Penumbral

by Salty Mog

Trapped in Reflection, Noct discovers Bahamut isn't quite the benevolent deity he's made himself out to be. Feeding on death, the Draconian waits in anticipation for Noct's final sacrifice. And as the sun rises at last, Umbra offers Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto an alternative—but with a catch.

28. Full Circle

A/N: Content warning for blood, injury, violence, psychological warfare, and aaaaaangst

xxx

So here he was again. Come full circle.

The Sword of the Father in his hands. Again.

Offering himself up to die. Again.

Noctis stood in the center of the throne room, staring up at the dais. It looked much as he remembered it from the final hours of the Night. Even more like what Bahamut had shown him of his father's and Clarus' last moments, before entropy had had its way. That gaping hole in the corner still opened straight out into the sky—repairing it had obviously never been very high on the Imperial to-do list, even in this new, daemon-reduced timeline.

The throne rose above it all, as empty and distant and aloof as it had always been. As a child, Noctis had hardly recognized his father in that seat—had never been able to find the warm, playful man he thought he knew in the stiffly formal demeanor of the king who occupied it. And here it waited, vacant, poised to accept a king once more, now for the very last time.

He didn't want to do this.

It is time. Come to me, little king.

Woodenly, Noctis ascended the dais, his feet sliding on the rubble that littered the stairs.

At the top, he stared at the empty throne. And found that he couldn't bring himself to sit there. Not again.

Bahamut, though, didn't seem to care either way; apparently the symbolism of the throne room itself was good enough for the god and his perverse, megalomaniacal games.

Or maybe it was more a matter of practicality. Noctis lifted the Sword of the Father, its naked blade somehow still pristine and gleaming despite the action it had seen outside—and suddenly realized how difficult it was going to be, on a purely utilitarian level, to stab himself with the thing.

He laughed, the absurdity of logistics—of all things—as the overriding concern of his last few moments of life almost more than he could handle.

Eventually he regained a semblance of self-control, but not without significant effort. His amusement twisted into a dark, crooked smile. The sword was far too long to turn on himself, at least in the traditional manner. What did Bahamut want him to do? Wedge the hilt beneath the armrest and run himself into the blade? Prop it up between a couple of rocks at the bottom of the dais and fall on it, like beleaguered knights of old?

Upon consideration, the answer to both those questions was probably yes.

Bahamut didn't seem to understand the humor, but he also didn't appear to much care. The god was hungry. It is time.

He didn't want to do this.

Taking deep breaths, fighting down nausea, Noctis slowly turned the Sword of the Father in his hands. As the hilt swung out of his reach, he shifted his grip until it was clasping the bare length of the blade. Though he handled it carefully, the edges sliced easily into his palms. Grimacing, Noctis clutched it tighter anyway, resting the tip against his chest. Blood from his hands began to slide down the metal and drip onto the floor with a pattering sound that would have been alarming if it wasn't about to stop mattering anyway.

And again, he hesitated. Images of his friends slipped into his mind: laughing around a campfire, scowling at a card game, lying in peaceful repose on the deck of the Royal Vessel. Prompto…Gladio…Ignis…

Bahamut assailed him with visions of them dismembered, dying, lifeless.

With a guttural, inconsolable cry, Noctis extended his arms, then drove the blade savagely down toward his own heart.

xxx

Prompto bounced from foot to foot, the soft squeaking of his leather boots the only sound in the cockpit other than the deep, ubiquitous thrumming of the Magitek engine beneath their feet.

"I don't suppose you could make this thing go any faster," he said.

"Blondie, you wanna get out and push?" Aranea replied between tightly gritted teeth.

Ignis, standing against the bulkhead, stared tensely out into the night. He wholly sympathized with Prompto's impatience—swallowed in darkness, listening to nothing but the serene hum of machinery, it felt more like they were on a leisurely holiday than a rescue mission.

"Take it easy, Prompto," Gladio rumbled. He stood beside Aranea, arms folded, towering above Biggs and Wedge, who were currently manning the helm. "We'll make it in time." He stared at them mulishly, as if daring either of them to call attention to the long list of "buts" and "what ifs" that could justifiably accompany such a claim.

"You boys gonna give me a game plan at some point, or are we just looking to play some Pin the Ship on the Citadel?" Aranea asked, obviously on edge. "Cause I'm still not really clear on why we're headed there to begin with. If Pretty Boy thinks he's making it past Commander Vesperian unscathed, he's in for a bad night. She doesn't mess around. And she really hates Lucians. Did I mention he's got first place on the 'execute on sight' list?"

Ignis frowned, recalling vividly the aloof, capable Imperial officer they'd encountered on the Royal Vessel—not to mention Claustra's manor, and very probably Caem as well. But she was only human. Bahamut was a god, and he wanted Noct for himself. Badly.

"She won't be a problem," Ignis quietly assured her.

"Yeah, all right," Aranea said, rolling her eyes. "I get it. Keep your secrets, then. But if you want anything better than a glorified taxi service, here, you're gonna have to give me a little more.

"And just to be clear," she asserted, "I'm not about to start carpet bombing those encampments down there or anything. Just 'cause I'm breaking from the Empire doesn't mean I love the thought of taking out my former comrades-in-arms."

"Nor would we ask you to," Ignis assured her.

They were coming up on the borders of Insomnia now, dark except for the main highways and a distant concentration of electric lights, right around where the city center and Citadel would be. Just ahead, invisible in the darkness, would lie the entrance to the channel bridge, the Imperial barricade, and a little fishing hole. A campsite, fraught with the echoes of goodbyes. And—

"The Regalia!" Prompto squawked, nearly shoving Ignis through the windscreen in his haste to peer outside. "Should we stop?"

Ignis squinted into the night, just barely able to make it out. The car's front end was protruding from beneath a shallow overhang on the canyon wall. He would never have seen it if he hadn't been looking for it specifically; even then, he wouldn't have quite trusted his own eyes if he didn't hold such well-established faith in Prompto's far sharper ones.

"Yeah, he's not gonna be there," Gladio said, giving it the barest of glances before returning to his stoic waiting pose—the one that always hid a much deeper disquiet. "Least we know we're on the right track, though."

"He's left it there for us," Ignis murmured.

Prompto glanced at him, his expression miserable, and fell into silence. He looked as if he were on the verge of throwing up.

"Okay, not gonna lie—I'm a little surprised they haven't sent the air brigade after us yet," Aranea remarked, frowning as she peered out over the city. "We might be running beaconless, but these crates aren't exactly known for their stealth capabilities—"

She cut off abruptly, leaning forward to squint through the windscreen. "The hell…?"

Ignis and Prompto crowded forward, nudging aside Gladio's giant arms to see.

Down below, the city…boiled. It was the only way Ignis could think of to describe the blackness that surged up from beneath the streets and spilled over into the thoroughfares, swallowing everything it touched. Peering closer, he realized the darkness was, in fact, daemons. Daemons materializing in droves, miasma flowing along the pavement like liquified tar. Daemons he had never seen outside the Long Night. Daemons in the light, utterly heedless of the high-wattage lamps that beamed down on them from above.

Ignis felt his hackles rise. "That…shouldn't be possible," he said. Gladio was swearing beneath his breath, joining the chorus of Biggs' and Wedge's much louder invectives.

"Okay, what the hell is going on here?" Aranea demanded, her eyes wide. "Those lights are tested level ninety-nine-grade repellant—holy shit!"

As they neared the city center, the daemon swarm intensified—and now they could see Imperials in their midst, troopers and MTs alike, fighting with vicious desperation.

"Those are Vesperian's men," Aranea said grimly. "Look, I can't just leave them like this—not when there're daemons involved. I'm gonna drop you guys off at the Citadel for whatever it is you need to do there, okay? Just give me a call whenever you're done. Seeing as you've got my number and all," she said, casting Gladio a slightly penetrating look.

The three of them shared a quick but significant glance.

"But if we don't," Gladio said, "then don't wait up. All right?"

Aranea peeled her gaze from the scene outside to pin them with her full attention, surprised and a shade unnerved. "Hey. You're not planning something crazy, are you?"

" 'Course not," Gladio replied. Technically, Ignis reflected, it was true, as "planning" would require an actual strategy.

"You guys…is it just me, or did we cross some sort of…like, daemon ward or something?" Prompto broke in, before Aranea could reply.

Ignis' gaze returned to the city below, and the streets that converged on the Citadel just ahead. They were eerily empty. Looking back toward the rear, he could almost see the invisible line from which the monsters instinctively turned.

A chill ran down his back. They were going where daemons feared to tread.

"I've gotta say, this is a real unsettling business you've got going on here," Aranea said, drumming her fingers restlessly on the back of Wedge's seat. "You guys sure you know what—"

"Noct," Gladio said sharply, cutting her off. "I see him."

