Work Text:
hide away (for so long)
runnin’ down the avenue,
see how the sun shines brightly in the city
- ‘Mr. Blue Sky’, Electric Light Orchestra
It’s been a while since Ignis had last seen what the sky looks like. If he wracks his memory for it long enough, he can probably deduce an accurate, more or less, picture of it: an expansive horizon, the color of blue – varying in tone and range – and, depending on the weather, it can be clear and bright or filled with clouds, bunching over to dim the intensity of the sunlight. In the hours of a day, it could change – the blue fading into a dark purple, gold and scarlet cleaving the sky, until it turns a murky black, dotted with stars and the bright moon. In the winter, it would be a sheet of grey and white, the slip of azure in them. No matter what time or season, blue always seems to find its way somewhere.
There’s a peculiar kind of blue – that one that he’s seen far too often for it not to be ingrained into his mind like a permanently unmarred detail. Noctis’ eyes had that peculiar shade – the slight swath of blue that seemed to change with every nuance of his emotions. He knows that’s not biologically possible – the color of one person’s eyes are not interchangeable in spite of what they feel, that it’s merely a romanticized view of a human detail made to flatter and express praise. The tilt – the size and the movement of the pupil – those are changeable, the movement of the eyeball and the inflammation of nerves and blood vessels in the sclera, those are biologically possible. Midnight blue shifting to cerulean to sapphire – that was pure fantasy, an overly-used trope done in novels meant to flutter the heartstrings of the readers.
Ignis knows that – he’s intrinsically aware of that.
Still, that doesn’t change the fact that Noctis’ eyes had always been a peculiar, shifting shade of blue.
It was much like the sky, like a bright glimmering dawn. It’s been a long time since he’s last seen the dawn.
Far too long a time.
∞
The Long Night brought with it a cold unlike any other. Ignis isn’t a stranger to the cold. He’s known what winter felt like, from where his family lived on the outskirts of the regions between Insomnia and Galahd, where the chill wind was stronger, the snowstorms thicker and the frostbite cuts deeper. His family had been modest, and they hadn’t had the ample luxury of a fully-insulated house, where the cold would nip only at the walls outside his room. He’s grown quite used to waking up, shivering, running down to sit by the radiator or the open fire – whichever was more accessible – to keep himself warm.
That being said, the Long Night had a different kind of cold – a coldness that chipped away at his will and his strength, not just at his skin and his bones. Maybe it’s because the darkness had taken over – blotting out the sky and ridding them of light. Maybe it’s because he can no longer see – relying on his own sense of balance and hearing, more astute than ever.
Or maybe it’s because it’s been almost ten years since Noctis had disappeared, leaving a dimmed Crystal and the triumphant smirk on a daemon’s face in his wake.
There’s a rustling in the tall grasses that populate the surroundings of the ancient havens. He shifts on his seat on the log and fingers the dagger hanging by the side of his belt. He slows his breathing.
The steps are unhurried, slightly out-of-pace due to the craggy footing, but the footfalls are deliberately loud and made no attempt to cloak their approach. Ignis lowers the weapon, but he still holds the grip as whoever it is climbs up the small outcrop.
“Hey Ignis, it’s me.” Talcott Hester says, the once-boyish voice now turned deeper as he ages. There’s some shuffling, like paper being arranged on the ground, as Ignis nods at the direction of where the voice is coming from. “How’ve you been?”
“I’m quite well. Thank you for asking, Talcott.” He responds, tilting his head as he hears the thump of Talcott dropping to the ground.
“I got copies of Dr. Sania’s latest report,” The young man says, shifting the documents. “There was an attack on Lestallum again. Eight iron giants. Managed to take them down, lost only two hunters. They’re getting better.”
Ignis isn’t sure if he’s talking about the hunters or the daemons. He doesn’t ask about that, though, shifting the conversation to the scientist’s new research.
To be completely honest, Ignis isn’t really interested in whatever information the renowned scientist had managed to scrounge up from her notes. He had given up on trying to understand whatever it was that made them tick, what had them crawling out the ground like hellish fiends and returning to the darkness in a black miasma when they’re dead. Ignis had long ago stopped caring about a lot of things.
Out in the wilds – it was quieter. Every noise – every shift in the air and the sounds around him, and he was aware of it. He’s learned to keep track of the way things move by the sounds their limbs make, learned to distinguish the weight of it by the heaviness of the footfall, the size by the distance in the pitter-patter of what made it move – humans were almost always half a meter in distance, one foot after the other – and, in the off chance, that he got something wrong or misjudged the identity of who, or what, was approach him—
Well. There was a reason why he attached chains to his daggers, now. Always good to have a midrange weapon that was quite versatile.
