"So Umbra brought me back to life, then took us all to the past?" Noct asked. "Two aces."

"Technically Umbra took us all to the past and Gladio brought you back to life," Prompto clarified. "One two. You're up, Iggy."

It was a moonless night, though the great swathes of stars thronging the sky cast a bluish, unearthly light of their own. It made for an odd contrast to the unbroken inkiness of the sea, as if someone had inverted the natural order of sky and land. This far out from shore, the darkness was quieter, the breeze gustier. After their first deck of cards had blown away, Prompto had dug a rejected can of pork and beans from one of the boat's storage totes and plunked it on top of their spare. He now guarded it zealously, as the loss of another would mean they'd most likely have to spend the rest of their getaway sitting around watching as Noct dragged perfectly content tunas out of their happy habitats.

All things considered, though, watching Noct do anything still felt like a miracle. Pulling his blanket closer against the night's chill, Prompto glanced sideways at Ignis. Though ostensibly glaring at his hand, Prompto knew the man was actually doing that thing where he sneakily scrutinized Noct from behind his cards. Which was fine, because they all were.

Noct, for his part, appeared vaguely troubled. The light of their single lantern glanced off his hand as he absently rubbed at his chest. "And no more prophecy?"

"So says Umbra," Ignis replied, impatiently shoving aside his bangs as the wind whipped them out of place. "He indicated its fulfillment applies retroactively—so from this point on, it's as if the prophecy no longer exists. Nor does Ardyn. And there seem to have been other changes stemming from this as well. Gladio?"

The Shield obligingly took up the narrative, apparently impervious to the elements as he sat crosslegged in nothing but shorts and a tank top. "While you were conked out, Noct, I borrowed Iris' phone and called Cor. Weirdest conversation we've ever had."

"I dunno, Gladster, I'd think all that time you two spent hunting down a one-armed swordsghost together might've given rise to some pretty offbeat discussions," Prompto interjected distractedly, trying and failing at a bridge shuffle with his three cards.

"Nah, that kind of thing is standard ops to someone like Cor," Gladio replied. "Anyway, he had no clue who I meant by the Imperial Chancellor, and thought I'd gone round the bend when I mentioned collecting Royal Arms; in fact, he was a little bent out of shape about us 'pilfering' your ancestors' stuff. By the time I mentioned you forging covenants with Ramuh and Titan, he was getting a little snappy; asked if I'd run out of reading material and had turned to the Cosmogonies out of desperation.

"But get this," Gladio continued. "He seems to have never heard of the prophecy or the Ring. I pressed, but evidently he got distracted cause next thing I knew he'd trailed off and hung up on me."

Prompto did a double-take. He hadn't heard that part before. "Cor? Distracted? Not possible. That dude's more focused than Iggy's favorite pair of glasses. Before that one chocobo stomped them into smithereens, that is. Er…sorry, Ig. Too soon?"

"Hardly, Prompto, it's been over ten years," Ignis sighed, but Prompto swore he saw a glint of hostility flicker across the man's face. No doubt about it, that bird had not been forgiven.

"The oddest thing, though," Ignis continued, reeling the discussion firmly back out of the weeds, "is that there is still written evidence of the original timeline everywhere. One would think, judging only by what Cor said, that we comprehensively changed our past. But, in fact, I was able to unearth a Lestallum tabloid I'd tucked away shortly after we arrived at Caem—the first time, that is, ten years ago by our reckoning. It still reports on the waking of the Archaean, just as it did before. And the Cosmogonies still speak of the prophecy."

"And yet Cor—and maybe others—are somehow missing all that," Gladio said.

"Perhaps due to the clashing realities Umbra mentioned?" Ignis hazarded. "It's feasible that we've caused several disruptions already."

They were quiet a moment, listening to the gentle creaking of the hull as they considered this.

Then Prompto cleared his throat. "Hey…Ig?"

"Yes, Prompto?"

"You gonna go anytime today?"

