#ignea?

“Colloquially, it’s better known as the Dawnshy Honeysuckle,” he clarified. “It’s a small flower of white, blush, or yellow—long and thin as a bugle, with five pointed petals resembling a star. Its season spans mid-April through late July, but it only blooms at night. I expect we’ll have some competition from the fruit bats.” 

“Better bats than demons,” remarked Aranea, dryly. “It must make one hell of a syrup, if you’re willing to lose sleep to hunt for it.” 

“The prince enjoys it with his breakfasts. And I can think of far less savory—or sweet—reasons I’ve lost sleep of late.”

She didn’t reply to that, and he hadn’t exactly expected her to. Still, any opportunity to bait her for information had to be taken. He couldn’t make heads or tails of their current situation: a seasoned dragoon on Niflheim’s payroll, and the chief advisor to the Lucian heir, making idle horticultural chitchat on a midnight hike.

He endlessly replayed the last half-hour in his head as they climbed. They’d left the others back at camp. Noctis and Prompto had more-or-less been asleep during dinner, and they’d quickly passed out afterward without lifting a finger to clean the dishes. Gladio had at least tidied up after himself, but after that he’d quickly retreated into his latest reading material. It was some pulpy spy-thriller they’d picked up at the last convenience store, but he seemed to be enjoying it, and Ignis wasn’t one to look down on a man for reading. So, with a soft sigh, he’d stooped to pick up Prompto’s overturned drinking glass and a plate of Noctis’ overlooked vegetables, and begun the task himself.

Aranea easing in beside him and reaching for the dishrag had been unexpected. He’d figured she would leap at the opportunity to remove herself from Prompto’s constant and adolescent flirtations. Frankly, he wouldn’t have blinked if she’d slipped off into the trees and abandoned their party entirely.

But there she’d been, drying the dishes as he washed them, and they’d fallen into an unexpectedly comfortable silence. She’d removed the heaviest of her armor, retaining her boots and belt atop a simple black leather ensemble, and Ignis couldn’t help but notice how much smaller she seemed without all the freakish spikes, and perhaps softer, too—but no less cryptic. As she’d taken each plate and cup from him, he kept glimpsing a jewel on her wrist: polished amber with some bit of flora or fauna trapped within. Something about it unsettled him—he felt like he was noticing for the first time, every time he’d spotted it.

“You own more cookware than weaponry,” she’d goaded. “Do you plan to fight the empire with forks?”

“A well-fed warrior is a better weapon than any blade he or she might wield,” mused Ignis. “Surely you’d recognize that.”

“Of course I would, but you can feed just as well by shoving a pig on a spit and tearing off chunks with your teeth. No cutlery required.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing…” he’d allowed, carefully.

“I’m into all sorts of things, specs,” she replied, opaquely, but when he’d risked a glance in her direction she didn’t return it.  

When they’d finished with the dishes, she’d dropped casually into a chair across from Gladio and resorted to wiping the day’s blood off her lance. He’d belatedly realized she was still using his dish towel, and he must have sucked a breath through his teeth, because she’d met his eyes and seemed to know exactly what she’d done to distress him. But she’d made no move to apologize.

He’d spent a few long moments staring into the fire, restless in his rolled shirt-sleeves, and wondering if the atmosphere felt as tense to either of his companions. Finally, maybe out of desperation, he’d announced his plan forage for culinary garnishes on the hillside.

Gladio had simply nodded with a grunt, turning the page of his book. But Aranea had cast the now ruined rag to the ground, gripped her weapon with renewed resolve, and rose from her chair, asking if he’d mind a little back-up.

He certainly didn’t mind. It helped that Aranea was a great deal more than a little back-up. Three days ago she’d taken them by surprise while they were already being taken by surprise by demons near Costlemark. He’d wanted to be furious with Dino for even suggesting they visit the cursed ruin, but he grudgingly accepted that there was likely a royal weapon within, and Noctis’ need for the Lucian Armiger outweighed the danger of the jeweler-journalist’s ulterior schemes.

