Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He will never be able to explain exactly what he does.

Plugging into that current, but not to spew it out like a hose; it’s focused, and his rage makes it show.

Jon strikes Jonah like a gods-damned snake.

Not to destroy. Not to create some eternal torment. To inflict with the pain he’s known since Jonah indirectly did this to him.

Jonah is marked by the Eye, of course, already very deeply. He’s marked by the End, since he’s dead. He’s marked by the Lonely already, who the hell knows how. Everyone is marked by the Web, Jon now sees, no one immune.

But Jonah’s lacking all the rest, and Jon feels better with every single mark.

Jonah’s screaming isn’t vocal. It isn’t real in the sense of air waves and sound, but it is real in the way it shakes Jon to his core, and what empathy Jon possesses still trembles.

It doesn’t matter. They both want this, and Jon won’t stop.

Strike with the fear and the feel of worms burrowing into his flesh.

Strike with the fear and the feel of the forgotten, of knowledge gone, everything unknown.

Strike with insignificance, with falling, with terminal velocity and terror of never finding ground.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

Jon’s not made for this. Hastur was right; he’s a conduit, not a captain, wasn’t meant to wield, but only to channel.

It doesn’t matter, and now that he’s begun, he cannot stop.

It’s like taking statements. 

This feels meant to be.

Strike. Strike. 

They’re both screaming, both on their knees, but Jonah is doubled over and Jon is looming.

Without planning to, he saves the Dark for last, because he knows Jonah fears it.

Strike with blindness, not just physical but of the mind, unable to see or defend from the unseen. Of creatures in the dark, of taking one’s eyes, of being left forever unsafe and eaten away.

And then it is done, and Jonah Magnus would never have survived this in life, but Jonah Magnus is ready, Jonah Magnus is marked. 

And there is suffering all around.

They’re both gasping, sweating. Shaking.

The damage Kayne did is… bad. This effort strained those injuries, somehow, like pulling the edges of wounds further apart.

He does not feel good.

“You’re pale, Jon,” gasps Jonah. “Perhaps you should stay for tea?”

Jon can feel the attention of the Fears already beginning to turn toward Jonah.

Oh, gods, he can’t stay any longer in this. He can’t let himself be trapped here, can’t lie under Jonah’s boot. 

Jon stands. Gasping. Doesn’t even say a word, but stumbles toward his way. 

How does one close a way? Will he be able to do it, still, if this works? Could Hastur figure it out? Maybe he’ll need to—

The feeling of a knife plunging into his side is somehow… not as surprising as it should be.

Even as Jon cries out, arching uselessly away from the impact, he knows he was an idiot to think it wouldn’t happen. 

“Now, we’re even,” hisses Jonah in his ear, reeking with whatever the dead have instead of sticky sweat, and shoves Jon to the ground.

Jon expects him to continue. To stab, and stab, as he did, but Jonah doesn’t.

Instead, Jonah clambers away, staggering like a drunk, and begins to climb one of the piles of junk.

Because of course he couldn’t just do the ritual where he is. He always has to take the option with more drama.

Jon puts his hand over the wound. It’s the same damn spot, he’d swear it is. Again. Somehow, again.

It’s not even physical. It wasn’t even a knife.

His body thinks it was, and the way seems so far.

A note of panic creeps in: he can’t die here. If he dies here, will it count as a sacrifice? Will Jonah become a god?

He can’t die here.

Jon tries to drag himself.

He manages inches along sharply rubbled ground, cutting himself, choking on dust.

He tries to drag himself.

Doesn’t manage any distance this time, feels like the skin of his arms and hands is being grated right off him.

He groans.

Atop his trash pile, Jonah is shouting.

Jon can’t make out the words; he’s hearing his own blood, rushing through his veins. He’s hearing a mighty wind, rushing through his heart.

He’s hearing the attention of the Fears, turning with great interest to their new favorite person.

Good. That’s what he wanted. That—

Feels awful, actually. Pretty damn bad.

If he had to compare it to something, he’d say carbon monoxide poisoning.

He has to go. Can’t die here.

Tingling weakness has filled him.

Can’t lift his arms.

The way is right there, and he can’t—

Annabelle picks him up. 

Jon makes one small sound of surprise, but that’s all he can do.

She’s gone full spider—huge, beautiful and hideous, too many eyes, too many arms, too sharp a smile. “Oh, my lovely Jon—you did everything right.”

Draining, it’s all draining, like he’s transfusing blood, and there’s no one to make it stop. “Right?” he repeats, at a loss.

Cold. It’s very cold. Very… empty, too. He didn’t realize how much presence there was with all of them.

He’s not going to miss this, he tells himself. He’s not. He… 

He’s crying.

Jonah’s shouts have turned to chanting, rhythmic and shattered sounding, his voice ragged with some emotion Jon can’t name.

This isn’t what he had made Jon read. Something has changed. “Always gets what he wants,” Jon mutters.

“Not always,” she soothes, and places a tongue depressor in his mouth.

“Hnng?” Jon queries.

Then he starts to seize.

He can feel each Fear unhook itself from deep inside him, from the places Kayne clawed, leaving gaping green wounds.

Wracking him, like individual nerves pulled right through his flesh with tongs.

It’s not long, but it is violent. Thanks to Annabelle, he does not swallow his tongue.

“It’s almost over,” she says when he’s finally still again, taking the stick out of his gasping mouth. 

Jon can’t look away from her. She’s the only real thing there is right now.

He can’t think. Feels savaged and robbed and drifting. What Kayne did hurts. It all hurts. 

“Jon,” says Anabelle. “Can you answer a question?”

