#ive had a week fairly accurately summed up by this so this came from the heart

[baalzebufo]

THE WEIRD AL-CANA - 16. THE TOWER- ONE OF THOSE DAYS

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we've all had one of these, right? not much to say about this card that doesn't speak for itself- i did reference that one photo of a dude mowing his grass in front of an approaching hurricane for al here, though. it felt appropriate. the tower has always been a very funny card to me

this one goes out to everyone just trying to make it through the freakin' day

[Prev Card]

[xadoheandterra]

Series: The Burning of Solheim Title: The Path Untrodden Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII Characters: Prompto Argentum, Aranea Highwind, Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum, Cor Leonis, Gladiolus Amicitia Tags: 10 years older!Prompto, Prompto’s barcorde, Cor is the sane one, Noctis is a cat Summary:  Solheim was the height of civilization long enough that their ruins were ruins over 2000 years ago, and still had the power to function in the time of the King of Light. They should’ve realized something was very wrong the minute Prompto remarked on the lights being on, and yet no one was home.

Prompto rolled onto his side and vomited.

Clinically the signs of a concussion were there; nausea, the blinding headache and distant ringing in his ears, and—oh, he couldn’t forget this one—disorientation. Prompto had no idea where he was except probably in Steyliff, and probably not anywhere near Ardyn. In fact, despite the haze of headache and deja-vu that niggled at the faint end of memory, Prompto could recall a time much like this before wherein he’d lost a tie to a Monarch and the faintest recollection that Ardyn—Ardyn would be dead in a scant few years. Prompto couldn’t really recall right now how he knew that.

Prompto breathed through his nose and shuffled away from the vomit. He tried to get to his feet, succeeded, but stumbled for a moment with his balance upended. He squinted—a light somewhere, bright and foreboding, lit up the chamber he found himself in. The Pilgrimage chamber, if he remembered right. The one under the waters of the Vesperpool that signified the path into the Beyond to ancient Solheim practices.

For a brief moment Prompto debated an elixir or potion—he kept a few in pockets on his person out of habit these days, from when he lacked the tie to the Lucis Caelum magic—but Prompto also remembered a fair few of Ardyn’s lectures on how not to treat certain injuries. Elixir’s and potions could cause more damage with a concussion, right?

“Better not risk it,” Prompto mumbled, and winced at the lights. Artificial, he noted faintly. When had he last seen artificial lights like this, so bright they drove the daemons away? He put that out of mind for the moment and glanced at the ground and—yes, the panel.

Prompto knelt and stared as best he could with vision that swam and attention that wanted to drift every which way, at the words on the panel. Perhaps he could figure out just where the blasted thing sent him—that was always an option, right? He didn’t have his notes, and something twisted in his gut at the memory that he stored them in the armiger for safe keeping, but Prompto also had an impeccable memory. He just—needed—to figure this out—

“Hey! Who the fuck are you?”

Prompto yelped and flailed forward at the sudden voice. He fought down the urge to vomit again as the nausea reared its ugly head even as he crashed on top of the panel and braced himself to be dragged away—except, not. He felt around it and frowned—the subtle hum to the thing was gone. Had it fully lost power? That should be fairly impossible right? Solheim was a fount of magical and technological innovations that lasted well beyond the civilizations fall. Feasibly it’d have to be thousands of years before the power source could fail to reach whole sections of tombs and temples and—

“I said who the fuck are you?!”

“Jeez, no need to yell,” Prompto groaned and rolled himself over. He squinted and tried to place the face—she wasn’t dressed in the typical armor and accoutrements Prompto had grown used to over ten years. Actually, what she wore felt vaguely familiar—like the shirt Prompto had on when he arrived in Steyliff all those years ago. Hadn’t there been a woman in the party then? What was her name? Prompto hissed between his teeth and curled forward and—yeah, no use stopping now.

Prompto threw up.

