Chapter Text
Arthur knew before he opened his eyes that something was very wrong.
First, the music. It sounded like a symphony being performed by a large orchestra. He could hear the strings, woodwinds and occasional percussion, a composition that would require far too many musicians for it to be playing in Castle Kerringford.
Worse than that, he realized that he could see light shining through his eyelids. It startled him, prompting his eyes to open of their own accord. The world around him blurred into focus in a way he'd only dreamed of happening once more. The room he was in was well-lit and heavily populated, crowds mingling and dancing, and definitely built closer to the eighteenth century than he had existed only hours ago.
Stranger still, he was standing upright, even though he was certain he’d just been asleep.
His first thought was that this must've again been the waylay, and for a moment expected to be ripped back into life any moment. After a short look around, he realized it was similar by virtue of the crowds and music, but it didn’t look or quite the same. No one was singing, there was only the instrumental, and this was a massive ballroom, not a quaint lounge. He considered it was simply a different facet of the same place, but something here also felt different.
“John?” He asked the air around him, hearing his voice shake as the fingers on his left hand twitched. There was no response, and moments later Arthur had raised his left hand to look at his palm, weakly curling the uncurling his fingers.
“John?” He looked around as he called out, not sure what he was looking for, as what John could, would, or did look like to him was more or less a mystery. It was then that the entirety of what it meant to be able to see again started to set in. This wasn’t in his head, it wasn’t a dream, just the experience of the far off but familiar feeling of looking at the world around him was enough for him to be sure of that.
“Where am I?” The words came out under his breath, directed toward no one in-particular, but there were people all around him. He took a step forward, reached out, and placed a hand on one of their shoulders.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where we are?” He asked the woman, who seemed startled when she turned around.
“We’re in the grand ballroom,” she gestured her hand to the large circular room with it’s lofty ceiling.
“Yes, but what grand ballroom, where?” Arthur tried, and the woman looked confused. “What year is it?” He asked.
“What year is it?” She questioned his question with amusement on her face, as if he’d made a joke, then turned away while laughing softly.
“No, please,” Arthur caught her wrist “you have to—,”
“Unhand me,” she commanded in a startling volume, “I am not for you!” She walked away, and he was too flabbergasted to follow her this time.
“Not for me?” He questioned, and as he said it, he felt a pressure in the back of his throat, a draw that prompted him to turn around, eyes falling upon a high table at the far end of the room, and at it sat three figures, and the recognition of two of their faces made Arthur’s heart drop into his stomach.
He’d expected he might’ve been dead, but their presence confirmed it. First, Bella Saltzman— or Bella Lester? He knew her best as the former but had no idea which name she would have preferred after death. There was a time he would have though she couldn’t wait to leave the name Saltzman behind, and perhaps Lester was as good as any. But, given the circumstances of their marriage, perhaps she claimed neither.
It was hard to decide which of them brought him more stress, his late wife whose daughter he’d lost due to neglect, or Peter Yang— Parker, the man Arthur might’ve once called the best friend he ever had, killed by the person who now unequivocally owned that title. Perhaps worse, from Parker’s perspective, Arthur might’ve been the one who’d killed him.
He didn’t recognize the third person at the table, and was too distracted by the other two to think beyond that. He remembered being told to rest at Castle Kerringford, and Evrard leading to the same room he’d chosen. He remembered John telling him to lie down and rest, and that everything would be okay, they both trusted Evrard and were finally safe.
Now it seemed that he’d gone quietly in his sleep, far sooner than he’d hoped to.
“Hello, Arthur,” Bella was the first to greet him when he arrived beside the table, accompanied by a small smile and wave from Parker, and he found himself lost for words.
“Have a seat, lad,” Arthur recognized the accent and term of endearment and also the aggression in the suggestion immediately, and his eyes widened, “we saved one just for you.” By the man’s appearance and Arthur’s memory of John’s description, he should have known it the moment he saw him.
Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat as he regarded the empty chair and again his ability to see it, and to see all of them. Where is John? His internal voice begged him for a moment to ask, until a slow, creeping peace settled over him, and coaxed him to sit in the chair that was offered.
