The first thing Noctis noticed about actual death was that it wasn't as quiet as he'd thought it'd be. In fact, a low-grade, rather annoying hiss of—static?—seemed ingrained within the fabric of reality itself, here, just beyond audible range but constantly bumping up against his subconscious. It felt familiar somehow, but he couldn't ever seem to focus hard enough to unravel why.
Still, it was a joy to see Luna again. She was just as vibrant and quick-witted as he remembered—perhaps even more so. Their conversations were lively and full of warmth, though he couldn't ever seem to remember what they had talked about after. For that matter, he couldn't seem to stay awake. Much as he loved her, he always felt somehow…drained, afterward. Who knew the Afterlife could be so exhausting?
He hoped there wasn't something wrong with him.
He tried to rest, to begin healing from those last years of despair and suffering. That's what afterlives were for, weren't they? But peace eluded him. The unsettling feeling that his life had been unfinished—despite the fact that he had accomplished the sole thing he had been born to do—nagged at him constantly.
He started to suspect there might be something wrong with him.
And he couldn't stop thinking about his friends. Of Ignis, Gladio, Prompto. By this point, he had missed out on most of their lives; and though that hadn't seemed to matter to them in those few precious days they'd had together, there at the end, he'd found himself feeling distinctly obsolete. He'd taken one look at the hardened, capable warriors they each had become—even sensitive, kind-hearted Prompto—and knew they wouldn't need him. Other than to fulfill the prophecy, of course.
Still, the grief hounded him. The emptiness grew, and the sense of something lost.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
His father paid him a visit, and so did his mother. He realized he couldn't remember her name.
There was something wrong with you when you couldn't remember your mother's name.
Noctis grew more distracted during his conversations with Luna. More remote. At one point he thought they might have married—at least, there was a hazy memory of her wearing the dress Prompto had frothed over in Altissia—but he was so tired. It was hard to keep things straight. He felt like he was fragmenting, piece by piece, into nothing. Like he was being chiseled back down into particles, into atoms. Like he was being consumed.
"Noctis, are you quite alright?" Luna asked one day. "You've been rather distant of late."
"Uh, yeah, fine," he replied automatically, before realizing that was the type of noncommittal response young, immature Prince Noctis was known for. He was both older and wiser now, and had the prematurely graying hair and traumatic memories to prove it.
So he told her. About his beloved friends, and the people he had died for. He told her of the lingering sorrow, and the attention lapses, and the sense of wrongness that just wouldn't seem to go away.
"You're exhausted, poor thing," Luna replied. "But as we know, many died for the king—and so must the king die for all. You should sleep now, dear."
He immediately felt his eyelids begin to droop, but there was something… Fighting his lethargy as if he were struggling up toward the surface of the sea, he said, "What…what did you say?"
"Why, I only remarked on the nature of sacrifice, and your continuing duty to exercise it," she replied in her ever so gentle voice. "Practice makes perfect, after all. Sleep now, Noctis."
It was no longer a suggestion so much as a command. The world began to sway, pitching him rapidly toward unconsciousness, but Noctis staggered to his feet, driving his nails into his palm hard enough for the pain to rouse what little of his mind seemed left to him. "You're…not Luna."
And suddenly she wasn't. In fact, nothing was anything—no Luna, no airy courtyard, no sunny skies. Just an amorphous, hypnotic blue that melted into violet and back again. A blue that was horrifyingly familiar.
"No," Noctis moaned. "No!"
Well met, little king, a voice like the depths of the world whispered, seeming to vibrate through his very bones. The phantom wound in his chest—the one that was supposed to be gone, because he had fulfilled the prophecy and died—ached and burned. The static roared.
Noctis reeled in disbelief. "It's fulfilled! It's done!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and cracking.
So it is, Bahamut returned. The god's face was largely hidden behind his mask, but Noctis could have sworn the metal surface bent itself into the slightest of smiles.
"Then what more do you want from me?" He was pleading now, begging. "I did everything you asked! I lived nothing but death for years! I destroyed the Accursed and returned balance to our world. I willingly died, thousands of times, to gain the power of the crystal, for you!"
And those willing deaths have sustained me well these past years. For that, I am most appreciative. Now the king's soul will continue to nourish me for many centuries to come. This was the sacrifice he made. He thought it would cease at the mere death of his body?
There was no gloating now, merely the pragmatic straightforwardness of a parent explaining to a child why he can't go play on the merry-go-round today.
"You've never cared about the fate of humanity at all, have you," Noctis rasped. "You've never been on our side."
Bahamut was indifferent. For a time, the children of mankind served as a somewhat engaging diversion. But that ended long ago. In truth I tire of this star, but as the bloodline of kings—and especially the Chosen—have so readily sustained me these many generations, I shall tarry for as long as there are benefits to be reaped.
