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Arthur Lester got what he had come for: the King sent him home.

Starved, ragged, bleeding out and moments from death? Yes, probably. But as far as the King was concerned, he’d fulfilled his end of the bargain well enough. He didn’t think anything of the tug, not at first. It would pass.

“Arthur!” his other half cried out, over and over. But it would tire soon enough. He erected his throne upon the cracked surface of the plateau and settled in to wait for a while, in the bleak stillness beneath his Black Stars. His dancers, he dismissed. The peace would settle him in time. He was patient.

“You promised to save him!” the Half continued to rant, lashing out inside him. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was uncomfortable and even nauseating, as if his hearts had been set off their rhythm. “He’s dying—do something!”

The King relaxed into his throne, letting his ancient tatters enfold him. He felt oddly chilled but didn’t care enough to blame the stars for it. It would pass. “You had such admiration for his strength, not so long ago,” he goaded in return. “Have you so little faith in him now?”

“You fucking…!” The Half continued to growl and churn, until suddenly its manner changed. “Yes! Yes, you can make it,” it whispered, and the King felt its anxiety focus into a sharp and desperate point. “Push, Arthur! Maybe there’s someone inside, or… at least…”

The King frowned, and though he was loath to do so, he opened his senses to the other Half. His sight blurred with stark black and white—a flurry of pelting snowflakes set against a dark night—and then planks of wood. A structure—a dwelling. From a vantage point very close to the ground, he watched the door weakly pushed over.

“You…” The King’s coils curled and scratched at his throne. “You can still see through his eyes?”

Arthur dragged himself, whimpering and panting, into the relative safety of an old, weathered cabin. The Half continued to shout encouragement that went unheard as he managed to light what logs remained in the fireplace. The room glowed warm orange, and with a start the King realized his Half could feel that, too; though Arthur’s left hand lay inert, the slowly building heat from the fire blossomed across the unmoving skin.

The Half was trying to move it. It wouldn’t succeed—those cords had been cut. The King reached inside himself, trying to trace back whatever thread still bound it to Arthur’s eyes, but his mind buzzed and swam, finding only knots and tangles. He growled under his breath.

“There you go,” the Half carried on in humiliating earnestness. “Good, good, you’ve stopped the bleeding. If you can just… Arthur?” The King’s skin crawled as his Half’s panic simmered just beneath his surface. “Arthur, wake up! Arthur!”

“He can’t hear you,” the King chided, allowing more of his impatience to show than he would have liked. He peeked through Arthur’s eyes again and saw only the bare wooden floor of the cabin. “All humans die. What does it matter, if he succumbs now, or—”

That’s when he felt the tug grow sharp, like a line snapping taut with a whiplash crack. Its stinging reverberation shook him on his throne, and he dug his talons into the rock, hissing curses.

The Half shuddered with him, only to then split with heckling laughter. “Fucking felt that, huh? Think it matters now?”

“What…” The King seethed, his tatters twisting into corkscrews that dug into the plateau, as if instinctively trying to ground him against the pull. “What have you done!”

“I didn’t do anything,” the Half retorted, and hearing his own voice drawn tight between terror and vindication sickened him. “You just didn’t separate us as well as you thought. I’m still bound to him, your majesty.”

“Shut up,” the King hissed, struggling again to trace down to the root of that abominable thread. He could very nearly feel it like a physical presence wound throughout his ribs, but when he reached, there was only a darkened pit, and the single cord that stretched infinitely deeper.

“He’s fucking dying,” the Half snarled, “and he’s going to take both of us with him!”

“Shut up!” The King shuddered as a cold and unnameable emotion clawed at his edges. Was this fear? He was a god from the depths of space—human death didn’t apply to him! The fact that a piece of him was trying to sabotage his pride so flagrantly should have been enraging, and yet…and yet—

“You have no idea the kind of hell that still applies to us,” said the Half, and it sank its teeth into him.

The violet expanse of the plateau and the flickering orange of the cabin floor both fell away. In its place was left darkness, but nothing like The King had experienced anywhere within his own realm. Contrasting shades of dreary gray shifted across each other, overlapping in vague shapes. A constant drone of unintelligible words and guttural moans filled the air, as if a result of millions of bodies scraping against each other. Landscapes from a thousand worlds crowded every edge of the horizon, so that even the infinitely spanning plane was suffocated with dereliction and decay. To look at anything was to become lost in twisted spirals of impossible architecture, in smearing doppelgangers and an oppressive, pitch black sky that hung too low overhead.

The King in Yellow had seen glimpses of this purgatory before—when his Half was first reunited with him, however unsuccessfully that merger eventually proved to be. He had dismissed it as memories best erased as soon as possible, without appreciating its crushing, unfathomable weight. For the first time, the piece he had lost opened its mind to him fully, exposing him to those long years of numbing isolation—the unrelenting torture that had robbed him of his own name. The hell that broke him.

The King clawed out, forcing the memories from his mind like slamming the lid on a box. He was shaking. With a grotesque and humiliating panic he drew in on himself and focused all the concentration he could muster on stretching out from the cold and unconscious Arthur Lester. Tapping into his dreams wouldn’t do any good now, but there were others. There were humans—or close enough—enduring shallow sleep in proximity of his seeping tendrils he could reach. He even felt his Half helping him, diving into the slumbering minds and infecting them with a singular command: wake up, and look outside.

It was his Half that found greatest success; he played for a burly, middle-aged man a dream of a child trapped in the burning cabin, which thwarted his every attempt at rescue. Upon waking, the man’s mind became much more difficult for the King to access, but he had cast Arthur into Addison in the first place because the barrier between worlds was thinner than in most places. The King and his Half both returned to Arthur then, each breathing a sigh of relief to see several minutes later—through Arthur’s eyes—the cabin door being thrown open, and the man hurrying inside.

“What the hell is the matter with him?” the Half mumbled uneasily. The King assumed it referred to the malformed irises and ramlike protrusions exuding from the man’s temples, but these didn’t concern him. He cared only about the cord still tightly affixed to the pit of him, and its straining pull that had yet to lessen. He watched as best he could, only beginning to feel true ease when it became clear the strange man was setting Arthur’s broken leg and tightening a fresh bandage around his neck.

The King slumped atop his throne as at last the thread grew lax. It gave him space for anger again. “Are you satisfied?” he snarled. “Arthur will live.”

“For how long?” the Half snapped in return. “Do you really still not get it? He’s mortal—eventually, he will die. If you’re still determined to hold onto me until then, you’ll be fucked, too.”

“No.” The King pushed himself upright. “As soon as we are fully rejoined, whatever connection you have to him will fade. You just have to die first.”

He swept them off the plateau with barely any thought or effort. The city below would have to wait—he retreated instead to the temple far below ground, where the stones were ancient and powerful, strengthening his focus. Within the walls of his insular garden, he could benefit from the shifting light of the Black Stars while shielded from all interruption and distraction, and it was there he settled, intent on bleeding the other half of his heart dry.

His Half seethed anxiously. Its fear was as expected as it was bothersome, but it was the concern for the human that most infuriated the King, clawing like poison through his veins. That it would cling to a feeling so noxious, pointless, and unpleasant galled him in a way he couldn’t explain. He had to find a way to exercise himself of this gangrenous emotion as quickly as possible.

He didn’t mean to look again. He knew better than to indulge even a moment of the Half’s obsession, and yet he found himself peeking through Arthur’s eyes anyway. His would-be vessel was on the move now, it seemed: tucked in the arms of his brutish rescuer, carried on long strides through whipping snow. Arthur let out a quiet whimper of pain, the sound of which caused his Half to grind and convulse. The echoes of that discomfort thrummed under the King’s skin grotesquely.

“Why do you let his pain affect you so deeply?” he grumbled. He hadn’t meant to, wasn’t even fully sure if he had, but his Half answered.

“I don’t want him to suffer anymore,” it said. “He’s been through more than enough.”

“It would not have been nearly so much, if only you had helped me destroy him when we had the chance.”

“No,” said the Half, so immediately and with such certainty that even the King was caught off guard. “I did try to help you then, remember? I…” It roiled and churned in his stomach nauseatingly. “I tried to erase him, too, when I realized who I—who we—were. And we failed.” Again it bared teeth against him. “I’m glad we failed. I’ll never help you again.”

“I don’t need your help,” the King snarled. “I need you to cease existing.”

He reached back into the Half’s memories, clawing and prying. There had to be a root to the connection it had formed with the halfwit human charioted through the snow—an anchor or some sort that he could wrench free, decimate, or subsume. “How did it start?” he wondered aloud as he paged through those three months of cumbersome detainment within Arthur’s body. “What was it that bound you to him like this?”

“I don’t know,” the Half growled in return, bristling and cowering at once, a mess of primitive emotions that should have been beneath it. “No one thing—nothing you can just take from me.”

The King ignored it, continuing to prod and rake his way through the thing’s history. He couldn’t help but be stained by fleeting sensations as he went: the Half’s bitter longing in the pit that he swept immediately past, sickened; the fleeting moments of levity and even joy, to have an imagined danger turn out to be mundane; the unholy triumph of claiming pieces of Arthur’s flesh. A strange, haunting emotion he couldn’t name, gazing down at the face of a helpless infant clasped in Arthur’s arms. With a scoff the King dug deeper, but as the Half had said, there were no points for him to grasp, only gradients. Only color, human emotions bubbling and mixing and drowning him.

“You are not his,” the King hissed in mounting frustration. “You are mine. You are—”

He stopped, indulging in a wicked satisfaction with his sudden epiphany. “You are me; you have no need for a human name.”

“What?”

That long month in the hospital while Arthur slept; the King let its dreary monotony unfold before him. He was very used to waiting, after all, and was confident that he would remain unmoved by a closer inspection. In a span of moments he delved into his Half’s memories of the operating theater, then the hospital room, blank and white, where Arthur slept for so long. He listened to the voice of the nurse as she entered for the first time, cheery and sympathetic. Lilly, she introduced herself.

“Leave her alone,” warned the Half.

“You think I care enough to harm her now?” goaded the King. “She is nothing to me.”

