Work Text:
Darkness was all around him. A thick, oppressive murk that shrouded everything, so heavy he could feel it like a weight pressing down on him. A gloom so deep you could drown in it, be pulled under and suffocate on the shadows.
But the dark was held at bay. He stood in a glittering field of flowers, each one shining like a star in the night sky. Each one a reminder that despair had not triumphed and that hope still remained. Each one proof that he could bring them back from death’s cold embrace.
So he held out the brilliantly glowing orange crystal, poured his power into it, and called them back to his side.
It shattered.
With the faintest twinkling, a sound as insignificant as a glass breaking on the floor, Azem’s crystal broke into countless pieces. Each fragment, no larger than a grain of sand, continued to burn brightly. As if it was trying to resist its destruction, still laboring to bring them back. But a second later the light faded and the dust that was all that was left of his only hope blew out of his hand. Emet-Selch’s reassuring words turned to mocking laughter. The Elpis flowers were wilting, dying. Their radiance winked out and they shriveled into shrunken black stalks that just as quickly crumbled into dust. And as they faded, the darkness rushed in.
He drew his sword, not even bothering with the shield still slung on his back, and with a battle cry that was less a shout of fury and defiance as it was a howl of grief he threw himself at the entelechy. With nothing left to him but the cold comfort of vengeance, his blade plunged towards her neck and-
Marcus bolted upright, hand grasping at a sword that wasn’t there and limbs struggling against the sudden confinement of the blankets covering him. He glanced quickly about the dark and unfamiliar room, trying to make sense of where he was, where Meteion had gone, why he was no longer wearing his armor. In the dim light, an orange glint caught his eye and instantly commanded his full attention. Heart pounding so loud he could almost hear it, he frantically snatched Azem’s crystal off the bedside table and cradled it to his chest. At the touch of his aether, the gem responded, filling him with the knowledge of those it could, he could, summon to his side. Including them. Including all of them.
Marcus’ chest began to stop heaving as his breathing slowed from the desperate panting. His eyes acclimated to the darkness and he could make out the familiar décor. He forced himself to calm down, to steady his breath and still his racing heart. Azem’s crystal was in his hands, not ground to dust. He was in his bed in the Rising Stones, not fighting in Ultima Thule. It was dark because it was the middle of the night, not because he was drowning in the Endsinger’s waves of despair. The other Scions weren’t dead, they were sleeping in rooms all around him. It had just been a nightmare. Just another nightmare.
That one again. He thought with a grimace. It was not the first time he had dreamed that scenario. In the weeks since the Endsinger had been defeated, he’d experienced that nightmare several times. You’d think I’d be getting used to it by now. He tried and failed to still his trembling hands that still had the orange gem locked in a death grip. It seemed every rendition was going to be just as terrifying as the first. Still, as unpleasant as it was, it was a walk in the park compared to the nightmares where he was trapped behind his own eyes and forced to watch as Zenos puppeted his body into killing all his friends. What Tataru would look like strangled by his own hands was something Marcus could have gone his whole life without picturing, but his subconscious apparently disagreed. That nightmare was definitely the worst of the bunch.
Why do I have so many horrifying dreams I can rank them? Marcus asked himself with a snort, the absurdity of the thought helping to calm him down. He threw off the covers and quietly padded over to the window. It was dark outside, the deep gloom of the hours well past midnight. Clad only in the shorts and thin shirt he wore to bed, Marcus shivered in the cold air of his chamber. At least, that’s what he told himself. He turned away from the window and eyed his bed with distaste. He should go back to sleep, tomorrow was going to be a big day and difficult in its way even if he wasn’t exhausted. But for some reason, returning to dreamland seemed rather unappealing right now.
A walk, Marcus decided. Some fresh air would do him some good. And maybe it would wear him out a little and ease his return to slumber. He quietly slipped out of his room, carefully easing the door open with his free hand. He closed it with exaggerated gentleness so the latch made no noise. The last thing he wanted to do was wake any of the others.
“Trouble sleeping?” A familiar voice punctured the silence.
Marcus whirled about to see Y’shtola standing in the hallway. The Miqo’te sorceress held a ball of magical light above her palm that provided a dim illumination for them. Him, really, given how she saw things. Clad in a simple dressing robe, she looked at him with a quizzically cocked head. Great. Of all the people he had to have this conversation with.
“I was thinking about tomorrow and couldn’t sleep.” Marcus lied even knowing it was likely futile. The look on Y’shtola’s face made it clear he wasn’t fooling her. He attempted to deflect. “Why are you up this late?”
“I was already awake when I heard a disturbance.” ‘Heard’ being the polite way of saying she noticed the distress in his aether, no doubt. “More bad dreams?”
“Nope.” Taking care to keep his voice low, Marcus answered her bluntly. He was not going to go into this with her. Not about this nightmare. The unamused glower she sent his way showed what she thought of that claim.
