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Chapter Text

Even the unremitting night can't cool the climb up the Rock of Ravatogh. Whenever Gladio closes his eyes to wipe the sweat from them, he can imagine he's taking the stairs two at a time in Lestallum or trudging up the beach at Galdin, just for a second or two. With his eyes closed, the sting in his throat from the ash is just the city air or the saltwater. But he's gotta keep his eyes forward.

Ahead of Gladio, Sania is walking between the two glaives who volunteered to escort them up Ravatogh, Tobul and Luca. Gladio has met few glaives who didn't wait to speak until they were spoken to, and these two were no exception before they got here. Seeing them both cross-talking with the doctor is almost - cathartic, in a way that Gladio can't quite put a finger on.

"The real question is how their diets have changed with the climate," Sania is saying. The climb hasn't dampened her spirits at all. "Zu have a diverse palate, but voracity is required once they reach a certain size. Under normal circumstances, they have a wide feeding territory - by some accounts, as far afield as the mountains in Succarpe."

"I heard they roost somewhere in the Cygillan come wintertime," Tobul says. His hand has hovered at Sania's elbow the entire time they've been navigating this stretch of the slope, something Gladio first noted with approval.

"I've heard similarly. It's a shame more research wasn't done before it was too late. But, oh, they would've said there wasn't the time nor the resources. Many magnificent creatures in our world remain shrouded in mystery for want of those things. Even now, we pursue knowledge out of self-interest." Condemnation that it is, Sania says it in the same matter-of-fact way that she approaches everything else, be it mundane or scientific. Even her proposal for this expedition - dangers included - was presented pragmatically.

Luca laughs, one short syllable. "It's hard to call it self-interest when you're out here looking for answers for some very ill people, doc."

"That's exactly why it's self-interest!" Sania goes on in the same tone as before. "We are a collective human species, scrabbling around in the dark the best way we know how, and here we are, walking into another creature's nest. Back when there was a time of day to give, we didn't care what we might find here. Self-interest includes our good intentions."

Luca pauses to look over their shoulder at Tobul, who shrugs.

Gladio bites back a grin when he says, "Let's hope the self-interest pays off for all of us, zu included. Look out when the slope ends," he adds. "The path curves to the left, but there's a drop right ahead."

There is a quiet moment as they carefully file off of the silt slope and onto the most horizontal rock they've come across in the last half hour. In unspoken consensus, everyone stops for a breather.

Sania takes her water bottle out of her bag and continues, "I'm particularly looking forward to seeing the impact on shell hardness. There have been no reliable reports of new hatchings, but, if we're lucky, we may find some shards discarded from clutches that predate the Long Night. Future expeditions may be able to uncover contemporary samples for comparison."

"Any theories on where they get their calcium?" Gladio asks now that Sania has circled back around to the object of their expedition.

"A few. But what isn't a theory is their fondness for Gigantoads like the ones in Leide! The toads spend much of their time underground, and that gives them access to all kinds of minerals that allow them to build up their large tusks. I wouldn't assume a toad-based diet can entirely cover the calcium needs of a zu, but it could be a substantial contributor. While it can't be ruled out, zu aren't known to graze on plants like Cockatrice, who, as you know, jealously guard the leftover egg shells for themselves."

Luca says something then that causes Tobul to chime in. For the first time since he started on this journey with the three of them, Gladio lets his focus blur at the edges. Their triad voices fade into a pleasant and distant backdrop as he turns from the mountain and looks out at the world beyond and below.

There isn't much to see. Just like everywhere else, visibility has been cut down to a persistent nothing.

Gladio volunteered to act as a guide on this expedition because he'd been up and down Ravatogh a handful of times, something he was surprised to learn few others had done. Of those able and available in Lestallum at the time, Gladio was the only one who knew the path well enough to navigate it in the dark. It would've been nice to make the return trip with Iggy and Prompto.

Once, they'd made it up to the lava fields in time to see the moon come up and hang in the sky just ahead of them, beyond the smoke and heat mirage and no closer at the top of the mountain than at the bottom. It made Gladio feel wonderfully small. Back then, they could make an early morning start up the mountain and step out onto this same east-facing ledge just as the evening light turned to gold. All of Lucis, everything they'd seen so far, laid out in gilded blue and green and hazy with distance. That was Gladio's favorite time to be on Ravatogh: he's never been to the moon, but he has been to that place that was once blue and green and perfectly gold.

The Lucis that stretches away from the mountain now is dimmer than the memory of those days. It's like a dream that Gladio is waiting to wake up from. He doesn't feel anything when he looks out over the grey landscape. There's nothing left to feel about it.

When he looks out of the corner of his eye at Sania, she is frowning towards the skyline.

"What's up?" Gladio asks.

"The air is oddly clear up here, the ash notwithstanding. You can see the miasmal falloff."

Gladio looks toward where she's pointing, unsure of what exactly he is looking for. The sky around them seems just as greenish and fuzzy as it is elsewhere. He sweeps the horizon a couple of times, but it's hard to pick out landmarks through the gloom. Instead of straining to find them, Gladio looks up and brings his eyes slowly down. Maybe Sania's onto something: he can just make out the altitude where the darkness appears to deepen before thinning, like a fog hanging lazily around the mountain. Gladio stares straight up, trying to decide if the darkness is thinner there. He doesn't even know what time it is.

"Would explain the lack of daemons," Gladio says finally.

"Yes, it would. But the explanation for the phenomenon is equally lacking. Interesting! I wonder if it's the same elsewhere at this altitude, or if the area extends only around the mountain."

"You could ask the commodore to take you up sometime." At that suggestion from Luca, Gladio looks over his shoulder at them. Tobul is wearing a matching smile. A pair of aerial aces; figures they'd be fans of Aranea.

And, judging by Sania's openly thoughtful look when she hums in response, she must be, too. Or maybe an airship ride for science was not something she's considered before.

"Alright, daydreamers." Gladio stretches his shoulders. "Let's get a move on."

With the silt slope behind them, Gladio takes point. They have yet to run into Ravatogh's usual fare of beasties – something Sania attributed to the so-called "change in the weather" – but Gladio isn't about to let his guard down now. Not when they've got a zu nest ahead of them.

It's still an upward climb from here, a climb spent staring down at the spot where his foot is going next. But soon enough that spot darkens as it's overtaken by long-dried lava. Ahead is the unmistakable heat and light of Ravatogh burning unchanged in the darkness.

"Careful," Gladio says over his shoulder. For posterity, since everyone behind him can easily see the lava fields winking their warnings. The group takes the long way around. Again, no creatures stand guard along this cooler edge, something Gladio would count as lucky in any other circumstance. Fighting a dozen Saphyrtails was what he'd been prepared for. Their absence was not. If lack of resources is the cause, their quest for the zu's livelihood seems suddenly grim to Gladio.