Ignis let out a longsuffering sigh. "Yes, Prompto." He removed the pork and beans and set a card facedown on the deck, then carefully replaced the can. "One three."

"GarulaSHIT!" Prompto crowed, dropping his blanket to gleefully pump an arm.

With a glare, Ignis gathered up the pile. "Really quite a vulgar game, if you ask me."

"Says the man who threatens to carve out your liver and serve it back to you with marmite when he's mad. Remember that time you got all pissed at Dino? I learned six new swear words that day."

"Yes, well, his black market jewelry antics were getting on my last nerve," Ignis replied with a sniff.

"Yuh huh. Hence the reason I did my darned tootin' best to stay solid with your second-to-the-last nerve," Prompto said. "Cuz that was a downright terrifying moment for Baby Prompto a mere week into his roadtrip with Noct's big bad Crownsguard."

"Hey Prompto, you gonna yak all night or are you gonna play?" Gladio interrupted.

"Wait, what—my turn again already? Uh, one five. I mean a six—crap—"

"Garulashit," Gladio declared.

With a moan, Prompto palmed the deck.

They'd played several more turns before Noct spoke again, his voice low and hesitant. "Did you ask Cor about the crystal?"

Gladio paused in the act of sorting his hand, realization dawning in his voice. "Not explicitly, but…"

"But it would make sense that in our new timeline, it might no longer exist," Ignis finished enthusiastically. "Of course! The crystal was gifted to the Lucis Caelum dynasty by the gods to help fight the oncoming darkness. It was an inherent part of the prophecy. Without that prophecy, and with the Starscourge contained to manageable levels now that Ardyn is no longer with us, it wouldn't be needed. That is probably why we've failed to access the armiger."

"And, Noct," he continued, his voice weighted with sudden understanding, "I hadn't thought of asking before, as we were dealing with…other concerns…but you haven't been able to use your magic either, have you?"

"No," Noct replied, rather shortly.

"What, not even phasing?" Gladio asked, his forehead creasing.

"Nothing," Noct said, staring expressionlessly down at his cards. "It's gone. All of it."

Gladio leaned back on his hands, frowning out into the dark as he muttered, "Well that's gonna take some getting used to."

"Wait, so…all all of it?" Prompto pressed. "No more Flares? Even when we were all on fire, those were still pretty awesome. And how are we gonna heal ourselves now without Noct to trick out our potions?"

"I'd imagine magic native to wildlife and the natural world are still intact," Ignis replied. "But nothing stemming directly from the crystal, no. As for potions, we'll have no choice but to make do with the storebought variety, just like everybody else."

"But those suck," Prompto complained. "Ace." He disconsolately wedged a card beneath the can.

"Noct, didn't you tell us Bahamut lives in the crystal?" Gladio asked, and Prompto didn't miss the slight curl of the Shield's lip at the god's name. "So what, is he gone too? Not that I'd cry about that or anything but it'd be great to know if the Six are all on the same page with this whole fulfilled prophecy business."

Noct's eyes went distant, and—for a split second—frightened. Prompto looked at him sharply…but hesitated, suddenly uncertain, as his friend had already lapsed back into his impassive default. Maybe he'd only been thinking…or had gas…or something. Whatever emotion it was, he had already buried it away.

"More like…he and the crystal coexisted in the same space," Noct was saying. "Bahamut may have authored the prophecy and gifted the crystal to my family, but he didn't create it. It wasn't his; it had a will of its own. So it's not that it no longer exists so much as it's probably just made itself inaccessible. Which means Bahamut is more than likely still lurking around somewhere, too, but…also inaccessible."

Ignis, gathering up the deck after another failed hand, cast Noct a surprised look. "I never realized you were so well-versed in the old lore."

"Yeah, well, turns out you can learn a lot, even from a cell," Noct said with a strange laugh.

Now it was Gladio's turn to scrutinize him, lifting his head to study Noct with that piercing gold-brown gaze of his. Prompto felt the corners of his mouth turn down.

