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It did not escape John how his vision blurred when they staggered back from the friar's slammed door, Arthur's labored wheezing only serving to sharpen his nerves. His hand flew to the wall to steady them as Arthur's raised to catch the blood he spat, their eyes burning and dry despite how his coughs made them water.
"Arthur..." he chided. Gently, softly, with pity and unmistakable concern. As Arthur bowed to the wall, locking his knees to remain upright, he absently wondered how the voice of a harsh and powerful god-king could be so delicate. He would have chuckled, if his throat hadn't been scratchy with phlegm.
"We should retire to our room," he murmured, making attempts to stand straight again, "He's...he's not going to be of any help to us, and I...John, I don't know how much longer I can..."
"Okay, it's okay," John soothed, "We can go to bed. Barricade the door, maybe."
"We can't sleep in this place, John," Arthur croaked, reaching out the the vague memory of where their door was, "Not to mention, in my state, I doubt I'd have the strength to push anything heavy enough to be a barricade."
"Here, right here," John said, continuing on as they entered, "Even so, Arthur, you need rest. Between your cough and the wounds from the witch--not even mentioning the distance and extra exertion you've spent since arriving here--you're run ragged. I can...I can feel that you're in pain."
"Langward is dead, John," Arthur reminded him, softly but stiffly.
"And we couldn't fight off whoever did it even if we tried right now, but we may have a chance if you rest," John urged, "I'm not advocating for sleeping, or even closing your eyes, but Arthur, please, at the very least sit down and take a moment to regain some of your strength."
Arthur couldn't search his mind for a proper counterpoint, his eyelids sagging at the mere mention of sitting down without being scrutanized. His hand found furnished wood.
"What is this?" He murmured.
"A high dresser. Less ornate than the one in the friar's room but still carved with calm, spiraling patters. It makes me think of the ocean."
A soft smile fell across Arthur's lips, "Is it heavy enough to block the door?"
"If it's full, most definitely. And even if not, it'd certainly slow someone down."
That gave Arthur pause. "It would, wouldn't it..."
"What is it?" John questioned softly.
"The friar's room, John, do you recall the passageway behind the mantle?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"It let out at the study," he reminded him, "That can't be the only hidden passage in this castle. If someone knew their way around--"
"You don't think there's a way into our room..." John's voice pulled taught.
"It's very possible. And I'd even venture to say highly probable."
"Th-then listen for drafts, like we did last time!"
"I..." Arthur wheezed, lowering himself into a chair by the lit hearth, sighing with relief and catching his breath before he spoke again, "John, even if we could find them all, there isn't enough furniture to barricade every single one. That, and I--" His voice grew hoarse as he broke into another coughing fit, squeezing his eyes shut and fisting his tunic in his hand to avoid grabbing at the stitches that stabbed painfully with every jerk.
"Arthur..." John murmured pitifully when he began to catch his breath, wheezing sharp air into his aching chest. John shuddered at the tremors that started up his--Arthur's--hand, cold and clammy and somehow hot at the same time. Arthur raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his pinched brow. John watched the world fuzz through his eyes.
"Arthur, you sound terrible."
"I feel terrible, John," Arthur rasped shallowly, letting his eyes fall closed. "I'm sorry, I don't think I could, I..."
"It's alright. It's okay, Arthur. I'll be your eyes."
Arthur chuckled shortly. "You are my eyes..." he mumbled, his hand lagging forward, "I'll try to keep them open for you."
"Mm," John agreed thoughtfully, delicately catching his hand.
"What if you didn't have to?" John inquired after a pause, "I could project myself, and you could get some sleep."
"Hm..." Arthur thought aloud, "I...I don't know, John. I'm already so...weak, I--"
"All the more reason for me to manifest! I can help you, Arthur, I can keep you--us--safe, even while you rest. I..." He stopped, trailing off and sighing deeply. Steadily.
"John?"
"Arthur, I....what I mean is...I want to help you. However you want me to, however I can. This hasn't been easy for either of us, but especially for you. Now that I know I can be more than just a voice, I want to make use of it. For you."
"It will weaken me," Arthur chuckled, "Moreso than I already am."
"I-I know, I know," John lamented, "I just...I've seen you die, Arthur. And every time it happened, I couldn't do anything. Even when I did project, with the witch in the tunnels, I was too late. It meant nothing." His voice tightened, taking on the dangerous, decending timbre of the King ever so slightly. He clasped their hands together, closely woven, where they belonged. Entangled. "I don't want to lose you again, Arthur. I want you to....I want us to feel safe. It would make me feel safe if I could watch over you. As a real, physical presence."
