Noctis and Ignis left the garden the way they had come, swerving around a spray of dislocated shingles that had been flung like shrapnel from a fallen observatory. The fighting in this area of town had moved on some time ago, but Noctis could pick out the silhouettes of MTs—standing unnaturally still in the shadows down below—with ever-increasing frequency. And the closer they drew to the docks, the more worried he grew. If Niflheim controlled this much of the tourist sector already, they'd most likely blockaded the main port of entry as well. More concerningly, it meant Claustra's forces were likely in retreat.
They picked up their pace, Ignis flitting over the rooftops like a phantom while Noctis hobbled along after, displaying all the grace of a three-legged garula. Eventually, the piazzas below began to hint at familiarity. The destruction was minimal here, confined primarily to tipped chairs and scattered personal effects—evidence of panicked civilian flight rather than any sort of real warfare. Streets and businesses were dark and nebulous, the power having either blown or been deliberately disabled. The port itself was still blocked from view, but there was the Palsino Street gondola station, and Prompto's favorite gelato stand, and just barely visible over a wilderness of ridgepoles, the topside of Maagho.
Ignis brushed Noctis' arm and murmured, "The Royal Vessel isn't far now. If we bear straight for Maagho, then hold to the water's edge, we'll only have a short distance left to navigate on ground level."
"You think Prom and Gladio came this way?" Noctis asked.
"If not, they will soon. Let's see if we can secure the boat for them. How many MTs can you observe between here and the waterfront? Astrals, but I'd give a limb for my spare glasses just now…" Ignis trailed off in a mutter.
Noctis squinted, straining to distinguish the troopers from the darkness. Without the perennial glow of restaurants, theaters, and the fleet of kitschy souvenir shops, the streets below were little more than fathomless abysses. He could just barely make out the whitewashed footbridges, each of them manned by at least one axeman, and sometimes as many as three. Assassin MTs lined the main elevated thoroughfare separating him and Ignis from the tourist district, their inhuman height making them rather conspicuous. In fact, between that particular bottleneck and the MTs' sheer size, the two of them would have a hard time of it trying to pass by undetected, hookshots or no.
There had to be an alternative, some aggregation of close-set villas they could use to bypass the choke point. Noctis glanced across the nearest rooftop, casting about for inspiration, and did a double-take. Something had caught his gaze; an irregularity in the shadows…
"Sniper," he muttered, catching Ignis' arm and pulling him into a crouch. "One roof down, two o'clock. Looks like its sights are set right where we wanna go. Probably watching to make sure nobody like us tries to make a break for the port."
Ignis' jaw tightened. "If there's one, there are bound to be others. What's more, it means they've deployed human troops here as well. They'll be far more perceptive, not to mention keener to sound the alarm." He frowned, squinting down into the dark. "Perhaps we should consider taking to the water from here? If I recall correctly, there are a number of storm drains that would shield us from prying eyes, if not necessarily ears…"
Noctis considered, but eventually shook his head. "If we bring it down now, it'll be far less danger to us if we do have to go to ground. We can hookshot most of the way over, and sneak the last few feet. Take it out from behind."
Ignis looked extremely skeptical. "Apologies, Noct, but at the moment, your 'sneaking' is rather like a behemoth at a pottery sale."
"That hurts, Specs. I've been getting better." Noctis waved his renovated hookshot for emphasis. The mechanical hand flopped listlessly.
"Yes, compared to most other sleep-deprived one-legged men who have recently been shot in the head, I suppose you have," Ignis caustically replied, casting a significant look at the blood that had crusted in Noctis' hair. "But I expect we've not much choice, as I can make neither heads nor tails of your sniper without my glasses. I shall do my best to back you up."
"Right. Thanks," Noctis said, not sounding entirely sincere. "Count of three?"
As they conducted a quick, whispered countdown, Noctis sized up his target. The sniper was lying flat across a row of muddy planters along the edge of the neighboring roof, tucked beneath the lowest branches of a line of dripping dwarf pines. It had remained impressively still and disciplined for the entirety of their reconnaissance; it was through sheer luck that Noctis had noticed it to begin with, a breath of wind shifting the branches just enough to cast the light of a distant explosion across its form.
For a brief moment, doubt gripped him; if Ignis was right and the Niff had friends, they would have to be absolutely flawless in their approach.
But the time for second-guessing was past. And so, aiming for an antiquated belfry, as far from the sniper as he could get without missing the roof entirely, Noctis flicked the hookshot's release.
Wind and rain stung his face as he flew across four stories of misty, fog-shrouded void; within seconds, the belfry was flying up to meet him. Releasing the line, he fell the last few feet, dropping into a rather painful roll as he landed.
The hookshot wasn't soundless, of course, nor was he with his bad leg—but he hoped that the drizzle and the shifting branches of the sniper's cover would mask most of the noise. Pitching himself back to his feet, he sensed more than heard Ignis alight gracefully behind him. Noctis squinted, struggling to situate himself; the belfry cast most of the rooftop into near total darkness. It was disorienting, but would actually work to their advantage—making their job even easier than he had anticipated. Encouraged, he began his advance, crossing the space in a limping crouch.
A breath of displaced air and a distinct absence of sound were all the warning he had. Acting purely on instinct, Noctis ducked—just as something heavy and doubtlessly lethal whistled through the air where his head had been.
So there was the friend...though not a fellow sniper, as they had expected. Adrenaline spiking, Noctis fell back into a defensive stance. He brought his sword up just in time to block a second blow, this one forceful enough to rattle his bones.
An axeman, then. Grimacing, Noctis hurriedly backed off, buying himself some space.
