Work Text:
Figaro fell to his knees as the shard of moonstone sunk into his breast, pain blooming throughout his body like a spider lily. In ████ years, he'd never felt a pain quite like it.
It spread through him so quickly he could barely lift his head to look his assailant in the eyes, and the raw, soul-crushing fear he saw in them only furthered the feeling.
This is my fault, so this is my atonement. If they're safe, that's all that matters.
There were voices behind him now, hurried and frantic and terrified, and there were strong arms lifting him, but everything was starting to feel fuzzy and his head was buzzing with a pain that only got worse with movement. And they were headed somewhere, surely, but Figaro was zoning out even as a hand worn rough came to his cheek to try to pat him awake, much more frantically than was in character.
"Doctor Figaro, please stay awake just a little longer. ██ and █████ are almost here. You will be alright."
It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, much less focus them. ██████ was right there, but Figaro couldn't make him out. All too quickly, there were more hands. More voices. There were so many. When had they come? Where were they?
"Lord Figaro!"
"Figaro!"
"... Figaro..."
A hand he knew better than his own gripped his immediately. The sudden warmth made him realize just how cold he was, and his intended laugh came out as a cough that racked his whole body and made his head pulse in agony. The wound in his chest was crystalizing.
It's over.
<<Vox Nox>>
Don't push yourself.
<<Vox Nox>>
I'm sorry.
<<Vox Nox>>
There was crying and choked out words obscured by the thrumming in his ears. His attempt at a comforting smile revealed only that he could no longer breathe. The moon, bright and sharp and far too close, illuminated the figures of the ones he loved most in the world.
Figaro could not see a single one of them.
-
Figaro awoke with a pain in his heart so sharp he could not breathe and a turning in his stomach that he had to turn out. He all but fell out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and relieving himself of the feeling before it came out elsewhere.
He'd been having these kinds of dreams lately - dreams where he was undeniably himself, but in a world he didn't know surrounded by people he'd never met. He remembered the dreams so well each morning that they felt more like forgotten memories than images conjured by his unconscious mind.
Tonight's was the worst one yet.
He hadn't told a soul about them, either. (Not even the twins - though there was more than one reason for that). No, he couldn't tell anyone that he regularly had dreams about using magic and committing atrocities as easily as breathing, about raising children he couldn't name and cupping his hands around cheeks on a face he couldn't quite remember. Even just thinking about it made him feel ████, ████ing for something he'd never known. It felt like some big cosmic joke.
He shook his head where it lay on the toilet seat and flushed before he got too caught up in his thoughts to remember to.
...
He had a new client coming today. It was only 3 am, but he needed to start getting ready for the day. One client would hardly make or break his career, but thinking like that wouldn't get him off his knees. In the morning, he'd look through his medication stocks to see if there was anything that could knock him out hard enough to prevent his subconscious from acting up. For now, he dragged himself to his feet and began setting up a cold shower, eyes open as long as he could keep them.
The image of the moon burnt behind his eyelids only made his feelings of foreboding worse.