Chapter Text
i. His Royal Highness Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum (6); Ignis Scientia (8)
It's an overcast morning when Ignis is ushered through the Citadel's imposing foyer. Pale light filters through the towering arched windows, striking the stone columns and casting long shadows that Ignis must pass through, short legs scurrying to keep pace with his uncle. For as long as he can recall, the Citadel has been Uncle Fidelis' workplace so the grandeur is commonplace to Ignis' young eyes. An advantage, he thinks, imagining how the other candidates will balk when they pass the rows of stern Crownsguard or catch their own reflections in the polished slate floors, the stone visages of ancient Lucii bearing down on them with cold judgement.
They take the elevator up, up, and up, further than Ignis has ever been before. The nerves flutter then, but Ignis tries to school his face to calm, just as he's been instructed. Beside him, his uncle is maintaining a relaxed posture. Without a downward glance, Uncle Fidelis says: "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't say more than needs must. And for the love of the Six, please don't talk about yesterday."
Ignis sucks in a breath, lets it out evenly. "Understood."
The throne room, manned by a handful of Kingsglaive who look downright deadly up close, is even more impressive than the foyer. While his uncle handles the initial pleasantries, Ignis quietly catalogues the room's layout and occupants. Clarus Amicitia, Shield of the King, sketches a bow and takes his leave. Towards the far windows stands King Regis, tall and grey. When he notices Ignis, his beard twitches with the hint of a smile. The king murmurs a name, shifting enough to reveal a slight figure behind him, clutching the fabric of his jacket.
That's his cue.
“Ignis Scientia,” he says, inclining his head neither too deep nor too shallow, a perfectly calculated degree of respect despite the butterflies havocking his stomach. He's met countless nobles and important figures of state, each dustier and more disinterested than the last, so he’s good at playing cordial. It’s not even his first time meeting King Regis. Prince Noctis is different though. As a scion of House Scientia, traditional servants of the royal family, Ignis is expected to be friends with the young prince, and the weight of expectation is now making him jittery, thoughts he’d dared not previously entertain now clamouring to the forefront of his mind. What if the prince is rude, arrogant, cruel? How will Ignis carry out his duty if he hates everything about him? That wasn't even taking into consideration yesterday's incident, the evidence of which is writ large on Ignis' face. He resists the urge to touch the ugly bruise and ruin the concealer his aunt slathered over his cheek in an attempt at making him look respectable.
"Noct?" the king beckons.
Ignis spies a mop of dark hair. A moment later, a young boy peeks around the king’s leg. He's smaller than Ignis expected, not a speck of regal glamour about him. King Regis raises his eyebrows at his son then tilts his head in Ignis' direction, a small go ahead gesture that Noctis ignores entirely. To save them all the embarrassment, Ignis thrusts out a hand. “Pleased to make Your Highness’ acquaintance.”
Prince Noctis blinks. (And those eyes. Those eyes.) He hovers behind his father until it becomes apparent Ignis is letting him dictate how this interaction will unfold. Those big blue eyes widen slightly before crinkling in joy, and he clasps Ignis' hand in both of his. The prince’s palms are soft and warm, slightly sticky in the way young children’s are, like he’s been filching sweets from the kitchens or squishing bugs in the Citadel's extensive gardens. “I’m Noct,” he says with unexpected enthusiasm. Then, a vague bashfulness sweeps over his face as if he’s aware that introducing himself is wholly unnecessary.
No ego. A promising start. Ignis refuses to get his hopes up though. Just as well, because Prince Noctis ruins it by going, "Dad says you don't have a mum either."
“I...” Ignis' skin prickles at the memory. Fire rushing along a passenger side window. The searing sensation of superheated metal on skin. He suppresses a shudder.
"Noct," King Regis chides. "That's no way to speak to your new friend."
"It's quite alright," Ignis says valiantly.
Uncle Fidelis clears his throat, a rare nervous tell. He places a hand on Ignis’ shoulder. "There was an accident, Highness. My sister passed away. Ignis lives with me now.”
"Oh." The prince's voice is very small. His eyes flick to Ignis, who finds shared grief in those fathomless blue depths. It's the same look Ignis sees in his own reflection whenever it’s too hard to repress his emotions. Those eyes have no place on a child so young, he thinks.
