A/N: Mild content warning for a couple of brief mentions of self-harm.

xxx

"Gladdy!" Iris shrieked, flying down the moonlit path.

"Hey, Squirt," Gladio smiled. His tattooed arms all but swallowed her up as he lifted her into a surprisingly gentle hug.

Noctis, Prompto, and Ignis lingered a respectful distance away, loitering next to the Regalia as its cooling engine pinged and clicked beneath the hood. But Iris was hardly back on her feet before she was veering around her brother and skidding to a halt in front of them.

"Hey you guys," she said. Glancing up at them through her lashes, she scuffed her boot in the dirt in a sudden display of shyness that was about as unprecedented as an Iron Giant wearing a tutu. "Um...I just wanted to say sorry for the way I acted last time you were here. I mean, I guess it was really two times ago, but you were so in and out for the second one and barely even stayed—anyway, it was pretty uncool of me to freak out like I did, but it looks like Noct's doing a lot better now...are you, Noct?" She glanced up at him anxiously.

"Yeah," Noctis said, smiling warmly. "Thanks, Iris."

The look she gave him in return nearly lit up the night. Noctis didn't miss the quick glance that flickered between Gladio and Ignis.

Noctis cleared his throat awkwardly. He had seen Iris, from time to time, from Reflection. Bahamut had even shown him her "death" on occasion—usually in a group of others—before he'd figured out the required sacrifice. Over the years, he'd watched from the outside as she'd grown from a precocious but kind-hearted teen to a confident, talented woman who would go to any length to protect the ones she loved—much like her brother.

So, whereas her crush had felt relatively harmless when they were younger, and nonexistent in their adulthood...now that he was in his thirties and she was barely sixteen, it definitely leaned into the realm of the problematic. With luck, she'd return to seeing him as an adopted brother soon, as she had in their childhood.

More notable than Iris' obvious affection, though, was the fact that they had been standing within feet of each other for several minutes, and she hadn't crumpled in agony. Noctis felt something in his chest stir with reckless hope.

"What are you doing alone in the dark, Iris?" Gladio asked. "You know it's dangerous out here."

"Nah, not on the hill," she replied, dismissive. "Daemons never come up near the house. There's a whole crapload of them down at the beach, though—I think you can hear 'em now, if you listen."

Noctis tilted his head; after a moment he could, indeed, make out the distinctive cackling of the Snaga, though it was difficult to distinguish against the surf.

"Well, you've got the right guys for the job," Prompto said, twirling his (thankfully unloaded) Death Penalty around a finger as he bounced restlessly on the balls of his feet. "Let's get this party started."

"After we finish unpacking the car, if you please," Ignis said. The top half of his body disappeared as he bent to rummage through the trunk.

"Oh yeah, I always forget about that part," Prompto said, deflating. Glancing askance at Iris, who had turned to ply her brother for news, he said, "I miss your armiger, Noct."

"Don't we all," Ignis said. "Speaking of…who bought this family-sized case of Phoenix Bars? And Prompto, is this your six-pack of Power EX?" His voice echoed ominously from the bowels of the car. "What all did you lot buy while I was cashing in our bounties? It was supposed to be a pit stop, for crying out loud, not a bloody shopping spree."

"You know that stuff will mess you up, right?" Gladio said, glancing away from Iris to eyeball Prompto's purchase. "Packs a punch but you pay for it afterward."

"Aw man, really?" Prompto said, looking disappointed. "It was in the discount aisle and I thought it might be good for a little pick-me-up sometime, you know, like in battle. And mostly I just wanted to try the Kickin' Kupoberry flavor."

"I find it highly overrated, myself," Ignis remarked. Emerging from the trunk, he began distributing armloads of supplies before pushing the lid closed.

"That's cuz your blood's half Ebony, Igs. I don't think you could feel a buzz anymore if you took a whiz on an electric fence."

Iris grinned from ear to ear. "I'm so glad you guys are back."

xxx

Despite a torrent of protests, Gladio managed to convince Iris to turn in for the night while the four of them ventured out to hunt. Down at the shoreline they encountered a veritable warren of Snaga, which they cleaned out before sunrise. The only reason it took even that long was because half the little monsters scattered immediately, pinballing drunkenly about the beach in a flurry of giggling and sharp teeth. The other half took to the trees that grew in the stony bluffs above the sand, pelting them with seed pods, spit wads, and worse. By the time the sun rose, they were more than ready for baths and bed.

