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The rain drums a hammering, frenzied song on the roof of the old SUV. Windshield wipers fight desperately against the torrent of water that forms a gray, impenetrable wall before the windshield. Your hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that your knuckles are white. This last-minute courier run north, an urgent medical kit for a remote outpost, has turned into sheer torture.
“Just the main road back to Lestallum,” you mutter to yourself as you lean forward to peer through the curtain of water.
The landmarks you noted on the way here, the strangely shaped rock, the old windmill, have simply vanished in the twilight and the deluge. A wave of panic and uncertainty rises within you. Was this turnoff there before? The dirt track seems to narrow, lined with thick, dripping bushes that whip in the storm. Lightning flashes across the sky, briefly illuminating the dense, winding forest on either side, while thunder rumbles like an enraged god. With a jerky movement, you yank the steering wheel and execute an awkward U-turn, desperately fighting the urge to press the accelerator.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to the new route,” you curse, still staring out the window. Your voice trembles and trails off mid-sentence.
Suddenly, the ground beneath one of the rear tires gives way. Mud. A harsh jolt runs through the vehicle. You instinctively slam on the brakes, a fatal mistake. The car begins to swerve. For an endless moment, you are nothing more than a passive object, trapped in a spinning metal box. The sound of bursting brush, a deafening, metallic screech, then a hard, dull thud that takes your breath away.
Your head slams against the side window with brutal force. A flash of white pain explodes behind your eyes, followed by immediate, nausea-inducing dizziness. Stars dance in your field of vision. A groan tries to escape your throat, but only comes out as a faint whimper. The engine sputters and dies. Silence, except for the relentless patter of rain on the dented roof. Slowly, as if through syrup, awareness of your situation dawns on you.
You try to move. A stabbing, burning pain shoots from your right ankle up your calf, so intense that you black out. Every attempt to even twist your leg makes you wince in agony. Trapped. In the ditch. In the pouring rain. The darkness outside grows ever more impenetrable, merging with the blackness that lurks at the edge of your consciousness. Your thoughts swirl sluggishly. The package… The important package for the commander lies on the passenger seat. You turn your head, an agonizing movement. The seat is empty! It must have been thrown out on impact!
Panic, thick and bitter, rises in your throat. You are alone. Injured. Lost. Easy prey for the thugs… The chill of shock begins to settle into your bones, a tremor you can’t control. The throbbing in your head transforms into a steady, pounding pain. The edges of your vision blur. You lean your head against the cold, wet windshield and close your eyes, overwhelmed by a weariness that goes deeper than any physical need for sleep. The sound of the rain fades to a distant murmur, then to nothing at all…
…
Lights. Blurry, yellow lights pierce through your closed eyelids. Voices. Deep, worried, but indistinct, as if underwater. Something hard and cold against your cheek, glass. You try to open your eyes. The world tilts and spins dangerously. Dark silhouettes loom over the shattered window.
“…conscious? Look at her eyelids…”
“Careful, Gladio. She might have a spinal injury.” That voice. Calm. Authoritative. Cutting through the fog in your mind.
A hand, large and gentle, touches your shoulder.
“Can you hear me?” The calm voice again.
You try to nod, but manage only a weak groan.
“We’re getting you out of here. Stay as calm as possible.”
What follows is a feeling of measured, coordinated efficiency. The larger of the silhouettes, Gladio, operates with impressive, controlled power. The metallic creaking of the dented door frame is the only loud noise.
Each of his movements is guided by precise instructions from a calm voice. “Support your head. Yes. Now turn slowly toward me. Watch your right leg.”
Then strong arms are beneath you, lifting you with a gentleness that belies the man’s massive stature. The cold rain hits your face, a shocking contrast to the numbing warmth of the shock. You are carried into a different kind of warmth, the dry, leathery-smelling interior of a luxury car. You are gently lowered onto the soft back seat.
“Prompto, the blanket. Noct, the first-aid kit is under the seat.” The calm voice belongs to a young man who is now kneeling beside you.
Then strong arms are beneath you, lifting you with a gentle touch that belies the man’s massive stature. In the dim indoor light, you can see him: dark blond, neatly styled hair; sharply cut glasses, behind which are emerald-green eyes. His face is a mask of focused attention, but not of fear. It's the face of someone who knows exactly what to do.
