Archive of Our Own

He can’t make himself move.

His heart is pounding hard enough to hurt and his lungs refuse to let him take a proper breath, head so fuzzy he wonders if his brain has turned into white noise and static. Noctis tries to blink through it, to make sense of the way everything sways around him. He wills himself to get back up.

It should be easy. Simple. He just has to push with his hands and shift his legs, get his feet underneath him—but he can’t. He’s frozen, turned to ice, turned to stone. Fingers and face numb and floating away from him, fading out of existence. He’s a spectator in his own body. A prisoner.

Get up.

It’s too quiet. Deathly silent. He can’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears. His vision pulses and blurs on the edges, a kaleidoscopic world. It’s nauseating, and no amount of stuttered breaths he tries to take in makes it any better.

He has to move. He has to get up. Go back to the party. He’s going to miss the fireworks.

Fresh panic jolts through Noctis at the thought, lightning-cold in his veins. His hands are shaking against the floor and his heart is still thudding hard, but he’s going to miss the fireworks if he doesn’t get up right now.

Get up. Get up.

His legs are heavy weights, but he drags them towards himself anyway. Shoes flat to the floor, knees up—then he freezes, locked into place, holding his breath. Prepared for more movement. Another strike, another flash of that blade. Even though his attacker has fallen still now. Eyes open, lips parted. Blood on his chin and his throat and his suit. Unnaturally still in the centre of Noctis’s vision, the only crystal clear thing he can see through the blurry tunnel.

But he could spring back to life at any moment. It could be a ruse, an act, he could jump up, he’s going to leap over and grab Noctis and finish the job, and Noctis can’t fight back a second time, not with the nausea swirling in his gut and the swimming in his head.

He can’t move. He has to move. The man is going to get up. He’s going to miss the fireworks. He has to find his dad.

He has to move. He can’t. He has to.

It’s all disjointed. Noctis’s head jolts, he feels it crack against the floor again, even though he’s still frozen in place. The flashing silver in his eyes. The sharp punch to his side. The arm wrapped around him to hold him in place.

He can still taste sweat and skin on his mouth. He can feel the palm held there, fingers firm and bruising against his cheek. Sudden, out of nowhere and from behind, muffling his shouts, shoving every cry back in and down his throat and rendering him silent.

It’s still happening, but neither of them have moved. Noctis is still frozen to the spot, and the man is still dead on the floor.

He can’t stay here. Someone will come looking for him, and they’ll find Noctis and the stranger like this, hidden away on the empty balcony. He’ll miss the fireworks. He’s supposed to be there, because they’re for him, and everyone will be disappointed if he’s not there, look how rude and unprincely he is, how spoiled and ungrateful, he can’t even stay at his own party, and his dad will be disappointed because he had been looking forward to this and—

And he has to get away because what if he’s still in danger, what if there are more assassins, what if his dad is in danger—

Get up, get up, get up.

He’s still dizzy, and his head cracks against the floor with every movement, that hand is pressed against his mouth, he’s being swung around by a man twice his size—but Noctis blinks through it and manages to get to his feet, watching his own body move from far away, shaking hands underneath him to push himself up.

He sees his right hand, numb, curled into a fist. A glint of light, a flash of silver in his eyes. His fingers are red and shiny.

Another wave of nausea crashes over him at the sight, his throat closing up. He tries to breathe through it. He has to find his dad. Or Gladio, or Ignis. Anyone. He has to find them, reach something real, something that can make sense.

His attacker doesn’t move. Stretched out on the floor, limp, one hand reaching for his throat, the other resting beside him. His eyes and mouth open. He looks like any of the other guests tonight. Normal. Dressed well for the party. But he’d been following Noctis, or lying in wait. With a knife in his hand and hateful words on his lips.

Noctis stares for a moment, and then another. And another. Lingering, unwilling to turn his back. He has to go, even though he’s made of stone. Even though he’s so sure he can see the man breathing, chest rising and falling, ready to rouse any minute.