In the days that followed, they took to a more moderated version of their nocturnal lifestyle—exterminating whatever daemons they could unearth until midnight or so, then turning in shortly afterward. The abbreviated workdays proved beneficial to all of them: Ignis was soon able to remove the stitches from Gladio's arm, and the last of Noctis' and Prompto's bruises finally disappeared. Even Noctis' dreams retreated, at least for a time.

On their third night, Iris and Talcott joined them upstairs for board games and hot cocoa. Their tentative experiments had been going smoothly so far; Iris seemed to tolerate sharing space well, and had even sat with them for several hours reminiscing about the days they'd spent traveling together—a few months ago for her, ten years gone for them. Sometimes, from the corner of his eye, Noctis thought he caught her watching them with a strange, preoccupied sort of scrutiny; but when he looked closer, she merely flashed him an unfeigned smile. Talcott, meanwhile, had been up at the lighthouse helping Cid with his projects, so Noctis hadn't seen much of him; but neither Monica nor Dustin had appeared any worse for wear after joining them for dinner the evening before.

Despite his best efforts to keep them in check, Noctis' hopes had gone full airborne. Now he was looking forward to an evening of simple, laid-back fun, just as they'd enjoyed in the old days. He smiled wryly to himself. Back in an age of innocence.

What he didn't expect that night was a full-blown Citadel Intelligence-caliber inquisition at the hands of two wide-eyed, baby-faced youth. Speaking of innocence.

"So how're your moogles doing, Noct?" Iris asked, after several rounds of an uncomplicated game they'd dug out of the closet. She popped a shortbread cookie in her mouth and nudged her piece across the board.

Noctis blinked, some heretofore-unrecognized warning system humming to life in the back of his mind. He realized, with rapidly growing concern, that she may as well be speaking a foreign language for all the meaning he had gleaned from that question. Out of sheer reflexive habit, he opened his mouth to reply, praying that words would magically pour from him in some coherent, satisfactory order. Instead, he sat there and conducted a magnificent imitation of a trout.

Finally, he echoed, "Uh...moogles?"

"Yep," Iris said, flipping a card.

Noctis stared at her pitifully as he raked his memory. Had he fostered a moogle family? Given to a moogle-based charity as one of his royal causes? Traveled to their habitat as part of an awareness campaign? What had he done ten-plus years ago to warrant Iris' question? He glanced pleadingly at Prompto, sitting next to him on the couch, but his friend looked just as flummoxed as him. Ignis and Gladio were of no help at all, cleaning their weapons at the back of the room and gabbing away between themselves.

"Ohhhh, are you talking about your mechanical fighting moogles?" Talcott burst in excitedly, and Noctis made a mental note that this was the second time he owed the kid his life. "Those things are so cool! I don't know of anybody besides Iris who makes them!"

"Right," Noctis said, hastily masking his relief. The reprieve was short-lived as he frantically rifled through his memories, only to recall that the adorable little murder machines Iris had gifted him once in Lestallum had vanished with the armiger. "Yeah, they really are amazing, Iris. I don't have them with me right now because...because, um..."

"Cuz we left them with Cindy up in Hammerhead," Prompto cut in. "She was curious about how they operated. I hope you don't mind, Iris; she promises she won't steal your design, and those cuddly, homicidal fuzzbears are legit masterpieces."

For a moment Iris melted. A faint blush rose to her cheeks at the compliment, and Noctis thought they were in the clear.

Then she set her jaw, and her face returned to an expression of polite neutrality. Gladio, sensing something the others couldn't, perked up and frowned at them from across the room.

"Oh," she said, taking a delicate sip of her cocoa. "Well, maybe Cid can bring them back with him when he drives out there tomorrow. I'm happy to patch them up before you all leave again." She smiled brightly as she set her mug back down on the coffee table.

"Um...yeah...maybe...?" Prompto squeaked, his voice gradually fading away into the atmosphere. He drew a card, then shoved his red plastic game piece erratically across the board.