“Ignis,” he introduces himself as his gloved hands examine your head with remarkable ease, gently feeling for swelling or blood. “Can you tell me your name?”
“_____,” you manage weakly before another shudder of pain shoots through your body. “My… my leg…”
“I know. We’ll take care of it.”
His hand moves to your ankle, which already shows unnatural swelling and the beginnings of an unsightly discoloration. His fingers are remarkably gentle, yet relentless in their examination.
“Probably a severe sprain, possibly a torn ligament. Not broken, that's good.” He’s speaking more to himself, or perhaps to the others. “Gladio, drive carefully to the nearest refuge. Prompto, keep an eye on her.”
The tall man, Gladio, nods and takes the driver’s seat.
A blond, freckled young man, Prompto, slides into the passenger seat and turns to you with concern. “Hey, everything will be alright, okay? You’re safe.”
A fourth, dark-haired young man, Noct, wordlessly hands Ignis the first-aid kit and waits patiently by the car.
As Ignis wraps you in the blanket and applies a pressure bandage to your sprained ankle, your trembling subsides. But neither the dull ache nor the nausea disappears.
He reaches into the compartment between the seats and holds out an unopened bottle. “Drink some water.”
As he speaks, the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, a fleeting movement that vanishes almost immediately.
A few moments later, the four of them are back in the car, while Ignis and Noctis crouch down in the back footwell to give you more room. Gladiolus carefully steers the Regalia out of the sodden dirt track and back onto the road. Outside, trees, rocks, and puddles whiz by.
After a few minutes, Prompto squints through the windshield and remarks, “It’s still pouring.”
Then, less enthusiastically, he adds, “Where are we anyway? I don’t recognize this place.”
The drive is a blur of pain, the whirring of the engine, and Ignis’s stabilizing hand holding your injured leg firmly in place.
Every pothole makes you wince, and each time Ignis whispers a calm “I’m sorry” or “We’ll be there soon.”
His focus on you is absolute. You’re no longer a chore; you’re a medical challenge requiring his full expertise.
The haven is nestled among towering cliffs, adorned with ancient, dimly glowing runes. Gladiolus carries you to the dry patch of ground while Ignis hurries ahead to set up a tent for you with Prompto. The area is barren, but dry.
“Put her down here, Gladio. Carefully.” Ignis’s tone leaves no room for error.
As soon as you’re lying down, he springs into action. He seems to have an endless supply of clean bandages, ointments, and herbs. While Prompto fires up a small stove and Noctis leans against a wall, bored but attentive, Ignis attends to your injury.
“It’ll be a bit cold,” he warns, before applying a cool, but not stinging, ointment to your swollen ankle.
His movements are efficient. He wraps an elastic bandage with perfect pressure, tight enough to stabilize, but not so tight as to restrict circulation.
“This will help with the swelling. The actual healing will take time.”
Only then does he turn his attention to your concussion. A cool, damp cloth is placed on your forehead. He leans forward, his glasses reflecting the flickering light of the now-burning fire.
“Please follow my finger with your eyes.”
You do, even though it worsens your throbbing headache.
“Good. Nausea?”
“A little,” you admit, your voice still croaky.
He nods, as if he expected this. “Pain?” There’s a pause after the question.
You can almost feel his green eyes scanning every feature of your face, detecting the slightest hesitation or grimace.
“In your head or neck, or…?” He nods his chin toward the injured area.
“Yes. All over.” You admit it, the humiliation of your helplessness is almost worse than the pain itself.
He sighs softly. One of his thin eyebrows twitches. Somehow, his quiet concern seems almost as real as the sudden heat of the small campfire.
“You have a concussion. Considering the circumstances, it’s mild. But it shouldn’t be underestimated. If you get tired or the symptoms worsen, let me know. Otherwise, rest is the best medicine.”
Prompto hands you a camping mug of hot tea. You thank him quietly.
The tea tastes somewhat bitter and earthy, but after just a few sips, a comforting warmth spreads through your stomach, and the pain seems to subside a little. Ignis observes you with the unwavering focus of a scientist.
