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Nox’s past dredges itself up on his worst nights.
There is not a lot that Nox remembers; not anything that he wants to remember. Entire blank slots in his memory leap from one to the other as his mind does its best to fill in these uncertain periods of emptiness. Of “supposedly’s”, “maybe’s”, and “possibly's” in his past. A past that, without fail, comes back to haunt him in the dead of fitful nights. Funnily enough, Nox doesn’t remember a night that wasn’t fitful anymore.
Nox heaves, deep and ragged, as his eyes shoot open and the world spins in a blurry haze, barely lit by the moonlight creeping in through the window. His chest balloons up and down, pulling in breathless gasps as he fights against the choking and sputtering of his own throat convulsing.
He is drowning. He is drowning. He cannot breathe and he is drowning and he is back in that room. He is back in the room he is always brought back to, the room where he lost himself, the room where he died and came back incomplete.
His eyes flicker fast from one wall to the other as he pulls himself up, despite how heavy his whole body feels. How each muscle aches and screams and resists, how his body won’t listen to him easily. The weight of a thousand half-remembered lives trying to drag him down into the hells where part of him probably still lives. He curls inwards on himself as the sound of his coughing and gasping and choking fills the silence of his room, alongside the rush of blood in his ears pounding away. He resists the immediate reaction to claw at his throat, trying to loosen whatever has a strong grip around his neck, whatever is stopping him from breathing. His trembling hands clench in his lap instead, gripping the sheets hard as he watches a few straggling beads of sweat drop onto the covers below.
Dripping with water. Cold. Cold and soaked and drowning in- he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Calm down, calm down, fuck, fuck, breathe, it’s-” Nox forcibly whispers a mantra to himself in the darkness of his own making; a sob rips its way out of his throat, cutting him off. He bites his lips, forcing down the rest of the sobbing that he feels trying to bubble up out of him. This is not the first time he’s resorted to spewing out self-reassurances and he knows it won’t be the last. He just refuses for anyone else to hear him, although he knows that the chances of it are unlikely. There’s a reason why he chose to live in a room separated from the rest of the tavern. Despite his excuse that it was “the biggest room”, it was because of these moments he doesn’t want the others witnessing. He doesn’t want their pitiful eyes boring into him like he’s something broken even though he knows he is. He doesn’t know how much longer until the rest of them find out his wretched secret.
Nox pries his eyes open once more, still downcast, still watching the violent rise and fall of his chest; the tremble in his hands. He’s sure if he wasn’t already in his true form, that his knuckles would be completely white from how hard he’s gripping the fabric in his lap. It needs to go. Now. He feels too restricted, too constrained, too trapped. He’s tied down and he can’t move, he’s in that chair and he can’t move his legs and there’s a weight of dread and immobility over him.
Nox rips off the blankets and flings them aside as quickly as he can.
Exposed, now, but not weighed down anymore.
He scrambles out of his bed and instead onto unsteady legs that threaten to buckle under his sudden weight. His legs feel weak, numb, like this is the first time that he’s used them in a long while. His hand grips onto the side table next to one of his daggers as additional support, body straining in whole as he finishes coughing the non-existent water out of his lungs. Until he feels like he isn’t actively drowning. Until he doesn’t feel like he might collapse and fall apart if he lets go. Nox counts the scuffs in the wooden flooring beneath him as he recollects the scattered parts of him and pulls them back together in the vague shape of who he is.
Turning his head towards the moonlight streaming in and taking a shaky hand, he slowly pushes his fallen bangs away from his brow; the sweat that they’ve collected holds them back. That’s one solace that Nox can count on right now: in the interrogation chambers, there was no moonlight. There was only a dim flickering lantern that staved off the shadows of the room and his torturer. Through pursed lips, Nox lets out a final shaky exhale while straightening himself as best as he can, standing up to his full height now instead of the cowering creature he was minutes ago. His back aches with the pull. He squeezes his hands into fists a few more times while focusing on the digging sensation of his nails into flesh. It’s grounding.
“Fuck me alive.” Nox groans to himself, his voice hoarse to his own ears as he grabs his stray dagger and then pulls himself to a chair angled near an unlit fireplace. Along the way, he grabs a log and tosses it into the pit next to two others that still have some use left.
There’s no going back to sleep now, even if he tries.
He lights the fireplace with a snap of his fingers and a soft whisper.
Sinking down into the old chair, he rests the dagger in his lap. There isn’t much cushioning to be had but Nox finds he doesn’t mind. For a while, Nox sits in the silence of his room, eyes glazing over as he stares into the flickering flames in front of him, listening to the crackle. It’s entrancing and distracting in a way that Nox finds the more jagged exposed parts of himself calming, smoothing over. It’s warm and it’s bright and it’s everything that back then wasn’t. It is a lifeline in a vast cold sea and Nox clings to it during nights like these.
Unfortunately, nights like these have been happening more and more frequently.
