Work Text:
When you hold me there are words for that.
I do not remember the words for that but I remember that there are words.
There are no words for when you do not hold me.
I remember that there are no words in the world so I say them.
Gephyromania - TC Tolbert
Someone has to carry the body. Gladio knows, instinctively, that it must be him. Not because Prompto isn't strong enough (he is) or because Ignis wouldn't be able to maneuver in the dark (he would). It has to be him because it is his prince. His duty, his liege, his very own heart sitting pierced upon the throne like an offering to some long-lost God that hasn't turned their eye to them in a decade. They walk up the stairs to the throne, stepping on rubble and puddles and debris, their bodies silhouetted by the dim light outside. The world is dark still, as dark as it has always been, and the fear remains: what if it did not work? What then?
They have been living in a standstill, waiting for his return, confident that he would bring the light back with him. If he doesn't — Gladio is certain that this is not a world he wants to live in. As they approach the body, it becomes smaller and sadder. Just a crumpled man sitting on a throne, with a sword stuck to him like some kind of bad joke. There's no blood. No signs of struggle. Noctis's face is calm and relaxed, like he just fell asleep. His lips are drawn in a very slight smile. He seems to say, my friends. At last you're here. Gladio swallows, harshly, and thinks about moving the body (carrying the body—) and his own skittered, bloodless heart jumps about deep in his chest. Just the thought of touching him—
Ignis kneels beside him, gently placing his hands over Noctis's knees, lowers his head and weeps. There is no shame to his sobs. There is nothing but raw hurt. Prompto follows suit, sitting on the other side of him, resting his head against his thigh and he does not cry but that makes it worse, somehow. Prompto just stares at the darkened world beyond the palace, in full view through the demolished walls. His eyes say come back. Come back to me. Gladio keeps swallowing his words, his vomit, his desire to just wreck over this grief. He takes a step forward. Then another. Goes around the throne and sits on the left arm, above Ignis. Rests his head next to Noctis's and carefully, sweetly, brushes away his matted hair from his still-warm face. His skin is soft and sweaty. It must have hurt, surely. This sword and whatever came before. He must have died in a world of hurt but still he did it for them. Gladio places a kiss against his temple, lips trembling, and says it should have been me. His voice booms across the room and vaulted, cracked ceiling, no matter how low he tries to keep it. There is no softening for the truth. This is the truth: his duty was to die on this throne. He has failed. That is something he will have to carry for as long as he lives. As he will carry this grief.
They stay like this for a long time. Ignis weeps and Prompto stares and Gladio strokes his prince's face until his skin goes cold and loose. Until life is but a shadow of a thought. Until the darkness lifts and clears, like a fog, and when they all turn their heads towards the open world beyond, they see it first. Light. The sun, rising, impossibly so. The sun, warm and gold, bathing them in a long-lost embrace. Ignis raises his head, cheeks tear-stained and nose puffy, and tilts it to the warmth. Prompto stands. Takes a hesitant step towards the light, almost unbelievable. Raises his hand, then lowers it, then let's out a single hysterical bout of laughter. It's here, he says. It's here it's here it's here — it's real. He falls to his knees next to Ignis, and takes him in his arms, and Ignis complies with a willingness that speaks of more than a decade of darkness. Gladio aches for him as he realizes that he will never see this: the way the light plays over Noctis's face. The way it lights up his mouth and his cheeks, gold and yellow spilling down his skin. He looks golden and bright, heavenly, like one of those martyrs on the Citadel paintings. He looks peaceful. He looks at ease. He is still smiling, head bowed, body loose, and it looks like he will wake up any moment and berate them for not closing the lids.
Gladio loves him more than anything. His love swells within his chest, enormous, impossibly tight, buoyant and light like he has a balloon between his ribs bursting at the seams. He wants to burst. He wants to fall apart and break crying and hug him close until all that golden light seeps into his own cold bones. He wants. He yearns. His love is a truth. His love is a sentence. His love is this boy in the body of a man, who loved the world enough to die for them.
Gladio reaches for the sword and pulls. Ignis and Prompto scramble back, surprised, and they both start talking at once (to berate him or to caution him, perhaps) but there is no need. The sword comes out easy, like a breath, and Noctis's body slides down further without its support. There is no blood. Just a hole in his chest. Gladio waits for no-one as he places his hands beneath his head and his legs and raises his king like a crumpled doll. Noctis's head lolls for a moment before Ignis raises to steady him, hands brushing apart hair; he carries the sword beneath his arm. Prompto hurries to his right and places a hand in his shoulder; a reminder that he is not alone. Not this time. Gladio looks down at his king, sleeping in his arms. Memories of a younger prince flood his eyes; a thousand times when he carried him this way to and from his bed. His heart aches as he presses Noctis harder against his body. Feels the way he weights. The way his body fits alongside his hands, his heart. He takes a deep breath. Looks at the horizon and its rising yellow sun. Takes a step forward. Ignis and Prompto take it with him, supporting him and his king. Their king. Together, the three of them leave the throne room. They walk outside the palace, down the stairs, across the Citadel's gardens and squares. The streets are empty. There are no daemons, no monsters, no shadows left. There is only light and there is only them. Walking across an empty kingdom, carrying its empty king. They do not speak. There is no need. They walk together, step by step, until the sun is high in the sky and the clouds part to reveal the blue beneath. Gladio raises his head towards the warmth and allows himself one little smile. Against his chest, he can almost feel Noctis smile in kind.