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It should be such an easy task, Ignis thinks as he picks up the knife from the countertop next to him. A practiced move, practically burned into his memory by years of experience. Muscle memory alone should be enough to do the trick.
But even as long and slender digits curl around the wooden handle of the knife which he has picked up so many times before that he has long lost count, even the weight immediately registering as familiar and perfectly balanced, like a simple extension of his arm, he doesn’t go to work immediately.
He should know what to do. He has done this a thousand times before, and more. While being distracted by a million things at once, no less. Like Noctis asking him questions he should already know all the answers to given his education, or Prompto gesturing wildly while he is telling a story, no doubt about his latest trip to catch the most amazing shot of the scenery, or Gladiolus, reading an especially amusing passage from one of his books out loud to them. Or while he was distracted by the news on his TV or the radio. Or by something he was reading on his phone.
It has always been so very easy.
And now Ignis tries to measure the length of the vegetable in front of him with his finger, by the feel and the roughness of form and texture a carrot no doubt; trying to guess where to place the exceptionally sharp blade to chop it into somewhat that will hopefully mildly resemble something like equally shaped pieces, without taking a piece of his own finger in the progress.
And while his mind is able to fill in the blanks when it comes to the condition and the rough diameter of the vegetable, drawing from years of memories to replace with his hands what a lost sense has now taken from him, he can’t bring himself to place the knife to the carrot’s tip and start chopping.
He has never needed to see what he is doing while chopping the ingredients for what he is cooking.
But now that he isn't able to actually see it anymore, he feels as incapable of fulfilling this once so easy task as he has felt with everything else as of late.
From a faint distance he hears something clatter; metal and wood meeting hard stone, the rough surface of granite probably ruining the finely cut edge of the knife he had just dropped without noticing, slipped away from what he thought has been his iron clad grip as his fingers simply give in.
They were disobeying him, just like everything else in his body seems to do lately.
Ignis doesn't bother with letting his fingertips search for the fallen instrument. All he does is gripping the edge of the worktop, forcing himself and his body to stiffen, the strain in his muscles keeping him upright even when all his legs want to do is to give in.
But Ignis has already sworn to himself that he wouldn’t have any of this. He has sworn this to himself the moment he woke up after Altissia; and he is repeating that silent oath now to himself, a mantra that he chants in his mind, the one where he keeps himself to always keep going, to never give up. To walk tall.
At least this time his body will obey him, he decides. At least this one thing will go as Ignis dictates. It is a silly thought, but it is at least a small victory in a series of defeats that he has endured in silence since that day. All of which he has hidden behind his mask, hidden away any signs of flaws that anyone could see.
And Ignis coughs out a small, humorless laugh as he realises that he has just counted standing upright as a success. How low his expectations have become. How little remains from the once so proud perfectionist. And yet … yet it is still him, and he still demands the same things from himself as he did before. They just won’t happen.
What has become of him, the grand advisor of the former prince and future king of Lucis, he wonders.
But the all encompassing darkness that greets Ignis, whether his eyes are open or not, immediately reminds him of his current place. Far away from anywhere he could be of actual use.
It doesn’t even hurt anymore, the wounds that stretch over his face, and the logical part of Ignis’ brain, always the analytical strategist that he is, figures that it is probably thanks to the potions he has been getting almost immediately after getting hurt. And yet, still too late.
Too late to prevent the skin from scarring, from keeping his nerve endings from getting burned beyond repair. He doesn’t feel half of his face any more; only his fingertips able to trace the lines where his skin changes from healthy and still feeling to a much too smooth surface; a large patch over his eye which he knows should be sensitive and painful to the touch, but isn’t.
He knows that there is a cut across the bridge of his nose. A smaller scar over his right eye. He can feel the small dent in the skin when he moves his fingertips along, healed, but too deep to ever vanish completely. The left side of his face is a lot worse. But he can only feel and imagine, not see. He hasn’t asked what he looks like now, he doesn’t know for sure, can only try to guess the extend of his injuries, but by now he has come to the realisation that he will probably never know for sure.
