Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s Ignis who sees the flier first, but who knows if it’s actually the first flier they’ve passed since Insomnia’s fall. Noctis just scoffs and rolls his eyes when it’s pointed out to him, seemingly unbothered by it.

“Why wouldn’t there be a bounty,” he says, nose wrinkling in something like disgust. “I’m surprised it took this long to find one.” He squints at the print suspiciously despite the in-your-face large font. “45,000 gil?”

“You are so worth more than that,” Prompto says. Noct nods in agreement.

Gladio laughs and leans his arm on Noctis’ shoulder. “Someone sure thinks highly of himself.” And then he goes boneless, dragging Noct down hard. The prince yelps as he staggers under the weight, grunts, grumbling as he does his best to shove his Shield off and failing rather sadly.

Ignis sighs at their antics. “Either way. We should be vigilant. This means we have more than just the Imperial army to worry about. Any Niflheim citizen could be after this bounty, small or not.” Privately, he too wonders about the low price.

“And others,” Prompto pipes up. His face is hidden behind his camera as he clicks snapshot after snapshot of Noct’s epic struggle. He peeks out when Ignis glances at him with a raise brow. There’s something serious in his eyes, but his mouth still curls up in a smile at their friends. “The bounty doesn’t say it’s only for Niffs. It could be anybody.”

“Galdio! Stop! Hey, don’t be an ass! Prom said it first!”

“You didn’t have to agree.”

Ignis slides his glasses up his nose with another sigh. “Indeed.”

Gladio goes full-body smack down and drapes himself over Noctis’s back until the prince is face-first on the ground with no way of getting up. The Shield props his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow in the dusty ground, and smirks up at the two standing men.

Ignis disguises his face-palm as another adjustment of his glasses. Gladio just laughs at him.

Gladio finds another one a week or so later.

The flier is on the bulletin board near the bathrooms at Takka’s Pit Stop. There’s no pictures, from a camera or sketched out, and Gladio almost misses it when he walks to the bathroom. Something about it haunts him in the stalls and he doesn’t even give it a chance to be almost missed again when he walks out.

“What’s that?”

Prompto stops twisting at the bar stool, turning all of his attention on Gladio as he walks up. The paper in his hand is white, maybe could be called cream colored, and printed with big bold letters. Gladio, as well read as he is, can’t ignore the words proclaiming a reward for Noctis Lucis Caelum’s retrieval and delivery to Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt’s waiting hands. There’s no title, no His Highness, no Prince—not even a His Majesty or King, as Noctis should technically be now that he’s the last—

The bounty is higher now. It’s jumped to 90,000 gil.

Gladio gives it to him silently. Prompto grimaces as he reads over it.

“Oh, man.” He bites his lip. “At least he’s worth more now?” He shrinks a little under the withering glare Gladio gives him, laughing awkwardly. “Hey, that’s pretty on par with Ignis. Have you been practicing, big guy?”

He snatches the flier back. “It’s not funny,” he says. Prompto shakes his head, looking solemn. “And this isn’t good.”

He needs to talk to Cindy, find out who’s come and gone, who could’ve put up this bounty. She likes Noct, way more than her dad does, she’d keep an eye out at least.

“Shit,” Prompto mutters.

Yeah, no kidding.

Noctis finds the third one. In Longwythe. A motel so cleverly named Three Zs, of all places.

He’s staring at it, heart thrumming a little faster than normal in his stomach, a lump in his throat, and a weird bundle of nerves forming in his stomach.

The bounty’s jumped to 455,000 now.

It’s not funny anymore. Hasn’t been since Gladio found the previous one. Honestly, it was barely funny the first time, but he tried to think about it in more abstract ideas. A bounty sure, nothing could come of it. People barely knew he was alive after Insomnia’s fall. That’s what he believed. The bounty just had to be a shot in the dark, right? He’d been hoping, actually. The second bounty flier had smashed that hope into the ground and just...buried it with enthusiasm.

Noctis tears down the flier and rips it in half, shoving both pieces deep into his pocket. When he gets the chance, he’ll set it on fire.

What he’s not sure about is whether or not he should tell the guys. They’re here to protect him, right? That means he should tell them the bounty got increased. He should tell them that Niflheim’s seal is nowhere to be found on it—royal, military, government, or otherwise.

(Does that mean they shouldn’t really worry? How serious could a simple, unnotarized bounty do?)

But telling them will put stress on them they don’t deserve. They know about the first two fliers. He knows how to fight. They all know how to fight. He can protect himself, he can’t be easily jumped or taken. Years of being a political target even within Insomnia has taught him that.

He shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling the crumble of paper against his hand. He won’t tell them. It’ll be all right.

It has to be.

They’re in Duscae when Prompto finds what he thinks is the third confirmed flier, at an outpost a little too close to Perpetouss Keep for comfort, but they needed to find hunts so the Olathe Haven had to be crossed off the list. There’s not much there, a gathering of hunters—some permanent, some wandering—a caravan, and a dive bar with a bulletin board.

No one has gone anywhere completely alone, least of all Noct. Prompto can tell his friend is annoyed by it. He grew up with someone always there, guard or otherwise, and now, even with the wide open spaces and all the room, he still can’t be alone. But he just wants to keep his friend safe. They all do. It’s not a prince thing, or a king thing. Not fully. Noct is their friend and the bounties worry them all. The free-for-all worries them.

And no, Noctis is not the only one who noticed there’s no official seal on the bounties. It puts the legitimacy of them on trial, the bounty and the fact the fliers say to keep him alive.

The gil on this one reads a distressingly large amount of 910,000.

They’re in a dive bar. The air inside is more smoke and sweat than clean air with dim lights and music and neon lights that barely cut through the haze. Prompto had stepped out for some air, in full view through the windows to ease the worry, when he saw the familiar words.

Still no picture.

He rips it down and takes it back to the table where the guys are sitting. Noctis is slouched against his fist, looking bored and annoyed.

“Ugh, no,” Noct groans when he sees what’s in his hands. “Another one?” The annoyance in his voice sounds almost forced, something hard in his expression. Unease flickers in his eyes and that sets Prompto on edge. He feels off-kilter and untethered.

Ignis is stiff, tense, when he reaches for the flier. Prompto lets him have it without protest, taking his seat back before he loses his balance.

The group is silent as he reads over it. The only difference is the gil amount. They don’t actually have to read it.

“We need to be careful,” Ignis says.

Noct grips the edge of the table, his knuckles bleaching white. “We’ve been careful,” he hisses, expression dark and his eyes burning. “I’m tired of being careful.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Gladio says, eyes narrowed. “You can’t just brush this off.”

“It’s been a month!” Noct exclaims, barely heard over the dim of the bar. “I’m tired. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder every time we stop somewhere. I’m tired of you guys being up my ass every second of every minute.”

Noctis shoves himself away from the table, chair screeching on the wood floors, and storms towards the main bar. He ignores the stares on his back, seating himself on the bar stool right near the register at the end of the bar. Ignis holds out a hand, keeping Gladio from going after him.

“We can still see him,” Ignis says, eyebrows pinched in the middle. Prompto twists back around to face the other two, expression miserable. “Perhaps we can give him this. It’ll help, in the long run.”

Galdio sits back in his seat with a huff. “If you say so. Kid’s just avoiding shit.”

“I dunno, having your city destroyed, your dad killed, a bounty on your head, and suddenly not having any alone time whatsoever can make anyone snap,” Prompto say, deliberately casual. He pulls his straw from his drink and starts chewing on the end absently. “I’m worried about him.”

Ignis adjusts his glasses, one of his only obvious nervous tics. “We just have to make sure we have his back.”

Prompto turns around in his seat with a hum, straw half chewed. Gladio goes back to his sliders with less enthusiasm than he started with. Ignis finds himself not as hungry anymore.

Noctis refuses to look back at them.

“What can I getcha?”

Noctis returns the bartender’s bright smile with a smaller, lopsided one of his own. With his friends behind him, but still in reach, the tension in his shoulders loosens and suddenly feels like he can breathe again.

“Some beer with a high alcohol content.” He shouldn’t. But it’s beer, he’ll be fine.

The bartender raises an eyebrow, eyeing him up and down. “Yeah, kid. I’m gonna need to see some ID.”

Noct reaches for his back pocket, then hesitates. All he has is his passport now, all for some misguided hope that he’ll need it and can use it without being arrested immediately, or killed. They left any other identification on the cliffside overlooking Insomnia as it burned, and the guys left their passports with Monica.

He can’t use it. It’s obviously Lucian, Insomnia was the last place that issued those kind, and it’s even more obvious it’s a Crown Passport, the silver seal on the front of the leather booklet and the notarized punches inside. Once he whips it out he wouldn’t even have to open it before people noticed.

The bartender is waiting with surprising patience and even more surprising intensity. He’s watching Noct’s face with narrowed eyes and, for a moment, he panics that the guy recognizes him even without the ID.

Finally, the dude sighs. “Forget it.” He waves a hand dismissively as he digs into the cooler for a beer. It’s Accordian, the label bright with orange and a mint green. “Why does it matter at an outpost? If you’re old enough to hunt, you’re old enough to drink, in my humble opinion.”

There’s a loud cheer from the corner, someone swearing loudly and another goading them into acting. Noct glances back, sees one guy pulled into a headlock by a scowling lady. They’re both eventually smiling and laughing, though, and she releases him quickly. The table they sit at is crowded by people from the Lucian continent and, unfortunately, some people with very obvious Niflheim coloring. They even have their country’s crest pressed into the leather of their arm braces or their shoulderguards.

Noct turns around quickly, shoulders tensing and curling towards his ears. The bottle of beer sits in front of him, open and already sweating. He snatches it up, chugging down more alcohol in a few seconds than what is recommended. It sits heavily in his stomach, curdling. He feels vaguely sick now.