“Thanks,” Prompto croaked as Aranea handed him a cup of water and some saltines to chow down on. He’d vomited at least three more times after the first two, all of which happened as she dragged his dazed and concussed ass out of Steyliff and into the night sky.

The night sky looked weird to Prompto. There were less stars, more miasma in the dark then he found himself used to. Vesperpool with Ardyn had beauty at night, and while night was dangerous because of daemons there were ways to enjoy the dark without the risk. Here Aranea’s people had artificial lights so bright they hurt placed strategically around Steyliff and the Imperial dropship she rode in on.

How long had it been since he’d seen an Imperial dropship? Prompto blinked into his glass of water. He could remember traveling with Noct and Gladio and Ignis through the wilds of Leide and Cleigne. They took on hunts for the people for protection—monsters and daemons alike—and on occasion an Imperial dropship would come hurtling through and dump a series of MT’s and Prompto would scream—

Imperial’s above us!

—but he’d grown used to travel by just chocobo and no car. He’d grown used to not having to fear enemies from above, but rather those that snuck within the foliage. He’d grown used to fighting men and not soulless automata. Prompto wondered what this made him now; he had blood on his hands from protecting Ardyn and that—would the others like that? How long had he been gone?

Aranea huffed from where she leaned against the dropship wall while she watched Prompto fall into contemplation and sip at the water and nibble at the saltines. She let him have his peace if only because the concussion really fucked him over and she knew how concussions went. When it seemed more like Prompto was himself she sighed loudly to catch his attention.

“You mind telling me what you were doing in there?” Aranea demanded.

Prompto pursed his lips. “I…” he fumbled for his words and looked down at his hands. Then he mumbled, “Aranea,” like an epiphany hit him and Aranea blinked. She hadn’t given her name. “Aranea! Oh, that’s right.”

“Okay,” Aranea drawled, but Prompto barreled on.

“You were with us when we went searching for Mythril,” Prompto said, and his voice got this tone of wistful enthusiasm. “Called us out on our ‘shitty disguises’ and all! Fuck I can’t believe how long its been!” Prompto laughed lightly, then frowned. “Wait—how long has it been?”

Aranea frowned. “Blondie?” she questioned, and when she gained a nod that quickly turned a face green enough that Prompto stopped, Aranea sighed explosively. “Well, shit.”

“Sums it up quite nice,” Prompto muttered. “Solheim shit is fucking weird.” Prompto scrubbed at his goatee. “That fucking panel dumps you into a different time, and it’d have to be a different space too with the planet rotation to take into effect. Plus the differences in ages and then you also have to account for the language barrier that might arise—maybe that’s what the language script meant?” For a moment Prompto devolved into quiet muttering to himself before Aranea cleared her throat and he glanced back up at her sheepishly.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Aranea told him bluntly.

“Sorry.”

Aranea waved him off and slumped down with a sigh. “You’ve been missing for a week, blondie.” She watched the way he blinked, and then tilted his head in a confused sort of way that left her chuckling because yeah, this was definitely the blondie she’d met with the Prince and his entourage.

“A week? But that—perhaps the temporal displacement is not entirely accurate?” Prompto mumbled. “What could interfere with that mechanic of the system though? Or perhaps it’s the rotation—needs to be in the right rotation to drop you off at the right space?” Aranea cleared her throat again and Prompto flushed pink.

“Your boys are going to be pickled pink to know you’re not dead,” Aranea told him, then paused. “I’d tell ‘em, but I lack their numbers.”

Prompto sighed. “No trouble. They’re probably already in Altissia.”

Aranea scoffed. “Last I heard they were still in Lestallum, and that was a day ago. Stopped looking for Mythril after you up and vanished.”

That surprised Prompto, he fiddled with the cup in his hands and his head down. He’d spent time getting over his insecurities with Gil and Ardyn, but the thought of Noct and the others—they were his best friends—upset that he vanished? Upset enough that they put their plans on hold? Prompto couldn’t fathom it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you to the city proper so you can search them out,” Aranea said. “I’ve been scouring this place for Mythril as an apology.”

