There are no biting responses to Kebechet's criticisms when something so much more ominous follows, barely able to discern the unnatural form of their silhouette as it fades with the last of the light. There's still weight nestled overtop one of his feet and he finds within himself a new dread associated with looking down. How many bodies has he handled within the past few days alone? He's already learned to try not to distinguish, and yet somehow he knows that the unseeing eyes that will be fixed upward at him will be familiar.

He's right.

Noctis's knees shudder with a tortured moment of realization, of recognition, and he's not sure whether or not he makes a sound (he does). But in the next second he's sinking to the ground, reaching hurriedly for that body in denial of his own horror to clasp at the back of his neck and support his head off of the ground. This is an image he'd been spared until now. He hadn't witnessed his father's corpse and he barely sees him even now, vision blurring with tears as he drags him closer when a very real part of him wants to push him away.

"Dad... Fuck, don't do this--" He doesn't know who that aborted plea is even directed to, too focused on trying to steady suddenly uneven breathing. It's delayed shock settling in now, hard and fast.