Chapter Text
“You want him back.”
“I want him safe.”
Even though he can’t see it, he knows that Kayne is smiling wide, mockingly, “You want him back.”
It’s a moment before he can bring himself to admit it. This is what they had wanted in the first place, to be separated; and yet for all the hell they’d been through together his head was too empty without him. John hadn’t wanted to return to the King - he’d done it for Arthur’s sake and that alone was enough reason to want him back. “Yes.”
“Knew it! And there’s nothing in it for me?”
“I-”
“You know, someone oughtta tell them that coins don’t land on their sides. Your friends suck at following the rules.”
“What?”
“Look, I like you. I like when you shoved my dagger into your throat, I enjoy our little repartee! I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?” Nothing good could possibly come from a deal with someone like Kayne, but Arthur can’t help but hope that things could be fixed.
“Yeah!”
“What kind of-?”
“I’ll put him back, right where he belongs! I’ll even give you your arm and leg back. But, not your eyes. You only have eyes for him!”
“And?” That couldn’t possibly be it, that was too good to be true.
“And? Hm, good question. I have to think of a catch, right? What malevolent entity appears and offers a trade that only benefits?” He laughs at a joke only he understands, “Huh, huh, huh, huh, hm. Oh. Oh, yes!”
Arthur is more than apprehensive to ask, “What?”
Kayne speaks slowly, clearly excited to reveal what he’d come up with. “John comes back, owns your eyes, as he always did, and I say it’s only fair he gets to keep that hand and foot… but! You’ll. Remember. Nothing.”
It’s a stomach dropping realization, panic rearing its head fast and familiar as Kayne continues through the ringing in his ears. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. No opening the book back in Arkham, no memories in the Dreamlands, no discovery of each other's true natures - all those squabbles and heartfelt conversations. Nothing .”
“I…”
“You’ll be as you first met him, a sheltered and frankly pathetic Englishman trying to run away from his past.”
“But I…
Kayne pitches his voice, mocking, “But I…! What?”
“I’ll…”
“Look, I get it! You don’t want to forget all those precious moments you spent together! But you aren’t! Not really - he’ll remember them after all. If you stay like this, you really lose him. And hey, this way the two of you have the potential to grow! Just as you did before. Can’t you just start again?”
Starting all over again, from the very beginning? Not knowing about Parker and Eddie’s deaths, the child and the Stanczyk house, Kellin, Harper’s Hill and the Lighthouse, Leerie, the Dreamlands. Finding out who John really was - The King in Yellow, the pits . There was wet blood still on his hands, dirt under his nails from their - his escape. How could he just start over?
“I… I don’t know, I.”
Kayne sighs, “Huh. Well, it’s a timed offer.”
Of course it would be, why wouldn’t it. “How long do I-”
“Three.”
Arthur was tired of making decisions. “Wait!”
“Two.”
He didn’t want to lose John. “Let me –” He didn’t want to lose himself.
“One.”
There wasn’t any time to change his mind. “Fine! Deal.”
“Deal?”
He’s going to regret this. He won’t remember it anyway. “Yes.”
Kayne sounds positively overjoyed by his choice, “Oh, Arthur! This is going to be so much fun. Say hi for me.”
There’s a coin spinning, a metallic whir that slows and rattles to a stop, but Arthur can’t see it. He doesn’t know where he is, but he’s on the floor and everything is dark. It takes a significant amount of effort to get himself vertical, hands braced on cold hardwood.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” It sounds as if there’s a storm outside - windows rattling with the force of the wind, but it wasn’t supposed to be storming in Arkham, he would remember, he’d just gone outside for the mail. “Where am I? What’s happened?”
He tries to get his feet under him, and feels a sudden bout of lightheadedness, sending him back to the floor. Had he passed out? Why were his hands sticky - and smelled of blood? Was he bleeding?
Arthur! The shout echoes, startling him enough to yelp and scramble back until he hits a wall. You’re alive!
The odd declaration doesn’t register over his panic as to why he was hearing this person at all. “Who are you? Why can’t I see?”
Arthur, it’s… the voice is far more hesitant now, the odd mix of anger and relief that had been filling it dissipating, it’s John.
“I don’t know a ‘John’ - where are we? I…I can’t remember how I got here, am I bleeding? I can’t see anything.” Too many open questions with a stranger somewhere , if only he could recall how he’d ended up here-
You don’t remember how you got here? John sounds confused, concerned, not the reaction Arthur was expecting from his questioning.
“No,” He snaps, “And I can’t see , where are you? Did you bring me here?”
I…no, I did not bring you here. I’m a voice inside your head.
“A voice inside my head?” Arthur repeats with disbelief, “I must have hit it quite hard to be imagining someone here with me, is that how I lost my vision? It would also explain the blood on my hands-”
You’re not crazy, Arthur, John growls, I own your eyes, that’s why you can’t see.
“Of course,” Arthur laughs without humor, and winces at a soreness lancing down his neck. He brings his hand up, carefully tracing the line of his neck to a stiff collar and pausing. A thick line of scar tissue had formed at some point, aching at the touch. “You’re a voice in my head that controls my eyes, that sounds plausible.”
