Chapter Three: Head High, Carry On

They used the coronation decorations. It wasn't like they were going to get another chance.

Gladio had to admit that the place looked good even if the wall beside the throne was still blown out. They'd done what they could to get rid of the rubble and clear the area; it would be a while before they were able to repair all the damage done to the Citadel, though. It wasn't that there was a lot of it—which was pretty damn surprising, all things considered—but they didn't exactly have all the equipment they'd need for some huge construction project. So, like the growing list of shit that needed to be fixed before Insomnia would be fully restored to its former glory, that would have to wait.

Still, they'd done the best they could with what they had available. Ignis, Prompto, and whoever they could get to help, anyway—Gladio had been…occupied elsewhere. This was the first he was seeing of it, and although it was as stunning as it would have been were everything put to the use it was meant for, there was a tragic feel to it.

He tried to force back thoughts that this was what they were designed for, that the king had known and had these decorations created purely for this moment. Now wasn't the time.

Instead, he made himself appreciate how great the place looked. Fit for a king, as it were, with the tapestry emblazoned with Noct's name as the focal point. They'd gotten that damn Crystal out of here, which Gladio was relieved to see; he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand the sight of it, not when he was too familiar with everything that it represented. The twin red carpets leading down the aisle and up the stairs towards the throne, flowers trailing over the balconies where the council once sat, white drapery framing the display from the ceiling—it was regal, bathed in sunlight where it filtered in through the broken window.

All in all, it was a fine place for the royal tomb of the last king of Lucis.

In a perfect world, there would have been a huge ceremony packed with people that had come to pay their respects to the king who saved all their asses and brought back the light of day. Gladio could practically see it now: the throne room filled until it was standing room only, the courtyard outside bursting with grieving citizens of every nation in Eos. The streets would have been quiet. A representative of the House Fleuret would have been here to read the customary bullshit about finding peace after the end and going to better places. Ignis would have obsessed over every last detail (not that he hadn't already, but still, there'd be a huge staff to keep in line); Prompto would have been running around like an idiot making sure all the last-minute affairs were seen to. The Citadel would have been brimming with life, and everyone would have devoted their now daemon-free time to giving their king the send-off he deserved.

Would have, would have, would have.

But it wasn't a perfect world, so quality had to come before quantity. There was no one outside. The halls of the Citadel were as silent as they had been the night that they'd lost and gained everything in the span of a single instant. Inside the throne room, there were only a handful of mourners who would witness the ceremony that should have been an international event. Their small numbers didn't faze Gladio, though. If anything, he thought it was more appropriate. Noct wouldn't have wanted a huge shindig full of people crying and pretending that they knew him. Nah, he'd rather have something simple with the people he cared about and who gave a shit about him—not the prince or the king or whoever they thought he was, but Noctis.

The few remaining members of the Crownsguard were there, standing at the back of the chamber closest to the door with stoic expressions. They were the ones who'd watched Noct grow up, protected him with their lives, and literally given up everything for him. Right in the middle of them stood Libertus Ostium, the last living Kingsglaive operative. Well, the only one who wasn't a traitor, apparently. Gladio couldn't say he knew the guy well, but the fact that he'd come was comforting. There hadn't been time or resources for a funeral when King Regis died, and it wasn't like anyone had recovered his body. (Gladio wasn't counting the asshole who stole it.) The fact that he'd come for Noct was a hell of a gesture—somebody from the Kingsglaive should be there for their king.

Just ahead were all the people who'd gotten them this far. Aranea was there with Biggs and Wedge, her chin held high as always. Someone had brought Cid a chair, but the second the doors opened, Cindy and Weskham helped him to his feet. Gone was the skeptical disdain he'd had for Noct when they first met that day in Hammerhead; he stood as straight as he could, and if Gladio didn't know any better, he would have thought Cid would salute. Iris stood on his other side, doing her best not to cry even though he could see the tears welling in her eyes and threatening to spill over. No matter how many daemons she'd slayed, no matter how many monikers she'd earned, she was still that same little girl who'd befriended a prince purely because her big brother was kind of an ass. Talcott had tears streaming down his face, not bothering to stem the flow the way others were. That kid never did have any shame.