He likes questions. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

He misses the Fears. Oh gods, he misses the ones who’ve left. They’re almost all gone now, and Jonah is screaming his words, but Jon knows he doesn’t want them back. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Do you want it to be over?” says Annabelle. “Peace and rest. No more fighting. An end to the torment. Do you want that?”

It sounds lovely, to have that. He tries to speak around the tightness in his throat.

“Or,” she says, not waiting, “do you want him?”

Oh.

Well, that’s not even a question.

Of course he wants peace, of course he wants rest, but there’d be neither without Martin. 

It’s almost absurd, a question like that. A thing he merely wants versus the one he loves with everything he is? Please. “Him. I want him.”

He says it with no regret.

He says it with no doubt.

He says it like a wedding vow.

“That’s what I thought,” says Annabelle warmly. “Oh, the Mother is so pleased with you, Jon.”

“Why?” says Jon, because even with his soul shredded and suffering, he can’t stop asking. “Why would she be? Didn’t I just make hell worse?”

She laughs, light and free. “Jonathan Sims, what makes you think any of this was Jonah’s idea?”

Jon blinks at her.

Anabelle touches the wound in his side.

He gasps. There’s a burning, tickling sensation.

Jon touches where she did. His palm comes away webbed. 

And Anabelle smiles. “You’ve made the Mother the Queen of Hell. Eternity in machination, subjects who can never die, and more every day to play with? Jon… we are very fond of you.”

Oh.

That’s probably bad?

Jon doesn’t know. Can’t tell.

All that’s left within him is the Eye—and it is, for the first time in his life, distracted.

He’s going to miss it, when it leaves.

He can’t stop crying.

She kisses his forehead, and something in there sticks, unmoored thoughts bound still. “Be careful, now. Kayne lied to you; the Dread Powers may have released you, but you are still the god you were made to be. Good luck, Jonathan Sims.”

And she gently places him onto the way.

#

The palace Jon crawls back into is not the one he left.

His senses do not adjust quickly to the wreckage, to the reality of solid physical space, and he only doesn’t retch only because he lacks the strength to do so.

But Martin.

Martin is here.

Martin is holding him.

That’s enough.

He’s dying.

#

“Jon! Jon!” Martin knows he can’t hear him, doesn’t care, clutches him close and tries. “Jon!” 

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

He’s come back. The Archivist. Fuck. He… they’re gone. Most of them.

“What?”

The fear gods. Most of them are gone, and they took their branches with them, just ripped them out. He’s shredded. John pauses. But he… I don’t think that’s all of why he’s shredded.

“Let me see, Mister Blackwood,” says the King, who is audibly, visibly trying not to push. 

“Save him!” Martin cries.

Kayne is whistling Camptown Races, for some insane reason.

Arthur clenches his fists. “Can we do anything?”

I don’t think we can.

“That way is still open, you know,” says Kayne. “What a pity. Wonder what’s coming through next.”

“Shit,” mutters Martin.

#

Jon is here, and he isn’t.

He’s in a dark place, and he isn’t.

He sees Martin, hears the sounds of people talking. Feels the horror of Kayne’s proximity.

But he’s also not here, and the place he finds himself is quiet.

He’s not alone in it, and it’s strange. He thought he would be.

Though he can’t remember why.

The one facing him is… not a person, exactly?

It knows him.

It loves him.

He doesn’t know if he loves or hates it back. Both, probably.

It just won’t leave.

They were all supposed to leave. Weren’t they?

Jon!

That’s Martin.

Jon could stay here, in the dark, the quiet, the peace.

He turns toward Martin, instead.

#

Jon’s gasp is painful and wracking, and he arches in Martin’s arms as he cries out.

“Jon!”

“Hold him still, please, Mister Blackwood,” says the King. “This… was not elegantly done.”

“No shit?” says Martin, who doesn’t even know what the King is seeing.

He’s fucked, says John. But I don’t… some of it is too even.

What do you mean? thinks Arthur.

Good, Arthur, that’s very good.

As hoped, Arthur warms to the praise.

It means most of the damage is about what you’d expect for pulling things up by the roots, but some of it… isn’t. Evenly spaced channels, deep, ripping through his soul. What the fuck did that to him?

“This is… a lot of damage,” says the King, sounding uncomfortable.

Martin looks so furious that it transforms his face.

The softness, the sweetness, the stammering is gone. In its place is a look that accompanies pulling the trigger without thinking twice, pushing the button without hesitation, swinging the axe without the slightest twinge of guilt. “Then it’s a good thing you’re such an expert, isn’t it?”

The King says nothing, but continues to study, waving tentacles over Jon’s form.

Jon is focused on Martin. 

Jon knows he’s dying.

He doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t want to leave Martin.

But there’s something else that’s bothering him.

“You’re covered in blood,” says Martin, smiling weakly as he dabs blood and something else away from Jon’s face. “What’d you do to yourself in there?”

“Kayne,” says Jon, simply.

Martin turns that furious look toward Kayne.

Who smiles. Threatening.

Martin makes himself drop that look.

Kayne smiles more broadly. 

John doesn’t like any of this. That way is still open, damn it.

“I don’t know how to close it!” snaps the King.

Kayne chuckles. “Wonder if I could lure anything else through there. What do you think? Taking all bets!”

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters.

“Jon, there’s… there’s web in your skin,” says Martin, deeply startled.

Jon remembers that there’s web on his side.

He remembers it’s on his hand.

He looks at the way.

Something could come through there and hurt Martin.

Jon doesn’t know how to close the way, but maybe he doesn’t have to. He raises his left hand and smears it down the crack only he can see.