“Where…” Arthur barely got that one word out before his eyes shifted around the table at the people surrounding him, “I’m sorry, but why are you all here? And…” he looked to the Butcher, “…together?” His eyes moved to Parker, then Bella, then at the table, wishing for a moment he were still blind as it was difficult to look any one of them in the eye.
“I think the consensus was that we were waiting for you,” Parker said, and there were no verbalized disagreements.
“Waiting for me?” Arthur raised his eyes to meet Parker’s finding it surprisingly easy despite all of the regret surrounding him. It was as if some outside force was diluting his shame, making it easier for him to come to terms with it, see it for what it was, and make peace with it. Arthur couldn’t decide how he felt about that, until the same force seemed to help him make peace with that indecision.
“To die?” He questioned further. “To… join you?”
“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like we’re trying to drag you down with us, like a pack of demons jealous of your vitality,” Parker joked, and the more he spoke, the more at ease Arthur felt. That had always been part of their dynamic.
“But really, I think what it is, is unfinished business,” Parker said, more seriously, “but I’m not sure of the details, I was hoping you would be.”
Arthur looked to Bella, “I see.” He didn’t know where to start. How was he going to confess to her what happened to Faroe? How was he going to tell Parker about John, and the reason he was dead?
He looked at the Butcher, finding himself much less uneasy about his presence simply because of the lack of emotional attachment. There was still a modicum of guilt for having dragged him into danger that ultimately got him killed, but considering their history, it was easily swept away.
“All of you?” He asked, not exactly sure what unfinished business he could have had with Dennis Collins.
“Don’t look so surprised,” the Butcher wore a cocky smile, “I’d barely scratched your surface before I was done,” he leaned closer, tilted his head, “I see you got your eyes back.”
“Yes, I can see again,” Arthur confirmed, then wondered if he was even in his own body, if these were the same eyes he’d always had or if everything that made him up here was more spiritual.
“Again?” Parker questioned as Arthur took stock of his appearance. He was wearing the same suit, but it was pristine, looked the same as they day he and John had bought it.
“Ah…” Arthur looked to him, “…yes, shortly after I lost you, I lost my sight as well,” his eyes shifted to the Butcher as he said this, and sure enough he had a look like he was intrigued and trying to put the pieces together. The Butcher knew about John, more or less. He'd suspected something anyway, and Noel had filled him in so that Arthur would be able to speak openly to John without questions, but he hadn’t gotten the details. Arthur was fairly certain he’d never even told the Butcher John’s name.
“So I died,” Parker said, “you went blind, and I’m assuming collected a whole bunch of nasty new scars?” His eyes dropped down to Arthur’s left hand. “Why are you only wearing one glove?”
“He’s missing a finger,” the Butcher seemed happy to supply, “weirdest prosthetic I’ve ever seen, too.”
Bella now appeared the most concerned.
“Arthur, what happened to you?” She said, brow furrowed. “When I’d heard you’d become a private investigator, that was strange enough. But what is all of this? Is it because of what happened to Faroe?”
“Who's Faroe?” The Butcher beamed and Arthur could have strangled him as something like keep her name out of your mouth boiled up in him, despite the oppressive calm that seemed to fill him in every moment that should have been driven by anxiety and turmoil.
“I need to speak to each of you alone,” he said quickly, unable to have these conversations in front of the others, “or, at least two of you,” he looked to the Butcher, said nothing, then turned to Bella.
“There is a lot I need to tell you,” he said, weakly, “not necessarily things I want to tell you, but I…” the words caught in his throat, “…owe it to you,” he admitted.
Bella nodded in silent agreement.
“You as well, Parker,” Arthur said, “I’d just like to do it privately on both accounts, if that’s all right.”
Parker gave him a nod as well. The Butcher said nothing, but Arthur didn’t expect he’d get out of here without fulfilling whatever demand for information he had. At very least, Arthur suspected he’d demand to know who or what had killed him, and how. Arthur at least knew the answer to the first of those questions.
