late-to-the-magnus-archives - Tumblr blog

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 day

Text

Corrupted, chapter 18 - a TMA by Malevolent crossover

The night after a shadow-attack, knife-wounds, and heavy drinking, Tim has a lot to lose. Every step seems to bring him closer to those who would eat Hastur... and Tim finds the idea of losing this arrogant, ridiculous god less appealing by the day.

Lucky for him, Elias has a plan. But are Elias' plans ever really lucky for anyone?

------------------

Hello, all! It's been a while. To sum up so far:

- Tim opened a book he shouldn't have, and the King in Yellow now dwells inside him.

- The King has been on the run from Kayne for thousands of years.

- In a stroke of genius (???), Hastur chose to come to THIS world - where the Fears have devoured the gods they could catch, and driven out the ones they couldn’t.

- It’s a race now against time. Kayne has promised to kill Hastur; the Eye, at least, knows Hastur is here, and the others will soon; through some dubious choices Tim is now tied to the Magnus Institute; Daisy is on his trail, and so far can’t be deterred. And Jon, for some inexplicable reason, insists on tagging along to see what happens.

Any port in a storm, right? Well. Elias' home is certainly some kind of harbor…

AO3

————

It is a miserable night.

Bad dreams, the kind that wake him shaking and tense; flashes of lightning through closed eyes, though when he opens them, there is no sign of a storm; and that constant, unending, inescapable feeling of being watched.

Tim wakes feeling like shit, and can’t completely blame the alcohol. It was a miserable night on the heel of many miserable nights and many miserable days and many miserable years.

Though… he has to admit to himself as he grunts his way awake that the last few days haven't been so bad. Maybe it’s not feeling alone, though that's insane because this is temporary and Hastur is more dangerous than he is friendly.

Or maybe it’s because Hastur understands him.

That is a bizarro realization, and it hits like a brick. His normal experience of thinking adjacent to other people instead of alongside, of misunderstandings and the need to explain jokesâ€¦ none of that is here with Hastur.

If Hastur were a person, Tim would be leery (he knew a narcissist when he saw one), but might still try to get close. Might still try to charm. Probably even seduce. He likes Hastur. He can handle that bluffing bullshit just fine.

Or maybe all of this is the alcohol, and he’s just being lonely. He sits on the bed, slumped forward, elbows on his thighs, and sighs.

Your breath could use some improvement, says Hastur, amused.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Tim, and staggers to the bathroom. If someone is watching, he hopes they’re having fun, because he’s about to see a morning too-much-booze experience that nobody ever likes.

Brushed, showered, clothed in last night’s clothes (clean and pressed, as promised), he makes his way into the hall.

It was very strong liquor, says Hastur.

“You’re hungover, too?” grumps Tim. “Fuck. Sorry.”

Worth it.

Odd. “Why?”

I like you relaxed, says Hastur. I like your responses to things.

To things. To what things? The end of last night is very fuzzy. “Sure,” says Tim. “I think we should drink in the privacy of our own home, though.”

Oh, I agree, Hastur says, positively rumbling it.

Tim decides to pretend he didn’t say our and rubs his eyes. “Save the sexy-times voice for later, yeah? When I’m not feeling nauseated.”

There is an easy fix, you know.

Tim stops at the top of the stairs. He hears Jon and Elias down there, talking in the kitchen; their voices are not raised, not distressed, so he feels he can take a moment. “You want me to use magic.”

Yes.

“I thought we’d established I’m terrible at this?” Tim says weakly.

No, Tim, no, Hastur murmurs. Far from terrible. You are brilliant; powerful; a solar storm in a human body. You wish to avoid losing more body-parts to me? Wish to avoid setting more lions loose, or any other mishap? I want the same thing. Therefore, there is one solution: together, we practice.

Tim exhales slowly. “Hastur…”

Trust me. Trust me, Tim, at least this one time, and we’ll see how we can build from there.

Tim wants to trust. Maybe that’s foolish, but he does. “Let’s talk after breakfast.”

Assuming you can keep it down.

Tim wrinkles his nose. “It's party-time at casa Bouchard,” he announces, and marches down.

Elias and Jon are in the kitchen at the table, and in very different conditions. Elias is, of course, pristine; he looks like he stepped out of a magazine aimed at CEOs: bland, perfect, unassuming, expensive.

Jon looks like shit.

“Did you sleep at all?” Tim blurts.

Jon looks up at him mid-sentence. His hair is mussed; his eyes are red; his clothes have, unsettlingly, not been cleaned or pressed, and have gone brown with his blood. “What?” he says.

“Did you even leave the kitchen?” says Tim, increasingly horrified.

Jon stares at him, holds up a sheaf of papers, and shakes it.

“Right, I don’t speak paper flaps, so maybe we should take care of you first,” says Tim, approaching like Jon is a wounded deer.

“Tim,” says Jon, sounding ill. “You don’t understand. It goes so far back.”

“Tell me about it upstairs, all right?” says Tim, pulling his chair out.

“No, not yet! I need to know about Alexandria,” Jon protests, but he does not fight as Tim steers him toward the stairs.

“She’ll wait,” says Tim, deadpan.

“It’s not a woman! It’s a place!” says Jon, who, if he had feathers, would be one big ruffled ball. “Oh. You’re joking.”

“Yes, boffin, I’m joking,” says Tim, steering him toward the stairs.

Jon is now red. “I wasn’t finished,” he whines, climbing with Tim’s hand at his back.

“You’ll finish later.” Tim glances back.

Elias has not moved. He sits there, watching them both, doing that thing where he somehow feels like a caricature made of all eyes if one isn’t looking directly at him.

Why did we think kipping here was a good idea, again? thinks Tim.

Because otherwise, some horrible thing was going to hunt you two down, says Hastur.

Jon gasps, trips, and goes down on the stairs, banging his shins.

“Whoa, easy!” says Tim. “You okay?”

Jon spins and stares at him. “What was that?” he says, sprawled and shaky.

Tim stares back. “Wait. You heard that?”

Jon is shaking. “I… I heard…”

And of course, Hastur comes in with the massive ridiculous drama. Greetings, little unintentional eye priest. My man Tim likes you, so I will spare you when I come into my own.

Jon’s eyes roll back in his head and he passes the fuck out.

“Smooth,” Tim mutters at Hastur, trying and failing to wake Jon. He isn’t entirely sure what to do. It’s easy enough to carry Jon upstairs (and Jon never picked a bedroom, so Tim does that for him), but anything more seems like a personal violation. He goes so far as to lay Jon on the bed and remove his shoes, but that’s it.

It was only the truth, Hastur says in his patented I did nothing wrong voice.

If they were just two guys trying to make this work, Tim would be inclined to spank him.

What the hell comes next? Obviously, confronting Elias is the thing to do here, but Tim does not feel his best at the moment. It seems a bad idea.

The scent of cooked ham wafts into the room, and Tim’s mouth waters.

Oh, says Hastur, rumbling. He’s making breakfast.

Well, at least that provides neutral ground. Tim tugs the sheet to Jon’s chin and heads downstairs, jaw set, ready for a fight.

Elias is not ready for a fight. Elias is ready for a feast. Though Tim could have sworn there was nothing cooking when he walked Jon up.

Elias is humming, bent in front of the oven. “Have a seat,” he says, chipper.

“Did you really keep him up all night?” says Tim, who feels like not fighting his anger too much right now.

“No,” says Elias. “I assure you, he did that all on his own.”

You’re so pleased about it, says Hastur, sounding suspicious.

“Of course I am,” says Elias, who has an answer for everything. “He’s an ideal student of the Eye.”

“Your pet accidental priest?” says Tim.

Elias laughs.

It is a terrible laugh. It is a fucking evil laugh, like something out of a movie. Tim shivers, staring “Fucking hell, boss,” he says more mildly than the situation requires.

“My apologies,” says Elias, wicked chuckle tapering off. “His phrasing caught me by surprise, your Lordship.”

Of course the apology is for Hastur. “You’re having too much fun. Pretty sure it's illegal.”

“Laws change,” Elias says mildly, and provides a proper, perfect fry-up: bangers and back bacon, eggs and mushrooms and beans, fried bread, and white pudding.

Tim’s stomach rumbles.

Elias fucking winks. “As if I'd leave you suffering from my excess of hospitality.”

“Can’t decide if you’re a fantastic if incredibly creepy host, or just taking the piss out of me,” says Tim.

“Neither,” says Elias, deadpan. “It’s all part of my mad plan to lure the Fears to my doorstep.” Again, he offers the plate.

“Because you’re that bad at self-preservation,” Tim quips and takes it.

“My ageâ€”as your magnificent guest has observedâ€”would say otherwise,” says Elias.

“Two hundred, he said?” Tim mutters, decides fuck it, and stuffs his face.

He can’t help a little moan. It’s perfect for a hangover: greasy and salty and good.

Hastur makes a similar sound, a couple octaves deeper.

Elias stares.

Tim swallows. Eyes him. “Yeah, I'm gonna need a minute.” He turns to have his way with the food.

Hastur continues making… sounds.

Tim logs them away for later and focuses on filling his stomach.

So food helps. Food helps a lot, and Tim swings around to begrudgingly grateful by the time Elias offers tea.

“Better?” says Elias, who knows the answer already.

“Very,” says Tim, who’s feeling a bit more generous.

“Good,” says Elias. “I’d like to talk to you about the letter you received from Jude Perry.”

The last day has been so insane that for a moment Tim has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “Eh?”

The fire-woman, says Hastur.

“Shit,” Tim announces.

“Indeed. She wants you to go to Sheffield, yes?”

Tim stares for a moment. “Okay, how do you know that?”

Elias looks briefly pitying. “I can see almost anything I wish to see, which is why your adventure with Gertrude the other day remains tantalizing.”

Tim tries to deflect. “And I guess I’m worth peeping-Tomming though I haven’t done anything interesting beyond that?”

“Now, that isn’t true,” Elias soothes, and refills Tim’s tea. “The snow at the very least says otherwise.”

