Chapter Text
He’d never thought he’d see winter in Insomnia again.
Noctis would be lying if he says he hasn’t missed this. Ten years - or ten millennia, or ten minutes, depending on how he thinks about the Crystal - had brought so many things into perfect clarity. The reality of Ardyn, the power of the gods, and the might of destiny and providence: they’d all consumed his thoughts through his long slumber. He can’t believe that he’d never once stopped to remember the snow. Somehow, though, that makes this season all the sweeter. It’s like the first time he’d ever seen snow, running out in the Citadel courtyards, marveling at the way the snow looked like sugar. His father used to call it Shiva’s gift. Noct’s inclined to believe him. Knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t doubt that the Glacian would make the winter beautiful for the sake of humanity.
The snow has fallen over Insomnia, blanketing the whole city in white. There’s a quiet beauty to the ruins like this: they’re waiting to be unearthed. Waiting to be rebuilt. Somewhere under there, the bones of old Lucis wait to be brought back to life. Today, though, the snows have abated, leaving the spires to glint in the sun.
Nobody’s looking at the skyscrapers today.
Noct's official coronation is a quiet affair.
Not for lack of attendees, though: the plaza surrounding the Citadel is packed with people, and there are more beyond the gates, clambering up for a look at the ascending monarch. They're people of all sorts, from all over the world. The dark-haired Lucian natives and braided Galahdians are there alongside Accordans and the fairer Tenebraeans and citizens of what used to be Niflheim stand beside them like old friends. In some ways, they are. In the ruined world of the Long Night, Lucis had become a haven, especially for those fleeing the Starscourge nexus at Gralea. Now, depleted in numbers but enhanced in spirit, the people of Eos have come together to pay their respects to the king who had offered his life to bring the sun back.
The quiet is for the ones they've lost. The ones who were destroyed in the Fall, and the ones caught in the middle of an ancient war. The ones who were turned by the Scourge and were burned to ash by the sun. The Night took so much from all of them, and nobody knows more of that than the rising king himself.
At the top of the steps of the Citadel, Noctis stands with his hands clasped behind his back. He's wearing his father's favorite cape and brace, and it feels right. The black fabric and gold chains clink and hang around him, stirring up a muffled music. It’s a familiar music, and a welcome one, calling up memories from nearly twenty years ago when the old king’s steps had been stronger and unlabored. They hadn't had the time or money to waste on making something new for him, anyway. Noct doesn’t mind, not really. It makes him feel closer to his dad.
Ignis stands at his right side, a constant quiet presence to keep Noctis grounded here at the top of these stairs. The dark glass of his visor is narrower now, revealing more of the dark scarring across his face. It’s a less strictly utilitarian design now: more elegant, more graceful, and more unabashedly Ignis. Noctis had asked why he’d changed the glasses and Ignis had simply said that he was unashamed of what he'd given up for the sake of his king and country; for his hearth and home and love. Today, he's not wearing his usual purple prints; instead, he's wearing his best black suit, the perfect picture of a shadow if not for the dark purple cape that’s fastened at his shoulders. It lends him some regality, like a vestige of the royal magic he’d once wielded. This isn’t just Noct’s celebration. Ignis is at last getting the praise he deserves for bringing the world through the Night. They’d called him the blind hero; the hero of Lestallum. Now, today, they just whisper his name, and just the sound of it makes Noct smile - a secret smile; a small one.
Prompto’s standing beside Ignis: a miracle nowadays. He’s still getting used to the concept of wearing the technology of the empire which made him, and he’s still pale more often than not, but the soft scarlet of his veins looks good against his black and red attire. Prompto looks good in Cor’s militaristic, functional old Crownsguard suit. Eyes bright, standing tall, Prompto looks at last like a Lucian warrior. Lionheart like his pistol. Lionheart like his father.