He takes them past the glowing basalt banks to the sheer, multi-tiered cliff that stands between them and the nest of the zu. Even before he turns, he can hear Tobul summoning his lance.

"We'll try climbing this first one," Gladio says. He cocks an eyebrow at Sania. "Think you can handle it, doc?"

"Oh, I think I can handle them both just fine," she replies, and Gladio can see Tobul and Luca cover laughs out of the corner of his eye. Gladio gestures for Sania to go first. Pack and all, she goes to the cliff face and finds her handholds. For all their jesting, three pairs of eyes watch her hawkishly while she makes her way up the wall. It's funny what living in the dark will do for thoughts of a broken arm or a twisted ankle when you can't warp-strike to save yourself. With her light bouncing off the rock in front of her, Sania's behatted silhouette is stark against it. Gladio knows she's not made of glass. But she's not made of adamantite, either.

At the top, Sania turns back and says, "Well, come on. We don't have all day to stand around."

Luca and Tobul look at Gladio. Tobul opens his mouth, but Luca beats him to the punch: "Think you can handle it, cap?" they ask Gladio.

"You'll catch me if I fall, right?" he asks with mock apprehension.

Luca shrugs. "Don't fall."

"Great."

Gladio goes to the cliff face. He trusts his instincts when it comes to finding the old, familiar handholds, but he takes it slow - there's no reason to be a show-off. For all of the Ravatogh enthusiasts he's run into over the years, he knows that this is where most climbers stop. Seeing the lava fields is accomplishment enough without braving a zu's nest to get a look at the tomb of a Lucian king. So there are no ropes or ladders of any kind after this point. That changes today.

When Gladio gets near the top, both glaives whizz past him in streaks of glistering blue. Gladio looks up, and Tobul is holding his hand out. Gladio scoffs. He grasps Tobul's hand and puts his weight into pulling him forward off of the ledge. Tobul's yelp is cut off by his instinctive warp-strike back to the platform. Gladio vaults up the last few feet to face Tobul as Luca cackles.

Tobul flashes a grin at Gladio. "Your turn," Tobul says, dropping into a defensive stance.

"You can try--"

Sania clears her throat. Everyone, including Luca, straightens up. Sania is holding one of their lengths of rope in one hand and the most wretched of rubber mallets in the other.

"Thanks, doc. I'll take it from here," says Gladio.

"Uh-huh." She hands the equipment over, and Gladio stakes out a spot to lay the bolt.

"You guys take ten," he says, turning his back to the group.

"Will it take that long?" he hears Sania ask.

"I think he meant ten seconds," jokes Tobul.

Sania replies, "So did I."

Gladio shakes his head before setting to hammering the bolt near the ledge. It's not the kind of rig anyone would want under ideal circumstances, but it's better than nothing. And nothing's exactly what someone with no climbing experience and no warp-striking would have to work with. Ravatogh will probably never be a priority so long as the night lays long over the land - but it's better than nothing. Gladio secures their rope to the bolt and swings it until the slack end catches near the cliff face, as far out of the way as the bottom can be while still touching the ground.

He steps away from the ledge to a polite smattering of applause. Gladio rolls his eyes. "Smart asses."

Failing to keep a straight face, Tobul asks, "Wanna take ten?"

"Nope." Gladio smacks the mallet into his palm. "It's dancin' time."

"You sure?" Luca asks. "We've wasted so much time already."

Ignoring the joke, Gladio says, "We made good time on the climb, we could be nest-side in twenty minutes. Then it's all downhill from there. So let's get a move on. Doctor, you're up first again. Tobul."

His lance is already in his hand when Gladio nods at him. Turning to Sania, Tobul doesn't wait but lunges forward. He catches up Sania in his spin. In a blink, they are overhead, turning in the air level with the second ledge. Luca follows them fast with blue staccato steps, and they take Sania from Tobul at that critical height of his jump. Luca and Sania alight on the ledge; Tobul comes back down like a lightning bolt to where Gladio is standing.

It's a complicated dance, but they all made it look effortless. Even so, Gladio knows he's the monkey wrench in the routine. He's seen Aranea do the same jump as Tobul dozens of times, but it's the kind of maneuver that always makes Gladio's hands clammy if he thinks too long about it. Something about the chances of plummeting toward the ground at top speed just doesn't appeal to him. Tobul held Sania not two feet from the upper ledge for little more than a second, but it still required Luca to carry her over that last stretch of empty air.

Gladio cranes his neck back to look up at Sania; there's nothing to see at this angle, but, by the sound of it, she's already digging in her bag for the second rope and bolt.

"Time to go, captain." Gladio's attention snaps back to Tobul who's already dropping into his stance. "Ready?"

"Listen," is the only word Gladio can get out before Tobul catches hold of him. A half-turn and the world bottoms out. Tobul takes Gladio higher than he went with Sania, higher than the second ledge. He could make that, right? Gladio's insides, including his brain, are scrambling to catch up. If he could only unclench his jaw -- and then they are falling.

Just before they pass it, Luca appears and shoulders Gladio out of the air and onto the ledge. To say he lands with grace and poise would be saying too much. But he does land. Sania steps to the side while Gladio struggles to keep his feet.

"Hate bastards that fly," Gladio says through his teeth.

From below, Tobul calls, "He can dish it out, but he can't take it!"

"The king flew," remarks Luca.

When glaives say "the king," they always mean Noctis. It took Gladio a long time to figure that out. To him, King Regis has always been "the king." But, to them, he's "King Regis" in the same way that Mors was always "King Mors" when Gladio was growing up. He doesn't know when they all came to that silent consensus or why he and the other guys didn't get a vote.

"Said what I said," Gladio mutters. Tobul warps to the ledge, spinning his lance over his arm before dismissing it.

"If you three are ready," Sania starts to say crisply. Gladio takes the rope and mallet from her outstretched hands with a nod.

"Haven's up ahead if you guys want to wait there," he says, already turning his back to the group. He listens to them go before getting to work on the second bolt.

Sure, Noct flew. But he took this cliff hand over hand, every time. When Gladio's done with the rig, he looks at the mallet in his hand. He's heard of glaives throwing forks and shoes to warp. Noct said he could warp using his fishing pole, but he always claimed to be too worried about damaging it to show anyone. Twisting the mallet around, Gladio looks over his shoulder at the rock wall behind him.

In the wall is the pass to the nest. Through it, the haven's blue spire of light hangs like a specter in a darkened doorway. As far as Gladio has seen, there's nothing here to safeguard, nor any daemons to guard against. Then Gladio spots the three of them: on the haven's flat plane, Sania is leading the glaives in a stretching routine. Whatever she is calling out at intervals is monosyllabic at this distance. Gladio lowers his head and laughs through his nose. Fine - let the Oracle's light stand watch a little longer, if not forevermore. Maybe one day it will be nothing but a candle in the hollow of a deserted peak. But not today.