Back when he'd had the crystal's power at his disposal, fighting a single MT in the dark was an experience so rote he wouldn't have remembered it even a minute later. Without it, he felt blind, his senses dulled, his limbs weak. What was more, after two near-sleepless nights in a row of swimming, sneaking, and slogging across the length and breadth of Altissia's rainsoaked cityscape, he no longer had the endurance or the agility for a prolonged battle. He needed to end this fight quickly; that meant taking the MT by surprise if he could. Which also meant doing things that some might consider extremely reckless.
Ignis was probably going to kill him for this. Until then, he might as well spend his final moments helping in whatever way he could.
So, instead of throwing himself into the headlong offensive the MT was programmed to expect, Noctis aimed his hookshot back up at the belfry, just north of the automaton's impossibly tall silhouette. With a snap-hiss, the line flew out, anchoring itself deep into the plaster. Noctis shot after it, hurtling over and past the MT's head. He released the catch just before he hit the wall; planting his feet, he sprang back toward his foe in a sort of corkscrewing layout, a move he'd been quite skilled at when he'd had his magic.
It proved to be significantly more challenging under the effects of ordinary gravity and a smorgasbord of injuries—his body simply didn't float quite as readily as it used to. Additionally, his bad leg had partially collapsed beneath the force of his jump, sending him slightly off-course. But he seemed to succeed in surprising his attacker anyway; before the MT could turn fully around to meet him, Noctis was already slamming bodily into its shoulder.
The automaton staggered, and Noctis tumbled gracelessly to the ground. Ignoring the mob of new pains suddenly clamoring for his attention, he was back up on his feet in a second; unfortunately, the MT had also rallied, far more quickly than he'd expected. It swung at him again; the heavy axe reflected slivers of light from the distant, ever-growing mass of fires before being folded back into shadow.
Dodging clumsily, Noctis stumbled back against the belfry, hitting hard enough to crack the plaster. Merciless, the MT pressed, its blade whistling as it sliced through rain and air.
Noctis' heartrate spiked as the beginnings of real alarm set in. It was dark enough that he was fighting almost completely blind, falling back on senses honed into him from years of training and battle. But he wasn't Ignis, and reflexes alone could only carry him so far. He was accustomed to an axeman's lethal speed and strength, but it was typically accompanied by jerky, oftentimes predictable movements. This one seemed far more preemptive, even purposeful—like an assassin MT, only smaller.
Which wasn't to say that it was by any means small. It bore down on him now, pressing him up against the wall, its foot lashing out in a powerful kick. Noctis threw himself awkwardly to the side, then grunted in pain and surprise as he found himself unexpectedly rolling down a small staircase into what seemed to be a derelict reflecting pool. He scrambled back to his feet, stagnant water splashing around his ankles and flying from his arms. But he'd hardly even regained his balance before the MT was landing agilely beside him, having foregone the steps altogether. Panting harshly, his grip sliding, Noctis brought his borrowed blade up just in time to block a blow that left his hands numb. He staggered back, wondering that his elbows weren't shattered.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that the sniper was on its feet. Ignis had already dashed forward to engage it, and Noctis grit his teeth. They couldn't afford to keep fighting like this, out in the open and so close to the docks. He needed to end this.
Taking a deep breath, Noctis gathered himself. Then, with all the strength and self-discipline he could muster, he shoved back the axe. Abruptly shifting to the offensive, he flew at his attacker with a flurry of carefully calculated blows. Sweat trickled down his face to mix with the rain as he drew on every foundational swordplay technique he could recall, ingrained into him long before the crystal's power had ever taken root. The moves were basic, but effective—a whirling sequence of quick, targeted blows that would bring him inside the guard of all but the most skilled opponent—and he executed them with a clean eloquence that would have made Gladio proud. It was precision mixed with shock-and-awe. When done correctly—and he knew he had—an unthinking foe like an MT would have no chance.
Or at least, it should have had no chance. Instead, it parried every single hit.
Breathless and disbelieving, Noctis followed up with a quick, haphazard thrust, but missed his footing and stumbled off balance—it was for less than a second, but enough for his bad ankle to tip him forward, overextending his lunge. The axeman grabbed his wrist and, with its free hand, almost flippantly hyperextended his elbow. Noctis yelped as his hand went limp; his blade fell to the roof and skidded off into the dark.
Clutching his arm to his chest, Noctis' eyes narrowed. There was no way in hell, Reflection, or the cold and empty Beyond that he was going to let himself be dragged back to life from a two-thousand-year-old divinely approved execution only to get offed by some MT with an overinflated sense of purpose. He growled, imbued with a sudden surge of strength forged of tenacity, stubbornness, and pure, simple outrage. It was a potent combination brought into being with each of his deaths under Bahamut's care, and he now wielded it in place of his blade.
And so, throwing caution, good sense, and every other rational quality Ignis had so painstakingly ingrained in him over the years to the proverbial wind, he flung the entirety of his bodyweight in a reckless tackle into the axeman's midsection. And he at last succeeded in knocking it off its feet.
Unfortunately, taking it down in this manner was much like felling a tree while still sitting in it—the MT crashed hard, bringing Noctis down with it. If he'd actually had breath to scream, he would have done so when the massively oversized thing twisted around to land with all its weight on top of his already-bruised ribs. Instead, he funneled the pain into his desperation to end the battle. Locking his good leg behind the automaton's, he used the combined momentum of their fall to roll it to its back, Noctis ending up on top. Straddling its belly, he grabbed the closest weapon he could find—a shard of broken pottery—and, with a yell, shoved it up against the axeman's throat.
"…oct…Noctis!"
The sound of his name sliced through the haze of battle, some deeply entrenched instinct bringing him up short before he could press for the kill. He froze.