Tim sighs. “I know.”

“It was a good try, though,” says Elias, avuncular.

Tim gives him a look.

Elias smiles.

Dangerous, Tim reminds himself. “So what’s in Sheffield?”

“A cult,” says Elias. “Possibly a great challenge for you. They are those who worship destruction; who love the flame, who breathe fire and torment and screaming. Who, in fact, have given in to that which you—I think we can all agree, fortunately—still fight.”

“The Desolation.” Tim swallows, and cannot keep his voice steady.

His left hand—Hastur’s hand—rises and rests on his right.

It’sâ€¦ so damn comforting. Tim can’t even quite place why. It’s just Hastur, who’s trying to gaslight, gatekeep, and girlboss his way into whatever his goals are.

Still. It is, as Tim observed, the least alone he’s felt in years. Fuck it, he thinks, and turns his hand to grip Hastur’s.

“The Desolation,” Elias confirms. “I know you’re new to this, I do; yet I think you know what lies down that road.”

Tim looks away. “I feel it.”

“Yes,” says Elias, soft, but somehow more intense for all of that.

“It’s… it… it calls,” says Tim.

“Yes,” says Elias, even quieter, even more intense.

“Hastur thinks I’m doomed,” says Tim.

“So do I, fairly,” says Elias.

“Fuck you both,” says Tim. “I’m not.” Hastur’s hand tightens, and Tim finds himself blushing. “I’m not fucking doomed. I won’t do that.”

“It wants you very much,” says Elias. “The harder you resist, the harder it will pull you.”

“Well, fuck it, then,” says Tim.

“There is a way out,” says Elias.

Tim goes very, very still.

“A dangerous one,” says Elias, “with a hefty cost; but should you choose to pay it, you will not be devoured.”

What? says Hastur quietly. That’s not a thing.

“I assure you, it is,” says Elias. “It is possible to lose the attention of the Fears. Tim, I say this with full belief that you, lord Hastur, will obtain your very own body, becoming powerful and terrifying; I say this without any intention to raise your ire. As you have both noted, I like being alive, and I intend to keep doing it. Lying to you would not help me keep doing it.”

That much is true, cleric, says Hastur, and this rumble, this rumble is not friendly, this rumble is not calm, this rumble does not soothe or seduce the way half the sounds he make seem to do. This man belongs to me.

Tim rolls his eyes.

If your lies lead him to harm, you will wish your life was forfeit.

There is real fear in Elias’s expression, but it doesn’t seem to be a deterrent. “I know,” he whispers.

Tim’s instinct is almost never wrong. Something here is off. Elias’ fear is real; his determination to survive is real; his hope to avoid Hastur’s anger is real. But something isn’t. Something here is a lie, and Tim can’t see it. He sets his jaw.

Elias clears his throat. “My suggestion is you go to Sheffield.”

“To the crazy fire-worshiping cultists? Not that it doesn’t sound like the best time ever, but are you out of your mind?” says Tim.

“No,” says Elias.

“You go to Sheffield, then,” Tim says.

Why would you want him to? says Hastur suspiciously.

“Because they expect it. Because if you fight too hard or too obviously, they will look harderâ€”and right now, Tim, I can completely guarantee that they do not know about your passenger. They only see the expected: a young man in the grip of anger, bereft of family or other human connections, already infested with such glorious rage. That is all. We do not want them to see more.”

“Wait,” says Tim. “If I go, I'm delivering him. I'm fucking putting him in danger!”

“Not necessarily,” Elias starts, but Tim overrides him.

“I am not putting him in danger,” Tim snarls, snarls, doesn’t recognize his own voice, and doesn’t realize there is smoke rising from around him (the air, his seat, the floor) until Hastur raises that left hand and gently cups his face.

Tim goes still.

“Amazing,” Elias whispers, eyes so wide that his sharp blue-gray irises completely show.

Not who I want to be. Tim takes a moment. Shuts his eyes. Breathes.

That’s it, says Hastur, smooth and low and sensuous. Breathe… five… four… three…

“Fucking dom,” Tim murmurs, and hopes he didn’t actually say that out loud, and obeys. It works. He relaxes. (The fire is still there still burning still unextinguished but he can’t do anything about that now.)

“Incredible,” says Elias, looking thrilled. “Tim, if anyone can do this, you can.”

“No,” says Tim. “There’s risks, and then there’s stupidity. No.”

Elias sees he means it. Elias (naturally) changes course as though he’d always meant to, all along. “Well, it’s for the best,” he says. “Jon would follow you, and I can’t imagine how poorly that would go. He’s not the most social of creatures.”

Tim gives him another look, this one edged with anger.

Elias shivers, but doesn’t close his eyes. “What will you do instead?”

“Those police,” says Tim. “I take it they’re still looking.”

“Ms. Tonner is,” says Elias. “The Hunt’s avatar. You will have to do more to get her off your tail.”

And suddenly, Tim realizes he has to change his mind. His mouth twists. “So… these people in Sheffield. This fire-cult. They’ve done bad things, yeah? They’ve gone out of their way to burn buildings and people. Yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” says Elias as if he were just propositioned.

Tim ignores that. “So tell you what. If you can guarantee me a way to focus her on them instead of meâ€¦ we’ll go.”

Tim that’s… I like that.

“Even though you might be in danger?” Tim says quietly.

I already am. This has the potential to turn one of the guns aimed at us in another direction.

Again, Tim dislikes the tone: again, it’s depressed, it’s accepting, it’s giving in. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I believe you’ll try.

Oh, fuck that. If fucking baby Merlin can't save this tiny, hidden piece of a god, then what's the point of any of it? “Well?” Tim says, turning all those feelings on Elias because he doesn’t know where else they can go.

Elias smiles. “Go see to Jon, won’t you? He’ll follow you if you don’t take him directly, and I think he’ll be safer if he’s under your care. Meanwhile, I have some phone calls to make. We can make this happen.”

Tim takes a slow exhale and nods. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says, and heads for the stairs.

#malevolent fic #tma fic #malevolent crossover #tma crossover #malevolent x tma #tma x malevolent #tim stoker #elias bouchard #jonathan sims #kiy malevolent

1 note · View note

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 days

Text

oh hey it’s Corrupted Tim

Desolation Tim hnrhghghgh

#tma #tim stoker #jonathan sims #tma fanart #desolation!tim

6K notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 days

Text

michael distortion what a goofy guy

#tma #tma fanart #michael distortion

7K notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 days

Text

100%

I’m actually reasonably sure that’s what Jon thought it was, and his proportionate upset is due to the ridiculousness he willingly believed out of love

These two are hilarious if you get past the horror

#tma #tma fanart #tma comic #tma meta #martin kartin blackwood #jonathan sims #tma spoilers

7K notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 3 days

Text

ancient

#tma #simon fairchild #peter lukas #tma comic #tma fanart #tma funny

11K notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 4 days

Text

OOOOOOOOHHHH

All the pretty bugs~

Lady Jane Prentiss- Corpse eating butterfly

Queen Agnes - Monarch butterfly

Jon Sims (witch) - Small emperor moth

#tma #tma au #tma fanart #jonathan sims #jane prentiss #agnes montague

996 notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 5 days

Text

Revelations Part Two - a Malevolent fic

Tears welled in Odd’s eyes, dripped down his cheeks as he played. And just as he had hoped, as he had gambled, he felt the King in Yellow’s presence. Closer than usual. In fact, allowing Odd to feel him directly. In fact—

“Why do you weep?” said that deep voice, which buzzed through the ground even when quiet.

Odd let his violin peak, crescendoing to a high, tremulous note—and then he cut it off, letting out a shaky breath. “It’s been a week, huh?"

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis

AO3

----------------

Carcosa was quiet.

It was a nervous kind of quiet. Nobody fully understood what the hell had happened, and the rumors did not clarify. Some said an attack. Some said an invasion. Some said somebody overcharged Faroe in the market and now everyone was boned.

Larson was pissed. He’d missed it! Some kind of craziness, the Saint nearly killed, and he’d missed it! The fuck!

The Librarian didn’t know, either, and kept flipping to different images which only confused him more. Larson only knew he was now confined to two places: his room, and the archives. There wasn’t even family dinner happening at the moment.

Whatever went down, it had been big.

He would find out. Somehow.

Eventually.

Odd was just glad that, relatively speaking, everyone seemed to be okay?

No one had seen Parker or Sunny yet, but when he’d swung by their room with a plate of food, he could hear them talking within. There was warmth, comfort, joy—he’d had to sit down for a while, behind a nearby plant, and just let the feeling of relief wash over him.

Faroe was not doing well. Odd suspected she had a case of broken heart, and that was something no one could really fix.

Not that he didn’t try. He found her and Nibbles out in the lower garden and settled beside them with his violin, playing a rambling song, focusing on being steady and grounding. Before long she’d scooted over to lean against him, a tricky proposition when playing the violin, but Odd had managed.

She gave him a hug when he finished. He’d need to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t okay.

Arthur… Arthur was the tricky one. Arthur had slipped into a kind of full-body, all-encompassing grief that Odd didn’t know what to do with. He’d healed Arthur’s bruised jaw, and Arthur had not even fought or complained which was…

Perhaps that was why this was so jarring.

I am the King in Yellow.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

Odd should not be here for this.

But the claim made sense in a weird way. It did. John was too… similar. One could make jokes about being cut from the same cloth, but Odd could find the echoes of the King in John’s voice, his mannerisms, everything else. Though just how this could have happened…

No one told Odd to leave.

Arthur was still, so still. “No,” he said patiently, too patiently. “You’re John.”

I am, said John. But I am also the King in Yellow.

Arthur was too still. “Okay.”

That’s all you have to say? Okay? And John (King?) was too amused about this earth-shaking conversation.

“I’m not in the habit of feeding your bullshit,” said Arthur, who’d somehow gone even more still.

It all felt like something fragile on the edge of a knife—balanced, but for how long?

