Chapter Text
It was only within the early stretches of dawn that he woke up. It wasn’t graceful - far from it, even, as the young Adept lurched forward from underneath disheveled covers. Cold sweat marred his pillowcase in the form of an ugly memento for the nightmare he had just borne witness to, the claws of fear and desperation that came with it still tightly buried into his lungs as he struggled to breathe.
Matthew swallowed. That was no ordinary bad dream. He wasn’t a stranger to restless fantasies that came with sleep, but something about the contents of it unsettled him...a quest doomed to misfortune, wherein he and his friends were flung across the continent as puppeteers for some greater purpose that he could hardly wrap his head around. The details were fuzzy, but such was the nature of returning to reality
Pulling up the sleeve of his nightshirt to his wrist, he wiped his forehead dry and glanced around the darkened contents of his and Tyrell’s shared room. The candles that provided them light had all been extinguished hours before, but his eyes soon became adjusted to the looming darkness. Everything remained as it had been before he had climbed into bed, a few books and knickknacks misplaced but otherwise a tidy chamber. Even his best friend in the bed underneath him carried on with his sleep. The world was at peace.
Exhaustion easily swept over Matthew when he came to the conclusion that nothing was wrong and that he had only experienced a particularly nasty dream. Too tired to think about finding a new pillow to use, he flipped over the one already nestled against the headrest in an attempt to find refuge beneath his thickened blanket.
And then he promptly shot back up in realization. The dream. The dream. He could remember it so clearly; Tyrell crashing the soarwing, their journey from Goma Plateau to Carver’s Camp in order to seek the aid of Kraden, the detour they were forced to take across the Konpa Ruins, and the subsequent downward spiral of cataclysmic events that ultimately led to the renewal of the Grave Eclipse. Every misstep that they took, and every life that was taken as a result. But why could he recall such a nightmare so vividly? It couldn’t be anything else; waking up back home proved it to be so.
Something was terribly wrong, and he failed to find an explanation for it. Only a heavy, deep-seated feeling in his gut was left behind.
There was no point in trying to fall back asleep. Sol’s light would soon touch the Lookout Cabin in full with morning’s approach, and Matthew was certain that his father would find something for them to do. Careful to avoid being too noisy and waking up Tyrell, he descended the ladder of the room’s singular bunk bed and trudged over to the writing desk near the back corner.
He had never been one for logging dreams like Karis might, but his instinct told him that this was a special occasion. The tangibility of his nightmare insisted upon it.
When he pulled the candle holder across the flattened surface close, his hands shook. Unsteady hands were uncharacteristic of a Venus Adept like himself, something his father had taught him long ago. He tried to shake the nervousness from them, met with little success as he nearly dropped the match against the floor upon picking it up. Could a mere dream frighten him this badly?
He needed to relax. He wouldn’t get anywhere like this, fumbling like a greenhorn trying to carry a longsword.
His own analogy pushed him to reflect inward even further. Because, despite the fact that he had presumably woken up from a dream, there was a sense of weight in his hands that hadn’t always existed. Finesse that only came with practice and experience. Curious to test this truth, he stepped away from the desk and rounded back to the closet situated against the bump-out right next to the bunk bed. Tyrell had never been one for keeping the room organized (that was Matthew’s self-assigned task), and it wasn’t surprising to see the longsword haphazardly propped against it.
If it truly had been nothing more than a dream, he wouldn’t be able to pick it up and wield it properly. It would be too heavy for him to carry, because he had always been more apt with a shortsword. It was only in the dream that he wielded one, carrying the brilliant rays of Sol within its metal as one final resort to end the eclipse.
Heavy eyes narrowed towards the offending blade as he reached out for the hilt, the anxiety returning as it ran along his wrist and down to his twitching fingers. Another deep breath left him even worse off before he finally pushed away his reservations and tried to raise it from the wooden floor.
It was an effortless motion.
This was bad. This was something awful and he had no idea what to do. Matthew’s stared, eyes wide and lips drawn back in a grimace, at the longsword held so evenly in front of him. It was heavy, yes, and he hadn’t quite become accustomed to carrying one around, but he could still use it.