Gladio gives the mallet an experimental swing before deciding against trying. It's banged up enough as is. He walks under the pass and towards the haven. The three of them turn when he emerges from its shadow.

"Hard right," Gladio says, indicating with his hand. "And watch the ledge."

The four of them continue on. From the narrow walkway, the hollowed-out lair of the zu stretches away to one side. Nothing stirs inside, and the walk uphill is quiet. If they weren't walking one in front of the other, Gladio would find something - anything - to get them talking.

When it's quiet, he can hear it in the air around them - the miasma. Even if it really is thin here, he can hear it. It's like snow whispering to the ground, only right by his head, right in front of his face. It's enough to make him blink involuntarily. Prompto once described it as "staticy," but Gladio feels that static is more regular than this. The miasma allows itself some silence, some space, enough to then mutter into. It'd be easier to ignore if it was as constant as static. Instead, he keeps looking over his shoulder at - nothing. A nothing that is looking back.

At the front of the train, Tobul looks back over his shoulder, too.

"Keep going," Gladio calls, too loudly in the not-silence. "It just looks like a solid wall. You're not gonna miss it." And on they go. Before the path narrows further, everyone steps aside to let Gladio take point. He brings them up against the last drop between them and the nest.

Sania is distracted as she hands Gladio another rope and bolt. "Can you see anything inside?" she asks.

Gladio takes the mallet from her. "Light won't go that far. We'll know once we get down there. Everyone back up."

He fixes the bolt into the rock and tosses down the slack. Then he turns to Sania. "How do you want to do this?"

"Now I get a say?" she asks, and Tobul and Luca chuckle. "We'll take the rope. No need for another light show this close to the roost."

"Fair enough. I'll go first, then. There are two ledges, the first one you can take by hand."

Gladio doesn't take his own advice: he jumps down from the first ledge before grabbing the rope. Above him, he hears Luca remark, "There's a Lucian king buried up here."

"Yes," is Sania's reply. "On the other side of this hollow is the tomb of Tonitrus Lucis Caelum, the Fierce."

"You've been up there before?" Tobul asks.

"No. But my grandfather told wonderful stories about his adventures on this mountain. I admire the zu's tenacity to live in such an environment. I've seen sketches of the nest, and it's quite remarkable. Whether generations of zu have sculpted the landscape or if contemporary birds happened upon the perfect lithological accident is a mystery."

"I wonder if they started living here before or after the tomb was installed," Luca muses. Then the rope goes slack.

"All yours, doctor!" Gladio calls. He watches Sania's light bob as she climbs down from the first ledge. When she takes the rope, the glaives warp past her to stand watch with Gladio.

Aside, Luca asks Gladio, "You know anything about the Fierce?"

"Can't remember much off the top of my head. I definitely don't know when they put the tomb here. But what I do know is that we could use some of that power right about now."

He hears more than sees Tobul shrug. "We're fairly kitted out as is. Luca's got the Rogue, I've got the Wise, and you've got the--"

"No need to keep standing there," Sania interrupts. She's already halfway down the rope. "We've got a whole nest to search!"

"Someone needs to be your spotter," Gladio says.

"Do I need three spotters?"

The three spotters shift awkwardly. When Luca and Tobul look to Gladio, he waves his hand in dismissal. They nod and spread out to survey the nest. Gladio waits for Sania with his hands on his hips.

"Getting your steps in today, doc?"

"A little elbow grease is necessary for any fieldwork." When her feet are squarely on the ground, she goes on, "But a fieldnap may be in order before we make the climb back up."

Gladio chuckles. "There's a different path on the other side of this bowl or whatever you want to call it. The drop is steep in a few places, so we're gonna have to warp, but it'll take us down the side of the mountain with no back-tracking."

"That's handy. We're more or less out of rope, so will you-- what are those two doing?"

Gladio turns to see a shimmering grid of light being made in the air above what he can now just make out as the remnants of a nest.

"Looks like they might'a found something."

"I would hope so with a spectacle like that. We're fortunate that no one is at home."

The two of them carefully pick their way towards the center of the nest. In their momentary light, Luca and Tobul's warp strikes have revealed the shattered remains of zu eggs. Sania stops intermittently to collect pieces of what Gladio would politely call "leavings." She is bagging a sample when Luca warps to her side with a shell piece as long as their torso.

"How big do you want them, doctor?" Luca asks. Tobul warps over with two handfuls stacked like dinner plates.

"If you can find them intact, about the size of a piece of printer paper. Don't break them down to that size, they'll be inclined to crumble if you do. But let me have a look at this one." Luca hands over their piece. When they extend their arm to summon their weapon, Gladio steps forward, and a shell softly snaps underfoot when he does.

"Stop warping around, both of you," he commands. "Save it for--"

The syllable catches on his inhale. Gladio recognizes the sudden displacement of air seconds too late to do more than raise his shield arm over Sania's head. Powerful claws rip the mountain out from under everyone's feet, scattering the party. Gladio's vision flashes blue as the glaives throw up shields, and he dismisses his own.

"Sania! You alright?"

"Affirmative." Sania repositions her hat. Somehow, she's already gotten a few of Tobul's dinner plates into her bag, and Luca's eggshell is tucked under her elbow. "But we've got more trouble on the way."

Gladio wheels around. He can just make out a dark silhouette circling in the sky beyond the honeycomb lattice of Tobul's shield.

"Glaives!" The shields drop, and the air bursts with white as weapons are summoned in their place. Overhead, the errant zu shrieks.

Luca twists their shuriken in their hands, glowering up at the bird when they say, "They said they had eyes on it in Leide. No way it flew straight here just to wait and cut us off." Gladio throws a rueful grin at Sania.

"Congrats, doc: looks like the population is going steady."

"Save your congratulations until we answer the question of 'how!'"

Tobul doesn't wait to hear the end of Sania's sentence. He crouches, and then he's airborne. The zu is there to meet him. Tobul's lance is shimmering spider's silk against its side, aslant and silver. The dry grass of the nest is scattered by his touchdown. It is blasted by the zu's wingbeats.

"Babies," Tobul says breathlessly. "Up under the ledge, I thought I saw..."

Gladio swears under his breath before ordering, "Everyone move out of the nest. Go!" He hauls Sania forward.

When Gladio leads them past the way they came in, Luca demands, "What's the plan?"

"Get to the other side of the bowl--"

Luca cuts him off. "Which other side?"

"North side!" Gladio sees Luca's eyes flash. "Skirt the wall if you have to! There's a big hole, you're not gonna miss it. Don't fall in, either."

"Got it, captain."

"And the zu?" Tobul asks.

"We fend it off - don't kill it," he adds.

"We?" Gladio can hear Tobul's grin in his voice. "Is it time for a big, bad sword?"

With the air gusting forward, Gladio chances a look over his shoulder. What appears in his hand isn't a sword.