Talcott was looking back and forth between them in confusion, the earnestness of his expression somewhat undermined by the sizable cocoa mustache he sported. Eventually he shrugged and cheerfully took his turn, the weirdness of adults (and teenagers) apparently of no interest to him.

"Hey Prompto, can you give me another photography lesson?" he asked. "I've been working hard at the techniques you showed me, but all I have is the camera on my phone and it can't do ap...apershure."

Prompto smiled good-naturedly, sliding him a napkin. "You got more than me, little buddy," he said. "There is positively nothing I'd rather be doing right now than giving you photography lessons, but unfortunately my camera—um, got broken."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Talcott said, crestfallen on his behalf. "Maybe sometime in the future, then, after you buy a new one?"

"Mmm, yeah, the future," Iris hummed. Idly, she plucked a card from the middle of her hand and moved it to the end. "What do you suppose it will bring?"

Alarm bells clanged to life in Noctis' head. On the opposite side of the room Gladio abruptly stood, his shoulders set in the same way they tended to look when he stumbled on fresh malboro tracks.

But Iris just blinked up at them, her eyes wide and guileless.

Noctis forced himself into calmness, running through the centering exercises Gladio had taught him way back at the beginning, when they'd just begun training together. Ignis had wanted an experiment, and he was getting it. Between Iris' oddly penetrating questions and Noctis' shiny new ability of inducing crippling illness in anybody who drew too close to the truth—or to him—this conversation was wandering into some distinctly unhealthy terrain.

"Prince Noctis, did you lose your magic?" Talcott asked.

Noctis choked on his cocoa. Gladio and Ignis abandoned their corner once and for all to walk briskly over to join them.

Eyes watering, Noctis sputtered a few more times before he wheezed, "Why do you say that, Talcott?"

"Well, isn't that why you were sick that one time? Back when nobody would let us in here to visit you and then you all left on the boat? Cor thinks you've lost it—I overheard Aunt Monica and Uncle Dustin talking about it. And some other people think so too," he added, looking simultaneously sad and offended. "Sometimes they even say stuff about it in the papers. They wonder how you're going to save Lucis from the Empire if you don't have your magic anymore. Some of them say you never even had it to begin with." He scowled.

Noctis smiled darkly, even as he sensed Ignis' sudden, simmering fury—not at Talcott, he knew, but at all those who had asked so much, then never known or appreciated what he'd had to give.

"So I've heard," he replied, thinking back to the newspaper at Galdin Quay.

And he suddenly realized, with a certain grim humor, that the burdens of destiny hadn't, in fact, finished with him at all.

He had been born under the expectation that a king of Lucis would someday save the world by eradicating the darkness of the Scourge. But, bereft of the knowledge of both prophecy and fulfillment, the threat of such world-destroying evils had been wiped from the inhabitants of this time's minds. To them, daemons had been reduced to little more than dangerous nocturnal wildlife. And so in the original prophecy's place, they had, unwittingly, custom-built their own: the expectation that a king of Lucis would "save the world" by freeing their land from the clutches of the Empire.

Noctis laughed quietly, resting his chin in his hands. And suddenly he found he couldn't stop. His shoulders shook with the force of it.

He supposed they'd like him to accomplish all this without an actual kingdom, military, or even a gil to his name. Not to mention magic, which they were spot on about—or, say, the ability to actually communicate.

He did own more than one set of clothes now, though, so there was that.

Maybe Bahamut would resurface and ask him to kill himself again, while they were at it.

And the thing was, he would do it. He knew he would, if he had to. If it meant saving them.

"All right, bedtime," Gladio said, keeping his voice light but his posture screaming full-throttle Shield. "It's almost eleven, and Monica will kick us to the curb if you're too tired to help in the garden tomorrow, Talcott."

Iris set down her cards and stood, facing her brother. "Gladdy, don't you think it's important that we actually talk about—"

He held his hand up sharply, his eyes on Noctis. "Not now, Iris."

"I'm not feeling so well anyway," Talcott said.

A host of alarmed gazes swung his way. His face had taken on a grayish cast, and he was sagging against the table.

Gladio swore beneath his breath, then scooped the unresisting boy up into his arms. "Iris, help me get him to bed," he ordered. "Iggy—"

"Yes, we've got him; you go on," Ignis said, stepping over to stand beside Noctis.

