Chapter Text
The abandoned park set his teeth on edge, but it was the creak of the rusted merry-go-round that had him flailing for the spare sword at his waist.
Harsh laughter echoed behind him. “That move needs some practice.” He whirled, and saw Ardyn stopping the slow turn of the merry-go-round with his foot. “What a fine kingdom of rust and rubble you have.”
“Leave me alone,” Noctis hissed.
Ardyn only grinned. “Make me. Oh, wait, that’s your big, strong, Shield’s job, isn’t it? Why don’t you ask him for help?”
He thought his heart would shatter, there in that tiny caravan kitchen, Ignis cupping his face, feather light and gentle, like he used to do when they were little and Noctis screamed awake in terror of daemons and then the Empire’s army.
Ignis looked so peaceful and it was so quiet that Noctis resolved not to ruin it with tears. Though when Noctis let out a long shaky exhale and Ignis’s mouth quirked in a smile he knew he has been found out anyway .
“How sweet.”
Noctis jerked out of Ignis’s grasp and when he turned, there was Ardyn lurking in the doorway of the caravan.
“ Noct ? What is it?”
“Oh, don’t let me interrupt. Such loyalty you’ve managed to inspire. I wish I knew your secret. How do you do it?”
Noctis stared at him. That Noctis was the only one that could hear Ardyn ’s taunts was both a terror and a comfort. ‘You’re not real,’ he mouthed. Then he dragged his gaze back toward Ignis, who was busy frowning at him in concern. “Nothing,” Noctis said. “Sorry.”
Noctis tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw that man’s broken body in the dirt. So he just lay there as the sun set and the shadows in the caravan lengthened, and thought about what a fucking coward he was, hiding in there, denying the truth that Alba had screamed at him.
He knew the others were worried about him; he knew he couldn’t hide in there forever. But when he felt the mattress dip with the weight of another person, though he heard no one enter the caravan, cold terror seized his limbs.
“That poor, poor man,” came Ardyn ’s oily voice from above his head.
“He would’ve died anyway,” Noctis whispered.
“I suppose that is true. Still, though, makes you miss the days you could break a glass vial and be good as new, hmm? Shame you had to give that up. I wonder what you’ll do, next time, when it’s not a stranger. What will you do when it’s Prompto or Gladio or Ignis?”
“Don’t say their names,” Noctis hissed through clenched teeth, eyes still squeezed shut.
The bed shifted once more. “Well, I do hope it was worth it, Noct .” Then, nothing but silence for a long time until the caravan door opened and footsteps creaked up the stairs.
“ Noct ?” came Prompto’s voice, and Noctis only hoped Prompto didn’t notice him trembling.
“Tell me what you see,” comes ignis’s quiet voice behind Noctis.
“Um.” Prompto kicks a spare bit of plaster rubble and it skitters across the marble floor. “It’s a shitshow.”
“Duly noted,” Ignis responds dryly.
“Seriously, Iggy, it’s a mess in here. Watch your step.”
Noctis absently rubs his bad knee and pretends not to notice Gladio watching him; that was a lot of stairs to climb. Prompto’s assessment isn’t wrong. The living quarters of the Citadel bear all the scars of the Empire’s assault, Ardyn’s cursed presence, and the years of neglect.
None of the four of them have been inside the Citadel since that first sunrise. Ignis and Gladio have come close, going into the city as part of the early reconstruction efforts. But now with a memorial service for lost loved ones planned to occur in the plaza out front, and questions about the future of the Lucian government becoming louder and more urgent, it’s time to bite the bullet, as it were.
So Noctis forges ahead, and pushes open the door leading to his old rooms. There’s a loud clatter as the door falls off the damaged hinges. First the more public reception room that rarely saw use, more of a relic from the days before the Citadel had press rooms set up with cameras and the royal family had a social media department. It’s messy and dusty, but the real destruction starts in Noctis’s private rooms.
“Oh, man,” Prompto says softly from his elbow. The TV is smashed, the game consoles long gone, though whether the looters were Niflheimr or Lucian, who can say. The bed in the center of the room is covered in a layer of dust and it looks as though someone had stomped on it. Most of his childhood books are scattered on the floor, pages torn up. When he looks down, his foot is just next to a picture book of constellations that Ignis gave him on his ninth birthday.
But these ruined relics of his childhood are just too distant to get under his skin. His memories of this room are dominated by sickness and pain, by fear and nightmares, and what small comforts he could find within. No, seeing his apartment like this would hurt worse. Hesitant footsteps behind him; Ignis is standing in the doorway, silent. Noctis turns, abruptly, and leaves the room, pausing only to lay a hand on Ignis’s shoulder; partly a gesture of comfort and partly to telegraph his movements. Noctis didn’t really come here to see his rooms, anyway.