The zu's claws squeal across the surface of Gladio's shield, red sparks against the blue. Gladio makes a split-second decision, the same one he's done often enough with Noct to add up to a minute or more. Instead of tucking Sania to his chest, he flings her sideways. There's no time to pray that she keeps her feet - anything is better than what's coming for Gladio.

The weight of the zu's taloned foot smashes him forward, the hammer against the bullet, and Gladio flies. The earth, the sky, all one dark tunnel. And then he lands, once, twice, the shield gone from his hand, breath gone from his lungs, thoughts gone from—thrice, and something breaks under him. Everything is electric. Everything is rolling over him while he is lying still. Gladio tries to move his arm, but it's pinned under him. Sound floods back to him like blood to a bruise, and he can hear Luca shouting, can hear the crack of Tobul's leap. That's good. They all must've gotten out of the way. The darkness above him is broken by faint starlight. He's really missed stuff like that. They don't get stars like that in the city. It's too bad that,

No! He drags his arm out from under himself, roaring at the pain that blazes out from it and through the rest of him. Gladio can't move his fingers. Damned if he's gonna die like this!

The air shifts again, but not like before - this isn't the zu. No, this is bigger. Much bigger. It feels like the mountain moves beneath him, like a giant rolling over in its sleep. Something in Gladio tells it to wake the hell up.

There are sparks behind his eyelids when he blinks. He doesn't have to see it. He feels it. In the murky distance, that sleeping giant is sprinting towards Ravatogh, his eyes aglow in the gathered darkness. Titan.

Gladio can't - refuses - to believe what he is(n't) seeing. There is only one person he knows who could make a god run to his aid, and that person—he is so beyond aid.

Without slowing, Titan rakes his hand up the mountainside and down through the hollow, too fast and enormous for Gladio to dodge if he wanted to. Being manhandled by a brick wall would've been more pleasant. Gladio is flattened against Titan's fingers along with what seems like fifty tons of dirt and grit. And all fifty tons of it go with him when Titan closes his hand and Gladio rolls onto his palm. Through the space between Titan's fingers, Gladio catches a glimpse of his party shrinking into the distance before a smokescreen of dirt obscures them.

"Not me! Not just-- pick everyone else up, too, you titanic asshole!" Gladio hammers on Titan's hand with his unbroken fist. When that doesn't work, he brings out his shield and sets it to the same task. "Listen to me! HEY!" His voice is lost in the triadic thunder of earth, wind, and god.

There is an audible moment where Titan seems to be surveying the situation. Then, as easily as he'd caught up Gladio, Titan closes his fingers around the zu. And, like Gladio, the zu protests with its full chest.

"Stop!" Gladio bellows under its keening cries. "Can't you help without-- without breaking things?!"

The breath rushes out of Gladio when Titan lifts his hand - and Gladio in it - to his face. Titan's fingers part, and two golden eyes peer down at Gladio. Gladio tries to prop himself up, and his stomach drops when he realizes that he can't quite manage it.

Still, he lifts his chin to Titan. "Remember me?" The words come out hoarsely, and Gladio stops to wet his lips. "Anyone ever tell you if you want to help, you gotta ask how first?"

A deep, deafening rumble answers from Titan's chest. It makes Gladio's eyes water.

"That's right, this wasn't even your idea, was it? Well, complain to him all you want, but he'll just do things how it suits him." The zu's feathers rasp as it strains in Titan's other hand. Gladio doesn't dare break eye contact to look at it. "But, if he called you here for me, I could use the help."

Titan's face remains a stony, inscrutable mask.

"Okay. Cool. Then just-- keep holding that bird long enough for everyone down there to book it."

The two fiery wheels of Titan's eyes train downwards, and Gladio could laugh. Instead, he drags himself painfully to the edge of Titan's hand to look down, too.

Sania, Luca, and Tobul are little more than pallid points of light in the bowl beneath him. What he'd give to have a walkie-talkie or a well-aimed message in a bottle. They seem to be moving, at least, but Gladio can only guess if they're going in the right direction. This could be a long wait. His arm throbs painfully, and, with the adrenaline giving way to a cold sweat, he's receiving loud complaints from the other places where he's been hurt.

There's no use watching the three lights below him, so Gladio rolls onto his back. His head seems like it could split open at any second. He brings his good hand to the nape of his neck and feels a wetness there. Go figure. There is another rumble from Titan, and, as Gladio watches, his permanent grimace parts for what Gladio can only interpret as a yawn.

"You're tellin' me," Gladio tries to say, but it comes out as little more than a miasma mutter. At least he can't hear it up here where the heat from Ravatogh grows tepid. No, that's-- that's not how heat distribution works. It'd still be warm up here. Warm enough for eggs. He wonders if any of Sania's samples made it. Calcium deficiency, not pretty. And Vitamin D deficiency. The doctor said they were connected, like birds and frogs. Like gods and men. Gladio can't think of what the egg-collecting is in this analogy. The word "oology" springs to mind, and Gladio remembers seeing thunderoc eggs on display one time at the museum back home. When was that? High school? And who was he with then? He sees Noct's disinterested expression in the reflection of the glass.

"This is...the worst death montage known to modern science. Somebody switch the channel."

There's a pressure on Gladio's shoulder, something he interprets as Titan tilting his hand. But then Gladio is rolling over, he's climbing to his feet, he's standing there with a stock word of appreciation in his mouth where there was, a moment ago, only cotton.

"Where the hell've you been?" Gladio growls, whirling around. But he isn't there, how could he be?

Gladio doesn't know how, but he's standing in the bowl at the center of a spiral explosion of basaltic rock. Above, Titan's eyes are growing dim. The white feathers of the zu flash against the dark sky as it struggles against Titan's dissolving grip.

There is no shortage of things that Gladio wants to bellow before the god disappears, no shortage of questions and curses and bargains. They all fall short under the momentary light of the gibbous moon as it shines through the fallstreak hole in the clouds where Titan's face is - isn't - was. For a moment, the night is quicksilver. It's almost painful to look at, but Gladio watches it until it, too, returns to darkness. Before the light is truly gone, he orients himself to the way out. Somewhere, the zu cries its own curses over the rush of its retreating wingbeats.

Only in the silence that follows does Gladio find his voice again: "Thanks for the save. I guess."

There is no reply. Gladio flexes the fingers of both hands. It's not - not everything he wanted. But it's better than nothing.

This time, Gladio takes his own advice: he follows the wall to the exit. Three lights are waiting for him by the mouth of the tunnel. And Gladio puts a hand to his forehead to laugh when he sees that Sania is still carrying the massive eggshell piece that Luca gave her. Yeah, that’s much better than nothing.

Chapter Text

"Sorry, Ignis: they're evacuatin' the Quay as we speak," Cindy says above the wind. "Anywhere else we can take you?"

Ignis side-steps the question with one of his own: "When do they expect it to make landfall?"

"Next couple of hours..." The leather squeaks once when she leans away and again when she returns to add, "Just after nominal sunset or so."

