#[ but also just... to have that Larger than Life and unshakable/untouchable man Gone

[pirateborn-a]

i love how absolutely Normal Roger left everyone he'd known in his death

[culinarystrategist]

@malveiillant

Written as a companion & response to this.

Revenge, so the adage goes, is sweet.

If you take everything away from a man, and he feels he has nothing left to lose, then there are no limits to the depths to which that man will plunge in order to scour his soul of what ails him. Loss has made Ignis bitter. Grief has made him brutal. Anger has made him merciless.

Time does not heal all wounds. His body still bears the marks of his torture at the hand of Ravus. Milky vision, twitchy nerves and nightmares to fray even the sturdiness of nerves all combine to keep those hours Ignis suffered very much alive in his mind. He doesn’t want to relive that time. Who but the most disturbed would? Ravus, he imagines, probably often thinks back to that fateful day, revelling in the torment he meted out not just to Ignis. Did he believe himself justified back then? Did he think his actions were a fair act of punishment against his transgressors?

Ignis simply couldn’t care less. What Ravus did can never be advocated, however it can be replicated and requited. The compassion which ran as a current throughout his life, guiding him through the most difficult situations and acting as a moral beacon to light his way, is gone. The well has run dry and only rancour remains, fuelled by each painful reminder. Catching sight of a scar, or a certain smell invokes unbidden memories which leave Ignis gasping for breath as though he were right back there, in Ravus’ cruel clutches. In those instants, those moment of anguish and terror, Ignis all but pleads for the Astrals to take him from this mortal coil and allay horrors for once and for all.

When those visions pass, and Ignis finds his throat is no longer constricted, allowing breaths of sweet air to flood his lungs, he’s left with one solitary thought: retribution. It becomes all-consuming and he finds himself fantasising about taking Ravus apart, piece by sorry piece, and showing him every inch of the corruption that resides within his body. And so, a plan is formed.

As a man who has always prided himself upon the goodness of his heart, Ignis discovers it’s surprisingly easy to insert himself into the domain of nefarious activities. Money always helps. He spends a little cash here, makes a little investment there, and favours are given and earned in return. It takes virtually no time at all for Ignis’ name to get out there as someone who knows how to get things done. A far cry from his previous life and one he’d never have imagined himself leading, but necessity is the mother of invention and a little diversification never did anyone any harm.

Ignis the kingpin, ruling with a ruthless hand and taking no shit from anyone. You cross him? The consequences are simple: you die. As far as his former cohorts are concerned, he’s taken himself off on a pilgrimage to try and cleanse himself of the impurities Ravus instilled in him. If they could see him now, they’d swear it was a different man altogether.

Ignis? Callous? No, never. Even that time he hit his thumb with the meat tenderiser, the worst that happened was a mild curse. He doesn’t have it in him to be cruel.

That’s what they’d say, dear Gladio and Prompto, because even though they battled their own demons, their faith in the former royal advisor was unshakable. Some thing never change, and that includes - in their eyes - the stalwart Ignis.

Fuck them. Fuck them and their naivete. If they want to sit in circles with other poor saps and talk about their feelings, let them. Ignis believes otherwise. He believes that the only way of solving a problem is through decisive and firm action and when he feels the time is right, he gives the order for capture. How its done, he doesn’t care. The finer details are irrelevant. As long as Ravus is delivered to the specified location and the required time, Ignis’ accomplices will be handsomely paid.

The spot is chosen for its remoteness - a place where a man can scream at the top of his lungs and the only thing around to hear is the wildlife. A table takes up the centre of a barren room, flanked by two moveable carts, laden with instruments. Ignis leans against the back wall, waiting for his quarry to arrive. He’s already ensured that each dagger, knife and scalpel is as sharp as possible, and that the straps which will secure Ravus to the table are impossible to break. It’s just a matter of time before he hears the rumble of an engine, followed by the slamming of truck doors.

“Make sure he is unable to move,” Ignis barks out. “And remove that damnable arm. Rip it off, if you have to.” The men move quickly to carry out the order, stripping Ravus of his long coat and tossing it into a dark, dusty corner of the room. While Ravus is prepared for what is to follow, Ignis inspects the tools of his trade. He’s taken the step of colour-coding each weapon with a little bit of tape around the handle or hilt. Green to start off with - the larger blades. Orange will come next and finally, red. Each step has been carefully plotted in his mind and there is no room for error.

