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It takes maybe ten minutes for everything to go to hell.
No plan survives contact with the enemy, Prompto thinks, and grits his teeth as his knees hit cold ground. The water pooling from the rain that falls from the pitch dark sky soaks into the thick material of his pants, and he tries not to think on the pounding pain in the back of his head as the Niflheim Guardsman behind him twists his arms back even further, pressing him into the ground.
Grunts from either side of him let him know that the others are, most likely, in the same situation - a quick glance through his lashes lets him see Noctis on his left, panting harshly as he hunches over, the Guardsman watching over him supporting him in his kneeling position more than keeping him down.
Prompto tries to hold back on his panic - the strain of being the sole person linked to the crystal has hit Noctis hard, and they already knew this, there was nothing they could do - but the longer hair, courtesy of rapid burst aging and growth, has become stringy in the spitting rain, clinging to Noct's prominent cheekbones.
His friend looks haggard, eyes barely focusing as he sways on his knees. His friend looks old.
Prompto swallows, and tries as hard as he can to kick his brain into gear even as a part of his mind is running around like a headless chocobo. It doesn't matter that Noctis looks more and more like his father as each day passes - including the permanent air of soul deep exhaustion that had radiated from King Regis, stronger with each new year.
No, what matters is here and now - a base; warehouse storage facility on the Niflheim border, and most importantly, the woman stalking towards them, an unmistakable air of triumph around her as she lays eyes on Noctis.
Aranea Highwind, Prompto thinks, and feels sick to his stomach. The Dragoon is not dressed as she usually is, in propaganda and news articles - but in casual clothing that makes him think she had been in the middle of her down time when the grunts on base had alerted her to their presence.
Without the bars of her helm guarding her face, her features are clear - and Prompto quickly ducks his head, not wanting to find out if she can recognize his mother in his own face as clearly as he can see hers in her.
"Well, Your Majesty," her voice is coyly delighted as she stops in front of Noctis, crouches down to grip his chin and tilt his gaze up to hers. "This is a surprise. If I had known you were coming, I would have prepared a proper welcoming party." With his own gaze averted, Prompto can't see the smile, but he can hear it in her voice - along with the threat implicit in every syllable.
He isn't the only one - on his other side, Gladio (it has to be Gladio, he tells himself, Ignis would never make a noise so...uncivilized) snarls, an unfamiliar voice cursing as the sounds of a struggle start up.
C'mon, c'mon, he yells at his stupid, useless chocobo brain. Think!
It doesn't matter that Ignis is the smart one, the one that comes up with the plans and simply tells Prompto how best to execute his part. It doesn't matter that Ignis may be thinking up a perfect plan even as his mind races, because he has no way of knowing that for sure. It doesn't matter that Prompto is impulsive to a fault, unable to think ahead the same way as most people - what was it Ignis had said, right after he'd wrecked the car?
Oh, right. Sabotage is far beyond you -
Prompto stills.
"Hey," he calls out, slowly lifting his head, the beginnings of a plan - a stupid plan, but a plan - coming together as he speaks. "Hey, Highwind."
As his voice echoes out across the night, Gladio's struggles slow and then stop, both him and Ignis (looking just slightly worse for wear, clothing damp and torn, red seeping through cuts and bruises blooming fully into darkness on their faces) sending looks Prompto's way that shout shut up.
It's nice to know they're concerned for him, really it is. But Prompto needs to get the crazy lady with the spear - the only thing she's carrying that makes her so recognizably Aranea Highwind - away from Noctis before she gets bored of taunting him. Because Idola was smart - he didn't want Noct alive, didn't want to gloat, or the glory of ending the Caelum legacy himself. He just wanted Noct dead, before he slipped through Niflheim's grip once more - he just wanted to win, and Highwind was nothing if not fanatically loyal to her emperor. She would kill Noct - it wasn't a matter of if, but when.
Unless, of course, Prompto beat her to it.
She’s looking at him, a curious glance over her shoulder – probably wondering why he’s talking to her; if he really is that stupid. Behind him, his guard shuffles uneasily as Highwind approaches, kicking Noctis down before heading to crouch by Prompto.
“And who are you, to talk so rudely to me?” she murmurs, one hand coming up to push hair from his face, gaze searching as she looks him over. Prompto freezes, but if she recognizes him she doesn’t say so, laughing lightly as she picks up on his tension. “Prompto Argentum, right? The gunner.” Her eyes flick to his hips as if searching for his non-existent holster. “I thought guns were illegal in Lucis.”