For a moment, webbing appears in the air, tightly woven along some invisible seam.

Then it vanishes.

Kayne manifests a drink, sips, and does a spit-take.

“What?” says Martin.

Jon doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed. 

“What—what did he….” the King says.

“You think that’s good,” says Kayne, “wait until you see what he brought back with him.”

The King suddenly pulls back. “He’s not alone.”

“What do you mean, he’s not alone?” says Martin.

“One of them is still with him.”

“Wait,” says Martin. “One of them? Are you telling me he… he did it?” His eyes grow huge. “He did it? The Fears are gone?”

“One remains. But it is….”

Tiny, says John.

“Tiny,” says the King.

“Tiny?” says Martin.

“What, you don’t recognize what happened to you?” says Kayne, stretching with an obnoxiously loud back-crack. “I mean, I know you’re fucking dense, but come on.”

“He severed it?” whispers the King.

“What is going on?” says Martin.

#

Jon doesn’t hear any of this.

He’s in that dark, quiet place, and slowly realizing it’s him. He’s in himself, somehow, staring at the thing that loves him.

The thing he knows well, but it… it isn’t the same. 

It’s not all-encompassing, a galaxy-sized eye staring down at an ant.

It’s smaller than he is.

And it doesn’t seem to know it’s changed. It doesn’t know anything has changed. It’s watching him, which is what it likes to do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells it. “You were supposed to stay back there with Jonah.”

And suddenly, Jon knows it did.

The ravening, bottomless hunger is gone.

The part of it that loves Jon is what’s here.

“You’ve torn yourself?” says Jon. “How could you be so stupid?”

It doesn’t know. That’s analysis, and it doesn’t do that.

It loves Jon, and wants to keep watching him, no matter what else is going on.

So it does.

“What do I do with this?” whispers Jon.

The piece doesn’t seem to think he needs to do anything but be Jon.

It’s busy, now, though.

Busy weaving… something. Though “weaving” is too complicated a word.

It can’t heal him the way it did when it was galaxy-sized, but it is gathering loose, web-like filaments dangling from the distant, recorded sound of Jon’s voice, and using these to sew the places ripped open when the Fears pulled away.

It’s a really bad job. Uneven, too loose and too tight, all over hell.

But it’s slowed the leaking of green, glowing self that Jon is oozing, and the more it works, the better he feels.

He’s not going to die.

“You’re saving me?” he whispers.

Jon! he hears.

Martin.

Again, Jon turns toward his voice like a sunflower toward the sky.

#

“How about that?” says the King, slowly. “I think your tapes are helping, after all.”

Martin slides a couple of the tape recorders closer. From them, Jon’s voice rises—quiet, but clear—detailing statements from a time that feels a thousand years ago.

“It’s using them to… stitch,” says the King. 

“It? Stitch?”

“The… the piece in him. It’s gathering the power from these tapes, woven into them by the Web, and it’s stitching him together.” Hastur is visibly relieved. “It may be tiny, but it’s doing finer work than I would know how to do right now. I… am glad to see it.”

Martin stares.

Jon suddenly stirs. “Hastur,” he says, and fumbles for his bag.

He’s on top of the bag, so he tugs uselessly at it.

“Hang on. I’ve got you,” says Martin, gently, and lifts him to free the satchel. “What’s this? You didn't have this going in.”

Kayne is suddenly no longer whistling.

John sees it. The intensity; the stillness, the unblinking focus, like a serpent about to strike. 

What are you doing? he says.

Kayne doesn’t answer.

#

There’s some reason Jon isn’t supposed to do this, but he can’t remember what it is.

There’s a tug when he tries, right where Annabelle kissed his head. Something… some reason why finishing this mission is bad.

He can’t remember. He fumbles at the satchel.

Martin tries to help. “Jon, where did you get this?”

“Jonah,” Jon says, which isn’t the right answer, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

If Martin had fur, it would all be on end. “What?”

“He’s miserable,” says Jon, because he suddenly knows it’s true, and laughs weakly.

“Jon, there’s… jars in here,” says Martin. “And what?”

“Jars? Jars?” It must be taking everything the King has not to snatch, not to demand.

Martin looks at the King. 

The King waits. He’s practically vibrating.

Martin realizes his scale for good and bad has changed since meeting Kayne. He sighs. “Jon was right. I don’t forgive you for what you did, but… you are actually not a complete asshole. Ugh.”

The King clearly doesn’t know what to do with that.

Kayne laughs, but it’s soft. Dark. Predatory.

“Miserable,” says Jon, hand in his satchel. “He was still afraid, and he thought this would make him be not afraid, but it didn’t. It didn’t work. Now, he’s just afraid of everything.” And he holds out a small urn.

John gasps. Arthur—he found it! He found it!

There’s some reason—

There’s something—

Jon can’t remember. “Wait,” he says.

Kayne leans forward, crouched, ready to spring.

Wait! says John.

It’s too late, and the King has taken the jar. “Arthur,” he breathes.

Kayne’s laugh starts low and rises like filthy flood, like billowing thunderclouds before a monster storm, and they all turn to look his way.

He’s just a guy. Just ordinary, standing there, in a brown suit with shirt unbuttoned and patent leather shoes.

He’s not a guy, and his shadow grows, spreads, until it sits beneath them all like a mouth waiting to open wide.

“What?” says Hastur, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes across as unnerved.

“I lose!” Kayne says, arms raised, smiling like the devil. “Better take your prize. Come on, now, chop, chop.”

“Wait,” says Jon, and winces. Feels like the tight binding in the center of his forehead is beginning to break.

