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Ignis Scientia is reknowned for his composure under pressure. He is a shining example of graciousness in even the most appalling of situations, a master of the fine and (within the workings of government) exceedingly rare skill of maintaining a pleasant, even friendly facade no matter the provocation. It is widely known that he remains calm and controlled no matter the circumstance, and equally widely believed that nothing can phase him, nothing can truly pierce that smooth demeanour. This is a belief Ignis has not so much encouraged as actively fostered, and it’s a very rare person who has ever observed anything to the contrary.
That rare person is with him now, but so are two slightly less rare people, and for the first time he is facing the distinct possibility of that calm control slipping from him in front of them. He has no intention of letting that happen. So he turns his mind to stilling his restless and sore muscles, to slowing and evening his breathing. To schooling his features to his well practised calm mask- unclench the jaw, smooth out the brow, pull the left corner of the mouth upward just a tad, ignore the steady stream of water dripping down nose and chin….
And damn his bloody wandering thoughts, again! He can’t help the huff of frustration he lets out as his carefully built focus shatters once more and the reality he’d so very much like to deny hits him full force.
He’s bloody freezing, thanks in part to the simple fact that, well, it’s cold here, but largely because he’s also bloody drenched. Soaked to the skin with his clothes plastered to him, except for the hems of his trousers which are of course trailing through fetid mud. Water is streaming from his hair almost as if he’s standing under a shower head, and he’d be worried about it streaming down the back of his jacket and shirt if the damn things weren’t already soaked right through anyway. Astrals know his gloves are going to be bloody well ruined and his shoes! They’re not so much saturated as they are just… just… expensive bags of bloody water at this stage. He’s fairly certain his feet are essentially swimming in the formerly stylish leather, anyway- it’s hard to be absolutely sure when he hasn’t been able to feel the damn things for the last hour, and if he’s being honest he’d have to admit that the horrible squelching sound with each step he takes could just as easily be the bloody swamp that Noct is “leading” them through as it could be the abused leather of his footwear.
His numbed feet and toes are making the going all the tougher over the muddy grass, and muddy roots and muddy rocks. Mud is definitely the main feature of this area, and the muddy puddles are a particularly special, and unfortunately frequent, treat. He’s not sure any more whether his sodden state is more a result of the unceasing downpour or his regular face first stumbles into the muddiest and wettest terrain this Astrals damned place has to offer. Those stumbles are happening more and more frequently as he’s lost feeling to the cold first in his feet, and now in his hands too. How exactly is one supposed to feel his way around with a cane which he can barely even keep hold of, let alone feel an obstacle with? While traversing an unfamiliar, uneven and bloody, sodding, soaking, muddy, slimy, root-infested swamp?!
For that, at least, he has to take a good part of the blame. Perhaps Gladio was right to call him over proud for his insistence on finding his own way rather than taking the arm Prompto had offered. But dammit he has to learn! What good will he be to Noct, dependent on others to lead him by the hand? Fighting, he’ll concede, just isn’t feasible for a man newly blinded and relearning the world around him, and his place in it. But he’ll be damned if he can’t at least walk along a path! Well, Noct says it’s a path, but how much of a path can it really be when it’s so obviously bloody liquid?
He sighs, and winces at a particularly bubbly sounding squelch as his next step plunges him ankle deep in mud, and that same mud tries to suck the cane right out of his hand. Of course he overbalances, and of course he suddenly finds himself hurtling mudwards, only just catching himself on his hands and knees before he face plants- he can smell the foul stuff inches from his nose. And of course Prompto’s there in an instant, helping him back up, returning the cane, checking he’s not hurt. It’s instinctive to assure him there’s no harm done, even if that may not be precisely true. While the mud does at least provide for a soft landing, there are enough rocks strewn throughout it that Ignis can feel the effects of his many falls. He’ll need to be careful tonight to keep the numerous grazes and, no doubt, bruises hidden. Ignis is grateful for the assistance, though, and for Prompto’s obvious concern.
