It was a night like many others, nothing particularly odd or out of place. He spent it as usual, locked within his cabin, combing through alchemical notes and texts, experimenting with mixtures of ingredients on hand. One of the many endless nights, intended to be endured in the wait for a sleep that would never come.
The legs of his chair screeched against the floorboards as he pushed from his desk; a night spent without a bite of his preferred vice was a rarity, and tonight would be no different. Rangy legs ate the distance between one end of his quarters and the other, and the vine-encrusted, ornate doors of his liquor cabinet swung open easily enough. The drink uncorked, the vessel of his favored warmth rose to his scarred tiers... yet he didn’t have the focus to take a pull.
The world around him swam subtly, at first, drawing the knit of his brows in a display of mild confusion. He glanced to the door of the cabin-- surely the tides weren’t so violent within the harbor. He’d turned on heel and uneasily made his way to the door, each step coming with more and more dizziness and unsteadiness-- and he’d only made it half way before he had to take pause, bending at the hips so he could brace himself against the edge of his bed.
An azure hue dropped to his hand, breath shaky in tune with the trembling of the bottle in his grasp. He fumbled with the cork in his opposite hand, hoping to seal the vessel so he could toss it aside until he accidentally knocked it from his grip. Glass clambered to the floorboards, spilling the contents across varnished planks. Marcis wasn’t far behind it. The captain’s weight toppled heavily, landing face-first into the growing puddle of pungent whiskey.
Darkness enclosed around the edges of his vision, and his awareness flicked off like a lightswitch. There wasn’t time to call for help. There was no time to panic.
When he’d come to, it wasn’t in a pool of drink. Nor was he even in his cabin-- the backdrop of dimly lit, foliage rich planters and aged furnishings now replaced by another, equally familiar setting.
His childhood home. A place long abandoned and long reduced to cinder and ash. It was a quaint little abode; perhaps a tad bit dirty and unkempt -- and above all else, tight-- but comfortable in it’s own respects. A hearth sat on the far side of the room, flame crackling and popping within stone walls. The light within illuminated just enough to keep all corners of the dining area just above complete darkness, casting long shadows across the derelict looking walls and filling the room with the familiar, homely scent of burning firewood. Cob webs clung to the corners, hanging off furniture edge and around the few, weathered paintings that (unsuccessfully) kept the walls from looking too drab.
To his left sat a cabinet half-filled with forgotten and dingy silverware, coated in a fine layer of dust. A trio of scratched tankards rest on the lowest shelf, two of which wore the same veil of dust and neglect as the rest. A lone, capital letter was carved upon each of the utensils; “J”, “M”, and “A”. There was space for another vessel upon the shelf, though it was nowhere to be found. Not on the table that sat before him, stretching toward the hearth. Not on the ramshackle kitchen counters and cast-iron range to his right. Not on the end table that rest behind him, near the door.
Bewilderment coursed through the man, subdued by the oddest feeling of comfort. He wasn’t here-- he couldn’t be here, but ‘here’ was still ‘home’. True, it wasn’t how he remembered it. It was dirtier, derelict, and distinctly... empty. Even so, being within the place had stirred some queer feeling of warmth in his chest.
The man’s one eye directed downward toward the edge of the table, narrowing in a somber moment of concentration. Relishing the moment and storing it away was far easier than trying to fight it, even if it was a dream.
An underwhelming vision broke that concentration; a lithe, pale hand stretching from his peripheral to plant a tin tankard before him. A lowercase “m” adorned the handle.
“You’re early, Marcis. That isn’t like you.”
A familiar voice rung out through the quiet home-- light, filled with a playful reservation but firm.
The color fell from his face as he twisted, peering up and over his shoulder to lay eyes on a face he’d never been able to forget. Blonde, wispy strands framed her face even now, drawn up into a messy bun over her delicate, pale countenance. Her features were alight with fondness, and the most feigned version of disapproval as soft blue eyes met with his own, lone orb by hearth-fire.
Marcis’ voice sounded far from his usual; shaky, breathless, and barely above a whisper. His jaw set by reflex, and not because of anger.
The woman parroted, already moving around him to busy herself with cleaning the table of the clinging spider silk.
