He tried hard — really hard — because being brave and calm would help Ignis, especially if they had the chance to escape. And with being tied up, no access to the armiger or his magic, and told that if he caused trouble they’d be taking it out of Ignis’ skin, since Ignis was disposable (and he, the implication went, was not), it wasn’t like there was much else he could do.
So: he tried to be brave. He let them gag him, stopped fighting, attempted to be the kind of dignified he knew his dad would be in this scenario, or Gladio, or, fuck, Ignis. He tried not to let how being cut off from the Crystal and his dad’s magic bother him, the absence of something he’d got so used to he didn’t feel it until it was gone. It just hadn’t lasted long. Not after they got out the pliers. Then he thought, as he started to cry, pathetic and helpless and frightened, that wouldn’t it be fucking awful and hilarious if he managed to choke to death on his own snot and tears behind the gag before they were rescued. They’d have to invent a better story for the press, and thinking about that managed to distract him a bit. Because he had to be calm, had to sit still and trust Ignis. Ignis knew what he was doing. And broken bones hurt a lot but they could be healed pretty easily. He and Ignis were going to be rescued, and Ignis was going to distract the bad guys until then. Because even if it wasn’t his job, like it was Gladio’s, then it was still what Ignis did.
But having to watch it — having to sit and listen to the bones cracking — he couldn’t, and Ignis wouldn’t have sat back and let them do that if their roles were reversed, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually do anything so long as he tried.
So they tied him up properly, ankles to wrists, rope attached to some kind of ring set into the floor behind him.
And then it got worse, and worse, and worse.
Then it stopped being frightening and started being terrifying, the worst of his nightmares, the scariest horror movie he’d ever convinced Gladio to let him borrow, that he was now in and couldn’t stop being in. Something had gone wrong; Ignis had just meant to be buying time, distracting them. He couldn’t have meant to — to torture himself. Not torture himself to death, because that’s what he was doing, and Noct couldn’t struggle, couldn’t access the armiger, couldn’t do anything at all to help him. There was too much blood, smeared all over the floor and Ignis’ body, and Noct could smell it, sticking to the lining of his throat, like he were back in the marilith attack — he could feel it all over himself even when he knew it wasn’t on him but Ignis, who was bleeding and gasping and biting back his wet, broken moans and whimpers.
Noct closed his eyes, would have put his hands over his ears if they weren’t tied behind his back.
He hadn’t thought they’d meant to kill Ignis, only hurt him. It was — okay, yeah, he’d been stupid and naive. But — having to sit and listen, know Ignis was killing himself on the other side of the room. It wasn’t — Noctis just wanted it to stop already, the Glaive to rescue them, to wake up and realise it was another shitty, shitty dream — but nothing happened except for how Ignis carried on killing himself. There was too much blood and Ignis wasn’t stopping, wasn’t even trying to stem the flow splattering out of him, spurts that hit the floor a foot away from where he was sitting. He was carrying on, and even though Noctis had his eyes closed he couldn’t stop himself taking peeks, because what if Ignis died while Noctis wasn’t looking? What if Ignis wanted to catch his eye before he died and couldn’t because Noctis was that much of a giant fucking coward he couldn’t even open his eyes to be there for him in the stupidest, weakest way possible?
There was blood, and too much blood, puddles and smears of it all over the floor, and Ignis’ face was grey and sheened in sweat. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. He was shaking. He was dying and in pain and Noctis couldn’t do anything but squirm pathetically and cry all over his gag.
Some fucking prince he was.