And a side-step back. "Were you headed that way to help with the evacuation?"

"Well, yes. But I don't mind makin' a different detour for you."

"If you won't mind my tagging along, I would save you the detour and lend another pair of hands."

"If you like." And that's all the argument that Cindy makes.

There's a storm brewing over Galdin, the rare kind that blusters into the Quay only to creep slowly north or along the coast. It seems it could be the "final storm" in many ways. Over the last few months, talk of abandoning the southernmost outpost has been quiet but steady.

Too remote, too vulnerable, too obsolete.

The marshal's decision to call off the search for Noctis only underscored the importance of knowing where to place their resources - or where not to. Without power sufficient to route to the beach, Galdin Quay will go dark on its own in time.

But not tonight.

For, tonight, both sea and sky are boiling with anticipation, and the wind that threads through Ignis speaks in strange tongues. All that he can make of it is that the world, indeed, is changing.

Perhaps the talk is right. Perhaps a storm like this could never come again. One warmed by a thinning sun, its waning summers. One that drinks deeply of a green sea and breathes deeply of a blue sky. Hasn't he known a storm like this? Perhaps.

"You two gonna be alright on your own?" Cindy asks once she's parked the truck. There is the fabric-on-fabric sound of her pulling something out of the cab behind her seat. "Here, put these on. They'll do you better'n an umbrella in this wind."

She pushes whatever it is into Ignis's hands. He runs it through his fingers. A raincoat.

Cid harrumphs. "I think we can find plenty to do to stay out from underfoot."

"Don't you worry, we'll head back soon as they've filled the bed. Ohh, Ignis, don't you look sweet!"

Ignis pauses on a clasp. "Thank you."

It seems he will have to interrogate Cid about what exactly he's agreed to wear.

Cindy goes on, "There's a pocket on the side somewhere to have your phone handy. Paw-Paw'll keep an eye on the time."

The passenger door opens with a pop. To Ignis, Cid says, "That's our cue to get the hell outta her way."

When Ignis steps off the truck, he finds himself bumping elbows with all kinds of people hurrying to batten what hatches they can. Hunters, mostly. A few of the Kingsglaive among them. No shortage of locals like Cindy who have swung by to lend a hand and a truck. The already dewy air is buzzing with the heat from the protective floodlights and their generators. A storm, indeed.

The closer they get to the resort proper, the more aware Ignis becomes of a certain fourth party of people who have come to attend this final storm - people drawn by the curiosity it represents.

Since the nights began to grow irrefutably longer, there has been some debate about whether or not certain weather can "clear the air," so to speak: if heavy rains or an electrical storm can pierce the thickening plasmodic atmosphere. Reports of daemonic rain seem to support the theory, although the instruments required to record the phenomenon are lacking. The simplest way to believe would be to—well, be in attendance, Ignis supposes. As he did with the hunters and Glaives, it is by overhearing their conversations that Ignis is able to pick out the storm chasers from the lot.

He and Cid pass a group in the parking lot conversing while dragging or pushing something:

"...and she was talking about mapping storm activity over and around the Oracle's havens."

"That's basically the same as trying to predict where lightning will strike," is the dismissive reply from a second voice.

"No, no, no, here's the thing: instead of trying to catch a storm over a haven, she thinks that comparing the data of storms, looking at how they differ based on proximity to the haven - that'll give us some clues."

A third voice cuts in, "And how is she planning on collecting that data? There's what, ten or more in Leide alone, and it's got the lowest rainfall rate in Lucis. You're talking about pre-War levels of ground coverage."

"I asked the same thing, and, get this, at Formouth there was this vault they found that--"

"Hey," Cid interrupts. "They need anyone else to haul cables?"

"No, sir." There is an audible pause, and Ignis must press his lips together to keep from smiling. When Cid doesn't budge, the same person politely adds, "But, um, they're still breaking down inside if you're okay with moving furniture."

Cid sniffs. "Sure. And that thing'd be easier to move if you rolled it."

"Oh. Yeah, it would. Thanks."

By way of reply, Cid puts the scrambling sound of them applying his advice behind him and continues toward the resort. Ignis nods in the direction of the group before following the squeak of Cid's raincoat.

"Takes three kids to push a cable wheel, and they don't think I know how to move a couch without putting my back out," Cid grumbles.

"I suppose their concern would be touching if it didn't forebode our likely reception elsewhere. Perhaps they wouldn't worry if we each had a flatbed," Ignis gestures to his back. "And a sixteen thousand kilogram axle weight limit."

Cid makes a sound, a mixture of "what" and "huh," that dissolves into a few rough syllables of astonished laughter.

Ignis's conversations with Cid remain a rarity, even as so many other conventions collapse, but it seems he is always surprised by Ignis's humor. Ignis couldn't say if his surprise is due to the circumstances - grim, always grimmer, in want of no mention like a gnarled scar - or if it is only an extension of that pedestal Ignis is and has always been placed on, even now in these grim, grimmer, gnarled circumstances.

Circumstances made Ignis the oldest son, the elder brother, and the only child without any of those having to be the truth. Long were the years when people could see the mark of it on him - whatever it was. No two hands could be placed over the image of Ignis and hide whatever it was that startled a laugh out of those who did not know him then. And no two hands could do it now; for now, he is an image torn in quarters.

Perhaps Cid is surprised by Ignis's humor not because it's Ignis, of course, but because he expects some contrast, some balancing energy after knowing Prompto and Gladio—after knowing Noctis. But then, Noctis could startle a laugh out of those who did not know him, too. Oldest son, younger brother, only child.

Whatever it is - a quality, an assumption, astrology - that estranges him from the jokes that verily spring from him, Ignis has only ever been himself: a quiet child who became, somehow, a man who has much still to outgrow.

When they come to the boardwalk leading up to the Mother of Pearl, Ignis puts the thought away. It needn't be so complicated. If people expect severity from him, well, it requires no great rebellion to shatter that expectation. Ignis will, for better and worse, continue to be himself.

Despite its wide berth, the boardwalk is jostling with people and objects. Ignis tucks his white cane under his elbow and keeps a hand on Cid's shoulder as he navigates for them. Rather than a catamaran on a spring sea, his navigation is the sluggish and halting progress of an icebreaker in winter waters.

"You regret comin' out yet?" Cid asks.

"Not at all. If nothing else, it's good to be among so many people."

"Never liked a traffic jam."

Ignis chuckles.

It's strange. The crowded atmosphere here is not unlike the one he might find at a restaurant as popular as Coctura's, but there is more shouting and clattering than would be appropriate for the setting. The contrast is acute. It has all the excitement and anxiety of standing in the wings before a school play.

Cid turns under Ignis's hand. "Shoot."

"What is it?"

"They're packin' sandbags on the beach. Looks like there's only five or six of 'em over there, too."

"Shall we turn back?"

"Naw. We're halfway this way already."