He cradles the bottle between two hands, sighing as he leans down enough to rest the lip of the bottle opening against his forehead.

“You’re a hunter, right?” the bartender asks.

“Yeah,” Noct answers slowly, the half-lie a foul taste in his mouth. He hunts. He answers calls. But he’s not a hunter. Not like most of them. They hunt for the safety of others, keeping the daemons and braver predators away from places like Galdin Quay and Hammerhead, the outskirts of Lestallum that the lights don’t reach, and the various pocket towns that are barely thriving but don’t show up on maps since no one has the manpower to actually collaborate on it.

He’s not a hunter, he’s just a king without a country. No funds to save the remnants scattered around. No power to stop the darkness.

“You lose anyone recently?”

He looks up sharply, eyes wide, heart pounding.

The bartender throws his hands up placatingly. “Whoa. Sorry, didn’t mean to hit it right on the money. You just got that look about you, y’know? A lot of hunters lose partners, or their start in hunting is because they lost a loved one to daemons after that bastard Mors reduced the wall with hardly a warning.”

Noctis hopes he doesn’t see his flinch, averting his eyes and taking another sip of beer. It’s bitter and almost skunked already. Not his favorite way of getting alcohol into his system. He prefers his drinks sweet and frozen. But, one of the first lessons he learned in life was ‘you can’t always get what you want. Fair or unfair.’

“No love for Lucian kings, hm?” Noct doesn’t know why he said that. He doesn’t know why he keeps sitting here, ignoring his friends, sipping a beer that’s slowly going warm because he won’t let go of it.

“None at all,” the bartender says cheerfully. “My family tried to get into Insomnia during Regis’ reign. Guess who never made it in?” He sounds bitter now, the words cutting through Noct like knives. He slumps in his stool, trying to make himself look smaller, gulps down half of what’s left of the beer. “Got attacked by daemons just outside Fort Clypeus. The ‘glaives too godsdamned distracted by MTs. Mom died. When we tried to get through the first checkpoint at the start of the Cavaugh Bridge, the cutoff for the day happened and we just never bothered to try again. If that’s how a Lucian king treats their people, I’m okay with technically not being a Lucian anymore. Let’s not get started on the specifics. Insomnians—.”

Noct frowns. He’d been trying to petition for a larger lottery when it came to immigrants and refugees at their door, right before Niflheim presented their mockery of a peace treaty. In the far west of Cavaugh, beyond Insomnia’s walls, the land had been torn and basically burned, the coastal towns empty and full of wandering ghosts. Near the canyons was barely better. There had been camps set up directly against Insomnia’s towering walls, people hoping the magic would extend just enough to protect them and the ‘glaives would take mercy if a daemon ventured close.

A lot of people were safe there.

A lot of people still died.

The bridge was always a point of discussion when it came to how easily Niflheim’s army managed to get onto Cavaugh land. The Cavaugh Bridge had been guarded enough and narrow enough no troops could march it. Their own navy was never that large to begin with, most of their defense was using Galahd as a physical shield, but when they fell—or, well, after his grandfather retreated—their navy was just...tiny, still barely enough. The only explanation was the airships

It’s a tragedy that his city had to fall to confirm that.

Noct sighs and downs the last dregs of his beer, feeling no relief from the slight sway of the world the movement brings. Faintly and suddenly he’s reminded that he actually hasn’t eaten today. He left his food behind with only a few bits, made sure his breakfast was saved for a more desperate day, and they all skipped lunch, too busy trying to plan a way to get to the Tomb of the Tall for another godsdamned Royal Arm. He scrunches his forehead, trying to think of the last time he ate a full meal.

And realizes he can’t remember.

“Did I scare you away?” A hand waves in front of his face. He flinches back, swaying a little. The bartender meets his eyes with a grin. “You looked like you were a million miles from here.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. Another open beer slides in front of him. He catches it with fumbling hands and takes a sip.

And he gags. If he thought he felt sick before. He feels worse now. He sets the beer down with a thunk, leaning forward on his arms, pillowing his head where they cross. His head pulses to the beat of his heart and he suddenly feels hot, a flash of fire radiating from his chest throughout his body. Sweat breaks out at his hairline, on his neck, skin feeling cold despite the heat. His teeth start to water and he has to swallow several times.

“Oh man, you okay? Did you drink too much?”

Noctis lifts his head to try and answer, his vision hazy and he’s seeing double. Before he can say anything about it, the door to the bar bursts open and a group of hunters come crashing in. They’re loud, splashed with black stains and rusted blood. They push past Noct on the bar, taking up all the free space. He can’t tell how many there are, his double vision bumping up to triple.

A hand grips his bicep. He turns languidly, leaning too far to the left. Another hand braces him, righting him up. The bartender is closer now, peering into his eyes with...concern? He blinks rapidly, it becoming harder and harder to keep them open. That has to be concern. The guy has been so nice to him all night.

“C’mon, let’s get you some air.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but his lips and tongue are clumsy. The bartender tugs him off the stool, and Noct goes with him, stumbling against a hard body. He’s caught around the shoulders and lead out, passing the group of hunters that are now gathering in a free spot.

The temperature of the bar’s definitely jumped up at least ten degrees, sweat drips down his back, he licks his suddenly dry lips. He’s just...letting this guy take him out through the back door of the bar, one foot barely placed in front of the other as they walk. He’s rolling over his own toes, tripping up every now and then, but the guy just hefts him up and keeps walking.

He’s talking too. Noctis can’t make out any words, but they vibrate through the air, a humming that sounds like bees too close to the ear. He tilts his head, trying to get a good look at his face again, to watch his lips move to maybe make out some of the words, but his neck doesn’t work, his head’s too heavy.

The cool air of the outside world smacks him in the face, clearing the fog just a bit. He shakes his head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears. Suddenly he can hear leaves in the breeze, night birds chirping to each other, and the words spilling from the bartender’s lips.

“Fucking Insomnians,” he’s muttering. “Thinking they’re the cherry on top. Thinking I’m too fucking stupid to recognize the Godsdamn Crown Prince,” he spits, snarling.

Alarm bells ring off in his head. It takes him a second to realize why he should be alarmed. Panicking. And then it hits him.

Noctis grunts, shoving at the guy who’s got him all wrapped up. His arms don’t want to listen to him, barely shaking the guy off. The man laughs and yanks him closer.

“Aw, you’re adorable,” he coos. “I’ve heard you can fight. But, man, you’re so drugged up you should be passed out already. It’s a miracle you can even walk.”

That draws another grunt from him. The light of the bar is falling further and further behind them, the sounds of daemons getting more distinct. Still in the distance, not close enough to worry. There’s a pickup truck just on the fringes, right where the light turns to dark fully. Two men are chatting near the bed’s door, laughing at something.

Noctis digs his heels in. This time the bartender grunts, there’s a flicker of satisfaction deep in Noct’s chest. But then he’s yanked forward, shoved into the dirt at the other men’s feet. Gravel bites into his cheek, scraping it down.

“Are you sure this is him?”

“Ifirit’s balls. Why you doubting me? Of course it is. Check the ID he has, if you’re so worried about it.”

Hands grope at his ass, digging into his pocket. His passport slides out, the papers rustling as they flip through it. Noct glares up at them the best he can. Their faces are shadowed, but he can still see the distinct Niflheim coloring. The guy crouched next to him, passport in hand, has the military crest with the Niflheim country seal pressed into the buckle of his glove.

Ice cold fear drenches over him and he tries to shove himself away. Pressure snaps onto his back, pressing him down into the dirt. Someone’s boot, heel digging into the edges of his childhood scar. He cries out in surprise and pain, all he gets in response is laughter.

“He’s all yours, fellas.”

“You want a cut of the bounty?”

“Nah, seeing him like this is enough.”

Then a strange whistling noise sounds, a blur at the corner of his eye. There’s a sudden, sharp spike of pain at the back of his head. And everything turns to dark.

They’re watching Noct like hawks. They really are.

The bar is crowded and dark and loud. The longer Noctis talks to the bartender, seemingly perfectly okay with talking to him, the more relaxed the guys get. It’s not their fault, it really isn’t, that when a large group of hunters come through and they suddenly lose sight of Noct.

Gladio jumps from his seat, shoving his chair away, when Noctis disappears. Ignis barely a second behind. Prompto’s too close to the group, if he tries to get up he’s going to end up shoving his chair into one of the hunters and they really don’t want that sort of type with an ill will towards them.

So he ends up behind when Gladio and Ignis fight their way through the crowd. He follows them just as the hunters fill space off to the side, stumbling up at the bar where Noct was sitting.

Where Noct was sitting.

The bar stool is empty. The seat of it warm. And the bartender is gone. Missing.

Neither of them anywhere to be seen.

Gladio swears, slamming his hand against the surface of the bar. Ignis presses his lips into a thin line, anger twisting his expression. What he’s angry at, Prompto will never be able to just guess. Noct?—for storming off in the first place. The bartender?—for disappearing at suspiciously the same time. Niflheim?—for the damn bounty. He’ll never know without some verbal confirmation.

“We mustn’t wait,” Ignis says. “We need to find him. Now.”

Noctis wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth and a strange rattling all around him.

He blinks, groaning when his head throbs. Everything feels so heavy. Looking up gives him a hazy view of the night sky with a weird light on one edge, on either side of him is the dirty sight of the inside of a pickup truck bed.

He moves to sit up, but the whole world spins. Noct groans, curling in on himself. Pressure pulls at his back and arms. Glancing down tells him it’s rope. There’s rope wrapped around his wrists, binding them together. His elbows are folded with his forearms against his chest, more rope wraps around them and to his back, keeping him from moving them at all.

The truck keeps going on, bouncing along the off-roads. Daemons sound in the night, but the flood light they must have on the front of their car keeps them away.

