheer reflex rather than anything more intelligible, and he raised his hands before his face as a geyser erupted from the center of the mire and sent innumerable shards of shattered crystal flying. The force of it was enough to knock him backwards, although he couldn't tell which was worse—the pain of striking the ground unprepared to catch himself or the unmistakable sensation of his forearms being torn to shreds where the ruined surface of the marsh ripped through his shirtsleeves. The minuscule daggers slashed any inch of skin they could reach, his vulnerable flesh growing so raw that he couldn't imagine using them to break his fall. Rather, his spine hit the ground hard enough for the impact to echo through his rattled brain, and he was hardly aware that he was rolling until his injuries struck hard against…
Pavement?
Ignis didn't immediately open his eye, huddled against the ground as the onslaught abated and attempting to make sense of his observation. If it was simply more of the Astrals' trickery, then they were certainly going out of their way to make it convincing: the ground beneath him wasn't the smooth, infallible crystal that had just showered him in debris a minute earlier. This was rougher against what little skin remained on his arms, almost as if someone were rubbing sandpaper over his wounds instead of pouring salt into them like most tormenters would opt for. Lines ran along the harsh stone—the brick, he belatedly registered—nearly imperceptible through the fabric of his trousers where his hip was pressed uncomfortably to what he could only surmise was a road of some sort. That was quite impossible, though. Besides Lestallum, there was nothing of the like in Lucis, nor would there be until they were finished patching the nigh irredeemable scraps of asphalt that constituted most streets throughout the kingdom these days.
That he was no longer in Lucis didn't occur to him until he finally opened his eye—both eyes—to see one of the few sights he had ever hoped not to: Altissia, and not in its finest state.
Suddenly, it was difficult to remind himself that this must be but a vision, a trick of his consciousness brought about by the gods' need to put him in a location better suited to their trial than where he had been before. The place bore too many similarities to the one he had read about at the Citadel—or, more accurately, what had been read to him. The flames hadn't risen from Accordo's capital in eleven years, and the smoke should have cleared by now, but the rest was as he had been informed.
Desolate. Absolutely desolate.
Buildings that had stood for centuries were laid to waste, their roofs missing or windows blown out while black pillars billowed from their obstructed depths. Tables and chairs where innocent civilians had spent their days, eating and fraternizing and caring not a whit for the troubles of the world or their imperial overlords, had been reduced to little more than rubble; their umbrellas were all that had survived, carried off by the sea breeze in a mocking rendition of flight. Here and there, the detritus of the city's destruction was scattered, indiscriminate of where it fell or how unforgivable a betrayal it was for doing so. Behind it all was the inescapable backdrop of the waves crashing against what remained of the levees and sloshing over the embankment as though a hurricane had burst into Altissia before they'd had a chance to prepare for it.
Ignis recognized it all as he gradually forced himself to his knees, his good eye wide while the other burned with the phantom pain of what he had sacrificed the last time he had witnessed this sort of devastation. It was a sensation he hadn't felt for a decade, yet being plunged into the selfsame scenario that had necessitated his actions brought the memory flooding back to him with such agonizing accuracy that he had to wonder what it was the Six hoped to accomplish in bringing him here. Did they suppose that he would go to pieces at the reminder of his simultaneously greatest and most foolish endeavor? Were they operating under the belief that the mere sight of this nightmare would be adequate to steal his resolve, his positivity that he could reach Noct in the present just as he had that day? Were they anticipating that he would curl into a ball on the ground and wait for them to deposit him back with his friends, more a failure than ever?
They were mistaken. If that was what they expected, then he would prove to them the opposite. Ignis couldn't fathom for an instant why he was here besides the obvious emotional ramifications the locale held for him, but he refused to be cowed by a specter of the past. He refused to allow his mind to be bent to the Astrals' disdain or his flesh to betray him the way it had under Ardyn's insidious gaze. He had ventured forth from the Citadel without sight nor conviction that they weren't insane; he had wandered a world of gods where man was never meant to tread. All that so he could find Noct and protect him as he once had.