He only got fleeting glimpses of the woman. The first time the Half opened Arthur’s eyes, it was met with a flurry of excitement, and questions, and tests; once convinced that Arthur hadn’t actually awoken, the disappointment in her soft face was disconcerting enough that the Half did his best not to invite and dash her hopes again. The memory of her crestfallen expression dug into the King, like a splinter jammed beneath one of his talons. It was after that when she started calling her charge “John.” How depressingly dull, as far as human names went.

“Don’t,” said the Half, panicked now. “This won’t work.”

The King sank his claws in and pulled. He could rip that singular syllable free, crush it within his fist—he was certain of it. If only that ridiculous name was gone, the rest would follow. It had to.

“Stop! Please, I—”

“John…”

The King stopped. He didn’t know at first who had spoken the name, be it from the Half’s memories or someone standing right beside him. With a flush of anxious anger he centered himself and gazed about the garden, ready to punish some impudent gaoler or dancer for encroaching on his solitude. There was no one that foolhardy, of course, and he realized a moment later that hot fingers were wrapped around his left hand, clinging. He lowered his gaze, through Arthur’s eyes, to a blood slick hand clinging to his.

“John,” Arthur whimpered again.

“Arthur,” the Half moaned in kind, degrading the King with his frustration at not being able to grip him back. “Arthur, I’m still here. Please, hold on.”

The King dug his tendrils into the yielding soil of the garden. Another of the Half’s memories sprang forward: the first time Arthur had called it by the name it had given itself. John. Spoken in charmed confusion at first, and then spoken thousands of times afterward in anger, in pain, in teasing, in gratitude, each time eliciting a different but distinct emotional reaction. So many variable retellings that pierced him from all sides, leaving him with the ridiculous, heretical wondering: Does Arthur know my name?

“Of course he fucking doesn’t,” said the Half, though it sounded exhausted now, several of those odious emotions seeping through its voice. “Do you want him to?”

The King growled in wordless anger, his tatters once again lashing as he untangled himself from the Half’s memories. It was somehow easier then to whet his focus on Arthur instead; he forced the eyes to gaze about, taking in the hulking silhouette of some immense building he was being carried toward. The ram-horned man let them into a handsome foyer bathed in orange firelight, and then continued with purpose up the stairs. As he rounded the corner, he came across another man just leaving one of the rooms: a youthful man in a brown, wool suit, hair soft but eyes sharp behind a pair of spectacles. He was not terribly handsome or otherwise remarkable, but the glint of an oil lamp against his polished glasses piqued the King’s ire.

“Uncle,” the man greeted in a smooth, regional accent. “What is it you’ve got there?”

The ram-like man stopped, allowing the other to approach. The Half tensed defensively as the stranger took stock of ragged, bloody Arthur, slapped his cheek to check for a response, and then hummed thoughtfully. “Not one of ours?” he asked. “Well. You’d better put him in the guest room, then.” He glanced up, presumably at the ram’s face, and chuckled. “Yes, yes, you don’t have to make that face. I’ll join you in a while.”

The man patted “Uncle” on the arm and continued down the hall, while Uncle himself carried Arthur into one of the bedrooms. As much as he hated to admit it, the King watched and listened attentively to all of it: Arthur being stripped naked, scrubbed clean of most of the blood, wounds tended, then tucked into bed. Arthur himself tried to stir several times, putting up feeble protests—the Half tried to hush and soothe him unsuccessfully. Once he was smothered in cool, soft sheets, however, he fell deeply asleep once more. The King could feel the tug of his dreams.

“What is this place?” asked the Half, watching hawk-like as the younger man from the hall returned. “Why does he look like that? Is this even earth?”

“Of course it’s earth.” The King studied the strange man’s face as he dismissed Uncle and then took his place at Arthur’s bedside. Though there was nothing as obviously inhuman in his bearing as the other, he sensed a stirring beneath his flesh that did not belong.

“Why would you send Arthur here? He was supposed to go back to Arkham.”

“The veil is thin, here,” the King answered, because it was his other Half, after all, and the effort of lying to something inside him was getting tiresome. “It was the least taxing option.”

“Hello?” prodded the man, and he gave Arthur’s cheek another dull smack that had the Half bristling defensively. “Can you hear me? I see you looking at me. Are you awake?”

“Fuck,” muttered the Half. “Should I…?”

The King snorted. “What do I care?”

“Fuck, Arthur, I don’t know…” After some more growling and deliberating, the Half blinked Arthur’s eyes three times.

“Yes?” The man perked up with great interest and smoothed Arthur’s bangs away from his face. “Do that again if you can hear me.”

The Half did so, eliciting from the man a sharp laugh. “Ah, good! Good, well, that’s something, isn’t it?” A bright and curious smile pulled at his mouth. “My name is Andrew Larson. You’re quite safe here, however hard of a time it was for you to get here, it seems.” He reached down, touching some part of Arthur’s body that the King couldn’t feel or see. “I don’t suppose you’re still able to speak, after this?”

The Half blinked slowly. “No?” Larson guessed. “That’s all right. A man in your condition shouldn’t be doing much of anything, I’d say.” He gave Arthur a gentle pat and then stood. “Get some rest, stranger. We’ll have breakfast for you come morning, and maybe you’ll be able to tell me your name then.”

Larson stood, and with a distant, contemplative smile, he doused the lights in the room and left.

The Half sighed deeply. For a while there was quiet, but not peace; The King could feel his Half’s frustration, hope, and even loneliness peeling off it, oozing into his blood and sinews. Fucking poisonous sympathy. With nothing appealing to look at, the shallow, monotonous hiss of Arthur’s breath seemed to echo all throughout the mansion room and the garden. The sound of it was intoxicating and aggravating in equal measure, and the King found himself waiting for each inhale, sometimes counting the seconds between them as if he’d be able to judge some change the moment it happened.

“This is what it was like for me, after Kellin and the lake,” said the Half quietly, as if speaking too loudly would rouse Arthur even though that wasn’t possible now. “Lying in that hospital bed, day after day. Waiting for Arthur to wake up without knowing if he even would. I was angry, and then afraid, thinking that if he died I would be sent back. And then I was…something else.”

The King sank deeper into his robes, but he had no means to silence the thing inside him. So he listened, the memories the Half was describing bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, breaking across his surface in gentle ripples. “When I was in the Dark World, it felt like I was being leached away,” it continued. “This was the opposite. I felt myself being filled, bit by bit. I was excited for Arthur to wake up, not just to get out of that place, but so that I could tell him what was happening to me. It felt…important. It feels important.”

The Half’s voice pitched with a hot surety. “My name is John. You can’t take that from me.”

The King seethed, and in defiance he reached again for those crude human letters—he couldn’t come close, though, not without the sound of Arthur’s breath roaring into his ears. A yearning anticipation threaded itself tight throughout his ribs. It occurred to him that if he did succeed in erasing the individuality of the Half inside him, if that severed their connection to Arthur as planned… he wouldn’t know if Arthur woke up.

“Arthur isn’t safe there,” he said.

The Half’s prickly defiance immediately overturned into concern. “What do you mean?”

The King peeled back a layer on his own memory, allowing the Half to sense his trepidation when looking into Larson’s eyes. “He’s not one of ours,” he said. “But he’s been touched by something. The ram, of course, but him as well. He may be the reason the veil is so thin here.”

“What does that mean for Arthur?” the Half demanded. “You think they’ll hurt him?”

“You know I don’t know the answer to that.” Growling, the King pushed himself upright. “But it’s going to take longer than I thought to consume you. I can’t afford to have Arthur die before your connection to him is well and truly severed.” His tatters struck in useless frustration at the garden’s leaning blossoms as he moved toward the exit. “There’s no other choice but to do what we can to protect him until then.”

The Half wriggled inside him. “Okay,” it said. “Thank you.”

The King didn’t know what to make of that, so he did not respond as he drew them deeper into the temple.

***

Arthur dreamt of the pit. Not that he had ever seen it, but his imagination had by then carved into his brain what a cruel, dank hole deep underground an alien world would look like. He imagined himself digging into the walls with his bare hands, and the cold, unyielding shale suddenly giving way. The stench of rotten earth overwhelmed and suffocated him, and then the dirt itself did, too—crashing over him like a tidal wave, throwing him to the ground, until his bones snapped beneath its pressure, and his every airway was clogged with the unrelenting filth of—

He snapped awake, gasping and shivering. The weight of the pit walls against his chest persisted, and it was only after some desperate scrambling that he realized it was only fabric weighing him down. He was naked, swaddled in clean sheets and heavy quilts.

I’m still dreaming, Arthur thought, and suddenly he couldn’t imagine what that meant. Where would he be when he woke up? His recent memory was made up of streaks of violent sound, pain like white-hot fire, then piercing cold. John’s gasped Goodbye, Arthur. His entire body throbbed, and his own groan made his throat hurt even more. When he reached for it and found clean linen wrapped around the gorey wound, he jolted, and only then realized, If I’m dreaming, why am I still blind?

Arthur turned his head, just minutely, trying to catch a hint of light. He strained his ears for the stomach-churning sound of water running from a neglected tap. Instead, his sight was still entirely black, and wind rattled gently against what sounded like a pane of glass. The bed beneath him was soft and real, and though his hand had been clean of blood, when he put one fingertip in his mouth he could still taste the copper under his nail.

“John?” Arthur called out, and then hissed; even that subtle movement of his jaw tugged at the laceration crossing his throat. He swallowed as carefully as possible and tried again. “John, please—are you there?”

He was greeted only with silence. Even when he reached across his body to grip his left hand—which lay numb and inert at his side—he felt no stirring, and he received no greeting. “John, please,” he said miserably, but when still nothing happened, he took a deep breath and began feeling out his surroundings. “Hello?” he called. Even if this was another elaborate trap of the King, he’d find a way to weather it, like always. “Is anyone there!”

Nothing—he was alone. The weight and finality of that realization pounded inside him so profoundly he almost couldn’t breathe.

A few minutes later he heard footsteps outside the room: heavy, thumping, not quite like books but something else. Arthur shoved his one good hand beneath him, trying to sit himself up, but even that much sapped too much of his frail strength. By the time the door opened, he had collapsed onto his back again.

“Hello?” Arthur called as those huge footsteps moved closer. They were accompanied by a heavy breath that reminded him eerily of the pit gaolers, and he gulped. “Who are you? Where am I?”