Ultimately, he’d only been furious with himself for not preparing better for the inevitable fight.

But she’d bailed him out of his miscalculations, descending from the sky like some Valkyrie of ancient myth, and driving her pole-arm swiftly through the largest demon’s throat. As it fell thunderously face-first into the dirt, Noctis had whooped in glee, and Prompto had squealed like child in admiration. Even Gladio had uttered a hearty hell yeah! But Ignis hadn’t taken the time to gloat. They’d needed to finish off the rest of the demons while they had an advantage. 

That didn’t mean that the image of her arrival hadn’t burned itself upon his mind, though. Every so often it would occur to him again, like an unexpected flash of something that strangely resembled hope. 

“You spoil him, you know.”

Her comment shook him from his meditation. He slowed and turned to face her, and the lamp on his belt tossed its lurid, green-yellow glow upon her. She threw an arm across her face with a curse at the sudden brightness, but then slowly lowered it, squinting at him as she met his gaze.

“Prince Noctis has suffered much in his short life, and if the current circumstances are any divination, he still has many more trials to survive. Cooking is one of the few ways I can grant him respite from that destiny. You didn’t have to accompany me.”  

“I wanted to,” she replied, simply. Her eyes were the misdirecting, mossy green of garden stepping-stones, and her face lay as passive as the moon casting its light across Angelguard to the east. If she’d been chastised by his words, she didn’t show it, and any ill-will he might have fostered toward her seemed to hang in the air, suddenly unsure where to aim itself. 

Why. His mind screamed. Why are you here? He had to know, but he knew better than to ask. A tactician never admitted to the question in his mind; the question was a weakness, to be concealed and mitigated through other means. 

Something swooped between their faces, shattering their stalemate and sending them both ducking. She grabbed hold of his wrist to steady herself, and it shocked him so much he nearly stumbled himself.

“The hell?” she hissed. 

“Fruit bats!” said Ignis, and right then he’d never been so relieved to see them. He righted himself and sent a hand through his hair. “We must be close! Let’s follow them.” 

“Ugh,” she said. But she met his stride as they pressed on through the brush, chasing the barely-there silhouettes of tiny, winged devils against a carpet of constellations.

“So, who taught you to cook?” she asked, after awhile, “You’re very good at it.”

“My mother, originally,” he replied, “And eventually the royal chef and his staff.” He ended the sentence with a full-stop, careful not to sound wistful or uncertain, to leave no vulnerability exposed, and yet—

“What happened to her?” she asked, instantly, and he grit his molars.

“She was among the casualties of Niflheim’s original invasion of Tenebrae,” he said, “—as was my father, before you inquire further.”

“Didn’t mean to pry,” she said, “I’m sorry…” and she sounded so completely genuine in her apology that he nearly shuddered. That couldn’t possibly be right. Of course she’d meant to pry. He huffed a sharp sigh.

“There’s not much for you to be sorry about. It was before your tenure with the Empire, after all.” He made the comment lightly, but he thought he caught her grimace from the corner of his gaze. Maybe he was just fooling himself. “And honestly, aside from the recipes, there’s not much I remember of either of them. I fled Tenebrae with my Uncle, a diplomat, and we received asylum from the late King Regis. I’ve trained in his court ever since. A simple story, really.”  

“Nothing juicy to tell the Emperor, you mean?”

“I mean, it’s a simple story—and a very simple sentence, in fact.”

She laughed, and it was a surprisingly soft thing—nearly a silent thing, like the flutter of the bat wings they followed.

“I was orphaned too—well and truly orphaned at that; no extended family,” she confessed, after a beat, “though I’m sure you’d already worked that out in that brain of yours.”