Noctis heard them thumping quickly away down the bare board staircase.

Ignis settled down on the couch between him and Prompto, his knees brushing theirs. After a moment, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Noct. I truly thought we had stumbled upon the exception this time."

With an effort, Noctis brought himself under control. He returned the sigh, quietly, then reached over to catch hold of his friend's hand. "We tried," he said. "And it's the most time I've spent with anyone besides you guys in months, so there's that."

In response to Ignis' look, he gripped his hand harder. "Hey. Specs. I meant what I said on the boat. I have too much to live for." He looked his friends in the eyes. "I would never regret this. You both know that, right? Never. If isolation from everyone else is the price, I'll pay it. And consider myself lucky to still have the three of you."

Too much to live for, assuming he'd actually get a choice in the matter. But he didn't mention that part.

Prompto, blinking quickly, cleared his throat and said, "At least Iris and Monica and Dustin seem fine, still."

"Yes, but I imagine it's only a matter of time," Ignis said. He clasped Noctis' hand in return, meeting his gaze, then released him to begin gathering up the game pieces. "We might try staying a bit longer, provided we avoid Talcott, to gauge how much more they can endure. But we should probably prepare to execute our contingency plan sooner rather than later."

"Hiding out in the Ravatogh wilds until better intel comes along?" Prompto asked.

"Yes, I suppose that about sums it up," Ignis agreed, tucking the abandoned cards neatly back into their box. "Though I'm still concerned that we're no longer equipped for the caliber of daemons one stumbles across out there. As you'll recall, many of them are near impossible to defeat without Lucian magic—or Magitek-infused weapons, at the very least."

"I hate what those asshats are saying about you, Noct," Prompto muttered, his thoughts obviously still rooted somewhere back in what Talcott had said. "Ungrateful little turdballs. After all you've done for humanity, people are seriously gonna crap on you for not handing them Lucis on a golden platter? Not gonna lie, I wouldn't mind locking a couple of 'em in Steyliff's basement right now and seeing how quickly they redefine their problem set."

"It's not their fault," Noctis wryly replied. "They don't know any better, and serving as both the solver and the target of their frustrations is kind of my job." He looked down at his hands, picking at a torn nail. "It's…just one that I can't physically do anymore. But either way, it's not like they had any say in us being pinned with some contact-averse time travel byproduct for the rest of our lives."

"But it's so unfair," Prompto protested, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. "You sacrificed your whole life for them, and they don't even know. You let your ancestors kill you for them!"

Noctis twitched, his many, many deaths flooding through his head in rapid, breath-stealing succession. Poisoning himself…slitting his own throat…incinerating himself with the Ring…drownings…electrocutions…bleeding out over days…and, of course, the traditional stabbing, among others—many so gruesome his mind shied away from them entirely. Because Bahamut had said they were necessary. Death after death after death…and he hadn't wanted any of them…

Noctis took a shuddering breath, suddenly aware that his friends were watching him in concern, bordering on alarm.

"I wouldn't want them to," he said softly, gathering himself. "I wouldn't want them to know."

He forced the memories back—as he always did—but they simmered and writhed, just beneath the surface.

xxx

The next afternoon, Monica collapsed. Noctis had been helping her weed the garden, Gladio having asked Iris to keep a still-disoriented but partially recovered Talcott occupied at the lighthouse. She laughed shakily and made some comment about the heat, but Noctis had backed quickly away as Ignis helped her, stumbling, into the house.

Dustin prepared them dinner while Monica rested in her room. He staggered suddenly on his way to the table, spilling the soup, his face having gone pale and waxy. Tight-lipped, Noctis retreated to their room, Iris' startled exclamations and Prompto's hurried reassurances following him up the stairs.

When his friends joined him later, having conducted damage control to the best of their abilities, all that was needed was one shared look among the four of them and the decision was made: they would leave in the morning.

"It seems really kinda cruel that the effect is so much stronger for Noct than for the rest of us," Prompto said, closing the bedroom door before leaning tiredly against it. He and Ignis had carted the tent and sleeping bags up to the house to clean before tomorrow's return to the wilderness; they now hung draped about the bedroom on lengths of twine strung up between doorknobs and rafters, lending the air a faint odor of wet chocobos.