Noct wiggles his fingers, feeling for the armory. A few blue crystals appear and shatter, but the dagger he’s reaching for doesn’t appear. He swallows the bile climbing in the back of his throat, ignores the panic bubbling in his chest, and tries one more time.

Still nothing.

He kicks out, yelping when pain spikes through his feet and legs. His legs….They took his boots and socks and they’ve wrapped a weird looping tangle of rope around his ankles. It looks like an infinity symbol bound tight against the tendons in the back of his ankles. He stares down at them, moving his toes, wincing. Somehow that even hurts.

If he can’t summon his dagger then he’ll just have to do the next best thing. He looks around the truck bed, squinting through the pain in his head and the black spots creeping back at the edges of his vision. The drug must be in his system still. They shouldn’t be too far away from the bar. Far enough that his stomach clenches in worry, though.

He almost gives up on finding anything sharp enough. But then! Ha! He finds it, a piece of the bed that has a hole punctured in it, probably from a battle. It looks like a polearm had been stabbed through then yanked back out, the metal flowering up and leaving jagged pieces behind.

Noct shuffles over, whimpering as his whole body sings with pain. The truck goes over a particularly rough rock. He goes sliding across the bed, screaming in pain as his side is dragged against the sharp metal. The truck stops abruptly, throwing him forward. The metal keeps contact with his skin, slicing through his shirt up at an angle now.

He scrambles despite the pain, despite the warmth blooming on his ribs, and rubs his arms against the sharp point, filing through the ropes as quickly as he can. He has to jerk his whole body to do it, unable to get any leverage with just his arms.

The sounds of car doors opening and slamming shut make him freeze in panic, the whole truck swaying. He’s not through the rope yet! Could barely be considered even just a little. There’s fraying edges, maybe if he had the strength he could force the rope to rip at this point, but he doesn’t. He’s too godsdamn weak.

The door to the truck bed opens with a clang. A light shines too bright in his eyes and he hisses, turning his face away.

“Wow, he’s as stupid as I thought,” one of them says. Now, without the dim of the bar faint enough to be distracting, he can hear the tilting Niflheim accent. It’s guttural and rough, almost harsh to the ears. “Look at all that blood.”

The light is angled away, Noctis takes that opportunity to glare at them. They’re both standing there, looking delighted and also annoyed.

“Fuck you,” he spits then yelps when his ankles are grabbed and he’s dragged to the edge of the truck bed. He slides over the metal hole, slicing into his temple. He groans in pain and tries to kick a foot out. It doesn’t get very far, the rope around his opposite ankle tightening to the point of almost excruciating pain.

“Can’t have you bleeding out before we get you to the Keep,” the other guy says. “We need you alive, of course. That bounty looks too sweet to not mean keep you alive.”

The words go through one ear then out the other before he pauses and reels them back in. The Keep. Of course, Perpetouss Keep. They’re close to it. Ignis and Gladio weren’t happy about it, but they needed the gil the hunts would bring them. Why wouldn’t these guys be delivering him there? Whoever’s there could just call up Aldercapt, set up a dropship, and then Noct would be on his way to Gralea with none the wiser.

One guy still has his hands wrapped about Noct’s ankle, hanging slightly over the lip of the hatch door. They’re talking to each other now in Niflheim’s language, Noct only catches a few words, mostly ‘prince’ and ‘money.’

This is his chance.

Noctis swings his body up, fighting through the pain and the sickness, and throws himself at the guy holding onto him. The guy shouts, going down hard with all of Noct’s weight on him. His body cushions Noct’s from smacking against the ground, but his head still throbs and his body screams at him. Blood drips into his eye, stinging.

He has to ignore it. The other guy is shaking away his shock, reaching for him. Noctis rolls. They’re on the edge of the road, the landscape dipping off in a hill that leads to a thick darkness of trees.

Noctis goes over that edge, bouncing and rolling over rocks and bushes, skin catching on sharp points, bruises blossoming on his body. He can’t control the descent. At all. His head cracks against something hard and his vision blacks out. The sound of wind still rushes past his ears, the men shout above him, branches crack beneath him.

And he slams into a tree at the bottom of the hill. Something pops somewhere and all he feels it pain. He screams out, voice already raw. It dies with a strained crackle.

He wants to pass out now. Please. Anything to chase away the pain.

But it doesn’t come. His vision comes back quickly enough he feels nauseous. Quickly enough he can see the men getting over their surprise, their movements more in anger as they charge down the hill. They slip and slide, going slow.

Noct struggles to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek against another scream. He lurches past trees, stumbling more than walking. It feels like he barely makes it a foot before he’s crashing to his knees, falling face first into a pile of dead leaves. He forces himself back up and keeps running the best he can, ignoring the blood in his eye and the sting in his cheek. He ignores the way his shoulders ache and the realization he can’t expand his lungs properly with the rope wrapped all the way around.

He especially ignores the fact his strides are barely enough to be considered a stride, pain sparking at his heels with every limping step. It’s more a shuffle, his feet tearing on sticks and tree roots. His feet are cold, his ankles burning.

He takes a respite against a tree, sobbing breathlessly when the stop makes the pain even worse. He strains to pick up the sounds of the men following behind. All there is, is night animals in the treetops and daemons wailing and growling in the distance.

It’s almost enough for him to sit down in relief. Almost. He shoves back off, further into the dark, the shadows closing in around him.

Prompto volunteers to stay at the bar, keep an eye out there as Ignis and Gladio split up to search outside the bar.

He sees the bartender come back, looking wholly full of himself, humming as he cleans out some glasses. Prom’s set himself up at the end of the bar on one of the stools, trying to make himself look as small as possible. With narrowed eyes, he watches him. Watches the bartender pick up the lone Accordian beer bottle from the place where Noct had been sitting, watches him roll it between his palms with a smirk turning his lips.

Prompto texts Ignis and Gladio through their group message, letting them know who just so happens to be in attendance again. There’s still no reply from Noct, despite the ten different messages Prompto alone sent him. He’s sure Ignis and Gladio sent him just as many, all on the fragile hope Noct has some way of telling them he’s okay.

He doesn’t know what would do if Noct isn’t.

He slides down towards the seat Noct was taken from, setting his water glass on the beat up wood surface, folding his arms around it. He hopes the bartender looks at him, notices his not-so Lucian coloring, and strikes up a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time Prom’s used his fair coloring to their advantage like this. He knows Ignis does the same, his dad’s Tenebraen features the most prominent on him than his mom’s Lucian ones. Gladio looks too much like his mom’s own Galahdian origins and everyone knows the kingsglaive were mostly Galahdian, and the eagle tattoo gives him away easily as one of the highest of Lucian nobility.

People are always more willing to talk to them when they don’t think the two of them are from the Crown City, or even Lucis, at all.

The bartender eyes him thoughtfully, but doesn’t approach. Prom resists the urge to pout.

He jumps when the door slams open and two men come stomping in, their expressions twisted in anger and frustration, their clothes dusty. Other than that, nothing seems to be wrong.

But they beeline directly towards the bartender. One of them slams his hands on the bar so hard, tables close by and the people at the bar itself are startled silent for a moment before the roar picks up again.

“What the fuck?” the man hisses.

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck?’” the bartender snaps back. “Why the hell are you here?” He glances up, gaze flickering, meeting Prompto’s for a second, then back to the men. He lowers his voice as he says, “What happened? Where’s the prince?”

Prompto clutches his glass tight, blood boiling. But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

“The little bastard got away,” the third man says, voice hushed. “You were suppose to drug him better than that.”

“I did!”

He can’t help but smirk. The Crystal probably took care of whatever drug they put in Noct’s system. Magic runs through his friend’s veins and it came in handy instead of crippling him for once. He sends out another update to Ignis and Gladio, letting them know loosely what he plans to do. Then he shoves his phone in the armory as subtle as possible and takes a deep breath.

“Hey! Buddy!” Prompto swings his glass back and forth in the air. “Can I get a refill.” The bartender just waves him off dismissively. “Excuse me?” he says with an attitude he’s cultivated for years now. “I’m a paying customer. Get me a refill...please.” Okay, that last bit is probably way more sarcastic than necessary.

“Fuck off,” the bartender snaps. “You’re drinking water.”

Prompto pops off the bar stool, glass still in hand. “What’s that supposed to mean? Ever heard of customer service? I’m still paying for this water.”

None of the three men look nervous at his approach. Good. It’s a little insulting, he’s got to admit. But, hey, he’ll take the advantage as presented.

He leans in real close, sure he has all of their attention even though it’s mostly because they all want to punch him.

“Now, what did I hear about a prince being a little bastard?” he says with a grin.

They all start at that. And they all try to book it. Prompto throws the glass as hard as he can against the bartender’s head and the man goes down in a shatter of glass. The whole bar jumps up to their feet at the sudden violence. Prompto grabs one guy’s arm, kicks out his heel at the other guy’s knee. The man goes down with a yelp, head ending up near Prom’s waist. He reels his leg back, and knees him right in the cheek. He goes down just as hard as the bartender.

Prompto ignores his stinging knee (face bones are hard) and grapples with the last guy until he can get him in a tight headlock, tangling his leg with the guy’s so he can’t get any leverage.

And then he looks up, finally realizing how many weapons are trained on him now that he’s caught the attention of every patron in the bar. He smiles awkwardly, trying to come off as completely disarming as possible.

Which, considering he just knocked out two guys with no foreshadowing and currently has another one in a headlock he just can’t get out of, it isn’t as convincing as he wishes it is.

“Heya,” he tries. Someone cocks their gun. He winces. “I can explain?”

The man under his arm lets out a snort that chokes into a strangled noise when Prompto tightens his grip. Someone takes a step forward, there’s something...familiar about her. She’s eyeing him too with a sort of familiarity.

“Can you?” she says. She holds no weapons. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Prompto shoots back.