And Gladio - he’s radiant. He’s on Noct’s left, standing just behind him, half shrouded in a passing shadow. Shirking the light, he almost blends into the background, but no darkness can mask the brilliance of an Amicitia at their full potential. He’s wearing his father’s old black and gold, looking formal but dangerous like a King’s Shield always should. And he looks lighter, finally, like he’s made his peace. Today, Noct thinks that means happiness too.
Noctis had thought once that this moment would come sooner, and that he’d be younger and married and content. In his mind, this day would have been lighter and happier, and he would have worn two rings. He wears neither now. In his long-past fantasies, he would have been young and unscarred and everyone would still be alive and whole and happy. And his friends, of course, would have still had these positions of honor. They would have been his Glaives.
They’re still his Kingsglaive, of course, but today they’re more than that. The battle garb of the defenders of Lucis can hang in their closets for another day - one when the night might get a little darker and hope may begin to slip once more. But until then, they’re exquisite as they are. They don’t need the suits to remember that they once had the privilege of knowing the king’s magic. Already, Prompto’s starting to pick at the cuffs of his suit, and Ignis has adopted a soft, private smile that only they can see. Gladio nudges at Noct’s shoulder, and the contact brings them all knocking together, for how close they are.
The little contact grounds him more than Noct thinks they know.
If Noctis closes his eyes, he thinks he can feel his father at his side once more, smiling at the ascension his son was destined to never see. An unexpected ending for him, surely, but not an unwelcome one. Not anymore.
The master of ceremony is Cor. The Marshal is one of the only people left to them who had held any sort of position of power in the Lucis of old, and he’d known Noct’s father. He’d stood beside Regis at his own coronation, and he’d set Noctis on his journey for the Arms, and now it’s only fitting that he should be the one to bring Noctis into kingship.
He holds the Sword of the Father in his hands. It’s the only Royal Arm that they had been allowed to keep. A gift from the astrals to the Chosen King. Noctis hopes that he can feel Regis’s phantom warmth through the king’s blade; he hopes it brings Cor some sort of peace.
Cor’s voice rumbles across the plaza with a steady thunder, amplified by the speakers spread out among the people. “People of Eos, we gather here to crown the next in the ancient line of Lucian kings and queens. It is a coronation ten years late, but now we at last welcome a new king under the light of the sun.”
Noctis blinks into the light and looks up at the cloudless sky. The sun burns up there, offering its warmth to him with blazing consistency. He almost squints to block it out, but he welcomes the inconvenience of its burning. He’d died for this; he won’t trade the sunlight for anything. Not now. Not anymore.
Cor’s voice brings him back to himself, and Noctis returns his gaze to the Marshal and the crowds beyond. There are so many more of them than Noctis had thought. So many had carved a life for themselves out of the darkness he’d left them in, and now they’re here to reward him for bringing back the light. Cor’s words crackle through the static excitement in the air.
“Blessed stars of life and light-”
It’s a familiar phrase. Noct thinks of the Hydraean’s wrath and the smell of blood and salt. And the warmth. Long-gone magic. It’s fitting at a time like this. Luna’s legacy, even now. Maybe she’s watching too.
Cor stares at him calmly with his unfathomable storm-bright eyes. “By the will of Titan, I grant you strength. By the will of Shiva, I grant you endurance. By the will of Ramuh, I grant you wisdom. By the will of Leviathan, I grant you justice.”
The Sword of the Father glints in the winter sun, cold and unyielding.
“By the will of Bahamut, I grant you the means to protect your people.”
Cor raises the sword and levels it at Noctis, never moving his gaze. There’s something of a reminder in the look, taking them back to the Tomb of the Wise. This moment has been a long time coming.
Noctis almost flinches again, ready for Cor to sheathe the blade in the center of his chest. He waits for the shower of glass and crystal and magic, but it never comes. Instead, Cor shifts his grip on the sword, flipping it in his hand and offering the hilt to Noctis.
Noctis stares at it. He’d offered up the sword like this once. That was then. Now, the sun is shining, and the Lucii have had their due.