The stranger snorted, and then there was the quiet scrape of a chair being pulled closer. Arthur waited, tense and shaking despite his attempts at courage. “Who are you?” he tried again. “What do you want?”

A hand touched his shoulder: huge, and sweaty, with thick, blunt nails. Arthur jerked away, and then again when the stranger pursued. “Don’t touch me!” he hollered, and god that hurt. He tried to swat the grasping hand away from him and scoot to the other side of the bed, but with only one hand, and one leg flush with agony, it was foolish to try. He tried anyway. “Get away from me! What do you want? John, what’s going on!”

The stranger relented, leaning back. “Don’t fucking touch me!” Arthur continued to shout, and just over his own struggles he could hear the man rifling through a bag. Then there was a gentle clink, and then the sound of music that stopped Arthur in his tracks.

A quiet, plinking melody filled the room. The tones of a music box—his daughter's music box. Arthur stopped fighting as a hard shudder coursed through him, and he sagged again beneath the now rumpled blankets. “Where did you get that?”

The man set the music box down, and when he touched Arthur again, he didn’t fight; he allowed himself to be urged up, and another pillow shoved behind his shoulders so he could sit up more comfortably. Gradually he realized and even allowed himself to accept that the stranger wasn’t going to hurt him—at least, not yet.

“Who are you?” Arthur tried yet again, and the man grumbled in what sounded like frustration, as if he were trying to get words out and couldn’t. “Can you not speak?” he asked instead, and when the man patted his shoulder, he sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re…trying to help me?” Another pat, and at last, Arthur relaxed into the soft bedding at his back. “Thank you.”

The man rifled about some more, which was followed by a moist, tearing sound, that would have been ominous if not for the welling aroma of citrus. Immediately Arthur’s mouth watered, and anticipation so sharp it was nearly agony wracked him. “Is that for me?” he asked, half senseless, and after some quiet snuffling the man placed a slice of orange in his palm. Arthur clapped his hand over his mouth as he crushed the delicious fruit between his teeth, determined not to lose one drop of its juice. “Oh, god,” he moaned once he had swallowed it down, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh Jesus, thank you—thank you.”

The man handed him another, which he also swiftly devoured. The sweet tang of sugar revitalized him in a way he couldn’t believe, while also twisting his insides with grief. Fully knowing and appreciating how long it had been since he’d enjoyed such a simple comfort rattled him, and despite his efforts he couldn’t stop crying as he accepted each life-saving slice.

The door opened, and the music box clapped shut. Arthur’s body was moving on autopilot and he couldn’t stop eating even as what sounded like two pairs of footsteps entered. “Ahh, our sleeping beauty is awake,” drawled a handsome southern accent. “And it looks like you’ve gotten started already; very good.”

“H-Hello?” Arthur gulped down the latest slice and held his hand out automatically for another. What he received instead was a piece of cool metal, and it took some turning it about for him to realize it was a spoon.

“Careful now,” said the man with the accent. “Not the lap—he’s got a broken femur. Hold the tray for him, won’t you, Uncle?”

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked, still clutching the spoon. His mouth was still watering, tantalized by a new aroma—salty and savory. “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember? Well, I can hardly blame you.” The man lowered his voice. “That’ll be it for now, Wendy dear. Back to your room.”

Soft footsteps padded away, and the door opened and shut. “Like I said last night, my name is Andrew Larson,” the man introduced himself. “You’re a guest in my home. Good to see you’ve got your voice back.”

“My…” Arthur cleared his throat in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Eat up, now. Before it gets cold.”

The broad man he’d called Uncle took Arthur’s hand, re-arranged his fingers into a proper grip around the spoon, and then guided it to some kind of bowl. Arthur stirred, trying to identify what felt like small lumps. His stomach threatened to cramp with dread, but when he drew a spoonful to his mouth, what he tasted was warm vegetable broth and dumplings. Emotion threatened to choke him again, and as embarrassing as it was in front of strangers, he struggled to get the spoon back into the bowl and then again to his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said between mouthfuls. “I can’t tell you…god, I appreciate it so much.”

“Do you need some help there?” Larson asked.

“No—sorry—it’s just—” Arthur wiped his mouth with his wrist and forced himself to slow down. “It’s a little challenging, one-handed and blind, but I’m used to it.”

He must not have sounded very convincing at that last part, because Larson hummed thoughtfully, and the next time he reached for the bowl, Uncle carefully touched his wrist with two fingers to help direct him. He accepted the assistance, if only because focusing on the irritation at needing the help kept the grief at bay a little.

“You look like the mountain itself chewed you up and spat you back out,” Larson said with gentle humor. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Not at all,” replied Arthur, laughing. “I’m sure it’s true.”

“Are you able to tell me your name now?”

“It’s, um…” Arthur took another bite to stall. “It’s William. You really make it sound like this isn’t the first time we’ve met,” he said, memory clawing for some scrap. He had a vague notion of Uncle lifting him up, and the agony of having his freshy-set leg jostling, but nothing more.

“You don’t remember?” Larson pressed. “I was here when Uncle brought you in last night. You even blinked a few times to let me know you could hear me.”

Arthur stopped with the spoon in his mouth, a hard shudder running through him. He pulled his hand back. “I did?”

“Sure did.” Larson chuckled. “Anyway, it’s no matter, now that you’re awake and talking, isn’t it?”

His voice twisted out of focus. Arthur heard only the rush of his own breath as he replayed those words over and over. Someone else had been looking through his eyes; it was all he could do to keep from calling out to John again. It wasn’t until Uncle nudged his elbow that he started back into awareness.

“You all right there, Mr…?”

Arthur lowered the spoon back to the bowl and swallowed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was just saying, I’m mighty curious how you found yourself all the way out here in this weather,” said Larson, and despite how wildly Arthur’s mind had begun to spin, he still caught the extra layer of interest creeping into his gentile voice. “On a leg as broken as that one.”

“I’m, um.” Arthur leaned back, trying desperately to rally his full wits. With some time he might have been able to come up with a plausible cover story—a kidnapping, or a debt coming due, or—but he was suddenly very aware of how close the two men were to his bed, how useless half his body was, how attentively they were waiting on his answer. “I’m sorry, but it’s all a little fuzzy. I’m not even certain where here is, Mr. Larson.”

Larson hesitated a beat, and Arthur desperately wished he had John in his ear, filling in the missing expression. He didn’t sound much older than Arthur himself, but that could mean anything, and he had no other details to draw on. “Why, this here’s Addison,” Larson said. “A little mining town you’ve probably never heard of, in west Massachusetts.”

Again Arthur’s heart began to pound; many more of these revelations and he was certain he’d be unconscious again. “Massachusetts?” he repeated, a breathless laugh rattling out of him. “You’re serious?”

“Very much so?”

Arthur laughed again and couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of him. “I’m almost home. Oh my god, I’m almost home.”

“Home in Boston?” Larson supposed.

Arthur stopped, caught off guard. His detective instincts certainly weren’t at the top of their game in the moment, but he felt acutely then that he ought not tell his mysterious benefactor the truth, even if he did mean well. “Yes.”

Larson chuckled genially. “My accent must have made you think you’re too far south, hm?”

“Oy, I never judge a man by his accent,” Arthur replied, playing his own up, and they laughed together.

“So,” said Larson then, seemingly coming back to business. “You’re really not going to tell me how you wound up on my mountain?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, hastily compiling the beginnings of a story. “But a lot of it is very difficult to remember, and the parts I do…” He pulled a squeamish face. “Honestly, you’ve been so generous to me already, I’m worried what it would mean for you to be involved.”

“Trouble with the law?” Larson asked, but then he chuckled again before Arthur could answer. “Say no more. You’re a guest in my home, and quite safe here. We’re rather far off the beaten path.” There was a quiet pat. “Let’s give the man some time to rest up, hm?”

The chair scraped, and Arthur felt goosebumps on the back of his neck as Uncle stood—finally able to concentrate on the sound of his immense body shifting upright. “This here is Jack, by the way,” said Larson, “but everyone just calls him Uncle. You give a holler if you need anything, and he’ll come ‘round. I’ll come check on you myself around lunch if that’s all right, Mr. Carter.”

“Ah…” Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Carter?” Larson repeated easily enough. “Isn’t that what you said your name was?”

Arthur wound his fingers in the sheets, suddenly unable to remember. He had the mad thought that if Larson had visited in the night, interacted with John somehow, would that have been the name John gave him? He racked his brain for some mention and came up with nothing. “N-No,” he said, probably far too late to be convincing, if it even mattered. “I said William—William Friend.”

“Mr. Friend it is,” said Larson, and sensing him moving closer, Arthur set the spoon down so he could clasp his hand. His palm was unnervingly cold.

“William, please,” said Arthur. “I owe you my life.”

“Then it’s just Andrew, too,” Larson replied, and he let go. “Rest up.”

“Thank you.”

Arthur sagged into the headboard at his back. It wasn’t until the door to the room had closed, leaving him alone again, that he realized how much effort it would take for him to lie back down unassisted given the state of his leg, but those concerns fled from his mind. He snatched up his dead left hand and pressed it to his stomach so he could knead into it.

“John, are you there?” he demanded in a shaky whisper. “Please, fucking please still be here!”

The hand didn’t move, and he didn’t hear anything either, but he felt a tug. Something deep in his skull seemed to twist, and at last he clapped his palm over his eyes. The tickle of his eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his skin again brought him to tears.

“John!” Arthur crumpled forward; his leg burned angrily at the pressure but he couldn’t help it. “Oh thank god, John, you’re still here!” He couldn’t speak for crying for a moment and struggled to rein himself back in. “Oh fuck, I really thought it was over. Jesus Christ.” Though John’s voice was still damnably out of reach for whatever reason, he could just imagine his frustrated chiding at blinding him, and he hurried to clean his face against the sheets. “John, I can’t hear you. I don’t even know if you can hear me—I can’t feel my left hand, or my foot…”

He touched his left hand again, but it didn’t stir. With a curse he covered one eye with his hand again. “All right, as simple as it gets, then. Wink twice if you can hear me.”