Jesus Christ, John sounds almost disappointed. You don’t remember anything?
“I’m not sure what you expect me to remember,” Arthur doesn’t understand what this being is going on about. “Are we still in Arkham? Hold on - Parker? Are you here?”
If a disembodied voice could gasp, it does, Parker?
“Yes, if we are no longer in Arkham then it goes to stand that he wouldn’t be here, have I been kidnapped?” Arthur mutters to himself.
You…Arthur, what’s the last thing you remember?
Arthur frowns, “I was in our office - Parker and I’s office in Arkham. There was a case we were discussing…” Arthur trails off as the details seem to escape him. Head trauma would do that, if he didn’t despise the hospital so much he would go in to make sure he didn’t have a concussion. Parker would be having a fit right now if he was around. “I’m…I’m not sure how I got here.”
It’s a terrifying realization, that he had lost time. Did Parker know he was gone? If he’d been kidnapped surely he’d be looking for him. Even at his worst when Parker had been prying him off of bars night after night he still looked for him. It had been months since the last incident and he wasn’t keen on returning to the experience.
Parker is… John hesitates again, and it’s beginning to set off warning bells in his head.
His voice is cold, “John, where’s Parker?”
It seems that his sudden question had caught him off guard, the answer given in a rush, Parker is gone.
“Gone?”
He was murdered. In your office.
Murdered. In their office.
Gone.
“You’re lying.”
I’m not, John snarls, You think I would lie about something like this?
“Well it’s an awful thing to say,” Arthur snaps, “Parker can’t be dead, we just had lunch this afternoon once we’d…we’d…” What had the two of them been doing? Investigating something...
Your partner is no longer here and we are no longer in Arkham, although I don’t know where we are.
“You’re the one with my eyes,” Arthur retorts, deciding to table to Parker conversation for now - there were bigger issues. He wouldn’t believe it till he saw it regardless, “What do you see?”
John hums, a sound that rumbles through Arthur’s mind. We’re in a single room cabin, there’s a fire in the grey cobblestone fireplace that has burned down to embers. A stack of logs was made beside it, but it’s been knocked over. We should stoke it soon, but there’s some time before that’s a necessity. It illuminates the structure that’s been built with plain dark wood. To your left is a bed with the sheets stripped… He trails off for a moment before quickly continuing, There’s a wardrobe past it as well as a small writing desk. There’s no decorations on the walls other than a rifle mounted above the writing desk.
“What’s on my hands?” Arthur asks, tilting his head down.
Blood. A lot of it. Your shirt is soaked through, as well as your pants. It’s pooled on the hardwood, beginning to dry to a dark crimson. Some of the sheets were torn, staunching the wounds and setting your leg. Some it seems were used in the fireplace.
“My leg?” Arthur feels down his leg, the same ache that had lanced down his neck mirrored deep in his bones. His hands came away wet, the material clearly soaked as John had said, but not all of it could be blood. Had he been outside in the storm? “What happened to me?”
You must’ve walked through the storm to get here , John mutters, almost to himself. There’s a table by the door that has been knocked over - a metal lunchbox open on the ground, papers scattered around, a shattered lantern. You must have run into it coming inside.
“Why would I be outside?” Arthur asks incredulously, deciding it was more than enough time to try standing again. He wavers, frowning when one of his feet doesn't respond. “Is there something wrong with my foot?”
John hesitates, I control your left foot. And your left hand.
Arthur hadn’t even noticed it, now prodding at his left hand and frowning when he feels nothing, although John makes an irritated noise.
We’ve had plenty of practice with this, take about six steps forward - you’ll be at the door. Reach for the handle - a little further down, yes.
Arthur opens the door, tugging hard when the hinges stick. A burst of cool air fills the cabin, the sharp scent of snow hitting him as the wind brings flakes inside. That doesn’t make any sense - there was no forecast of snow anytime soon, they had just been in the midst of fall.
It’s a blizzard out there Arthur, even if there was visibility I can’t see if there’s anyone other than us out here, John says, voice awed. Where you had walked has been completely filled with snow - the only sign you’d walked here from just outside the door - blood smeared against the handle and splattered blood quickly being covered by snow.
“No lights or buildings?” Arthur asks. Even if they were on the outskirts of Arkham, houses would be close enough to see even through a blizzard.
Nothing as far as I can see - which is only about twenty feet with the snow, John replies. Shut the door, we should add another log to the fire.
Arthur shuts it, then scowls when he realizes how easily he’d followed John’s instructions. He didn’t like being bossed around. However, he could feel how much colder it was - he wouldn’t be surprised if that wind had dampened what little fire had remained. He takes a few cautious steps forward, crouching when John instructs him to and hefting a log into the fire.
You should change, it’s not good for you to stay in those clothes.
“I’m not a fan of you telling me what to do,” Arthur snaps suddenly, leaning back on his heels and waiting until there’s the telltale crackle of the log catching. “I can decide what to do on my own.”
John sighs, I forgot you were a prick when we met.
“Excuse me?”
You heard me, John growls, Yes Arthur, you don’t like being told what to do. I know that, I understand that, but I also don’t want you to sit around in bloodsoaked clothes because you didn’t think to change.