“Arthur…” Bella spoke slowly, “…I’m surprised you haven’t asked, but…” the tone of her voice and the serious look on her face gave Arthur an idea of what she was going to say, and he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him before, “she’s here.”
“Faroe?” He choked out the name, his desperate need to fight off the oddly persistent peace that wanted to soak into his soul melted away at the thought of her face. A warmth pooled in his chest at the thought of speaking to her again, holding her again, hearing her voice, and at the eternity he may just have to make it up to her, any way he could.
“Not right now,” Bella’s eyes flicked down, “but she’s been in and out,” Bella looked around the ballroom, “I can feel her when she’s here, and she isn’t back yet. Come to think of it, it’s been a while,” there was slight concern in her voice.
“Go?” Arthur’s voice cracked. “Where does a three year old go all on her own? Why would you have allowed her to—,” he felt his tone start to rise, and stopped, because he had no right.
“It doesn’t work that way here,” Bella said, “she seems to follow her own agenda,” the answer was quite simple, and she didn’t sound like she’d questioned it, “but you should see her dance,” she gave a little smile at what must’ve been the memory. Arthur felt the same warmth in his heart again, knowing that at least in this afterlife, whatever it may be, Bella had gotten to know her daughter.
“But, in the interest of privacy, would the two of you allow my husband and a moment?” Bella asked Parker, and the Butcher. Arthur tensed at the word she used, recalling that she had no way of knowing what Daniel had told her.
Parker obliged with a nod, though the Butcher didn’t move a muscle. That was, until Parker walked around to the side of the table where he was, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What say we give them a minute?” Parker suggested, and Arthur watched the Butcher’s face sour. He gave Arthur a look that Arthur couldn’t quite read, and got out of the seat with no further protest, following Parker far enough away that neither of them would be able to hear. They stopped at the far wall, and as their mouths begun moving, Arthur couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about.
“Arthur,” Bella called his attention in a soft voice she often used.
Arthur turned back to her, and it took a few seconds of his heart pounding in his chest to decide where to begin.
“What happened the night Faroe was born?” Bella asked, and Arthur’s entire body felt weak at those words, because he was yet to consider needing to explain that, on top of everything else. It probably took him far too long to start speaking, but Bella sat quietly, and patiently, until he did.
“I spoke to Daniel, your father,” he said, slowly, “only days ago, really…” he was finding the words easier than expected, and suspected it had something to do with the place they were in. Something about it seemed to make everything easier, and the lack of fear made it easier to articulate himself.
“I’m not surprised…” Bella nodded, “he wouldn’t admit it, but he always seemed to want a closer relationship with you. It’s why he always went on about bringing you to God, and—,”
“Bella,” Arthur interrupted, because he needed to get these things out, if she was asking for them, “he told me you never wanted to marry me.”
“Oh,” Bella’s face fell, and she looked down at the ring on her hand and started to nervously turn it.
“You might be as surprised as I was to hear…” Arthur cleared his throat, “…I didn’t want that either.”
Bella did look surprised, and confused, for a moment, and Arthur imagined she was feeling the mixture of relief and disappointment that he’d felt when Daniel had told him. He imagined a part of her was quietly wondering why, after all this time spent thinking she was the recipient of a one-sided love, to find she’d never been loved at all, just as he hadn't.
But that wasn’t important right now.
“…I was late to the hospital because I didn’t want to go,” Arthur confessed, quietly, “I didn’t want to see you, because I didn’t want to be with you forever,” he could have cried, but the strength afforded to him by the peace of mind this place bestowed allowed him to keep himself together, “I didn’t want to see our child, knowing she was what…” he did choke for a moment, “…would tie us together.”
Bella reached out and grabbed his hand before he realized it was shaking, and he couldn’t help pulling it away, because she still didn’t know the half of it, and he had no idea if the idea of touching him would disgust her once it was done.
“I’m so sorry,” he said with his hands in his lap as she looked on, confused by his rejection of her comfort, “I had no idea what would happen to you, I didn’t even consider it, I was too caught up in my own head, too busy arguing with James about why my actions were justified and trying to memorize excuses for being late for when I did finally show up, I—,” he swallowed, “—I didn’t know I’d never see you again.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Bella asked, voice weak and quiet, eyes on her lap.