“No, no, no waiting. You should do it now. Come on, don’t you want to do it? To finally subdue little old me, have me crawl at your feet, suck on your tentacles, spread myself out like a bear skin rug? Come on, you want to do it, come on.”

There is the sensation of threads going snap in Jon’s head, and suddenly, he can think. “Wait! No!”

Kayne laughs again. “Too late, my little scratching post. Far too late.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“You have to do it, darling,” says Kayne. “We made a bet. A deal. If you don’t, you forfeit, and I win—and, well, same ending for you, just a little less fun for me.”

Fuck. He’s laid some kind of trap. I don’t know what it is, but he—

“He’s going to eat you!” Jon cries.

“He… can’t,” says Hastur.

“He’s not bound by your will,” says Jon.

“No, no, go on, give the spoilers, it’s cute,” says Kayne.

“He… he’ll overrun you. You can’t bind him again. It wasn’t you in the first place. Hastur, don’t do it.”

And very clearly, Hastur sees what went wrong. He inhales.

There is heavy, bad silence. Kayne rocks up onto his toes, grinning.

“I see,” says Hastur. “Now I see.” He sounds like he’s received a death sentence.

“What?” says Martin.

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

“Didn’t want to see before, did you?” says Kayne, low. “So focused on what you wanted. Didn’t see what really bound me. Didn’t see my little spy spell in the bones of Arthur’s wrist, either.”

“What?” cries Arthur.

“I have made a mistake,” says Hastur, low and quiet.

“More than one, my love. Several, in fact.”

“It’s the bet that did it,” says Jon. “Kayne’s former binding will be canceled the moment Hastur tries to make good on the bet. Kayne will… Kayne will….”

“Oh, no,” whispers Martin.

“I didn’t see,” says Hastur, looking at the jar he holds like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Nope. Didn’t see how binding the bet was, either—not just for me. For you, my darling. You thought you were ensuring I couldn’t back out—but oh, no. I was ensuring you couldn’t.”

“Hastur, don’t do it,” says Jon again.

“He has to, you hideous creature, you. Or, I suppose, he can refuse, but then he’ll just, you know, sort of melt away like snow being peed on.”

Hastur is cradling the jar. “I didn’t see.”

“Wait,” says Arthur.

“No, no,” says Kayne, and spins, arms out, as if he’s about to break into song. “It’s all going to go so wrong! All that suppression, lifting at once, filling them with things they’ve never, ever felt! Oh, the screams, the dreams, the creams of… you know, I had a thing going there, but I kinda lost the thread. Well, no matter. We’ve all had our fun. Time to die.”

Hastur moves slowly toward Arthur and John. “John. You can, in time, figure out how to restore this.” He presses the jar into Arthur’s hand.

Kayne laughs. “Really? You put two of them in a room, I’m pretty sure they’ll fight like betta fish.”

Hastur touches Arthur’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” says Arthur. “Wait, there has to be something.”

“That’s right, say your goodbyes, make it all sad.” Kayne laughs again.

Hastur moves to Jon and Martin. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Don’t do it,” says Jon.

“Ugh. He has to. Why do you make me repeat things? Martin, tell him. I don’t like to repeat—“

Arthur shouts, “You owe us a favor!”

And all eyes turn to him.

What are you doing? hisses John.

“Buying time!” Arthur snaps. “A body for John! Right? It’s time! I’m calling it!”

Kayne laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Buying time? Really?” He doubles over, slapping his thigh. 

Jon starts to sit up, winces, groans.

“Jon, shh,” says Martin.

“The body,” Arthur says. “I want it now. And I fulfilled the terms of our deal before you lost the bet, so I get to go first.”

“Fuck me, you’re adorable sometimes,” says Kayne. “But are you sure about this? You’ve just seen me pull quite the fast one. Is John sure he’d like to trust me now, hmmm?”

Arthur’s panic spikes.

I… I’ll be very careful, says John. No, Arthur, it’s a good idea. I’ve spent time thinking about this. I’ll be precise.

“Oh, sure, sure, why not? It’s only delaying the inevitable. So, snippet: what do you want?” 

There’s a pause.

Kayne snorts. “Buddy… I can’t do that. What the fuck? Come on, even I have my limits.”

“He can,” says Hastur. “If you use my arm.”

Kayne gasps far longer than any reasonable lung capacity would allow. “The arm you lost when the Eye cut it off because you were being a giant twat? Wow! Wowee zowee! Only if I get a bite. A taste. An aperitif.”

“Arm?” says Arthur, startled.

“Yes,” says Hastur. “Use it for him. I grant you one bite—with the size of the mouth you currently have, right here, visible to Martin alone—and the rest, you use for John.”

“Ugh,” says Kayne. “Figures you’d get smart now, just when it’s getting fun. Well, it won’t change anything.” He rubs his hands together. “Come here, bucko. Come on. I won’t bite—you. Let’s get started.”

Jon tries to sit up again.

“Jon, stay down,” whispers Martin.

It is the hardest thing Arthur has ever had to do, walking forward.

The hardest thing, walking toward his complete abandonment. 

Toward the moment when John will leave for good.

But John wants this. For John, Arthur wants this.

And… it will give the others time.

“Time that I’m monitoring? Sure, sure. That’ll work great,” says Kayne.

“Get this fucking spell off my wrist first,” says Arthur.

“No such thing as spells, my boy, they’re invocations calling on the inherent power of hahahaha! See what I did there? The—he did the—never mind. There you go.”

Arthur cries out and holds his wrist to his chest.

Fuck, you didn’t have to reinjure him! says John.