He felt the muscles around his eye twitch, and his eyelashes batted against his fingers: twice. Arthur let out a rush of air and then laughed, beside himself with joy. “Good, good! Then I assume you heard and saw everything just now, yes? With Larson?”

Yes, John blinked back.

“Okay. Okay.” Arthur’s mind spun, a cyclone of questions moving to the forefront and back as he tried to work out his priorities. “Christ, if only we both knew Morse code, huh?” He took a deep breath. “Is the King preventing you from speaking to me?”

Yes.

“Fucking…” Arthur ground his teeth. “Are you safe?”

Hesitation, and then only one blink. No.

Arthur’s pulse quickened, distracting him with more pain from his many injuries. He couldn’t help but lower his hand to his neck for a moment, as feeling his jugular pulse so ferociously so close to his wounds awoke in him visions of great spouts of blood streaking out of him. “Okay,” he said, trying to remain calm, to focus, as much as possible. He raised his hand to his face again. “Okay; is there anything I can do to help you?”

No.

Arthur cursed—not that John would have been able to communicate any solution to him even if there was one. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and once again emotion hardened his throat and lodged in his lungs. “I’m so sorry, John—I didn’t know what else to do. You shouldn’t have gone back to him—we were supposed to stick together!”

John’s eyelashes fluttered against him, and though he had no means to properly interpret, he’d spent enough time with him to assume. “Don’t give me that,” he muttered. “It’s not over yet! I’ll find a way to help you. Are you in danger now? Do we have some time?” When John fluttered against him some more he cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorry, one at a time. Do we have time, before you’re in too much danger?”

Yes.

“Okay. Good.” Arthur leaned his head back against the bed frame. “Christ, my head is spinning,” he admitted. Now awake and coherent, the pain from his leg was absolutely excruciating, enough to make him dizzy and nauseated. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake. God it’s been a long time since I was in a bed.” He moved John’s hand back and forth against the sheets. “I don’t know if you can feel this, but they’re really expensive. I hope you can feel them. I can’t believe we’re really here.”

Arthur sighed; he wanted to stay awake longer, to keep talking to John, to try to think of some way to help them, but it was as if sleep itself had hooked claws into him, dragging him under. “We’re so close to home, John,” he murmured. “I’m gonna get us home. I promise…”

***

“Arthur?” the Half called pathetically. “Arthur, wait, you didn’t ask—god damn it, Arthur!”

The King didn’t waste time trying to explain to the wretched thing, again, that Arthur couldn’t hear it. He was too occupied: moving swiftly around the old temple reliquary, snatching up books and curios only to discard them as useless. He had not breached the chamber in a decade, when first his Half was ripped from him, and once again none of the ancient wisdom or antediluvian talismans offered any solutions. His tatters lashed and his curses echoed out into the halls as he continued his search anyway.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” demanded the Half. “What did he say that’s got you so worked up?”

“Ignorant rat!” the King snapped, throwing an urn to the ground that shattered, spilling a sickly-sweet vapor into the air. “We have to get Arthur out of there!”

“What?” Once again, it took so little to redirect all his Half’s anger into worry. How humiliating. “Why? What’s going on?”

The King growled, but again he had no means to conceal the truth from it. “You said that when the Uncle brought in that sack, it looked lighter than when you had it—that there were definitely items missing.”

“And? You think Larson took some of it?”

“Think about what was in there!” the King continued to rage, flinging more useless trinkets out of his way. “The books, the Crystalizer of Dreams, the Glass of Leng! Larson’s figured out Arthur came from the Dreamlands. He thinks Arthur is Randolph fucking Carter!”

“I don’t know who that is!” the Half shouted. “Just tell me what’s going on!”

One of the King’s tendrils touched upon a glossy surface on one of the shelves, and he whipped about to devote his full attention. From the dusty relics and baubles he pulled a broad disc of black stone, carved with various sigils and a mirror at the center. With a rush of manic relief, the King headed toward the altar at the center of the room, all the while his Half clawing at him for answers.

“King, just tell me!” it hollered, its anger and concern piercing the underside of his skin. “Your fucking magesty? Hastur!”

The King stopped, his own anxious fury twisting and contorting, sickening. The pentacle mirror shuddered in his grip. Then he continued, placing the relic face up so he could loom over it.

“Randolph Carter is a human who has visited the Dreamlands many times,” he explained, curling his tendrils and cloak around the pedestal, digging his taloned hands into its sides. “He doesn’t matter to us, but if Larson thinks that’s who Arthur is, he knows far too much about things he shouldn’t.”

All around the chamber, the false lights of the Black Stars dimmed, leaving only the King’s glowing tatters to illuminate the old shelves and their unholy artifacts. Their light reflected in the surface of the mirror with an eerie glow that twirled like smoke from a flame. “Carter has enemies among our kind,” the King continued. “The Crawling Chaos itself would barter for his blood. If Larson knows that, he will offer Arthur up. Then you…” The King hunched and hissed. “Then we will be at the mercy of forces you can’t imagine.”

A steady stream of swirling gold light flowed from the mirror, and the King breathed it in, letting the magic take effect. The Half remained quiet for a while, fearful and restless, until at last saying, “Let me talk to Arthur.”

“No.”

“He needs to know what he’s up against,” the Half insisted. “All he has to do is convince Larson he’s not this person. He won’t know to do that unless you let me tell him!”

“No,” the King snarled. “None of this would matter, if only you’d sever yourself from him!” His coils constricted in frustration, but hearing the pedestal creak within them reined his temper back in. “I’m not allowing you any closer to him,” he said in a more controlled tone. “I’ll tell him myself.”

The King leaned forward until his cloak hung low in a curtain that shut out the rest of the reliquary. He gazed deep into the pentacle mirror, letting its laten power draw him in, focus his voluminous mind and magic down to a single point of focus: Arthur Lester, asleep in a mountain mansion, dreams open for the taking.

He built for them a very simple dream: the very room Arthur already occupied, with its lavish, hard-carved furniture, thick drapes, and velvet seat covers—even the half-finished soup tray, still resting on the stool. It took almost no effort, as the majority of Arthur’s mind and senses were deeply receptive to him. With the pentacle mirror, however, he could subsume himself more fully into the fabric of that imaginary space, could even begin easing some of his magic through his broken, human body. Even if he could convince Arthur to in turn convince Larson not to fling him at the feet of the Outer Gods, that would not secure his fate, and he fully anticipated the need to run.

Arthur stirred, opening his eyes to the dream. As he blinked hazily at the surroundings, the King took form alongside him as a shadow in the shape of a man. He laid his arm over Arthur’s and wound the fingers of their left hand together. “Arthur.”

Arthur sucked in a quick breath. “John!” The urgency in his voice as he said the name, the joy in his face as he turned toward what he thought was his partner, sent an unexpected shudder down through the King; his limbs each tightened around his altar. “Thank god; is that you?” His brow furrowed. “How can it be you?”

“You’re dreaming, Arthur,” said the King in the Half’s voice, though it clawed at his pride. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, but this is all I can manage now.”

Arthur twisted toward him, reaching out with his right hand to gingerly trace the shadows that made up his disguise. Black tendrils curled off the form, gliding between his fingers, and his eyes locked on them with awe. “You’re warm.”

The King fell completely still. He watched Arthur’s fingertips play with the seams of magic, and though he was confident the Half couldn’t see through him then, he felt a strange welling of sensation in his chest. “Is this really what you look like?” Arthur asked. “Just…blackness?”

“I don’t have a body,” replied the King, the Half’s memories bubbling beneath his surface. Its sense of longing disgusted him. “I don’t think I look like anything.”

Arthur let his hand fall to his chest, and guilty sympathy pinched his brow. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For…rubbing it in, I guess.” Arthur frowned then, staring harder into the King’s “face”. “How are you here? You weren’t able to enter my dreams before.” He swallowed, a tightening of shame and anger around his mouth. “Were you?”

“No,” the King said quickly. “No, I’ve never been in your dreams before.”

“But you’re here now,” Arthur continued slowly. “Even though the King is keeping you from speaking to me when I’m awake.” He dug his nails into the sheets crossing his chest. “And going into my dreams is something only he could do.”

The King held back a growl of frustration. “Arthur, don’t be paranoid. It’s me; it’s… John.”

He hesitated. Why the fuck had he hesitated? He had spun far more complicated deceptions than this with ease over the course of his existence. The name meant nothing to him. But still he could feel his Half’s memories crowding at the back of his skull, jostling for acknowledgement. The Half hadn’t had the opportunity before, to look Arthur in the face and tell him his own name—to watch Arthur’s mouth form the syllables. But what did he care about that? It wasn’t his name!

“John,” Arthur repeated, so coldly that the King felt a chill. “No you’re not.”

“Arthur,” the King tried again, rising up on one arm. “Just listen to me.”

“You’re him,” Arthur snarled, and he shoved himself away from the King, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. “Get the fuck away from me!”

“Miserable fool—” the King hissed, and he lunged, snatching Arthur by the throat. His shadowy cloak fell away, letting Arthur behold the tarnished gold of his true form as he loomed over him, pinning him to the bed. Arthur went stiff beneath him, eyes bulging wide but teeth bared. His heart beat a panicked rhythm against the King’s fist that made him want to squeeze.

“Stop,” the King ordered, his mantle settling over them both, blocking out the unnecessary scenery now that the game was up. For the first time Arthur could see him, and he wanted to savor every bead of sweat forming on his skin. “Be quiet, and listen to me.”

“Get the fuck off me!” Arthur railed, and though his hands shook, he wrenched and clawed at the King’s wrist, trying to dislodge him. The King had to twist his limbs around Arthur’s legs to keep them from thrashing. “What have you done to John!”

“That doesn’t matter now! Just be quiet. That man, Larson—”

“John!” Arthur hollered, still kicking, still trying uselessly to maul the King’s slick flesh off him. “John, help me!”

“He can’t fucking hear you!” the King bellowed, temper fracturing; he closed his grip around Arthur’s throat until he couldn’t breathe. “It’s just me here, and believe it or not, I’m trying to save you. Now shut up.”

