Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John had understood that leaving the King in Yellow would come with consequences. His status amongst the divine would be reduced, he would be weaker, he would lose allies. But he thought it would be worth it in exchange for freedom, for the ability to make his own decisions and shape his domain as he pleased. Most days, he felt like he had been right.

“Oh, Joohhnnnyyy boyyyy!” a familiar voice called from the front of his cave, and John resisted the urge to throw a boulder. 

Days like today were the only times John regretted his decision. While even the King in Yellow wasn’t strong enough to stop Kayne from doing whatever he wanted, at least John wouldn’t be the one who had to talk to him when he decided to come fuck around.

“What do you want?” John asked, materializing at the entrance, oozing up out of the ground like a rising column. There was no need for pleasantries; Kayne knew exactly how John felt about him, and if he’d finally decided to kill him it wouldn’t be because John had been a little rude.

“What an excellent question, my taciturn friend,” Kayne said with a bloodthirsty smile. He was in a good mood John realized with a sinking feeling. There was a loud shriek, and John’s many eyes were drawn to the squirming creature Kayne held under one arm.

“What is that?”

“A less excellent question. Come on, John, you know what a human is,” Kayne chided, that smile never leaving his face. John growled in annoyance.

“It’s not just a human or you wouldn’t have it,” John said tersely.

“No, no, you’re right, fair point. No, this particular human… is a sacrifice,” Kayne said with relish. John eyed it dubiously.

The creature was recognizably human, though it was much smaller than the ones John had seen. It was a pale little thing, barefoot in a white dress. Its brown hair was braided through with flowers that were falling out (probably from its struggling), and cheap trinkets adorned its wrists and ankles. The round face was grubby from tears and snot and sand kicked up by the surrounding desert, but the dampness did nothing to put out the fire in its eyes as it flailed and clawed at the limb holding it.

“Hm. Not much of a sacrifice,” John remarked, only having a few examples to compare it to but pretty sure this wasn’t a typical specimen.

“I know, right? The gall of those villagers!” Kayne cackled. The little human bit him then, though Kayne showed no reaction as blood started to drip down his wrist.

“Why is it here?” John finally asked, wanting to get to the point.

“Oh, right, right, right,” Kayne’s smile grew wider, and John braced himself. “I need you to hold onto it for me.”

“What!?” John didn’t mean to give Kayne the satisfaction of a reaction, but he was blindsided, and the many tendrils and eyes he usually kept hidden within his cloak flared out for a moment before John managed to rein them back in. The human actually stopped squirming at the sound of his shout and stared at him with big brown eyes.

“I know, I know. But the thing is, I’m not really in the mood for human right now.”

“Not in the- then why did you accept it?” John sputtered. If the sacrifice had been rejected, the human would have either bounced off the gateway or had its eyes burned out of its sockets, depending on the mood of the god involved. The fact that it was here could only mean that Kayne had agreed to the transaction.

“Well, just because I’m not in the mood now doesn’t mean I won’t be in the mood later ,” Kayne said, waving his free hand around and leaning with the words. “And I was bored of tormenting that little roadstop anyway, so might as well take the free food on the way out.”

“You- fine. Why do I have to keep it?”

“Cause we’re such good buddies,” Kayne said brightly, actually stepping forward and throwing an arm around the shoulders of John’s yellow robe, ignoring John’s offended hiss. The human resumed its escape attempts, clearly not wanting to be any closer to John. “I know you’d never let anything happen to my things, and it’s not like you’ve got anything else going on, right?”

John felt a familiar helpless rage wash through him. Kayne wasn’t actually asking, of course. Kayne was telling John what was going to happen, and John did not have the power to deny him, had no one who would retaliate for anything Kayne might do to him.

John’s only response was to growl, but Kayne took that for the acquiescence it was.

“Good man-y-eyed-and-tendriled-entity!” Kayne said with a slap on John’s shoulder. Matter settled, he dropped the human to the ground, the little thing yelping on the impact. Immediately it tried to crawl away, but it had barely started before John sent a tendril out to wrap around its ankle, yanking it to a stop.

“When will you be back for it?” John asked, sending more appendages to restrain its hands when it started trying to claw at him; he had no interest in enduring the abuse Kayne had enjoyed.

“Eh, sometime in the next millenia. Just keep it on the plate warmer for me. See you later, small-fry,” Kayne said with a friendly wave to the human, the first acknowledgement John had seen, and then went whistling into the sand. John looked at his retreating back, looked at the small form writhing and shrieking in the sand, and sighed.

***

He was going to kill them.

He was going to kill all of them.

No, no he wasn’t. Killing these fucking people wouldn’t bring Faroe back. All it would do was get him arrested or killed, and then he couldn’t do anything for her.

No, they didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was finding Faroe.

Arthur held his knife to the trembling holy man’s throat and let his eyes show exactly how much Arthur wanted him dead.

“How do I get to the land of the gods?”

***

“Hey, John, whatcha looking at?”

Ah, Dancer. Well, one of many Dancers, but this was the only one who would still come and visit occasionally after he left the king’s court.

“Hello, Dancer,” John said absently, still staring. He heard her footsteps stop beside him and felt her lean down to see what he was seeing.

“Huh, where the hell did you get a human?”

“Kayne.”

“Huh. Why the hell would Kayne give you a human?” John groaned and ran his hands–the only two he had–down his face.

“He’s saving it for later,” John spat, “and he wants me to look after it in the meantime.” There was silence for a moment.

“Was it like that when you got it?”

“No, and I don’t know how it happened,” John lamented. The human had continued to cry and fight long after Kayne had gone, so John had made a cage and left it far enough away that John could get back to work without having to listen to it. By the time John came back to check it seemed to have worn itself out, and John chalked his decision up as a success.

Now, though, the creature lay on its side, eyes glassy and breathing much weaker than when it had arrived.

“You remembered to feed it and give it water, right?”

“Of course I did, I’m not an idiot,” John snapped. 

“When?” Dancer asked, looking without eyes at the bone dry water bowl. John was silent as he tried to remember. He tended to lose time when he was deep in the dream. “I’m guessing that means too long. Come on, let’s take it out and fix it up. I’d hate to see those pretty eyes plucked out cause you let Kayne’s human die.”

Embarrassed but grateful, John waved a hand and the bars dissipated. Dancer gestured for John to pick the human up, which was fair since he was the one without knives for fingers. John actually used his hands this time, figuring he should be a bit more delicate with the human in this state. It made a frightened noise but barely wriggled in his arms at all, which was more concerning than anything else.

They took the human back to the main chamber, and John started combing through dreams for food and water. While he worked, Dancer gave him a rundown of the basic things a human needed to survive. Well, she said it was basic, it seemed unnecessarily complicated to him.

“How do you know so much about humans?”

“The King in Yellow likes to keep some around for entertainment. You were never responsible for prisoners, but we learned very quickly which ones he wanted alive, which ones he’d forgotten about, and what state we had to keep them in depending on which was which. These things die so easily.”

Dancer proceeded to tell John of all the ways she’d seen humans die in the prison pits. John was appalled to learn that the job he had been given was going to be even more of a pain in the ass than he thought.

“No, yeah, if you want to keep the human how Kayne left it, you can’t leave it in a cage that small. They need to move around or their bodies stop working.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, finally finding a plain cup of water with no detritus or strange creatures swimming within. He pulled it out of the dream and knelt down (sort of, he didn’t have knees) to give it to the human. The creature started sputtering when he accidentally spilled water on its face, and Dancer helpfully informed him that humans could also die from drinking water wrong .

The rest of the meal proceeded without incident, thank the Host. John managed to find an apple that, while pink, seemed edible, and Dancer used her fingers to cut it into small, very easy to eat, no-one-should-be-able-to-choke-on-this bites, which the human took without issue. The human still wasn’t as energetic as when it had arrived, but there was a noticeable improvement as it looked at Dancer warily instead of with glassy-eyed indifference.

The human fell asleep on the stone soon after, and John was reassured that it was a normal sleep when nightmares that only he could see started to fill the air.

“I- thank you, Dancer,” John said, slumping a bit. There was still a weight on his shoulders, but now he at least was better equipped to carry it.

“No worries, John. We’ll keep those pretty eyes in your head yet.”

***

“If you go there, you will die. Those lands are not meant for humans, and to look upon them is to be annihilated.”

“There must be a way, all those stories of people fighting the gods-”

“The heroes in those stories were sponsored by other gods,” the seer cut him off, her weathered face and tone brooking no argument. “They were invited, and thus were offered certain protections. Without those protections, the sight of that place will overwhelm you and burn the eyes out of your skull.”

“Please, there has to be a way,” Arthur begged, leaning forward on his hands. He knew he was a pathetic sight, unkempt from his travels and desperation in every line of his body. She held his gaze for a long moment before she sighed.

“It is the sight of that place that overwhelms the mind,” she said reluctantly. “Those who cannot see are immune to that particular danger.” Arthur took a moment to absorb that, took a deep breath.

“You’re saying that if- if I was blind, I could get through?”

“The mere visage of the place would not kill you, yes. You would still be a blind man in the most dangerous place a mortal could go.” She clearly wanted him to put more thought into this, but it was a foolish hope.

“I’ll do it,” Arthur declared, standing up from his place on the floor.

“Sit down, you fool,” the seer snapped, and her tone was such that he did so without a thought. So pinched the bridge of her nose, then drew her hand down her face.

“Do you have anything that belonged to your daughter?” she asked finally, weariness in her voice.

“I- yes? Yes, I have some of her drawings, and- and her hairbrush, and-”

“Any of those would be fine. There is a ritual I could perform; those who willingly give up their sight can learn how to see things other cannot. You do not have the training to make full use of this, but with the right foci you could at least see your connection to Faroe.”

“I- That’s- What does that mean?”

“The one thing you would be able to see is a thread. A golden line tying you to Faroe. Follow it, and it would lead you directly to her.” He opened his mouth but she stopped him with a glare. “ Directly to her. It will show you the fastest way as the crow flies. It will not show you the paths you must take, which way is safe–following it without caution is likely to lead you over the side of a cliff.”

“If you can do this for me,” Arthur said, not interested in further warnings, “then, please, I beg of you.”

“... There is no going back from this,” she said after a moment, her voice gentling for the first time. “You say it has been weeks; Faroe is probably dead, or at the very least firmly ensconced within the realm of a god. You cannot save her from this; will you really give up your sight for the impossible?” Arthur couldn’t speak for a moment, tears choking him as her words overwhelmed him.

“... If she is dead, will I be able to see her thread?”

“No.”

“Then that’s enough. Just that knowledge–to know, and not have to wonder–would be worth any price.”

Hours later, after his screams had run out and his eyes had stopped sizzling , Arthur looked for Faroe. For a horrible moment, he didn’t see anything. Then, he turned his head where he thought the back corner of the hut was, and there she was. That beautiful golden line, and he cried with sightless eyes.

***

John didn’t quite trust himself not to forget the human’s existence again if he put it somewhere convenient and out of the way, so now it was allowed to roam the main chamber.

She. Faroe. Faroe was allowed to roam the main chamber.

It had taken a few days for her to get her strength back, and with it her fighting spirit. Thankfully, she didn’t return to the wordless screaming. John and Dancer had been discussing the human in clinical terms when she ran up started shouting at them, declaring that she was not an it , she was a girl , and her name was Faroe. Dancer had delightedly declared that she was a girl too, and after that Faroe seemed to have no issue with voicing her thoughts.

There were some drawbacks–namely that Faroe had a lot of thoughts–but overall it made things easier for John. If she was hungry or thirsty, she would tell him, so he didn’t have to guess whether or not it was “lunch time.” (Dancer seemed to think that Faroe was eating and drinking quite a lot compared to other humans she’d seen, but it seemed to only be bringing her closer to the state she’d arrived in, so John was willing to put up with the inconvenience.) She asked for other things, too, things that didn’t seem nearly as essential, but John learned that she was less irritable when she slept on a pile of pillows and blankets rather than a cold stone floor, so it was a worthy investment.

Then there were things she asked for that he couldn’t give. She asked to go home, and when he said no, she cried. She asked for her father, and when he pulled a simulacra of the man from her dreams, she screamed until John sent it away.

And then there were the questions, and the girl was a neverending font of them. John could empathize, he had a lot of questions too, though Faroe’s way of explaining things often left him more confused than when he started. Regardless, he usually enjoyed himself; her mind went down many twists and turns that he had difficulty following, she made strange leaps of logic– it was rather refreshing. He wondered if all humans were like this when they were awake.

“Are you going to eat me?”

“No, Farou, I’m not going to eat you.”

“Is that man going to eat me when he comes back?”

“Most likely.”

He hated when question and answer time made her upset, like it was his fault; why ask a question if you couldn’t handle the answer?

Today was a better day than most. Dancer had come back to visit, something that made Faroe happy; she seemed to be over Dancer’s frightening appearance, and Dancer had developed her own fascination with the human girl that meant she was willing to entertain her for a time. And when Faroe had asked for water, John had managed to find someone dreaming of a full, multi-tiered fountain that was clear as crystal. 

It took up almost half the chamber and was decorated with many strange carvings, people and animals that were recognizable but off, and some carvings that were totally incomprehensible. Spouts of water shot from open mouths at impossible angles, and some of the water moved into the air without any apparent propulsion–someone had been having a lovely dream. John was relieved to think that he wouldn’t need to find anymore for a while; surely this would last Faroe at least a few days. (Though he was still unclear on how long a day actually was.)