As the fog began to recede, he realized he'd probably already been shouted at several times. And sure enough, there was Ignis, crouching beside him, fingers digging into Noctis' sword arm hard enough to bruise as he attempted to pry him away from their foe.
Breathing hard, Noctis looked down at his assailant. And suddenly he was no longer straddling an MT, but Gladio.
His Shield stared back up at him. "You gonna kill me with a flowerpot, Noct?" he asked mildly.
Noctis' gaze moved woodenly down to his hand, the tendons standing out white and rigid beneath the skin, and he realized that he was indeed holding part of a terracotta planter against Gladio's neck. And the smooth edge, at that. His eyes continued downward until they lit on the object Gladio was, in turn, pressing against his ribs.
"Not if you take me out first with that really, really dull garden trowel," Noctis replied, his voice hoarse.
With a short huff of laughter, Gladio dropped his own instrument of murderous intent to pull him down against his chest in a one-armed hug. Ignis released him and sat back on his heels as Noctis fell into it, unresisting, residual bewilderment and adrenaline leaving him jittery. Then the sniper-turned-Prompto was hauling him to his feet as Ignis helped Gladio up in turn, the two taller men exchanging their own quick hugs of relief.
Noctis pushed Prompto back to arms' length and stared at him, still breathing hard. The gunman was grinning as ever, despite the drizzle, his soaked and muddy clothes, and the fact that his best friends had just tried to murder him.
"Prompto, I almost…I tried to…" Noctis trailed off. His eyes flickered with increasing horror between his newly recovered friends as the magnitude of what he could have done began to sink in. If Gladio hadn't intervened, thinking Noctis was a Niff himself, his best friend would now be lying dead on an Altissian rooftop. And by Noctis' own hand.
"Dude, don't sweat it," Prompto said. He caught Noctis' wrists and tugged them back down, giving them a quick squeeze of reassurance. "You couldn't've killed me even if you wanted to cause I heard you coming a mile away. You were basically like a freight train running over a car crash." He thought for a moment, still lightly gripping Noctis' wrists. "Good thing Iggy recognized me by my footsteps, though, cuz I definitely was still thinking you were a Niff. Maybe one with a tiny marching band in tow."
Noctis glared. "I swear, between you and Ignis…" he muttered.
Prompto's teasing smile softened into something more solemn, and his eyes bore into Noctis' own. "Seriously, though, thanks for what you did for me back there at the Estate. I gotta admit I'm not super thrilled with how you did it, but it took some real guts."
His gaze flicked past Noctis' shoulder and paused on something behind him, and Noctis didn't miss his friend's slight wince. "Oh, and uh…sorry in advance about Gladio," he said apologetically, finally releasing his arms.
Confused, Noctis turned around. Gladio was striding across the roof toward him, his face and body language unreadable. Ignis walked alongside him, but there was something in the way his eyes darted between the two of them that Noctis didn't love.
His Shield stopped in front of him and said, "Glad you're okay, Noct. Now do you wanna tell me what that crap was you pulled back in Claustra's lobby?"
Oh.
Noctis squared his shoulders. Looking his Shield in the eye, he said, "I do what I need to keep my friends safe, Gladio, just like you. Prompto would've ended up with a bullet in his head otherwise. It was my only choice."
"Bullshit," Gladio hissed.
Noctis hadn't seen him this angry since their younger years, before the Night. He knew his friend well enough by now to understand that a portion of his ire was self-directed, as appalled over the fact that he had nearly taken out his own king (on the dingy roof of a discount souvenir shop, no less) as Noctis had been about mistaking Prompto for an Imperial sniper. But the shift in tone from his limp relief of just a few moments ago to now was so dramatic that Noctis couldn't help but take an involuntary step backward.
And unlike in their youth, Noctis could tell his Shield was currently exercising extreme restraint, holding himself just short of getting physical. Twenty-three-year-old Gladio would be doing his best to literally shake sense into him right now. The rigid, controlled stillness of this older Gladio was possibly worse.
Noctis was suddenly much, much too tired for this. Sleep deprivation was fogging his mind and his judgment, and his emotions felt as if they were balanced on a razor's edge. His entire body throbbed with pain, his injured leg was trembling with fatigue, and his lungs and sinuses were beginning to feel distinctly unwell from his prolonged dip in the bay.
"What would you rather I have done, Gladio?" he snapped. "Stand there and let Prompto get executed? And then get killed myself?"
"No," Gladio bit out. "You would have stood there in one of the dozen or more defensive stances you've been taught, while Ignis put a knife in that Niff's neck—which he was already in the process of doing—while your guy got smashed in the head with a chair—which I was already in the process of doing. Incredibly, you actually managed to throw yourself into the line of fire with that little stunt of yours."
Noctis looked back at him tiredly, his fight and energy slowly draining away. "Look, Gladio, I'm sorry." Except he wasn't. "Next time I'll be more careful, okay?"
"Next time you'll be dead," Gladio snarled, stepping all the way up into Noctis' space, but still just short of touching him. "What I really wanna know, Noct, is why you seem to have no regard whatsoever for your own life. It almost looked like you were trying to off yourself. You tell us back on the boat you don't want us 'sacrificing' anything else for you, then you turn around and try to throw it all away? For what? We've fought together for years. We all could have gotten out of there easily without anybody jumping headfirst through a godsdamned window."
Noctis stared at him, a sudden chill seeping into his veins.
Gladio was right, and moreso than he realized. They were all four skilled, seasoned warriors. Even bereft of their weapons, they could have extracted themselves from the situation without any significant threat of mortal injury.