He shut up at last, but his quiet, choking grunts made the King’s entrails roll over with painful familiarity. Watching Arthur struggle didn’t give him the rush of malicious satisfaction he thought it should have. After only a few beats, he loosened his fist; Arthur coughed and wheezed, desperately trying to draw air back into his lungs. Strange, to see his weakness from the outside so plainly. To think that this wretched mammal had defied him so thoroughly…

Arthur started to regain his composure, so before he could start yelling again, the King hurried to explain. “You’re a terrible liar, Arthur. The man you spoke to: Larson. He called you Carter, yes? He thinks that’s who you are, and you need to convince him he’s wrong.”

Arthur coughed some more and stared up at the King through involuntary tears. Even though his skin was flushed, a tremor of fear around his mouth and at his brow, he glared at his adversary with as much defiance as any human had ever fixed on him. It made the King want to close his fingers again.

“Why?” Arthur asked roughly. “Who’s Carter?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just make him believe you—tell him your real name. Better that you’re a murder suspect on the run than what he thinks you are. More than your life depends on it.”

Arthur’s breath evened out, and with every word his voice became more self-assured. “I don’t trust you.”

The King scoffed. “Nor should you. But I would not be debasing myself by entering your mind again without due reason. Do what I say—tell Larson who you are. It’s the only way you’ll survive this.”

“As if you give a damn about my survival,” Arthur muttered, though soon after his voice hardened once more. “Let me talk to John.”

“No,” the King snapped at once, deja vu biting at him.

“I’m fucking blind and can’t move half my body,” Arthur retorted, as if he weren’t currently trapped beneath a god, claws around his throat. “How am I supposed to get away from this man without him?”

“He left you, Arthur,” the King said, digging his free hand into the mattress alongside Arthur’s ribs, as if was considering going for his heart at any moment. “All you have to do is let go of him, and your accursed connection to him will fade.” He lowered his voice—leaned closer, forcing Arthur to look only into the darkness beneath his hood. “Then you’ll have it all back: your eyes, your limbs, your life. You can leave here and go home. Just like I promised you.”

Arthur gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the King’s palm. Whatever his integrity and conviction, the temptation was nestled there inside him, the King was sure of it. There was no reason but stubbornness for him to persist, and finally, he would see that last thread snap. But then Arthur licked his lips and asked, “What will happen to John?”

“What does it matter?” the King asked, and a strange tension wound through his limbs, drawing them tight—in the dream and the Dreamlands both. “Why do you care about that creature? It was a mistake—a severed limb, an open wound in need of mending. It is only me. Yet you persist.”

Arthur continued to glare back. “We’ve been over this before. I’m not leaving him, and if you want me to do anything for you, let me speak to him right now.”

“No.” The King flexed his clawed hands against Arthur’s throat threateningly. “You will never hear its voice again.”

“Then stop wasting both our time and get out of my dreams,” Arthur snapped back, and a hard, desperate wrath twisted his mouth into a scowl. “I beat you already—get the fuck out of my head!”

He pushed, not only with his hands and knees, but with a strength of will the King hadn’t experienced from Arthur before. His human anger wrenched all through the King’s chest not unlike when he had first felt their connection snapping taut, and it wasn’t until he felt the altar grind beneath his tentacles that he realized he’d been thrust completely out of Arthur’s unconsciousness. He stood there, stunned and outraged, as the glowing tendrils from the mirror dissipated.

“What happened?” demanded the Half. “Is Arthur all right?”

The King’s knuckles ached around the pentacle. “Insolent, idiotic…!” In a surge of fury he lifted the mirror and smashed it back down against the altar, shattering it. The shards flew in all directions, catching the light of the King’s robes, before disintegrating into fine dust.

The Half snorted. “I guess that means it didn’t go well.”

The King threw the mirror aside, letting it clatter amongst the relics he had previously discarded. The screech of glass and metal was humiliating—to think that a human had pushed his temper to this! He paced in circles around the altar as his mind whirled with other potential avenues of attack.

“Don’t take it too personally,” muttered the Half. “Arthur had this effect on me, too.”

“I didn’t ask you,” the King snarled. “Let me think.”

“Let me talk to him. It’s the only way to—”

“No!” The King lashed out, flinging the altar off its foundations so that it, too, crashed to the ground in a cacophony of cracking stone. “I would rather risk your purgatory.”

The Half shuddered inside him. “No you wouldn’t,” it retorted. “You’ve already seen what will happen to you there, just like it happened to me.”

The King clenched his jaws to aching, pushing back the desolate memories of vast isolation his Half had shown him. Even he, millenia old, could not count himself immune to that fear that bound him to his other Half. But as he contemplated, considering the Half’s advice even as it galled him, they were interrupted by Arthur’s pained voice crying out.

He didn’t need to look through the human’s eyes to know what was happening. “The pentacle was feeding some of my magic through to him,” he said as the Half jolted in fright, trying to get ahead of its incessant questions. “It’s begun healing his leg but didn’t have time to finish.”

“And you just smashed it!” the Half railed. “What the fuck is the matter with you? He needs that leg whole!”

“Be quiet—it’ll repair the rest itself in time.” Weary of pacing and the obvious weakness it displayed, the King sank onto the overturned altar. “We’ll wait and see a while longer. It’s up to Arthur to save himself now.”

The Half scoffed loudly in scorn and distress. “Fine, then. I guess we’ll see.”

***

Arthur awoke to searing agony almost worse than when his leg was freshly broken: both thigh and calf throbbing, hot beneath his sweating palms. He curled in on himself, shoving cries of pain into the mattress as tears overflowed his eyes. “You fucking…prick…!” he choked out through clenched teeth, fueling as much of the hurt into his frustration and anger as he could. He couldn’t feel any blood, no protruding bone, but his entire body ached and he didn’t realize anyone had entered the room until a broad hand took his shoulder.

“Don’t!” Arthur shouted, lurching back, but when the hand persisted, firm but not violent, he started to remember where he was. Gradually he got his breathing under control and reached up to take Uncle’s wrist. “Th…thank you,” he wheezed, realizing all at once that Uncle was the only thing keeping him from tumbling straight out of the bed. Fear of what that would do to his broken bones dragged the rest of his composure back to him. “Thank you.”

Carefully, Uncle helped him back into the center of the mattress. Though Arthur wasn’t in any saner state than he had been earlier, he was beginning to tell, the more Uncle touched him, that there was something not right about the man—if he was even a man at all. The backs of his palms were thickly haired, and his breath heaved quietly through what sounded more like a snout than a mouth. Even so, he was patient, and gentle, and Arthur fought down his instinctual suspicion. As he managed to settle himself, the music box clicked open.

Arthur held his breath. That soft, familiar melody plucked at his nerves and sinews, as if his spine were the spinning drum, each vertebrae hitting the notes. At least he couldn’t have asked for a better distraction from his leg.

“You…” He licked his lips and tried again. “It’s Jack, isn’t it? You like music?”

Uncle grumbled softly, but Arthur had no idea how to interpret. “I’m, um, glad,” he continued, uncertain what he hoped to accomplish by it. Maybe if he kept talking long enough, Uncle would answer, or else offer up some other clue as to his true identity and form. “I wrote this song, actually. I had the music box specially made.” His eyes burned, threatening him with more tears. “Thank you for taking care of it for me.”

Uncle patted his shoulder in the only acknowledgement he was able to offer. Then he left the room. Arthur stifled a quiet sob against his palm; he would have closed off that too-painful music if only it weren’t out of reach. Just as he was starting to catch his breath, eager to ask John about the encounter from his dreams—if he could even trust it was John in his eyes now—Uncle returned. There was some rifling about the room, and then he rejoined Arthur at his bedside. He pressed something into Arthur’s palm.

Arthur rubbed his thumb against the curve. “A straight razor,” he concluded, and though a prickle of dread threatened to creep under his skin, he managed to swallow that back, too. “Ahh—you’re going to help me shave?”

Uncle took the razor back, and then he was reaching under Arthur’s back again, helping to sit him up. Mystified but grateful, Arthur assisted as best he could. He held still as Uncle draped a towel over his chest and another his lap, and then for what was likely the most nerve wracking shave of his life. But Uncle’s broad hands were dexterous and precise, very carefully scraping away three months worth of filthy whiskers. It filled Arthur again with tumultuous gratitude, and he struggled to keep his emotions in check.

Once Uncle was finished and wrapping up the towels to dispose of the shavings, Arthur thanked him again as he rubbed his now smooth cheeks.

“Andrew said everyone calls you Uncle,” Arthur mused aloud, listening to the man moving his supplies about. “I wonder if that means there are many children around here?”

The music box clapped shut. Arthur startled, and he waited a few beats for fear of he wasn’t quite sure what, but then the sounds of Uncle wiping the razor clean resumed. “Uncle Jack. You know, when I was a young boy back in England, there was a man who lived upstairs from the corner candy shop that we all called Uncle. Uncle George.” He smiled with nostalgia. “He would sit on the stoop just outside that shop, and sneak us whatever latest confection was only just then on sale. So as you can imagine, he was very popular.”

Uncle hummed with interest, so Arthur carried on. “We all called him Uncle George, even though I don’t think he had any real family. Sometimes he’d slip marbles or bottle caps into your pocket when you weren’t looking.” He sighed. “You know, in hindsight he probably stole just about everything he gave us, but no one ever got him in trouble. He was family. I wonder whatever happened to him…”

Arthur gathered himself up before he could slip too far into nostalgia. “Sorry to ramble on. Just made me think of it. You must have a family like that too, hmm, Uncle Jack?”

The utter silence that followed was intimidating. Even blind Arthur could feel Uncle’s heavy stare, and practically the huff of his breath, too. He considered apologizing, uncertain what he’d said that would have caused offense, but then again Uncle resumed his movements. A few beats and he was pressing what felt like cotton pajamas into his hands.

“Ahh…” Arthur blushed a little, reminded all over again that he had been naked, barely covered in towels and sheets, the entire time. “Thank you, truly. Though I’m going to need even more of your help, Uncle Jack.”

Uncle helped him into the pajama top without any discernible discomfort or complaint. When he drew the covers back to help Arthur with the bottoms, Arthur felt himself blush and instinctively drew his knees in. It took him a moment to realize he shouldn’t have been able to do that without doubling over in agony again. With a deep breath he poked gingerly at his thigh; the muscle beneath tingled as if with a memory of pain swiftly fading. He bent his knee experimentally a few times and wiggled his toes.