“It’s only fair, my darling. Besides, I don’t know how much fun he’ll be anymore once you’re off and away on your greatest adventure. Gotta get my kicks in while I can.”

Arthur, don’t listen to him. I’m not going to—

Silence.

Arthur makes one, small sound. “John?”

“Shhhhh-sh-sh,” says Kayne. “Hey—I didn’t even take him yet! He’s still in there. Just thought you’d like a preview of what’s to come.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, who is not okay, who is filling with panic, who is hyperventilating—

And who is not backing down. He will not give in. “Okay. Fine. Fine! Do it! You guys better be thinking of something!”

“They won’t. Cute, though. Love the anguish. And… begin!”

And in front of him, on the ground, is Hastur’s arm. A severed tentacle, ten feet long, thicker at its end than Jon’s whole body.

“Oh, gross!” says Martin.

Kayne picks it up like it weighs nothing, though as it drags along the ground, it grinds pieces of marble into dust. He makes an incredibly indecent sound as he bites into it.

Martin gags.

Jon grips Martin’s shirt, pulling him near. “Hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, startled.

Kayne is smacking his lips, face coated in dripping, hissing black, and finally turns toward Arthur. “Hold that image, snippet. There we go. Mm. Hold it. Oh, that’s lovely. You know what? I’m gonna give it to you, almost exactly like you asked.”

“Almost?” says Arthur.

“Details, details, fine fucking print,” says Kayne, and then the room is filled with power.

Terrible power. Power that feels like cells rattling apart, like the incoherence of atoms, like the rending of reality down to tears and memory.

And Kayne is chanting.

Whatever it is, it hurts. Hurts to hear, even though the words are unclear, even though it’s just vowels in rhythm.

Martin is gasping, wincing. He touches his ears, and discovers they are bleeding.

Jon pulls on Martin’s shirt again. “He… hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, barely audible in the storm.

Arthur has fallen to his knees. He feels like his entire internal system is being sucked out of him, through his throat, and it is unspeakably bad.

Like vomiting, but not in surges—just one never-ending awfulness, and he can’t breathe in.

“He… hurt… me,” says Jon, trying to explain, unable to say more, pleading with Martin to understand. He drags his fingers, spread wide, down Martin’s chest.

Martin’s eyes go huge, pupils blown.

But the only thing he thinks, clearly and whole-heartedly, is what he says: “Jon, I love you so much,” he says, and bends into him with a kiss.

Jon melts into it with relief.

Something is taking shape in front of Kayne, barely visible in the distorted light and particles and reality he’s stirring like stew. The tentacle, shrinking, regrowing; reforming into a different shape, details lost in the clouded debris.

The chaos fades; particles return to unseen, the air stops being solid and boils back down to itself.

Arthur’s gasping is rough, wet. He’s on all fours, tasting bile, head down.

The hands that lift him aren’t ones he knows.

But he does.

“Arthur,” says John.

Arthur could never, ever mistake him for anyone else. “John?”

He’s pulled against a body—not clothed. Larger than his. Not freaky warm, like Kayne’s, but firm. “Arthur, I… it worked.” John takes Arthur’s hand and puts it on his chest.

Arthur is panting. Cautious, careful, he touches. Chest, arms, shoulders, face. Hair. It is a reverent exploration; everyone is silent.

John says, “It’s me.” 

So much better than tentacles, Arthur thinks a little too loudly, then ignores Hastur’s grunt and Kayne’s laugh. “What do you look like?”

“Go on, you want to tell him, tell him,” says Kayne, but he’s not saying it to John.

“He’s tall,” says Martin. “Really strong-looking. Dark skin—sort of duskier than the King’s, grayer, but it’s nice, I guess. Like ash. His irises are yellow—gold. Reflective. Ears just a little pointed. Teeth, uh. Geez. Very pointed.”

“And you’re supposed to be a poet,” tsks Kayne.

Arthur laughs. It almost sounds like a sob. “You’re hideous. I love it.”

“I am not hideous,” John puffs.

“He’s not hideous,” confirms Martin. “He’s not super human looking, but, uh. Definitely not hideous, okay?”

Arthur is still laughing. He presses his face to John’s chest.

John holds him. Whispers. “I’m sorry you can’t see. Maybe I can do something about that now.”

Arthur is shaking. As long as you don’t leave—he stops. What’s the point?

“I heard you,” says John, softly. I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur gasps.

Kayne blows a raspberry at them, wet and somehow putrid. “Show’s over, get a room, have fun. Oh—don’t worry about the present I left. I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually.”

“What? What present?” says Arthur, going stiff.

“He has put part of himself into that form,” says Hastur, softly. 

“What?” says Kayne. “I’ll have you know it’s licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike—“

“What does that do?” Arthur’s panic rises again. “What will that do?”

“Uh, nothing?” says Kayne. “Maybe? I dunno, never did it before.”

“You’re a hybrid, John,” says the King. “I don’t know what it will do, either, but I advise… caution. Your power will not work the way it did before. You could do… damage.”

“Fuck, there’s chaos in me,” John says.

“Fuck him.” Arthur rubs his face. “Whatever. Whatever, we… we’ll figure it out.”

“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s how your Arthur died, though?” says Kayne. “You tried to do something inane, like boiling an egg, and instead you exploded his eyeballs?”

“Shut up,” snarls John.

“No,” says Kayne. “And now… drum roll, please! It is time for the final act. Hastur, my dear, my darling fucking fool… where do you keep the Grey Poupon?”

Silence.

“I didn’t expect this,” says Hastur. “I… didn’t plan this. I’m sorry.”