Something still wasn't right. It wasn't right, and he didn't know how to fix it. And of course it wasn't; how can it be when you're dragged back in time after being brutally killed by way of a dozen ghost blades plus an extremely real, extremely sharp one wielded by your own dad? That was enough to leave anyone with a lifetime subscription of PTSD.

Still, they had made encouraging progress since only just that morning; at least now Noct was talking again. Prompto's hands clenched over the memory of just how unsettling it had been to watch his friend stare out into nothing for hours on end, mechanically running through the motions, devoid of mind and personality. How unsettling it had been to watch him be dead.

Noct's eyes flitted across each of their faces, obviously sensing the tension. With a sudden, easy smile—as if the four of them had never aspired to anything more ambitious in all their lives than floating around in a royal yacht—he wrapped his blanket more firmly around his shoulders and asked, "What's for dinner, Specs?"

"Dinner, as you may recall, was the toothsome spread of macadamia nut-encrusted barramundi confit and curried chips we all enjoyed a mere two hours ago but obviously did not find memorable," Ignis replied in the tartest of tones.

"Second dinner, then," Noct amended, unfazed.

Ignis emitted a withering sigh. "At the rate you lot are consuming the food stores, it will soon be this can of beans. Recall that we no longer own a magical refrigerator of infinite dimensions in which to cart around the contents of all the snack aisles you three have victimized."

"We should upgrade the Regalia with a food truck mod," Prompto decided. "Cindy can rig it up with some sweet Crown City customization. We'd keep Iggy in the back cranking out all his specials and get so loaded we'd never have to slog through another rain-soaked, gigantoad-infested forest again just so we could make enough gil to eat and seriously, Gladio, how are you already down to one card?"

"He's been sneaking in an extra at the bottom of all his plays," Noct remarked placidly.

"Hey, perfectly legit," Gladio said. "It's not my fault you're all too cowardly to call it. If you had, I would have owned up to it, but you didn't. So that's on you."

"You…what…" Prompto sputtered. "That's totally not a thing!"

"Oh yeah? Says who?" the Shield replied, unsubtly cracking his knuckles. He smiled toothily.

"Children," Ignis intervened. "There is no cause to argue, as neither one of your opinions matter at all. I call game." With the flourish of a magician, accompanied by a healthy dose of triumph, Ignis added the remainder of his hand to the deck. "Four aces."

"Um…G.S.?" Prompto hazarded, his voice trailing.

"All yours," Ignis replied in falsely magnanimous tones.

Prompto snatched the cards up, staring from Ignis to the unassuming little ace quartet and back again. "Wha…how did you do that? You were losing the entire game!"

"Was I?" Ignis glibly replied. "And now, gentlemen, I don't know about the rest of you, but I am more than ready to call it a night. Noct, there are crisps in the tote if you are, indeed, truly starved. Gladio and Prompto, I believe it's your turn for the sofas?"

The next few moments consisted primarily of low-grade pandemonium as they attempted to reassemble windblown cards and gather crumpled blankets and batten down hatches, all while cramming stale potato chips in their mouths, exchanging halfhearted insults, and dodging the odd Amicitia headlock. In the end, all four of them ended up wedged together on the floor beneath the hardtop anyway, buried under a mountain of blankets, after the nighttime breeze had evolved from "brisk" to what it probably felt like when Shiva sneezed.

And if he were being completely honest with himself, Prompto knew he wouldn't have it any other way. These friends—this family—had become a fundamental part of him. It was something he hadn't understood until it was almost too late—until not only had he let Noct walk to his death, but—nearly as bad—he had allowed distance to take root between himself, Gladio, and Ignis. Like many friendships, theirs had run the gamut of trial and strife. Unlike many friendships, Prompto had emerged from the other side firm in the knowledge that he would readily die for it.

Or live, as the case may be. He rolled onto his side, gazing at the sleeping profile of the man he had so unhesitatingly pledged his future to. The fiberglass decking dug into his hip and damp ocean air wormed its way through chinks in his blanket armor. But after ten years of sleeping in caves and abandoned farmhouses and—when life was going especially well—on a mattress in a corner of Cindy's garage, he didn't even notice.