This was no different. What he'd done in Altissia, he was still doing now. Let the Astrals deem him incapable of navigating the same plague of destruction he had a decade ago. Ignis was nothing if not determined to outperform expectations.
At least he wouldn't have to outwit imperial troopers in the process.
It would have been putting it mildly to say that the lack of anything animate around him was unsettling, yet that was all he could think as he maneuvered himself to his feet and surveyed his surroundings through a more strategic frame of mind. There were no soldiers waiting for him; the magitek infantries that had been present on their last visit to Accordo were conspicuously absent. Not even the multitude of imperial airships that had attempted to precede him to the Altar of the Tidemother were within view, though he didn't consider that a hardship in the slightest. He would require every available ounce of his concentration to determine why he was standing in the courtyard by the eastern bridge and what the bloody hell he was supposed to do now. Spending it on an incessant stream of adversaries would be a waste.
Without the transceiver he had been fortunate to receive from the First Secretary before, he had but two options: follow in the ghostly footsteps of his past self or pause for further instructions. The latter initially seemed the lesser of two evils, especially considering the fact that there was no telling what would await him if he attempted to do what he had before. From what Gladio had told them about his own trial, however, there hadn't been an opportunity to play it safe. He hadn't echoed his motions a second time, instead diving into the depths of Cauthess heedless of the risks. That was what Ignis faced now. Standing still, as King Regis had told him longer ago than he cared to remember, was a sign of weakness. Kings could not afford such feebleness of will or heart lest their reign fail; it had been Ignis's duty as friend and brother alike to see to it that Noct didn't hesitate. It was reasonable to assume, then, that a king's advisor couldn't lower themselves to the same behavior. He was to provide an example, whether Noct was here to witness it or not.
Thus, his decision was made for him, unappealing though it was. There was no ignoring that it must have been the gods' conclusion as well, not when the eastern bridge had conveniently remained in one piece rather than crumbling into the sea as it had eleven years prior. That was what had stalled his arrival at the altar that day, and not a moment had passed in his subsequent musings on the subject when he hadn't considered what might have been had he traversed the river in time.
It appeared that he would finally have his answer, if things stayed the course they seemed to be on. Nevertheless, Ignis didn't take the duplicitous ease of passage for granted and cautiously approached the crossing with a silent prayer that he would not be cast aside again.
He needn't have bothered: the airships that had made his path all the more difficult before couldn't very well materialize now to pester him. Well, perhaps that was being too optimistic—they couldn't very well materialize without the Six willing them into position. That, from the looks of it, was the last thing they wanted. While his previous visit had been riddled with obstacles and distractions, there were none in this instance, and he reached the opposite bank without incident. He would have seen it as quite the achievement if not for the divine intervention involved and what that consequently meant for him.
What it meant for Noct, however, was entirely different.
Ignis hadn't spied the telltale beacon at the far edge of the bay upon his arrival, but it was all he seemed capable of registering once the bridge was behind him. Its golden luminescence stopped him in his tracks, and shameful as it was, he could do little more for a moment than stare in amazement. Gladio hadn't mentioned the Oracle at Cauthess, which was only to be expected: she hadn't been present in the original affair, so there was no reason for her to have been there even as a phantom in his trial. As such, the Astrals must have interpreted his actions as evidence that he was capable of protecting both Noct and Lady Lunafreya, considering the nature of the situation.
While her appearance would have been out of place in his examination, Ignis's mind was awhirl with the possibilities of what it indicated that they hadn't removed her from his own scenario. All of a sudden, this wasn't so simple. He hadn't predicted that he would have two targets rather than one and had been endeavoring to convince himself that he was supposed to merely locate Noct, that that was what the gods wanted since they hadn't chosen to obliterate his straightest course like the empire had done. With Lady Lunafreya in the mix, he wasn't certain that it would be so benign as that. The Six knew that he would always find Noct, eyesight notwithstanding. In the darkest night, he would be there for his brother and his king; he had been, every step of the way. If he had to crawl to the altar like a beast of the field, then that was what he would do—but he would make it.