John remained quiet as Arthur ran his thumb over his knuckles, mulling over John's words in his mind. He'd been shaken for days after the witch, only reluctantly de-materializing when Yorick had made it clear that his prolonged manifestation was hindering his recovery. He wasn't so worried about that anymore with how each passing hour lent Horig's icy grip to more of his flesh. As far as he was concerned, he was already dead.
Even still, having just one night where he wasn't sleeping with both eyes open sounded like a luxury. And here John was, offering to give it to him. Even if it could be their last, by sickness or sword.
"Okay," Arthur breathed.
"O-okay?" John parroted hopefully.
"Yes," Arthur answered, "I can't keep my eyes open, John. No matter how stubborn I think my resolve is, I can't. Not right now. Not like this," He squeezed his hand, and smiled. "I would feel much safer if you were to watch over us."
"Even if it weakens you?" John asked softly.
"Yes, even if it weakens me. I trust you, John."
"Thank you..." John said, wishing he could find some way to tell Arthur how much it meant to him, after all he'd done. Even though he'd said it before, the words never seemed to wear thin.
"The bed is a bit to our right, against the back wall. It looks like the sheets are silk."
"God," Arthur sighed dreamily, "That sounds heavenly."
"You can say that again," John chuckled, his voice softening, "Can you walk?"
"I-I think--" Arthur began, propping himself up on his arching arms and hauling himself to his feet.
"Arthur!" John gasped when he faltered halfway, bracing his hand against the chair, "Are you--?"
"Fine--I'm fine, John, I just..." Arthur panted, squeezing his eyes shut out of reflex, "I...stood too fast."
"'Too fast'?" John pushed.
"Dizzy," Arthur spit out, eyes opening again, "Does it not affect our vision?"
"Somewhat," John began, starting when the took a step. "Careful, Arthur! Sit back down, I can carry you."
"My knight in shining armor," Arthur snickered at the absurdity, but yielded, easing back down to the chair. "Yes, you....you do that, please," he said, reaching up slowly, "Just...let me untie my hair so it doesn't jab me us when we lay down."
"Let me," John offered, willing Arthur's left hand to move. He had no way of knowing if Arthur felt fatigued as this arm did, but he could only hope not exerting the one he could feel brought him at least a sliver more of ease.
"Arthur didn't answer, only leaned into his touch when John's hand rubbed the base of his neck to fluff his stringy, damp hair. John's soft chuckle nearly lulled him to sleep right there, but he peeled his eyes open.
"What about your armor?" John asked.
"My...?" Arthur murmured, "Jesus, I'd nearly forgot. Yes, doff the armor; otherwise we may as well stay aware with how uncomfortably we'll sleep."
"Okay," John agreed, working loose the clasp on his left shoulder while Arthur struggled with the right.
John froze when Arthur hissed in pain, curling up out of reflex.
"Sorry! Did I--?"
"N-no, no; it was more startling than anything," Arthur assured him, leaning his head back with labored breaths, "A-Anything against my stitches is...very uncomfortable."
"I'm sorry," John whispered, taking great care to follow the lead of Arthur's hand when they unclasped the breastplate's side. "Okay," he said before Arthur could find the breath to rebuff, "Can you sit up?'
"Yes, but..." Arthur wheezed, "The stitches; if we raise our arms, they might tear."
"Okay," John said patiently, remembering the struggle to get it on in the first place, "What if you slipped your arms through the bottom and, when I project myself, I lift it over your head?"
"Yes..." Arthur nodded slowly, "Yes, John, I think that would work!"
"Okay!" John said hopefully, "Are you ready? Are you comfortable?"
"As I can be, friend," Arthur smiled, letting his eyelids relax as he sank into his seat. "Come out."
A discomfort like prying set itself into his nerves as John's presence pulled only as far away as he needed to be to become solid. It still frightened Arthur for the smallest moment between when he was newly fatigued, hollow, and blind in an entirely new way.
"John...?" He called, cold sinking into his shoulders.
"I'm here, Arthur," John answered, lowering himself to his level and bringing his hand up to his mask. He watched Arthur smile, and something in him stirred, as it did every time he took form. An overcoming.
"Put your arms through," he said with an edge of anxiousness that Arthur recognized and heeded. John's careful claws and tendrils held the armor piece evenly. "Hold still," he said, waiting to be sure Arthur heard him before gradually raising it over his head.
He took the moment to study Arthur from a vantage point other than his own. Shallow cheeks and sunken eyes; framed by long, tangled hair and heavy, dark bags. Without the armor, he looked so painfully frail; his once off-white shirt still pink in places with blood they couldn't wash out. His blood.
