Somehow, Marco immediately knew he was dreaming.
Then again, dreaming wasn't the right word to describe it. Unlike a dream, he felt grounded, knew that the blackness around him was a projection of his mind. There wasn't that usual disconnect, that odd recognition that something isn't quite right. Instead, he saw what looked like a stage play being put on in the most realistic of sets. And he was in the audience.
The "stage" was made up to look like a very familiar place: the docks of Sunheight. His father used to bring him there as a child. He and the other boys were told that, as commoners, they would be need to be working by the time they were fourteen. So fathers would bring sons to the docks young to learn the way they unloaded ships.
The boys, being boys, naturally stopped paying attention after about twenty minutes.
Marco saw a group of boys run onto the stage. One particular boy had scraggly black hair tied back in a ponytail the way his mom used to do it. Even without the distinct hairstyle, something within Marco immediately told him that the kid was him at the age of eight.
The boys were playing pirates on one of the ships their fathers had already cleared out. Marco remembered it well. He saw the usual assigning of roles. He wanted to be captain, but the biggest boy took that role. Without his consent, the other boys gave him the role of prisoner. So his young self shuffled off to the hold while the other boys went to have adventures on the ship's deck.
There he sat when a burly man with red curly hair came to the hold. He looked surprised when he saw little Marco.
It was then that adult Marco realized this scene didn't have any sound. Instead, he was able to feel everything as though it was happening to him all over again.
The burly man was questioning little Marco rather aggressively. He felt the fear of this big man looming over him. The man was insistent that the hold was supposed to be empty. Little Marco pouted as he explained that prisoners had to stay in the hold until they were rescued.
The man seemed unhappy with this, but eventually just disregarded Marco as he walked to a corner of the hold where a few crates of cargo still sat. Marco felt the intense curiosity as his younger self watched the man find a certain crate.
He moved closer as the man pried the top off to reveal...oranges.
The burly man grinned with satisfaction, but soon noticed the boy standing beside him. He smacked him. Young Marco was so scared that his little legs had carried him away before he could even process what just happened.
He didn't even go to find his father. His first thought was to get the city guard on the case.
This struck the adult Marco as odd at first. But as the guard rallied and followed his young self to the ship, he remembered exactly what happened that day. At the time, the king was going through an orange phase. Whole loads of them were shipped in from overseas because they didn't grow in Irelios. A group of rebels found out about this and poisoned a shipment. But instead of killing the king, they murdered the numerous cooks and servants in the palace that nicked food from the pantry. It caused a panic, and from then on oranges were banned from the kingdom pending a thorough inspection of every shipment.
The child Marco caught wind of this news in the market. That was why he brought the guard, to catch the man orange-handed. He was taken away and imprisoned, but an investigation would later reveal that he was no rebel. He was just smuggling oranges for extra coin during the ban.
The dream-play sped up from there. Bits of scenes went by, and Marco felt them all. He was proud as he told his father how he caught a bad guy. His father just looked disappointed and tried to quiet him. Confusion washed over him as he saw the bitter stares of the other dockworkers. As a kid he never got it, but as an adult he understood it perfectly. The dock guys had a fierce loyalty towards one another, and Marco had just ratted on one of their own. His father stopped bringing him to the docks after that.
Another scene flashed by. A redheaded child chased Marco around. That was when he started to get bullied.
The stage went dark then, as he saw the shapes that made up the set shift around. As they did, a question entered his mind.
"What is just?"
The stage now depicted Marco's old home. He instantly recognized his thirteen-year-old self, who sat on his bed counting coins from a sack.
He had been doing odd jobs for various people around the city. Every coin he earned that didn't go towards his household went into the sack. This was his savings, and he was going to use it to pay for his tuition at the Dyon Academy, the kingdom's school that trained Heroes.
When he finished, he took a deep breath. The feeling of nervousness was so overwhelming it made his stomach lurch.
Marco strode to the other room of his home. The stage accurately depicted the place. After all, it only had two rooms: one with the family's beds and another combination kitchen/common room. His mother was stirring a stew in a large pot above the fire pit, his father was whittling. Marco approached them with all seriousness and launched into a passionate monologue.
In return, he got a head shake from his father and a sad, downcast gaze from his mother. He went on, undeterred.