Now, he wondered whether Noct was truly the purpose of his mission. The sun was relatively high in the sky, as he calculated it would have been when the Oracle was still alive. There was no telling when she had perished, though a part of him hoped that if he had been quicker in arriving, he could have done something. It was impossible to negate the impact of the covenants on the human body, and even if that weren't the case, it would have taken much greater power than Ignis possessed to have managed it. Could he have prolonged the inevitable somehow? Could arriving sooner rather than later have required less of the Oracle's remaining power being used to protect Noct given that Ignis would have been there to do so? Could the Astrals' task for him include rescuing Noct and providing him what closure he could find with Lady Lunafreya?
There was no way of knowing, but it was a chance that Ignis wasn't going to take. Not with the gods watching.
So, he ran. His chest heaved, his lungs burned as he struggled to draw breath after breath, his muscles protested each step with stark reminders that he had already been thrown for quite the loop already—yet he persisted. The streets of Altissia were his own kingdom now, bowing to his whims rather than thwarting him at every turn. Not once was he forced to fight or to so much as consider drawing the daggers he vaguely registered were back at camp with the others; there were no enemies here beyond time itself, and he could sense it ticking away with every jarring impact of his shoes against the pavement and his heart against his rib cage.
When he reached the entrance to the altar, dimly indignant at the confirmation that it would have been so much easier had the empire not interfered, dusk had not yet fallen. The waves were crashing against the jagged edges of the bridge that would lead him to his quarry as they had years ago, but he could see them clearly in a way he hadn't when he'd trod this path with Ravus. The Archaean remained as absent as he had been since Ignis arrived; despite the Hydraean's similar neglect, he was positive that her presence dogged him ceaselessly. Would any of the other Astrals be so bold as to use not only Altissia, but the scene of his ultimate humiliation, for this venture? No, he found it highly doubtful. The Tidemother was as vindictive as she was petulant, so this sort of exacting trial was precisely what he would expect from one of her unique traits.
But what was the endgame? As he darted along the causeway and swerved left towards the altar, he was no closer to understanding his task than he had been at the eastern bridge. Lady Lunafreya's magic towered overhead, unwavering in the rapidly waning light. He could only hope that both she and Noct would be waiting for him to…what? Drag them from this place? Put himself between them and whatever the Hydraean next decided to throw in their direction? It would be foolish to assume that nothing would happen as soon as he was within shouting distance—a mere hunt was too simple a feat—nor had he forgotten what had stalked him the last time he'd been there.
He'd looked like Gladio, spoken like Gladio, even moved like Gladio—but Ardyn Izunia had been anything but. Ravus had noticed before he had, although Ignis hadn't known the extent of his powers then.
He had learned. They had all learned.
Would he be here now? Would the Astrals have gone to the trouble of resurrecting even the image of that blasphemer all for the sake of measuring Ignis's mettle?
Well, if that was the case, then they could go ahead with it. Ignis had stood before him once and survived, albeit not in entirely one piece. In the event that Ardyn had returned, as an apparition or a nightmare or whatever nonsense the gods deemed necessary, Ignis would meet him head on as he had that fateful day.
What he wasn't prepared to encounter arrived in the form of a white dog, one that he felt no particular pleasure in approaching. Instead, his heart fell into his stomach, and it took more than he could say not to retreat from the quadruped trotting towards him.
Here was yet another reason why he was incapable of calculating what it was that the Six desired him to do. Everything about this pantomime of the Hydraean's wrath was both right and so very wrong. The destruction remained but not the army that had contributed to it; the key players were in attendance but not the gods that had laid them low. And now Pryna, striding up to him on strong paws, unlike their last interaction. Then, she had perished with her mistress, if such a thing was possible for divine Messengers. She had done her alleged duty and relayed the vision she was meant to impart to him of Noct and the fate that he was destined for prior to her passing from their world into the next. It had clearly cost her something in the process, yet the strain did not appear to have taken the same toll here. In fact, Ignis had to wonder whether he was witnessing an echo of the past in this instance or if this was indeed the same canine that had guided Prompto to the text that had, in turn, guided them.