Prompto smirks, and it’s totally bravado. “I’m a rebel; I like to live dangerously.”
Highwind laughs once again, and she looks genuinely bemused by him. He isn’t entirely sure that’s a good thing – but for now, it’s gotten her away from Noct, who seems to have recovered some coherency; he’s staring silently at Prompto with the same what the hell are you doing look he can tell Ignis is glowering at him with.
“Clearly,” she says. “Why else would you try to break in here?” There’s a lilt to her voice that states she’s fishing for info, but Prompto isn’t going to give her that satisfaction, and besides – that isn’t a part of his script.
“The key part of that statement,” he says, “is living.” He pauses, blinks innocently and stares dead at her, trying to communicate just how serious he is. “I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?” Her grin is vicious. “Sorry, blondie, but there’s nothing in this world you could offer me that would let you and your friends leave here alive.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Prompto tells her agreeably. “But what about just me?”
The silence itself is near deafening after his statement, only the faint sound of the rain drowning it out.
“Prompto Argentum.” Ignis’ voice, and he sounds annoyed. “What in the world do you think you are doing?”
Prompto ignores him, even as the guard holding Ignis down – after a hesitant glance Highwind’s way – gives the other man a swift, hard kick to the ribs.
Aranea Highwind stares at him, and she isn’t smiling or laughing, not this time. There’s curiosity in her eyes, and also disbelief – but mostly, her gaze is appraising.
Prompto swallows. He doesn’t know much about Aranea Highwind as a person, no-one does, but he knows more about her exploits than anyone else here with the exception of the lady herself. It was a hot topic amongst the Council, according to Ignis – why such a skilled mercenary would devote such loyalty to Niflheim, and whether or not she could be bought away by Lucis. In the end it had been (wisely) decided that it was too dangerous a thing to risk – and though Prompto had never said anything, he knew that Aranea Highwind would never stoop to serve another kingdom; after all, she was no traitor.
And rumors tell that she has no patience for others of that persuasion, either. While dangerous, Aranea Highwind is a forward fighter, leery of the tactics used in the shadows of low war.
That, normally, would be fine. Whereas Highwind practices the traditions of high war, playing her strengths to the laws set there, what Prompto knows is low war – where there is no honor, only survival. On the battlefield she may triumph, but outside of it Prompto could just as easily hold the upper ground. Right now, however, he is completely at the mercy of her and her soldiers; one wrong word could lose him not only this fight, but his head.
“You would abandon them?” she asks, and her voice is cold. Though she is their enemy, Aranea Highwind has her own code of honor – she would never abandon her comrades as he is. “A man who cannot be trusted to stand by his friends to save his own skin is not a man I can trust to hold to a bargain.”
“Not even when that man is the son of Solle Candesco?”
Highwind had been pulling away from him, standing up and turning away from him to face Noctis once again, but at his words she froze.
“What?”
Her voice is soft, with an undercurrent of shock running through the words as she speaks them, her brown eyes almost wild as she whirls back to him.
“My mother,” Prompto grins, the movement pulling at the split skin of his lip. “Solle Candesco, of Niflheim’s Praetorian Guard.”
“You’re lying,” Highwind says swiftly. “If you were really Praetor Candesco’s child, why fight with Lucis? Why turn on your own kingdom – your own people?”
Prompto winces. Mostly because he can feel the wide-eyed stares of disbelief his friends are directing his way, and the confused, almost-but-still-not-quite-yet betrayal beginning to emanate from Noctis in particular; but Aranea seems to take it as guilt, because she falters.
“Lucis and Niflheim have been at war for a long time,” Prompto says quietly. “Border skirmishes were always just another Tuesday – but then Hugskot fell, remember? And then, suddenly, all the villages and farms that had been on the borders for generations, keeping out of the war as best they could – they were in danger. They were just collateral damage.” He shudders. “We were living in Ljómandi at the time, and the next thing I know, my mother is sending me and my father to Solheim, where we would be safe until the war entered another quiet period.”
“But then how did you end up in Lucis?” Highwind’s question is suspicious, but less sharp than her words not a full minute earlier had been. There is something frightening close to empathy in her eyes when Prompto chances a quick look – he quickly averts his own afterwards; he isn’t trying to bond with her.
He shrugs. “We never made it to Solheim.” That isn’t entirely true, but the story behind it is entirely irrelevant, and the bitter tone in his voice is very much genuine, which Highwind picks up on.