And that was what frightened him. Had the nightmare been real? But how was he back home, then? Their quest across Angara had ended in Belinsk after they had eradicated the Grave Eclipse, and when they had taken the journey back to Goma Plateau…
Well. They were lucky the Lookout Cabin had still been there in spite of the Mourning Moon hanging above the clutches of Tanglewood.
That was the kicker, really. The fact that he was in his home, his own room, seemingly unmarred by the horrors of a nightmare that was turning out to be more real than it was not. It was a punch in the teeth, and he didn’t know where to even begin processing anything, let alone genuinely considering that the dream had carried some sort of merit in the real world - or, even worse, had actually happened in some capacity. Maybe it had been a premonition of things to come, and it had been so vivid that he just so happened to miraculously be able to lug around a longsword like Tyrell’s?
The thought of the name made the unconscious decision to look back at him for the Venus Adept, his head snapping back towards their bunk bed once more. He dozed soundly on, and Matthew couldn’t help but feel even more detached from the world. Was he the only one who had woken from the gripping visions of a potential future?
There were other explanations for the whole ordeal beyond a mere dream. It was possible that he actually had gone through the tremendous effort of exploring the continent of Angara, and somehow been sent back into the past. But he enjoyed the thought just as much as he enjoyed the idea of the whole thing being some kind of divine vision bestowed upon him by the ever elusive Wise One - that being he didn’t like any of it whatsoever. None of it was good.
Forget about that, he insisted to himself as he gently rested Tyrell’s blade against the closet once more. There were other ways to prove it, but it wouldn’t do him any good if he lost the edge of a clear memory with nothing to fall back on. He returned to the writing desk and picked up the matchstick with a steadier hand, doing his best to light the wick of the candle without waking anyone else in the house. It wasn’t likely that Tyrell would remain asleep for very long, now that their room was illuminated to some degree.
...should he tell Tyrell? Matthew frowned as he pulled out an empty journal from the drawers underneath, a sliver of guilt running down his spine as he decided, no, it would be best not to. He was still unsure of whether he was genuinely going mad or he had somehow become a prophet overnight, and getting his friends and family wrapped up into potential delusions was simply foolhardy.
And, if it turned out to actually be real, he could jeopardize correcting their mistakes if they became too involved with the knowledge of the future.
No, no. Don’t. Don’t think like that, he scolded inwardly. It being true is the worst outcome. Things would be so much simpler if it was just an elaborate hallucination, more substantial than such things normally were.
He placed the empty book against the table and pulled out the seat before diving straight into his task, maddened scribbles quickly consuming the pages as Matthew took to detailing virtually everything he could remember: names, faces, locations, specific events that occurred in specific places. It quickly became apparent that one journal wasn’t going to be enough once he begun sketching out the ancient ruins that they had traversed and trying to draw the vast array of Djinn they had met along the way.
If his memory served - and he had no doubt that it did - their journey across Angara had spanned across the course of fifty-seven days, barring the three and a half days return to home. Fifty-seven days spent stupidly wandering the continent in search of what lie directly ahead, only to fall into delicately crafted traps that were meant to propel them forward to starting the Grave Eclipse, and then the Apollo Lens, for the sake of the Tuaparang.
Such recollection was truly draining, but he needed to remember all that he could, even if recollection became excruciating in the process. All of it had to be documented, even if only his eyes were meant to see the end product.
True to his assumption, the candlelight eventually reached Tyrell enough to break him from his slumber. The creak of his bed was the first sign that Matthew could actually perceive, his eyes still held by the contents of his own frantic handwriting. “Ugh…”
“Morning,” is what Matthew offered in his infinite wisdom.
“...why are you up so early?” the redhead was quick to press the moment he finally caught sight of the other, hunched over the writing desk with a total of three journals sprawled across the surface, all equally splotched with ink and pencil writing.
Ah. He hadn’t actually thought of a good response to that question without outright lying. Matthew paused, and he wondered if Tyrell could sense that. “I woke up a little bit earlier than you did...” he began truthfully, continuing the very same way. “...my dream was interesting. Felt like recording it.”
