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He lay on his back in the dirt and screamed up at the sky.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. He wasn’t meant to be like this.
He was the Chosen King, destined to cast out the darkness and ascend—claim his throne, bring peace to the land. He wasn’t meant to be here, lying in a pool of liquid darkness, a sword in his belly and his friends standing above him.
His friends… Tears marred their faces. Tears, and their own blood.
He was responsible for both.
He remembered being responsible for both.
Fingers like claws digging deep grooves in flesh. Metal, summoned from the armiger, cold and sharp, slicing cheeks, slicing thighs, not enough, not enough.
He remembered craving. He remembered hunger.
Teeth—wicked white but dripping black—gnashing, snapping, seeking. Yet never biting, never drawing blood. Never sinking scourge into uncorrupted flesh.
He remembered fury. Hissing, spitting, darkened rage.
He had paced, seething, considering his next angle of attack. His prey stood a few metres away, weary and bloodstained. Their weapons, familiar but dull under the dark night sky, were raised only halfway.
He could smell their desperation, taste their sorrow on the wind—in their blood, too, as he brought it to his lips on sharp, slick fingers and grinned at them. Oh, the horror. The fracture in their hopeful facades. It was delicious and he wanted more.
“Noct, please,” one of them had begged, voice breaking like shattered dreams. “Come back to us.”
That one had been Prompto and Noctis had snarled at him, teeth bared like something feral.
Dismay crossed all three of their faces. Beautiful, glorious, heartbreak. It was almost enough to satiate him.
No. Who was he kidding; it wasn’t nearly enough.
“We don’t want to do this, Noct.”
“Too bad,” he had hissed, dredging long lost voices up from the deep to growl with him in multiple octaves.
And then he had warped. Straight at the blond with the gun—straight at Prompto—because the silver barrel had fallen to point at the ground and a pale throat was left ever so delightfully exposed.
Bang!
The bullet impacted in the dirt at the same time Noctis collided with his target. He caught a brief flash of utter terror in deep blue eyes—gods, was it good—and then they toppled, becoming a screeching, scrambling mess of razor sharp claws and pale flesh. Clammy hands pushed against his chest, against his arms and face in panic. As if that would stop him. He sneered as he sought the pulse in the blond’s neck, hot and heady and thudding with promise.
The gun went off again—twice. Two impacts in his shoulder. He barely felt them, but the force was enough to shove him backwards, breaking off his quest for the blond’s sweet blood. But only for a moment.
With a furious snarl he slashed out a clawed hand. If he couldn’t have it straight to his mouth then he’d have it everywhere. Slit the pretty boy’s throat and have it gushing. Flooding red and utterly divine.
A tearing in his shoulder cut his strike short. He yowled in agony as searing pain lanced down his arm, quickly followed by sheer, utter numbness. Rage boiled up as his arm fell uselessly limp, but he had no chance to see what had been done, no chance to see who had just made a grave mistake. Because suddenly he was being ripped backwards. Suddenly he was flying through the air.
He hit the dirt, hard. Snarling. Pain shot through both his shoulders but that wasn’t going to stop him. He scrambled to his feet, teeth bared and hissing.
But something caught him in the chest. A powerful blow that knocked him back again. His head snapped against the ground, teeth grinding. There was a scream—not his—and a whisper. An apology.
And then pain. White hot and brutal.
He screamed, writhing as the blade ripped straight through his stomach and plunged into the ground beneath him. Thick blood rose to his lips as he screeched, his good hand shredding itself against the greatsword as he frantically tried to pull it out. But it was stuck firm and his hand was growing slicker by the second, red blood mixing with black, making it a slippery, futile effort. He threw his hand to the side and screamed in frustration. Screamed at the sky. Screamed at the ones who did this.
He glared at them. Tears were making tracks down their bloodstained faces. One of them looked to be hyperventilating, choked sobs turning a pale face red, hands shaking and knees threatening to buckle.
He caught that one’s eyes. The choked sobs stopped. Eyes widened in a momentary mixture of terror and hope. He laughed. Shrill and cruel behind bared teeth. The eyes glistened with tears. Good. If he couldn’t go down satiated on blood, then he would go down savouring agony instead. And gods, how he had wrecked them.
He continued laughing as the paling blond was pulled close by another. He continued laughing as they turned away to face the lightening horizon, forms shaking with barely held back sobs.