He takes it. The hilt fits as comfortably in his hand as he remembers. There’s no shower of sparks and crystal shards as he holds it, and no spectral shade of the blade rises up to meet him. There’s only the winter air, Cor’s gaze, and the sword of his father. It’s a sword fit for a king. When he stares down at it, clasped in his mismatched fingers, he can’t help but feel like this is right. This, here - it makes sense.
He raises the sword in the air and plunges it to the ground with the sound of steel and stone. He may not have the magic of the Crystal anymore, but the sword is still a relic of kings; it sinks into the stone of the steps of the Citadel.
The crowd’s restless murmuring turns to silence. Never once has Noctis heard Insomnia so quiet.
The air crackles with something that could be magic, warming Noct’s hands and painting the edges of his vision with scarlet.
“Are you ready?” Cor asks, quietly, so that nobody can hear. Not even Ignis.
Noctis blinks at him and half shrugs before he straightens his shoulders. He nods instead, as firmly as he can muster. “I’m ready,” he says, so softly that only Cor and the gods could ever chance to hear him.
Cor reaches up, and there’s something shining in the sun, glinting in fierce angles and curves. The crown of the line of Lucis is small, but it still feels impossibly heavy when Cor pushes his hair aside and grants him his birthright. The crown fits snugly behind his ear, cold from the winter air but immediately warm when it tangles in his hair and against his skin.
Cor steps back and gives him a firm once-over. He nods. Turning back to the crowd, he announces, “People of Eos, I give you King Noctis Lucis Caelum, one hundred fourteenth King of Lucis, and the King of Light.”
Fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the last of the Royal Arms, Noctis looks out at the people he died to save.
The people who have crowned him king.
He shocks himself into smiling.
It’s taken him a while to realize. But now, knowing what he knows and having experienced what he has, Noctis understands why the astrals allowed him back. A gift. Another chance at peace before the final rest. The astrals had known, back in the first dawn over Insomnia, and they’d tried, in their own ways, to grant him a reward for what he’d done to bring their precious world back into balance.
If he squints, he can see them in the crowd. Messengers, or perhaps the phantom shades of the astrals themselves, identified by the way they nearly glow in the view of his right eye. Gentiana, smiling serenely beside a frosted-over fountain. A small boy, picking at the stones beneath his feet, watching him with a steady fierceness. A member of the Crownsguard that he doesn’t recognize, bearing a sword that Noctis once saw embedded in this very plaza. Even a woman, tall and raven-haired with eyes bluer than he’s ever seen, even at this distance, meeting his eyes with a gaze that speaks of approval. And Cor, staring at him with warmth crackling in his eyes.
They’re all here. They’re all watching.
He doesn’t know how he’d never noticed before.
Noctis allows himself a small grin and nods once, knowing that they’ll understand. He doesn’t feel Gentiana’s phantom chill anymore. There’s only the winter wind, and even that does little to bother him. He feels warmer than he ever has, and he feels everything , and for that he is more than thankful. The fire in his veins makes him feel warm, and the spark in his heart keeps him content.
Someone takes up the cry, and suddenly it’s just like that first day when they’d returned to the Citadel.
“Hail King Noctis!”
Noctis doesn’t lie to himself: the shivers down his spine aren’t from the winter air.
There’s a soft laugh at his side, and Noctis glances over past Ignis. He’d know that laugh anywhere. It sounds like music today, soaring over the roar of the people of Eos. Prompto grins at him, eyes bright blue. The sunlight is turning his scarlet veins to trails of fire, but he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s something in his eyes that makes Noctis think that he remembers the first day, too. He nods, mischievous and wistful, and Noctis smirks back at him.
Ignis leans towards him, lips hovering mere inches from his ear, and murmurs, “The crowd, Your Majesty.” Of course he has that preternatural awareness; of course he would know that Noct has paused to share a moment with Prompto.
