Chapter Text
The King in Yellow looked down at Luke, and there was something in that gaze that pierced him, pushed through, penetrated in the best possible way. Luke knew, in that moment, he’d pleased this god.
What a bizarre feeling. Okay. Maybe he could see why Oscar and others got into it. That was pretty good.
Behind him, one of the warriors groaned and crawled his direction, snarling.
John kicked out and sent the guy rolling away.
Dennis appeared as if from nowhere. “You’ve won,” he said, and his eyes were wide and dilated, and his cheeks were red, and his breath was quick. “Come on. Let’s go before someone tries to kill you for it.”
The whole arena floor was moving now, monsters stirring, realizing what had happened. Realizing they’d lost.
Luke let Dennis lead him out through that victor’s door, right through that golden arch with darkness inside. John snatched up Arthur, grabbed Dowd, and followed without permission.
#
“Let it go, lad,” said Dennis, and at last, Luke fully released the spell. He made a pained sound, and his legs went out from under him.
It had been… almost too much. He could, he thought, have held it a little bit longer, but not without harming himself. As it was, his own body was reacting wildly; his blood-sugar was too low, his adrenaline was too high—
Dennis picked him up. “You’ve won,” he said, grim. “Didn"t think that was ever goin" ta happen. Fuck-all if I know what happens now.”
“I get my wish,” breathed Luke, who was determined to word it in such a way that Dowd would be freed.
Like that was a sign, Dennis went down on his knee, depositing Luke beside him.
Luke knew why. The King had deigned to join them. There it was: that presence. That size. That power. Nobody could stand easily under that, Luke was sure. The hall was barely big enough to contain him; he hovered, many tentacles filling space, his crown almost slicing through the ceiling. “So,” Hastur said, and his voice shook the floor, and shaped thoughts, and marked souls. “My game is finally done.”
“You!” snarled John.
“I,” said the King mildly.
“Don’t you fucking try it!” John declared.
But John was the only one growling.
Luke looked back and forth. He’d spent time with this king, this inhuman god; he’d seen those tentacles reveal many things the mask-like face did not. They were down right now, drooping.
Luke looked back at John.
John held Dowd like a limp towel; he cradled Arthur like a beloved child. And he growled, his teeth horrible and jagged beneath his mask.
“Dennis Collins,” said the King. “Go.”
Dennis blinked. “Go?”
“Go. You are free.”
Dennis leaped to his feet. He hesitated for only a moment, looking down at Luke.
“Go,” repeated the King, with warning in it this time.
“Well,” said Dennis. “Good luck to ya. Clever as y’are, you might be okay.” He paused briefly beside Arthur with that weird, longing look. “I’ll find you,” he vowed, low, and finally left.
This was it. This was the moment.
“You have won,” said the King in Yellow, his limbs still limp, his crown not cutting nearly as much as it should. “Speak your wish.”
Parker.
Luke hesitated. He glanced back. John growled, huddling there over Arthur. He glanced forward. “Will you let them go?” said Luke very quietly.
“No,” said Hastur just as quietly, and his tentacles curled at the tips, as if in anticipation for what Luke might do in response.
Parker…
Luke couldn’t help his breath hitching a little, couldn’t help his eyes going wet. “I wish…”
John snarled something back there, but it wasn’t clear, muffled.
Luke wasn’t even sure that was due to magic or just how much he was feeling. “I wish…”
One shot.
Parker.
Parker wouldn’t wish for himself in this moment. He wouldn’t do it. So. Neither would Luke.
They needed to be free. The Games needed to end. Hastur needed healing… and so did John. “I wish,” said Luke, clear and low, “that you would join John and become one again.”
Everyone gawked at him.
“Oh, child,” said Hastur, softly.
“What?” said John. “What did that little shit just… Arthur?”
Arthur raised his head, looking bleary. “What’s happening?”
“That is your wish,” said the King, softly. “Phrased just that way.”
