Chapter Text
The king often found himself preoccupied in his eternal garden, lured by the isolation of it, and by the promise of companionship. His golden fingers trailed along the dewy foliage with gentle appreciation, his touch leaving a trail of gold along his white roses, imbuing life into the dancing petals. Amidst the elusive melody of nature, a question lulled in the air. What has Arthur done to him? He was once content with being alone, now he couldn’t bear the quiet. Worship and solitude now felt like a vacuum, sucking him from within. As he hovered across the fragrant blossoms, whispering mellifluous praises to the trees, the beauty offered a semblance of solace and peace to his realization of loneliness. With hands that possessed a lover’s touch, he delicately pruned the lost branches, watching the hedges straighten, encouraging symmetry.
While he would never admit it, he began to grow increasingly frustrated with his palace’s company. Praise. It was all empty words, led with the potential of approval and gifts. How lonely it was to be the bearer of thoughts. The king fed the fish, tossing pellets of feed into the pond and watching their luminescent scales shimmer in the shallow water. The wind brushed against him, whispering sweet songs as it passed by, speaking poems of lavender and jasmine, wrapping him in a fragrant embrace.
There, he stood still.
He ordered protection for Arthur. It was a moronic move, led by irrationality and madness. Now, at least within his circle, it has been publicly declared that he is at least associated with him. It was now known that Arthur was special. In a good or bad way, that was up to speculation, but to merely catch the king’s eye was a feat, one that would no doubt cause Arthur some trouble. But what else could he have done?
His eyes flashed Kayne, and something within him recoiled.
There was nothing else to be done.
"Hastur?" A familiar voice cried out. Arthur. The name that plagued his mind from the moment he met him wrapped him in a velvety caress, carrying the breath of anticipation. "Hello?" Hastur froze. The world blurred as his attention tunneled to the sound of his voice. He wasn’t sure what to say; a sudden overwhelming nervousness forced his throat closed. What would he tell him? That he’d somehow attracted the attention of one of the most notorious Outer Gods? That he’d spent weeks worrying and fussing over him in secret, making sure that he was safe? That he hadn’t felt so invested in a man that meant so little? Regal as he may be, he was not a king. He was a gardener, and so his unseen sanctuary of tranquility allowed his voice to waver and his hesitation to stretch the pregnant pause in the air.
"...Yes, Arthur. I’m here." What have you done to me, Arthur? His facade dripped off his face in messy, waxy increments, the vulnerability leaking out of his cracked mask. He suppressed the urge to roar, to weep, and to run and instead stood still within the heavy current of emotion sweeping him away from under his feet. Grateful as he may be that Arthur was blind and couldn’t see the unspoken raw longing in his eyes, it took all his strength to restrain his untold desires from entering his stoic voice. Oh, how relieving it would be to pull him into his tight embrace, and declare what he’d been holding in his heart, but he could not. He could never. "Are you well?"
Arthur certainly looked more healthy than the last time he’d seen him; while still thin and exhausted, his skin looked awash with a rosy hue. "Given the circumstances, as well as I can be." He smiled mirthlessly. Despite the reassurance, Hastur felt uneasy.
With a tremor of anticipation, he reached out with quivering fingers, tracing them along his arm before holding his hand. He could feel the warmth behind his gaze. He could feel the fabric of his mortal existence shudder from grazing his ethereal immortality. His tender touch upon his canvas so desperately longed to chase away the darkness that encircled his heavy, warm eyes. He'd never noticed the muddy warmth that accompanied his unused gaze, holding fragments of resiliency and fragile strength in his silent smile, an intricate mosaic of emotions and struggles woven into the tapestry of his expression. There, upon gazing into his stare, Hastur glimpsed into the reflection of his own turmoil, repressing the feverous desire that burned within him. Arthur was in danger because of him. Hastur couldn't stop trembling, yet no words dared be uttered from his mouth. "...Are you truly well?" He whispered. His voice resonated with a fervor beyond the realm of human understanding, as if his scream had been condensed into a breath.