Prompto scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t bother. I’ve got plenty.” Without thought he dipped his mental fingers into the armiger and tugged out three glittering pieces of mythril to show off. He banished them back into the familiar cold blue of Noct’s magic, and then froze stiff a second later. He could feel Noct’s magic. He could feel Noct. He could access Noct’s armiger! Ten years and Prompto missed the cold warmth of Noctis, the way it suffused through him and nestled near his heart. He found some solace with Ardyn, but the feel of them were like night and day. Noctis burned cold, but bright, like a nice breeze in the summer time that came off a fishing dock. Ardyn burned hot, like the comfort of the sun on a lounge chair and the heat of the desert but in the way that wasn’t stifling.

A second later Prompto realized he could still feel Ardyn’s magic nestled next to Noct’s and that—that left him breathless. Ardyn should be dead two-thousand years over and the magic gone, but it rested there like a fresh bond; Noct’s too felt new and fresh and whole. It felt like the Oaths he’d taken had dropped into the void, and then slammed back home where they belong the minute he paid attention to it. Prompto breathed in heavily and forced the panic away, well aware of Aranea’s attention on him.

“I’ll pay you in Mythril if you take me to Lestallum,” Prompto said as he pushed aside thoughts of Ardyn and why, and instead reached mental fingers into Noct’s side of the magic and tugged out his phone. “And don’t’ worry about telling the guys; I’ve got Iggy’s number.”

They agreed to meet at a neutral location on Ignis’ demand, and Prompto couldn’t blame them. He could remember how paranoid the Nifs made them; how hunted Noctis and them were for the mere fact that they survived the destruction of Insomnia. Prompto could remember it more like a dream, something that happened for a few short months ten years ago. Prompto’s weariness and paranoia stemmed from more immediate threats that he discovered in the past. Bandits on the road were always a concern, and daemons at night—and then there were the Scourge infected, half-turned or ill and the dangers they represented themselves.

Neutral ground really was best for the first meeting since the mess in Steyliff.

Prompto hopped off the bird he’d rented from where Aranea dropped him off and scratched just under her beak. He murmured a soft goodbye for the time being and turned around to look at Old Lestallum and sigh. They said the Crows Nest for a start, and honestly Prompto could do with a bite of food anyway so he turned toward the restaurant and jogged across the street.

The dinner didn’t have a lot of patrons today, probably due to the grey clouds hanging overhead, which suited Prompto just fine. He headed up to the counter and softly ordered some ‘Kenny’s Fries’, reached into Noct’s armiger, and tugged out the required gil from underneath the counter.

“Thanks!” Prompto cheered, turned around, and plopped himself down into one of the booths furthest away from the tipster to wait. With happy aplomb Prompto dumbed the fries into a mixture of ranch and ketchup and began to chow down with a closed eye groan of happiness. He missed fries. He missed Iggy’s cooking too.

Gods above Prompto missed a lot of things that he carefully stuffed away in the back of his mind these past ten years and—he struggled to stop himself from crying. Outside he could hear the Regalia purr into the parking space and the doors open. One of them slammed, and he could hear faint voices—someone yelling, Prompto thought, as he set his fries down and looked up.

For half-a-second Prompto saw a head of dark hair that he never thought he’d see again. It was messier than he was used to, and the slate blue eyes were brighter than he remembered, but time and distance often warped memory. Slowly Prompto slid out of the booth and stood to his feet, where Noctis turned and stared at him with wide eyes—and the next thing Prompto knew he felt the familiar cold-warmth of Noct’s light burst in his chest. Noctis wrapped arms around Prompto and hugged him close and—yeah, Prompto could feel the tears.

“H-Hey, buddy,” Prompto said, and his own voice trembled just a bit. “Miss me?”