Arthur wants to argue, but he can’t deny that this clothing is uncomfortable and only growing colder. “Where’s the wardrobe.”
To your right, straight ahead - yes. There’s a collection of hardy clothes - thick blue pants, flannel shirts, and a coat with two sets of buttons. The drawer you just opened has undergarments and socks.
If they were going out in that blizzard, he should layer up. His clothing sticks to his skin where the blood had dried, discomfort thrumming through him as he thinks of how grimy he must appear. “Is there a bowl or a tub of sorts in here?”
Nothing big enough to bathe in, John must have assumed what he was getting at. There’s a cooking pot that could hold about a gallon of water on the floor by the door.
“Better than nothing,” Arthur decides, taking it and opening the door. The blizzard hadn’t gotten any better, but that meant there was plenty of snow for him to pack into the pot and return inside, hand blistering from the cold. He sets it in the fireplace and waits, finding the silence becoming overbearing. “So. How did you come about being inside my head?”
John sighs heavily, You were working a case with your partner. It resulted in a book being delivered to your doorstep, which I was trapped in. When you read it, I became bound to you and gained control of your eyes.
“Really?” Arthur says, it doesn’t sound real. Although, he and Parker had been encountering strange cases in Arkham, and it always had been a hotspot for occult activity. “How do you know Parker was murdered?”
The snow’s melted - don’t let it get too hot, John says idly, and Arthur feels the odd sensation of his hand but not his hand grabbing the handle. He realized John had avoided the question.
“John.”
He was lying dead on the floor of your office when you woke up, John says, and something in his voice set those warning bells off again, but Arthur had a feeling he wouldn’t get any answers if he pushed. He reaches for the discarded sheet, tearing new strips and carefully dunking them in the warm water.
Not as good as an actual bath, but being able to scrub away the dried blood on his arms felt heavenly. Although…
“I can feel the bones in my arms, have I lost weight?”
A little, John hedges, Your arms are mostly clean now, there’s still a lot of blood on your hands. Dirt under your nails.
Arthur hums thoughtfully, taking a moment to actually assess how he was feeling. That lightheadedness hadn’t quite faded, and he wasn’t sure if that could be blamed on head trauma. It seemed his entire body was bruised, his neck was stiff, his stomach aching and empty, a dull throb running down his legs as he shifts to peel off blood soaked pants. The skin didn’t quite feel right - odd warps as if scarred, but John wasn’t making any observations so he does his best to clean away what he could feel before turning his attention to his face. He brings the sheets to his face, fingers catching on-
“Do I have a beard?” He says with confusion, fingers running through - yes, a beard. Quite a few months grown if he were to guess. His hair was long too, curtaining his face in greasy layers. “Has…how much time has passed since this happened?” Something felt dislodged inside him at the thought of losing time, any amount of time. How much had he missed? What had he been doing to end up in such a state?
John sighs, There’s been quite a few things. Months have passed since that day in your office in Arkham.
“Months?” Arthur repeats incredulously, grimacing as his fingers catch in his hair. He didn’t like letting it get long, it didn’t bring good memories and was a nuisance on top of everything else. “Is there a shaving kit? Scissors?”
Maybe on the desk, but you should get dressed first, John says quickly when Arthur goes towards the desk. Although he wanted to protest, it was cool enough that Arthur would agree that more layers would be preferred over the tattered clothes he was wearing.
“Denim? These are a worker's clothes,” He muses to himself as he begins rifling through the clothes.
This does seem to be the home of someone who works manual labor, John agrees, There are snowshoes propped by the door, that rifle has clearly seen some use, and these clothes have been worn smooth at the joints. Some of them are muddy, as if they hadn’t been washed before being put away - you’ve got a clean set there. Oh, there are holes in those socks - take the ones, yes those.
Arthur feels much better in clean clothes, warmer than the threadbare business wear he’d been in. Now that they weren’t on his body, he could feel how gritty they were with what he assumes to be dirt.
“Where were we before this?”
Not a place for visiting, John replies shortly, It looks like the writing desk has some letters on it.
It’s a blatant redirection, but Arthur gets the sense he’ll get more answers if he just waits for John to reveal them. He walks, hand outstretched until it meets the edge of the desk.
The desk has stacks of papers, all of them blank except a printed letterhead. There’s a dried out inkwell, clearly left out for a while as well as a few pencils. The only paper with anything on it is addressed from a ‘Larson Mining Company’ in the letterhead. The writing…it’s illegible Arthur.
“Do your best,” Arthur replies, holding the letter in careful fingers. The paper was thick, official company mail then. Did this cabin belong to the mine owner? Or just a worker?
The only thing I can make out is ‘leaving now, sorry mum’, or at least I think that’s what it says. Whoever wrote this clearly didn’t write often.
“I don’t recognize the name Larson,” Arthur mutters, putting the letter back on the desk. “Anything else here?”
There are drawers, John says, but grumbles when Arthur slides each of them open, None of them with anything interesting.
“Alright,” Arthur says, turning back to face the room, “Anything else that would store things?”
