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The war had ended but the scars remained.
Years of endless fighting, hardships, lost comrades and betrayal had taken their toll on everyone. Ignis was no different. Evidence was clear in not just their bodies but their actions as well. They had won but at a terrible price. Each of them dealt with their own trauma in their own way. While, of course, support was present among the four, rarely did one share such a weight for fear of burdening the other. Few had shared that sentiment more than the King’s counsel.
Nightfall was the worst, he found. When all was quiet and he was alone to dwell upon his thoughts, agonising over details for the necessary preparations to restore Lucis to her once majestic glory, his brilliant yet heavily fatigued mind would travel down a different path - much darker and filled with regret. Straining to read the ever-rising sea of letters and reports, a vicious migraine piercing through his skull, reverberating within, as his weakened eyes ached.
Another cruel jest the universe threw at him; from birth, his eyesight was always poor. The aid of corrective glasses improved his sight considerably. Yet now they proved near useless. Near blind, reading letters and figures were becoming increasingly difficult - near impossible, even - as the days rolled by. Offers of help were politely, albeit abruptly, brushed away. He would not share this weakness. Not upon others. Not upon those he cared about most.
My burdens are my own.
One more attempt at scanning the latest damage report, jaw clenched and eyes squinting; words and digits blurred into a mess of black and white like smudged ink. The strategist’s cool composure shattered and the papers danced in a flurry before slowly descending onto the floor next to his desk. A hand ran through combed back hair, tinted glassed thrown upon varnished oak with a clatter. Lips thinned into a snarl, a sliver of white teeth showing, the muscles on his face twitching as he tried to regain what little composure he had left. Futile.
“I’m surprised at you.”
Thin eyebrows furrowed. His apartment was empty save for him. Perhaps his own inner monologue was taking a stronger hold than usual? Reminding himself of the failure that he had fought so desperately to avoid his entire life?
“You’re better than this.”
The blood drained from his face. It can’t be…
“C’mon, you’re supposed to be the smart one.”
“And you’re supposed to be dead ,” he snarled through gritted his teeth, fingers tightly curled up into fists on the desk.
His skin crawled when he felt a cool hand touch his face, the ball of her thumb tracing the scar on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Stress. This is what this was. Nothing more, nothing less. Unresolved tension and sleep deprivation finally catching up to him. He could face this. He must. Throughout his turbulent life there had been more insurmountable circumstances than a delusion created by an exhausted mind.
Perhaps this was another jest. The strategist’s most trusted asset now betraying him. The irony.
Crowe leaned in closer to snake her arms around his neck, her chilling breath biting against his feverish skin. Ignis dared not meet her eyes. Not risking to tarnish the clear memory of her; warm mahogany hues gazing back at him, her expression softened as he pulled her to him. Pale skin surprisingly delicate to the touch, each curvature on her body memorised like the verses of a poem. Her battle-hardened exterior becoming much more gentler and demure when they were behind closed doors; a world created for them, and them alone. Did the gods ever create a paradise so sweet?
But he knew better. One look at her phantom and these feeble eyes of his would not see that brilliant mahogany staring back at him. Instead, milky white orbs would bore through him once more, grey mottled skin no longer possessing the warmth that he buried himself into countless nights between his sheets. Agonising wounds open as a reminder to how she died. A mockery of her wild beauty. Echoes of a truth he didn’t wish to hear.
Even amongst the destruction of Insomnia, those reports were spared, and his eyes had not been kind enough to spare him of it. Details given by a coroner’s chicken scratch and the mortuary photos have haunted him since.
I refuse to let her memory be sullied like that once more.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, allowing her to explore his face. Cold fingers danced along the frame of his glasses, another set travelling along his jawline and brushing his cheek, circling the moles that dotted the surface. A distant memory of better times. Her gentle games that amused them both in those precious moments.
A cold forehead pressed against his. “No,” Crowe admitted. “But I’m sorry that you didn’t have any time to grieve properly.”
Despite her words stinging like a slap across the face, they did ring a sad truth to them. Upon hearing of the attack on the Crown City, Ignis immediately attempted to contact her. As a glaive she would have been one of the first lines of defence. There was never any doubt about her abilities yet that sinking feeling in the pit of his gut wouldn’t vanish. Before receiving any official confirmation he knew.
Years of built up composure and logic had prepared him for such an event… or so he thought. The reality was entirely different.
Grief had to wait.
Any emotions that would compromise his duty to Noctis was out of the question. In an ideal world he would have had time to properly mourn her. Unfortunately such a world doesn’t exist.
Ignis was trying to hold as much self-control as he could, but the overwhelming swell in his chest and his shuddering shoulders betrayed him. It wasn’t until Crowe wiped away a tear that he let himself go. Abandoning logic and reason for once in his life, Ignis gave in completely. A jagged sob tore itself through his throat, an ache that had been contained for decade ran ravage through his broken body. The barriers that he had constructed so carefully collapsing before him. “I miss you.”
No response.
Forcing himself to calm down as he straightened up, Ignis glanced around the room to find her.
Nothing.
Only some scattered papers were left.
Listless, he ignored the reports and everything else for the rest of the night, remaining seated in that dimly lit room until the sun rose; signalling yet another day without her. Another possible future lost. An empty space on the other side of his bed.
The war had ended but the scars remained, and old wounds continued to fester.