It doesn't seem to Ignis that they've made it to the boardwalk's halfway point, but he holds his tongue on the matter. All bodies have their limits, and he hates to imagine what Cindy would do to him if she learned that he'd let her beloved Paw-Paw bury himself alive under sandbags.

By Ignis's estimate, it's another fifteen minutes before they reach the stairs. There is no railing there, so he runs his fingers along a familiar wall wholly unfamiliar under his hand. Ignis's foot scuffs the last step. The wind comes with them as they walk beneath the Mother of Pearl's domical vault ceiling.

When was he here last? A lifetime ago. Not so very long, then.

Ignis bends an ear, searching without urgency for a familiar voice. Someone somewhere is speaking into a radio, and someone is speaking back. All around are requests, laughter, questions, a hard thud followed by a muttered swear, commands, excuse mes, elbows and toes.

And something is bothering Ignis.

He turns his head from side to side, but no, he is sure.

"Cid?"

"Hmm?"

"Are the overhead lights on?" There's a pause, and Ignis supplies, "I believe there were some pendant lights and others on posts."

"Looks like they've just rolled some balloon lights out here. Can hear a generator runnin' somewhere. Why?"

"Is it very bright?"

"Well, it ain't mood lighting."

Before Cid can say anything more, in floats the voice that Ignis had been listening for:

"Please be careful with that," Coctura admonishes. There is an answering laugh.

"I'm not gonna drop it."

"Drop it as much as you like, but you'll slice open your arm if you carry it that way."

Whatever the reply, it is lost under someone talking somewhere behind Ignis. But, over his shoulder, Cid asks, "That the chef? Brown hair, looks like she could skewer a Voretooth if you got her mad enough."

Ignis breathes a laugh. "That would be Coctura."

There is the squeak of plastic, and Cid must have been waving to get her attention, because then Coctura calls, "Ignis!"

He smiles in her direction. "Fancy meeting you here."

"It's good to see you," Coctura says with a smile in her voice. She exchanges greetings with Cid before saying, "Thanks for coming by to help."

"You can thank us when we've actually helped," Cid replies. "You got anything that needs doin' by an old layabout and his babysitter?"

"I'm not sure to be totally honest. Things have gotten a little out of hand."

"Too many cooks in the kitchen, it seems," remarks Ignis.

"Yes," Coctura laughs. "Yes, exactly. Everyone's got their own ideas about how to pack up my restaurant. But it's really not necessary to move everything out, the Quay has weathered plenty of storms before."

The unspoken truth: no one expects to return here. Something about that thought sends a little flare of anger through Ignis. The practicality of giving up is a sore consolation under the best of circumstances, most of all to that which is given up on.

Ignis clears his throat to rid it of a sour taste. "Perhaps their eagerness could be tempered with a reminder that everything they take out will have to be brought back in."

"Don't worry, I've cooked up a registry of everything in the restaurant. No one gets to leave without signing out what they're taking and where it's going." She sounds pleased, so Ignis doesn't push the matter. The registry explains the foot traffic on the boardwalk, at least. But signing people out is not something that Ignis can volunteer to help with, which means he and Cid are back where they started.

"Well, chef," Ignis says with a smile. "We'll let you get back to it."

There is a beat of silence before Coctura says, almost apologetically, "I'll ask around for you, to see if anyone needs help. But really, thank you both for coming all this way in the first place. I wish the circumstances were better."

"Can't get much better than this," remarks Cid.

Ignis butts back in before Cid can say anything more. "Don't be a stranger if you're ever in Lestallum."

"Likewise if you're ever back this way. See you, Ignis. It was nice meeting you, Cid."

Cid grunts. Perhaps she waves and he waves back, it's difficult to say. But then Ignis and Cid are left standing in a room full of people going hither and thither without regard or need for them.

Ignis wants to make some joke about taking the chance to relax while they're at a resort, but he already knows the response he'd get. He decides to say something with more teeth instead:

"Shall we strike out at random and find someone else to bother?"

Cid barks a laugh. "Let's."

They crisscross the restaurant looking for work, and mostly they find people eager to set theirs aside for a moment to chat. The storm is moving in, and the excitement is moving with it. Some of the volunteers they talk to know Cid, some have heard of Ignis, most are meeting them both for the first time. While he listens to an angler regale them with stories about daemonic fish sightings, Ignis remembers Cid's words: Can't get much better than this.

When someone finally suggests that they could help move and lay tarps for waterproofing, Cid perks up.

"Where do we go to do that?" he asks.

"Well, they can only lay them out once everything's been cleared away, so I'd check with the teams in the hotel rooms. That's where they were moving furniture first."

That puts the wind back in Cid's sails. Off they go with Cid's hand on Ignis's elbow, across the restaurant once more.

The transition from the wooden floor of the restaurant to the stone flooring of the resort touches on a sensory memory for Ignis. For a moment, he can remember what he was doing when he first passed this material threshold, and it almost stops him in his tracks.

The sound of laughter, the brush of an arm, the new smell of salt-heavy air. Inconsequential. Terribly inconsequential. He would reach out with both hands and take it back if he could. If he had, back then, left the door open, that he might, as he is now, walk through. But no one would be waiting there for him.

On the other side of that door, he and Cid are met with yet another dead end. Tarps are already being laid by outfitted and able-bodied crews. After being handed off twice only to be told thanks but no thanks for their offers to help, Cid steers Ignis down the dock in steely silence.

The wind coming off the water is rough and warm, and the distant breakers are a thundering prelude for what is to come. Now and again, Ignis twitches at the touch of an early raindrop that finds a way past the armor Cindy has provided him with.

Cid doesn't take them out to the dock's end but stops somewhere in the middle. He doesn't sit, so Ignis remains standing, too.

After a stretch of comfortable, if grim, quiet, Ignis conversationally asks, "How does she fare?"

"It's choppy out there. And green. Looks like they're gettin' rain on Angelgard." Cid stops, presumably to check the time on his phone. "Ehh, sun'll be down soon, but seems like we got another hour left or so of this washy light."

Ignis turns his face to where he knows the sun would be at this hour. There is no perceptible change that he can feel, but that doesn't surprise him. From what he has heard, the sky is more overcast than not these days. His eyes and skin confirm this, but the sun... still it pulls him, magnetic in its orbit. Memory, perception, assumption. There is no clean division. He feels the sun because he knows it is there. The sun is there because he can feel it.

"And, after the washy light," Ignis remarks. "Comes the washy night."

Cid chuckles. "Let's get back on the road before it gets anymore washy. Lookie here." He grunts, apparently stooping over. There is a scuffing sound. "A menu. You boys ever eat here?"

"On more than one lucky occasion, yes, we did. Have you?"

"Naw, never came down this way much. And, judgin' by these prices, I was right not to stop by." Cid mutters to himself, a series of "uh-uhs" while he reads the menu.

Ignis smiles. "The quality of the food earns it its price tag."