Arthur's once-tight smile flattened into a soft frown, unspoken words fluttering in his chest. There was a palpable presence that lingered between them, the weight of unspoken emotion and concern suspended in the air. "...You're shaking." Arthur said, quietly. Hastur tensed, immediately pulling away, an involuntary response to his understanding, and frustration within him stirred as he turned his head away in shame. How dare a mere mortal recognize his fragility? With his teeth clenched, the world waited, holding its breath as it awaited his vulnerability to cut through the heavy silence.
"...You noticed." He spoke with hesitancy, his voice threaded with a mixture of vulnerability and reluctance. He was laced with a tremor that quaked the very nature of his heart, and he watched Arthur's slightless eyes narrow, a flickering flame among the darkness that plagued Hastur's company. Arthur waited for an explanation, yet all that he was met with was palpable and suffocating silence. He watched as Arthur instinctively rubbed the spot where Hastur's cold touch met the palm of his hand, a gesture laden with a silent plea for understanding. The disquiet enveloped them both, heavy with tension, the very intangible definition of love and connection, an emotion that defied all logic and reason. It all went still, yet nonetheless, it was held in raging intensity all the same, a symphony of emotions swelling within him. The world faded into insignificant oblivion, and Hastur kept himself still, forcing himself to keep from crumbling. There was only the magnetic pull between their two hands. Hastur existed in Arthur's orbit, never meant to touch him, never meant to be anything more than someone existing on the periphery of his life. His fingers twitched to bridge that divide and hold what was just out of reach, yet he remained immobile. "...Why have you come here?" The question came as spontaneously to his lips as it did to his thoughts. He glanced over in Arthur's direction with slight uncertainty. The trees rustled. "Is there something in particular you need?"
"No, no." He spoke quickly, a tinge of shame flooding his cheeks. "I'd hate to leech off of you again. I feel like I only came here to get something from you. This time, I have something to give." There was a delicate composition that was cradled in his hands—a weathered piece of coffee-stained paper. Upon its surface was inscribed a dancing tapestry of cursive symbols and words that were strung together in harmony, no doubt a testament to Arthur's nimble, graceful fingers. The parchment felt like a visual representation of his essence, a song imbued with unspoken prayer and emotions. He presented it to Hastur as a pleasant and humble offering for the non-king, an extension of his vitality and soul. "This is for you."
There was a long pause that followed, his gaze transfixed on the enigmatic symbols that decorated the sheet, his eyes dancing along the mystifying notes upon the page. "Why have you given this to me?" He couldn't help but allow some semblance of disbelief to enter his voice.
There, melancholy dipped into Arthur's gaze, as if the paper in Hastur’s hands carried the faded pages of an ancient diary, a subtle flicker of gentle nostalgia following his unused eyes, as if his paper were the words to a confession. The paper felt like the unwritten lyrics to a tragic serenade.
"…I no longer play." His voice whispered, his expression reflecting a well of emotions, watery and deep in its depths. His brows knitted, concentratedly unraveling his memories of the past. There, Hastur could hear a distant melody in his voice, untold and unfinished, like an unsatisfying melody yearning to be played yet trapped within his soul, not shown the light of day. He let out a slow sigh, shaking his head slightly. "I liked music." It was a struggle for him to get the words out, as if within the depths of his gaze hid a narrative, a tale of unspoken pain. "I used to be a pianist." The word spat from his tongue, as if the weight of his melodies clung to his sorrows, cursing the keys that played on his soul. He cleared his throat, lifting his head toward Hastur. "When you said you enjoyed music, I remembered this melody I've written, and I've decided to give it to you." He turned away for a moment. "I gave up on it halfway, and now it exists as an unfinished piece." He gave a lopsided smile, glimmering with possibility. "Who knows?" He mused. "Maybe you could complete it."
"You remembered." Hastur breathed, unable to keep the gratitude in his voice down, gazing upon the ethereal notes of the beautifully crafted composition before him. Each stroke of the pen orchestrated a shushed melody of untold stories and pain, resonating within him like a melody. All this time, some inkling in the back of his mind believed himself to only be a passing pebble in Arthur's short existence. But now, as he held the manifestation of his thoughts in his hands, holding it against the light, a sudden joy surged through him. Maybe he cared enough for him. Maybe enough to be cherished. To be held close. When he looked up, he saw a realization dawn on Arthur's face before a light blush spread across his cheeks, casting a glow on his features, and almost involuntarily, he let out a soft, rueful laugh. He wished that laugh would carry on for eternity.
