Chapter Two: Guiding Lights

"There is something dark at work here."

That was all the doctors knew. For days, the king had sat beside Noct's bed while they poked and prodded and tried to determine why the prince couldn't be roused. It was all to no avail: after nearly a week, the only thing they knew with any surety was that something dark was at work—something beyond their skill to heal. No matter what they tried, Noct never once stirred. His wounds had been mended, sewn tightly shut and wrapped in bandages until the right side of his body was hardly visible for the dressings. They'd given him potions and smelling salts and phoenix downs—every available medicinal remedy had failed to produce the desired effect. Noct remained comatose, and there was no telling why.

When they first informed King Regis, Ignis had been there. Hardly a moment passed that he wasn't, at least if he had no lessons or other obligations to be dealt with. (For the first time in his life, he'd thought seriously about skiving off and letting his responsibilities slide. It was thanks to force of habit itself that he didn't make such a dreadful yet appealing mistake.) Long hours had been spent standing in the doorway, making sure he wasn't in the way while simultaneously keeping a close watch on his friend. There was always someone else in the room with them: doctors, the Marshal, advisers to the king, members of the Crownsguard. Ignis sometimes found himself wondering if it was such a terrible thing that Noct was unaware of what was happening around him: the claustrophobia would be enough to get to anyone after a while.

The king, however, never seemed to notice. He took everything in stride and watched over his son as though no one else in the world existed. His aides brought him meals and fresh clothes each day, and those moments of necessary hygiene were the only times he was away from Noct's side, although he remained close enough that those few minutes were negligible. Advisers came to provide him with his daily briefings and get his signatures on the documents he was required to peruse, but King Regis hardly paid them more attention than the sun as it rose and fell in the distance beyond the window. His kingdom—the only kingdom that truly mattered—lay in ruins before him, and it had his undivided attention despite his helplessness to save it.

Which was why the news of the doctors' impotence seemed to draw him from his secluded shell.

"Daemons wield the darkness," he had replied tonelessly to the doctors' hesitant diagnosis. "Of course it is at work here."

The doctors had exchanged a nervous glance, but King Regis hadn't given them the opportunity to speak.

"Can you do anything for him?"

Swallowing anxiously, one of the doctors had quietly explained, "We've done all we can, Your Majesty. His wounds are treated—the physical ones, at least. Until he wakes, we will not know the full extent of the damage to his spine. He may…"

"He may never walk again," finished the other when his colleague appeared either unable or unwilling to go on.

From his seemingly permanent post in the doorway, Ignis had felt his lungs constrict at those words. Never walk again? Noctis? It couldn't happen. He was so lively, so determined to live life to the fullest even in the face of his royal responsibilities—many of which he shirked regardless, but the fact remained. To imagine Noct, with his bright eyes and quick smile, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life…

Well, the slightly ill expression on the king's face adequately personified his own emotions, as well.

After that, the doctors were released from their round-the-clock observation. There was no point in them being there, not when they could do nothing for the prince but stare and review the same evidence over and over and over again. Aides still came and went, though, and many of King Regis's advisers would sit in silence with him to offer their wordless support.

For Ignis, the world had gone dark. He hadn't realized before just how much time he spent with Noctis, whether during shared studies (or, more accurately, Ignis studying and trying to get Noct to pay attention) or just playing around the Citadel together. It all came crashing down upon him as more time passed without hearing that small but oh so big voice calling to him from the other side of the hall or waving as he ran into the throne room to see his father. The quiet Ignis had pined for so frequently was oppressive now, making it difficult to breathe for worry that this silence would never cease.

Visiting Noct never made it any better, yet Ignis could do nothing less. He adhered to his vow, both to himself and the royal family, that he would remain by the prince's side until either he died or was released from service. A coma counted as neither.

That was how he came to find himself alone with King Regis for the first time.

It was late, far later than Ignis was supposed to be awake. No one had yet rebuked him for it, though, and he was well aware that his instructors knew where he spent many an evening these days. Ignis supposed that their tolerance would eventually wane; he would only be able to maintain such a schedule for so long until it began to negatively impact his studies, after all. Regardless, he slipped across the corridor and poked his head into Noctis's room all the same. If his midnight wanderings were destined to come to an end, he would make full use of each moment until then.