“Your condition is stable, but you need to be closely monitored overnight,” he announces finally, addressing the others more directly. “Gladio, Prompto, Noct, you can sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”
“Ignis, you’ve been driving for the last few hours…” Prompto begins, sounding worried.
“That’s non-negotiable,” Ignis interrupts, his voice tinged with a tone you haven’t heard before. “Concussions are unpredictable. I’m staying awake.”
That seems to settle the matter.
From the opposite wall, you hear Noctis sigh theatrically, roll his shoulders, and stretch.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replies.
He gives you a half-closed, sleepy look, a mixture of tiredness and a touch of bored sympathy, then shrugs and goes into the large tent with the others. You briefly wonder how someone can be so unfazed or if tiredness is finally catching up with him too. Perhaps both. As the entrance closes, the crackling of the small campfire becomes even more audible. Around you, there is nothing but darkness. Now and then, lightning flashes, illuminating the rocks that rise like sentinels into the storm clouds. Apart from the small golden patch of light around the fire, there is not a single light source anywhere.
You try to distract yourself and steal a glance at Ignis. Concentrated, expressionless, the sharp contours of his profile gleam in the fire, a hint of shadow falling across his eyes. A faint rumble of thunder rumbles in the distance, and a forest breeze ruffles his perfectly styled hair. Suddenly, his presence becomes painfully apparent: an otherworldly stillness surrounds him, his attention divided between your signs of life and his surroundings. You realize how much the man before you carries without appearing the least bit burdened: the entire weight of his companions and their journey. Only now does it dawn on you. A hot shiver runs through you. These men, with their efficient, closed-off ways… you are a foreign element in their well-oiled system, a disruption they have now had to drag along.
“Is… something wrong with my supplies?” he asks, his brow furrowing in a barely perceptible, worried wrinkle.
Only when you shake your head in confusion does he seem to realize that you’re simply staring at him. A barely audible, almost embarrassed clearing of the throat follows. “I’m sorry. I'm used to working under observation, but not usually under such… intensity.”
How foolish and… vulnerable you feel.
“Please excuse my language; I didn’t mean to sound rude…” His voice trails off.
Instead, he sets down his coffee cup and gives you a reassuring smile: a hint of sympathy beneath a layer of duty and reserve.
“May I ask why you were staring at me so intently?”
Your unease grows. Is he offended? Amused? Disgusted? Desperately, you search his blank gaze for answers.
“There was… actually no particular reason. I guess you’re a very interesting person,” you add honestly.
He takes a deep breath, raises his eyebrows questioningly, and tilts his head slightly, a half-smile flickering across his lips. Then an unexpected, echoing chuckle, not unlike the rumble of distant thunder: warm, rough, and brusque, almost apologetically amused.
His expression relaxes. Relief washes over your aching body, easing the lingering, gnawing anxiety.
“Interesting isn’t a word people often associate with me. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
You sink deeper into the pillow, enjoying his amused laughter, unsure whether to laugh back. Definitely a welcome respite from the despair that drove you here, wherever 'here' may be. To your relief, his eyes soften, his posture lighter. Even the angle of his thin lips and chin has subtly shifted. After a moment, he sighs softly and thoughtfully. He pulls on his jacket and drapes it over you, covering the most sensitive parts of your shivering body.
“Try to keep warm. Don’t put unnecessary strain on your circulatory system. Avoid stress-induced heart palpitations and excessive sweating. The strain could have serious consequences.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, blushing even more as you notice the long, strong hands beside your shoulder.
Ignis clears his throat again and hastily withdraws his touch.
“Try to sleep now,” he says gently, avoiding direct eye contact.
You try to get comfortable, pulling the jacket tighter around you. Its owner sits nearby, his vigilance an insurmountable shield, his concern a silent promise.
While Prompto and Gladio curl up in their sleeping bags, Noctis is already fast asleep. Ignis extinguishes the main lamp, leaving only a small oil lamp burning on a low table. He pulls a narrow, leather-bound book from his backpack, sits down on a camping chair some distance from your tent, and begins to read. His posture is upright, alert. He is the very definition of 'keeping watch'.
You finally manage to fall asleep. But the sleep is restless. Fragments of the accident race through your dreams: the screech of metal, spinning lights, and the suffocating pain. You wake up several times, each time confused and disoriented, with your heart pounding wildly against your ribs.