"John?" Arthur asked.
"Yes," John answered, setting the piece down with a soft clang. Arthur didn't bother spending the effort to keep his eyes open. "Okay...are you ready?"
"Yes," Arthur said, the fog of exhaustion already overcoming his senses. "Just be careful of--"
"Your stitches, I know" John affirmed patiently, sinking down and taking great care to scoop him into his arms with slow, deliberate movements. He froze when Arthur groaned, but relaxed when he leaned his head against his cloak. And there it came again. That overcoming.
The soft covers beneath Arthur's back coaxed him deeper, as did the mass behind him with his claws in his hair. A relived smile came across his features like daybreak, and John combed it through his temples.
"Jesus," Arthur chuckled with high, airy breaths, "Where did you learn to do that, John?"
"It's just something I've noticed" John said, delicately scratching the same place on the back of his neck, "You like it when I play with your hair," He snickered shortly, "As most primates do."
"How do you even--shut up," Arthur gasped, his laugh degrading into a coughing fit that pinched his brow and had him clutching his chest.
"Easy, Arthur!" John scolded, Arthur nodding against his hands when it subsided into wheezing.
"I'm alright, John," Arthur mumbled when he could breathe again. John's sigh was course, but he said nothing. When both his clawed hands raked up the back of his scalp, Arthur all but groaned in bliss. A chuckle left John's mouths. "Oh, stop it," Arthur scoffed in return, "Come on, John. It's been some time since we've had a moment to ourselves like this."
"Clearly," John grumped, the smile on his voice evident. His fingers wove through Arthur's hair, suddenly remembering the last time they did have a moment to themselves. "Are you okay, Arthur? Are you in pain?"
"I'll manage," Arthur dismissed, neck relaxing further into his palms, "It's much better now that you're here."
"I'm always here, Arthur," John mused softly, running his thumb behind Arthur's right ear. The one time he wasn't there. "And I mean it. Is there anything I can do, or--"
"Not particularly, no. At least, nothing I can think of at the moment," He smiled, "I would like it, though, if you would hold me."
"Arthur..." John hesitated, "You...I can't..."
"You won't hurt me, John," Arthur soothed, "Maybe not as close as usual, but if you could just...put your arms around me."
"Do I not make you cold? Or feel restrained?'
"John."
"Arthur--"
"Please," Arthur interjected simply. And there again it came, tugging at John's core in a way he couldn't describe, a need that something like a god could never know so deeply, almost painfully: overcome.
"Okay, Arthur," John folded, "But tell me if--"
"You won't," Arthur smiled, "You won't."
"Okay..." John whispered out, giving Arthur's scalp one last brush though before he adjusted his position.
It frightened John how limp Arthur went when his arms and tendrils wrapped around him. The same arms and tendrils that had torn him apart now wove themselves to avoid his wounds. The same claws that had built a monument to his pain out of his very bones now cradled him, under the chin of his mask, more frail and delicate than any of the others that had been delivered to him, and the thought made him cold. Something like rage but icy and crystalline, pure and sharp like red-hot iron rather than a twisting knife. Like hate, but deeper drilled and blooming so matter-o-factly with an easy understanding he was not compelled to fight: if anything came though their door, it would be dead before it passed the threshold.
Arthur's contented sigh woke him from his thoughts, and his cheek resting against his tendril so sweetly only flooded his mind with more he didn't understand.
"John?" Arthur mumbled.
"I'm here, Arthur," John answered, catching his searching hand in his.
"You get so quiet when we do this..." Arthur smiled, "Is it a lot to sort out?"
"Yes..." John admitted, not feeling compelled to denial, " I...understand what you meant when you said you felt, 'overcome'; when we escaped the prison pits. I feel the same, in a different way. Angry, but...ughh." he grumbled into his hair, "Not angry, but...almost. Seeing you, like this, makes me want to stay with you. Like what I felt for Lily, when Kayne..." he trailed off, but resumed after a shaking breath, "I wanted to hurt him, because he hurt her. And now I want to hut someone--anyone--because you're hurt."
He was suddenly very conscious of the claw on the back of Arthur's head.
"But I've hurt enough being for hundreds--maybe even thousands--of lifetimes. I..." he paused, his shoulders sinking with shame as he curled around Arthur even more, "I don't..."
"That's alright, John," Arthur whispered, weak grin still plain on his voice. He blindly pressed their noses together. "You're a good man, John. Good men protect those who can't protect themselves."
"Hm," John pondered, "So...it is a human thing? Wanting to hurt people?"
"I would've killed for Faroe, John," Arthur answered with a newfound fatigue sinking into his shallow eyes, "If she was in danger, or someone had threatened her..."