Uncle Fidelis is saying, "While it's my enduring hope Your Majesty and His Highness find my nephew suitable, it would be remiss of me not to mention that Ignis' record is... less than pristine. Only yesterday, his teachers caught him with a thunderoc. It took two members of staff to pry the creature away."
Ignis touches the tender spot beneath his eye. If King Regis is unimpressed though he shows no sign. "I trust an intelligent boy like yourself had good reason for toying with a wild animal?" His tone is even, his heavy gaze falling on Ignis like a garula wool blanket. Despite the surprisingly gentle appraisal, a cold chill settles in Ignis' stomach. He drops his hand, annoyed that he'd drawn attention to the injury.
"If it please Your Majesty--” His uncle’s hand tightens around his shoulder but Ignis is committed. “--I wasn't... I wasn't toying. It was only a chick that had fallen from its nest." The hapless creature, so far from its natural home near Ravatogh, had been squawking loud enough to bring down the Wall, naked stubby wings flailing, sightless eyes blinking. The pathetic creature had dragged to mind Ignis’ own incompetence back when he’d been sprawled in the dirt beside that road, wreathed in shattered glass, twisted metal and blood. Helpless, just like the poor thunderoc. No way could Ignis have left it there, exposed and alone. "I'd barely picked it up when another student..." Ignis searches for the diplomatic phrase, "...expressed a differing opinion."
“They were scared,” Prince Noctis says.
“Perhaps.” In truth, it was less fear, more jealousy. Bearing the Scientia name had made Ignis a target long before he set foot inside the specialist school generations of his family had graduated from summa cum laude. Coupled with his reserved personality, too easily mistaken for aloofness, and it was small wonder he became most hated on campus.
Prince Noctis is watching him carefully, almost like he can detect the turmoil underlying Ignis’ calm. He steps forward; Ignis straightens instinctively. Curiosity shines in the prince’s eyes but Ignis can hardly tell him about that time he’d opened his lunchbox and copped a faceful of frogs, sending his entire class into hysterics. He’d jolted so badly that his onigiri and seaweed salad went sailing away along with his spectacles.
The prince’s fingertips lightly brush Ignis’ bruise. "Weren't you scared?" Ignis shudders at the weird invasion of personal space. He forces himself to endure it, if only because shrinking from the Prince of Lucis won't earn him any accolades.
"Thunderocs only become dangerous once they've fully developed their rectrices," he says instead. When Noctis' brow furrows, Ignis' voice takes on a lecturing tone. This, he can do. "That is, the barbed feathers comprising their tails. The rectrice is necessary for independent flight, which is how they generate electricity. Such advanced hunting tools don't reach completion until they have flown the coop, so to speak."
The prince stares. Ignis’ face flushes. He says, "What I meant to say is it was a juvenile bird, incapable of surviving on its own. It could hardly hurt me." Young, just like Prince Noctis, whose inquisitiveness will always win against whatever vague concept of boundaries he possesses.
"And yet..." the king waves at Ignis' injury, undoubtedly uncovered by Noctis' persistent ministrations.
"Ah." Ignis adjusts his glasses. "A simple misunderstanding, Majesty."
“It was those kids, wasn’t it?” Prince Noctis says.
Ignis' heart lurches into his throat. Beside him, Uncle Fidelis goes very still. There are multiple ways Ignis could deflect but… Well, if Ignis is going to be Noctis’ advisor, he needs to be honest.
“I only meant to save the bird,” Ignis insists, ignoring his uncle's quiet intake of breath. The tale should come naturally considering he's recited it multiple times to the teaching staff and his family. Still, heat creeps up his neck. Uncle Fidelis pinches the bridge of his nose as if to restrain his rising horror -- this is, after all, the one thing Ignis wasn't meant to detail -- but Ignis is committed now so he barrels ahead bravely. "The other boy threatened to stomp on it so I… er..." It was the boy's lackey, some kid who looked like he was on steroids, who'd delivered the punishing blow to Ignis' face. A single thought had drifted through Ignis' mind as he spiralled down into the dust, the grainy taste of dirt mingling with the metallic tang of blood: It must be nice to have friends.
"You pushed him away," Uncle Fidelis supplies, an understated attempt at mitigating the damage.
"The creature was defenceless."
"So you keep saying."
King Regis strokes his beard, perhaps hiding a smile. He says, "Well, I won't hold that against you." With a pointed glance at Uncle Fidelis: "After all, protective instincts are of the utmost importance for a royal retainer. Wouldn't you agree, Noct?"
