Marc feels empty.
That’s not the right word, of course it isn’t, but that’s the best he can think of. It’s the only one he knows, the only one he can feel, the only one he can think.
He hasn’t been empty in a long time. Not since he was little, not since his brother was born, not since his brother died, not since he sat in his room and let Steven do what be couldn’t.
Not since he nearly died.
(Not since he crawled and dragged himself through the sand of the desert, a gunshot wound in the side of his stomach, a knife wound to the hand, blood staining the pale stone of the temple. Not since he resigned himself to dying in a temple in the middle of night, the wounds inflicted by Jake, inflicted by someone he thought he could trust. Not since death started to take him, started to begin the process of weighing his scales. Not since Khonshu appeared and manipulated him into saying yes, manipulated him into working for him, forcibly turning him into his own mercenary.)
It’s not a correct feeling, not someone he should feel. He’s always had someone near, either Steven or Khonshu. He’s always had Steven in his head or Khonshu nearby, always watching. He’s always had someone.
(Someone breathing down his neck, pointing out all of wrongs. Someone lying in the corner of his mind, asleep, unknown to all of the horrors right in front of him. Someone laughing in the deep, deep corner of his mind, thinking about how stupid it is that he’s not even trying to hurt these people.)
But they’re gone.
(All for one, but he stays hidden, so far down Marc has stopped thinking of him, considering him part of himself. He stays away, except for when the real danger comes, when the fun shines brighter and the grin shines harder.)
They’re gone, and he’s alone in a field, with no one to help him. No one to tell him to stop, that this is all too dangerous. No one to tell him to just kill the worm, to stop wasting his time for him, to just do it, DO IT.
No one but him.
(No one.)
He hates it.
He’s nearly always had Steven, a reason to keep going, because he made up Steven in his head, when he was a kid. He made him up, from his favorite tv show or movie or whatever, and he made him real and true, and he had him. He had him for a long time, giving him the normal and true life he had always, always wanted. He gave him everything that he really and truly needed. Everything.
And it was all in fucking vain.
He didn’t register his knees hitting the ground or his screaming until the rocks dug in, until the sounds of pain hit his ears and scratched his throat, but he didn’t give a fucking shit about it. The rocks could cut him and bleed through his pants all it fucking wanted, and his throat could silence him all that it needed to do.
“It’s my fault.” He whispered to himself, shaking his head before he could even finish. “It’s my fucking fault. Mine.”
His fists hit the rocks, and the pain should’ve stopped him, should’ve told him to stop doing this before he regrets it, but all he does is hiss in pain before he continues. He can’t stop, he can’t. He deserves this. He deserves this pain, this horror, this-this-
He doesn’t know what he deserves, but it can only be the bad, bad things. The bad parts of life.
He doesn’t stop until the blood stained the dirt and the sky turned dark. He doesn’t stop until his throat is raw from screaming and his body hurts. It was only then he gave himself a rest, dropping from his knees to sit solidly on the ground. But he pulled his knees up to his face, and wrapped his arms around them to hold them close.
And he cried.
The sobs wracked his body, and the tears stained the sleeves of his shirt, but he could give less of a shit. Steven was gone, and yet here he was, sobbing in a field in the middle of fuck-knows-where, all because he’s the reason Steven is dead.
Steven is dead, because he tried to save him from the sand-whatever. Because he cared about him. Because he loved him.
Steven was dead, because of him.
He can’t do a single fucking thing about it.
(He couldn’t have done anything. The boat continued, and no matter how much he yelled Steven’s name, no matter how much the British man yelled back, no matter how far he reached his hands out, there was nothing he could do. Steven turned to stone, and all he could do was feel the urge to cry as everything fell apart.)
Nothing was truly worth it now, was it?
Steven was a reason before. A reason to not do anything. A reason to stay safe, and stay quiet, and hide.
Now, what the fuck did he have to lose?
(Nothing. The answer was nothing, because Steven didn’t have a life to lead. He didn’t have a path to follow. They had nothing, because Steven was dead. He was dead, and he couldn’t do fuck all.)
Harrow would fucking pay, for what he’s done. For what he did.
“Jake?” He says aloud, voice scratching from the crying. He doesn’t even know if the man could hear him.
“Whaddya want Marc.” The voice of the man surprises him, but he tries not to show it as he stares at the stains of his sleeves.
“Y’know how you love violence?” He asks, hesitant.
“…Yeah?”
“What about you and me going to kill an ancient Egyptian goddess and her Avatar?” His knuckles crack when he finally flexes them, trying to ignore the anxiety waiting inside of him.
“Oh, I thought you’d never ask.”