“That sucks when no matter what you planned, someone fucks you over, doesn’t it?” says Martin, deceptively light. “It’s like claws in your soul, isn’t it?”

Hastur goes very still. He turns toward Jon. He looks.

Kayne’s smile fades. There’s a strange sound, like the leather of a whip’s handle being twisted. “Martin, Martin, Martin,” he says evenly. “Oh, my foolish little cupcake. What have you done?”

Martin shakes, but holds his gaze.  

“Why, Kayne,” the King says, softly, and in his voice is a smile. “You cheated.”

Kayne is very still, looking at Martin. “You know,” he says, softly. “I think it’ll be a while before you can go on any little missions for me. Or sit down. Or talk. Or maybe breathe. Yes. A while before you can even fucking move.” He takes one step.

Hastur moves between. “You cheated. A clear and direct violation.”

“I only cut him a little!” Kayne complains, throwing his hands in the air. “What? It’s small. Nothing. Of course, if you’re really bothered, you can call it done, and say I forfeited. There. I lost. Well, that changed the outcome, didn’t it?”

“No, no,” says Hastur. “I think you’re right. It’s a minor infraction, at best. No, I simply get an advantage.”

And Kayne looks at Martin again.

Martin looks back.

“Well-played,” Kayne says, softly. “Have to say, I didn’t expect that. Got one over on me, didn’t you?”

“No,” says Martin. “You did this to yourself, and you know why.”

“Ugh. Love.” Kayne shrugs. “What the fuck. Self-preservation right out the window.” He sighs. “Fine, fine, fine. What’s your advantage?”

Hastur produces another soul jar from the folds of his cloak.

Kayne starts laughing. It’s a terrible sound. It’s eager, hungry, sharp. “You’re kidding. You’re putting me in time out?”

“Yes,” says Hastur.

“Fuck me,” says John, sounding awed. 

“I don’t understand,” says Arthur.

“He cheated,” John murmurs against Arthur’s head. “The fucker couldn’t resist. He had to hurt the Archivist.”

“I thought they couldn’t hurt the other guy’s… guy.”

“Exactly.”

“How long, Lunchbox in Yellow?” says Kayne. “Just how long can you keep me in there until it counts as my bet finally lost?”

“We’re going to find out,” says Hastur.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Whatever. Hastur, this doesn’t invalidate our bet. You know that.”

“I know,” says Hastur.

“Fine.” Kayne blows a kiss to Martin. “I’m coming for you. As soon as I’m out. You know.”

“I know,” says Martin, low.

From nowhere comes the sound of trumpets, playing Taps. “I'm not going home.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“I'm gonna get on my boat, and I'm going up river,” says Kayne.

“What river?” says Martin, confused.

“And I'm going to kick that son of a bitch Bison's ass so hard that the next Bison wannabe is gonna feel it!" says Kayne.

There is dead silence.

“Last word!” says Kayne, and without even the tiniest bit of fanfare, he disappears.

Poof, gone.

The quote was from a movie Martin had seen.

The quote was a reference no one in that room but Martin would get.

How something could be so ridiculously trollish and abjectly terrifying at the same time is beyond Martin, but it landed. Breathing hard, he clutches Jon, and fights hard not to regret what he did.

The urn in Hastur’s hand… groans. It shifts, shudders so hard it’s like glitching, and abruptly doubles in size. Its color changes from glazed brown to a weird, virulent green, grim, the color of things that grow in the dark.

Its single center stripe vanishes. In its place, three thin, orange stripes appear.

“Three years,” says Hastur. 

The top stripe no longer connects all the way around; just barely, it’s breached, as if it has begun to shrink.

“Three years? That’s all?” says John.

“That’s enough. I’ll find something,” says Hastur. “I will find a way.”

“You’ll need fucking help,” says John.

“Wait,” says Arthur. “We did it?”

“As much as it can be done for now,” says Hastur. Then he laughs. It is a wicked sound, deep and terrible—but that’s just how he laughs. “Three years! Give me my Arthur, damn it.”

John rises, pulling Arthur with him, carrying him, practically.

Arthur holds out the jar and winces.

“You must be more careful, Arthur,” says Hastur, and repairs his wrist.

“So that’s how long I have,” whispers Martin. “Jon. Jon, we have three years.”

Jon’s eyes stay closed, but he smiles. “I might have to sleep for half of that.”

Martin clutches him. “We may only have three. We—“

“We’ll find something,” says John. 

“How the fuck tall are you?” says Arthur suddenly, as though offended.

“About a head taller than you,” says John, sounding quite pleased. “And it’s not a human body. I can change its shape.”

“You what?” says Arthur.

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “That was… brave. And very clever.”

“I had to,” murmurs Martin. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not after what he did to Jon.” He swallows. “I’d have given him anything if he’d spared him. You know that? Any fucking thing he wanted. But instead… he did this.”

“He could never resist his appetites,” says Hastur. “Regardless… this damage is going to take some time to heal. It’s deep, Mister Blackwood.”

“Wait. There’s something else,” says Jon, and reaches for the bag.

Arthur suddenly remembers that Martin said jars. 

He’s afraid to hope. He can’t see what’s going on.

He’s holding two soul jars, John tells him. They’re small: only a couple of inches tall, easily fitting in the palm of his hands. 

“Jon,” whispers Hastur, sounding awed.

“Before I… before I….” Jon grits his teeth and pulls the jars to his chest.

“You don’t have to talk,” says Martin.

But Jon does. “Fix it. You fix it. This isn’t the world for… for her. For any of them.” Jon manages to glare at Hastur.

Silence.

