Chapter Text
As the last drops of sunlight fade from the sky, a pair of light feet creeps through the underbrush in sturdy, thick-soled boots. The hunter, fine-boned and lean, dressed in black and blue, blends into the deepening shadows easily, nearly invisible with every step. He doesn’t make a sound.
A stick cracks behind him. He looks carefully over his shoulder at his companion, a scrawnier hunter in all but the arms and dressed much the same. His eyes are hidden behind wide goggles, but his lips move silently. Sorry.
Another hunter materializes from the darkness to their right, and at her side is a large, pale dog. She exchanges sharp looks with both of them and jerks her head slightly before continuing on. They follow her. Together, they creep alongside the concrete embankment of the river Wennath, hidden by the foliage around them until it gives way to long swathes of farmland. The rows of crops, previously well on their way to a plentiful harvest, are in a sorry state, even in the dark. As they survey what’s left, they watch a small pack of hungry looking beasts prowling through fallen stalks.
The woman turns slightly and signals to a fourth hunter perched on a hill nearby. Then, she whispers, “You stay here, Prompto. Wait until the party starts. Noctis, we’ll circle around. Remember, they’re just hungry beasts. They won’t come back after we herd them away and deal with the daemons. Ready?”
Noctis nods, and a dagger slips from his sleeve to his hand as quick as magic. His other hand digs a flare stick from his belt. Prompto settles closer to the ground on one knee with a rifle in his hands. He looks straight at Noctis through his goggles and nods.
“And this time, Prompto--keep your head down .”
Prompto nods again and brushes his bangs aside after they fall over the front of his goggles. “I gotcha, Vesta.”
Vesta turns away from him and clicks her tongue softly. Her dog’s ears perk up. “Let’s go, Nan.”
Noctis darts from the cover of the treeline to the solid openness of the embankment, quick like the water running dark as ink below him. He cracks the flare stick and it comes to life in a burst of bright red light just as the pack of voretooths notices Nan, who barks and runs as if to flank them. A couple of them make to run from her in Noctis’ direction, but they stop short when he clicks the flashlight on his vest on and waves the flare stick in a wide arc in front of him, and then they run as a group as Nan herds them out of the crops. They’re hungry, but not desperate enough to put up any kind of real fight. Noctis almost feels sorry for them.
He glances behind him, but he can’t see Prompto anymore. The sun is fully gone for the night, and the moon can’t break away from the clouds long enough for any of its light to catch on Prompto’s fair hair in the bushes. He doesn’t budge from the cover, though, even as Nan herds the voretooths farther south, back toward their usual hunting grounds, followed by Vesta and Noctis.
Everyone disappears from sight for a brief time as they pass through undamaged crops, but he can still hear Nan loud and clear, as well as whistles here and there from Vesta. The voretooth pack runs and runs, driven from the northern banks of Wennath by three hunters and a dog.
As they reach the edge of the farm, where the plots are entirely unsalvageable, Noctis spots two figures making steady progress up the river along the lower bank. He recognizes the hunters and grimaces when he sees one limping badly. He pauses to crouch before the slope when they get within earshot of each other.
“How’s it looking?” he calls down.
“Clean as clean can get,” the uninjured hunter replies. “That pack shouldn’t have any reason to come crawling back up here anymore.”
Noctis nods before remembering that it’s a little too dark to see such a motion while he has a bright light clipped to his vest. He gestures with his flare stick. “I meant his leg.”
“Oh, shit, yeah. Levy took a bite, so look, if you guys can handle things up there, then don’t worry about it. I just gotta get him back to town. Sound good?”
Noctis checks the farm. The beast pack is on the other side of the crumbling fence now, and Nan is chasing them farther south still. “Yeah, yeah, we’re fine up here. Be careful.”
“We will.”
The hunter shuffles along with his companion dragging one foot alongside him, leaning heavily on the other’s arm for support. Noctis hopes the goblins that have been causing as much trouble as the voretooths lately show up quickly so that he can take them out and keep the path back to Old Lestallum clear.