Either way, he wasn't eager to learn whatever she had to convey now. He already had plenty from his last venture to keep him wallowing in guilt and grief for many lifetimes to come; the last thing he needed was to add to it. Besides, what more could she hope to communicate? She had already given him everything he required in some form or other, so he couldn't fathom what she could possibly provide to him that he hadn't already considered at great length before the Astrals had whisked him away to this nightmare.
Or so he believed.
As they had during their first and final meeting, Pryna's piercing amber eyes seemed to stare straight into his very soul as the landscape vanished in a flood of pure light. It was warm against his skin, soothing the aches and stinging cuts in the manner he'd always believed the Oracle's powers must. Ignis had been fortunate throughout their journey not to be afflicted with the Starscourge, but he had seen how it wrought havoc on Noct's system when he was a child. The night terrors, the pain, the inability to accomplish simple tasks on his own—not to mention its impact on his magic as he'd gotten older and should have mastered warping sooner. The sole comfort Ignis had taken in the situation was that he had been whisked away to see the former Oracle in time to avoid lasting damage, at least physically. On so many occasions in the aftermath, when he noticed Noct staring into the distance or refraining from the activities he'd once lavished in, Ignis had pondered what it must have been like to stand in her presence and feel that power coursing through him. It couldn't have hurt: the Oracle was meant to assuage pain, not cause it. Perhaps it had been his child's mind attempting to locate some semblance of comprehension in a situation that was increasingly incomprehensible, yet he hadn't been able to shake the conviction that what Noct had gone through felt precisely the way he did in that moment.
Ignis hoped that it lasted longer for his brother than it did for him, because he'd hardly been blinded before a string of images erupted before his mind's eye—and they were about as unpleasant as his last bout of canine-inspired visions had been.
The odd part was that they weren't unfamiliar, invoking a strange sense of déjà vu that had him shivering despite the heat that was still emanating from the Messenger. No, Ignis had been in this place before, albeit not when he'd been able to see it for himself.
How he recognized that it was Zegnautus Keep, however, he would never fully understand.
The Ignis of his past—the Ignis of his daydreams—stood from the floor and peered around himself without the aid of his glasses sharpening his focus. His hair hung lank in his face from too many tumbles into salty water, and his ordinarily impeccable clothes were wrinkled seemingly beyond repair. If he was afraid of his circumstances, of the sacrifice that he had made to be brought here unawares, he offered no indication.
For that was why Pryna was showing him this, was it not? This was not merely a prediction of what was to come, but of what might have been.
Ignis would be lying if he said he hadn't imagined it on many occasions over the years: considering Ardyn's offer, accepting his request for Ignis to accompany him in order to preserve Noct's life when the latter had been helpless following his trial with the Hydraean. The images that flashed before him now encompassed everything he had wondered about, from discovering that he had been spirited away from Altissia to wandering the vastness of the Keep to locating the Crystal and being accosted once more by Ardyn. He knew them like he knew himself; they had become as much a part of him as his arms or his legs. His Messenger companion had clearly been sent to give them more tangible form, yet they were his own musings nonetheless. Well, not his musings—that would have been a far too blasé term. Suffice it to say, then, that they were nothing more or less than his deepest, most desperate desires.
Ever since he was a child, Ignis had weathered the constant accusations that he thought too much. Gladio had pressed him to relax on occasions when his duty dictated that he needed to have his wits about him; Prompto had complained in more than one instance that it couldn't possibly be healthy for someone to use their brain to the extent that Ignis did. They weren't the only ones: besides his instructors, so many of the people he had grown up knowing reminded him that there were moments when he should simply let himself take a step back and ease his conscience.
Not bloody likely.
