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Arthur awoke slowly, fighting through layers of grogginess and exhaustion until he finally reached consciousness. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. The splitting headache originating from the back of his head and burning through his skull made him hiss in pain. He was disorientated, only vaguely aware that he was lying on his back on the hard, wooden floor. Where had he been last?
“Arthur!” John exclaimed, relief in his voice clearly audible but underlaid with something else. Arthur could not put a name to it, too busy shaking off his dizziness and willing his thoughts to come clearly through the searing pain in his skull.
Distantly, Arthur knew that he had to get up. He could not remember where exactly they were and what they were doing, but laying around like a target for all the enemies he had made had never been a good idea. “John,” he rasped, only then realizing how dry his throat was, “where are we? What happened?” Slowly, still trying to find his bearings, Arthur raised his hand to run it through his hair.
“No!” John’s frantic yell made Arthur freeze, his hand hovering slightly above the ground. “Don’t move. Don’t move , Arthur!”
Instantly, Arthur’s heart started beating faster, his breathing growing shallow. “What is it?” he whispered sharply, “What’s going on, John? What’s happening? Where are we?”
John took a moment to answer, his hesitation making cold sweat run down Arthur’s spine. He listened closely to their surroundings, accustomed to relying on his other senses now that he could not see. There was nothing but silence. Faintly, he registered the smell of wet wood and earth, making him frown. His heart beat almost painfully hard in his chest.
“Just breathe for a moment, Arthur,” John said slowly. His words would have been calming, but for the edge of uncertainty and fear in them. Arthur knew he was hiding something, but obliged regardless. “It’s alright,” John continued, “We’re alone but— you were knocked unconscious and—” He cut off.
Arthur’s frown deepened. The pain in his head spiked and he hissed again, wanting to roll on his side and massage the aching spot in the feeble chase of some comfort. “If we’re alone, why shouldn’t I move?” he asked, growing impatient, “You need to tell me what is going on here, John!” He huffed.
Silence for a moment. Then, quietly, John answered, “You shouldn’t breathe too deeply. I don’t— I’m not sure how long—”
There was a sinking feeling in Arthur’s stomach and he swallowed thickly, fighting against the nausea rising within him. “Why?” he asked in a breath, his heart squeezing painfully in a surge of renewed panic. “John, why? What is going on here, John? I need to—”
“Calm down,” John said instead, moving his hand to grip Arthur’s, “Breathe slowly, calm down. I— Arthur, I need— I need you to remain calm!”
“If you say ‘calm’ one more time, John!” Arthur snapped.
The world was spinning around him and despite lying on his back, the feeling of falling was so strong that he jerked, trying to find purchase somewhere. John’s hand squeezed his, but it was not enough to pull him back into the present and stop the spiraling, the falling — falling, falling, falling — his mind was sure he was doing. He needed to get up, needed to brace himself against the floor, and breathe through the dizziness.
“I understand, I know,” John said placatingly, “but please, Arthur, please don’t move. I need a moment to think—”
The desperation in his voice made Arthur’s breath hitch, but he ignored it. The vertigo was overwhelming, and he was going to scream if he didn’t feel the solid ground beneath his hands. With his arm, intending to roll over, Arthur pushed himself upward.
His head hit something solid.
Arthur fell back flat on his back, blinking his unseeing eyes in shock. What was that? Was he lying under a coffee table damnit? Arthur raised his hand, trying to find the edge of the thing above him — wood — and scooted to the side. “John! What—” he began, but the words died in his throat as his right shoulder collided with what felt like a wall. His hand brushed hurriedly over the wood. There was no edge, the wood at his side was fastened to the one above him.
“John!” he said louder, the rising panic evident in his voice. Arthur reached out to the left. His hand met the same rough, cold texture of wood. “John!” he screamed in terror. There was wood above his head and another panel at his feet. “John, Jesus fucking Christ!” Arthur cried, his trembling hand roaming frantically along the panels trapping him, “John! Where are we? What— What—”
Arthur gasped, trying desperately to keep his composure. He felt faint like he was about to pass out again.
“Arthur, stop! Just breathe, Arthur. Breathe,” John sounded concerned, his hand settling itself above Arthur’s thundering heart. “Breathe, it’s alright. We’re going to be alright. Breathe.”
“Where—” Arthur tried breathlessly. He cleared his throat, taking a few steadying gulps of air before talking again. His hand was still pressed against the wood at his side, his shoulder pressed against the other as if needing to make sure the panels were not closing in on him, coming nearer to trap him utterly immobilized between them. In the calmest tone he could muster, Arthur whispered, “Where are we, John? Please, I need to know.” His voice broke halfway through, the shakiness painfully evident despite Arthur’s best efforts.
Hesitatingly, as if waging a war with himself, John answered at last. “We are,” he said slowly, “in a wooden coffin, Arthur.”
His words pierced Arthur’s heart like a knife. He could feel his body beginning to tremble. “Are we— are— are—?” Arthur stuttered, his throat closing. There was no air in the wooden coffin, none he could get into his lungs, and the pain in his chest made it feel like his heart had stopped beating.
“Yes, Arthur,” John admitted with infinite compassion, “We are buried.”