“Eyes peeled,” Vesta hisses from the nearby field as Noctis draws away from the slope again. She pulls her phone from her vest pocket with her free hand and dials. “Anything yet? No. Keep an eye out for Claude and Levy coming up the bank, they’re done for tonight. Any daemons pop up to harass them, pick ‘em off. Otherwise, stay put and keep your eyes peeled, and call if you spot daemons.”
Nan comes bounding back to Vesta’s side after a few moments, satisfied that the voretooths are successfully herded back south. Then, flare sticks fizzling out, they settle into a round of the waiting game. Noctis drifts from one yawn to the next, watching with tiring eyes as the stars peek out from between one cloud and the next. He’s in the middle of wondering what Prompto is doing when Vesta’s phone buzzes in her pocket.
“Yeah, go. Got it.” She shoves it back into the inner pocket of her vest and gestures at Noctis. “Lowell’s catching movement, c’mon.”
“Any word from Prompto?” Noctis asks as they jog back upriver.
“Right where we left him, should be. I don’t think there’s line of sight on either end, though, so if we can’t herd the monsters his way then he’ll just have to--” A great echoing crack cuts her off. Prompto’s rifle. Vesta begins to run. “Pick it up, pick it up!”
Noctis doesn’t need to be told twice--or even once. A second shot rings out as they run back along the embankment.
There are at least half a dozen goblins scurrying around the half-ruined crops when they arrive. One more tumbles out of its hiding place with Nan hot on its heels. Lowell, the last hunter running with them tonight, has come down from the hills to swipe at the group of grotesque limbs and twisted faces with a lance. It’s all exactly as they’d hoped for, except for the part where Prompto is now pinned between the goblins and the slope of the embankment. His rifle is slung across his back now and he’s aiming a pistol at the constantly shifting group of daemons with grit teeth.
Noctis spots a goblin readying for a leap in Prompto’s direction and he feels a flicker of white heat and icy cold in his bones, the way he always does when he’s about to blink across a distance faster than his own body should be able to move. He throws his dagger with expert precision, and for a split second, he feels nothing but lightning in his fingertips and wind in his veins. The dagger strikes true, embedded in the goblin’s torso, and Noctis is on top of it in the next instant, driving the blade deeper and twisting until the unsettling red glow in its chest fades out. Not a moment later, a sharp pain flares in the side of his head and spreads to his temple, and he bites back a wince. The cascade of blue sparks that always scatters into the air after the blink draws the attention of another goblin, and Noctis has to be ready for it. He knows Prompto is, too.
“Right on time, buddy!” Prompto says from behind him before firing on the daemon. It staggers and shrieks, but the rivulet of black blood that runs down from its shoulder isn’t enough to stop it from lunging at Noctis.
“I knew I’d have to save your ass at least once tonight,” Noctis replies after easily parrying the blow and striking back. There’s no bite to the words. “It’s been too long.”
Prompto laughs and shoots at a goblin that had been mid-jump on Noctis’ left. “Time for me to repay the favour, then.”
“Runner,” Vesta yells from the right. Nan bolts after the escaping goblin, driving it from the crops again and onto the embankment, where Prompto fires at it until it crumbles in on itself. From then on, they make quick work of the goblins between Noctis’ dagger, Prompto’s gun, Vesta’s broadsword, and Lowell’s lance.
“Good huntin’, boys,” Vesta says as they catch their breath. “Farm’s gonna be a sore sight in the morning, though. Damn.”
“Tell you what,” Lowell says, lighting a cigarette, “there’s been more of them every week. Festival of the Hunt can’t come soon enough.”
“Tell me about it,” Vesta sighs. She reaches down to scratch behind Nan’s ears. After, Nan approaches Noctis and Prompto for more of the same treatment, which Prompto is all too glad to provide after he pushes his goggles up to rest on his forehead.
“Who’s a good hunter?” Prompto coos, leaning in until he’s practically nose to nose with Nan while he digs both hands into her thick fur. “Who’s the best hunter?” He leans back. “Psych! Me and Noct are gonna blow you out of the water this year, yes we are!”