His job wasn't to chill, as Prompto and Noct had called it years ago. It wasn't to stand by and let the world spin around him, governance and economics ebbing and flowing of their own accord. Noct required an advisor who planned for every eventuality, every variable, every scenario—not a lackadaisical retainer who spent as much time lollygagging as actually achieving their ends. As such, Ignis had taken to considering their taunts and insults as a positive affirmation that he was doing as he should rather than the corrective devices, however useless, they were intended to be. Thinking too much equated to being prepared for whatever Noct might require assistance with; examining a situation too closely was the equivalent of not only doing his job, but doing it well. With compliments like that being bandied about, he hardly needed anything else.
The sole disadvantage to having internalized that routine so thoroughly was that he applied the same mindset to everything, not just what would benefit Noct. It was what had made his encounter with Ardyn at the altar that much more difficult to stomach. Ultimately, it wasn't the loss of his sight that plagued him most; it wasn't his ostensibly meaningless sacrifice. No, while those would forever haunt him, the true phantom residing in the depths of his subconscious was the possibilities.
What would have happened if he'd made a different decision? What would have happened if he'd gone to Gralea with Ardyn and played into his trap? What would have happened if the others had been forced to find him rather than Prompto?
What would have happened if he'd made a different bargain with the kings of Lucis than a trade of his vision for the power to defend his brother?
So many questions, and not one answer forthcoming. The maddening cycle of frustration at those eternal dead ends used to leave him raw and, if he was being honest, a bit self-conscious. There was nothing worse, in his opinion, than realizing in hindsight that he could have acted in another manner and possibly incurred an improved conclusion. In spite of his ongoing ignorance, however, Ignis had finally reached a point where he had simply accepted that it was better not to know, especially when he had no way of gleaning further insight beyond mere speculation.
And, it seemed, a divine canine.
Because Pryna was more than willing and capable of not only echoing his wildest imaginings, but showing him what would have occurred had he chosen another path.
The results were startling, although not entirely unexpected. Watching himself give his life to the kings so that Noct wouldn't have to left him nowhere near as discomfited as witnessing Noct's death in advance had; seeing his body wither into the darkness before his friends arrived seemed natural, if immeasurably and unspeakably heart wrenching. Or…perhaps that wasn't what he saw. There were layers upon layers filtering through his mind at the Messenger's behest, all the possible outcomes whirring past with dizzying speed.
There he was, passing away with no one there to comfort him besides his distant and altogether unsatisfactory conviction that at least it wasn't Noct perishing alone in the dark.
Then he was on the other side of the room, dodging attack after attack that Ardyn sent his way—a daemon in human form, and invincible besides. It wasn't enough—until it was—
He was on the ground again, his friends hovered over him this time. Prompto was silent, Gladio was equal parts furious and grieving, and Noct was reaching out to the Crystal—but it was impossible, he couldn't…
He could.
Amidst the flux of happier endings and bitter defeats, the more effective sacrifices and the tearful goodbyes, there was a spot of light in the distance. It was a possibility he hadn't entertained for more than a fraction of a second in the rare instances that it occurred to him, not when it was too devastating to hope for.
Noct, on his throne because Ignis had banished Ardyn in his stead.
For now.
Whether as a natural course of her purpose here or in apology for what she had forced him to witness last time, Pryna offered him that brief snippet before unceremoniously dropping him back into the here and now. As the scene vanished like the smoke of their innumerable campfires and their innocence along with them, replaced by the raging waves and unsettling reminder that he needed to keep moving, he was allowed to savor the…the possibility.
One that he couldn't convince himself truly was.
Oh, but he wanted it to be. He wanted to believe that had he chosen a different course, he could have saved Noct from his fate long before they had departed the Citadel for the Tempering Grounds. He wanted the certainty that his sacrifice, if in another form, might have made a difference.
That it still could make a difference.
Frowning, Ignis turned towards the altar where he had no doubt Noct and Lady Lunafreya would be waiting. What if…?
What if?