"'Cept with Iris," Gladio pointed out. He'd transported his shield and most of the snacks down to the car and was now treating the remainder of their gear, his bare feet propped carelessly atop the coffee table.

"Yeah, I wonder why that is," Prompto said. He crossed the room and flopped with somewhat unnecessary vigor onto his bed. "She's always been pretty tough, hasn't she? Not saying Monica and Dustin and Talcott aren't…but I did hear she was out there kicking serious daemon ass during the Night. Never got the chance to see her in action myself, though."

"She's an Amicitia," Gladio said proudly. "Our family crest used to be an adamantoise, way back in the day."

"Ugh, don't remind me of that thing," Prompto said, kicking his boots carelessly to the floor. "Never did figure out what it was doing in the middle of a desert. Did one of the gods leave their aquarium open, or something? Because 'getting walked on by a giant turtle' wasn't exactly on the ol' list of roadtripping scrapbook goals."

"So why was it in your scrapbook, then?" Gladio grunted.

"Ignis put it in, not me!" Prompto replied, still sounding severely offended after all these years. "He took the picture."

"You should thank me for rescuing your camera," Ignis said with a sniff, "before it was also walked on by said giant turtle. Noct, are you finished with the lavatory?"

"All yours," Noctis replied. Rubbing at his damp hair, he tossed his towel over a bedpost with the same care Prompto had given his boots. Then he burrowed into the covers and pressed his pillow over his face, blocking out the light against the beginnings of a now-familiar headache.

"Man, I'm gonna miss this place," Prompto sighed. "Though I've gotta say, I'm not too too sad about camping out in the Ravatogh region again. Hot spring baths every night? Yes please. Lambath Haven's always been one of my faves…"

Noctis let the rest of their conversation wash over him as he sank deep into his dreams.

xxx

Prompto and Ignis stand in a cave full of Nagarani. Only these aren't the ordinary monstrosities—through some quirk of fate, or science, or pure chance, they have all retained various degrees of memory.

"Ignis," Prompto whispers as one slithers past, close enough to almost brush his leg with its scaly tail. "Is it…talking?"

It is. Noctis, standing unseen beside his friends, watches as it slinks straight into a rock wall. Blinking, it stares at the cold stone uncomprehendingly, before slowly rounding and slithering off in a different direction. It hits that wall too.

"Must remember to pick the children up at three," it hisses to itself. "Burger night at Takka's…their favorite…"

Prompto's face goes still with horror. The daemon's voice tangles with the others', a dozen at least, as they all whisper about lives long gone. Mothers, scientists, lawmakers, athletes, farmhands—all had lived and breathed, raised families or dwelled alone, created and broken and built and loved and raged and helped. They had been human.

Their recollections fill the cave with a rustling sea of loss.

"The Council didn't say anything about this," Prompto whispers, panicked. "Ignis, they're practically still human!"

Ignis shakes his head slowly, the scarred face beneath his visor suddenly appearing years older. "They're still daemons, Prompto, no matter how they sound. They still slaughtered those civilians at Keycatrich. There will be more deaths yet if we don't finish what the Council sent us here to do."

"But…it's not their fault they're this way. They never wanted it! They had lives and kids and things they loved to do—" He chokes off.

"I know, Prompto," Ignis sighs. "I know."

And that's when the daemons notice the men in their midst. It's all it takes for their humanity to flee, turning shadows of personalities into snarling monsters. Noctis, having been granted the additional bonus of observing parts of their lives prior to their turning—compliments of Bahamut, of course—flinches as his friends' weapons bite deep. Tears trickle down Prompto's face as he methodically guns them down.

Time for it to end. Noctis takes a deep breath and, moving as far away from his friends as he can, unleashes a Flare at his own feet.

He cries out in anguish as the superheated flames cling to him, engulfing his body. The cries quickly turn to screams—but nobody can hear him. It doesn't matter; if this is what Bahamut demands of him to save the world—to save his friends—this is what he'll do.

But the Nagarani don't burn with him, as they had before. Instead, they slither up to form a ring around him, regarding him curiously as he dies.

Noctis falls to his knees, fully ablaze, the pain unbearable. The last thing he sees is a shadow, a suggestion of a presence, watching from within the circle. It hadn't been there before. It ripples into something like a face, off-human and remote, but searing him with smoldering eyes.