Ignis and Prompto plowed forward again, heedless of their pilots' indignant imprecations. Ignis' gaze zeroed in on the citadel doors just in time to see a slight, dark-clad figure disappear inside, a long, familiar sword resting in his hand.

The sight filled Ignis with terror, and a near manic sense of urgency. His heart pounded, dread and determination and hope warring fiercely within.

Aranea looked alarmed. "What exactly does he think he's doing? The daemons might be keeping clear of this place but I doubt the brass is. He just walked straight into HQ—I'm not sure if that gives him more points for ballsiness or stupidity."

"Escape is not his goal," Ignis said, quickly readying his daggers. "Biggs, Wedge, take us to the upper floors on the far side. You should see a large hole in one of the outer walls. Aranea, have you got any curatives to spare?"

"Yeah, there's a couple in the med kit on the wall," Aranea replied, watching him speculatively. "Look, I've gotta ask. Is this a rescue mission or a kidnapping?"

"It's an intervention," Ignis told her, gathering up a selection of standard-issue potions and passing one each to his friends. Prompto was already standing at the cargo doors, his face pale but hard as he waited restlessly for Biggs and Wedge to maneuver them into position. Gladio pulled his shield and sword off the bulkhead; his arms bulged beneath the fabric of his sleeves as he moved into a ready stance.

"Riiight…" Aranea breathed in a drawn-out mutter.

Then, suddenly, she stepped forward, laying a hand on Gladio's arm. "Hey."

Gladio turned to her, and Ignis was surprised to see a sudden, fleeting softness there. Aranea obviously was too, as she quickly transferred the hand to her hip. But she didn't move away, and her eyes didn't leave the big man's face.

"Make sure you come back," she said. The gaze flickered over to include Ignis and Prompto. "All four of you."

Gladio flashed her a lopsided smile. "Take care of yourself, 'Nea. Never stop reaching for that sky, okay?"

Aranea's brow furrowed, her face filling with a sort of alarmed perplexity. But the doors were already opening, the winds buffeting them from across the rooftops.

It was time to free their king. Even if they died trying.

xxx

Noctis drove the blade toward his heart, his last thoughts slowing to drag milliseconds into eternities.

He thought of Gladio, grinning widely as they shared in the excitement of landing the Liege of the Lake, just the two of them. It had been early, not yet dawn, the waters of the Vesperpool coming to life in a chorus of croaking and humming, the slowly rising sun transforming it into a mirror of polished glass. As they heaved the monstrous fish up onto the dock, they'd shouted and laughed, clapping each other on the back and making enough racket to wake Prompto and Ignis all the way back at the haven.

He recalled Prompto, sitting alongside him on the roof of the Leville, listening to the buzzing of the neon lights, breathing in the baked smells of a cooling desert as dusk crept over the bush. They had spoken of dreams and insecurities and distant times, high school friends cracking open windows to their souls in the course of something that was already well on its way to becoming the deep bond of brotherhood.

He smiled at the memory of Ignis, enlisting his "help" with breakfast, gently easing him through the pain and depression of his dad's death and saying nothing about the burnt oatmeal.

He basked in recollections of the four of them together, sprawled across the deck of the Royal Vessel as if they didn't have a care in the world, despite having many—but sheltered by the fact that they were together, and alive.

He remembered Luna, and Iris, and his father. Incongruously, he thought of an amber-eyed dog, with a gaze that spanned the universe.

The blade came down.

And that was when something wiry and blond and very, very solid slammed into him from the side.

Noctis gasped; the Sword of the Father flew from his hands, clattering off the edge of the dais. He found himself caroming suddenly and uncontrollably down the stairs, someone strong and clingy tumbling along with him. Noctis hardly noticed the pain as they bumped and rebounded off the pitted stone steps; he was like a man dragged from a night terror with a bucket of ice water, yanked from a reality of quiet, single-minded acceptance to one full of noise and chaos and choices.

Eventually, everything stopped spinning. Dazed, Noctis found himself on the chamber's floor, loose rock digging into his back, staring up at the throne.

Staring up at three familiar faces—one only inches away from his own.

Horror filled him. No—no—they shouldn't be here. He hadn't wanted them to see this—

Noctis thrashed, struggling to throw Prompto off him and make a go for the Sword of the Father, bloodstained and gleaming only a few feet away. Prompto fought to keep him pinned. The blond was strong, and desperate; but Noctis was a trained swordsman, and also desperate. Dislodging his friend, he rolled him off to the side and began twisting around toward the blade.

But Prompto's face was abruptly replaced by one etched in scars, its expression much grimmer. Noctis' heart didn't even have time to properly sink in dismay before he was being flipped over onto his stomach, his arms pulled painfully up behind him. A heavy knee planted itself directly into the sensitive scar tissue on his lower back. Noctis choked out a sharp, raspy scream; Gladio had never in his life tried to exploit that old injury, always careful to steer well clear of it even during their hand-to-hand combat training sessions. But his Shield wasn't playing around now. Noctis knew Gladio would rather bring him back damaged than not at all.

Not that the option was even on the table. There were no options here, no real possibilities.

Noctis panted, ragged gasps tearing from his throat. The ball of his shoulder ground painfully against the socket as it was bent to its limits. Sweat trickled down his face and along the ridge of his jaw; he could feel blood from his sliced palms running up his arms and over Gladio's hands, compromising the big man's grip. Maybe, if he timed things right, it would be just enough for him to slide free—

Then Ignis was there, crouching before him and snatching the Sword of the Father well out of reach. His expression was pained as he took in Noctis' struggles.

"Please, Noct," he said. "Please quit fighting us. We can solve this together, but you must—"

A shadow slipped over the already dim hall—not so much physical as a smothering, soul-crushing presence, one that eclipsed thought and conviction and hope, leaving only lassitude and remembered dread in its wake. An odd sort of static fuzzed around it, two worlds clashing discordantly as they intermingled. Noctis fell limp, suddenly very, very tired.

A noise that was more like a pressure in his head, beyond the range of human hearing, stuttered through the room, and Noctis realized it was the sound of Bahamut laughing. The phantom wound in his heart began to throb; echoes of his old, lost magic tingled in his veins as every defensive instinct he had flared to life.

Ignis and Prompto slowly stood, turning to look up at the throne, weapons bare in their hands. Gladio moved off Noctis' back and rose deftly to his feet, pulling Noctis up along with him. One arm stayed clamped around his upper body, the big man raising his shield to cover them with the other.

"Leave them alone, Bahamut," Noctis said tiredly. His hands gripped the iron restraint that was Gladio's forearm, smearing blood across the intricately tattooed design. "I already said you could have me. It's what you asked for. So here I am."

I called for a sacrifice on the original altar. In the original manner. This I have yet to see. The voice reverberated through the stonework, a distinct wrongness to it—accompanied by a faint, acrid stench, as if it were searing the very molecules of the air. A winged silhouette, bladed and monstrous, filled the dais—more a ripple in spacetime than anything material.

Noctis glanced at his friends, seeing the sick understanding that entered their faces.

"Well, you will," Noctis said. "But please…not in front of them. Let them go and I promise you'll have me."

I desire a willing sacrifice. The king still wishes to fight. He cannot hide the turmoil in his soul from one such as I. I will have his full submission yet.

Anger flared in his heart, and Noctis realized, to his surprise, that Bahamut was right. The fight did remain, deep inside. He wanted to smear Bahamut off the face of this star, and everything the monster represented. He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to leave them.

The space that was Bahamut rippled in something that might have been amusement. So the king understands. Fight then, little one.

Daemons boiled from the floor, Mindflayers and Ziggurats and Red Giants and creatures that had no names. Noctis smiled bitterly. So Bahamut could call the Darkness to his cause now. He wasn't sure why this should surprise him.

Foolish child. I am the Darkness. What humankind so crudely terms "daemons" are my own ancient creations. I am the lord of all on this star—whether humans or daemons, it is much the same to me. Now fight.

Gladio finally released him. Bringing his blade to bear, he stepped forward, planting himself between Noctis and the advancing darkness.

"Ignis," Noctis said. "Give me the sword."

"Only if you swear to return it," Ignis replied, his eyes fixed on an approaching Mindflayer.

"And not to 'accidentally' fall on it in the middle of the battle," Prompto—standing ready at Ignis' elbow—remarked in a tone that said he desperately wished he were joking.

"All right, I promise," Noctis impatiently replied, and meant it. He was fighting for his friends now. The rest could wait until…after.

