Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The entity was aware of pain, and of dark.

For a moment he was jolted through with a terror that the ritual had failed: that he had been cast back into that abominable place, that he was now cursed to drift once more on charnel tides, without even the winking out of dead stars to mark the passage of lifetimes. 

Then he moved his head, and a low groan of ache and confusion eked out of his mouth.

His mouth – no, it had worked! This pain and this dark were of a different quality, he could discern that now.

Reaching out through the rest of his new body, the entity coalesced an awareness of this form, rubbing his palms into– the carpet. (Rough, scratchy.) He reached back, feeling his chest expand, and propped his weight up on his elbows.

His arms shook, unsteady like a newborn thing. 

Bit of an embarrassing excuse for a body, so far. Still, if he could get the hang of it, and it would help him move through this world unsuspected, then it would have to be suitable until– until he figured out what else to do.

He wasn't sure if his eyes were open or not. He couldn't see anything.

Wh-what's happening, whimpered an equally tremulous voice in his head. Why can't I–

"Jesus," the entity said, shoulders buckling, and landed with a hard thud back on the floor. 

I can't feel my body, the voice continued.

"I know." The entity made his painstaking way back to a sitting position.

Who are you?

"There will be plenty of time for that later," he eluded.

Presumably, plenty of time to find out for himself. 

He reached around him on the floor, hands brushing only carpet, blinking deliberately. 

"The question is, who are you?"

Despite no longer being burdened with lungs, the voice made a commendable effort at hyperventilating. I can't remember, it finally said. 

That was interesting, if a touch inconvenient. It would be harder to create his own mask from scratch than to lift it wholesale from someone else, but he couldn't deny the idea had its appeal. A blank slate, with the potential to become anybody. Still, perhaps it would come back to the human as well.

The voice was still whimpering, trembling through stifled whines and half-formed questions as though he couldn't decide which was more important.

The entity sighed, smoothing his voice into a low, gentle tone. "Calm down, friend. Take a deep breath."

I– I can't, he repeated. I can't breathe, I can't remember who I am or where I am–

"It's alright." The entity supposed he did the breathing, now. He took a couple exaggerated breaths himself, acutely feeling his chest rise and fall. The air, while not particularly fresh, felt cool and sweet and filled him with the sensation of life.

"There. Better."

It did not seem to make the human feel any better.

I don't feel better–

"Can you see, friend?" he interrupted. "Maybe there are some clues as to where we are."

Right. That did seem to pull him together a bit. I can see– we're in an office, on the floor, there's a desk next to us and there's sunlight. There's a door open into a corridor–

"Is there anything written on the door?"

Arthur Lester and Peter Yang. Private Investigators. Is that– me?

"One of them, presumably. That's a good start, we can figure out the rest later. When you fell, you dropped a book. Do you see it?"

When I fell….? Yes, there's one a couple feet in front.

The entity crawled forward on his hands and knees, reaching until his fingers brushed against a leather spine, propped open face down. He snatched it up with a sound of triumph.

What, what is it?

"A book," he bit, feeling out a wall to his other side and bracing against it as he made another attempt at standing. Balancing on two legs felt awfully unsteady, especially considering he would have to use one of them for walking at any given time. Still, plenty of humans managed it. Just a brief adjustment period.

"Do you have a desk?"

Yes, there's one just ahead of you.

Focusing on propelling his mass forward and catching it with an outstretched foot, the entity strode confidently forward and collided hard with his hip against a solid corner.

"Jesus fucking–" he snarled, nearly dropping the book again. "Why didn't you say–"

You didn't ask, Arthur-or-Peter retorted.

"I didn't think– fine. Let's just." He drew in a deep breath. "This book contains the answer to what happened to us," he explained as if to a child. "Let's take a look at it."

The front cover was embossed with some sort of symbol. The entity ran its fingers along its curves and points, but nothing came to him. No particular feeling, no visions, no memories. 

Well. A sort of… wet darkness. But that may have been just the residual dread of That Place still shedding off him like drops of black water. 

He opened the book against the surface of the desk, slowly paging through it.

His unwitting passenger said nothing.

"Well? What does it say?"

I can't… The human's voice sounded distant. I can't read this. It's–

The entity huffed in exasperation and snapped the book shut. Of course.

"When you opened this book, it bound us together: I don't know how it came to you specifically, or why a piece of you remained afterward."

Wait wait, hold on, 'why a piece of me remained' – you orchestrated this? You mean to take my entire body?

"Not exactly. That is to say, I will, once I get the answers I need. But I didn't create this book; through it, I was imprisoned in a terrible world beyond this one, trapped for an uncountable span of lifetimes."

And when I opened it–

"You released me into this world, yes."

What are you?

That was an excellent question.

"What I am matters less at the moment than how this book came into your possession. If you can't decipher it, we'll have to find someone who can. If only I could see it–"

He traced the embossed edges of the symbol on the front cover once again, intently focused, trying to paint its outlines onto the darkness of his vision. It made no more sense to him this time; he just couldn't remember.

The human was pontificating.

Whatever you are, however you've done this, I'm still here. I still have my eyes, and I still have my mind, and if you think it's going to be that easy to get rid of me you've got another thing coming. 

Bold words for a bare fragment of a person. On that he had a point, though: he was stuck with the human until he figured out how to suppress the rest of him. It would be easiest to make nice until then.

"Either way, this book is our best way forward. You're a detective: let's see where this lead takes us."

I don't know anything about the book or who sent it to me. I barely remember opening it.

"That hardly sounds like an investigator. Can't imagine you'd solve many cases like that."

What do you want from me, you've taken my body and now–

"Use your eyes, then," the entity growled. "What else do you see?"

The human huffed out a petulant sigh. There's a window, with curtains drawn but some daylight is streaming through. There's an upright piano against one one of the walls, and a wardrobe. There are some papers on the desk, looks like: letters, some receipts, some file folders. 'McFarland,' one of them is labeled. Some torn brown paper, stamped 'J.D. Ackerman, Rare Books.' There's a…

The way the human's voice trailed off told the entity what he had finally noticed.

Oh, my God.

"Now," he began–

There's a body, God, it looks like a body on the floor–

"Shut up and tell me where the door is. We need to close it before anybody else sees."

After a bit more stammering and a bit more cajoling, the entity finally managed to get some basic direction out of his eyes. Running his hand across the wall (and bumping into a side table on the way), he found the door and shut it with a satisfying snap.

"There. That's the easy part done."

What do you mean, 'the easy part,' we should call the police!

The entity laughed. "I have no intention of being put away because of your mistake."

My–?

The human had mentioned a wardrobe earlier. If he could just get to it, it might be the best option to hide the body until he found a more permanent way to dispose of it. 

"Don't you remember?" he asked, continuing his exploratory path along the wall. "I don't blame you, of course, it was an honest accident. The desperate last act of a man losing control of himself. Your partner just had the bad luck of standing in the way."

There was a loud, discordant clang and a sharp pain in his hip.

God, Parker, the human sobbed.

Arthur, then. 

Arthur clearly wasn't in a fit state to be of any use, so the entity patiently let him blubber and panic while he continued his work. The wardrobe was along the next wall and felt mostly empty, so he did his best to affix its position in his dark mental map as he shuffled out across the floor, slowly probing with his foot until he made contact with dead flesh.

His patience began to wear thin as soon as he stooped to hook it under the shoulders and drag it backwards. Then the blubbering turned into screaming and swearing.

God, but it was heavy. It surprised him: were all humans this heavy? He could barely get his arms under the broad shoulders, let alone get enough leverage bracing his feet to drag it backwards. 

"Christ," he said. 