“You are asking me for too much,” Hastur says, softly. “I can’t risk—“

“Yes you can,” says Jon. “Life is risk. Life is loss. Life is good. Life is love. Take the damn jar and fix it.”

“What’s he talking about?” says Arthur. “What’s he doing? What’s happening?”

“He’s asking him to release his hold on the world,” John whispers.

“This one’s his,” says Jon, who knows, offering one small jar in Arthur’s direction. He offers the other to Hastur. 

Hastur takes both jars, very gently. “Jon, you… thank you.” And he hands the one indicated to Arthur.

Arthur jumps as it touches his chest. 

“Yes,” says John, at the unspoken question. “It is.”

Arthur clutches the tiny jar, curls down around it, and keens. John goes down with him, one arm around his shoulders, keeping him steady. For a long moment, the only sounds are Arthur’s, impossible to slot into words like laugh or cry, and John holds him as if to keep him from flying apart.

“I… have much to consider.” Hastur’s three  jars—a man, a child, a monster—are gone, hidden in his cloak.

Martin runs his fingers over Jon’s side. He’s not sure how happy he is that there’s webbing attached to Jon’s flesh—but it seems to be holding the magical knife wound closed, so…

“We… should rest,” says Hastur. “All of us. There is… much to do.”

Arthur’s sob echoes in the broken palace. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do with this most precious thing. 

“I,” says Hastur. “I will… make bodies. For Faroe.”

Arthur’s voice is unsteady. “Both?”

“Both. I don’t have her DNA, but I have yours, and I can extrapolate from your memory of her appearance, her sound, her smell. I’ll need your memories of her, Arthur.”

Arthur shudders.

“I’ve got you,” says John, still holding him tightly, and pulls him upright.

Arthur might not actually be resting any weight on his feet. “Whatever I have to do. Anything. It’s yours. Uh. Does this mean there’s gonna be two of me and two of her?”

“Not… necessarily at the same time,” says Hastur, and it clearly costs him to do so because it means waiting. “I need to find a way to send you home. Until then, I… should avoid….”

John suddenly snorts. “Betta fish.”

He and Hastur both laugh, dark and terrible and delighted.

“He has his moments,” Hastur admits. “Betta fish.”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur says.

“He’s not going to risk either of you,” says John. “Other Arthur and his Faroe won’t make a debut until we can go home with our—with your daughter.”

The our throws Arthur. He swallows. “I don’t know about that, John.”

“She’s yours. You’re mine,” John tries to explain.

“Well, you’re mine, too, whatever that means, so what’s that make us?”

John has no idea how to reply to that.

“I think she’ll like you,” Arthur says after a moment, which isn’t acceptance or denial.

“Of course she will,” John huffs.

“Can we… do this?” says Martin. “Stop Kayne from returning, or at least… coming after us?”

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “There are enough impossible things in this room—including yourself—that I have to hope. All of us, impossible, to a one.”

“We’re like some kind of vortex,” says John, frowning. “That can’t be good.”

“It has been so far,” says Hastur.

“Has it, though?” says Martin.

“We’ll beat him,” says Jon.

“Jon, shh.”

“We will. I know we will.”

“You can’t see the future, remember?” says Martin.

But then he wonders at the web in Jon’s side.

And he wonders: if Annabelle was part of this, part of everything—

He wonders if Jon’s really free.

“For fuck’s sake, is anybody gonna get this guy some clothes?” Arthur blurts.

The fact that they can all laugh—however weakly, however brief—is good.

“We’re going—for now,” announces John. “Rest. Food. Clothes. All those things—but we’re not leaving your fucking palace because I’m not risking any damn harm to him after all that, so you better provide for our needs.”

“Hey—” says Arthur.

“No arguments,” John says. “I’m strong now, and if I have to carry you like a sack of flour over my shoulder, I fucking will.”

Arthur rubs his face. “Great. You’re an even bigger prick than before,” he says, as warmly as the word has ever been said, and John rumbles a pleased sound in the wake of it.

It’s not a purr. It’s not exactly the King’s either, but something new, and Arthur presses his hands to John’s chest, which apparently is its source. “Wow.”

“Done,” says Hastur. “You know how to reach the guest rooms.”

“Come on, Arthur,” says John, still holding him close.

Arthur is quiet. “Weird, you not in my head. I… it… it’s scary. I thought I’d love it, a while ago, but it….”

“Fucking Lonely. I’m not going anywhere, Arthur.”

“I know, but….”

I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur makes a low sound.

John holds him as they walk away, bearing more than a little of his weight. “You’re eating food next.” 

“I don’t wanna,” Arthur mutters.

“Too bad.” 

“Prick.” 

“Ass.”

“Jerk.”

“Mine,” says John as warmly as the word has ever been said, and Arthur falls silent in the wake of it. Still holding him, John navigates them both around the wreckage and toward undamaged areas.

His complaints about sharp bits of rubble under his bare feet  echo down the hallway after they’re out of sight.

“Jon, your hemorrhage has stopped. Mister Blackwood, with help, I believe he’ll heal,” says Hastur. “You are also welcome to use the guest rooms. They are for visiting dignitaries, not human priests, and they are nicer than the quarters you were in. You’ve earned at least that much.”

Martin knows he should say thanks. He also knows he’s insulted on behalf of said human priests, and Jon, and the world. But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I’m so scared he’s coming back.”

“He intended you to be. If Kayne could rob you of your joy even in his absence, he will feel he’s won,” says Hastur. “Keep that in mind.”

“Fuck you,” says Martin. “And… thank you. Ugh. I haven’t forgiven—why does this have to be so complicated?”