They’d made Ignis burn himself, and Noctis could smell charring meat and hear Ignis sobbing, making noises like a dying animal, like it wasn’t even Ignis in there, not even a person. He couldn’t do this — he wanted to die and he wasn’t even the one being hurt, but he couldn’t stand it. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, collapse in on himself, stop existing altogether. He was sweating, cold, trembling hard. His heart was racing and it make him sick, made vomit swell in his throat. He couldn’t look any more — the last time he did he threw up and only just managed to swallow it back down without choking himself — but he couldn’t not imagine it. Couldn’t not smell it and hear it and gods this was his fault and he wanted to die, he just wanted to die, he couldn’t bear it—
He felt himself flinch hard as the door burst down, but even then it took a few seconds to actually realise what was happening. By the time he’d uncurled and opened his eyes the room was clear of anyone but him and four kingsglaive, their kidnappers all dragged out into the hallway, and Ignis — Ignis’ body — Noctis sat still long enough for the twine around his wrists and ankles to be cut, the gag’s ties around the back of his head to be undone, but he had his hands on the gag and he tore it out of his mouth himself, hard enough it caught on his teeth and yanked them painfully. The straps stuck to his skin, pulled out hairs on the back of his head; he barely noticed as he crawled across the floor, scrambling up only to fall back down because his legs had both gone numb. ‘Ignis,’ he was saying, over and over, and he wanted to shove away the two glaive kneeling next to Ignis, where he was lying on the floor, trousers soaked, black fabric shiny with blood, his pasty skin slick with blood, and was he even breathing? Was he alive? Gods, he had to be, he had to, there was no way he could die, he was Ignis—
‘Your Highness, please,’ one of the glaive said, and Noctis knew her and knew that he knew her, but right now everything was twisted up in his head and he needed to see Ignis, needed to know he was still alive, and she was in his way.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, the words rasping out on breath that was starting to hiccup. He could see around her to Ignis, as he lay there, and the glaive kneeling beside him, checking his breathing and heartbeat.
‘They didn’t — they didn’t even touch me,’ Noct said. He still had to let them inspect him, run their hands down his body to check for injuries, but it wasn’t as if he could have gone anywhere anyway because all he could see was Ignis’ body, red streaked and limp and sodden, and suddenly he didn’t have the ability to move any more. Because Ignis wasn’t moving. He’d been laid out on the floor, they weren’t checking his heart of breathing or anything any more, and he still wasn’t moving. The ground tilted away under Noctis’ hands and knees, and his heart squeezed and squeezed until he thought it might as well just give up. Ignis couldn’t — he couldn’t—
It was like the whole world drained away and got replaced with something awful and cold and painful and he was sobbing. He couldn’t stop himself shoving forwards, and there was a glaive’s hands on his shoulders trying gently to tug him away and he was fighting back because he was never going to leave Ignis’ side (not that it mattered because Ignis was dead and Ignis was gone and he was never going to tut at Noctis or smile at him in that way Ignis did, with his lips quirking up just at the corners, or sneak him out of the Citadel at night when no one else even knew he felt bad, he was dead and he was dead because of Noctis, Noctis’ fault—).
Which was when he realised they had an elixir and they were giving it to Ignis. Which means he had to be alive.
Hope flared in him, wild and terrifying, because what if he were wrong? But he pushed past the glaive and up on his knees beside Ignis, and he was still crying too hard to even speak but someone said: ‘He’s alive, don’t worry, Your Highness, he’ll pull through.’ — and it was like a star bursting to life in his chest, a million million tonnes of light and energy because Ignis was still alive and he was going to be okay.
‘He’s got,’ Noctis managed, barely, through his running nose and the way he couldn’t breathe properly, sobs tearing up his lungs. But this was important. ‘They — there’s nails in him. In the wounds.’ Because one of the first lessons he got drilled into him in healing magic was when not to use it, and how important it was that whoever was healing the patient knew as much as possible.
All four glaive paused, but only for a second. The elixir washed over Ignis, and the little wounds on his sides closed over, skin mending like those videos of things breaking played in reverse. ‘It’s most important we stop the bleeding,’ the glaive — Alceda said, and that was right, her name was Alceda. ‘He’ll be going straight to the hospital where they can operate and remove any shrapnel.’
Which made sense, but thinking of those nails tucked inside Ignis’ body, the skin grown over the top of them, made Noctis feel sick. More sick. His stomach clenched; he swallowed, hard, and gulped to try soften the sobs that were still spilling up and out of his lungs, making his chest hurt. He wanted to ask if he could touch Ignis, and was interrupted by the sight of Ignis stirring.
He lurched forwards, stopped by Alceda’s hands on his upper arms, her body blocking his way. ‘One moment,’ she said, and Noctis hated her, because Ignis was twisting, eyes blinking open, squinting to search the room. He was gasping out Noctis’ name.
‘Ignis,’ another of the glaive said, kneeling by his side, ‘good to see you back with us. I’m Sota — I don’t think we’ve met, but I’ve seen you around! You train with the polearm, don’t you? His Highness is right over there, unharmed; you just lie here and we’ll have you on your way to the hospital in no time. Try not to move, that’s it.’
Ignis didn’t even seem to hear her. He twisted, and gasped, and Noctis wasn’t even sure if it was in pain or trying to say his name. Ignis’ hands moved to his sides, and Sota grabbed him by the wrists. ‘Ignis,’ she said, firmer this time. ‘Ignis, can you hear me? I’m Sota from the Kingsglaive; hold still while we wait for the ambulance to get you to the hospital.’