She smiles. “Luca.” Her fingertips spark with fire, it’s subtle, but he would recognize the magic of the Crystal anywhere. “And you’re Prompto.”

Knowledge of her being a kingsglaive gives him no comfort. He knows how Insomnia fell. He knows who helped. He takes a step back, dragging the man with him. There’s Niffs in her group, standing at her back.

“Tell me what this is about,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head. Faced with someone who can still use magic, he’s lost all his bravo. His legs aren’t as steady anymore, his hands growing sweaty. Still refuses to let go, though, of this bastard that probably, most likely hurt his friend.

Prompto swallows thickly and eyes her carefully, taking in any sincerity, any trustworthiness he can find. Finally, after a long moment, he opens his mouth, and explains what just happened.

Gladio’s still on the road, not as far from the bar as he’d like, when his phone buzzes again. He pulls it out, sighing at Prompto’s name, but swipes his lock screen to check what the kid is saying now. Last time, he admitted to planning something stupid and if they don’t hear from him in an hour, he’s probably dead.

(He can’t tell if he was being real about that or not.)

Now, there’s a message in the group chat, telling him everything that just happened in the last half hour. The bartender, the two Niffs. Prompto’s attack. The information he gained from the one Niff still conscious. Gladio is impressed by Prompto’s forward thinking. He grins in pride, especially when the next text that comes in is about a spot down the road with signs of a struggle in the dirt.

Because Noctis escaped on his own. He’s injured—no details about that, causing something heavy to settled in Gladio’s stomach—but he got away, just in time.

Gladio takes off, jogging down the dirt road in the same direction of the Keep. Astrals, he’s so glad Noctis had enough wits about him to get out when he could. For all they know, the bastards would have taken their prince to the Keep and they would have never seen him again.

He finds the place Prompto told them in record time, too far away from the bar for comfort. He’s uneasy as he uses his torch to look in the dirt. There are signs of a struggle, that part is true, there’s blood splattered on the ground, staining the rocks and dust. The dread just grows now, lodging in his chest. He swears under his breath.

Footsteps crunching behind him has him whirling around, summoning his great sword. He sighs when it’s just Ignis, walking towards him with long, loping strides. He dismisses his sword, shining his torch at Iggy’s chest.

“At least he got away,” Gladio says.

Ignis adjusts his glasses, the lenses flashing. “Indeed. But now we must find him. He’s injured?” It doesn’t look like he need Gladio to say anything, but he confirms it anyway. Ignis holds something in his hand, a little booklet. “It’s his passport.”

Gladio raises an eyebrow. “I thought we left our passports with Monica?” Their IDs on the cliffside on the Lucian Sound, leaving them behind along with their city, but their passports went with Monica, with some hope they would be useful again some time.

“Evidently, Noct did not.” He folds it up and shoves it in his pocket, pulling out his own torch. “Prompto said Noct rolled off the road to the left. I suggest we start there.”

They work in silence as they slide carefully down the embankment. The trees are thick in this part of Duscae, between the Haven and the Keep. Gladio resists the urge to summon his sword to cut down low hanging branches, knowing it would just ruin their trail.

And there is a trail. Disturbed leaves and broken branches just at Noct’s height. When Ignis shines his torch light at a particular low branch, waist height for Noctis, they see wet blood shining on the dark brown. When Gladio looks down, there’s blood on some tree roots.

“Noct,” Ignis calls quietly. His voice is still loud in the darkness. He summons a dagger the deeper into the woods they get, looking out for daemons and other nocturnal predators. “Noctis, can you hear me? It’s Ignis and Gladio. Noct?”

Gladio summons a one handed sword from the armory, keeping it pointed down and out of the way. Paranoia sits on his shoulders, whispering in his ear that something’s not right. Something’s wrong.

“Noct,” Gladio calls out with him.

They both start calling his name, taking turns to pause and listen for a response. The branches they pass are still broken, still covered in blood, and the amount of blood just increases with every foot they gain.

“Noctis!” Ignis yells again, sounding more desperate.

Just when Gladio thinks they may have gone too far, Noct couldn’t have possibly made this far even though the trail tells him, yes, Noctis did, in fact, make it this far despite all the blood he sees—

—They turn around a tree and a split second later, a dark blur comes from out of the shadows, a heavy stick swinging out. Gladio throws himself back, dropping his torch to bounce on the ground, his sword coming to block the wild swing. It’s easy to block, the wood against metal shaking and splintering. Ignis shines his torch to reveal Noctis, pale and bloodied, his hair a tangled mess, eyes wild and wide, unfocused with blown out pupils.

“Noct!”

Noctis ignores them, reels back for another blow, but loses his balance, stumbling back. His knees give out under him and he goes down hard, landing on his ass. He yelps in pain, his stick disappearing into the darkness around them.

Ignis rushes to move to his side only to come to a screeching halt when Noctis throws up his hands defensively. His hands are scraped to all hell, lines of blood up and down his forearms. His shirt is torn, blood soaking through and staining the light grey fabric. His boardshorts are a dirty mess, revealing blood on his legs and his feet. Oh, Astrals, his feet.

“Noct,” Ignis says, almost pleadingly. “Noctis. Highness.”

Noctis blinks rapidly, shaking his head. He wraps his arms around his middle, opening and closing his mouth. He glances from Ignis to Gladio, back to Ignis, tears trickling quietly down his cheeks.

Galdio kneels down, sitting back on his heels, making himself a less imposing height. “Hey, kid,” he says softly. “C’mon. You know it’s us.” A concussion is definite, and the drugs Prompto mentioned last minute. He’s not surprise Noctis is confused and scared. “Noct, come on,” he urges.

Noct sobs then nods slightly. Ignis is careful when he finally is able to go to his prince’s side. Careful when he kneels next to him. Careful when he cradles Noct’s face in his hands, thumbing at the scrape on his cheek. Noctis leans into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering.

“Gladio,” he murmurs. “A curative, if you will.”

He pulls a potion out of the armor with no argument—what argument would there be anyway?—and hands it over. Ignis twists off the cap and braces Noct’s shoulders, urging him to drink it slowly. Normally they would just break it over whatever injury there is, but when they’re covering this much surface area, when they’re this bad, that way of administering just doesn’t work.

Noctis gasps when the potion bottle is pulled away, almost following it like a child. He ends up with his forehead against the crook of Ignis’ neck, back heaving in soft sobs. Gladio takes the bottle from him, throwing it back into the armory, and watches as Ignis drags his hand carefully down one of Noct’s legs, feeling for shifting bones under his skin.

Before his very eyes the scrape on his cheek heals over, the cut on his temple grows smaller but doesn’t go away. In fact, most of his injuries remain. Gladio frowns, shuffling forward.

“What’s going on?” he grumbles. Noctis starts shaking, hands coming up to cling to Ignis with all his strength.

“The curative is purging the drugs in his system, I’m afraid,” Ignis says, something strangled in his voice. “This is good, of course, but the drug was dulling his senses against the pain of his injuries.”

Gladio swears quietly and reaches for another potion, only for his summons to come up empty. Damn it. This is why they needed the hunts the outpost would’ve given them. They were down to the bare basics for first aid and they needed the gil to stock up.

“I believe his feet are the worst off,” Ignis says. “His ankles specifically.”

There’s not an inch of skin not covered in blood and dirt. A three inch slice marks the sole of his right foot, his left foot’s toes are swollen and purple, the heel of that foot has a puncture wound. The tops of his feet are equally torn up.

Around his ankles, though, are the worse, it seems. The front and sides are bruised and covered in rope burn, oozing blood. The back have very clear indents in the tendons, cut not very deep, but it’s hard to tell for sure in the darkness.

They tried to hobble him—and failed, actually hobbling him with injury and all.

It’s a miracle he was able to walk, let alone try to attack Gladio in his drug-induced fear.

“Noct,” Ignis says, smoothing their friend’s hair back from his face. It’s tacky with blood. He blinks owlishly at his advisor, the pain replacing the drug when it comes to being unfocused and confused. “Let us get you out of here, yes?”

Noctis whimpers pathetically. “Please,” he murmurs, finally speaking in a trembling voice. “Please.”

It takes effort and a lot of tears from Noct. But they manage to get him on Gladio’s back, his arms around his neck and legs on either side. Gladio holds onto him by the thighs, keeping him hoisted high. He feels hot breaths on his bare neck, too fast, but there and comforting that his friend is alive. Noct has enough awareness to him to lock one of his hands over a wrist despite the wounds on his arms, keeping himself from sliding off.

Ignis pulls out his phone and outright calls Prompto. “Can we bring Noct back to the outpost or should we meet you at the haven?” He pauses. “It’s not good Prompto, I will not lie to you. Do we need to go to the haven?” Another pause. “Good. Find as much first aid as you can and find somewhere we can camp—oh really? Well, all right then. See you soon.”

He’s silent a long time after he hangs up, focusing on making it through the trees. Noct grows heavier on his back, slowly losing consciousness yet still clinging to the present somehow, his grip around Gladio’s neck loosening but not letting go.

“Iggy,” Gladio says after they force themselves up the embankment and back on the road. Noct mumbles something against his neck, shifting. There’s a hitch in his breathing, one that makes Gladio pause. He pushes through the worry, knowing getting Noct back to the outpost is better than worrying here on the road. “What’s the plan?”

“Prompto’s managed to procure us the caravan for as long as we need, free of charge.”

Gladio shifts his grip. “How the hell did he do that?” The caravan had been rented out by a small group of hunters for the next week. The outpost isn’t big enough to justify a motel.

“He wouldn’t say.”

Noctis whimpers against him, whining in the back of his throat. Gladio shushes him gently, hefting him a little higher. “We’re almost there, Noct,” he says. “Hold on.”