"I'll expose you," Noctis whispered. "You'll lose every bit of influence and reverence and respect you ever gained once people learn what you truly are." Even as he said it, he knew how feeble a threat it was.
Bahamut agreed. Firstly, the little one seems to have forgotten he is not only dead, but firmly secured within my realm. Even so, bestowing an understanding of my nature upon the children of humanity would prove inconvenient. Should the king manage to accomplish such a feat, I would be greatly displeased—and those he loves would pay dearly.
Secondly, I derive the greatest power from that which is freely given. Thus I find it needful to remind the king that if he refuses to acquiesce of his own will, I shall destroy all those close to his heart.
And now, I tire. If the king does not wish to supply sustenance in the agreeable manner I had so generously provided, I will consume what I need of him straight away.
And that was it. Noctis groped for words, but quickly found himself gasping for air instead. Whereas the drain on his soul had been subtle before—a lightly insistent but fairly dismissible tugging—now it tore. His mind was shutting down, his face tingling from his frenetic panting. Bahamut loomed before him until his remote, off-human face was all Noctis could see.
Desperately, he called for Luna, his father—but neither had been here to begin with. He shouted for his friends, just before his voice ceased to exist—but they were safe back on the sun-gilded world. He felt himself smearing out against the fabric of reality, his life force siphoned away to sate the hunger of a ravenous god.
Just as he felt his mind go entirely, a fluffy dog appeared, wagging its tail expectantly.
Noctis flailed toward it, grabbing a fistful of its fur with his nonexistent hand.
Bahamut snarled in rage.
xxx
The man floated in dreams that may have once been memories. But memories are only relevant to those who actually exist—which the man didn't. Therefore, he was perfectly happy to continue to drift, half-submerged in meaningless sounds and images until the end of time. Or, he would have been if it were possible for a nonexistent being to feel. Which it wasn't.
It was easy here.
It seemed, however, that easiness and he were a rather star-crossed pair—never meant to be. He judged this by the not-memories that he didn't have, and the fact that he eventually woke up.
Turned out he might have a body. It seemed to be wrapped in something warm and soft.
Having no better ideas, the man opened his eyes.
Inches from his own, another pair blinked tiredly, before flying wide open. The sprinkling of not-memories he'd successfully kept at bay up until now became a flood. He reacted on instinct, jerking violently backward.
Unfortunately, this took him straight off the edge of whatever surface it was he'd been resting on. He freefell a short distance before landing on something hard—a wooden floor, evidently—but there was no time to evaluate further. Plunging his mind into the depths of a space he had no words for, he called for the defenses he innately knew would be at hand.
Except there was nothing. He flailed, his not-mind and not-body reeling. He had always been able to do this, he knew it, why wasn't it working now?
Panicking, the man scrabbled blindly across the floor on hands and knees until he found himself snared in a corner. Whirling, he pressed his back to it, his face fixed in an animalistic snarl.
A path of minor disarray and destruction outlined the course he had taken from what appeared to be a narrow bed straight over to his current plight in the corner. There was an overturned chair, a coffee table knocked askew, and the owner of the unknown set of eyes—also the retainer of a shock of blond hair, it seemed—who was now lying in some bewilderment on the floor. Beyond him, two more men—larger than the first—had scrambled to their feet. Their manners betrayed surprise, but the man immediately recognized the deadly competence they commanded.
"Noct!" The closer of the two—an elegant one with glasses—began to run forward. The man pressed himself harder into the wall, willing himself to dissolve through it—he'd had an ability like that, once, he knew it—but it slipped through his grasp. His eyes darted about the room, frantic for escape.
"Wait, Iggy," the largest commanded, grabbing the other's arm and drawing him up short.
The man's gaze landed on this newest speaker. He was by far the most intimidating of the three: his musclebound frame brimmed with latent violence, and his face was crossed with scars despite his youth. Nonsensically, he made the man feel…
…Safe?
He was disinclined to dwell on such oddities, however, as the elegant one was now creeping forward, delicately as a (white-furred, black-tailed fish-loving dock) cat. "Noct, there is no need to fear. We will not harm you. And we will never let anyone harm you again," he added fervently, almost as an aside.
What an odd and impossible promise to make. The man stared at him, his expression unchanging.
"What's wrong with him?" the one on the floor quavered, moving carefully to his feet. The man's gaze flew back to him, zeroed in on the bright blue eyes and equally vibrant hair. Everything about him reminded the man of daybreak, a thought that immediately flooded him with equal parts satisfaction and sorrow. He shrank from the sensation, slamming his defenses back into place. Oblivion had been a refuge—far better than this place. Why wasn't he there now?