Prompto watched until he saw Noct take a breath. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and fell into a clean, sea-swept sleep.

xxx

Night is the time Noctis remembers. When the darkness rears up to consume him in his sleep.

On this one in particular, Aranea has been teaching Gladio how to fly. They make a cute pair, really, and any other time Noctis would think it sweet.

But he already knows how this story ends.

"All right, bigshot, you think you're so smart, tell me this: What's max airspeed with the ramp down?"

Gladio sits in the pilot seat of Aranea's dropship, easing the stick back into an unhurried climb. Oily dark clouds skim past the windscreen as he replies, "One twenty-five, but only because you modified the door. Otherwise we'd be running slower than snot as opposed to, say, a geriatric snail."

"Careful what you say about that 'snail,' or she'll dump you and that witty ass of yours straight into the Nebulawood," Aranea caustically replies. "Which would be at what altitude? Assuming you had a parachute and she actually wanted you to survive."

"Survive," Noctis whispers. He grips the back of his friend's seat and shakes it, his fingers indenting the leather seat cover. "Gladio, you idiot, you need to survive! Land the ship now!"

Noctis can't see his face, but he knows Gladio is grinning from ear to ear. "Three thousand. Above ground level, that is." He releases pressure on the stick and they level off, maintaining a steady altitude between a pair of heavy cloudbanks. Otherwise invisible in the darkness, the lurking storms are only made discernible by the ship's red and green nav lights glancing off their shifting surfaces.

Aranea hums. "Max gross takeoff weight?"

"One-thirty-six k."

"Please, Gladio," Noctis begs, trying again. In desperation, he shoves himself bodily into Aranea. She stumbles forward, bumping into Gladio in turn. Both straighten and resume their positions. Their expressions don't change.

"Hydraulic system capacity?"

"Now that's just mean," Gladio protests.

"Payback for insulting my ship. Okay, fine, we'll revisit that one later. Max bank?"

"A whopping twenty degrees. Wild for something that's basically just a flying brick."

"I can introduce you to one of those," Aranea says sweetly.

"Hey now, I wasn't trying to target your lady love," Gladio protests. "This time, anyway. Gotta face up to it, 'Nea, these things are fossils. Hadn't your dearly departed Emperor been pushing some big upgrade two or three decades ago?" A light on the control panel flares to life, and Gladio considers it carefully before punching a button in a sea of many.

Aranea shifts her weight, thrusting out a leather clad hip as she carefully inspects Gladio's work. "Decided to blow the budget on Research and Development instead, that place we all know and love as Daemon Production Central. Oh, and also on the flagships that helped take out your homeland—I'm sure you remember."

Gladio goes suddenly quiet. "Yeah."

Aranea's shoulders droop. "Sorry," she says, her voice softening. "I didn't mean it like that. Chin up, big man. Good news is that your muscles haven't appropriated your brain yet—seems you've got this flying business down pat. If I were your instructor and formal flying programs still existed, I'd certify you right now."

Gladio turns his head to look up at her; now Noctis can see his grinning profile. "Oh yeah? And what does informal certification involve? Breakfast afterward, I hope." He waggles his eyebrows.

Noctis looks fixedly through the windshield into the black, eyes wide and sightless. Waiting for the inevitable.

Aranea smirks, but fondly. "I take back the part about a brain—"

Something huge and dark slams against the modified windscreen, fracturing the plexiglass and pitching the nose off course. Gladio and Aranea both swear viciously, fighting for balance. Noctis stares ahead, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

"What the hell—they fly now?" Gladio growls, hauling himself back into the chair. He cycles furiously through the cacophony of flashing red errors, warnings, and alarms.

They're hit again, this time hard enough to tip the ship precariously.

"Move!" Aranea shouts, but Gladio is already launching himself out of the seat, lunging for the greatsword he's secured against a bulkhead. Noctis closes his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose, his nails digging into his palms.