Oh, yes there’s a chest at the end of the bed opposite the wardrobe. You’ll have to move the sheets off to open it.
Arthur kneels, wincing as the layers he’d put on stretch uncomfortably, although dampen the impact with the floor. The chest opens easily, and he tilts his head down. “Well? Anything good?”
Yes, there’s an unbroken lantern although covered in dust. Either the one that had been by the door was the one used more or someone hasn’t needed it in a while. Another stack of papers although these have far more writing on them than the papers on the desk, mud encrusted boots, gloves, a coil of rope, and a broken bottle of oil.
“Ah, new shoes would do us well,” Arthur says, having noted how worn through his own had felt. Gloves went in his pocket for later use, although he notices something wrong with his left hand as he removes it from his pocket. “What happened to my pinkie, John?”
It’s a long story, John dodges, Grab those papers, I think I see a map.
Another deflection, which couldn’t be a good thing but Arthur also knew it was important they figure out where they are. It wouldn’t be great if whoever lived here stumbled upon them digging through their belongings.
“Well?” He asks, flipping through the papers. They felt dry, old, perhaps this cabin was abandoned, or only used in certain months.
They look like they were filed away, what handwriting I can see is the same as on the note - although there is a name here. Jack Larson.
“Hm,” Arthur hums thoughtfully, “Family connection to the mines then? Perhaps he was homeschooled, working for the family. It’s quite common in farming operations, I suppose mining could be similar.”
No map, John says after a moment, Just filed papers - almost all of them completely illegible.
“Right, well, that’s useless then,” Arthur mutters, returning the papers back to the chest. “The rifle, did we find any bullets?”
In one of the drawers, John agrees, And some money - grimy and dirt covered.
“Lovely,” Arthur deadpans, rifling through the stack of bills and taking out the box of bullets to sit on top of the desk. “We should see how the weather’s doing. I don’t think it’s wise for us to stay here much longer.”
We could rest, John says hesitantly, The bed still has a quilt - careful, there’s frozen blood on the floor - and no one’s been here since you broke in.
“I broke in?” Arthur questions, widely sidestepping where there was enough blood to freeze into a puddle. That was quite alarming, surely it couldn’t all be his.
This isn’t where I left you last, so you must’ve.
“You left me?” Arthur says with confusion, “I thought you were bound to me.”
John is silent, and Arthur has a feeling he’s missing an important piece. “If you’re going to avoid the topic, why bring it up at all?”
You don’t remember what I am? John asks quietly.
“I didn’t know your name was John until you told me,” Arthur replies. “Were you lying about that?”
I’ve lied about a great many things, Arthur, but not that. My name is John Doe, He replies sadly.
“John Doe, as in someone who has no assigned name? You must be fucking with me,” Arthur scoffs. Of course he would end up with a voice in his head with a sick sense of humor.
I’m not, I chose that name - it’s mine , John snarls protectively. We’re wasting time, are we staying here or leaving? The fire is almost dead.
“We should leave,” Arthur decides, “Especially if the storm has died down, it doesn’t seem as loud.” He walks to the door, heaving it open once more. The wind still howls, but even if it was snowing heavily he wasn’t keen on staying in an unfamiliar cabin. “How does it look?”
I can see lights, faintly in the distance, John reports, it’s dark out - either evening or morning, but there’s a grey cast to the sky as it reflects off the piling snow. We’re in the midst of winter, unlike when we…
Arthur was getting tired of him trailing off so often. He could fill in the blanks - they’d been months away from winter the last he remembered. They had to have gone somewhere in that time, or been taken somewhere. He’d get the answers out of him eventually, he always had been more patient than Parker in the interrogation department.
“Right,” Arthur shuts the door, “Snowshoes are-”
By your feet, left - yes there.
“We should take the rifle,” Arthur thinks aloud as he begins tying them to his feet, “Do I have my bag? Anything else that could help us carry things?”
John hums, Yes - your bag is tucked beneath the bed, I almost missed it.
“Brilliant,” Arthur could almost feel positive about that. “We’ll likely need identification if we have any hope of getting out of this place. Village, town, wherever we are it might be so small the only way out is a personal vehicle instead of a taxi or train.”
Hm. The sound is neutral, but Arthur has a bad feeling about John’s lack of agreement.
“Do you know what’s in our bag?” Arthur asks warily.
I know what was in it last, John says hesitantly, And your ID was not there.
“When did I lose it?” Arthur asks with a frown, carefully picking his way over to where John directs him. The bag doesn’t feel the same - clearly travel worn and material tough with god knows what. It’s heavy, packed with objects he doesn’t recognize when he starts feeling around.
“Are these…can you tell me what’s in here?” He says after a moment, beginning to remove things and set them out, he can guess what most of them are, but not all.
There’s a book - it’s a bestiary of sorts as well as one with my symbol on it. A few notes and letters from previous cases, a piece of glass called the Glass of Leng, a small stone called the Crystallizer of Dreams, a pallid mask, a coin, a tooth, a wallet - no ID inside but a bit of money, fishing hooks, the lighter that you found in your office an…ornate dagger, oh - there is a shaving kit. And-
Arthur doesn’t need him to describe the last item. Even blind he recognizes it, fingers pressing along the seam and carefully opens the lid. He can’t even breathe as a familiar tune plays.