I haven’t worked out a single thing about you.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Are you?” she asked, almost amused at the thought. And for a moment he was struck with a vision he hadn’t prepared himself for. Aranea Highwind, as she might have been were she raised in the same halls as he. Fierce and free-spirited, but dressed instead in Kingsglaive fatigues, she vaulted recklessly off the top of the Insomnian citadel, only warping to her lance just before she hit the ground. She landed perfectly before him, and pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a fingertip, grinning wickedly.

He mimicked the imagined gesture with his own fingertip, and frowned.

“I am. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry you were fostered by a furnace so foul as Niflheim.”

“It wasn’t all bad. At least not at first,” she shrugged, but she was hugging herself a bit as they continued, and he didn’t think it was because of the evening chill.

“All the same,” he said.

After some time, they finally found what he’d come for: a cluster of rocks near the top of the hill, bursting with honeysuckle vines. The blooms were easy to spot in the moonlight, and a hint of fire—trick of Lucian elemancy Ignis had tucked away in his satchel—soon made short work of their Chiroptera competition. 

With the last of the magic, he lit and handed Aranea a torch to keep the bats from returning, and knelt to pluck a bloom from the vine. He unstoppered a glass phial and drained the nectar into it. But instead of immediately reaching for the next specimen, he paused, and spun the little flower between thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re contemplating giving that to me, you should know I’m not a flowers and candy kind of woman,” Aranea teased over his shoulder. 

Ignis smirked, pulling a small burlap sack from his satchel and depositing the flower there instead. He hoped the fire wasn’t bright enough to reveal the way his cheeks had burned at her words. 

“They brew a decent cup of tea,” he explained, moving along with his harvest now, meticulously collecting the dewy liquid and leftover petals. “And if you aren’t wooed by flowers, what should I make of the cuff on your wrist?” 

The fire flickered abruptly, as though she’d recoiled her hand in surprise.

“What do you make of it?” she parried, and his stomach took a slightly sour turn. He continued his work as he spoke, flatly:

“A single sylleblossom, embraced by amber and framed in embroidered leather. Sable leather. Lovely, but contrary to the rest of your aesthetic. A well-meaning yet misguided gift, I should think -- from a well-meaning yet misguided Tenebraen suitor. Tell me, how long have you been seeing Commander Nox Fleuret? And what is the true nature of the errand you’re running on his behalf?” 

Almost definitely too bold. What's gotten into you? He half expected her to drive her lance through his neck, just as she’d done with the demon. Some royal strategist you are. 

“There are a hell of a lot of Tenebraen boys besides the High Commander,” she laughed, instead of killing him. “You, of anyone, should realize that.”

“Perhaps, but not many Tenebraens would encounter you, in your current occupation, and fewer still possess the assets required to negotiate with you.”  

She huffed a defeated noise, and he chanced another glance over his shoulder. She was looking out across Galdin Quay, toward the place where the sky met the sea. The breeze licked at the flames of the torch in her hand, and her pale pewter hair. 

“You’re a sharp one, specs. I gotta give you that,” she said, after a moment. 

“It’s my job,” he replied; it was almost a reflex. 

“Oh, I know. But not everyone is competent at their job,” she said. “It’s actually pretty rare.” 

“If you think that flattery will—” 

“For the record, I saw Ravus for maybe a year,” she cut in, turning back to him. “You pretty much summed him up: well-meaning but misguided.”

“And yet you still wear the bracelet.” 

“Harder to misplace it if I keep it beneath my bracers,” she shrugged, snuffing the torch in the dirt beside her feet. Apparently she’d decided it was no longer needed. “I thought I would give it to Lady Lunafreya, after I see Noctis safely to Altissia, as a show of good faith from estranged brother to sister.” 

“You expect me to believe--”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” said Aranea. “You’re way too smart for that.” 

His head was spinning. He put the stopper back on the nearly-full vial of honeysuckle nectar and tucked it away in his jacket, for fear he would drop it. 

“If that’s been your motive for accompanying us this whole time, why not just say so.” 

