All the warnings and prophecies and visions in the world could not have prepared Noctis for what it would feel like to die. Every blow was painful, more than anything else he'd experienced over the course of his journey, perhaps even his entire life. The Marilith attack had hurt him terribly, rehab and recovery moreso. Still, it was nothing like this. The love and friendship of his family held him steady, even though they were far from his side; he couldn't see or hear them, but he felt their presence, keeping him grounded, and he felt their hands at his back just as surely as the throne on which he sat. He took the punishment, all of it, held on until the very last breath as his father's sword plunged through his heart. He found Ardyn Izunia in the world beyond life and death, called upon the power of light, the Crystal, the ring, and all of his ancestors, and two souls were destroyed in their entirety. His last thought, it's finally over, is hardly a fractional expression of how tired he is. Ten years in the Crystal asleep and even now all he wants to do is rest.
(At the same time, he feels loss, an ache, a longing for more. To go home. To live. To see his friends again. To experience love.)
Oblivion rises up to claim him, his whole being scattered into empty ashes, and he welcomes death without a fight.
-------
He dreams of Luna.
He finds her in the Citadel, waiting for him, dressed in the wedding gown that had been on display in Altissia. She smiles at him and takes his hand. "Show me your home, dear Noctis," she murmurs, and he obliges. He guides her down long, echoing hallways, into the elaborate ancient rooms of what was once a castle, through the gardens he used to hide and play in as a child. They share a dance in a grand ballroom, slow and romantic to the song in their hearts, and she smiles as he stumbles in his steps but does not laugh, only guides him back into position, eternally patient. He spins her about and delights at the click of her heels over the patterned tiles of his family's emblems. The Citadel is empty save for them, but somehow he can still hear the echoes of everyone who once lived here, who shared this life with him. His father's booming confidence, the calm protective nature of Clarus, Cor's calculating glances, Gladio's smirk, Prompto's laughter. Ignis, always watching, understanding in his eyes behind his glasses.
This is what their wedding should have been like, he thinks. Warm and fun and attended by all of their dearest friends and family. A celebration of life, one they hadn't chosen but could have, someday, if the world had let them.
He tells her about his adventures, about the harrowing but exciting journey through Lucis. He does not speak of anything beyond Altissia, when the joy ended and everything fell apart. Instead: reeling in enormous fishes, rising the hunter ranks, battling against and alongside the Astrals, leading the Imperials on wild chases across the continent. Of his friends, of the steadfast support they'd always offered him. Of how the thought of seeing her again at long last had kept him strong, kept him going. He'd hoped it had been the same for her.
With her supporting hand, he finds the courage to walk up those steps again, sit at the throne where he'd died. He finds his chosen photo there, and offers it out to her: a picture of the four of them, his family, and now those he loves most are in the world all together again, them and her. His father's presence is residual, always felt strongest at the throne, so King Regis too is with him. It's... not lonely, not at all. He'd been so afraid of feeling lonely. This isn't the perfect ending he'd prayed for growing up, but Luna's hand is warm between his fingers, and the memory of his beloved friends soothes his restless heart. He draws her close and kisses her, imagining once more a wedding that will never be; he can practically hear the bells, as she moves closer to him, settling her head on his shoulder.
"Rest, my love," she whispers. "We've earned our rest. The world no longer needs us here."
I've loved two people, he thinks idly, his cheek pillowed against her silken hair, feeling content, feeling happy, but feeling... incomplete, at the same time. He's so glad to be here with her, and he's still so tired. He closes his eyes, ready to sleep, to let himself pass on. He doesn't have to stay.
(he wants to stay.)
He's allowed to sleep forever.
(the world is out there, waiting.)
It isn't his choice to make.
(if he had a choice, though--)
"Rest," Luna says again, gentle, understanding his conflict and longing to grant him the peace she felt, here together in this oblivion. Her soul beckons to what is left of his, after the Crystal left him fragmented, and he follows her. He rests.
