Chapter Text
“Hey. Wake up.”
Ignis blinks his eyes open. And it’s the first thing he registers. His eyes. Gritty and painful, but they see clearly. (Clearly? Was he never able to see before?) And, more of a relief, there’s colour, pure and crystalline. Until he sees that the colour is predominantly dark shadows and ugly greys and muted light. He tries to suppress the shiver that runs up his spine.
“That’s my chair.”
The voice that pipes up for the second time sounds young and several shades of petulant. It startles him and he has to whip his head to the left, and down, to see the source.
A boy.
A boy, no older than eight. Skinny, pale, with a mess of black hair and black bangs. He’s standing next to a giant marble shelf full of what looks to be leather-bound books in the corner of the—
“Where is this place?” Ignis manages to croak out with some amount of difficulty. His voice is raw, scratchy, unused, much to his embarrassment. And it sounds nothing like what he remembers. (What does he even remember about his voice? Highborn. Never scratchy, never raw. Probably.) He shudders again and finally acknowledges that it is freezing here. A chill that neither bites nor burns, but it’s enough to make him feel uncomfortable.
There is only stone around him—a smooth floor of depressing grey, no proper walls, rubble and broken bits of dark marble everywhere, hallways that are no longer hallways, the occasional pillar holding up no roof overhead. A giant shelf, perfectly intact, with leather-bound books that look both ancient and unblemished. The only light source here seems to be coming from the glittering specks of stars above them, all floating in the distance like fireflies stuck in a well of ink. That can’t be the only light source because everything is clear as day, but he sees nothing else. Just stars hanging suspended and lonely.
He is so cold.
But the boy looks entirely unaffected.
“You wanna get off my chair first? Then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Ignis refocuses his thoughts and realises he’s sitting on a hard surface. A giant throne made of hard rock. It hurts his back. Something about this situation seems unnerving, almost unreal, but he supposes he’s had weirder dreams (dreams?) than this.
“It’s a very uncomfortable chair,” Ignis tells the boy as he carefully climbs off of it. It is a very large throne, meant for a giant. Or a god. “Cold. Hard.” He stumbles down the stone steps, down the dais, until he is level with the boy.
“Still. It’s mine,” the boy mumbles, and what Ignis registered as petulance before he now recognises as anxiousness and a touch of exasperation.
“Okay,” Ignis concedes, and crosses the distance to the shelf where the boy stands. There is a large book in his hands. It has a dark blue cover with dark glossy pages, but the page it’s open to is completely blank.
The boy shuts the book and shoves it back into an empty slot in the shelf. Ignis notes the cover is embossed with words he cannot decipher—an old language possibly.
“What’s your name?” the boy asks, because Ignis hasn’t thought to say anything. Ignis is still wondering what he’s doing here, why he can so clearly see everything around him, why he knows this is probably not a dream, why he can’t understand what’s written on the cover of that book.
The boy makes a soft, impatient noise. His name.
He doesn’t remember his name.
“Well.” He tries to come up with something. Nothing bubbles up, nothing touches the tip of his tongue. It should frustrate him, but Ignis only feels strangely hollow and indifferent.
The boy quirks a smile at his silence. “Oh, here we go,” he says, voice dry, but he’s still smiling, and something about the small curve of his lips makes Ignis think of a sudden sunrise—warm on his face, but unfathomably, immeasurably sad at the same time. (Why would a sunrise make him sad? Have they always made him sad?)
He wonders if the boy knows what’s going on.
“Who are you?”
The boy glances at the bookshelf one last time before taking a step back and making a clucking noise with his tongue and gesturing for Ignis to—
“Sit, please.”
Ignis notices the… beanbags? that seem to have appeared out of nowhere, just a few feet from them, lumpy and misshapen. One blue, one green.
“Yeah, pretty neat right?” the boy says proudly as Ignis stares in confusion. “Only learned how to do that, uh, twenty souls ago? Started with small stuff like books and teacups. Found these chair thingies floating around. Took forever to figure out how to move them.” The boy flings himself onto one of the beanbags—the blue one—his back hitting the squishy material and his head resting comfortably. Ignis cautiously settles himself into the green one, not sure what to expect. But it feels like a beanbag should, comfortable and pliable, so he slowly relaxes into it.
It’s been a long time since he’s even seen a beanbag.
Probably.
“She calls me Noctis,” the boy finally says after Ignis leans back. “And it’s what that guy called me in, uh. Never mind. Yeah, I’ve stuck to Noctis. That’s possibly me. Who knows? Ha.”
“She. She calls you Noctis. Who’s she?”