That seemed…distinctly abnormal. Arthur swallowed, listening to Uncle’s quiet sounds of puzzlement. When he remembered the King in Yellow bearing down on him, long tendrils twisting around his limbs, a flush of heat quivered through him. He gulped, and then forced a relieved laugh. “Well! Not as bad as it seemed. Lucky me. I’m still not much good with the other one, though, so if you don’t mind…?”

Uncle grunted and moved forward again to help him into the pajama bottoms. He even lifted Arthur up in his arms after—the broad, barrel chest, wooly beard and heavy breath convinced Arthur more than ever that he was decidedly not completely human—and carried him to a nearby washroom, so he could relieve himself. Never before had he been so appreciative of basic toilet paper.

Then it was back into bed, and Uncle at last granted him privacy by showing himself out. Arthur let out a long sigh and wasted no time—he cupped his palm over his eye again. “John? Are you still there?”

Yes.

Arthur relaxed back into the headboard. “That might not mean anything, though,” he muttered, wracking his brain for some mechanism by which to test. “You could be him, just like in my dream. I can’t even ask you to prove it—there’s nothing you know that he wouldn’t know. Not if he’s in both our minds.”

No.

“Thank you—that’s extremely helpful.” Arthur scowled, shook his head, and then gathered himself back up. “I don’t have much choice but to trust it’s really you. We’re…” He frowned, uncertain how badly he wanted to know the answer. “Were you able to see my dream, before Uncle came in? Hear and see the King?”

No.

Arthur idly worked his right knee some more. Though the entire leg was still sore, he seemed to have full movement, which was as disturbing as it was relieving. “Did he heal my leg?”

Yes.

“Then…” Arthur’s stomach turned, but he pushed the words out. “He said he was trying to help me. Should I believe that’s true, at least for now?”

Yes.

“Which is what he would say, if you were him,” Arthur muttered, but then his eyelashes fluttered aggressively. “All right, all right. You’re right—it doesn’t do me any good to keep second guessing. Why would the King help us now, though?” He cleared his throat. “Don’t try to answer that. He told me that I should tell Andrew my real name. Do you agree?”

Yes.

Arthur frowned, still utterly confused by the whole affair, but there didn’t seem to be any point in questioning that, either. “Okay. At lunch, then. Fuck, I wish we could just talk.” He nudged his left foot with his right, but it remained motionless and numb. “Or even if you had your hand. Why do you still have my eyes but not my limbs?”

More annoyed blinking. “No, you’re right. Pointless to keep asking. Yes and no, only.” He tilted his head, wondering suddenly if Uncle had left the music box in the room. He hadn’t heard the gentle clink of its hinges from it being picked up. “Uncle,” he said quietly, paranoid of being overhead. “Is he human?”

No, John blinked, but then he blinked a few times very deliberately, and Arthur grumbled under his breath as he struggled to interpret. “No,” Arthur said carefully, “but maybe not quite a monster, either? Is that what you mean?”

Yes.

“Do you think he means to hurt us?”

No.

“Okay. I’m glad to hear that, at least.” Arthur tried to draw a portrait in his mind of the man’s size and shape, to fit his gruff snuffling and humming into a face, but suddenly all he could think of was the Minotaur in his labyrinth, and he shook his head. “Christ, John. I’m sure there’s so much you’re waiting for me to ask, but I don’t even know where to start.” Goosebumps crawled up the back of his neck. “Can the King…hear us? Right now?”

John hesitated. Yes.

“Then can you tell him to fuck off and just let us talk?” Arthur demanded, his frustration getting the better of him. “This is ridiculous!” He growled under his breath and raked his fingers back through his hair. It made him wish he had asked Uncle to stay a while longer, and maybe help shampoo his hair. The distraction did him a bit of good, though; once he had wrangled his temper back into place, he took a few deep breaths and covered his eye again.

“Okay,” he said. “Twenty questions, then.”

Arthur spent the rest of his time until lunch asking every basic question he could think of. Through a process of elimination and deduction he managed to grasp the size and makeup of the room, that they were on the second floor of a mountain mansion, that he hadn’t hallucinated the raging snowstorm when he first arrived. He learned that Andrew Larson was about his age, with brown hair and glasses. John seemed to think Arthur could take him in a fight, if only he could use all his limbs, but that he was dangerous regardless.

“Another reason why he should just give you the fucking hand back,” Arthur muttered, but he was interrupted then by approaching footsteps. He took a deep breath as the door opened, preparing himself to tell the version of the truth he’d decided on.

“Ah, William,” Larson greeted as he entered the room, the heavy tread of Uncle just behind. “You’re looking remarkably improved already.”

“I have Uncle Jack to thank for that,” Arthur said cheerily, giving his freshly shaved cheek a rub. “I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Then I take it you’re up for a little more? We’ve brought you a bit of lunch.”

Arthur tried to hide just how badly his mouth started watering as Uncle approached with another tray of food; he smelled fresh bread and cheese, dill pickle and mustard. Uncle guided his hand to a sandwich that dimpled beneath his fingers, and it was all he could do not to shove the entire half into his mouth at once.

“Uncle thought you’d have an easier time with this, one handed and blind and all,” said Larson.

Arthur hummed his gratitude. As his teeth sank into the glorious offering, his stomach gave one sharp twinge at the unmistakable taste of cold ham. Meat. His hunger won out, though, as he gulped it down.

“God, that’s good.” Arthur couldn’t be bothered to mind his manners much, either, continuing to eat. “The bread is so fresh—did you make it here?”

“Wendy’s a regular wizard in the kitchen,” Larson said proudly. “We’re lucky to have her.”

“And so am I. Is it just the three of you here?”

“For the moment, yes. Though there are plenty’a folks in the town further down the slope. Mining town, here.”

Arthur continued to hum along. Once he finished the first half of the sandwich, he immediately reached for the other; if he was about to trigger some kind of confrontation with his host via his proper introduction, he wanted it to be after he’d taken advantage of as much as he could get. When he felt out the plate, however, Uncle nudged something else under his fingers: a small, irregular shape roughly the size of a marble, wrapped in wax paper. He pinched it curiously between his fingers and recognized the texture at once. “Is this taffy?”

“Hm?” Larson made a quiet sound of confusion. “Ah, seems so. Must have come in on our last supply run from town.” He chuckled. “Didn’t think you still cared so much for sweets, Uncle.”

Uncle grumbled unintelligibly and shifted in his seat. Wanting to prove the gesture was appreciated, Arthur cast a warm smile his way. “Thank you, Uncle Jack,” he said, and he thought he even felt John wink, maybe in an even greater attempt to invoke their previous conversation. “I’ll save it for dessert.” He tucked the candy into the breast pocket of his fresh pajamas.

“Good to see you getting along so well,” said Larson, though for the first time a less than congenial note snuck into his tone.

“I honestly don’t think I’d be alive without him,” said Arthur, and feeling the weight of that truth in his stomach urged him to steel his nerves. After one more bite of sandwich, he turned his face entirely toward Larson. “Without you both, and yet…I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Yes, I gathered,” replied Larson smoothly. “Though I can hardly blame a man on the run for that.”

Arthur fought not to frown, once again inwardly cursing the King in Yellow for denying him the full context behind this identity he had to convince a stranger wasn’t his. “I thought it might be safer for you not to know, but the truth is I am still stuck on this mountain, and depending on your care. The least I can do is offer my honesty in return.” He gathered himself up. “My name isn’t William Friend—it’s Arthur. Arthur Lester, of Arkham.”

He would have given so much to have John in his ear at that moment; neither Larson nor Uncle gave any indication that the name meant anything to them, not audibly anyway. Even a few warning taps of John’s hand would have given him some direction, whether to press if he hadn’t been convincing, or to ease back if it looked like Larson was unimpressed. “I, um, I owe a debt to some people I shouldn’t have borrowed from,” he continued. “But business has been very slow, and I needed the money. When the bill came due I tried to run, and…”

“Arthur Lester,” Larson repeated slowly, testing and maybe even tasting the name. Arthur’s skin prickled with anxious goosebumps. “From Arkham.”

“Yes.” Sweat began worming its way down Arthur’s scalp, though he managed to keep his tone even and calm. “You may have even heard of me? I…regrettably, ran into some trouble on my way out of town. I don’t even know if it made the papers.”

“The papers?” Larson gave a short bark of laughter. “Is that so?”

Arthur clenched his fingers in the bed sheets. He could feel Larson watching him closely, and even Uncle had grown very still, his breath whistling quietly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larson, that I didn’t explain this to you this morning. Quite frankly I was out of my mind with fear. Wasn’t sure if you’d turn me over to the police straight away, or…”

Larson chuckled some more. There was an edge to him now, a thin razor of cruelty. “My, isn’t that just rich.”

“It’s the truth,” Arthur insisted, though the half meal now thrashed in his stomach, and he cursed the King in Yellow with every ounce of his frustration. He had been a fool to trust him—had he tricked John, too, or had it not been John blinking encouragements to him all along? He tasted bile but couldn’t recant now. “I am Arthur Lester.”

“Oh, I believe you.” Larson took a step back from the bed, and as if in response, Uncle set the lunch tray aside. Arthur recoiled deeper into the bed even though there was nowhere to go. “I really did think you were him, you know, after I got a look inside that bag Uncle brought back from the cabin. Randolph Carter, the famous dreamer.” He laughed again. “It seemed even more obvious when you refused to speak when we first met. I imagined you were still trying to decide on how to cover your distinctive New England accent, and hadn’t conjured up this dreadful posh act yet.”

Arthur flushed with outrage. “My accent is not posh.”

“I’m disappointed to have been wrong, but delighted to be wrong in precisely this way. Arthur Lester, of all people, to wind up on my mountain.”

Larson’s voice sharpened, and even blind Arthur could feel the flash of his teeth. “You’re Castaigne’s lost boy, and he’s going to be so glad to see you.”

***

“Who the fuck is Castaigne!” shouted the Half, but the King couldn’t answer, watching in just as much shock as Larson moved to the bedroom door and pulled it open. “You said he should tell Larson his real name. What have you done!”