His voice, no longer holding the tension it had during their previous meetings, was laden with fragile trust. "Oh, my apologies. I just realized I never asked if you know how to play the piano." Hastur wanted to demand that Arthur never apologize to him, yet no words came out; he only watched him in affectionate awe. "Well, um," he stammered, "you can compose it for any instrument you fancy. I don't know you very well, but you've always struck me as someone who'd like the violin."
"There's no need for that." Hastur spoke with such regal decree and resolution that he nearly mistook himself for the king. The parchment suspended in the air, per Hastur’s whim, pulsated with anticipation, as if it were enchanted with a sorrowful promise. Joy flickered in his eyes, his mask hiding the tender warmth that comfortably flooded him, washing away his tension. "I appreciate your gift. I will keep the essence of your song."
"Feel free to make changes as you'd like." His lips curled into a smile; the expression bore the radiance of his ethereal magnetism, as if he were a mortal vessel casting divine light. His words whispered a tale of vulnerability, as if he were preparing to dance with deception. "The song doesn't mean much to me." It was a lie. His voice was tender, echoing across the tranquility of the garden.
Hastur, the ever-perceptive gardener, watched as the clandestine truths danced within his warm, sightless eyes. A subtle flicker of curiosity wisped through and wove into Hastur's gaze, like rising smoke, acknowledging the pain that accompanied his carefully uttered deception. There, Hastur chose to tread in willful and benevolent ignorance, turning towards hospitality to ignore the potential discomfort that would accompany confrontation.
His hands, born with beautiful gold, fluid in motion, and elegant in sight, gracefully moved, conjuring forth a vessel of pomegranate tea. Every part of him was wholly otherworldly, yet despite reveling in his transcendent nature, he remained grateful that Arthur couldn't witness the ineffable force that accompanied his immortal fate. There, amidst the jealousy of his serene garden, the aroma of the honeyed brew wafted about the air, carrying the welcome of a soft, intoxicating ruby-hued fruit.
"Allow me to offer you refreshments." Hastur's smile could be heard through his voice, a voice that resonated with droplets of honeyed nectar, steeping the air with hospitality. "It had been weeks since we last met, a time spent too long and far apart." With graceful precision, like a brushstroke upon a canvas, he allowed the tea to pour into a spawned, golden cup, adorned with images of flowers and life. In that fleeting moment, amongst the garden peace, he found himself unburdened with the stress that accompanied rule. He was liberated from his responsibilities. It was only him and Arthur.
There, he glanced at his human, placing a plate of tea into his hands, and Arthur smiled, a photogenic image of warmth and camaraderie that transcended their destinies.
However, there was a nagging question that plagued his mind. How did you get here, Arthur? He restrained himself from asking. If he found himself trapped in the Dreamlands, wouldn’t it make more sense for Arthur to hermit himself in his garden? Why would he subject himself to the pain and chaos of the outside world? It only meant that Arthur was bound by duty to whatever goal he served, the same as Hastur. He was attempting to accomplish something. He was imprisoned all the same. Within the confines of their respective roles, Hastur realized in this passing moment that both were prisoners of their obligations. Hastur didn't know what that duty was, nor would he dare to ask, yet he could feel a connection between them, tethered by the cruel mistress of destiny, yearning for freedom from their infinite duty. It was an empty, meaningless thought, yet what gave him solace was the mutual understanding that they were experiencing it together. A feeling of brotherhood, almost, among the silent suffering that accompanied the strength they held.
Hastur gazed into Arthur's eyes, and it only took a moment before he gently broke the sacred silence. "...Indulge me, Arthur Lester." He implored, preparing himself a cup of tea as well. "I'm very curious about your adventures."