Noct’s concern is equally obvious to him (athough not, apparently, to Gladio) in the way he’s working so hard to scout ahead, covering two or three times the distance of the rest of them to keep the distance with which Ignis has to contend to a minimum. Ignis can hear him warping for all he’s worth every time they encounter unfriendly local wildlife, and on several occasions has felt the tell tale rush of air at his side as Noct’s leapt to defend him from an enemy he was only vaguely aware was almost upon him. Not one of those enemies have so much as scratched Ignis today.
Gladio, though…..
Ignis can hear Gladio’s progress through the mud ahead- heavy footed but brisk, as near a stomp as the conditions allow. Occasional changes in the tone of his incessant, almost sub-vocal growl are accompanied by brief lulls in his tread. Ignis has by now realised this means Gladio is pausing to look back, to check on his progress. The growl turns harsher as Ignis and Prompto catch up a little.
“Hey, Your Majesty! You even remember us back here?!” Gladio’s shout is a sneer, full of anger and venom. If Noct deigns to answer (and Ignis rather hopes he doesn’t) his response is lost under the combined noise of the pounding rain, the sloshing/squelching of their footsteps and Gladio’s continuing, but mostly unintelligible, grumbling. Mostly unintelligible. Ignis catches enough words, and certainly enough of the tone, as Gladio starts after Noct again, to make his jaw clench and bile rise in his throat. He needs to fix this. Somehow.
And there was the problem, a harsher reality than even this Gods damned, sodden, miserable trek. He could no more fix this than he could just open his eyes and see. Which was really just a different side of the same bloody problem, wasn’t it? All his training, his years of experience and dedication, the sharp mind and strategic thinking that he’d taken such care to cultivate, and his keen observation and understanding, everything that was him…. It was all bloody useless without his sight. He has only the vaguest idea of their surroundings, and no forewarning of any potential dangers. He’s largely guessing at their positions relative to each other, and even if Noct were to scream in agony right this second Ignis would be more likely to propel himself face first into the mud than to be able to do a damn thing to help. He’s got next to no advice to give, because to give advice he would need to know a hell of a lot more about their surroundings and situation. What he does know is that they’re falling apart- no, not falling, ripping themselves apart. Hurt and scared and turning all their seething guilt in precisely the wrong directions. Exactly the type of situation where he should be taking the helm and guiding them all through- where before he’d have seen the opportune moment for the right words or just a supportive nod of the head. Even the meaningful glare, which had never failed Ignis before, was gone.
It had been a blessed relief to get to Cartanica station, out of the confined space and forced inactivity of the train. Some exercise, some purposeful task, Ignis had thought, would help them all.
But it’s been hours now in this freezing hellhole, and despite the cold and the frequent monster attacks (which of course Gladio is in the thick of, every time- Ignis can hear the grunts as Gladio swings his greatsword, slewing through flesh) Gladio is just as angry and bullheaded as ever. Every growl at Noct is met by a muttered, surly response, and Ignis can feel the antagonism rising between the two, and worse than this whole bloody swamp full of ice cold slime and mud he hates his bloody uselessness and the overwhelming exhaustion of body and mind that is making him helpless to do a damn thing about it.
Another stumble, and he lands hard on one knee, wincing in pain as he somehow finds the one bit of solid bloody rock amid the quagmire around him. At least he’s managed to keep a hold of the cane this time, though, and he’s back on his feet before (he thinks; hopes) any of the others notice. He’s not sure he’s turned towards the right direction though, so he takes a moment to listen for the sloshing of the others’ steps as he traces arcs around him with the cane. He’s briefly further disoriented by the lack of splashing feet around him, and it takes a few moments for his ears to recalibrate to the slap of soles against solid rock. Satisfied with his bearings, and inordinately relieved to be leaving waterlogged bog behind, however brief the reprieve may turn out to be, he sets off again. It’s a slog to pull his feet through the mud onto the firm rock, carefully feeling out each step with numb feet and hands- there appear to be no roots to tangle his feet here, but the ground, although blessedly solid, is hardly even, and it’s slippy from the deluge of rain. He rolls his shoulders and swivels his head, trying to ease the stiffness in shoulders and neck, and is pleased to realise that rain no longer pelts at him- there’s only slight drizzle now, the kind that would soak a person to the skin without them even noticing, were that person not already so soaked.