The door to his father’s study is still intact; Noctis rests his palm against the wood for a moment, considering how many times in his life he’s knocked on this door. What would happen if he knocked now? Would he still hear that same warm voice inviting him inside?
The door may be intact, but the study itself is in worse shape than his rooms. Every drawer of the desk has been yanked open and the contents thoroughly ransacked. His father’s papers are scattered around, yellowed with age, torn. They left a surprising amount. Then again, what use would the state secrets of Lucis have been, with it no longer a sovereign state?
In the middle of the desk is a copy of the treaty. There’s a dagger sticking straight up through it, the point embedded in the wood. The blade is rusted with a substance that looks suspiciously like blood. Noctis might have expected the sight to make his blood run cold, but ultimately it just strikes him as cheap, too on the nose. Maybe he really is starting to feel his true age.
“What do you think of my handiwork?” asks Ardyn’s voice behind him.
“Fuck off,” Noctis mutters aloud.
He pushes on into his father’s bedroom. The heavy velvet curtains are gone, and the light has bleached the dark, once crimson rug into a wan brownish color. The fine silk bedlinens are gone, too. It’s his father’s wardrobe that finally makes his breath catch in his throat. His foot kicks something; it’s an empty velvet jewelry box, and his stomach flips when Noctis recognizes it as the box his father kept his pearl cufflinks in, a wedding gift from his mother.
His father’s regalia’s been stripped of every bit of valuable ornamentation - the gold, the brocade - and what’s left has been torn and slashed. But for the most part, they’ve left alone the casual wear, the slacks and dress shirts and sweaters that his father wears in all of Noctis’s best memories of him. Without thinking, he grabs a moth-eaten sweater off a hanger and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. He seeks out even a trace of that familiar scent - coffee and cologne and pain cream - but it is long gone. The sweater smells like the rest of the Citadel, musty and decayed. He drops the sweater.
The others have followed him into his father’s rooms. Noctis doesn’t acknowledge them, instead stepping out onto the attached balcony. The glass sliding doors have long since been blown out. Shards crunch beneath his shoes.
“Watch the broken glass,” Ignis calls automatically, and Noctis smiles a bit despite himself.
He has a vague dream-memory of being on this balcony with his father, and his father lifting him up so he might see over the railing. It was a narrow space, with barely room for the two of them when Noctis was grown. More an opportunity for the hard-working monarch to get a bit of fresh air without having to hike to the gardens, than a true outdoor space.
Insomnia stretches out before him like it always has. If he squints, Noctis can pretend that the view that he used to know so well hasn’t changed, but the illusion shatters as soon as he blinks. Years of neglect and looters and daemons have rendered the city’s towers jagged and damaged like crooked teeth.
Footsteps behind him, and Noctis turns to see Gladio watching him, frowning, arms crossed. Noctis squirms a little under his gaze. The four of them used to be better at reading each other, at knowing when they needed space or comfort or a distraction. Or maybe the three of them are just as good at it, and it’s only Noctis that’s fallen out of sync.
“It’s just…stuff,” he says. “It’s not him. It’s not them.”
Gladio’s expression eases a little and he nods once, like Noctis has given the correct answer.
Noctis isn’t really sure what he came here expecting to find. Some kind of final message from his father, maybe, that laid out the future reassuringly and deliberately. Hell, he would’ve settled for some inspiration, some brilliant and eloquent speech about love and loss and hope.
“People are ready to move on. They’re ready to feel better,” Ignis says, after they go through, one more time, the brief remarks the two of them have put together for Noctis to say. But Noctis thinks of the murmur of voices questioning whether they need him, of the Hunters with their own government, of Alba screaming at him, and Noctis thinks that people are ready for a release.
The crowd that gathers around the makeshift memorial in the plaza in front of the Citadel on the sixteenth night since the sun rose is quiet and subdued. Noctis wonders how long it will be before people feel like they can speak louder than a whisper, with no daemons around to hear them.
The other thing that’s different about Insomnia now is how clear the stars shine above, without the light pollution of the city. The stars are reflected down below in the candles that form a glittering ring in the center of the makeshift memorial, casting a warm glow on the photos and belongings of the victims of the long night.
He takes some small comfort in the fact that his friends are getting just as much attention as he is. They deserve it. Ignis looks in his element, talking with everyone. Gladio never strays far. Noctis isn’t sure if it’s comforting or not, how quickly they seem to fall back into their respective roles.
