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There's a scream as Steven falls off the boat. A scream full of fear and despair, and pain. And it takes Marc a while to realise that he's the one screaming, Steven's name burning on his tongue as he watches him stumbling through the sand.
There is so much fear in Steven's voice as he calls after them, as the sand consumes him, and Marc finds himself wishing, desperately, illogically, that he was back in that psych hospital, back in "doctor Harrow's" office. At least then Steven would be safe, buried in his mind, away from all this danger, from this Egyptian bullshit that's about to destroy him.
Why couldn't you just stay away? he thinks to himself. Why did you try so hard to learn the truth?
Taweret doesn't turn the boat, ignores him asking, begging her to go back (and why, why doesn't she listen, can't she see there's a man dying? Doesn't she know what that means? What he means?). She's looking at the scales again, something akin to awe in her eyes, but Marc can't find it in himself to care. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting Steven back.
And if she won't go back, he will.
He isn't thinking straight as he jumps off the boat. He hears Taweret's surprised yelp, but he pays her no mind.
He runs. Runs through the sand that sticks to his shoes, trying to claim him the way it claimed Steven. Poor, innocent Steven that shouldn't have been here . Marc grits his teeth and goes faster, ignoring the sand, ignoring Taweret's voice behind him, ignoring the guilt that tries to consume him. He just needs to get back to Steven and he can fix it. He can still fix it .
He nearly stops when he gets closer to the sand statue that used to be his alter, kneeling in the sand, his hand outstretched towards the boat.
He feels tears pricking his eyes as he reaches towards Steven's hand. It's his fault he was there, his fault he fell off the boat, his fault he was gone, his fault his fault his fault .
He feels sand under his fingers and then-
He's standing in the middle of the field, stretching up to the horizon. It's calm and nice, and beautiful. And Steven…
Steven is kneeling right in front of him, his hand still outstretched, his eyes filled with fear and relief, and wonder, and so alive alive alive.
"Steven?" Marc whispers, his voice breaking and uneven, and he watches as those alive eyes look over to him, full of awe and just a bit of leftover terror.
"The field of reeds," he says and of course this is what he's focusing on right now. Marc chokes on a sob as he grabs Steven by his arm and pulls him into a desperate hug (and he's here, he's flesh and blood, and there's no sand on him, and Marc can finally breathe). "We made it."