Noctis smiles. It’s the first time Ignis has said it and it’s been completely, officially true.
Majesty.
He likes the sound of it.
Noctis returns his gaze to the crowd, and the smile along with it. The crowd roars at the sight.
He raises his hand to wave to them, and there’s almost a catch in the collective breath of the crowd. Noctis almost frowns, confused for a moment, and then he realizes that it’s his scarred hand. The sunlight has made it burn in a way not unlike distant Ravatogh, matching the scars and veins that cover his face. He almost lowers his hand, but then he catches himself and waves it all the more. The burn scars and molten veins glimmer and shift with every movement. The scars are on his face too. Let them look. They’re proof that he’s survived.
I died for this moment.
He won’t let anything change that. He holds on to the feeling of feral magic coursing through his veins, god-given and unpredictable, and he greets his people.
They call all his names. Chosen King. Dawn King. True King. King of Light.
There are other names as well, remnants of the days of despair when Insomnia had still been a burnt-out hulk and the dawn was still fresh. King of death, of life, of pain, of ashes.
They’re still his names, somewhere in there. The voice in the back of his heart is never silent, and still it whispers, but it’s getting easier to ignore. It’s getting easier to forget the burning. Noctis smiles and listens to the names, immerses himself in the thousand-voice chorus of Majesty, and he thinks that maybe things will turn out well.
There’s a soft hand that lands at the small of his back, gently alerting him to someone’s presence. Noctis leans into it and tilts his head, waiting for whoever it is that wants to talk to him.
“C’mon,” Gladio murmurs in his ear. His voice cuts through the cheering of the crowd like it always has. Noctis immediately feels himself relax. “You’ve done your part.”
Noctis blinks and frowns out at the crowds below. “Shouldn’t I stay?”
“There’ll be time for that,” Gladio assures him. “Your whole life’s ahead of you. Let’s be done for the day.” His hand wraps gently around the crook of Noct’s elbow, suggesting a departure back into the Citadel. Not away. Not like the last time. This time, their new life begins here, in Insomnia.
Noctis takes one last look at the people of Eos and slowly lets his hand fall back to his side. He clenches his fingers, itching for a sword, but he decides to leave the Sword of the Father here for now. Let the gods and men look at it for now. Let them know that the king has risen.
Ignis’s hand is there now too, just a light caress along his shoulder, turning him away from the plaza. Noctis almost tilts his head down into the touch; almost forgets himself in the haze of magic and sunlight. But he’s the king, and he collects himself, and he lets Ignis lead him away into the Citadel.
Noctis nods to Cor, who returns the gesture with a steady gaze and a hint of a smile. The edges of his eyes almost crinkle, even. Noct can see the way the redness mixes with the sunlight when it hits him now. A reminder. A guardian.
He turns fully now, ducking his head out of nervous habit, almost slouching but - no, he’s the king now. He walks tall, straightening his shoulders and letting his Glaives lead him home.
Prompto snatches his camera from where he’d left it just inside the doorway, slinging the strap onto his shoulder with a practiced familiarity. It already makes him look more like himself, like the suit becomes more familiar when he’s got the camera to identify him. He inspects it carefully, eyeing the Crownsguard who are standing guard inside, but the camera’s condition seems to pass muster. He ducks out the door again for a moment, snapping a quick shot, grins down at his viewscreen, then looks up at the three of them. “Ready to go,” he chirps, and he hops into uneven motion.
And just like that, it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s just them. Just Noctis and Ignis and Gladio and Prompto, traveling through these halls they’d only once dreamed of ruling.
The four of them set off across the lobby of the Citadel, listening to the roar of the crowd fade into a rush, and then a murmur, and then only a distant whisper. Their footsteps don’t have the same rhythm they’d once had. After all, Prompto’s still getting used to the pressure of skin on metal, and not even feral magic has been able to completely heal the age-old ache in Noct’s knee. But there’s still Ignis’s perfect staccato and the quiet whisper of Gladio’s footsteps across the marble to keep them in time: chamberlain and protector, public and private faces, always mindful of their duty.