Arthur, John soothed, voice going to melted chocolate—and this time he must have triggered something, because Arthur’s face went pale, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Don’t,” Arthur warned. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing, you’re not the King. You’re John.”

I remember Lilly, Arthur. She matters. She’s why I chose my name.

And the stillness shattered like ice in a pond. “Then why the fuck are you bringing it up, huh? It doesn’t matter!”

Silence, as if waiting for that pond’s ripples to still. If you lost your memory of life as a father and husband, would you be the same?

Arthur’s gasp was painful.

Odd should not be here. He swallowed, wanting to look between the two but only able to focus on Arthur, who hunched as if in pain.

“How could you say that?” the man whispered.

Because it’s true. I’m John. I’m your John. I haven’t lost anything—even if I am fucking embarrassed about how the last months have been, John added in a mutter.

Arthur laughed weakly and wiped his eyes. “You have been… a handful.”

A grunt.

“Fucking possessive. ”

Silence.

John’s hand was lightly tracing runes on the bed—nothing wild, ones Odd had seen used often for crowd control and other tense times. All they did was take the edge off wild emotions.

But Arthur didn’t know he was doing it.

Arthur, said John. We need to talk to Hastur. We can’t both… be here like this.

“We’ve managed for most of Faroe’s life,” Arthur quipped.

Odd got up, moving silently to gesture at John’s hand and shake his head.

John’s eyes snapped up, following him; sharp, confused.

Trust him, he mouthed.

John’s eyelids flickered. Then he stopped.

Whew.

We can’t both be King. And if Sunny ever comes into himself, it will be three of us. It will be a disaster.

Arthur sighed and un-kidney-beaned. “I don’t think it’s going to be nearly as big a deal as you think.”

Oh, won’t it?

That question, that challenge, asked that way, made pain flit across Arthur’s face for some reason. “Yeah. You’re stuck in me, remember? There’s no threat to the power structure here,” he said a little bitterly.

I crushed the assassin.

Odd’s eyebrows shot upward.

Arthur’s eyes went wide, a strange contrast to John’s gaze through them (which was focused on Arthur’s hand). “What?” said Arthur, flexing his fingers. “But… how?”

Arthur believed him. That meant something.

I extended my essence from you. It’s why you passed out.

“Extended… John, what are you talking about?”

We need to talk to Hastur.

“John. Extended? Passed… I…”

You don’t remember much until Parker.

Arthur rubbed his jaw and winced. “No, but… you can’t do that.”

I did. And I made him suffer.

Arthur’s expression changed. This wasn’t his own hurt; this was concern. “John…”

He nearly killed you. He’s lucky I let him die.

Okay, now Arthur was edging toward afraid. “Maybe we should talk to Hastur.”

Odd knew he would regret saying anything. “I think that’s a good idea. Tensions were high, things… happened, a lot of things that people don’t really understand yet. He may have some insight.”

Arthur hunched. “Yeah. Confirmation, right?”

You’re wise, Odd. I see why he likes you, said John with loftiness bordering on condescending.

“Oh, quit it,” said Arthur, popping that kingly bubble at once. “I’m sorry. He’s going through a phase, apparently.”

A phase!

“Don’t we all?” Odd said, mildly, but at least it seemed Arthur wasn’t quite afraid anymore. “What a time to get your memories back, though.”

Arthur hesitated. “I really passed out?”

You… stopped.

“Stopped?”

John fell silent.

Arthur pursed his lips, thinking, then nodded. “So I scared you, is what you’re saying.”

I did not say that.

Arthur placed his right hand gently on his left. “I got scared after the poison. You stopped, then. I was fucking terrified, John. I thought I might have lost you.”

John took that in silence.

“Poison?” said Odd quietly.

“Someone tried to kill John.” Arthur pressed that left hand to his chest, over his heart. “Fucking almost managed. We haven’t figured out who yet, either.”

So this was court intrigue, in the home of a Great Old One. Huh. Who knew it would feel absolutely shitty?

(But damn, would it make for good songs later.)

“Let’s go find him,” said Arthur, rising, swaying, sitting again. “Fuck.”

“Maybe a medic?” suggested Odd.

“No, we… we’ll just… some healing magic, maybe?” said Arthur.

John hesitated. I don’t feel comfortable casting magic through you right now. Not until we… are sure you weren’t harmed.

“Medic, then,” Arthur conceded.

“I’ll help you get there,” said Odd, and did, and left him there in the hands of conjured nurses, who fussed over Arthur as if he were their favorite chicken come home to roost.

Odd wandered off to find Hastur.

Hastur was rarely around this time of night—usually a few more hours before he’d show up absolutely torn to hell and back—but who knew? The last couple of days had been a little unusual.

Carcosa didn’t really travel in the normal sense, as far as Odd could tell; when it was in-between places like this, one couldn’t just jump out a window and find themselves somewhere in the Dreamlands. It was mist out there, aggressively nothing; it wasn’t overly pleasant, and staying away from the far walls was a good plan in general.

But Carcosa wasn’t in-between now. It seemed they’d landed.

Out there, a stunning night silvered somewhere new. Hill country, evidently, which meant the Lake created open space where there had been none before. Twinkling lights far, far away indicated a city of some sort, though there was no way to be sure just what it was.

The stars gave some indication: they were far east, way further than Odd had ever followed the Path. The wilderness of Mhor was not kind to foot traffic. What were they doing out here?

He had a suspicion. Namely that this was far, far from anyone who might show up at the gates, begging for an audience, while Hastur tried to mitigate this calamity.

Odd didn’t bother sitting; he stood, proud and tall, tucked his violin under his chin, and he began to play.

The song that wept from his violin made his previous ones look like the first forays into music by a child. It arced and danced, it screamed the way Parker had when Sunny did not respond, it sobbed with Faroe’s grief; it reflected Arthur’s music, borrowed and transformed, threaded through with Arthur’s pain as his family fell apart, and his best friend’s suffered, and he feared for John.

“Why do you weep?” said that deep voice, which buzzed through the ground even when quiet.

Odd let his violin peak, crescendoing to a high, tremulous note—and then he cut it off, letting out a shaky breath. “It’s been a week, huh?”

What had to be a half-step for Hastur closer, but was more than the length of Odd’s body. “Yes. It has. Why do you weep?”

“Lots of things to weep about right now,” Odd said, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “My friends are hurting. Faroe is devastated—I can just tell she blames herself, because she’s ten and she doesn’t know any better. Arthur blames himself, because the assassin or whatever-the-fuck was sent after him. Parker thought Sunny was gone—though the last time I swung by to check on them, I heard them both talking. But that’s going to be a hurt that lingers.” He took a shuddering breath. “Where’d you take us?”

For a long moment, the only sound was breathing. “I don’t know why I hesitate,” Hastur mumbled as if to himself, then finally answered. “Far east, at the edge of the Hungry Sea.” He moved closer again—barely an inch this time, hardly noticeable.

Oh. That was very, very far. Odd nodded. “Pretty far from any potential enemies, then.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re going to take a few nights off from zipping away and fighting people?”

Hastur went dead still. It was funny, after seeing Arthur do the same thing; one had to wonder if they came to that response independently.

A beat. Only breathing.

“How do you know that?” Hastur said, low, and it wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it wasn’t super friendly, either. Wary. Tense.

Odd was very, very far from anyone that would find him, assuming there was a body left to find. “I’ve seen you come back some nights, torn to shit,” Odd said, voice even. “There have been rumors going around for a bit about you being on the warpath, but I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself. It can’t be directly related to Faroe, or Arthur; you wouldn’t be subtle about it if it was. You’re not just… conquering. Any number of people would have said that the places you went to had changed hands. And you’re very, very careful to be hidden while you do it. So.”

“So smart,” Hastur said as if to himself, barely audible, and he moved yet closer. Almost in reach now. “A keen observation. You are correct… and it seems you’re wise enough to keep this to yourself, as well, since no one has approached me.”

“What good would it do to blab?” Odd shrugged, helpless, but made no move to step away. “Arthur would be furious if he knew, I’m sure, but he’s got enough on his plate. Dis is brilliant, but this is almost certainly not under her purview. That would leave me tattling to Dagon, and while he’s a trusted member of your court, I don’t know him—either he’s already in the know, or he’s not, and those are decisions best left to you.” He took a breath. “Except for this one. This… What the fuck is going on?”

A beat. Only breathing.

“You leave me at odds with myself,” said Hastur, and the curling of the finer tips of his tentacles said he was serious and making a joke at once. “Do you have any idea how things would have gone for you in years past here?” Those tentacles rose, still not touching, but now—at some distance—on either side if Odd, not caging him in, no, but communicating that they could. “I suspect you do. One with your talent and intelligence—and evidently, ability to see through at least some of my wards—would know what it means, ordinarily, to approach a court such as mine.”

“I told you in our first conversation: I never, ever would have left this place,” Odd said, and his voice only trembled a little bit. His eyes darted, taking in the tentacles creeping around him, but he stood firm. “In years past, I don’t know that I would have even survived my introduction to your court. I haven’t forgotten what it is you can do, Your Majesty. I know what a dangerous game I’m playing. But down there is a little girl—” He swallowed through the lump in his throat. “There is a very sad little girl that I want to make sure has her dad, because from the way you speak, it seems like you aren’t sold on this ‘restful sleep’ at the end of a few years business. It seems like you think you have no choice.”

Something changed.

Odd had no way to know just what, but something he’d said had hit home. The golden eyes behind that mask were wide, gleaming.

There were few times in life when the weight of someone else’s decision thickened the air like oncoming storm. This was one.

Odd took a deep breath. “I want to help you,” he said softly. “I could have fucked off. I could have written the Songweavers, I could have done a million other much smarter things than corner a Great Old One, throw secrets in his face, and demand answers. I have been thrown in the middle of this situation without a lifeline, without a gods-damned clue what the fuck is going on, but I have a feeling that no matter how we slice it, Faroe is going to get hurt. I want to protect her from that as best I can.” The rest came out in a shaky, horrible sigh. “Please.”