Ignis shook his head, arching his back, breath starting to come panicky-fast. He was trying to tug his hands from Sota, but it was obvious he was too weak to do anything but struggle in her grip. Sota swore in Galahadrian.
‘No,’ Ignis said, and choked on the word, coughing. Noctis thought of the nails still inside him and didn’t resist as he was pushed back to sit on the sticky floor.
‘No,’ Ignis said again, whimpering, but he’d stopped trying to free himself. ‘Please, don’t—’
‘Ignis, you’re safe,’ Sota said. ‘Prince Noctis is safe. We’re going to get you to the hospital.’
There was a bruise spreading across Ignis’ waist, creeping slowly under his skin like wine soaking through a tablecloth. ‘No. I can — I can still—’
He broke off to pant, biting down whimpers, and that was when the paramedics arrived. They were talking to the glaives who’d been outside the room, and were firing off words at them and each other that were too hard, too quick for Noctis to catch. He pushed himself to his feet, head spinning, and grabbed hold of Sota’s arm.
‘I’m going with him,’ he said, and managed to be authoritative until his voice broke in the middle of the sentence. He looked down at Ignis, being lifted onto a stretcher. ‘I’m going with him,’ he said again, even worse than the first time.
Ignis didn’t seem to recognise him when their eyes met, but that didn’t matter. The thought of him being wheeled away, out of sight, the paramedics doing fuck knew what with him — Noctis felt like he’d shatter at just the thought of it. He needed to be there. Needed to see him.
‘You’ll have to ask the paramedics,’ Sota said. ‘You’ll need a checkup anyway, so if not we can drive you straight there after him.’
‘No, I’m going with him,’ Noctis said. ‘In the ambulance.’ His voice creaked with the last word. He only barely managed to hold back adding please.
‘D’you want me to talk to them?’ Sota asked, and the kindness and sudden understanding made Noctis want to curl up on the floor and cry. He nodded instead, a small, jerky movement, and broke away from her to follow the stretcher as they wheeled Ignis out of the room.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Gen, Ignis self-mutilating himself to save Noctis [2a/3]
Date: 2018-08-14 10:08 pm (UTC)He tried hard — really hard — because being brave and calm would help Ignis, especially if they had the chance to escape. And with being tied up, no access to the armiger or his magic, and told that if he caused trouble they’d be taking it out of Ignis’ skin, since Ignis was disposable (and he, the implication went, was not), it wasn’t like there was much else he could do.
So: he tried to be brave. He let them gag him, stopped fighting, attempted to be the kind of dignified he knew his dad would be in this scenario, or Gladio, or, fuck, Ignis. He tried not to let how being cut off from the Crystal and his dad’s magic bother him, the absence of something he’d got so used to he didn’t feel it until it was gone. It just hadn’t lasted long. Not after they got out the pliers. Then he thought, as he started to cry, pathetic and helpless and frightened, that wouldn’t it be fucking awful and hilarious if he managed to choke to death on his own snot and tears behind the gag before they were rescued. They’d have to invent a better story for the press, and thinking about that managed to distract him a bit. Because he had to be calm, had to sit still and trust Ignis. Ignis knew what he was doing. And broken bones hurt a lot but they could be healed pretty easily. He and Ignis were going to be rescued, and Ignis was going to distract the bad guys until then. Because even if it wasn’t his job, like it was Gladio’s, then it was still what Ignis did.
But having to watch it — having to sit and listen to the bones cracking — he couldn’t, and Ignis wouldn’t have sat back and let them do that if their roles were reversed, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually do anything so long as he tried.
So they tied him up properly, ankles to wrists, rope attached to some kind of ring set into the floor behind him.
And then it got worse, and worse, and worse.
Then it stopped being frightening and started being terrifying, the worst of his nightmares, the scariest horror movie he’d ever convinced Gladio to let him borrow, that he was now in and couldn’t stop being in. Something had gone wrong; Ignis had just meant to be buying time, distracting them. He couldn’t have meant to — to torture himself. Not torture himself to death, because that’s what he was doing, and Noct couldn’t struggle, couldn’t access the armiger, couldn’t do anything at all to help him. There was too much blood, smeared all over the floor and Ignis’ body, and Noct could smell it, sticking to the lining of his throat, like he were back in the marilith attack — he could feel it all over himself even when he knew it wasn’t on him but Ignis, who was bleeding and gasping and biting back his wet, broken moans and whimpers.