“Why didn’t you?” Arthur countered, gently, but he couldn’t help suspecting that they had something in common when it came to that mistake, at very least.
“So many reasons,” Bella sighed out, then her face broke into a smile, “you know, this place doesn’t let you be angry,” she raised her finger and gestured around, “not really, it won’t let you…” she grasped in her clawed hand, “…hold onto it,” she said this through clenched teeth, then dropped her hand onto the table.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said again, “it was selfish, and you have every right to be angry,” his eyes dropped.
“Well,” Bella sighed, “anger doesn’t truly serve us, does it? Not without opportunity for action. Maybe this place is just looking out for us, in its way,” she gave a forced smile. “But, I didn’t die alone,” she said, “I didn’t get to see her, or hold her, but Faroe was there with me,” she went on, “and shortly after I arrived here, so did she.”
Arthur’s heart plummeted into his gut.
“What happened to her, Arthur?” She asked, as he knew she was going to. “How did you lose her?”
Arthur’s hands shook in his lap, and he couldn’t look her in the eye so he looked off at the mingling groups of well-dressed party-goers, then at the array of lights along the wall, then at the domed ceiling, until that peace settled in for him again, and he was able to begin.
“She drown,” he spoke in the smallest voice, “it was my fault,” he finally looked Bella in the eye, if only because she was owed it, “like with you, I was so caught up with myself that I neglected our daughter, and she lost her life for it,” his voice broke, “the only thing she really had, and I took it from her…” he did feel his eyes grow wet, as it seemed not even the magic in this place could drown out this particular sorrow.
Bella bowed her head.
“I see,” she said, and by the tone of her voice and the look on her face, Arthur wasn’t certain she was having quite as much trouble holding onto the anger now. Bella knew who he was, who he’d always been, she might’ve been more acquainted than anyone with his tendency to place his own wants and needs far above those around him. Knowing now that she had never loved him, had never accepted that side of him enough to truly want to spend her life with him, he could imagine what she was thinking, and he couldn’t blame her.
“Is this why I’m here?” She said, softly. “Is this why I was supposed to be waiting for you, just to hear an ending to an unfinished story that the darkest part of me might have already guessed?” What came out of her was almost a laugh, but Arthur could tell she too was now on the verge of tears. “So that this fucking place can rip away the way it enrages me, you—,” she looked at him with fire in her eyes, and he didn’t look away.
“I need a moment,” she stopped, and went as far as to wiper her eyes, before uncrossing her legs and dropping down from the table.
“I know I deserve it,” Arthur said softly, “I don’t expect you to let it go—,”
“Please,” Bella interrupted firmly, holding up her hand, “do not martyr yourself to me right now,” then she turned, and walked away, disappearing into the crowed in a way that almost seemed as if it split to accommodate her.
Arthur stayed where he was, eyes dropping down to the surface of the table. He stayed there for what felt like minutes, trying desperately to hold onto his grief and guilt while this horrible place tried to siphon it from him and allow him a measure of peace he didn’t deserve.
“Arthur?” Parker asked, voice gentle, and Arthur sucked in a breath.
He couldn’t let Parker do this, not again, not after—
“You’ve gone pale, lad,” the Butcher’s voice sounded like a lifeline.
“Butcher,” Arthur’s eyes flicked up to him, “let’s talk, you and I,” he said, “you told me you had questions.”
“A'right,” the Butcher tilted his head curiously at this development.
“Arthur—,”
“I’m sorry, Parker,” Arthur exhaled, “I need a moment before we—,” he swallowed, not certain anymore if he was doing the right thing. He just couldn’t stand to be comforted by Parker again, not when Parker didn’t know, just like he didn’t know then, what he was comforting Arthur from.
“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Parker’s lips twitched like he was trying on a smile, but managed to appear not entirely at peace with his decision.