Ignis mutely handed him the Sword of the Father, pressing an elixir into his palm along with it. Surprised, Noctis shot him a grateful look before popping the top and downing the contents. The sliced tissue of his hands knitted itself back together, leaving only skin-deep, lightly seeping lacerations behind. Feeling a tingling in his chest, he glanced down to notice, for the first time, the slash in his shirt where the Sword of the Father must have cut through into the skin. The partially healed wounds itched atrociously, but the dampening of the pain roused him somewhat from the hopeless lethargy that seemed to have sunk into his soul.

The four of them spread out—just enough to give each other room to swing, while still keeping one another firmly ensconced within their protective circle.

Then, by unspoken signal, they attacked.

Bahamut laughed, mocking them as they charged forward. And all at once, the daemons became a room full of Nagarani.

Prompto skidded to a stop, his face going pale.

"Children…where are my children…" the nearest hissed. Its voice melted into the others' in a chillingly mournful chorus. A second stared listlessly at the wall, mumbling to itself about the travel plans it must have been looking forward to in life. As it droned on, its tail slid sinuously across the floor, leaving a dusty trail behind. Abruptly it reared up, swinging around toward Prompto's back with bone-shattering force.

"Prompto!" Noctis yelped. Without stopping to think, he slammed into the gunman's side. They both hit the floor just as the scaley appendage swept overhead, the wind from its passing flattening his hair against his scalp.

Noctis blinked hard, eyes watery from the rough landing, Prompto sprawled flat on his back beneath him. The blond remained gaping and inert, his gaze fixed on the creature in horror.

"Prompto!" Noctis shouted again. Struggling up to his elbows, he gripped his friend's shoulders and gave him a little shake. "They're daemons! The people they were are gone! Bahamut's only trying to mess with your…your head…"

He stuttered to a halt as a third Nagarani slithered over, regarding him with large, luminous eyes. Specifically, Luna's eyes.

Noctis' breath froze in his lungs. It returned in a choking gasp as he forced his gaze away from that expressionless visage—only to stare wildly about.

Because suddenly, crowding the perimeter of the room, were faces he knew—Iris, Cindy, Talcott, even some of the Glaives—and a few that he didn't, evidently friends of the other three dating back to the long years of the Night. Snakes sprouted from several of the doppelgangers' scalps, writhing and grotesque—but the faces themselves were perfect replicas.

His gaze darted to Bahamut, anger hot in his throat. So this was the game they were going to play, was it? Well then. So be it.

Grimly, Noctis rose to meet them. Sliding in front of Prompto, he waited, the Sword of the Father ready in his hands.

The Luna daemon was obviously more than amenable to the challenge, and its expression twisted into a hideous parody of the real woman's as it struck out at him, lightning-quick. But Noctis had expected the attack and sidestepped it easily. Swinging his blade around, he cut deep into the scales of the creature's muscular neck. It shrieked and whipped around for another blow, faster than he'd anticipated, the wound oozing gouts of black, viscous miasma. He tried to dodge but skidded on a patch of loose rocks instead, his knee buckling to deposit him into a mound of debris on the floor. The daemon reared up—not for a killing blow, since that was a job Bahamut had reserved for one person alone—but definitely aiming to cripple.

But then Gladio was there. A lifetime of training—specifically, that of placing his king's wellbeing above all else, whether it happened to be events or circumstances or, in this case, people—enabled the big man to quickly shake off his own frozen moment of shock. With a heavy overhand swing, the Luna daemon went down, sliced nearly in two.

From the floor, Prompto made a sound that was almost a whimper, but finally managed to stumble back up to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he raised his Death Penalty and began firing on a face Noctis didn't know, crisscrossed with the leathery wrinkles of an elderly woman. Obviously it wasn't so unknown to Prompto, judging by the low cry of anguish that tore from his throat. Noctis' heart hurt for his friend.

But another serpentine tail was already hurtling his way. Noctis flipped into the air before it could snap his legs, then threw himself into a blind roll as yet another slammed into the stone floor where he'd just been standing. He came to his feet in a crouch, eyes darting from side to side, scrambling for orientation. But all around him were masses of coiled, writhing bodies, familiar and grotesque all at the same time. Gunshots and shouts echoed around the chamber, but now he couldn't see either Gladio or Prompto, and Ignis—

Ignis stood across the room, his eyes fixed in glassy horror on the monstrosity that loomed above him. Its tail was creeping up past his feet, curling around, primed to close the noose and snap his spine. Ignis' arm was raised, dagger gleaming and poised to kill, but he hadn't budged.

"Ignis! Move!" Noctis shouted.

But his friend stood transfixed. Noctis' eyes darted back to the creature, desperate, and he suddenly found his heart stuttering to a halt for the second time in nearly as many minutes.

The daemon wore his face.

Its body was a monstrosity, still, snakelike and grossly disproportionate. But everything from the neck up was emphatically Noctis, from the tiny mole beside his mouth to the way that stubborn lock of hair always fell across his forehead to tickle his nose. The thing looked down at Ignis with Noctis' eyes, gaze wide and imploring.

"Specs," it pleaded. "Don't."

Ignis, rooted in place, shuddered visibly. The long, twisting tail crept around behind his legs.

"Nice try, you son of a bitch," Noctis hissed.

Striding up alongside the battling Prompto, he snatched the spare handgun from his friend's belt. Whirling, he lifted the weapon and, without a second thought, shot his doppelganger in the face.

It keened out a terrible, lifelike cry of pain as it died, a perfect reproduction of Noctis' voice. Ignis went positively ashen. Ignoring the dying monster, Noctis snagged the back of Prompto's belt and jammed the handgun back in, before sprinting across the room toward his friend. He leaped over the daemon's writhing tail, skidding through the pooling miasma of his double. Seizing Ignis by the arms, he wrested him bodily around to face him.

"Ignis," he said, urgently.

The man was still staring at the dissolving daemon, and seemed not to hear him. Grabbing his jaw, Noctis forced his friend to look him in the eyes. "Hey. I'm right here. It's not real. Okay, Specs? I'm right here."

"Yes…yes of course," Ignis replied, blinking back at him, his voice little more than a strained exhale. "I fear I…briefly lost my head. My apologies."

"Don't apologize, Ignis," Noctis growled. "You don't need to." Turning to face the dais, he threw his arms out wide. "Try again, Draconian. You thought I'd have a problem with that? With taking myself out? Been there, done that, remember?"

The last of the attacking Nagarani dissolved into mist, felled by an axelike blow from Gladio's greatsword. Wiping his hands on his pants, the big man stepped up beside them, breathing hard. Prompto jogged over to join them, his expression shadowed and forbidding as he turned to guard their backs.

Bahamut's laughter filled the room, an inexplicable, madness-inducing suggestion of sound, like a hundred off-frequency radios or invisibly shuffling papers or phantom bird wings.

And then the rest of the daemons surged forward.

Noctis grated out a startled curse, dropping to the floor as an Ahriman began flinging spiny projectiles in all directions. He yanked Ignis down with him, the closest of his friends he could reach. Gladio managed to lift his greatsword in time to deflect the bulk of it—tiny spines slamming into the metal hard enough to spark—but one flew wide, clipping him across the temple. The big man went down, blood running over his face.

Noctis whirled back around toward Ignis, but his friend was already shoving a potion into his hand.

"Go," he said, breathless. "I'll keep them off your back."

Gripping his friend's fingers in quick appreciation, Noctis crawled across the floor to his fallen Shield. Prompto stood over them, unloading round after round above their heads, beating back an advancing Bussemand. Noctis flinched, the hot shells that spilled down onto his shoulders and neck burning his skin. He leaned over Gladio, shielding him from the metal debris as best he could, and propped the big man's head up on his leg. Uncorking the bottle, he tipped the contents into his friend's mouth. As he waited for it to take effect, he reached down with the edge of his sleeve, haphazardly attempting to wipe the blood from his Shield's face.

Within seconds, Gladio was releasing an explosive breath of air, his gaze sharpening as the wound hardened into a scab. His eyes met Noctis', clear and comprehending.

"That's two I owe you," he grunted.

"Consider it two from the giant I.O.U. jar you've got on me," Noctis replied, smiling wryly. "Heads up; we've got a couple hostiles coming our way."

Gladio craned his neck to see as a horde of daemons surged toward them. Ignis had moved to spot Prompto, beating the monsters off the gunman's back as he sought for any sort of high ground in the relatively close quarters.

The big man briskly rose to his feet. Stepping in front of Noctis, he whirled the massive greatsword once around his wrist, as if he were about to play a casual game of ball. He turned his head to address him over his shoulder. "Like we practiced?"

"Yep," Noctis affirmed.