Noctis takes a step backwards. And then another, and another, until he’s turning and walking away. Back through the doorway and into the corridor beyond. He drifts away from the balcony, leaving it behind, letting it disappear. Shivering, jittery, because that man is going to move again, he’s going to get back up any moment, he’s going to follow. Hands fisted in Noctis’s jacket, swinging him around, forcing him to move, overpowering him. Fast and vicious and real. Nothing at all like his training with Gladio.

A hand on his mouth. Sharpness at his side. His own fists flying, fighting back, panicked and desperate. His knuckles connecting with bone. Being swung and dragged towards the balcony edge. Stumbling, falling, head cracking on the floor, the static-screeching fear, the flashing silver coming down.

It’s all too fast in his head, he wants to run from it, but somehow his body can’t catch up. He’s wading through water, through mud, through molasses. It’s up to his knees, his waist, his chest, his neck, bitterly cold and seeping down into bone. He’s sweating and shivering in his suit, his shirt stuck to his back, his jacket too tight, too heavy, too constricting.

And how wonderful he had looked tonight, everyone had said, smiling and admiring. How very princely he seemed, everyone had said, pointing from his fancy, tailored outfit and up to his hair, to his own crown making its rare appearance.

He wants to rip it all off now, throw it away, but he doesn’t know how to make his hands move. They won’t obey him. He can’t move his own body. He can’t feel it. He can only watch as his feet keep moving soundlessly through the floating world around him as he heads back through the corridors, back towards the party.

Everything is the same way he’d left it. Some of the guests still mingle with each other outside the ballroom. They still look happy and calm and at ease. They talk and laugh and drink. But he can’t hear them beyond the ringing in his ears, and they’re all so slow, they look unnatural. Puppets on strings, mannequins behind glass, a photograph. They don’t look real. They can’t be real. They move so freely and easily. Languidly. Not fast and vicious. Not death-still and silent.

His head cracking on the floor. The hand on his mouth and the hissing breath against his ear. There’s something warm and sticky on his side. Something solid in his palm. Noctis blinks and swallows back against the jolt and forces himself to breathe.

He has to find his dad. He’s going to miss the fireworks. Don’t be long, he’d told Noctis with a fond smile and warm, crinkled eyes.

He had just wanted a minute of privacy. He’s been gone for hours. For years. For a single breath.

The ballroom is an ocean of movement when he returns to it, swaying colours all blending into one. Guests standing around like wax models and animatronics, heedless of his growing panic, blind to it. Dozens of chandelier lights too bright above, like the midday sun, hanging crystals glittering like stars in an amber sky.

It’s dizzying. He’s too exposed here. With these towering walls, with the windows looking out to Insomnia beyond, there’s too much space and too many people. He’s jittery, ready to run, ready to freeze, ready to throw up or scream, but he keeps going, keeps walking through the crowd, unable to go anywhere else. Eyes drifting up to the ornate clock mounted on the wall mercilessly counting down the time.

It’s ten minutes before midnight. Ten minutes until his birthday.

He’s not going to make it. The closer he gets, the further away he feels, fading away from his own body, disintegrating into nothing. There won’t be anything of him left in a moment, and the panic lodges in his throat and burns his eyes.

He pushes his way through, and the guests begin to notice him too. He sees the slow dawning of horror on their faces, the way their eyes widen and their mouths fall open. They back away, out of his path, dreamlike, disappearing from his view, ghosts fading into the blurry edges of his vision.

There’s blood on his face. His own, and not his own. He can feel it again. Wet against his temple and smudged across his cheek, beginning to dry and crack around his eye and over his nose. Splatters growing tight and itchy on his skin.

There’s blood on his hands too. On the knife slipping in his grasp. He should care about that. About appearances, about his fine suit and his hair and his crown, the princely facade everyone had fawned over tonight. He should care that everyone can see him like this now.

He doesn’t care. He just feels numb and heavy and cold, so he keeps walking, to where he knows his father is, to where Clarus is, to Cor, to Ignis, to Gladio. To safety.

He finds them, finally, through the sea of people parting for him, but he doesn’t feel any better. He still feels lost. He still doesn’t know what to do. His heart is pounding in his chest, he’s shaking from the cold. He can see them now, standing together, talking with each other. They’re okay and he made it, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Movement. Gladio and Ignis running for him, jumping into action. Alarmed, hands reaching, but they’re so far away, they’re silent, distant, and they’re moving in slow motion too. They’ll never reach him in time.