In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for. After over a week, he hardly expected to peer in and see Noct sitting up, wide awake. Perhaps it was just to reassure himself that the prince was still breathing—such a thing was not guaranteed and therefore well worth checking into.

Tonight, the scene wasn't a great deal different than any other: Noct, pale beneath his covers, and King Regis slumped in a chair beside the bed. The prince's chest rose and fell evenly as life continued to move in and out of his lungs; his hair was flattened to the pillow beneath it like a dark halo, framing his features and giving him a wan look that had no business on his face. If Ignis took one comfort from the sight, it was that Noct didn't appear to be in any pain: his face was blank, and if it weren't for the fact that he couldn't wake up, he may very well have been sleeping.

The only difference in the room tonight was that King Regis was alone for once. Usually there was a steady stream of attendants and guards coming to bring him this news or that briefing, but for the first time since that fateful night, the king had no one else in the room attempting to garner his attention. Rather, he was quite absorbed in his thoughts, turning something over in his hands that Ignis couldn't see from the doorway. He didn't seem to register his presence at first, which Ignis was unspeakably grateful for, and he carefully began to back his way out of the room when—

"You don't have to leave, Ignis."

He froze in place, hazarding a glance to see King Regis still staring at what he was holding but sitting up straighter now. In Noctis's words: busted.

Clearing his throat cautiously, Ignis respectfully bowed his head. "My apologies for interrupting you, Your Majesty."

The king made a sound like a chuckle and finally looked up at him. His eyes were indescribably sad and far too exhausted, but there was a tiny glimmer of humor there that told Ignis he wasn't in trouble—much trouble, in any case.

"You're hardly interrupting anything," he sighed, waving a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Master Clarus often took up residence there when he wasn't dealing with matters the king was too preoccupied to manage, but it was quite empty at this hour. "Please, sit. You have as much right to be here as I do."

I don't know about that…

It didn't do to argue with his king, however, so Ignis nodded his thanks and obeyed. There was something worse about the situation once he was sitting closer, and as he turned to face his royal company, his heart fell into his stomach to witness Noct in such a state. From the door, he couldn't tell how dry and chapped his friend's lips were; he hadn't noticed the way every vein in his arm was visible just below the surface. He hadn't looked so sick from afar.

Admittedly, his father was hardly any better. He was pale, his hair lank and mussed where he'd run his hands through it in frustrated concern far too many times. The kindness in his eyes had been all but extinguished, replaced with something hard and fearful that Ignis never thought he was capable of feeling. King Regis was everything the leader of a state should be—or so he'd always thought. To see him now was to see a father, not royalty, and this patriarch was suffering horribly in the face of his son's unforeseeable fate.

Some of his thoughts must have been plain on his face, because one corner of the king's mouth turned up in a smirk as he remarked, "Indeed, I have looked better."

Blinking, Ignis hastened to reassure him, "No, Your Majesty, not at a—!"

"It's all right," the king waved him off good-naturedly, that little smile still in place. "I've been reliably informed that I look like quite the mess right now—hardly something you would expect from your king."

Can he…read thoughts? Ignis almost shook his head at his own idiocy. Preposterous. Don't be absurd.

"Your Majesty has more important concerns to address than your attire," Ignis blurted out before he could stop the words from spilling forth. He snapped his mouth shut immediately, his teeth clicking together in his haste, but the king didn't appear offended by his speaking out of turn. If anything, he actually seemed to find it funny.

Chuckling softly, his eyes flicked fondly to the prince as he murmured, "So I do. Your honesty is refreshing. I do hope you behave as such with my son."

That brought a smile to Ignis's face, albeit a microscopic one. The sensation of his lips lifting and cheeks shifting felt so foreign after such a long week. "Yes, Your Majesty. I'm afraid he doesn't always appreciate it, though."

"Of that, I have no doubt," grinned the king. He shook his head, an amused gleam in his eyes as he turned back to Ignis and continued, "Between the two of us, that is the true way to keep royalty in check. Honesty," he added in response to Ignis's confused frown.

"I'm…not sure I understand," he admitted slowly, hoping he sounded as apologetic as he felt. King Regis nodded tolerantly and settled back in his seat again.