"I'm not sure," the elegant one replied, and a hair of a second passed before the man realized he had been aiming the response at Daybreak, and not the man's own nonexistent thoughts. Either way, Elegance was creeping ever closer, and the man wasn't sure he was very thrilled about that. He tensed. The elegant one froze, then slowly crouched to eye level.
"You can set the broom back down, Noct. I promise you won't be needing it," he said, voice gentle, and the man suddenly became aware of a sturdy length of wood gripped defensively between his hands. He glanced down, before returning his stare to the elegant one's face. He didn't move.
The elegant one sighed softly before saying, "You are Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis. You gave your life to save this world. But we discovered there was a way to save you. Umbra has taken us to a time and a place where the prophecy no longer exists, for it has been fulfilled. By you, my friend. You can live out your life here—no more prophecy, no more Ardyn. Noct, do you remember?"
No. The man didn't remember, for he didn't exist, and therefore had no memories. Why couldn't they see that?
"Noct…do you remember?" he asked again, softly, and held out his (six-year-old thirty-two-year-old) hand.
The man's breath caught in his throat. Not-memories clawed at the inside of his skull (father, brothers, smiling, campfires, tears). Staring at the offering before him, he found his own hand slowly releasing the broomstick. Seemingly of its own will, it began to edge hesitantly toward the other.
A low thumping, starting softly in the distance, quickly evolved into a thundering cacophony before a door on the far side of the room flew open and two children, one a teenager, barged in. The man started, snatching his hand back, and the safe one swore.
"Get them out of here," the elegant one said between gritted teeth, but the safe one was already shoving the protesting youths back out the door. It slammed behind him, but the voices carried easily through the aged wood.
"Gladdy, what the hell?" The girl's voice was sharp, if slightly muffled. "You said we could see Noct once he woke up. Well he's awake now, isn't he? We could hear the racket you guys were making all the way from downstairs!"
"I said once he woke up and I came to get you," the safe one rumbled dangerously. "Did he look like he was in any state to be sitting around chatting about old times to you?"
"No, he didn't! About that, Gladio," the girl all but yelled, "What in the name of the Six happened? And don't give me that crap about the sahagin. Noct could take that whole colony out with his eyes literally closed. So why else were you bloody and wet and wearing friggin' Glaives gear and looking like…like…some other person in my brother's body? And why does Noct look like a…like a ghost, even when he's awake? Please, Gladdy!"
She was definitely yelling now. The elegant one still crouched before him, but had dropped his hand. His face was set in a protracted cringe as their forced eavesdropping drew on.
The safe one sighed in something more akin to anguish than frustration and lowered his voice. "Look, sis…please, trust me for a while longer. You're right, it wasn't the sahagin. But we can't talk about it. Not here, not now, not around—just…not. And probably not tomorrow or the next day either, or anytime very soon. And I need you to accept that. Please, Iris."
There was a long, thundering silence.
"I don't feel very well," the boy timidly said.
The girl finally replied. She too had lowered her voice, but didn't sound as if trust or patience were qualities that had magically sprung upon her simply because the safe one had requested it. Her voice was tight as she said, "Have it your way. I'm getting Talcott a potion. He hasn't been feeling well since he woke up." The sound of footsteps on an old wooden staircase thumped irately away.
The door at the end of the room opened, and the safe one returned. His expression was somewhat forbidding.
"That went brilliantly," the elegant one muttered.
The safe one leaned back against the wall, his well-developed arms tucked against his chest, and regarded the man with dark, pensive eyes. He stared at him so long the man felt his heart begin to race again, his gaze flitting between the windows and the door.
Abruptly, the safe one said, "Iggy, Prompto, grab all the blankets you can find. We're going on a cruise."
"Who's a what now?" the one who reminded him of daybreak said. "Not sure I'm understanding the relation between those two things, G-man."
The safe one didn't even turn to acknowledge Daybreak; he was too busy rifling through the closet now, tossing clothing and linens seemingly at random onto a bed. "I looked around earlier today," he said. "The Royal Vessel is down at the dock, all ready to go. If I had to guess, I'd say Umbra put us down just before Altissia. So we won't be needing a replay of any of our mythril hunting escapades, thank the Six. Or thank the mutt, anyway. Gotta remember to do that later," he added.
"Whose mythril hunting escapades, now?" the one who reminded him of daybreak began, rather saltily, but the elegant one interrupted.
"Surely Cid will have something to say about this? Might I remind you, last time he insisted on driving." The man watched as Elegance finally stood, but didn't miss how he refused to stray more than a step away from what was apparently now his permanent post at the man's side.