“You haven’t visited in years and that’s all you have to say? Unbelievable.”
The captain watched her with an intensity, gaze shifting between the softness of her face, and the deft workings of her hands as she went about cleaning. Silence was the only thing he offered in response to her chastising. This was a dream-- no, a nightmare; Maria Stonewell had died a long time ago, and it was only a matter of time before she reminded him of the fact.
A light snort left the woman, reading the period of silence.
“Calm yourself, sunshine. I was only joking.” She looked up from her work, thin, pink lips curling into a playful smile. “It’s good to see you.”
Those words only made a lump form in his throat. This was insulting, what his mind was doing to him right now. Teasing him with something that’d long been lost -- reminding him of family that he could never see again, making it seem so real and vivid. Insulting, yes, but losing his cool wouldn’t do much in the situation but exacerbate whatever was occurring here.
That’s how he justified it to himself, anyway. There’s no way in hell he could’ve wanted this again.
Marcis’ own smile quirked to life upon his lips, a tired reflection of his mother’s ghostly display. His eye fell away from her features, blinking away the blur that encroached around his vision.
“... s’good t’see you too, ma.”
“That’s more like it.” The woman let an airy chuckle ring from her dainty frame, already traversing around the table to make her way into the kitchen.
“I hope you brought your appetite. You and Aarin both have grown so much since we last saw you, and your father has been working around the clock just so we’d have enough food on the table to feed our two little men this year.”
A breathy laugh left Marcis, punctuated by a sharp sniff. Her back was turned, nobody saw his tears landing on the table aside from himself. His hand lifted to drag a knuckle across his eye. He didn’t feel like a man right now.
“... m’not a little man, ma. M’grown. Light’s sake, m’almost thirty n--”
A heavy hand landed upon his back, nearly tossing him forward into the table and disrupting the moment he was struggling with. A gruff voice echoed out, now -- like the texture of sandpaper against his ears. Marcis’ jaw set immediately, and a new wave of waterworks leaked from his red-rimmed eye. Silent, but flowing freely now between shaky intake.
“You may be a man now, son-- but you know you’ll always be our kid. It’s how bein’ a parent works.” Marcis could hear the smile crossing his father’s grizzled face, and ivory teeth couldn’t clench any harder. “Lifelong job.”
“... h-hey, old man...” He didn’t look over his shoulder. He couldn’t. Not with his father. It took all of his composure alone to keep his voice steady and free from cracking.
“Hey, boy.” The man’s figure meandered around Marcis’ chair, pulling out one of the three remaining to take his spot there. Movement occurred, unseen by Marcis due to his sudden inability to open his eye, the metallic thunk of a tankard being dropped into place following. A heavy, satisfied exhale came, and though he couldn’t see him, Marcis could feel his heavy, hazel gaze.
“I hear you’re into sailin’ now -- I’d never imagine it in a million years.”
“A-ye, dad...” Marcis’ hand lifted, swiping at his nose. He was crying. There was no ignoring it anymore, though his father didn’t seem to take notice despite having full view of his face. Nothing about his voice was sturdy or strong, though humor lurked somewhere in the depth of his voice.
“I fell in love with a girl, once -- she turned m’land legs into sea legs...” His laugh came out broken. “I don’t recommend namin’ anythin’ y’plan to keep for a while after a woman.”
A guffaw split the relative quiet of the room, loud and warm. Marcis’ eye cracked, bleary gaze settling upon the man in a moment he’d actually like to see. Joel Stonewell had a boxy jaw-- hidden under the great swell of a salt and pepper beard. A strong, pronounced nose, and sharp, severe looking eyes. In humor, though, they were anything but.
“I warned you about the women, didn’t I?” Joel shot his son a ‘I told you so’ look, thick arms crossing his barreled chest. He wore a mop of blackened curls, much like Marcis’ own, which inclined toward the kitchen. “You think it’s all fun and games until you find out you care about ‘em-- and then you’re stuck with ‘em whether you want to be or not.”
“... Oh, shut up, Joel.”