Ignis falls back from where he’s been leading, lining up with them to grab Noctis’ elbow in a careful grip. He brushes Noct’s hair out of the way, trying to peer into his face despite the rocking of their steps. He doesn’t ask Gladio to slow down or stop, though.

“We should’ve been keeping a better eye on him,” Gladio mutters.

Ignis sighs. “Don’t you think I know that,” he says somewhat sharply. “I am already feeling guilty about not letting you go after him, Gladio. You do not have—.”

“Whoa!” Gladio cuts in, surprised. “I’m not—Iggy, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

Truthfully, he doesn’t really see why Ignis should feel any level of guilt. (But he knows the advisor will always shoulder more than he should.) Gladio should’ve protected his prince, his friend, better. He’s his Godsdamn Shield, after all. What use is he if he can’t even do his damn job?

Ignis side-eyes him with a leveled look. “No, you are just taking your own guilt out on me,” he says knowingly. Gladio winces at being called out. Ignis doesn’t say anything for a long time, letting it stew between them. The bar’s lights start to come into focus in the distance. “We should all feel guilty,” Ignis finally decides. “We are all out here to protect him and we all failed, including Prompto. We’re his crownsguard. But we cannot let it interfere with our duty.”

“Wasn’t gonna let it.”

“I know you weren’t,” Ignis replies. “But you were going to let it get to you, your temper would go hot. Prompto would be inconsolable. I would fret and hover.”

“You’d do that anyway.” Gladio grins, relieved when Ignis smiles back no matter how small it is.

“The matter of it all, is that we are all going to feel guilty,” Ignis continues. “And with good reason.” When Gladio opens his mouth to protest, he raises an eyebrow that makes him quickly change his course and shut his mouth with a click. “Let this be a lesson for us all. Noct will be all right.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself of it. “Now, though, is not the time to talk about our feelings, we need to focus on Noct.”

Gladio shakes his head, then nods in agreement. His back is an uncomfortable level of warm, only a small patch on his mid-back where Noct’s stomach sits. When he hefts him up again, it slides wet through his shirt.

“Shit, he’s bleeding worse than we thought,” Gladio says. The potion didn’t get through enough to take care of whatever is soaking his shirt. “Noct, you with us?” He gets a murmur against his neck as an answer, but he can’t make out any of the words. “Noct?”

Ignis picks up the pace, Gladio not far behind. His guilt doubles. Damn it. Instead of dragging their feet, talking about whether they should feel guilty or not, they should’ve been practically running to get Noct back to the outpost. He can’t imagine the amount of pain he’s in, doesn’t even want to begin trying to guess. Damn it. So much for their ‘feel guilty but don’t let it interfere’ talk.

Prompto’s waiting for them outside the caravan, waving at them wildly. His expression is somber, pulling panicked when they get close enough. He hurriedly yanks opens the caravan door, letting Gladio stomp through first. But then he has to stand there awkwardly, waiting for the other two to help him get Noct onto the bed with as little pain as possible.

“Oh man, did they do to you,” Prompto moans when he scrambles into the caravan after Ignis and gets a good look at Noct in the horrible lighting. He fumbles in the armory, pulling a hi-potion out of it.

“You could’ve told us there a was a hi-potion in the armory,” Gladio snaps.

Ignis frowns. “I didn’t sense it earlier.”

“I literally just got it,” he says. He eyes Noctis’ feet warily. “Will it even be enough? His feet look pretty bad.”

“We can’t know until we try,” Ignis says. “Come. Let’s get him on the bed.”

Gladio sits on the edge carefully. Noct whimpers at the contact, his grip tightening on around his neck. There’s not enough strength in him for it mean anything and Gladio almost loathes letting him go. But he has to.

Prompto sets aside the hi-potion and, together with Ignis, leans Noctis back on the bed. He cries out again as the movement and force jars his injuries, no matter how careful they are. His lays splayed out, arms thrown wide, legs hanging over the edge. His chest heaves with the force of his breathing, tears continuously streaming down his cheeks. He hasn’t passed out yet, his gaze pained and unfocused as he stares at the stained ceiling of the caravan. A soft whines builds in his throat, growing higher when Ignis grips his calf with gentle hands and lifts his leg to take a closer look at the back of his ankle.

“Hey, bud,” Prompto says softly, not bothering with his shoes and crawling onto the bed at Noct’s head. He curls his arms around his friend, leaning over him. The whines cut off. Noct tilts his face, pressing his nose against the inner part of Prom’s elbow, closing his eyes. “It’s gonna be okay, yeah? It’ll be okay.”

Gladio clasps a hand on Ignis’ shoulder, leaning over him. He sucks in a breath when he catches sight of the damage. He knew it was bad, but not this bad. There’s a very obvious indent all around his ankle, deep in the front,—now that he can get a good look at it in a caravan instead of the woods with a torch—shallow on the sides, and grotesquely deep in the tendons on the back. In fact, the tendons look as if they’ve been severed at least halfway through.

“I need water,” Ignis murmurs. His face is pale, tinged with a bit of green. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them with a resolute expression. “And towels. Without the guarantee of the hi-potion working completely, I would like to clean them out as much as possible before we administer it.”

“Bathroom,” Prompto mumbles, his nose buried in Noct’s hair. He’s holding back his own tears, that much is obvious, one hand threading through sweat soaked black hair and the other laying over Noct’s bicep, one of the other places that doesn’t have some sort of injury. “There’s a stockpile. People were super helpful when they realized what’s going on.”

And he’s right. A dozen or so hand towels, a few larger body towels, a bucket of water, and several bottles of water wait for them piled high in the bathroom that’s more like a water closet than a real bathroom. Ignis comes out with them all in arm, dripping hand towels behind him that Gladio scoops up for him.

The most disturbing part of all this, is how quiet Noctis is. He’s a quiet guy, yeah, not generally the first person to speak in a crowd, but when he gets hurt he’s always grunting and groaning. Gladio would accuse him of over exaggerating if he didn’t have first hand experience of how much MT and daemon attacks hurt.

But now, with Ignis manipulating his legs to get a good angle to pour water over his wounds and the rough touch of the towel against his damaged nerves despite him trying to be as gentle as possible, Noctis should be screaming and crying.

All he does his stiffen and whimper, clutching at the bed sheets as he writhes. His upper half twists as he curls against Prompto, gripping the blond’s shirt tight in his hands. Prompto wraps both arms around him, shushing him softly.

Gladio focuses on the slice in the sole of his foot, soaking a towel in water and carefully cleaning out the dirt and leaves stuck in the wound. His leg twitches, jerking away from the pain. He holds on tight to his heel, not daring to touch his ankle.

“Just a little bit longer,” Prompto whispers. Noctis’ whimpers increase, pitching higher. “You’re going to be okay. It’s gonna stop hurting soon. Promise.”

Ignis and Gladio work in silence, cleaning out their prince’s wounds on not just his ankles and feet, but they also wipe the blood from his legs and his forearms. They strip him of his shirt, Ignis swearing when the wound on his side is revealed, curling along the curve of his pec and down to just below his ribs. The blood has dried now, no longer being rubbed against Gladio’s back to continuously reopen it. Gladio cleans the blood away, staining the fifth hand towel he’s gone through with pink.

Prompto snags a towel and a bottle, dabbing at the small cut still remaining at his temple. The blood trails over his eye and down his cheek, smearing into his ear and along on the lines of his jaw. It looks like he’s brushed his hand through it a few times, smearing it over half his face, like ink on wet paper. Prom clears it all off. Noct’s face is as pale as before, sweat lining his hairline, cracks in his dry lips as he breathes harshly through his mouth.

“Is he clean enough, Iggy,” Prompto begs. “Can we give him the hi-potion, please.” His eyes are wet and shining, hands trembling at his friend being in pain. “Look at him.”

And what a terrible sight he is.

Noctis is staring at them, though. His eyes glassy and struggling to land on either of their faces. He clutches Prompto close with one hand, needing no strength to keep him from leaving because Prom is going absolutely nowhere. His other hand is curled against his chest, almost protectively. He looks...sad and desperate, full of pain and fear and such a level of surprising self-loathing that Gladio’s breath catches.

Suddenly, Gladio wants to know what the hell he and the bartender got to talking about before he got drugged, what those damn Niffs said to him to put that look on his face.

They move him further up on the bed, in the middle with pillows stacked behind his head and more under his legs. Ignis passes the hi-potion to Prompto. The gunner opens it with a snap and curls his arm under Noct’s head, cradling him in the crook of his arm. Gladio can’t help but put a heavy hand on Noctis’ knee, the safest spot right now, as Prompto helps him drink the hi-potion down.

It’s not just the quiet getting to Gladio—and to Ignis and Prompto, he knows—but the compliance and the way he just lets them manhandle him. He’s still just as confused and dazed, that much is obvious, and if the way he escaped the Niffs means anything, he should be fighting them even just a little bit.

But he’s not.

Noctis just sighs and lets his head fall back, still cradled in Prom’s embrace. The muscle in his cheek twitches as he clenches his jaw. A soft green fizzles around his mouth there the potion lingers. His fingers twitch and he groans, magic surging through his body in a much different way than the previous potion.

This time, the cut on his temple heals over completely, the scrapes on his arms and legs close until there’s just the faintest slivers of them remain. His toes turn back to the rights color, the swelling going down until it’s like nothing happened. The scar left behind on his side is worse, discolored and raised. Too much to heal with too much time since he got hurt. His feet are the same, small white scars on the top, discolored scars on the bottom.

Gladio gives into the urge and grabs his foot, pressing his thumb gently against the edges of the new scar. Noctis doesn’t react, too enthralled in the power going through his veins. Those scars are going to hurt when it’s raining or cold, just like the ones on his back and his leg, the one slicing through his arm. His heartaches at the thought of him being in even more pain. He’s seen the way his chronic pain interferes with his life, before in Insomnia and after on the road when they have fewer ways of helping him.