And then the creatures were on them. Noctis charged forward, ignoring the Red Giant to go for the much more incapacitating Mindflayer. Gladio, sensing him coming up from behind, fell to one knee, holding out his shield. Noctis seized the cue to hop on top of it, firmly planting his feet. Meeting his eyes in acknowledgment, the big man drew on their combined momentum and his own brute strength to hurl him up and through the air.

Not expecting its victim to fly, the Mindflayer was taken by surprise when Noctis cartwheeled over its head, slicing a few tentacles off its nightmare-inducing face in the process. Landing on his feet on its far side, he dug his toes into the stone before abruptly switching directions, launching himself toward its back. The Sword of the Father sliced through its torso like a Firaga through a Flan, just as Gladio's greatsword chopped into it from the front. With a hiss, it dissolved into miasma.

Gladio hit him with a quick hair tousle at the same moment Noctis bumped his shoulder. They flashed each other a brief smile, and for an instant it was like older, more carefree times out beneath the open sky—not a throne room full of nightmares.

Then he heard Prompto shout. A pack of black-eyed, lethally spiked Ziggurat were sweeping forward with the overwhelming speed they were notorious for, their bladed appendages leaving rows of craters in the stone floor. Prompto had both the Death Penalty and his spare handgun leveled at the foremost monster's face, jaw clenched as he blasted hole after hole through its insectlike eyes. It snarled, fragments of it misting away into smoke; but it kept coming, its counterparts skittering around to box the gunman in from behind.

Noctis' eyes narrowed. Growling, he flew at them, skidding in from the side, his sword extended. The first daemon screeched, reeling as the blade punched through its abdomen. Prompto seized on the reprieve to dive through the opening; rolling to his back mid-slide, he began shooting away pieces of the monsters from beneath. Noctis grabbed his friend's hand as he flew past, swinging him back up to his feet, both of them narrowly escaping impalement as a spindly, bladed arm smashed down behind them. Elbow to elbow, they battled their way through the remainder, sweat flying from their hair as they shot and sliced and threw each other out of harm's way.

But more kept coming, boiling out of the floor. Noctis grit his teeth, forcing his blade up, ignoring the screaming in his muscles and the specters of his dead magic, still scratching for attention at the back of his mind. His own exhaustion—growing heavier and more insistent with every swing—wasn't important; all he cared about right now was Prompto, down on one knee beside him, stalwartly gripping his Death Penalty in both hands even as he was nearly overwhelmed by the Ziggurats' flurry of bladed limbs, slicing through the air just inches from his face. Noctis lunged recklessly forward, shoving his way bodily into the press, swinging and slicing and gasping for breath as he fought to buy them some space—

Then Ignis was there at their backs, shouldering between them to counter the deadly appendages with flying blades of his own.

Noctis stumbled, lowering his weapon as he wheezed for air, the half-second's reprieve just long enough for him to regain his bearings. Reaching down, he tugged Prompto back up to his feet. At the same moment, a Gargoyle charged at him from the side, sending him pivoting awkwardly around to fend it off with his free hand. The Sword of the Father shuddered beneath the blow, and Noctis' arm trembled with fatigue. But he set his jaw, and—shouting in defiance—shoved the monster away, following it up with a two-handed strike that cleaved the daemon in half.

The momentum sent him staggering forward; but Ignis was behind him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him back up. They met each other's eyes, an unspoken conversation passing between them.

Then his friend was darting around him, flying in to ambush a Hobgoblin that had been gunning for Prompto's back. He struck, quick and deadly, cartwheeling out just in time for Noctis to cartwheel back in. Ignis held off, waiting for the close of his swing; picking up on the well-established cue, Noctis abruptly bent forward. Taken by surprise over his sudden change in altitude, the daemons were easy prey when Ignis rolled across his back, returning to the fray with his daggers flying. The last two of the original group hissed away into smoke, twin blades lodged in their throats.

Noctis and Ignis looked at each other, both of them breathing heavily, but still finding the energy to exchange a quick smile and a light fist bump.

Then they were back with Gladio, Prompto dashing in from the rear, the three of them joining their giant of a friend to bring down a giant of a daemon. They dove and flew and parried, combining forces when necessary and splitting off to overwhelm it from the sides when not. Sometimes they simply stepped back and let it rampage, having learned over the course of years and battles that enraged Giants tended to cut down on their workload for them. And indeed, this one had dispatched several of its compatriots already with its wild, increasingly uncontrolled swings. Flames crackled in great roaring arcs through the throne room, distorting the air and raising the temperature of the hall to a miserable degree. But they persisted, pressing in for the attack despite the sweat that rolled off their bodies, the weariness that weighed down their limbs. Living now boiled down to getting themselves from one moment to another, each minute a victory when they found themselves still around for the next.

At some point, Noctis realized there was nothing left to take down. The room was full of a misting black fog, miasma floating through the air in place of the dust motes they likely would have seen during the day. Bahamut still skulked somewhere in the midst, waiting and watching—Noctis was sure of it—but for the moment the hall was silent, the god nothing more than a vaguely nauseating pressure sitting at the back of his mind. They stood there, their breath rasping noisily in this hall of daemons and ghosts, hardly believing the battle could be over.

And after a moment, Noctis realized that despite the reprieve, his friends remained wary and tense, poised for action. But now they were all staring at him.

He blinked back at them, slightly unnerved. "What?"

"Hey, buddy," Prompto said, his voice bright but strained. "How 'bout you just give us back the sword, now." He held out a blood and dirt-stained hand.

Noctis returned his stare, nonplussed, before looking over at the others. Ignis was edging stealthily toward him, while Gladio had set down both his sword and his shield. His big hands were open and ready in a stance Noctis recognized only too well.

Oh, yeah. That.

He looked down at the Sword of the Father, heavy and sagging in his hands. It gleamed as brightly as it always had, all traces of miasma having evaporated, consuming his blood along with it. To anyone who'd never lived through the hellish scene they had, it would be difficult to believe the blade had just taken out a roomful of daemons. In fact, it almost looked as if it had never been used. As if it were waiting for one purpose alone.

The sword filled his vision. It would be easy to end it now, to finally take from his friends the reason that kept them throwing themselves into mortal danger, over and over again. To force Bahamut's hand, distract the monster with the delicacy this devourer of souls had coveted for so long. To keep the Draconian occupied, feeding on what remained of Noctis' lifeforce, for another millennia or two—perhaps giving humanity the breathing room it needed to strengthen and regroup, and maybe—just maybe—find a way to vanquish the god themselves someday, once and for all.

In fact, now that he thought about it, it would be irresponsible not to.

"Noct. Please," Ignis begged, his voice thick with fear. "Please. You promised. You must trust us. There are other paths, but you must stop feeding the beast."

Noctis stared into his friends' faces, the feeling of helpless despair tearing him apart. What other paths could Ignis possibly mean? There were no options here—not against a god. If there had been, he would've found them long ago. And yet…

"Trust us, Noct," Ignis softly pleaded. "Trust us. Break free. Don't give him anything more."

Noctis' eyes flickered rapidly between his friends and the Draconian, a pulsing darkness on the fringes of the hall. Gladio still watched him carefully, primed to spring if needed, but it was with the unflinching protectiveness of an older brother. Prompto's eyes were awash with hope and fear for the boy he'd taken a chance with all those years ago, now grown closer than blood. And Ignis…

Ignis had begun caring for him when he was small, and had never stopped. Now he stood, hand outstretched, pleading for him to stay.

Within all of them, Noctis knew there was nothing but love for him—despite his faults, despite his mistakes—come what may.

In Bahamut, there was only death.

Noctis stepped forward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Shaking, he thrust the Sword of the Father into Ignis' waiting hands.

Ignis released an audible gasp of relief, even as Noctis felt the trembling move all the way down to his knees. He loved his friends. And he did trust them.

And somehow they had just convinced him to consign them all to a slow and painful death.

Sure enough, Bahamut's displeasure was suddenly crackling all around them, like static electricity on a windy desert night. The god's voice snaked through the room, sounding significantly less amused than it had a moment ago.

Enough games. The king will make the sacrifice now.

Gladio strode forward, pulling Noctis around behind him with one blood-smeared arm. "Not on my watch, you depraved son of a bitch," he said, his voice low and lethal. "Never on my watch again."

Ignis stepped up beside him, his own voice colder than the wastes of the Ghorovas Rift. "Harm him again, and so help me, I will find a way to kill you," he growled.

"Piss off, asshole," Prompto snapped, obviously extremely done with the entire situation. "Nobody likes you. Go back to your own universe and find something else to eat, cause this soul isn't on the menu."

In any other situation, Noctis would have laughed at something so fundamentally Prompto—if he wasn't so afraid for them. If he wasn't on the verge of crying instead.