“Lovely ceremony,” Ignis comments, brushing at the fringe of the cape on his shoulders, “though I would have preferred if they’d held it at dawn.”
“I don’t think His Majesty would have appreciated it much,” Gladio snorts. He elbows Noctis. “Right, Noct?”
“Shut up,” Noctis drones out of habit, running a hand through his hair. There’s really no point in keeping it nice anymore. He shakes it out a little bit, and a few strands fall over his face the way he likes. The crown stays put, though.
They step into the elevator at the end of the lobby, wordlessly agreeing on where they’re going. There’d been no question. If there’s anywhere for them right now, it’s there. Up there.
“Went to a haven the other day,” Gladio says as the doors close and the elevator begins to rise. “Iris and I ran out to Leide. It’s finally cold out there.”
Noct flexes his right hand, stretching the fingers thoughtfully. He’s still never seen Lucis in the winter; he supposes he has plenty of time now. They can’t sequester themselves in Insomnia forever. Not anymore. “How’s the haven?”
That’s where Gladio frowns. “Intact.”
Ignis sighs, “I suspect that comes with a caveat.”
“The runes are dark. No more light.”
Noctis closes his fingers into a fist, frowning down at the gray and red there. “That magic’s gone.” That magic had been Luna’s. It’s not his, not even now.
“For good, d’you think?” Prompto asks, fiddling with the lens cap on the camera. He bounds out of the elevator when it arrives on their floor, walking backwards for a moment as he snaps a quick photo of the three of them. It’s a candid, and from the look on Prompto’s face, it’s a good one. Noctis resolves to ask him about it later.
“Well.” Noctis smiles a bit and shrugs. “They’re still good campsites.”
Gladio matches his grin, wistful and quiet. “They are,” he agrees. “We’ll have to go out sometime and check them out.” He glances over to Ignis. “Merrioth Haven, maybe. The four of us.”
Something soft and thoughtful passes across Ignis’s face. “Indeed,” is all he says, and he falls silent, keeping pace with them down the hallway.
They approach their destination.
The room with all of the paintings of the prophecy has been carefully restored. Even after all of his visits, whether he’d been hiding or holding court, Noctis still feels oddly weightless in here. There’s too much happening in this room, like a reminder of the prince he’d been, the king who he’d let die on the throne, and the monarch who rose from those selfsame ashes. Noctis ushers them through there quickly, not looking at the paintings. Not today. Today, he wants the throne.
The doors to the throne room stand open, ready for the ascending king to enter.
“Could I just get some time alone?” Noctis asks the Crownsguard positioned just inside the doors.
Her eyes dart to the curling silver crown in his hair, and her eyes widen. “Your Majesty, of course,” she says, saluting and bowing deeply. She steps aside to let him in and begins to leave.
She moves to usher the others out too, but Noctis laughs and holds up a hand. “They can stay.”
The Crownsguard nods and bows once more, and she offers up another small murmur of respect to Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto as well, pressing a black-gloved fist to her chest. She turns on her heel and steps out of the throne room.
“And the doors, please,” Noctis says, smiling softly.
The Crownsguard salutes and reaches for the doors, pulling them shut with a gentle hiss and thud as she departs. Her footsteps, tempered by military discipline, rap out a fading rhythm as she leaves them in silence.
Once they’re alone, they all seem to relax, standing in a little circle at the entrance to the massive throne room. Noct would stay like this forever if he could. It’s just the four of them in the quiet, out against the world. He resolves to take them to their last campsite on the hill someday.
Ignis raises his hands to cup Noct’s face, thoughtfully running a thumb across his bottom lip. “You’re smiling,” he notes quietly, and there’s a soft grin on his face as well.
“I’m happy,” Noctis admits.