His ankles are the main concern. The sides heal up nicely enough. There’s a divot of scar tissue on the front. But the back tendons are another matter. The blood clots, scabs over, new flesh heals partially, but not enough to cover it all. The tendons don’t stretch and grow. An indent on both ankles is still there, mocking them with their inability to protect their prince, their friend.

Galdio and Ignis exchange grim looks.

Prompto looks at them, eyes wide and frightened. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he says in a harsh, terrified whisper.

Noctis stares up at the bottom of his chin, expression blank and gaze empty, half-lidded. He’s gone, escaping the pain, waiting to pass out.

“I’m afraid his tendons did not heal all the way through.” Ignis sits back adjusting his glasses. “I had been hoping this wouldn’t happen.”

Prompto clutches Noctis close. The man barely reacts. “Would another hi-potion do the trick?”

Ignis presses his lips into a thin line. “Perhaps,” he says eventually after a long moment of silence. “If we can get it into his system soon enough.”

“How long do we have?” Gladio asks, his heart in his throat.

“We’ve already gone long enough between injury and his first potion. I’d say only a few hours before it will do nothing.”

Prompto carefully slides his arm from underneath Noct. He grumbles at the loss of his extra pillow, turning his head, closing his eyes completely. He breathes out through his nose, shoulders relaxing as he sinks into the comfort the cheap bed gives him before they tense again, riding out what is probably a fresh wave of pain.

“I know where to get another one,” he announces. “Hold on.”

He bangs out the door, calling out a name Gladio doesn’t recognize. The door swings open in the night breeze, the hinges creaking. Ignis and Gladio listen to the voices outside until Noctis shifts, making a noise of discomfort.

“Gods, just pass out already,” Gladio mutters, for Noct’s sake. Ignis stands, taking as many soaked towels in hand as can possibly carry, moving to put them in the sink. “I can’t imagine how much pain he’s in,” he says louder, but still dipped low just case.

“Considering his level of tolerance, neither can I,” Ignis replies. He sounds tired and drained, an uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders.

Noctis shifts again, moaning, his eyebrows pinched in the middle. Gladio abandons any thoughts of sitting on the floor waiting for Prom to come back. He maneuvers through the tight spots around the bed and sits on the mattress at Noct’s side, resting a heavy hand on the crown of his head. He’s not the best at giving comfort when it comes to Noct, if he’s being honest. Give him Iris any time, but she’s his sister and he he doesn’t have to be a Shield around her. Finding the right balance of Shield and being Noct’s friend has always been difficult, since day one.

But this, a heavy hand ground Noctis in the here and now, giving him something to latch onto instead of drifting away to escape the pain. That’s something he can do and has done often, after a nightmare, during a bad day. Gladio gives him an anchor and Noctis leans on it.

Like now. Noctis turns his head towards him, body twisting and curling against his hip. He grunts in pain, legs twitching involuntarily as his nerves spark, but he throws an arm around Gladio’s waist the best he can and holds on tight.

Ignis kneels on the bed on his other side, leaning over him to brush his hair from his eyes. “Noct,” he calls softly. “Are you still with us?” Noctis grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut even more. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Even with the teasing remark, concern still lines the expression on his face. He looks up at Gladio over the rim of his glasses. “He won’t pass out.”

“Maybe he can’t pass out?” he tries. “Maybe the Crystal is doing something? Are we sure the drug is out of his system?” The only thing he can think of is that the drug and the Crystal’s magic are clashing. He’s seen it happen before with King Regis, a day when his own pain got too much and he was hospitalized for three days. Noctis had been a nightmare to deal with then.

Clearly Ignis is remembering that incident too, if the despair slowly dawning means anything. He leans back over Noct, fingers pressing against his jaw for the lack of anything else.

“Noct—,” he tries, only to get interrupted by Noctis sobbing softly, nodding.

His eyes crack open finally, eyelashes clumped with tears and those pretty blues swimming with pain. “Can’t,” he moans, pulling himself closer to Gladio with shaking arms. “Can’t. It b-burns and—and...it won’t let—it won’t let me.”

“Shit.”

Ignis makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Indeed,” he says faintly, looking down at their sobbing prince with horror. “What sort of drug were they even using that a potion and hi-potion didn’t fully purge it from his system? What sort of drug burns like this?”

Noctis is openly sobbing now: big, heaving sobs that shake his body and tears out of his chest. “Please. Please. Make it—Make it—” His words slur and mush together. “Iggy,” he moans.

Prompto comes crashing into the caravan, a glowing potion in hand. He visibly hesitates at the sight of Noctis and the sounds of his broken sobbing. He thrusts the new hi-potion at Gladio with shaking hands, his face botching red as he struggles not to cry. Gladio takes it, popping it open.

“Noct,” Ignis whispers, touching his shoulder. “Noct, we can help you.” He tries to urge him onto his back, but Noct manages to resist, clinging to Gladio. Ignis doesn’t use much pressure, obviously loathing the idea of forcing him, but Gladio can’t give him the potion like this. “Your Highness, please.”

Prompto stays standing, hovering with his hands over his mouth and tears on his cheeks. Gladio shifts out of Noct’s grip, going back to kneeling on the floor. Noctis whines around his hitching breaths, reaching for him with trembling hands. Gladio forces himself to ignore the child-like grabby hands, sets the potion to the side, and wedges his fingers between Noctis’ side and the bed. With Ignis pulling and Gladio pushing, they carefully move Noctis onto his back.

Then Gladio helps him drink the third potion. It dribbles out the corner of his mouth onto the pillows, staining them green. He chokes a little, struggling, before he gains mind to swallow it down. He squeezes his eyes shut, expression twisted, tears pooling in his ears to his hair. Ignis moves to his feet, sitting cross legged at the end of the bed, and lifts one leg up to his lap.

“Is it working?” Prompto demands, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

“It...appears so,” Ignis says slowly. There’s the unsaid ‘but’ hanging in the air.

“What is it, Iggy?” Gladio asks. Noct’s gone quieter, his sobs gentling, his breathing not as much as a struggle anymore.

Ignis glances at Noctis’ face then back at his feet before he looks up to meet Gladio’s and Prompto’s expectant and fearful faces. “They’re healed,” he confirmed, words still carefully chosen and slow. “But they...I’m afraid we might have been too late. Or the drug was interfering with the potency of the potion.”

Prompto finally loses his patience and shoves over, looking at Noct’s ankle still held in the air by Ignis’ grip on his calf. He sucks in a breath and breathes out a broken “Oh, Noct.”

Gladio leans as far as he can, not taking his hand off Noct’s head, but he needs—he needs to see how bad it is. It’ll break his heart, he just knows it. But he doesn’t care at this point.

Ignis is right, the tendons healed over, but his skin is more scar tissue now than anything else. The back of his ankles look like two angry knots of discoloration and scars, raised enough to be noticeable and, gods, what are the chances he’ll still be able to walk after this?

“Wha?”

The slurred, half-word question startles them all. Prompto jumps back guiltily. Gladio straightens up and focuses his attention on his friend laying in bed, injured and scared. He’s relieved to see the haze clearing from his eyes, leaving Noctis blinking as the world comes back into focus. The potion must’ve finally cleared his system of the drug. Noctis peers around him to where Ignis cradles his foot in his lap.

He licks his lips, eyes half-lidded as they droop in exhaustion. “Wha,” he tries again, “goin’ on?”

Ignis pats his shin. “Rest, Noct,” he shushes. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk when you’ve had some rest.”

Noctis blinks slowly, languidly, opens his mouth to protest, but then seems to think better of it. With a gusty sigh, he sinks into the pillows, not even caring that one of them is wet with potion, and closes his eyes.

Within seconds he’s asleep with soft snores filling the suddenly quiet caravan. The three of them freeze in their positions, relief at their friend healed up enough to finally sleep and fear that he will truly never walk again warring for prominence.

In Gladio, the relief finally wins out. He covers his face with his free hand, his eyes stinging and his chest tight. He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close call.

Noctis wakes up in a warm, slightly uncomfortable bed. His head throbs a little, but it’s manageable, and his whole body is sore. There’s light coming in from somewhere, shining on his chest. That part of his body is the warmest. It feels so nice.

He wants to curl up in that sun beam and continue sleeping the day away, just like the cat the guys always accuse him of being. But when goes to do exactly that, his tired and overworked muscles stretch and pull painfully tight.. He groans, furrowing his eyebrows.

What?

He cracks open his eyes carefully, making sure he won’t go blind first, then opens them completely when he realizes the room is still dim enough not to hurt, the sunlight shining through a crack in the caravan’s blinds. He sighs in relief, shifting to sit up.

Wait—caravan?

Noctis blinks and looks around. Yep, this is a caravan. Prompto is laying horizontal across the foot of the bed on his stomach, legs hanging off the edge, and he’s using his folded arms as a pillow. His face is pale, the shadows under his eyes deep and dark. Ignis and Gladio are nowhere to be seen, but there’s a pot on the stove and he can hear quiet murmurs from outside.

He brushes his hand through his hair, pauses when the sleeve of his shirt falls. Wasn’t he wearing short sleeves yesterday? He doesn’t remember changing to long sleeves for bed. Normally he just wears his day outfit if it’s clean enough, saving him the trouble if they have to get a quick start in the morning. (Which happens way more often than he’d like.)

When did—Oh.

The memories rush back in a wave. He doubles over from the onslaught, a sharp and quiet gasp escaping. He covers his face with both hands, pressing his fingers against his closed eyes until colors burst in the black. The pressure helps when his head spikes with pain.

He remembers. The bartender. The way the world wavered and swayed. The two Niffs. Getting knocked out. Escaping into the woods. Everything becomes less distinct after that, but he remembers flashes of Ignis and Gladio, being carried on Gladio’s back, feeling his chest move as he says words Noct doesn’t remember. Prompto warm, cradling his head. Ignis’ gentle touches.