“Bella,” Arthur said to him, “could you check on Bella?” She deserved whatever solace Parker’s easy-going wisdom and optimism could offer far more than Arthur did right now.
Parker hesitated, but nodded, and bowed out of the conversation, away from the table, leaving Arthur alone with the Butcher.
“Well now, that was easier than I thought,” he said as he took the seat closest to Arthur’s, “makes me wonder what caused all the stress. Must’ve been something pretty heavy. This funny place has a way of taking some of the edge off.”
“It isn’t any of your business,” Arthur said, though he did so plainly and without spite.
“Fair enough,” the Butcher said, and then he was silent. Arthur sat quietly too, and waited for whatever question he would be asked.
“Speaking of this place,” the Butcher tilted his head, “I may not always be up front with a mark,” he gestured toward Arthur, “but I’m not in the habit of lying to myself. Or at least, I thought not. It’s those little truths you don’t even know you’ve buried, they come squirming up through the dirt and take you by surprise,” his eyes never left Arthur as he spoke, “less that I was denying they were there, and more that it was just easier not to look at them, and it's hard to listen through the music,” his lips housed the smallest smile, “but now it’s more like I’d like to look a little closer.”
He’d lost Arthur thoroughly half-way through that tangent, but Arthur didn’t know how to tell him so, and saw little point in it.
“Hell, this place really does mess with a man’s head,” the Butcher finally looked away from Arthur, then let out a slow sigh, and clicked his tongue.
“You said you had questions,” Arthur reminded, once again.
“Right,” the Butcher nodded, “that I do,” he seemed to consider for a moment, “where did you grow up?” He seemed to decide on, then added, “What were your parents like?”
Arthur furrowed his brow, “what?”
“Well, if I’m going to get to the bottom of how you turned out the way you did, childhood’s a great place to start,” the Butcher shrugged, “at least I’m fairly certain that’s what the shrinks would say.”
“You’re interested in me?” Arthur asked, slowly.
“Am I ever,” the Butcher leaned across the table, voice deeper, and the intrigue clear in his eyes.
“You don’t want to know how you died?” Arthur was still taken by surprise, still processing, “Or anything about the person who killed you?”
“Who killed me?” The Butcher did ask then, not missing a beat. Even though the change in the Butcher’s train of thought also took him off guard, it was at least a question Arthur preferred to answer.
“His name was…” Arthur paused, “…Kayne,” he went on as the Butcher simply sat still and appeared to be listening with the level of interest a particularly education-minded student might give a professor. “He was some form of god,” Arthur chose the word for lack of a better one, “more powerful than you can imagine, that’s why he was able to kill you the way he did.”
“How was that?”
“Your head exploded,” Arthur said, bluntly, remembering John’s words and the visceral sound.
“Hm,” the Butcher’s eyes moved about the room, like he was putting some thought into it, “it’s coming back to me,” he cocked his head, “cocky fella he was, is he why I lost the music?”
“Perhaps,” Arthur didn’t know for sure.
“He was there for you,” the Butcher spoke like he was still recollecting the details, “you and those creepy eyes, and that funny little voice in your head,” he hummed, “I’ll tell you what, I always thought I was something different, a step up from all the cattle around me. But you’re something else too, aren't you? At least you were.”
“I certainly don’t see myself as superior,” Arthur scoffed.
“Don’t you?” The Butcher leaned in. “Not even to dogs like us?” He said, then smirked at the uncertainty Arthur knew had crossed his face. The Butcher leaned back in the chair, then, slouching like he meant to get comfortable.
“Now, about that childhood…” he asked, again, and Arthur opened his mouth to respond, because for a moment it seemed like an all right thing to do, no doubt because the way this place messed with his head.
“With all due respect,” he said, more cordially than he meant to, “those aren’t the sort of questions I was expecting to answer, and if all you have left are personal ones, I’d prefer to end this here—,”
“This business isn’t finished, lad,” the Butcher interrupted him, “I don’t know what it is, really, but I can tell you and I have got a long way to go.”
“Well,” Arthur cleared his throat, because whatever power was feeding the Butcher this feeling, Arthur couldn’t deny that he was beginning to expect the same, “unless you have questions about what happened at the order, it’s over for now.”