“Please don’t talk like that if you’re referring to us,” Noctis says dryly. When Prompto doesn’t appear to listen, Noctis nudges him, yawning. “Come on, let’s get going. If we get back soon enough, there might still be a rerun of that autobiography documentary thing you wanted to watch.”
Prompto rises back to his feet and stretches one hand above his head, rubbing his eyes with the other. “Man, I’m beat, though. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay awake.”
“You’re tired?” Noctis retorts. “You weren’t the one running anywhere.”
“Not the one swinging a sword around, either,” Vesta adds, pressing her hands into their backs. “Come on, pick your feet up, boys. Lowell’s gonna leave us in the dust and get all the reward money for himself.”
That spurs Prompto into motion, and they begin the trek back to Old Lestallum. Noctis tries to match pace with him, but Prompto always manages to stay one step ahead of him with hardly a stitch in his side, laughing all the way back to the bright lights of town.
By the time they sort out their business at the Crow’s Nest diner, crossing the goblins off the list of several other problems plaguing the region at night, and divvying up the reward, Noctis’ headache has faded completely and he feels like he could flop onto a bed and fall asleep faster than it would take him to blink across a room.
--
In the dream, he is alone in a forest, surrounded by countless trees that are as wide as a small building, and so tall that he cannot make out any foliage through the soft mist that hangs in the air around him. He climbs over and under roots thicker than his own body, following a bright light peeking between the trees.
He follows the light for what feels like hours. It never seems to come any closer. When he calls out, nobody answers.
The forest grows dark, and his eyes grow heavy, and only then does he come across a giant, empty pedestal made of ancient, cracked marble. There is a plaque on one side, but the forest is so dark by the time he reaches it that he cannot tell if there are any words left at all on it.
He hears his name, behind him, echoing in the dark. Again, and again.
But he’s so tired now that he cannot answer.
--
“Noct, c’mon, man. I’m hungry.”
Noctis grumbles and rolls over, away from the hands on his shoulder and the whining from above him. He can see by the faint red behind his eyelids that the sun has come up. Probably a while ago, too. “Your turn to make breakfast.”
“No way!” Prompto says. Noctis hears his socked feet on the wood floor as he circles around to the other side of Noctis’ bed. He shakes Noctis’ shoulder again. “I made breakfast yesterday. And I set the table, too. Yesterday and today. It’s your turn to make food. Feed me.”
Noctis groans into his pillow. He can’t call Prompto a liar because there are pictures of the store bought waffles covered in fruit and syrup that Prompto put together on his camera. Deleting them to advance his argument would involve more effort than making breakfast. He swats blindly at Prompto. “Fine, fine. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’m watching the clock,” Prompto says as he drifts away from the bed.
When Noctis finally rises out of bed, Prompto is sprawled across the sofa against the opposite wall with his phone, already fully dressed, and the small table in the kitchenette is indeed prepared for breakfast.
They don’t have much in the way of breakfast. They’d only packed to stay in Old Lestallum for a few days, hoping to be able to return to Lestallum proper quickly. Noctis is glad that they had indeed managed to wrap the hunt up quickly, too, because their stock of food has dwindled to nothing but a single packet of toaster ready pastries and two frozen waffles. Noctis looks over his shoulder at Prompto, who is holding his phone against his nose and watching Noctis from over the edge of it with a hopeful smile.
“Moocher,” Noctis deadpans, shutting the fridge door.
Prompto wriggles in his seat. “It’s payday, Noct! Let’s go get something nice.”
The only “nice” place in town that’s nearby and doesn’t sell food that they’d just have to come back and prepare is the Crow’s Nest across the street.
“Breakfast with Kenny Crow?”
“I’ve been on a run today,” Prompto says dismissively. “You know you want it, Noct. All day breakfast… egg sandwich, extra bacon…”
Noctis tosses one of the paper plates on the table at him like a frisbee, and it nearly makes it to Prompto’s head before he catches it out of the air just in time. “Fine, but you have to buy the gas.”
