Ignis didn’t remember how, exactly, they’d been found, or kidnapped, or taken to the basement they were now in, a holding cell while they waited to be transported out of the city.
His head pounded, the sickly feel of something not quite right, slowness and fuzziness. He guessed a drug of some kind, given the pain was not localised, and besides, he was fairly sure simply hitting someone over the head didn’t work the way it did in the films. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He was thirsty, enough that his throat ached with it, sharp pain behind his eyes for water. He was sure if he weren’t already sitting, slumped against a cold, tile wall, he’d be dizzy enough he wouldn’t be able to stand.
His hands were tied behind his back with twine, at both wrists and elbows, forcing his chest forwards and shoulders back with the strain of holding his arms together. His hands were numb and swollen; the twine cut deep into his skin, sawing at it like cheese wire. It was hard to move his chest well enough to breathe.
He had a cloth bag over his head, scratchy fabric, thin enough to let in some light but not enough to see through. His breathing, small and harsh and attempting to stay calm but failing, made the air over his face humid and oxygen-thin. His shoes were gone; his ankles were tied together also, left crossed over right, and no matter how much he shifted couldn’t get it to loosen even just enough to stop it hurting so much. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and it made him sick, nausea gripping his stomach and throat. He couldn’t tell how much was the drug and how much was fear.
He didn’t know where Noct was. He wanted to cry. They’d only gone out after Noct’s school had finished to buy ice cream, and now here he was and who knew where Noct was — Noct, who was their real target, and what if he was being hurt? What if they’d already killed him, killed him hours ago while Ignis had been unconscious, and dumped his body and—
Ignis bit down on his tongue, trying to distract himself with the sharp pain. No. He was the disposable one here. Noct would be kept alive. They wouldn’t go to all this effort kidnapping him just to kill him.
His heart thumped, hard, fast, like it was trying to escape up his throat and out his mouth. He twisted his hands and felt the twine cut into his wrists just a little deeper. His knees and shins hurt from where they were pressed against the hard floor, leeching cold in through the thin fabric of his trousers. He thought it might be more comfortable to sit with his legs stretched out in front of him, but he wasn’t sure he could make his body move.
The Kingsglaive would come and rescue Noct. That’s what they did. Of course they would, and neither Noct nor himself would be hurt, and this would never happen again.
Footsteps, coming closer, heavy and brisk, more than one person. Ignis froze, except for his chest heaving for breath, each ragged inhale tugging his arms apart and tightening the twine wrapped around his elbows. Were they coming for him? He could be strong for Noct. He would be strong for Noct. He was almost an adult; in another few months he’d be officially Crownsguard. Crownsguard didn’t fall apart at even the threat of trouble, a few lengths of rope and a cloth bag.
He ground his teeth together as the footsteps stopped, and a key turned, and the door to his room opened. The urge to throw himself away from the sound of them approaching gripped him, made him tremble; Crownsguard training told him not to struggle, not to put up a pointless fight. A moan built in his throat and burst out when hands grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up off the floor. He felt himself burn with shame as a man behind him laughed, and hands were on him, holding his upper arms with painful strength, holding his ankles, forcing him to stand upright. Ignis twisted — he couldn’t stop himself, legs threatening to buckle beneath him, balance long gone. Fingers dug into his arms, bruisingly hard. The twine around his ankles tightened then went slack, and hands unwound the lengths from him.
‘Walk,’ a woman said, sounding half stern, half bored. Hands shoved him forwards, and he only didn’t fall straight over because he was still being held up by the hands around his arms. A hand landed on top of his head, turning him, and Ignis flinched away with his whole body. The hand gripped the bag, catching strands of his hair, and pushed him into a stumbling trot out the door, into the corridor.
It was cold; in only his shirt and thin summer trousers, he could feel goosebumps rise on his bare arms. The floor was hard under his feet, gritty, cold leaching out of him through his socks. He wanted to twist away from the hand still on his head, pushing him on, and the grip on his upper arm. They were walking too fast; he couldn’t see. His legs were shaking, threatening to buckle at any moment, give up and drop him to the floor. Every step he felt like he’d trip over, even if it was over nothing, or his own feet. It seemed like only the momentum kept him going. He panted into the bag over his head, feeling like he was suffocating, eyes squeezed shut.