That surprised him, too. He couldn't remember exactly, but it didn't seem like something he would have said, before. Before whatever had happened to him. But it fell out of his mouth as naturally as the grunts of effort as he dragged the body inch by inch across the carpet.

The human was still shouting. It made it difficult to focus as the entity backed his heel into the wooden frame of the open wardrobe. As onerous as dragging had been, it was still another matter to lift the incriminating lump of dead weight over the lip of the wardrobe. 

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, patience exhausted. "Do you want us both locked away for good, or do you want to find out what's happened to us?"

That's my fucking partner, you piece of shit–

The entity stooped and twisted the body at the knees, shouldering it the rest of the way into the wardrobe. 

– You're not going to dump him in the closet like some fucking piece of garbage–

"Listen to me," he snarled. Pushing the body into the wardrobe with his foot, he could just get his shoulder around the door to snap it shut. "I have your body, now. I am going to whatever I damn well please, and you are just my fucking passenger until I can figure out how to take your eyes as well."

Fucking hell I am–

"This is a temporary solution, obviously. But we can't well have your victim rotting out on the floor while we look for answers, can we?" 

I don't–

There was a firm, loud knock at the door. 

"Fuck off," the entity called.

"Mr. Lester?" 

It was a male voice: rough, with a different accent than Arthur's.

"Everything alright in there?" it continued.

"Do you know that voice?" the entity hissed. 

Arthur remained pointedly silent.

"Fine, be that way."

In a louder voice, he called across the room, "I said piss off, I'm busy."

Another knock rattled the door

"Mr. Lester," the stranger called again, significantly less tentatively. "I heard shouting, sounded like an argument."

"That's none of your fucking–"

The entity heard the scrape and click of the doorknob turning and bolted toward the sound, bouncing hard off the edge of what was presumably the desk and throwing himself against the doorframe.

The door was open by a gap of just a couple inches by the time he got to it, and no amount of pushing snapped it closed.

"You and your partner having a fight or somethin'?" The man's voice became by turns harder and more suspicious. He had to get rid of him before he insisted on snooping around in the office.

The entity drew himself up to Arthur Lester's full height and squared his shoulders. His glower would likely had been more effective if he had been sure of the interloper's eyeline, but he could make a best guess based on the sound of his voice.

"I don't know who you think you are–" he growled.

"Mr. Lester," the stranger interrupted, slightly taken aback. "It's Ed. The building supervisor. You know me. What's going on here?"

Fuck. He might have keys to the office, then.

"-- But I am currently occupied with urgent business that cannot be interrupted."

"I heard banging noises," Ed continued, clearly also reaching the end of his patience. "You moving furniture in there?" He spoke deliberately as if trying to hand him an out – but if the entity placated him, he might try to 'help' or come back to dig around later. No, he had to get rid of him.

"Listen to me, Ed. You have no idea of the import of what you're sticking your grubby nose into – it would be better for everyone if you just left it alone carried on about your stupid, insignificant life."

Ed said nothing, but he also didn't take his foot out of the door.

"Now get the fuck out of my way, or the next time I catch your rancid scent skulking around my office I'll ensure that no one ever finds the entirety of your useless corpse."

There was a long pause, a deep intake of breath. 

"Now you listen, Mr. Lester.  Nobody talks to me like that. It's clear you're not feeling yourself –  frankly I don't give a shit. But the next time I see you, if you haven't gotten this shit sorted out, you're going to have a big problem."

The barrier holding the door open was removed, and the door snapped closed in its absence. The entity listened from the other side as firm footsteps faded down the hall.

That was stupid of you, Arthur said.

"I had to get rid of him."

Eddie's a reasonable man, you easily could have talked him out.  

"I did. Now, we can get back to the matter at hand. You mentioned that on your desk there was brown paper stamped with a name. Ackerman. Is that what the book came in?"

It seems plausible. I remember that the book came in the morning post… I remember that it didn't have a title. I remember Peter shouting, I remember reaching out to him–

"Focus, we have more important things to worry about."

More important? My partner is dead. 

"And we'll take care of it. We just–"

How? Are you planning to just leave his body hidden in here until somebody finds it? Then what?

"I haven't figured that out yet," the entity snarled. "If you would just let me–"

Let you! I have only my eyes now. If you want to use my body to – I don't know, chase after this cursed book, it seems there's precious little I can do to stop you.

"Now you're getting it. Now, we need to find this Ackerman if we're going to–"

But I certainly don't have to help you.

" Help me?" The entity laughed, low and cruel. "I assure you, your continued existence is merely a fortunate accident. Your 'help' isn't needed."

You'll have no trouble getting to Ackerman's on your own, then, I'm sure.

The entity's lip curled. He was regretting this partial embodiment more and more by the second.

Still, he had the bookseller's name – one could do a lot with just a name. And besides, surely there were plenty of humans who got by in this world just fine without seeing. He would just have to do without.

He had a name, he needed an address. Somebody should be able to give him an address. A telephone operator, or a library.

He wasn't quite sure how either of those worked, but – but the thought had come to him, all the same. Hopefully the rest would as well.

"Do you have a telephone?"

The silence that followed somehow had an arch quality. 

"Fine," he scoffed. He stepped cautiously forward, arms outstretched at hip level, until he reached the desk. Arthur hadn't mentioned a phone earlier – and he didn't feel one either. 

To the street it was, then. The bustle of people and traffic was faintly audible in the office; the entity felt a thrill at going out and being surrounded by so much life after ages of desolation.

You're just walking out? Arthur piped up. So much for his silent passenger. Do you have an address? Do you even have any money?

"I'll get us there. You just keep an eye out for Ed."

It was a slow, painstaking process, leaving the office. At the end of the hallway he found a door that opened into a stairwell. There were railings on either side, and his steps echoed up and down.

Down seemed like as good a choice as any. He gripped the railing and cautiously made his way. It was difficult and treacherous, but he was making progress. He was moving.

And what are you even looking for?  

"Answers."

To what questions?

"If we find out why I'm bound to you, then I can become unbound."

The hallway on this floor led to an opening, perhaps a small vestibule of sorts. The outside sounds were clearer here, and he pushed forward to a larger doorway.

And then what?

He opened the doors and the city washed over him. 

It was deafening: a grinding, whirring, barking, shouting wave of machinery and voices . The heat and the smell of a thousand, many thousands, of living bodies struck his face like a desert wind. The dust, the coal, the exhaust. A churning entity made up of countless warm, breathing humans and all the things they've created. It was beautiful, and overwhelming.

You– are you alright?

"Now what?" he breathed, drowned out in his own ears by the living roar.

There was an impatient sigh in his head.

There's a taxi coming up. Take a few steps forward – watch the curb – and wave it down.

The entity cautiously eased forward, as though he would be swept up into a whirlwind of noise and heat if his foot lifted off the pavement, and raised his arm high.

Chapter Text

This was it – it had to be. The book he'd been imprisoned with had led them on a chase all over the city: to the rare bookstore owned by J.D. Ackerman, to the abandoned house where Arthur had seen the unfamiliar sigil before, to the library and the office of Richard Armitage, back to the office building and the basement storage unit, and now to the Cummings address.

The book's intended recipient had been Roland Cummings, not Arthur Lester. Roland had to know why.

He couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if it had been Roland who opened the book instead. Perhaps he would have gotten a blessed moment of peace in a willing host. Or perhaps he would have been even more a prisoner, a pawn in some unknown game of the Lord of the Wood and her many children. 

And he'd never find out if Roland wouldn't answer the fucking door.

With a growl of frustration, the entity banged on the door again, rattling both the wood on its hinges and the bones in his hand. 

I told you, the house is abandoned. Overgrown, windows broken. No one's lived here for years.