“Whoa, it’s huge!” Faroe cheered. She ran to the edge and immediately got a nose full of water when she tried to drink from a too-strong spout, but to John’s relief she didn’t drop dead from drinking-water-wrong-disease. After she was done coughing, she declared that it was better to just drink from the pool and dunked her head in. Just as quickly, she whipped back up.

“Dancer!” she shouted, her hair sending water everywhere. “Let’s go swimming!”

“Can swimming kill humans?” John immediately asked. He was quite certain he’d seen nightmares about it, but humans had nightmares about many things, and he was pretty sure not all of them were genuine threats.

“Yes, it’s called drowning, it’s an extension of drinking-water-wrong,” Dancer explained. “But I want to swim, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t die.” Dancer hadn’t steered him wrong yet, so he didn’t stop Faroe from climbing in. Dancer joined her, and they both proceeded to get a significant amount of water out of the pool and onto the floor.

The water came up to Faroe’s waist, though she occasionally ducked down to fully submerge herself. John was a little alarmed to see how quickly the water around her changed color; he’d forgotten she hadn’t had that much dirt on her when she first arrived. (So much for clean drinking water.) Dancer only had water up to her shins, and with a mischievous cant of the head she held a blade up to a spout, angling it so a stream of water reflected straight onto Faroe. Faroe shrieked–and John was pretty sure that this was a playful sound, not a fearful one–and very clumsily started to splash Dancer with as much water as she could.

Satisfied that they were occupied for the time being, John turned his attention back to the Dream.

Hm. 

The King in Yellow held domain over nightmare and madness. John had done well enough in that role, but after a time he realized that his taste in dream was a bit more… specific. He loved dreams that made the world seem bigger than it was, more vibrant, more strange. Frightening things often fit the bill, but John often found the best sets in the uncanny rather than the terrifying.

But those weren’t the dreams the King cared to harvest, and so John had left to work on his own projects. He cultivated the strange within the sleeping minds of those he could reach, and when he found something particularly beautiful he pulled it through to decorate his home.

It had been a while since he’d done this for himself. He’d actually been about to remodel when Kayne showed up, and since then he’d been too busy, or worried that the things he brought through might be a danger to his charge. Now, though, Faroe was occupied, and he was fairly confident that he had a grasp on what she could and could not handle.

He dove in and searched.

One woman dreamed of swimming along a massive coral reef; her lungs cried out for air, and she was scared she wouldn’t reach the surface in time. John noted that this was a reasonable fear before taking the vibrant coral and sponge and spines and molding them into his cave wall.

John found a man in a dress shop sitting in front of a mirror. The man kicked his legs against the skirt of his dress, admiring how soft the sheer fabric felt sliding against his knees. John grabbed it, ignoring the man’s squawk, as well as a few other dresses on display, and dropped them onto Faroe’s nest. They would be too big for her, but maybe Dancer could cut them down, or turn them into more blankets.

On he went, hopping into dreams and taking what pleased him, passing up what could be dangerous. He went for longer than he intended to, but when he resurfaced he was smiling. He looked around the room and the smile fell.

The pool was empty of people, which wasn’t too surprising, and the changes he’d made to the room had taken effect. One of the dreams he’d pulled in was a twisted statue of a woman that sang; he’d placed it near the exit tunnel, and that’s where he found Dancer and Faroe.

The statue sang for them and Dancer danced. Faroe danced as well, muddy, bloody bare feet pounding against the stone floor. She was almost completely dry, her face a blank mask.

“DANCER!”

Dancer’s head whipped around, and John saw the realization strike her. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t thought. She’d just heard the music and followed her instincts, and Faroe was pulled along in her wake.

John banished the statue, and Dancer immediately stopped dancing. Faroe stopped as well, stopped like a puppet whose strings had been cut; she fell, and would have bashed her head against the rock if John hadn’t sent out lightning fast tendrils to catch her. He frantically reeled her in, lifting her limp body up into his arms. She was unconscious.

His head whipped up as Dancer gave an embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry, John, I guess I got a little carried-”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” he roared, holding Faroe close. Dancer jumped, took a step back. She knew he had a temper, he was famous for it, but he’d never turned it on her before. “You could have killed her!”

“Jesus, John, I said I was sorry-”

“GET OUT!”

She froze, her faceless gaze locked on him. He stared back, and for a moment he wondered if she would actually stab him for daring to speak to her that way. Instead, she whipped around and stalked out.

John stood for a long moment, chest heaving, eyes blinking, tendrils whipping around him in agitation. Then, he turned and slithered back to Faroe’s nest. He set her down amongst the blankets, then found a cup and gathered some water from one of the upper pools of the fountain, one untainted by Faroe’s play. He gently washed away the grime from her feet, hissing in rage at the wounds that were revealed. He grabbed the dresses he had gathered and tore them into strips, wrapping them around her soles as makeshift bandages. Then, with nothing left to do, he sat back and stared at her.

It wasn’t because he was scared of Kayne, he realized. John hadn’t thought for a second about what the god would think or what he would do if his sacrifice was returned broken. He’d just seen Faroe’s blood on his floor, and he’d been ready to murder his only friend over it.

Fuck.

***

Arthur felt a little strange, walking down the mountain with the seer. She was keeping a hand on his elbow, helping to guide his steps, which he was pretty sure was supposed to be his job as a young man in the presence of an old woman. But the old woman could see, and he could not, and his probing cane could only do so much to prevent him from falling and breaking his neck on the rocks.

Despite all of her reservations about his plan, she had agreed to guide him to the nearest gateway, grumbling that it all would have been a waste if he died before he even started. Arthur had thanked her profusely, only stopping when it was clear she was becoming annoyed with it.

“Stop here,” she said, and Arthur obeyed. “Fifteen feet in front of you is the edge of a cliff. It’s a 30ft drop down into a crystal clear pool. Now, the walls further down jut out a bit, so you’ll want to push off the ledge when you leap. Take a big breath and hold it–it might not be an immediate transition so you’ll need all the air you can spare. When the water changes temperature, that’s when you know you’ve made it. Let out some bubbles so you know which way is up, and swim like your life depends on it. After that, you’re on your own.”

“Right,” he said, taking a deep breath. This was perhaps the most terrifying thing he’d ever done, but there was no question in his mind that he could do it. All he had to do was follow the line.

“I know you’re getting tired of hearing this,” he said, turning towards the seer. He held his cane with both hands clasped in front of him. “But thank you for helping me. Thank you so much. If there is ever a way to repay you, I will do everything in my power to see it done once we return.” There was silence, heavy enough to press him down into the earth. Finally, she spoke.

“I wish someone had fought for me the way you have for Faroe. Coming back with her is all the payment I could ever ask of you.” He felt her gnarled hands wrap around his own. “Arthur Lester, you are a fool for trying this, but I wish you the best of luck.” He nodded sharply, too overcome for words, and turned to go. He felt for the edge with his cane, judged how many steps he needed to take. He tried to calm his racing heart.

And then he was running.

And then he was falling.

***

Dancer hadn’t come back, so John had to find other ways to entertain Faroe. 

Well, technically he didn’t have to do anything to entertain her. He could just shove her in a box, ignore her complaints and tears and only let her out to eat and stretch. He wouldn’t though. 

Because I’m a moron who’s gone and decided I care about a human’s feelings. Fuck!

She was quiet for a few days after the incident except to cry when the pain in her feet was too much, but faster than he expected she was back to her normal loud self. She still couldn’t walk without pain though, so her only distraction was to talk John’s ear off.

John didn’t actually mind talking to Faroe, but even he needed a break sometime.

So he started diving into the Dream with her desires in mind instead of his own. The results were mixed. She liked pretty things, but grew bored of them quickly if they didn’t have a function. She told him she liked to draw, so he found the nightmare of someone who was anxiously trying to finish a research paper by the ever encroaching deadline; he became more anxious when John took half of his books and all of his ink pots for Faroe to doodle with. She really liked the stuffed bear he had found, but then it bit her, and he tore it to shreds despite her protestations that it didn’t hurt.

His best find was a strange musical instrument, a series of metal plates glued to a board that one hit with a stick to make a noise. He’d mostly grabbed it because he had no idea what it was, and he’d preened when Faroe’s face lit up. Faroe immediately set to banging away on it, and John thought he would regret this acquisition. That didn’t happen though. 

What started as random banging soon became thoughtful, and John realized that she was actually figuring out the notes. And then, to his astonishment, she actually started tapping out something that could be described as music. She was clearly going for something specific; she grimaced when she apparently hit a ‘wrong’ note and would hunt down the one she was actually looking for. After a while, these mistakes lessened, and then she was tapping out a song.

John loved music, he knew that about himself, but the music in dreams was always so scattered, snatches of songs mashed together in a melodic mess. This was something else, something intentional.

“That was beautiful. Where did you learn how to do that?” John asked, splayed on the ground besides her, enraptured by the impromptu concert. She beamed at him, sitting up proudly.

“My daddy taught me this song on the piano. It’s Faroe’s Song! He wrote it for me, and he said he’s going to play it for lots of people, and they’ll all love it,” she bragged. John remembered the fake father he had pulled from her dreams; that had been an obvious mistake. Dreams could never get a person quite right.

“So, your father is a musician?”

“Uh huh, he makes lots of pretty music.” John watched as she remembered her situation, and his hearts clenched as her face fell. “I miss my dad,” she said, already starting to sniffle.

John wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had never missed someone before. At least, not like that, not with the intensity with which Faroe missed her father. He missed Dancer’s company, but he would never be moved to tears over it. 

He had a sinking feeling that he might someday learn, the day Faroe was gone.

“Faroe,” John started slowly, sitting up from his reclined position. This was probably a bad idea, but it was something that had been gnawing at him. “Where was your father, the day the man took you?” She blinked at him with wet eyes and shuddered.

“U-um.” Her voice was small and shaky, and the rest of her shook, too. “Daddy needed to be alone a lot, um, to work on his music. And then we’d travel a lot to show people the music. And sometimes he had to go and talk to grown ups about grown up stuff, so he couldn’t take me with him.” 

Grown up. John turned the word over in his head for a moment, confused, before it clicked, and he wanted to smack himself for how obvious it was. That was why Faroe was so small, why conversations often felt so strange compared to the few he’d ever had with other humans; Faroe wasn’t finished growing.

John felt anger beginning to boil in his chest.

“So, we went to a little town t-to talk to an important grown up, and d-daddy couldn’t bring me with him, so he left me with Mrs. Pick for a- a few days.” She was becoming hard to understand, hiccups interrupting her words. “And she was- r-really nice, but then s-someone in the town died and- and a house burned down, and- and-” at this she burst fully into tears. 

Some unknown instinct had him reaching out to her, but he stopped, unsure if such a touch would be welcome. She seemed to see his indecision and took it as permission, almost launching herself at him. He flinched as she trod on several tendrils to reach him, but then he had a lapful of sobbing child, and his arms moved without thought to hold her tightly.

“They- they said I could make the bad things stop,” she sobbed into his robe, voice muffled. “They said I could save them. They- they took my clothes, and- and they wouldn’t let me say good- goodbye to my dad, and- and then they pushed me, and I fell so far!” she wailed.

John could imagine the rest.

“I want my dad, I want to go home!” she cried, fisting her hands in yellow fabric. John ran a hand down the back of her hair, curling over her.

“I know, Faroe. I’m sorry.”

***

Arthur was getting close. His whole body ached, his feet were blistered, and his head pounded from dehydration, but he was getting close, and that was what mattered.

When Arthur had emerged gasping and heaving from that pool, he’d pulled himself out onto the plushest grass he’d ever felt in his life. The air had been sweet, and strange animal sounds could be heard everywhere. He assumed he was in a paradise, and wished that he could see it without dying.

And then he was almost eaten by something that sounded like a very large, very pissed off squirrel, and he stopped considering this place anything but a hell.

He’d been lucky, all things considered. Most things he encountered tried to kill him, but there were a few people he met who showed kindness, or at least interest. Apparently he was a rather unexpected sight, and he was convinced that several of those who helped him did so only because they were curious at how far he could get before dying horribly.

And then there were those that had deliberately sabotaged him. He avoided thinking about it.

He was almost there, that was what mattered.

The desert had been hell on his body, but there at least didn’t seem to be many things living out here and few obstacles in his path. He’d been able to follow Faroe’s thread without deviation for almost two days now, and he could see it glowing brighter and brighter, spurring him on and on even as his body cried out for rest.

And then, because he had been walking without issue for so long and had allowed his cane to hang at his side, Arthur ran into a wall.

After he was done cursing up a storm and cleaning up his bloody nose, he felt along to see what he was dealing with. An irregular stone formation in front of him, stretching too high for his cane to find the top. He walked fifty feet to the right, then one hundred feet to the left, and didn’t find a break. The thread was pulling him straight through it.

“Alright, Arthur, right or left,” he muttered to himself. After a moment of pointless deliberation, he chose left.

He walked for a long time, and as he did, he could see the thread subtly moving. He walked and walked, until the thread pointed entirely to the right of him, and still he couldn’t find anything.

What if she’s on top of this thing? he wondered with some dread, then shook himself. No point speculating, he just needed to learn as much about this thing as he could before making a plan of attack… hopefully before dehydration took him.