“He’s ready, boss,” the foreman announces, herding his companions towards the door. “Just call me when you need the clean up crew.” With that, he’s gone, leaving only Ignis and Ravus in the room.

In the time it takes for Ravus to rouse from his impromptu nap, Ignis dons a leather apron and a matching pair of gloves - because there’s never any excuse for not wearing a coordinated outfit. As soon as Ignis hears the first sign of wakefulness - a softly confused and muffled groan - he pushes the trolley holding the green knives closer to the table and looms over Ravus.

“My apologies for the dim lighting,” he says, his voice as sweet and as pleasant as it ought to be when dealing with a foreign dignitary. “But I’m afraid my eyes are somewhat damaged and cannot take anything too bright.” His lilting tone belies the pointed barb and his smile hides true intent. “I must also apologise for the nature of your invitation to join me here, however I am certain that had I stuck with conventional means, you would have declined. As for the gag...” Leaning forwards, Ignis tapped the tip of his index finger against the band of fabric covering Ravus’ mouth. “That is entirely for my own entertainment at this stage.”

With a step backwards, Ignis allows himself a moment to peruse his choice of knives. Selecting the right one cannot be rushed. As he runs his fingers along the edge of the cart, he speaks again.

“You’ll also notice that I have divested you of your arm. I realise that must be disconcerting for you, but I’m sure you’ll be all right.” Covering his mouth with a gloved hand, Ignis chuckles quietly. “Ah, forgive me. That pun was terrible. Oh yes, I know, I know. I shouldn’t ever make light of someone’s disabilities. Chalk it up to nerves? I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Ravus bucks against his bonds, his lithe body arching off the table to no avail. There’s enough leeway in the straps to give the illusion that breaking free might be possible, when in actuality, there’s no chance at all. A nice little twist, Ignis thinks, to mess with Ravus’ head.

“Ah, now, here we go!” Knife picked and in his hand, Ignis returns to the table and Ravus’ hateful gaze. The man is proud, that much is obvious, and that is ideal as far as Ignis is concerned. That contempt will contribute to his downfall, which will be crushing. “I believe in openness and honesty, Ravus, and so I will inform you at the outset, so you are under no misapprehension about what is going to occur here, that I am going to cause you as much agony as I am capable. I have twenty-two knives here, and I am going to use each one of them on you. Some, like this one here,” Ignis says, holding up the long dagger so Ravus has a clear view of it, “look like they will inflict a lot of damage. But truth be told, although it will cut into your flesh, it will actually leave behind a shallow wound. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Lowering the knife, Ignis places the point against Ravus’ sternum and slowly draws it downwards. True to what he’d said, the knife did cut, but not very deeply. It hurt, though, to judge by the way Ravus’ brows knitted together and his fist clenched at his side. If he wanted to internalise the pain, that was his prerogative.

“It takes a few seconds for the blood to appear,” Ignis said, leaning closer and squinting through his murky vision. Beads of red slowly formed on the surface of the cut, but not enough to trickle. “You see? Disappointing. One would hope for far more than that. Let’s see if we can do a little better next time, yes?” A second cut joins the first, running parallel, but only a similar amount of blood seeps out, prompting a frustrated scowl.

“I should have known better. I’ve chosen to start in the wrong place! Silly me.” To rectify his error, Ignis stabs the tip of the knife into Ravus’ forearm and that nets him a stifled, yet satisfying yelp of pain. As soon as Ignis pulls the knife free, a strong spurt of blood escapes the wound and rolls in a steady rivulet over Ravus’ wrist. “Shall we see what the next knife can do?”

Twelve knives later - not all of them used as some were discarded as unneeded - Ravus’ skin is a patchwork of cuts, gashes, lacerations and carvings. Admiring his handiwork, Ignis muses that he ought to have been an artist. Red lines intersect over pale skin, and the the only part of Ravus’ body untouched by sharpened metal so far is his face. The cuts on the bottom of each foot were particularly gratifying because Ignis knows that those will take a near eternity to heal. Bruising forms where the harnesses restrain, adding a pretty touch of blue and purple to the red and pink.