Ahead he hears Noct and Gladio’s bickering break off suddenly, replaced with the familiar sounds of the prince’s warping, Gladio’s battles cries and Prompto’s gunshots. Ignis calls a dagger to his free hand, the better part of prudence with an obvious battle ahead, and grimaces once again at his uselessness. The ground is definitely sloping upwards here (all to the good, perhaps the slog through endless mud actually is over) and Ignis takes slow, careful steps towards the sounds of fighting, determined at the very least to be on hand with restoratives, should they be needed. No matter how frequently the party have come under attack today his heart just can’t get used to knowing Noct’s in danger, just feet away from him, and him unable to rush to his prince’s defence. Ignis swallows down the sick fear for Noct and concentrates his remaining senses on deciphering the battle.
It’s hard to follow Noct’s movements, as he warps to and fro across the field, but the distinctive whooshing sound does map out the boundaries in Ignis’s mind- 100 square feet or thereabouts, and most of the monsters closely packed. Picking out the growls of the enemy gives him a rough count- at least six left- and from Gladio’s grunts and the long swooshing of his greatsword Ignis can tell the Shield has drawn the cluster, and is now swinging in deadly arcs to mow them down. Prompto’s shots still ring out, from rather closer than Ignis might like (he does not need his hearing impaired), and from the lessening cacophony in the center of the fight it sounds like he’s managing a few good headshots. Noct has stopped warping now. Ignis has a moment of worry, that he’s drained himself into stasis, but no, there are simply no more rogue monsters on the outskirts. He hears two greatswords slicing through air and flesh, crunching through bone, one last gunshot from a little closer to the center of the fight, and a final gurgling squeal from…. Well, from whatever the hell his friends were fighting.
Noct and Gladio are both breathing hard (Gladio snatching at breaths between growling at Noct about racing ahead. Again.) as Ignis steps forward to check on them. He feels his way carefully, but between the uneven ground and the carcasses and the slippy mess of blood and entrails he’s barely taken a step before he’s tumbling, biting back curses as he falls. He really doesn’t want to think of what his hand has just landed in- he’s been wading through water most of the bloody day, and now, when he could actually use a damn puddle, or even a good hard downpour, to rid himself of monster innards, there’s only a lessening drizzle to be had. Ugh. His clothes are no doubt ruined anyway, and are certainly the best source of water immediately available to him, so he wipes off his hand on his trousers as he accepts Prompto’s help to gain his feet again.
“Everyone alright?”
Its the first Ignis has actually spoken for at least an hour, and he’s shocked by the exhaustion in his voice. Perhaps the others are too, as Noct suddenly stops the quiet, but venomous, grumbling in response to Gladio’s tirade, and Gladio himself is suddenly at Ignis’s side, arm sliding under Ignis’s armpit and round his back to support him.
“Yeah, we’re all fine, Specs,” says Noctis.
“Let me see.” Ignis yanks off Gladio’s arm with a frown and a glare in (he hopes) the man’s direction, and gently brushes off Prompto’s hand with a nod and a small smile of thanks. He hears Noct sigh, and can imagine the eye roll that goes with it, but he has his duties, and beyond that he simply will not let any harm befall this boy, not if there’s anything he can do to help it. That thought stirs a remembered vision, and a voice, in his mind, but he’s getting very good at pushing those down. For later, when his mind is sharp and they aren’t exposed and vulnerable.
Noct allows him to run his hands over him, checking for injuries, tsking at the new tears in his clothing. There are some small cuts and grazes, but nothing that a potion won’t fix. He pulls one from the Armiger and presses it into Noct’s hand. Then he turns back to Gladio.
Gladio, presumably, sees him coming. Perhaps he’s smarting from Ignis’s reaction to his gesture before, because he’s stomping off ahead before Ignis has even brought his cane round. Ignis shakes his head in frustration, while Noct grumbles “Huh. And I need to stop racing ahead?” and starts off after Gladio.
Prompto, ever the mediator, touches Ignis’s arm again, “He’s OK, dude. Physically, at least. I mean. Not hurt. He’s not wounded or anything, is what I mean.”