“Who says Ravus is the only person I answer to?” 

Ignis took off his glasses and squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars. 

“You think I’ll just wait around, with Noct’s life in the balance, with the fate of the world in the balance, until Ravus and Ardyn Izunia conclude their bidding war for your allegiance?” He replaced his glasses and his free hand crept to the hilt of his dagger, easing it inch-by-inch from its sheath. “That’s not a risk I’m comfortable with.” 

“Actually,” she said, so close behind him that he nearly flinched. So much for those boots not being ballet shoes, he thought, absurdly. His knuckles ached for how hard he gripped the dagger, but a moment later her fingers found his -- a soft, cool caress -- and coaxed him to abandon his defenses. “I was hoping you’d outbid them both, and settle things outright.” 

Her nose brushed his earlobe as he turned his head toward her. 

“Me,” he said. He hoped he sounded skeptical and not stunned silly, which was closer to how he felt right then. “With what funds, exactly?” he laughed, “I am Noctis’ advisor, not his treasurer. And the majority of Lucis’ wealth lies lost in the rubble of the Insomnian citadel. I have nothing to offer you.”

She laughed, and it sent lightning through him, head to foot. “Ignis Scientia, born of the lofty spires of Tenebrae, sharp as his daggers, wise-beyond his years. In the war rooms of Niflheim they whisper that he carries the weight the world and the life of the future King upon his shoulders, yet he never dreams of slouching. They claim he’s a master of history, military strategy, astronomy, anatomy, medicine, and the culinary arts. And yet he hasn’t the damnedest idea why I followed him up this hill in the middle of the night...”   

“To be frank, I’d been betting on murder,” muttered Ignis, his mouth suddenly very dry. She slid her hand around his bicep and he was turning toward her in spite of himself. “Although, I hadn’t ruled out sheer boredom --”

“Shut up, Stupeo,” she whispered, and kissed him.

And oh, for the love of Etro, he’d had the damnedest idea. He’d known the entire evening, since she’d met his eyes across the fire, since she’d hovered at his side as he’d cooked, since they’d first pulled into camp. He’d known since she fell from the sky three days ago, backed by the afternoon light like an angel. He’d known and he’d insisted that he didn’t. Because this was madness. This was outright stupidity. Outright treason. He couldn’t trust her. 

But he’d taken one look at her when they’d first skirmished, weeks ago, and for the first time, his mind had dared begin a sentence with I want, instead of Noctis needs. And right now, with his lower lip caught in her teeth, and her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, his entire body had resolved to finish that terrifying sentence as swiftly as he could.

---

“Seducing the strategist would be the best way to ensure Niflheim gets what they want from Noctis,” muttered Ignis, darkly, nosing through Aranea’s hair. At some point they’d wandered back down the hill to the campsite, but they’d opted for a spare quilt and the embers of the fire over the crowded comfort of the tent. The stone was hard beneath Ignis’ back, but it made the press of her body seem all the softer. “You’ve made a fool of me—are you pleased?”

She hummed idly, pressing a kiss to his throat and smoothing her hand against his chest.

“You know, I’ve never actually said I am working for the Chancellor. That’s been you.”

“Right,” said Ignis, yawning. “Of course. A completely baseless assumption on my part, I’m sure.” He was tired, but not beyond the capacity for sarcasm.

“Maybe I just have a crippling weakness for Tenebraen accents kept on short leashes by heads of state.”

He snorted, and brushed his fingers down her spine.

“We’ll see which of us winds up crippled from this whole affair,” he replied.

“Are you always this morose after you get laid, or do I need to try harder?”

“You’re welcome to try anything you like,” he admitted. “Short of putting me on a spit and tearing into me with your teeth, if your earlier comments are to serve as a benchmark.”

He pinched her thigh, and she squawked a curse and swatted at his hand.

“Quiet now,” he teased, “Don’t want to wake the children.”