"Um, I guess."
"You guess?" the king repeats, and the smile is in his voice now.
Noctis folds his arms. "I get it, the heir of Lucis must be protected, blah blah blah. But if we're gonna be together all the time, isn't it important to make sure we get along?"
"It is,” says the king. “How do you propose we determine that?"
Noctis strokes his chin, an endearing parody of his father that helps settle Ignis nerves. "For starters, does he like fishing? Does he like animals? Is he any good at King's Knight?" Uncle Fidelis coughs delicately into his fist; Noctis turns his blue gaze onto Ignis, lips pressed together in a serious line. "Well, are you? The new raid's impossible by myself."
"Er..." Ignis' tongue feels thick and clumsy. That's it. All his training's amounted to nothing purely because he doesn't engage in normal person recreational activities. King's Knight ? Ignis doesn't even own a video game.
But... but the prince is looking at him so earnestly, gnawing at his top lip, fists clenched by his sides. Held breath and held hope, almost like he wants Ignis to say yes.
So Ignis says, "I can learn."
Noctis smiles, and the sun comes in.
i. Prince Noctis (7); Iggy (8)
Ignis raps on Prince Noctis' door, a bag of freshly assembled bento boxes in hand. The Crownsguard on duty leans down to sniff at the teriyaki chicken and makes an appreciative groan when the astringent yet sweet aroma of charred meat hits her nostrils. Ignis' mouth quirks a little. He'd never considered food as a bribery tactic. He makes a mental note to glean some cooking tips from the kitchen staff. If nothing else, practising his culinary skills should act as a nice supplement to that extra class he's just enrolled in, the one that had made Clarus Amicitia's eyebrows nearly shoot clean off his face when Ignis had expressed interest. Apparently, most eight-year-olds aren't cut out for curriculum like Poisons, Toxins and Controlled Substances.
"Your Highness? Noctis? I've brought lunch."
Silence. Well, it is Saturday. Noctis is likely preoccupied with building low-resolution chunky moogles or something. "No vegetables," Ignis adds, eliciting a snort from the Crownsguard. It isn't entirely true -- there's a side salad, and the gyoza probably contain cabbage -- but Ignis is still trying to work out what he can get away with. Who would've thought ensure the prince maintains a balanced diet would be top of a royal advisor's to-do?
"J-Just a second!"
The just-a-seconds tick by. Ignis fiddles with his security card, debating whether or not to swipe in. Best be accommodating for his new boss though. Muffled thuds and exasperated grumbles filter through the heavy golden door. "It's getting cold," Ignis tries, picturing a dishevelled prince hurrying to make himself presentable. He'd wager his freshly pressed royal blacks that Noctis was still in his pyjamas. "Surely you can pause your Minercrafter and come eat?"
The Crownsguard offers a sympathetic smile. "Good luck with that one," she tells him. "Bahamut himself couldn't drag him away from a video game coma." She glances hopefully at the bag. "But hey, if there're no takers, I'll be happy to take that off your hands."
A small eternity later, a ruffle-haired Noctis in mismatched clothes appears at the threshold to usher Ignis inside, sparing a wary glance at the Crownsguard before slamming the door in her face. "It's Minecraft, geez," he says, leaning back against the door with a shaky sigh. Ignis glances at the TV, which displays PAUSE over some atrociously coloured 2D affair, and barely stops himself from shaking his head. He swears Noctis visibly pales when he follows Ignis' line of sight. "You're early," Noctis says, inching between Ignis and the TV as if it's going to help cover the fact that he is not, in fact, playing Minecraft.
"You missed breakfast." And hadn't that been fun, a cordial interrogation by the King of Lucis over eggs over easy chased by cup after cup of nervously consumed coffee. Either Noctis and Regis had coordinated to catch Ignis unawares or sitting on a couch staring at a screen was higher on the prince’s priorities. Ignis tries not to let his annoyance show as he sets down the bento box on the dining table and absorbs the state of Noctis’ chambers. It's only been a day since housekeeping. Still, it looks like a washing machine's thrown up on half the couch (mostly heavy woollens and thick socks, all totally weather-inappropriate). On the fringe of this disaster zone sits a poorly concealed cardboard box filled with pom-poms, feathers and other assorted odds and ends, probably liberated from a school's art supply cupboard. The mess, so mundane and typical of a young child, juxtaposed with the ornate sculptures and delicate watercolour paintings decorating the room... Well, it makes for a jarring tableau.