It was Samhain, a day where realms between the undead grew thin, and within a room devoid of walls or tangible essence, a resigned child stood, endowed in gold and ornaments, exuding an aura of defeated serenity akin to the deities surrounding them. There stood the King in Yellow, the calm monarch, shrouded in ethereal grandeur and the everlasting threat of insanity.
This ceremonial rite is unnecessary, Hastur thought to himself.
The gods sang, screaming a cacophonist deific hymn that only spoke a maddening melody, an ear-splitting sound that pierced the very nature of sanity, yet the king remained quiet, his silence a reflection of his inner disdain. Within the chamber, a frigid, uncomfortable chill breezed the air, the absence of warmth leaving a looming feeling of rot akin to decay and supernatural sadism.
She was but a child, donned in a gown as pure as fluffy, freshly fallen snow, with frozen flowers adorning her long, healthy hair, each petal cutting into her skin, a sacrificial crown of thorns. What gripped his attention were the sigils etched into her tender skin, weaving a tale of untold, terrifying power. The air pulsated with otherworldly symphonies, beauty that paradoxically sent shivers down one’s spine, akin to the chilling promise of greatness within a siren’s lament. The room suffocated with a blend of unimaginable power and deceit, so palpable that one could feel it on their skin.
In this land of foreboding danger and treachery, dressed in the howling laughter of the deities surrounding him, a quiet, gentle thought stood above all the rest, insistently whispering comforts in his ears— Arthur. His laugh, delicate and restrained. His poetry, with emotion etched into each word he uttered.
Truth be told, Hastur did not want to be here, instead craving the quiet, comfortable solace of his human. In a den of ravenous, hungry lions, no predator made a fitting companion.
In due time, she was presented with a golden, white chalice, radiant and alabaster, yet within its beauty he could smell the stench of death. The king’s eyes were fixated on the rim. He couldn’t help but envision the destiny that lay before her, written in stone. Hope flickered in her soft eyes, fueled by her fragile nativity, yet like a flame, it extinguished under the weight of her crown. She could not have been more than five. You don’t belong here, Hastur imagined himself saying. However, the words dissolved into the silence that blanketed him. The king remained still. Just for a fraction of a moment, Hastur imagined a phantom visage of Arthur on that ritual circle, draped in white, the flower crown of shame tousled in his soft locks. Something intangible rose within him, so fiery that the very nature of it threatened to burst out of his chest. Determination. Fear. Arthur would not be subjected to this torment.
The child murmured, praises to the gods, no doubt, a song he'd heard many times before, dripping with sweet sorrows and disdain for humanity, a performance to satiate the gods. The room was blazing with eldritch screams, sounds of insanity, and howling that tainted the air. It only dawned on him now that he was the only one in the room opposed to the impending horror.
With trembling hands, she raised the chalice to her lips, her forehead scrunched in anticipation, and her eyes a mix of overwhelming fear and resignation. She was quivering. The king’s lips thinned, keeping his mask of solemnity. The fear was palpable behind her radiant blue eyes, the tension was laden in her small body; every part of her was pleading to the gods for mercy. Yet nothing came; her plea fell on deaf ears. Hastur couldn't bring himself to stop her. Not again. In an expected fate, the girl crumbled to the floor, collapsing in death's bitter embrace. Now, the child looks peaceful, the king thought to himself calmly. Now, the child is no longer afraid. The room erupted in uproarious laughter, echoing like a wild tempest with the sounds of the ancient gods in celebration. The king stood alone and tall, untouched by the allure of dark joviality, bearing the weight of his crown. Arthur. Arthur. He would not meet this fate. The mere thought of it caused an upheaval of revulsion, the image clawing at the depths of his consciousness. Very easily, that could have been him. The image of Arthur sprawled in red on the sacrificial ground rebelled against this notion, fueling an unwavering desperation to protect him. Humans were so fragile.
In the midst of his thoughts, there was an unsettling chill that descended over the room, piercing his thoughts like an unexpected gust of wind and weaving a looming malevolence that wormed its way into his thoughts.
It was familiar, yet the familiarity only left a feeling that was all the more terrifying. Hastur let out a breath, feeling the insidious aura creep within him, infecting his very being.