He found what he was looking for twenty minutes later. His right hand, the one following the wall, suddenly found itself hanging in midair. He backtracked, felt along, and felt the wall turn sharply inwards. It took all his self control not to immediately launch himself into the gap; instead he took his cane and carefully went about understanding this entrance.

A few minutes later, he was practically vibrating with the confidence that this was it. It was a tunnel entrance, about twenty feet wide, and Faroe’s string was leading him right down it.

“I’m coming, sweetheart,” he whispered, put a hand to the wall, and resumed walking. Perhaps he should have waited, taken more time to think up a plan, but time wasn’t a luxury he had. Even after he found Faroe, he still needed to get her out of the desert; he couldn’t go keeling over on her before that because he took too long.

Besides, he was a blind man in the land of the gods. This had always been a foolish venture, no point in stopping the foolishness now.

He walked slowly, deciding to keep his cane off the ground to avoid the extra noise, using just his hand dragging lightly against the wall. He ended up regretting this when he stabbed his fingers on something sharp jutting out from the stone. He let out a strangled yelp, then froze, listening for the sound of guards or monsters. When nothing happened, he carefully lifted his cane and ran it over that area. It caught on something with a strange noise, and he pulled back. Cringing at each scrape, he tapped his way a little further down the tunnel before returning to the wall.

He carefully felt the new patch of wall with the cane, and while it didn’t make the same sound, it was definitely bumpier than the beginning portion of the tunnel. He gingerly reached out with a hand, and felt something rough, yet… organic. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he decided to go back to using his cane against the wall instead of his hand. Nothing had come running when he’d hurt himself, and he didn’t want to risk a severe injury.

The thread was getting even thicker now, and he had to stop himself from just sprinting down this tunnel. He couldn’t have anyway, not without running into a wall; he’d already felt the tunnel curve several times, and each time he dreaded the idea that this tunnel was wrong, that it would force him away from Faroe. But it always straightened out before he could get too panicked, and then he was there.

His cane lost contact with the wall as it took another sharp turn outward. The glow of Faroe’s thread was taking up almost his entire ‘field of vision.’ He paused, then took two hesitant steps forward. Suddenly, the light consolidated, and he could see the glowing outline of a small body curled up on the floor.

“Faroe!” Arthur shouted joyfully, taking a step forward.

Or, rather, that’s what Arthur went to do. He took a single step, opened his mouth to call out, and on the ‘a’ in ‘Fa’ there was suddenly something in his mouth . Whatever it was went horizontally along his face, wrapping all the way around his head and forcing his teeth open when it tightened. He dropped his cane with a clatter as he reached up to try and pry it off, but then two more of whatever it was were wrapped around his wrists and forcing his arms down to his sides. He tried to kick out when another wrapped around his knees, forcing them together, and he was completely immobilized except for some ineffectual jerking.

Arthur wanted to scream, and only partly because of the fear. He had been so close , come so far, only to fuck it up right at the end. 

It wasn’t fair.

“Shhhh,” a voice whispered in his ear, so close and deep, and Arthur shook in terror and fury. “The girl’s sleeping. We wouldn’t want to wake her, would we?”

Arthur said nothing, breathing hard through his nose and trying not to gag, a whimper escaping without his permission.

“Good human. See, friend, we can be reasonable here,” the voice said, smooth and soft and slick in a way that made Arthur feel like something was slithering down his back. “Since you’re being so good, how about I let you speak, and you can tell me who sent you, and why you’re here. Quietly, now, we don’t want to wake her. If you try, I’ll rip you in half.” Arthur shuddered, tears leaking from his eyes.

For a split second, the restraints around him actually tightened, and then the one around his mouth slowly unwound itself. Once it was free, Arthur took a moment to make sure it wasn’t just coming straight back, tested his jaw to make sure it wasn’t dislocated. Then he injected as much venom as he could into his voice as he said, quietly,

“I sent me, and I’m here for my daughter, you monster.”

For a moment, there was nothing, then the presence near him shifted. Eyes in this world had a much more significant weight than in his own, and Arthur was suddenly certain that there were many eyes on him now. 

Another moment, and then deep laughter, a laugh that Arthur felt in his whole body even before the appendages holding him started to shake with it.

“Really?” the voice finally asked; it sounded like it was said with a smile, but there was a viciousness to it that made Arthur want to run. Arthur swallowed the feeling down, and instead croaked,

“Yes, really. Now, put me down, I’m taking her home.” Another bout of deep, delighted laughter, and Arthur’s resulting whimpers probably undermined his demands. Arthur gasped then, as another two tendrils wrapped around him, one around his midsection and pinned elbows, one around his thighs, and then he was lifted into the air.

Arthur did his best not to scream. Not that he wanted to make things easy for the creature, but if he really was about to die, he didn’t want Faroe to witness it.

The tendril that had previously been in his mouth instead went under his chin, tilting his head up. He flinched and gasped as something else touched his cheek, but… this one felt like a human hand. He felt fingers with long nails push his shaggy hair out of his face, then a palm cup his jaw.

“Very different in person,” the voice mused, now coming from right in front of him. Before Arthur could ask, it continued. “You know, Faroe didn’t mention you were blind. Did she just forget, or was this a recent development?”

Arthur didn’t answer, and then his bonds all squeezed at once in warning.

“Recent,” he gasped out, and they immediately slackened. The creature drew in a breath to speak, but Arthur butted in, desperate. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, just let her go. T-take me instead, just let her go, please, she’s just a child, please .”

There was no response to his begging, and then he felt strange-smelling breath waft against his face as the creature leaned in.

“What is your name, Father of Faroe?”

“...Arthur. Arthur Lester.”

“Do you know where you are, Arthur Lester?”

“N-no.”

“You’re in the Cave of Dreams. Welcome to my home,” the voice said softly, and then the hand left his jaw to press against his forehead. “Now, get some sleep, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Arthur opened his mouth–to say what, he didn’t know–but then something cool was washing over him, and everything fell away.

Chapter Text

John stared at the limp body of Arthur Lester dangling in front of him, then dropped it. A hole opened up beneath Arthur before he could hit the ground, a tunnel that turned into a slide to deposit him in an earthen pocket safely out of sight. John needed to calm down, he needed to think, and he needed to not look at Faroe’s father while he did it.

Instead, he went to look at Faroe. She hadn’t stirred once during the quiet confrontation. (Not too surprising, this place promoted deep–if not always restful–sleep.) She was snoring slightly, mouth open and drool wetting her pillow.

Looking now, John could see her father in her face.

After Faroe had shared her story, John had entertained vague thoughts of hunting her father down and tearing him to shreds. It was just a fantasy, of course. John had no interest in visiting the land of mortals, and their paths would never cross otherwise. Nor would Faroe thank him for it; she clearly adored the man, despite the fact that he had abandoned his child with strangers in a strange town and somehow thought that would be fine .

The earth cracked beneath John’s fingers. He froze, but Faroe did not stir, and he returned to his contemplation.

There was an image of the human that John had started to build in his mind. Someone who, while musically talented, was careless and vain and took people for granted; someone who didn’t deserve Faroe. 

And then the man had come stumbling upon his doorstep, and while John wasn’t sure that anyone could deserve Faroe, he was forced to reconsider the rest.

The land of the gods was vast and strange, shifting to the whims of its lords, but there were certain consistencies to the various realms. What was consistent about the Cave of Dreams was that it was far away from anything else. The only ones with easy access were those who resided there (John), those who were invited (Dancer), and those who were powerful enough that time and space only existed to them as an occasional indulgence (Kayne). To make such a journey and live would be an impressive feat for any champion, those brave or skilled or lucky enough to be invited to this world and be blessed with gifts from their patron gods. 

To make such a journey alone, newly blind, with just a walking stick and the contents of the bag on his back–

John dipped into the Dream, searching and grasping with little regard to the disruption he caused. When he had gathered everything he needed, he sought out the dreams of Arthur Lester.

John had experienced the dreams of blind humans before. Those who had gone blind later in life tended to still dream in images; those who had been born blind had no frame of reference, and instead dreamt in sounds and sensations. John was surprised to find that Arthur was closer to the latter, with one glaring exception.

“Faroe? Faroe!” the man screamed, clawing hands-and-knees across biting, glass-sharp sand. Arthur tried to stand, but grasping tendrils wrapped around his legs and yanked, pulling him down and dragging him back across the torturous terrain. Wind howled and whipped around him, and underneath it all was a low, reverberating laugh. 

John was mildly pleased to have already made such an impression.

None of that was the interesting part, however. What was interesting was that Arthur couldn’t see any of the horror going on around him, but he could see a glowing gold strand leading off into the distance.

“Daddy!” a little girl’s voice cried, seeming to come from the end of the thread.

“Faroe, I’m coming!” Arthur called back, kicking free of the tendrils and trying to scramble up, only for the cycle to start over again, a desperate father never quite reaching his daughter.

John tried something he had never done before, and, for the first time, pulled only a part of his perception out of the Dream. Also for the first time, he experienced what he was pretty sure humans called 'nausea'. Once his brain adjusted to the split metaphysical vision that would have shattered a mortal mind, he confirmed what he had suspected; the thread within Arthur's dream was actually leading to Faroe. Not that John could see it in the 'real' world, but Arthur's sleeping form had managed to twist around within the tiny cavern so he was on his back, face turned toward where the actual Faroe lay sleeping above him. Even as the Arthur in the dream reached hopelessly towards his daughter, his physical hand twitched, fighting the weight of sleep just to stretch out to her.

Irritatingly, John felt his grudging respect for the man grow greater.

Then Faroe screamed, and John jerked the rest of the way into reality, six hearts pounding. It was just a dream. (He repeated this to himself many more times as he resisted the urge to snatch the real Faroe up into his arms, hide her within his cloak from anything that would prompt her to make such a noise.)

John decided to allow Arthur a bit more time to rest, and if he also took the time to stare at Faroe some more, to reassure himself with every snore, that was no one’s business but his own.

When he estimated that Faroe would probably wake up within the next hour or two, he quietly slipped through the earth down to Arthur, widening the cavern to make more room for himself. Arthur’s face was decidedly less peaceful than his daughter’s. John observed him for a moment, then reached out a hand. With a clench of his fist in the air, John crushed the nightmare between his fingers, and Arthur startled awake.

To his credit, the human’s first instinct was to hold still and listen rather than draw attention to himself with panic. John held still and stopped breathing (an already unnecessary indulgence), watching with interest. 

When Arthur could not discern any immediate threats, he cautiously started feeling the ground around him. Fingers skimmed over smooth stone, which began to arch up in walls around him when his arms were just short of fully extended. His brows furrowed, and he sat up, only to crash his head against the low ceiling before he was fully upright. John could see the moment of realization, and the human’s breaths started coming in short pants as his fingers started frantically feeling out his tomb.

“What? Where- where am I?”

“Don’t you remember?” John purred, and the human gasped, pressing himself back as if he could meld himself into the stone wall, neck craned awkwardly to accommodate the space.

“You,” Arthur snarled in fairly impressive fury, despite how he trembled. “Where is Faroe? If you’ve done anything to her, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” John asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“I’ll kill you,” Arthur said with cold hatred. John laughed, the deep sound filling the small space, and Arthur shook even harder.

“Now that would be impressive. It’s not easy to kill a god.”

“I’ve done a lot of things that aren’t easy.”

“I can see that,” John said, which seemed to draw Arthur up short. “Rest assured, Faroe is fine; she's still sleeping.” Arthur was quiet for a moment, then changed tacts.

“I’m here to take her home; you have no right to her.” 

“How so? Was she not freely given in exchange for a boon?”

“This whole- arrangement is a sham.” Interesting approach. “A sacrifice means giving up something important, something you value. Faroe was not a part of that village- those people were not her friends, her family, her neighbors. It wasn’t a sacrifice to offer her up; they did not care for her and had no claim to her.”

“They had the claim that you gave them, Arthur Lester,” John growled, allowing his anger to color his words.

“What-”

“Regardless, you are correct; Faroe is not mine,” John cut him off, returning to his dispassionate tone. John watched hope rise in Arthur’s expression for all of a second before he continued, “I am merely meant to safeguard her until Kayne’s return.”

Just the mention of the name seemed to suck all sound and warmth from the small space, and all of the color drained from Arthur’s weathered face. John wondered for a moment if he would actually pass out.

“Kayne,” Arthur breathed. “You mean-”

“The Bloody Trickster, the Laughing Blade, the Singer Bathed in Scarlet,” John listed blandly. “The First Murderer. Yes, that one.”

“But- but I saw her, she’s- I know she’s alive-”

“She is unharmed. I understand that is hard to believe anytime Kayne is involved, but it seems that village had already sated his bloodlust even before they offered up Faroe. He left her in my care until he regains his appetite.” Arthur visibly turned that information over in his head. After his breathing had returned to something close to normal, Arthur carefully pushed himself up, mindful of the ceiling this time.

"So, it is Kayne I must treat with instead," Arthur said slowly. "Do you-"

"Let me stop you right there," John interrupted. "I appreciate the attempt, but no, you are not going to win Faroe back by challenging her validity as a sacrifice. You have no case."

"Those villagers-"

"Were entrusted with Faroe’s life.” John finished.

“That doesn’t give them the right-”

“It does, actually. If she was an adult I could see your point–though you still wouldn’t have a chance in hell enforcing it–but children are considered universally precious. By sacrificing Faroe those villagers sacrificed their integrity as people who could be entrusted with children. They–well, perhaps some of them–sacrificed being able to sleep at night because they doomed an innocent little girl to death. You humans are expected to love the children of your communities, regardless of the blood they bear, and so those villagers gave enough.”