"Why fight with Lucis, then?" She's giving him no ground, firing out questions as quickly as he answers them - trying to catch him in a lie.
Ha. Good luck to her - he's Prompto Argentum, both lie and liar, and no-one has ever managed to figure him out yet. "My mother's dead. With her gone, what reason would we have to return to Niflheim, so soon after finally getting settled in Insomnia?"
The way Highwind tilts her head lets Prompto know that point has been conceded to him - but this fight is far from over.
"Let's say you're genuine, here," Aranea says, crossing her arms. "Out of respect for your mother, I let you live. Then what?"
Prompto shrugs as much as he can with his arms still twisted behind him. "I leave?" He suggests.
She tilts her head, something akin to triumph crossing her face. "Would you fight for Niflheim?" she asks, and something about her tone sends chills down Prompto's spine.
He nods anyway. "If it lets me live," he allows, "I'll fight for anyone."
A muffled sound of protest comes from Noct's direction, as if his oldest friend is protesting his words. Prompto forces himself not to look - he won't look, he can't, not when he knows the betrayal he'll see in those eyes for being lied to all these years -
"Prove it, then," Aranea says, and while that is definitely triumph in her voice now, this is the moment Prompto has been waiting for.
"Okay," he says agreeably. "Let me up, and I'll give you his head." He jerks his chin in Noctis' direction.
"Prompto - what - " Ignis' voice is hollow, and next to him, Gladio is gaping in silent disbelief. He still doesn't glance Noct's way. What will come next will be hard enough to keep up a facade for without the knowledge that this is hurting Noctis.
Highwind seems to share the other's shock. "What?" she says, stunned.
"Niflheim wants him dead, right?" Prompto meets her eyes with a grim certainty. "A trade; my life for his. Let me up - " he jerked his wrists " - and I'll kill him for you. That would prove my loyalty with no doubt, wouldn't it?"
There was a venomous sort of glee lurking in the back of Aranea Highwind's eyes, and Prompto felt sick to his stomach as she gestured for the guard to let him go.
"And how, exactly," she purrs, "are you going to kill him?"
In answer, Prompto holds out one hand, rubbing with the other at his stiff, aching wrist. The static charge that comes part and parcel with magic thrums through him, and then he is holding a gun - sleek and silver and chrome, all shining lines and functionality. No gilt on this gun; no mother-of-pearl inlay like on some of his more favoured weapons - just a pistol with three barrels that meant serious hurt for whoever was at the receiving end - depending, of course, on where the shots were aimed. A gun with more than a single barrel ran the risk of each bullet veering wildly off course, so the muzzle was cut short for maximum accuracy, barely larger than a handgun. It was still meant for use in fairly close quarters, however, and that was exactly what Prompto has in mind as he steps up to Noctis, and presses the gun to his head.
Muffled shouts come from the direction of Ignis and Gladio - they must have recognised his weapon, then; they'd seen the triple-barrel in action enough times to know of its devastating results. The main focus of Prompto's attention, however, is on his best friend.
Noctis' eyes are wide. He's staring not at the gun held up against his forehead, not at Aranea Highwind hovering over Prompto's shoulder in a mix of disbelief and excitement - but at Prompto himself, those blue eyes of his (somehow darker than they had been when they had started out on this journey) locked directly onto Prompto's own.
I trust you, that gaze said, the calm of a king emanating from Noctis. Whatever you're doing, I know it's right.
(The saddest, most heart-breaking thing, Prompto thinks, is that if he really was intending to kill Noctis, his friend would allow it - and still forgive him for it.
The only comfort that comes from that thought - and it is a cold, hard comfort - is that Ignis and Gladio would not hold the same leniency for the traitor in their midst.)
That look is the last thing Prompto needs to solidify his plan. Resolve strengthening in his mind, he cocks the gun - pulling the hammer back, feeling the soft ch-chink of mechanisms clicking into place as bullets form in each chamber.
It pays to be the least important member of the group, the strategically less interesting. Clearly, a great deal of effort had been put into learning Noctis' techniques as well as Gladio's, and the way Ignis had been the first to be downed suggests they know very well he is the brains of their team. But Prompto? He's just the school friend; with access to magic, maybe, but ultimately no more dangerous than any other man with a pistol in his hand.
Niflheim will come to regret that thinking.