But this is definitely not a royal function; for one thing, the nobility and diplomats and whatever kind of hangers-on the Citadel managed to attract had no qualms about barging right up to their king or their prince, whereas these people don’t seem to know what to do with Noctis among them. Maybe he ought to do more to approach them, but the fear of making them uncomfortable keeps him from making the first move. He steps forward, crouching, on the pretext of inspecting the trinkets glittering in the candlelight. It’s a vulnerable position to put himself in, especially when it’s not inconceivable that there are people here who wish him harm. Movement out of the corner of his eye catches Noctis’s attention - it’s Alba, crouching nearby, tucking a photograph in among a child’s stuffed moogle and a well-loved book with a cracked spine. She notices Noctis watching her.
She straightens, slowly, and Noctis mirrors her. “At first, I wasn’t sure if I could put his picture here, since he made it through the Night,” she says, and Noctis isn’t sure if she’s speaking to him until she turns to face him. She shifts her weight awkwardly. “Is shouting at royalty treason, or something?”
Noctis blinks. He had been bracing himself for whatever further grief-fueled anger she needed to let out. “It’s really not,” Noctis assures her. “Even if it wasn’t, I’m not sure being royalty counts for much these days.”
“Treasonable or not, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said.”
“It’s fine, you don’t have to - ” Well, maybe fine isn’t quite the right word. It would be a lie to say that what she said had not gotten under his skin; after all, it had triggered another Ardyn visit. It would be equally inaccurate to say that he doesn’t still feel like he owes her an apology. But years of etiquette training haven’t been entirely forgotten, so he says, “I accept. I know you were upset. You were in shock.”
She shakes her head. “It’s true, but not an excuse. Everyone here’s lost someone. Even you.”
“Even me,” he repeats. And it’s not just the loss of Dad and Luna, it’s something deeper than that, something he can’t put into words, but he can see it, in the shiny scars around Ignis’s eyes, in Prompto’s long stretches of silence, in the way Gladio’s eyes don’t snap straight to Noctis at the first hint of danger. “If I could have been with you - with all of you - in the dark, if there had been any other way - I would’ve taken it in a second,” he says. He means for it to be a simple quiet admission, but it comes out harsh and strangled, that indescribable grief rising up and threatening to choke him.
“A lot of people don’t believe that,” Alba says, and she adds, “but I do. For what it’s worth.” She looks back at the memorial and the people gathered around it - some silent, some chatting, some weeping, some laughing. “Was this your idea?” she asks.
“That depends,” Noctis says slowly, “on whether or not it was a good idea.”
“It’s…a better idea than I first gave it credit for.”
“Then yes. It was my idea.”
She actually gives him a small smile, before excusing herself to rejoin her family.
“What a kind-hearted king,” coos a voice in his ear.
“Fuck off,” he hisses, but doesn’t turn.
“Is that all you can say to me now? Best keep it quiet, hm, before your people see you arguing with the empty air.”
He stalks away with no particular destination in mind, and nearly collides with Prompto, who grabs his arm to steady him.
“Whoa, you okay? You look kinda pale,” he says.
“Fine,” Noctis grinds out. “Just…a lot.”
“I know,” Prompto says, giving his arm a squeeze before letting him go. “It’s nice, though. Kinda wish I had my camera.”
“Gladio told me it’s gone.”
“Yeah, kind of a bummer, but, there’s worse things to lose.” His smile is way too sad, way too soft, and all it does is call to mind Prompto’s hollow expression in the throne room.
The other day, Noctis tried creating a potion out of a bottle of water. Even with magic it wouldn’t have had much healing power, and even though he knew nothing would happen he tried it anyway. He sat there for a good half an hour, eyes closed, mind probing for a connection he knew no longer existed, willing himself to be a conduit once more, and he nearly threw the bottle against the wall in frustration before he remembered this was not a world where you could do such a thing with a resource like water.
He understands, logically, that had he remained dead this would still be a world without the healing magic of the Lucis line; but it’s different to have made the conscious choice to give it up.
They’d used their first phoenix down on Prompto - as if he didn’t have enough complexes about his place in the group already, but whatever, shit happens. Noctis doesn’t even remember the fight - maybe the one with the coeurl and an unfortunately positioned river nearby. But Noctis does remember sitting there, limbs tingly with relief at the sound of Prompto just breathing, and for the first and only time in his life, grateful for his bloodline. If the Crystal had some terrible fate in store for him, at least he could, in the meantime, use its power to save people. People he loved. People he still loves. People that, maybe, he should’ve been strong enough to leave.
“Noct?”
Noctis drags his gaze from some distant point over Prompto’s shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Isn’t it almost time for you to go up there?”