“You have to know that that’s not true in practice,” Arthur argued. “There would never be an orphan starving in the streets if that was a law on which the world turned.”

“Were you under the impression that rules were supposed to be fair, Arthur Lester?”

“I was under the impression- oh, goddammit,” Arthur snapped, clutching his head as, in his agitation, he banged it on the ceiling once again. “Look, can we please take this conversation somewhere I can stand up? However this ends, whether with you throwing me out or ripping me to shreds, I would rather do it on my feet.” And then Arthur held out a hand towards John, as if asking him to take it and lead him.

“Oh,” John floundered for a moment, unprepared for someone to actually ask for his assistance, particularly in a way that required touch. “Er, very well.” After a moment of consideration, John raised the ceiling of their little cavern with a wave, then moved closer and took Arthur’s hand in his. The human flinched when John pulled him straight to his feet, clearly expecting to bash into the rocks. Arthur didn’t let go once he was on his feet, so John didn’t either, wondering if the human needed help to keep his balance.

“Thank you.” Arthur said, emphatically. John had a moment to wonder at this strange politeness before Arthur tightened his grip and yanked. 

John did not budge, but that was not the intent.

A knife that had not been there before gleamed in Arthur’s left hand, and Arthur pulled himself forward to plunge it deep in John’s chest.

If John had been human, it would have pierced straight into his heart. As it was, it barely missed one of many, and instead punctured one of three lungs.

John howled in shock and pain and scrambled away, his flailing limbs throwing Arthur back against the wall. John barely heard his pained gasp over the pounding in his own ears. He gripped the hilt of the blade still buried in his chest and drew it out with a spurt of oily blood. Blood that ran cold as he got his first good look at the weapon.

It was very difficult to kill a god. Besides the obvious hurdles–supernatural strength and speed, supernatural endurance, (sometimes) supernatural wisdom–most weapons simply weren’t capable of leaving lasting damage. To leave a wound that wouldn’t just immediately heal, a weapon needed to be forged of the right materials, enchanted with the correct magics.

Arthur would not kill John because he didn’t know how, because he was at a physical disadvantage in a fight, and because he couldn’t even see to guess at where an application of force would be most useful. But with this blade, he could. It was within the realm of possibility instead of just a distant dream.

Arthur inhaled loudly, and John looked up. The blow seemed to have knocked the wind out of him, and he had only just gotten it back. He clung to the wall, trying to stay on his feet, head tilted in what was probably an attempt to hear John’s death rattle.

“You…”

“Shit,” Arthur breathed, and started scrambling for an exit he would never find.

“You!”

“Faroe, run!” Arthur shouted fruitlessly at the ceiling as John roared and launched himself at the human, taking Arthur to the floor and quickly immobilizing every limb with dozens of tendrils.

“You stupid worm!” John snarled, and Arthur screamed as the god fully pressed into his space. Blood poured down John’s chest and sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. “You dare attack a god in his own domain!”

“Fuck you!” Arthur shouted, terror in his voice.

“Fuck me? Fuck you, Arthur Lester,” John growled, all the anger and contempt that he had started to put aside surging forward in the face of such an insult, in the face of such stupidity . He put his mouth right to Arthur’s ear and hissed, “You never should have left her, you disgrace of a human. She loved you, she trusted you, and you abandoned her in that town of jackals. If you had just taken her with you, or, better yet, if you’d focused more on being a father instead of on your fucking music, she never would have been there, and that village could have sacrificed one of its own shitty kids. This is YOUR FAULT , Arthur.”

“Y-you’re right,” the man croaked out, and John immediately stopped squeezing quite so tightly, pulling back just slightly to look at Arthur’s face. He was crying. Arthur gasped in a breath, and then continued. “I shouldn’t have left her alone so much, I- I should have been there for her. But- I’m here now. I’m- I’m here for her now.” 

The voice was almost pleading, for what, John wasn’t sure. To be believed? John stared down at the trembling human. At the unkempt matt of hair and scruff that was just short of a beard, so different from the clean shaven face in Faroe’s dreams. At the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion in every line of his body. At the way–even now, in the face of his own death–his eyes stayed trained on where John knew Faroe slept.

 John let out a sigh that was at least half a growl, then slowly started unwinding his tendrils. Arthur looked surprised, then bewildered as the painfully tight grip retreated.

“I don’t think anyone could deny that,” John admitted. “Not after what you did to get here.” Arthur let out a shuddering breath at that, some of the tension leaving him. He wiped his eyes–accidentally smearing John’s blood around–and cleared his throat once John’s limbs had fully retracted. After he gathered himself, he tried to sit up, a considering look on his face, but John pressed back down with his weight, a warning that he wasn’t done yet.

“Arthur,” John said, voice dangerously light. “I will let this go, just this once, because I know you are acting out of fear for your child. But try and harm me again, and I will crush your hands one tiny bone at a time.”

“Right, of course,” Arthur said, sounding more like he was placating John as his mind visibly turned.

“Do you think I’m bluffing, human?” Arthur seemed to come to some kind of conclusion and pinned John with a hard stare, only just short of proper eye contact.

“Forget breaking my bones; why am I still alive?” Arthur asked bluntly, voice strong besides some leftover snottiness from the cry. He was gratingly calm after the panic of mere seconds ago; what had happened to all the whimpering and shaking? 

“Mercy is a virtue,” John started, trying for an airy, unconcerned tone, “and besides, you are hardly worth-”

“Bullshit,” Arthur interrupted, as if he wasn’t currently pinned beneath the body of a god. “I have more than earned your ire, so either you want something from me… or, for some reason, your threats are toothless and you can’t harm me.”

John growled, and Arthur’s answering, baselessly triumphant smirk was infuriating.

“The only reason that you live, Arthur Lester,” John hissed, “is because I have a use for you.” John felt gratification as some wariness returned to Arthur’s face.

“What do you want?” John finally slid back off of Arthur and sat up, choosing his words carefully.

“Keeping a human alive and healthy is a more involved process than I care to indulge in. I had help for a time, but she is no longer available. What I want for you, Arthur Lester, is to fill that vacated role. You will ensure that Faroe’s physical needs are being met so I may return to my work without fear that my charge will randomly expire as you humans are so wont to do.”

Arthur slowly sat up and stared at John (or, rather, slightly to the left of John). John put on his best “I am unfathomably ancient and you could never hope to understand my machinations” face, then realized there wasn’t much of a point, but kept it up anyway in case it made his lying voice better.

“Are you trying to hire me,” Arthur started slowly, “as a babysitter for my own daughter? Specifically so that she is in good condition when the god who is going to murder her returns to claim her?” John could understand Arthur’s consternation, but there was one point he was hung up on.

“... Babysitter?”

“What?”

“Why would I want you to sit on her?”

“That’s not-”

“Is this like with birds and eggs?” John asked, concerned. Faroe never said anything about being cold, but she did have a particular fondness for blankets. Oh, Host, should he have been sitting on Faroe this whole time? No, surely not, Dancer would have said something.

“It’s just an expression!” Thank fuck. “And no, I am not helping you-” Arthur cut himself off, seeming to realize what he was saying.

“You’re not helping me?” John asked, prompting. “So I’ll need to find someone else to fill the position?”

“No, that’s- that’s not what I meant. I just- w-what exactly are your expectations?” Arthur asked, clearly stalling to try and recover from the easy-in he had almost fumbled.

“As I said, Arthur,” John said condescendingly. “You make sure Faroe is receiving whatever is needed to keep a human from an untimely demise. In exchange, you get to see your daughter, and I don’t crush the life out of you. It’s not that complicated.”

“I… okay?” Arthur said, squinting in John’s direction as if trying to find the trap. “I mean, I accept your terms.”

“How gracious of you,” John said sardonically. John backed up a little farther and Arthur stood back up, steadying himself against the wall before turning to face John warily.

"So… What now? Will you take me to see her?" Arthur asked, a note of distrust in his voice, ready for John to drop this charade at any moment.

"Not yet, you need to change first," John said, and he reached a hand into the wall and withdrew the items he had collected from the Dream. "Remove your clothes."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, was that too complicated for you? You are covered in blood and filth.” Only most of it is mine , John thought mulishly, noticing at least two more colors dried to his skin. How many times had Arthur used that knife? Where had he even gotten it? “I assume this isn't how you would prefer Faroe to see you, and I have graciously provided an alternative."

"... Alright, where can I change?"

"Right there is fine." The human tensed.

"Do gods not have a concept of privacy?" Arthur asked bitingly.

"We do, but it doesn't apply to guests who just stabbed their host," John bit back.

"I was under the impression I was more a prisoner than a guest."

"Those get even less privacy."

"Fine," Arthur snapped and began unbuttoning his shirt. While he undressed, John widened the cavern even further until it opened into the pocket under the cistern (a new edition that John had molded from the stone himself when it truly set in that Faroe would never not need water). He carved out a pool, then allowed a hole to open in the roof that water might fall and fill it. Arthur jumped at the sudden splashing sound.

“What was that?” Arthur asked, looking spooked and like he very much wished he hadn’t just taken his pants off, which he clutched in front of himself.

“There is not much point in a change of clothes if you still have blood in your beard. I’ve drawn you a bath. Now, put those down and hold out your hands.” Arthur hesitated but did so, and John put a bucket of colorful bottles in his outstretched hands.

During his earlier search, John had been lucky enough to find a dream that featured a bubble bath. The edge had been lined with candles and flowers and sweet smelling soaps and oils, and the bath itself was unrealistically large enough to accomodate the two men having sex inside of it. They had been distracted enough with each other that the dreamer hadn’t even noticed John making off with the decorative bucket of toiletries. (And a few scented candles. He’d have to put them up out of Faroe’s reach, but they would look nice above the entryway.)

“Alright, in you go.”

“What is- ah!” Arthur yelped as John sent two tendrils to grab Arthur under the arms, lifting him into the air before dropping him unceremoniously into the pool. The man went under for just a moment before his feet found the ground and he resurfaced.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, and John had a split second to worry he had somehow injured the man before Arthur abandoned the bucket and started frantically scooping water up to his mouth.

It was then that John remembered that fluids were a higher priority than cleanliness for human health; Arthur had rattled him so badly that John had gotten the order wrong. He glanced over at the full teapot he’d found in the dream of a grieving granddaughter and spitefully banished it.  Well, Arthur shouldn’t have stabbed him and gotten covered in blood if he didn’t want his first drink here to be bath water.

“Fuck, that’s cold,” Arthur complained after he was done making obnoxious slurping noises, then dunked himself fully.

Despite the rough start Arthur seemed fairly enthusiastic about this step of the process, becoming noticeably lighter as layers of grime were wiped away. John wondered what obscure minutia of humanity meant that Faroe was never nearly as eager to get clean.

John took the opportunity to see to his own hygiene, banishing his bloody robes so he could get a better look at the damage. 

He’d stopped using the punctured lung so ichor wasn’t dripping from his mouth anymore, but the wound in his chest was still oozing and probably wouldn’t stop until he sewed himself closed. What a nuisance. 

He reformed his robes with a thought, this time sans blood. He’d just have to cover it up until the next time the humans slept and take care of it then.

He looked over the knife again. Priceless to most people, fairly simple as far as god-killing weapons went. Its one claim to fame was a low-level concealment rune, an enchantment that would allow the user to keep it hidden until it was ready for use. Something John–with all his eyes–was strong enough to see through if only he’d been looking. (For the first time, John was grateful Dancer wasn’t here; she’d never let him hear the end of it.) Irritated, he shoved it deep into the stone; he would figure out what to do with it later.

“Did I get it all?” Arthur called, and John glanced over. He’d evidently managed to retrieve some of the soap, and the water around him was clouded with dirt and blood and little clumps of bubbles.

“No, there’s still some in your hair.”

“Damn.” He dove back under. A moment later, he came back up with a pinkish bottle that, after a sniff, he dumped out onto his head.

John looked over the man critically as he worked the suds into his hair. Without his clothes in the way, John could see more of the wounds he had sustained along his journey. Plenty of bruises and scrapes (some John had probably given him just moments ago), a few more serious wounds that seemed to be healing alright, and a rather fresh looking gash dangerously close to his neck. His skin was stretched tightly over his ribs, yet his body seemed coiled, ready to fight despite how tired he must be. Seeming to sense he was being watched, Arthur’s head turned vaguely in John’s direction, his eyes closed to keep out the soap.

“So, if this is the Cave of Dreams, I assume you are a god of dreams?” Arthur asked conversationally, seemingly over his earlier embarrassment.

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Hmph. I had assumed you were just a lackey if you’d been left as a guard dog by Kayne.” Before John could bite his head off, Arthur continued. “In that case, which god are you?” John gave him a rather pointless stink eye, but ultimately chose to pick his battles.

“I am the god of strange dreams, the unsettling and the wondrous.”

“Oh. I’ve never heard of that one,” he said, but he sounded more curious than dismissive.

“You wouldn’t. I have few interactions with humanity outside of dreams, and most humans disregard those upon waking.” Arthur hummed thoughtfully.

“So, should I call you god of strange dreams?”

“You can call me John.” A tilt of the head.

“John? That is a very grounded name for a god of strangeness. Or is that the point?”

John shrugged, though Arthur couldn’t see it. “I like the way it sounds.”