He twisted his gaze to meet his friend, only to be returned with suspicion smoldering deep within those sky-blue eyes locked specifically onto him. “Since when did you start a dream journal? Nerd.”
There was no malice behind the accusation. And yet, it still stung. He shook his head, unable to maintain what precious eye contact he could ever afford. “...yeah.”
He could see the look of worry that was quick to cross over Tyrell’s face, even as he moved to extinguish the candle. He probably thought that Matthew was actually upset by what he had said, and maybe he was a little right - but the younger boy didn’t really care in the end, too busy extinguishing the candle in the hopes that something might change. Maybe one of their fathers would fetch them for training. Or maybe they were meant to sit through Isaac’s long-winded lectures on the world that neither of them ever really bothered paying attention to, not when Karis had always been the one to remind them when they forgot (even if it came with her own reprimands against them, insisting that they remember what they’d been taught themselves).
He was tired. So very tired. And yet there was nothing that he could do but push onwards and try to find the truth for himself.
“C’mon,” Matthew insisted as he let the final pages dry before tucking them back into the drawers. He passed by Tyrell’s bed, rapping his knuckles against the wooden headrest. “Up.”
A disgruntled noise came from the Mars Adept as he tossed the covers back over himself. “Since when did you become so bossy? Maybe you are becoming Karis!”
It wouldn’t be the first time Tyrell had accused him of such, and so Matthew offered no refute to it. Trying to argue with him is pointless anyway... he added, unspoken, stopping only before the ladder that would take them to the main floor of the cabin. “I’m sure your dad is already awake. He’ll be mad if you try to sleep in again.”
“That’s a fight he can pick, then!” And nothing further came from the lump in the bed; it could only be assumed that his childhood friend was back to shirking off whatever future responsibilities they would soon receive.
How envious.
Matthew inhaled and squashed away the feeling as he mounted the ascending ladder. Arbitrary things like his emotions could be accounted for later, when he felt less disconnected from existence and more grounded with the knowledge of what was real - and what wasn’t. If the dream was real...well, he needed to sort that out. Fast.
Light met his eyes when he stood properly atop the main floor of the cabin, early morning wisps of Sol’s reign stretching across the wooden planks through the window that overlooked Mount Aleph. Someone had already drawn back the curtains. Thus, someone was already awake.
He could hear the hushed murmurs from the upstairs attic, but more prevalently could he feel them. Both his and Tyrell’s respective fathers, one presence congealed; solidified, in a sense, like a sturdy rock. The other was more erratic and listless, the dancing tongues of a comfortable hearth. He could tell Isaac and Garet apart with ease.
And that troubled him something fierce. He’d never been able to do that in the past. It was only weeks of traveling across Weyard that allowed him to master that kind of ability.
A desolate sigh escaped his mouth before he realized that one had even been drawn in. His instinct being correct wasn’t a good thing in this scenario. He didn’t want to be right. Being right meant that the Grave Eclipse could be real, or could have been real. Elements forbid that everything in the nightmare had already happened and he was just recovering from the shock of it all.
“Matthew?”
He spun around quickly, shoulders tense and drawn as he met his father from the staircase. He must have sunken too deep into his own head to notice the presence moving. It didn’t matter now, though. He nodded, curt and short. The only kind of acknowledgement he could muster past rigid panic. He most certainly could not tell his father about his dream and what was carried within it.
He recognized the concern that twisted Isaac’s lips above his ill-shaven beard, and it felt nice to be watched over for once. Countless days had been spent looking out for his own life, and for the life of his friends as well. “It’s good to see you up so early,” the elder Venus Adept offered as he passed, a firm hand patting him on the shoulder.
“Y-yeah,” the younger stumbled, sounding more like his “few words and many expressions” self in perceived weeks. Another testament to the impact of a waking dream, should it prove to be so. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to rely on others to speak for him.
It felt wrong, now, the thought of it. He just hoped nobody would notice how talkative he might become until he ascertained things.
He watched with a wistful gaze as his father stood before the window that graced their home’s study with the light of daybreak. “Karis should be arriving soon,” the Warrior of Vale announced somewhat unceremoniously, arms drawn over his chest with a furrowed brow. “Her father mentioned a while back that he’d finally perfected his craft of the soarwing, so you and Tyrell should finally be able to join us in our inspection of the Sol Sanctum’s remains once we have the equipment to make more of them. And once you've received the proper training, of course.”