-------
ARISE, O CHOSEN
THY NUMBER MUST BE TWENTY-FOUR
UNTIL THY NAME IS CALLED, UNTIL THE SIX COME AGAIN UNTO THIS WORLD
THY REWARD IS REST
-------
He rests.
He rests.
He rests.
He rests.
He-
-------
Help me, please--
-wakes up.
The experience of reversing death is decidedly jarring, and for a long moment afterwards, as Noctis sits up in the sand, he can only stare out at his surroundings and try to parse what it means to exist after so long of the opposite. He looks down at his hands - hands? is that normal? did he ever have hands before? - his eyes roving over the angry red lines tracing pathways up the arm of the right, each one pulsing softly like a heartbeat. (did he have a heartbeat? what even is a heartbeat?) The other arm is soft and pale, almost like it belongs on someone else's body, though he recognizes it as his own, familiar calloused fingers that should be holding a sword. His veins are blue, and would seem almost normal if not for the silver-blue glimmer he can feel underneath the skin, ready to seep from his fingertips when he needs to call on it. The power to burn, and the power to heal. His new calling. He'd been summoned, pulled out of his sleep, by-
help me, noct
That's me, he thinks. He thinks, but he isn't sure. It sounds right, as he rolls it over his tongue. It had sounded more right when spoken by the voice he'd heard calling out to him, a voice so familiar that it made his heart ache. His beating heart. That... he had, now. Again. (again?) It wasn't the voice of his god, his patron, or of any of the Six. Not one of the other Messengers either. Why does he know it, if not one of those? He should know no other.
The voice calls him again, desperate and frightened, and he pushes aside all of his thoughts aside from one: save him. help him. find him. He follows the call to the shack behind him, a pitiful looking thing that seems abandoned besides the angry noises he can hear just inside the door. Without a single moment of hesitation he pushes against the door and forces his way inside, letting it slam against the wall and make the whole place tremble. Inside, there is a man pinned against a wall, while another holds a gun to his head. The gun wielder is not who called to him; he is irrelevant, an empty vessel of violence and lust, already twisting to face the intruder, gun lifted, shouting at him to stop. Noct's eyes shift to the one below, the man restrained and wounded. Something in his heart twists, and he remembers the voice that had called to him, had woken him up.
save him, save him.
He does not heed the aggressor's warning- he takes a step forward, intent on reaching the wounded man. The gun goes off, and without thinking he lifts his right hand, intent on catching the bullet with his palm rather than take the damage somewhere more critical; Messengers were fragments of their aligned gods, but they were not entirely immortal. While he might have existed as a spirit afterward, he'd only just gotten this body, and he sort of wants to keep it. Rather than take the damage, however, the second that bullet hits his palm it burns, melting and disintegrating into dust. The man gapes at him, horrified, and begins to fire wildly, suddenly enraged and desperate to save himself. None of the bullets stop Noct's approach, and the noise of gunfire is replaced by the agonized shrieking of a dying animal as the hand of Bahamut's chosen Messenger touches human flesh and incinerating fire spreads all across his body, lighting him up as surely as if he'd been hit by a full spell flask at point-blank range. He scrabbles against the fingers curled around his wrist, flailing and beating at wherever he could reach, but Noctis does not release him. This isn't a human, he can only think, absent and unmoved by the creature's pain. This is a monster, unfit for life. Consumed by a burning greed so powerful it can only think to hurt others. The justice of the Bladekeeper would not harm an innocent. How many had it already killed, following such pursuits?
save him, save him.
When the man stops screaming, burned halfways to oblivion and unrecognizable, Noctis releases him, letting the body slump lifeless to the floor. Taking a human life might be shameful, were he one himself, but he's not. Neither of them are, in truth. A Messenger killed a monster, and the life of a human has been saved. The Glacian would praise him. Perhaps she'd been the one to allow his awakening, understanding the value of human life. Understanding... love?
He frowns as the word flits into his consciousness, and he shakes the ashes off of his hand and moves in front of the man on the floor, crouching down so they can be eye to eye. He reaches his right hand up to brush gently over the man's jaw, tracing the line of it. Familiar.
Why is this familiar? Why is he familiar?