And each time, Ignis is there! Not beside you, not intrusive. But he is there!
The first time, he only hears your sharp inhalation, looks over the edge of his book, and reassures you: “You’re safe. Everything is fine.”
The second time you toss and turn, waking briefly, he gets up, wordlessly fills your cup with fresh water, and places it within your reach. The third time, when a nightmare jolts you awake with a stifled cry, he is suddenly closer, kneeling beside the tent. His hand lightly touches your shoulder, a firm, reassuring presence.
“It was just a dream! Everything is fine,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle in the dim light. “The storm has stopped. Do you hear?”
You listen. Silence. Only the soft crackling of the fire. His hand lingers a moment longer, then he withdraws it, realizing you are beginning to settle down.
“Try to sleep. I’m here.”
In these moments, in the vulnerable intimacy of the night, something begins to shift. The clinical distance of your rescuer gives way to a quiet, present care. He is not merely observing your symptoms; he is observing you. Your anxiety, your fear. And he doesn’t respond with protocol, but with a simple, human presence.
…
Morning breaks with pale, gray light filtering through the rocks. You wake with a stiff neck and a still-throbbing head, but with a clearer mind. The sharp pain in your leg has softened into a deep, throbbing discomfort. Ignis is still sitting in his chair, the book closed on his lap. He looks fresh, as if he'd slept through the night, but there's a subtle weariness in the corners of his eyes.
“Good morning,” he greets you. His voice is calm, but no longer as formal as the evening before. “How are you feeling?”
“Like… run over,” you confess, trying to manage a faint smile. “But better. Thank you.”
He nods contentedly. “That’s to be expected. I’ll prepare something to eat. Something light.”
As the others gradually wake up, Prompto stretches with a loud yawn, Gladio immediately starts doing push-ups, Noctis just snorts and rolls back over, and Ignis transforms a small camping stove and some basic ingredients into something that smells delicious. It’s not a lavish feast, but a simple yet perfectly prepared breakfast: scrambled eggs with finely chopped vegetables and freshly baked bread, probably from the day before. Your mouth waters.
“I don’t even know how to thank you,” you say, struggling for words of gratitude.
As always, his reply is matter-of-fact and direct: “Just rest. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Then, after a brief pause while he picks up his own bowl, Ignis asks a question that has nothing to do with your injury. “What actually brought you out in this weather?”
The question catches you off guard. It’s not about your physical condition, but about your life. About your work. The last barrier of purely professional care seems to be crumbling, and you let it fall.
“Medication,” you explain, taking a bite of the bread. “For the outpost on the ridge. The commander has a chronic condition. The delivery was overdue.”
A wave of sudden horror washes over you. “The package! It must have been thrown from the truck on impact!”
Gladiolus, who had overheard the conversation, swallowed his bite.
“A package? About this size?” He held his hands out. “Brown packaging, tied up?”
You nodded vigorously, which immediately caused a sharp pain. “Yes! Did you see it?”
“I think I saw something near the car when we got you out,” Gladiolus said, standing up. “It was lying somewhere in the bushes. But I didn’t look closely. Should I check?”
“That would be better,” Ignis said before you. His voice was calm but firm. “After all, the package is important.”
Gladiolus nodded and strode out into the soft morning light.
Prompto jumped up. “I’ll help you look!” he called, following him.
Noctis stays behind, leans against the wall, and watches you and Ignis with half-closed eyes, a barely perceptible, knowing smile playing on his lips. The silence that follows is different from the night before. It isn’t filled with pain or surveillance, but with a strange, new intimacy. Ignis eats his breakfast with the same precision with which he does everything else. You watch him secretly. The way he pushes his glasses up, the concentration in his green eyes, even in the trivial act of eating. This man is a fascinating mix of cool efficiency and a care he barely seems to allow.
When you’ve finished, he takes the bowls, cleans them with a cloth, and begins putting the utensils away in the storage box. The wind has completely died down, and although it’s still drizzling lightly, the atmosphere is lighter than yesterday. You pull the blanket closer around you and watch his movements. Slender hands and an impeccable sense of order, or a hidden desire for control? Before the question can even arise, Ignis begins packing his things. First the dish towel and the kettle, then a small plastic container, a box of matches. All these small items have their designated, protected place. Only the essentials. Exactly. Precisely. Then the spoons. He leans forward and folds the towel. A deep sigh escapes him; his shoulders and face relax slightly. Only his lips remain tense. Finally, the last item. With one fluid motion, he stows everything, including the towel, and closes the box.