Ignis’s smile turns radiant. “It’s good to hear,” he tells Noctis. One of his hands reaches up to card through Noctis’s hair, and his fingers trace reverently along the gentle curves and angles of the crown. “Majesty,” he murmurs. “Noct.”
Noctis can’t help it; he leans his face into Ignis’s touch and presses a light kiss to the thumb that still rests across his lips. He won’t say it out loud, not here in the daylight, but he knows Ignis understands.
He can tell, because Ignis smiles and presses a quick kiss to his forehead. “You’ve done it,” he tells Noctis.
“Proud of me?” Noctis asks, grinning.
“Always,” Ignis promises.
“Gross,” Prompto whines.
Noctis pulls away from Ignis and lunges for Prompto, slinging an arm across his shoulders. “Prom,” he teases, scrabbling for his hair.
Prompto squawks in protest and tries to duck out of the way, but his protests soon turn to giggles. He kicks out halfheartedly, clearly not really trying to get out of the way, and snorts when his metallic leg makes contact with Noct’s shin. “Shouldn’t have gone for the hair,” he tells Noct when he whines at the pain.
“Children,” Ignis says in wonder. He tilts his head towards Gladio, who’s watching the two of them with an equal amount of exasperation. “All this, and they’re children.”
Gladio sighs. “I can’t believe you’re still surprised.”
Noctis grins over at them. “Can’t a king have his fun?” he asks. “You’re welcome to join.”
“A king!” Prompto crows. “A king! Official and all!”
“With a Council at your back,” Ignis adds.
“And a Shield at your side,” Gladio finishes.
Noctis closes his eyes and shakes his head in quiet disbelief. “King of Lucis,” he murmurs. “Guess it’s all mine now.” He sighs. “Or what’s left of it.”
“There’s plenty left,” Prompto argues gently. “I should know. And anyway-” He points up and across the soaring length of the room. “There’s still that.”
Noctis follows his gaze. He closes his eyes when he sees it, trying to lock the image away in his head and replace the picture he’s had there for so long, trying to swap sickly moonlight for the warm rays of the sun.
The throne.
How many times has he woken up at night, crying out at long-past pains? How many times has he called for Ignis in the night, so sure that his body is shattering under the blades of his ancestors? How many times has he avoided that chair, curling himself into destroyed corners of the throne room to get close to the throne but far enough that he won’t remember the burning? How many times has he dreaded this moment, this ascension; these memories?
Despite it all, he feels oddly unafraid.
“It looks good, Ignis,” he says at last, surprised at the catch in his voice. Even from here, it looks familiar.
Ignis hums by his side. “Prompto helped, of course,” he admits.
“Never thought I’d hear you admit that you had help,” Gladio mutters.
“I’m full of surprises,” Ignis drawls, and Noctis can’t help but smile.
Gladio snorts. “But really. Throne looks fit for a real king now.”
“The king was dead,” Prompto intones. It sounds like half a joke and half a solemn declaration. They know it’s true, and they all know the hurt that comes with the fact, but somehow the throne room makes it okay. It’s there in the word was, and in the knowledge that this place means more to them now than just death and ruin and darkness. It sounds more like triumph than acceptance. It sounds more like happiness than just making peace.
Gladio nods. “Long live the king.”
It’s fitting to hear it in his voice.
Ignis’s hand alights on his back, gentle and without too much pressure. He’s always known how to handle Noctis in moments like this. “Are you ready?” he asks gently.
“Well.” Noctis shrugs. “I’ve already got the crown.”
Prompto grins. “No turning back now.”
He’s right. Prompto has always been good at seeing the point of no return and deciding to hurtle past it. He remembers it from the connection in the magic that had bound them; he knows that reckless determination. Noctis hopes that he can capture at least some of that in his own actions. Maybe it’ll make him a better king.
The climb to the throne is longer than he remembers it being.
It’s not that many steps, to be honest. The only thing keeping him here and not in that blue place from his distant memories is the constant feeling of his friends at his side.