The distinct click of the door's manual lock being engaged doesn't escape Ignis' notice. He wonders why Noctis is barricading him in this chaos.
"Slept in." Noctis’ face pops into Ignis' vision again. "Is that teriyaki?"
"Indeed." Ignis moves to the kitchenette to retrieve placemats and cutlery. "One of your favourites, according to the chefs. Would you mind fetching something to drink while you're there?" he adds, and Noctis jerks up from the fridge where he'd been returning a milk carton that's probably been at room temperature since breakfast. Ignis makes a mental note to discard it before he leaves.
Soon they're settled at the table popping the lids on their meals. The salty-sweet aroma fills the room along with the astringent bite of charcoal. Noctis pokes at his side salad, gaze roaming. "So, you got stuff to do today?"
The forced casual tone piques Ignis' suspicion. What is going on with Noctis today? "Even I have time off, Highness. I thought we might spend the afternoon together. Do try to eat something."
Noctis shoves some rice in his mouth. "'ve go' 'omework," he says.
"I see." Ignis says, trying not to feel morally offended by the mashed starchy granules behind Noctis’ teeth. "Your tutor didn't go through it yesterday?"
A slight pinkness suffuses Noctis’ cheeks. He hides behind his cup as he drains his orange juice. "Not all of it."
"I see," Ignis says again. He hadn't meant to offend. Besides, he's seen Noctis’ grades. Noctis is easily top of his class so Ignis isn't sure what there is to be embarrassed about. "Well, if you like, we can finish it together then perhaps take a stroll through the gardens?" Noctis blanches; Ignis hurries to explain. "You've been spending a lot of time there lately so I assumed... Of course, if there's something else..."
A high-pitched meep emanates from across the room. Brows furrowing, Ignis glances over.
Noctis slams down his glass; their lunch dishes clang noisily. "You know," the prince says emphatically, ignoring the way Ignis practically jumps out of his skin, "I just remembered it's not due until end of next week." He leaps up, chair teetering dangerously, and tugs Ignis' hand, dragging him to the front door. "You wait out here while I get my coat and--"
"Noctis, wait--" Something soft nudges Ignis' ankle. What on Eos...?
Large blue eyes peer up at Ignis, bright hope in a grey-and-white furred face. "A kitten?" Ignis blurts.
"Mew!" the kitten agrees.
The clothes, the milk, Noctis’ frazzled demeanour... It all slips into place. Ignis stares down at the tiny creature, which affectionately headbutts his ankle. Noctis has already been called out for repeatedly ignoring the Citadel's No Animals policy. This time, Ignis can’t imagine he’ll escape with anything less than a grounding.
"Crap," says Noctis. He flushes bright red. "I mean, crap, where did that come from?" He scoops the kitten up; it nuzzles into the crook of his neck, fluffy grey fur mingling with Noctis' uncombed hair, pint-sized paws flexing against the thin material of his t-shirt. Noctis winces a little but doesn't recoil. Despite the precarious circumstances, Ignis can’t help but smile.
"I take it this is why you've been wandering the gardens every other day?" he says.
Noctis buries his nose in the kitten's ashy fur and mumbles something. When he glances up it’s with the most pleading light in his eyes. “I found her after school one day. Her mama…” Soft as new sunrays, he whispers, “She’s all alone."
Ignis assesses the small smudge of a cat. It's against the rules, yes, but there's no harm in showing the poor thing some affection. Besides, his allegiance is to Noctis. If the prince wants it, Ignis supposes he should accommodate. Slowly, he reaches out. The kitten's ears twitch forwards as she sniffs Ignis' fingers, little nostrils flaring before she gives Ignis another head bump.
"Her name's Mog," Noctis says, smiling as Ignis scratches under her chin. The resounding purr is loud enough to wake Noctis even in his deepest slumber. "Huh. It took me a whole week of bringing her food before she'd let me do that."
"My mother loved cats. She used to feed the neighbourhood strays..." Before. Ignis quickly re-focuses his attention on Mog.
Noctis hops from one foot to the other. "You're not gonna tell, are you?" He doesn’t say please. Ignis supposes it wouldn’t be proper anyway.