"I'll take your word for it. Doctors always told me I should go easy on the shellfish."

"Why? Cholesterol?"

"They say I'm hardboiled enough as is." Cid laughs when Ignis does. "Yeah, cholesterol and whatnot. By the time any of that meant somethin', I was too old to care. S'pose it don't matter much now."

"No. You should eat as you please. We always should have." Another stretch of silence answers him. Just before Ignis can reach up to remove his glasses, Cid speaks again.

"Cor makes a mean seafood platter."

"Does he?"

"Yessir. Don't know where he learned to cook karlabos in the city, but that might'a been the tastiest critter I'd ever seen put on a paper plate."

"Where was this? Cape Caem?"

"Had to be. Ain't had a minute to sit down since."

"Didn't Weskham feed you in Altissia?"

"Hell he did. His prices could put the eye out of these ones. And there's no friend of the family discount, neither. I asked."

"Food is a cruel business," Ignis says severely.

"So's friendship. Told him he should come by Takka's sometime, and I'd buy him a steak."

"What did he say to that?" Ignis's jaw trembles in the silence of Cid's pause.

"Said he'd like that very much." Cid's voice is no rougher than it usually is, but the words come out slowly. He clears his throat and says suddenly, "We'd better head on back. I don't like the look of what's comin' up the beach."

Ignis grips his cane. "What's coming?"

"The menu, minus the butter."

There are shouts from the beach and inside the Pearl. Cid puts a hand on Ignis's elbow, and Ignis needs no further cue to hurry. The rain has become more earnest, anyway.

Passing through the restaurant is like being inside an ear trumpet: what once diffused the ambient sound of waves for diners now amplifies the clangor of Stoneshears clamoring for the shore by the dozens. Their frantic exodus is mirrored by the people inside the restaurant. Someone is calling for calm, another to hurry, and still another for help with a chair. The disorder before the chaos.

Cid stops before they've reached the boardwalk off of the floating resort; by the sound, Ignis guesses that their route has been cut off by clattering crustaceans. The others will shortly realize the same.

"Has something frightened them?" Ignis asks above the noise. People are jostling behind him, but he keeps his feet planted.

"Can't say." There is the sound of wood splintering, and Cid's hand tightens on Ignis's elbow. "If there's somethin' after 'em, it's in the water."

"Then I'm afraid we really must be going." Ignis hangs his white cane on his arm. In one gesture, he summons his polearm and lets it fly. It rings metallic against the nearest Stoneshear. Ignis immediately calls it back to hand. Someone whoops with delight, and Cid harrumphs in approval.

"They don't like bein' on that end of a toothpick. Keep it up."

"I've a better idea." Ignis spins the polearm around and holds it out in Cid's direction. "Fancy a try?"

Cid barks a laugh. "I'll do you one better than a try." He lets go of Ignis's arm to take the weapon, and Ignis draws his daggers in its place.

"You'll have to stay in close range of them. Mind their backswing." Already he feels Cid putting an unconscious distance between the both of them. Ignis steps aside to let others pass. "I'll guard the rear."

With one hand on the rail and the other out in front of him, Ignis walks counter to the crowd. "Everyone get to the shore! Clear the way behind!" he commands.

"Move it, people!" comes an answering order followed by the glassy sound of a summoned weapon. Ignis knew it wasn't too much to hope that a glaive or two remained in the restaurant. A hand claps his shoulder, and Ignis nods in thanks as whoever they are passes. He'll ask later.

Volunteers file past Ignis at a fast walk, and no one stops nor offers to join him. Good. There is no room for further objections. Ability, authority - they bear no more questioning, for he wields the blessing of kings. And now it wreaths him in fire. With the path behind emptied, Ignis sends his daggers flying.

But their clearance of the boardwalk is no simple feat, even with Cid swinging valiantly at the head and the hunters and glaives on the shore coming down to meet him.

They push forward as one furniture-laden mass. Three minutes pass.

On they go. Five minutes.

Ignis keeps their tail clear as a swailing, but it seems, by the multitudinous raspings and thumpings, that the restaurant proper is being filled in with Stoneshears. He only hopes the floor will hold.

And then he feels it. Unconsciously, he turns his wind-numbed face.

Somewhere, the sun is sinking invisibly into a grey sea. One less day remains in all the world.

But the world does not become still or hushed. No, the Stoneshears in the restaurant are seeking an animal's frenzied refuge from some unseen danger. What hasn't already been battened down or taken is knocked aside and thrown about. An extension chord running beside Ignis's foot is whipped up and against his leg.

With a series of pops, the lights in the Pearl are gone for everyone else. Ignis can imagine the stage light death of the lamps along the boardwalk as if it were planned ahead of time.

Someone screams, unnecessarily, for the next scene is as predictable as the stroke of a sword: that wretched, hair-raising gurgling. The groan and cackle of them crawling their way out of that dark tunnel of nowhere. The whisper and push of the air from them, to them.

The alarm goes up everywhere: "Daemons!"

Here's where the brute force strategy finds its match. The further that Ignis lingers behind, the greater his chance of being cut off from the shore. But he must buy time for the others, no matter what. What he wouldn't give for a Shield right about now.

Ahead of Ignis is the restaurant where the Stoneshears continue to squabble amongst themselves and the daemons. Behind is the battering of crabs still trying to scale the boardwalk and people trying to leave it.

And there is another sound, one he can't quite pinpoint beyond its location in the water around them. Whatever it is will have to await identification. Ignis focuses his defensive attacks immediately in front of him, and soon the rattle of steel against carapace is replaced by the whisper and shriek of fire across daemonic flesh.

Danger is closing in on him. There is no room for error, no opportunity for strategy. His hands move by rote, his feet in careful, backward turns as he follows the others at length. Though familiar in another life, he cannot decipher the daemons that besiege him from the chaotic soundscape before him. Perhaps that is an Imp's cackle, a Nagarani's hiss, a Bussemand beating its chest. But Ignis alone in all the world knows it as a surety: the power in him was made for nothing but the excision of them. No matter what issues its challenge, it is his blades that answer.

How far behind the others is he now? A minute? Three? He can no longer make out the sound of their retreat. Just as Ignis thinks he ought to turn and try to catch up, the cloudburst comes as sudden cool fingers on his sweat-streaked face.

Another engrossing sound - he doesn't know whether to laugh or curse. There are no blessings left, save one: even if the daemons should fall on him like rain, ah! He came prepared in rainproof plastic. Ignis empties one hand so that he can draw up the hood of his raincoat. Something just ahead of him shifts audibly, and Ignis nearly summons his polearm. But no, Cid may still need it. Ignis's hesitation gives whatever it is the chance to barrel into him, and he is almost shoved over the railing.

Ignis doesn't think but tosses his hand. Electricity crackles along his arm before raucously announcing its contact with the daemon. Heat, more than light, bursts across Ignis's face. He scrambles upright, all thoughts of keeping dry forgotten.