“The lady in black.”
Ignis purses his lips, not sure if this boy—this Noctis boy—is being deliberately vague. “Right. Well. I’m sorry I can’t give you my name in kind. It’s… I think it’s this place.” Ignis isn’t stupid. He knows something monumental has happened—is happening—and his memories being patchy is probably part of it.
“So clever,” Noctis says with a grin. “You’re one of the smart ones, aren’t you?” He looks happy, and it makes Ignis feel a little unsettled. Queasy. “You’ll get out of here quick. That’s… um, a relief.”
Ignis nods. “Thank goodness, then.” He goes to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose but his fingers meet nothing but air. He frowns. He had always worn some type of eyewear on his face hadn’t he?
Noctis notices his discomfort—he seems to notice things—and flexes his fingers like he’s nervous. “You were blind,” he says, and all of a sudden there’s a book in his hands, this one different from the first. He flips through it and his eyes take on a distant and shuttered look. “From what I’ve seen, anyway.” He frowns and makes a movement like he wants to hand the book over to Ignis, but Ignis blinks and the book isn’t there anymore. “You were blind,” Noctis says again, simply, like he means to confirm it with himself.
“That would explain a few things,” Ignis says. “But I’m glad I can see right now. The view here is certainly, ah,” Ignis considers carefully the sky above and the ruins around him, “not what I’m used to. And I am certainly glad I can see who I’m conversing with.”
Noctis smiles a proper smile at him then, his young face alight with a boyish charm, though his eyes are still sad. “I’m glad, too.”
“Tell me, Noctis.” Why am I here? Ignis wants to ask. But that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “How old are you?” he says instead. And Ignis knows it’s the most important question he will ever ask in his lifetime.
Noctis chuckles. It’s a warm sound that makes Ignis imagine the amber shades of a dying fire and the smell of earth and soil. “How old do you think I am?”
“I would hazard a guess of around eight, nine at the most, but— I suspect that’s off the mark by a fair few centuries. Can’t be sure.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Noctis says. “No one’s been so quick about this.”
This. This situation. The boy has a huge desolate smile on his face and, again, Ignis feels sick. “Noctis, do you know why I’m here?”
“Yeah, but I can’t tell you. I mean, I could. But it’s better if I show you. It’s… too hard to explain just like that. You’ll figure it out in no time, though. Trust me.”
“Show me, then. Please.”
“Of course,” Noctis stands on steady legs, offers a hand to Ignis to help him up. “It’s my job.”
Noctis leads him away from the throne room and to a different part of the ruins, their path snaking past a few spacious areas Ignis thinks had once been bedrooms or chambers. The place is massive, and he wonders if this had all once been a castle or a fort. All the furniture here is made of hard stone, even the broken-off spiral staircase he spies off in the distance looks like it is hewn from pale granite. It is a lonely place, Ignis thinks, with only the stars above for company.
He wonders if Noctis lives here, wonders if he's lived here his entire life. Where does he sleep?
They move through a corridor and the air here is different, like they’d just passed through an invisible barrier and the atmosphere suddenly feels heavier—a pressing force. Noctis just keeps moving forward on his sturdy little legs. It’s like a completely different space and Ignis realises this might be a tunnel they’re moving through, a tunnel disconnected from the ruins they’d just left behind. He still sees the sky above them, a black abyss with specks of light, but the walls have closed in around them. They’re treading on highly polished tile now, their shoes emitting sharp clacks that don’t quite echo properly in the stifling air.
The walls here are a glossy black, with streaks of opaque colour marbling through the stone.
“What is this place?” Ignis asks.
The boy glances back at him, not slowing down, a flicker of amusement playing on his face. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”
They stop in front of a stark white door that looks so bright Ignis has to narrow his eyes to a squint at first. It’s completely intact, like so many of the doors they’d passed, and oh, they have indeed passed a few doors Ignis now realises belatedly, but this one stands out. It looks like it doesn’t belong. There are two strange words etched into the smooth panel on the door, but they make no sense to Ignis—it’s definitely a language he doesn’t understand. Noctis seems to acknowledge his confusion and he clears his throat, places his palm on the silver doorknob. “There is a memory in here.”
Ignis frowns, unsure what this means. “I’m going inside, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“A memory, you say.”
“Something like that. You don’t know who you are, do you?”
Noctis voices the question that Ignis’ mind has been screaming since he arrived here. “No, I don’t,” Ignis says, quietly. “But—”
“This is how you learn.”
“You are to accompany me?” Ignis hopes his voice doesn’t betray the apprehension he feels. He doesn't know what’s happening here and this boy is the only person he’s met. He doesn’t want to be alone.