Oh, indeed? The voice was sibilant and menacing, full of dark promise.

The pain hit him all at once, then, a blast of mind-breaking torment, burrowing in through his ears and nose and lodging in his brain. Part of Bahamut came with it, the god's presence spiking through his body and weaving itself into the fibers of his muscles and nerves. It was a violation of both body and soul—a thousand times worse than Titan's assault—and Noctis writhed, feeling himself crumple beneath it with less resistance than an aluminum can beneath the tires of a car. Every miserable, wretched, nightmarish experience of his life tore into him at once—many originating from his time in Reflection, but others hailing from much earlier days. It was real again, all of it, all over again. In the space of a few seconds, he found himself reliving each of his thousands of deaths…his father's murder…Ignis' suffering on the docks of Altissia. He watched, again, as Gladio's father was impaled against the wall for the sake of his own; and as Prompto tumbled off the train, pushed by his hand; and as Luna's mother was brutally cut down, while he was carried away to safety. He couldn't breathe as the Sword of the Father stabbed him through the heart a second time. Agony exploded along his spine, and all feeling in his legs fled as he found himself bleeding out on the ground once more, young and helpless and at the mercy of the Marilith. They were more than memories, more than the waking dreams of PTSD—it was as if he were there again, physically present in horrors that were past, cut and impaled and burning and dying—

The king will submit.

—and he was lying on a stone floor again, dazed and ravaged, staring glassily up through a broken ceiling into the starry sky beyond.

Ignis' face appeared above him, frantic, his mouth forming words that Noctis couldn't hear. In fact, sounds in general seemed to have devolved into nothing but a soft, flowing static. He dragged a hand up to his head to see if something was blocking his ears, only for his fingers to come away wet with blood.

He stared at it curiously. Now that he was paying attention, it seemed his nose was bleeding as well. His chest burned and ached, as if his heart wasn't functioning quite properly. He couldn't feel his legs.

And Noctis laughed.

He laughed, because in the course of reliving every cruelty and abuse and torment of his life in the space of a few seconds—like some low-budget horror film on fast forward—he had finally made a connection.

The Draconian had told him, all those months ago, that he preferred a willing sacrifice.

What the god had failed to mention was that he needed a willing sacrifice. Anything else was worthless to him.

He'd been feeding on Lucian kings and queens for centuries, each of those great monarchs volunteering their souls for a cause they viewed as the family legacy. Generations of them had given themselves to the Ring, thinking they were clearing the way for their chosen descendant to save the star—never realizing they were nothing but pawns in an alien god's artificially created prophecy.

But their spirits were diminishing, and the Draconian needed something more enduring. A sacrifice to surpass those that had gone before, one of body and heart and mind. Something to last him generations more, until the monster could enact a new "prophecy" and begin it all again.

(You must stop feeding the beast…)

Noctis was still chuckling—probably presenting a bit on the crazed side, at this point, but it wasn't like he could hear himself anyway. "Come on," he gasped, rolling his head toward the shadow on the dais. "Is that the best you can do? I'm sure there's more you can throw at me."

"Dude, Noct," Prompto hissed, his words coming at Noctis distorted and muffled, like someone trying to shout through a glass bottle. He looked shaken as he joined Ignis at his side—shaken and furious and afraid. But his voice was steady as he said, "Shut up, stay down, and let us worry about killing this asshole, kay?"

Noctis ignored him. Lifting his head, he struggled painfully up to his elbows. Gladio was at his back in an instant, pulling him upright, taking his weight. Every part of his body hurt terribly. And his legs, sprawled out in front of him, didn't seem to be responding to his brain's commands.

But it didn't matter. "Come on, Draconian," he taunted. "I can take it. You made me like this, and now here I am. Do your worst."

Bahamut was silent—truly so, for probably the first time in eons. Honestly, Noctis got so tired of his smug thinking tone sometimes.

The little one is correct, the god rumbled at last. I must confess that the children of humanity still confound me at times. The king is no longer swayed by pain to his own person. I will rectify this oversight at once.

Noctis knew, with dread, what was coming, a split second before it happened. His gamble hadn't worked. If he couldn't end himself without perpetuating the cycle—the cycle that Ignis had begged him to break—he had hoped to goad Bahamut into doing the job for him, thus depriving the god of the compliance he needed—and removing the threat to his friends in the process.

But he had failed, and now they were about to pay the price.

His hearing was beginning to return; Noctis wished it wouldn't. All three of them went down, as suddenly and simultaneously as if a rug had been pulled from beneath their feet, curling in on themselves, crying out in terrible pain.

"No—stop it!" Noctis shouted, his voice rising in panic.

Their agony tore through his already throbbing heart, many times worse than when he'd been the one squirming on the hook. He rolled to his stomach and dragged himself across the floor, legs limp and useless, over to Ignis, writhing convulsively on the ground. He tried to pull his friend into his arms, but Ignis was screaming and twisting, burning up from the inside. "Bahamut, please stop!"

Abruptly, Bahamut did, and his friends fell still, their shouts subsiding into pained, gasping breaths.

Noctis felt himself trembling all over, tears trickling down his face. Somehow, he hadn't thought Bahamut could hurt him any worse than he already had. He had been terribly, terribly wrong.

No more games. The god's voice was cold and brutal. We have come upon the king's final opportunity. If he will not submit, I will lay waste to those he loves, then bring him into Reflection for more. We shall continue in this manner through eternity, until the day he inevitably yields. He will now choose.

"Noct." Ignis was gripping his arm, his fingers digging into the skin. He had lost his glasses, but his gaze was clear as ever—swimming with pain but transcended by a steadfast resolve. "Please, you must not. Not even for us. He loses if you refuse. Break the cycle, Noct."

A sob wrenched through Noctis' body, feeling as if it had torn its way free from his very soul. "No! It was supposed to be me. I can't…I can't let you guys go. I died for you. I can't…" He was moaning, now, his words disintegrating into an incomprehensible mess. But he didn't care. Collapsed on his side, he hugged Ignis awkwardly to his chest with one arm and groped for Prompto and Gladio with the other, his entire world crumbling around him.

"You're not letting us go," Ignis rasped. Despite the enduring aftershocks of his own pain, his voice was comforting, soothing Noctis as he had when they were children and he had woken from a bad dream. He caught his gaze and held it. "Noct. We'll find you, one day, when it is your time to join us in the Afterlife. We'll come for you. I pro—"

His words broke off into a howl as Bahamut, his anger grown so heavy and menacing it seemed to be crushing the air from the room, resumed the torment, now with full intent to kill. Noctis screamed with him, frenzied and helpless. He had seen them die in Reflection, over and over again. But never like this. It was more than he could bear.

But Ignis' eyes were wide open, holding him, imploring.

A powerful hand clamped around his wrist, and Noctis' wild gaze swung over to find Gladio. His Shield had crawled the distance between them and collapsed, but was staring at him intently, despite the cries that tore through his gritted teeth, the tendons that stood rigid beneath the skin of his neck.

Prompto, nearby, had fallen silent, barely holding onto consciousness; but he rolled his head to the side, dirt and gravel sticking to the sweat on his face, and gazed at Noctis with those brilliant blue eyes of his, half-lidded, the tenacity and determination that was so inherent to him still alive and well within.

Trust us

Ignis' plea nudged at him, a tiny spark of conviction in the blackness that was his reality, gentle but urgent. Noctis clawed for it, but it was beyond his grasp, and he couldn't find his way free of the nightmare.

Trust

With one last gasping effort, Noctis stretched, flailing and desperate.

A breath of…something…brushed against the side of his face.

xxx

[He sits with his dad in the study, his diminutive, six-year-old body curled half asleep in his father's lap. Regis reads to him by the glow of Insomnia's nightlife, the curtains opened wide to allow as much of its light in as possible. A fire burns lowly in the hearth—not because it's needed in their palace of modern conveniences, but because his dad knows he finds the dance of the flames soothing. Noctis' head lolls as sleep overcomes him, comforted by the rumble of Regis' voice against his ear.]

["Trust them, my Noctis," his father murmurs.]

[Noctis feels a brush of fur against his hand, and a wet, nudging nose.]

[Someone turns on the lights.]

xxx

He was still in the throne room. His friends were still dying. Miasma still floated in the air. Bahamut still eclipsed half the room, a blight in the fabric of reality.

Somehow, though…somehow everything had changed. The barest brightening of the pre-dawn had begun filtering in from outside.

All at once, Noctis could see.

(Four fluffy, pointy-eared dogs romp together through a swelling prairie of wildflowers. Out of long years of habit, they guard each other's flanks; but their vigilance is unneeded, for they are at peace.)

(My boy. Trust them. Let go.)

And, with a deep, steadying breath, Noctis did.