Something within Arthur broke.
“No!” he gasped, pressing against the wood entombing him, “No! John, we need to get out! We need—” Arthur choked, thrashing around in the narrow space of the coffin. It was so small that he could barely move. “I need to get out! John, I need to—” Arthur rushed out, working himself further into his panic.
He could not breathe. Buried alive. The air was stale, running out with every heaving breath he took. Before long, he would suffocate, trapped underground, surrounded by nothing but earth. Just like the prison pits. Pinned to the earth.
“John, please, I can’t,” he whimpered, pressing desperately against the wood, “I can’t— not again, please, John, please, not again. I beg you, please. ” Arthur sobbed, moving his hand to clutch John’s, still resting above his stuttering heart. “Please, John, help me. Help me! I can’t—”
“Arthur,” John said simply, in the kind, understanding tone special to him. As if Arthur’s name held the secret of the universe, as if pronouncing it was the most cherished thing for him. “Breathe for me, please. Take a deep breath now and follow my lead, alright? Just concentrate on my voice, Arthur. I’ve got you, we’ll get through this together. I— I won’t let you drown, I promise.”
John started moving his hand, tracing slow circles on Arthur’s chest. He counted, telling Arthur when to breathe in, how long to hold, when to exhale, over and over again until his erratic heaps for breath slowed and the heart under his unsteady palm felt less like it wanted to tear itself out of his chest.
“That’s it, Arthur,” he soothed, “you’re doing well. Just keep breathing, relax.”
“I—” Arthur rasped after another few breaths, “I feel light-headed. I think” — he choked, his trembling increasing again at the thought — “I think the air’s running out.”
He could hear John take a deep breath of his own. “Right,” he said, “we need to find a way out of here.”
“Agreed,” Arthur said immediately, gathering his fading strength to push against the wood above him. It did not give.
“Hit it,” John suggested, “maybe you can break the lid and then claw your way through the earth.”
The prospect sickened him, but Arthur began pounding against it anyway. With a crack that echoed loudly in his ears, the wood gave way to cold, damp earth. It trickled on his chest, and Arthur peeled away the loose pieces of wood and began shoving handfuls of earth towards his feet.
“Yes, Arthur,” John exclaimed in amazement as if Arthur had just created the universe, “very good, keep going.”
He did, but deep down Arthur knew it would be futile. The headache reverberating in his skull had intensified to a nearly incapacitating degree by his panicking and the thinning air. “I— John, I’m not—” he said, scared, even though he had managed to dig a hole large enough for him to sit up. Who knew how deep he was buried? “I’m sorry,” he said instead, still clawing at the earth. Arthur would never give up, and they either escaped this grave by sheer will or died trying!
John did not answer. “Do you hear that?” he asked instead, making Arthur slump forward against the earth to rest for a moment and listen closely to the grave’s silence.
“Hear what?” he mumbled, closing his eyes and feeling the cold dirt against his skin. If he thought about it for too long — the way it surrounded him on all sides, the way it shifted above him, burying him further, the way his legs were still inside his own goddamn coffin — he would have another panic attack, so he focused on John instead. The silence in his head made him frown despite his exhaustion. “John?” he prompted.
“It sounds like a muffled voice,” John mused. Then the realization hit him, “There is someone here, Arthur! Someone’s above us.” As if on cue, part of the earth above dislodged, raining down on them.
“Arthur?”
He could hear the voice now, too, faintly and very muffled. The hope rushing through his chest made him dizzy and he started clawing at the earth again with renewed effort. “Here!” he screamed with all the air that was left in his lungs, “I am here! Here! Help me.” Arthur’s voice broke again, the earth slipping through his fingers in his hasty attempt to make his way upward. His heart was beating hard in his chest again, but he did not hear John’s calming voice reminding him to take a deep breath through the rushing of blood in his ears. “Help me, please! Help me! I am here!”
“Arthur! I hear you. I’m coming, hold on!”
“Yes!” John yelled, “That’s it, Arthur. Keep going, it’s almost over.”
Arthur’s fingers touched something more solid than earth. He brushed it again, and the hand started gripping his own. The earth around him gave way as he was pulled upward slowly, John’s hand clutching at the stranger’s arm.
When his head broke through the earth, Arthur took a deep breath, fresh air finally flooding his lungs. He gasped, coughing for a moment. The hand pulled him up further, heaving him out of his grave until Arthur could feel the wet grass under the palms of his hands and he was finally, finally able to brace himself against the spinning of the world. He could tell which way was up again. He could move again, breathe again.
“Are you alright, my friend?” the person asked, resting a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder and it took him only a moment to place the voice.
“Oscar,” Arthur breathed, slumping against the chest of his old friend and releasing a weary sigh that seemed to come from his very core. “Thank you,” he said, winding his arms to encircle Oscar’s midsection in a loose embrace.
“We did it,” John said, his voice sounding as exhausted as Arthur felt, and relieved in equal measures, “We did it, Arthur.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said again, “for helping me.”
Oscar started to thread his hand through Arthur’s dirty hair in a comforting gesture — he was still shaking, he realized — and John’s hand squeezed his own in silent reassurance.