“Why do I have this?” He asks, voice pitched low and careful.
Arthur-
“Why the fuck do I have this,” He snarls, wishing this entity didn’t own his eyes so he could look at it on his own, see the anxiety on its face as it clearly filled its voice. “Answer me!”
It’s a replica, John says quickly, A lure, to convince you to go somewhere.
“Bullshit,” Arthur retorts, “This was - there was only one made, no one outside myself and- no one else would know about it. There is no explanation as to why I’m holding this right now.”
I know Arthur, John says miserably, It was used to draw you into a city. I know it was… John trails off again and Arthur can feel his patience wear thin.
“You know,” He says coldly.
I’m not going to say her name, John sounds nervous, good . His heart has sunk to his stomach at the thought that this being knew about his daughter. I know it was hers. You told me about her.
“Did I?” It didn’t sound like him. Parker didn’t even know, and he’d been working at getting answers out of him for the better part of two years. Well, he didn’t know the full story - just enough to get him off his back.
You don’t have to worry about it, John says decisively, There’s no proof that it was taken from her. You have it, it’s fine.
“It sure doesn’t seem fine,” Arthur mutters, clutching the music box close to his chest. There’s the engraving on the bottom - ‘ Faroe’s Lullaby - Lester’ . If he focuses he can even feel the slight indent where it had been dropped on the hardwood once. This didn’t make any sense, this shouldn’t be here.
We should get going Arthur, John says reluctantly, and Arthur realizes he’d been giving him a minute . Ridiculous.
“How do I know you’re not the cause of this?” He asks sharply as he begins packing the bag once more.
It depends on what you define as ‘this’, John replies blithely.
“Ending up in a cabin in the middle of god knows where, covered in blood that was apparently mine, lost time and self,” Arthur clarifies, and he senses that he hits a nerve with the way John scoffs.
I’m not taking the blame for that. Put on your gloves.
“I was getting there,” Arthur huffs. He heads for the rifle first, taking it carefully from the wall. “Is this loaded?”
Why are you taking it?
“You didn’t mention my revolver, and frankly I don’t want to go unarmed into the wilderness. Goodness knows what’s out there, and this could have multiple uses,” Arthur explains, fiddling with it until he’s able to find where to put the bullets. “Well?”
Loaded, and you can grab the box of extra bullets from the desk, John says after a moment. You have a dagger, we’ve taken a lot from this cabin. I'm not sure if we should take much more.
“Not sure how much good a dagger would do against a bear, or wolves,” Arthur comments idly, finding a strap for the rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. “I’m aware it’s not the smartest to take so much, but it doesn’t seem like this cabin has been used recently. If we encounter the person who owns it I’m sure we can come up with a reasonable explanation. Do we have all of our belongings?”
Normally he wouldn’t consider stealing from an unsuspecting person, but he feels incredibly off kilter from what little he’s learned in this time. He has a feeling having more than a dagger will benefit them, and it seems like whatever got him into this mess won’t care much whether he’s armed or not.
From what I can see, John agrees, Once more into the abyss.
“Once more,” Arthur says with apprehension, opening the door.
It was difficult gauging what it was like, even with John beginning to spin him a description and leading him in the direction he’d seen the light. The snowshoes allowed him to move over the piles of snow, but it was difficult to balance as most of the terrain was uneven. Wind whipped through his hair, snow melting against his skin and beginning to numb his face. It takes effort to lift his foot high enough to move through the snow, moving on a one track mind until he’s interrupted.
Arthur, stop!
He rocks to a stop, bringing the rifle up, “What?”
The light I saw earlier - it was from a lantern. Kerosene I think, and fading quick where it’s fallen into the snow.
Arthur’s heart sinks, “Out here?” Had someone been that near to them this entire time? Were they closer to civilization than they thought or had this person met an unfortunate end?
The snow melts in puddles around it, it’s running hot. There’s signs of a struggle here - as if someone was tackled or trying to escape something and fell. There’s a set of tracks headed towards a forest that’s just come into view. If you lean down you can pick up the lantern.
Arthur can feel the heat even through his gloves, holding the lantern in front of him. “This way?”
Yes keep going straight, a few paces more…hold on- stop, John’s voice fills with apprehension, They fell again here and…blood. Lots of it, frozen arcs across a large trampled area. There’s drag marks - whoever it was didn’t get up again.
“What do the tracks look like? Are they footsteps? Human or animal?” Arthur asks, moving his head as if he could see the threat coming.
Not human, John replies immediately, Unlikely to be an animal, they’re almost star shaped, wide and elephant-like.
“What the hell could make that?” Arthur wonders aloud, beginning to walk again. “Do the tracks continue this way?”
Yes, but I’m not sure if we should follow them , John says, Whatever creature-
“Someone is hurt John,” Arthur interrupts, beginning to move forward, “We need to help them.”
We need to stay alive, John protests. It's too cold, we don’t know what’s out here and you’re just coming off of months of- He cuts himself off, and Arthur was prepared to argue more when he hears a howl.
Wolves.