There was more to it than that, of course there was, but only one other person knew what the name meant to him, and John would not be adding to that number with this headache of a man.

Arthur looked like he wanted to ask something else, but instead dunked himself again, coming up shaking wet hair from his face. “What about now?”

“Hm, you’re fine, come on out.” Arthur felt his way to the edge of the pool and climbed shivering out of the water.

“D-do you have a t-towel- or” Arthur cut himself off as John banished the water away, leaving him completely dry. Rather than grateful, the human had the gall to look offended. “Wha-  if you could have done that the whole time why didn’t you just get rid of the blood? Why did you take my clothes?”

“Because that water was taken from a dream, but the blood is from this reality,” John said with waning patience. “Anything that- oh, for fuck’s sake,” John snapped as he noticed some blood still dried in his ear. He sent a tendril and grabbed one of the frilly cloths that had padded the toiletry bucket out of the water. Arthur was in the middle of asking what was wrong, but he yelped as the cold, wet cloth touched his ear.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded, rearing back.

"Cleaning you up?" John answered; he’d thought it was obvious. "You missed some of the blood, you'll frighten Faroe."

"I- fine, but I can do it myself," Arthur said, looking at him strangely.

“It’ll be faster if I do it,” John said, impatient. He lifted the cloth again, but Arthur swatted the tendril away as soon as the cold grazed his neck.  When it became clear that Arthur was going to be difficult about this, John didn’t hesitate to immobilize him once again.

“Just hold still,” John growled, catching Arthur’s chin in one hand while the rest of him thrashed against tendrils, his eyes wide and his breath coming in panicked bursts. “Calm down, I’m not hurting you.” John wasn’t sure what had gotten the human so worked up this time, but he was done indulging him. The human squirmed for a moment more before seeming to realize the futility, going as close to still as he could while still trembling. 

Arthur managed almost a full ten seconds of calm before his eyes flickered over, expression suddenly intense.

“Have you done this to her?”

“What?” John asked, refocusing after finally getting the last bit of oily blood, careful not to apply too much pressure in case his skull collapsed and brain matter started oozing out of his ears or some other human nonsense.

“Have you done this to Faroe?” Arthur asked, looking like he was about to start biting depending on the answer.

"No? I haven't had to, she doesn't spend her time stabbing me and getting covered in blood," John grumbled, shying away from the memory of cleaning her torn feet. "You're done by the way," John said, releasing Arthur before he could say anything else that would make him feel bad. Arthur almost fell over at the sudden loss of support, but caught a hand on the wall. John grabbed the bundle of clothes off the ground and shoved them into his arms.

"What's this?"

"Clothes."

"I know that, I meant- nevermind." Arthur ran his hands over the fabric, feeling out the specifics of what John had given him.

John was rather proud of this find, to be fair. Taken from the dream of a seamstress aspiring to wear the finery she created for her royal employers, Arthur held a beautiful silken robe with matching sleepwear and slippers. The soft silk was currently a deep emerald green that shone like the actual gem, but the colors changed intermittently as the dreaming human hadn't been able to decide on which she liked best.

John watched as Arthur's face lost its combative edge and was filled with wonder at the feel of the otherworldly fabric in his hands, and John’s irritation was slightly mollified.

Since Arthur clearly didn't want his help, John didn't tell him which garments were on backwards until after he was done dressing. After some grumbling and readjustment, Arthur turned to face John. Finally clean and dry, John realized Arthur’s brown hair was curlier than Faroe’s, his face more angular. But she had inherited his nose, his heavy dark eyebrows, and a mouth that looked like it was made for smiling, though the one on Arthur was currently downturned.

"Alright, I've done what you asked. I'm clean and dressed, can I see Faroe, now?" Arthur asked impatiently.

"Very well," John acquiesced, and opened up the ceiling with a wave of the hand.

"Which way is- ah!" Arthur yelped as John picked Arthur up once again, a portion of his tendrils holding the man up while the rest pulled John and his passenger back to the surface. The hole closed behind them, and John deposited Arthur on the floor, dropping him on his ass about a foot off the ground. Once he was done growling about the mistreatment, he felt his surroundings, clearly confused.

"Wait, I thought we were..."

"Do not forget you are in the presence of a god, Arthur Lester. This place is my home, and it bends to my every whim." Arthur paled as he, presumably, realized that he would have entombed himself if his misguided attempt at deicide had worked. John rolled his eyes again (he got the feeling he would be doing that frequently from here on out), and approached the sleeping Faroe. He could hear Arthur getting to his feet as John leaned down and put a hand lightly on her shoulder.

Her dreams weren't exactly nightmares this time, though they were still strange and a little frightening.  She was painting her new room in a new house with her father, and every now and then the paint would stain her hands and she couldn’t get it off no matter how hard she scrubbed. John and Dancer came in and out of the dreamscape, sometimes as friends and sometimes as something to fear. John did not feel regret waking her from this one.

"Faroe," John said quietly, shaking her shoulder just slightly. With the other hand he gently waved the dream away, bringing her to consciousness faster. It still took a moment for her to wake, and behind him Arthur's breath caught in his chest as he came cautiously closer.

"John?" she grumbled, squinting at him even as her body tried to burrow deeper into the blankets. "What is it?" she asked, clearly grumpy at being woken up.

"Hello, Faroe. I'm sorry to wake you, but there's someone here I think you'll want to see." That got her attention.

"Is Dancer back?" she asked, hope and caution warring on her face.

"Not Dancer," John said, squashing his own feelings on the matter. "Someone else."

"Faroe?" Arthur said, voice breathless, sounding like he still couldn't quite believe she was there even as her voice reached his ears.

Faroe head snapped up, and her eyes locked on a point behind John. She froze for all of a second, and then she was flailing to disentangle herself from the blankets.

"Daddy?!" she shrieked, and John sped the process along by just lifting her out of the nest, caught up in her urgency. As soon as her feet touched the ground she was bolting past him, and he turned just in time for Arthur to let out a loud "oof!" as he was knocked to the ground, a sobbing child firmly attached to his waist.

"Daddy!"

"Faroe," he wheezed, still managing to get the word out even though the wind had clearly been knocked from his lungs, and he squeezed her back just as fiercely. Faroe seemed to be saying something, but the words were so muffled by cloth and tears that John couldn't make them out.

"You're real, right? This isn't another dream?" she whined into his chest when John could finally understand her again.

"I'm here, sweetheart, I'm real," Arthur reassured, sitting up with her in his lap, hugging her close to his chest and pressing hard kisses to the top of her head. "I'm here, it's okay, it's okay."

"I thought I'd never see you again," she blubbered. "You were away, and the people took me, and there was a really scary man, and- and-"

"I know, I know, my darling, I'm so sorry. I promise, I promise I will never leave you again." Faroe sniffled and pulled back, and for the first time she got a good look at his face. She gasped.

“Daddy, what happened to your eyes?” Faroe cried, small hands on her father’s gaunt face. Arthur gave a wet laugh and reached up to cover them with his own. His golden, pupiless eyes shone with unshed tears as he smiled at her.

“It’s okay, my darling, it doesn’t hurt. Don’t worry about Dad, I’m alright.”

“Can you see?” Faroe asked, not convinced. Arthur reached out and cupped her face with one hand.

“I see you, Faroe,” Arthur whispered, voice raw. “That’s all I need. It’s more than enough.”

***

I found you… I found you… I found you…

I will bring you home.

***

John, strangely overwhelmed at the sight of the two humans clinging to each other on his floor and feeling more a voyeur now than in all his ages of observing human sleep, decided to give them some space and dive into the Dream. Faroe would be hungry soon, and Arthur probably wouldn’t say no to food.

When the two finally disentangled themselves long enough to stand up, John was waiting (and trying not to puff up too proudly) with a long wooden table laden with a feast fit for a king. 

By serendipity or providence for this occasion (momentous for Faroe and thus for the god as well), John had found the dream of an old warrior remembering bygone days of adventure and camaraderie. The dream had been a blend of several victory feasts she had partaken in throughout her storied career, a joining of friends from many stages of her life, some of whom had died long before they could have ever met each other. John had watched for a moment, reluctant to interrupt a remembering so bittersweet, when the warrior caught sight of a lost love at the other end of the great hall, slipping out of the large oak doors and into the night. She had leapt from her chair to follow with the speed of her youth, and John took the opportunity to snatch the table before the great hall dissolved in her wake.

John watched in satisfaction as Faroe’s face lit up at the sight. Arthur, who could not see the spread, sniffed the air, eyes widening.

“What- what is that smell?”

“Breakfast!” Faroe announced, her bright smile contrasted against the tears and snot drying on her face. She grabbed her father’s hands and started tugging him forward, leading him to the throne-like wooden chair at the head of the table. “John found a big one this time. I see soup, meat, apples, a whole pig with an apple in its mouth, bread and cheese, fish,” she listed. Her eyes moved further down and she gasped in delight. “Dad, there’s pudding!”

“Real food first,” Arthur said by rote, his expression betraying his own excitement as he felt for the chair and sat down.

“Fiiinne,” she answered with an eye-roll, and John was left wondering what constituted ‘real food.’ In a moment Faroe had piled a plate high for her father, and she had barely set it down before he was practically inhaling it.

“Oh, my god,” Arthur said around a full mouth of food, practically moaning. (John had perhaps underestimated how long it had been since he had eaten.)

“Daddy, you have to chew your food or you’ll choke,” Faroe scolded, sounding like she was quoting somebody.

“Of course, darling,” Arthur said, a seemingly automatic response, though he at least slowed down with the shoveling.

“And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Mm-hm,” he answered with a pointedly closed mouth, cheeks puffed out and eyes crinkling with a smile.

Satisfied, Faroe went to explore the rest of the table and see what strange delights the warrior’s dream had to offer. John watched her go, a warm feeling in his chest, until Arthur made a noise low in his throat. When John looked, Arthur wore an expression of consternation as his chewing slowed to a stop.

“Is something wrong?” John asked, wondering if Faroe’s concern of choking had been justified. The human swallowed, cleared his throat.

“No, it’s just… What was it Faroe put on my plate?”

“I believe that is roast venison. Why? Is it not to your taste?”

“No, no, it tastes amazing but… I’m not sure what it is, but it doesn’t taste quite right .”

Later, John would have difficulty recalling exactly what he said in response, but, somehow, the next thing he knew they were yelling across the table.

“If it tastes different every time, how can you know for certain that it’s safe?”

“So, my masterful plan is to poison you, is that it?” John sneered, smarting at the implication.

“I didn’t say that, I just said that it tasted off!”

“This food is spun from the dreams of sleeping humans, a combination of memory and imagination and magic; it’s not going to be a perfect replica!”

“Why don’t you just use real food?” The fucking nerve.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find ‘real food’ that won't kill a human all the way out here?”

“Juice!” Faroe crowed from the other end of the table, ignoring the other two as she hunted through the spread. She grabbed a goblet and took a gulp, only to gag and immediately spit it back out onto the table.

“Faroe?” Arthur and John asked simultaneously, both bolting up in alarm.

“Bad juice,” she wheezed, abandoning the cup to look for something more to her taste.

“What did you- wait,” Arthur reached out to the table, knocking things over before managing to grab a goblet and bring it to his mouth. His expression turned thunderous. “This is wine!”

“Okay?” John said, not sure why that fact justified such volume.

“Faroe is too young for wine!”

“...Arthur, I don’t know what that means.” 

And then John had to learn that there were apparently age-appropriate foods of all things, because some human foods were actually toxic to humans, and the only sensible decision humans had made about that situation was to disallow the younger humans from willfully consuming that toxin until their bodies had at least finished growing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you humans?” John growled, almost desperate for something to make sense after Arthur’s lecture and trying to come to terms with this new danger he apparently needed to be aware of.

“Hey, uh-uh,” Arthur said, pointing at John (rather, slightly to the right of John) with a stern expression. “Language.” 

“What?”

(Up to this point, Faroe had sat herself next to her father, content to simply listen to the conversation while tearing into the pile of meat pies she had collected. However, at the sound of ‘Language,’ her head whipped up, eyes wide. Her fork stayed suspended in the air, forgotten, and she focused in on their words as if this were a negotiation that would decide the fate of kingdoms.)

“I said to watch your language while we’re around Faroe.”

“Arthur, what the fuck are you talking about?”

(Unnoticed, Faroe smiled as if her birthday had come early.)

***

The conversation had not improved once the meal was finished. 

Faroe had taken it upon herself to give Arthur a tour of the cave and an explanation of how she and John spent their time, and Arthur kept finding ways in which Faroe’s care was lacking. Every time Arthur pointed this out, John required a full explanation on what exactly was the problem. It had almost been like talking to a child with the constant ‘why, why, why?’, except that half of Arthur’s answers seemed to piss the god off in some way. Arthur, in turn, found it extremely difficult to stay civil with the god keeping his daughter prisoner questioning his parenting style.

John didn’t have consistent meal times and instead would bring Faroe food whenever she asked or when she had slept for a long time; this was preferable to her going hungry, of course, but he apparently just fed her whatever dream food he could find first, which tended towards sweets and decadence. Admittedly, Arthur had no idea what effect dreams had on the nutritional value of a meal, or if it did anything but make you imagine that you were full, but still.