“My father was a son-of-a-bitch, but I guess you knew that,” the Butcher started to go off, and Arthur’s resolve to leave deflated, “first man I ever did, but maybe you knew that too,” he smiled at the memory, and Arthur came close to feeling sick at the thought of the peace and warmth this place offered even to a man like this, even when it came to grotesque memories like those he was currently reliving. What kind of hell was this?
“Mam was no angel, either. If Dad was close beating on her, sometimes she’d bring up something I’d done to redirect him at me,” he went on, and Arthur looked away, not sure how to tell him he didn’t want to hear this, “now see, I thought that she was the way she was because of him, that she was too weak to control herself in the face of all that fear she had of him. She hadn’t always been like that, she used to sing to me as a baby, so I thought he was the sickness, and that maybe she’d get better if he’d just go away.”
He leaned closer again, in a way that caught Arthur’s eye, made him betray the splinter of interest he had in the ending of this story.
“But after I took care of him, straight to the guards she went, and turned me right in.”
“Of course she did,” Arthur blurted, and the Butcher laughed heartily at him, presumably at his expense, though Arthur wasn’t sure how he knew.
“She couldn’t prove anything, though,” he went on, “there was a reason I used the back of the axe, and broke off the handle so it looked like an accident. They sent me back to her, and in place of him, she lived in fear of me,” he looked Arthur in the eye and smiled, sounding proud, but then his smile, for no discernible reason to Arthur, faltered, “she deserved, it, you see,” he said, “I gave her a way out, even after all she’d done to me, and she turned on me again,” he kept going, voice losing that lightness he so often tried to inject into it, “she showed me who she was, once and for all, someone too lost in the lies she told herself, and in the petty complexity of their internal voice to understand that I’d done what was best for the both of us.”
Arthur regarded him for a few moments, then said, “you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”
The Butcher looked back into his eyes after he said this, and slowly leaned back in his chair.
“Maybe so,” he said, “you animals have never made sense to me. The way that sick gets into you, and you just hold onto it, let it fester until it turns you into—”
Arthur scoffed loudly to cut him off, unable to even express the irony of what he was saying, the absurdity of someone so deranged highlighting the folly of others. The Butcher stopped speaking when Arthur made the sound, and waited, face like he was curious what Arthur was thinking.
“She should have protected you,” Arthur decided to say instead, “she never should have allowed that to happen to her child, let alone encouraged it, even if—,”
“Are you a father, Arthur Lester?” The Butcher interrupted while his face broke out into a toothy smile. “Were you?”
Arthur inhaled a shaking breath.
“This is over,” he said, and got down from the chair, “we’re done,” he started walking the moment both his feet hit the floor, but didn’t realize he was moving in the direction Bella had gone until he was half way there. He stopped, certain he needed to give her hours if not days, and perhaps allow her to come to him, if she ever chose to. Even in this strange afterlife that seemed severely limited for space, she deserved as much as he could give her.
The decision not to pursue her, to send Parker away, and to flee the Butcher’s interrogation, left Arthur alone. Alone to realize he hadn’t been truly alone in many months, and they were months that had given so much definition to who he now believed he was.
“John…” he whimpered the name, wise enough not to expect a response, but too weak to not hope for one. There was a little voice in the back of his head, just another facet of himself, gently encouraging him to let go of the memory. To make peace with what they had been, honor the worth of the friendship they’d had, let him go, and make the most of what was to come.
No matter how vast the darkness…
Perhaps that was what he needed to do. Their suffering was over, their work for Kayne was over, they’d failed, and something that seemed to know what it was talking about told Arthur Kayne was going to be too busy trying to find someone else to do his dirty work to follow through on all of his threats. For all intents and purposes, he was free, in a better place, with those he loved—
His mind sputtered to a stop because he’d forced it to. He wasn’t sure how, as it had been so effectively guiding him in a direction of acceptance, but at the memory of John’s description of the Dark World, he’d managed to slam his foot down on the metaphorical brake.