Eventually, his father cut him off with a storm of curses and rage. Marco pleaded, which only made his father scream more. Eventually his father just sat down and went back to his whittling, ignoring him completely. Realizing that he was a lost cause, Marco turned to his mom. She did all she could to avoid meeting his eyes. His attempt a failure, Marco stormed off.
The Marco who watched keenly felt his blood boil with the anger of that day. He had diligently saved his money but still fell short of his goal. It was customary in the kingdom for children to begin apprenticing for jobs at thirteen. As such, The Dyon Academy did not take students over thirteen. If he did not make tuition soon, he would have to give up his dream. That was why he had asked his parents for a loan. His father's response was to call his dreams foolish and reprimand him for asking for money when he knew they had none.
Out of habit, Marco went to to an inn called Sailor's Repose. That was where Claire was.
Marco fancied Claire. But with his unkempt mop of long black hair and short stature he knew she wouldn't give him a second glance. Still, he went to see her often. So often that her parents, the inn's owners, eventually hired him to do odd jobs.
When he entered the inn, he expected the usual rowdiness. Despite its name, Sailors didn't sleep at Sailor's Repose. They only drank.
Instead, he found dead silence. The reason quickly presented itself.
A big-shot merchant dressed in silks from a distant land was pounding on a table and throwing insults at Claire because she apparently served him trash. Claire insisted the food he ate was the best they had.
But the merchant wouldn't have it, going on about how important he was and how she insulted him. It was escalating to the point where he started smashing plates.
Marco looked to the sailors, thinking one of them would come to Claire's defense. But the merchant's bodyguards had hands on their swords as if daring the sailors to interfere. None took the bait.
As he watched, Marco felt the mix of shame, fear, and anger he felt that day. Claire was crying hysterically. But his teenage self just stood there frozen as the merchant carried on. He wanted to rescue her, but what could he do?
Claire's father rushed in and gave the merchant his money back, recommending an inn closer to the palace that served finer food. The man left, spitting insults even as he walked out the door.
Once he regained his composure, Marco went outside to follow the merchant. He wanted to say something, do something to make up for his inaction. But again he was rendered inert when he saw the merchant's bodyguards.
A very drunk sailor came out of the inn, pushed past him, and shoved the merchant. That was all he did before the bodyguards threw him down and kicked him several times. They left the man crying out in pain as they escorted their master away.
Marco knew exactly what was coming next. He guessed it was the reason he was being shown this particular memory.
When the merchant was shoved by the sailor, he dropped a small bag from his belt. Marco picked it up and discovered a sizable amount of silver coins. After a moment's thought, he took a few coins out, gave them to the beat-up sailor, and went home.
The stage went dark again, and the set changed. But Marco remembered that there was more to it. He gave some coins to Claire the next day. And his parents. Sure he paid for his tuition, but he made sure to spread the wealth.
That thought made him chuckle coldly. What was the point of reminding himself of that? Who was he justifying himself to?
Again, the question came back.
"What is just?"
It was in his mind like a thought, but then also had a vague voice that wasn't his own.
Before he could give it much thought, another scene came. This time it was the battle of Monument Tower. He felt it all over again; the panicked realization that the orphans were in danger, the desperation to fight off the shadow creatures and save them, and the eventual numbness resulting from years of being falsely labeled a coward.
Then the next scene. Once, the old library master Sebastian burned an entire book Marco had copied because he didn't do it "perfectly enough." Just like that, entire days of work became wasted. Marco was so furious that he deliberately "took ill" the next few days. He even bought a potion that made him very sleepy to sell the illusion. Without his best worker to finish the job and because he had destroyed the first copy, Sebastian was forced to answer to one of the king's top advisors as to why exactly he didn't have the requested book.
Yet another. Marco ate the recipe for the Shaping Potion in front of an astounded Reina. With no other choice, she took him to the palace and agreed to be his Patron.
Many scenes like these came and went, faster and faster. Marco witnessed the many times in his life he was given a choice, be it great or small. He also felt every emotion again, reminding him why he made the choices he did. But now that he was audience to these events, he gained an additional insight.
After every scene, that same question was asked. Like the beat of a drum it formed a rhythm, underlying the rapid march of choices, of consequences.
They became so fast it was like they were blending together. It got so overwhelming that Marco tried to close his eyes despite knowing this was all happening in his mind. When he tried, the memories seemed to coagulate and explode in a flash of light. Then, everything went dark.
He heard it one last time.
"What is just?"