"It's okay, Arthur," John cooed, running his other hand up the back of his neck to soothe his shaking. Arthur beamed, melting into him.
"So...it's normal then?"
"To a degree. Although, our circumstances have made us a bit more intense than most, friend."
"Uncle..." John reminisced absently, "Faust."
"Yes," Arthur said.
"You felt...this? To protect us?"
"Poorly." Arthur muttered, "I was hellbent on hunting rather than defending. Just...waiting for them to kill us was maddening, I..." His breath labored in the midst of his speech. "It was exhausting keeping my guard up for that long, hardly able to eat or sleep without fear of..." he trailed off when his voice grew hoarse. "I'm sorry I keep taking the easy way out, John. I can give you every explanation, tell you exactly what I was thinking and feeling and...and it would still be no excuse--"
"Arthur," John chided when the words died in another coughing fit. He stifled a whimper of frustration when something in him ached. But he was here now, he remembered suddenly, brushing the memory of Arthur's agonizing return from death away with the stray hairs on his brow. "It's alright now, Arthur."
"'S not alright, John," Arthur mumbled feverishly.
"Fine," John said, "Fine, it's not, but we'll discuss it another day. You're in no shape to argue about it right now."
"Another day..." Arthur chuckled in grim disbelief.
"Another day," John echoed firmly. Still, Arthur's breath hitched. The same way it did whenever he...oh.
"Larson," John reminded him, "You attacked him when he attacked Noel."
"And...?"
"And that was a good thing."
Arthur chuckled fondly, but there was still a weight to his shoulders.
"You're not failing me, Arthur," John softened his voice. He saw the brief recognition that flashed in Arthur's grey eyes, tracing another claw over his creased brow.
"I..." he swallowed.
"You've made mistakes, that much I will accept, but you haven't failed me anymore than I've failed you."
"'Failed me'?" Arthur questioned, "When have you ever failed me?"
"You don't remember?" John asked as he, too, tried to recall any one of his failures that wasn't that one. "In the caves, the pits," he stammered, "my deal with Kayne and...and the witch, and--"
"John, John..." Arthur whispered, reaching up slowly. John sighed and obliged his silent request, lowering his chin into his palm. Arthur's thumb ran over its edge. "You were doing your best."
'And you aren't?' was what John wanted to say, but he couldn't now that he'd been so rudely reminded of all the secrets he was keeping. "I..." he murmured, unknowingly leaning in to his touch. "Arthur, I didn't..." The bones. His bones. "I didn't..."
"You did," Arthur repeated, his croaking voice telling John he didn't have long before he fell to sleep.
"Okay," John agreed only to give him some peace, delicately running a claw up the back of his neck. Arthur's arm sank as he smiled.
"Mmm, that's a dirty trick," he mumbled, head lulling farther back into John's hands, "Finding a way to shut me up, are you?"
"Now that you mention it," John mused, "Yes. I'll have to remember this spot."
Arthur scoffed, retort dying on his tongue with more chills down his spine.
"Describe it to me."
"Hm?"
"The room," Arthur clarified, nearly gone now, "Describe it to me."
John sighed on a smile, briefly turning his attention away.
"The room is dark now except for the hearth, which continues to burn brightly. The firelight reveals the masonry of the tall walls--some more intricate than others--of twisting, spiraling designs; not unlike the dresser in the room's opposite side. The floor and ceiling are similar, and not of much note: simple stonework without the convexity that the walls have. The hearth itself is of much more natural stone: smoother, rounder; perhaps taken from a riverbank or waterfall. The wood inside glows with soft amber light that flickers with every crackle of flame. The window adjacent has its sheer cutrains drawn, but beyond it I can see the shadows of towering, black mountains far in the distance; barely visible against the sky with stars like embers."
His sight turned downward when Arthur hummed. His cheek pressed into the tendril that curled around his front to rest at his heart rather than the pillow under his head. His lips brushing against it, his hand resting on his cloak, his auburn hair in John's hands. John brushed another lock from between his eyes, placing it aside.
"Out of things to say?" Arthur pondered.
"No," John answered, the hands through Arthur's scalp growing more deliberate. "Your hair is down past your shoulders now. It seems your deal with Horig may have only made it longer."
"Blast it," Arthur huffed, but with no real weight to his tone, "You really enjoy it, don't you?"
"I do," John admitted freely, punctuating it with a caress up the back of his neck. It sent chills blooming up Arthur's spine, and he sank deeper into the impossibly warm covers that John had bunched up around him. Speaking of...
"Come on, John," he encouraged, patting his cloak.