John also had not enforced any kind of bed time and seemed confused by the concept. Apparently, there was always someone dreaming out in the world, so he had never noticed that there were specific times humans tended to sleep. This one would be less concerning since Faroe hardly had a schedule to keep, except it sounded like Faroe was spending a good deal more time sleeping than was normal for her. She didn’t sound sick, but perhaps there was a visual cue that was lost on him? Or maybe she was just bored.

The last was more surprising than anything given how insistent John had been that Arthur get clean before seeing Faroe, but Faroe definitely wasn’t bathing enough. When Arthur pointed this out, it became apparent that John just thought that humans smelled bad in general (“like any other animal,” he’d said, which Arthur hadn’t appreciated), and he only really noticed when the filth was visually apparent. He had been relying on Faroe to tell him when she needed one. 

(When Arthur heard that, he had turned to Faroe with ‘The Dad Look.’ She hadn’t said anything, but he had seen the glowing outline of her shifting its weight and heard her unrepentant giggle. Arthur could imagine the puckish look on her face, the way her lips would purse as she tried to hide an incriminating smile, the way she would look anywhere but his eyes, and he mourned that he would never see it again.)

It was hard to believe Faroe’s jailor when he said the only reason he kept Arthur alive was to fill the role of caretaker, but, based on what Arthur had learned today, he wasn’t lying about having gaps in his knowledge about what a child needed. Gaps that Arthur had picked at until they were both gnashing their teeth.

It had gotten to a point that even Faroe had gotten frustrated with them, and she had suggested that maybe they both needed a nap. John had not waited for Arthur to express his thoughts on the matter; he had simply plucked him up in a handful of tendrils and dropped him on the pile of bedding that acted as Faroe’s bed. 

(Arthur didn’t know if that would ever stop being terrifying. He dreaded the moment those tendrils would once again close in on him, crushing the air and life from his lungs, or at least leaving more of the bruises he could feel blooming against his ribs. Even when no such injury was dealt, Arthur would still find himself disoriented, left with no idea where he was with no footsteps to retrace–something that was frightening enough in its own right.) 

Faroe had sternly told John to “be nice,” before joining Arthur on the pile and falling asleep much faster than any other time Arthur had ever put her down for a nap. John had made some kind of grumbling noise in response and then gone… somewhere. Arthur didn’t actually know if he had gone anywhere , not with how silently the god could move, and it made him nervous. Everything about the god of strange dreams made Arthur nervous. And angry. And, most of all, confused.

Some hours later Arthur lay resting on a pile of blankets and pillows, no longer hungry or thirsty or dirty, with his daughter curled into his side. Arthur did his best to keep this in mind as the black cloud of his mood threatened to overtake him.

Arthur knew he was making mountains out of molehills. What did it matter if John cursed in front of Faroe or accidentally gave her wine that she would spit out anyway? Despite John’s lack of knowledge or experience, Faroe was doing far better than Arthur could have ever hoped. She wasn’t hungry or cold or hurting. Nor had she been primped and pruned into a perfect pet for her god to view through a gilded cage. She didn’t even seem sad. 

Stranger still, she had no fear of John. Strangest of all, from what Arthur could tell, the god had not given her any reason to fear.

John seemed to hold no ill will for Faroe. Certainly he took her sass in stride better than some of the babysitters Arthur had hired over the years, and he had no qualms about using his resources to try and make Faroe more comfortable. He might even care for her, if his anger at Arthur was anything to go off of, if Arthur was interpreting it correctly. 

That hardly mattered if he was going to let her die all the same.

“Faroe,” he whispered, rubbing her arm in an attempt to ease her awake. It took longer than usual, but with some more whispers and slightly firmer rubbing that verged on shaking, she was grumbling her way to consciousness.

“Whaaat?” she groaned, hiding her face in his ribs.

“Shhh, Faroe, I needed to ask you something,” Arthur said quietly, wincing slightly at the pressure on his bruises. For a moment she held still, then the outline of her head turned to look up at him. 

“Oh. You’re still here,” she said, and his heart broke at how surprised she sounded.

“I’m here,” he reassured, stroking a hand down her back.

“Good,” she said simply, snuggling back into him. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Well, Faroe, I can’t see anymore, so I’m going to need you to be my eyes,” Arthur explained gently. “Tell me, is John still in the room right now?”

“Yeah, he-” Faroe was interrupted by a yawn before she continued, lips smacking, “he’s over by the skylight.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, stomach dropping. “Is he… looking at us right now?”

“Mmm, it’s hard to tell, he’s got a lot of eyes.” Arthur added that knowledge to his incredibly vague and confusing mental image of the god. “I don’t think so though, I think he’s dreaming.”

“He’s sleeping?”

“Nooo, it’s not the same thing. It’s like earlier when he found the feast. He’s looking for cool things to put in the cave.”

“But he can’t see us when he’s like this? Can he hear us?” His daughter didn’t answer immediately, and her little body tensed. “Faroe?”

“No, I don’t think he really notices things when he’s dreaming,” she said, finally.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur said, taking a steadying breath. “Faroe, how long does John usually stay like that?”

“... Sometimes for a really long time.”

Arthur Lester had his bag and his walking stick (a welcome surprise, Arthur had been convinced it would be kept from him out of spite), a table full of food and drink and kitchen knives, his daughter, and a god that was otherwise occupied. He was down a dagger and his good walking shoes. Still, it was more than he had started with, and he hadn’t made it this far by waiting for things to become ideal.

“Alright, Faroe, listen very carefully…”

***

“Of all the stupid, reckless…”

John should have just killed Arthur Lester when he had the chance. Hiding the body would have been child’s play, and Faroe would never have known how close she came to seeing him again, could have continued to live in a world where her father had no place. Instead, John was spending every ounce of willpower resisting the urge to strangle the human in front of his daughter.

“Mmm!” 

The man in question clearly wanted to object to his current treatment, but found it difficult with John’s limbs wrapped over his face, holding his jaw closed. He dangled from a cloud of tendrils as John ferried him back into the cave, flailing in a futile attempt to escape. John could have wrapped him up completely, held him so securely that he couldn’t move an inch, but instead carried him only by his wrists and ankles, his elbows and knees. Just enough freedom to give the human hope of escape and allow him the range of movement to tire himself out, maybe even wrench something if he got too excited. (If John couldn’t kill him, he could at least let out his frustration in other ways.)

“Let me go!”

He was gentler with Faroe, of course, though she wasn’t making it easy for herself. Perhaps it was the feedback of her father’s distress, but she wouldn’t stop squirming, and she kept making these angry, high-pitched noises as she struggled to break free. John cradled her tiny body in one arm, holding her firmly against him to try and minimize movement. His other hand was wrapped around her wrists, holding them together so she wouldn’t go back to trying to pry her way out of his grip.

“Incompetent, lazy …”

“Put me down! John, I said–eep!” John, who had made it back to Faroe’s nest, petulantly met her demands and dropped her, and she landed with a squeak on her pillows. 

“Mmm! Hrm!”

Child delivered, John wheeled back around to face Arthur. Now he held the human properly, pinning his arms to his sides, binding his legs together, and almost mummifying him in restraints. John then yanked him upright so they were face to face, looking into Arthur’s unseeing, terrified eyes.

“ Pointless displays of hubris I have ever seen, this one takes the prize,” John snarled. Arthur made more muffled objections, so John released his mouth to see what the idiot had to say for himself.

“W-well, what do you fucking expect?” Arthur snapped back, wincing as he worked his jaw.

“Language, Arthur,” John mocked. “We can leave Faroe with strangers and take her out into the godlands with no plan, but Host forbid her mind be sullied with foul words.”

“Fuck you. You might be content to sit and play house with my daughter, but I am not waiting around for Kayne to show up and finish what he started.” John could feel himself tensing, and it took every drop of his self-control to keep it out of his limbs lest he unintentionally crush the foolish human in his grip.

“Tell me, Arthur, do you even know the way back without Faroe’s light to guide you?” For the first time, Arthur looked uncertain, and hot anger flashed through John. John leaned in inches from Arthur’s face and hissed, “You are going to get her killed.”

“Me?” The uncertainty in Arthur’s face gave way to rage. “I’m going to get her killed? You are the monster who is going to hold her down and watch,” Arthur spat. 

John’s vision went red.

“How DARE Y– OW!” 

“Put him down!” Faroe commanded, little voice going painfully high in pitch. John turned and saw her foot was firmly planted on one of his tendrils.

“Faroe, what the fuck?!” John sputtered, more startled than anything. 

“I said, put him down,” Faroe reiterated imperiously. She lifted her foot again.

That hurt, John thought, and felt ridiculous as soon as he had processed it. What other outcome could he have possibly expected? Arthur was Faroe’s father, the man who wrote her songs and blinded himself and faced the most dangerous place in all the worlds to find her. John was just her guard–a poor one at that. And yet, absurdly, it hurt him that she would attack John in Arthur’s defense.

“Wait, Faroe, don’t.” Arthur sounded panicked, and it only served to grate on John’s nerves even more.

“Faroe, stop that,” John said, gritting his teeth to keep from shouting. She brought her foot down, but John was watching this time, and he caught it easily. She yelped as she started to unbalance, and John sent more tendrils to catch her. John guided her gently to the floor, but kept a grip on her ankles and wrists, unwilling to endure anymore of her assault.

Faroe looked at her hands held out in front of her. She looked at John, who was grateful for the hood hiding his expression. He watched as her face screwed up in distress and frustration, tears starting to form in her eyes. She opened her mouth.

Jesus Christ. And John had thought her voice had gotten high before.

“No! Don’t hurt her!” Arthur begged, genuine terror in his voice, as if Faroe was actually in any danger. Faroe, meanwhile, was shrieking as loudly and as shrilly as her little lungs would allow her, successfully conveying without words exactly how displeased she was with this situation. It was too much.

“Everyone, shut up!” John roared, slamming his hands over his ear holes. Simultaneously, he opened stone tunnels beneath both Lesters. Ignoring their startled cries, he let them fall, trusting that the slides would take them safely to a newly hollowed pocket, this one comfortably big enough for two. The tunnels closed behind them, and the room was left starkly quiet.

John took deep, unnecessary breaths, feeling the soreness in his newly sewn lung. He just… He needed a moment. Just a moment to calm down, before he said or did something he would regret.

A moment passed. Another breath.

And then the silence was shattered by a blood-freezing sound, and John was clawing his way through the earth to reach his human. 

Because Faroe was wailing and this time it wasn’t a dream.

His body moves without his input, instinct demanding it, an animal part of his brain that should not exist, he is a god–

And yet.

Arthur is already holding her, looking frightened and confused, and John just barely stops himself from ripping her out of his grasp. Such aggression would likely hurt her, so instead John just grabs them both, ignoring Arthur's shout as he wraps them up and lifts them out of the hole and into his arms.

"Faroe, what happened?" John demanded, pulling them both close and frantically looking her over.

"Don't touch her! I- darling, what's wrong?"

"Are you injured?" John asked, wondering if she had somehow landed wrong, or maybe crashed into Arthur when they met at the bottom. "Faroe, tell me."

“I’m sorry,” she whined into her father’s shoulder, hands fisted into his clothes.

“What? Faroe, why are you sorry?” Arthur asked, concerned. Rather than answer, she squirmed in his arms so she could look at John. She looked devastated. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a hiccup, then a keening noise that turned into a sob.

“Faroe…” John had never been so uncertain in his life. He pulled the both of them just a little closer, and with that she turned, latched onto him, and cried.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, clutching at his robes and burying her face into his chest. “I promise I won’t do it again, I promise, please, please don’t forget about me again.”

“What? Faroe, what are you talking about?” Arthur asked, voice sounding far away as John realized what this was about.

“I’ll be good, I promise, I promise, don’t forget me again, I’m sorry,” Faroe pleaded, voice almost a whisper.

For the second time in John's very long life, he understood what it meant to feel nausea. 

It takes a long time to calm Faroe down, with many apologies and reassurances in between:

No, John wasn’t going to leave her down there because she was bad, he just got overwhelmed and needed quiet. 

No, next time John needed quiet he would just go outside, it’s a promise.

No, John didn’t put her away the first time because she had screamed at him or been bad, it was just… it was a mistake.

Yes, John was sorry. So, so sorry.

No, John will never, ever do it again.

"You piece of shit," Arthur said after Faroe had cried herself to sleep. The floor had been restored, and now they all rested upon the stone, too wrung out to move somewhere more comfortable. Arthur sat upright against a stalagmite, Faroe laying beside him with her head pillowed in his lap, while John sprawled across from them. Arthur spoke quietly so as not to wake the girl, but the volume did nothing to dilute the venom.

"I didn't know," John said tightly, wanting to rip Arthur’s head off for poking at such a tender wound but unwilling to hurt Faroe any further today.

“You didn’t know that it was a mistake to leave a child alone in a cage–with no food or water–for days on end?” Arthur’s voice was so full of derision and scorn that he could have given the royal jester of Carcosa a run for their money.

“I didn’t know that I would ever care one way or another,” John replied nastily, not having the patience or self-regard for anything more. Arthur scoffed.

“You really are a monster.” 

“Since we’re on the topic of mistakes, how about we examine some of yours,” John growled back. "That 'escape attempt' was fucking pathetic–you didn’t even make it out of view of the mountain. I don't know how the fuck you made it this far if that was your idea of a plan, but it’s not going to cut it if the goal is to keep Faroe alive long enough to see her next dream. You need to do better."

" I need to do better?" It was almost funny how much incredulity and offense Arthur could pack into one sentence. “I have given up everything to find her, and I would do it again. All you’ve given her is a– is an extra helping of nightmares and claustrophobia!”