It’s not magic. He can’t feel them with him; can’t reach out with his heart and know that they are close and safe. But he can feel them with the subtle brushes of them at his hands and his shoulders and his back. They climb to the throne with him, and with the way that at least one of them is always keeping contact, it’s almost like the magic again. All of them, connected.
They reach the throne.
For a moment, he’s almost tempted to go hide in one of his old haunts. It’d be a safer option, familiar in the comfort of seclusion and peace and quiet. But the rubble at the window has long since been cleaned up. He can’t hide there anymore. There’s only one place to sit.
Wordlessly, he runs his fingers along the metal and stone of the throne’s armrest. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch, innocuous and simple. He knows that the others are watching, but for the moment, he allows himself these heartbeats of quiet reflection. The throne has been repaired meticulously; there’s no trace of blood or tearing on the red cushion, and the golden sculpture surrounding it is pristine. There’s no hint that the Crystal once hung here, captive, and that a king had died here at the height of his power. It’s just a chair, really.
He sits.
Takes one breath.
Another.
He closes his eyes and tilts his head up on instinct, almost about to call upon his ancestors. It seems like the right thing to do.
He doesn’t need to.
The Lucii are gone with the Crystal and the magic. Despite it, Noctis can feel their presence - all one hundred thirteen of them. Kings renowned and forgotten, queens old and young and powerful. He can’t see them the way he used to, and that’s almost for the best. On this throne, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to look at his father’s spectral face. But still he feels them here, in this spot where the magic of kings burned a hole through the world. He can hear them, thundering and murmuring like a thousand swords and distant bells.
And they whisper-
Welcome home.
He opens his eyes.
And the three of them are there.
Not the kings. Not the gods. Not Ardyn. Just Ignis and Prompto and Gladio. His Glaives, his friends; his hearth and home. The winter sunlight streams through the windows, casting them in stark relief against the black marble of the throne room.
They’re watching him.
He knows that they’re thinking about the last time he was on this throne. He can see it in the muted furrow in Gladio’s brow and the way that Prompto’s smile falters. Ignis doesn’t miss it either; he’s always known this throne room. He’s met Noctis and he’s lost him and he’s brought him back at the foot of the throne. He doesn’t need his eyes to know that this moment has softened somehow, weighed down by their months-old grief. The wounds are still there, and they all carry them in some form or another. Prompto’s got his prosthetic and his Scourge-bright veins, Ignis has his heavy heart and fractured pride, and Gladio still has scars on his hands and a body long abused by his own self-punishment. And Noct-
He’s okay. He’s still working on it. The pain’s still there, and the betrayal and the sadness, but somehow it just feels far away.
“How do you feel?” Prompto asks, shifting on his feet.
Noctis frowns, biting at his bottom lip. He can’t quite put words to it, but he has to try. Something must surely describe the curious yearning he feels. “The last time we were here - All of us, I mean. The last time…”
Gladio huffs out a long, weary sigh. He bows his head a bit, letting dark strands of his hair hang across his face, adding to the shadow in his eyes. “We remember,” he says. “We know.”
“I know you do.” Noctis tightens his hands on the armrests of the throne. If he looks to his right, maybe Luna will be there, or his father to his left, or-
No.
Those are past memories. They happened, and they’re done. They’re done. This is it. Today, the throne is his, and he’s breathing and he’s scarred, but he’s the king. They brought him back, and he’s the king.
Noctis looks up; studies them carefully.
He loves them.
Gladio with his wit and instincts and unwavering love, finally free to become the person he wants to become.
Prompto with his exuberance and empathy and raw determination, hiding his soldier’s fierceness beneath a smile.
And Ignis with his loyalty and intelligence and impossible ability, all sharp danger veiled by infinite grace. Ignis. Always Ignis.
They all stayed for him. They all came back for him. Somehow, somehow, they’d known that this was the thing to do. It makes sense now, sitting on the throne. He understands why they did it, and why it can’t happen again.