Noctis thought back to the fight in the lobby. In his mind, it had been a given certainty that removing both himself and Prompto's attacker from the picture was his only option. Now that he was outside the heat of battle, he remembered clearly how he could have finished that fight right there in the room, no window-bailing necessary.
But he had done it anyway, knowingly and with full intent. Gladio was right; he had been trying to die, trying without realizing…because…
Because Bahamut had taught him to. The god had shown him, again and again, that his death was the only price that could be paid for the life of his friends.
Noctis was filled with the cold, sinking understanding that he no longer knew any other way to live.
He realized he was shaking, his eyes unfocused. Ignis, who had been standing quietly up until then, cast a slightly alarmed glance at Gladio and stepped forward, nudging the big man aside. Pulling off his sodden Glaive jacket, he draped it deftly about Noctis' shoulders, unbuckling the hookshot from his wrist so he could pull his unresisting arms through its sleeves.
"I'm sure this can all wait for another time," he said brusquely. "For now, what say we all get out of this city in one piece, hmm? Prompto, Gladio, what were you two doing lurking about on this roof anyhow?"
"Uh…waiting for you guys," Prompto said, clearing his throat awkwardly. Gladio still stood stiffly, arms folded and stone-faced, clearly not ready to move on so easily. "We figured you'd be most likely to take the Maagho route, so I was keeping an eye on things by way of that totes awesome, and by 'awesome' I mean 'literally the worst' rifle scope I stole from some Niff. And Gladster here was keeping an eye on me."
"Ah," Ignis replied. "Well, I suppose we should get on with it, then. Now that there are four of us, we might have an easier time of it returning to the streets. We'll find it necessary to dispatch a number of MTs, but I believe we can do it quickly and quietly enough to make the Royal Vessel before any real alarm can be sounded. Noct?" He gently nudged Noctis' arm, his voice softening, even slightly hesitant. "What are your thoughts?"
Noctis had to muster a supreme amount of willpower to formulate a reply. "Yeah, okay," he said. "Let's do it."
His voice sounded dead, even to himself. He didn't tell Ignis that his "thoughts," such as they were, were back in Reflection. Back with Bahamut's last victorious proclamation.
(You thought it would end at the mere death of your body? This was the sacrifice you made…)
Without waiting for further discussion, Noctis turned and limped toward the nearest fire escape. His friends followed silently behind.
xxx
"Well this went swimmingly," Prompto muttered, flopping carelessly back onto a barrel pooled with rain.
They were all gathered at the mouth of a surprisingly seedy little alley, considering how close to the main tourist strip they were. Admittedly, said area was difficult to recognize for what it was, with the waterfront bars and restaurants locked up tight and the cobbled, flower-bedecked streets empty of revelers. Noctis assumed most of the tourists had fled to their hotel rooms. Or their personal yachts, hoping to escape the city before the inevitable lockdown.
If that were the case, they wouldn't be going very far. In the distance, on the opposite side of the sound, an armada of Niflheim naval vessels had barricaded the famed Tidemother's Waterway, the city's primary thoroughfare in or out. Imperial troops patrolled the port and docks, with MTs littered amongst the cheerful candy cane mooring posts, their glowing eyes eerily flat. Anyone who tried for a quick exit was immediately persuaded to reconsider by way of a dozen grappling hooks embedded in their gunwale. If they insisted, a gunship was promptly summoned to ensure they never had to think about it again.
Which was why the four of them wouldn't be reclaiming the Royal Vessel anytime soon. If ever.
Noctis watched bleakly as a half squadron of human infantry milled about his father's boat, gutting drawers and cupboards and tipping the stove onto the deck. A handful of officers, shielded against the rain in long, waterproof overcoats, tramped up the boarding ramp. They stopped to examine the registration papers one of the troopers had pulled from the dash, conversing between themselves in low tones. Throughout it all, a trio of assassin MTs stood unmoving at the base of the ramp.
Ignis pulled his head back into the alley with a long, explosive sigh—a markedly unrestrained gesture for him. Leaning into the stained and dripping wall, he closed his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath.
Prompto nudged Noctis in the ribs. "I think he just broke his own record for the most dirty words uttered by an Ignis in a day," he whispered.
Despite himself, Noctis' lips turned up in what was probably a rather sickly imitation of a smile—but a smile nonetheless. Sometimes he had no idea how he had lasted so long without Prompto by his side. And in reality, he hadn't—even Bahamut's Reflection version of his irrepressible friend had been better than enduring the Draconian's custom-made miseries while cut off from him completely.
The same went for Gladio and Ignis. Noctis let his eyes rest on the latter, noting how the side of his head was still stained with blood, matting the fine, honey-blond hair to his scalp. He made a note to be sure they stopped to bandage it up, wars and calamities be damned—along with Gladio's sliced-up hand, a souvenir from Noctis' surprise trip out the window.
Guilt and fear and a host of thoughts he didn't care to examine yet twisted in his gut at the memory. He was all too aware of his Shield's rather inhuman durability—yet he could tell the injury was causing even Gladio a significant amount of pain. He had wrapped it up in a strip of cloth torn from the hem of his jacket, but Noctis saw the way he favored it, and the blood that continued to seep through the fabric.
Catching him looking, Gladio moved to fold his arms loosely across his abdomen, casually hiding the damage from view. "So what now?" he asked.
Noctis blinked tiredly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Reclaiming their vessel by force was out of the question—the port was simply too heavily guarded. As was stealing another boat, for the same reasons. But that left them trapped in the city, where their only other options were to join the Accordan military in their fight—a course of action they now knew was likely to cause more harm than good, if the catastrophe with Claustra and Luna was anything to go by. Or they could find some basement or sheltered nook in which to hunker down as they waited to see how everything played out. That in itself would be easy enough; Altissia was a veritable warren of passageways and hidden lairs. But then there was the matter of food, and their relative unfamiliarity with the city or its locals. They would only be prolonging the inevitable, and were sure to be ferreted out sooner or later. Most likely sooner.