The voice of Kayne sliced through his thoughts, his jovial amusement tinged with devilish apathy.
"Hastur! My king! It's so lovely seeing you here." He laughed with such mischievous playfulness, yet Hastur's many hearts lurched in his chest, pulsating in his ribcage. It was as if the room whirled around him, dizzying, only focusing on Kayne’s presence, like an unwelcome ghost. Reality faltered for a moment. He adjusted his gaze to the small form below him, dressed in a formal, old black suit draped in human blood. Clad behind his regal disguise, the king kept enigmatically stoic, his eyes solemn behind his comfortable mask, concealing the torrent of fear and frustration that surged within him.
The king exhaled, his breath heavy with burden. "You don't have the privilege to address me by that name." He spoke with measured restraint, his words undeniably cold and unfriendly. Yet, despite his defensive tone, Kayne ignored the bitterness that emanated from his response. Flames licked at the king’s consciousness, threatening to break the Outer God bit by bit. Kayne’s audacity set every nerve within him on fire, creating a storm of unbridled hatred that threatened to fracture the fragile mask he fought to maintain. Kayne knew he hated him. The frailty of a mortal god. It took all he could to keep hidden behind a veneer of regal serenity, keeping his eyes empty and calm.
Then, in the middle of the disquiet, Kayne laughed, the sound sharp and stinging, as if the laugh choked itself out of his throat, laced with irreverent charm that danced on the blade of danger. The king, the model of regal composure, felt himself shrink, just enough to be noticeable, and Kayne settled his black eyes on him, devoid of cogitation and emotion, and penetrated straight through his soul, staring into the holes of his vulnerability. Hastur never liked looking into his eyes. "You're too uptight, your majesty!" His words danced in the air, wrapping around him as if he dared to challenge Hastur's dignity. With a graceful flourish of his hand, too graceful for the nature of this beast, an invitation was extended towards the king. "You should relax! Learn to have some fun! Why don't you grant me the honor of a dance, king?"
There was something primal that rose within Hastur, violent and unbecoming of him. What separated him from the crowd was his crown, he told himself, a symbol of his unassailable dignity. What separated him from the crowd was his pride. Behind his mask, the persona of royal authority he’d crafted for himself, he felt a feral impulse whisper sweet praises into his ear. It was a seductive thought, his eyes tracing Kayne’s human form, contemplating the brutality of defiance. How easy would it be to tear apart Kayne piece by piece? He glared down at Kayne, feeling a refusal spur on his lips, his eyes brewing hatred just from the mere figure of Kayne presented before him. Yet, an unwelcome truth struck him, and quietly he understood the futility of resistance.
"...I don’t see why not." His voice was the picture of bitter resignation, scarcely audible amidst the roaring thunder of their surroundings.
And so they danced in an intricate ballet, the room full of whispers as they moved in synchronized harmony, every movement a testament to how they foiled the other, intricate in their hidden desires and motives. Their limbs intertwined, the king’s tendrils guiding Kayne’s well-worn hands, engaging in an ethereal spectacle that bore the mark of sublime artistry. Everything functioned like clockwork, each step in tandem with the delicate melodies each god sang. Hastur looked solemn. Kayne looked pleased. Behind this visual splendor, each move with the precision of a paintbrush and the vulnerability of a brick wall, lurked an undeniable hollowness to their elegant masquerade. This was not a dance out of intimacy; instead, it was a transaction. Each party danced their respective roles, on a stage, lathered in an undertone of desolation. It was a charade, as the king quietly understood. A performance that Kayne so desperately craved, devoid of life or the passion that imbued true dance.
Within this ritual, as they swayed in a seemingly intimate tango, Hastur’s mind wandered to a different, more comforting scene. Entangled in a dance with Arthur, movements are not guided by preplanned choreography but by the loose, freeing, and unspoken language of trust. In the realm of imagination, he and his human twirled and spun, Arthur’s eyes infused with tenderness and comfort, the world around them melting away as they became the sole focus of each other’s sight, the garden becoming insignificant as Hastur encircled Arthur’s waist, letting his weight shift and allowing the human to dip gracefully down.