What had he been thinking, coming into this with no plan? Cid could already be on the shore, but would he think to call out to Ignis? Would any of them? Could Ignis even hear them over this blasted racket? More lightning arcs from him and strikes out indiscriminately. The bulb of a nearby balloon light shatters. Daemons are already rising from the boardwalk behind him, undeterred in their sheer numbers by his light show.

What is he doing here? Ignis tosses his daggers, one before and one behind. Then again. And again. What did he hope to accomplish? It was - is - inconsequential, terribly inconsequential. Is he now soaked through by the last storm between himself and Noct? It, like himself, should never have come here seeking some glorious closure. For after this final tempest is not but the promise of ceaseless doldrums, one night following another and another and another like dagger blows.

"No!" The word comes out not as a plea but as a snarl. Frost bursts to life in the air, catching at all within reach. Ignis grasps the ice-slick railing. If he has to swim to shore, he will. He leverages himself up, focusing all of his senses down into the water.

Beneath him is a turgid sea, one whose embrace he knows all too well. But it is hiding something from Ignis. Underneath the sound of the rain is that same noise he couldn't earlier identify. As far as he can tell, it is all around him, a slicing, snapping, splashing sound that began when the Stoneshears appeared.

Ignis knows it.

He knows it.

It is the sound of many fish schooling, breaking the water's surface with fin and tail and mouth, the ocean cousins of the dozens and dozens of stubborn carp in the Saxham Reservoir who rose greedily when Ignis peppered the water with hard-boiled birdbeast eggs that had spoiled. Noct had said that was cheating. Ignis had thought they weren't such refined eaters after all.

If whatever these are can frighten the Stoneshears, what sense would it make for Ignis to face them in their element? He thinks of the angler with tales of daemonic fish and steps down from the banister. Though his fingers tremble from exhaustion, his daggers are in his hands at once.

Ignis had been so sure this was not how it would end for him. But then, what is surety but a promise waiting to be broken? His was only a bit part, after all.

The air closes around him, and he demands, "What would you have me do?"

That same air is split by a screech that drives through Ignis's head and sparks behind his eyelids. Before he can wonder or hope, water surges up through the slats of the boardwalk and drags him off his feet. Ignis clutches once more at the railing, but the water withdraws just as suddenly as it came.

The screech comes again, blistering the sky overhead.

Ignis knows this sound, too.

"The Tidemother..."

Even as he turns to orient himself to her, anger batters through him, white-hot and scalding. So, now she comes, now that it is all far, far too late. And what does she come for? For Ignis? Yes, this problem is so very small now that an Astral stands before him. A few daemons are a laughing matter.

And Ignis is laughing.

Because he can hear the waters of the Cygillan coursing off of her, and doesn't she understand her fault in this? Don't any of them? Perhaps Noct would still be bound within the Crystal, perhaps day would still fall victim to night, but Lunafreya, Altissia—! Things could have been different! Things could be...

Ignis drops his hand from his face. There is nothing to be said, even less to be done. Come on, then!

The air shifts. Before him, he is sure, is the empty nothing of Leviathan's open maw where cling the stories of a thousand devoured ages - hungry, heartless. The Hydraean, relentless as the tides. Ignis vaults aside at the last second, further propelled by the force of her mouth snapping shut. But the ritual compels him. In an instant, he is girt to her ichthyic hide by a dagger he had no mind to summon. Together they plunge into a wall of water, and it is all Ignis can do to hold on.

Just as soon in, they are out again. Ignis hasn't air enough in his lungs to sputter a gasp before he's flattened to her side atremble with her wail. Is she speaking to him? Could he understand if she were? What words are required to give voice to the wrath and triumphant ruin of a goddess? Perhaps Ignis is wailing, too.

Then his dagger loosens - no, it disappears from his grasp. His hands slide sideways on slippery scales only to catch on nothing but air. Ignis spins in an unfettered freefall. Castaway, cast off, one transient moment in a disappointing plummet from exalted summoning.

He sucks in air but cannot think of what to do with it. Ah, he could - call for his lance - a dragoon's controlled drop - down, into hundreds of meters of infested seawater —

A pressure on Ignis's elbow reverses his spin. Everything levels out, and he knows that he is upright. Falling, but upright. And then he isn't really even falling. Raindrops are racing past, pattering a soothing message against his raincoat. A soothing message from the voiceless.

"Fancy yourself a Messenger?" Ignis asks. The pressure is still on his elbow, and he doesn't dare cover it with his hand. "And what would that make me?" He knows the responding chuckle is his own.

Gently, Ignis's feet echo their contact with the wood of the dock. Residual spray rains down on him, and he turns his face into it.

All around is the sound of Leviathan's aqueous doubles zipping in tidy arches, clearing away the last of the daemonic flotsam. If this is all for him, Ignis wants to ask for the moment to last. Just another moment longer.

"Noct."

The pressure leaves his elbow.

"Thank you."

Ignis stands motionless, listening. How loudly she came, how quiet her exit is that he cannot be sure of the moment when she is gone. Perhaps she lingers still. Ignis's hand finds the railing.

He knows this is not the end - the last. No, there is yet more, yet more time; loathed and loved, cherished and scorned. One day less; and, soon, one less night.

From the shore, the rain and the dark have surely conspired to erase the Mother of Pearl from sight. The wind is strong, and the rain is falling in sheets, but Ignis thinks he can just discern his name being called. He fumbles for his phone in the pocket of his raincoat, and a quick voice command turns on the flashlight. He returns his phone to his pocket with the light pointed away from him, and, following the sound of his name, Ignis walks forward through the night.

"Well, Ignis, you were right," Cindy says as she hauls herself into the driver's seat. Ignis stops toweling his hair so that he can hear her clearly when she says, "Scourged fish, just like you thought. They sent a team down there to check it out, and they just got back."

Ignis sighs. "What do they think brought them to shore?"

"The rain, seems like. I was talkin' to a fella who said the rain might'a knocked some of the Scourge out of the air, and the fish came up to get it just like flakes in a bowl. I told him I didn't know if I believed all that. You sure you're alright?" she adds. "I can turn the truck on and crank up the heat if you'd like. Would hate for you to catch a cold after... everything."

"That's quite alright. More than anything, I'm glad to be back on dry land."

Cindy laughs. "Wait'll you get back to the garage, then you'll miss the rain."

"There's a forecast that this storm could travel north. All the way to Longwythe, they say."

"Oh, I sure hope so. That desert's a beauty in a thunderstorm, all red and purple." She pauses, and the silence reminds Ignis of Cid. "But you know the best part?"

"What?"

"The pavement and the rocks, soon as the rain soaks in," Cindy hums. "Everything starts to smell sweet, like the world's beginnin' all over again."

Ignis smiles. "I look forward to it."

When the storm passes, the first refugee boats from Accordo land at Cape Caem. Ignis hears the news while packing for Galdin to do a spot of fishing.