No amount of potions that he has taken since then has done anything to lift that heavy curtain that drains out the light from Ignis’ world. All he sees now when he opens his eyes aren’t even shadows anymore, it’s just the bare difference between dark and light, a greyish smudge, like spots that try to get through what is otherwise just an all consuming black, but fail eventually.
It makes Ignis wonder. Moments like these, when he can’t even do what he has done so many times before. It makes him wonder how he hasn’t yet lost his sanity in addition to his vision.
Or how much of this is thanks to his years of training, that has drilled the sentiment of always leaving emotions behind right into him. That has taught him to focus on the cold hard facts at hand, since those are all that really matter? Or how much is thanks to the potions, healing physical synapses to prevent the mental disconnections that try to trip his brain over from winning?
Probably the latter, he figures dryly, since given only the facts, he should have given up weeks ago.
Given the facts, he is pretty much useless, a dead weight that is only kept around due to the sentimental factor, but he is sure that his position will soon be refilled by someone who is much more capable of doing what is necessary than him. Everything else would be simply ridiculous. He can’t do what his position demands of him, because how is he supposed to plan, how can he work out strategies and give advice when he literally can’t see the danger coming? When he doesn’t know what lies ahead, because his most valuable assets aren’t working as they should? Aren’t working at all anymore.
When his mind and eyes are clouded alike, leaving him completely useless to the crown, and reducing the years of personal training that he endured, the special education he has received from Lucis to make him the perfect man for his position, to nothing but a complete waste of time.
It is then, just when his legs finally dare to give in and the strain on his arms, elbow already trembling and fingers gripping way too hard, that he feels a weight and warmth on his shoulder and a familiar voice reaches his ear, rough and rumbling, but soft around the edges as it feels as if it curls through Ignis’ body and settles in his stomach like a hot tea, sweetened with honey.
“Don’t overdo it, Iggy.”
Despite the words, the tone stays free of pittiness, and even though the touch is meant to be calming, Ignis is glad that Gladiolus doesn’t try to belittle him even more.
The man’s presence has become something of a constant for Ignis, even more so than before. He can feel his body looming behind him, his broad frame easily overtowering Ignis in both height and width despite his own tall growth.
Right now though, he can’t really tell if Gladio’s presence is reassuring or irritating.
His mind is undecided if he wants to be left alone with his thoughts, not letting anyone see the state of weakness he is actually in, or if he should welcome the distraction that are Gladio’s voice and touches, small and guiding as they are.
If he can’t even make up his mind over such a simple matter, something as selfish as his own well being, then how is he supposed to make a decision that could easily mean life or death, that could concern his king, or the fate of so many people out there, and a whole kingdom?
He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, the air that filled his lungs now slowly escaping through thin lips that are otherwise tightly sealed.
Gladio’s thumb draws small circles over his shoulder blade. Had he once been in dire need of a massage because he felt as if the political future of the whole world had rested on his shoulders, he knows his tense muscles are now the result of his own doing, of his body not being able to relax at least once, even when he is in a familiar place, just because nothing is as it used to be. Because he never knows what’s going on around him anymore, his other senses not yet up to par to make up for what he has lost.
And Ignis starts to doubt that it will ever be the case.
For such a perfectionist as he is, how can he ever be truly satisfied with his now very limited talents, even if he ever finds a way around some of his current obstacles?
He isn’t one for self-pity, and he will scold anyone that tries to play this card on him, but he simply doesn’t know how he can ever be of any use again. Or at least not how long it will take until he can count himself as a full and useful member of their group again. How he can ever be of use again, to his country. To his king. To his friends.
He registers a sound and his mind connects the dots for him, telling him that Gladio probably moved to pick up the knife from where he dropped it earlier, the shifts in Gladio’s muscles he can feel through where he is still touching him and the rustling of his leather clothes matching that conclusion.
“Thank you,” he brings out, his voice not quite sounding like his own.
He earns a grunt in reply, Gladio dismissing Ignis’ gratitude probably with an additional shrug he can’t see and only barely feel. It is frustrating, to say the least, being able to exactly know how a person is reacting, but still being unable to confirm that thought through sight to be completely certain.