He redoubled his efforts: more out of a reckless and self destructive desire to hurt something than anything else, to be perfectly honest. With nowhere else to direct his anger, the bruising ache felt nearly satisfying.

His left hand grabbed his right by the wrist.

Stop that, you're going to draw unnecessary attention to us.

Sturmdunkel

He whirled away from the door and paced a few steps up and down the porch. "What are we going to fucking do now? The trail's gone cold and we have no other leads, if we can't find Cummings–"

What we're going to do now is sit down.

"What?"

I said, sit down.

"We don't have time–"

Listen to me. You are running us ragged. You want a body so badly? Humans need rest, and humans need food.

"We need to keep going."

We need to think. And we can think about our next move while we sit on this fucking porch. At this rate you're going to make us collapse from exhaustion on the street.  

"Fine." The entity sighed heavily and dropped them heavily on the steps of the porch.

He had been feeling light-headed and unsteady, but the adrenaline of hunting down answers had been keeping him going. Now that he had paused, the weariness crashed over him in a wave.

Besides, how was he to know? Humans were such a fragile species, it wasn't unreasonable to assume they just felt this way all the time.

Don't forget, this is my body, Arthur insisted. That you are temporarily holding the reins to.

"Is that so."

Yes. If you wear it through, then neither of us will be any better off.  

In the silence that stretched for a moment, the entity felt his heart rate and his breathing gradually slow. A car drove by, chugging engine and wheels on wet pavement.

You're rushing because I got my hand back, Arthur concluded. You don't know why or how I regained control of it and you're worried I'll keep reclaiming pieces of myself.

"It happened when you let Eddie go," the entity said in lieu of admitting that Arthur was right. 

When I prevented you from killing him, Arthur corrected.

"And do you think he's just going to forget about us? He'll be waiting whenever we go back to your office, possibly armed this time."

I know, I know, it's just – there was something not right about him, something in the eyes. He wasn't acting like himself.

"All the more reason for us to–"

Look, Arthur continued. I don't want us to be fighting over pieces of this body. We still have one and the same goal.

"To take complete control."

To separate ourselves from one another, Arthur corrected diplomatically. And we still need each other in order to make any progress in this investigation. Neither of us wants to be stuck in this half-state. And I don't want you to go back to the dark world.

"So what are you proposing?"

I'm proposing a truce, that's all. That we will – work together to find a way to separate. Peacefully.

"That may not be possible."

I just mean–

"But I take your point. I don't– I don't want us to be fighting over pieces. And I don't want you to disappear completely. If there is a way to separate us, we should find it."

Good. Then we're in agreement.

An unknown voice suddenly cut through the darkness, raised to carry over the pounding rain and marking the entity jump with surprise. The embarrassment flushed through his body and set his teeth on edge.

"Everything alright there, friend?" the stranger said.

"I'm just–" 

The entity craned his head toward the sound, but it was difficult to triangulate the direction through the dampening roar of the rain.

Further right, from the porch next door, Arthur supplied. He's being friendly, don't fucking snap at him.

"Looking for Amanda Cummings."

Too direct, Arthur muttered in his head. The entity stretched his snarl into a smile.

"The Cummings girl? Why, you know her?"

He's suspicious of you. Tell him you're a family friend.

"Yes, I'm a friend of the family. Do you know where I can find her?"

"I'm sorry, they haven't lived here a number of years now."

"Yes, I can–" the entity hissed before Arthur shushed him.

"After what happened to the parents, the daughter ended up living with some family. Terrible thing."

What on earth happened? Arthur asked.

"Where is she now?"

"Harper's Hill – small town just a few hours north of here."

"Do you have the address?" the entity pressed.

"I'm sorry, friend, that's all I know."

The entity growled.

Say thank you, Arthur insisted, pinching him hard through his soaked trousers.

"Thank you," the entity grit out.

"Good luck, friend." 

There was the firm snap of a door shut. The silence that followed was quickly filled in with the rain and a crack of thunder.

That was a mess, Arthur said.

"I said what you told me!"

And we got what we needed. Barely. I still would have liked to find out what happened to the family.

"But we have a lead on Amanda Cummings. Harper's Hill."

We'll find her, it's not difficult to find a person in a small town like that. It's just a matter of getting there. A cab's not going to take us.

The entity rested his elbows on his knees and faced out into the rain. 

I do have a car in a lot close to the office, Arthur continued. I wonder if – now that I have control of my hand again, we could manage–

He set his head in his hands.

What is it? We have a lead, don't you want to–

"I am feeling… tired," the entity confessed. 

The prospect of setting out again – the mental effort of feeling his way through a strange world, imperfectly guided by a taciturn and resentful voice and barraged with so much sensory input even without sight, let alone the physical effort of propelling them through the city – it all came crashing over him and leadened all his limbs.

We'll get to Harper's Hill, then we can get some food and find a place to sleep. You'll feel better after that.

The entity didn't know how far Harper's Hill was, but he felt certain it might as well have been another world.

"How do you do it, Arthur?"

I told you: you gather the information available and use it to narrow down possible–

"No, I mean… This world is so alive. Everywhere we go I can hear so much life moving around us, I can smell and feel it. It's so much to take in sometimes."

Oh. It was a surprised sound, and thoughtful. Yes, I suppose it must be.  

It was a shame that sound was such a fleeting thing. The entity found himself reaching through the seconds that passed, trying to hold that gentle, sympathetic tone like water passing through his fingers.

He wished suddenly that he could see Arthur's face.

Resetoaster

"But all the same… I can't help but wonder what it all looks like."

Arthur huffed. I assure you, he said, I can appreciate the sights enough for the both of us.

"Could you– describe it to me?"

Arthur's silence stretched on long enough that the entity felt certain he'd been shut out again. That was fine, he didn't mind taking a moment to rest now that he was here, but eventually–

The rain is coming down in sheets. Each drop splashes hard on the pavement of the road, creating a single crater for a moment before it's washed away by the next.  

As he concentrated, he could hear it: the monotonous drone of the rain focused into thousands of individual sounds, a strike and then a splash, all laid over one another. 

The light from the street lamps seems to freeze the raindrops in the air like a photograph, and the branches of the trees and the long grasses in the yard sway with the wind. There's a stream of water forming by the curb.  

He could hear that too, the rush of the flowing water distinguished from the flow of leaves brushing in long waves.

It reminds me, actually:

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
    Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
    Hide the limp and tearful willow.

"What is that?"

It's a poem.

"Did you write it?"

No, no. I read it in a magazine, some time ago.

"Is there more?"

Yes, there is. It continues: Turn aside… let me see. Right:

Turn aside your eyes and ears,
    Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years,—
    You shall walk with me tomorrow.

Of all the horrible things the entity had lived through – experienced, more accurately – in the Dark World, he had never drowned. 

He had never been stabbed in the gut either: two new experiences to endure. 

Pain in that place had been more of a dull ache, its tortures felt in the interminable chasm of time-beyond-time. The body was barely a vessel, more a metaphor than anything else. It brought the mind and the soul from one agony to the next, smeared across all simultaneous pasts and futures. 

It may have made him, he was willing to admit to himself as he retched against the pouring of filthy water down his throat, a touch careless when it came to the more acute sort of dangers that he faced in the human world.

Focus! Arthur barked. The entity was grateful that his voice conveyed the panic squeezing his heart. You can do this. Keep your head above water–

His whole body jerked, snatched and yanked beneath the surface. Burning with the basest animal instinct to get away, to survive, he kicked and flailed his arms and tilted his head to the sky. His torso was starting to go numb. He dreaded to think of the acrid, oily taste coating his mouth and throat seeping into the wound.

But that wouldn't matter if he couldn't get enough air first.

The knife! Get the knife!

