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The stabbing pains in his skull and chest were nothing like the sensation of actual wounds in the flesh. Ignis had been clawed at, shot, stabbed, set up on fire, electrocuted, bitten, stabbed at, slashed at, and had faced more then his fair share of physical pain throughout the journey to Altissia. They all paled in comparison too the bruising in his heart.
It had been twelve years since Altissia. Two years since Noctis’ death. Twelve years since he could see. Two years since he had anything worth looking for. Twelve years since the end of joy. Two years since the end of Noctis’ life. His phone kept track of the days for him. Every morning it gave him the date and time. The weather and the walking conditions. Every morning he thought about the way he had once given that information to his liege upon waking the young king every day of their journey.
Prompto had moved to hammerhead a year ago. He would send him post cards – in braille, the occasional text message to inform him of the state of things in the little outpost. It seemed most days the younger man was happy. Ignis wish he did not resent him for that.
Gladiolus had grown distant. They greeted one another in the halls of the, still in-progress of being re-built, citadel. Some nights Gladio would invite himself over to Ignis’ rooms and they would sit in silence. Both with nothing and too much to say. Most of these nights ended with the prior-shield falling asleep drunk on his couch and leaving in the morning after brewing a pot of Ebony for the still in-title, at least, advisor to the Insomnian government.
He did little advising, however. He spent his days writing, only to become frustrated that he could not re-read what he had wrote. Still, it was the only thing he could do to hold himself back from screaming. He knew that once he started, he would not stop – so he assigned himself silence with the exception of the sound of ink on parchment. When he did speak, his voice sounded hoarse, as if the shouts had found a way out.
Cor, on the other-hand, had become talkative. Grief, did the strangest things. Ignis did not think he could ‘grow close’ to people anymore, but Cor had come closest to doing so in the years after the King’s death. Noctis’ Death. Cor rambled, filling up the carefully cultivated silence. Ignis was not sure it was intentional.
The Immortal sounded older than he ever had, he still spoke like the military man he had always been. Firm and terse, but he spoke on topics that covered far more than the ‘guard or the ‘glaive. Strangely, he spoke most about flowers. Always white ones. White in Insomnia, was the color of grief. The older man had started a garden and grew only foxglove, bacopa, and nemesia. He described the garden in great detail, so much that Ignis could almost see it.
Once and only once, Ignis had asked the man why,
“You spend so many hours talking about your garden, one might mistake you for an Amicitia. Why don’t you talk Iris’ ear off about your flowers, she would have more to say about them, I’m certain,”.
“That’s exactly why I don’t. She’d tell me it was morbid, as if I didn’t know,” The Immortal snorted, “You’re good company, Ignis. I think if anyone can appreciate a bouquet of white, it’s you,”.
“In Accordo, white bouquet’s are for marriage, did you know?” Ignis was well aware, that he was. So Cor did not reply.