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It was raining when he came in.
The storm had swept through the region a scant few hours before dusk, rain pounding down on the dry packed soil and wind wailing through the canyons and ratting the windows. It chased even the most sorrowful of mourners back to the shelter of Drybone when the first few drops pattered down, knowing too well that traversing through the arid terrain in such weather was a recipe of ill fate through flash floods or sucked into the mud and breaking bones in the process.
They had been shuttering up the last of the windows when the front door to the church creaked open, bringing in a gust of damp chill that disturbed the pile of dust and dried mud that Marques had been sweeping up. He thought it’d be one of the Sisters coming back in after setting out the lanterns for any wayward soul lost in the dark and rain, but when he heard no complaining or stomping of mud off boots, he looked up from his task and towards the door.
An Au Ra was in the doorway, his clothes dripping with muted plats onto the wooden floorboards. His dusky purple skin was almost indistinguishable from the black scales in the grim lighting, and the quad braids on either side of his curved horns were in dire need of rebraiding. He stood, large and imposing, not stepping further into the space with his muddied boots. His shoulders were tense, his spine ramrod straight and eyes never staying in one place for long, the lighting glinting off of them in a strange glow not dissimilar to Miqo’te. It was-
Oh.
Marques knew this posture. Knew the look in his eye. It wasn’t someone to dominate a room, to demand answers and attention. It was someone who was pulled taut as a bowstring past its maximum and on the cusp of snapping.
The Au Ra hadn’t been this way the last time he’d been in the area. He’d come by perhaps a month or two ago, silent as the dead outside but moving more like the living than standing still like a corpse in rigor mortis like he was now. It was hard not to remember someone of his kind here, the only one Marques had seen since he found himself here at the church, and perhaps the only one anyone had ever seen in Eorzea, although why Marques knew this was… well, that was something to consider for another time.
The man had been more at ease, then, less like he was about to tear apart at the seams from the pressure of repressing and repressing and repressing until he couldn’t physically hold back anymore. The constant mental restraint of dealing with it later when later never came, and life kept coming for the throat again and again.
(It was… familiar, somehow).
Father Iliud was the next to see him but the first to approach. The priest dwarfed in comparison standing before the much taller Au Ra, but he wasn’t afraid of the differences as he spoke to the adventurer. Marques couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was clear Iliud was the only one speaking, as the other’s lips didn’t so much as move. The horned head did bow towards the elder, the angle shadowing his features in a somber shade.
His hands, however, were moving. That was different than before. Last time the adventurer had been there, Marques had noted that all he needed to do was approach someone, and one of the Sisters or other members of the clergy would simply tell him what he needed to do without any sort of introduction. He vaguely recalled doing the same, seeing someone vaguely adventurer shaped and immediately jumping to conclusions of why he’d been there, only to realize the man was an Au Ra once the items he requested were placed gently within his reach.
The only time adventurers came to this desolate place was to inter a loved one or fallen companion, so to see one without a body in tow or mourning in their posture, they may have jumped on it instinctively and without question. And the man had performed the tasks without disagreement, so they simply didn’t ask anything more, merely to give him his payment and sending him off on his silent way.
But now the man was bowed, slowly being crushed under the pressure of what weighed on his mind and soul, his clawed fingers slowly walking through different curves and plains that hadn’t made home within his hands yet.
La Noscean sign, the thought popped into the forefront of Marques’ mind, although he didn’t know why he knew this. It would make sense, he reasoned with himself, setting the knee-jerk twist of fear in his chest. La Noscea was notorious for pirates and armadas of all shapes and sizes. Loud explosions and fantastic firepower were always the go-to response for the locals of that region, usually at the cost of their hearing. The use of the silent language was very sparse elsewhere in Eorzea, but the adventurer wasn’t comfortable with forming the words, meaning it was a recent development. That also made sense- he didn’t look particularly like a pirate, no, he looked more like the many refugees and vagrants and lost souls that pass through the area. And his hearing was fine, from the way his eyes would snap towards the direction a distant door creaked and voices of the Sisters echo from the distant room beyond the line of sight in the wide chapel.