He let go of the fear, the guilt, that driving need to save the world that Bahamut had beaten into him, warping and manipulating him through long years of torment until his sacrifices had become far more twisted obsession than heroism.

He forgave himself for those he had failed to protect—the innocents who had perished because he had been too weak, too slow in earning the crystal's power, languishing for ten long years of misery in Reflection—the world sinking deeper into ruin all the while—before Bahamut deemed him compliant enough to serve as an appropriate sacrifice.

He released the world's weight that had crushed him for so long, handling it carefully as he set it aside. It could be shared, entrusted to the care of others. Cor, Iris, Talcott, Monica, and more—they would pick it up and carry on where he had left off.

As he let go of these things, the last of the darkness dislodged from his soul.

And, like summer sun pouring into a lightless cell, his old magic came spilling back, filling the space it left behind.

Only…he was mistaken. This wasn't his former power at all. This was something much, much different—something much more potent. The old magic—what he'd received from the crystal—had filled him with the strength to fight, but also to destroy. It was cold and sharp and crippling, draining away his life as its price.

This new force was tranquility in its primal form, restful and gold-tinged like a sunset out at sea. In it, he felt a power greater than he had ever known, more ancient than the world. In it, he felt the power of preservation—of life.

It was a revelation—and yet, somehow, it had been there all along. It had been with him at Caem, coursing through his body and out over his friends as the dreadnought's missile had blown out the walls of the house. It had been there in the forest with the Red Giants—but, floundering in a tangle of confused memories, he had mistaken it for something long gone, and the magic had passed around him like smoke. It had been with him through battle after battle, waiting to be set free; but Noctis had been mired too deeply in his own darkness to see.

Now, he closed his eyes, breathing it in, letting the horrors that surrounded him flow to either side—as if he were a boulder in the midst of a stream. He had been afraid for his friends for so long—had carried that fear with him everywhere he went, like rocks collecting in the bottom of a pack. Now he released it, letting their faith and trust fill him. Basking in the brotherhood and love he had been so lucky to find with them. Sinking into the calm, letting himself simply exist.

His eyes opened. Gathering the magic around him—patiently, gently, as if urging water skippers across the surface of a pond—Noctis funneled a portion of it into his friends.

Their cries stopped. Prompto twitched weakly, then rolled sluggishly onto his back. Gladio pushed himself shakily up on hands and knees, sweat sliding down his body to mix with the blood on his skin. And Ignis, slumped limply on the floor beside him, opened his eyes. Tipping his head, he stared hazily into Noctis' face, a sort of quizzical wonder there.

All three of them glowed, very faintly, as if Noctis had redirected the sun itself into an incandescent veil of protection over each of them. And it had taken hardly more than a breath of effort. The magic lapped gently around him, soaking deep into his soul, life-giving and pure. More waited for him, a vast ocean of golden, sheltering power, just within his reach.

From the dais, the ripple that was Bahamut faltered, taken aback.

Then the god reared up, his voice crackling in fury. So be it. The king has chosen death. Not for himself alone, but for all life on this star. Witness true strength now, One King. Witness the death you have wrought.

"No," Noctis replied calmly, simply. "You have no power here anymore, Draconian." Golden light danced across his skin, whispered around his lips, stirred in his hair.

The god breathed out a menacing laugh, the sound rustling and swelling through the chamber like thousands of insects in flight.

Then he began to expand, darkness splashing into every corner of the room, smothering the burgeoning dawn. Noctis merely watched as he gathered it around himself, pulling crackling blackness from the Beyond, from corners of reality where life feared to tread. It built on itself, a fathomless sphere of liquid shadow, glowing darkly between the monster's claws. Noctis' ears popped, but still he watched, slumped on the floor between his friends.

Then, he closed his eyes. Fixing his gaze on the far horizons of this strange, new-old power, Noctis waded out into that gilded ocean until it surrounded him, soaking into his pores. Still, he walked on. The ground fell out from beneath his feet, and he found himself sinking below the waves. But his lungs continued to supply oxygen to his heart, continued to expand; for this was a place of being. He found he was suddenly aware of every soul he had ever touched, every life he had ever given his own for. And, just as he had with his friends, he opened himself wide, giving even more, channeling the magic out to settle over every single one.

Noctis's eyes fluttered open just as Bahamut released his attack. Blinding, corrupted light surrounded them, shrieking in an almost human manner as it rained down on the city.

The Citadel exploded. Walls and stone and tile burst in on them, as if this once-magnificent feat of engineering was nothing more than a matchstick house at the mercy of a behemoth. Floors dropped out from beneath their feet, one at a time, steel framework shrieking while glass poured down in shattered torrents from above. The noise was hideous, enough to shock the mind into incomprehension. They fell.

But the magic cradled them, wrapping them up in light. Noctis pulled it in, more and more, redirecting it to Ignis and Gladio and Prompto, then siphoning it out to every spark of life that burned within the city. He poured it on, brighter and brighter, bathing them in its radiance. Stone and fire and ruin beat at them; but Noctis simply opened the door up wide, allowing the power to surge through him, flooding out across the vast landscape of humanity.

The light overcame him, washing everything into rainbow-tinted white. And then, for a time, there was nothing.

xxx

When Noctis came to, Insomnia was no more.

Somehow he knew this, despite the dust that choked the air, obscuring everything beyond the space that was once the Citadel's courtyard.

But they were alive. All of them were alive. This, he also knew. He could feel Prompto just a few feet away, his lifeforce strong and thriving. Gladio and Ignis had been thrown a bit farther, but they were unharmed, burning beacons of light tucked safely away in his heart.

Noctis sensed other souls, too, like stars in the night sky, scattered across the ruins of the city—friends and strangers and Imperials and wildlife, all of it wrapped up in the blanket of his protection. A few of them had already emerged from the rubble, staring around themselves in dazed disbelief. Fires illuminated the wreckage in the pre-dawn gray, bringing the scale of the destruction Bahamut had unleashed into sharp relief.

Insomnia was gone. But not a single life within it had been harmed.

Noctis inhaled deeply, then burst into a coughing fit as dust filled his lungs. Wheezing and choking, he propped himself up on his elbows until he could breathe again. Newly discovered powers aside, he felt, quite frankly, wretched; his nerves were sending zinging pains into parts of his body he hadn't even known he could feel, and he was peppered in bruises and gouges (several of which were going to need to be addressed sooner rather than later). And there was still something deeply wrong with his legs. But all of his wounds appeared to have been acquired prior to the Citadel's collapse, from the battle with the daemons and Bahamut's subsequent punishment. The fall hadn't touched him.

Noctis rolled painfully to his side. Lifting a hand, he gazed at the pale golden glow that enveloped it, sweeping out to cover his body like a second skin. It shimmered, nearly invisible, but whispering with embedded power.

Bahamut still lurked, somewhere nearby. Noctis knew it; he could sense the god's presence thrumming in the stone, a vapor of blackness among the dust and the flames. But he paid him no mind. Suddenly, it no longer mattered.

Pushing up to his arms, Noctis began muscling his way toward the rubble heap where Prompto lay buried, panting and grunting as his legs dragged cumbersomely behind him. His friend's hand had emerged from the debris, shining faintly in gold, and was now scrabbling haphazardly over the rock for purchase.

Balancing himself on one arm, Noctis stretched the other out as far as it would go. He grabbed hold of Prompto's wrist and tugged hard, falling back with all his weight. The gunman exploded out the top of the pile in a landslide of gravel and scree, barreling into Noctis' chest. Noctis landed on his back, wheezing painfully, the blond collapsing on top of him.

They lay there, winded and aching, both too exhausted to move. Prompto was shaking, and Noctis couldn't tell if he were laughing or crying. Reaching up, he rested a hand in his friend's dirt-caked hair.

"You're okay, Prom." His voice was so shredded he hardly recognized it as his own. "You're okay."

Prompto simply tilted his head up to regard him, too tired to lift it, his chin jabbing into Noctis' chest. Sweat and tears and smiling relief marked his face. He was still wan and shaky with the aftershocks of Bahamut's torture, but his eyes were clear.

"You're okay," he hoarsely returned, his grin shining through the grime. "Astrals, Noct. We're okay."

Prompto wriggled an arm out from where it was still pinned beneath the rocks, then snaked it around Noctis' shoulders—clamping the two of them together in a weary hug. With a weak laugh, Noctis returned it, still sprawled limply on his back. He knew they would eventually need to move—their situation hadn't exactly improved, and several of the more distant fires were beginning to spread. But they had time. Maybe he would just stay here a while, tucked safely away with Prompto, until the dust cleared.