“I don’t believe I have ever told you this before, Ravus, and that is most likely because I have never had the opportunity nor the reason to, but I must admit you are quite stunning. Beautiful, one might say. Were it not for that hideous arm of yours, one might speculate that you are the pinnacle of masculine perfection. It’s as though you were hewn from the finest marble, by the most skilled hands.” The smile Ignis wears fades to something altogether more sober. “Mine shall be the last eyes to gaze upon you in your present, exquisite form.”

With something akin to regret, Ignis takes up one of the scalpels and holds the edge just above Ravus’ cheek. Although his vision is far from acute, even he can see the fear reflected back from those mismatched eyes. It’s a pleasing sight to see. The pride that was so prevalent earlier has now completely dissipated, and while Ravus may not yet be broken, he’s beginning to unravel.

“Do you fear for your life?” Ignis asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do not, for I do not intend to kill you. You may die, but I promise that I will not strike the final blow.”

Narrowed eyes glare venom at him and he thinks his vow may have fallen upon deaf ears. He knows it to be the truth, though, and that’s all that matters. Nodding sombrely, he closes the gap between blade and flesh, but instead of a clean cut down, he slices in.

“When I was learning to cook,” comes the added commentary as Ignis carefully removes a sliver of meat from Ravus’ cheek. “I studied for a while under the Citadel’s head chef. He used to be a butcher, you know? He taught me how to incise with perfect accuracy. You have to go with the grain of the meat to ensure a clean slice.” Holding up the portion of cleaved flesh, he turns it towards the light so he can inspect his work. “Of course, a carcass would have been hung for a while prior to preparing so there would be far less blood than this.”

The way Ignis tosses the cheek fragment over his shoulder is careless and dismissive. It slaps wetly against the wooden floorboards a metre or so behind him. More joins it, every one wringing deadened screams, jerky movements and death glares from Ravus. The man on the table looks less like a man and more like the floor of an abattoir with each passing minute. White hair becomes streaked with red, fine strands matting together as blood congeals. Throughout it all, Ignis maintains his narration, treating Ravus to a monologue about his journey from novice cook to damned near professional chef, with the odd little anecdote tossed in along the way.

“I believe I am done.” Panting heavily, as though completing a task of great physical exertion, Ignis stands back, hands on hips, and expression pleased. “I doubt even your own sister would recognise you now. Oh my... There I go again, putting my foot in my mouth. May the Astrals preserve dear Lunafreya’s soul. Still, my point still stands. Now, you just bear with me a moment, while I-”

Ignis tails off, drops his scalpel onto the cart and ducks down to retrieve something from the lower shelf.

“Here we go! I’m sure you’d like to see what we’ve achieved here today, wouldn’t you?” Mimicking a barber, showing off a new hairstyle to his client, Ignis holds a mirror up in front of Ravus’ face. “What do you think? Personally, I’d say it’s so you. Perhaps to accompany your new style, you should rethink your wardrobe? Red is the new white!”

A ghoulish sight greets Ravus’ eyes. Barely a scrap of skin remains on his face, muscles and sinew on show for all the world to see. His lips are intact, but stained and bruised, and around his eyes, a hint of pink can still be seen below the smears of blood.

“It has been an honour to work with you, Ravus,” Ignis says and takes the mirror away to replace it on the cart. “As I said, I am done with you, but one last task remains. Before I get to that, I shall advise you that within the pocket of my apron is a phone with only one number programmed into it. The number belongs to the men who brought you here and they will happily provide a taxi service for you to return from whence you came.”

Ignis doesn’t plan on leaving this place. He knows that if he does, and if he leaves Ravus alive, then further vengeance will come. Besides, this is the only thing that’s kept him going since the day Ravus took Noctis’ life and now that it’s over, there’s no reason for Ignis to continue living. Selecting the largest knife he has on either of the carts, Ignis places it down on the table, the hilt at Ravus’ hand. Once it’s in place, he reaches for a second, a smaller knife with a curved blade.

“I recommend you work quickly. No doubt, you are already feeling rather drained and if you tarry too long, you’ll find yourself incapable of cutting yourself free and will likely expire where you lie.” Even before Ignis finishes speaking, Ravus is working the knife into his grasp to try and saw through his leather bonds. “As for me, the time has come for me to bid you farewell. As I said, it has been a pleasure and I wish you luck in your future endeavours. If I see your sister, I’ll give her your best wishes.”

With a smile, Ignis raises his hand and slashes the knife across his throat.