Talcott continues to talk about the research, voice light with curiosity and Ignis nodded here and there, giving off the impression of listening. When the teen shifts to talking about the hunters and Iris, there’s a shyness to his tone that’s reminiscent of another person, someone he hadn’t seen a while. Prompto’s taken to Hammerhead more than him or Gladio. He was better off by himself, nowadays. Gladio, no matter what, always migrated to the sound of battle – always off on excursions, sometimes with Cor Leonis or with Aranea Highwind’s mercenary expeditions.
“Do you plan on visiting Lestallum soon, Ignis?” The Hester boy asks, and Ignis cocks his head to him.
“Soon.” Not really.
A small laugh. “It’d be good to see you, there. Iris hadn’t joined the Marshall’s hunts for a while now, she’s just off helping Dave run control in the city with the other hunters.”
“Ah. I see.” He answers, index finger feeling the ridges of the chain hanging from the hook on his belt. A silence follows the reticent comment, a slight – almost silent – breeze rushes past the valley. He can almost imagine what Longwythe looks like at night.
“Um—“ Talcott begins, voice unsure. Ignis holds back the sigh in his throat. “Prompto asked about you. The other day.”
Day, he says. Like there are even days to count anymore.
“For what reason?”
A shrug, he can imagine. “He just…wants to know how you’re doing, I guess.”
The ‘I guess’ is one-part Talcott, three-fourths an echo of what Noctis would have said. Ignis purses his lips.
“I’m doing fine.” He answers, and tilts his head up as if looking at the night sky and imagining the stars that have long been gone in these last ten years. It’s one-part truth and an entire lie.
∞
He’s on his knees, one hand on the boulder beside him and the other feeling on the rocky ground, looking for his glasses, when he hears the sound. At first, there’s a clicking noise – clucktickcluck – like pincers being struck together. A fleet of footfalls follow after, giving the impression that whatever was approaching him was not human – unless people started having more than two legs and stopped being bipedal and nobody told him. When he hears a raspy chuckle with a feminine tinge, he slowly stands, hands falling to his daggers and gripping the chain tight. Ignis will have to save the search for later.
There’s a moment of silence – a string of tension strained between, the calm before a battle – where he hears nothing but his own heart beating in his ears and the shuffle of the wind. When there’s another tick, and an audible thud reverberates into the air and down on the ground, he jumps sideways, skidding to the right as the arachne lands on where he had been. There’s no sound of glass crunching under insect-like appendages, and he allows himself to sigh in relief that his glasses were not broken.
There’s a shuffle, once more, and the daemon turns to face him, lunges forward. He doesn’t jump back, slides one foot back and uses the momentum to slide himself to the left, his shoes facing only minimal resistance as the grain of the soil on the asphalt of the road made it more slippery than usual.
The hair on his arms stood on end and, by instinct, Ignis drops to a crouch and rolls away from a blast of lightning. A growl of rage reaches his ears, a swishing sound through the air, and Ignis moves his head just in time as the arachne slams one of its legs down the earth, rending the ground open. He doesn’t hesitate, jumping to his feet and sidestepping the leg. Gripping the dagger in one hand, the chain in the other, he throws the dagger, pulling the chain in another direction just a few moments after.
The change of trajectory causes the dagger to wrap around the leg, and Ignis pulls with all his strength. The weight is surprising, but he’s fought worse.
A slide – a snarl of rage – and the tumble of something large echoes in the silence. Still holding the chain tightly, Ignis uses the forward pull of the arachne moving its leg to propel him forward, and aims the other dagger directly at the joint connecting it to the main body. He stabs the tender regions and, in half a second and the dagger still embedded, pulls it down the underside. The snarl turns to a screech of pain as the muscles giving the arachne mobility in one leg loses function. Turning the chain in one direction, he pulls at it and the other dagger is freed from its hold, spiraling out of the leg and returning to his grasp.
The arachne continues to stagger on the ground, in pain. Daemons rarely had the foresight to cover their other weaker areas. It was merely aggression for them. One-track minds.
Ignis breathes deeply, feeling sweat against his temples. He walks, calmly, to the side, down near the bulbous body and follows the direction of the cries. He adjusts his grip on the chain, swinging the dagger a bit to test its weight and mobility. Finding it to his liking, he swings it like a grapple wire, gaining momentum, and—there—turns his body sideways as he throws it, the chain sliding under his fingertips. The dagger catches on something, flinging around the hold.
The cries turned to choking sounds. The chain is around the arachne’s humanoid neck. There’s tugging on the chains, as if the arachne was trying to pull it apart. He’s reminded that daemons are nothing more but people infected with Starscourge, mutating them to hostile beasts. A human has a brain, and the brain is the center of function.