Ignis wasn't aware that he'd moved until he was rushing between the ancient stone columns that had been built to honor the Tidemother as well as ward off any who might incite her ire. They loomed over him in the gloom that was rapidly descending as dusk turned to night far quicker than it should have, eerie sentries urging caution rather than the reckless abandon he was demonstrating. He had no other choice, though, because…
What if?
On his only other invasion into this sacred territory, he had been accompanied by a friend and enemy encapsulated in the same body. His had been the hand that dealt grave blows to the imperial troopers; his had been the words that guided Ignis to realizations he never would have come to otherwise. Ravus had been an abrasive figure at best, more impatient than Gladio and less tolerant of inconveniences than Noct, yet he had ultimately been good. He had assisted Ignis until the very last moment not because he necessarily wanted to after his sister's passing, but because he recognized that it was the right thing to do—saving Noct and allowing him to fulfill his destiny.
Ignis supposed it would have been asking too much for him to be waiting at the altar.
It was. And he was by no means surprised to see it.
At least he was spared Ardyn's nonsensical illusions and his ridiculous propensity for toying with their heads purely to satisfy his own amusement. The gods, in this instance, must not have cared to listen. They had done a good deal of that during the long and fraught existence their ancient failure of a king had endured, and Ignis had no doubt that they were unwilling to tolerate more regardless of his trial. That was the sole explanation for the former chancellor standing over Noct, knife in hand, without bothering to flex a few of his more antagonistic muscles. Not even at the end of all things had he been one for making their road easy or streamlining the process inherent in his revenge—far from it. If anything, he'd put the Astrals to shame with his limitless cycle of pointless tests. Navigating Insomnia would have been difficult enough without the added benefit of dodging his silly games, from the mocking depiction of his own Wall to his pet monster to the Infernian himself. Even the kings of yore, none of whom should have been present for that affair, had been torn from the remains of the Old Wall in order to block their path just once more. The mere reminder made their endeavor to find Noct appear elementary and simplistic in design, which certainly gave the Six no compunction in not letting the image of him further outmatch them.
For a brief moment, Ignis nearly forgot that that was what leered at him when he skidded to a halt a few feet shy of where Noct was sprawled upon the bridge, Lady Lunafreya nowhere to be seen. The specter was so accurate, so appallingly real that it temporarily erased the intervening years and transported him right back to that day—as he assumed it was meant to. The same niggling guilt for not having arrived sooner so that he might aid the Oracle still roiled in the pit of his stomach; the same unspeakable fear that the end had come for Noct when none of them were prepared for it yet squeezed his lungs. His breathing was labored not merely from his sprinting across the city, and more than anything, he was uncomfortably aware that he'd been wrong thus far about every single prediction he'd made regarding this trial.
Every single prediction but one.
What if.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
Ardyn's simpering broke through the haze of recollection versus reality, and Ignis had no time to prepare before he was roughly thrown to the ground by the magitek troopers that unexpectedly appeared all around them. Although he had no spectacles to break this time, the pain was excruciating as they pressed his face into the stone beneath him, and he mentally cursed his foolishness. Hadn't he learned already that he needed to remain cognizant of his surroundings? He was a blind man, for heaven's sake—he should have heard them coming from a mile away. Instead, he had been too busy reflecting on and dreading the past to simply pay attention.
But that was all right. That was undoubtedly what he was meant to do. For what other purpose would the Six force him to relive this moment?
What if.
Sighing mockingly at his predicament, Ardyn shook his head and knelt beside Noct to lament, "Come now. Why not follow your liege's lead and stop resisting?"
Ignis would never be certain of whether it was the gods' will or the memories that flooded his consciousness at every turn today, but he couldn't refrain from echoing a version of himself he was simultaneously proud and ashamed of in equal measures: "Never!"
"You risked life and limb to safeguard the King of Kings," Ardyn continued as though he hadn't replied, "only to witness him fail so spectacularly. You must be so disappointed."
"Unhand him!" Ignis shouted across the distance between where he was held prone and Noct lay supine. As he had a decade prior, the chancellor ignored his pleas.
"I know I am. Oh, what good is a world that only ever lets you down? Why not end it all right here?"
