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The pattering on his face draws his attention towards the sky, his focus a white emptiness filling into roiling clouds and ruined masonry above. The droplets, numb and cold on his skin, feel like tiny thumps in an encompassing burn that his mind cannot yet grasp. Everything is blank to the point that he cannot even feel upset for the lack of clarity. He does not know where he is, and all he can hear is the rhythm of the rain and ragged breaths. And then, it all comes back.
Altissia. Leviathan. Altar. Noct. Lunafreya.... Ravus. Ignis drags his eyes down to Ravus in front of him, the storm still furious like swept tears in his expression, and he remembers.
Ignis remembers the fall, the fight, and how they end up here, embroiled — daggers against sword, the tension, the strain — then a tiny break, a slip against sharp steel, and wetness. A wetness not from the rain where his red hands barely purchase on the blade embedded through his chest. A blade, he realizes, weighted with his body that is dripping with the slow release of his life. He recognizes the shock, the instinctive desperation; his hands, sluggish and shaky, attempts to grip around the sword. The deepening cuts into his fingers are nothing compared to the plunged source of fire scorching through his body.
But none of this matters.
None of it matters when only one matters. His mind latches onto that one single clarity. Even as the cacophony of his lungs chokes up his throat, he scrambles and seizes the edge of Ravus’ collar, smearing it crimson, pulling to find grounding. Ravus meets him with glassy eyes and a face fraught with something else alongside anguish. He cannot make out what Ravus says, but he needs to say his piece; he needs to convince the other man. Instead, he chokes. The viscous liquid curdles higher in his throat. He gasps, seizing involuntarily, and he knows that he will drown in rain and blood.
But none of that matters.
He does not matter when only one matters.
But fear still wraps around him like stinging nettle, and he swallows metal. Death scares any mortal man, and Ignis is no different; he wants his family. The family that he has found for himself with nights over the campfire and card games in hotel rooms. With nights having chatter over the stove top and stargazing in quiet company. To go without them hurts. To leave his oldest friend hurts worse.
Ignis remembers the moment the former king introduced the two, and the shy, tentative approach of the other boy. He remembers the moment when he offers his hand, and how the young prince took it in both of his, gifting that bright smile, and he knew, just knew that he would stand by Noctis always.
But alas, he is going to break that promise, regardless of his will.
Somehow, the world has tilted. He has one last duty. His bloodied fingers tightens on the collar. He drags the other man as close as he can with waning, trembling strength because Ravus needs to hear and to understand. Needs to understand that if one must die to mitigate his fury and loss, let it be Ignis, and not Noct. Let Ignis be the sheath.
His tongue tumbles around his last request, “Spare him.”
He hopes that Noct will forgive him.