Haste, Barrier, Regen, he thinks, and his finger tightens on the trigger. There is a very good reason Prompto chose to use this particular gun (if the others had been thinking straight, they probably would have already figured him out) - because it is feasibly the only weapon he has in his arsenal that would allow him to cast the necessary spells to keep Noctis safe fast enough before Aranea noticed, and ran him through.
"Will that work?" Aranea asks, as Prompto waits for the sensation of the casting to finish. "Killing him with his own magic?"
"Once he's dead, the gun will vanish, and I won't be able to cast anymore," Prompto admits. "But the mana is mine - he gives me access to my magic; he doesn't control it."
Her eyes are cold when he glances over his shoulder at her. "Then get on with it," she says. Stop stalling, her words mean.
Prompto takes a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath - and then he presses down, and his world is the concussive force of the bullets piercing Noctis - the status effects taking place.
For a brief second, everything is still - everyone looking mildly shocked and confused by the fact that Noctis (clearly shot) was neither dead nor dying.
Then Aranea Highwind snarls, and Prompto - staring with wide-eyed relief at the glassy, crystalline structure of the barrier that has formed like a shell around Noctis, oil-slick rainbow lights sparking around him - jolts to attention, to reality, just in time to narrowly dodge a spearhead to the lower spine.
Heart pounding, Prompto manages to regain his balance before Highwind can make another swipe, pulling from his mana to produce more bullets in his gun's chamber. Right now, with the woman turning to Noct (who had risen to his feet, staring coldly at the Niflheim men holding weapons at them) would actually be the perfect time to switch to a more flexible weapon - but he doesn't want to be unarmed, not when Ignis and Gladio have come back to their senses and are kicking out at their guards, not when the Niflheim soldiers scattered about are still just slightly too stunned to think to make a move against the blonde kid shooting at them.
Aranea is, amazingly, of a lesser concern then her underlings right now - she is completely focused in on Noct, who is, admittedly, the bigger problem at the moment - with regen healing his wounds and haste speeding his motions; the barrier standing as strong as a physical wall between the prince and the dragoon - given that he could simply summon swords to skewer her.
Which is exactly what he does.
Prompto has to give it to her, even as he shoots down the soldiers coming to aid the guard Ignis was very nearly finished with fighting off (nothing fancy, just aiming for the chest; the biggest centre of mass like his mother had taught him to do before he had become adept enough at shooting to go for the kill shot each time - while the hits would definitely end each man's life, it was not instantaneous) - the Lady Dragoon, Niflheim's military crown jewel, has definitely earned her title. Aranea Highwind is on an entirely different level to the four of them - probably even then all four of them combined.
She dodges the blades Noctis summons to send her way - uses one broadsword as a step to launch herself further in the air, twists as she comes down so that her spear moves to pierce the ground where Noctis is standing, behind the secure shield of the barrier.
Prompto shoots at her as she comes down, smiling; shouts a warning to Noctis as Ignis' blades join his bullets in attempting to throw her off.
Noctis dodges back, leaving only an after-image of shining blue as Aranea's spear cracks the cement it finds itself planted in - the barrier, not being cast by Noctis himself (the prince thus unable to move it with him) shattering under the impact of the blow, useless.
And then Noctis warps once more - and they are all standing, as they should be, side by side.
Aranea Highwind has twirled away, her movements almost a dance as she leaps to higher ground.
"I really thought you were going to kill me for a moment," Noctis says as they stand ready, eyes tracking the dragoon.
"As did I," Ignis frowns briefly in Prompto's direction. "That was foolish."
"It worked," Gladio states bluntly, calling forth his massive greatsword. "Chew him out later; we've got bigger problems now."
Noctis hums in agreement, and Prompto can feel Ignis' assessing eyes flick over all of them, taking stock of their situation. "If we can find an opening," he says carefully, "I believe we should make a run for it."
Prompto quickly nods his assent - he is all for that idea; live to fight another day and all that jazz. His body is just now catching up to his mind in the oh wow I actually did that department and his hands are shaking, trembling around the gun that he quickly sends away before he accidentally shoots at something (or someone) he doesn't want to.
"We don't need to find an opening," Noctis says grimly, and crystal shards glowing with an inner light not dissimilar to the moon above begin to scatter around them, the phantom shapes of his royal arms flashing in and out of sight as the prince - the king - calls on his Armiger Arsenal. "Because I'm going to make us one."
The three of them exchange a quick look, before backing up slightly, well aware of just how much damage Noctis' own special brand of attack can cause.