“Told you you didn’t need to cook anything. Not if you’re not up to it just yet.”
Judging by the sounds of it, Gladio is putting the cutting board and vegetables away from him, further away from the counter’s corner that Ignis is still holding on to, and just out of his reach.
“I figured we were in dire need of a change,” Ignis replies, the edge in his voice almost as sharp as the blade, even though he tries to lessen the blow. Gladio does not deserve the anger and frustration he currently feels. He tries to mask the half lie he is telling both himself and Gladio with sarcasm instead.
“One cannot survive on takeout food and cup noodles alone. As much as both you and Noctis might disagree with me on that one, I can say that this is in fact true.”
Gladio doesn’t even bother to argue the point, probably knowing that it would be a fruitless discussion anyway.
But the way his body shifts behind Ignis is enough to tell the adviser that Gladio has seen through him. Something that wouldn’t have happened before, either.
“Maybe you shouldn’t start with handling knives first,” Gladio just suggest instead of saying what they both know hangs in the air between them like a looming shadow. The real reason for all of this.
That Ignis can’t sit still anymore, that he needs to find a way of being of use again, to return to the smallest bit of normalcy, something to cling to desperately like a drowning man before his sanity slips after all. His failure in doing just that has only brought him one step closer to that edge he has been dancing along all this time, close enough that it might not need more than a little push to send him over for good. He isn’t sure how much Gladio can tell about that.
How well Ignis has been able to mask that part of his recovery from the man that has been there all the way since he opened his eyes again after Altissia, only to find that it didn’t make any difference whether they were opened, or closed, whether he asked him with a confused voice if the lights were turned on or not.
Ignis grip on the counter tightens; the knuckles, covered as always by his gloves, probably turning white by now.
“And if I don’t learn how to handle knifes in the kitchen any time soon, how am I supposed to handle daggers in the future?”
His voice is distant. Matter of factly. Still the strategist. Knowing his limits and the bitter truth that comes with them.
He swallows hard. Trying to summon his daggers and trying to train with them is something that might have crossed his mind before, but the fear of failure has yet been bigger than the urge and frustration to simply give it a try.
And judging by his current attempt of preparing a simple meal; something that usually only required for him to simply going through the motions, is answer enough to him.
“Then don’t.”
Gladio’s words cut through the moment of silence that has been growing between them, and they leave Ignis speechless for a second.
A chance that Gladio uses to continue.
“If you can’t handle your daggers, then you won’t,” he says grimly, sounding as if he does not allow any sort of objection even though he knows that it will come. Not as if Ignis is impressed by that tone. He knows Gladio’s speeches, he has heard them often enough, but most of the time the shield is giving them to Noctis, to rattle him awake and push him when the prince - the king, Ignis corrects himself - needs the scolding to be reminded of who he is. Being suddenly at the receiving end of one of those speeches now is an entirely new experience for Ignis.
“If you can’t fight, then you won’t, and you’ll do something else. Give advice, or teach some manners to Noct, ‘cause he always seems to forget ‘em, or do whatever the fuck else needs to be done once that scrawny kid is king, but you won’t fight out there on the battlefield when you’re not able to handle your weapons and get yourself killed.”
When. Not if.
Ignis has noticed the choice of words that Gladio has used, and it makes his jaw tighten with anger.
He pushes away from the hand on his shoulder, even though it causes him to bump his hip against the counter. A short flare of pain rises in him as bone and sharp edge of marble collide, but it’s gone immediately. A constant supply of potions coursing through his veins is having that effect on his pain receptors.
“Oh, I’m most certainly not,” Ignis brings out, his frustration breaking through as he turns to what he hopes is Gladio’s direction to face him.
“I will not stay at home and fret like a mother of her children, waiting for all of you to hopefully return and let years of training go to waste.”
Ignis stands tall, and even though he can’t glare at Gladio any more like he used to, he puts on a stern expression and crosses his arms, the leather of his gloves briefly catching on the crisp cotton fabric of his shirt as he does so, but he pushes past the initial resistance. Pushes past the demand that Gladio has made without really speaking the words himself.