“Yes, sir.” Luke raised his head, then wiped his eyes. “You need it, sir. Badly. John… wants it, even if he won’t say it. And it might end this. All of this. Since they said you went crazy. Maybe this could fix it.”
“Child.” Hastur raised his innumerable arms, stretching them out and up like the curved, stylized arms of some great sun. “A wise child. And then, your brother?”
Luke hung his head. “I’ll find…” He meant to say another way, but it wouldn’t come out. His throat tightened, voice caught.
Hastur touched Luke"s chin and raised his face. “Then this is farewell.”
Luke blinked at him, trying to see through tears. “Farewell?”
“Thank you. Thank you. It seems the mortal mind was needed to find this solution.” Hastur moved toward John.
Farewell? Why was it farewell? “What’s happening?” said Luke.
Hastur stopped before John.
They were…
Seeing them there, both uneven, one able to hide it and one not, was dizzying, like seeing double even though they differed.
“So,” said Hastur.
John breathed fast, shallow, wrapping more limbs around Arthur, who struggled pointlessly. “So.”
Another pause.
“I guess you’re going to try to kill him now,” John growled.
“You know that’s not what I want,” said the King.
“I don’t care what you want,” said John.
“But what do you want, John?” said the King, and silence fell again.
Slowly, John put Arthur and Dowd down. Dowd stayed down, barely conscious; Arthur tried to stand and failed. “Wait,” said Arthur, still waking up. “What the fuck? The King?” His voice cracked. “Fuck you! Get away from us!”
“One of us should get what we want, don’t you think?” said the King quietly.
“But it would be what you want,” said John just as quietly. “Wouldn’t it?”
The King didn’t answer, which was an answer. “Are you willing?”
Arthur struggled. “John! Don’t do it! Whatever it is!”
Luke swallowed. Had he fucked it up?
And John finally replied. “You fucking prick. Yes. Come home.”
Hastur moved.
It wasn’t quick; it felt like eternity crunched, like some ancient and powerful ritual compressed to a breath. Hastur walked into John, and as he did, he began to vanish.
Luke hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t realized it would do this. “Hastur!” he cried.
A groan answered, relieved, coming from nowhere, from the arena, from everywhere. Hastur’s edges that had been torn and fluttering faded first, and all around John, golden light flickered, flashed, bubbled and popped, and John’s edges began to warp. His robe suddenly burst, torn completely off, and all his limbs rose, angled, curved the way Hastur’s had been a moment before.
John stood in the center of a golden cloud, perfectly symmetrical and strong, a crown floating above his head.
The cloud vanished.
John fell.
“John!” Arthur screamed it, his voice cracking, and crawled over to John. “No! No! John! John!”
Luke hyperventilated. He’d thought John would join Hastur, but that wasn’t what he’d said. Oh, no. Oh, no. He’d ruined it. He’d ruined everything. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
John sat up with a groan. An afterimage, golden, moved in his wake. “Fuck,” he said.
“John?” said Arthur, small.
“I’m here.” John shifted, his body changing, smooth as oil. “Fucking… fuck.”
Arthur gripped the nearest limb.
The arena trembled again. Luke was still hyperventilating. Dowd moaned.
“Ugh,” announced John, standing, now humanoid—his skin dark, his jaw strong, his scowl absurd. “We need to leave. Place is coming down.”
“What just happened?” said Arthur. “What?”
“I messed up,” said Luke, tiny.
“No,” said John. “You didn’t. Luke, you didn’t. You… did the thing none of us fucking thought of, and it was right.”
“But… I killed him,” said Luke.
“You didn’t,” said John quietly. “He’s anything but dead now, and he… he’s not hurting,” said John quietly. “Come on, before we get buried in this place.” he raised one hand.
The wall parted, just opened, revealing the wilderness beyond. Luke gasped.
John picked up Arthur again.
“I can fucking walk!” snapped Arthur.