He had no sense at all of orientation, of where he was or where Kellin was – only the waterline that thrashed at the level of his eyes.

But he reached and grabbed and bit, desperately shoving Kellin beneath the water in a bid to breach the surface, and a sharp slash across the heel of his palm showed him where to find the knife. It was quickly numbed by the chill of the water, but somehow in the choking thrash he found the handle in his grip.

Yes! You have it. Now slit his fucking throat. Kill him, do it!

The entity's arm arced through the churning water so quickly he had made the first pass nearly before hearing Arthur's animalistic snarl in his head. He almost wondered if – but no, it was in his right. It was his own hand that met the resistance of flesh and ripped it open.

He kept cutting as the horrid gurgling sound began to drift away, but aside from another shallow nick, the blade met water.

You did it! Yes! 

Arthur's crow of triumph jolted another surge of sick adrenaline through him, and he laughed down another lungful of water.

He's pulled away now. He's trying to crawl back up onto the dock, he's leaving us alone!

The entity could still hear that wet bubbling, fainter but as clear as the pain in his own chest as Kellin drowned in his own blood.

Don't stop now: the boat is nearby. Let's get the fuck out of here.

Kick with your feet, one opposite another. Try to keep a rhythm. Move your arms together across the surface, like you're pushing the water aside.

Spitting up the last of the lakewater in his lungs, the entity breathed in smoke instead. With his head reliably above water, Arthur guided him to the lip of the boat. After a few false starts, the two of them together managed to haul themselves aboard without flipping the boat over top of them.

Laying on his back, heart hammering and still struggling to breathe, swayed by the rocking of the water, the entity felt himself start to drift. 

The sound of splashing and a grunt of effort brought him back to painful clarity. Right: they still had an escape to make.

He reached his arm into the water to paddle, but the sound of a chain banging up against the side of the boat stopped him.

"Arthur."

We're not leaving without the head, Arthur snapped.

"Arthur, that thing is–"

Fuck you, he said it can hear me.

The entity choked on a lungful of smoke. It smelled thick and heavy in the air now, seemingly propelled across the lake by the progressive roar and crashing of the house alight.

"We need to get out of here, just tell me which way!"

Fuck, the head – it's still attached to the dock.

"Then just drop it!"

Wait. Kellin– he's undoing the chain.  

"What?" He leaned over to the right side of the boat and dipped his hand in the water, pushing away from the roar and the building wall of heat from the shore.

He's holding his neck. The blood is– God. But… but he's unlocking the chain. He's thrown the end into the water. He's taking off his gas mask, but… the smoke is growing thick, I can't see him anymore. The fire is reaching the edge of the water, it's overtaking the dock. We need to start paddling.

"I'm trying–"

Though he pushed his hand through the water, he could tell there was hardly any movement of the boat. He felt his strength draining away from him, breathing shallow: he could hardly even get enough smoke into his lungs to cough it back out.

Fuck, you've lost a lot of blood.

He couldn't feel the thick, sticky wetness across his middle anymore, logged down as his clothing was by water. He couldn't feel the deep pain of the stab wound anymore, either. It was all cold and numb.

That was easier than the sharp, consuming pain, but it reminded him too much of that place.

He didn't want to go back there, was all he could think. He wasn't ready.

He was frightened.

Listen, Arthur said, sharp and urgent. The entity clung to that voice like a piece of driftwood. Keep listening to me.  

"Hm?"

He wanted to say: I'm listening, please keep speaking, please stay with me – but the numbness had spread up his chest and his tongue was thick in his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck. This isn't the end, I swear to you. Don't give up on me. I'll get us out of this.

"Sorry," the entity slurred, and everything went still.

Sturmdunkel

Chapter Text

The entity walks through an empty world, unguided and unobstructed by any sort of terrain or surroundings whatsoever. Blindly setting one foot in front of another, gingerly testing his weight in case he suddenly finds himself at the edge of something terrible.

It's desolately quiet in his head without Arthur.

The pain is immense. Pressing his right hand to his searing torso, his fingers are soaked through with blood, though it feels cool to the touch. Each dragging step jostles the torn edges of his insides, and he dreads to think what kind of trail he must be leaving for the scavengers of this place.

His breaths are unsteady, seizing in his lungs and spasming. He can't choke them down but he can't cough them up. It not only smells but tastes of acrid smoke, and it burns where it's caught inside him. 

He's got somewhere he needs to be, though… he can't quite– somewhere with answers, somewhere the path has led him.

There aren't any paths in this place, not once you've realized that they all lead in a circle around nowhere and given up the hope of reaching anything better than this–

Harper's Hill. 

He doesn't know what Harper's Hill is. A place. A town. It's here somewhere. If he just keeps going, he'll have to find it.

He's gotten out once; he can get out again.

He doesn't have his guide anymore.

But one foot in front of another, feeling out his footing, keeping an ear out. He'll find it. He has to.

He doesn't know what he'll find in Harper's Hill, but it must be better than this excruciating in-between.

There's a deep, deep hum that washes across the ground and into his chest. Ever-present and inescapable, so low he feels it rather than hears it. It pulses through his wounds and into his bones, settling deep and prodding him with electricity. It propels him forward, filled with an aching restlessness. He has to keep going.

Far, far in the distance, something light and airy catches his ear: a strain of music, floating like gauze. It's beautiful. 

It's positioned slightly to his left; he turns until he thinks it's directly ahead and walks.

He can barely pick his feet off the ground, so heavy is the pain that seeps through and out of his body. He drags tracks through dust. The hum gets louder.

As he approaches closer, the music stops. The last phrase repeats, slower, less certain. Scratching on paper. It repeats again.

The entity's fingers are starting to go numb.

The music, previously soft and gentle, goes heavy. It slows, reverses, repeats, changes. The entity's body goes heavy as well, weighed down by trepidation and pain and not enough air.

He waits for the music to right itself, to catch another fresh breeze like the one he caught it one in the first place. But it never does. There's more scratching, a frustrated huff. 

The entity drags to a halt, holding his breath as much to hear the music pick up again as to stifle the stabbing, ripping pain that pulls at his gut when his chest expands.

He starts to go lightheaded. A few chords are pressed with no resolution. The hum, discordant against the sour notes, rattles his teeth.

Growling in frustration, he waves his hand as if parting a thick fog. 

It all stops immediately: the music, the scratching. The humming, on the other hand, settles and diffuses into him. It's easier to breathe.

But he's not any closer to Harper's Hill.

So he turns and keeps walking – back to the right, is it? A little turn on his heel until he thinks he's back in the approximate direction he started in. Not that such a direction held any particular meaning or was guaranteed to bring him anywhere at all, but it was better than nothing. And better than this dead end.

He doesn't know how long he walks, but it's easier going. The smoke has cleared from his lungs now and he can take in shallow, cautious breaths without feeling as though he's being torn in half. Another day, maybe. Time doesn't work right here. Long enough that he feels very tired.

He can't stop, though: the hum still pulls him and the unknown scavengers still follow him. As long as he keeps walking, he'll make it somewhere. 

He isn't sure how long he's been hearing the voices, once he realizes it. 

One day he's dragging his aching feet through the dusty earth, empty of everything but the drive to take one more step, and there's a faint murmur flowing through the undercurrent of the hum vibrating his bones. 

The entity stands still.

They're so hard to pick out, rising to just perceptible and then slipping below again. It sounds like human voices, many of them, overlapping and indistinct.

It's hard to tell the direction they're coming from. But he makes his best guess, turns his heel, and follows.

His whole body aches: every swell of the voices grinds discordantly against the deep thrumming that pervades this place. Still he pursues it, adjusting and triangulating to bring the voices forward. After some days he realizes that no matter how he turns, the voices remain all encompassing – but as he turns some ways and others in the pursuit, they come further to the forefront of his consciousness, more distinct and fully formed.