“And how do you think you can be of use in a fight?” Gladio’s words slice through him like a knife would have. It is exactly what Ignis has been thinking, what had been simmering there beneath the surface of his thoughts this whole time without him daring to actually voice it out loud. And Gladio probably knows it just as well.
And now that they have been said out loud they can’t be taken away again, and they liger in the air between them like the heavy presence of a third person, glooming and standing there to mock them both.
Ignis curls his hands into fists and he hears the leather creak between his fingers as the hide almost cuts into his palms.
“I will find a way,” he replies with his voice dripping of cold; true feelings and doubts locked away where he hopes that Gladio won’t find them. Maybe not even Ignis himself. Keeping it under wraps and not thinking about it means that it won’t get in the way of what he has just announced.
“I will find a way to fight again, even if it will kill me.”
The last part was meant more for himself instead of Gladio to hear, because deep down he knows it’s true.
That there is no point for him to be around if he can’t do what his position demands. What he has been trained to do. For him, there is no alternative but to serve dutifully to the crown. Something which he thought that Gladio of all people would understand, having been trained to be the king’s shield from an early age on, the duty even running in his family line.
But he feels as if he is not the only one who is missing some of his senses, when his words fall onto deaf ears.
“Or all of us,” Gladio barks back and Ignis can hear the anger in the shield’s voice that is undoubtedly cutting deep lines into the other man’s face, making his appearance even more threatening than he already is.
Except that Ignis can neither see that expression, nor does he care. He has never been one to be easily intimidated, and he won’t start now of all times.
“Fuck this, Ignis, you’re getting all of us killed!”
It’s the last thing he hears before there is the sound of rustling leather, aching as it gives in to movements and stretching over well defined muscles, and then a door slams shut, metal clicking as the lock falls back into place before an eerie silence falls over the room, only interrupted by Ignis’ rattling breaths and the sound of his own heartbeat as it pumps blood through his body with too much speed so that he can hear it rushing through his ears.
Finally, as they have wanted for so long, Ignis’ knees give in.
He sinks to the ground, his legs meeting the cold stone floor and his back leans against the wooden surface of the lower kitchen cupboards.
He is alone. Gladio has left, and Ignis is alone again with his thoughts and his attempts to return to normalcy again, even though both he and Gladio know that it probably won’t ever happen.
He waits. Minutes drip by, trickling away without being counted or even acknowledged. Gladio doesn’t return. And Ignis finally moves.
He knows deep down that they are both right. He knows that he isn't able to do anything but what he has been doing all his life, despite his injury. But he also knows that Gladio is right too, and that one wrong move on his part could mean defeat or even the possible death for all of them.
Something that needs to be avoided at all cost.
His fingers are already moving again, sliding over rough stone until they bump against the item they were searching for: thin and long, metal and acryl bound together into the cane he has been using ever since he was able to finally get out of bed himself, until now less of a way of orientation and more of an annoyance that just kept reminding him of his own inabilities. Only meaning that there was also one hand of his constantly occupied instead of being able to help.
But his decision is made, and once Ignis Scientia has made a decision it takes more than just a few arguments and discussions - or even setbacks - to make him rethink what he has decided on.
It is simple, really. It only means that he needs to make sure that his inability will not hinder the others in their doing. And he will keep trying. Somehow. Despite what his mind, even his body is telling him. He has learned so many things in his young years already, handling this is just another task he needs to complete to serve the crown and his king. At least if he keeps telling this himself, it will hopefully hold these other, much darker thoughts at bay.
It gives him a purpose at least, something to focus on, instead of withering away in his room.
One step at a time, literally.
His legs protest as he pushes himself up, using the cane and the counter to guide himself into a standing position. He straightens his back and smoothes his clothes briefly, before he closes his eyes, pointless as that motion might be.
It has been long, too long, but he focuses, and he feels the familiar pull of magic, prickling through his veins and briefly filling the air around him with static as he lets one of his daggers appear in his free hand, the familiar form and weight and the way his gloved fingers curl around the handle somewhat reassuring.
At least this is still working and obeying to his will.
Everything else will soon again, too.
With or without the help of his eyes.
It simply has to, Ignis decides. It has to.
To walk tall again.