He remembers, in the end, feeling exhausted but better, looking up to see all three of them looking back at him in...fear? Worry? Horror?

Then everything that could come after that is gone. He must’ve fallen asleep. The guys probably changed him into something that wasn’t blood soaked and ripped.

He stays hunched over for a long while, trying to control his suddenly fast breathing. He breathes in through nose and out through his mouth until the panic fades into something much more manageable, just like his headache.

Noctis shakes the sleeve back over his hand and rubs it against his cheek, smiling. It’s his favorite sweater, slightly oversized but still snug like being wrapped in a blanket during a storm to watch out a window as the rain falls. Iggy knows best that it’s the sweater he wears when he’s feeling particularly vulnerable or fragile. He hadn’t realized it got packed up with the rest of his clothes.

Prompto stays asleep. A spike of guilt worms its way to sit heavy in Noct’s chest. Gods, how tired does he have to be to sleep through Noctis basically having a panic attack just two feet away from him? His friend normally wakes up at the first instance of a nightmare (and vice versa, Noct wakes up for Prompto). But now…

His full bladder makes itself known, Noctis carefully flips the duvet out the way and shift his legs over the edge of the bed. They even stuffed him in lounge pants. He wonders, faintly, how they got the caravan. Last he heard a group of hunters rented it out for a few days.

Noct shakes the thought away then grips the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. He’s weak and shaky, his arms trembling a little bit. The walk to the bathroom is probably going to be less of a straight line and more of a meandering wander. Either way, he needs to pee and he’s not going wake Prompto to help him out.

But—

But when he stands. When he moves his leg, his foot, to take a step. Something stretches awkwardly. He keeps going—and then it catches. Pain races like fire from his ankle through his calf to his hip, every nerve alight with a burning that makes him open his mouth to cry out, but all the breath has been punched out of his lungs, leaving him gasping out a silent scream.

He goes down and he goes down hard, crashing to the ground, shaking the whole caravan. The caravan door slams open. Prompto wakes up with a yelp, but he barely hears it past the blood roaring in his ears. He clutches at his ankle, fighting back tears only to have them fall anyway. He doesn’t realize he’s keening, loud and borderline hysterical, until cool hands cup his cheeks, yanking him back away from the pain.

Noctis wraps a hand around Ignis’ wrist in a vice grip, sobbing as the pain continues unrelentingly. Warmer hands than his advisor’s wraps around his fiery ankle. He tries to jerk away instinctively before the pain gets worse, but the hands hold him in a tight yet gentle grip. His vision is blurry with tears. He can’t make them stop.

Careful fingers press against the front of his ankles, massaging the skin there. It feels odd, he can’t quite put his finger on why. The ministrations move to the sides, pressing thumbs against tendons and muscles, easing tension away. Noctis is gathered up by Ignis, his face against the other man’s chest. He doesn’t know where Prompto went.

Those hands and fingers make it to the back of his ankle, where the pain is the worst. Despite how careful he knows Gladio is trying to be, he can’t help the next scream tearing through his throat when the slightest pressure causes firecrackers to burst under his skin.

Ignis presses his lips against Noctis’ temple and he’s saying something. Noctis can’t understand, can’t hear any of the words, he just feels the brush of his lips on his skin. Honestly, it doesn’t help. Gladio doesn’t move. There was hesitation when Noctis screamed, but he went right back to massaging the tendons in his ankles, encouraging them to loosen up.

He knows the drill. After years of physical therapy, he knows how this all goes.

He just doesn’t understand why Gladio is doing it to his ankles.

Noctis isn’t sure how long he lays there on the caravan’s floor, drifting as Gladio tries to ease his pain. He knows, though, that Ignis never leaves, holding him tight and continuously whispering words of comfort.

Eventually, the roaring sound in his ears dies down to a dull hum. He hears Ignis finally, telling him “it’s all right” and “you’re going to be okay” and “let Gladio work, please.” He picks up on the sounds of Gladio murmuring something to Iggy, but it’s still too quiet for him to fully make out the words.

The pain fades just enough that it no longer feels like a serrated knife sawing slowly through the back of his ankles—instead that knife is sharpened now, quick but still not painless.

He’s slowly aware of a knee pressed between his shoulder blades. Prompto. Gladio at his feet, Ignis at his head, Prompto at his back. He blinks the tears away from his eyes and looks up to meet Ignis’ deep green and deeply concerned gaze.

“Are you with us now?” Ignis asks softly.

Noctis hesitates, then nods. “Yeah,” he croaks out. Wincing and swallowing, after bringing some saliva to his horribly dry mouth, he tries again. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

“Noct,” Prompto whispers, placing a hand on his shoulder. Noctis shifts to get him in his view. He’s greeted with a wobbly smile, a bottle of water in Prompto’s free hand. “I’ve got pain meds. You want ‘em?”

Yes, he wants to say. Yes, please. But he holds back, takes stock of himself. Does he need them? He’s use to being in pain, yeah, but this level—okay, yeah. This is too much. And something tells him that when he tries to walk again he’s going to run into the same wall of fire.

“Yeah,” he says again. “Please.”

Ignis helps him sit up. He closes his eyes, groaning when the world sort of sways. When he opens them again, Prompto’s offering four pink pills to him in a flat open palm. He takes them, his own hands shaking, and throws them back, next taking a drink from the half-full water bottle.

Gladio stills sits at his feet, Ignis bracing him from behind to keep him from exerting any effort to stay upright. He meets his Shield’s amber eyes. Something tells him not to look down, though. So, of course, he does.

And he can’t help the gasp that escapes between his lips when he catches sight of his feet. The scars, the discoloration. He gags, suddenly feeling cold. He orders his left foot to move, relieved when it actually goes along with his demands even it is with a small flare of pain.

Ignis splays his hand on Noct’s chest, right over his heart. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Slow your breathing, Noct.”

Slow his breathing? What—Oh. Noctis heaves suddenly, and it cuts off short and sharp. His breaths are gasping, his vision darkening at the edges. He can’t. He can’t do this again. His feet. Oh, Gods.

“Noct.”

Noctis sobs once, that’s all he allows himself to have, then forces his breathing to slow down, grounding himself with the presence of his friends. He can do this. He can calm down. He can—but his feet!

“What happen?” Noctis feels brave enough to ask, but definitely not brave enough for the answer.

It’s a stupid question, he knows what happened. He sees the evidence of it right there in front of his face, he feels the burn and soreness throughout his whole body. It’s, honestly, not the question he wanted to ask, and he can tell by the looks on Prompto and Gladio’s faces, they know that too.

“We are to remain exclusively inside for a few more days,” Ignis says in his ear, pressing his cheek against Noct’s temple. “But the caravan is ours for as long as we need it. We’ll give you another curative, perhaps attempt a healing spell if you’re up to showing me. Gladio and I will help with the therapy. There’s no rush.”

Noctis leans into the touch, blinking slowly. He swallows around the lump in his throat, hands at his sides clenching and unclenching. “Will I walk again?” he whispers fearfully.

Ignis hums and then says carefully, “I don’t see why not. It will take time. But, yes, I do believe you have the power to walk again.”

Prompto takes his hand between both of his, rubbing a thumb on the back of his hand, as Noct starts crying in relief and hope and fear that it’ll be crushed and he actually won’t be able to walk. First his spine more than a decade ago, and now his feet. Fuck the Six for this.

“C’mon,” Gladio rumbles. “Let’s get you back to bed. You’ve been sleeping for a full day, but I bet you’re still tired.”

As if on cue, Noctis yawns. His eyelids get heavier as he blinks. “I need—.”

“—to sleep,” Prompto cuts in. “And probably eat soon. Iggy took over the bar’s kitchen.” He grins suddenly, bright like sunshine. “Man, oh, man. We’ve got some gil now. People are paying him.”

Noctis side eyes his advisor as Gladio helps him up on shaking legs. Ignis smiles and shrugs, modest but with a bit of smugness as he raises an eyebrow. It’s a good look on him.

They don’t go even a step—or what passes for a step with Noct now—before the reason he woke up and tried to walk knocks back into awareness. He clears his throat, an embarrassed blush heating up his cheeks.

“I, er,” he mumbles. Gladio stops, looking down at him. “I got up...for a reason.” Impossibly, his cheeks feel hotter. “I need to use—.” He gestures uselessly behind them towards the tiny bathroom. “I gotta use the toilet.”

Gladio makes an ‘ah’ noise, quiet and in the back of his throat, then immediately turns around in that direction. The bathroom is small enough, that he can brace himself on the sink, leaning himself against Gladio’s back when he turns around to give him privacy. It’s still embarrassing, but thankful to have such loyal and accommodating friends.

His feet barely touch the ground as Gladio leads him out of the bathroom and back to the bed. He sinks into the cheap, itchy mattress, staring at the stained ceiling.

“How’d we get the caravan?” he asks, the thought suddenly coming to him. “It got rented out by someone else, didn’t it?”

Prompto laughs breathlessly. “You missed a bit while you were...out.” He sits next to Noctis, running a hand through his limp, dirty hair. He doesn’t seem to care that Noct needs a shower desperately. “Lemme tell you.”

He manages to get to the part just before he threw a water glass at the bartender’s head before Noctis falls asleep. Rocked into security and comfort by his friend’s voice and the sounds of Ignis and Gladio nearby, keeping him safe and watched over.

“Luca of the Kingsglaive,” Ingis says a few days later outside the bar’s back door, his voice low and dangerous. He refrains from saying anything he’ll regret. Instead, he settles on: “I remember you.”

“Ignis Scientia. I remember you too.”