Cor stared, and he couldn’t exactly help it because here was the one-year-old brat he’d dragged back to Insomnia some nineteen years previously, and fuck the kid wasn’t twenty anymore. The little blond monkey had new scars that Cor knew he hadn’t seen the last time he was with these boys, back at Keycatrich, and a goatee that took work beyond a few scant months. Cor knew full well that the boy didn’t even have the beginnings of facial hair yet so the goatee shouldn’t be a thing and fuck, of course Noctis and his retinue would get up to more insane bullshit than Regis ever tried.

He’d seen a lot, being part of Mors guard, and then shuffled off to Regis when Mors died. Cor saw too much sometimes; things that involved dead ghosts with honor-bound oaths that still roam the earth. The Blademaster had to be one of the most terrifying discovers of his life even if he blundered it under bravado, spite, fury, and a recklessness that really should’ve killed him long ago. To see Prompto now, to see the age worn on him, it felt like he’d stepped into one of Clarus’ fictional novels the bastard loved so much.

Cor hated to think it, but it also hurt how Ingis and Gladiolus worked to keep Noctis as far away from Prompto as possible. He wondered if he could see the blatant hurt that crossed the blonds face, the way his brows tilted down and his eyes grew a bit glassy. All this arguing and posturing started to get on his nerves, too. He wanted to punch something, or kill something—maybe take another stab at that bastard Blademaster—and those were dangerous thoughts in times like these so Cor breathed in deep, then breathed out, and stepped between the two groups before this argument got out of hand.

Instantly Ignis quieted and Prompto glanced to Cor. Cor eyed the way the boy straightened up and stood tall, and then looked over to Ignis and Gladiolus who were trying to keep Noctis from even so much as looking at the ‘stranger’ in their midst.

“Let me get a few things straight,” Cor said, and they kept attention raptly on him. “You claim that ten years have passed,” he looked to Prompto who nodded sharply. “We,” he looked to Ignis and Noctis and Gladiolus, “know that Prompto disappeared in the middle of Solheim ruins roughly one week ago.”

“One week, seven hours, fifteen minutes,” Ignis rattled off, and then flushed pink at the way Prompto gaped at him. “I was…” Ignis pursed his lips and looked away.

“Right,” Cor continued as if Ignis hadn’t displayed all of the weird shit that came with being the Hand of the King. Wesk used to do the same weirdness, once upon a time. If Cor hadn’t known Wesk to not have any kids, or interest in kids, or interest in women, or even a family then Cor might’ve questioned Ignis being a Scientia in the first place. Still he pressed on and glanced between the two.

“When Prompto disappeared your Majesty you said it felt like the bond broke?” Cor asked, and he saw the way Prompto went pale in understanding.

“Yeah,” Noctis said from behind Gladiolus, then grunted when Gladiolus pushed him back. “Except also not? It was weird, Cor, okay? Like something just…took it—but it’s back now! It’s back, and I can feel—it’s back….” Noctis’ voice broke faintly and Prompto grit his teeth and looked away.

“Noct…” Ignis muttered, but he didn’t turn around to comfort, and normally Cor would applaud the caution but now it felt just—stupid.

Cor sighed. “Right. Prompto?”

Prompto perked up. “Yes?”

“Show me your wrist.”

The room went deadly silent. Ignis glanced to Gladiolus, who shrugged and shook his head in confusion. Cor spared them only the briefest of glances before he returned his gaze solely to Prompto who froze, eyes wide. After a second one hand hesitantly went and grasped at Prompto’s right wrist, where the glove went up to cover half way onto the forearm. Prompto eyed Cor warily, lips pressed together as he breathed in slowly.