The god shuddered. That was a thing to see. “You wish to help her?” As if he needed it absolutely verified.

“The only thing I know for certain about this whole situation is that you love her,” Odd said softly. “And fuck, I barely know her, but I think I might love her too. She’s easy to love.”

“I do love her. Odd. Walk with me.” He slowly moved past Odd onto the balcony, which silently unfolded before them into neat, Odd-sized steps.

He followed, tucking his violin beneath one arm, aware of the sting of the cold air against the tear tracks on his cheeks. Beneath them the badlands of Mhor stretched, dizzying, silver.

If he was wrong… There were worse places to die.

Hastur had done something. No sounds from the city reached them now. Starlight made him void, a golden cloak and white mask floating in writhing darkness. “She needs all the support I can find for her,” Hastur said slowly. “A thing I am… inclined to reward well.” A volley, to see what Odd would say.

“I don’t give a shit about reward. I want her to be safe.” He eyed Hastur, a brief frown on his lips.

And that seemed to have cinched this decision. “Odd,” said Hastur in a calm, unremarkable tone, “in five years, I am going to die.”

Odd stopped walking.

For a long, long moment, he eyed the god beside him; his expression was neutral, though his eyes were sharp, calculating. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, at last. “Gods like yourself… You don’t age, you don’t get sick. How do you know?”

Hastur seemed to be watching the stars. His mask was turned up, reflecting starlight. “Because the same Outer God which dropped you here as a joke has promised to kill me at that time.” He let a moment pass as if to let Odd parse that.

That information hit like Odd had been punched in the gut by a tentacle.

“My entire goal until that time is to ensure she is safe.” Hastur hardly needed to say who she was. “Along with… this strange family I seem to have gathered. She is a child, Odd. She will still be a child when I die. I must give to her a Dreamlands that will not seek to end her life, but will vie for her favor. I must.” He finally turned to Odd. “How do the humans say it? I’m… not my own man at the moment.” His chuckle was dark, and bitter.

“You really are dying,” Odd said, almost a whisper. “That’s why you’re leaving at night, and not telling anyone. You’re dealing with other powers you don’t have direct alliances with yet.”

“Yes. They will ally, or they will die. I will not leave her a trail of enemies—or opportunists.” Hastur bent lower, mask near. “And I do not tell my strange little family. Nor will you. They would grieve; they would fight against it, uselessly hurling themselves against that which cannot be stopped. I rather they are prepared, as best I can make them, so they may stand safe and strong when I am gone.”

Odd took a shuddery breath. “That’s why you keep mentioning that you don’t have time. And the way you spoke, on Faroe’s birthday.” He ran a hand over his face, up into his hair where it passed over the nubs of his shed antlers; he took a brief grip of his main antlers, the prong still sensitive after the shed. “When are you going to tell them?”

“At the end. I will give them time to yell, demand, blame, weep.” He sounded sad, but amused, like he expected nothing but the wildest drama. “But not enough time to damage themselves, or attempt anything that could garner his attention.” One tentacle neared Odd, then pulled back. “I tell you this in confidence. I tell you this because she will need support. Help. Friends.”

“That’s going to be a disaster. They’re…” He let out a shuddering breath. “There’s no good way to handle any of this. You’re going to die. Fuck.”

“There is no mitigation,” he said quietly. “And I dare not try too hard, lest he turn his attention to them instead.” His voice tightened. “Every moment I have with them is… become something beyond price or value. Perhaps this is why I have spared you—and yes, that is the right word. You know how it would have gone. But I never before appreciated… helplessness. And the terror of oncoming doom.”

Odd couldn't handle this. He turned away, looking instead toward the expanse of Mhor below. “So… what can we do, then?” He said at last, the tears welling up again.

Hastur’s sigh was deep. “I don’t know. I’m doing what I can, without inviting opportunistic attacks. Beyond that, I don’t know.” A smile touched his voice. “Does that frighten you? To hear one of my stature saying such things, admitting such things.”

“It makes me feel a lot of things,” Odd said thickly. “You… I spent most of my life scared of you, and others like you, but mostly just you. And you’re going to die.” He took another shuddering breath. “Fuck me sideways, that Outer God has a sick sense of humor. Another finger curls on the monkey’s paw, and—” He let out a bark of a laugh. “And I am focusing on myself, because I’m upset, and I’m not even important here. We have to figure out a way to keep Faroe safe in five years.”

“I have a way,” said Hastur, who, whatever else he was, definitely still was arrogant. “I am inviting you to join it.” Yet he’d already showed himself adjustable. Perhaps the arrogance was… not as concrete as it might have been.

“Sure. Talk to me. I’m already in this far, may as well say I do, right?”

Was that relief? Odd had been watching this strange body language for a while now. That was relief.

“My plan has several steps,” Hastur said, turning fully toward Odd now, as though the act of telling him was more interesting and more exciting than all the stars and all the arid beauty of these wastes. “She will be too young when I go; fifteen, with all of Carcosa on her shoulders? No. There must be a buffer, and that is where John and Arthur come in.”

“John’s not your offspring,” Odd said. “He has your memories. What is he?”

“A rare thing called a Forgotten One. He is a piece of me, unwillingly torn away.” A pause. “So is Sunny.”

Holy shit.

“Okay,” Odd said, soft. “That… makes sense. I know about Forgotten Ones. It tracks for Sunny.” His brow furrowed. “But John… You’ve claimed John as your offspring, not as a fragment. And he seems far too independent to be a true Forgotten One.”

“He is. He’s been with Arthur Lester for over a decade. He’s grown. Quite frankly, he’s doing things Forgotten Ones are not supposed to be able to do, but then, Arthur himself is something of an odd specimen, too.” Hastur must not have told anyone this. He was lower now, mask almost on Odd’s eye-level, tentacle-tips twisting. “I have announced him as offspring so he has a claim to step up—with Arthur—and fill the gap until Faroe is old enough to take her place. Parker and Sunny… were not in my original plan, but my hope is their brand of wisdom and their camaraderie will give the kind of aid John’s prickliness tends to evaporate.” He couldn’t seem to help himself. “Even the transformation of Carcosa is part of this. Soon, I will change it back to welcoming for all, and it will be clearly at her request, earning her favor among merchants and travelers that will not be quickly forgotten.”

“You really have changed,” Odd said, very quietly. “All of this, for them. For her. John must have split off… what, more than twenty years ago now? And since you adopted her… you changed.” Absurdly a small, helpless laugh bubbled from him, even as he sniffled and wiped at the tears that dripped down his cheeks. “It would be just my luck, I suppose.”

“I…” It figured a being wired like this might not realize he’d changed, or how much. “I… for her, I would change.” Hastur considered. “For her, I suppose I have. Arthur experienced both sides. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind to him in the beginning.” And that felt like an understatement. “What would be your luck? You weep again.” And again, one tentacle came near as if to catch those tears, then pulled away.

“Vulgtmog was watching the situation with Arthur closely, you know? We know how he was treated. I was… gods, I was just coming into my adulthood then, going out on my own for real. And even through all that, he forgave you—and that man is keen. He wouldn't have forgiven you if he didn’t believe it.”

The god… colored. It pulsed in waves, undulating; and even in the starlight, it seemed to be kind of purple. “I was not subtle in what I did to him,” he said quietly. “Perhaps only one like Arthur could forgive John and… myself.”

“Maybe. He’s something, alright; I’d be half-convinced he was mad if not for the fact he’d probably be enjoying himself much more.” Odd let out a choked sob, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand. “Poor bastard. He’s never going to forgive you, after. He’s going to think he could have done something. And you’re going through all this effort, just to never—” He stopped, choked silent by tears.

“He may,” said Hastur quietly. “But he will be alive to do so—and our daughter will be safe.”

Odd’s chest shuddered with the effort to keep calm; he tilted his head back, toward the stars. “Fuck me. I spent over twenty years running from the sight of gods, and then as a joke I am dropped in the lap of one that maybe, after all this time, would be worth worshiping; and you’re dying.” His voice broke—into a laugh, into a sob. “What a cruel fucking joke.”

Hastur pulled back. Not up; he seemed determined to stay at eye-level now, so the impression was almost like a train backing away. “You…” He stopped. “You… what did you say?”

“Just feeling rather sorry for myself, Your Majesty.” Odd said; abruptly he sat on the edge of the magical walkway, tail curling around himself, violin in his lap as he buried his face in his hands. “The irony is getting to me, is all. Find a god who’s worth it, and whoops, he’s marked for death. Don’t even get to enjoy thinking about—about worship or any of that before it’s just—” He made a gesture, like skipping a stone across a lake. “Gone! Don’t know why I thought it would be different. Been like that since I was born, you know, at least some things stay consistent.”

“You would…” The ancient, terrifying Lord of Interstellar Spaces seemed to have forgotten how to speak. “You…”

“Explains why you didn’t do anything. You didn’t want to leave me feeling shitty when it all happened; I get it.” Odd let out a sob. “Carcosa was always meant to be my last stop, because I just… I knew that once I got here, I wouldn’t leave. I wouldn’t want to. And as it turns out, maybe you would’ve been worth it all along, and I could have been—” His voice cracked and at last Odd decided that words would no longer do. Instead, he set his head on his arms and cried.

Another flash of purple over that dark hide, almost like some sea creature. Hastur reached. Hesitated. Considered. And then said a thing he might never have said in his long and selfish life: “May I touch you?”

Words were definitely hard right now. Odd nodded, head in his hands.

It was the gentlest touch. Stroking his hair first, then raising his chin. Hastur had produced a handkerchief. It was as gaudily gold as anything he’d ever made, and delicately, he dabbed at Odd’s face.

It wasn’t funny, really. “Are you still willing to help my daughter?” said Hastur.

“Of course I am,” Odd said, snotty and teary and feeling like absolute shit. “I’d decided already. Just… The irony isn’t lost on me, is all.”

The touch—warm through silk—lingered. Slowly tending. “You could still come to me. If you wished.”

