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Prompto isn’t avoiding the Citadel. It’s just that—after they’ve taken care of Noct’s body, once they start rebuilding instead of just surviving, there really isn’t any reason for him to go there all that often. He has no reason to roam its halls and mourn the other people who died there, like Gladio. He is not consulting with a bevvy of experts about which utilities and which wrecked buildings need to be taken care of first, like Ignis.
He’s a scout and a messenger and a general fixer, someone who finally figured out how to channel his nervous energy into productive things while the world was ending. He goes wherever he can be useful. Sometimes it’s hauling old rubble out of the streets so vehicles can make headway. Sometimes it’s joining a truck convoy and moving supplies between Lestallum and Insomnia. Sometimes it’s sorting through the wreckage of a half-collapsed electronics store and figuring out what’s salvageable.
(Sometimes he’s a coward, not wanting to go back to the place where he—where they —lost Noctis.
No. They didn’t lose him. Noctis chose to go, and they— he —stayed behind to defend the way while Noctis ascended.)
Prompto knows that someone’s going to call him on it eventually. He isn’t exactly surprised that it’s Gladio, but he is surprised by the terse text: We need you at the Citadel at 20:00.
No explanation, not even a please, though technically it’s just a statement, not a command.
I’ll be there, Prompto sends. He sets an alarm on his phone and then shoves his phone in his pocket so he can throw himself back into work.
It’s probably better to set foot inside the Citadel ahead of the anniversary, Prompto tells himself. That way he doesn’t have to deal with being back in the Citadel again for the first time while it’s also crammed full of people wanting to pay their respects at the public memorial. Get this done and over with so there’s less of a chance he’ll be a wreck on the actual day, when he has to put on his suit again and stand up in front of the public so they can gawk at him while he tries to not fall apart.
(He is still going to fall apart.)
Iris is the one waiting for him on the Citadel’s main steps, and it isn’t until Prompto spots her at the edge of the floodlights that he realizes he was bracing himself for some kind of awful déjà vu. But it’s just Iris, nearly twenty-six, hair pulled back with a dark red ribbon that looks nearly black.
Prompto waves to her; she calls his name. But even from the base of the stairs he can hear the strain in it.
Shit. Something must be really wrong.
“Hey,” Prompto says and spreads his arms. “It’s been a while.”
Iris is wearing fingerless gloves tonight instead of brass knuckles. She steps in and hugs him tight enough his ribs creak. “And whose fault is that?”
“Mine,” Prompto wheezes, and she finally lets him go. “So on a scale from Gladio’s-going-to-chew-me-out to the-world’s-ending-again, how hard do I need to brace myself?”
Iris takes too long to respond, and when she does, her words come out soft, apologetic. “Hard as you can.”
Prompto doesn’t ask; Iris doesn’t offer. She also doesn’t leave the elevator when it dings to a stop and the doors open. “The throne room,” is all she says, as if there were anywhere else on this floor Gladio or Ignis would be waiting for him.
He tosses her a little salute on his way out but can’t get his throat working for a proper thanks or bye.
Prompto remembers every turn, every hallway, every door of this walk. Everything looks nicer than it did almost a year ago, and he hates it. It’s just as empty of people as last time, so at least no one but Gladio and Ignis will be witness to whatever freak out he has over this the-world’s-ending-again thing.
(Emptier, since Noctis isn’t here this time.)
His footsteps echo on the marble; Prompto breathes deep and tries to get his heart to settle down to that steady pace. It’s a fight he doesn’t win.
Gladio and Ignis are waiting for him in the antechamber outside the throne room’s double doors, on their feet and facing him.
Prompto’s stomach sinks the moment he sees them. While both of them dressed down to their usual off-duty wear, their body language is far from comfortable. Gladio’s standing rigid, hands clasped behind him and jaw tight with nothing good. Ignis is trying for something like his customary composure, but his lips are pressed thin and bloodless.
The question claws its way out of his throat. “What’s wrong?”
Gladio glances once at Ignis, sees clearly that Ignis is not ready to answer, and then forces himself to meet Prompto’s eyes. “Has the sun set completely?”
“Yeah,” Prompto answers. The worry that’s been gnawing at his guts since Gladio’s text is rapidly being replaced by fear. “Just before I met Iris downstairs. What’s going on?”
“Noctis,” Ignis says, and even though Prompto half expected this had something to do with Noctis if they were meeting at the throne room, the name is still a knife jammed under his sternum. “He is—he cannot—”
Noctis. Present tense.
The throne room.
Grief and fury and even fear and Gladio texting we need you.
Several things happen in Prompto’s brain too fast for him to stop his body from hurling itself through the double doors.
There aren’t any grotesque illusions dangling from chains this time. No Crystal husk looming ominously from on high. But there is one Lucis Caelum seated on the throne.
Noctis is limned in crystalline blue and silver moonlight, leaning off center from his seat, like he doesn’t have the strength to keep himself upright. With what seems like the last of his strength, he passes his sword to—to an armored—
“Noct!” Prompto screams because he knows exactly how this story ended.
Then Gladio is there, catching him around the waist with both arms. Prompto thrashes in his grip, but Gladio does not budge.
Neither does Noctis when the echo of his father runs him through.
Prompto screams again, and now Ignis is there on the other side, helping Gladio wrestle him to the ground.
Up above, Noctis flickers, disappears.
And with him, all of Prompto’s fight vanishes.
Prompto sags in Ignis and Gladio’s arms. A distant part of him notes they’re crying, too. Prompto can’t take satisfaction or comfort from it.
“It’ll start again,” Gladio warns roughly. “The twelve kings of old and Regis there at the end.”
Ignis draws in a shuddering breath. “A continual loop until sunrise.”
“Why?” Prompto demands.
This isn’t—this isn’t fair. Noctis already died, for him, for them, for everyone. He shouldn’t have to be trapped like this, constantly reliving his sacrifice.
“We don’t know,” Ignis says. He hasn’t sounded so helpless since—
Blue-sliver lights flicker into being above them: the ghostly shapes of the Lucii, armored and armed, and Noctis once again waiting for them on his throne.
Gladio lets go of Prompto and buries his face in his hands.
“We have to stop this,” Prompto whispers.
“We will,” Ignis says, but Prompto can feel Ignis’s hand shaking when he tries to give Prompto a reassuring squeeze.
The first Lucii breaks formation and runs Noctis through again.