#ignisfluffweek

Banners strung from the ramparts, white and inlaid with jewels the color of iridescent flame, welcomed him home. Long carpets of red and black greeted him as they were rolled down the palace steps, and fanfare rung high and clear throughout the courtyard, signaling his ascent. There were others, too; faces he neither recognized nor particularly cared to, cheering as they lined his path.

All of these things Ignis saw without seeing. After years - decades - of blindness, perhaps the sudden clarity of the world around him should have felt alien, jarring even. But it didn’t. As he climbed the steps toward the Citadel, his mind was clear. He understood exactly why he had been called to this place.

Familiar paths down familiar halls, past tapestries and paintings he’d seen in another lifetime, led him at last to the throne room. There, too, banners had been hung from the high ceiling - the same white-and-iridescence as the suit he wore - and curved down and out in beautiful, elegant arcs. Opening up the room and drawing the eye directly to the dais, upon which the King stood waiting.

Ignis followed the sight. He strode across the otherwise empty hall, listening to the click of his shoes against the marble and recalling days long past - days when he'd run here, played here, sworn a solemn oath upon these very steps. An oath that had, in a way, led him back here in the end, though this time he had come to take a different kind of vow.

The King was smiling as Ignis approached. He wore a suit of dark blues and gold and decorated in the sigils of his forefathers. The sash draped across his chest from his left shoulder appeared to be made of the same silk as the banners above. When Ignis paused, breath stolen by the sight of him. Noctis reached out one white-gloved hand to draw him up the last few steps. Into an embrace far too many years overdue.

"Noct," he said in joy and in reverence. "How is this possible? You haven't aged a day."

Warm fingers found his cheeks. Traced over the scars, the wrinkles, the lines that had slowly deepened over the course of his full life. Up to his temples to brush through strands of white hair flecked with cinnamon, and Noct smiled again. "Maybe I should even the odds?"

In the span of a heartbeat, he was changed. Noctis stood before him now older, eyes heavy with the weight and passing of many years. Yet behind the thick, grey beard that lined his jaw, he was still smiling. Ignis’ breath hitched at the sight. The face before him was the spitting image of King Regis - regal, youthful, handsome; how he might have looked without the drain of the Crystal’s magic to dull the complexion of his skin.

Perhaps Noct misread the awe in Ignis’ silence, for suddenly he was changing again. Not into the bold young king who had greeted him on the dais, but into a more familiar form - into the sleepy prince whose hair fell in a veil over his eyes, and with whom Ignis had first fallen deeply in love.

“Is this better?” he pressed, teeth flashing at whatever shade of wonder had flushed across Iggy’s cheeks. Those brilliant eyes drew him in, those soft lips brushed the bridge of his nose, and Ignis felt his chest swell to bursting even as the first tears began to fall.

“Noctis, how I’ve missed you.”

Catching the strain in his voice, his prince - his king - drew their hands together between them. Ignis noticed vaguely that his own fingers appeared stronger, straighter, his hands once again vibrant with youth as Noctis clasped them to his breast.

“We’ve both waited long enough. Are you ready?”

A nod, firm and resolute.

“I always have been.”

The ceremony took place there in the throne room. Faces watched from below the steps as Noctis, grown once more into the proud man Ignis last knew him to be, recited his vows in an unwavering voice. Ignis’ turn came next, his heart supplying the words where experience failed him. And though there was no ring, the matching scars they bore around their fingers served as proof enough. Proof of their bonds, and of the depth of their devotion to duty, to one another.

It ended with a kiss. Cheers rose up around them in a crescendo of joy, matched only by the pounding of Ignis’ heart in his chest as he tasted Noct’s lips - so sweet, so perfect - after far, far too many years.

Long before the kiss broke, the sounds of applause began to fade. Further and further until Ignis sensed that the room around them had grown empty. The wedding was over; the guests had dispersed.

Alone at last, he pulled away from his king’s - his husband’s - mouth and smiled. “I do believe that was worth the wait.”

Noctis’ reply was a laugh that resonated like music in the hall. “Come on, Specs. Your throne’s been expecting you.”

The king settled back into the cushions of the seat from which his father’s before him had ruled over Lucis. A kingdom which now existed only in memory as the winds of change - and eventually of peace - had swept over the land in the wake of the Dawn. Ignis had lived to see that peace, had even played a role in its establishment, and for that he was grateful for the time he’d had. But now, here at the end, he longed for rest.

His throne was a seat of marble and bronze to Noct’s right, and he moved toward it when his king beckoned. Feeling his way along the arms out of habit, he finally lowered himself down to let the silky cushions swallow him up. Sighed and yawned as Noct’s fingers stroked back through his hair. Smiled as warm lips once more met his in the space between them.