"No… You can't…"
What if?
"Can't I?" inquired Ardyn, his grin devilish when he turned it upon Ignis.
There it was: the departure he'd been searching for. Logically, he was well aware that things couldn't go the way they had a decade ago. For one, Ravus's absence meant he couldn't save Noct and, in effect, Ignis. He wasn't there for Ardyn to accost, nor would he stall for time while Ignis threw off his assailants and snatched the Ring of the Lucii from where it landed when Ardyn tossed Noct aside like so much refuse. None of that was possible here, not when key elements were missing.
That, too, was all right. The Astrals obviously neither wanted nor required Ravus's presence. The ones who truly mattered in this equation were himself, Ardyn, and Noct.
What if…
Humming in a pantomime of genuine thought, Ardyn straightened to survey him through narrowed eyes. His expression wasn't shrewd, however; it wasn't as calculating as Ignis had expected. No, he appeared too confident for that—too sure of what Ignis's answer would be when he finally asked precisely what Ignis had been anticipating.
"Very well, then. Permit me to make a suggestion," he declared, as calm and casual as ever.
…What… What if…
"Rather than follow this flotsam and float away to a watery grave, why not come with me?"
What if?
Ardyn extended a hand to him with the sort of grin that would have found a home on a goblin or any other manner of foul creature. That it adorned his visage was no surprise, further emphasizing the beast that lay beneath the collected façade he'd portrayed until the very end.
"What do you say?" he wheedled darkly.
What did he say? What did Ignis say?
He said what if. He said what if he didn't make the same choice that he had before. He said what if he didn't jump in headfirst and live with the consequences, knowing as he did that they were unnecessary. Ardyn wouldn't actually kill Noct—that would have destroyed the carefully laid plans he had been concocting for two millennia. He was putting on a good show, but what he really wanted was to hurry Noct along. That, in any case, was the only alternative Ignis could surmise. There was no other reason for him to desire a hostage, whether himself or Prompto, but to hasten Noct's arrival and ascent into the Crystal.
Ignis hadn't realized that eleven years ago. Rather, he had been all too keen to sacrifice his sight in exchange for ensuring Noct's protection, mistaken though he'd been that it was indeed as endangered as he'd believed. All he'd been certain of was that the gesture was worth it, the various possibilities being a mystery at that point.
Here he was, though, right back where he'd begun. Could this be the gods' way of saying that he had made the wrong choice? Were they trying to tell him that if he was going to prove his allegiance to Noct, then he needed to sacrifice something different from what he had before? He supposed that made sense, especially as it was the only option available to him now. He had fretted over that decision almost every day after Noct disappeared; in his own mind, he could have done better. There had been so many denouements, which Pryna's vision confirmed, and he had spent ten years wandering the paths that led to each.
If he decided to go with Ardyn, there was a possibility that he could strike a bargain with the Six and the kings. Perhaps he would be able to rescue Noct not by buying him time, but by taking his place. The Astrals weren't so particular that they would demand the blood of the Lucis Caelum line when they had a willing participant volunteering to act in his stead, were they? If they truly wished to eradicate Ardyn, then he doubted that would be the case. It would be a simple matter of transferring Noct's sentence to Ignis, and he would have agreed to that without hesitation.
In his most idealistic imaginings, he'd wondered if that might earn him some reward—a delusion that Lady Lunafreya's canine companion had played on mere minutes ago. Or was it hours? Centuries seemed to pass as he lay there, vacillating between repeating history and changing the course of the future. Even so, that wasn't enough to entirely quash the flicker of hope the illogical part of him preferred to harbor. It whispered that Noct was the King of Kings, that perhaps he would be able to heal any damage Ignis incurred and, when the time came for his final reckoning against Ardyn, he would emerge unscathed. It attempted to convince him that, at the very worst, he could delay the inevitable so that at least Noct wouldn't be the one doomed to handle it. If the Six were insistent that the royal family deliver the parting blow to the perpetrator of the ongoing Starscourge, then Ignis could nevertheless postpone it until another time. He could have used the ring to banish Ardyn temporarily from Eos and then returned it to Noct; their plague would eventually resurface, but a new Chosen King would be born who would then be tasked with making that sacrifice. It wouldn't be Noct, though—he wouldn't have to die before he'd had a chance to live. Ignis would start the process, and that was sufficient for the moment.
