A/N: This is the second in a series of stories designed to fill in the holes of the XV plot. As such, and as far as I could make it, this series is canon-compliant. Footnotes are available on the AO3 version explaining certain plot decisions and references. Enjoy!

Chapter One: The Unimaginable

Ignis woke with a start to the sounds of running feet and shouting voices, positive that he hadn't been asleep for long. He was proven correct a moment later when, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned to see the clock on his bedside table telling him he'd only gone to bed an hour ago. It was relatively early in the evening, he knew, but still well past the hour that the Citadel should be so active.

Perhaps active wasn't the right word—uproar seemed far more appropriate as the hysteria outside his room only increased in volume. Frowning perplexedly, Ignis snatched his glasses from the nightstand and donned them as he hastened to open the door.

On the other side, everything was madness.

Guards were always stationed on this floor, tasked with protecting the prince at all costs should some misfortune befall Insomnia and the Citadel become compromised. As Noctis's future advisor (in training), Ignis was kept close by for more than just supervision. At ten years old, he was only two years the prince's senior, and they'd become fast friends not long after meeting when Ignis was first inducted into the program. Being close was convenient for their friendship, although there were practical reasons as well: the more time they spent together, the closer they would become and the more effective their working relationship would be by the time they grew up.

At least, that was what Ignis's instructors always said. He had his reservations, especially on days when Noct wanted to go play and poked fun at Ignis's excuses of homework and lessons and boring stuff like that. No matter how many times he reminded the prince, Noct never seemed to grasp the fact that Ignis was here to do a good job—if he didn't, who knew if they would try to find someone else? That would be the end of not only his future, but probably his friendship with Noct as well.

That had been his prevailing concern earlier that day when Noct had come bounding into his room expecting him to drop his studies and go exploring with him (and his security detail, of course) on the outskirts of Insomnia. It had been difficult to say no; after all, he'd slaved away over a report about the Old Wall for the better part of three days and desperately needed the break. Still, he'd turned the prince down. His instructors didn't say he was mature beyond his years for nothing, and it was his responsibility to finish his obligations before he sought out the fun side of living in the Citadel. (Much as he secretly would have loved to go, not that he was about to tell Noct that.)

From the looks of things, it appeared that the prince had yet to return from his adventure, but his room was bustling with activity nonetheless. Guards were sweeping in and out, hustling in every direction as they ran to and from the elevators. Just inside the door, he could spy two of the court doctors speaking in hushed, almost panicked voices as they set intimidating medical supplies out on Noct's bedside table.

Ignis stared blankly until he wasn't sure how long he'd been standing in his doorway, gawping at the scene before him. It wasn't until he heard his name called by a clear, collected voice that he shook himself from his stupor and peeked down the corridor to see the Marshal watching him with stern eyes.

Oh, no…

With no small degree of trepidation, Ignis made his way down the hall towards him, attempting to stay as close to the wall as possible lest he get run over by one of the adults in their hurry.

"You're supposed to be in bed," the Marshal pointed out, although there was little in the way of a rebuke in his tone.

Nervously scuffing his socked foot against the marble floor, Ignis struggled to maintain eye contact (a sign of strength, his instructors had told him) as he explained, "I heard the noise, Marshal. What's happening?"

He thought for a second that asking was a step too far. Certainly, the Marshal didn't appear pleased with him for doing so and stared at him with an expression Ignis wasn't able to read. It wasn't often that he could decipher Cor Leonis's thoughts (despite his talent for doing so with pretty much everyone else), but today he was particularly inscrutable. It took a long time for the Marshal to say anything, but Ignis waited in obedient silence under the weight of those piercing eyes, reminding himself of what he'd learned in his lessons:

His job was to learn, not to interrogate.

His job was to ask, not to demand.

His place was behind and to the side, not at the fore.

You'd do well to remember that, he repeated silently, hearing his instructor's voice in his head like they were standing beside him. After all these years, he had it committed to memory and—usually—acted on his lessons without a second thought.

It was difficult, however, when the guards were behaving as though they were under attack.

Somehow, he managed to hold his tongue long enough that he began to wonder whether he would be getting an answer to his question at all. It was only after an agonizingly immeasurable moment that the Marshal eased his stance and sighed, though his expression lost nothing of its severity. For a man so young, Cor the Immortal looked…well, old.

"Maybe it's better that you see," he muttered, seemingly more to himself than Ignis, "so you know what you're up against."

Frowning, Ignis could only inquire, "Sir?"

The Marshal didn't appear to be listening, however. Instead, he nodded once as though deciding something important and ordered, "Come with me," before setting a rapid pace towards the elevators.