At the foot of the steps leading up to the dais, Cor was waiting for him. He'd managed to scrounge up his formal Crownsguard attire somewhere and was probably the only one of them who looked like they belonged here. There was an unfathomable sadness in his eyes that made Gladio's heart stutter in his chest, but the rest of him may as well have been carved out of stone. Just like Gladio, he was here to perform a duty.

They were the sentinels, the keepers of the king in life and in death.

It was the only reason Gladio was still alive.

While everyone else had been preparing for this moment, to say their final goodbyes and then go about their lives because they could, he'd been doing that duty. His responsibility didn't perish with his charge. Noct would have been pissed if he'd given up when there were still so many people who needed protecting—people Noct had died to keep alive so that others could do so. Maybe he'd been selfish that night, thinking that he could give up just because he'd failed in his foremost responsibility. Now, though, he'd had time to think. To reflect.

To remember.

A Shield went through rigorous training, but it wasn't just for the sake of their physical strength. There was an indoctrination process, one where you learned exactly what was expected of you in every contingency.

Every contingency.

"In the event that a Shield should outlive his king, his honor will be greatly diminished, for it is the duty of every Shield to guard his king with his own life," his instructors and his books—his own father—had drilled into his head. "It is the expectation that if the king is dead, his Shield preceded him into the afterlife to watch over his soul after it makes the crossing. The bond between Shield and king is unbreakable by the trials of life or death; their beings, their souls, their existences are woven together, forsaking all others for all time. The duty of a Shield is to sacrifice all for his king: friends, family, limb, and life. It is to be loyal and true even in the face of adversity; it is to support and to empower the hand of his king without fail. The duty of a Shield is to be more than a man, more than a guardian, more than a brother. In the event that the king should perish while his Shield yet lives, the duty of the latter is not negated, and the bond between them remains unbroken. In the event that the king should perish while his Shield yet lives, it remains his duty to protect his king in body and in spirit until such time that the Shield may join him."

Those words replayed in his mind, weighing him down as heavily as Noct's body in his arms as Gladio accompanied him to his final resting place. They'd been playing on repeat ever since they learned what bringing back the light really meant, and he had stopped at nothing to do his duty to the best of his ability, even if he hadn't done such a great job of interpreting what that meant back in the day.

It was Gladio who had carried Noct from the throne room, who had seen him safely to his long-abandoned chambers in the Citadel.

It was Gladio who had sat with his king—his brother—for two days while Ignis and Prompto had contacted everyone who mattered and seen to the funeral arrangements.

It was Gladio who had observed in silence as Ignis completed his final responsibility as the king's chamberlain: to dress him for his last appearance in the uniform that had escorted him to functions and meetings and matters of state.

It was Gladio who had taken the king gently into his arms, hugging him tightly to his chest with Noct's head tucked beneath his chin, and now carried him to the last bed he would ever oversleep in.

There was no excuse for him to feel so unprepared, so reluctant to lay Noct carefully on the stone bier and step back. The Blademaster had warned him years ago, when he was young and stupid and too scared to see it for what it was, that his charge would be the last king of Lucis with no heirs to succeed him. It still gutted Gladio to watch Cor's mouth move with the final rites that preceded every king into oblivion, even if the blood pounding in his ears made it so that he couldn't hear the words themselves. Ignis and Prompto stood opposite him, the latter crying noiselessly as he stared at Noct while the former pressed a hand to his back. Gladio was distantly comforted that, by the thought that they weren't ready either.

There was still so much Gladio wanted to say, words that he hadn't gotten out that last night at camp. It figured: he was always on Noct's ass about speaking instead of leaving them in the dark, whether it hurt or not. Looked like he never really took his own advice. If he did, he would have pulled Noct aside that night—any night before the end—and told him in plain words that he was sorry for all the times he'd failed in his duty and the one time he would when it mattered the most. He would've dropped to his knee and sworn fealty again to the man who had made a king out of the boy who had once been a reluctant prince. He would have told him that he was every bit the king his father wanted him to be.