Some indeterminable amount of time later — one minute? Two minutes? Ten? He felt sick, his stomach turning — the sound of another door unlocking came from ahead of them, and he still wasn’t prepared for how he was jerked to the side mid-step, head yanked sideways as he was shoved through the open door.
He fell to his knees, the pain of it jarring all the way up and down his legs. Without his hands to balance him he tipped over, hitting his shoulder, falling flat onto his face. He couldn’t stop the yelp, pathetic, and the way he curled up, gulping in air, face screwed up as he gasped and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to not cry any more than he already was. His face hurt, hot and throbbing across his cheek and forehead where he’d hit the ground. He could imagine everyone standing around him. He was sure the skin on his wrists had torn, and he could feel blood on his hands, dripping off his forearms.
‘Ignis?’
‘Noct?’ Ignis twisted, trying to get his legs under him so he could at least sit up. His heart was racing, adrenaline surging through him at Noct’s voice. His own voice was dry, thick, barely a cracked whisper.
‘Ignis — no, don’t touch him! Ignis—’
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him onto his knees, and Ignis couldn’t do anything but let them. His head was spinning; he couldn’t seem to suck in enough air. His heaving chest pulled at his arms, tightened the twine, made it cut deeper.
‘Stop that!’ Noct’s voice was panicky, high-pitched. ‘Let him go!’
‘Noct,’ Ignis said, then retched, gagging as his throat tightened. ‘Noct,’ he said, ‘don’t — I’m fine. I’m fine.’
‘You’re bleeding! Like hell you’re fine!’
Noct sounded close to hysterical. Ignis pulled against the hands shoving him back against a wall, grabbing his legs to hold them and tie them back together. ‘Noct,’ he said, and even though his head was spinning, body hurting sharp and panicky, he managed to put on his stern voice, the one he used when he still had a grip on his temper but it was a close thing. ‘Noct, stop it.’
It occurred to him that if Noct could see he was bleeding he mustn’t have his head covered, and possibly he didn’t have his arms and legs tied, or at least not tied as tightly as he did. Not that it would help him escape, given how many there were guarding them, but at least he’d be more comfortable. He didn’t sound like he was in pain.
Noct didn’t reply. His breathing was wet, unsteady. Was he crying? The urge to crawl forwards on his knees, to try and find him and give him what little comfort he could, even with his hands tied and a bag over his head, was dizzying. The thought of their kidnappers watching him — watching Noct — made his stomach churn, and fear run through him like cold water. He still didn’t know what they wanted. His head hurt, and his arms and shoulders and ankles, and he felt sick.
The Kingsglaive would be searching for them. Every moment more was a moment closer to them being found and rescued. He just needed to hold himself — and Noct — together until then. And if that meant that the two of them would be compliant, model captives, then they would be. Anything to mean Noct didn’t get hurt. Anything to get him back safely.
There was movement, people walking around him, going out of the room. The sound of distant talking. They weren’t stupid enough to talk in front of them. Ignis strained to hear, but couldn’t make out anything. Not over his own rasping breath, amplified by the bag. He wished he could hear; he wished he knew what they wanted. If they were just keeping him and Noct hostage and were planning on releasing them eventually — though, he thought, with a sudden, cold, terrible feeling, if they were planning that they wouldn’t have let Noct see them.
No. They just — maybe they all wore masks. Maybe Ignis was the only one blindfolded because — because—
Useless speculation. No good.
He wished he could see Noct. His eyes were hot, prickling. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything as much as to be able to see Noct. Hold him and comfort him and deliver him to safety, and be with him, and be safe with him.
‘So, kids,’ a voice said, nasal and almost startlingly young: a woman, with an accent Ignis couldn’t place except as from outside Insomnia. ‘Looks like we’ve got some time to kill.’
There was the sound of something; a rustle and thump, things Ignis couldn’t place. Noct sniffled, and that Ignis could place — the sound of his fear, instantly recognisable from dark bedrooms and old nightmares.
‘How about we have some fun?’
Another sound, heavy and metallic, this time. Noct bit back a moan, a sobbing, muffled sound that made Ignis’ heart beat hard and painful, like a needle was trapped inside one of its chambers.