His brow furrowed. “I thought… but you said no.”

“I said no to simply taking you. Melting your mind to make you worship me. I will not do that to you, Odd. Ever.”

Odd sniffled. “Reassuring. That meant a lot. I appreciate it,” he said, trembling. “But I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what it is you’re asking of me. If it was before, I could make a pretty compelling guess, but now…” His voice cracked. “You’re dying.”

“Nothing can stop that now,” Hastur said softly. “But I could still give you such good things until all is said and done.”

“Good things, huh?” Odd cracked a fragile smile. “It’s not going to make it so you can stay, or ensure I help out. You don’t… have to. I’ve committed, for Faroe if no one else.” He shuddered. “Gods, this hurts. But if it will make you happy, why not? What do either of us have to lose?”

Hastur tilted Odd’s face toward him. “Will you let me make you happy?”

Which was an incredibly vague question, all things considered.

And all things considered, Odd was all-in. “Who am I to say no to you, my King?” he said, smiling.

“I don’t care what time it is,” Arthur snapped again. “We’re seeing him now. This is a whole new development.”

We should wait until breakfast! John said again. This is ridiculous! It’s three in the morning!

“I don’t care,” said Arthur again, and pushed open the enormous throne room doors.

Music slid over him like warm oil, and he inhaled.

Hastur sat on his throne. It wasn’t time for Court; he wasn’t performing for anyone, but draped there like a cloak, tentacles largely limp, except for the tips which moved in time to—

Odd, who sat on a stone ledge right by the throne, making music.

The bard smiled as he looked up, his fingers working on his lute in a rolling melody that flexed and sighed. “My King,” he said, nudging one tentacle with his foot; he did not stop playing.

Hastur seemed to stir as if from deep meditation. “My own,” he said, and held out one enormous hand. “Come to me.”

Arthur stood there.

He’s holding out his hand.

“Is he okay?” whispered Arthur. “He sounds weird.”

Fucking… how should I know? Yes!

Hastur chuckled, low. “Come.”

“Okay,” said Arthur, slowly approaching. “Why?”

“Because I wish to have you near me,” said the King.

Arthur exhaled slowly. “We need to talk to you about something.”

“Of course, my own.” And Hastur paused. Looked over at Odd.

It was a distinctly… considering look.

Hastur, said John, his gold fuming, his voice rising. I am the Ki–

Hastur grabbed them, and Arthur yipped.

“Hey,” Odd said, and promptly whacked one of Hastur’s tentacles with his tail. “You know he doesn’t like being grabbed. Be nice.”

“Ah, true,” said Hastur. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur stared in his direction. “Did you hit your head, or something?”

Hastur chuckled again.

I… hey! I wasn’t…

Hastur put them down.

I am the King in Yellow! John blurted out with significantly less drama than he’d planned.

“Yes, you are,” Hastur agreed, which deflated whatever was left.

“Would it be best if I leave?” Odd stretched out a bit, toes flexing in his boots.

“Not at all,” said Hastur.

“John remembers,” said Arthur. “Everything.”

Hastur stilled. “Everything?”

From before. Everything. All. Of. It.

Hastur picked them up again, but this time to bring them close and study.

Arthur didn’t wriggle this time. “Is he okay? He said something happened.”

I murdered the assassin, growled John, and I did it too quickly.

“John,” said Hastur slowly. “Exactly what did you do?”

A good question, really. I…I reached.

Hastur waved his enormous hand just beside Arthur, almost like brushing away cobwebs.

Arthur shuddered, inhaled.

[“He’s all right,” said Hastur slowly, “but you are very lucky. He didn’t tear. John… you grew.”]

John huffed. [I have been. It’s nothing new.]

[“This is.”]

“Excuse me,” Arthur said tartly.

“It’s personal, between the two of them,” Odd said, hushed. “About John. I’m sure he’ll fill you in after.”

You’d have known if I’d hurt him! You’d have felt it! John blared, and fear made his voice slightly higher.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “I don’t understand what I’m seeing, though. Don’t do that again until we know, John. You’ve stretched him.”

A pause.

“He what?” said Arthur.

What the fuck does that mean? said John.

“When I know, I’ll tell you,” said Hastur, and put them down with a sigh. “It’s always something with you two,” he added, and his tone was fond.

Arthur smoothed his robe down. “So. That was less upsetting than I feared.”

But… but I… I am the King in Yellow! John said.

“You always were,” said Hastur.

John didn’t seem to like that. When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem so momentous.

“Oh, it is momentous,” said Hastur. “So is this: Odd, for your first city-wide performance, do you want help? Or would you like to charm my people in their entirety all on your own?”

Arthur blinked. “Performance?”

“Odd is particularly talented,” rumbled Hastur, “and our city needs… help after the events of the last few days. If he performs, spirits will lift. This is guaranteed.”

“So it’s not on me,” said Arthur with clear relief, then caught himself. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Hastur and I have been talking. You’re shouldering a lot already, Arthur; it’s about time you had someone who could help, at least in this regard.” Odd smiled, warm, leaning back against the tentacle that rested behind him. “I think it depends on how grand a spectacle we want it to be. I can certainly perform myself, though we’d likely need some magical enhancements for my voice and instrument; not to say I wouldn’t enjoy a backdrop of accompaniment, but I’m more than capable of handling it alone.” He paused, tail flicking. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You shall have the greatest stage,” said Hastur like melted chocolate. “The best equipment. All will love you when they see you.”

Arthur, he’s leaning into him.

“Of course, that’s a given,” Odd laughed, low. “Hey. Will you give Arthur the day off? He and Parker might enjoy walking around the city, enjoying the rest of the festival. With protection, obviously, though I think John might be able to handle it.”

Arthur blinked.

Hastur hesitated. He looked at Odd. So gently, he touched Odd’s cheek. “That is wise advice.” It wasn’t agreement, but it also wasn’t a shut down.

“I… I haven’t done… anything like that since John,” said Arthur very quietly, and that swung the jury.

“Then it shall be so,” said Hastur. “And then…” He stopped.

“What?” said Arthur. “Then what?”

Hastur looked at Odd again. “We’ll see if there are to be more celebrations after. Go rest, both of you. It has been a trying week.”

Arthur, he’s—

“Thank you,” said Arthur softly. “Can we take Faroe into the city?”

“Not as she is,” said Hastur. “Disguise would be necessary. Let’s temporarily table that.”

“Temporarily,” said Arthur firmly. “She needs to see things outside of this place.”

“Of course, my own,” said Hastur. “Off you go.”

Thought he’d be more upset, John grumbled as they left.

“Don’t you think we’re really damn lucky he wasn’t?” said Arthur, and the doors closed.

Hastur looked at Odd again. “The evening has left me drunk.”

It didn't sound licentious. It sounded… pensive.

Odd strummed his lute, picking a song back up. “Good drunk? Emotional relief drunk?”

“Drunk enough to consider something perhaps… extreme. But then, you like extreme things, don’t you, Odd?” said Hastur.

“With consent and discussion, yes,” Odd said, tail flicking. “And with someone who is sober.”

Hastur couldn’t smile, per se. He managed anyway, a full-body thing. “Good. When I am sober, let us discuss your marking.”

#malevolent fic #malevolent au #surrogate series #surrogate fic #arthur lester #john doe #kiy malevolent

1 note · View note

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 5 days

Text

Revelations, Part One - a Malevolent fic

A quiet confrontation.

A painful revelation.

A glimpse of fallout to come.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

----------

Faroe saw it all. Saw it happen. Saw the knife slice through something, and saw the golden spark that was Sunny flying up from Parker’s body and almost lost. (“Normally, one has moorings,” Hastur explained as she cried that night, clinging to him. “Soul moorings, keeping one’s body attached to one’s soul. But Parker has none. I’ve never seen anything like it. Sunny is keeping him anchored. Sunny is the reason he’s alive. So.”)

So. When Sunny was severed, they had both gone… away.

Had almost gotten away.

Until Dis.

“I want to know how they got in,” Hastur was snarling to his people, his rage flickering red through his gold robe and across his white mask like lightning. “How? How were they there? In my very fucking throne room?”

Heads were going to roll, one way or another.

“But what happened?” said Arthur again, because he just didn’t understand, because who could?

Parker was in no condition to answer. “Come on, bud,” he kept saying, and tears slid down his cheeks, and he rubbed his jaw, and his lips. “Come on.” He hitched and wiped his face on his arm. “Come back to me. Come on.”

Sunny was there.

Sunny was quiet. Inert. Unresponsive.

“Parker,” said Arthur, trying again.

Parker wouldn’t talk to Arthur. Or anyone, right now. “Leave me the fuck alone!” he snapped, and returned to trying to coax Sunny to respond.

Arthur was blaming himself. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. They came for me. I’m so sorry, oh gods.”

“Shut the fuck up! This isn’t about you! Sunny. Come on, lover. Come on. Come back.” Parker wiped his face again.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Arthur.

Which was when Parker turned around and socked him right in the jaw.

It turned into shouting over absolutely nothing, vague accusations, and the two men finally storming in different directions.

All Odd could think, in the wake of total chaos, was that he’d have to write a song about this clusterfuck eventually. Right now, though, other things were needed. “Come on,” said Odd, trotting after Arthur, one hand on his shoulder to support, to comfort, to ground. “He needs some time. You’re okay.”

“He’s wrong. It is about me. This happened because of me,” Arthur hitched, head down, visibly seconds from collapse.

“Oh, quit it,” said Odd as though Arthur didn’t sound devastated. “Did you hire the guy? Did you arm them? Stop it. This is their fault, not yours.”

Arthur hugged himself.

“John still quiet?” said Odd, softly.

“Yes,” said Arthur.

John was quiet, but not inert.

John was…

I can’t right now. That was all he would say.

The whole palace went on lockdown, and all guests and travelers (with the exception of Dagon) found themselves and their goods outside—with tents, if they really wanted to stick around—until the guilty party (?) was located.