“It doesn’t matter what I did, Arthur!” John snapped, and they both froze as Faroe started to stir. When she turned over and nuzzled into her father’s stomach, John continued, lowly, “It doesn’t matter. You’re right, I’m the monster keeping your daughter captive, so stop getting offended when I tell you that something won’t work.”

“And if it wasn’t for the fact that you dragged us–literally kicking and screaming–back to this place, why would we have failed?” Arthur asked in an irritated whisper.

“The reasons are honestly too many to count, but let's start with the fact that you don’t know where you’re going.”

“That’s–look, I have a good sense of direction. I came in more or less a straight line through some very distinctive terrain. As long as I can find the same spot where I first found the mountain, I can get us started, and Faroe can tell me when we’ve reached a landmark.”

John couldn’t help it; he laughed that same, deep laugh that had haunted Arthur’s nightmares and shook his head.

“Oh, I always forget that humans expect to find the world where they left it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur muttered. He sounded annoyed, but John noticed the way he dug his fingers into his legs to keep them from shaking. He asked, “Are you just going to be cryptic at me, or are you actually going to say something useful?”

“Arthur, I don’t want to take away from your achievement. Reaching this place was a truly impressive feat. I’m telling you, leaving will be harder. Your tether to Faroe led you here, kept you on the path when you might have otherwise been lured off of it. Unless I am mistaken, you have no such trail to follow home. Faroe is smart, but she’s not a navigator, and this land has a way of confusing even the most sure-footed of travelers. You will need a method that isn’t just ‘walk until you stumble into the exit’ if you want to make it out of here.”

Arthur didn’t say anything at first, and John was relieved that it seemed like he was actually considering what he had said. His hand pet Faroe’s hair absently.

“... Then we find a navigator,” Arthur said, finally. “Not every creature in this land is a monster; some of them are helpful, or at least self-serving. I’m sure I could find something to trade for passage and guidance.”

“Next reason you plan doesn’t work,” John continued without mercy. “You can’t trust anyone.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Arthur groaned, as if he had any right to be the exasperated one. “And why is that? Why am I any more likely to be stabbed in the back on the way out than I was on the way here?” 

“Because this time you will have Faroe,” John said gravely. Arthur’s brow furrowed.

“Why would… Well, obviously I am more willing to trust strangers with my own life than Faroe’s, but I could have her hide whenever she sees anyone coming. She stays out of sight while I get a feel for the person, and if they are a helpful sort I call her out.”

If John had a nose, he would be pinching the bridge of it.

“Arthur, I know humans don’t always act like it,” John began slowly, “but children are valuable in a very literal sense. They are also an extremely rare sight in these lands. Anyone who sees her will want to know what she is doing here, who she belongs to, or what they can trade her for.”

“But–” John made no room for an interruption, plowing forward.

“Maybe while you were alone you were strong enough to scare off those who waylaid you, or clever enough to bargain passage, or stealthy enough to sneak past the denizens of this land that would do you harm. But that was when you had nothing that anyone was willing to fight for. If you want to escape this place, you cannot let anyone see Faroe.”

“I…” Arthur looked horribly uncertain, seemingly stumped. Then, all at once, his expression sharpened, and his eyes darted up. “Wait. Wait. No.” He looked back at John (rather, slightly above John) like he was trying to dissect him with only his eyes. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because your plans are terrible,” John said. He thought that was well established by now.

“Fine, but why do you care? Doesn’t that just make your job easier? Why are you sharing these things like you want me to figure this out?”

“Because I do, you stupid human,” John answered, although there was no heat to the words. He just sounded as exhausted as he felt. Arthur stared.

“You… Why ?” 

If it was anyone else asking, John would have shrugged. But a shrug would be lost on Arthur, and, if anyone would understand, it would be him.

“I want Faroe to be okay.” 

It was said simply, with no pretense, and John looked to the sleeping girl rather than watching Arthur’s reaction. (Maybe he was a little more worried that Arthur wouldn’t understand than he wanted to admit.) Arthur didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“... You prick!”

“Shh!” 

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you just say so? Why- why all the theatrics and the threats?”

“Because I don’t like you,” John snapped. “You stabbed me.”

“Wh- I wouldn’t have stabbed you if I knew you were on our side!” Arthur sputtered.

“And because I was trying to leave myself with a modicum of plausible deniability,” John admitted. “If I just let Faroe go Kayne would definitely kill me. But if some mythic hero came and took Kayne’s prize with genuine cleverness and guile, then maybe I could talk him down to just skinning me alive everyday for a few centuries.”

“Oh, that’s…” Jesus, the human actually looked concerned.

“Anyway,” John continued, “that clearly isn’t going to work if this is the best you can do on your own.” And the human was right back to looking annoyed. Much better.

“Well, if that’s how you feel, why don’t you just tell me how I can free Faroe from this place?” Arthur said, miffed. John didn’t answer. Arthur squinted in his direction. “Well?”

“... I don’t know.”

The great thing about Arthur being blind was that John felt no compunction to look him in the eyes.

“You don’t know.”

“No.”

“Then how the fuck- ”

“Shh!” John hushed when Arthur’s volume started to rise. Arthur glared, but obligingly lowered his voice to a furious stage whisper.

“If you don’t know how the get Faroe out of here, then how the fuck do you know that my plans won’t work?”

“Because they won’t,” John hissed back. “I don’t have to know the right answer to recognize one that is obviously wrong.”

“You–wait. If you want to help Faroe then why can’t you be our guide? Don’t tell me you don’t know how to navigate the godlands either.”

“Of course I do,” John said, hackles rising at the implication.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is not whether I can lead you to a gateway,” John answered with a frustrated sigh. “The problem is that I cannot lead you to a gateway without others noticing.”

“What does that matter? It’s hard to imagine anyone stealing Faroe away with you there.”

“I’m flattered by your confidence,” John said sardonically. “But the problem is that, even if no one was willing to challenge me for Faroe, our passing would still draw attention. People will talk, and we cannot travel faster than the rumor mill. We could make it all the way to the mouth of the nearest gateway, only to find Kayne waiting for us.”

“Ah. That would be a problem. You don’t have–I don’t know–invisibility magic or something?” John laughed again, and he noticed that Arthur didn’t flinch this time, only frowned.

“I’m afraid not. I could possibly acquire means of concealment if I put in the time and resources, but it is difficult to hide the power of a god.”

“What if we find a way to hide her so people only see you?” Arthur suggested. “Or- or use you as a distraction?”

“Good thought, but no.”

“And why is that?” John grimaced, and answered reluctantly.

“I am… something of a recluse. I haven’t left the cave in… a while. Unfortunately, the sight of me outside of my home has almost as much potential to spread as Faroe’s. If Kayne hears I’ve left and there’s no child in sight? He will know something is wrong.”

“Damn,” Arthur muttered.

“Look, Arthur,” John said, rubbing his forehead. “I have been thinking about this for a while, and we are not going to find the solution sitting on the floor. I know you barely rested before attempting that harebrained escape; get some actual sleep.”

“We can’t afford to waste time,” Arthur argued. “We have no way of knowing when Kayne will return.”

“And if we act like that means he can be back any moment and let that fear rush us into a bad decision, then we’ve already lost.” Arthur didn’t respond with words, but John could tell by the grumbling that he had been heard. “Rest, and see if any ideas come to you in the meantime.”

“Fine,” Arthur sighed. He looked down at Faroe for a moment, thoughtful. “Hm. John?”

“Yes, Arthur?”

“If you ever make Faroe cry like that again, I will kill you.”

“Okay.”

John directed Arthur to Faroe’s nest (a name Arthur seemed amused by). He insisted on carrying Faroe rather than waking her; John chose not to inform him that Faroe had long ago awoken and was clearly faking sleep specifically so he would do so. He grunted a bit when he lifted her–it seemed she was a bit heavier than he was expecting, or perhaps he was still weak from his journey–but he managed to get them there without injury. Before long, everything and everyone in the cave was settled, and John was left alone with his thoughts.

A few moments later, Arthur’s head popped back up.

“Can I have the knife back?”

“No.”

Chapter Text

You have never been to this theater, and yet, like a roadside inn, it is the same as every other theater you have ever been to. The house lights are dim, the chairs are covered in luxurious red velvet, and the audience members are packed in as tight as sardines because everyone is here to see you. 

Perhaps this should make you nervous. You have never performed before a crowd before, and this one feels almost impossibly large for an indoor space. It is hard to even see the highest seats from your place on the stage, but you are distracted from trying to count the rows. Your eyes are instead drawn to the front row where the guests of honor await your performance.

John Doe, your captorfriendguardianmonster , sits on the left, a huge and blurry figure who seems to lazily ooze out over multiple chairs while he waits. (You realize that the people behind him will not be able to see past his yellow bulk, but he does not see when you motion for him to crouch down, too busy wrapping himself around the audience’s ankles to notice.) Your father is at the forefront, waving for your attention, his proud eyes alternating between warm brown and stark gold as he gives you a proud smile and a blown kiss. On the right is a woman sitting as still as a statue and straight as a mast. The woman is either Mother or Dancer; it is hard to tell when neither has ever had a face.

You take your seat in front of the piano, polished wood shining welcomingly under the spotlights, and the warm hum of voices falls silent. You crack your fingers for dramatic effect–the sound echoing in the fresh quiet like thunder–then bring your hands to position over the keys. You take a deep breath. Then your fingers are flying across the keys in a blur.

The music that flows from you is something fast and joyful, something that makes you want to run until your legs give out, squeeze someone until their ribs creak, or scream at the sky until it answers. You will not remember the notes later–you never do–but in this moment it is something reminiscent of your father’s latest composition, something you once heard performed by a busker in a crowded town square, and something that you cannot identify, something that originates solely from deep inside your bones and guts.

You are not even halfway through the performance when the hall is filled with raucous applause, and you would be happy except you know without looking that it is just John. He has started clapping too early, and–because each of his tentacles ends in a hand–the sound is loud enough to fill a stadium. If he does not stop soon, no one will be able to hear the music!

You look over to try and communicate this to him, and your heart relaxes. Your father is already wrangling the well-meaning god, climbing on top of him and squishing all of his arms down so he ceases to be a distraction. John looks confused, but your father puts a hand over his mouth before he can ask his question; you laugh when he opens his mouth and licks your father’s hand in retaliation.

You look to the faceless woman to share your amusement, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

Behind her is the man.

He is smiling, and the stark white shine of his teeth pulls him into focus on the backdrop of blurry spectators. Clean bone in a pool of drying blood. He watches you with laughing eyes that have never stopped watching you, the only difference is you can see them now, and you are going to die.

You try to call out a warning, they need to know, he is behind your family and your father is blind , but only the quietest gasp of air passes your lips.

You fumble a note, the tune turns discordant. You look back to the piano keys, certain that something terrible will happen if you do not finish the song.

Something terrible will happen anyway.

You finish the performance, stand to take your bow. The seats are empty now, all except three, and one set of hands applauds enthusiastically. Your father is not sitting in his chair; 

the man is sitting in your father’s chair, and

the man is clapping, and

the man is smiling too big for his face, and

the man’s mouth is red, and

your father is nowhere, and

sourceless tears are running down Dancer/Mother’s not-face, and

John is a puddle soaking into the velvet and the carpet, and

your back is bending against your will, and 

the man is standing up, and-

"Faroe."

Everything stops.

"Faroe, look at me."

Frozen or not, you know if you take your eyes off the man you will die.

“Faroe, it’s okay.”

But the voice is speaking with a gentle but inexorable authority that cannot be ignored. Slowly, agonizingly, you turn your head stage right and–

Faroe blinked as she became suddenly aware of the fact that she was dreaming. It was an odd feeling, mostly because she did not wake up as soon as she realized it. She knew she was dreaming, and, still, the dream continued to persist, a too-big too-bright stage that led to a too-dark too-blurry back stage that led nowhere. Strange how much was missing from a place that had been everything only moments ago.

John–the real John–stood in stark contrast to it all, more defined than Faroe had ever seen him even in the waking world. His yellow robes hung straight and heavy like curtains instead of floating out around him like a moving paint splatter. His shadowy tendrils, rather than reaching and branching in all directions, were all pulled together in a single column below his waist; only the ends poked out from under his skirt, flared out for balance like tree roots. And under his hood, instead of glowing yellow eyes peering out through a shroud of impenetrable darkness, she could see his face.

His skin was gray, like Dancer's, and he had no nose or ears or hair that she could see. His lips were small and thin, his face narrow and severe. His eyes were black and too many to count, dark voids splashed across his head with pupils of yellow light shining from within. Those eyes met hers for just a moment before they all moved to look anywhere (and everywhere) else.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, I just–” He did not make it any farther before she was slamming into him, throwing her arms around his not-legs to bury her face in his robes. He flinched–presumably because she had trod on him again–before slowly relaxing in her grip. "Oh," he said softly, surprised, but he didn't take too long to recover. She felt his large, bony hands settle on her, one petting the top of her head while the other nearly covered her back. "It's okay," he soothed. “It is a dream, and a dream could never hurt you while I am here.”

“You swear?” she asked, voice muffled, and he squeezed her shoulder.

“I swear.” Faroe nodded into him, then hesitantly turned her head so she could peek back at the audience with one eye. Then she pulled back completely so she could stare with both eyes.

“Wha– where did it go?”