They really weren’t in Arkham any more, they wouldn’t go so close to the city.
They’re in the forest just ahead, John says lowly, as if they could hear him. If you turn around we could head back to the cabin, I’m sure we’re close enough.
“Wolves don’t typically approach people,” Arthur says unconvincingly, continuing forward at a much more careful pace. “Maybe we can continue on - surely there’s a town around if there was someone this far out.”
They could’ve attacked whoever was out here.
“You said the tracks were star shaped,” Arthur replies pointedly, “Wolves have paws, they’re distinctive. If it wasn’t them we shouldn’t have to worry.”
Think for a fucking second Arthur! John growls, and Arthur can feel the hand that is not his grasping at the front of his coat, pressing against his chest as if to hold him back. Even if it wasn’t wolves, there is something out here-
“And that sounds like bullshit!” Arthur shouts, “Honestly John, what sort of thing could create-”
A sudden growl makes him freeze, twisting with alarm to where the sound had come from.
Run! John yells, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to follow the instruction. The snowshoes are lost quickly but he can’t bring himself to care, feet sinking heavily into the snow with every step. The lantern swings wildly in his hand, occasionally singes the material of his coat. There’s a downed tree straight ahead, you can duck underneath it!
Arthur drops the lantern, hearing it hiss in the snow as he finds the tree with one hand and throws himself behind it. He fumbles with the rifle, unable to find the safety with his gloves.
To your right!
Arthur swings blindly, feeling an impact and the air splitting with a pained whine. He scrambles back, finding his balance and taking off once more. “How many?”
A pack of them, black fur stark even against the night sky, snow speckled like stars on their coats, they’re stalking you Arthur - you need to shoot at them!
“What if I miss?” Arthur pants, ripping off his right glove and finally finding the safety.
You’ll at least scare them!
Arthur can’t argue with that. He feels John’s hand tug to direct where it’s supporting the gun, following until it stops and fires. There’s a whine, then the sounds fade along with the sound of paws in snow. He keeps the rifle raised, breathing hard and attempting to listen for any signs they’ll be attacked again.
They’ve retreated for now, we need to get back to the cabin, John says grimly. I’m sure that won’t scare them off for long.
“That person must’ve come from somewhere, maybe there’s a town nearby,” Arthur replies, keeping the rifle in hand as he begins moving forward once more. “We’re in the forest, right?”
Yes, John says reluctantly, The trees are spread a good distance apart, it’s more of a copse than a forest. I can almost see the other side of it.
Howls echo again, and Arthur picks up the pace, “Fine, we’ll come out the other side and see where we land. Surely there will be something or someone of use there.”
No snowshoes, down one glove, one less bullet in the rifle, that had been too much far too quickly. He’s feeling lightheaded again, a deep ache in his legs from the extensive movement, but he forces himself to keep going.
Oh! There! Lights, a building comes into view as we break from the treeline, John says with almost excitement, although it fades as he continues to describe it. Snow has piled up heavily on the sides, weathering the blizzard with decades of experience. Hung from the roof are three dead wolves, their blood long frozen in the snow. Icicles have formed where the blood flowed from their slit throats, a circle of it left in the snow where a bucket must’ve gathered it. The pack must be scared to come near the place - perhaps there’s hunters here.
“Where the fuck are we?” Arthur mutters to himself, slinging the rifle over his shoulder once more and straightening his coat the best he could.
I think at one point the building was painted blue, John muses. I can see a sign now - The Red Right Hand, it’s a tavern. The windows are fogged from the cold, but the lights are on.
“Oh, a warm meal sounds heavenly right now,” Arthur sighs at the thought. It seemed that the hunger gnawing through his stomach was only growing, when was the last time he’d eaten anything?
Keep your wits about you Arthur, John warns, We don’t know where we are or what manner of people live here.
“You don’t think I know that?” Arthur says with irritation. “At the least we can learn something here, bars are one of the best places to gather information.”
Yes, and an easy place to lose yourself, John says, and Arthur resents that. He hadn’t had a drink in almost a year - and how the fuck would John even know about any of that? What I mean to say is we don’t know what we’re walking into - a room of two people or fifty. We don’t want to walk into a bad situation or make it worse.
“Well, we won’t know until we do,” Arthur says shortly, and pushes open the door.
Conversation had been filling the space, but it dies down to silence as he stands in the doorway, letting his head scan the room as John looks his fill.
It looks like there’s around thirty men in here - all dressed for this weather and appearing similar with dark facial hair. Some of them are dressed nicer, in well worn suit jackets, but many look like what you yourself are wearing. Coats have been hung on the back of chairs, a small pile of snowshoes from some stacked by the door. The floor has a coating of salt and sawdust, most of it mushed into a slurry with moisture from the snow. Every single man in this room is staring straight at us.
He could feel the weight of all the eyes on him, and he does his best to appear relaxed. “Evening, gentlemen.”
The tables are close together, be careful moving between them - to your left - yes straight forward to the bar. The man behind the bar is…unsettling to say the least. There is a few other men sat here, but that’s an open seat right in front of you
“Hello, do you all have any specials tonight?” Arthur asks politely, taking what he hopes is a cursory look around the room.