“I’m the last one,” he tells them. “The last king.”
Ignis’s shadowed gaze softens. “The last king,” he echoes. “Are you sure?”
“I have to be. This has to be the end.” The magic isn’t just for him anymore. The Crystal had been for the kings and their chosen few. This magic, the new magic that’s more in his blood and bones than his soul, isn’t for him to control. Maybe some will learn how to wield it. Maybe they won’t. All Noctis knows is that there can’t be any more monarchs who rule merely because of the power of the gods.
“Well,” Ignis says at last, “we’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we?”
“We will.” It’s the first promise he’s made as king. He’s glad that it’s this.
Prompto raises his camera a bit, but he hesitates.
Noctis doesn’t miss the movement. He asks, “Prom?”
The nickname seems to set him at ease. Prompto gestures with his camera, sending refractions spilling off into the throne room. “Could I get a photo?” It’s such a small request to think about in the grand scheme of things. After everything that’s happened, it seems so insignificant a thing to ask of a king. To Noctis, it means more than he cares to say.
He nods, but when Prompto raises the camera to his face and makes no effort to move, he asks, “Without you guys in it?”
Prompto shakes his head. “We’ll have time for that. We’re not going anywhere.”
“He’s right,” Gladio rumbles. “Let’s just get the one of you for now.”
Noctis acquiesces with a nod and sits back in the throne, squaring his shoulders and staring into the camera lens. He’s aware all at once of the crown at his ear, and the way that it feels at home with the tendrils of magic that curl along just beneath his skin.
Everything just feels so right that he can’t help but let a bit of his happiness into his expression. It crinkles at the corners of his eyes, he thinks. He doesn’t smile, but that’s not the point. Prompto will see it, though. He knows what it means when the shadows in his eyes clear.
He doesn’t blink when the flash goes off. The light doesn’t bother him. Not anymore.
Prompto looks down at the camera and nods sagely. He tilts the screen to show Gladio. “Good?” he asks, suddenly insecure.
“Good,” Gladio promises. He looks over at Ignis. “He looks good, Iggy,” he says.
Ignis nods, and a soft smile creeps across his lips. “I thought as much.”
Noctis would ask to see the photo, but he’s not sure if it’s for him. Maybe there will be a more official photograph taken later. That one will go in the history books and it’ll get printed and everyone will get a look at the king that died to bring back the light. But the photo on Prompto’s camera, somehow, is theirs. Even if he never sees it, Noctis doesn’t want to give that up. There must be something just for them. Something sacred. Something personal.
Prompto’s always been good at capturing them at their realest moments, unposed and unscripted. He catches the moments between heartbeats, between teardrops; between all of them.
Noctis is glad to have him.
“What now?” Gladio asks, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His ceremonial chains tap out a restless melody in the echoing throne room. He looks like he could take flight right now, an eagle among mortals.
Ignis chuckles softly and leans back against the railing on the dais. Even the casual gesture only serves to heighten his sense of languid grace, and Noctis loves him for it. “Whatever His Majesty decrees,” he drawls. “When one is the king, one makes the rules.” His sightless gaze fixes on Noctis, still seated at the throne. Even through his visor, the pale silver-green of his gaze reminds Noctis of distant snowfall. “Noct?”
Noctis grins up at the three of them. “Anything,” he says. “Everything.”
He finally has the time.
He’s not the prince he had been. He’s not the king he was before Insomnia. He’s not even the person who was brought back from the endless blueness of the world beyond life. He’s just Noctis.
Luna and his father wait for him there, in that place beyond the blueness. Somewhere far away and closer than he’ll ever know, they wait for him. One day, he’ll go back to them. One day, he’ll speak with Luna at long last and tell his father everything he’d never said. One day, he’ll have everyone there with him. One day, he’ll hold court in an untouched city with all those he has ever loved.
One day.
He’ll have to wait a little while longer.
He doesn’t mind.