He sees his father, with Clarus and Cor. Then turning to look at him, brows furrowed, frowning. And then the way his face crumples, his mouth opening, maybe calling his name, but Noctis can’t hear him anyway, just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears pound, pound, pounding, and the crack of his skull on the floor and the hateful hiss in his ear.

His father steps forward, his hand motioning sharply, cutting through the air, signalling, speaking more words Noctis can’t hear. His face set in hard, angry lines, eyes enraged, the crackle-spark energy of his Armiger lingering in the air like a brewing storm. The Ring of the Lucii on his finger glinting under the ballroom lights, a flash of silver in Noctis’s eyes.

Clarus and Cor leap into action, faces just as stern, fingers going to their earpieces, their own hands pointing off in different directions. Other shapes in the edges of Noctis’s vision dance around, colours swirling together into a dizzying black and gold blur.

The crownsguard swoops in like a flock of birds around him, darting past Noctis to descend on the party guests surrounding them. Men and women unable to tear themselves away from the spectacle, champagne glasses glittering, their hands to their mouths, gossiping to one another. The guards drive them back and push them all away, unrelenting. Faces turn from concerned to outraged to scared.

Gladio and Ignis reach him through the commotion, and that’s when Noctis feels his legs finally give out. He falls to the floor before they can make it, and he sits there, watching as they get closer, as they crouch down in front of him as one. Tall and sophisticated in their suits. They’ll get dirty kneeling on the floor.

Their hands hover frantically. Their mouths move without sound. Noctis can only stare at them. He lets his eyes drift up to his dad, and his tongue feels too heavy to say anything. It’s made of lead. He’s drowning in the silence, it fills up his ears and lungs like water. He can’t speak for the ghost of that hand held over his mouth.

Someone tries to take the knife from his grasp. Noctis grips onto it so tightly his knuckles ache.

Ignis’s face returns to his vision. Sea-green eyes wide and worried behind his glasses. Panicked. His mouth moving, but Noctis still can’t hear him, and he can’t focus well enough to try and figure it out, his brain full of fog. Nothing matters except the flash of silver and his head cracking against the floor and his heart pounding in his chest and the ringing in his ears.

More crownsguard officers move into position, coming to form a half-circle behind Noctis, with their backs to him, shielding him from the rest of the ballroom. Other men and women walk to and fro, weapons drawn, hands to their earpieces—and it’s too much, there are too many people, it makes his head swim. He doesn’t know what’s happening.

His dad. His dad is still there, towering above him with Clarus and Cor at his side, shouting silent orders to his men. His magic almost tangible in the air around them, a beast clawing angrily at the bars of its cage. Noctis can feel it shivering over his own skin. It’s both terrifying and familiar, and he wants to jump up into his dad’s arms like he’s a child all over again, but he’s frozen to the spot once more, there are shackles wrapped around his ankles and wrists, weighing him down, he’s a prisoner, he’s held prisoner, he needs help, he needed—

Hand on his mouth. Sweat and skin. Hissed breath against his ear, the cold sharpness on his side, panic flushing out any pain—

Fists in his jacket, swinging him around, trying to throw him over the balustrade, to make him plummet all the way down below. Stumbling, falling, his head cracking on the floor—

The weight of the man on top of him, Noctis’s hands wrapped around his wrists, the blade shuddering between them and the struggle and the twisting and the fighting, until the knife plunged into his attacker instead, and the shock on his face, and the terror in Noctis’s chest as he dragged himself backwards, the sudden deafening silence, the blood spilling out between them—

It’s happening, it’s still happening, his head hitting the floor, the fists in his jacket—

Hands coming for his face. Grabbing him, real, here and now, coming for him again. Noctis flinches, jerking back, and finally his mouth opens, his lips parting on a sharp gasp, air rough and scratching against his throat, his fingers flexing around the bloodied knife.

It’s only Gladio. His shield, not his attacker. Reaching for him slowly, slower than anything else in the room, and gently, until he’s cupping Noctis’s face, touch so whisper-soft he might as well be a ghost himself. But he’s warm and he’s here, he’s real, Noctis can feel him. An anchor, a lighthouse, a solid presence to cling to in the drifting world.