“Heck yeah!” Prompto jumps to his feet and presses a wet kiss against Noctis’ cheek. “It’s a deal. Let’s get going.”
They pack their things up before they leave, balling up their dirty clothes in the bottom of their bags and stowing the last toaster snacks at the top of Noctis’. When they step outside into the mid-morning sun, Noctis can see a couple vehicles belonging to the other hunters, but not Vesta’s, and Prompto briefly laments not being able to pet the dog again.
The Crow’s Nest across the street, the very first of its kind as the posters proudly say, is very busy at this hour, packed with regulars and tourists. Prompto manages to get them to the counter quickly with a bit of help from his bony elbow, but neither of them is rude enough to steal a table from under someone else’s nose. Noctis thinks his parents would rise from the grave and haunt him for life if he tried.
Instead, they take their sandwiches wrapped in a paper bag and cross the street again, heading back to their car. It’s a smooth, black Vixen model that probably saw its heyday a decade ago, bought second hand but maintained as well as their budget allows. It’s also technically Noctis’ car since he’s the better driver and they got it mostly with his money, but the pictures taped to the dashboard and slotted between the seats are much a claim as the keys in Noctis’ hand.
They sit in the back seat, both taking a side and sitting with their legs hanging out the open doors. Noctis turns the car on to get the radio started, and then they sit back and enjoy a slightly too greasy breakfast. Prompto tosses bits out for the birds hanging around both the motel and diner parking lots and takes pictures of them when they start fighting each other.
Between the sounds of the birds and the traffic, Noctis almost misses the radio host speaking between one song and the next. His hearing perks up when he catches up to what the host is saying, and he immediately leans back and slaps Prompto on the back.
“Hey, what--”
Noctis shushes him. “Listen for a second.”
Prompto leans into the back seat as well. From the front of the car, the radio hosts’ voice continues with a little static.
“--hearing things like terms for a ceasefire or some kind of treaty, but who knows? Word of an approaching ambassador’s visit from Niflheim has only just left the capital city of Insomnia. Our sister station on 87.6 has all the current details and more, and if you want in on the conversation you can give them a call at--”
Noctis turns the radio down, and the car is silent for a moment.
“Dude,” Prompto says slowly. “Were they really talking about a ceasefire?”
Noctis thinks about switching to that other station, just to be sure. “They said there might be. There’s definitely going to be a talk by the sound of it, though. Unless the static was jumbling it.”
“No way, I definitely heard it.” Prompto stares as Noctis, his face oddly blank, which seems like a good way to explain how Noctis feels, too. Kind of empty, kind of hopeful. “That’s what they said, right? An ambassador coming around means talks.”
“Maybe.” Noctis doesn’t know if he can say definitely again. A ceasefire means something other than a war in the future, maybe, but he’s lived his whole life with the fighting always in the background. The idea of there being another way of life is foreign, almost like a myth he was supposed to stop believing in when he grew up.
And besides. Niflheim ambassadors have come to Lucis before. They’ve gone to Insomnia, the untouchable city. He’s seen them in Lestallum, too. There was never a ceasefire then, and the fighting has always been worse, after.
The light feeling in his gut disappears, weighed down by the heavy facts. It’s just another talk that’s likely to fail. He says as much to Prompto.
“Maybe,” Prompto murmurs. He reaches over and wraps an arm around Noctis’ shoulder, leaning heavily to support himself, but also for the hug. “You can leave the hoping to me if you want.”
Noctis sighs and buries his nose in Prompto’s fluffy hair, letting it muffle his voice. “I could. You never let me down.” And he doesn’t. Prompto keeps finding ways to be the brightest thing around, to be an uplifting force with sheer determination and lively energy. If Noctis left all the heavy work to him, though, he’d burn out like a star. “I won’t, though. Maybe it’ll be different this time, you never know.”