He wrestles for his own voice, but he can't find it. He can't remember what he sounds like, how to speak to this man who is so familiar to him that it hurts to look at him. So he stares into green eyes that he should know, he should absolutely know, his own eyes discoloured, one the same deep blue as he'd had in life while the other the vibrant fuschia of his new, divine connection. He stares and quietly pleads for a place to start, something to latch on. For the man's voice, again.
no subject
(At the same time, he feels loss, an ache, a longing for more. To go home. To live. To see his friends again. To experience love.)
Oblivion rises up to claim him, his whole being scattered into empty ashes, and he welcomes death without a fight.
-------
He dreams of Luna.
He finds her in the Citadel, waiting for him, dressed in the wedding gown that had been on display in Altissia. She smiles at him and takes his hand. "Show me your home, dear Noctis," she murmurs, and he obliges. He guides her down long, echoing hallways, into the elaborate ancient rooms of what was once a castle, through the gardens he used to hide and play in as a child. They share a dance in a grand ballroom, slow and romantic to the song in their hearts, and she smiles as he stumbles in his steps but does not laugh, only guides him back into position, eternally patient. He spins her about and delights at the click of her heels over the patterned tiles of his family's emblems. The Citadel is empty save for them, but somehow he can still hear the echoes of everyone who once lived here, who shared this life with him. His father's booming confidence, the calm protective nature of Clarus, Cor's calculating glances, Gladio's smirk, Prompto's laughter. Ignis, always watching, understanding in his eyes behind his glasses.
This is what their wedding should have been like, he thinks. Warm and fun and attended by all of their dearest friends and family. A celebration of life, one they hadn't chosen but could have, someday, if the world had let them.
He tells her about his adventures, about the harrowing but exciting journey through Lucis. He does not speak of anything beyond Altissia, when the joy ended and everything fell apart. Instead: reeling in enormous fishes, rising the hunter ranks, battling against and alongside the Astrals, leading the Imperials on wild chases across the continent. Of his friends, of the steadfast support they'd always offered him. Of how the thought of seeing her again at long last had kept him strong, kept him going. He'd hoped it had been the same for her.
With her supporting hand, he finds the courage to walk up those steps again, sit at the throne where he'd died. He finds his chosen photo there, and offers it out to her: a picture of the four of them, his family, and now those he loves most are in the world all together again, them and her. His father's presence is residual, always felt strongest at the throne, so King Regis too is with him. It's... not lonely, not at all. He'd been so afraid of feeling lonely. This isn't the perfect ending he'd prayed for growing up, but Luna's hand is warm between his fingers, and the memory of his beloved friends soothes his restless heart. He draws her close and kisses her, imagining once more a wedding that will never be; he can practically hear the bells, as she moves closer to him, settling her head on his shoulder.
"Rest, my love," she whispers. "We've earned our rest. The world no longer needs us here."
I've loved two people, he thinks idly, his cheek pillowed against her silken hair, feeling content, feeling happy, but feeling... incomplete, at the same time. He's so glad to be here with her, and he's still so tired. He closes his eyes, ready to sleep, to let himself pass on. He doesn't have to stay.
(he wants to stay.)
He's allowed to sleep forever.
(the world is out there, waiting.)
It isn't his choice to make.
(if he had a choice, though--)
"Rest," Luna says again, gentle, understanding his conflict and longing to grant him the peace she felt, here together in this oblivion. Her soul beckons to what is left of his, after the Crystal left him fragmented, and he follows her. He rests.
-------
ARISE, O CHOSEN
THY NUMBER MUST BE TWENTY-FOUR
UNTIL THY NAME IS CALLED, UNTIL THE SIX COME AGAIN UNTO THIS WORLD
THY REWARD IS REST
-------
He rests.
He rests.
He rests.
He rests.
He-
-------
Help me, please--
-wakes up.