Ignis knows he should but he’s powerless against the pincer attack of Mog’s cuteness and Noctis’ desperation. "Don't worry. I'm good at keeping secrets," Ignis promises. He’s also skilled at hiding things. Bad days at the academy have cultivated Ignis' knack for finding hidden vaults and secret nooks, for seeing more where others see nothing.
“Thanks, Iggy.”
Ignis tries to ignore the warm, fluttering feeling in his chest that the nickname brings. "But her diet needs to be overhauled. Cats are lactose intolerant so we must find an animal-specific brand of milk. We don't want her getting sick. Also, she'll need to be immunised and wormed, and it's important to trim an indoor cat's claws, so..."
Despite their best precautions (including copious amounts of sticky rollers to keep Noctis’ belongings fur-free), their efforts are futile. When a playful Mog stealth swipes an unwitting maid from beneath the bed, the maid’s ensuing scream sends Noctis tossing his controller into the air. Ten minutes later, Ignis and Noctis are dragged into the main audience chamber where they’re met with twin stern gazes from King Regis and Clarus Amicitia.
“Nice knowing you,” Noctis whispers out the side of his mouth.
“Does Your Highness find this amusing?” Clarus snaps. Noctis winces. Nobody else can weaponize their voice quite like Clarus.
Seated high on the throne, King Regis looks every bit the imposing judge. “Rules are rules, Noctis. What right has a king to demand obedience of his subjects if he can’t even follow a simple policy?”
Noctis’ face falls. “I know...”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve flaunted Citadel policy. You knew the consequences,” Clarus says.
“I know...”
The king’s entire body moves like he’s sighing. There’s nothing soft in his voice when he says, “I’m sorry, son, but you leave me no choice. A suitable punishment must be enforced.”
“...” Noctis’ entire body wilts under his father’s palpable disappointment. Through great effort, he manages to croak out, “What’re you gonna do with her?”
And it’s this -- the fact that Noctis is more concerned about the cat’s welfare than his own -- that compels Ignis to speak.
"With all due respect," Ignis interjects. Clarus' mouth snaps shut, lecture aborted as surprise flicks across his face. From the throne, King Regis leans forward. Ignis takes a deep breath. "I believe there's been a mistake. The kitten was mine. I thought it would be a therapeutic tool for His Highness.”
“Oh?” says the king.
Ignis clears his throat. This part, he’s rehearsed. “Cats are known to reduce the risk of heart attack. Their purring can aid in the recovery of sore muscles and bones. They provide emotional comfort and teach responsibility. Also, they can help regulate sleep. Er, not that His Highness needs help on that particular front.”
“So you believe the judgement of a mere boy is superior to longstanding legislation?”
Ignis bows. “I leave that to Your Majesty’s discretion.”
There’s a sharp intake of air from Clarus, probably winding up for a blistering scolding, but he’s cut off by a bark of laughter from King Regis. Fists balled at his sides, Noctis glances from one to the other, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries to track where this conversation is heading. The hint of a smile ghosts over Clarus’ mouth. “Looks like you’ve picked a clever one, Reg.”
“We can thank my son for that too. Well, Noctis? Do you corroborate your advisor’s story?”
Ignis locks gazes with Noctis, gives an almost imperceptible nod. Noctis’ eyes dart from Ignis to Clarus. Finally, he reaches the king. Whatever he sees there chases away his fear. “It was my idea,” Noctis says.
King Regis sighs. “What am I going to do with you boys?”
“Let us off the hook?” Noctis suggests hopefully.
The king cracks a smile. “I think not. No, for something like this, only a life sentence will suffice. Your punishment...” He strokes his beard. “Your punishment is to care for your cat until such time that it no longer needs care.”
Clarus heaves a put-upon sigh. Ignis and Noctis exchange a glance. A slow smile grows on the prince’s face; Ignis feels a reciprocal grin forming on his own.
“And broccoli for a month.”
“Aww, Dad!”
iii. Noct (8); Ignis (10)
He's filing into an exam when he gets the text: Royal motorcade accident. Numerous casualties. Noct okay.
The words run together, a stream of nonsensical words that twists Ignis' stomach inside-out. He counts backwards from twenty then re-reads it.
Noct was in an accident.
Noct was in an accident and people were injured.
Noct was in an accident and people were injured and Ignis wasn’t there.