“I hope it stops the war,” Prompto says wistfully. “You know what I’d do? Insomnia’s dumb and doesn’t let refugees in most of the time, or like hardly anyone else, but that could change after, right? We could drive all the way there, like a real road trip--”
“You’d be the worst kind of tourist,” Noctis interjects, laughing softly. “The kind that everyone hates walking behind because they’re always taking pictures.”
“It’s the Crown City!” Prompto exclaims. He finally lets go of Noctis’ shoulder. “City of technological wonders, Noct. Think about it!”
“Oh, yeah. It’d be paradise for a technophile like you.”
“Just to see it once--”
“Just once?”
“I shouldn’t push my luck, y’know? And besides, Lestallum is home.”
“That’s true. You can’t fish in the city, either.” He’s pretty sure, at least. It’s hard to imagine a city hiding behind a giant wall as one that’s rich in watering holes. Noctis picks up their empty wrappers and balls them up with the paper bag. “Come on. Let’s fill the tank up and hit the road.”
The city of Lestallum is just over two hours away. It’s a long enough drive that Prompto declares that he’s getting a bag of chips from the store when he goes inside to pay for gas, something to tide them over to their next meal when they get home. Noctis plays on his phone while he waits. He sees a flash of white in his peripheral vision and glances up automatically, but he loses interest as quickly as it had come when he only sees a man with a Kenny Crow hat standing on the other side of the parking lot, taking pictures of the diner across the street.
Prompto bounces back to the car with two bags of chips not a moment later, and Noctis puts the tourist out of his mind with his phone.
--
When Gladiolus steps into the conference room just two paces after Ignis and shuts the door behind them, he sees two things he did not expect. First; the only other people in the room other than himself and Ignis are the King and his Shield. There is no one else filling the other dozen seats at the polished table. Second, and perhaps even more oddly; his father is looking at Gladio with a quirk in his lips, like it’s two days from his birthday and Clarus has gotten wind of a surprise on the same day.
King Regis, looking tired but happy, gestures with his hand, and Gladio and Ignis approach the head of the table. There are papers and photographs spread out in front of him. Gladio glances at them, but doesn’t scrutinize them from the corner of his eye as he cannot doubt Ignis is doing.
“There is news,” King Regis begins, quiet but firm. “News that I do not dare speak outside this room until the day is not quite so treacherous. We speak in the utmost secrecy.”
“I swear it,” Ignis answers immediately, his voice little more than a whisper. Gladio echoes him.
King Regis nods. He lifts a hand as if to pick up one of the photos on the table, but then he clasps both hands before him.
“The Kingsglaive has been bringing rumours to me, these recent months,” he says. “They’ve heard of a hunter in the west who uses magic, and elemancy, quite like them.”
“A defector?” Ignis asks. Gladio frowns but doesn’t agree. Something like that wouldn’t fall to them. A defector wouldn’t create an atmosphere like this.
King Regis shakes his head, confirming it. “No. Their ability to use my magic would be lost to them, were that the case. No… Take a look at this picture.”
He slides a picture across the table toward them. It’s an old one, judging by the type of paper used, the slight yellowing of its surface. It’s of a young man sitting for a portrait, dark hair and fine features all decked out in royal finery.
“Isn’t that you, Your Majesty?” Gladio asks.
King Regis nods once. “Yes, in an age past. My hair is not quite so dark, now… Yet, here.”
He positions another photograph beside the portrait. It looks candid in every way possible. The same young man is hauling a duffel bag over his shoulder, dressed in clean yet wrinkled clothes. His hair is slightly longer and tied up, and his bangs are a mess. He’s looking at something off to the right, and from that same side, there’s a pale, disembodied arm about to come down on his shoulder.
“Is this before the royal hairdresser got to you?” Gladio shifts as Ignis’ heel comes down on his toe. “No disrespect meant.”
“That is not me,” King Regis replies simply. He lets the words hang in the silence that fills the room.
