shatteredlenses | Winter Born

Winter Born

Ignis Scientia was seventeen when he realized, quite abruptly, that if the paintings of the prophecy were as accurate as they were supposed to be, he would be blinded sometime before Noctis fulfilled his fate as the Chosen King. It was hardly the first time he had looked at the paintings, of course. He’d studied them a great deal since he came to live with his uncle at the Citadel. He saw them in person; he saw them in books; sometimes, he even saw them in his dreams. It wasn’t unusual he spent so much time studying them. After all, they told the story of the future that awaited him, his charge, and their friends. As the prince’s future advisor, it was his duty to study them. He had to pull every clue from them he could; he needed to understand them just as clearly as he needed to see the world. Everything had to be like crystal. Nothing could be left to chance.

Early on, he pinned down who two of the figures were. Noctis, the Chosen King, was at the center. Even if the figure didn’t really resemble his dark-haired, solemn friend, his identity was clear from the strength in his stance to the light and power that surrounded him. To his left was a blond warrior. Ignis had spent his youth imagining that was him. He had been quite blond back then, though his hair had darkened as he aged, losing that golden gleam and shifting to ash. If the right light hit it, his hair still seemed golden at times, but logic dictated that he could no longer with any real certainty label that yellow-haired warrior as himself.

To the Chosen King’s right were the other two warriors who fought with him. It was the first of the two who Ignis could identify with the same certainty as the King. The dark-haired, gruff, and bearded man who stood just in front of the King with a protective air could be none other than his Shield, Gladiolus Amicitia. Why Gladio had even begun growing his own beard now that he was old enough to. Not nearly as long as the one born by the man in the painting, but considering the fact that members Gladio’s family had held the position of the King’s Shield for ages untold, there was no doubting the man’s identity.

Only one warrior was left after that. Held up only because of the Shield whose arm was around him, the final warrior’s head was bowed. The hood of his cloak hid his hair and a white bandage hid his eyes. He was blind and almost impossible to identify except by process of elimination—a process that couldn’t happen until Ignis found out who the blond-haired man to the King’s left was.

Years passed before that happened. Noctis was in high school when he met a boy of common blood by the name of Prompto. Eyes as blue as the sky with hair just as bright as the sun. It was the night after he met Prompto the first time that Ignis gazed at the painting and finally let those last pieces fall into place.

Prompto was the blond man—of that there was no doubt—and that meant that Ignis had to be the blind one. He was seventeen and he knew the realization should have hit him harder. Even as his left hand shakily came up to touch the skin near the corner of his green eyes, Ignis knew he should have been terrified. Yet, deep down, he wasn’t. He knew without a doubt he would give his vision and more if it was needed to assure Noctis could fulfill his destiny. His life had belonged to the prince since they first met so many years ago when he was just five and Noctis just three. Everything he did was for Noctis. He wasn’t afraid. It was his mind that was his power, not his vision. He could still advise even if he was trapped in the dark. He could still lead the way so that the Chose King could bring Light back to the world.

He wasn’t afraid. Consciously, he knew this. But unconsciously? It was from his unconscious that the nightmares came. The nightmares of eternal darkness and suffocating heat, of spiking pain and unyielding pressure that bore him down and smothered him until he wasn’t sure he even existed anymore. Would they ever end? Sometimes he wondered, but he was fortunate. If waking up gasping so hard for breath that the world spun around him could be called fortunate. The nightmares shortened his already short nights, driving his addiction to caffeine and his devotion to work. The coffee kept him moving, the work kept his mind focused. It was enough to escape from the darkness that would come eternally soon enough.

***************

When Ignis wakes, he’s honestly not sure if he is truly awake or if he is still trapped in one of his nightmares. The darkness is absolute. The pressure is suffocating and pain spikes constantly behind his eyes. The longer he lays there, though, the more little details begin to make themselves known. He can smell the sea in the air, so he is still in Altissia. There is no doubt of that. The blankets and sheets under his hands and over his body are of the finest make, smooth, warm—a cocoon that would be comforting if it didn’t also make him feel as if he was being smothered. And then there is the soft, rhythmic breathing not far to his right. He’s not alone in the room and Ignis isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or worse. Whoever it is must feel secure with him. How else could they let themselves sleep so easily?

Slowly, he tries to pull himself upright in the bed, learning immediately how much of a mistake moving on his own is. Pain flares in his head and no matter how much he tries to swallow the cry it causes, he can’t. It’s like glass is being driven into his eye sockets. Ignis raises his hands to his head, pressing against the bandages covering his eyes as if somehow it might relieve the pain. It’s causing such a roar in his ears that he almost doesn’t hear the questioning voice that calls out to him.

“Iggy? You’re awake?”

Large, cool, gentle hands follow the words. Hands that pull his away, but that also act as an anchor grounding Ignis and letting him detach himself from the pain.