“Because it’s real life. I have much to consider,” Hastur says. “Perhaps we all do. Do you require aid now?”

“Can you do anything for Jon now?”

“No.” Hastur sounds wondering. “Triage is achieved. I will need to gather tools and repair myself before I can do more for him than his passenger already has.”

Martin swallows. “Then I got him. Go do… whatever. We’re free, right?”

“From me? Yes. With… a gratitude I cannot yet express. I overlooked you, Mister Blackwood, in the beginning. I should not have.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Martin’s not sure he wants Hastur’s regard.

“I will check on you both tomorrow morning. If there is an emergency, you only need call my name.” And Hastur leaves, gracious and monstrous and complicated.

“Haven’t forgiven him for what he did to you,” says Martin. “I don’t know if he can make up for it.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” says Jon.

“You… you madman,” Martin says. “What did you do in there? What do I have to do to keep you from throwing yourself into things, eh? Chain you to my ankle?”

“Anything you want to do, Martin,” Jon smiles and promises, utters, vows. “Anything you want to do.”

“We’ve got to talk about that, too. But now’s not the time. I almost lost you, Jon.”

They hold each other.

Martin is unwilling to move, as if, by standing, he might shatter the unexpected peace they’ve found among the pieces of Hastur’s ruined home. “How are we going to keep you from starving? Devouring yourself like a star, or whatever?”

“I have access to… everywhere,” says Jon, almost gently. “No matter what I need, I will never starve again.”

Jon sounds so relieved.

"I thought... you'd be helpless?"

"Kayne lied. I don't know what I am, Martin, but... it's definitely not helpless."

Martin shivers and can't quite hold Jon's gaze.

He also can’t find it in himself to worry for whoever gets fed on in exchange for this. Maybe they can target bad people, or something.

Maybe it’s a problem for another day.

“I can walk,” says Jon, at last. He manages to stand with Martin’s arm around him.

“So you have the Eye, still.”

“Part of it. It’s changed so much, I… I don’t know what it’s going to do. Grow? Overwhelm me? Shrink and die? It doesn’t seem to feed on fear anymore.”

Martin inhales. “How?

“I don’t know because it doesn’t know.”

Martin sighs. “Another hurdle to get over.”

“It kept me alive. With you. I’m having trouble being ungrateful right now.” 

Martin snorts. “Just pack-bond with the damn thing, and get it over with.”

Jon laughs and leans in. “We’re okay.”

“For now.”

Jon kisses his jaw. “I think at this point, I’m willing to believe in our odds against anything.”

“You’re… you’re a mess, though.”

“Martin K. Blackwood, when have I ever not been a mess, in all the years you’ve known me?”

Martin snorts. “Gods, I love you.”

“And I love you.” Jon presses his forehead to Martin’s shoulder. “What do you think of what just happened back there? With the other John, Arthur, and all?”

Martin considers. “Sometimes a family is an eldritch god, a half-starved P.I., and his daughter’s soul in a jar, I guess.”

Jon smiles. “And sometimes, a family is a broken baby god and his sneaky, brilliant, most eligible stud in West Village.”

Martin laughs softly, but his smile fades. “Oh, the Village, I… I miss it. I guess we can’t go back, though.”

“No reason why we can’t. Maybe there won’t be any more matriculation. Maybe it’ll stop.”

“But it won’t—nothing will make what happened okay.”

“No. But punching Mason, might, a little.” 

Martin is surprised into laughing. “I’ll hold. You punch. We’ll just kill him, otherwise.” And he aches. “They’ll see me bring you back. Peter, Mark, Julia. They’ll hope for Ellie”

“Likely, yes.” Another kiss. “I’m sorry. Hopefully, they won’t resent you. Maybe they’ll be happy for you, instead.”

“So damn complicated,” Martin murmurs. “A lot of it’s going to be hard.”

“Hard, but worth it. I just… I need to be part of Hastur’s next steps forward, Martin. We can make a difference. We can help him… unfuck the world.”

“Unfuck the world. Maybe we all owe the world some unfucking.”

“I do. Hastur certainly does. We’ll make it work.”

“Hey,” says Martin. “Do you know why our cottage kept doing that? Disappearing, and all. I mean, now that you’re apocalyptic Google, again.”

“It was John Doe and Arthur’s home for a year before the King killed that Arthur,” says Jon.

“What?”

“They traded some priceless lighter to a… guy in the Dreamlands for it. It’s actually portable. We can move it.”

“The hell you say!”

“It also changes sizes according to who’s living there, so if John and Arthur need a place to stay that isn’t here, we can give them a room.”

Martin is stunned. “And we just happened to land right next to it?”

Jon’s answer to this is succinct: “Annabelle Cane can go to hell. Which she did. And now rules. So.”

“You, uh.” Martin's eyes are wide. “Want to unpack that for me? And also, Jonah?”

“Later, I promise. I almost pity that horrible man—but I don’t have the energy to get into it now.” Another kiss. “We’re going to make it, Martin.”

Martin’s voice cracks. His grip tightens. “Are we?”

Jon kisses him properly, until he’s breathless and flushed.

“Jonathan Sims,” Martin whispers. “Did you find hope in the Dark World?”

“I found the hope you’ve been offering me this whole time.” Jon cups his cheek. “I finally see it.”

Martin has to wipe his eyes.

Jon just smiles. “Let’s go home. Temporary home, anyway. I don’t want to deal with ichor right now, so those guest rooms will have to do.”

“You know how to get to them?”

“Don’t worry. I love you,” he steps over some rubble, leaning in and holding tight. “And yes. I  know the way.”