She ignored his denial. “This is not the first time.” She said in a voice that, though as quiet as his, was just shy of accusatory. No, no it was not. The first time, he had nearly shoved her out of bed with his thrashing. Back then, he had answered her honestly that it was a bad dream and they both moved on. After the second time, he began making excuses to sleep alone.
“Yeah, I often can’t sleep before big events.” Marcus replied, sticking to his story. Y’shtola’s expression curdled into a scowl and her ears flattened a little. She stepped closer to him, holding the light out like it might expose the truth.
“You promised me.” She said accusingly. He cocked his head in a silent question, genuinely confused by the statement. “You promised me you would seek my counsel if you ever felt unwell. I did not mean solely unwell in body.”
The reminder stung and for a moment he floundered, unwilling to lie to her again, before rallying. “I don’t feel unwell.” He said truthfully. Now, if she asked whether he felt unwell five minutes ago, things would get tricky. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and in all likelihood she was about to ask exactly that before another voice intruded.
“My friends, is aught amiss?” G’raha emerged from the shadows, looking between Marcus and Y’shtola. Marcus barely held down a scowl. If he didn’t want to have this discussion with Y’shtola, he certainly didn’t want to have it with G’raha. Concern was writ plain on the younger man’s face and he eyed Marcus pensively. Unsure how much he had overheard, Marcus wasn’t sure how to respond. Y’shtola spoke into the silence.
“I could not sleep and wanted to…” She gave a significant pause. “Speak with Marcus.”
Understanding bloomed on G’raha’s face, followed by a knowing grin he didn’t quite hide successfully. Marcus forced his own mouth into what he hoped looked like a sheepish smile. Let him think he caught them in a tryst. It was easier to explain than the truth and far less awkward.
“I see.” G’raha said, still looking very amused. “I would caution against staying up too late. We’re all going to be rather busy ‘disbanding’ the Scions tomorrow and none of us want to be yawning our way through our goodbyes.”
“Indeed not.” Y’shtola replied and stepped closer to Marcus. Only now did he realize how she had outmaneuvered him. If he wanted to trick G’raha with this story, he had to allow her into his room. Where she could continue to grill him and he wouldn’t even have the escape route of returning to bed. With little recourse, he opened the door and let her walk past him inside. “Good night, G’raha.”
“Good night to you both as well.” He replied with a wave, turning to return to his own room. Marcus slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Now in private, he expected Y’shtola to start raking him over the coals. But instead, after lighting the room’s lantern she stood with her arms folded and simply looked at him, her face studiously neutral. Unwilling to break the silence himself, he leaned against the low dresser and waited for the interrogation to resume. He thought of a few answers he could give to her, different deflections and evasions. But the question she asked surprised him.
“Would…” She hesitated, reluctant to give voice to what she was thinking. “Would it help if you spoke to one of the others? Thancred, perhaps? Or Urianger?”
Marcus could tell the question had cost her. The bitter admission that, despite what they were to each other, he might prefer confiding in someone else. It hurt her, and he felt a pang of guilt for causing that pain. And truth be told, Thancred did have a leg up on the others because he didn’t do that shit to Marcus deliberately, unlike the rest of them. But it certainly wasn’t enough for Marcus to broach the subject with him.
“There’s nothing to speak about.” He answered, wanting that to be the truth, hoping she couldn’t hear the anger he was trying so hard to hide.
Because they had been right. He knew that. If they hadn’t sacrificed themselves in Ultima Thule to create the path forward, they likely would have all died anyway and taken the rest of Etheirys with them. They were not just worthwhile but necessary sacrifices, each and every one of them. They were brilliant displays of heroism, conviction, and courage. It was only thanks to them that, never mind the rest of the star, he himself was even still alive. He knew that. He couldn’t tell them that it still bothered him, even now.
He couldn’t tell them he still hadn’t forgiven them.
As stupid and petty and unreasonable as it was, he couldn’t help but hold a grudge against them. They had killed themselves right in front of him and expected him to just keep moving forward. As if it didn’t even matter. Y’shtola had even commanded him not to save her, like she genuinely thought holding her life in his hands and letting it fall was something he could do without tearing his own heart out. They even had the nerve to chastise him for putting himself at risk later, complaining that he should put himself in their place when they hadn’t spared a thought for what it was like in his place. He may not be childish enough to whine about how their deaths had hurt his feelings but despite his best efforts he couldn’t force himself to brush that aside and get over it.
But if he couldn’t let go of that anger, the least he could do was swallow it. So he wouldn’t speak to them, to anyone, about what happened on Ultima Thule. He didn’t trust himself to keep his anger hidden if he had to discuss the topic directly, especially not with any of them. And if that meant he had to face these nightmares alone, then so be it. He could handle them. He had handled them.
When Haurchefant had died, and before him the Bloody Banquet, and before that the deaths of Niko and the others. When people close to him died, or he thought they died, the nightmares would haunt him for a time. He would endure them and eventually, when the pain of that loss dimmed and ebbed away, they would cease. As depressing as the thought was that he had grown accustomed to how he mourned the deaths of his loved ones, he had faith in the system. And this time around his friends were all actually alive, so that probably would help speed things along. He just needed time.