Noct closed his eyes, would have put his hands over his ears if they weren’t tied behind his back.
He hadn’t thought they’d meant to kill Ignis, only hurt him. It was — okay, yeah, he’d been stupid and naive. But — having to sit and listen, know Ignis was killing himself on the other side of the room. It wasn’t — Noctis just wanted it to stop already, the Glaive to rescue them, to wake up and realise it was another shitty, shitty dream — but nothing happened except for how Ignis carried on killing himself. There was too much blood and Ignis wasn’t stopping, wasn’t even trying to stem the flow splattering out of him, spurts that hit the floor a foot away from where he was sitting. He was carrying on, and even though Noctis had his eyes closed he couldn’t stop himself taking peeks, because what if Ignis died while Noctis wasn’t looking? What if Ignis wanted to catch his eye before he died and couldn’t because Noctis was that much of a giant fucking coward he couldn’t even open his eyes to be there for him in the stupidest, weakest way possible?
There was blood, and too much blood, puddles and smears of it all over the floor, and Ignis’ face was grey and sheened in sweat. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. He was shaking. He was dying and in pain and Noctis couldn’t do anything but squirm pathetically and cry all over his gag.
Some fucking prince he was.
They’d made Ignis burn himself, and Noctis could smell charring meat and hear Ignis sobbing, making noises like a dying animal, like it wasn’t even Ignis in there, not even a person. He couldn’t do this — he wanted to die and he wasn’t even the one being hurt, but he couldn’t stand it. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, collapse in on himself, stop existing altogether. He was sweating, cold, trembling hard. His heart was racing and it make him sick, made vomit swell in his throat. He couldn’t look any more — the last time he did he threw up and only just managed to swallow it back down without choking himself — but he couldn’t not imagine it. Couldn’t not smell it and hear it and gods this was his fault and he wanted to die, he just wanted to die, he couldn’t bear it—
He felt himself flinch hard as the door burst down, but even then it took a few seconds to actually realise what was happening. By the time he’d uncurled and opened his eyes the room was clear of anyone but him and four kingsglaive, their kidnappers all dragged out into the hallway, and Ignis — Ignis’ body — Noctis sat still long enough for the twine around his wrists and ankles to be cut, the gag’s ties around the back of his head to be undone, but he had his hands on the gag and he tore it out of his mouth himself, hard enough it caught on his teeth and yanked them painfully. The straps stuck to his skin, pulled out hairs on the back of his head; he barely noticed as he crawled across the floor, scrambling up only to fall back down because his legs had both gone numb. ‘Ignis,’ he was saying, over and over, and he wanted to shove away the two glaive kneeling next to Ignis, where he was lying on the floor, trousers soaked, black fabric shiny with blood, his pasty skin slick with blood, and was he even breathing? Was he alive? Gods, he had to be, he had to, there was no way he could die, he was Ignis—
‘Your Highness, please,’ one of the glaive said, and Noctis knew her and knew that he knew her, but right now everything was twisted up in his head and he needed to see Ignis, needed to know he was still alive, and she was in his way.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, the words rasping out on breath that was starting to hiccup. He could see around her to Ignis, as he lay there, and the glaive kneeling beside him, checking his breathing and heartbeat.
‘They didn’t — they didn’t even touch me,’ Noct said. He still had to let them inspect him, run their hands down his body to check for injuries, but it wasn’t as if he could have gone anywhere anyway because all he could see was Ignis’ body, red streaked and limp and sodden, and suddenly he didn’t have the ability to move any more. Because Ignis wasn’t moving. He’d been laid out on the floor, they weren’t checking his heart of breathing or anything any more, and he still wasn’t moving. The ground tilted away under Noctis’ hands and knees, and his heart squeezed and squeezed until he thought it might as well just give up. Ignis couldn’t — he couldn’t—
It was like the whole world drained away and got replaced with something awful and cold and painful and he was sobbing. He couldn’t stop himself shoving forwards, and there was a glaive’s hands on his shoulders trying gently to tug him away and he was fighting back because he was never going to leave Ignis’ side (not that it mattered because Ignis was dead and Ignis was gone and he was never going to tut at Noctis or smile at him in that way Ignis did, with his lips quirking up just at the corners, or sneak him out of the Citadel at night when no one else even knew he felt bad, he was dead and he was dead because of Noctis, Noctis’ fault—).