Aranea has the stick, and is bringing the ship back under control with a clearheadedness that explains the accomplished pilot, warrior, and leader that she is. But it's already too late: an impossibly long appendage—mostly just a tentacle tipped with claws—punches clear through the windscreen and then her chest, sending blood splattering across the cockpit. She doesn't even make a noise as she crumples to the floor.

"Aranea!" Gladio yells. He charges forward, infuriated, severing tentacles right and left as more smash through the now-ruined screen, leaking miasma across the control panel. Huge, winged, leathery forms rise up beyond them, glowing yellow eyes peering in from bodies that don't seem to make any sort of biological sense. One of the flying daemons emits a noise that is felt more than heard—Noctis staggers as a sudden pressure blooms inside his head. He claps his hands futilely over his ears, but the daemon has quieted—only to dive forward into the cockpit, its asymmetrical, spiky black mass filling nearly the entire space. Its spindly appendages grip the ruined edges of the windscreen for purchase; a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth gapes, diving for the fallen Aranea.

It's time to end this. Teeth clenched so hard he feels them creak, Noctis whips around and strides purposefully toward a hidden panel set in the wall. That is to say, it would be hidden to most. Noctis knows where it is because he's lived this scene thirty-one times before. The first twenty-eight involved a veritable medley of noble sacrifices, to include throwing himself out the hatch, attempting to electrocute himself on exposed wiring, and a number of other creative, potentially Bahamut-approved deaths he doesn't care to revisit. He had discovered the hidden panel by chance on the twenty-eighth, along with the three heavy-duty firearms Aranea kept inside. It was pure, simple bad luck that Bahamut's "correct" death had happened to be the third and last one Noctis could possibly try.

So now he punches that hidden catch in the wall, ignoring the crashing and the yelling and the alarms all around him, waiting expectantly, knowing exactly what he needs to do.

But when the panel slides open, the compartment is empty.

Noctis gapes, even as he hears Gladio's scream of pain. He flinches, gripping his hair with both hands. This…isn't how it's supposed to go. He should have been able to pull out Aranea's sleek, custom-built handgun, turn it on himself, and end the nightmare. With his death, he should have been able to save his friends. Those are the rules. Bahamut will congratulate him with that oily whisper-rumble of his on yet another game successfully played by the god's terms, on the god's turf. He'll be waking from Reflection into Angelgard once more, stumbling from the hut to sit in darkness on the beach as he tries desperately to numb his brain.

Fires have flared to life along the circuit breaker panel, and showers of sparks are now the only light source in the cockpit. The control panel has gone dark and they are falling. Or are they rising? Up or down, the thick blackness makes orientation impossible. Gladio is still and silent. The daemons are boiling into the cockpit now, and Noctis woodenly turns his head to look.

I will destroy all those close to his heart, they hiss.

They are Bahamut.

xxx

Noctis hurtled into wakefulness, the only thing keeping him from screaming aloud being long years of stubborn practice, of refusing to give Bahamut the satisfaction of owning that last, hidden slice of soul he could still pretend was his own.

He slapped his hand over his mouth, pressing hard until the lack of oxygen kicked his adrenal glands into gear. The rush of momentary panic sharpened his senses and he gasped, yanking himself back into reality. Slowly, sounds and images returned—real ones, this time, and not whatever newest horror his brain could conjure.

It was morning—or almost, anyway. Light was more of an impression in the predawn, washing out the colors into a kind of indecipherable gray. That was what lit his friends now, inverting shapes and blurring lines until all that remained were darkened heaps. Yet he could hear all three of them breathing, wrapped securely in their quilts against a layer of damp, early morning condensation.

Noctis rolled to his side, his cheek pressing into the deck. Fixing his eyes on the shadowy lump that most resembled Gladio, he matched his own breathing to the steady rise and fall of his Shield's. Slowly, he lowered his hand from his mouth and forced himself to inhale through his nose.

It was just a memory. A memory, Noct. And it probably wasn't even real—not outside of Reflection, anyway. Gladio and Aranea are alive.