He’s saying something. Gladio’s lips are moving again. The same way over and over, slow and purposeful, his eyes steady on Noctis, never once looking anywhere else. He looks concerned and focused and intense, and Noctis has no choice but to pay attention to him, because it’s always something serious when Gladio looks that way, there’s something important. He has to listen.

Noctis watches him, takes him in, trying to breathe, trying to think past the fog, trying to understand Gladio. Even as his head cracks against the floor again, even as the silver flashes in his eyes.

And then, slowly, the fog starts to lift, and an ocean of noise comes crashing back in and—

“Just focus on me,” Gladio is saying, quietly, softly, voice as gentle as his hands on Noctis’s face. “That’s it. Focus on me, Noct. Listen to my voice.”

People shouting in fear, in anger, demands, barked commands. The stomping boots of crownsguard officers marching across the ballroom. The sound of a champagne glass shattering against the floor. Noctis jerks, feels the smash go right through him, it’s an explosion in his ears, broken shards scratching against his bones. He tries to look, turning to peer over his shoulder, but Gladio’s hands gently coax him back.

“It’s okay, just focus on me,” he says again. “You’re doing good. You’re okay.”

“They’ve found a body,” another voice says. Cor. Somewhere above him, just to his right. Quiet and solemn in the angry din of the room. “A man, dressed as a guest.”

“Was he on the list?” someone else asks. Clarus. Voice like steel, statue still, guarding his king. His arm is held out, like a barricade, a protection. Shielding.

“Not from what they can tell so far,” Cor answers. “They found no identification records of him in any of our databases. We’ll have everything scanned again, of course, just in case.”

“Good,” Clarus says. “Though I suspect it is more likely this was an outside attack. Perhaps an assassin sent by Niflheim.”

“It doesn’t matter either way. He’s dead.” Cor sounds oddly grim at that, and Noctis looks up to find they’re both staring down at him with sombre eyes.

He suddenly can’t breathe. The flashing silver and the hand on his mouth and his skull hitting the floor—

The screaming noise in his head, the panic, the fear, and finally the frozen look on that man’s face, mouth and eyes wide open, unmoving, unblinking, lifeless—

“Look at me,” Gladio murmurs. One of his warm hands falls to Noctis’s shoulder, squeezing gently. There are rumbling, deep voices above them again, a quiet conversation that Noctis tries to tune into, but Gladio pulls him away from it. “Hey. Look at me, Noct. Just focus on me. You’re okay now. You’re with us.”

His father, Clarus, and Cor talk quietly above them, watching on. Gladio doesn’t stray from his spot on the floor. Ignis remains crouched down next to him, to his right, silent and concerned. Unusually still, wrists hanging limply over his knees, hanging back like he doesn’t dare to interfere.

But when their gazes meet, Ignis’s eyes soften and he reaches out, to wrap his hand gently around Noctis’s forearm. “You’re safe, Noct,” he murmurs. “It’s over.”

Noctis’s vision blurs again. He feels a fresh wetness on his cheeks, to trail with the blood splattered there. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying. He feels like he’s about to start screaming or shouting any second now, for the guests to shut up, for the guards to halt, for everyone to get the hell away from him. But his throat is still constricted and his eyes still burn.

He looks to Gladio, trying to get his lips to move, his tongue to work. Trying to speak past that hand on his mouth. “I didn’t mean to—” he gets out, and his throat closes up around those few words, and Gladio’s thumb brushes along his cheek to wipe away some of the wetness— “He was going to—”

“I know, kid,” Gladio says. His lips press together grimly, his eyes a storm of emotions Noctis can’t piece together, can’t hope to decipher, but he never looks anywhere except Noctis, never pulls his hands back, never shifts away from him. “You did what you had to do.”

He did what he had to do. To stay alive. To stop that man from killing him.

It doesn’t ease the horror. The cold terror in his chest, seeing the light in that man’s eyes fading into nothing.