Noctis was just settling on the fact that this was shaping up to be their only option either way, when a resonating voice, deep from within the shadows of the alley, rumbled, "Use my boat."
They all four turned as one, falling easily into the pattern of a thousand battles. Gladio, positioned closest to the intruder, stepped forward, flipping his stolen axe expertly upright in his good hand. In his bad he brandished a standard-issue Imperial shield he'd borrowed from a fallen MT, hefting the Magitek-tempered steel as if it were nothing more than a stage prop. Noctis and Ignis flanked him, halting just outside an invisible line they all instinctively knew down to the inch: the radius at which Gladio's greatsword would swing in a close-quarters melee like this one. Prompto retreated back down the alley, serving as both ranged fighter and rear guard as he snapped his borrowed rifle up to his shoulder.
"Oh…" The man's voice sounded startled. "Of course, I'm so sorry."
He stepped from the shadows, his hands cautiously raised. Noctis immediately recognized Weskham, even by the sickly reddish-gray reflection of the cloud cover.
"Mr. Armaugh," Ignis greeted. His voice was neutral but his posture remained unchanged. "How might we assist you?"
Weskham blinked in surprise at the cool cordiality, then barked out a rueful laugh. "Ah, the brotherhood of the King. How it takes me back."
Noctis was surprised to see the man's eyes swim with sudden tears, but he blinked them quickly away and took a deep breath.
"Your Highness, I will get straight to the point: that I deeply regret my behavior of earlier. If we had time to discuss it, I would apologize over drinks. Suffice it to say, I was only trying to protect Camelia—a foolish endeavor, I now see, as the Niffs were bound to pull something like this eventually."
Noctis, watching the man closely, felt a strange sensation prickle up his back. Though Weskham was addressing him directly, his gaze kept sliding off his face, as if looking at him physically hurt his eyes.
"Either way, I suppose this is my last opportunity to make things right," the man continued. "Not three blocks behind Maagho you'll find a whitewashed villa with a blue roof—my home. In front of it there is a boat. Though not nearly as grand as the Royal Vessel, I think you'll find it sufficient for your needs.
"On the center console is a rough map. There are many routes out of this city, if one has lived here long enough and knows where to look. I took the liberty of relocating your weapons as soon as the fighting started; I do hope you aren't offended." He raised his eyebrows, his gaze brushing across each of their faces before coming to rest somewhere above Noctis' left shoulder.
"Offended?" Prompto scoffed, activating his rifle's safety and swinging it to rest carefully behind his neck. "Dude, lifesaver. I don't know what I would have done if I'd had to cart this dumpster spawn around for the rest of my life. But how'd you know where to find them?"
"How did I know where to find illicit weaponry on my own boat?" The man laughed, a pleasant, mellow sound. "Or at least, I once considered it my own. Mine, Regis', Clarus', Cor's, and Cid's. We spent many, many hours and days on that thing, sailing the six seas, fancying ourselves free to pursue our dreams forever. Thinking ourselves immovable by the winds of change." He smiled wistfully, his eyes far away.
Then they focused on Noctis…before once again sliding off to the side.
"Highness," he said. He blinked oddly. "Your father's blade…I wrapped it in sailcloth and stowed it under the seat. I was so pleased to find it safe. I'd actually thought it in the Imperials' possession…in fact, I could have sworn I saw Ravus carrying it just…just the other day…but…I'm so glad…you…"
Without warning, Weskham swayed. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell back into the alley wall, where he slowly slid to the ground. Noctis darted forward and caught him before he could slip further into the trash and slime strewn across the cobblestones.
"Weskham!" He cradled the man's head in the crook of his arm, even as he shot an alarmed glance back at his friends. "Hey, you're gonna be okay. All right? Look at me. We're all getting out of this together; you can come with us, and…"
He trailed off, reminded with a terrible clarity of the way Luna's face had crumpled in pain as Noctis had drawn close. How Claustra had buckled after a ten-minute conversation. How Umbra had looked into his eyes, and a quiet understanding had passed between them.
He stared down at the lined face of one of his father's oldest friends, suddenly at a loss for words.
"N…Noctis," Weskham gasped. He reached up to touch Noctis' face, but grimaced in discomfort, as if he were attempting to see through warped glass. "Please don't think badly on me. I loved your father. We all did."
The tears returned, but this time he let them run freely, sliding down the side of his jaw into Noctis' sleeve. "I…I thought about turning you in. Betraying you…to the Niffs. To protect Camelia, by gaining favor in their sight. In the end, I didn't. But I considered it." Guilt and sorrow twisted his face. "I wish I had stood for what was right while I had a chance."
His eyes closed, and he curled in on himself in escalating pain.
"You did," Noctis told him fiercely. "In another life, you did. And you are now. My father would be so proud of you."
But Weskham could no longer hear him, his eyes sagging closed, his chest stilling.
For one terrible moment, Noctis thought he was gone—his life flown, just like that. But then Gladio was kneeling in front of them, scooping the man up and pulling him easily over his shoulders. Moving him to the end of the alley, as far from Noctis as he could get, he bent to place him carefully on a stack of shipping crates.
"Breathing's evening out," Gladio said, after taking a moment to listen. "He seems to be stabilizing. Not looking so hot overall, though."
Noctis didn't miss the little glances his friends cast his way. He climbed wearily to his feet and retreated back against the alley wall.