Is it the stress? The doomsday clock ticking down above all of their heads? The imaginative guillotine that the Spider Queen toys with. Is it that the more he comes to remember, the more it haunts him? Would he be like this if he had all his memories? Or would the vast amount of memories in a lifetime before now would have led to that one terrible night being just a mere drop of water in a bucket, washed away by all the good things he could remember. Still there but… diluted. Yet, there is no torrent of good to outweigh his bad, is that why it shakes him so greatly, why it has such a vice grip on his sleeping hours? He doesn’t know. Nox certainly isn’t a religious person by any nature, knowing the gods have scorned and abandoned them all to figure out the end of the world by themselves, yet he prays that one day this too shall pass. He needs it to. He doesn’t know how he can live the rest of his life being haunted.
He doesn’t recall how much time passes while he’s lost in his thoughts, but figures it might have been quite a while seeing as how the fire is now dying out. He takes that as his sign to get on with his day. Snuffing the flames out with a quick flick of his wrist and a mumble under his breath, Nox arises from the chair with a creak. He changes his shirt, pulls on his boots, attaches his daggers to his belt in the dark silence of his room. It’s in the aftermath of these moments that he feels outside of his body, like a spectator, far away. He watches himself don his gear and step out of his room, trudging the short cobble path towards the rest of the buildings on the property. He heads toward the tavern.
Giving a slight push against the door, Nox enters as quietly as he can and steps into the low hum of the place. There isn’t much in the way of customers at the moment, considering whatever ungodly hour of the day it must be, yet there are a few passed out patrons slumped over on the tables. If Nox had it in him at this moment, he would have thrown their asses out. He can’t bring himself to care.
At the bar is an orc who leans heavily against the wood of the counter, picking at dirt underneath his nails when the new movement has him looking up and meeting Nox’s eyes. Nox gives a small nod as he makes his way to the bar, unceremoniously plopping down in one of the stools stationed there.
“Long night?” The orc clears his throat and asks.
“Do I look that bad?” Nox jokes. It feels forced and unnatural, sticky and struggling to leave his mouth.
The orc winces and gives him a sympathetic look as he slides an empty tankard to Nox before filling it up with what Nox deems to be juice. Nox gives the barkeep an even stare before slowly raising his eyebrow. He feels a bit more like a person now.
“You can’t drink your problems away before the sun even rises, boss.” The orc sighs. Somewhere underneath those words, Nox knows that he speaks from experience. Either his own or from all the other sad sacks that drink themselves into oblivion here. Nox nods once and wraps a careful hand around the handle of the tankard before beginning to nurse his drink.
“If only it were that easy.” Nox acknowledges.
“It never is.” A familiar voice interrupts.
Nox doesn’t even need to lift his head to know who it is.
Here comes the princess, right on cue.
“To what do I owe the pleasure this early in the morning?” Nox takes a sip, “Usually you sleep until later.”
“Probably for the same reason you’re here.” Max replies, pulling out the stool next to him and taking a seat.
“Probably close, but not quite.” Nox amends.
“No, not quite. Yet, things keep both of us up.” Max raises her hand to the barkeep who fills her tankard up with water. Out of the corner of his eye, Nox sees Max pout her lip slightly at the denial of ale.
“I suppose that’s the unfortunate lot of an adventurer, no? You manage to survive past the worst days of your life and yet you’re never free.”
“What an unfortunate duo we make.” Max huffs a small laugh.
“Do you mind if I– what wakes you up? Or, I guess, do you even manage to catch a few winks?” Nox tentatively asks, feeling so much smaller at this pry into vulnerability. A long silence falls over both of them. He can feel the gears in Max’s head practically turning as she weighs the response.
“Guilt.”
That was not what he was expecting in the slightest.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’ve made a lot of choices but it’s the guilt of whether those choices were the right ones that keep me up.” She lets out a slow breath. “Guilt over Elsyra.” A pause, “I see her sometimes.”
Nox turns to look at her, yet she doesn’t meet his eyes. She’s staring into the tankard with a wry smile on her face.
“In my dreams, I see her. Or I guess, what my mind twists her into. She blames me. She has every right to when it’s what I’ve done that has turned her into what she is now. I blame myself too. I see the black blood on my hands sometimes in those dreams. Her blood.” She drinks, “I sometimes wake up and have to stare at my hands to make sure it’s not still there. That’s on the nights I manage to sleep. Sometimes I’ll lay in bed as I think about everything I could’ve done that haunts me.”
Nox isn’t surprised. He knows what it’s like. He knows what it’s like to question his own sanity, to be so fresh from a nightmare– a memory– that he’s left trapped in between the waking world and his dream one until the fear subsides. His mind flits back to a couple hours prior when he was so sure he was drowning on air.
“I’m sorry.” Nox doesn’t know what else he can say.
“What for? Nothing you did. Nothing anyone did, anyone but me… that is.” She chances a glance at him and gives a softer smile. “Your turn.”
“Right.” Nox sighs, “It’s, uhm, it’s less of a nightmare and more… I’m back in that chair. In the interrogation. Nothing’s new or twisted, it’s just the same thing playing over and over on repeat. I’m strapped down and I’m choking on the water again, I can’t breathe, and he’s repeating these questions I don’t know the answer to. I used to– I used to know the answers but in my dreams I don’t. Then, I’m drowning once again and I can’t breathe and I can’t escape and it’s nothing but darkness when he puts the bag over my head again. I’m really sick of that damned darkness.” Nox realizes by the end, that he’s nervously scratching at his inner wrist. He makes a mental note to correct that habit later.