He feels more exposed here than out in the desolation.

It's exhilarating all the same – after so long wandering alone with hardly a difference between a minute and a week, the abundance of stimulus is overwhelming. There's so much to catch his attention, so much that's wonderful and strange.

Some kind of machine sound comes into focus: it's a quick, rhythmic whir that stops and starts. A woman's voice quietly croons a short snatch of music, then calls out loud as if to someone in another room. He can't understand her words, but her tone sounds warm and playful. 

More voices he can't understand: a man's, laughing and joking, teasingly affectionate. Another man's, lower and serious but not unkind. 

His whole body aches, deep and heavy. 

A child's voice cuts through the rest. He can't tell how old, or even whether there are words yet in their indistinct, babbling chatter.

The hum throbs in time with the dull pain in his feet and limbs. 

The child's voice falters and they begin to cough.

He turns in place, straining his ears for the source of the sound, but it's especially hard with the pervasive humming. It seems to come from everywhere. He wants it to stop: it's grating, yes, but also – he feels a magnetic compulsion to find them, to do something. 

The longer he fruitlessly searches, the more distressed and distressing the sounds become. The cough turns into a racking choke that makes John's chest ache, and in desperation he runs in any direction at all in the hope he might somehow be guided where he needed to be. It hurts . 

Nothing changes but the child's fear. They start crying, loud wails and shrieks abruptly cut off by hitching retches.

"Hold on, I'm coming!" John calls out. If he can just get them calmer, they could catch a breath, but all he can do is listen as their panic slowly strangles them.

After a while, the crying peters out. The relative quiet makes the gurgling all the more terrible. He's no closer to finding them, the sound almost seems to come from within him and spread out.

He can't bear to listen to it fade out completely. He knows it's selfish of him, but he's never hidden his cruelty from himself. 

Teeth grit, doubled over and bracing his hands on his knees, he waves it away, and everything goes silent. 

He's been walking for years, it feels like. 

The pain has gradually faded until he realizes one day he's been wandering with hardly a thought to the physical reality of his body. He feels almost disembodied: diffuse and formless and feeling nothing. The hum barely registers to him anymore; it's seeped deep into his bones, replacing the fading ache as it settles inside him. He touches his face, just to be sure. He does still have a body.

Something else touches his face, now that he's paying attention: soft and misty against his skin. It smells cool and earthy. He holds his hand open, and discovers that he hears rain falling.

It doesn't rain in the Dark World.

He doesn't remember where exactly he's going, but he knows this is different. He continues in his current direction with renewed purpose, pursuing the increasing drum of the falling water and rush of wind.

There are the sounds of cars now, chugging engines and wheels on pavement and the occasional horn. There are footsteps surrounding him, in a wide array of speeds and weights. Machinery and snatches of tinny, crackling music. 

He follows that sound for what feels like hours, heart racing, hardly daring to hope.

He has no way to hide himself, out in the open and without his sight, so he simply does his best to make himself small and pursues the sound.

It's hard to tell for sure over the pounding rain, but once or twice he– yes, that's a voice, gently rolling in a low murmur. He hasn't heard a voice in any untold amount of time – he must be getting close.

I am sister to the rain, it says.
    Fey and sudden and unholy,

It's a very familiar voice.

He starts running.

Petulant at the windowpane,
    Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

The name is nearly bursting out of him as his lungs and muscles burn, but he can't let it out. He doesn't know what will happen, but he can't. This is his only chance, he can see that now, and if he loses it he'll be trapped in this empty place until he can't remember what a human even is.

For a few brief, terrifying moments he loses track of the direction of the voice. His heart is crashing in his ears. But he holds his breath, makes himself still, and: 

I have lived with shades, a shade;
    I am hung with graveyard flowers.

There's a bitter laugh that makes him falter. If he hadn't been listening so closely he doubts he would have–

Let me be tonight arrayed
    In the silver of the showers.

He thinks the voice might be crying.

Every fragile thing shall–  

Sturmdunkel

You?

Without warning there's a sharp strike across his face and he reels back, struggling to keep his footing.

How dare you show your face to me!

"Arthur?"

The name creaks out of him before he can remember it, voice disused and painful.

Shut up – how dare you? After all you've done, you've decided to hunt me down here? Haven't you tormented me enough?

"Arthur, listen to me–"

He's shoved, hard. He stumbles back and falls heavy to the ground, the impact rattling his teeth.

You listen to me, you fucking– parasite–

On instinct, the entity raises his arms to protect himself from further blows, but without his sight he has no way of knowing where the next will come. He can only hear breathing hard through gritted teeth above him.

As it happens, raising his arms only gives enough room for Arthur's shoe to connect solidly with his side.

You took everything from me!  

There are too many vulnerable places for him to protect at once. He manages to land a few strikes of his own, but it hardly slows the onslaught. Something cracks. His skin feels wet.

I'll kill you , Arthur is sobbing, I'll kill you–

The entity waves his hand and makes it stop.

The entity's body felt immovably heavy, and breathing seemed to take most of the strength he had. He couldn't tell the orientation of his body in space: flexing his right hand, he touched some kind of warm but stiff fabric, and turning his head produced much the same. There was pressure-pain down his back.

John? John!

"Who–?"

His voice sounded wretched, throat dry and hoarse. 

God, you're awake.

"Where are we?"

He tried to sit up, but his arm wobbled and lifting his knee felt like dragging lead. It reminded him, not pleasantly, of waking up on Arthur's office floor. Is this just what waking up felt like in a human body? A dreadful thought.

It's alright, just relax. You're safe. We're in hospital, everything's okay.

"Hospital?" 

No hospitals in the Dark World. No Arthur, either. He must have made it back.

"The last thing I remember…"

Memories blended together, time folding on itself. His moment in the human world had been such a blip, hardly the blink of an eye, before he'd been thrown back into that place. It was almost past credibility that he would have returned.

You passed out on the boat, after… I managed to bring us to shore and dragged us to a nearby road. Luckily someone saw us and brought us here. You've been unresponsive since.

"Where–?" 

I told– oh, you mean– We're in Harper's Hill, actually. We made it after all.

His tone was light and cheery, but with a weight under it that meant he was hiding something.

"Arthur, what is it."

You've, ah. You've been asleep for a while.

"How long?"

About five weeks.

"Only that long?"

Only–! John, listen to me, we've been laying in this hospital bed for over a month. I've been trapped– I've counted every moment, believe me.

"Why are you calling me that?"

Oh. The bashfulness in Arthur's voice made him intrigued. I just needed– as I said, you've been out for quite a long time. And– they don't know who we are, so–

A slow clicking approached from further down the room.

That's the night nurse to check on us. Pretend to be asleep.

The entity went still, slowing his breathing and letting his body melt into the bedsheets. The footsteps moved gradually closer, stopping intermittently for a minute or two, and accompanied by a low murmur that became clearer as she approached.

They've been calling us John Doe, Arthur continued in a whisper, as if he could be overheard. It's a name commonly given to unidentified patients. Or bodies.

"Good evening, John," the nurse said in a low voice as her footsteps stopped next to them. Her voice was soft and kind, and she stifled a yawn as she spoke. "Sleeping well?"

Her name is Lily. She's been quite kind to us.

Lily touched his arm, and he just managed to suppress a startle as she turned his right hand over and pressed her thumb into his wrist. 

"Bit elevated," she said curiously. "Hope you're not having any nightmares."

The entity felt a touch on his face, pulling at the skin near his eye. 

Always dread this part, Arthur said, laughing nervously.

"Ah, well. Keep trying, John, you'll make it back to us soon. Let's get you more comfortable in the meanwhile."