“No.”
The bartender didn’t seem inclined to return the politeness, that’s fine - if anything that only tells him they’re in a very small town that doesn’t often see outsiders. “I’ll take whatever you normally have then, how much?”
“Five cents.”
Arthur hopes he’s grabbing the correct amount, but pauses when the bartender says “Ten cents.”
He saw you counting out your money Arthur, John says with an annoyed sigh.
“Here, twenty cents,” Arthur says quickly, laying the coin on the bar. It was sticky. “I’ll start a tab.”
He’s staring at you, studying your face. His eyes have an odd brownish-orange hue, something’s wrong with the pupils. The rest of him is haggard, a striped dress shirt that has seen far more stains than washes hangs off his body along with suspenders stretched nearly to breaking.
“Thank you,” Arthur says as he hears the bartender move away, and turns to look at the room once more.
The men are still watching you, turn back to the bar.
Arthur wants to protest, wants to ignore John’s constant script on what he should do, but he does feel slightly off kilter being unable to see his environment. It seemed to be the right timing, as something was set on the bar in front of him.
“What is this?” He inquires, reaching out to feel the handle to a cup. Liquid sloshes over the side onto his hand as he pulls it closer. He’d been hoping for a bowl of stew, but if it was a tavern it would make sense for a drink to be served first.
“Our house special,” The bartender says, and something in his voice makes Arthur incredibly nervous.
It’s a mug of…something, John doesn’t seem especially confident either. It’s murky, maybe a type of alcohol, but none I’ve seen before. Maybe you shouldn’t drink it.
“Do you have any meal options?” Arthur asks, staving off the inevitable as he weighs the pros and cons of taking a drink of this mystery liquid. It certainly didn’t smell great, but he didn’t want to appear impolite to a room of small-town men who didn’t seem enthusiastic about him interrupting their evening.
“No.”
Not a man of many words, fine. Arthur takes a steadying breath before knocking back a swig.
God, that was a mistake.
The urge to vomit is almost immediate, but he forces it back with a palm pressed to his mouth, throat spasming as he attempts not to cough up the contents in his mouth. John is saying something, but Arthur can only focus on swallowing down the sour liquid. It settles heavy, burning through his chest. What the fuck was in this?
Arthur! Say something!
“What exactly is this?” He asks hoarsely, setting the mug back on the counter. The stickiness to the counter makes sense as more of the liquid spills over the back of his hand.
The bartender doesn’t answer, but Arthur can hear him chuckling, the few men at the bar laughing outright at him.
“It tastes like salt and motor oil,” Arthur mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth once more, “I’m going to be sick.”
You’ll be ok, John reassures, The bar settled after you took a drink - like they were waiting for it. Turn around. Looking at the tables, everyone has a drink of sorts, it doesn’t look like there’s any food - or it could be too late for it. Some of these men look like they just got off a hard shift. The fireplace in the corner is roaring, many of the tables filled near it. A wolf's head is mounted above, teeth gleaming ominously in the firelight…
A ringing is beginning to take over Arthur’s hearing, overlapping John’s voice with something that almost sounds like whispers. He jerks his head slightly, as if he could dislodge it.
The fireplace is black with soot, rarely if ever cleaned. Along the wall are antlers many patrons have repurposed as hooks for coats and hats.
Arthur tries to focus, an off-balance feeling as he tries to follow John’s descriptions.
The wall is covered in something - I believe it’s newspaper clippings but it’s difficult to tell from back here. We should try to get closer, it could tell us about where we are.
“Hm.”
Arthur, you should walk over to the wall, John says, voice sounding much closer all of a sudden. Are you even listening?
“Yes,” Arthur whispers, “Just feeling a bit sick right now.”
Jesus fucking christ-
“I’m fine, keep talking,” Arthur waves off, trying his best to focus on John’s voice and not the turning of whatever the drink was in his stomach. He wishes he could eat something.
...There’s hardly an inch of wall that doesn’t have something on it, be it trophies from a hunt or some sort of paper tacked up. At the side of the bar there’s a rickety upright piano-
“A piano?” Arthur asks, voice louder than he meant it to be.
Yes Arthur, don’t say it so loud! John replies frantically. You’ve caught the bartender’s attention again-
Arthur can hear now the shifting of weight, wood creaking as the patrons of the tavern begin to say ‘piano’ in a low chant. He had been surprised, he didn’t actually want to play god he feels sick-
A man has stood up, old and in a suit that hangs off his wiry frame. He sits at the bench, and-
Arthur flinches as a discordant noise chord splits the air. Keys are pressed at random, no discernible rhythm or melody until all of a sudden it settles into a slow undeniable dirge, joined by the rhythmic pounding of fists on wood as the patrons begin banging on the tables.
Some of the men are getting up, others continuing to bang on the tables and stomp their feet, John says, and Arthur can feel it - the building almost shaking from the force of They’re dancing? It’s more of a rocking motion - arms out to their sides. The bartender is as well-
The thought of this dance is suddenly very funny, and Arthur can’t help but throw his head back and laugh. It’s ridiculous - they’re in a town in the middle of nowhere, he’s been poisoned with something and these men are dancing .