He was gratified Y’shtola cared enough to want to help, but he didn’t need her help. And her trying to provide it would probably only make things worse between them. The last thing he wanted was to respond to her trying to comfort him with an angry rant about his childish grievance towards her. If that meant keeping her at arm’s length for now, then that was the price he’d pay.
“Look, I appreciate your concern, but it is very late and we have a big day tomorrow.” He made a show of yawning. “So can you please leave this be so we can both go back to bed?”
Y’shtola stared him down, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded. “Very well. If that’s what you wish.”
Marcus’ sense of victory did not last long, as instead of leaving Y’shtola slipped off her robe and, clad only in her sleepwear, seated herself on the bed and began to settle in.
“What are you doing?”
“Returning to bed, like you suggested.” She almost managed to look innocent as she cocked her head inquisitively at him. “Is there a problem? Some reason you want me to leave?”
Marcus scowled at the poorly concealed triumph in her voice. She thought she had him cornered. He spent a few seconds thinking of a way out, a reason to deny her without admitting to his night terrors, before ruefully surrendering to the inevitable. “Do what you want.” Setting Azem’s crystal back on the bedside table, he lowered himself into the bed. He lay on his side so that he was pointedly facing away her, a bit of pique he was self-aware enough to concede was childish but not enough to forgo. Y’shtola wordlessly curled up against his back and wrapped her arms around him. She was humming something, a slow and serene song that sounded like the tune to a lullaby. It probably was.
Marcus’ tension and the lingering remnants of his anger bled out of him. Y’shtola’s warmth against him, the comforting hum of her voice, cut through the petty grudge he carried and left him feeling ashamed for holding it. He’d apologize to her for his curtness tomorrow, he thought as he slowly drifted off to sleep.
Y’shtola watched as Marcus’ breathing assumed a slow and steady rhythm and his aether settled into the tranquility of slumber.
He was an incredibly frustrating man. Whenever he got so much as a hint that someone needed aid, he would rush to offer his assistance. But whenever he needed help, he would stubbornly, obstinately refuse anyone that tried to offer it out of some absurd notion that he could not acknowledge even the slightest hint of weakness. It made her want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until some sense rattled loose.
But no, he’d rather suffer alone, as if his nightmares were some foe he could slay. And without his help, Y’shtola couldn’t bring an end to them either. She wanted to dispel whatever haunted him, talk him through whatever it was that filled him with such fear it infected his dreams, but the tragic reality was there were so many traumatic moments in his life that trying to identify which one was the source of his recent night terrors was an exercise in futility. She had not missed that he clutched at Azem’s crystal, and that did narrow the field somewhat. But what frightful battle was he reliving that he sought reassurance he could summon allies to his side? His battle against Zenos that left him at death’s door? His fight with the Endsinger where he had needed those allies to triumph? Perhaps an older battle where he wished he could have had such reinforcement?
She didn’t know and that tore at her heart. How many times had they asked him to face death? Again and again he had risen to the challenge and his reward for his heroism was more harrowing battles to fight, often alone. And all too often he had been sent into that danger by her. Her and Minfilia and Alphinaud and all of the Scions had far too often been the ones asking him to risk his life rather than safeguard it. And necessity had become a rather thin excuse on that matter as far as she was concerned.
It was a large portion of why she approved of Alphinaud’s plan to ‘disband’ the Scions. As much as she welcomed taking a break, letting the realm solve its own problems while she pursued her own interests for a change, far more important was giving Marcus a much-needed reprieve from being the savior of Eorzea. He’d come with her to Dravania, and the isolation of the hinterlands and Master Matoya’s welcoming demeanor would shield him from anyone coming to implore him to fight some Primal or dragon or personification of cosmic despair. He’d finally have a chance to rest, properly, and get a true reprieve rather than merely a good night’s sleep before the next day of harrowing bloodshed. Then maybe he’d start to sleep easier. Maybe she would too.
Y’shtola’s arms wrapped around him tighter. Sometimes she hated that he was such a hero. Waking up on the Ragnarök and hearing that he had sent her, sent them all to safety while he stayed behind to fight alone had been one of the most terrifying moments of her life. And seeing him return to them bleeding and broken and so badly mangled she had thought he was already dead had been even worse. How could he do it? Face such danger, endure such pain, and come out the other side asking if they were alright? But she knew that, if the need arose, he would do it all over again without a moment’s hesitation.
Fine then. If he won’t look after himself, she’d do it for him. She’d bring him with her, keep him safe from anything more dangerous than the beasts lurking in the depths of Gubal, and do her best to calm whatever fears still haunted him. She knew it was likely his wanderlust would chafe at the sedentary lifestyle, but hopefully by the time he was chomping at the bit to go off and begin a new quest she’d have a lead on how to travel to other Reflections to keep them both busy. And if not, then at least he’d have had the time to recover before starting a newfound adventure.
Thus reassured, she surrendered to sleep herself. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.