“Thank you, Prompto.” He means it too. All Ignis had been able to confirm of Gladio’s health was that he wasn’t limping, which still left a world of potentially serious wounds for him to be hiding rather than admit to having been injured, or to needing help. Especially given his current mood.
Prompto takes Ignis’s hand and places it on his arm. Ignis immediately tries to pull it back, but is stopped by Prompto’s hand firm on top of his.
“Iggy...” Prompto sighs, his voice full of weariness and sadness both. “Dude, I’m sorry. I know you wanna find your own way, but…. Maybe this isn’t the best place to be learning that? Let us help you for now. Please?”
Ignis feels Prompto’s hand on his own arm, tugging at the sodden leather, making a silent point. It’s a point well made, Ignis concedes- he had wondered how much of his own water logged state was due to the earlier torrential rain, and how much due to his frequent face-plants into that bloody swamp. His brief examination of Noct (wet, certainly, but nowhere near the saturation point that Ignis had long since passed) had allowed him a rather conclusive comparison.
Ignis gives a small nod, and hears the sigh of relief Prompto doesn’t quite manage to suppress, and they start off again.
With Prompto guiding him Ignis has to admit the going is easier. He still stumbles, but Prompto helps him balance each time, and from the weaving path they walk Ignis is sure Prompto is keeping to the easiest terrain. The slight incline is turning into a noticeable hill by the time they catch up with Noct and Gladio. For a wonder, the two aren’t sniping at each other.
“There’s a haven ahead. I could see the smoke from round the next bend,” says Noct.
Oh, thank Shiva!
“Yeah. Noct and I are gonna go ahead, set up the tent, get a fire goin’.” Gladio is gruff, anger still simmering underneath, but this is basic soldier practicality now. “Noct scouted the area.” That was more heated, anger threatening to boil up, and Ignis hears the intake of breath that means Noct is about to jump in, but Gladio keeps his restraint and continues. “There’s nothing nearby to worry about. Any more.”
The silence, particularly from a suddenly less vocal Noct, speaks volumes, but just as Ignis draws breath to expound on the dangers (bloody stupidity in fact) of engaging monsters alone, Prompto speaks up.
“That sounds good, dude! Man, I could do with a rest right now! And a fire… aww yess!! Yeah, you guys go get that started!” Through his hand on Prompto’s arm Ignis can feel the younger man almost bouncing with an enthusiasm that, Ignis suspects, is only slightly exaggerated for the purposes of forestalling his lecture.
With the threat of an ear bashing removed, or at least delayed, Noct finds his voice again. “OK, so we’ll see you guys up there. It’s not too far. Gladio?”
If Gladio responds it isn’t verbal, and Ignis hears the pair turn and run off up the slope, at a much faster pace than they’d managed all day.
“Shall we?” The brightness in Prompto’s tone barely even sounds forced, and Ignis finds himself smiling as he nods his response.
A haven. A fire! Astrals but those words were music to his ears. Noct’s rashness and sullenness, and Gladio’s anger and resentment be damned, if there’s a fire to warm him at the top of this hill then he’ll endure whatever childish arguments might arise around it.
Renewed spirit or not, however, there’s still a steep and uneven climb to deal with, in sodden and freezing clothes, with muscles already screaming from the day’s abuse and quivering with exhaustion. And as he thinks of the promised warmth ahead he finds his concentration on the (formerly) simple task of putting one foot in front of the other shattered. Or perhaps it’s the exhaustion that has him tripping over every raised stone, or loose pebble, or even just his own feet at one point.
By the time they stagger into the camp Prompto is supporting him as much as guiding him. He feels Gladio’s hands on his arm before he even hears him approach, and placidly lets the two lead him to the fire (Blessed, blessed fire!) and deposit him in a chair before it.