Pulling at the chain, Ignis grits his teeth, adjusts his footing and pulls. The choking sound die into broken, gasping ragged cries cut short as the chains grow tighter. He readies the other dagger—
The snarling-turned-choking sounded pitiful. He might have even cared, at one point. Might.
When he’s a few paces away, he yanks the chain sideways, forcing the arachne to bank on its weakened limb, crushing it under its weight. The tugging turns violent as the arachne thrashed through the pain of a choked trachea and a broken limb. Dr. Sania might have found this a more prudent manner of research.
He jerks the chain closer now, steps almost silent. He hears dripping – salivation, maybe – and from the distance of the choking, it seems to be excreting from the mouth. He pulls it lower and slams his other dagger into the throat. Another thrash, a rattle, and he feels something wet hit his shoe and he grimaces.
Ignis adjusts his grip on the embedded dagger and cuts it sideways, severing the arachne’s windpipe.
The dagger in his hand trembles – quakes, rather – and he can imagine that the daemon is experiencing a violent death rattle. He pulls the dagger out, ready to—
A gunshot. Ignis steps back on instinct.
The sound of a bullet hitting flesh.
He doesn’t feel anything.
The tugging on the chain wrapped around the arachne’s neck flails for a moment before turning still. Dead.
He frowns, pulling the chain back, dagger flying to his open hand, hilt-first. He turns to where the bullet had come from, the sound of the gunshot.
“Iggy.”
Ignis turns, leaning down to wipe his daggers clean on the ground below. “Hello, Prompto.”
∞
“You don’t call that much, anymore.” The other says. There’s no blame in it, it’s quiet and calm. Even. Everything unlike Prompto is. That’s why he knows there really is blame. Or maybe he’s gotten used to being by himself that he’s starting to forget how it’s like being around them. When did you start being like this?
I don’t know. Maybe when I lost my vision. “I don’t have much to discuss.” Ignis answers, and he holds his hands out to the fire that Prompto had started. There’s a shuffle and he feels the presence of the other beside him. Prompto seems to have gained some weight, as the thump on the log is heavier than usual.
“I don’t think that’s true,” The blond man says, and Ignis starts patting the threading of his glove. He wouldn’t want you to be this way. You’re too kind, Ignis. You’re not supposed to be cruel. “I think you want to. Call, that is. But you don’t. Why is that?”
Because he’s called the same number and it goes nowhere. Because calling means remembering, and remembering means acknowledging. Sometimes, that’s cruel. Sometime, that’s painful.
Ignis doesn’t answer, chooses to look at where the fire is. Something touches his hand and when his fingers feel about the object, he says a quiet word of thanks before putting the glasses on. Sometimes, you have to.
“I missed you.” Prompto says. His blue-eyes would almost seem gold in the light of the campfire. Sun on a backdrop of the sky. The exact opposite of night – Noctis – but, oddly, just as similar. It’s spoken almost absently, like it’s something he didn’t notice slipping out. Ignis turns his head towards the other. There’s a moment of silence after, where it’s just his breathing – the crackling of the fire and the winds shifting the tufts of blond locks that are forever untamable. He doesn’t say anything, content to listen to the noise around him. ‘I know’ doesn’t seem to be enough, not to him.
He puts his hand over Prompto’s and feels their fingers interlace. The chain feels cold against his skin.
∞
When he answers the phone and he hears Talcott’s voice, hears the disbelief and sheer joy in them – on the edge of a sob and a laugh – he knows. He hasn’t strayed far enough from Hammerhead, and the asphalt is even under his boots as he walks, the chain loosely held in a fist, the tip of the hanging dagger just grazing the surface of the street.
He knows he’s reached the outpost when he feels the warmth of the floodlights on him, followed by the sound of weight shifting on steel ramparts, the echo of a machine gun pointed at him. He angles his head up and introduces himself and the hunters lower their weapons, the creak of the gate opening reaching his ears.
The moment he steps in, there’s the jingle of a small chain against jeans and he knows it’s Prompto before the man even talks.
“Hey,” he says, sounding close.
The sound of Ignis’ heartbeat travels from chest to ear.
There’s a shudder of a breath, and Ignis waits. The hand falls on his shoulder, down his arm to grip his thumb. He traces a circle on the skin above Prompto’s hand. He whispers back. “Hey.”
The footfalls that follow Prompto’s are heavier, set. The weariness in them is missing, for the moment. Ignis knows how that feels like.
“Iggy.” Gladio says, the thunder in his voice in a slight rumble. “Been a while, huh.”