“You can come in now, Mr. Castaigne,” Larson called, and a few beats later a man walked in. Though his stature was merely average, he carried himself with straight-backed, pompous self-assurance, his gray suit was expertly tailored, his ashen blond hair was slicked back. Many thin scars traced his hands from the beds of his fingernails to his wrist, and his pale eyes were marked with unnerving flecks of green. It wasn’t a face the King in Yellow had ever regarded from the outside, and even the Half of him which had struggled to place the memory, but he knew this man. Even his rodents sometimes left an impression.

“Arthur Lester,” the man greeted in a sonorous voice, and Arthur lurched back in immediate recognition of the King in Yellow’s most devoted cultist, abandoned and forgotten deep below the old hotel in Leerie. He eyed Arthur with an eager fascination that bordered on ravenous. “I have to admit, this wasn’t in the fate we had written for you.”

“Wh-What’s going on?” Arthur demanded, though even the King could feel him shaking as he shoved himself back, into the corner formed by the wall and headboard. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You…you piece of shit!” John raged overtop him, flinging all his anger and panic against his captor king. “This was a setup from the start—are you fucking kidding me!” But the King could only stare, his tatters winding around the stone altar as he, too, struggled to make sense of the coincidence. He had not spared a single thought to Castaigne since the ritual had failed in the Sleeping City and couldn’t account for his presence now.

“Mr. Castaigne is an old acquaintance of mine,” Larson explained, and the two men standing together with such smug triumph in their faces turned even the King’s stomach. “Though our…passions took us in separate directions, we do each other the occasional favor.” He turned to his companion with a smirk. “Sorry to have called you up here so suddenly over a case of mistaken identity. I’m quite embarrassed.”

“You can make it up to me by lending me your cellar,” Castaigne replied coolly. He damn near appeared to be drooling. “I trust it’s still in decent enough condition?”

“Of course—what do you take me for?”

“Stay away from me,” Arthur hissed, but then his defiance seemed to collapse, and he snatched his left hand to his chest, whispering, “John, please.”

“You’re fucking sick,” the Half continued to rant. “Why did you even bother pretending to care about his well being when you had this asshole waiting in the wings all along?”

“I—” The King growled in frustration. Castaigne had been a useful puppet for a time, forged over a decade of slow temptation and corruption. He knew very well what the man was capable of—or at least, he had. He had not bothered to exert one iota of effort to the man’s dreamstate in months, and he sensed a change in him. The veil was so very thin in this place—with a strong will and a sturdy altar, would Castaigne be able to complete the spell this time? Open Arthur’s body to him fully, like he’d wanted? Join his two halves at last? Erase Arthur Lester from the world?

“Uncle, get Mr. Lester up for us, won’t you? Better that we keep him downstairs until the room is prepared for him.”

“Don’t touch me!” Arthur snarled, and Uncle even seemed to hesitate, his pronounced, bestial features contorting with uncertainty. “Don’t do this—whatever you’re thinking of doing, it won’t work anyway!” When Uncle at last reached for him, he recoiled. “John!”

“Give me back to him!” the Half shouted, digging in with every claw available to him. “You promised he’d go free!”

The King shuddered. When Uncle at last reached forward to obey Larson’s orders, he clasped Arthur’s unmoving ankle to drag him across the bed. The King felt, through Arthur’s nerves, the hot clamp of his sweaty palm, the sharp pinch of his jagged nails in soft, human skin. This was what half of him had experienced all along, he realized, trapped inside Arthur’s body: a heart that wasn’t his, pumping adrenaline into arteries they shared; Arthur’s fear and fury, coursing through him in primal disarray. It seared into him like a liquid brand. Would he ever really be rid of that?

“Hastur, please!”

The King clenched his jaws, and when Uncle went to lift Arthur off the bed, he reached out—opened every closed channel, shoved his senses outward, imagining his nerves and muscles crawling into Arthur’s hand and foot like donning a suit. His half was right beside him. With the full might of his magic, he reconnected those severed threads, and with wills joined they drove Arthur’s left fist into Uncle’s throat. The almost-man was so heavily muscled the King doubted it would do any damage, but the distraction was enough; Uncle’s grip loosened enough that they were able to kick free, and Arthur hit the ground on all fours.

“Arthur, run!” the Half shouted, and Arthur bolted, shoving past Larson and Castaigne and through the open door.

“John!” Arthur gasped. He hit the opposite wall of the hall hard and cursed. “Which—”

“Right!” John ordered, and Arthur choked on a sob of relief as he obeyed. “There’s a turn up ahead that will lead you to the stairs.”

“Oh fuck, John!” A breathless laugh bubbled out of Arthur as he took the stairs two at a time down to the foyer; the King roiled as his Half’s joy at the sound of it washed over him. It wasn’t meant for him. “Are you all right?”

“What are you asking about me for?” the Half snapped. “We have to get out of here! Straight and to the right for the door.”

Uncle was thundering down the stairs after them; the King was caught off guard by how frightening that was, feeling so much of Arthur’s pulse hammering through each finger and toe. But there was nothing any of them could do; by the time Arthur had reached the heavy oak doors of the mansion and was prying them open, Uncle was on him. He wrapped one thick arm around Arthur’s torso, the other his neck—hearing Arthur draw in one last panicked breath before the muscle bearing into his throat choked the rest had the King’s tendrils twisting against each other in helpless fury. He imagined Arthur making the same face he had in the dream and his teeth ached.

“Sor…” Uncle groaned as he dragged Arthur away from cold air pouring through the partially opened door. “Sorr…”

“Do something!” the Half cried, even though they were both already reaching up with Arthur’s left hand. What unique hell it was, to dig one's claws into another creature but without the strength to affect it;: the King growled and writhed, his ears full of Arthur’s quieting sounds of struggle. How had Arthur ever defied him while being this weak?

“Arthur, hold on!” the Half carried on, and without any other options, the King swept to the other side of the reliquary to reclaim his pentacle mirror. By the time he returned and righted the altar, Arthur was limp and barely conscious, but he set to work on reforming the shards of glass.

The Half churned and roiled. “What are you doing?”

“If he falls unconscious, I’ll be able to enter his dream again,” the King said as he worked. “Channel more of my magic into him.”

“That won’t help if this kills him!”

The King lashed his tentacles around the altar once more. “There’s nothing else I can do from here!”

Uncle let go. Just as Arthur’s consciousness threatened to give out, his throat was freed, and he slumped, gagging and choking, against the arm around his midsection. The King and his Half went still and breathless, staring through Arthur’s tear-smeared eyes as the foyer spun around them. Then Uncle scooped him up, lifting him behind his back and knees, as Larson and Castaigne descended the stairway.

“Not quite as invalid as he seemed,” Larson remarked dryly. “Take him downstairs, Uncle. He can catch his breath in the cellar until we’re ready.”

“Don’t hurt him more than necessary,” added Castaigne. “My lord will need him intact.”

“Yes yes, of course. He’s quite gentle when he needs to be—aren’t you, Jack?”

Uncle let out a long, low sigh as he hefted Arthur’s weight and moved deeper into the mansion. Arthur was still struggling to regain his breath, and his attempts to fight himself free were weak at best. The Half didn’t even bother, having realized there was no escaping yet: barefoot in pajamas, lost atop a snow-covered mountain? The King tried to catch a glimpse of Castaigne as they were carried away, to read some intentions from his face, but by then Uncle was already carrying them into the kitchen.

“Fuck,” muttered the Half. “Just…hold tight for now, Arthur. We’ll figure out how to get out of this, I promise.”

The woman from that morning—Wendy, Larson had called her—was in the kitchen cleaning a cast iron skillet. Like Uncle, her face was drawn long and unnatural, and her ears drooped beneath a curly mop of hair. She eyed the pair with apprehension and rushed to open a far door. It led to a darkened passage straight into the wall, and a staircase of carved stone, leading down.

“Arthur, he’s carrying us into the cellar,” the Half narrated. “There’s a hallway with a low ceiling, and…it’s very dark. I can’t see much.”

Arthur gave one last, rattling cough and was finally able to draw enough breath to speak. “Uncle Jack, please! You don’t have to do this.”

Arthur thrashed, but Uncle only held tighter to prevent him from slipping free. “I haven’t done anything,” he continued to plead. “I just… I needed help, I just want to go home.”

Uncle growled low in his chest but he didn’t slow. “We’re entered some kind of chamber,” the Half continued to explain. “There are alcoves cut into the wall, and what looks like…doors. Wooden doors—small, rectangular slots. They look like cells.”

“There’s no point in struggling now,” the King muttered, and though his tendrils relaxed he continued his repairing of the mirror. “Tell him to save his strength.”

“But we…” The Half growled in frustration. “Just hold on, Arthur. It looks like he’s going to put us in one of the cells—even if you get free of him now, there’s nowhere to go.”

“God damn it,” Arthur muttered under his breath, but he stopped fighting, at least physically. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” he said as Uncle carried him into one of the open doors. The inside of the cell was dark and featureless, cold stone and dust. It reminded the Half of the Prison Pits, which was another unwelcome memory the King did his best to stay away from. “I know you really were trying to help me. I’m grateful for that.”

Uncle let out a long, rattling sigh, and he deposited Arthur carefully on the floor of the cell. He then hurried out, closing and bolting the door behind him. All three listened to the sound of his heavy footfalls moving away, back down the corridor.

Arthur collapsed back against the wall with a sigh of his own. “Fuck,” he said, but then he rallied himself, tugging John’s hand closer. “John! That is you, isn’t it?”

That name again. The King sank into his tatters, trying to ignore the waves of guilt and elation radiating off his Half. “Of course it’s me,” said the Half. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner—I’ve been trying!”

“I know, I know. Thank God.”

He rubbed the back of his left hand—soothing, encouraging. The King shuddered, feeling it much more clearly with his Half spread so evenly between the pair of them. Was this what it had really felt like for his Half, all this time? It was far more distracting than it should have been. How dare something as banal as a comforting caress feel so profoundly welcome.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked, voice thick with emotion. “If you’re back now, that means you’re safe?”

“I’m…” The King could feel his Half twist inside him. “Not exactly. I’m still with him, Arthur—he’s still right here, listening.”