Bile burns the back of his throat. Brutally, Ignis quashes the urge to dump everything and run to his best friend's side. Those last two words -- Noct okay -- act as his lifeline as he slides into his allocated seat while the examiners bark instructions he doesn't hear. Can’t do anything about it now, he reasons, trying not to imagine a bloodied Noct sprawled out on some unfamiliar tarmac attended by a court of glass shards and metallic refuse. Just like her. Ignis can't remember much of his mother but he can recall the crash with painful clarity. Limbs akimbo, unseeing eyes. The family car burning, burning, burning. Was Noct burning too?
Don't.
He sets out his pens and pencils and calculator as the stench of disinfectant, a poor mask for the miasma of wrongness that permeates hospitals, now invades his nostrils. The student sitting in front of him begins nervously tapping her grey lead at the exact cadence of a heart-rate monitor. Was Noct in hospital now? Were they pumping him full of drugs that were meant to fend off infection and make his brain work?
Don't.
Ignis grits his teeth, flips open the paper when the examiners give the go-ahead. Organic chemistry is fairly rudimentary, Ignis the envy of his non-genius classmates because he's usually a master at mapping benzene rings and alkyl groups, and what did “okay” mean anyway? Did okay mean unscathed, or did it imply some degree of injury? Eyes tripping over the problems, feeling like he's going to regurgitate his breakfast all over his stoichiometry, Ignis scribbles nonsense for answers. Before he’s even out of the hall he’s hitting call.
Uncle Fidelis' voice, tinny through the receiver, sounds steady as always. “A daemon of some description. The details are hazy. I know text wasn’t ideal but I wanted you to hear it from me first rather than some news outlet.”
Ignis exhales, a slow and shaky breath that does nothing for the nausea. “That would have been terrible, yes. It's good to know he's okay. I appreciate your candor, Uncle.” He puts enough edge into the last that he might as well be saying I'll never forgive you if you're hiding anything.
Uncle Fidelis clears his throat. Then, "Perhaps I haven't been entirely forthcoming. Prince Noctis is okay but... Well, it's best explained in person."
Ignis' feet grind to a halt. He lowers the phone, closes his eyes. Swallows. A tide of students, all older and bigger than him, streams from the hall. Ignis remains motionless, buffeted by his classmates, countless catastrophes swirling through his mind. He feels his eyes turn glassy, the hall fading out of sight, flickering like the television when Noct's retro video games skip.
"--nis? Ignis?"
Ignis pinches his tear ducts. "I'm here." Wouldn't do to break down, not now. He's already lived the reality of being unable to help somebody he loves. Hold it together, Scientia, he thinks, fending off panic with the knowledge that he comes from a long line of capable individuals. If he leaves now he can be at the Insomnian Royal by six.
Uncle Fidelis continues as if Ignis' entire world isn't rupturing. "I said His Majesty used magic to heal the immediate damage but Prince Noctis has fallen into a coma. He's in Saint Ajora's near the border. Once he's awake, I imagine they'll move him to Tenebrae proper. Nobody is better at healing than the Oracle, after all." Another pause. "Are you okay, Ignis?"
"Sorry. Yes, I'm fine." Tenebrae is further than Ignis had anticipated but he has enough money to get there. Of course, he'll have to stop by Noct's rooms and piece together a care package (cat paw print pyjamas; that Altissian soap he likes that’s only stocked by one place in the entire city; the homework his teacher emailed, just in case...)
His uncle's voice cuts into his ruminations. “Shall I stop by tonight? We can go to that dumpling house near the library.”
Even the idea of tomalley-filled dumplings makes Ignis' stomach roil. “I'll have to pass. I still have a thermodynamics exam tomorrow."
"Very well. Call me if you need any help." It's a clumsy way to indicate he's there for him but Ignis appreciates it all the same. "And Ignis. Don't do anything rash."
Uncle Fidelis is right. There's nothing to be gained by Ignis racing across half the continent with his bag of practicals, things Noct won't even be able to see. Besides, the Wall is probably restricted access now. In all likelihood, nobody is going in or out. "I won't."
He kills the call. He stares at his phone for a few seconds. There’s always the slight possibility the Wall won’t be locked down for Noctis’ advisor.
He dials again.
"Hello, I need a taxi. The address is..."
The journey passes in a blur. Ignis isn’t properly thinking when he asks the driver to wait while he gathers Noct's belongings, mind stuck in a purgatory of the rush of fire along passenger side windows, the stink of petrol fumes. The helpless wails of a child versus the terrible silence where a heartbeat should be. The huge bruise stretching from shoulder to waist where the seatbelt crushed into him, which lasts for a good month and turns buttoning the suit he wore to the funeral into an impossible task.