It was a memory of one among hundreds of deaths, probably thousands depending on how realistic he was feeling that day. No big deal.

Except it had been different this time, there at the end…

That's because it was a dream, he told himself. A dream of a memory. They do that.

(But what if it wasn't?)

He reminded himself, logically, that the prophecy had been fulfilled.

(Bahamut knew that. He as much as admitted it. Still tried to eat me.)

It was true. But he had escaped. Bahamut didn't know where he was.

(What if he does? What if he's watching, biding his time?)

…What if the Draconian made good on his promise to hurt everyone he loved?

Noctis couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't—not while he still lived. Not even if he died again. He'd taken down an immortal in the Beyond. If it came down to it, he would figure out how to take down a god too.

His breathing finally returning to normal—albeit still a bit shaky—Noctis shoved damp, sleep-mussed hair from his face, grimacing at the stickiness of his skin and the cold sweat that coated his body under the blankets. Squirming carefully out from beneath the dew-soaked bedding, he grabbed the gunwale and levered himself to his feet.

Slipping away was relatively easy—especially in his healthy, not-starved, twenty-year-old body—and he was grateful his currently overprotective friends had allowed him to sleep on the end for once. He padded out into the open air, rounding the cockpit to settle into his little nook at the front of the bow.

It was still quite early, and the morning graylight was being prolonged by a thin bank of clouds perched solidly on the horizon. Noctis rested his chin on the railing and waited, closing his eyes as the dawn winds roused and fluffed out his salt and sweat-flattened hair. The Royal Vessel creaked and groaned as the waves picked up; otherwise, all was still. Not even the gulls strayed this far from land.

On a whim, Noctis reached out toward the armiger—tentatively, his mind brushing only at the outermost edges of that reality. Sometimes he swore he could feel it—his old power—burning and crackling, just out of reach. But when he stretched, it disintegrated at his touch, as thoroughly as his blade had back when he could still dismiss it to the ether. What he was feeling was nothing more than the pains of a phantom limb. And when he was completely honest with himself—mostly during those quiet in-between moments—he didn't think it would be coming back.

Besides which, he shouldn't want it to. Every facet of power derived from the crystal was paid for in blood: his father's lifeforce in exchange for the Wall, Noctis' for the Royal Arms. Ignis' sight for Noctis' life. Noctis' life for the world. He was tired of the cost, tired of the traditions of human sacrifice that had been exalted in his family for millennia. He was tired of Amicitias dying for Lucis Caelums; of the ghosts of his ancestors, trapped in the Ring and backed by the crystal, doling out death with hardly a thought. He hated the crystal for what it had done to his dad. He hated the Ring for what it had done to Ignis. The world was better off without such callous and ruthless powers available to it.

And yet, he missed it.

He felt more than heard Ignis settle down beside him, and scooted over to make room. Together, they watched as the sun finally cleared the little cloud blockade, its beams exploding across the sky and filling the world with life. The dimensionless, all-pervasive gray disintegrated.

Noctis couldn't help but catch his breath at the sudden emotion that stuck in his throat. For all those years under Bahamut's "care," he hadn't realized how much the lack of sunlight, on its own, had affected him; he had been too deeply sunk within his own darkness. He hadn't noticed how the unchanging night had leeched away his hope, prevented any sort of comfort from taking root. When he wasn't busy dying for Bahamut, he had been suffocating in his own despair.

Noctis heard a soft sound from Ignis. Twisting slightly, he watched him from the corner of his eye; his friend was also staring at the sky. Noctis noted the way his jaw clenched and sudden moisture sprang to his eyes—his whole, unbroken eyes—and suddenly understood that if the rest of them had been choking on darkness all these years, Ignis had been drowning in it.

Noctis shuffled closer so that their knees touched. His friend glanced at him with a warm smile, quickly blinking away the shine in his eyes.

"Astrals, but I'm glad you're back," Ignis breathed, his gaze returning to the horizon.