But his friend was already pulling away, a tiny line of worry marring his forehead, his gaze darting anxiously around. "Have you seen any sign of Iggy and Gladio yet?"

"No," Noctis replied, letting his eyes drift up to the dark, grit-choked sky. "But they're okay too." Dipping into that golden sea, he quested out with his new awareness, sending it on to the very edges of the firelit city, brushing across those pinpricks of light—the pair that was moving toward them shining brightest of all. "They're on their way right now."

Prompto opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, studying Noctis with a kind of quiet wonder. After a moment, he simply nodded, looking both hesitant and reassured.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course they are."

The blond rolled the rest of the way off his chest, dislodging a shower of gravel in the process, and levered himself gingerly upright. His eyes flitted cursorily across Noctis' body, checking him over for injuries in the practiced manner they had all come to adopt in the course of their hundreds upon hundreds of battles together. Prompto frowned, face tensing with worry, as Noctis gave no indication of moving. Carefully, he slid his arms beneath his shoulders and back, maneuvering him up into a sitting position.

"Noct, your legs…are they…?" Prompto began.

"Here they come," Noctis interrupted, turning away.

As if on cue, Gladio and Ignis emerged from the dust, appearing from behind a mountain of twisted rebar, methodically picking their way through the wreckage. Catching sight of Noctis and Prompto, they broke into a run.

Prompto greeted them with a giddy shout of joy. Ignis arrived first, the very incarnation of relief, dropping in front of them with his arms spread wide. Prompto lunged forward to meet him, and they grasped each other in a rough embrace, squashing Noctis between them. Gladio came in only seconds behind, skidding through the gravel, sweeping them all up with his own exclamations of disbelief. They huddled that way for a moment, all four of them, panting and laughing and choking on the dust.

Eventually they managed to peel themselves apart, disentangling limbs and sweeping aside some of the smaller bits of debris so they could sit back and take stock of each other.

"Guys, we've got to stop almost losing each other like this," Prompto said, not bothering to disguise the weariness in his voice. "I really don't think the old heart can take it anymore. After we finish up this business once and for all can we please please please just find a bachelor pad out in Old Lestallum and play bridge on Wednesdays and sit on our porch making tasteless remarks about the passing youth that only we think are funny?"

Noctis smiled tiredly, leaning into his friend's side, as Gladio raspily replied, "You're thirty, Prompto. You'd last all of three days before you'd be back out there flamethrowing Malboro nests and goading Tonberries into single combat for fun." His eyes skipped over them, his already drawn face tightening when they landed on Noctis' slack legs. But he continued, "How's everyone holding up? Prom, your arms look like there's more blood on the outside than the inside."

"Yeah, well, Ma always told me never to run with scissors," the gunman replied. "But she never said what to do when the scissors are chasing you. Friggin' Ziggurats. Anyway, it looks worse than it feels; I downed my last potion so they shouldn't be as bad now."

"Even so, these will likely require stitches," Ignis murmured, gently pushing up one of Prompto's sleeves.

"Stitches! My fave," Prompto replied with a queasy smile. "Seriously, though, none of you guys are looking so hot yourselves; and either way, can I just point out that all this's from back in the throne room, and none of it from afterward, even though we just fell like a hundred stories? —which was terrifying, bee-tee-dubs. And on that note I'd love for someone to tell me how it is we even survived this total shizasterfest, and also why we're glowing." Brushing the dust off the front of his shirt, his gaze hovered over the faintly shimming golden light, settled over his body like a mist, then landed pointedly on Noctis.

All eyes turned to him, and again, Noctis found himself the subject of that faintly wondering awe.

"Noct," Ignis said, his gaze soft but penetrating. "I assume this was your doing?"

Noctis closed his eyes, leaning heavily against Prompto's shoulder. The scars on his back were beginning to ache; his heart throbbed with the echoes of the Sword of the Father's blade.

"I'm not going to let Bahamut hurt you anymore," he replied, simply. "Not anyone. Not ever again."

They looked back at him, their hands tightening around him, around each other.

"He's still here, though, isn't he," Gladio said after a moment, finally stirring. "We should get moving. Gotta stop that asshat before he trashes anything else—take him down once and for all."

"We can't," Noctis replied. "He can't be killed." Something twinged in his back, sending fire up his spine, and he grimaced in pain.

They stared, exhaustion and dismay and foreboding pulling their faces rigid, even as the pre-dawn began to sink back into night. Shadows crowded in on them, thick like smoke but not quite distinguishable to the eye. Noctis hissed as his chest burned; something crawled beneath his skin, an acrid taste filling his mouth.

"Don't worry," he breathed. Dust began collecting around them, whipping up into gales by suddenly turbulent winds. They huddled into each other, heads down, backs to the tempest—as they had in another time, in this very place, when Ifrit had once hit them with a full-fledged Astral-powered firestorm.

The gale rose into a howl, lashing at their hair and clothes. But it failed to penetrate that golden glow, sliding off them like oil. "Don't worry," Noctis repeated, pulling them close.

All at once it stopped. The haze of dust and smoke had been blown out to sea, dulling the dawn colors even as it revealed the vast expanse of the destruction—a sweeping metropolis, reduced to nothing more than foundation and mountains of stone.

And Bahamut, descending from the sky.

If the god couldn't be killed, he could, evidently, be wounded. A great scald mark on his torso—like that of someone who had tried to force their way through a Flare—still crawled with the remnants of gold-tinged magic. A trail of oily, sparking blackness trailed from it, spreading like a sickness through the pre-dawn air.

The Draconian came to rest atop the ruins of the Citadel—once the grandest building in Insomnia, now little more than rubble. Staring menacingly at Noctis, his odd, pseudo-human eyes burned with rage.

Noctis twisted around, grabbing hold of a fractured slab of marble. Muscling himself upright, he turned to face the monster—only for his legs to collapse out from beneath him. The scars on his back flared with pain; those on his chest and back and heart burned.

But then Prompto was there. "I gotcha, buddy," he murmured. "I'm right here beside you." Draping Noctis' soot-streaked arm around his shoulders, wrapping his own around his waist, he pulled Noctis back to his feet. Ignis was at his other side in seconds, ducking beneath his free arm to take the remainder of his weight. Gladio placed a steadying hand on his back, poised to defend, forever the Shield.

"You've lost, Bahamut," Noctis said, breathing hard, his voice hoarse. "You can break the things we build, but you can't kill us. Not anymore. Humanity is out of your reach now. And I will never give you my soul. Never, ever again. So tell me, Draconian—what are we doing here?" As he spoke, his mind brushed against the magic, oceans of it lapping at his feet, so much more stretching out before him. The very molecules in the air seemed to thrum and vibrate with power.

Bahamut again appeared to hesitate, the half-second's pause imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent the last ten years of their life with him. Noctis had. The god was seething—obviously out for blood—but he remained cautious, guarded.

Then the Draconian's eyes narrowed. Foolish one. Nothing is more powerful than I. I will consume the child king. I will pick his bones from my teeth. He will wish he had lingered to feed my soul when the opportunity first arose. Now he will know only pain.

Noctis ignored the threats, allowing them to float past him like chaff in the wind. "Leave this place, Bahamut. You've lost. Your time here is over."

But the god only laughed. He was disturbingly unconcerned, now, apparently well on his way to regaining his bearings.

The child king has managed to surprise me. For that, I commend him. However, he invariably fails to grasp that I am a god. I will ensure that he never misunderstands again, not for the rest of his long and agonizing existence.

Noctis stared at him dully, so very tired. The golden magic held strong; he could feel it humming in his core, stretching across the land to enfold all life within the range of Bahamut's fury. Black foulness continued to seep from the god's wound.

But there was nothing he could do to convince the monster to leave; warp strikes and Armiger attacks were lost to him forever. Not that they would've done him any good anyway.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, something flickered—a whisper of movement in the wreckage, moving calmly toward the Draconian. It wasn't a Niff, or even an overlooked refugee; every one of them were accounted for, smoldering embers of awareness in Noctis' mind.

It was quickly joined by dozens more. And now over a hundred. One hundred and thirteen, to be exact.

Noctis' breath froze in his chest, before rushing back out in an audible expression of both anguish and awe. Prompto and Ignis gripped him tighter; Gladio pressed closely against his back, mutely offering his support.

The dead queens and kings of Lucis were arraying themselves in a line before him, forming a wall between Bahamut and the One King. The Rogue brushed past, casting him a sidelong glance; her form was nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. She was followed by the Founder King, even more imposing in death than in life. Then the Just, the Pious, the Conqueror…the Tall towering over them all. They vibrated with a cold, ancient, familiar power—resonating with all the times he'd brought the Armiger to bear, unleashing strike after strike on his enemies. Until the day he'd turned it on himself, sitting docilely in his throne as they'd driven each of those ghostly blades into his heart.