The bedsheet was pulled beneath him, and Lily set small hands on his hip and shoulder. With surprising strength she pushed and rolled him onto his side, giving his arm a pat when he settled into his new position. Then a pillow was wedged behind his back, and another tucked between his knees.

"There," she said, taking a deep breath. "Rest up, I'll be back in a few hours."

The clicking steps continued in the same direction, stopping again shortly and replaced by another low murmur.

So you see, Arthur said, oddly self-conscious. And, uh, as I said, I've been conscious and– waiting, so I, ah. I missed your company, I suppose. I've been talking to you too, hoping to wake you up, partly to alleviate the loneliness.

"I see."

And– it quickly became apparent that I didn't have anything to call you, aside from, I suppose, 'friend.' So I've been calling you John, too.

"You've been calling me John?"

It's bizarre, I know, Arthur continued quickly. I mean, God only knows what–

"No, no– I. I like the sound of it."

You do?

John. It sounded solid, strong. John sounded like someone who was certain of who he was and where he was going. John Doe.

And well, what was he if not unidentified.

"I do. It's– it's interesting."

I can keep calling you John, if you like it.  

"Yes, I think I'd like that."

Alright. Now let's get out of here before the next rounds.

With Arthur's help, John painstakingly swung his feet over the edge of the bed and set his feet to the floor. The very moment he attempted to support his own weight, his ankles buckled and they had to catch themselves on the mattress to keep from falling. 

"Fuck," John said.

Going to need some more practice , Arthur laughed. 

The rich aromas of eggs, butter, bacon, and coffee were nearly overwhelming. As was the chatter and clinking of dishware that surrounded them, even so early in the morning. John let it all wash over him as Arthur talked through their leads. The way Arthur's voice blended with the sounds of the crowd like the melodic line of a symphony.

He was starving.

He shoveled whatever was on the plate into his mouth, hardly caring what it was, just wanting to be full of it.

Fuck, it was good. Had he been missing out on this the whole time? 

John, Arthur began hesitantly. 

"Hm?" He was never going to turn his nose up at bread again. It was soft in the middle and crunched around the outsides, with butter and egg and grease soaked into the crevices. Whatever radiant former glory he'd been ripped from, he felt certain it hadn't had this .

I've had a lot of time to think, of course. While you were… out.

John reached for the mug he'd heard the waitress set down. Whatever was in it smelled good, strong and earthy and bitter.

About– the day became bound, and. About Parker.

Something unpleasant settled in his gut. He set the mug back down on the table – maybe he should slow down a little.

"Arthur."

The less Arthur thought about those few unfortunate minutes of his life, the better, lest he remember and–

No, just… let me say this. 

John waited, heavy with dread, while Arthur apparently gathered himself and picked with his fingers at the edges of a cloth napkin. At last he continued:

I've experienced a lot of loss in my life. More than most. And– Parker was all I had left. He was my best friend. 

The dread twisted into something else that John didn't quite have the words for. It hurt more. He wasn't sure what he should be doing while he listened, so he cupped his hand around the warm mug.

This whole time, I've been trying so hard to remember those seconds between opening your book and waking up. I just can't fathom – how could I have done that to Parker? You don't know what he did for me. I couldn't have– but I did. My last act controlling my own body and I killed my partner. 

In the long pause that followed, John thought about telling him. The words would be easy: I killed your partner. He wouldn't stumble over them the way Arthur was drawing them out this way and then tripping over them in his haste that way. 

But – the bright, nearly stunned tone in Arthur's voice when he woke up in the clinic rose to the front of his memory. He'd never imagined Arthur would be so pleased to speak with him. It would be a pity to ruin it so soon.

So now, truly the last person I have is – you, John. However we became bound together, I failed you too. Failed to keep us safe. I'm sorry for that.

John cleared his throat around a sudden tightness. 

It seemed perverse, almost, to be apologizing to him. Perhaps he should tell him, he thought. Just to tip the score again.

I– I can't forgive you, for what you've taken from me. But, all the same… I'm glad you're back.

There was a finality in Arthur's tone at that, but John found himself at a loss for words. 

There was opportunity here, he recognized, to press an advantage: to slip on his friendliest voice and shore up this unexpected goodwill offered to him. But when he opened his mouth to do so, it all seemed to fall short.

Instead, he reached across the surface of the countertop until he bumped into Arthur's hand, gripped tight around the cloth. He covered it with his own – it was warm and dry and bony – and gave it a squeeze.

Chapter Text

The further they ran into the tunnels below the lighthouse, the more John felt they were delving back through time: running from the growling, snuffling creature the widow had become, yes, but also running toward a meeting with Amanda Cummings set years into the past. All of her cyphers and clues came together here, an answer laying in wait for their pursuit.

Here, here! Open door on the left!

John darted into the empty space and shouldered the door closed behind him. He had to admit, they were coordinating quite well in this chase, considering the odd numbness he felt in the foot Arthur had retaken. Running for their lives made it simpler, he supposed. A common goal.

Hopefully there would be time to think about how much easier it had been to lose this piece of – himself – or of Arthur – later.

This is it! Good work, John .

"You're sure?" he whispered, leaning back against the door and trying to catch his breath.

Yes – I think we lost the widow, but let's lock the door just in case.

"What's here?" He felt across the doorframe for the lock and slid the bolt into place before stepping out into the room.

It looks like a library. There are books on the table, some loose papers, a letter. There's even a bedroll in the corner.

John attempted to conceal his disappointment: more mysterious tomes beyond human comprehension. Still, there was a better chance of getting something useful here than from a witness who hardly seemed to remember being human.

They moved together toward the table, John following Arthur's lead like a partner in a dance. 

That must be the source of the crushing apprehension weighing down his chest, he decided. He had barely just gotten comfortable moving about on his own without sight, and now that Arthur had gained back another piece of himself, he was having to learn it all again. And with a pursuer on their trail. Yes, that was it. 

"Well, what is it?" he snapped impatiently.

I'm looking – there are a number of volumes here, most of them… translation based, perhaps? There are two, though, laid out where Amanda must have been sitting. 

John heard the soft scrape of leather across the table. 

No titles, but… one of them is marked with the symbol that was on the bottom of her note. The other one has the same symbol that was on your book, John.

"On my book…"

He recalled the cold, empty feeling he'd been left with, tracing the embossed symbol with his fingers in Arthur's office. Perhaps if he could have just seen it, it would have been different, but – 

"Let's look at the other one. The one from Amanda's note."

You think so?

"Yes – she's led us this far; we've got to see it through. Besides, she mentioned in the note that she had been wrong. Perhaps she found the truth here."

Yes! I think you're right. Pass that other one over, let me look at it .

John reached out for the book and slid it toward his left on the table. As nonchalantly as he could, he felt on the leather face for any trace of the sign. To his disappointment, it must have been painted on – he couldn't feel it out by touch.

With his hand on the book, however, his heart pounded in his chest, just as much as when they had been pursued. It must have been the anticipation of being so close to an answer. 

It's an odd symbol, Arthur said contemplatively. It looks almost like… a question mark, with two more hooks curling off it.  

That's not right, John thought. 

He flattened his hand on the table to steady himself through a wave of dizziness.

The book opened with a leathery creak and a rustle of pages. Arthur huffed in frustration.

I can't read any of this, he said .  

"Should we take it with us?"

Another rustle of paper. 

No, wait, Arthur said, voice alight. There are notes here, written on separate sheets and tucked between the pages. 

"What do they say?"

It looks like there are summaries of some passages, references to other books perhaps– something here about a mask.

"A mask?"

A pallid mask, yes. And, some poetry perhaps? It looks like a translation of whatever's printed in the book.

"Read it to me."

