Eos' sun rose over a gray, shattered world, revealing shriveled vegetation and broken civilization and deeds that had been best left hidden in the dark.
Three men rose with it, the bloodied, soaked, and exhausted state of their bodies momentarily forgotten at the sight of it.
But only momentarily. Though Prompto couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from that now-alien ball of flame edging its way up the horizon, a little stutter had formed in his heart and seemed to be spreading to his limbs. A profound horror stirred in his gut, like waking up from a nightmare only to realize he'd been dreaming of real life.
Because this gift had come with a price, one he was only just beginning to wrap his head around.
"Noct. Where…where's Noct?" he said. His voice wavered pitifully, because he already knew. They all did.
A whisper of movement, and Gladio's imposing form eased up alongside him. The Shield slid a rain-and-blood-soaked arm around Prompto's shoulders and let it rest there, the other gripping his greatsword with one white-knuckled fist. Prompto knew then that he had attempted to dismiss it to Noct's armiger, and that it hadn't worked. His heart shuddered.
Gladio opened his mouth, but it took a few tries for his voice to emerge. When it finally did, it was full of jagged edges. "He's ascended now," he murmured hoarsely, the hand on Prompto's shoulder shifting to offer a squeeze of comfort—though whether that comfort was for Prompto or for Gladio himself, he wasn't sure.
Prompto tried to imagine Noct cradled in the arms of the gods, the bags under his eyes and premature lines gifted him by the crystal smoothed away, the lingering pain of his childhood injuries finally erased. Instead, all he could think about was how his best friend—a fixture of the most meaningful years of his life—had been removed from the world as if he had never been. Just like the first time, when he had vanished unceremoniously into the crystal for what had ended up amounting to a third of their lives.
But at least then they had known they would see him again. The hitch in Prompto's heart swelled, prickling at his throat and eyes.
Gladio drew him closer and reiterated, lowly, "He's safe, Prompto. We won't find him now, because he's out there with the gods in the Afterlife. No doubt they took him somewhere he can finally get all the sleep he wants. Right, Iggy?"
The tiny note of misgiving in those last two words did nothing to ease Prompto's soul, nor when Ignis merely stood rigidly in place, head tipped toward the ground and fists clenched at his sides.
"…Iggy," Gladio repeated, and now there was the barest edge of something to his voice that had Prompto's pulse skyrocketing.
Ignis mouthed something, looking like he barely had the heart to stand. Prompto felt himself begin to hyperventilate. Gladio stepped forward, face suddenly taut. But before the big man had the chance to press him further, Ignis found his voice.
"Throne room," was all he said.
The words on their own, without context, conveyed very little information—but that didn't matter. All Prompto knew was that it was a place he needed to be right now. Without a word, he turned and launched himself up the courtyard stairs, taking them three at a time. Rainwater pooled on the landing, steaming from the aftermath of their earlier fight with Ifrit. Prompto splashed right through and shoved open the citadel doors, then sprinted the length of the inner lobby to punch the first elevator call button he could reach. Gladio skidded to a stop right behind him; Ignis caught up seconds later, his shoulders set tense and low.
They crowded in and the doors slid closed, disconnecting them from the sunlight they had only just reclaimed. Prompto tried for the audience chamber floor and missed; his fingers were badly shaking. Gladio batted them out of the way and jabbed the button for him. With a lurch, the elevator began its leisurely ascent.
The next thirty seconds were the longest of Prompto's three decades of life. Terror at what they would find warred with a single, traitorous fleck of hope—that if Noct were still here, perhaps they wouldn't be too late; that maybe, by some miracle characteristic to the Lucis Caelums, they could still save him. Nothing but their harsh breaths occupied the rigid silence, along with the jarringly gentle chimes of the elevator as it climbed.
At last it slid open, and then there were more hallways to dash through until they were finally shouldering their way through the heavy ornamental doors into the ravaged chambers where King Regis, in brighter days, had once held court; where the throne that their own king should be occupying right now sat, if there had been any justice left to be found in the world.
And occupy it, he did. Prompto skidded on the tiles and stumbled to a halt, his gaze riveted in place by the sight before him. He stood there for the count of two, three, four heartbeats, before crumpling to his knees and heaving up the contents of his stomach.