Arthur! Pull yourself together! They’re all looking at you again, John says sharply.
“My god, they’ve poisoned me with something,” Arthur says giddily, “That must be it, what did they give me?”
Snap out of it, John growls.
“I need to lie down,” Arthur says, pushing himself off the chair and barely keeping his balance, “I need a bed I need to leave-”
Calm down! Ask for a room - the bartender is staring at you, John says, and Arthur can feel his hand holding tightly to the bar, keeping their balance.
“Do you have a room for the night - please?” Arthur manages to get out, biting back more panic as his stomach lurches as he’s digging for money.
“The room above is vacant, it’s a dollar for the room and a bath,” The bartender says gruffly.
“Of course - here,” Arthur can barely feel the bills as he hopes he places enough on the bar, feeling a key placed beside his hand.
“Up the stairs, last door on the left.”
Be careful you’re about to bump into someone, take a step to the right. Ok, they’re glaring at you - muttering under their breath ignore them. Stairs are ahead of us, watch this table on the right, ok good. Take a step up, put your hand on the rail. I’ll tell you when you’re at the top.
Arthur clutches onto the railing, resisting the urge to either lay down where he stood or lose his stomach, both of which seemed quite appealing at the moment.
There’s a man coming down the stairs, press to the right, nod at him or something.
Arthur can feel the man pass them, the both of them just barely squeezing past each other on the narrow staircase and he feels the nausea surge.
“I’m going to be sick.”
We’re at the top of the stairs - door to your right is labeled washroom-
Arthur scrambles for the door handle, following John’s quick instructions to lose what little was in his stomach in the sink. Even without words, he could feel John’s concerned fretting at the back of his thoughts as his hand braces them against the sink.
Here, wash your face.
The water was running, and Arthur realizes John is waiting for him to use his own hand, keeping them upright with his left. The water is ice cold as he splashes it against himself, grimacing at the feeling of it dripping off his beard.
“Shave, first thing tomorrow,” He mutters to himself, still feeling slightly nauseous as he stumbles out of the washroom.
Our room is two doors down, here, give me the key.
Arthur braces his hand against the door, feeling John fiddling with the lock until it clicks open.
Lock it behind us - ok. This is a simple room, a wash basin with a small mirror as well as a bed. Very utilitarian.
“Bed is-”
Far end of the room, take your shoes off at least. And tuck your bag somewhere - beneath the bed or something.
The last thing Arthur wants to do is bend over to untie his shoes, but he fumbles off the boots and takes off his coat, stowing the two underneath the bed where they hopefully couldn’t immediately be seen. He lets himself fall onto the bed, ignoring John’s grunt of irritation.
“The room is spinning,” he mumbles into the bedspread.
From how you’re acting I’m not surprised.
A spring is digging into Arthur’s hip, the mattress groaning in protest as he attempts to twist into a more comfortable position. His stomach cramps and he wraps an arm around his middle in a poor attempt to soothe it.
“Distract me.”
John’s surprised silence is clear, What?
“The room is spinning, I feel god awful and I fear if I’m not distracted I’m going to be sick again.”
What do you want me to say?
“Anything, god just talk please,” Arthur turns his face to the bedspread again.
You’re different, this time around.
“What?”
When we first met, you weren’t like this. You were a prick, but so was I. I suppose I’m surprised to see how you’re interacting with people, we haven’t exactly had the chance to do that much. There was Mr. Armitage I suppose-
“The librarian? At Miskatonic?” Arthur had to wrack his memory for the last time he would’ve talked to the man. It was probably Parker that he’d actually talked to. “Why were we talking to him?”
We hoped he would have some answers to why I was bound to you - we ended up discovering something else however. The more we traveled together the less people we saw honestly, I wasn’t sure how you’d handle the room back there.
“I’d do better if I wasn’t poisoned,” Arthur mutters, “You…know a lot about me?” He’d meant it as a statement, but it comes out as a question.
I…I thought I did, John says quietly , We’ve spent a lot of time together Arthur. Things have happened between us that neither of us can take back, and I know you don’t remember that time right now but…
“You can tell me about it you know,” Arthur says when it’s clear John doesn’t know how to continue.
Not tonight. Not while you’re seconds from losing your stomach again.
“Right right,” Arthur rolls onto his back, staring at a ceiling he can’t see. “Can you keep talking?”
I’m not sure what else you want me to say.
“Talk about where you’re from, or what we’ve done that won’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
John hums, a comforting rumble at the back of his mind, I can recite some poems you’ve told me.
“Oh?” Arthur says curiously, “That I told you?”
Yes, would you…like that?
“Please,” Arthur sighs, tossing an arm over his face and feeling a slow but steadily growing headache begin behind his eyes. “Just until I get my wits about me again.”
Of course, John agrees easily. Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul…
John’s voice fades to a background murmur as Arthur lets himself sink into the exhaustion pulling on his thoughts. He wonders what they’d been through together, recognizing that he was not in the proper state to understand it at the moment.
He wonders why this poem, why John had remembered it so clearly, but resolves to ask in the morning when the room has stilled and he can think once more.