Deep in the palace, in the windowless war room, Dis awaited her fate.

Dis did not run. She wanted to. That was on her face, in her body-language. Dis did not run, but waited for Hastur to come to her and discuss what happened.

Hastur entered, silent, still buzzing with rage, and hovered before her.

She just looked up at him. There really wasn’t any point in pretending she couldn’t meet the gaze of a Great Old One now.

“So,” he said, low.

“So,” she said, and crossed her arms.

“What the fuck just happened?” said Hastur.

She raised her chin. “That fucking knife was an obsidian core with that new shit the Mi-go are working with. The thing they call ‘amethyst-born,’ made from minerals of the Dark World. So. It cut Sunny loose.”

“That is not all it did,” said Hastur evenly. “And not why I am questioning you now.”

She swallowed.

“You caught them,” he said. “You caught his soul in your hand.”

“Yeah,” she said, challenging.

“Peace.” He raised one hand. “I am angry, but not with you. How did you do that?”

She sighed and leaned forward, resting on her arms. “I probably have to leave after this.”

He waited.

“I put him back,” she said.

“You… put him back,” he repeated.

“Yes.” She crossed her arms again in denial of impossibility.

Hastur sighed. “It’s not as though I’ve ever thought you were human.”

“I have a lot of human in me,” she said, defensive.

“Dis.”

She set her jaw.

“Just tell me what I have hired to keep my daughter safe. That’s all. That’s all I’m asking. I have time for fuck-all else right now.”

Well, that was unexpected. Dis peered at him. Hastur was pristine. All those appearance spells were just… hard to look at, though. She sighed. “There’s… something… I have….”

He waited.

Her look was raw. “Too many generations to count. No familial contacts to pull in. Okay? It means nothing.”

He waited.

“Death has a little sister,” she said, and apparently that was all it took.

Hastur floated back, away from her, staring. “I’d assumed the name was… incidental.”

“It’s not.” She shrugged. “Second child gets some soul shaping skill every time. I don’t know why. And if generations go by with only a first-born, it doesn’t show up.”

“You have some of the powers of Death,” said Hastur quietly.

“You saw what powers I have,” she snapped.

“A descendent of Death’s own sister,” said Hastur thoughtfully.

She pointed one finger at him. “No.”

“No?” he said. “No? ”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking. I do my job here. As I’ve been hired to do. I don’t want anything to do with the rest of that. No plans, no schemes, no, How can I use this? bullshit. Listen to me, oh Lord of Carcosa. If you do anything like that, I’m out. I’m gone. I care about Faroe, and I want her safe, but I will not sacrifice my freedom to do it.”

Hastur sighed slowly.

She waited.

“Had you done this any other time…” he said.

She waited.

“Fine,” said Hastur. “This is… yes. You’re right. I want to dig into it. I want to use you. I want to test your blood. There are so many things I want to do, but I have no time, and at the moment, I am far more interested in the fact that you can keep my daughter alive.”

“I’m not supposed to…” She stopped.

“Do what you did? I am hardly going to tattle,” he said, and his tone had gone warm, a little playful, distinctly manipulative.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“What do you want to keep you around when I am gone?” he said, suddenly blunt.

“Excuse me?”

“When I am gone, what will it take to keep you by her side?”

Dis laughed.

He waited.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said. “I’m out! I’m done! An Outer God is coming, and you think I’m going to stick around?”

“He is coming for me.” His volume dropped. “For me. Not her, not them, not Carcosa. Me. My daughter will need you.”

She made a frustrated sound and rubbed her face. “I don’t have an answer for you. Not now.”

“Please.”

She stared at him over her fingertips.

He waited.

“Not. Now,” she said. “I need to think.”

“Thank you.” He accepted that as if it were some great compromise, gifted.

She eyed him. “This is really fucking you up, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

Hastur floated there for a moment, and then he fled. Floated right out, leaving the door open, not so much as a golden sparkle in his wake.

Dis flopped back on the settee. “Whaaat the fuck is going on?” she mumbled, and stayed there until her heart rate slowed back down.

Parker sat under the balcony of his bedroom, hip-deep in dead leaves, and tried again. “Sunny. Come on. Come on, baby. I know you can hear me. I’m not giving up on you. Come on.”

Nothing.

He couldn’t eat any more. He’d tried every flavor he could think of. Even those fucking soap-leaves Sunny liked so much. Nothing worked.

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t give up. “Come on, bud. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Come on.”

Nothing.

He covered his face with his hands.

Faroe felt sick.

She’d tried so hard to keep anything from happening to anyone. She’d fought, and trained, and given up sleep; she’d been smart, and listened, and obeyed and learned. It hadn’t been enough.

Some tiny part of her knew this wasn’t her fault, but at the same time, it felt like it was. Gokar’luh was her fault (wasn’t it, really?), and now…

Parker wasn’t around. Dad probably knew where he was, but he wasn’t saying, too focused on trying to figure out how the enemy got inside. Arthur was…

He hadn’t cried like this since she was little. Seeing it again brought memories back, and though they hadn’t been any big deal at the time (Arthur always cries, she recalled saying to Nibbles), now, it was… horrible.

Arthur cried all the time. He’d stopped for a while, yes, gotten better, but it seemed that had been broken, too.

Somehow, she felt like it was her fault. She hadn’t been… enough. Strong enough. Smart enough. Something enough.

The palace was so damned empty with everyone in tents outside the gates.

She wandered, alone, aware of its raw size more than she’d ever been. Had it always been this big? Had she always been this small?

There was no one. No one around, and that was fine. The shame…

This had to be her fault. It felt like her fault. So she walked in the dark, with Nibbles at her side, and cried.

She didn’t realize someone was there until he spoke. “Hey, little lady,” said Dagon very quietly. “You okay?”

“No!” she cried, and flung herself at him.

He caught her up, adjusting his size on the fly so she could lean against his chest without being swallowed completely in his arms. “There’s a lotta rumors.”

“Everything went so wrong,” she sobbed.

Nibbles butted his leg.

“Yeah, you too,” he said, and grabbed the goatling up. “Right. Tell Uncle Dagon about it. Right now. Okay? Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” she said, barely audible.

“Dunno ‘til we try,” he said.

Nibbles rested her head on Faroe’s knee.

Faroe found herself talking, or trying to. It felt like she couldn’t get any words out that meant anything real.

He seemed to understand anyway, for whatever reason, and grew deeply, quietly pensive. “Mm,” he said, his eyes shadowed by his furrowed brow.

Whatever he was thinking, right now, he kept it to himself, and that was good. He let her cry herself out, and finally fall into an exhausted sleep, without having to do anything or please anyone or explain anything at all.

“Think it’s time I had a talk with her dad,” Dagon said quietly to Nibbles. “There’s this group… well. You’ll hear it. Let’s go together,” he said, and—walking carefully so as not to wake the princess—went to find her father.

Hastur couldn’t find the hole. His defenses remained completely untouched, unscratched, pristine. There was absolutely no answer as to how the fuck this happened.

Yang was still hiding under his damn balcony, out of sight. Fine. Arthur…

Arthur was talking with Odd, or at least being with Odd, silent. Fine. Hastur wanted to… to…

He wanted to comfort his own. He had no fucking time.

He flew past their room, hearing Odd singing softly in there, the same kind of sad, comforting music he’d heard the other night—gently prying open the heart, letting infection bleed out.

Good. Good. They’d be all right. They had to. John seemed fine?

John… seemed weird, but there was no time.

Something had gotten through his defenses. His best defenses. So. He had to do more. Somehow.

He didn’t know how to do more than he already was, and flew around his palace, then around his city, doubling, tripling protections, which was pointless because anything that could bust through what he already had could bust through the same thing twice over, but what else could he do?

He could move Carcosa, so he did, stranding quite a few dignitaries and merchants, but whatever. They were only a day from Celephaïs. They’d be fine.

(He’d bribe them later when they bitched about it, so. Again. Whatever.)

After five hours, he found nothing. No hint of anything strange at all, with one exception: in his throne room, right smack dab center on the seat of his throne, was a pink, plastic hair curler.

That was weird as fuck, and it terrified him. This didn’t exist here. There was no plastic. There was no pink that shade. Nobody used these.

He didn’t dare touch it himself, but had a Dancer carry it away to flick it from a window, letting it fall to the wilderness below.

He hadn’t landed the city anywhere yet. Nowhere felt safe.

He wasn’t sure what to do. What he could do. Allies? Maybe; but what if one of them was behind this?

The lizard had been identified: a minor prince, though that prince’s father was a known asshole. He’d never quite allied with Hastur, but hadn’t quite rebuffed him, either—a cautious, insulting game, kept at arm’s length. Well, one thing was for sure: Thesia was a dead land. They didn’t know it yet, but they were. By the time he was done, Sarkomand would seem like a fucking day at the beach.

“Hey,” said Dagon.

Hastur looked up and found this particular ally in possession of his daughter and her goat.

For just one moment, he nearly lost it. Nearly just attacked, insane, paranoid, desperate to get her out of harm’s way, but… she wasn’t in harm’s way. She was curled on one enormous bicep, soundly asleep, tear-tracks on her face, eyes and nose both red.

Seeing her like that wrenched his hearts so badly that he gripped his chest, half sure they were all tearing in two.

Nibbles made one soft sound.

“Yeah,” Dagon agreed as though he understood that. “Hastur. I got something for you.”

“My daughter,” Hastur growled.

Dagon seemed to understand his condition and didn’t take the growling personally. “She needs some help you can’t give her, but I might know who can.”

“What?” Panic now, digging sharp claws into the cracks his hearts already bore. “What? What’s wrong?”

“She’s got…” Dagon paused, visibly trying to find words. “Human hurts. Her mind. Her soul. They don’t deal with shit like you and me, Hastur. You know that.”

“Of course I know that!” Hastur snapped. “I studied. I made sure her entire life is shaped so she can handle it!”

Dagon sighed. “She needs more’n that.”