Then black blood made him choke. Cough. Sputter. His laugh cut off with a gurgle. When he moved his arm it dragged through sopping, bloody dirt. He clawed into the ground, body quivering—and not just from pain. Inches from death and still the insatiable hunger gnawed at him, tearing at his insides, begging to be filled. He tilted his head back, snarling, and screamed at the sky.
And that was when Noctis came back.
That was when Noctis remembered everything he shouldn’t.
Perhaps it was the onset of dawn that pushed the daemon away and let Noctis retake control, or perhaps it was something else. The world attempting to fix itself, maybe—acknowledging that this was wrong and proffering one last desperate chance at salvation.
He knew that chance didn’t exist, no matter what happened. Though the sky was lightening, his vision was darkening and he had lost far too much blood.
Noctis turned his gaze on his friends. Their backs were still turned, arms thrown around each other in comfort as they cried. He felt his own heart ache—though perhaps it was just struggling from a depleted supply of oxygen. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of what he had done. At the horrid, vicious memory. He shouldn’t have let this happen. How could he have let this happen?
“S… sorry,” he murmured weakly.
He didn’t think his words would carry far enough, so drowned in blood were they, but his friends froze. Then they turned and Noctis’s heart stuttered as a long moment of silence passed.
Horror formed on their faces.
“Oh gods.”
“Noct.”
He tried a smile but it hurt too much. Black blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He took a shuddery breath and tried for more words, but the pain made them die in his throat.
Ignis and Gladio hurried over, their expressions troubled and tearstained. Prompto hung back, looking frozen in shock.
“Get a potion!”
“We don’t have—”
“Go look. Find something.”
“Gladio, our supply is depleted.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but Noctis had already resigned himself to his fate. Nothing would be able to bring him back from this and he was okay with that. It only hurt to watch his friends’ faces fall. To see utter despair cross his sworn Shield’s face, to see the cracks breaking his loyal advisor’s usual composure, to see fresh tears well up in his best friend’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again.
“No, we’re sorry, Noct,” Gladio said, voice thick with restrained emotion. “I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t’ve...”
“It’s okay.” Noctis swallowed against the blood, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. He thought dying would be numbing, but somehow the pain was getting worse. He didn’t want his friends to know. “You did what you had to. I’m just… glad you guys... are okay...”
Gods, he felt like he was slipping, darkness edging closer with every breath. It was seeping into his vision and wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard he blinked. He tried to reach out a hand—the one he had shredded on Gladio’s greatsword—but it only twitched at his side.
“Prom…” he murmured, trying to reach his friend with his voice instead. He couldn’t stand the distance between them; it was making him nervous. He didn’t know how long he had left and he wanted all of them by his side when he went.
When Prompto didn’t move, Ignis turned and gently called his name. Prompto blinked. He looked like he was in shock, eyes wide and face pale. So unlike his usual self. But he stood, and Noctis felt relief flood through his veins, though it quickly turned to pain as he watched his friend stagger, whole body trembling. More than a couple claw marks ran deep across his skin.
Prompto’s knees gave out as he reached Noctis’s side and he collapsed in the bloodstained dirt, limbs heavy. Prompto reached for Noctis’s hand and clutched it tight. Noctis couldn’t feel it but he cherished it anyway.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “All of you… thank you. I…”
He coughed, feeling his heart stutter.
“Noct...” Ignis’s voice was gentle but chiding, though it trailed off as he seemed to reconsider what he had been about to say.
Though it pained him, a half smile crossed Noctis’s lips. He knew that tone. It would be just like Specs to reprimand him on his deathbed, to tell him to stop speaking so he wouldn’t be in pain. Noctis would have teased him for it had he thought he had had enough strength left. As it was, he used his remaining breath on words more important.
“You guys... mean the world to me,” he breathed, every syllable now laced with pain. “It’s been… an honour. I…” He shuddered, feeling something inside him break and fade away. “Thank you…”
The sun broke the horizon, filling the sky with light. He saw tears staining Gladio’s face, saw Ignis bow his head. Then his vision faded out and he heard Prompto break into sobs. He felt a forehead touch his own, felt a splash of a tear against his cheek. And then nothing.
As the sun rose, Noctis Lucis Caelum slipped into eternal night.