“No,” said John simply, and picked up Dowd, too. The action looked a little different in a humanoid form; Arthur was pressed to his side, under his chin, and Dowd hung at his waist.
“I didn’t kill him?” whispered Luke.
John looked at Luke, and Hastur looked at Luke, and the pressure of it was there, and though Luke couldn’t express it, he suddenly understood he hadn’t lost anybody. Exactly.
John tilted his head. “Out.”
Luke obeyed.
#
The arena’s collapse was not quick. It rumbled, shook, cracked; spewed refugees like rats from a ship, and piece by piece, it broke, chunks falling with echoing booms and enormous clouds of sand.
John kept them all moving until what remained of the arena was small behind them, until the two suns were nearly set, until all the world had gone tired and pink and weary.
Outside. Truly outside, in brisk, cool air (it had been hot at the Last Lonely Inn—how long had he spent in the Games?), under two suns, facing an endless waste. Luke wiped his eyes again. They hadn’t stopped leaking yet.
Arthur was still being carried. “What do we—” he shoved—“do now?”
John put him down. “I don’t know.” He lay Charlie Dowd on the sand, paused, then waved his hand over him.
A simple tunic covered him, sudden and smooth, woven from air.
“Oh!” said Luke.
Charlie Dowd breathed. Apart from exhaustion—strain, in every muscle and limb—he wasn’t harmed. Hastur’s magic had really done a number to protect him.
“Hey,” said Arthur, following the sound, at Dowd’s side immediately. “Hey. Lorick sent us. You’re safe now. You’re out.”
“What?” said Charlie Dowd, his voice cracking like he hadn’t spoken in years.
“My name is Arthur Lester,” said Arthur. “We were sent to get you free.”
“I’m free?” said Charlie in a small voice, and began to cry.
Luke looked away. That was something he couldn’t heal.
Arthur helped Charlie sit up, and paused. “John? He was naked, wasn’t he?”
“I fixed it,” said John.
“Shit,” said Arthur in soft wonder.
"Not all I need to fix," said John.
Luke wiped his eyes. I’m sorry, Parker, he thought. I’ll find another way.
"What else?" said Arthur.
Instead of answering, John groaned. It was a heavy sound, a straining sound, like a man might make lifting something many times his own weight.
"John?" said Arthur.
Luke wiped his eyes and looked up.
A man lay thirty feet away where a moment before had been nothing.
John sort of grunted. He sat down, hard. “That was… fuck. That was a lot,” he said, and then he curled up on the sand.
“What?” said Arthur, feeling for John. “What just happened? What’d you do?”
“Good thing,” John mumbled. “You should be proud of me.”
Luke ignored them.
He stared. Stared at the man lying there, wearing a typical tailored suit that looked incredibly strange after so many months away from Earth. The man had dark hair and a cut jaw. Judging by his physique—revealed because his arms were flung over his head, untucking his shirt—he was in good shape. He breathed softly, chest rising and falling, and there were bruises on his throat.
Luke ran for him. Ran hard enough, frantically enough, that he stumbled and fell into the sand twice before reaching him.
Arthur scowled. “Luke! John, what’d you do? Talk to me, damn it!”
“Good thing,” mumbled John.
“Is that… fuckin’ Yang?” said Charlie Dowd, squinting. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Parker!” Luke grabbed him, strained to heave him onto his lap. “Parker! Parker, wake up! Wake up!”
“Parker?” Arthur turned and crawled that way.
John stopped him. “Let them have this. Then we… we’ll need to explain.”
“Oh, gods,” whispered Arthur, sounding on the edge of tears.
“Parker!” shouted Luke, his voice breaking.
Parker woke.
He squinted in the twilight, grunted, and looked up at his brother. “John Luke?” he said.
“Just Luke,” said Luke, utterly unable to stop crying now, and he laughed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Just Luke.”
“Just Luke.” Parker looked a little out of it. “How… wait.” He looked around, then sat up, winced, and touched his throat. “What the fuck…”
Luke threw himself around Parker’s chest.