Noct…his Noct, their Noct…sat upon the throne, sunlight flooding through a ruined wall to cast him in molten gold like the royalty he was. Despite the gaping breach that exposed the chamber to the elements, the morning was oddly still—no bird calls or dronings of insects could be heard, indicative of the many species that had gone extinct during the Long Night. Little gusts of warming wind soughed through the cracks and holes; dust motes crowded the light, their unperturbed drifting seemingly belying the nature of the past ten years and the screaming in Prompto's soul and everything.
Because Noct was dead. Irrevocably so. Prompto knew that now. No phoenix down was bringing him back, even if they'd been able to retrieve one from the armiger. In another life, another future, Prompto might have mistaken him for catching a quick nap in the line of duty, head drooping and hair veiling his face even as he maintained the straight-backed posture baked into him from a lifetime of royal training. In all other respects, he could have been peacefully resting…if it weren't for the hulking sword jammed through his chest.
Prompto wobbled to his feet and stumbled his way toward the dais' surviving staircase. His legs trembled, and he tripped on a slab of displaced stone before lurching upright again, hardly comprehending what he was doing. At some point he reached the throne and collapsed alongside it, grabbing desperately for Noct's hand.
It was cold, the rhythm of his heart silent and unmoving. And now Prompto let himself fall apart completely, draping his body over the armrest and weeping into Noct's tattered, rain-dampened shoulder.
He was dimly aware of Gladio stepping up alongside him and wavering to a halt. The utter stillness that followed had Prompto looking up through his tears, struggling to quell the gasping sobs tearing from his chest.
The Shield stood before his king, so close that their legs touched. His eyes were wide and glassy, and Prompto realized he had never before seen an expression of such vulnerability on his sturdy, hard-bitten friend. For several moments Gladio may as well have been formed of Altissian marble; then, releasing a long, heavy breath, he sank to his knees.
"Sons of bitches," Gladio whispered. Then, louder, "Sons of bitches!"
His voice rose and cracked on the last word, a vein throbbing in his temple. He hunched forward to rest his forehead on Noct's knees, shoulders heaving in harsh breaths.
Ignis shuffled up alongside them, picking his careful way around Gladio before collapsing at Noct's side, much as Prompto had—though in a manner speaking more of desolation than desperation. He had removed his visor—one of the few times Prompto had ever witnessed him doing so—and tears were already sliding silently from his blinded eyes. One hand took Noct's, as he reached tentatively out with the other. His trembling fingers went straight to the hideous wound in Noct's chest, stopping to rest just above the protruding hilt, and how had he known? How the hell had Ignis known?
Prompto opened his mouth to ask—demand—but instead he found himself wailing, "Why did we let him go?"
For a long moment, nobody replied. Then Ignis said, lowly, "It was the only way."
"Was it?" Prompto demanded, and he realized he was being too shrill, too ill-fitted to the moment, but he didn't care. There hadn't been enough time to really even think about anything, the plight of the world feeling so desperate there in the dark after the long years of ruin. Noct had been the one to convince them that death was the only way forward. He had been so earnest, so self-assured, so kingly, and after the initial denial and distress, they had believed him. They had allowed themselves to be drawn into a gossamer fantasy of noble sacrifices and tidily fulfilled prophecies, comforting themselves with visions of a tranquil passing to a higher plane that would be orchestrated by the gods themselves.
Well, the gods were monumental assholes, because their hazy two thousand-year-old "prophecy" of the One King heroically trading his life for humanity evidently meant shoving a sword through his chest.
Now, in the long-awaited light of day, it all seemed like lunacy. They should have rounded up Cor, Talcott, Sania, Ignis, for Bahamut's sake—every talent and intellectual left to the world—and made them put their heads together until they had mapped out every available option. They should have studied the cosmogonies until they'd gone blind, or demanded answers from Shiva herself.
They should have made Noct stay until they had found a way to save him.
"Prompto," Ignis said. His voice was despondent, but gentle.
Prompto refused to look at him, his eyes burning with a fresh round of tears and his throat aching from the strain of holding them back.