Far too long. “It has been.” He answers back, feels the heat of his King’s Shield against his other arm. He lets go of the chain, lets it hang from his waist and for the dagger to tumble to the ground. He finds Gladio’s hand and grips it tight. “Too long.”
The hand in his squeezes back, and the three of them stand by the parking lot of Hammerhead, waiting for their King. Together.
∞
There’s a moment – when the sound of the passenger door opening reaches him and, then, silence – where his heart is in his throat, and his fingers twitch to grasp the chain by his belt. Gladio squeezes the hand and Ignis breathes in deep, and squeezes back. The breath the Shield releases echoes in his heart.
He feels Prompto tremble, and he pulls the other closer. Prompto turns to him, and Ignis feels his hair against his shoulder. He turns to him and leans down until he knows the other can feel his breathing. The puffs that escape somehow match the rapidfire beating of his heart.
The sound of boots hitting the ground reaches his ears. Ignis knows Talcott doesn’t jump down from the seat, but makes use of the foothold under the door. Noctis can be quite restless, sometimes.
Gladio’s hand disappears from his grip in the breath of a second. A Shield can only stay away from his King for so long—and Gladio takes to his duty as easy as he takes to breathing.
Prompto turns as still as stone beside him. Hope is a fragile thing, too easily broken. Like faith. Like joy. Like hearts.
“It’s him.” It’s barely a whisper, just a hair’s width above silence. Funny. The pain in his chest disappears with those two words.
“How does he look like?” He asks, quietly. Prompto grips him far too tightly. Ignis doesn’t care.
“Like—like—“ Prompto can’t continue, and he knows that the other is biting his lip. Ignis doesn’t say anything—sometimes, silence was the better answer. He taps the knuckles once – twice – thrice and his fingers go slack, and Prompto hurries forward. He doesn’t make to follow. He doesn’t make to reach for his chain.
The footfalls are light – even – regal. They come up to him, just half a meter away.
“Hey, Specs.” Noctis greets, voice deeper, fuller. Ignis keeps himself from falling into him.
He raises his hand and he reaches forward – maybe to face like the Noctis in his memories, or maybe more angular, leaner, somber like Regis but with those perpetually shifting blue eyes, always far too open and far too vulnerable – and he places it on Noctis’ shoulder. He can feel the warmth of his King’s blood even through all the clothes.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t need to.
He hasn’t felt this whole in a long while.
∞
“What can I say? You guys are the best.” Noctis’ voice breaks at the last word. Ignis’ heart had long ago broken – maybe he should have taken Ardyn up on his offer. Regret is an ugly thing.
∞
He’s the first one who makes it up to the remains of the throne room, after the explosion that rocked the entirety of Insomnia. The chains are warm, wet, and he knows they’re stained with red. He feels the cuts on his fingers and palms. The daggers clutter and clang behind him like the tolls of a death bell.
He hears someone call after him – Prompto, or Gladio. Maybe both. Maybe none at all. Clang, clang, clang.
There’s no throne room left. Half the Citadel has been destroyed in the explosion. He knows it the moment he puts his hand out and doesn’t feel the doors to the Great Hall under his fingers. He trips on rubble, and his knee catches at the steel beams and the cloth is torn open. There’s a sharp bite, a cut – a graze – and he stands back up.
The chains follow him like a death rattle.
He keeps walking forward, swaying, the silver grate of the daggers against the cement and stone ring in his ears like white noise.
He trips on more debris and he falls on his elbows, the impact jars through his body. He grits his teeth and crawls forward, ignoring the pain that throbs from all over his body.
His hands fall on something wet. It didn’t rain. He puts his hand on another area. The wetness follows.
He crawls forward, and his elbows and knees follow, drenched.
Ignis stops when he grasps another person’s hand under his.
It’s not warm. It’s not moving.
He feels about the angle – a right hand – and interlaces the fingers. There’s no ring.
He crawls closer and puts his other hand against his King’s cheek, paints Noctis’ face with his own blood.
The chains finally stop clanging.
It takes him a moment to realize that the sound echoing in his ears is his own sobbing.
A clatter of steel on stone.
A large hand pushes him away from Noctis, violently, roughly, heartbreakingly.
He rolls away, not fighting back, as the desperate, broken cries of a dead King’s Shield punctuates every beat of his heart. Hands find his, then they run up to find his face, blood on his skin, and they’re soft – kind, far too kind and trusting – and Prompto’s whispering his name, feels the tears falling against his skin.
Funny.
On his back, facing what he knows is a sun-lit sky, hands outstretched beside him and his King’s blood on his cheeks. It’s almost like he’s dead, too.
It’s just damn funny.
It’s almost like he died the same way as his King’s—
—facing a sky they both will never see again.