“Hells.” Max breathes out.
Nox lets out a sardonic laugh.
“You’re telling me. It’s fine.” He gives a wave of his hand, “You weren’t there the first time I remembered. On the ship. When I freaked out and could barely find the words to tell anybody why.” Nox tries to look anywhere but at Max “You didn’t see how… ruined I was.”
“Not ruined.” Max is quick on his heels to interject.
“Pretty damn close.” Nox is even quicker. “Sometimes I still get like that. Where I can’t think straight, where no matter how much I try to rationalize with myself, I can’t escape that room.” Nox only hopes he doesn’t look as pathetic as he feels in his admittance. “I feel like I’m going insane sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you ever-”
“-Say something? “ Nox interrupts. They’ve fallen into an easy rhythm now of knowing what the other might say. “It’s hard to? I don’t want you all to look at me differently… to look at me the way I look at myself sometimes. Like I’m beyond repair. Like I’m a ghost that should’ve died back then, except I didn’t. That now I’m just haunting myself and I don’t even know it.”
“Except you didn’t.” Max echoes quietly.
“I don’t need to burden any of you with this, not when we have the apocalypse about to rear its ugly head around the corner at any moment.” They knew it could happen at any moment. There was one more step of the prophecy, sure, but who knew when that would come to fruition? They were left grasping at straws against the wall of fate decades– no— centuries in the making.
“You know we are your friends, right?”
Silence.
“Right? Don’t make me repeat myself, you ass.” Max threatens, yet they both know the insult is fake. It’s banter. It’s a thin wall of normalcy between them.
“I- yeah… I know.” Nox sighs, pretending to be distracted by something on the counter so he doesn’t have to look at Max.
“I think we all have things that we don’t talk about with each other. There’s something that keeps us all awake sometimes. I don’t know how much they compare to what you’ve experienced but that’s not the point. I’m sure they would understand too if you decided to open up about this.” There’s a hopeful lilt at the end of Max’s voice that settles funnily in Nox’s chest.
The idea itself was so foreign and strange that Nox couldn’t help the doubtful look that fell upon his face. He can tell by Max’s scowl though that she’s not a fan.
“I don’t…” Nox doesn’t think he can bring himself to tell the others. Definitely not Leeanne and Chiffon. Rhogar maybe, but the two of them have never been that close in the first place for Nox to just trauma dump on him one day out of the blue. They don’t talk often about their past or feelings. They shoot the shit, get into shenanigans, and generally fuck around. As for the others…
It’s out of the question… at least for now. He can’t imagine confiding in Chiffon, who knows nothing of his past, and dragging her into the mess of who he is. She’s an easy crier already at the smallest things. A cute animal, unhappy weather, kind words. She’s very in touch with her emotions… but Nox would rather not picture the look of devastation on her face if he was brave enough to tell her this. About what they did to him. About the ghosts that refuse to let him go. It would break her heart if she knew. He doesn’t want to burden her like that.
Leeanne… maybe one day? One day far away from now, if Nox can help it. She has her own issues to deal with and part of Nox is afraid. The feeling worms around in his chest uncomfortably when he realizes this. He pins it down with a dagger and examines it. Afraid is the term he does settle on. For now. He’s afraid that she, specifically, will see him differently. He doesn’t want her seeing him this vulnerable or weak. Thank gods she wasn’t in the immediate vicinity when he broke the first time on the boat. It was T.C., Oz, and Whistlia. Now all three of them were either dead or somewhere beyond him. He doesn’t know where Leeanne was but in hindsight, he’s relieved she didn’t see him with his bloody hand after he punched a mirror, shifting forms uncontrollably, and panicking while stuck between a ship cabin and being waterboarded. Nox knows he wouldn’t be able to stand himself if she looked at him with pity. Not her.
“I don’t think I can… just not yet.” Nox finishes his thought, feeling just as uncertain as he sounds about it.
Max nods solemnly though she doesn’t offer any additional words.
“How do you… how do you get through it? On your nights?” Nox prods gently.
“We can only take it one day at a time, Nox.” Max replies, although something in her tone leaves Nox uncertain as to whether she’s believing her own advice or not. It sounds too rehearsed. He reaches over with his tankard of juice and clinks it against the side of hers. It’s a quiet moment between the two of them in shared understanding and grief.
“Look at us, two emotional wrecks with nothing better to do.” Nox jokes, steering away from the conversation. His heart pounds in his chest with fear; a rabbit kicking against his ribcage. He’s afraid the rabbit will burst out and run at any minute. He falls back into the easiness of nonchalance as a trusty tool. He offers a cocky grin as he downs the rest of his juice, ready to run.
“We can pretend this conversation never happened, that’s fine.” Max says, swallowing the rest of her drink. “I won’t bring it up if you don’t want me to. Just know that you can come find me if you need someone to be around when those nights happen.” She finishes.
Nox pauses.
There’s a shared understanding between them that Nox more than likely won’t seek her out.
“...You too, Max.”
He means it.