Then it smiles. In Bahamut's voice, it says, "Found you."

xxx

Noctis woke, covered in sweat and shaking so hard he could hear his bedframe creak. The pillow was still draped over his head, fortunately, or the horror-stricken, keening gasps he was making would have woken his friends. He pulled it desperately against his face, not caring that he was suffocating himself.

The lack of oxygen eventually snapped him out of his terror, as he knew it would. Dropping the pillow to the floor, he took several more deep, shuddering gulps. Finally he lay still, staring at the moonlit ceiling and focusing on simply breathing.

In and out. In and out. Bahamut was asleep, deep in the core of the world. The Draconian couldn't hurt him here. The prophecy had been fulfilled, and the gods would never require it again. Gentiana had said so herself. In and out.

After a time, he rolled off his mattress and crawled the few feet to his sea-facing window, the thick material of his sleep pants cushioning his knees against the floor. Nearby, Prompto was nothing more than a peacefully breathing mound of blankets, outlined in the silvery wash of a rising moon. Farthest away, next to the door, he could hear Gladio's light snoring. And Ignis—

"Trouble sleeping?" came a whisper at his shoulder.

Noctis jumped violently enough to tangle himself up in his own legs, his heart racing. But of course it was only Ignis, eyes open and very much awake, looking down at him from the neighboring bed.

Noctis exhaled shakily. "Specs," he said, laughing to hide what was becoming a series of increasingly unstable reactions. "Sorry to wake you. Just needed some air." To emphasize the point, he leaned close to the window, cracked just enough to let in the coolness of the night without leaving them coated in a layer of salty condensation come morning.

There was a soft rustle of blankets, then a light squeak as Ignis rolled off the bed and came to sit quietly beside him.

Noctis was reminded of their many talks at the Royal Vessel's bow, the gap in its rail just big enough for both of them, side by side. With a pang, he wondered how it was holding up under the Empire's care. Was it stowed away in some evidence warehouse, or had they broken it down for parts? Weskham's boat, too, had more than likely been confiscated when they'd left Galdin. What had become of it since? Of Weskham himself?

"Noct," Ignis said, breaking the silence but keeping his voice low. "Are you having nightmares?"

Noctis' heartrate, having only just begun to calm, shot straight back into a near state of emergency. But he forced his shoulders to relax, his voice to stay casual as he replied, " 'Course I am, Specs. We all are. You had one just a few days ago, back at the Maidenwater." He shrugged. "It was the price we paid, right?"

"So it was," Ignis murmured. But he refused to be distracted. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Noctis wouldn't. He really, really wouldn't.

So he was thoroughly appalled when he heard himself say, against his much better judgment, "Ignis, did…did you and Prompto ever come across a cave full of Nagarani? During the Long Night, I mean. Ones that still acted kind of human?"

Ignis was startled enough to drop his original line of inquiry. "Prompto told you?"

"Y-yeah," Noctis lied, hoping to the Six (or Shiva, at the very least) that Prompto wasn't awake and listening. "Some of it."

Ignis was silent for a moment before saying, "That honestly shocks me, as it was an experience he won't speak much about. I'm pleasantly astonished that he chose to confide in you." His voice was unreadable, and Noctis wondered if he'd detected the lie.

But it was far too late to turn back now. Gritting his teeth, he said, awkwardly, "But I can't completely remember what he said about how you guys cleared them out. With Flares, right?"

Ignis didn't answer for so long that Noctis was sure he'd been discovered. But he had to know. He had to know…

"On the contrary," Ignis finally said. "We destroyed them with a standard application of brute force, combined with the remainder of your Blizzagas from the armiger. We would have liked to have saved them for you for the final battle, but the daemons would have killed us if we hadn't."

Blizzagas. Not Flares.

And there it was. Everything that had taken place in Reflection—it had all been nothing more than a game to Bahamut; a game to condition him into dying, to measure his willingness to do the god's bidding, to see how far he would go, to make Noctis his. To lead him along with breadcrumbs of power, culminating in that one, final sacrifice.