Unwittingly, Matthew froze. No. No, his dream could not be a premonition. He couldn’t afford that being the truth of things, not when it meant that they would simply walk the same path of destruction once again. The Grave Eclipse would be reborn. People would lose their lives a second time.
The fate of the world would rest upon his shoulders like his predecessors once again.
When he failed to respond, Isaac tore away from the window to offer him a curious glance. Matthew clamped his mouth shut when he became aware of the fact that it was hanging agape and struggled to muster a well-worded reply. He could only nod once more. Too many thoughts scrambled for the forefront of his attention, and he could only balance warding them away and holding a conversation for so long.
“...you and I won’t be here to greet her, though. I need to pick up some supplies from Patcher, so that’s where we’ll be headed this morning,” Isaac eventually continued.
Another mark of confirmation. Another spike of dread that filled his stomach. Matthew parted his lips and when nothing to speak of escaped, he couldn’t help but drop his eyes to the floor and away from the imposing figure that his father tended to be. A part of his mind admonished himself for being such a petulant coward, trying to carry the burden of foresight on his own. The other part diligently reminded him that Isaac had his own troubles to hold in his hands. He didn’t need another arduous quest to partake in when the Grave Eclipse was (technically) supposed to be their own first.
“Ok,” Matthew finally settled upon, miniscule as an answer could be.
A flicker of amusement shimmered within the depths of the elder Adept’s eyes as he set about ruffling the top of his son’s head. “Something’s on your mind. Garet always tells me that you get it from me, making your thinking as plain as day.” Just as Matthew was about to worry over being interrogated, his father continues. “Well, I won’t bother you about it. Get dressed and I’ll meet you at the bridge, alright? The sooner we depart, the sooner we can return home.”
The younger blonde flicked his eyes to the window, so gallantly catching the orange hues of the sunrise. If nothing else, basking underneath the comfort of an undeterred Sol might put his mind at rest...even if temporary. He spun around on his heels and returned to his room with renewed vigor in his step.
It was a bit surprising to see Tyrell beating him to the punch on getting ready for the day, but then he caught wind of how Garet had been quick to get on his case for trying to sleep in and the rest clicked from there. Matthew tossed on his clothes and grabbed his pack near the cabinet settled within the corner next to the ladder before he waved Tyrell goodbye and departed from the house.
It wouldn’t quite be the last time he saw it, but if more of his dream repeated itself in reality, it would be the second last time instead.
Isaac met him at the overpass that served to connect two regions of the plateau. Technically, the Lookout Cabin stood somewhat off-kilter the worn path that travelers might have taken to Vale, should it have still rested underneath the shadows of Mount Aleph. The only thing left within the heights where they currently stood was quite literally their home. There wasn’t much to be see this deep into Goma Plateau except for the fearsome vises of Tanglewood, and one would be sorely disappointed to go traversing its depths; they’d be met with a long-since abandoned mine once dedicated to harvesting Psynergy crystals, and not much else. So, really, they were the only people that ever came this far into the mountain range. “Worn path” was a polite way to describe one that was only taken by the residents of the Lookout Cabin and its occasional visitors.
Matthew approached his father with care, one hand gripped tightly over the rugged satchel tied over his back. Carrying a weapon for so long within his dream passed over into the present, leaving behind a sense of discomfort in knowing that he would carry no such blade until he returned home. “I’m ready.”
The warrior nodded with a faint smile, and the two of them crossed over the bridge together. Even though Sol had only just begun to climb across the sky, Matthew knew that it would be late within the evening by the time they returned home. The trek to Patcher’s Place was no easy little thing, spanning what was virtually half of the day; not even counting the trip back. If only their home wasn’t situated over tall, perilous inclines. Maybe then they could afford to keep horses for the sake of travel.
The young dream-hero granted himself a single fleeting glance back towards the Lookout Cabin before the overwhelming sense of dread that came with it shied him away. He stuck close to his father from then on, less sure of the future than he had ever been before.