It made him wonder how he managed to get this far without words. Writing, perhaps? No, he would’ve done that the last time he was here. Did he truly just stared at people and others would simply assume what he wanted?
Marques couldn’t see clearly from this angle what signs were being formed, but Iliud seemed to know. The priest’s shoulders drooped in that familiar sign of sympathy, laden with sorrow as a hand reached out and gently touched against purple and black scaled skin of the adventurer’s forearm.
“You may stay for as long as you wish,” Iliud’s voice raised a little for Marques to hear, most likely on purpose. His tone wavered a little, as if he himself was affected by the grief of what the Auri adventurer had to say. Friends of the Father, perhaps? Iliud knew many people and many people knew Iliud, but not many would he openly share with grief with. He shared his sympathy, knew of their sorrow, but grief and sorrow and death were everyday occurrences here, and one became numb to it all after a while.
Whatever the adventurer said, it had affected Iliud too.
Something terrible.
“Marques.”
Marques started, hastily propping the broom that had gone slack in his hands against the wall before shuffling closer. His hands instinctively went to tug at the hood of his robes, hoping to shadow his face. It felt important, keeping himself anonymous, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it’d been something he’d always done, from Before, but dwelling on it always made his head ache, so he set it aside to focus on the adventurer.
The Au Ra was taller up close- Marques’ head barely reached the bottom portion of his chest. His outward appearance was the same as to when he’d first come from Drybone- with far too little fabric covering his torso and the only leather being the belt of pouches and small bags around his waist. Pugilists were notorious for lacking armor in favor of speed and maneuverability, but that came at a cost with them being the first to be seriously injured or dying when they jumped into enemy fire. The healing blackened patches of flesh he could now see peeking out between the gaps in cloth told Marques all too clearly that this adventurer had taken a nasty beating. A fight, then, perhaps where someone Iliud knew didn’t make it out alive.
“…he’s a trifle shy, but I assure you he means well,” Iliud’s words pulled Marques from his intense study of the Au Ra’s torso and up to the eyes that stared back with an unblinking gaze.
His eyes were almost a pale gold, Marques realized. Gold with crimson ring around the outer iris. He hadn’t noticed before, hadn’t been looking too closely. Adventurers came and went, and their bodies interred within the soil on the grounds. Marques knew better than to get close to any one of them.
Those eyes should be intimidating. Should make him feel pinned to the spot, small and threatened like some sort of prey creature. They were the right eeriness of color for most commonfolk to shudder, the dusky complexion, inky scales, and curved horns that came along with the inhuman gleam was certain to arise in one’s nightmares.
But Marques looked into them and didn’t see any of that.
They looked sad. Lost and barely holding on, as if trying to hold an entire beach of sand into his hands. They held an unfathomable pain, of hurt and heartache that never seemed to stop. They were tired, a bone-deep ache of wanting to lay down after days or weeks of having everyone happen at once and never caring to give him a reprieve.
There had been no time to process. No time to mourn. Only just enough scant seconds to acknowledge the pain and tuck it away to deal with it later. Later. Always later.
“It’s been a long journey for you.” Iliud’s smile was sympathetic at the corners, giving the man’s forearm a gentle squeeze before gesturing towards Marques. “Marques, do you mind if you share quarters?”
He knew Iliud wouldn’t force him if he said no. The Church had guest quarters for the weary travelers and far-flung mourners, but with the storm, unfortunately those quarters became a place to temporarily inter the dead until their final resting places within the earth. It would be improper to house him with the Sisters, and the Father was older than the estimated ages of both himself and the Au Ra combined.
Marques wasn’t usually comfortable in sharing his private spaces with a stranger. Didn’t like being perceived, to be stared at or observed. But… when he looked upon this particular adventurer… he didn’t feel any of the usual anxieties. As if he instinctively trusted this man, despite not knowing who he was or whom he worked for.
“It is no trouble, Father,” he murmured, giving a small bow of his head towards Iliud before gazing back towards the silent giant, lingering on the mud and wet clothing he wore. “You… might fit in one of my spare trousers, abet short in the leg, and might have to cut a hole in it for your tail. ‘tis dry, at least.”