"We'll take him back to his house," he said, exhaustion weighing down his voice. "I don't think he would have wanted to go with us anyway. His place is with Claustra now."
The others nodded. "And then?" Prompto asked, subdued.
"Then we take the boat and leave," Noctis said. "And we never look back."
xxx
Despite the fact that they were now running on two sleepless nights in succession, Ignis sat and watched the horizon for the first signs of sunrise. It was a habit he had developed shortly after Noct had disappeared into the crystal; despite the fact that he'd been blind, he'd always fancied that, when the sun finally returned, he would know it by the warmth on his upturned face, and—if he were lucky—maybe even detect a bit of brightening with what remained of his retinas.
What he hadn't let himself consider was what that sunrise would cost. Not for a long time.
After their encounter with Weskham in the alley, they had carried the man back to his house to sleep out the rest of the night, Noct maintaining a liberal distance. Then they'd taken his boat. Despite the hastily drawn nature of the map he'd left, it had been relatively easy to follow, leading them through crumbling canals and ancient underground waterways. Eventually they had emerged into a series of caves that had ended up spitting them out on the far side of Altissia's northernmost mountain range. The skies glowed red behind them as they drove out toward the open sea.
Compared to the Royal Vessel, Weskham's boat was, true to his word, a cramped little thing. But it fit the four of them and their weapons, and its fuel stores were enough to get them back to Lucis. Gladio manned the wheel, angling them steadily into the cold, stormy chop—compliments of the weather front that had plagued them all throughout their stay. Despite his skillful maneuvering, the boat still rocked and lurched, spurring Prompto into a state of semi-permanent wretchedness over the side. Ignis sat beside him, absently patting his back as his blond companion moaned miserably into the waves.
As for Noct…he was sitting at his favorite perch on the bow—or its equivalent, anyway. Facing out to sea, he'd been staring straight ahead for going on two hours now, unaware or uncaring of the spray that clung to his already-saturated clothing and hair and the fact that he hadn't gotten any quantity of sleep worth mentioning in a ludicrously long time. Occasionally he twisted to the side, coughing into his arm, but other than that slightly worrisome gesture, he may as well have been one of the marble statues lining the Waterway.
Leaving Prompto with one final, consoling pat, Ignis made his way up to the bow. He and Noct wouldn't fit side by side as comfortably as they had on the Royal Vessel, but they were both in need of a bit of surplus body heat anyway. Squeezing himself in next to his friend, Ignis sat and looked out with him over the night-shrouded waves.
"Did we do you wrong?" he quietly asked.
Noct blinked, and looked up at him for the first time in hours. His face was pale, with purplish smudges underscoring the fatigue in his eyes. He still wore Ignis' Glaive jacket, waterlogged as it was. It was too large for him and made him look younger than he was (much younger, in their case). In fact, Ignis himself still wore only his short-sleeved uniform shirt; between the loss of their blankets on the Royal Vessel, their thorough Altissian soaking, and the gusty ocean air, he would be surprised if they all didn't end up with pneumonia. But he would never begrudge his friend the extra warmth.
"What do you mean?" Noct asked. Weaving his arm through the rail, he rested his head against the water-beaded metal as he regarded Ignis wearily.
"In…bringing you back. Would you have preferred we'd…left things as they were?" Ignis could hardly force the last few words from his throat.
Noct stirred, straightening to look his friend full in the face.
"Never, Ignis." The vehemence in his voice was the most fire he'd shown since Gladio had confronted him on the rooftop. "You could never do me wrong. I have too much to live for."
He hesitated, then said, "I'll miss Luna. I'll miss her so much." His voice cracked slightly, but he swallowed and continued on, looking down at his hands. "But after all that's happened, what I couldn't bear is an existence without…without you in it. You, Gladio, Prompto."
Warmed more than anything his jacket could ever provide, Ignis waited quietly. He knew his friend had more to say.
And after a moment, Noct continued. "But…what do I do now? It seems the price of rebirth was isolation. I cause others pain by my very existence here—a wanderer in a foreign timeline." He swallowed hard. "It won't ever be the same again, will it, Ignis? I can never return to the crown—to Dad's legacy. Not in any meaningful way. I'll never be in a position to reclaim Insomnia. Not like this."
Ignis sighed, hurting for his friend. "I'm afraid I don't see how. Umbra told us something, after we first found you in the throne room. It was to the effect of, 'The King is dead, but the man might be saved.' Your life had been meant to end there; your purpose realized. There was never intended to be an Insomnian king past the fulfillment of the prophecy."
Noct laughed weakly, his voice rough and bleak. "Then what good am I, Ignis? What use am I to this world?"
"What use…?" Astounded, Ignis turned, then grasped Noct's shoulders until he was forced to straighten off the rail and look into Ignis' face. "Noct, most people don't live out their lives under the expectation of being solely responsible for saving all of humanity. Most live and die without having achieved anything spectacular or earth-shattering at all. Would you call them useless?"
"Of course not; it's just…"
"It's just what?" Ignis asked. "Different, because it's you? Somehow you're the only one who should be expected to shoulder the load, the only one not allowed to make mistakes or break down or be mediocre in any aspect of his life? You have paid your dues, Noct. More than paid—all of humanity is indebted to you. This timeline will never even know the Long Night, because of you. Now it's time for you to live."
Noct was silent, his thoughts veiled. Ignis watched him, his frown deepening as his mind abruptly returned to his conversation with Gladio on the eve of Altissia, right before their unexpected Imperial visit. There's something we're missing…
"Noct," Ignis said hesitantly, "back in the lobby with Gentiana, when she was confirming the fact of the prophecy's fulfillment…why did you ask whether the Draconian agreed?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Noct asked dully, hunching over to cough into his arm.