Unfortunately, reality quickly took hold. It was not Arthur who had dipped, but Kayne.
The king kept his gaze empty, in a calm apathy; however, Kayne seemed to take note of his change in demeanor, his eyes fixed upon him with a disconcerting intensity. There was something sinister in the way he gazed up at him, still entangled in the king’s arms, lowered in an elegant embrace. Then, his lips curled into an uncanny smile, his expression whispering secrets forbidden to speak and untold truths. He leaned in, and the king felt himself shrink, yet again.
"...Do you know how to play the piano?"
His whisper stabbed him. The words stabbed him, twisting into his gut and stirring an unsettling mix of horror and apprehension that seeped into his consciousness. There, within the recesses of his mind, he recognized what he was implying.
Kayne knew about Arthur’s gift.
"Keep out of my affairs." His words came out in a single breath, as if he were barely able to keep his chin above water. How could he know? His eyes kept on Kayne, laced with caution and threat. Behind his hardened, sharp eyes was a clear and lingering vulnerability that cracked his stoic facade. And Kayne, the sadistic god he was, seemed to take vested interest in the way a tremor wormed its way into the king’s fingers. He wrapped his soft hands around his trembling tendrils, as if he were tenderly trying to comfort him, yet his sardonic eyes only burned with amused cruelty.
"You do realize that he doesn’t care about you?" The bitter gust of words hung between them, Kayne’s uncomfortable eyes staring into him, grinning with unsettling euphoria. "Poor little Hastur. Naive little Hastur." Kayne sang, mocking him, each word lashing at the king’s pride, his voice slithering a seductive hiss that wrapped around his mind as they continued the dance. Lies. They were lies. "He’s using you! Surviving. That’s what they like to do, don’t they? Survive?" He laughed as if the sound choked out of his mouth—an ugly, discordant laugh that stabbed the air with malicious, maniacal glee.
"You don’t know that." The uncertainty was audible in his whisper.
Evil. He was evil. There was a sinister spark inside his eyes that spoke of entropy and deceit, and his smile only spread across his face to mock the king’s vulnerability. Then, suddenly, his lips curled into a deep frown, a mockery of innocence. "You don’t trust me?" His voice dripped with venomous, honeyed gentility, the faux kindness of his tone only stabbing him deeper into his confusion. Kayne laughed, and the cracks of lunacy showed in his mirthful expression. "How about this?" He smiled, leaning in, his breath laced with seductive suspicion. "Ever wonder how he got into your garden?" His eyes were so empty. "Oh, you didn’t think about that, now did you, dear?"
"That’s enough." It was all a lie.
"Oh, oh! What if he’s not really who he says he is? What if he’s something much more malicious than that? Use that beautiful big brain of yours, love! Come on, I know that you’ve thought of it before!" He mocked, stroking the lingering shadows of doubt that plagued his thoughts. He didn’t dare think about how it could very well be true. He didn’t want to entertain the possibilities; each thread was spun with treachery and deception. Something inside of him, unbeknownst to anyone witnessing the strange dance, deflated.
He gathered himself just enough to get the words out of his mouth. "You’re… You’re manipulating me." He whispered, his voice quivering with defiance and discomfort. Kayne whirled in his arms.
Kayne laughed, akin to the sound of clashing cymbals and the chaotic beating of a drum, with twisted delight dancing behind his eyes. "You’re manipulating me! Blah blah blah!" Kayne didn’t blink. "I’m only telling you what you need to hear, your majesty!" There was a certain sense of chilling confidence behind his words, despite the malicious nature of his tone. Each syllable struck a raw nerve of doubt that Kayne undoubtedly directly targeted. A grin stretching across his face, revealing impossibly white and sharp teeth, like a predator baring its claws, he leaned in with controlled grace and conviction so palpable, it left Hastur adrift in an ocean of conflicting words. Kayne spoke. "If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask him? Ask him why he’s in the Dreamlands." A glimmer of his true form wavered behind his facade of mischievous charm. "I’m willing to bet he won’t answer that, my king."
The dance, struck by elegance and captivating mechanical steps akin to the melody of a song, came to an abrupt halt.