The Au Ra’s clothes weren’t the only problems, Marques was quick to realize. His quarters were small, with only a simple bed, desk, and dresser, with little floor space between. Even unrolling a sleeping mat or borrowing one of the unused mattresses from the guest quarters-turned-morthouse, there was the simple fact that the adventurer was simply was too big to sit on it comfortably.
Before Marques could fret over it, the Au Ra made the decision for him, spreading out one of the blankets provided to him by one of the Sisters who’d been kind enough to scrounge up some extras and laying down on the floor, leaving the other blanket folded to act as a pillow. He did it second nature- Ul’dah wasn’t known for their large bed options, not with her naturally high population of shorter statured folk, and there certainly weren’t many Roegadyn coming through the area.
He couldn’t help but wonder if traveling to La Noscea where he’d learn their sign had been the first time he’d slept in a bed that’d been big enough for him to lay down in comfortably.
Marques’ spare trousers did, in fact, fit, with its cuffs coming up somewhere near mid-shin and the rear hem let out just enough for the thick tail to slip through. Without his usual clothes, it was clear how lean the adventurer was, with long limbs and strong arms, but narrow waist padded with muscle. Airell hadn’t made it subtle in her staring when she’d taken the sodden clothing to hang up near the fire to dry, but saved face by inquiring if he’d like some tonic to help ease the bruising that was still hard to discern on his complexion. The man hadn’t made much inclination that he was unsettled by the staring beyond the bunching of his muscles in the backs of his shoulders, causing the inky scales to ripple, but he had shaken his head silently to deny the offer of healing.
It was a tight fit, with two grown adults trying to navigate the tiny quarters. Marques felt slightly off kilter, his nightly routine interrupted by having a quest sharing his space, but despite how tall the adventurer was, it was clear he was trying to make himself small, to politely give him enough room without being a hindrance.
A knife and the few pouches pilfered from his belt went on Marques’ desk with muted clinks- gil, certainly in the one, from the way the metal shifted within. Marques debated with himself for only a moment before he tugged off his robe and hung it on the hook on the door, then shuffled to the bed with a murmured apology towards his quiet guest as he pushed himself passed. He was careful not to step on the blanket laid out across the stone floor, walking on tiptoes and climbing onto his bed from near the foot of it in an awkward clamor.
The adventurer turned down the lamp, the flame barely a flickering ember on the oil wick and sending the room into near shadow. Marques watched the dark form bend and furl, disappearing from his line of sight lying flat on his bed, following him with his ears as the Au Ra settled on the floor.
And then it was quiet.
Distant thunder rumbled outside, rattling the glass behind the makeshift curtain Marques had put up to prevent people looking in on him as he slept. His room was protected from the wind on this side of the building, but it didn’t stop the occasional taptap of rain. He could barely hear the other man’s breath despite the silent presence lurking just below the edge of his mattress. He couldn’t forget him, but it didn’t make his skin crawl like it would’ve if it had been some other stranger.
It was enough to make his weary eyes lose the battle of remaining open and droop shut.
A soft noise awoke him in an instant.
Marques wasn’t sure the time, disoriented despite knowing he had fallen asleep at some point. It was still night the room still dark with lantern still barely casting enough light to make out shapes. Rain was still pattering against the window, but it wasn’t any of these things that had disturbed him awake.
A shifting of fabric caught the edges of his ears, then a breath. Inhale. Exhale. But it wasn’t a normal breath, not in the least. It was the kind that tried to overwhelm you, heavy and stuttering in the chest under the heavy weight of everything. It was the kind that alluded to an attempt not to cry, to not make a noise and be overwhelmed with emotion despite the body being so very ready to do just that. It was a breath that hurt, less in the ribs and more of a punch to the chest, unforgiving in its viciousness.
Careful not to make a sound, Marques propped himself up onto his elbows, looking down towards the shadows on the floor.
The adventurer had rolled onto his side, long limbs curled in and tail curled in with him into a defensive little ball. His back was to Marques, but even from this angle he could see how much he was trying to repress, curling up to try and stifle the pain that tried to work its way out in the only natural way it could.