And she’s every inch of the woman he remembers when he was a teen, being teased for his less than graceful maneuvers with a lance. Her shoulders are squared, her back straight. The only thing that he can’t align with his memories is the way she refuses to meet his eyes, looking more like a toddler who got caught in the cookie jar after being told they couldn’t have any sweets.

But, there’s another thing Ignis remembers very well. Something told to him only recently.

“You died,” he says. She stiffens, bowing her head low. Not as low as she would to Noctis, but low either way. “The day Insomnia fell. In an explosion from a bomb you helped plant.”

“I tried to,” she admits freely. “I...I betrayed my king and my prince.”

“Something you only realized after hundreds of people had already died,” Ignis demands sharply, unforgivingly.

Luca flinches. “I deserve that,” she says. She doesn’t look up, leaving Ignis to glare at the top of her head. “And yes. Only after. Surrounded by fire and broken buildings, people screaming and crying. I looked up and saw Niflheim dropships taking away the Crystal.” She swallows audibly. “And that’s when I knew King Regis was dead—or would soon be.”

“So you tried to run away, disappear into the shadows. Keep your reputation as a traitor and a coward. It’s the least of what you deserve.”

“Yes.” She bows her head even more, shoulders curling in. “Ignis—.” She shakes her head, then corrects to: “Count Scientia, I was blinded and fooled by propaganda and the hate my fellow man showed towards me. It’s not an excuse. I promise. But I’ve been given another chance to prove fealty to my king.”

Ignis keeps to himself that Noctis doesn’t want to be called king or His Majesty. Yes, he was never officially crowned. But the old laws dictate that in the event of the death of the previous king, especially in war, the heir apparent is automatically the new king, coronation or no. Noctis is king, whether he likes it or not. As per his wishes, though, Ignis forces himself to call him prince.

When this is all over, Noctis will subject himself to an official ceremony. For pageantry sake and for the people. And for his friends, who have stayed by his side and wish to see the pomp and circumstance.

It’s those little things Noctis says to him when the sit on the edge of havens and look up at the stars, seeing more of the world than they thought they ever would and for the worse reason they’d ever wanted.

“How do you still have access to the Crystal?” Ignis asks instead. He almost wants to tell her she needn’t bow anymore, but he’s still not feeling very forgiving despite her help.

Luca’s eyes flicker up to him then train back on the ground. “We all lost our connections to the King’s magic when he died,” she tells him softly. “Most of us went to Lestallum. The rest scattered to be hunters. But then, nearly two days after, I felt my magic return. I warped without realizing it.”

Two days after. The moment Noctis received the first Royal Arm.

“We were told, in a dream,” she continues. “By the Draconian himself. Protect Eos and ease the king’s path until the Chosen King can purge the world of darkness and our true loyalty will be proven, our transgressions forgiven, our sins absolved.”

Ignis adjusts his glasses then crosses his arms. “And you’re doing a fine job of that,” he says sarcastically. Their prince—their king—abducted by a slighted Lucian and given to Niflheim. For a bounty that may or may not be real. Unbelievable. “How many ‘glaives are there?”

“Twenty-two.”

Thirty less than the glory days in Insomnia.

“How many are actively using this as a second chance?”

Luca sighs. “Nineteen,” she admits reluctantly. “We don’t know where the other three are, just that they disappeared. Either they’re dead or…” She trails off, but it’s enough for Ignis.

“All right. Stand up straight, Luca,” he commands. “You’re going to get a crick in your back if you stay like that for too long.” He watches as she does as order, straightening and meeting his eyes. He sees the spark of magic in her eyes, just like his own when he looks in the mirror. Just like Gladio and Prompto.

Just a spark. Nothing like the lightning in Noctis.

They stay like that for a long moment, staring at each other. Until Ignis lets his own shoulders loosen, almost drooping. Her feet shift into a stance, like she’s afraid he’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security to attack her.

“Thank you, Luca of the Kingsglaive,” Ignis says. She relaxes, looking confused. “If it weren’t for your hi-potions, Noctis would most likely be permanently disabled and we would be without a dry place to sleep.”

The bartender and the Niffs had been locked up in the bar’s bathroom from point a of Prompto explaining to Luca what happened to point b when Cor came last night to haul them to Lestallum. When the bar realized who Noctis was and who the three men with him were, they made their move. Even the Niffs Luca had at her back. Friends, she claimed, who defected from the Imperial Army.

The hunters who had the caravan gave it up. Luca provided the last of her group’s hi-potions and offered to make more if needed. And it had been, when Noctis woke up the second time, they shoved another hi-potion down his throat, so then he could walk three steps before it became too much instead of one.

Now, the bar is full of only a few people. Luca and her friends, staying behind until the prince and his retinue can get back on the road. Protecting them.

“The least of what I can do,” she replied. “After all, it’s partially the ‘glaives’ fault this happened. We didn’t think anyone would take the bounty seriously. It has no official seal.”

But they were proven wrong. And now Tidus, one of the defected Niffs, is on a messenger mission of sorts, spreading the word to the ‘glaives that any bounty fliers must be taken down and subtly mentioning to anyone else that the bounty is bogus, no one is fulfilling it even if someone manages to get Noctis Lucis Caelum alive to Niflheim.

Their conversation is disturbed by the sound of Prompto’s excited chatter. They turn to watch, both expressions surprisingly fond. Ignis knows why he’s fond of Prompto, he assumes Luca is endeared by his sunny personality that belays the quick-witted violence she got a peek of before.

Prompto comes around the bend in the road, walking backward and talking animatedly about some video game he and Noct use to play in Insomnia. Noct follows next, slowly and quietly. His gait is completely off, labored and limping, and his eyebrows are furrowed in the middle, face pale and shining with sweat. There’s a flash of red on his bottom lip that trickles down his chin. He bit through it. Ignis tsks. Gladio is close behind, a frown on his own lips and his arms tense at his sides, ready to catch Noct if he stumbles. They must’ve had some sort of argument.

Noctis had shown Ignis how to weave healing spells—something completely unlike the magical flasks Noct makes and the ability to summon weapons from the armory—and Ignis applied it to his scars with the single-mindedness he’s known for when it comes to his health. It helped a little bit, after the third hi-potion. Ignis believes that in a month’s time, Noctis will be able to fight and run with the same amount of staying power he had before with his unrelenting chronic pain, it will get worse only when the weather turns bad or he overdoes it. Just like before.

But, for now, it’s a miracle he can walk as well as he can. Or at all.

Luca claps a hand on his shoulder, startling him into turning his attention on her. She smiles a small, ashamed smile at him. “I’ll make you guys some more potions,” she says. “And I can always help with some healing spells. There’s a trick I learned, a sigil. Delilah came by last night with the Marshal to drop off some supplies, taught it to me.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. The Royal Sigils? He had heard of those, ancient magic that even the Lucis Caelum line refuse to use. They have the Royal Arms and the magic the Crystal gives them. Noctis always moaned about it, saying it would make a king too overpowered. And overpowered kings never end well for their kingdoms.

Besides, there’s only certain times when the Sigils can be accessed.

“You’re protecting the tombs,” Ignis says, surprised.

“Only some of them. For now,” Luca replies. “For one thing, we don’t have access to any of the tombs you haven’t gotten the Royal Arms from yet. We have the Sigil of the Wanderer and the one of the Rogue. Delilah stumbled on the Oracle’s Sigil, the tomb was by Lestallum. There was no Arm in there, though. A few tombs, though, they, ah, they’ve been bombed, by Niflheim.”

Ignis closes his eyes briefly against the slap in the face that is. “Teach it to me,” he says.

“Of course,” she promises.

Prompto yelps, dragging their attention back. Noctis is on the ground, panting, chin covered in blood, clothes a shade lighter with dust coating him, and he clenches the air towards his ankles. Gladio has his shoulders in hand, keeping his upper body off the gravel and dirt.

Ignis rushes to them, leaving Luca behind, already feeling the warmth at his fingertips of the weak healing spell Noctis was able to teach him. He crouches next to him, touching his cheek gently. Noct looks at him through his eyelashes as green fizzles across his skin to the split into his lip, healing the damage he’s caused. With his other hand he wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“You all right?” he asks.

Noct shakes his head. “No, I can’t walk,” he snaps in frustration.

“You were walking pretty good there, buddy!” Prompto protests. “Come on. It’s just one blip in the road. You got this.”

“If Gladio didn’t catch me—.”

“But I did,” Gladio interrupts firmly. “Don’t think about it. I caught you.”

Ignis pushes his glasses up with his shoulder, refusing to let go of his prince. “Indeed. I have to agree with Prompto. Noctis, you are progressing wonderfully. It’s only been a week. Give it time, I told you that.”

Noctis huffs, but Ignis sees right through it. He raises his arms, making grabby hands with a small, hopeful smile. Ignis sighs fondly and stands, taking his hands in his. With Gladio at his back for support, Ignis hauls up his prince to stand on wobbling legs.

“Let’s take a break, yes?” Ignis tries. He’ll use the opportunity to learn the Oracle’s Sigil from Luca and apply it right then and there. “I have a stew cooking in the kitchen. Vaan went hunting today.” The other defected Niff, a quick man who has stolen Ignis’ wallet more times than he’d care to admit.

“Woohoo!” Prompto cheers, dancing in place. “I thought I smelled something de-licious!”

“You look like a prancing chocobo, blondie,” Gladio says, cuffing him on the back of his head. “You need to brush your hair.” Prompto squawks indignantly.

Noctis laughs at his friends’ antics. “Okay, I guess.” He shifts minutely, wincing. “A break sounds good.”

Ignis braces Noct’s arm over his shoulder, allowing himself to be used as a crutch. The fact that Noctis doesn’t protest is a sure sign that he’s reached his limits.

But his prince will heal. They will push past this with determination and resilience. That, Ignis knows for sure with all his heart. After all, Noctis is strong and powerful. Nothing will stop him. Not even this.

Not if they can help it.