“We’ll take you to a hospital in Lestallum and then deliver the package. If that's alright with you,” he says, looking at you.
With those kind green eyes, no longer as distant as before. He waits, without impatience.
“Yes, that would be best, thank you! The commander has been waiting a long time for his medicine,” you reply.
Perhaps too quickly, like an excited schoolchild answering their teacher. You clear your throat. Why has he suddenly made you so nervous? Is he uncomfortable? Is his company too inviting? Or is the concussion playing tricks on you? Or…
It wasn’t long before Gladiolus and Prompto returned. With the package! You’d never been so relieved about anything. Gladiolus held a somewhat crushed and battered package under his arms. On closer inspection, everything was still intact, the return address was correct, and a broken thread held the whole bundle together. It had survived the accident much better than you had. For the first time in hours or days, you could truly breathe a sigh of relief.
“Then we should probably get going,” Noctis said with a slight yawn.
You watched as Gladiolus, Noctis, and Ignis hurriedly dismantled the makeshift camp while Prompto regaled you with stories of their travels. You were amazed that they had already covered so much ground. When it was time to leave, Ignis was back at your side.
“The walk to the car will be uncomfortable,” he remarked, pointing to your bandaged leg. “Gladio will carry you.”
“Or I can try hopping…” you suggest, unable to bear the thought of being a burden again.
Ignis simply ignores the suggestion. “Gladio.”
He comes over and effortlessly lifts you up, as if you were a child. Ignis walks right beside him, one hand always near your supported leg, ready to absorb any sudden pain. His attention to detail is breathtaking.
In the Regalia, a sort of nest of blankets is prepared for you on the back seat.
Ignis helps Gladiolus carefully position you and then secures your leg again with a cushion, right between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. “That should be bearable.”
He takes his place in the driver’s seat but turns briefly to look at you. “The drive will take a few more hours. Tell me immediately if your condition worsens, if you experience dizziness, or if the pain becomes unbearable.”
“Thank you, I will,” you assure him, leaning back as you watch the others get in.
Prompto in the passenger seat and Noctis and Gladiolus in the back.
The drive to Lestallum is quieter. Conversation is sporadic, mostly between Prompto and Gladiolus, or Noctis’s occasional grumpy comments. Ignis is mostly silent, his gaze alternating between the road and the rearview mirror, where he keeps an eye on you. Once, he glances over his right shoulder to make sure everything is alright and gives you a gentle, concerned smile. The other three don’t miss this warm look, and suddenly there is silence. Only the whir of the windshield wipers and the rain-dampened hum of the engine can be heard. This newfound closeness, coupled with the recent memories, creates a profound sense of confusion: his nimble, gentle hands had done far more than save you, hadn’t they? They had healed you and soothed you, touched you tenderly, even when he thought no one noticed. How could his otherwise so controlled, quietly demanding nature occasionally betray itself in such a spontaneous expression of affection? However reserved and subtle he might be, especially towards an unknown traveler whose medical condition demands his special attention?
As the first buildings of Lestallum appear on the horizon, something tightens in your chest. The warm, protective blankets in the Regalia suddenly no longer feel like a nest, but like a farewell. The steady engine that carried you into the unknown now brings you safely, but inevitably, back to a world where no one would be watching over you. The adventure, the nightmare, is over. The unusual, intense care you had received would end… Soon you would part ways: you would be taken directly to the hospital, and they would drop off the package. In an instant, he would be nothing more than a vague, fleeting memory. You remember Ignis’s soft, soothing voice, keeping watch on the darkest night. They had saved you, not just from the accident, but from despair. And in the still, watchful eyes of Ignis Scientia, you saw a kind of care that went deeper than duty, a silent vigil you would never forget. The door to their world would close. But the memory of his silent watch, not only against the dangers of the night, but also against the loneliness within you, would remain. A comforting certainty, nestling deep inside you, precisely where before there had only been coldness and shock…