Not one to need telling twice, Ignis hastened to follow in his wake. If he thought he would get more information, though, he was sadly mistaken. The Marshal didn't say another word as they stepped into one of the lifts and descended to the lobby.

When the doors slid open, it was to reveal a scene even more chaotic than upstairs. The entrance was filled with enough guards that Ignis really was beginning to think they were under attack. If it weren't for the fact that the king maintained the Wall—another thing he'd had to learn a lot about for Noct's benefit—it would have been a feasible idea. Every inch of space was crowded with Citadel guards, members of the Crownsguard, and even the Kingsglaive, all of whom were armed as if awaiting orders to fight.

Before Ignis had a chance to open his mouth to ask what was going on once more, the Marshal was off, and his feet slipped and slid on the smooth marble as he hurried to keep up. Ignis stayed close behind him as they wound their way through the throng towards the front entrance, where more of the Kingsglaive and the higher members of King Regis's court were waiting tensely on the front stairs.

The Marshal paused for a moment, quickly scanning the crowd before spotting his goal and making a beeline for Clarus Amicitia, the King's Shield himself.

"Clarus," he called out when they were but a few feet away. "Have they arrived yet?"

Master Clarus shook his head somberly, the corners of his lips turned down. "They should be here any minute now. Are the preparations complete?"

"Everyone is in place."

"Very good." The King's Shield paused, his eyes alighting on Ignis for the first time, and the latter saw a flicker of disquiet cross his face. "Cor, are you certain it is appropriate for the boy to see?"

"He needs to be ready," was all the Marshal replied, and Master Clarus reluctantly left it at that with a frown of mild disapproval. There was a tiny bubble of pride that inflated in Ignis's chest at the confidence Cor the Immortal was showing in him, but it didn't last long.

As if on cue, the squealing of tires rent the air above the quiet murmuring of the assemblage. All voices fell silent and all heads turned in the direction of the main gates, where three of the Citadel cars were racing towards them.

Ordering Ignis to stay put, the Marshal moved forward with Master Clarus as all three automobiles screeched to a halt at the foot of the staircase. The rear door of the middle vehicle opened before it had come to a full stop, and King Regis emerged with a frantic gleam in his eyes that Ignis had never seen him wear before. His normally calm, confident, unflappable aura was conspicuously absent tonight. In its place was a soul-consuming hopelessness, as if the Wall had come crashing down and washed the world away along with it. In the back of his mind, Ignis registered that he had never witnessed their seemingly infallible leader appearing less like royalty, regardless of his kingly raiment. Despite the directive that he should have obeyed, Ignis's curiosity had him advancing a few steps as the king swept around and ducked back inside the car.

"Gently," Ignis could just barely hear someone saying. "Watch his head."

A moment later, he understood what was going on without truly comprehending it in the least.

The Marshal and Master Clarus shifted out of the way to give Ignis a clear view of the king where he was straightening back to his full height, Noct held closely in his arms. For the slightest fraction of an instant, Ignis was able to convince himself that nothing was wrong, that Noctis must have fallen asleep in the car on their way back and King Regis was taking him upstairs to bed without waking him.

Then he saw the blood.

It was everywhere. His T-shirt, his vest, his pants—everything was stained a deep, deadly red. Blood-soaked bandages were wrapped tightly around his right arm and peeked out from beneath the leg of his pants, not that they were doing much good: Noct's life was dripping out from underneath, running down his limbs and spattering the ground at the king's feet. What little Ignis could see of his face was almost translucently pale, the only signs of color coming from cuts across his cheek and a line of blood dribbling down from beneath his hair.

The prince looked like death, but the king was the one who appeared to be dying.

"Clarus, the doctors?" he demanded breathlessly. Ignis distantly noted that it had nothing to do with Noct's insubstantial weight.

"Waiting in the prince's room," Master Clarus immediately replied, trailing behind him as King Regis practically ran up the stairs to the entrance. The Marshal motioned for Ignis to follow, which he somehow managed despite the sudden numbness in his legs, and Master Clarus spared one brief glance back at the cars before tentatively asking, "Where are the other survivors, Your Majesty?"

It seemed to take an eternity for the king to pause on the threshold of the Citadel and turn to look at his Shield, eyes heavier with the weight of his burden than his arms. Ignis was unsurprised when he answered, "There were no other survivors."

With that, King Regis spun on his heel and led the way through the now silent lobby of the Citadel. Bodies moved out of the way left and right to offer them unimpeded passage, and the assembled guards watched with wide, sympathetic eyes as the king strode past them with all the dignity he could muster. None of it was for himself, that much was clear: it was for his son, who needed him to be strong now more than ever.