"Arthur..."
"John," Arthur countered, triumph creeping across his face when he heard John's lofty sigh.
Carefully--so, so carefully--John brought Arthur's head and shoulders into his "lap", for lack of a better word; pulling the blankets up with him in an attempt to keep him warm. He watched him closely, but there was hardly a flinch on his brow when he settled back in as easily as he had before. John tried to ignore the guilt behind his teeth, and a sentiment he'd never known in all his millennia of being the King in Yellow: he didn't deserve this much faith.
But he had it. In this moment, he had it, and it fulfilled him more than Aldebaran and the Hyades and Hali and his black stars and twin suns and cloud-rifts breaking like waves on the moonlit towers of grim Carcosa. More than the minds of every mortal man at his whim. More than every world beyond.
"Now, what is it you were saying?"
"Hm? Oh, right," John said, the lilt returning to his voice once he came back to him. "Could I see your eyes?"
Humming, Arthur tilted his head back towards the sound of John's voice, his eyes now half-lidded. "That's the best I can do right now, I'm afraid," he chuckled as John's hand came to rest on the side of his face.
"Your eyes..." he began, "Dance with the light of the fire. Without my influence, they're grey. Like Noel's, only with pale green around the rim or your irises. The inside, surrounding the pupils, are flecks of gold. They're..."
John faltered, stumbling at the sight and sound of Arthur's amused chortle that pinched his face with a bright, warm grin. He cradled their hands together, and John's heart melted into a puddle when he raised his head to lean deeper into his palm.
"They're...?" Arthur mused. For once, John was nearly at a loss for words.
"Like fog over clear water. Like the sky after a storm."
"Ah, so they do look like Noel's then."
"I said Noel's eyes are like the sky during a storm, Arthur. I'd say there's a fairly large difference." And prevented him from drawing the more obvious comparison, he noted to himself, which couldn't be more untrue. There was no light in Carcosa like there was in Noel's eyes.
"Using the same metaphor," Arthur added, unhelpfully.
"I'd like to see you try to describe things so vividly in real-time without reusing metaphors."
"Alright," Arthur conceded, closing his eyes with an easy smile.
"The room sounds large, with the way the crackling of the fire echoes off the walls. The rainfall is muffled somewhat by it, which is a surprise considering how hard the was coming down when we arrived."
"It has let up some since then."
"Ah," Arthur nodded, "Even still, the walls must be thick. Though, I'm not so sure about it's insulation."
John caught the sly smile that passed his pale lips when his arms and tendrils snuggled him deeper into the covers.
"Of course, if there really are secret passages, that's more than a few extra drafts to account for..."
John's arms stiffened with a sobriety Arthur didn't recognize on him, but understood all too well. He only wished his previous instances of said sobriety had been under such noble circumstances as protecting his friend rather than tormenting him.
Now was not a good time to bring it up.
"I trust you, John," he whispered. His smile returned when their noses touched.
"I know, Arthur," John whispered back, tracing his hairline with his thumb. "Thank you."
The claws back in his hair stole away the last bit of will Arthur had to keep his eyes open. John swallowed the sound of his breath catching, soothing himself with the tendril that rested at Arthur's heart pressing flush beneath his collarbone and jaw.
"Get some rest, Arthur," he whispered. Arthur leaned into his hands.
In the blanketing dark of the dying embers, near silent footfalls hit stone. Prince Warrin was the last. For his weakness, he would have done well to be the first. With that nasty cough, it was doubtful he'd be able to muster up the breath to scream. However, a swift and painless death was unbefitting of such a treacherous, weaselly, snobbish little shit of an Englishman; and not something Barnabas would soon forget. At least, not before his knife found a good home buried in the bastard's spine.
Stepping out of the hearth, he can't help but feel he's breaching an unspoken bound. He almost scoffs. Whatever this Horig was that the prince answered to, whatever charm it had haphazardly cast over its chosen, couldn't even shield him from a common cold. Much less the blood Nyogtha thirsted for.
But when he looks toward the bed for the prince's sleeping form he finds a shape his sight reels to unfold in any way his mind can parse; something long and thin and towering and frigid that burns to behold, lit by black stars. It makes a soundless noise: a droning pulse that melts into his bones like viscera on a pyre and it is looking at him. Into him. His chest lurches down to stone under the scrutiny of a king who's sanctuary he disturbs; cloaked in yellow so bright it was impossible that it cast nothing into the shadows around it. It was impossible. And there, it speaks: a whisper behind his ear that nearly deafens him.
Barnabas scrambled back into his hole, and John delicately brushed a stray hair from his friend's face.