“I usually do,” the boy says, and Ignis breathes again. “As they say, I drive this train.” Noctis looks down at his fingers curling around the doorknob, a strange expression on his face, then he looks over his shoulder at Ignis. “Are you ready?”
Ignis considers Noctis for a moment. Then he nods and looks back at the door.
“Nothing to worry about, it’s a walk in the park.”
“Reassuring. Okay,” Ignis takes a breath. “Let’s walk.”
Noctis turns the knob, pushes the door open, and then there is so much light flooding everything. Pinpricks of quartz, splinters of colour. Sharp. Real.
There is a memory in here.
This is where Ignis first relearns his name.
It is the one inscribed on the door.
Ignis breathes the scent of blood. It is stinging and coppery and it makes his stomach churn.
He glances around and notices he’s standing in a long hallway filled with people hurrying about, looks of worry on their faces. Many of them have surgical gloves on. Some are bloodied. There are a few chairs placed along the walls.
“Is he going to live?” he hears a voice, pitched high in alarm and fear. The voice comes from a boy with floppy brown hair and glasses. He’s sitting in one of the chairs. He looks young and troubled, eyes puffy and tired like he’d been sitting in that chair all through the night, fighting tears.
“The King says he will, so he will,” comes a second voice, this one from the man sitting next to the boy.
Ignis tries to place these faces, but nothing comes to him. He looks around for help and notices that Noctis is standing right next to him. The dark-haired boy is biting his lip and looking at the bespectacled boy in the chair like he’s a puzzle.
Like this, Ignis can see they are maybe only a couple of years apart, Noctis being the younger.
Ignis clears his throat, which seems to snap Noctis out of his thoughts. Ignis is completely unsurprised that everyone else in the room doesn’t react to his presence. Him and Noctis are merely ghosts here.
Phantoms.
Everything feels like a dream.
“I didn't even say goodbye when he left,” the boy in the chair sniffles.
“He’s home now, stop fretting. You can speak to him when he awakens. And before you say anything, he will awaken.”
“Uncle. Will he walk again?”
The man is silent for a long moment. The people around them—Ignis realises they are doctors and nurses—flit around in the background. The man sighs and reaches down to the floor where it seems a book has fallen, forgotten. Ignis notes the cover. It is a dark blue, like the book Noctis had held in his hands when he first woke up on the throne.
The man picks it up and hands it to the boy. “Don’t lose it, you told me it’s his favourite.”
The boy takes it and hugs it tight. The book is large against his small chest.
“Now, stop crying,” the man says sternly. “He’ll be fine, Ignis.”
Beside him, Noctis sighs. It sounds like relief.
Ignis himself has stopped looking at the man and the brown-haired boy in the chairs. “Noctis,” he starts. But Noctis speaks over him.
“This is the part where you ask me if you’re the kid,” he says.
Ignis gives Noctis a small smile. The boy looks expectant, and it’s so easy to just roll with it. “The words on the white door,” Ignis says instead, recalling the inscription that had made no sense to him.
Noctis rolls his eyes at the response, but he smiles. “Ignis Scientia.”
“It’s a name.”
“Doesn’t sound like one, huh?” Noctis hums, nodding.
Ignis laughs. “No. But it does now.” He glances at the boy in the chair, who looks to be nodding off, arms still wrapped around the book. His uncle gives him a pat on the head. “This… this Ignis looks very young.”
“He’ll grow up,” Noctis says, giving Ignis a deliberate once over, then he steps back a bit and all of a sudden, they’re back in the black corridor with the white door in front of them. Except now, the white door is just black marble and there is no name on the front. Silence engulfs them once more, the hushed buzzing of doctors and nurses fading into nothingness.
Ignis blinks, feeling suddenly nauseous and empty, then looks at Noctis. Noctis just looks back and shrugs, but Ignis can see that the boy’s eyes are alert and searching.
“The first one’s always weird,” Noctis says, “so if you feel like passing out, feel free.”
Ignis swallows and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head just once. “I feel fine.” Then, as an afterthought, he lifts a hand and holds it out. “The lady in black calls you Noctis. Nice to meet you Noctis. I can finally return the favour. I’m Ignis Scientia,” Ignis says formally. “I think.”
Noctis stares at Ignis. There’s complete surprise written on his face, like he hasn’t ever received such an introduction before, straitlaced and proper and real and genuine. Ignis thinks he probably hasn't.
After a beat, Noctis takes his hand and it feels very cold to Ignis. Ignis wonders if Noctis has ever felt warmth in this place.