Physical hurts could be fixed up in a moment, with plenty of magic and potions to spare and help heal or mend back together. Men with mortal injuries were walking mere days later after a little doctoring from the best healers, limbs could be reattached in the right conditions, and scars were things to boast about around the drinking tables.
Emotional hurts didn’t come with visible scars or an extravagant story. They were hidden behind ribs with hearts bleeding and aching with every heartbeat. There was no one way to recover from it, and many of its symptoms were viewed by Man to be a weakness. To bottle it up, it would ultimately break a person- too overwhelmed that they shut down, or hardened into an ice cold shell to protect themselves from further heartache.
Marques didn’t know where this man stood on this infinite scale, but he knew that it would be worse for him later on, to withhold and swallow down and stifle away until he had no room in his body left to shore away the pain. To reach the critical point and have no choice but to snap or fall apart.
And Marques… he didn’t want that to happen.
The blanket on his lap shifted, following him off the bed as he slid himself over the edge of the mattress and settled on the floor. The stone was cold against his knees even with the thin blanket barrier, and the Au Ra’s skin was similarly cool as he placed a hand on the curve of his spine. The scales beneath his fingertips were a texture of ridges and smoothed slopes, and he could feel them flex with a subtle flinch at the touch. He didn’t move away, and Marques didn’t remove his hand, letting his fingertips glide across scale and skin as the adventurer slowly unfurled and rolled over to face him, coming to rest against the scale on his ribs.
He looked terribly young, Marques realized as he gazed down at those gold and crimson eyes, the tiny glow from the lamp wick reflecting off the wet pools that threatened to spill forth. He may not know how his kind aged, but no amount of height and horns could change Marques’ mind now that he’d seen it. If he were Hyuran, he may only be in his early twenties- certainly no older than twenty-three.
Twenty, with eyes that had seen far too much. Done too much. And no time to rest or work through what they’d had witnessed, with no one there to help him stop and catch his breath. No one who cared enough to see how much sorrow he was bottling away, brittle and wane under the pressure.
“It’s okay,” Marques whispered, running his fingers across the rippled scales along his side. Soothing. Gently. “Let it out.”
The ribs under his touch shuddered once more, the wet pools in his eyes growing deeper. He then screwed them shut, the tips of his horns scraping against Marques’ chest as his forehead came to rest against him. Clawed fingers sought silently for him until they hooked into the very edges of his tunic, holding on for dear life as a muted sob worked its way out of his throat.
The soft sound had been the dam holding everything back, and with it out of the way everything came tumbling out. He wept, tears falling into his tunic like the rain against the window, a quiet keening making itself at home in his chest. Every part of him shook as if his very bones were trying to escape his skin, every gasp of air short and thick as agony clotted his throat and dripped down his cheeks as he wept and cried every hurt and heartache that he'd shored within.
No one had been taking care of him, Marques found himself thinking with abject horror and heart aching for this Au Ra. He gently tugged him closer, positioning so his horns wouldn’t catch against his tunic and to comfortably fit in the much smaller man’s arms. How long had it been since he’d been held? To be hugged? He almost didn’t seem to know how to mold himself into Marques’ hold, letting him shift him around until they both settled in. But when he found that spot, he all but melted, trembling with every soothing pass of fingers through his hair and over his horns, down along his spine and across his ribs.
How great his task must’ve been, to be worked down so hard. To be unable to rest, to have pushed aside his inner turmoil until the ever tomorrow. And whoever he’d been with certainly were gone now, as he was here, alone and crying out all the hurt and loss from deep within the soul in the arms of a stranger.
This one was his now, Marques found his heart saying, laying his palm flat against the protective scaled spine and dragging his fingers slowly across every dip and rise. Never had he gotten so attached to someone so quickly, but it seemed right, somehow. He didn’t even know his name, but every time he tried to reason with himself that this was a stranger and he would be gone before long, the thought dissipated from between his fingertips.
Somehow, somewhere within his rattled, amnesic mind, this one was his.
And he wasn’t letting go.