Chapter Text
Light streams through the twisted limbs of the canopy above to reflect off the water that floods the ancient ruins; it blinds them after so much time spent in the cloying darkness of the dungeon, but they are leaving it behind now, their prize in hand.
“Beautiful sunshine!” Prompto cheers. “I’ll never take it for granted again.”
Ignoring Prompto’s outburst, Ignis turns to the commodore walking beside him. “You may have been hired under false pretences, but your assistance was valuable all the same.”
He watches from the corner of his eye and sees her tense slightly, just a small straightening of her spine, but it is noticeable in the way it interferes for a second with her graceful stride. “Hmph. Tell me something I don’t know. You can spare the pleasantries.” Her voice is light, but it leaves Ignis with a sense of unease that has him reaching for one of his daggers.
He does his best to be discreet about it, but as the warm, familiar hilt settles in the palm of his off hand, the commodore turns a half step toward him, spreading her near arm in a showy movement of bright light flashing across dark metal before she rests her hand on her hip, a fine brow arched. “This is how you repay one who’s helped you?” Her expression is anything but impressed, but she doesn’t appear threatened either. “You know, somehow I’m not surprised. It wasn’t us, so it has to be you.”
A frown pulls at Ignis’s lips, one that he attempts to repress as he studies her, trying to locate a glimpse of what’s tripped his instincts. “We have no plans of betrayal.”
“Besides.” Prompto appears at Ignis’s elbow, no weapons visible but hands loose and free by his sides, ready. “Who would we betray you to? There’s no one worse than the empire around, and oh wait, I forgot, you’re already working for them.”
“The empire, kuh.” Aranea takes a step back and turns, leaving herself exposed. It would be so easy to take her down, even with the thick armour that covers her shoulders and back. She’s not wearing her helm, Ignis notes with a detached sense of analysis. One precise stab to her exposed throat…it would be over within seconds.
It’s a ploy; he can see the MTs manoeuvring through the thick underbrush, surrounding them and cutting off the more obvious routes of escape.
“Why do you serve the empire?” Noct moves to step from behind him, but Ignis holds out his arm, halting his advance. Noct’s voice is commanding; it holds a keen edge of anger that gives his voice a deeper resonance than Ignis is used to hearing. He can feel Noct reaching for his magic and can’t suppress the small smirk that plays at his lips.
“Why?” The smooth line of her back stiffens again before she spins on her heel to face them, long skirt snapping about her ankles. There’s a moment, just a single moment, where surprise brightens her sharp gaze as she stares at Noct; then she visibly draws herself together again. “My reasons for what I do are my own and nothing a pretty prince with no kingdom need concern himself with.”
Anger, hot and searing, floods his veins, and for a moment he almost loses himself to it, but the sight of Noct and Prompto both advancing, their weapons drawn in flashes of iridescent light that scatter across the pooled water at their feet, brings him back to focus. He releases his dagger in favour of grabbing them both by their collars, pulling them back as he steps forward. It’s all for naught as he feels the cloth of Noct’s collar vanish from his grasp. His fingers fall uselessly through the afterimage of light.
The sudden clang of steel on steel echoes through the wasted ruins that stand tall around them.
Noct has, for years, rushed headfirst into battle—it’s a trait Ignis suspects won’t change unless something drastic happens—but he is finally growing into the skills needed to back up his reckless attacks. All Ignis can do is sigh and follow.
The commodore’s lance is already whistling through the humid air as she parries Noct’s initial attack, so Ignis uses the space created to cast his gaze over the MTs ringing them. Metal arms are rising, reflections off the water dancing in shades of muted chrome as they move, and Ignis reaches for the familiar tether leading to Noct’s magic so he can protect his king.
His radiant lance comes to hand with ease and no sooner is the weapon in his hands than it has left them as he throws the lance at the advancing MTs. The guttural choking sound of his first target dies quickly as most of its body slips beneath the water’s surface before it dissipates into dark mist.