Except that it turned out not to be so final after all. No; Noctis had perfectly prepared himself to feed the Draconian for centuries to come. All under the tantalizing suggestion that he was making a difference, that he had been right there beside his friends throughout the Long Night. Repeatedly buying their lives—and not only theirs, but others', strangers'—at the negligible price of his own.

But he hadn't been, had he? Oh, the situations had been real enough—the danger, the gruesome deaths, the cries of the innocents as they were torn apart. Many of the worst parts had undoubtedly happened. But his own effect on them had been nothing more than wishful thinking. Killing himself with Aranea's hidden weapon hadn't saved her and Gladio. Those two had saved themselves. Destroying himself and the Altissian sea daemon with the Ring had never really happened; either those people had escaped on their own, or they'd been slaughtered. And the memory of dying with the Nagarani in the cave was a gaping wound that belonged to him alone; in the real world, Ignis and Prompto had fought their own way out.

They had all saved themselves. Noctis, having technically preserved more lives than any human who had ever lived on their star, hadn't been able to do as much for himself. To say nothing of those he loved most.

And everything he had done those ten years in Reflection—it had all been to feed a god of death. Yes, he had grown powerful himself in the process, enabling him to save humanity with his final act of sacrifice, there on the throne—but all at Bahamut's whim. All as a part of the Draconian's greater plan to ensure the continuation of his own godly supremacy.

He laughed bitterly and slumped against the chilled windowpane, his breath fogging the glass.

Somewhere at the edge of waking, where nightmares and reality converged, he thought he could hear Bahamut laughing too.

"Noct?" Ignis said, and his voice was laced with a strange, tense foreboding. "What happened to you?"

Noctis felt himself at a precipice, on the brink of a point of no return. He could feel that protective armor of deflections, of diversions, of outright lies—defenses he had worked so hard to build since his return to life—crumbling away beneath the force of his friends' love and concern. Jittery with fear, not knowing what he was about to say, he opened his mouth to reply.

I shall destroy all those close to your heart

Noctis closed his mouth so hard his teeth clacked together. A noise close to a whimper escaped his clenched lips.

Ignis reached out and gripped his chin, forcing Noctis to look at him. "Noct, talk to me," he begged, low and heated.

Noctis jerked away, breaking free of his hold. Grabbing the windowsill and pulling himself up, he stumbled to his feet.

"I can't, Ignis!" he cried. His voice sounded hollow and despairing, even to himself. "I can't…"

From the other beds, he heard Gladio and Prompto begin to stir. A brisk shuffling beside him indicated Ignis was rising as well, rising and reaching for his arm. Desperate to escape their questions, their looks, Noctis turned away and pressed his forehead into the glass, hard, until the pane creaked, staring out over the blackened sea. He wondered what the odds were of throwing the window open and successfully diving out into the night before Ignis could stop him. It was only a second story, and the ground below was relatively soft…

Something flickered in the darkness, in the deepest shadows of the cliffs where the moonbeams couldn't reach. It was brief and undefinable, more of a suggestion offered by intuition than anything he had actually seen. Noctis blinked; momentarily distracted, he leaned harder into the pane, squinting out into the night.

And that was when he saw the dreadnought, hovering just above the lip of the cliff. Its running lights were off, leaving an impression of black on black. Behind it, an armada of dropships hovered, similarly concealed.

Then, a single light bloomed.

Noctis focused on it with a strange, detached interest. It burned through the sky, screaming silently toward them, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

In reality, it could only have been a second or two between that first sighting and the moment the missile reached the house. But to Noctis' mind, it may as well have been a fly swimming through honey. He watched, time slowing, as it drew near.

So they were trying to hurt the people he loved again, were they? They should know by now that this never ended well for them.

Pushing Ignis behind him, Noctis reached for his magic—buzzing in a frenzy of crackling energy through the unseen spaces around him—and smiled.

Then the missile hit, and all was light.

xxx

A/N: A cliffnotes reminder for the potentially confused, because it's been a minute since the early chapters: the Reflection Bahamut trapped Noct in for all those years was a distorted reflection of the real world. So Noct was witnessing real events, but experiencing them in not quite realistic ways—in other words, whatever was most convenient to Bahamut at the time. Because to Bahamut, Noct's sacrifices = more power for him.

(And that being said, of course it's still 100% real to Noct.)