"Of course. You are still young," he murmured softly, raising his voice so Ignis could hear him when he pressed on. "A king's duty is to his people. He must know what his subjects need, and in turn, he requires an honest assessment of his own actions as he seeks to fulfill those needs. It is a thing many take for granted—honesty—and yet it is the most valuable gift a king can receive. It helps you to grow and learn how to be a better leader for your people, whether that means your court promoting a legal amendment or just Captain Drautos calling you a fool for wearing an unflattering tie."

"He did that?!" Ignis couldn't help but giggle past his awe, and the king smiled.

"Yes, he did. I admit, he was quite right—the color was abhorrent with my complexion." He allowed Ignis a moment to laugh, chortling a bit himself, before he sighed heavily and continued, "Kings are human, like anyone else. It is important to be reminded of that from time to time."

His tone turned mournful as his eyes fell once again on Noct, the spark of amusement dowsed in the weight of his grief. Just like that, the world came crashing down once again, leaving a father and a friend huddled over a broken boy—in their silent misery, they were nearly equals.

Ignis had just decided that perhaps he'd overstayed his welcome when his eyes fell on something blue in the king's lap and he frowned, tilting his head to the side. He recognized that figurine, but where…?

"Carbuncle," he realized, his voice filled with wonder.

King Regis looked over at him, nodding once before glancing down at the blue fox in his hand. "I see you haven't neglected your studies."

"No, Your Majesty," agreed Ignis (perhaps a little indignantly). "I don't think I've seen his likeness outside of books."

"You wouldn't," confirmed the king. He turned the pink-horned trinket over in his hand a few times before he spoke again. "Do you remember who Carbuncle is?"

Without hesitation, Ignis recited, "An Astral tasked with protecting the weak and the lost."

"Among others."

"If I remember correctly, he is one of the only Astrals to have no physical presence in Eos."

The king took a deep breath and nodded once more. "So it has been written. There are many who claim to have seen him in times of need."

"Do you…" Ignis paused, not sure if he would be overstepping his bounds to ask, but the king motioned for him to finish his question. "Do you believe them?"

For a moment, King Regis hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. When he finally answered, it was in a wistful tone. "I believe the Astrals are capable of a great many things. It would be unwise to discount any mention of their presence, however improbable it may be."

Ignis supposed that made sense, although he wasn't quite sure himself. If all the scholars in Eos had yet to find substantive proof that Carbuncle was out there, it was unlikely that they were speaking from a lack of attention to such stories. In any case, Ignis wasn't about to argue over ideology with the king, nor was he given the opportunity.

"The kings of Lucis have long maintained a connection with the Astrals, going back many generations," he indicated, a wry smile briefly lighting up his features. He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "Except the Infernian, of course. He's a fickle sort."

Snorting, Ignis nodded. After all, the Infernian was to blame for betraying his fellow Astrals, causing a war to end all wars (in a manner of speaking), and spawning the Starscourge that once ravaged Eos and all who lived there. All things considered, he wasn't the god Ignis would have wanted to be on good terms with anyway.

Casting it one final glance, the king reached out to gingerly place the figurine on Noct's pillow beside his head.

"Carbuncle, however, is loyal. He is kind. He is a protector against dark dreams."

By the end of his statement, the king's voice had fallen to almost nothing, and Ignis only just heard him as he reclined back in his seat. They fell silent for such a long time that Ignis wondered if this was King Regis's way of dismissing him. There was one last question, however, that refused to vacate the tip of his tongue. It was not his job to demand answers, and yet…the king had offered him such great latitude already that he thought one last inquiry would not be unwelcome.

So, gathering his nerve, Ignis quietly asked, "Do you think Carbuncle will bring Noct back to us?"

There was a long pause. It drew out almost to the point of becoming uncomfortable, but Ignis received no rebuke. Rather, King Regis looked pensive, as though he wasn't sure of the answer or how to verbalize it. When he eventually met Ignis's eyes again, there was something there that had been missing over the course of the last few days: courage and hope.

"I believe Noct will find his own way back," replied King Regis with the ghost of a smile. "He simply needs a light to guide him home."

It was bound to happen eventually. Sadly, Ignis hadn't wanted it to be so soon.

"You will be working with Master Clarus's son on defense today," his instructor told him as soon as he arrived for his lessons. Before he swept out of the room, he'd ordered Ignis to stay put and wait—for how long, he didn't say.