"I'll take care of Cid," the safe one said. "Don't look at me like that Prompto, you beanbrain—I mean I'll talk to him. It'll only be for a week or two. C'mon, let's get going. We all need this…but especially Noct." His gaze settled on the man once more.
The others turned to regard him as well, but he ignored them. He was nothing and no one; therefore, none of this could, in fact, even be happening.
The voices receded, lapping around him like the waves of the sea.
xxx
Despite his best intentions, the man felt himself revisiting cognizance on several occasions. When he did, he would often find the three others deep in conversation and repeatedly glancing his way, their voices low and worried. Other times, it was quiet except for the soft sloshing sounds of the boat they seemed to be floating in, bobbing along on the waves as gulls called and cackled overhead. It was during moments like those that the man allowed himself to linger, just for a few extra moments, warily surveying his surroundings.
Eventually, as such occasions continued to present themselves and he discovered, much to his surprise, that they didn't hurt, he began to exist on a more continual basis. Pressing his back up against the rail, he would sit and stare as a sun scaled the eastern sky (filled with satisfaction and sorrow), turning the choppy blue pre-dawn waters silver and opaque. Sometimes he was still there when it sank again in the west. Night was not a time he typically permitted himself to stick around, as that was when the not-memories overwhelmed him.
He did, however, begin to linger into the evenings. At first he refused to budge from the bow; but soon enough, he found himself tentatively creeping closer to the others, eventually settling himself at the very edge of the living area. The elegant one had produced a camp stove and some utensils from a storage compartment, along with a few food staples. The safe one, meanwhile, reeled in a modest haul of fish, silvery and glittering even in the fading sunlight. The elegant one cooked and breaded and seasoned them and handed the man a plate.
After watching the others for a moment, the man gingerly attempted a bite—and immediately thought there had never been anything so wonderful in all of creation. He ate everything he was given, and was still present for the stars to emerge—like sprays of sparkling, fine-grained sand tossed into the heavens—later that night.
He was still there when the elegant one and the daybreak-blonde piled bedding onto the deck, then settled themselves snugly to either side of him. And he was still there when the safe one returned from his nighttime rounds to join them.
"Move it, Prompto," the safe one ordered, hauling the blond one bodily out of the way and settling down beside the man in his place.
The blonde squawked and protested, but the safe one merely grunted something about "Shield's prerogative" before scooting in close.
The man didn't withdraw that night, but fell asleep with the oddly familiar sensation of the safe one's arm brushing his and the other two crowding in beside him.
One day, he roused into existence at the sounds of splashing. A cloud of dragonflies hovered just above the water's surface, darting this way and that. He leaned over the rail, observing, as fish of all colors and sizes leapt from the waves to gorge.
Climbing to his feet, he retrieved the fishing rod—the safe one had left it leaning up against the companionway the day before—then settled himself into the little nook at the tip of the bow. He didn't notice that the others had stopped to watch, their gazes sharp with sudden hope.
Another day, the man found himself leaning into the rail yet again, this time staring fixedly as the waves reflected the sun back up at itself in glittering, soothingly predictable patterns. They seemed to call to him, so he stood, stripped off the old black fatigues he wore, and dove in.
The waters closed around him, cold but not uncomfortably so, dark but not suffocatingly so. They cradled him, holding him safe and still and weightless. Eventually, he allowed them to push him back to the surface. As he broke free into the sun and air and light, he quietly laughed. And realized he had a mind again.
No, not again—still.
Settling onto his back, the man floated, letting the sun burn the shadows from his soul. He cracked open an eye and watched languidly as his friends loitered about the boat, Ignis mending a pair of torn black trousers and Prompto lying flat on the deck, soaking up the sunshine with his arms crossed behind his head. Gladio had parked himself at the rail, ostensibly leafing through a magazine but with his peripheral trained on the man in the water. The man floated, bobbing on the waves, and remembered that he had a body.
He existed. He had existed all along.
Eventually, when his fingers had turned to bloodless raisins and the sun had tinted him a light shade of pink, Noctis Lucis Caelum scaled the boarding ladder and stood unselfconsciously on the deck, dripping wet and bare as the day he was born, his face turned up toward the sky.
Ignis, of course, was waiting with a towel. "Fancied a dip today, did you?" he murmured in the soothing, kindly manner they'd all come to adopt during his days of mute nonexistence.
"Yeah," he replied in a voice like sandpaper, and Ignis dropped the towel in barefaced shock. Nearby, Prompto scrambled to a sitting position, swearing. Gladio had risen to his feet, the magazine forgotten, a roiling mix of emotions playing out across his face.
Noctis took a deep, healing breath, and slowly let it out again. Inclining an eyebrow, he croaked, "You guys need baths."
xxx
A/N: This is the last of the really heavy stuff - at least for a few chapters. Poor guys need a break.