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"A king is nothing without a kingdom to rule."
Prompto's hand shakes as he grips the pill, afraid to even look at it, as if the toxin might somehow take effect through sight like a basilisk's gaze.
"A rank is meaningless without soldiers to command."
He tries desperately to still his trembling muscles and his terrified mind, both with little success.
"The bonds of loyalty, whether forged in peace or on the battlefield, are what define and shape us. A soldier would not charge into battle without knowing there is a squad at their back."
He allows himself the briefest glance over at Noct. To anybody else, the facade of royal elegance he wears might seem flawless as usual, but Prompto knows better. Small tells—the set of the prince's jaw, the way he keeps shifting his weight—reveal the truth, and Prompto takes some tiny comfort in the fact that his best friend is taking this almost as hard as he is.
"As a member of the Crownsguard and of the Prince's retinue, you will be tasked with defending His Highness' life at all costs, including, if necessary, your own. The blood of the line of Lucis is imbued with magic, granting great power to heal and to wound alike. This power…"
Prompto tunes out Clarus' words. Blah blah blah, epic power, brink of death, yadda yadda. The explanation of how it works doesn't make it any easier to accept the fact that he's about to die. In truth, he'd rather just get it over with, but no, there's tradition to deal with first.
"Prompto Argentum." The sound of his own name startles him out of his reverie. "Are you prepared to follow your prince into battle, to stand by his side, and to fight with him until you breathe your last?"
"Y-yes." His voice comes out barely a whisper; he swallows and tries again. "Yes."
"Do you swear to defend His Highness with your life?"
He's ready this time. "Yes."
"Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. Do you accept Prompto Argentum's oath?"
Noct is the picture of princely composure, at least on the outside. "Yes."
"And do you swear to use the magic in your veins and the sword at your hip to defend him as he has sworn to do for you, and to fight for him as you would any citizen of Lucis?"
The thought that this is uncomfortably like some twisted marriage ceremony chooses this particular moment to jump into Prompto's head, and he barely restrains himself from bursting into laughter at the absurdity of it all. Even so, a hysterical giggle bubbles past his lips; panicked, he glances at Noct, but if the prince noticed the sound, he doesn't show it.
"Prompto Argentum. You are called upon today to prove your loyalty. When you are ready, you may do so."
Prompto finally opens his fist. The pill is still there, in spite of all his hopes that maybe it would somehow vanish and they would have to call it off. The methods have varied over the years, but the spirit of the ceremony has remained the same since time immemorial. Fast-acting poison has been favored for the past century or so; it's quick, bloodless, and conveniently eliminates the question of which poor bastard has to work the guillotine.
He realizes with a jolt that he's been staring at his hand for a good two or three minutes now, and everyone's eyes are fixed on him. It's not like it's a public ceremony—aside from him and Noctis, the only people in the chamber are the king and his Shield—but he still suddenly feels the pressure of three pairs of eyes fixed intently on him.
"Prompto, if you-" Noct starts, but Prompto cuts him off.
"No. No, I have to do this." He wipes away tears he hadn't realized he was crying.
He shuts his eyes, as if not being able to see it coming will somehow make it easier. Suddenly, almost surprising himself, his hand jerks up to his mouth, trying to throw it in and swallow it in one smooth motion. It's tiny, tiny enough to go down without water, but it sticks the first time, and he frantically tries to swallow again. It feels bigger, so much bigger in his mouth than it looked in his hand. Finally it goes down, and for a few frantic heartbeats, he waits, wondering if they got the dose wrong if he didn't swallow it quick enough if the sweat from his hand dissolved part of it if—
—his body is gone, he's gone, and he's falling without moving through an endless void, a terrible blindingly bright blackness and a cold that cuts to the bones he no longer has, and tries to scream, needs to scream his terror and pain and grief but he can't scream, can't open a mouth that isn't there, and a lifetime passes in a second or maybe it's the other way around—
—warmth, blessed warmth, radiates outward from his chest, and his eyes fly open to see Noct holding a burning feather above his heart. He opens his mouth but still nothing comes out, and he panics for a moment, thinking he's still trapped in that awful nightmare, until he realizes there's no air in his lungs and sucks in a breath, hard and sharp and such a relief that it hurts. He tries, yet again, to speak, but this time he's interrupted by his own cries, great hiccuping sobs that probably do a better job of saying what he wants to say than words could anyway. Noct slips his arm around Prompto's back to help him sit up, and before he knows what he's doing Prompto is wrapping his arms around the prince, clinging to him like he's holding on for dear life. Long past the point of shame, he buries his face into Noct's shoulder. The prince—his prince—hugs him back and murmurs into his ear.
"Shhhh. It's okay. You passed. It's over now." Prompto sobs even harder at this, clutching his best friend as tightly as he can. Noct holds him and strokes his hair until the sobs turn to whimpers.
He hears two sets of footsteps—Regis and Clarus—exiting the chamber, swiftly replaced by two other, much more hurried, sets. "Is he gonna be okay?" Gladio asks.
"Yeah, I think he just needs a bit more time. He took it a hell of a lot better than you did."
"Hey, I wasn't that bad! I just yelled a little. I startle easily, okay?"
"As I recall," Ignis interjects, "you spent the five minutes following your resurrection screaming bloody murder until we began to worry something had gone wrong."
Prompto finally looks up, still sniffling. "Did he really?"
"Big time. My dad actually made him sit through a session with one of the Kingsglaive therapists to make sure there was no psychological damage."
"D-does that actually happen?"
"Less than one case in a thousand, as I'm told, and the two or three recorded cases all made full recoveries within a few months. You had nothing to fear," Ignis says matter-of-factly.
"I still don't understand why we have to do this. I don't particularly like having to watch my friends die, either. When I'm king, can I change it so you just, like, cut yourself and then heal it with a potion or something? C'mon, time to go. You can lie down back at my apartment." Noct, now standing, offers a hand to Prompto, who takes it, shaking his head.
"It's probably better this way," he says. "If it gets easier after the first time, I'm glad I got that first time over with here with you guys. Beats doing it out on the battlefield, right?"
"I concur; Gladio's screams would have attracted every daemon within half a mile," Ignis quips, the slightest hint of a smile twisting his lips.
Prompto giggles a bit, still leaning on Noct, as Gladio glares daggers at Ignis. "I think I can walk now. Might still need some more hugs when we get back to your apartment, though."
Noctis smiles warmly at him. "You know, I don't think I ever actually said it, so: congratulations. You're officially a member of my royal protection detail."
Prompto grins weakly as Gladio and Ignis echo the sentiment. "Couldn't have done it without you there."