Ignis' brow furrowed. "Don't you think the gods would be all of one mind?"
"Was Ifrit?"
"No, but I'd think that would be…"
"Different?" Noct supplied, the corner of his lips turned up in a dark smile. "Oh, Bahamut's different, all right."
Something strange lurked in his expression, something Ignis couldn't name. He didn't like it—not at all.
"Noct," he said, his voice soft and full of a sudden, rising foreboding. "What is it that you know?"
Instantly, the cynicism dissolved into something that looked very much like panic. "Nothing, Ignis. I really…there's nothing. You're right. Umbra's right. We'll just need to lie low in Lucis from now on." He shifted, pulling out of Ignis' grip. "Look, Specs, I'm really tired. I can barely even remember my own name right now, much less what I said to Gentiana."
Ignis' frown deepened. But before he could pursue the subject further, Gladio called from the helm, "Hey, we're gonna have to make some decisions here real soon. You guys wanna come back so we can talk it over?"
Ignis loved his friends, but he could have throttled Gladio just then. He knew it wasn't the big man's fault; but as Noct hurried to his feet, coughing and tottering stiffly across the deck and turning eye avoidance into an elite-level sport, Ignis knew the opportunity to speak on the subject—whatever that subject even was—wouldn't come again easily.
With a long sigh that was nearly a groan, he crossed the platform to join the other three under what only a generous person would call a canopy.
"All right, so here's the deal," Gladio said, lodging the wheel in place with one muscled thigh as he turned to consider his friends. "We've got enough fuel to land anywhere between Caem and Galdin Quay, but we're gonna have to make that call now because there won't be enough for any last-minute mind changing. So speak up if you've got something to say."
"Going directly back to Caem would be dangerous," Noct said. He wedged himself into the bench seat next to a pale-faced Prompto, slouching to huddle as deep as he could inside Ignis' jacket. "If there are any Niffs tailing us, we'd be dumping them straight into Monica and Dustin's laps."
"I agree," Ignis said. "Galdin seems the most logical choice, particularly as it would give us the chance to refuel should we decide to continue on. Additionally, it's so thick with tourists that our presence would be less likely to attract notice compared to any of the smaller fishing communities along the coast."
"They might notice a bunch of Insomnian Glaives, though," Prompto mumbled, his face buried in his arms.
"Yes, that is indeed a problem," Ignis agreed.
"I can go," Noct said. Beneath Ignis' jacket, he was adorned in just his dress shirt, slacks, and boots—a combination that wouldn't seem odd on many foreign travelers. "Get us some clothes, that is."
"With what money?" Gladio asked, probably a bit more acerbically than he'd intended. Ignis knew he was still upset over Noct's unexplained recklessness back in the lobby. They all were—but, as ever, Gladio tended to convert fear and confusion into anger.
Noct, however, was unperturbed. "Guess I'll steal some, then."
"What say we cross that bridge when we come to it," Ignis broke in, before the inevitable argument could flare. "Once we make port we'll be in a better position to scope out the conditions."
"And then what?" Gladio asked.
"Well, I suppose we might hole up at a haven and take on hunts until we replenish enough of our funds to replace our essentials. Potions are top priority at the moment, but we'll also need phones, fishing supplies, camping gear, food…"
"And after that?" came Prompto's muffled voice.
"Anything we want," Noct interjected. His smile was forced and there was just the slightest edge to his voice. "We can go fulltime hunter, maybe, like we discussed. There're still plenty of daemons to slay. The world is our oyster and all that…just as long as I don't get too close to anyone, apparently." A cough wracked him, his entire body shaking with the force of it.
Prompto finally lifted his face from his arms. His complexion had upgraded from a sallow green to merely cadaverous-looking. "So it's really true, then? Umbra and his whole 'islands' thing?"
"It seems so," Ignis confirmed. "I've been pondering on this, and based on what we witnessed in Altissia, I think the effect we are seeing can be roughly translated as a 'phase shift'—or at least, that's how Umbra characterizes it. Being from essentially another branch of time, our… 'essences,' I suppose you could say, are ever so slightly offset from the people of this one—with eventual physical consequences for the other party, as we saw with Claustra and Luna."
"But you, me, and Gladio were talking to Luna for a while before Noct came out," Prompto said with a frown. "Everything seemed normal. And we were hanging out with Iris and Talcott for a few days."
"Yes, that initially baffled me as well," Ignis said. "But it seems as if some are more sensitive to the effect than others. And that Noct, unfortunately, amplifies it."
"Why's that?" Gladio asked, casting a frowning glance at Noct's hunched form.
"I believe…because he was never meant to live past the fulfillment of the prophecy," Ignis said, hesitantly. "His effect is greater as a result…almost as if his presence actually distorts the reality around him, to some degree."
"Fantastic. Best day of my life," Noct mumbled into his knees. His head was resting in his hands, rain and seawater dripping off the tips of his bangs.
"So let me get this straight," Gladio said. "We can interact with others, but only to a degree. And that degree is different for every person. And even more different when we throw Noct in the mix. Does that about sum it up?"
"Nearly so," Ignis confirmed. "There is one other subtlety worth mentioning. The effects of the prophecy's realization seem not to have 'kicked in,' so to speak, in this time, until our return. Prior to our appearance at Caem several weeks ago, events had played out exactly as we all remember them. But everything changed the instant we arrived. Essentially, the fulfillment of the prophecy came along with us, kicking into effect from the moment we landed to everything moving forward."