Ignis knew it was necessary. Defense would be integral to his job not only as Noct's adviser, but his protector as well should the need arise. Learning how to defend himself and others—and, therefore, how to fight—had always been on the docket. That didn't stop him from thinking that it was someone's clever idea to get him out of his own head, however, given that he'd heard absolutely nothing about beginning such training before that day.

There was nothing to be done for it, however, except go through the motions. He was mildly ashamed to say that he thought it was a waste of time, but it had nothing to do with the content itself. It was just that his mind wasn't in it—his heart wasn't in it. Life at the Citadel had yet to go back to normal, not when the prince had been absent in spirit for long enough now that whispers had begun to circulate regarding whether he would ever wake up at all. King Regis still maintained his vigil at Noct's side, albeit with more meetings held in the room now that they couldn't be avoided; the court was still being led by Master Clarus until the king returned. Outside the Citadel, no one was the wiser—the king had been very careful not to let word of Noct's injury reach the press—but inside? It felt like swimming through sludge or sinking into a quagmire of dismay. The clock had stopped, so why should his studies move forward?

Despite the king's hopes, Carbuncle didn't appear to have done anything for Noct. Ignis spent many a night with King Regis after their conversation; sometimes they talked in low voices while other nights were passed merely waiting with more pleasant company than their own thoughts, but the prince never stirred. When Ignis finally went to bed each night, he felt increasingly downhearted until he was beginning to find little hope left. He didn't dare to tell King Regis that, though. Part of him wanted to trust his king and believe that he was right, that Noct would find his way back—but there was also a time to be realistic, and things weren't looking good.

Perhaps that was why his instructors had set up this impromptu defense lesson. It was no secret that Gladiolus Amicitia was an excellent warrior even at the age of eleven, and if Ignis was going to avoid looking like an utter fool in his presence, he was going to need to be focused on the task at hand. It was much easier said than done, but he refused to be made second best. He'd always been first, and he'd taken pride in it as the future adviser to the king, so he wasn't willing to be demoted to silver. Not while he had anything to say about it.

Easier said than done indeed, he mused silently when the door to the training room swung open to reveal the largest adolescent he had ever seen. Ignis was hardly a year younger than Gladiolus, and yet they were so different that he was hard pressed to find similarities.

Where Ignis was slender, Gladiolus was thick.

Where Ignis was tall, Gladiolus was mountainous.

Where Ignis had sinew, Gladiolus had pure muscle.

What gods did his father pray to for him to look like that?!

So shocking was the difference between them that Ignis didn't realize they were being introduced until his instructor snapped his name. Ignis quickly shook himself, offering an apologetic smile before inclining his head.

"I'm Ignis. It's a pleasure to meet you, Master Amicitia."

There was a snort of derision, then his opponent muttered, "You definitely grew up here. Forget the master stuff—it's Gladio."

"Right…" Ignis glanced up, quirking an eyebrow as he verified that this wasn't some test of his royal manners. "As you wish, Gladio."

The latter nodded resolutely before shifting gears and, in the blink of an eye, getting down to business. He strode forward with all the confidence of the most experienced members of the Kingsglaive and asserted, "They said we should work on hand-to-hand for your first time. I guess they didn't want you to get hurt using any weapons."

Ignis wasn't able to restrain the noise of indignant protest that managed to find its way past his lips; his jaw practically crashed to the marble floor. Eyes wide and appropriately rankled, he shot back, "I'm quite capable of utilizing weapons. Perhaps they did not want you to feel inadequate by comparison."

Gladio's bark of laughter was the only response he offered, which did absolutely nothing for Ignis's pride whatsoever. His bravado lit a fire in the pit of Ignis's stomach, though, one he was very willing to feed with the humiliation of his opponent as soon as the opening presented itself.

"You know how to wrestle?" Gladio asked without preamble, moving to stand in front of Ignis with his fists planted on his hips.

Frowning, Ignis tried not to look as uneducated on the matter as he felt (and undoubtedly was) when he coolly responded, "I'm quite familiar with the theory, yes."

The grin Gladio leveled at him resembled that of a predator before a meal. It was a difficult thought to force aside in favor of paying attention, but he managed it a bit easier when Gladio adopted a fighting stance and held his hands out to both sides.