And there’s so much noise now, too much of it. There are too many people moving overwhelmingly fast. They’re a whirlwind around him. He wants to shout at them all, to order them to stop, because every movement grates along his skin and in his head, but he can still barely breathe—

“It’s okay,” Gladio says again. His knees must be sore, pressed against the hard floor the way they are, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He keeps up the litany instead, until it’s the only thing Noctis can hear for a moment. “It’s okay. Just focus on me.”

When Ignis’s hands work at his fingers, Noctis lets him. He surrenders the knife, eases his death-grip on it, relaxing against Ignis’s warm and gentle touch. His fingers ache letting go. His knuckles throb.

Movement. Beyond the tall windows to his left, out in the city. Lights flashing in the black sky. Fireworks. They shoot up into the air one by one and explode in turn, an array of blues and golds and purples. Again and again.

Noctis stares at them, his throat closing up, his heart still pound, pound, pounding. The sounds are muted in here, but he can still hear them, each crack jolting along his skin.

Midnight. It’s his birthday.

He killed a man tonight. For the first time.

It won’t be the last time, will it?

“We need to get him to the infirmary,” someone says. Ignis, suddenly crouched on his left side, his fingers hovering over Noctis’s waist. His eyes move to look past Noctis, to Gladio, then up at the men standing over them.

His side is still warm and his shirt is sticking uncomfortably to him now. There’s a dull ache blossoming there. His temple is starting to throb in time with his heartbeat. He finds he’s too tired to care about it.

“I’m okay,” Noctis mumbles, because it has to be true. He’s shivering and he feels clammy and the world still spins around him, too fast and so very loud, but he has to be okay.

“No, Noct, you aren’t,” Ignis murmurs back. So quiet next to him, and worried. Not a hateful hiss against his ear. Noctis shivers at it anyway. “You’re hurt. We need to get you seen to.”

Cor says, “Don’t worry, I’ve already called for medics. They’re on their way.”

Ignis makes a frustrated noise, fingers curling over Noctis’s shoulder. “Can we afford to wait?”

“We’ll have to. We can’t move him like this.”

“Better hope they can get in,” Gladio mutters, his hand motioning to somewhere behind Noctis. “We’ve got far too many people here.”

“Indeed,” his father says, quieter than the rest of them. “Clarus, have some of your men secure the way for the medics. Cor, you make sure they know to get here fast. I will not be tested tonight. Not after this.”

Cor and Clarus answer as one. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Noctis feels like he’s five years old again when he looks up at his dad. Cor and Clarus are still crowded up beside him, talking, fingers to their earpieces, frowns on their faces and hands moving as they give orders to their officers. But his dad doesn’t speak to them again, doesn’t look their way; instead, his eyes never leave Noctis from where he’s still sitting on the floor before him.

He’s getting to his feet before he realises it, before he can catch up, feeling like a ghost in his own skin again. Lightheaded and shaking and unsteady, even with Ignis’s and Gladio’s hands helping him up.

He just wants to reassure his father, to get rid of the awful look on his face and in his eyes, but he can barely take two steps forward. It doesn’t matter. His dad’s arms come out to steady him, and then to wrap around him and hold him still, gentle and familiar and safe. Noctis leans into him, grateful, exhausted, and he ignores the sting in his head and the ache in his side and the ringing in his ears.

A large, warm hand brushes against his waist. He glances down to see his dad’s palm turn upwards, glistening red and trembling.

“Why must this keep happening to you?” his father murmurs. So quietly, it must have been unintentional, words meant only for himself. “I have only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

“I’m okay ,” Noctis breathes back. Because he is. He has to be.

Ignis steps closer with a cloth in his hand. His father takes it gratefully, to hold it against the growing ache on Noctis’s side.

He feels his dad’s face press into his hair. “You will be,” he says quietly. His voice is soothing and welcoming, the only sound that matters in the whole world, rumbling through his chest and into Noctis.

His father’s warm arms around him. Gladio’s and Ignis’s hands on his back. Cor and Clarus standing guard. He’s finally somewhere safe, and the panic lodged in his chest and clinging tightly to his throat begins to loosen its grip on him, fading with the final wave of fireworks outside.

Noctis lets the world drift away with them, back into a blurry ocean of noise and colours and his dad’s heartbeat under his ear.