The Lucii fanned out in front of him, a blue-white barrier of otherworldly might. Some he knew from family portraits, a few from history books. Others, he didn't recognize at all. A number were very faint and faded, having fed the Draconian for centuries. But each stood firm, many of them still clothed in the armor they had died in, their weapons bared and ready.

Bahamut recoiled, obviously surprised, but his eyes immediately narrowed.

Pitiful mortals, he said softly, his tone dangerous. Such have fed me well over the millennia, but I will not hesitate to end these as well—

A light burst of snow whipped in on a gust of morning wind—so fleeting that Noctis would have chalked it up to an early season flurry, if the weather hadn't been far too warm for it. So he found himself remarkably unsurprised when Shiva materialized ahead of the line of kings, cold and resplendent. Titan and Ramuh appeared just behind her, as Leviathan skulked about on the fringes.

"The prophecy is fulfilled," Shiva declared, her words pealing out over the city, "as it always had been. It is required no more. And the time of the Great One, on this star, is completed." She inclined her head coolly, eyes boring into Bahamut's, glittering with chilling intensity. "He will leave this place forever and not return. So say the true gods of this world."

Bahamut snarled, low and guttural and malignant. You forget your place. Even were you to combine all your might against me, I still would not fall.

"Perhaps," Shiva replied, impassive. "Perhaps not. Shall the gods test such a theory?"

Behind her, Ramuh and Titan stepped forward, readying for battle, the air around them shimmering with magic. The Lucii unsheathed their weapons with a sound that was beyond the range of hearing but could be easily felt in the air.

"No," Noctis snapped.

His voice rang across the ravaged landscape, drawing the attention of all—even the gods.

"There will be no more Astral wars," he said, staring each of them in the eyes. "No more prophecies, no more meddling. If the rest of you besides Bahamut want to stay in this world, fine. But you'll keep your hands off, and you'll take your quarrels somewhere else." His magic glittered and sparked around him, burnishing the dawn with gold. "Humanity is under my protection now. Is that understood?"

A thundering silence met his declaration. (Except for Prompto, who was murmuring "Badass" in appreciative tones beneath his breath.)

"Is that understood?" Noctis growled, prickling with power.

Shiva turned to consider him for one long, frozen moment.

"It is…understood," she replied at last. "The gods will acquiesce to the One True King's wishes and return to their sleep henceforth."

Noctis nodded. His gaze went to Bahamut.

"And you," he hissed, feeling all the fury, all the anguish and outrage at the abuses and the manipulations and the cruelties the god had forced on him—on his friends, on humanity—boil up within him. Magic crackled through his veins, over his skin, into his eyes. "Get. Out."

At Noctis' back, the sun finally broke the horizon, spilling its light across the land. Bahamut reared away, those reflective eyes—so filled with hate—flinching against the onslaught.

Then they landed on something behind him…and for half a second, the Draconian's soulless features went slack, evident even behind the armored mask.

Prompto and Ignis, their faces close to Noctis' own, turned to cast their own quick looks at whatever had caught the god's attention—before they, too, stopped cold. Prompto's lips parted, and Ignis' expression flooded with unreserved wonder. Noctis strained to see as well, but couldn't turn his head far enough, encased as he was in the protective circle of his friends. It was difficult to imagine what could possibly be more remarkable than the sight of the entire Lucis Caelum bloodline plus a full collection of Astrals standing battle ready before them.

And so he was somewhat discomfited by the sound of a cheerful bark, followed by a wet nose nudging its way between his and Prompto's knees. Umbra, his tail wagging so hard his back end was practically bending in on itself, planted his furry hindquarters directly on their feet, amber eyes bright.

Bahamut drew back, rendered speechless for only the second time in Noctis' memory. His gaze slid from Noctis, to the gods, to the Lucii, and back again to Umbra.

"Now," Noctis commanded. Golden light crackled across his skin, flooding out over the wreckage in a reinforcing surge.

The reflective eyes bore into him, black with hatred.

Hatred, but also…fear.

Behind the Draconian, space and time rippled. Darkness bled into its cracks like ink into fabric. Noctis' ears popped.

And then, with a rush of static, Bahamut was gone.

Bahamut was gone.

Noctis stared at the empty place where the god had been—his tormentor, his torturer, one who had stolen years from his life and would haunt his dreams for many more to come. But he could feel it. He knew it, as surely as the magic that was now burning so brightly within him. The stifling pressure that had settled so insidiously at the back of his mind; that gnawing sense of fear; the slowly suffocating darkness—all had vanished. Bahamut was gone.

In the silence that remained, the kings and queens of old turned to face him. As one, they brought their fists to their hearts, according him the highest sign of Lucian respect.

Then they too faded away, one after another. Noctis numbly watched them go, his mind reeling.

Shiva turned. Gazing at him, she glided delicately across the wreckage, leaving a dusting of frost in her wake. She came to a halt in front of him, reaching out to rest a gentle hand against his jaw.

And then she smiled. "The Glacian has…enjoyed humanity," she said. "She hopes to return one day. But until then, the King retains her promise. She will depart until she is called for once more.

"And if the Draconian ever dares to reappear," she continued, her voice hardening, "the Astrals will stand ready to fight—should the King so require."

The goddess stepped back, dropping her hand. Holding his eyes, she added, "The Glacian now leaves the King with the knowledge that the Oracle is well. He need not ever fear on her behalf. This is the covenant Gentiana imparts unto him."

She cast him one final glance, then tipped her head to gaze down at Umbra, her expression as opaque as a winter pond. The dog returned it amiably, his muzzle hanging open in a canine grin. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused, seeming to think better of it.

Instead, she turned and extended a hand. Clouds of ice and snow billowed from her fingertips to swirl about the decimated city, extinguishing the spreading fires.

Then, finally, with a shivering breath of frostbitten wind, she was gone, the remainder of the gods vanishing along with her.

But someone else lingered, waiting patiently in the goddess' place. Someone achingly familiar. A face Noctis had known since the beginning—even before Ignis.

"Dad," he choked.

Regis stepped forward, that strong jaw and regal demeanor—the one that had, as king, attempted to mask the kindness that also dwelt there, and had usually failed—appearing just as Noctis remembered it. But the pain and fatigue were absent, now, the toll wrought by the crystal erased. In its place was only love, and an intense, overwhelming pride.

"My boy," he murmured, resting a hand on either side of Noctis' face. "You have done me so proud."

He leaned in to place a tender kiss on Noctis' forehead. Then, like the goddess, he stepped back. His gaze moved from Ignis, to Prompto, to Gladio towering just behind, standing by their king and friend, ever at his side. Regis smiled, eyes shining.

"You have walked tall, my sons," was all he said.

A heartbeat later, he, too, had disappeared.

In his place was nothing but the ruins of Insomnia, the wasteland that had once been their home, wind moaning emptily through its dawnlit remains.

Shock and grief, relief and exhaustion, disbelief and deliverance, and a hundred other confusing and conflicting emotions hit Noctis all at once. His father was gone. His home was gone. The gods were gone.

Bahamut was gone.

Tears began leaking down his face, and his chest heaved with quiet sobs. His decade of torment was over. He was free. He could live. His mind couldn't grasp it, and fumbled clumsily over the shape of it. Weakness seeped into him and sank all the way to his bones. He sagged between Ignis and Prompto, used up and worn.

Then Gladio was there, nudging the other two aside and dislodging Umbra from Prompto's foot. Ducking under Noctis' shoulder, he scooped him up into his arms. A distant fear tickled the back of Noctis' mind over the reminder that he couldn't feel the arm that supported his legs, or the hand gripping his thigh. But he was tired…so thoroughly, supremely tired, and thinking was difficult. Clinging to his Shield like a child, he let his head fall against his neck, shuddering as the tears continued to fall.

Prompto reached out to catch his hand, for once at a loss for words. Ignis gripped his arm farther up, eyes gleaming, his expression full.

"My friend," he whispered, then could say no more.

Gladio held Noctis tightly against his chest, his own lingering pain and fatigue evident in both his face and the set of his shoulders. In front of them, the Citadel was an unrecognizable mountain of ruin, the wind murmuring softly through the ash-filled, dust-choked dawn.

But the big man wheeled him around, cutting off Noctis' line of sight. Starting forward, his Shield bore him briskly away, picking carefully through the maze of debris, Prompto and Ignis close at his sides.

"You did good, brother," he murmured hoarsely into Noctis' hair. "You did real good."

Making their way through the wreckage, they left it all behind, framed by the rising sun.

xxx

A/N: One more chapter to go, plus a little epilogue.

Thanks for reading!