Ignis leans closer and looks at the other pictures scattered on the table, and Gladio blinks at them over his shoulder. There’s another old picture of the king as a well-groomed man standing next to his custom car, the Regalia. All around it are more shots of the young man with messy hair and clothes--him tossing the duffel into an ancient black car, him ducking out of a crowded diner, shoulder to shoulder with a blond haired man, and him sitting in the driver’s seat of the black car at a gas station, head tilted down but eyes looking almost directly back at the camera.
Ignis’ breath catches. Something twists in Gladio’s gut and his shoulders tense. He looks up at his father, who has that same strange expression on his face. He doesn’t dare ask just yet.
“Is that…” Ignis trails off before he can even get started.
“It’s not Regis,” Clarus repeats. “And it’s not his twin from thirty-five years ago. These pictures were taken eight days ago.”
King Regis leans forward and holds his hands against his brow as if in prayer. “His name is Noctis.”
“Prince Noctis,” Ignis breathes. “It must be. He’s… alive.”
King Regis takes another picture from the table, holding it like something coveted. It’s another old one. Sixteen years past. Gladio knows because he recognizes the young child in it. He even remembers standing near the child, scraps of moments from when Gladio himself was only seven years old.
Prince Noctis was four years old on the night he was last seen alive within the city of Insomnia. The Citadel has never been the same since that night. Security protocols had been overhauled, and as the years passed and the prince was never found, the city mourned. And the entire time, Gladio, having only recently begun to learn what his duty would be and how he would accomplish it, felt the sting and burn of failure in waves that constantly threatened to suffocate him.
Sixteen years later, his father, King Regis’ Shield, is standing on the other side of the table, looking at him with pride and hope.
“My son is alive,” King Regis says. He sets the photo down with care. His voice takes a harder edge as he continues. “I have no doubt of this. But now, with this kingdom’s relationship with the empire about to change--this, too, is also doubtless--we are brought to a precarious position. A dangerous one.”
“The Niffs believe that Noctis is dead, that he was killed almost twenty years ago,” Clarus chimes in. His lips twist a little with bitterness. “As they no doubt intended. When their ambassador arrives, we will enter into negotiations once again. If they to find out that the prince yet lives--and worse, lives outside the Crown City--they would surely attempt to use him at best, or attempt to kill him at worst.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Ignis asks. He sounds ready to take orders already. “Why have we alone been chosen?”
“You met Noctis when you were young, Ignis, yes?” King Regis gazes up at Ignis softly. “I introduced you.”
Ignis nods, although it’s more of a jerk of his head. “Yes. Only for a short time.”
Gladio purses his lips a little. Ignis hides it well, but he’d been as broken up about Noctis’ disappearance as everyone else. Gladio mostly remembers a six-year-old kid who found the worst times to lose control of the waterworks.
“I asked something of you then, do you remember?”
“Yes,” Ignis whispers.
“Do you think it still possible to do it?”
Ignis hesitates. He thinks in silence only for a moment, but it’s long enough to have Gladio wondering just what the king had asked of Ignis all those years ago. And then Ignis nods again. “Yes, I think so. I would like to.”
The king turns his gaze to Gladio. “For centuries, House Amicitia has been the Shield of House Caelum. We thought your duty lost to you. Are you prepared now to take up your shield to protect him, to take up your sword to fight for him?”
Gladio knows the answer before he even bothers to think about it. He’s a Shield without a prince, let alone a king. Has been for sixteen years. Instead of the duty and pride of his family passing to him, he’s spent years now doing the next best thing, which is still a far cry from the honour he’d been destined to carry. Protecting ambassadors and diplomats has been all he’s been good for--and even then, he’s mostly been at Ignis’ side as he worked tirelessly within Insomnia. Not that he doesn’t like Ignis, but…
They’re both retainers with no true master. It’s empty work when the shadow of grief hangs over them like a daemon that refuses to die. Until now, anyway.
Gladio nods, his fingers curled tight so that they don’t shake. “Yes. Of course.”
King Regis leans back in his seat and inhales slowly, like a weight has been lifted. He’s still proud, still sharp and powerful, a true king that Gladio is honoured to be in the service of, but in that moment Gladio sees a different man. He doesn’t see the man in the photos. He sees a man, tired of grieving, tired of sitting alone in a throne room. An old man who just wants to see his son again.