“Shit, Iggy, you’re colder than Shiva’s tits!” Gladio’s furious growl is at odds with the tenderness with which his fingers work the buttons of Ignis’s shirt open. He wastes no time peeling Ignis out of his sodden jacket and shirt, the latter clinging wetly to Ignis’s icy skin. Ignis, shivering with the exposure, sets his jaw against the imminent chattering of his teeth and decides to simply endure the attention, humiliating as it is to be stripped and pampered like a frail child. He is at least able to take the towel Prompto presses into his hands and start rubbing himself dry (mercifully even the drizzle has stopped now) and kick off his ruined shoes while Gladio drapes a thick blanket around his shoulders.
Ignis huddles by the fire, letting it’s warmth sink into him and reinvigorate his mind and body, while he half listens to the others finish setting up the tent and making a start on dinner. There’s none of the old familiar banter, but neither is there any arguing, and Ignis is grateful for that small mercy at least.
As he’s lulled by the fire’s heat his thoughts drift back to those first few days after Leviathan in Altissia. Gladio had been a constant presence, holding him, soothing him. He had rocked him through his tears, then helped him put himself back together, piece by jagged piece. He’d noticed, despite a concerted effort at concealement on Ignis’s part (and Ignis is good at hiding things) just how reluctant Ignis was to sleep. And he had, somehow, known that it was the rediscovery of his blindness every time he woke from dreams of vivid, colourful images of the faces of his loved ones, not the nightmares filled with remembered terror and agony, that Ignis couldn’t face. He’d taken Ignis by the hand on the second day, stroked his hair as he pulled them both down onto the bed and wrapped warm, strong arms around him, and promised Ignis he wouldn’t wake alone.
There’s a heat in his eyes (Hah! Oh, the irony!) that threatens tears. He huffs a disgusted laugh- here he is thinking back on better times, and the best he can come up with is that? He can’t even wish for a time when Insomnia wasn’t a mausoleum in the grip of a madman, before it’s people were so ruthlessly slaughtered, when Regis and Clarus and Lady Lunafreya were alive, and when he himself could still bloody see?
“Here, Iggy. It ain’t much of a meal, but it’s hot and it’ll fill your belly.” Gladio’s words draw Ignis back to the present. Ignis extends a hand, and Gladio places a bowl there, warmth from its contents seeping through to Ignis’s skin. Gladio’s thumb brushes against Ignis’s palm at the same time, and Ignis’s breath stills. Was that just chance, or is Gladio trying to bridge the gap between them? Before Ignis can work it out the contact is gone, and the faint creak of leather indicates Gladio turning away.
“Thank you, Gladio,” Ignis says, directing his lips into a smile, though he doesn’t know if Gladio is looking his way to see it.
He receives a grunt of acknowledgement in response, and Gladio’s footsteps recede. Well. That was…. What? Conciliatory? Resigned? Dismissive? Ignis’s smile evaporates and he sighs and turns his attention to the bowl in his hand. His other hand quickly finds the spoon resting against the side of the bowl, and he manages to lift it to his mouth on the second try (he’s both delighted and ashamed by this, but only hitting his chin once is a significant improvement in his adjustment to the day to day realities of blindness).
He nearly splutters in surprise. “Beans?!” Ignis can hear the incredulity in his voice. Dear gods, was Gladio really so petty that he’d forgo Cup Noodles for a chance to irritate Noct?
“Yeah….” says Noct, resignation layered thickly over the unmistakable disgust as he takes a chair beside Ignis, “We need something hot, and I figured y…. we should probably have something with actual nutrition, so….” The rustling of fabric is almost certainly a shrug of his shoulders.
Ignis’s eyebrows rise. “You decided, voluntarily, on beans for dinner?”
Noct’s answering sigh of misery is quickly drowned out by Prompto, “Heh! See how much he loves you Iggy? The ultimate sacrifice, for the sake of nutrition! You have taught him well!”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Noct, with a scuffling sound which Ignis suspects is a kick in Prompto’s direction. “But I’ve got a candy bar to sanitise my mouth afterwards.”
Was that a muffled snort of laughter from Gladio’s direction?
Quite of their own accord Ignis’s lips curl upwards, just a little. “Thank you, Noct.”
They’re not fixed, not even slightly. But maybe they’re strong enough a fabric, maybe they can stitch the tears strongly enough. Ignis is becoming more and more convinced that nothing will fix him, but if they can fix them…. he’ll find a way.