Bygone

9

Beyond

Marcus trudged back onto the defined, grounded surface carefully, being reminded of Robin.

He saw the demented smile that he gave them when they parted ways, and hopefully for the last time. But as to why he did; that he could only go so far as to guess. Were they really just going to leave him there? Leave him in the ice Jaclyn manifested from her arrow?

The evened soil gave comfort to his footing, and even more so to his strained legs. Still, he couldn't do anything but raise more questions. He knew what would happen from this moment forward, yet the near-future was still so blurry to him.

He stopped in his stride, letting the girls follow Moira back into the seclusion of the bunker. The clanking of their metallic boots became a distant memory. The wind was calmer now, the light of the sky having barely dimmed from when they were here before.

It would've been pretty late back home by now, if the laws of time had followed exactly how it'd been here and back on earth. Though it still was a little hard to believe that time itself there was at a standstill. At the very most, it was just being dilated at an unreadable, unperceivable level.

But it didn't matter, not if they died anyways.

He gripped tightly onto the hilt of the sword, feeling the warm touch of the metal and the core and whirred within. They almost died. If Robin hadn't been cocky, if he'd been focused on eliminating his target as Moira described himself the person he was, it would've turned out that way. In some other ways, he still felt as though Robin was still behind him, out of sight; ready to strike.

"Your life will never be perfect, even if you think you can change that."

The revelation truly made him ponder the question whether they'd be able to stand a brilliant effort against any of the other Sedited Prime that lurked out in his vast reality. The three of them had merely taken a step up the staircase.

One slip up.
One mismatched footing.
And death would've greeted them on the way down.

But he refused to loosen his grip onto his hope.

Not when the canvas only needed paint to be perfected.

His head was turned down to the intricate artistry of a weapon. It was a symbol. Or so he believed it to be. A symbol of faith. A promise for peace. A weapon that he saw to have not been forged for war, but for amelioration.

A herald for hope.

And for a moment, a wash of energy flurried within him. The blood-red linings of the hilt slowly began to gleam into a fervor, tender red; as though something began to charge it, empower it. Yet despite that testimony of strength that the sudden wave of energy brought, he felt a relieved struggle. His chest tightened and his muscles seemingly loosened up. The hairs on his skin tingled as he felt his mouth dry.

Then, as though he had known it from the dawn of his existence; he knew her name, and the fate that was bestowed upon her.

"..Alina?" He spoke with a tangible sorrow.

Marcus felt her soul bind with his; with the blade. He'd felt her death.

But he threw the sensation away and tried to forget about the recent seconds. He saw it as his conscience trying to make sense of the situation he found the three of themselves in. Yet, it refused to occur to him that it was truly reality unfolding.

Marcus raised his head back up to the entrance of the bunker, catching Moira's distraught eyes having observed him the past few moments. He latched the hilt back onto the buckle of his leggings, the red glow fading as his hand let it droop freely on his waist. Then, saying her name a final time in his head; he continued to walk deeper into the bunker.