“Y-You know about that?” Prompto asked, voice soft and more timid than he’d heard out of the other man all day. Cor massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, I know,” Cor said, then glanced at the group, then back to Prompto. Fuck it—at this rate keeping the whole mess a secret was worthless. Regis wasn’t King anymore, that fell to Noctis’ shoulders now, and secrets were messy and frustrating anyway. “I’m the one who brought you into Insomnia, Prompto.”

From the royal trio there was a stiffened spine and a hissed what and Prompto seemed to swallow heavily on his side. Cor could hear Noctis fighting with Gladiolus to get around and demand answers, but Ignis helped to contain the young King which was fine for now. Cor stepped up to Prompto.

“You know what it is?” Prompto asked.

“I do,” Cor said softly. “I can tell you more, but right now I need to see it.” Prompto chewed on his lip, then nodded, and carefully began to pull off his glove. Cor breathed a sigh of relief and snatched the wrist before Prompto could cover it with his other hand and began to study the barcode intensely.

N-iP01357 – 05953234

Cor breathed out heavily and let the wrist drop. “Alright.” He looked to Prompto and said, softly, “Thank you.” Prompto nodded slowly once and carefully tugged his glove back on to cover the mark. He refused to look at Cor which—okay, fine, Cor could deal with that. It wasn’t like Prompto was his brat, even if he’d snuck a check up on him frequently over the years after the kid got adopted into the Argentum household.

Cor turned and faced the three blockheads who finally stopped fighting with one another and stared, waiting, for Cor to say something or anything. Noctis had finally wormed his way to the front and had a bright scowl on his face, Ignis sported a bruise on his cheek, and it looked like Gladio got nicked by a blade of some sort. Cor wanted to mutter kids under his breath and wondered if this was how Regis felt all those years ago when fifteen year old Cor got pulled into being part of Mors’ guard.

Instead Cor uttered, “It’s him,” to the boys and watched how Ignis went slack and Gladiolus looked ready to protest, but both didn’t stop Noctis from the jump forward to wrap Prompto back into a hug. Cor sighed as Ignis stepped close to him, eyes wide with barely repressed hope.

“A-Are you sure, Marshal?” Ignis asked and Cor glanced to where Prompto laughed and Noctis had basically squirrelled the thirty year old man onto one of the beds, commandeered him as a pillow, and began to play Kings Knight on his phone with Prompto.

“A hundred percent,” Cor said eventually and Ignis looked ready to question that further until Gladiolus slapped the man on the shoulder and smiled tiredly.

“Go cuddle with the kids, Iggy,” Gladiolus said, graced the hard stare of Ignis with aplomb, and then watched how Ignis carefully approached the duo on the bed before Noctis dragged him down and they became a trio.

Cor glanced to Gladiolus who settled down into one of the chairs on the caravan and pulled out two bottles of booze from the armiger. Cor frowned, accepted one, and dropped into the other chair even as he said, “You know that is for storing weaponry and curatives, not alcoholic beverages.”

“Pff, like you guys didn’t do the same,” Gladiolus rumbled and Cor snorted. They both watched the three with equal parts fondness and Gladiolus with more regret than the man should have, but then Cor received the dressing down from Ignis just the same and that—that kind of stung.

Perhaps, Cor realized with a bitter thought, he hadn’t gotten over his impulsiveness as much as he’d like now in his forties. Not if he happily brought Gladiolus to the point of potential death and—yeah, he deserved the dressing down even if it came from a kid half his age. Cor sighed and sipped at the beer for a moment, felt himself relax into the sound of laughter and Ignis’ soft scolding or questions about why are your clothes in such terrible states of disarray, Prompto?

Eventually Gladiolus brought up what was on his mind. “The barcode?” he said, and kept his voice pitched low so that the squealing Prompto couldn’t hear him, nor Noctis over the sounds of sudden tickling and protests as Ignis demanded all of Prompto’s clothes so that he could repair them appropriately.

Cor glanced to Gladiolus. “You know about that?”

“Saw it once or twice.”

Cor nodded, and said, “Yeah. The barcode.”