There was nothing he had to bargain with. His life wasn’t worth anything like Noct’s was; whatever their plan regarding Noct and the price of his life and wellbeing, Ignis was supplementary. He’d probably only been taken because it was easier than to leave him. His good behaviour was guaranteed when they held Noct’s well-being and comfort in their hands, regardless of whether they’d actually go so far as to permanently maim or kill him. He had nothing they wanted, nothing he could threaten with, no leverage or hold or anything the least bit tempting.
For a moment he wished they’d killed him instead of taking him captive. He might as well be dead, with as much good he was doing Noct. But that was selfish. And maybe they would be able to both get out of this alive.
So he said, ‘Please don’t harm him,’ because he couldn’t say nothing, but didn’t bother to add anything else because he knew it was worthless.
A hand grabbed the bag over his head and yanked it back and down, forcing his neck to arch until his breath whistled in his throat. ‘Say that again,’ the woman said.
‘Please — please don’t harm him,’ Ignis said again, arching his back to try relieve some of the pressure on his neck. He was trembling, wanting to shake away the hand but forcing himself not to, wanting to disappear into invisibility while at the same time realising with cold, terrifying surety that maybe they wanted something from him after all. Maybe he had something to use after all. ‘I’ll do anything,’ he said: a gamble.
‘Anything?’
‘I won’t hurt Noct,’ Ignis said, the words croaking out of his mouth. It occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t refer to Noct as that nickname, but it was too late now.
The hand let go of his head, shoving him forwards in the same rough motion. He yelped, tipped, and was only saved from landing on his face by a hard grip on his left wrist, yanking his arms up and back. Then he was twisting, falling forwards again as the twine binding him broke, only to be caught, held up and off the floor only by the grip on his wrist, hanging him from it. His right hand scrabbled at the floor, trying to brace himself, take some weight from his left arm. Another yank upwards, a harsh shake, and his arm felt like it would tear from its socket, fall apart like a wad of wet paper. He couldn’t stop himself crying out as his swollen hand and grinding joints screamed out their pain.
It took a moment to realise something was being pressed into his left hand — he could barely feel it, and only just managed to curl his fingers over the object well enough to stop it falling straight to the floor. Then the grip on him let go, dropping him onto the concrete floor, collapsing when his right arm failed to hold him up; he tucked his arms against his stomach, curled over them with his forehead pressed to the ground, and gagged back his whimpers.
He was aware of the eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him. He lifted his head slightly, moving to one side so the bag wasn’t pressed right up against his mouth. It took another few moments to register the item he was holding; he fumbled with the plastic coated handles, tentatively feeling out the shape of the heavy, flat-nosed pliers.
‘Use ‘em on one of your fingers,’ the woman said, directly behind him. Her voice was mild, interested in an academic sort of way. ‘Properly.’
There was a sound, indistinct. Was it Noct? Ignis flexed the handle of the pliers, feeling the jaws move. They were spring loaded, which was good, he supposed distantly, unwillingly, because he didn’t think he had the dexterity yet to open as well as close them. His fingers were shaking, throbbing with pain from the sudden blood flow. He wished they were still numb.
He swallowed, tried to catch his breath enough to speak. ‘Which — which finger?’
The woman laughed, and several others around the room joined her. ‘You decide,’ she said, a nasty tone creeping in to the words. She put a hand on Ignis’ shoulder, hauled him back until he was sitting upright.
The heat and moisture of his breath was leaving his face damp. He tried to focus on his breathing, but it didn’t do anything other than remind him how close and suffocating the bag was.
His hand was shaking as he raised the pliers, fit the little finger of his left hand into the jaws. He shuffled it until it rested over the joint closest to the fingernail, then hesitated, and moved it down to the larger joint. He needed to do it properly, she’d said; he would do it properly.
A soft sound, a wet little moan: Noct.