It will never fail to amaze him how hands trained to protect and kill can also be so kind.

“Gladio.” It takes all of Ignis’ willpower to keep from wincing when he hears how weak his own voice is, “Is Noctis…?”

The frustrated sigh that is Gladio’s first response doesn’t surprise Ignis. He can almost see the annoyed look on the Shield’s face. Of course, Ignis is going to ask after Noctis first. He’s the important one.

“He’s fine. Exhausted but fine. The covenant with the Tidemother is complete. Prompto’s keeping an eye on him while he sleeps,” Gladio’s eventual answer is short and to the point. The brief summary he knows Ignis will want before he turns his attention elsewhere. “The Oracle was not so lucky.”

“Lady Lunafreya?”

“She gave her life so he could succeed.”

Ignis bows his head, hands tightening in the blankets covering his body. He’s startled when he feels Gladio’s hands come to rest over his, prying his fingers free and smoothing them flat before he can hurt himself.

“And you?”

“I’m fine,” Ignis says the words before he even has a chance to think them. He knew this was coming. Not that he thought it would happen like this, but…

“Lets advance the prophecy along now, shall we?”

Ignis shivers so hard it almost like he’s convulsing as his memory replays Chancellor Izunia’s words right before….right before…

“Hey, hey. Breathe. Iggy, breathe,” Gladio’s soft voice and his strong arms tightening around Ignis draw him back out of his mind.

“I’m fine,” the words are breathless in a way that says Ignis is very much not fine at the moment.

“You’re not fine. Aren’t you even going to ask? Don’t you want to kn-“

“No,” the denial is harsh, cutting, and a very clear end to the conversation. “I do not want to know.”

After all, he already knows. He’s known for five years.

***************

It takes almost a day for Ignis to be able to get out of bed. Potions and elixirs can only do so much and as soon as he learns just how many have been used on him already, he very sternly cuts off anymore offers. There are others that the curatives can help more than they can help him. Others who aren’t fated to eternal darkness like he is.

His legs shake as he carefully makes his way heel-to-toe from the bed to the wall of the room. Ignis carefully counts his steps, moving slowly, though by the time he reaches the wall he has to brace his hand against it and pray that the world will stop spinning soon. He never would have guessed that it would be so easy to get dizzy without eyes to see, and yet, it makes a surprising amount of sense. His mind no longer has any visual cues to help orient him in space. Instead, it has to rely on his hearing, his touch, and even smell to fix his location. In time, things will get better, but time is something he doesn’t have.

Once the dizziness passes, he turns and steps forward, hand trailing lightly against the wall. There is a seam, he’s found, a place where wallpaper meets paint just a little below the wall’s halfway point. It helps keep his path straight as he counts his way to the wall across from his bed. There’s a dresser there, three steps from the corner, and he needs to make sure he doesn’t bump into it like he did during his first pass around the room. When he finds the dresser without adding another bruise to his ever growing collection, Ignis can’t help but let a small smile cross his face.

A few more steps brings him to the door, and for a moment, he considers opening it and attempting to make his way down to Noctis’ room. The prince is still sleeping off his exhaustion, but Prompto told Ignis that their friend’s room is next door, just down the hall. He could go, but at the same time, if Gladio finds him out of the room, he will end up having to argue with the Shield about it and will still probably end up being thrown over the larger man’s shoulder and carted back. No, for now visiting will have to wait.

Ignis sighs and turns back toward the room. If he what he has mentally mapped out is correct, he should be facing the far side of the bed. 12 steps ahead will take him to the side opposite where he started. A deep breath fills his lungs and he begins to step forward, counting carefully as he goes.

12, 11, 10, 9… When Ignis reaches zero, he stops and just stands there, almost afraid to reach out and see if he’s wrong. The mental image in strong in his mind. If he has to start all over, he knows it will take him forever to erase it. He doesn’t have forever.

Cautiously, he reaches down, breathing again only when his hand comes in contact with the bedspread. The bed is right where he expected it.

Small victories. He will take each and every one. They are all he has right now.

Feeling pain beginning to threaten behind his eyes, Ignis decides a break is in order, and settles down onto the edge of the bed. Despite the pain and the dizziness, he’s feeling better than expected. Almost hopeful, and for some reason just thinking of hope reminds him of a poem he first read many years ago. One he painstakingly copied in childish writing more than once; one whose words he’ll never be able to read again.

Fortunately, he knows it well enough, he doesn’t have to read it. He can recite the words with little effort and even finds himself smiling as the words wrap around him like a comforting old quilt:

Those born of winter,
Snow and ice greet their cries.
Bad luck dogs their steps.
Their paths are torrid and cruel.
Shed the blood.
Save the heart.
Let the blind lead the way to the Light.