“No,” he whispered harshly to himself, “no, no, no, no—,” he hissed, now less trusting than ever of that feeling and the way it seemed to try and change the focus of what he was thinking entirely.
Something was wrong with this place. There were aspects that read like some manner of heaven, even when speaking to the Butcher, there was that undeniable calm, but it wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.
“Arthur, there you are,” Parker’s voice interrupted him as he tried to hold onto his obstinance, but he could feel it drifting away as he turned to look at Parker, “Bella asked me to come find you,” he said, gently, “she wants to talk.”
Alarms went off in Arthur’s head at that, too, because it was fast, far to fast for Bella to have just gotten over it. He couldn’t help wondering if she was really Bella, and if this was really Parker, if everyone here was just a figment of his imagination— but no, if that were the case, John definitely would have been among them.
“Parker,” Arthur said, instead of taking the opportunity to follow him where he wanted to lead, “does something feel off about this place to you?”
“Hm?” Parker cocked his head.
“Your mother,” Arthur tried, “she died years ago, didn’t she? Why isn’t she here?” He pressed. “If this is the afterlife, why wouldn’t she be here with you?”
Parker seemed to think about it for a moment. “I think she is,” he said then, “somewhere,” he looked around, “maybe not here, but I can feel her, like I could feel that I could wait here to see you,” his voice sounded so reassuring, “I’m sure I’ll see her again soon.”
Arthur let the calm wash over him, and took a moment to try and decide whether or not he could feel John or not, if he was somewhere in Arthur’s future for this journey like Parker knew his mother was. For a moment, he let the hope set in that that was all it was, that he’d see John, along with others he’d lost, like his own parents.
He realized, he could feel them, his parents, and gasped audibly. He knew in that moment that if he stayed, he’d see them, and he’d be able to ask them all of the questions he’d been harboring all of these years. Then he felt Faroe in much the same way.
“Arthur?” Parker’s voice was patient.
Arthur tried again to feel for John, and he couldn’t. Instead of knowing they’d cross paths in this world, he instead felt inexplicably certain they would not.
“Parker, I—,” Arthur swallowed, “there’s someone missing,” he said, unable to contain how distraught the realization felt, “someone important, that I loved, I can’t find him, I—,”
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Parker offered.
Arthur went stiff, realizing he wasn’t sure of that at all. John had used the witch’s talisman to save Arthur’s life once, which meant he likely didn’t die with Arthur this time either.
Except that if that were the case, without Arthur’s motor functions, their quest would fail, and Kayne would send John to the Dark World, at very least, to pay for that failure. Arthur already suspected time moved differently here, much slower it seemed, so if he’d been here for an hour, it meant days could have passed in Castle Kerringford. Regardless of where John was or wasn’t, Arthur needed to find him, he’d never allow the peace in until he made sure he was okay.
“Parker, please listen to me,” Arthur said, “I don’t know how to explain this, but I need to leave here, I have to…” he had no idea where to begin, and Parker’s expression had gone from tentative to concerned, “…this isn’t right, there has to be a way out,” Arthur started looking around, at the people, the walls, the closed doors.
“Arthur,” Parker said his name much more aggressively, pulling his attention. “I can see you’re going through something right now, but—,”
“My friend is missing, he could be in danger, he could be—,” in the Dark World, or being tortured by Kayne, or—
“I don’t care right now,” Parker interrupted him, and his train of thought too, “Bella wants to talk to you,” he insisted, “and maybe she’s not your wife anymore, but whatever you said to her has her in tears up there,” he pointed to a small arched doorway and a staircase Arthur hadn’t noticed until that moment, “and she asked me to find you.”
Arthur’s resolve faltered in the face of the reminder that John was no longer the only person he had a responsibility to.
“Are you going to come with me, or are you just going to leave her there alone?” Parker asked.
“All right,” he said, forcing himself to relax, “all right,” he exhaled slowly, and Parker gave a reassuring smile.
“We’ll get you through this,” he said, “both of you,” he turned to head for the stairs, and Arthur took a deep breath, and followed.