Noctis wakes to the taste of something foul in his mouth, to the wet stone and hum of a haven underneath him; he wakes with a shuddering gasp, fingers grasping at the area where his father’s sword pierced his chest, only to find the soft beams of sunlight washing over him, and his deathly injuries no longer there.
A boon, little king, Shiva had said, before she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Then, a few spaces away from him, Prompto sputters and coughs a raspy but undoubtedly heated, “WHAT THE FUCK?”
Privately, Noctis echoes the sentiment. What the fuck.