With every minute he was holding their attention he was holding it away from Noct. With every passing minute they were a minute closer to being rescued. His hands were shaking, still half numb and swollen from being tied, aching, pain running through him, pins and needles and anticipation. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He squeezed the plier handles and felt, through them, his bones shift under the pressure.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Gen, Ignis self-mutilating himself to save Noctis [1a/3]
Date: 2018-08-11 03:28 pm (UTC)His head pounded, the sickly feel of something not quite right, slowness and fuzziness. He guessed a drug of some kind, given the pain was not localised, and besides, he was fairly sure simply hitting someone over the head didn’t work the way it did in the films. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He was thirsty, enough that his throat ached with it, sharp pain behind his eyes for water. He was sure if he weren’t already sitting, slumped against a cold, tile wall, he’d be dizzy enough he wouldn’t be able to stand.
His hands were tied behind his back with twine, at both wrists and elbows, forcing his chest forwards and shoulders back with the strain of holding his arms together. His hands were numb and swollen; the twine cut deep into his skin, sawing at it like cheese wire. It was hard to move his chest well enough to breathe.
He had a cloth bag over his head, scratchy fabric, thin enough to let in some light but not enough to see through. His breathing, small and harsh and attempting to stay calm but failing, made the air over his face humid and oxygen-thin. His shoes were gone; his ankles were tied together also, left crossed over right, and no matter how much he shifted couldn’t get it to loosen even just enough to stop it hurting so much. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and it made him sick, nausea gripping his stomach and throat. He couldn’t tell how much was the drug and how much was fear.
He didn’t know where Noct was. He wanted to cry. They’d only gone out after Noct’s school had finished to buy ice cream, and now here he was and who knew where Noct was — Noct, who was their real target, and what if he was being hurt? What if they’d already killed him, killed him hours ago while Ignis had been unconscious, and dumped his body and—
Ignis bit down on his tongue, trying to distract himself with the sharp pain. No. He was the disposable one here. Noct would be kept alive. They wouldn’t go to all this effort kidnapping him just to kill him.
His heart thumped, hard, fast, like it was trying to escape up his throat and out his mouth. He twisted his hands and felt the twine cut into his wrists just a little deeper. His knees and shins hurt from where they were pressed against the hard floor, leeching cold in through the thin fabric of his trousers. He thought it might be more comfortable to sit with his legs stretched out in front of him, but he wasn’t sure he could make his body move.
The Kingsglaive would come and rescue Noct. That’s what they did. Of course they would, and neither Noct nor himself would be hurt, and this would never happen again.
Footsteps, coming closer, heavy and brisk, more than one person. Ignis froze, except for his chest heaving for breath, each ragged inhale tugging his arms apart and tightening the twine wrapped around his elbows. Were they coming for him? He could be strong for Noct. He would be strong for Noct. He was almost an adult; in another few months he’d be officially Crownsguard. Crownsguard didn’t fall apart at even the threat of trouble, a few lengths of rope and a cloth bag.
He ground his teeth together as the footsteps stopped, and a key turned, and the door to his room opened. The urge to throw himself away from the sound of them approaching gripped him, made him tremble; Crownsguard training told him not to struggle, not to put up a pointless fight. A moan built in his throat and burst out when hands grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up off the floor. He felt himself burn with shame as a man behind him laughed, and hands were on him, holding his upper arms with painful strength, holding his ankles, forcing him to stand upright. Ignis twisted — he couldn’t stop himself, legs threatening to buckle beneath him, balance long gone. Fingers dug into his arms, bruisingly hard. The twine around his ankles tightened then went slack, and hands unwound the lengths from him.
‘Walk,’ a woman said, sounding half stern, half bored. Hands shoved him forwards, and he only didn’t fall straight over because he was still being held up by the hands around his arms. A hand landed on top of his head, turning him, and Ignis flinched away with his whole body. The hand gripped the bag, catching strands of his hair, and pushed him into a stumbling trot out the door, into the corridor.
It was cold; in only his shirt and thin summer trousers, he could feel goosebumps rise on his bare arms. The floor was hard under his feet, gritty, cold leaching out of him through his socks. He wanted to twist away from the hand still on his head, pushing him on, and the grip on his upper arm. They were walking too fast; he couldn’t see. His legs were shaking, threatening to buckle at any moment, give up and drop him to the floor. Every step he felt like he’d trip over, even if it was over nothing, or his own feet. It seemed like only the momentum kept him going. He panted into the bag over his head, feeling like he was suffocating, eyes squeezed shut.