Parker held him, habit and comfort, and stared around. “You’re… did you have a growth spurt? Wha… Arthur? And who the fuck is… wait, Dowd? Where the shit are we?”
Charlie just gawked at him, haunted.
“Parker,” whispered Arthur, and he was crying, too.
Parker looked around. “Okay, so. I don’t fucking remember the Sahara, or whatever this is. Ow.” He rubbed his throat and winced.
“Wait,” said Luke, reached up, touched his throat, and healed it.
Parker stared at him. “What"d you just…”
Luke smiled. “Surprise. I’m magic,” he said.
“The fuck you are?” said Parker.
“He is,” said Arthur, wiping his face. “And we all owe him. All of us.”
John sat back up. “So that’s done,” he said, like casual resurrection was just a walk in the park. “Time for transportation.”
"How did you... John, how did you do that?" Arthur said.
John hesitated. “Arthur, I’m… not… what I was.”
“You’re John.” Arthur snarled it. “You are John, through and through, and I don’t give a fuck what happened back there!”
“I am,” said John, very mildly. “More than just John now, though.”
“There a city near here?” managed Charlie.
John paused and looked up as if accessing some kind of star-chart. “Yes. It’s the Nameless City, so not great, but I think we’ll be fine.” He suddenly grinned, his human mouth revealing too many teeth. “I think we’ll be just fine.”
"Beyond the deserts is the city it is not well to enter, for the portcullis mimes teeth entirely too well to be canny,” mumbled Dowd.
“We’ll be just fine,” John said again, and stood.
Luke hadn’t moved. He listened to Parker’s heart (strong, steady, right), and just stayed where he was. Everything would be all right now. Whatever happened. It would be all right. Parker stared at Arthur, holding his brother tightly.
“I can walk,” snapped Arthur.
“Too bad. I like carrying you,” teased John.
“That voice,” muttered Charlie.
“It’s not him,” said Arthur quickly. “He’s not the King.”
John said nothing.
Parker finally stood and came over, half-dragging his new Luke-accessory around his chest. “So,” he said. “Not to be crude, but what in fuck?”
“Later,” said Arthur. “This… we can’t talk about this now. Tonight, we get some drinks. We… we’ll explain everything. And I’m sorry.”
“For what?” said Parker, even, tight.
“Fuck, I don’t even know anymore,” said Arthur.
John took Arthur’s hand and placed it on his arm. “Follow.”
“Fuck you.” But Arthur didn’t let go.
“You’re blind?” said Parker, who rarely missed much. “What the fuck?”
“Just… let’s go,” said Arthur.
John created transport. He summoned it from nowhere, swirling in sand and smoke to become a cart with horrible beasts, similar to the ones that had pulled the Butcher’s, though this one had no cage—only seats, padded.
"Shit!" said Parker, taking a step back and holding Luke tightly.
“Your temperature rose,” said Arthur, feeling John’s arm.
“We have a lot to get used to,” said John. “Up. Before any survivors figure out we’re here and get stupid about wanting our ride."
Arthur snorted and clambered up, then helped Charlie.
“Lorick got me out?” said Charlie, tiny.
“Yes. He never forgot you,” said Arthur.
Charlie put his face in his hands and wept again.
Leery, Parker sat in the last row, and Luke sat with him, curled up in his lap. "This ain"t the Sahara," Parker said, low.
"No," said Arthur. "It"s not."
"Sure as fuck ain"t Arkham, either," said Parker.
"Nope," said John, and the wagon began to roll.
Luke clung, and his tears wet Parker"s button-up shirt. Though the wagon was rattling and distant screech-birds were screaming and a freaky city with no name and hungry portcullis waited ahead, he wasn’t worried. Everything would be okay now. He"d won. Everything would be okay.
Luke fell asleep, on his way to the rest of his life, and squeezed Parker tighter. He’d never slept so well in his life.