Which was when he realised they had an elixir and they were giving it to Ignis. Which means he had to be alive.
Hope flared in him, wild and terrifying, because what if he were wrong? But he pushed past the glaive and up on his knees beside Ignis, and he was still crying too hard to even speak but someone said: ‘He’s alive, don’t worry, Your Highness, he’ll pull through.’ — and it was like a star bursting to life in his chest, a million million tonnes of light and energy because Ignis was still alive and he was going to be okay.
‘He’s got,’ Noctis managed, barely, through his running nose and the way he couldn’t breathe properly, sobs tearing up his lungs. But this was important. ‘They — there’s nails in him. In the wounds.’ Because one of the first lessons he got drilled into him in healing magic was when not to use it, and how important it was that whoever was healing the patient knew as much as possible.
All four glaive paused, but only for a second. The elixir washed over Ignis, and the little wounds on his sides closed over, skin mending like those videos of things breaking played in reverse. ‘It’s most important we stop the bleeding,’ the glaive — Alceda said, and that was right, her name was Alceda. ‘He’ll be going straight to the hospital where they can operate and remove any shrapnel.’
Which made sense, but thinking of those nails tucked inside Ignis’ body, the skin grown over the top of them, made Noctis feel sick. More sick. His stomach clenched; he swallowed, hard, and gulped to try soften the sobs that were still spilling up and out of his lungs, making his chest hurt. He wanted to ask if he could touch Ignis, and was interrupted by the sight of Ignis stirring.
He lurched forwards, stopped by Alceda’s hands on his upper arms, her body blocking his way. ‘One moment,’ she said, and Noctis hated her, because Ignis was twisting, eyes blinking open, squinting to search the room. He was gasping out Noctis’ name.
‘Ignis,’ another of the glaive said, kneeling by his side, ‘good to see you back with us. I’m Sota — I don’t think we’ve met, but I’ve seen you around! You train with the polearm, don’t you? His Highness is right over there, unharmed; you just lie here and we’ll have you on your way to the hospital in no time. Try not to move, that’s it.’
Ignis didn’t even seem to hear her. He twisted, and gasped, and Noctis wasn’t even sure if it was in pain or trying to say his name. Ignis’ hands moved to his sides, and Sota grabbed him by the wrists. ‘Ignis,’ she said, firmer this time. ‘Ignis, can you hear me? I’m Sota from the Kingsglaive; hold still while we wait for the ambulance to get you to the hospital.’
Ignis shook his head, arching his back, breath starting to come panicky-fast. He was trying to tug his hands from Sota, but it was obvious he was too weak to do anything but struggle in her grip. Sota swore in Galahadrian.
‘No,’ Ignis said, and choked on the word, coughing. Noctis thought of the nails still inside him and didn’t resist as he was pushed back to sit on the sticky floor.
‘No,’ Ignis said again, whimpering, but he’d stopped trying to free himself. ‘Please, don’t—’
‘Ignis, you’re safe,’ Sota said. ‘Prince Noctis is safe. We’re going to get you to the hospital.’
There was a bruise spreading across Ignis’ waist, creeping slowly under his skin like wine soaking through a tablecloth. ‘No. I can — I can still—’
He broke off to pant, biting down whimpers, and that was when the paramedics arrived. They were talking to the glaives who’d been outside the room, and were firing off words at them and each other that were too hard, too quick for Noctis to catch. He pushed himself to his feet, head spinning, and grabbed hold of Sota’s arm.
‘I’m going with him,’ he said, and managed to be authoritative until his voice broke in the middle of the sentence. He looked down at Ignis, being lifted onto a stretcher. ‘I’m going with him,’ he said again, even worse than the first time.
Ignis didn’t seem to recognise him when their eyes met, but that didn’t matter. The thought of him being wheeled away, out of sight, the paramedics doing fuck knew what with him — Noctis felt like he’d shatter at just the thought of it. He needed to be there. Needed to see him.
‘You’ll have to ask the paramedics,’ Sota said. ‘You’ll need a checkup anyway, so if not we can drive you straight there after him.’
‘No, I’m going with him,’ Noctis said. ‘In the ambulance.’ His voice creaked with the last word. He only barely managed to hold back adding please.
‘D’you want me to talk to them?’ Sota asked, and the kindness and sudden understanding made Noctis want to curl up on the floor and cry. He nodded instead, a small, jerky movement, and broke away from her to follow the stretcher as they wheeled Ignis out of the room.