That odd, unnatural chasm Noctis had felt between himself and his friends after his ten years of isolation—after learning that the purpose of his life had never actually been to live it—narrowed.

"Glad to be back, Specs," he replied, his voice rough.

They sat in silence for a time, each of them reveling in the simple relief of being alive and reunited, despite all expectations to the contrary. Noctis squinted as the wind tossed a mist of cold salty seawater across his face and arms. The chill sank into his skin, bracing him, and he let the last vestiges of his nightmares seep away.

Eventually, Ignis stirred, eyeing him with a lightly teasing expression. "I must say, Noct, it seems Prompto was spot-on all those times he japed about how nothing short of the apocalypse could get you up before daybreak. Being second awake is quite a new and invigorating experience for me."

Noctis turned to look at him fully, endeavoring to recapture those long-ago days under the sun. He leaned his head against the metal rail and returned Ignis' smile, but quizzically. "Prompto said that?"

Ignis looked genuinely surprised. "Only every ruddy day. Come now, you must be joking. He never tired of it."

At Noctis' enduring confusion, Ignis' brows came together in slight concern. "Are you being quite serious? Noct, you'll recall how much you used to enjoy a good lie-in. Constantly, in fact. It was near impossible to drag you out of your bedroll in the mornings. Sounding familiar at all?" He looked at him carefully.

"Y-yeah," Noctis stuttered, his voice tangling in his breath. Of course. He had been in survival mode for so many years now that a fair portion of the details of their old life had fallen by the wayside. And it had been so very long since he had defined his days in terms of the position of the sun. It had been that long for all of them.

But he was supposed to have slept through it all.

Noctis cleared his throat. "It's just that the crystal isn't sapping my energy anymore. For the first time in my life, I actually feel kinda human when I wake up."

Which was true, but not exactly what they'd been talking about. Fortunately, Ignis took the bait.

"Ah," he murmured, realization lighting up his eyes. "That is entirely reasonable. You know, you really could have capitalized more on the fact that the crystal affected you in such a way. At the very least, Gladio may have shown a particle more mercy during morning training."

Noctis laughed with genuine humor, some of his discomfiture melting away. "We talking about the same Shield, Specs? Or are you confusing him with his angelic twin?"

"Yes, I daresay it must be that," Ignis smiled in return.

They sat together, their silence companionable, watching as the growing daylight burnished the sea in gold.

"I'm glad you never had to live it, Noct," Ignis eventually said, his voice low. "In the world, the way that it was. I suppose I never even saw it—not with my eyes, but…the darkness, it was a physical thing. We could feel it thick in the air, burrowing into our skin. It consumed hope. You already gave so much to the world that we can never repay; it is a comfort to me you were at least spared the Long Night."

Noctis' breath froze in his throat, as achingly as if Shiva had reached into his ribcage and grabbed hold of his lungs.

The sudden urge to tell Ignis everything nearly bowled him over—to break down and admit that he'd lied, that he'd been there, suffering right alongside them, regardless of whether or not Bahamut's scenarios had been real. That becoming the king Gladio had always hoped he'd be wasn't the result of a long nap in a magical rock, but a grueling process of forced, agonizing transformation. That he had endured the pains of a thousand lifetimes, been broken and rebuilt and broken again—that many of the cracks and fissures hadn't been properly repaired, and likely never would be. That the Draconian was not the benevolent protector of their star, but a slumbering monster.

I shall destroy all those close to his heart…

Noctis shoved the truth back into the darkness where it was safe—where it couldn't hurt anyone but him. Dislodging the air from his lungs, he forced his vocal cords into submission. "Yeah," he wheezed, then cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he repeated, more clearly this time. "Can't say I'm sad that I missed it."

The chasm gaped.

xxx

A/N: I'm not 100 percent happy with the flow of this chapter, but messing with it was only dragging us further into disaster. Regardless, it's got a bunch of important stuff in it for later concerning future plot points and such. In the meantime, the next few updates should be getting us back into the occasional tomfoolery and hijinks and even some (eventual) action(!)/adventure.