The experience of reversing death is decidedly jarring, and for a long moment afterwards, as Noctis sits up in the sand, he can only stare out at his surroundings and try to parse what it means to exist after so long of the opposite. He looks down at his hands - hands? is that normal? did he ever have hands before? - his eyes roving over the angry red lines tracing pathways up the arm of the right, each one pulsing softly like a heartbeat. (did he have a heartbeat? what even is a heartbeat?) The other arm is soft and pale, almost like it belongs on someone else's body, though he recognizes it as his own, familiar calloused fingers that should be holding a sword. His veins are blue, and would seem almost normal if not for the silver-blue glimmer he can feel underneath the skin, ready to seep from his fingertips when he needs to call on it. The power to burn, and the power to heal. His new calling. He'd been summoned, pulled out of his sleep, by-
help me, noct
That's me, he thinks. He thinks, but he isn't sure. It sounds right, as he rolls it over his tongue. It had sounded more right when spoken by the voice he'd heard calling out to him, a voice so familiar that it made his heart ache. His beating heart. That... he had, now. Again. (again?) It wasn't the voice of his god, his patron, or of any of the Six. Not one of the other Messengers either. Why does he know it, if not one of those? He should know no other.
The voice calls him again, desperate and frightened, and he pushes aside all of his thoughts aside from one: save him. help him. find him. He follows the call to the shack behind him, a pitiful looking thing that seems abandoned besides the angry noises he can hear just inside the door. Without a single moment of hesitation he pushes against the door and forces his way inside, letting it slam against the wall and make the whole place tremble. Inside, there is a man pinned against a wall, while another holds a gun to his head. The gun wielder is not who called to him; he is irrelevant, an empty vessel of violence and lust, already twisting to face the intruder, gun lifted, shouting at him to stop. Noct's eyes shift to the one below, the man restrained and wounded. Something in his heart twists, and he remembers the voice that had called to him, had woken him up.
save him, save him.
He does not heed the aggressor's warning- he takes a step forward, intent on reaching the wounded man. The gun goes off, and without thinking he lifts his right hand, intent on catching the bullet with his palm rather than take the damage somewhere more critical; Messengers were fragments of their aligned gods, but they were not entirely immortal. While he might have existed as a spirit afterward, he'd only just gotten this body, and he sort of wants to keep it. Rather than take the damage, however, the second that bullet hits his palm it burns, melting and disintegrating into dust. The man gapes at him, horrified, and begins to fire wildly, suddenly enraged and desperate to save himself. None of the bullets stop Noct's approach, and the noise of gunfire is replaced by the agonized shrieking of a dying animal as the hand of Bahamut's chosen Messenger touches human flesh and incinerating fire spreads all across his body, lighting him up as surely as if he'd been hit by a full spell flask at point-blank range. He scrabbles against the fingers curled around his wrist, flailing and beating at wherever he could reach, but Noctis does not release him. This isn't a human, he can only think, absent and unmoved by the creature's pain. This is a monster, unfit for life. Consumed by a burning greed so powerful it can only think to hurt others. The justice of the Bladekeeper would not harm an innocent. How many had it already killed, following such pursuits?
save him, save him.
When the man stops screaming, burned halfways to oblivion and unrecognizable, Noctis releases him, letting the body slump lifeless to the floor. Taking a human life might be shameful, were he one himself, but he's not. Neither of them are, in truth. A Messenger killed a monster, and the life of a human has been saved. The Glacian would praise him. Perhaps she'd been the one to allow his awakening, understanding the value of human life. Understanding... love?
He frowns as the word flits into his consciousness, and he shakes the ashes off of his hand and moves in front of the man on the floor, crouching down so they can be eye to eye. He reaches his right hand up to brush gently over the man's jaw, tracing the line of it. Familiar.
Why is this familiar? Why is he familiar?
He wrestles for his own voice, but he can't find it. He can't remember what he sounds like, how to speak to this man who is so familiar to him that it hurts to look at him. So he stares into green eyes that he should know, he should absolutely know, his own eyes discoloured, one the same deep blue as he'd had in life while the other the vibrant fuschia of his new, divine connection. He stares and quietly pleads for a place to start, something to latch on. For the man's voice, again.
I saved you. Who are you? Why did you call me?