“I’m not,” he says abruptly. “I’m not - I changed my mind. It’s not about me. It’s about them. They’re the ones that - all I did was die.”
Prompto cringes. “Buddy…”
It was a tasteless comment, especially here. But before Noctis can stammer out an apology, there’s movement in the crowd out of the corner of his eye that attracts his attention. A bit of white, a flash of blonde hair, nearly glowing in the dark. Salt and blood and flowers. “Be right back,” he mutters to Prompto, and disappears into the growing crowd. His heart hammers, even as he tries to convince himself it wasn’t really Luna. That there are other women in the world with blonde hair that wear white clothes. That seeing her is just another symptom of his apparently growing instability.
But… She will have her own choice to make. That was what Gentiana said. What could it mean except that Luna would be given the same choice as Noctis?
The crowd has grown exponentially since he began speaking with Alba - there, in the distance, yes, gods, if someone put him up to it he would swear that was Luna, but then the crowd shifts again and he loses sight of her. He tries to shout her name, but it comes out in a strangled gasp. Bodies press in on every side. He turns wildly. There, on his right, some six people deep. He actually raises a hand to reach for her. Someone jostles him. When he rights himself, she’s gone. Abruptly he bursts free of the crowd. And he realizes it suddenly became so crowded because they were waiting for him.
“ - for the best,” someone nearby him sniffs. “What’s he got to say worth hearing? He wasn’t there.”
“All that waiting and the king can’t even give us five minutes,” someone to his left mutters.
Noctis suppresses a bubble of hysterical laughter. ‘Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,’ his father had sighed once after a Council meeting that had devolved into near-shouting over the pros and cons of the policy item on deliberation.
“Abandon the common folk,” says a third voice. “Like father, like son, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s gratitude for you,” Ardyn says airily.
Noctis was taught at a very young age that very few people were allowed into the upper floors of the Citadel, and that if he ever saw anyone up high not wearing proper identification, he was to find a grown-up he trusted immediately. The highest parts of the Citadel had always meant safety, with perhaps the exception of when he was a teenager churning through the bullshit of duty and destiny.
There’s a staff entrance he can slip into - or he would be able to slip into it if Gladio wasn’t blocking the doorway, arms crossed. “There you are,” he says. “Prompto said you were out of it.”
“Yeah, I just - ” He licks his lips. “Crowded.”
Gladio doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods. “Need air?”
“No, I was - going to get something of Dad’s.” He jerks his head back in the direction of the memorial.
Wordlessly, Gladio opens the door, gesturing for Noctis to enter first.
“Gladio.”
“Noct.”
“Five minutes. Just - five minutes.” He sounds desperate, probably, but Gladio steps aside to let him pass.
“Five minutes,” he repeats.
Noctis, like a child, like the furthest thing from a king it’s possible to be, retreats to his father’s study. It’s dark and silent, and he thinks it’s probably the first time he’s been truly alone since he woke up.
Except now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be truly alone again.
“Your reign has truly gotten off to an auspicious start.”
“Shut up!” Noctis snarls, rounding on Ardyn, knowing that this time he doesn’t have to be quiet or subtle. Perhaps this is truly the reason why he wanted to retreat.
“Since we’re alone, I thought we might at least discuss my ideas for our kingdom’s future?
“Get out of my head!” His own hysterical voice reverberates in his skull. Noctis surges forward, not really sure what he is expecting, but just like always, Ardyn flickers out of view before Noctis can make contact.
“You never learn, do you, Noct? Perhaps the Crystal should have left you in there to cook a little longer. Or perhaps not. Any longer and there wouldn’t have been much left to save, would there?”
Thoughtless, trembling with rage, Noctis tries to summon a sword; Ardyn throws his head back and laughs. “Remember, you gave all that up! Because you decided that you just had to be part of the world that survived ten years in the dark just fine without you. And how is that working out for you, Noct?”
“You aren’t real!” Noctis screams, and again he launches himself at Ardyn. Again, Ardyn winks out of view at the last second. This time, the momentum sends Noctis careening out onto the small balcony, and he throws his weight against the railing. There’s one loud crack, and then the railing gives way beneath his hands.
Noctis tries to scramble backwards but there’s not enough time to correct his momentum, not here on this tiny space. He tumbles forward.
Cor and Gladio would both scold him for his habit of warping up to some high point to hang off the edge of his weapon, but that instinct to grab hold is the only thing that saves him. His fingers cling to the edge of the balcony, but the structure itself gives an ominous creak. He has no idea if it will hold his weight enough for him to attempt to climb back into the room.
