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He finds Ignis in the cold clamor of Zegnautus Keep, lips blue and body shaking, scorched from head to toe. Ash brushes away on his fingertips when he moves Ignis’s heavy limbs. It’s Noctis’s fault that things got this way, even if he doesn’t understand how yet. There’s no time. He slides on the ash-dusted ring, wincing as pain flares from each and every bone, a knife slid into each joint. The Crystal gleams ahead of them, and this time it seems like a challenge.
No, you listen to me.
He makes his demands, the weight of Ignis in his arms a reminder of what he can’t afford to lose. Whatever the magic does to him, it will hurt a thousand times less than losing someone else precious. In answer to his pleas, a second world overlays his vision, shimmering in shades of blue.
“Why have you done this?”
Among the gathered figures, a woman’s voice speaks, severe.
“Magic exacts its toll on flesh, regardless of the wielder. For we of the royal line, the balance shall be levelled by a great sacrifice. But those outside the line of Kings pay a further price, be they judged worthy.”
Noctis’s temper flares.
“I don’t care! Take it back!”
“A deal was made, and not with thee.” A man spoke this time, pious. “Thy powers extend not to restoring him.”
There’s no time for diplomacy. “You need me,” Noctis says, and a murmur passes through the assembly. “You need me to cast out the darkness, or whatever it is, and this is what I’m asking in return. Give him back.”
There are further dark mutterings until one figure raises a hand. His face is masked, but his voice, though echoing and distorted, is familiar.
“If I may. There is precedent for this situation. When the life of the King was in danger, his queen did wear the Ring and survive without harm.”
“Aye, a Lucis Caelum not by blood, but by marriage. The precedent does not apply.”
Noctis’s heart sinks, but the familiar voice speaks again.
“And should this young man be the new King’s consort? May we not rescind the price he has paid as an outsider?”
“If it were so.” A tall figure speaks.
“And is it?” The question is directed at Noctis, and even in the grip of panic, he can sense the opportunity being thrown his way. Some part of him thinks of Luna, sorrowfully, guiltily, with the weight of a broken promise, but there’s nothing he can do for her now. In this moment, Ignis might still be saved. And so in the moment, he commits.
“Yes! He’s— He— If it’ll save him, he’s whatever you need. Just— please.”
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself against Ignis’s weight, which grows colder by the second.
“He’s everything. I do.”
A broad shouldered figure gives a nod of the head, and the rest follow suit. The owner of the familiar voice is the last to bow, winking out just a moment later than the others. In Noctis’s arms, Ignis begins to stir.
Thank you, Dad.
Noctis almost doubles over, terror and anguish and relief spinning a maelstrom within his chest and pricking at the corners of his eyes. Something— a wellspring— opens up inside him and begins to pour forth. The double vision has receded and he looks at Ignis with unclouded vision. Slowly, the scorched wounds fade from his body and the color returns to his skin. He opens his eyes, hesitant, as if he’s never seen before.
Noctis knows what has to happen next. The Crystal beckons, calls to him. He has to go through with his end of the deal. He gives Ignis’s hand one last squeeze before entrusting him to Gladio, then warps to the Crystal. The longer he hesitates, the harder this will be. But he can’t resist looking back at his friends, just long enough for Ignis to give him a quiet nod. He turns his back, places a hand on the Crystal.
I’m here.
Talcott tells him ten years have passed. It’s both easy to see and unbelievable, looking at the wreckage of the world. The skies churn with endless night. Noctis needs to know what has happened to the others, but of Ignis, all Talcott will say is, “He wants to tell you himself.”
Noctis reaches out. In the void of the Crystal, his very self had unraveled and frayed across time, yet one thread always remained. When he had seized it, there was something undeniable, a presence like the lingering scent of coffee and clean clothing, the brush of fingertips clad in leather gloves, the voice of someone searching in hope and grief, the word, “Noct?”
He’s surprised to find that the thread remains, even here, after all this time. Someone pulls on the other end, drawing him in, calling him home.
The battle against Ardyn is long and hard, with the four of them and Ravus fighting side-by-side. He understands from what the Crystal has shown him. Ardyn is the nexus of darkness, the cancer that must be excised if the Star is to recover. In his ardor to become a match for the King of Kings, he has performed his role well, gathering the sickness into a single wellspring.
Cutting that off without calling upon the full Light of the Crystal and his ancestors is a challenge indeed. But Ignis’s plan succeeds, drawing upon Insomnian magic and Niflheim technology and Solheimian knowledge and Gods-know-what-else. At length, Ardyn reforms in a frailer and frailer state until the last of him vanishes like dust on the wind. There is a sigh, like dry leaves, and the battle ends. Noctis slumps to his knees, his skin marbled with veins of ember and lines of ash left by the Ring. Gladio, Prompto and Ignis, barely steadier on their feet than he is, haul him into the royal chambers. Tangled on an abandoned and filthy king-sized bed, they fall asleep.