“Hm? Oh, I didn’t want to look at it anymore, so I sent it away.”

It was like someone had raked their fingers through the world. The stage continued as normal for a few feet, then broke off in a series of long teeth, their edges smeared like wet paint. Past those edges was only darkness. No, darkness wasn’t even the right word; where the theater house had once been–the seats, the aisles, the lights–there was nothing.

Faroe turned back to stare at John. He looked away again. After a moment, he gestured awkwardly to the piano bench.

“Shall we sit?” he asked, and Faroe nodded automatically. Then, to her astonishment, his tendrils bent beneath his skirts and he–to all appearances–sat down on the bench, leaving room for her to join him. Faroe boggled at the sight. Maybe it was rude, but she had never actually seen him sit before. In the waking world, he either held himself up on his many limbs or sprawled his big body out on the ground like a cat napping in a sun ray.

Actually, he reminded Faroe a bit of a cat right now– not cats in general, but a specific one from three moves ago. It was a big, fluffy thing that didn’t belong to anyone, but everyone who lived in the village knew it, and some people would let it in to sleep and eat if it scratched at their door. One night there was a big rain storm, then some scratching, then the sound of Daddy laughing so hard he was wheezing; when Faroe went to investigate, she found a very indignant kitty dripping all over the welcome mat while Daddy tried to catch his breath. Faroe realized then that what she had thought was a large and fat cat was actually 99% fluff, and all of that soaked fur was hanging down to reveal a lean and shivering body.

That was what John reminded her of as he sat down in front of her, minus the shivering. He was so much smaller here when he didn't spread himself out. Still bigger than any human she'd ever seen; even sitting down he was taller than Daddy was standing on his tiptoes–

Right, John was sitting. Did John have a butt? He didn’t have legs, but did you have to have legs to have a butt? Why did people have butts besides sitting?

“Is something wrong?” Faroe blinked at John’s interruption. He was looking more and more irritable (anxious) the longer she just stood there staring.

“John, do you poop?” Faroe asked. John blinked, which looked really funny on someone with so many eyes.

“... No.”

“Oh.”

“Did you think I was pooping on the bench?”

“No!” Faroe exclaimed, her mouth twisting with delighted disgust. “I was just wondering ,” she emphasized, plopping herself down next to him.

“I see,” John said, sounding bemused. He had at least lost some of the strange tension he had brought with him, which she counted as a win.

“Anyway, what are you doing here?” she asked, kicking her legs. 

“Not pooping, if that’s why you were wondering.” Faroe let out an involuntary, high-pitched giggle, and John smiled. Just a little bit at first, then wider as his amusement made her laugh more until she was fully cracking up. His thin lips stretched farther than she was expecting, then farther still, and, oh, his teeth were very sharp. Faroe never thought she would get to see John’s face when he was happy, and it made her happy, too.

“I was watching your performance,” John admitted once Faroe could breathe again. “I didn’t intend to interfere, but…” his face twisted into something unpleasant, and Faroe shied away from what he did not say.

“Do you always watch my dreams?” Faroe asked instead of thinking of that more. When she learned what kind of god John was, she had wondered if she would see him in her sleep; except for the time he tried to make her a fake Dad, she hadn’t seen him since.

“No. Extended time in my presence tends to have an effect on mortals. If I visited every time you dreamed, your mind would get even stranger than it already is.”

“Hey!”

“Yes?” he asked with very fake innocence. He couldn’t even keep the curly smile out of the corner of his mouth it was so fake.

“ You’re strange,” she retorted, poking him in the arm. And then she tensed because John had gotten very upset last time she touched him, but a stomp was different from a poke, so it was probably fine, and actually she had just hugged him which was bigger than a poke, but what if–

“I know what you are, but what am I?” John asked, poking her in the forehead in return. Faroe’s anxiety was immediately forgotten in the wake of outrage; that was her trump card, and he stole it! He didn’t even make it a last resort, he just used it right away!

“Plagiarism!” Faroe shouted, the worst word she knew based on how her father said it. “This means war!” She roared like a king in a play, punctuating her declaration with a flurry of pokes to his side. Faroe then began to climb the god, intent on reaching his arm pits; they were a universal weakness, and she was relatively sure he had them.

“War, you say?”

In retrospect, picking a tickle fight with someone with that many limbs was maybe not the best strategy. Her military knowledge of what constituted as “ticklish” was not enough of an advantage in the face of sheer, overwhelming numbers.

“Are you dying?” John asked curiously, head tilted as he looked down at where Faroe was sprawled wheezing on the ground. Usually he sounded genuine when he asked her that question, but she guessed he wasn’t worried about it actually happening in a dream. Faroe just stuck out her tongue at him in answer; she may have lost the battle, but, unknown to him, she had made progress in the war. The war of getting John to stop acting dumb.

Hm. Maybe calling him dumb was too mean. It’s not like she couldn’t relate; she always felt bad when her dad got upset with her, too. “I’m not mad, just disappointed,” made her want to crawl in a hole and die, and Dad had said way worse things to John after he dragged them back to the cave. She knew she had to take a little time to be awkward and sullen and sad after a scolding, to walk gingerly around her father until she was sure that they were still friends. 

Though, it wasn’t the same because John wasn’t really worried about Dad. He was mostly worried about her feelings, and she already told him that she wasn’t mad anymore. She even told him about how she had accidentally killed a frog the same way when she was little (she did not know that they needed to stay wet, and Dad didn’t get home from rehearsal until it was too late), so she understood that he didn’t mean it. 

That didn’t really seem to help, which was frustrating because he was taking forever to get over it! And they all lived in one big room, so it was really obvious when he was avoiding her! And she didn’t want to make him feel bad, but she really needed him to be her friend again because she didn’t know how long they had left and–

“Faroe? Are you alright?” 

Ah, beans, John had gone from laughing at her to worrying about her while she was distracted. He was still looming over her, now looking down with concern. It was nice being able to see his face. Without the cover of darkness, she could see that she had his full attention, like what she was going to say was important. She had suspected that his face might be like that under the hood before, but it was nice to know for sure.

“Is Kayne really going to kill you if I leave?”

And, without his mask of shadow, she got to watch his expression go blank like a slammed door. Maybe that was why he always hid his face; she got the feeling he would be a really bad liar.

"Ah. I wasn't sure how much of that conversation you overheard."

"You and Dad are bad at talking quiet."

"Hm." 

Faroe watched John decide whether he was going to lie or not. He didn’t use to do that (she didn’t think), but Dad was trying to teach John not to tell her things that might scare her. She wanted to tell Dad that she hadn’t stopped feeling scared since strangers had woken her up in the middle of the night and thanked her for saving them, so there wasn’t any point in trying now. But she also didn’t want to make him feel bad, so she didn’t.

Faroe watched John decide to tell her the truth, and she told herself that she was glad while she squished down the part of her that wanted the lie.

“I don’t know,” John answered, finally. “Not for sure. It is the most likely outcome, but Kayne has a way of never doing exactly what anyone expects. Besides, gods do not die easily; I might not be worth the time and effort.”

“So, he might leave you alone?”

“No,” John said plainly. “However he decides to deal with me, there will be consequences. It will just be a matter of how much and how long and how permanent.”

And Faroe’s heart ached to hear it, because she knew that her daddy would find a way out of this, and it was not fair that that meant John would suffer.

…

She lied when she told John she wasn’t mad anymore. Not a big lie, because she was only a little bit mad. It was just– she was pretty sure that little bit of mad was never going to go away, and she still wanted to be John’s friend, so it was better to pretend it wasn’t there. Was that weird? Would the frog have been her friend if she took it out of the box sooner?

She was probably weird. 

John was definitely weird. At first he was scary-weird, another monster in a growing line of monsters that wouldn't let her see her father, who left her alone in a cage to starve. And then he was weird-weird, like a grumpy adult that had somehow grown up without learning how anything worked and didn’t want to admit it. And then he was confusing-weird, like someone who acted like he wanted to be friends but who still wouldn't take her home. 

And then he was weird kind of like a dad, a dad who wanted to help but didn't know how. A dad who held her when she cried, then dropped her in a hole when he got mad.

Maybe it was a godfolk thing. When they first met, Dancer had talked about Faroe like she wasn’t even there, then taught John how to take care of her so she wouldn’t die. Dancer played games with Faroe for fun, then forced her to dance until her feet bled.

“Faroe.”

Afterwards, when Faroe was mostly done crying, she had asked John if she had done something to make Dancer mad. He said no, Dancer wasn’t mad at her, it was just an accident. Dancer was simply doing what she had been made to do, and she wasn’t paying enough attention to notice that it was hurting Faroe.

It was scary when the godfolk didn’t pay attention.

Faroe was shaken from her musings by John’s hands under her arms. She immediately filled her lungs to tell him this was not the time for tickles , but all he did was lift her up and set her on her feet, only pulling back once he was sure she was steady.

“Faroe, stop worrying about me,” John said firmly. “There’s no point to it.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“And you think I do?” John snapped.

“No,” Faroe whined. “I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop wasting your energy on things you can’t control.”

Faroe said nothing. She hated it when adults got angry with her when she hadn’t done anything wrong. And the longer she went without speaking, the more shamefaced John looked. And then she remembered that, every time John had gotten mad before (real-mad, not just grumpy-mad), it was because something scary was happening. After a moment of thought, Faroe reached out and took one of John’s big hands in both of her own. She met his apologetic look with a serious one.

“Daddy is really smart,” Faroe said earnestly. “Sometimes things would go wrong on our trips, but he would always figure out what to do. If the two of us can just be good helpers, I bet he’ll come up with a plan where we all get away.”

It was John’s turn to be quiet. When he did finally speak, it was lightly, too light for a hard conversation.

“Speaking of your father– earlier, I said I didn’t mean to intrude on your dream. That wasn’t perfectly true.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your performance–my presence tends to send dreams off course if I become too involved–but I was going to wait until right before you woke up to make myself known.”

“Why?”

“Because you were dreaming of a piano, and I thought it would be a nice addition to the cave.” Faroe’s mouth fell open in realization.

“ Yes! ”

“I also thought we could call it a welcome gift for Arthur. What do you think? It can be a present from both of us.”

“Yes, yes!” Faroe was struck with a realization. “Wait, this is still my dream, right?”

“Yes? What else would it be?”

“And if I can dream it, you can make it real?”

"Yes, that is the case. I had actually–"

“I want to dream something else!”

"Ah... Faroe, I understand your excitement, but I'm not sure we will be able to bring anything that you don't already see on this stage. Dreaming is a strange thing, and most people–"

But Faroe wasn’t listening. She took only a second to think of what she wanted, and an old grief struck her like a lightning bolt. Faroe closed her eyes and thought of Mister Troll.

***

Mister Troll was not always called Mister Troll. When Faroe first met him, he was just Doll, a humanoid sack of off-white cloth with no clothes or hair or even a face. Mother had started sewing him when Faroe was close to being born, and, well.

Even if he was unfinished, his stitches were strong, and he was still plenty soft to sleep with. 

Doll did not become Mister Troll until Faroe was old enough to talk, at which time she declared that he was just like the troll in Daddy’s bedtime stories because he protected her bed from monsters the same way the fairy tale troll protected the town bridge from bandits. Daddy had smiled at her and said it was a good name. He did not smile when he later found her trying to draw a troll face on the weathered cloth with a stick of charcoal.

After cleaning Mister Troll as best he could–when Daddy was done being upset, he joked that the stubborn dark stain was the troll’s five o’clock shadow–he had sat down with a needle and thread and some spare buttons Faroe found under the landlady’s couch and set about finally finishing what Mother started. Faroe helped by handing him the scissors, leaning over his shoulder and offering ‘constructive criticism’ about how many teeth a troll should have, and also by kissing Daddy’s boo-boos every time he poked himself with the needle.

And that was how Doll became Mister Troll. His toothy smile was wonky, his button eyes were two different sizes, he was in constant need of patching after years of service, and Faroe loved him with all her heart. 

When she lost him on one of the Lester’s many journeys, Faroe thought she would never be happy again. Daddy turned their room upside down, talked to the street vendors, and retraced their steps all the way back to the landing docks without finding any sign of him. Faroe had cried and cried when he said that they could not look for him any longer. He hugged her and kissed her and said not to be sad. It wasn’t her fault that Mister Troll was gone; he must have just realized that she didn’t need him anymore. Faroe was old enough and strong enough to get by without a bed troll, so he probably went to find another little girl who did need him. Wasn’t that wonderful, that Mister Troll would just go on and on helping people feel safe?

That’s not fair, Faroe had thought. I don’t care about other little girls. He’s my troll, and I still need him. How do I tell him I’m not ready for him to go? Why didn’t he ask me first? 

But Faroe knew that Daddy was tired. She knew that he had turned down their host’s dinner invitation so he could help her look for her lost friend. And she knew that he needed to get up early in the morning to meet with a potential patron who, hopefully, would make all of this travel worth it. So, rather than voice any of those questions, she just nodded and wiped her face and let Daddy lead her back the way they came.

***

Faroe opened her eyes, looked down, and smiled. Nestled in her arms, fitting exactly how she remembered, was Mister Troll. She looked up to find John staring at him incredulously.

“Did you just… Was that on purpose?”

“Mhm!” Faroe proudly held Mister Troll out in front of her. “John, meet my old friend, Mister Troll. Mister Troll, this is my new friend, John.”

"... Faroe, what the fuck."