Some indeterminable amount of time later — one minute? Two minutes? Ten? He felt sick, his stomach turning — the sound of another door unlocking came from ahead of them, and he still wasn’t prepared for how he was jerked to the side mid-step, head yanked sideways as he was shoved through the open door.
He fell to his knees, the pain of it jarring all the way up and down his legs. Without his hands to balance him he tipped over, hitting his shoulder, falling flat onto his face. He couldn’t stop the yelp, pathetic, and the way he curled up, gulping in air, face screwed up as he gasped and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to not cry any more than he already was. His face hurt, hot and throbbing across his cheek and forehead where he’d hit the ground. He could imagine everyone standing around him. He was sure the skin on his wrists had torn, and he could feel blood on his hands, dripping off his forearms.
‘Ignis?’
‘Noct?’ Ignis twisted, trying to get his legs under him so he could at least sit up. His heart was racing, adrenaline surging through him at Noct’s voice. His own voice was dry, thick, barely a cracked whisper.
‘Ignis — no, don’t touch him! Ignis—’
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him onto his knees, and Ignis couldn’t do anything but let them. His head was spinning; he couldn’t seem to suck in enough air. His heaving chest pulled at his arms, tightened the twine, made it cut deeper.
‘Stop that!’ Noct’s voice was panicky, high-pitched. ‘Let him go!’
‘Noct,’ Ignis said, then retched, gagging as his throat tightened. ‘Noct,’ he said, ‘don’t — I’m fine. I’m fine.’
‘You’re bleeding! Like hell you’re fine!’
Noct sounded close to hysterical. Ignis pulled against the hands shoving him back against a wall, grabbing his legs to hold them and tie them back together. ‘Noct,’ he said, and even though his head was spinning, body hurting sharp and panicky, he managed to put on his stern voice, the one he used when he still had a grip on his temper but it was a close thing. ‘Noct, stop it.’
It occurred to him that if Noct could see he was bleeding he mustn’t have his head covered, and possibly he didn’t have his arms and legs tied, or at least not tied as tightly as he did. Not that it would help him escape, given how many there were guarding them, but at least he’d be more comfortable. He didn’t sound like he was in pain.
Noct didn’t reply. His breathing was wet, unsteady. Was he crying? The urge to crawl forwards on his knees, to try and find him and give him what little comfort he could, even with his hands tied and a bag over his head, was dizzying. The thought of their kidnappers watching him — watching Noct — made his stomach churn, and fear run through him like cold water. He still didn’t know what they wanted. His head hurt, and his arms and shoulders and ankles, and he felt sick.
The Kingsglaive would be searching for them. Every moment more was a moment closer to them being found and rescued. He just needed to hold himself — and Noct — together until then. And if that meant that the two of them would be compliant, model captives, then they would be. Anything to mean Noct didn’t get hurt. Anything to get him back safely.
There was movement, people walking around him, going out of the room. The sound of distant talking. They weren’t stupid enough to talk in front of them. Ignis strained to hear, but couldn’t make out anything. Not over his own rasping breath, amplified by the bag. He wished he could hear; he wished he knew what they wanted. If they were just keeping him and Noct hostage and were planning on releasing them eventually — though, he thought, with a sudden, cold, terrible feeling, if they were planning that they wouldn’t have let Noct see them.
No. They just — maybe they all wore masks. Maybe Ignis was the only one blindfolded because — because—
Useless speculation. No good.
He wished he could see Noct. His eyes were hot, prickling. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything as much as to be able to see Noct. Hold him and comfort him and deliver him to safety, and be with him, and be safe with him.
‘So, kids,’ a voice said, nasal and almost startlingly young: a woman, with an accent Ignis couldn’t place except as from outside Insomnia. ‘Looks like we’ve got some time to kill.’
There was the sound of something; a rustle and thump, things Ignis couldn’t place. Noct sniffled, and that Ignis could place — the sound of his fear, instantly recognisable from dark bedrooms and old nightmares.
‘How about we have some fun?’
Another sound, heavy and metallic, this time. Noct bit back a moan, a sobbing, muffled sound that made Ignis’ heart beat hard and painful, like a needle was trapped inside one of its chambers.