It’s a strange morning, or perhaps afternoon, when they wake. The first thing they do is attempt to clean themselves, then they set about making the rooms livable. Yesterday, Noctis was locked in mortal combat with his ancient and cursed ancestor, today he sweeps floors and does laundry. When it’s time for bed again, Gladio and Prompto retire to separate rooms. But when Ignis turns to leave, a sound escapes Noctis’s throat.
He’s been alone for ten years. The thought of a silent room, of not having someone close enough to touch, is unbearable. Ignis turns back, pulled by that thread, understanding without words. The bed is easily big enough for both of them, but if he needed to, he could reach out and take Ignis’s hand. It’s enough.
Somehow, Ignis never moves out.
Three years have passed since Noctis didn’t die, and he senses that Ignis is approaching the throne room. Ignis gives the precise bow of a royal advisor, something that makes Noctis a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to be high above Ignis. They should be at eye-level, brothers in arms, lifelong friends, together as—. No. He won’t ask. There are precious few life choices Ignis has made without the unspoken pressure that is Noctis’s whole existence, and Noctis is loath to take yet another away from him. He descends from the throne to speak to Ignis eye-to-eye.
Ignis reports on the reconstruction of Insomnia, which districts are nearly fully restored, which are in progress, and which have been demolished for forests and parkland. His eyes glimmer with pride. But then he digresses from the topic, in a manner uncharacteristically awkward of him.
“You must know that the people wish for your happiness, and, erm, I was wondering if you had given any thought to the matter of future— hm... Companionship. If you wish to search for a prospective—”
“I can’t get married,” Noctis blurts, surprising even himself. Ignis’s expression immediately turns sorrowful.
“Of course,” he says softly, “I understand how important Lady Lunafreya was to you— how important she must remain, and I apologise if—”
“It’s not about Luna. Well, not entirely,” Noctis admits. Ignis raises his eyebrows slightly, but leaves the silence for Noctis to fill.
“I—” Gods, how does he explain this. “When I entered the Crystal— no, before that. When I asked the Crystal to heal you…”
Ignis’s gaze is intense, moreso now that he doesn’t wear glasses. One eye remains slightly clouded, an icier shade of green. Noct has seen the silver traces of scars across his body when he dresses in the morning.
“You never did tell me just what happened that day,” Ignis says quietly. “Of course, I’m grateful for whatever divine strings you pulled. But—”
“They wouldn’t do it," Noctis admits. “But I argued and argued and there was one way. One loophole in the rules. Magic hurts everybody, but we don’t all pay the same price. And my family— we’re pretty much one big IOU in exchange for vanquishing the darkness. So we don’t have to pay—”
With our eyes, our senses, our entire bodies.
“— like you did,” he manages.
“Then how did I—?” Ignis’s curiosity is laser-focused, channeled in shades of green. Noctis reaches down to take his hand, fingertips enclosing the Ring shaped band of scars. Ignis’s gaze follows, confounded.
“I— uh. I made you one. A Lucis Caelum. That’s the loophole— it was the only way—” Ignis’s mouth is hanging open, his expression unreadable apart from shock “— as far as the Crystal is concerned, we’re— We’re married. And I won’t make you— You don’t have to. But I can’t marry anyone else.”
Ignis is quiet for a very long time, his brow furrowed as though puzzling deeply. The hall shifts around them as the building settles in the afternoon heat. There’s a rusted creak somewhere beyond the window, a crow perhaps. Noctis wishes the ceiling would come crashing in.
When it fails to do so, he finds his voice.
“Ignis, what are you thinking? You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Ah.” It’s the sound Ignis makes when his thoughts are disturbed, while he is sunk deep in planning or consideration. It takes another moment before he looks up, and his words are slow and measured.
“Oh Noct. You saved my life, and even if I didn’t— I could never be angry for that.”
He pauses, inclines his head,
“I am thinking that I would rather like to kiss my husband of a decade and then some.”
A smile curls at the edge of his lips. Noctis’s own mouth immediately goes dry, but he manages to croak out,
“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
Ignis kisses like a force of nature, slow and deep like a river wearing down its path, shaping Noctis into something his. They fit together seamlessly and only part for air. Noctis sends his affection, unrestrained, down the line between them, and endless warmth floods back.
He takes Ignis’s hands in his own and nuzzles his face into Ignis’s collarbone. Ignis lowers his chin to rest on Noctis’s head, slipping a hand free to brush Noctis’s hair. The vibration of a laugh rumbles through his chest. When Noctis looks up, his expression is stern, except for the irrepressible softness in his gaze.
“And also, kindly tell me next time we get married.”