As if his gaze, even blind, could pierce Prompto's skull and see straight into his brain, Ignis said, "Even had the gods provided another path, more of humanity was succumbing to the darkness every day. Noct wouldn't have wished for the delay. He is—was—" Ignis faltered on the past tense, "—a compassionate man, who would have given anything for his people. Who would have given anything for us." Here Ignis' voice cracked, but he pressed on. "He was a true king, Prompto."
It was all so logical, and Prompto hated it. He blinked hard, but the tears spilled out anyway, surging down his face and multiplying so quickly they began to drip off his chin.
A huge arm reached around his shoulders and pulled him close. Gladio, of course. Ignis clutched at the other, and the three of them leaned into Noct, giving free reign to their grief. They stayed that way for a long time.
Eventually, with a shuddering breath, Gladio stood. Prompto and Ignis read his intent without having to ask; both stepped back. Extending a calloused hand, Gladio grasped the hilt jutting from Noct's chest, paused a moment, and then pulled.
The Sword of the Father had been driven through him and into the throne behind with such force that Gladio had to shimmy it back and forth, grimacing, before it finally loosened. Tearing free of Noct's body, it made a wet sound that had Prompto again choking down bile. Focusing on pulling deep breaths in through his nose, Prompto kept his eyes screwed shut but didn't miss the resounding crash as Gladio tossed the blade somewhat forcefully from the dais.
His hold on Noct, though, was gentle. Catching his body as it slumped forward, Gladio slipped one arm behind Noct's shoulder blades, his hand sliding around to press against the stain creeping along his ribcage, while the other caught up his legs. Lifting Noct's sagging form up against his chest, he picked his way carefully back down the stairs. Prompto followed closely, glancing back every few steps to make sure Ignis was navigating the stony detritus of the ruined chamber without incident.
At the bottom, Gladio halted. Prompto leaned in to move Noct's arm, hanging awkwardly, so that it could rest limply on his stomach. It wouldn't stay, and merely slipped off to fall slack. His head, too, rocked lifelessly against the crook of Gladio's elbow as the big man moved, neck exposed, his dark hair damp and tangled. It all reminded Prompto once again just how very dead his friend was.
Suddenly livid with frustration and outrage, Prompto made a noise like a wounded animal, his vision going red and hazy. All the questions that had been clamoring in a frenzy in the back of his mind boiled to the surface. Why had the gods done this? Looking back, he now understood that his idea of Noct's sacrifice equating to some rainbow-bedecked footpath ascending straight up into the Afterlife had been borne mostly of his own wishful thinking and a powerful need to attach meaning to all the madness. Noct certainly hadn't made any effort to disabuse him of such fluffy notions—or Gladio, for that matter. The Shield had been caught just as flat-footed at that terrible first sight of their friend—pinned to the throne like some exotic insect specimen in the gods' Eosian wildlife display—as Prompto. (Ignis, now, was another matter entirely, and they'd be having a real hash-out about that later.)
But first, the gods. They had a couple things to answer for. Prompto clenched his fists and seethed, ready to call back Shiva or Bahamut or even that harpy Leviathan and demand they start talking.
But then Gladio was elbowing him gently, regarding him with dark but understanding eyes. He rearranged Noct into a more upright position, resting his head against the crook of his neck so that Noct's hands now fell naturally into his lap. Ignis appeared at Prompto's other side, having gathered up the Sword of the Father in addition to Gladio's greatsword, abandoned when they'd first entered. He stepped in close, a wordless offer of anchorage, of safe harbor, in his presence.
His friends grounded him. With a shudder, Prompto forced the madness back down, bottled it up for later. Noct didn't need this right now.
"C'mon. Let's take him home," Gladio said.
None of them questioned where "home" was at that moment; they simply knew it wasn't here. It would never again be here.
Straightening their shoulders, they steeled themselves, striding away from this final royal tomb, a guard of honor providing escort for its king one last time.
…At the same moment, the elevator inexplicably chimed, the up arrow blinking off as the lift glided to a stop. They halted midstride, staring as the door slid open.
Out stepped a fluffy gray dog, waving its tail amiably.
xxx
A/N: The Morning After scene has been written a number of times, and by authors far more talented than myself. But never fear - the plot's going off to do its own thing from here on out.