And then Highwind is flying at them, her feet seeming to never touch the ground as she twirls around on her halberd, closing in and then moving out as crystal shards home in to cut her. Noctis warps, again and again and again, never staying still for longer than a second – the entire world is crystal blue as Noctis and Aranea dance; there’s really no other words for it.
“Run,” Ignis advises, and Prompto can hear the reluctance in his voice. Leaving and trusting Noct to fight his own way out is probably the only feasible plan they have at this point – and even if Highwind manages to overpower him they can just regroup to attack and get him back later – but the very idea of it still smarts.
Prompto is in the lead as they break off, shooting at any soldier that risks coming in their direction, Gladio pulling up the rear and swinging his blade to keep the remnants of Highwind’s own forces off their tail. Ignis looks almost as if he is jogging – though keeping up with them, his eyes keep swivelling to Noctis and the clash behind him, proof more than anything to Prompto that the advisor is inhuman, because his eyes sure as hell can’t follow whatever is going on back there, merely a shattering of crystal and light interspersed with grunts and war cries to him – and he probably has the best vision out of the lot of them.
Finally, they reach what could be considered an edge or end to the fortress, wired gates barbed to the teeth and vehicles scattered about, their keys helpfully left in the ignition. Prompto isn’t sure on whether or not that’s normal military procedure, but hey – he isn’t complaining.
“Get in!” Gladio yells, and revs the engine of the tanklike car as much as he can, tires squealing as he swerves it 180 degrees, turning back in the direction they had just came from, where far in the distance Prompto can still faintly see the white flashes of Noct’s weapons, and knows that they have to hurry – Armiger Arsenal is draining at the best of times, which this is…far from, to put it mildly.
(As Gladio floors it, nearly punching the accelerator through the floor, Ignis and Prompto gripping the anti-crash rails of the car for dear life, there are faint yelping sounds coming from the Niflheim soldiers they drive by, throwing themselves to the side to avoid being flattened by the swordsman’s grand theft auto. It’s far from the time to be laughing, but Prompto can’t help it as faint hysteria bubbles up. Ignis shoots him a look that clearly says that if he had any free hands with which to hit him, Prompto’s head would be hurting about now.)
They crash into view of where Highwind and Noctis are duking it out – there’s really no other way to put it, and no wonder Ignis is more willing to hand the wheel over to Prompto than Gladio. The man just can’t drive – and a spear, glowing white and surrounded by crystalline particles, impales itself between Ignis and Prompto in the back; a moment later Noctis crashes back against the seat, exhaustion radiating from every inch of him and blood and sweat dripping down his face.
“Gladio,” he croaks out. “Floor it.”
Gladio doesn’t even pause to acknowledge him, already turning the car around and screaming it back through the soldiers who are only just now beginning to pull themselves up and recover, and Prompto can’t help but feel sorry for them regardless of the fact that they’re enemies – because behind them, Aranea Highwind lets loose a cry a of rage loud enough to be heard over the chugging engine Gladio is pushing past the limit, and almost feral in how animal it sounds. A chill shudders its way down Prompto’s spine, and he is suddenly very aware of the fact that they – and maybe himself in particular – has made a powerful enemy.
(It’s nearly a full day later, after they have ditched the car for fear it has tracking devices on it and summarily begged Cindy for a rescue after having rested and healed, that Noctis brings it up.
Prompto, for his part, just laughs. “I can’t believe you forgot about my status effects,” he teases. “I cast Stop for you all the time! And next to Ignis I’m like, designated healer. Seriously, what the hell?”
Noctis shrugs, but a faint blush has made its way across his cheeks. “It’s hard to think under pressure, okay?” He mumbles. “And besides, you had the crazy look in your eyes. You know, the rabid squirrel one.”
Prompto looks offended – he does not have a ‘rabid squirrel’ look, thank you very much – and the offense he feels only grows as Ignis nods and Gladio makes a grunting sound of agreement.
“You have to admit,” Ignis says, pushing his glasses up. “What Aranea Highwind was saying about your mother and the Praetorian Guard did make your sudden turn to the dark side seem more plausible.”
“You guys are idiots,” Prompto says flatly, but not without affection. “I mean, even if I was originally some sort of spy, you’ve totally Stockholmed it out of me by now.”
“I don’t think that’s how Stockholm syndrome works, Prompto.”
“All due respect, but shut up, your Majesty.”