So what does he do? Does he attempt the climb, knowing he might just plummet to the ground anyway, or does he just…let go? Even in a world with magic, a phoenix down would do nothing for a victim of a fall like this.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers aloud, just tasting the words. Testing them out. It’d be fine. They’d be fine. He could just close his eyes and let go. With any luck, he’d pass out before he hit the ground. Kind of an ignoble end for the line of Lucis, but he has ancestors killed by truly stupid things - drowned in a bathtub, tripped on a sword. Driven to semi-accidental suicide by the voices in his head.
Maybe it’s just the howling wind, but he thinks he hears someone say his name. It sounds like his father. He opens his eyes to confront this latest hallucination.
“Noct!”
He’s never heard Gladio shout his name like that, and that’s what brings him back to his aching fingers. “It’s not gonna hold much longer,” he gasps.
“Gimme your hand,” Gladio says, low, urgent, crouching in the open doorway, planting his feet on the floor. “C’mon. Right hand, like a handshake. I won’t drop you.”
Noctis knows this; he also knows if he lets go now Gladio would follow him right over the edge. So his hand shoots out to grab Gladio’s wrist, the balcony creaking louder. As soon as Noctis has both arms up on the balcony Gladio grabs him bodily and hauls him through the doorway. No sooner do they sprawl out on the mildewed carpet that Gladio is on his feet again, sweeping the room for an assailant Noctis knows he won’t find. Satisfied that there are no assassins lurking in dark corners, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps a few buttons - summong Ignis and Prompto, no doubt.
Then he kneels in front of Noctis, still trembling on the floor, and brushes his windswept bangs out of his eyes with surprising tenderness. “You want to tell me what the hell just happened?”
Noctis eases himself up on his knees, facing Gladio, but before he can even begin to stammer out an excuse he spots Ardyn standing just behind Gladio, holding a finger to his lips.
Very slowly, Gladio turns his head, following Noctis’s gaze. He turns back to Noctis. “Ardyn.”
Noctis gives a jerky nod.
“Noct. There’s nobody behind me.”
“I know,” he chokes.
“Okay, just…okay. Breathe.” Gladio’s hands fall to his shoulders, and then pull him in to sag against Gladio’s chest. The adrenaline has left Noctis a shaky mess. He’s not sure how long they just sit there like that until two sets of thundering footsteps echo down the hall and burst into the room.
“What happened?” Prompto asks, his voice suddenly at Noctis’s ear, his hand on Noctis’s shoulder.
“I’m losing my fucking mind,” he mumbles, lifting his head just enough to peer up at Prompto. His eyes widen, but he asks no follow up questions.
“That day you and I went into the city, was that the first time you saw him?” Gladio asks.
“No.”
Ignis has come to kneel next to Prompto. “How often are you having these…visions?”
Noctis doesn’t answer.
“Dude. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know I was going crazy. I didn’t want you to know I came back wrong.” His voice breaks on that last word.
“Nobody expected you to just walk out of there like nothing happened,” Gladio sighs. “You died.”
“I know, I was there!” He shoves himself up off of Gladio’s chest, eyes wide. “Gentiana showed me. She showed me you guys, with - my body, and she asked me what I wanted to do and I couldn’t - what was I supposed to do, just leave you like that?”
For a moment there’s no sound except Noctis’s ragged breathing.
“Are you saying,” Ignis begins softly, “that you would not have chosen to return if you hadn’t seen - our grief?”
“I don’t know,” Noctis mumbles. He can’t look at them. “No, I - I want to live, but it’s not enough.”
“Why isn’t it enough?” Ignis asks, gentle.
“I can’t - I can’t heal. I can’t fight. Those people down there, what does it matter to them if I live or die? They don’t need me. You didn’t need me. You were fine without me.”
“You’re right,” Ignis says at length, and his voice is trembling. “We survived without you for ten years. If we had no choice, we could continue to survive without you indefinitely.”
“But we don’t want to,” Gladio says, voice low.
“That’s right,” Prompto says, and he, too, sounds like he’s holding back tears. “We love you, man.”
Noctis finally raises his head and the three of them are looking at him expectantly, so kind and so concerned. “I love you too,” he gasps. “I just wanted that to be enough.”
“You’re not listening,” Gladio growls. He tugs Noctis close again, but this time his arms wind around him and hold on tight. “It is enough.”
Noctis wants to respond, but all that comes out is a long ragged sob, and then two other pairs of arms come up around him. He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in the front of Gladio’s shirt. There are no taunting voices in his head, just the sound of his own weeping and the warm embrace of his brothers.
He thinks this is what that first sunrise must have felt like.