After all, did future generations of kings even matter? That was the point of this trial: to prove that he would serve Noct, even forsaking all others who might descend from him.
For the span of a breath, he was certain he'd solved it. He was positive that that was what the Hydraean was waiting for wherever she was hiding beneath the raging sea. The Six would rather he sacrifice himself, shouldering the burden of the Ring of the Lucii and damning some unknown successor if it meant Noct's safety. And, if he was fortunate enough for those surreal dreams of his to become reality, then he could live to see the day that Noct ruled on his own throne. It was everything he'd wanted—everything he'd once fought for—and the logic behind it was sound.
That was the problem.
It wasn't until Ignis made to accept Ardyn's proposal that he was struck with a sense of awareness so all-encompassing that it drove the breath from his lungs. The words died in his throat, and he was left staring openmouthed at the bane of their shared existence as his grief renewed itself tenfold.
Because this wasn't about logic, just as Gladio's trial hadn't been about strength. It was quite the opposite, in fact.
The test didn't require him to save Noct or Lady Lunafreya, nor was its purpose to alter what had already happened by choosing a more logical path. Rather, he was supposed to confront that which he struggled with the most. For Gladio, that had meant finding a method of protecting Noct when brute force had forsaken him. That, doubtless, was his most commendable talent.
What was Ignis's besides his impeccable and unfailing logic?
So, the gods were stripping it from him, because Noct wasn't a logical person. He would never be happy or whole if Ignis took his place. Bodily, he would survive and live to see a healthy reign, but in spirit? Ignis did not mean to elevate himself in importance or bask in his own hubris, but he had known Noct for so long that he was hard-pressed to remember a time when they weren't together. As such, he had no delusions about the painful truth of the matter: if he went through with this and tread the logical road, he would shatter his brother. That was the only thing that remained constant in all his daydreams and his musings—Noct's devastation. Utter and complete devastation. He had already come close in the aftermath of Ignis's prior sacrifice.
There would be no coming back from this.
Logic dictated that there would be other retainers, of course; he would find any number of competent individuals to replace one lost chamberlain. Still, they were so much more than that. Brothers mourned each other deeply, perhaps even deeper than anyone else.
To give up his life in an attempt to save Noct's would not protect him.
To prolong Noct's existence without his bride—but not without the guilt that her death had wrought on him—would not protect him.
To condemn future generations of Noct's family to dealing with Ardyn when he inevitably returned, unchallenged in Providence so that his Scourge would someday reappear, would not protect him. Whether it was his son, grandson, or any variant thereof, Noct would someday die knowing that his descendants were doomed to facing the fate he had willingly accepted for himself. It was both the antithesis of what Noct would desire and what would keep him safe.
There was no logic here. There was only a matter of the heart, and Ignis's was telling him not to go with Ardyn even as his head relayed another message.
He could count on one hand the number of times in his life that he had abandoned the rational path in order to follow what the organ in his chest dictated to be right. Many of those occasions had occurred when he was younger and prone to fits of emotion, particularly where Noct was concerned.
Some things never changed.
Some things weren't meant to. Not throwing off his assailants and grabbing the accessory that would be their salvation and their doom. Not viciously rejecting Ardyn's offer. Not jamming the Ring of the Lucii onto his finger or the instant agony that spread through every limb like lightning.
For Noct. Always and forever.
And as the world burned, fading behind spots of black and purple flame, Ignis knew that he had passed his test—because some things did change.
The freezing shard of Crystal at the base of his throat, for instance, and the whisper on the wind that told him, "True is the heart of the King's General. He has proven his worth and his devotion to the Chosen King. To him, the path is unbarred."