“There is still much to discuss,” King Regis says. “But your mission is this--find my son, and bring him home safely.”
--
The sound of the car doors slamming shut echoes in the underground parking lot, bouncing off stone pillars and the half dozen other cars in King Regis’ fleet. There’s no one else in the spacious lot, and for a half second, it feels like no one is in the car, either.
Gladio feels along the front of his seat until he finds the lever to push the seat back, granting himself some much-needed leg room. Next to him, Ignis is already buckled into the driver's seat. He sits behind the wheel with a thin black folder in his grip, staring at it like it not only holds the key to the universe, but it’s also withholding it from him.
Gladio has never been one to deal well with others’ emotions. He knows almost every perfect cure for Iris, but she’s his little sister. He can’t just up and press Ignis over his head while detailing how exactly he’s going piledrive the source of his negative emotions. Picking up Ignis? Not hard. Getting Ignis to understand the point of piledriving things that aren’t actually physically able to take a beating? Not likely.
But Ignis will likely come around on his own so long as Gladio keeps his eye on the prize, so to speak.
“So,” he starts, bringing his hands down on his knees, “what’s the plan?”
Ignis blinks and finally reaches over to slip the folder into the glove compartment. “The plan is simple,” he says, putting both hands on the wheel as if he still needs something to hold on to. “We travel to the city of Lestallum, where Prince Noctis was last seen heading toward, we find him, and we escort him back to Insomnia.”
Gladio nods. “Yeah. Simple.” When Ignis doesn’t speak up again after a few seconds, Gladio does. “Any idea where he lives?”
“In Lestallum.”
“I got that.”
Ignis sighs, but he isn't irritated. “I don’t have any other ideas at the moment, unfortunately. All the reports the Glaives gave His Majesty only included places he was rumoured to be, all of which were in regions near Lestallum, or at least no further east than Duscae. That day in Old Lestallum, when they managed to get him in photographs, was the first time they’d actually seen him, if you’ll recall.”
Gladio doesn’t need to reach into the glove compartment for a refresher just yet. “And then they lost him in Lestallum, yep. Big city, huh?”
“Not nearly as large as Insomnia, but yes. It will likely take some time after we get there to find him. And that’s if he hasn’t already left again. He is a hunter, after all. They move around a lot.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll just have to ask around. Hunters know each other, don’t they? They have a network. Someone will be able to point us in the right direction.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Ignis’ tone has its usual sharpness back, and he finally releases his iron grip on the steering wheel. Gladio pats his own knee for a job well done.
“So, we heading out before next week?”
“Of course,” Ignis says. He takes a set of keys from where they rested on his lap and holds them like a valuable treasure. “But first, ground rules--don’t groan like that. His Majesty is allowing us to use the Regalia for this task, it is the absolute least we can do to see that it returns in the same condition it left in.”
Gladio scoffs. “With you at the wheel, Iggy? There’s literally no chance this baby is coming back to this very spot in anything less than perfect condition.”
“No eating with your hands--”
“Some snacks are finger foods and you can’t avoid that--”
“Drinks must have a cover--”
“My water bottle has a cap, unlike your Ebony--”
“You will not vomit in this car--”
“Why would I vomit with Granny Iggy in the driver’s seat--”
Ignis turns the key and the Regalia purrs as it comes to life. When Ignis pulls out of the parking space and picks up a little speed, the car hardly makes a sound. He holds the wheel lightly this time, like putting actual pressure on it would cause it to malfunction, or to otherwise lose its magic. He taps his gloved fingers against the wheel as he comes to a full stop before leaving the garage and looks at Gladio with scarcely contained glee.
“Granny Iggy is not in the driver’s seat, Gladio.”
Gladio buries his face in his hands and groans again. “Ramuh’s beard, Ignis. There better be a rule about keeping it in your pants.”
“Of course, of course. Let’s be off.”