Conversation continued for what felt like hours in the dingy household, food distributed gradually over the course of the night. Tears made way to laughs, and the insult he’d initially felt receded into nothing more than an afterthought. He was too enthralled in catching up with something he’d never had the chance to cherish -- the day old adage of ‘youth being wasted on the young, and wisdom on the old’ had never been more applicable.
As a child, his parents were troublesome to his wants and desires. Always attempting to save Marcis from himself-- to keep him out of trouble. He’d resented them-- he’d abandoned them.
Now he could pretend he hadn’t. At least for a night.
Pretend, he did. He’d regaled his parents with his adventures over food and drink -- stories of himself, his friends, his work. Stories of the seas, all the happenings of the world in it’s current state... half of the time he felt like he was just rambling, but still they absorbed and listened. Clung to each and every word he had to offer, occasionally prying further into the finer details of his stories, satisfied by the slightest elaboration.
It was only when he turned the attention toward his parents, did something chime in the distance. It sounded like Stormwind’s bells, marking the change of the hour in the distance.
Joel and Maria exchanged glances with one another, a faint frown playing upon both of their faces. Collectively, they placed the silverware into place beside their emptied plates, and hazel and blue turned to aim at Marcis’ features.
Maria spoke first.
“I suppose Aarin isn’t going to show up for dinner this year...”
The disappointment in her voice caused Marcis to wilt, even though it wasn’t directed at him. He, too, placed his silverware down -- hand crossing the table so he could gingerly take his mother’s hand into his own.
“M’sorry, mom. M’sure he’s just... y’know. Busy or somethin’. Th’man is deeply involved with his work, from what I’ve heard. He’s--”
“Involved with the Light, I know. I’ve heard.”
For the first time of the night, the statement had caught him off guard. How did she know? Marcis shot a look to his father, who did nothing but lift his sizable shoulders in a shrug, and took a pull from his tankard. The delicate voice of his mother moved on quickly enough, sighing as she removed her hand from Marcis’ grasp.
“... oh, well. You came. You haven’t in a while-- and it was good to catch up with you.” The woman turned her gaze down to the table, already collecting the dirtied dishes. “Though, I believe it’s time for your father and I to turn in.”
Joel nodded in agreement, lips pursing tightly under the veil of his beard. Hazel turned upward and locked with Marcis’ lone eye, and those severe looking hues seemed to steel at what he saw on his son’s face; disquiet. The bear of a man set his elbows atop the table, leaning closer to give an affectionate punch to the younger man’s shoulder.
“Lose the long face, lad -- we ain’t goin’ anywhere. Come by and visit more. You know where we are.”
“Aye. I know where y’are.”
He parroted, eye downcast from his father’s so he could look upon his cleaned plate. He hadn’t actually eaten in weeks, and it was odd he’d ingested so much over the past few hours. Marcis carefully moved his silverware into place -- a courtesy for his dream family.
“I... know I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but... I want y’to know that... uh...” His cadence paused, still staring hard down at his plate. “... I love y’. Both of y’.”
The words had left him with difficulty -- being emotionally open was not Marcis’ forte, and the silence that followed the simple admission between child and parent caused his brow to knit.
When he glanced up, the familiar forms of his parents were gone. The plates were gone -- the silverware he’d just used were gone, and the chairs Joel and Maria Stonewell occupied previously were tucked snugly under the table. Everything returned to as it was before his mother’s arrival -- cob webs clinging to table and brass candelabra, tin vessels back in position upon the cabinet.
The tolling of the bells hadn’t stopped since it began, and with each ring, it sounded closer. Mounting until it seemed like the humble abode was built upon the steps of the cathedral itself, bellowing reverberations causing dust and debris to fall from the rafters above.
The fire cracked abruptly, sending embers and sparks from the safety of stone to sit upon dried, derelict wood -- and flames were impossibly quick to form. Consuming fire crawled along the walls, reaching for the ceiling as Marcis made little to no move to rise from his chair.
He only cast an impassive, empty eye across the interior of the structure as it, and himself, were taken by flame.
Marcis pushed himself up from the floor an indeterminable amount of time later, casting a bleary eye around his cabin. He smelled of whiskey, and he had a dream to forget.
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