Hastur sat down. Settled on the ground, in a nest of his own limbs, and stilled. “What does she need that I have not given her?” he said in a hollow voice.

“People who been through what she has,” Dagon said. “I know this group. I know ‘em because sometimes, my kids gotta go there, too. It’s… it’s kids of gods. No affiliation, no national borders, no… political bullshit. Just kids who’ve been through shit, mostly thanks to their parents and all the shit we get up to. They help each other. I think it might do her good to go.”

Hastur had no frame of reference for this. “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither, honestly,” said Dagon, and shrugged. “But my offspring swear by it. I think it might help her.”

“It… is a permanent thing?” said Hastur quietly.

“Eh? No, she wouldn’t move out. They just… they get together at the Scriptorium and talk, and they get better because they did. It’s fucking human.”

Fucking human. Faroe was fucking human, as much as he tried to elevate her beyond. And she was beyond, yes, he held to that belief, but… she was fucking human, too.

Maybe she did need this. It didn’t sound like something he could give. “They’re safe?”

“Been going on for years. Never had a single incident, far as I know,” said Dagon. “Your spooky librarian friend runs the place, though I hear she’s not involved directly.”

Hastur shook. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it. Anyway, I got her. You do what you gotta do.” And just like that, he carried her away. Nibbles glared over Dagon’s massive shoulder as if daring Hastur to concede.

Hastur had a rare moment of introspection, of truth: if he did this, let her go and find comfort in this group of people that had nothing to do with him, it would be a major step in separating her emotionally from him.

Which… was supposed to happen anyway as she grew up. Wasn’t it?

This hurt.

Everything hurt.

Hastur rose and went to check his wards again, adding a fourth and fifth layer, trying and failing to feel any better.

Parker had finally climbed back into his room because his back hurt, and wherever the city’d gone was cold now, and it wasn’t helping, anyway.

Part of him thought if he hurt badly enough, Sunny might come out. The other part thought if he hurt at all, Sunny would somehow blame himself, and never come out. There was no way to win this.

He didn’t know what to do. This was esoteric bullshit. He didn’t know how to fix this.

He lay on his bed, smelling of stone and dried leaves, and wet his pillow with tears. It was one thing to vow he’d try forever to bring Sunny back. He would absolutely try for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t honestly realized how badly it would hurt for that soft, sweet presence to just… go away.

He clenched his fists in the pillow. “Fuck,” he muttered, because he knew he owed Arthur an apology, but there were just no coins left in his emotional purse for that. He couldn’t do it. Not now.

A knock at the door.

Who in fuck…“Go the fuck away!” he bellowed (into his pillow, though, so it maybe wasn’t as fierce as it could be).

Another knock.

Whoever this was was gonna get hit.

Parker got up. Cracked his neck. Stalked toward that door with murder in his eyes. Fists clenched, he flung it open, and—

The King in Yellow hovered there.

“You?” said Parker.

“I am here to help,” said Hastur.

“You can’t.” Parker slammed the door. That felt pretty good.

Another soft knock.

He rubbed his face and opened it. “Help how?”

“I can speak with him. Get him communicating.”

Parker narrowed his eyes. Hastur sounded so… so…

Subdued? Diminished? Tired? Something not-booming and not-announcing and not-overriding all else.

Something not very Hastur.

“Why?” Parker demanded.

“Because he is my responsibility, and my failure to protect us all is the reason he’s hurt. Let me in, Parker Yang.”

Hastur didn’t need permission to come in. He was asking for it, anyway.

Parker could feel himself go pale. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing more than I have said. Let me in, Parker Yang.”

“Okay, you know what?” Parker said. “You know what? Sure! Why the fuck not! Come on in! Do your best! Long as you don’t hurt him.”

“I am not going to hurt him,” said Hastur, and hovered through the enormous door.

Parker closed it after him. Whatever was going to happen didn’t need any witnesses. He sniffled and wiped his face on his arm.

“Sit,” said Hastur.

“Sure. Whatever.” Parker sat. He looked out his balcony at the moons until they blurred, and wiped his face again.

“You will feel me,” said Hastur quietly. “I will not harm you, but you will feel me in your soul.”

“Oh, great,” said Parker. “Not even gonna buy a guy dinner first?”

“I have given you many dinners,” said Hastur, either too dry to pull the joke off or too tired to get it at all.

Parker shuddered. He cupped his jaw. His tears spilled, and this time he let them. “Save him,” he said. “Whatever it takes. I… I’ll owe you whatever. I don’t care. Just save him.”

“That is my intent,” said Hastur, and didn’t move at all, and yet—

Parker’s mind went blissfully blank as the King in Yellow slid between his thoughts, pressing Parker’s essence flat and calm, holding it still.

Quietly, expertly, Hastur went diving for gold.

It was calm and quiet and dark here, like looking up at the smooth surface of The Lake from beneath. Sometimes he caught glimpses of what happened outside, but things there didn’t make sense—it was bright, and confusing, and loud, and it hurt, and he fled back into the dark where things were calm and quiet and he simply could be.

He was safe, here. The screaming did not affect him (but he was screaming and he was weeping and it made him twist and ache and it was his fault) and the flashes of chaos he saw on the other side he could merely back away from, into the deeper part of this stillness where (he belonged because it was his fault) he was safe.

That is why it was surprising when things… changed.

Hello? He almost jumped at the sound of a voice. His voice? He did not have a voice. He merely was. Something was wrong.

Sunny. Little one. I am here.

The presence didn’t so much as cause a ripple here. It was being so careful, so cautious; and it was so… familiar.

It was not a bad familiar, and that was scary. He tried to shrink away, to wriggle further into the darkness. You’re not supposed to be here. No one is supposed to be here! That’s not fair!

Yet, I am here.

These simple statements were… good. Not hard to parse. They made no ripples.

If they made no ripples, perhaps they were not bad. And maybe that meant he was not bad? But how could he (his fault) be bad? No one is supposed to know I’m here. How… How did you find me?

I am you. There is nowhere you can go where I cannot find you. And the voice let that statement settle.

So familiar. Even welcoming; like fitting against a shape cut out just for him. It did nothing now, but waited, silent, not going away. Weirdly… stable, as if, perhaps, it was big enough to maintain its own gravity, like the sun.

It was nice. It was warm. It felt safe, but that couldn’t be right. Oh. I… I found this place by accident, a long time ago. Or… A long time ago for me. It’s safe here.

It can be. Though not without cost.

Cost? He didn’t know of any cost. The cost, maybe, was That Man might get angrier, but what could That Man do while he was here? I don’t understand. No one has ever found me here before. Did… Did you come here because you were scared, too?

No. I came here because one who loves you is grieving and needs help.

That couldn’t be right. Oh. I think you have me confused for someone else. I’m sorry.

I am you. How could I mistake you for anyone else?

I’m not anyone. Why would someone grieve me? That’s like grieving no one at all. You speak in riddles.

Parker Yang.

Those words hit him like a blow. Like a stab. Like

(his fault his fault HIS FAULT HIS FAULT HISFAULTHISFAULTHISFAULT )

He curled tighter, shuddering, wailing. I—I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to hurt him! I’m sorry! I’M SORRY!

The ripples were his alone, violent, in time with his sobs.

The voice waited. Waited until his sobs calmed to whimpers, until stillness and obtuse reflection were all that remained on the surface of the lake. You saved his life. If not for you, he would be dead—and given that he has died before, we could not bring him back. You saved him.

He didn’t want to remember this. He wasn’t supposed to hurt here, he wasn’t supposed to be afraid. I saw him die. I watched him die! I was—I was falling, and I tried to grab, and I—I killed him!

The attacker almost killed him. You are the one who keeps him moored; he has no soul moorings, little one. Only you. When you grabbed him, you saved him. He lives. And he mourns.

This was unfair. Things weren’t supposed to hurt here! I deserve this. I killed him. He’s the only person who ever loved me, and I killed him.

He lives because of you. This other was so… patient. Without you, he would be dead. You did not kill him. Do you know how I know this to be true?

How? How do you know? You didn’t see him die. I… I watched him. And I couldn't stop it.

I did. I was there. I saw the knife, which cut. I saw him rise from his body… with you. And I saw you hold him, and so secure him to it. How I know, little one, is because you are alive. If he lives, you live. If he dies, you die. And if you die, he dies. If you live, he lives. You are bound. You did not kill him or you, too, would be dead.

I deserve to be dead!

Perhaps. That is not a decision we always are able to make for ourselves. Many deserve to die who live. And many who live deserve to die. Does he deserve to die?

This voice… One by one the spines softened and he uncurled from the ball of terror and misery he had become. No. He deserves to live. He deserves to live forever, and to be happy forever.

On this, we agree, little one. And the voice let that sink in, because that was important, that mattered. They had to agree on this.

Did you bring him back?

You did. He would be dead if you had not held on. You saved him from the assassin’s knife. That is a very good thing to have done, don’t you think?

I couldn’t put him back. I… I didn’t realize he would go with me. I tried to put him back.

If you live, he lives. If you die, he dies. And because you held onto him, Dis was able to put him back. Do you remember your friend, Dis? She put you both back. You are together either way—alive or dead. Perhaps you should thank her.

I… I don’t remember Dis. I don’t remember much when I am here at all. He paused. I don't think I remember very much outside, either. I think I am sick. Broken. Full of holes.

As am I. There might have been some gentle, sad amusement in there. As is he without you. He calls for you, little one. Desperately, until his throat gives out. Desperately, until his eyes swell and his nose clogs. He calls for you.

How does he know I’m here? No one is supposed to know I’m here. It’s what keeps me safe from That Man when he… hurts me.

Was there a pause? Hard to say. Everything was so placid and quiet; perhaps it didn’t give him pause. Your special person knows you are here because his heart is fixed on you. He calls for you, little one. He needs you. If you die, he dies. If you stay here… he will fade. Do you want him to fade?

No. I don’t want that. He trembled.

You and I are one. Sometimes, we know we must do what is painful for those we love. Don’t we?