He leaned in, warming to his subject. "Thus, many of the foundational events leading up to how history would have played itself out are suddenly no longer applicable. These people have all the written records of such events, but no longer possess any memories of them. They have published newspaper articles of the waking of Titan, but no understanding of why or how it could have happened. We see the effects of Ardyn's machinations everywhere, but nobody recalls him. The change has caused this 'phase shifting' effect on a local level, it seems—any time one of these occasions is brought up, it results in a sort of cognitive dissonance that's then manifested in a physical way."
"That explains why Claustra went unhinged when I mentioned Ardyn," Noct said. "Kept thinking I was saying 'Aldercapt'—it's like she physically couldn't understand the word. And why Weskham couldn't handle me talking about things he wouldn't expect me to know."
"Yes," Ignis affirmed. "Any time we bring up anything from a past that no longer makes sense to them, it clashes with their new reality and amplifies this phased reality effect."
"So that's what was going on with Cor," Gladio nodded. "Why he was so confused when I mentioned the Ring and the Royal Arms. And why he just kinda vanished off the phone when I pressed."
"Heavens know what he thinks we're even up to right now," Ignis muttered.
"Reclaiming Insomnia, somehow," Gladio said. "He did ask about Noct's magic, and what we were doing for training. How come this phase shift deal isn't kicking in for that? If the prophecy's fulfillment means no more crystal, Cor should be tuned into the no more magic thing too."
"I assume he's invented some alternate explanation for it, much as Claustra mentally replaced Ardyn's name with Aldercapt's," Ignis said. "Perhaps magic is now assumed to be a divinely inherited trait in the Lucis Caelum line, rather than something given them by a crystal."
"Well, they're in for a big disappointment," Noct said, with the bitter little smile that was becoming an all too frequent fixture on his face. "Their king can't even magic up enough godly benevolence to warm up our leftover takeout anymore, much less—you know—actually be a king."
Nobody seemed to know what to say to that. Gladio glanced at Ignis and raised an eyebrow, nodding him minutely toward his own seat at the helm. Gamely, Ignis rose to replace him. The big man stepped across the narrow space to plant himself unceremoniously between Noct and Prompto, bodily shoving them apart. Then he reached out and draped an arm around each of them, his hand taking up a soothing rhythm across Noct's upper back and shoulders. Noct stiffened slightly, but soon relaxed, leaning ever so slightly into the touch.
"So…we really are islands," Prompto said, sagging bonelessly beneath Gladio's arm. "Nobody will ever know about the sacrifices we made. The sacrifice Noct made. Not even the gods remember."
Ignis didn't miss Noct's flinch—nor did Gladio—though it immediately devolved into a coughing fit. Gladio's hand momentarily stilled, but returned to its calming circles as he and Ignis exchanged a quick look.
"Seems like one of them remembers now," Gladio pointed out, once Noct's spell had subsided into shaky breaths. "Gentiana was surprised, but it was like she could just read the story in the heavens or something once we'd pointed it out. Sounded pretty accepting of the whole thing, but who knows if the same would go for the rest of the club."
"Well," Ignis said, glancing askance at Noct, whose face now looked positively wan. "There's no use dwelling on it at this stage. Let's focus on getting to port, then finding ourselves some potions, blankets, and clothes—in that order. Our time in Altissia has done a number on all of us." He pitched his voice into something that vaguely resembled cheer. "Prompto, Noct, how are you holding up?"
"Shoddily," Prompto grumbled. "I feel like microwaved death. I don't think I'll ever be able to eat again. And I didn't realize I had so many body parts to not feel until now. Isn't that a sign of hypothermia or something—when even your internal organs have gone numb?"
Ignis smiled slightly. Prompto, at least, would be fine. "Never mind, Prompto, Gladio will have a fire started in no time. Just as soon as we land at the haven."
"What's he gonna do, give it one of his looks?" Prompto snarked. "All our camping stuff is back in the Royal Vessel, remember?"
"It's called flint and tinder, kid," Gladio said, rolling his eyes. "Real camping doesn't need any of the fancy accessories."
"I don't care if it's called your mom, if it means—" The boat lurched over a particularly large wave, sending their stowed weapons sliding out from under the seats. Prompto moaned. "—if it means my toes will someday move again and my arms will eventually thaw out of these frozen chicken wing shapes. I feel like a Stopped chocobo or something."
"Look like one, too," Gladio amiably agreed.
"Hey Gladster, why don't you take a long walk off a short cliff—wait, that's not right—can it, Big Guy, stop laughing—"
Ignoring the bloodshed that was bound to ensue, Ignis returned his attention to Noct, concerned by his silence. Despite the jolt, he still sat hunched over his knees, staring at the floor.
"Noct?" he murmured. "Will you be all right?"
Noct looked up with an expression that was rather the last thing Ignis expected.
"My tackle box," Noct said, his face glowing with joy.
"Um. What?" Ignis replied with an articulate prowess that doubtlessly would have gotten him top marks from his tutors.
"My fishing things," he reiterated, hauling a familiar dented aluminum box off the floor from where it had evidently appeared from under the seat. "It's all here! Even the rods!" He waved one in Ignis' face for emphasis. "Weskham must have brought it over with the weapons. Gods, I love that man."
Ignis could have sworn he saw actual tears in Noct's eyes, but before he could confirm, his friend had hopped to his feet and was contentedly lugging everything to the foredeck, ignoring the cold waves that still crashed over the sides. "I'm going to sort everything out. Lures are probably tangled in the lines what with all the bumping around…"
His muttering continued, interspersed with the occasional perfunctory cough, as he dropped crosslegged to the deck.
"And just like that, all the problems of time and space are gone," Gladio said, shaking his head in wonder.
"I hate Altissia," Prompto moaned into his arms.