His vision's misty when he bolts from Noct's bedroom and collides with Uncle Fidelis. Noct's things go flying, hitting the ground with an ugly thud. Ignis, breaths coming in great gasps like he's run up the stairs from the basement to the throne room, barely registers the carnage.
"It's okay," his uncle says. He pats Ignis, a little awkwardly, and it's this display of sympathy that makes something in Ignis crumble, mind degenerating into a cacophony of squealing metal. “He’ll be okay.”
Ignis doesn’t want to think about it. If nothing else, the reflexive reaction is confirmation of how in the span of a few short years, Noctis has become the most important person in Ignis’ life. The thought of failing somebody he loves again, in the exact same circumstances…
Why has he worked so hard at knowledge acquisition if it can all be undone in a heartbeat?
Ignis cries into his uncle’s perfectly ironed shirt. In his mind, he can’t help calculating all the ways the situation could have been avoided. Maybe things would have been different if the motorcade had taken a back road or noticed the black pit opening up before it was too late, if they hadn’t stuck under the speed limit, if the driver had swerved earlier. And maybe it’s arrogant, but the thought rattles around Ignis’ mind with the persistence of a voretooth that’s hooked its prey: Perhaps even my presence could have somehow helped him.
Ignis spends the entire night Moogling minimum driving age in Lucis and watching videos on defensive driving techniques.
iv . Noct (8); Ignis (10)
Two things happen after the attack on Tenebrae. One: Noct refuses to eat. Two: Ignis starts cooking for him on a regular basis. (Who would've imagined that course regarding how to conceal poisons would translate into how to hide vegetables?)
Until now, Ignis had always suspected Noct could get along well enough without him. After the fourth consecutive night of Noct plagued by horrific dreams, home remedies all exhausted, King Regis asks for Ignis’ help.
Ignis finds his best friend tucked up in bed, curled around Mog like a lifesaver while he strokes her smoky hair as if through great effort. Ignis slips in beside him, zero care for crumpling his business attire, and gives over to running warm hands through his hair, gently unsnarling each knot, wishing it was as easy to untangle Noct's grief. He finds new use for those lessons on maintaining an even tone and restraining his emotions, utilising soothing words and soft gestures, the same sort he'd use for coaxing a wounded animal out of a dangerous spot. Nobody else can fill the pained fractures in Noct's heart, and Ignis can’t help but take pride in knowing that at a time when Noct doesn't want anybody else, Ignis is the exception.
Disgusting, he thinks. He leaves as soon as Noct's breathing evens out.
Night seven. If not for the surrounding tragedy, Ignis would think it's almost perfection, lying there with the prince curled against his side, head buried in the crook of Ignis' arm, Mog stretched above their heads like a personal pillow. Staring up at the lightless ceiling, Ignis' mind drifts. Words like symbiosis and mutualism intersect with the concept of needing and being needed, the visceral rush he gets whenever he fulfils Noct's needs. What he's doing goes beyond simple service. Half-asleep, defences down, Ignis reaches the logical conclusion: it's not just the feeling of being useful that he craves so much. It's the feeling of being useful to Noctis.
“I should have been there,” he whispers into the dark.
Noct takes a shuddering breath -- Ignis startles; he'd thought the prince was sleeping -- and lets it out in jagged slivers “Not like you could’ve done anything." Noct’s voice is fragile as starlight. Mog meows piteously. "They probably would’ve,” he swallows, hands tightening in Ignis' shirtfront, “would’ve got you too.” He dissolves into quiet sobs, each one sending an answering ache through Ignis’ entire heart.
Ignis wonders how much worse it is to see actual people bleed out before your eyes, how it compares to watching your father switch off your mother’s life support. He thinks about irreversible situations and the cold neglect of Astrals, how prayers are nothing but pretty words. All the strength in the world couldn't have saved Ignis' mother but it wasn't a dangerous corner and bad weather that killed those Tenebraeans. He gathers his best friend into his arms and begins rubbing slow circles on his back, avoiding the slow-healing slash from shoulder to waist.
Noct chokes out, "Stay. Please."
Ignis utters the only word he possibly could.
The following day, he visits Marshal Leonis and asks about the Crownsguard.