“Prompto, you’re up!” Noct’s cry does little to break Ignis’s focus as he dispatches a charging MT with a swift dagger slipped into the joint between the shoulder and neck.
The sound of gunshots alerts him to Prompto’s position behind him; his aim is as impeccable as always, but the bullets do little more than distract Aranea as she easily sweeps them aside.
“Too slo—” Her remark is cut short as Noct takes advantage of her break in focus to deliver a heavy blow.
The noise of combat has become a familiar thing over the passing weeks, to the point where Ignis can keep track of a battle by hearing alone. Above the slosh of kicked-up water and grind of imperfect joins scraping together are tactical instructions and shouts of effort and triumph as MT after MT collapse with ugly synthesised gurgles.
The echoing ring of Lucian-forged metal striking imperial followed by a short, feminine cry are enough to draw Ignis’s attention from the steady chaos of battle. Whipping one dagger around in a semicircle to draw the MT’s attention and neatly dispatching it with the other, he sucks in a deep breath before turning in time to see the commodore stumbling back one step, two, forced to retreat from the strength in Noct’s attack.
An approving sound leaves Ignis’s throat, and he shifts his weight to spring forward and help them, but his attention is drawn by movement through the trees.
More MTs—dozens. Maybe tens of dozens, if the swelling noise is any indication.
One hundred, two hundred, numbers don’t matter now. They need to escape, soon, before fatigue takes one of them out too.
“We need t—argh!” His own words of warning are brought to a halt as an MT assassin bursts from the water. Spinning its blades with inhuman movements, it tries to take him from behind, but after so many battles, the MTs’ tactics have become all too predictable. Lance to hand, Ignis uses the pole arm to vault his enemy’s attack, managing to blindside his would-be assassin. In an instant Noct is once again by his side and all too soon their linked strikes reduce the small battalion that had surrounded them to nothing.
He takes a moment to regain his breath, but only a moment—the enemy’s numbers are still growing, and they have no time to waste. He looks to Noct; he can see the toll this is taking on his king.
“Prompto! We must retreat!”
It’s a testament to Prompto’s growing maturity—or perhaps it’s the overwhelming forces descending upon them like a swarm—that he doesn’t insist they stay to finish what they’ve started. Instead, he calls out a weary-sounding, “Right-o,” and begins fighting his way through the curved sheets of metal separating them.
Ignis casts another glance around and can’t help the way the sight of so many MTs still standing between them and freedom saps his energy. Noct could warp away, but that doesn’t help him or Prompto. Were that Gladio hadn’t chosen now to leave them—his help would be invaluable.
But their shield isn’t here, so they must endure, even though Ignis can’t see how they’ll be able to shake loose of this many MTs. They’ll be hunted down without reprieve. Another plan is needed.
Ignis always has at least a dozen projected outcomes he’s considering at any given moment, usually more, but right now there’s only one that makes sense, even though the very thought makes dread pool sticky and thick in his gut. He’s considered it before, but never did he actually think it would become necessary.
Needs must, sometimes.
“Noct,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the unrelenting din. “I recommend starshell.”
A swift nod is all the acknowledgement he receives from Noct, but it is enough. “Blondie! Give us some cover.”
Prompto is already preparing the shot. “Blondie? That’s me, I guess.”
Ignis knows what is coming and he’s prepared to take full advantage of it. He shields his eyes as the flare rises into the air. The startled and pained mechanical shrieks that are all too reminiscent of the sound of rusted gears being forced to function are the signal. He senses more than he sees Noct and Prompto leave his side; they head off in different directions, cutting dual waves of destruction through any of the MTs in their chosen paths.
Ignis runs too, but his goal is not escape. His duty is clear: he has to buy time.
Tearing his way to the heart of the enemy, he summons a magic flask: blizzara, that will do the job nicely, he thinks. With Prompto’s starshell still active, he aims the spell at the largest battalion.
They don’t know what hits them.