There was nothing he had to bargain with. His life wasn’t worth anything like Noct’s was; whatever their plan regarding Noct and the price of his life and wellbeing, Ignis was supplementary. He’d probably only been taken because it was easier than to leave him. His good behaviour was guaranteed when they held Noct’s well-being and comfort in their hands, regardless of whether they’d actually go so far as to permanently maim or kill him. He had nothing they wanted, nothing he could threaten with, no leverage or hold or anything the least bit tempting.
For a moment he wished they’d killed him instead of taking him captive. He might as well be dead, with as much good he was doing Noct. But that was selfish. And maybe they would be able to both get out of this alive.
So he said, ‘Please don’t harm him,’ because he couldn’t say nothing, but didn’t bother to add anything else because he knew it was worthless.
A hand grabbed the bag over his head and yanked it back and down, forcing his neck to arch until his breath whistled in his throat. ‘Say that again,’ the woman said.
‘Please — please don’t harm him,’ Ignis said again, arching his back to try relieve some of the pressure on his neck. He was trembling, wanting to shake away the hand but forcing himself not to, wanting to disappear into invisibility while at the same time realising with cold, terrifying surety that maybe they wanted something from him after all. Maybe he had something to use after all. ‘I’ll do anything,’ he said: a gamble.
‘Anything?’
‘I won’t hurt Noct,’ Ignis said, the words croaking out of his mouth. It occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t refer to Noct as that nickname, but it was too late now.
The hand let go of his head, shoving him forwards in the same rough motion. He yelped, tipped, and was only saved from landing on his face by a hard grip on his left wrist, yanking his arms up and back. Then he was twisting, falling forwards again as the twine binding him broke, only to be caught, held up and off the floor only by the grip on his wrist, hanging him from it. His right hand scrabbled at the floor, trying to brace himself, take some weight from his left arm. Another yank upwards, a harsh shake, and his arm felt like it would tear from its socket, fall apart like a wad of wet paper. He couldn’t stop himself crying out as his swollen hand and grinding joints screamed out their pain.
It took a moment to realise something was being pressed into his left hand — he could barely feel it, and only just managed to curl his fingers over the object well enough to stop it falling straight to the floor. Then the grip on him let go, dropping him onto the concrete floor, collapsing when his right arm failed to hold him up; he tucked his arms against his stomach, curled over them with his forehead pressed to the ground, and gagged back his whimpers.
He was aware of the eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him. He lifted his head slightly, moving to one side so the bag wasn’t pressed right up against his mouth. It took another few moments to register the item he was holding; he fumbled with the plastic coated handles, tentatively feeling out the shape of the heavy, flat-nosed pliers.
‘Use ‘em on one of your fingers,’ the woman said, directly behind him. Her voice was mild, interested in an academic sort of way. ‘Properly.’
There was a sound, indistinct. Was it Noct? Ignis flexed the handle of the pliers, feeling the jaws move. They were spring loaded, which was good, he supposed distantly, unwillingly, because he didn’t think he had the dexterity yet to open as well as close them. His fingers were shaking, throbbing with pain from the sudden blood flow. He wished they were still numb.
He swallowed, tried to catch his breath enough to speak. ‘Which — which finger?’
The woman laughed, and several others around the room joined her. ‘You decide,’ she said, a nasty tone creeping in to the words. She put a hand on Ignis’ shoulder, hauled him back until he was sitting upright.
The heat and moisture of his breath was leaving his face damp. He tried to focus on his breathing, but it didn’t do anything other than remind him how close and suffocating the bag was.
His hand was shaking as he raised the pliers, fit the little finger of his left hand into the jaws. He shuffled it until it rested over the joint closest to the fingernail, then hesitated, and moved it down to the larger joint. He needed to do it properly, she’d said; he would do it properly.
A soft sound, a wet little moan: Noct.
With every minute he was holding their attention he was holding it away from Noct. With every passing minute they were a minute closer to being rescued. His hands were shaking, still half numb and swollen from being tied, aching, pain running through him, pins and needles and anticipation. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He squeezed the plier handles and felt, through them, his bones shift under the pressure.
Could he do it? He could. For Noct.