So calm. So soothing. But… he knew. This other knew what he was saying. They weren’t empty words, and a deep, incomprehensible pain echoed in him, like a secret heartbeat.

I… It hurts. It hurts so much. There is so much that hurts, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to hurt anymore.

This pause was real. Yes. Hurting is… difficult. I know. Yet that is not all there is. A sensation, brief; a memory of the scent of chocolate, of the feel of another’s laughter in his throat, warm and hearty and known. It is not without pain, this life; yet it is not without joy, either. To have one, we must have the other.

You sound so sad, he said, voice small. Is it my fault?

No. It is that my time is shorter than yours, and I wish I had learned what I am telling you sooner. There is joy and there is pain, never one without the other; but the joy is worth the struggle. I wish I had known. Perhaps I want us to know this now, together.

Will you be there? I’m scared to go back. I’m scared of That Man. He wants to hurt my special person, and he likes to hurt me.

You will not be alone. I will be there. And Parker Yang is there, now, waiting. He needs you—imperfect, flawed, with holes. Perhaps those holes can be filled. Perhaps you fill each other.

He—P-Parker. He is… the only good thing that ever happened to me.

The voice didn’t argue that. He is worth, perhaps, the pain? Such a gentle question.

I think… I think so, yes. Someone very important asked me the same, and... I think he is. Then I had… things, to think about, but then everything happened, and then I saw him die. I saw Parker die. I can’t… I can’t let that happen again. Never.

I agree. So we also agree you will return to him. If you don’t, he is going to search for ways to bring you back—and he will go into great danger.

No! No! He can’t!

There’s a longing now, in this other’s voice. For you, little one, he would walk into the sun. For you, he would flay his own skin. For you, he would do anything. So. Perhaps if you are together, what you can do for each other is good things, gentle things, instead of desperate or cruel.

I won’t let him. I won’t. But… He let out a soft sob. I’m lost. I never went this far before.

Do you want to be with him? Put aside fears… guilt… shame. Does being with him make you happy? It makes him happy.

Stacking the deck now, was this other.

I think so. I’ve never been happy before, so… that must be happy. Right?

Yes. He is unhappy without you. He needs you to live; but also… to LIVE.

The first ripples this other caused. Here and now. On that crucial word. That beautiful, powerful word, to consider Parker Yang… LIVING.

An echo?

Parker’s voice?

Hoarse, rough. Calling. Sunny! Sunny! A sob. Sunny!

Barely audible, barely there, maybe a memory.

Who… Who is… Am I Sunny?

Yes. Gentle, sweet warmth. The name that he gifted to you out of love.

He… He didn’t gift it to me. I chose it. His breath, shaky, full of tears rippled the surface of The Lake. He calls me Sunshine.

There. That is a good name. A good memory. A joyful thing that weighs more than the pain.

Silence now, stillness. So they could both sit in the beauty of a name.

I am Sunny. I love poetry, and I love food, and I love Parker Yang.

They both sat in the wake of that. Definition; boundaries. Something to keep it all in, so it didn’t melt out and be lost.

If you wish to see him—to help him live, to bring him joy, and to know the joy he brings you—I can lead you home.

Because they both knew who “home” was.

I’m ready to come home now. Will you teach me how to find my way back? This won’t be the last time I come here, but… I don’t want to get lost again.

Yes. You will never be lost again. Come. I will show you the way.

The way through thoughts and brambles, the way through pain and scars, the way through darkness by following drops of light—glints, even in the darkest hours, pieces of things that were good and whole, hints of joy too golden to be lost even in the worst of the shadow. It was a constellation, a beacon, and when he fixed his gaze on it he could track it like the North Star.

The way was there. It had always been there—but only if Sunny was willing to see.

…Parker?

Parker came to doubled over on himself. He sat in that chair, still, and Hastur held him so he didn’t fucking fall on his face. “Uh,” Parker said.

“Parker Yang,” said Hastur, and his voice rumbled in Parker’s bones. “You are not alone.”

“Sunny!” Parker sat up so fast he was dizzy (or maybe already was dizzy, and this just brought that home). “Sunny?”

I’m here, said Sunny, who sounded worn, who sounded exhausted, who sounded like the most precious thing Parker had ever heard. I’m here, my love.

And Parker did something Sunny had never heard before: he fucking sobbed. “Sunny,” he managed, doubling over again and hugging himself. “Sunny. Oh, gods. I thought I lost you. Sunny.” He put both hands on his face, cupping his jaw. “Sunny!”

I’m sorry I left you alone, Sunny whispered, settling into the touch. I’m never going to leave you alone like this again. Never. I’m all-in, partner.

This weeping was hard to read. It was so… naked; relieved, but utterly gutted. He couldn’t seem to stop. “Thought I lost you. I thought… I wasn’t… I didn’t stop looking, I… I don’t care you left, I…” He broke down again.

Hastur was gone. Parker didn’t notice.

“Whatever you need, bud,” Parker said, choked. “I don’t care what it is. We’ll do it. Anything. Ain’t never gonna let you stay lost.” And barely audible: “Thank you for coming back. You came back. You came back.”

I didn’t mean to stay away so long. I… He shuddered. Not… Now. Not right now. I need you. I’m sorry I left, Parker. But when I… Remembered, Hastur showed me how to follow you back. Ya Hafh Yogfm’l.

That seemed to amaze him. “I… we owe him. Dis, too.” He winced. “That fucking knife… it’s some new thing they… they said the Mi-Go came up with it. It can cut entwined souls. They were aiming for Arthur. I… fuck. I owe him an apology.” He paused. “I fuckin’ hit him.”

What? Why?

Parker sighed. “Because he was there. And you weren’t. Not my best moment, bud, if I’m honest.”

Sunny let out a rumble that Parker could feel in his chest, in his bones, in his soul. He is well acquainted with the way grief makes one mad. I am sure he will forgive you.

“Yeah.” Parker hadn’t sat up. Hadn’t stopped hugging himself. Hadn’t let go of his own face—the only contact he could have with his partner. “Still. Can’t say I handled this great. Even Faroe stayed away.” He sniffled. “Hastur’s gonna go after the lizard guy’s nation. Got a bad feeling it won’t go so great for them.” And he realized the god was gone. “Fuck. Didn’t thank him.”

I think… I think I shook him up badly. But he was kind to me.

Parker was silent for a moment. “He’s fucked up. And he doesn’t have someone like you. So. I dunno what to do about that right now. I can’t… think beyond having you back. That’s all, for me. Right now. Everybody else in the world can fuck themselves.” He sniffled. “You came back.”

I cannot promise I won’t dissociate again; but I will promise you now, on my love for you, on my soul, that I will always, always find a way back.

“Nobody’s ever loved me like that,” Parker whispered. “Glad it goes both ways.” He exhaled slowly. “I just… I need to just be here with you for a while. That okay?”

No one has ever loved me like you, Parker. I need you too. As long as it takes.

Parker stood (and Sunny noticed the state of his clothes, and his unshaven beard) and staggered over to their bed.

Their bed.

“Haven’t slept since it happened,” said Parker, and all but collapsed into it. “Hey. Stupid… stupid thing. Can you maybe… sing to me?”

Of course, Sunny rumbled. My voice, or yours?

“Yours. I missed you so damn much.” His voice broke.

I can’t forget the night I met you, Sunny sang, It’s all I’m dreaming of; and now you call it madness…

Parker’s exhale was like all the tension in the world melting away, fog in morning light. Slowly, he relaxed. Slowly, his eyes closed. He stroked his lips for a while, then his jaw, and finally slipped into a deeply exhausted sleep, face cradled in his hand.

But I call it love.

Arthur lay and listened to Odd’s music.

Mostly just fiddling around (ha, a pun), but it was… helpful. Calming. Helped Arthur’s thoughts to fall better in line like notes on a staff. Not that it helped much else. But… it helped this.

He lay, and listened, and tried to think.

The guy had come after him. Debriefing really made that clear. Why, though? Why?

Vaguely, he had some guesses about Hastur’s bid for power, and a purported child (John… who was still quiet), but come on. Really? Really? All this, for that? It would start a war! Who would possibly be stupid enough to do this?

Odd, said John quietly, out of nowhere. Do you know any Earth songs?

“Sure, a few,” said Odd. “Got a request?”

“John?” said Arthur, his stuffed nose turning it into Jod.

Yes. Nat King Cole. You Call It Madness.

“Huh,” said Odd, thoughtful. “I’ve heard it. Couldn't tell you where. I've never gotten it as a request before, but it’s pretty clear in my head.” He plucked a few strings of his violin, finding a note to begin. “You made a plaything out of romance, what were you thinking of— right?”

John took it up where Odd left off. You made a promise to be faithful… by all the stars above. And now you call it madness, but I call it love.

Arthur had gone silent. Listening.

“Oh, my heart is beating, it keeps repeating for you constantly,” Odd sang, coaxing his violin into the piano line. “You’re all I’m needing, and so I’m pleading: please come back to me.”

Tears slid down Arthur’s face. He lay still, on his side, curled like a kidney bean.

Arthur, said John quietly. I remember.

Odd let his voice drop to a hum, his violin a gentle backdrop of music as he watched the pair from the corner of his eye.

“You remember?” Arthur picked up his head a bit. “Oh… Oh, gods, John. I’m so sorry. What was it… Was it when I opened the book? This song was playing, then, wasn’t it?”

Everything. I remember everything. All of it. When I saved you tonight, something happened.

“Something…”

Odd gently set down his bow, pulling the violin off his shoulder, just subtly enough to not make a sound.

“You remember everything?” Arthur whispered, and made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’re back?”

Everything, said John. Including before I met you. We need to talk. Arthur. I am the King in Yellow.

------------

Notes:

Soooo the cat is out of the bag! Dis sort of leaked in here from my original series, Among the Mythos. Have a short story with her namesake!

#malevolent #malevolent au #malevolent fic #surrogate series #surrogate malevolent #surrogate fic #arthur lester #king in yellow

6 notes · View notes