Who: Ignis Scientia and Prompto Argentum What: narrative/thread, talking about Altissia When: late November Where: Orrinshire, FFXV house Rating: PG Status: complete/thread in progress
Nightmares had been, surprisingly, few and far between since Ignis had arrived in Winterdale. He wasn't certain if it was something inherent to the magic there, or his mind doing its best to protect him from getting lost in certain memories, or if the presence of his friends kept less pleasant things at bay. He supposed it didn't really matter. He was hardly going to complain that the dreams that had haunted him since Noct had disappeared into the Crystal had all but ceased. It was something he was incredibly grateful for, in fact.
But few and far between still meant that his sleep was disturbed on occasion, and that night, with the weather stormy and rain pounding against the window, he tossed and turned, only to jolt awake with a quickly-muffled shout as Ardyn's mocking voice and smirking face faded back into his subconscious, taking memories of Noct, pale and lifeless-looking, of the endlessly consuming burn of the ring, of everything going dark, with him.
Altissia.
He could go slip into bed with one of the others until he felt settled again, he knew. None of them would complain, though there might be questions — and that was it, really, why he found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, putting the kettle on with still-shaking hands. There was no way to hide he was upset, unsteady, and maybe it was cowardly, but he did not want to face any of them right then when he wasn't certain he could come up with a reasonable explanation for the state he was in. Not when he wasn't certain that the smallest show of concern wouldn't cause it all to come tumbling out in an awful, messy rush.
Ignis didn't want to worry any of them. He didn't want to bring up a past that they had all left behind. They all knew where they'd come from, a world facing years of darkness and ruin and Noct trapped in that blasted Crystal until it was time to sacrifice himself. The guilt of that thought almost staggered him — he'd never shared that particular bit of knowledge with anyone, had instead barely pulled himself together and started hunting through old ruins, seeking out any sort of information that might allow Noct's fate to be changed. The vaguest whisper, the most far-fetched rumor, he hadn't cared, if it could lead to a way to save the one person he loved more than anyone else in the world.
Ignis assumed he would have kept it up if he hadn't come to Winterdale, would have allowed the distance between himself and Gladio and Pompto to continue to grow. He'd barely felt himself anymore before he'd gotten the invitation, bone-deep exhaustion and a growing detachment his constant companions. He hadn't liked the practiced distance and coldness that had started to become more than just a defense he used to face the world, how he leaned on it like the cane he had abandoned as soon as he'd been able to make his way around without it. Ignis had been well aware how he worried his friends, and yet…
He had said nothing then, just as he said nothing now. His glimpse into the future, what had really happened in Altissia — what was the point in bringing it all up, when it would just upset Gladio or Prompto? They were both burdens he was perfectly capable of managing on his own — they were his to carry, and he'd done it, glad to protect them from one of the few things it seemed like he could. His friends had had more than enough pain to cope with.
He also didn't want to lie. It was one thing to not talk about it, not bring it up, when no one else had, either. It would have been another thing entirely to prevaricate, not here, when they were all together, safe, and happy. That he had lied in the first place — or at least let them all assume that Ardyn had been the one to injure him so badly — was another wave of guilt.
What a mess.
He sighed, startling slightly as the kettle whistled. Foolish — he should have used the electric one, if he wanted to remain alone, but it had been a small, needed comfort to watch the ridiculous duck-shaped one Prompto had picked up somewhere come to a boil. He hoped everyone else was too deeply asleep to have noted it and grown curious or concerned about someone in the kitchen at this hour. He stilled, held his breath, listened for the distant scrape of an opening door or the soft sound of footsteps, tried not to think of all the times he'd gone just as still, listening for daemons in the dark of ruins that never, never held the answers he was so desperate for. When his still overly-sharp senses didn't pick up anything, he leaned on the counter, shoulders slumping.
Just for a moment, the memories made him feel exhausted, chilled, and old. He set his tea to steeping, thought again of Gladio, Noctis, and Prompto, of curling up with one of them, of warmth and safety and love. Gods, he loved them so much, so deeply and completely. As much as part of him knew he needed to tell someone, to let himself heal, the thought of their reactions were — no. Gladio took on as much as he did, and more, as Shield. He didn't need Ignis' desperate choice to put on the bloody Ring of the Lucii to weigh on him, not when he'd be well aware of what should have happened, and that Ignis had been damn lucky that his sight was all he'd lost.
Prompto wouldn't be as familiar with all of it, the long history of magic there or the detailed legacy of the Ring, but he'd still hurt for Ignis. Prompto, who had been the only thing keeping Ignis holding on some days, a soft, gentle presence always at his side in the face of Noct's grief and Gladio's anger and frustration. And Noct — absolutely not. Not when he'd blame himself for the entire thing because it tied back into his family, because Ignis had done what he did to save his life, because, Gods help him, a world without Noctis was one he refused to accept.
And in the end, it had all been a game to Ardyn, who needed Noct alive — not that Ignis had known. If he had, if he'd been able to call his bluff... It was pointless, ultimately, to go over all the what-ifs. Ignis knew this. How many nights had he been kept awake, trying to come up with away to change things?
He had the satisfaction of having beat the Chancellor momentarily, at least, as grim as that satisfaction was.
Ignis glanced down at his hand. The worst of the scarring had disappeared when Noct's wish had been granted — his vision had been returned, and not only that, but the remaining marks that the Ring had left on him had, for the most part, healed. The most noticeable were scars that lingered around his eyes; less so was a faded line across his nose that he'd taken to rubbing in place of pushing up his glasses since he no longer needed any. A fleck across one cheek, his bottom lip. Traces over his torso, up his arm.
His left hand. He wasn't certain if he only noticed it because he knew, could still feel something of the magic tied into the Lucis Caelum family burned into his skin, ancient and powerful, and unable to be completely taken away, but there was a barely-there impression around his left ring finger, a permanent reminder of what he had done and what he'd been willing to give up. It wouldn't be surprising if no one else could see it — he could barely make it out at times — or that no one had drawn any connections if they had. Why would they?
It was for the best that no one had. He could go back to wearing gloves, he supposed, but that would draw questions if nothing else did.
Lightning flickered outside, the late autumn storm apparently far from blowing itself out. Ignis wrapped his hands around his mug, never mind that it was a touch too hot still. Better that than memories of being chilled to the bone and tossed about by another storm. He'd be glad when ill weather meant snow and not rain, that was for certain. And here, at least, he could crack the back door, peer into the dark and draw in a deep, calming breath. He could focus on the sound of wind through trees and the sharp, green scent of the garden — a far cry from the crash of waves and the nauseatingly briny salt of the ocean.
He was safe. They were all safe, asleep upstairs, safe and alive and somehow — what felt like miraculously — together. Together.