If it were him, Ignis wasn't sure he would have had the fortitude to do the same. How could someone carry the person they loved more than anything through a crowded room and not show how much it bothered them that they were hurt—that they might be dying? And King Regis did love Noct more than anything, in spite of the prince's statements to the contrary. Ignis couldn't entirely blame him: it was difficult to see your father when the king kept standing in the way, but to all others, it was obvious that the king adored his son more than his throne—more than his very kingdom—more than life itself.

And now he might have to watch the object of his adoration and the last of his bloodline perish before his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Ignis fought to keep that thought out of his head as he accompanied the trio into the first empty elevator they reached and began the journey back up to their floor of the Citadel. It was almost as though the Marshal had forgotten he was present, and the king obviously had other matters monopolizing his attention. Master Clarus, however, shot him a quick look of discomfort that reminded Ignis he had his own son, a year older than Ignis was, who would someday serve as Noct's shield just as his father had for King Regis. At least, if there was any justice in this world, he would.

Ignis had thought the elevator couldn't go any slower before, but it appeared determined to prove him wrong as it took a veritable eternity to sound their arrival. As soon as the doors were open wide enough, the king slipped through, careful to avoid bumping Noct's feet or head against the metal. If it weren't for the fact that jostling Noct was likely to make things worse, Ignis thought he would have run down the corridor to the prince's room. As it was, he nevertheless made it there in record time, and Ignis found himself waiting in the doorway with the Marshal as the doctors began their work.

Time slowed down while he watched them settle Noct on his stomach, pull up his shirt, and stare at the deep slice from his ribs to his tailbone. Ignis felt like a heavy weight was sitting on his chest, forcing him to take uneven, shallow breaths that could probably match the ones the prince was only just managing. There was so much red everywhere that he could hardly imagine there was any left where it was supposed to be. It seeped out from the cut and rolled down to stain the sheets in fat, dense droplets. The air around him reeked of liquid metal, making it all the more difficult to breathe even as his eyes began to lose their focus on the scene unfolding before him. It took too long for him to realize that his blurred vision wasn't due to a problem with his glasses, but the tears misting over his eyes yet refusing to fall all the same. Perhaps they were taunting him, or maybe they were simply trying to spare him the sight of his friend—his future—lying prone while the doctors did what they could to stem the flow of his life as it slowly leaked from its vessel.

"To serve royalty is a burden."

Futilely attempting to blink the dampness from his eyes, Ignis tore his gaze from his prince to see the Marshal's towering form beside him. He'd always cut an impressive figure whenever Ignis saw him, exuding power and security with every breath he took. Although his presence had never failed to inspire awe in Ignis, he felt nothing in that moment but the numbness of loss and the potential to lose even more.

Without so much as glancing in Ignis's direction to see if he was listening, the Marshal continued, "It's a burden that rivals even the king's, one you'll have to live with for the rest of your life."

Ignis nodded slowly, but the Marshal wasn't finished. This time, he turned and waited for Ignis to meet his eyes before he cautioned, "You will live in constant fear for your king. For your friend," he added, his voice softer.

Unable to maintain his silence a moment longer, Ignis heard his own broken voice blurt out, "How do you do it?"

"By learning to live with that fear and turning it into action," he replied with a confidence born of surviving the same grief Ignis was growing acquainted with for longer than the latter could fathom.

This was what he had signed up for, though. His instructors had warned him of that on countless occasions. Maybe it made him foolish, but he'd thought it would be many years before he would need to worry about any threat to Noctis. He was still a child—in spite of the praise Ignis received from his elders, they both were—and who would want to harm someone so small? That was for the king to concern himself with, and the time for Noct to take the throne was far off.

Not far enough, he mused miserably. Yes, he'd been foolish not to listen to his instructors, and his price was his lack of preparation for the sight before him.

But no more. In that moment, as Ignis pulled in a deep and shuddering breath, he made a promise not only to himself, but to the prince he'd sworn to serve until his dying day: he would be prepared. He would shoulder the same burden Cor the Immortal had and emerge victorious. There was no decision to be made, no choice lying before him. There was only a boy who was destined to one day become king, and Ignis would do everything in his power to ensure he lived to see it.

So, he fought the tears. He fought the despair. He fought the urge to go back to his room and pretend Noct would come bother him about playing in the morning—whenever it was he deigned to get out of bed.

Instead, Ignis held his chin up high and straightened his shoulders as he turned to watch the doctors frantically putting his friend's pieces back together.