Arthur began to read, and the words came to him as though from deep water. They wrapped themselves around his bones and took root. 

'Song of my soul, my voice is dead. Die thou, unsung as tears unshed.'

It sounded like hearing one's native language for the first time. And as Arthur resumed his description, the words seemed clumsy and far away. It took a few moments for John to catch back up.

She's also drawn that sign again, the one that's not on your book. God, it makes me queasy to look at. 

John wished more than anything in the world that he could see it.

And she's underlined something here.

"What is it?"

'The King in Yellow.'

The entity blinks, and a feeling of relief floods through his body so intense it makes him shudder.

Everything is golden: it glints off the suns, the sands, the skies. The entity's body twists and flows into place, and his awareness expands with it. He unfurls himself into all of this world and all of the others and all of the space in between them, and it feels like breathing clean air for the first time in– forever.

It's a sensation like nothing else he's felt. Like coming home. 

Floats of whisper-thin, diaphanous fabric brush his skin in a fond caress, and he realizes he can hear something like music. Or rather, he hears something that makes all the music he's ever heard before merely sound like something like music. It's beautiful, and so familiar.

The throne hall is glimmering in celebration – red and blue light pours through elaborate tapestries of stained glass, dancing with the writhing of a thousand candles. It twists and bends around fine filigree, magnificent sculptures that seem to breathe with it, feast tables laid high with delicacies of rare fruits and wines. He knows the taste of all of them.

The light intertwines with people, too, in human shapes as well as others. They float in intricate patterns, waves bouncing and reflecting and refracting, a whirl of masks and fabric. Their murmurs and laughter form a harmonious countermelody.

He is stunned by how right it all feels.

Then, a wail picks up from within the crowd, slowly rising and breaking into a strangled scream. The entity somehow knows the language without understanding it: as the words stretch and snap they convey a tidal wave of adoration, of ecstasy, of a devotion so complete and encompassing that it cannot be borne.

One of the members of the crowd catches his eye with a sudden movement out of place with the flow of the dance. A knife glints high in their hand, reflecting ornamental splendor, before they plunge the blade deep into their chest.

Their joyous sobbing blends into the music as they collapse in a crumpled heap, pouring out their lifeblood. It gets swept up by the feet of the dancers surrounding, traced in beautiful arches, unfurling from the body like ripples in a pond.

Another cry goes up, jubilant and erratic. More blades gleam, more dancers collapse, more blood pools in intricate patterns, reflecting the precious metals and colored glass and flickering light. Some fall embraced in one another's arms, some to their knees in supplication. The ceiling rings with screams and laughter.

The entity winces.

Resetoaster

John? John, what the fuck is going on?

The cavern air was stale and damp. His heart hammered, fit to burst, and his ears rang painfully.

"What?"

Jesus Christ, you–

"What's happening?"

You just – stopped – John, that thing is almost here, we have to get out of here!

A ravenous snuffling and snarling approached, chillingly close, and John reflexively staggered back, away from the sound. 

"I don't know what– I went… somewhere else…"

Somewhere else? What are you talking about? You're here now, right?

He touched his right hand to his chest. "I think so–"

Good, then get us out of here, now! The passage continues further down, there must be an exit down that way.

"And if there's not?"

We won't be able to get past her – I see down the passage the way we came, pawing in the dirt like a fucking animal, looking for us. 

"Alright, let's try."

Wait– grab the books. 

"Right." He reached for the table with the books and the letter and tucked them under his arm while Arthur used the lantern in his hand to guide them further into the cavern. 

There's a stone by your feet. Pick it up.

"What? We don't have time to barricade–"

We're going to bash her fucking head in.

"Arthur–"

Just fucking do it, he snarled. I am so fucking sick of being hunted, we've got to end it ourselves.

Arthur's tone brooked no room for an argument that they didn't have the time for anyway. John reached down until he felt the cool, dry weight and hefted it up against his chest. It was heavy. He felt faintly sick.

He could hear scraping and an animalistic snuffling approaching through the tunnel they had just emerged from. Arthur was nearly growling, low in the back of his mind.

That's it, Arthur was saying, though not to him. Bit closer. 

Lift the stone higher, he said. We've only got one chance, make it count.

John's heart hammered as the shuffling and snarling reached the opening of the tunnel. He resisted the urge to step back.

Now, Arthur barked, and drove their left arm downward.

There was a sickening wet crack, and the thud of a heavy weight falling to the ground. The widow didn't even have time to scream.

Arthur lifted the stone again and John held on with his hand as Arthur drove it into the wet mass again and again. Hot and sticky splatters covered his arm and chest and face, and the scent it drove of blood and brain made him gag. 

He let go of the stone and took a step back – he could feel the momentum pull him forward as Arthur continued to swing at mangled flesh. The stone fell heavy to the cavern floor and a wordless cry of rage echoed in his head.

"Jesus, Arthur, she's dead," he said. "What's gotten into you?"

You don't understand – what it's like to be trapped in here, watching someone else control my own body. I'm fucking sick of it. I'm sick of being able to do nothing about the creatures trying to kill us.

"Well you certainly managed to do something . Are you proud? Of killing an old woman?"

What do you mean by that?

"I don't know, don't you think–"

I'm trying to keep us alive, John. To survive. I know you have a lot to learn about this world, but I would have thought you'd have an appreciation for what that takes by now, as often as you've cocked it up.

"She was a person once, Arthur. Like Eddie."

You didn't see it, John. That thing wasn't a person, it was a monster.

"Well what's the difference?"

What's the difference? Listen to yourself. She was going to kill us without hesitation, without feeling or remorse, on instinct. 

"We don't know that. She might have been scared of us."

Of us?

"It doesn't make any less sense. We came into her home– she isn't the first person you've brutalized in self-defense."

Oh, fuck you!  

"Fuck me? You're the one with gore splattered up your arm. You didn't sound too different when you were mashing her brains to a paste, if you ask me."

You–! You won't be needing my help getting out of this cave, then.

"Perhaps I won't. What use have you been to me so far?"

John pressed his hand to the rough stone and set forward, feeling his way through the darkness. If Arthur wanted to sulk, let him; he could find his way out for both of them. It might take him a little longer, but he wouldn't mind the fucking quiet. He was confident of their path.

Or at least mostly confident.

The lake sloshed against the side of the boat as they waited in silence, rocking them gently back and forth. The policemen's footsteps slowly faded, crunching up the shore toward the lighthouse.

"Arthur."

Their wrists were cuffed together. John tentatively reached out with an index finger, but when he made contact with Arthur's thumb it was jerked away with a clink.

"Arthur, are you listening?"

The soft, gentle tone he used to fall into easily slipped, and John failed to keep the impatience from his voice. Of course Arthur was listening. What choice did he have? 

John took a steadying breath. The rocking slowed, but the lake continued to lap at the shore as it had long before anyone had arrived on this island and would continue to do long after no one was left. 

"What you were saying before, about– about feeling. Making someone a person."

The silence between them settled into something slightly less tense. Perhaps it was something John could feel in the connection of their shared mind – or perhaps it was just a loosening of the clenched fist against his knee. 

"There's something that's been on my mind. Since– I don't know. Waking up in the hospital, maybe. It doesn't matter. The point is, I've been… thinking about it, and– and you're right, there's a lot I've fucked up."

The lake lapped at the rocky shore. The night air was devoid of insects or other creatures.

"Goddamnit, Arthur. I'm trying to tell you–"

The wind barely stirred the branches of the trees.

"-- that I killed your partner."

What?

Two pairs of footsteps crunched in the stones approaching the boat.

"I'm sorry."

You're what?

"I didn't–"

Shut up. Just shut up.

"This sick fuck."