But that ship had sailed, and Cor was turning towards Noct with such an expression of pain that Gladio was surprised the Marshal was still standing. And then he wasn't—Cor lowered himself to one knee, placing a hand on the edge of the bier and bowing his head. Prompto was the next to follow, then Ignis.

For a heartbeat, Gladio was frozen in place, unable to accept that this was it. Everyone was on the floor, their heads lowered in deference to their king, and he just stood there like an idiot because he wasn't ready. Then his body was moving of its own accord, a product of all the training and preparation that had brought him here.

It happened immediately: the final burst of magic the line of Lucis had to offer. As soon as Gladio's hand joined the others at Noct's side, there was a crackling in the atmosphere like the air before a storm. He wasn't supposed to raise his head, wasn't supposed to watch—but he was Noct's Shield, damn it. Customs and manners could go to hell. His eyes flew open to witness the explosion of blue flame around his charge that simmered in the morning sunlight until, as it was extinguished mere seconds later, it left behind a king carved of stone.

After that, everything was a distant blur. Gladio didn't see everyone cast their final glances at the dais as they left the throne room for the last time; he didn't register the way Ignis was hugging Prompto to his side in an effort to seek and receive comfort in equal measures. All that existed was the statue that had once been his whole world—even if it was a pain in the ass half the time. Those eyes that were now cemented shut had once glared at him from the floor of the training room when they'd gotten the shit kicked out of them because they didn't know how to fight yet. Those hands that were gently folded over his stomach used to grab onto Gladio's shoulder to give him an extra push when his Shield would launch him into an aerial attack, steady and so very trusting. Those lips that were frozen in time had frequently twisted into a sarcastic little smirk with the knowledge that he was about to pluck on Gladio's last nerve for fun.

Never again.

A different hand touched his shoulder after a while, long-fingered and less bony than the sensation that would forever haunt his senses. Ignis's voice was gentle and filled with pain when he whispered, "Gladio… It's time."

Time… God, he hated it.

He couldn't argue, though, or dig for reasons to stay. The chamber was empty; the sun was rapidly approaching the center of the sky.

There was a kingdom to rebuild, people to protect, jobs to do.

It was time.

When Gladio maneuvered himself to his feet, his eyes fell on the tiny, familiar metal key that Ignis was holding out for him to do the honors. It was that that made this all the more real. So innocent, yet it meant so much every time Noct had used it to access the tombs of his ancestors and gain their power. No one would have to do that anymore; his charge hadn't even been buried with a weapon. King Regis's sword was laid across the armrests of the throne, given its own place of honor to watch over his son for all eternity. A sword within the tomb, and a Shield right outside. Poetic.

Technically, they weren't supposed to look back as they trudged down the aisle towards the door. Another stupid custom that somebody thought up to symbolize moving forward and all that crap. It didn't matter anymore, though, and Gladio didn't particularly care about that rule in the first place. Who was going to get on his case for it?

So, as they reached the door and stepped out into the antechamber, Gladio paused with his fist closed tightly around the key. He would be back, he reminded himself. One day, when time decided it was done putting up with him, this door would open again just as it had for generations of Amicitia men before him. He'd make damn sure of it.

With that thought in mind, he turned to offer his silent promise to both bier and throne—that he would always be here—

And stopped dead.

…It can't be…

"Gladio?" Prompto sniffled behind his stiffened back. "What's up?"

In the split second it took for him to glance at the others, still waiting for him outside, and then back up at the throne, what he'd been positive was there had vanished. For all he knew, it had never been there to begin with. A trick of the light or the mind or…something.

It still brought a tiny smile to Gladio's face, the first in two days.

"Nothin'," he murmured, swinging the door shut and locking it one last time. "Just thought I saw something."