"Then show me what you've got, Iggy."

And he did. He simply hadn't realized just how little he had.

Ignis barely had a chance to charge forward before strong arms caught him around the neck, spun him around, and he was suddenly on his ass.

Groaning in pain, he rubbed his back and glared up at Gladio, who was staring down at him with unconcealed disappointment.

"I thought you said you knew how to wrestle."

"I do," lied Ignis, staggering up onto his feet again despite the ache in his lower back from how hard he'd hit the floor. He raised his fists and insisted, "I wasn't prepared, that's all."

It was quite obvious Gladio didn't believe a word he said, but he was kind enough not to call him on it as he moved back into his own stance and waited.

This time, Ignis tried to put his prior training to use in this new scenario. He observed the way Gladio stood—feet spread, but not wide enough to throw off his center of gravity, arms raised just high enough to block a frontal assault—and considered his own mistakes the first time around. He'd gone for Gladio's middle, which was where he was most heavily guarded. If he tried aiming for his legs instead…

He would end up on his face, as he found out a moment later.

Gladio's laughter rang in his ears, and Ignis clenched his fists as he pushed himself onto his knees and glowered at the far wall.

"Seriously, you haven't got a clue how to fight, do ya? What do they teach you here, anyway?"

"How to use more than just brute force!" exclaimed Ignis, on his feet before he realized he'd moved. In spite of the obvious difference in their heights, he felt momentarily larger than Gladio—stronger.

His opponent was unfazed, though, and very clearly unimpressed. "Yeah. Lotta good that's gonna do you when you and the prince are surrounded by enemy soldiers, huh?"

"As his adviser, I would ensure he never found himself in that position to begin with."

"Sounds realistic."

With a growl of frustration, Ignis spun on his heel, grabbed the books he'd brought with him today (thinking that he would have a useful and worthwhile lesson), and stomped towards the door. A large, firm hand on his bicep stopped him before he made it more than a few steps, and he whirled around to glare up at Gladio. Distantly, he noted that it was excellent his instructor had left the two of them alone; otherwise, he undoubtedly would have been incensed at Ignis's less than courteous behavior.

"Is there something else you needed, Master Amicitia?" demanded Ignis through gritted teeth, his manners counteracted by the venom he injected into every syllable.

Gladio didn't speak for a long minute, just staring down at him with an inscrutable expression that nearly rivaled the Marshal's. If it weren't for the tight grip he kept on Ignis's arm, the latter would have broken free and left him standing there despite the curiosity beginning to take root. What could the son of the King's Shield possibly have to say to him? It would be a long time before they needed to work together for the sake of the king—if Noct survives, he couldn't avoid remembering—but there was hardly a reason for them to be more than civil right now. They definitely didn't need to have a conversation, not when Gladio was only interested in making Ignis look like a fool.

Not when Gladio was only serving to remind him just how ill-prepared he was to serve the future king.

After an interminable moment, Gladio gently released him, but Ignis still stood rooted to the spot. It was another minute before Gladio spoke, his voice much quieter than it had been and missing the braggadocio.

"You've got a lot to learn," he began with a tentativeness that took Ignis by surprise and began to cool his temper. "But I can show you how to fight."

Ignis blinked once—twice—then demanded, "Why?"

Shrugging, Gladio reasonably observed, "A king's gotta have a shield and a sword, right? He's no good with just one."

"You will be more than a mere adviser to the future king," Ignis heard his instructor telling him from the distance of his memories. "For all that you seek to protect him through words, you will continue to do so through actions. He will meet his Shield one day, but you shall be his Glaive. Where the Shield will aim to protect, you will endeavor to strike out at his enemies from a position of strength. You will use your knowledge to do this, yes, but you will also use your body. By becoming the king's adviser, you become a sword designed to smite down his enemies. Do you understand?"

At the time, he'd indicated that he did. Maybe…he should have thought harder before coming to that conclusion. Perhaps he should have swallowed his pride on that day so that he wouldn't have to do so now, with Gladio's understanding eyes watching him.

"All right," he answered timidly. The tension between them evaporated instantly when he set his books down and, with all the determination he could muster, inquired, "Where do we start?"