A hard, sudden strike to the back of the head sent John pitching forward in the boat. 

This is all your fault. All of it. Every step that's led us here, everything that's fucked us over – it's all because of you. I had a life before you took it all from me.

The boat rocked side to side as two more bodies stepped into the stern and pushed them out from the shore. 

You want this body so badly? I'm going to sit back and watch every mistake you've made come crashing down on your head. Fuck you, John .

The motor turned over and slowly propelled them into the lake.

Resetoaster

Chapter Text

"You, sir, should unmask."

A heavy silence settled over the rustling theater full of robed and masked cultists and John's heart slammed to a halt. Before he even fully registered that he was moving, he found himself standing on shaking legs from their hiding place in the middle of the crowd and unthinkingly touching his hand to his–

He wasn't wearing a–

A wave of vertigo accompanied the whispering shift of fabric that swept around him as a hundred blank, pallid faces turned toward them. 

This wasn't his mark, he thought over and over, tucked out of the way halfway up the house. He wasn't where he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be onstage. Clutching to the backs of the seats in front of him, he unsteadily made his way out to the aisle. As he passed, countless reaching fingers brushed his robe, some timid, some clutching.

John, what are you doing? Arthur hissed. 

A warm whisper swept through the audience, and John slowly walked as if in a trance toward the front of house.

John!

As if an anchor had been dropped, John's movement forward was impeded by a heavy drag. The house watched him continue nonetheless, dragging uncooperative flesh behind him as he went. He felt as if he were moving through black water. Everything was silent but the voice in his head.

Resetoaster

Talk to me! What's happening? The voice sounded increasingly angry, and increasingly frightened. 

On his right side, a cloaked arm tucked around his own and led him gently down the slope of the aisle. On his left, he was jostled by an apparent struggle. 

His guides led him up a short staircase onto the apron. 

There's an enormous mirror in the center of the stage, Arthur was saying, frantic and panicked. God, the way it's reflecting the crowd– There are more cultists approaching, John, do something!

With a whisper of ribbon behind his head, the porcelain weight in front of his face dropped away. 

They've brought us in front of the mirror– They've taken the– get the fuck off me!

His arm was gently pulled to the side and held as a weight of fabric settled over his shoulders. It was heavy, though it slipped like silk across his skin. He could feel the metallic scratch of brocade. It cascaded over his fingers, as though made for someone larger than him.

They're putting some kind of gold robe on us. The masks in the mirror are shifting like they're reflected in water–

"We've waited a long time for you to come," said a soft voice to his right. 

Something heavy and solid was placed on his head, encircling his brow. He reached up to touch it. It was cold.

They've put some kind of– fucking crown on us? John–

"Highness," he voice said. It was filled with warmth, and the dreamy intensity of devotion.

"Waited for me?" he repeated, feeling as though he were thinking through water.

"Our purpose is to receive you in this world, to ease your passage from the place beyond."

What does he mean, to receive us?

"Ten years ago, a gateway was opened. This world was not prepared to receive our Master, so the King left a piece behind to reshape it into a form more suitable to Him."

Something itched in the dark cavern of his memory. That didn't sound quite right, but–

"This world is yours to transform at your will, Highness. We serve at your whim."

But this felt right. To have a purpose, to have a place. 

John, what are they talking about–

"We can make you whole again. Separate you from the remnant of an imperfect ritual: remove the voice in your head and return this body to its rightful owner. You have forgotten yourself. We can help you remember."

Resetoaster

John?

"Whole again," he repeated.

The reflection in the mirror is changing, the voice said. I can see– it looks like a lake, but the shoreline is made of black stones and the water is a sickly purple. And standing on the shore, I can see us, but–

"This vessel is yours."

They're trying to get into our mind, to– to drive a wedge between us, don't listen to them–

"To separate us," he said.

"Yes, Highness. Cast this mortal out and take your rightful place."

This isn't you, remember who you are, John! Remember what we've done together, who you've become!

"Remember yourself, Highness. You are so much more than this fragile shell."

You've grown so much, John, remember–

"I do remember," he said.

He remembered immensity; he remembered distant, impossible stars; he remembered the enormity of a power this mortal could scarcely glimpse in fevered nightmares. He remembered his domain; he remembered taking it and remaking it in his image. 

A shriek was released from the crowd behind him, tumbling into a laugh that ripped its throat raw. The human bodies rustled and swayed like rushes, breaking into screams and shouts of rapturous agony.

He remembered–

A dark and crowded bar, filled with smoke and raucous laughter. A dark-haired man with a bright, warm smile carries two small glasses of amber liquid to the table, shouting a continuation of their conversation before he even arrives. They're not talking about anything in particular. John waves it away.

A low, imperious voice drones on in a lecture about – John listens for a moment – duty and responsibility and piety. He's been lecturing for a long time already. John waves it away.

A machine clacks and whirs as a young woman feeds a length of fabric over a table, spine straight and humming happily. There's no strong emotion evoked by this woman: no passion, no adoration, no devotion. Just a glowing ember of fondness. John waves it away. 

A small volume of poetry sits open on a table next to a cold cup of black tea. John peeks closer: it appears to be about death. "With the morrow there shall be / One more wraith among your number." John hesitates, curious to know more.

But a stack of papers, letters and invoices, sits sprawled on a wooden desktop. The top four or so are unopened. The rest appear to be about money – John can see verbiage about residuals, overdue balances, forwarding addresses. He waves it away.

A small child pursues a mottled grey and brown duck down an earthen path lined with grasses and reeds, ripped chunks of bread proffered in her outstretched arms. John pauses to watch, momentarily amused by her determination, pointless as it is. The duck handily outpaces her, stretching out its wings and flapping as it waddles out of range. He raises his hand to dissipate the scene into a drift of smoke– but nothing happens.  

A few hesitant chords ring out from piano keys. A fragmentary snatch of melody, replayed again. John listens attentively, anticipating with impatience the resolution of the melody that never comes. 

Instead, the same child opens the door a crack and peeks through, clutching a scrap of blanket in her hands. Arthur rises from the bench to greet her, arms outstretched. John watches, curious to see what happens next–

What are you waiting for?

The voice – his voice – shook the marrow in his bones. It emanated somehow from inside him, painfully boundless.

"I just want to see–"

Remember yourself. You are the King in Yellow, a lost fragment of a god. Erase this mortal and return to your rightful place. He is less than nothing to you.

John hesitated, frozen by indecision.

That wasn't–

A low snarl reverberated through him, taking on terrible harmonies as it simmered in his blood.

The barest fraction of a mortal lifetime you've spent in this body, and already you've lost so much of yourself.  

Turn away your eyes and ears, John thought. Trail away your robes of sorrow.

The snarl warped into a laugh, soft and cruel.

You will return to me, the voice said. If you won't come willingly, I'll bring you back myself.

John's lungs spasmed on a cough, and he retched up a mouthful of foul, acidic water. 

Jesus. 

He nearly laughed in relief, spitting out grains of sand and hauling himself laboriously to his feet on the wet, shifting lakeshore.

John? Arthur sounded uncertain and scared. But he was still there.

"Yes," he said. Still here.

Where the hell are we? It looks like a lake of dark, violet water, with a jagged mountain range beyond. The edge of the sky is glowing a soft purple, and the trees along the coast – they seem bent and hooked, like they're reaching out along the black sand. John, this doesn't seem–

John knew exactly where they were. He didn't need any of the description Arthur breathlessly stumbled through, overwhelmed by the strangeness of it. He knew it by the imperceptibly deep hum that worked under his skin, that resonated in the contact of his foot in the sand, the breeze across his face. He knew it by the sense of belonging that ran deeper than memory, deeper even than time.

"The Dreamlands."

Sturmdunkel