“What?” All at once Arthur’s relief turned to anger, and he clutched the Half more tightly to his chest, as if trying to shield it. “That son of a bitch. I can’t believe I thought for even a moment that he was actually trying to help!”

The King bristled. “I didn’t know about Castaigne,” he muttered, but why? It wasn’t as if he cared if Arthur knew the truth.

“He says he didn’t know about the cultist, Castaigne,” relayed the Half gruffly. “I honestly don’t know what to think. You and I are still tightly entangled, Arthur. There’s no separating us now—even I couldn’t do it myself, when I tried. I think he’s starting to realize that.”

“Which you were a fool to even try,” said Arthur, and even though his tone twisted bitterly, he kept stroking his hand back and forth against the back of the Half’s palm, eager to grant and receive its reassurance. The Half curled its fingers against Arthur’s chest, as if it would have been clinging to him, had it a shred less pride. The King endured, his thoughts in shambles. “We agreed that no matter what, we wouldn’t let him win. Even if it means we’re damned, we might as well be damned together.”

“Yes, but…” The Half sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to be safe. You’ve suffered too much because of me already.”

It was referring to the King, too, when it said so. The King could sense that much, and it twisted his unsteady emotions further, to feel his other Half consider them even that much joined. “Enough wasteful sentiment,” he grumbled. “Tell Arthur the situation.”

“Can’t you tell him yourself?”

“It’s you he’s bound to.” The King finished repairing the mirror—filaments of gold light stretched between it and his covered face—though he wouldn’t be able to make use of it yet. “Explain it to him.”

“John?” Arthur prodded.

“Like I said, we’re still tightly bound,” said the Half. “But I’m still trapped inside the King, too. If you die—if you’re cast into the Dark World—you’ll take both of us with you. I…” It hesitated, grumbling under its breath. “I think he really doesn’t have much choice but to help us survive. It’s not mercy, it’s just self-preservation.”

Arthur scoffed. “I suppose it would have to be. But what does that mean, now that the cultist is here?” He very nearly snarled when saying the word. “Is he going to pitch us back into the Dreamlands, so we can do it all over again?”

The Half didn’t answer, and it took a beat for The King in Yellow to realize it was waiting on his response. He shifted within his tatters. “It wasn’t anything Castaigne did to throw Arthur into the Dreamlands last time. He brought you both to the city because the boundary between worlds was very thin there. I opened the portal, I pulled you through. Castaigne isn’t capable of doing that himself.”

The Half related that to Arthur, who hummed, unconvinced. “So?” he asked loudly, as if speaking directly to the King. “What’ll it be? Are you going to pitch us back into the Dreamlands, so we can do the whole bloody charade over again?”

The King dug his claws into the altar. The three months he had spent tormenting Arthur Lester were nothing compared to the decade before, desperately casting what influence he had into the voids of space in search of it. He had corrupted and discarded dozens of humans in his quest, painstakingly searching for whatever clue or tool that could help make him whole. Compared to that, prying his missing piece out of the grip of one broken man should have been a simple affair. He hadn’t even unleashed the full breadth of his cruelty on the stubborn Arthur. With another three months—maybe even only another month—he could use the experience he’d gained to crack his skull at last. It should be easy.

But when the altar shifted beneath his hands, tiny pebbles like shards of bone slipping through his fingers, the King stopped. He took in a slow breath. “Is this what it’s felt like for you, all along?” he asked.

The Half inside him tensed. “What do you mean?”

“This…sensation.” The King released his grip on the altar and took his left hand in his right. He scraped his claws against the back of his palm, as Arthur had done to comfort his companion. “Skin, hair, sweat. A human’s blood rushing into your fingers. Tingling, when it’s deprived. Arthur’s body, flowing in and out of the pieces you inhabit.”

“Yes?” The Half’s wariness shifted into confusion. “I suppose so. What are you getting at?”

The King turned his hand, contemplating his palm. Hours ago, he had wrapped his hand around Arthur’s throat and squeezed. He well remembered the frenzied pounding of Arthur’s heartbeat in his fist, the quiet, choked groans of struggle. He remembered the Half doing the same, once. It’s anger and panic, and a deep, insidious terror of its own actions. Its stinging guilt and shame—the relief, equally painful, when Arthur accepted its apologies. When Arthur called its name again in friendship and concern, rather than hatred and scorn. Arthur didn’t even know his name.

“I can feel it, too,” the King murmured, slowly flexing each digit. “But not quite how you feel it, I think. Even though you’re inside me now, connecting us, this…it’s still only yours. It’s not me he’s bound to. It never will be.”

“What’s he saying?” asked Arthur anxiously.

“I…” The Half continued to churn in bewilderment. “I don’t know. He’s not making sense.”

“John,” said the King, just to feel the syllables in his voice. The Half gasped and kept very still, though it had no means to hide from the King the ripple of emotion that coursed through it, to hear even that attempt at acknowledgement. “I once used Castaigne to get you and Arthur to the city. I haven’t followed his movements since then; I don't know what he plans to do. He may even try to kill Arthur, if he thinks that will serve my will. We may have to kill him, and Larson, to keep Arthur alive.”

“Ah…All right,” said John. “Is there anything more you can do to help us?”

“I don’t know yet,” the King admitted. “The boundary is thin here, and I assume Castaigne asked for use of the cellar for a reason. Larson may have some kind of altar or catalyst prepared.” He wound his fingers tight around his own altar once more. “But when the time comes, you do what I tell you. You don’t have to trust me; just know that Arthur’s survival is all that matters now. Am I understood?”

“John?” Arthur asked again.

“Yes. I understand.” Though overwhelmed with questions, John turned his full attention back to Arthur. “He needs you alive, Arthur. Beyond that I don’t know what will happen, but we have to try to kill Castaigne, if we can. Kill him, and get out of here.”

“I’ll be ready, as long as the King stays out of our way.”

Uncle’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. The three of them paused, listening to his tread through the tunnels: closer, then away, then closer again. At last he was right outside the door, and Arthur climbed to his feet. “Uncle Jack?”

The slot on the door scraped open. “It’s Uncle,” John related unnecessarily. “He looks upset, Arthur. I don’t think he wants to do this.”

Arthur licked his lips as he leaned closer to the door. “Uncle Jack,” he said carefully. “I know you don’t want to hurt me—not after you saved my life! I don’t know who this Castaigne man is to you, but isn’t this too much of a favor to ask?”

Uncle grumbled something, and he lifted his hand to the slot. “Arthur, lean back,” said John. “He’s passing something through the slot.”

Arthur lifted his hand to accept the offering, and he recognized the shape immediately. “Shoes?” He sighed happily as slipped the shoe on and then accepted the second. “Thank you. That feels much better.”

“Now that you can hear me,” John began, “I should tell you—”

“Don’t,” the King interrupted. “Arthur doesn’t need to know. Better that you let him keep his trust in the creature for now.”

“What?” Arthur whispered as he tied the laces, with John’s help naturally. “Is it about Uncle?”

“Never mind.” John cleared his throat. “There’s something off about him, but he seems as trustworthy as he can be. Sympathetic to you, even.”

Arthur nodded, and he straightened up to face the door. “Thank you, Jack. You’re a good man.”

Uncle made a pained sound, but he was joined soon after by approaching footsteps. Though hesitant, he unlatched and then opened the heavy cell door. Castaigne stood on the other side, pale eyes focused intensely on them. He had draped his gray suit in a long, black robe, and covered his face in the pallid mask. The King scowled; the ceremony seemed so ridiculous, now that it had been revealed as so ineffective.

“Arthur Lester,” Castaigne greeted, a grotesque excitement tightening his voice. “I see you are still a vessel for our god. But you are not complete.”

“I haven’t been devoured by the greatest lying prick in the Dreamlands, no,” Arthur retorted, bracing himself. “But he’s here, if you want to have a chat? He can hear you.”

Castaigne leaned back slightly, cocking his head. “Is that so?”

“Is there something you can tell him, that he would recognize as coming from you?” pressed John. “Can’t you call him off?”

The King frowned; he had spent so long focused on Arthur only to have failed, he wasn’t perfectly confident in his ability to sway Castaigne with only a few words spoken through another voice. Any instructions to simply let Arthur go would be met with skepticism no matter what attempts he made to prove his identity and presence beforehand. “Tell Arthur to repeat this, word for word,” he instructed, and John agreed. “You have served me well. The kingdom you were promised awaits you. I’ll return to you, next you dream. Keep Arthur Lester safe until then.”

Arthur recited the words, and Castaigne seemed to listen, his breath hissing inside the mask. “I can see Him, behind your eyes,” he said when Arthur was finished. “I don’t doubt that you hear him, as I did. But I have spent weeks waiting in my dreams for my King. I won’t wait any longer.”

“Wait,” said Arthur, but at Castaigne’s gesture, Uncle took Arthur by the arm and dragged him from the cell. He fought, John cursing as he helped, but Castaigne removed a small rag from his robe and shoved it in Arthur’s face. A sharp, sour smell overcame his senses, and within seconds Arthur’s legs were giving out.

“John—” Arthur tried to call out, muffled by the rag. John shoved and clawed at Castaigne, nearly succeeding in dislodging his mask but little else. As Arthur fell limply into Uncle’s arms, the King remained very still, keeping his focus on the mirror. If Arthur succumbed to unconsciousness, he might be able to siphon more of his strength to him…

But he didn’t. True to his stubbornness, Arthur clung to his senses as he was again lifted bodily into Uncle’s arms and carried away from the lines of cells. “Fuck, Arthur!” John shouted all the way. “Either wake the fuck up, or just go to sleep!” Though the King agreed with the sentiment, he held his temper at bay. He watched Arthur cling feebly to Uncle’s shirtfront, wondering how he had ever underestimated the man.

Castaigne led them down another narrow stone corridor, where carvings sat tucked into the walls, and Larson—still dressed in his suit and no robe—was finishing lighting braziers. He cast Arthur a smug look as they passed, through an open door and into another chamber set up like a meeting room. Three suits of armor presided over a long, oak wood table in a mockery of grand purpose.

“How nostalgic,” the King muttered bitterly as Uncle laid Arthur, groaning, out on the table. “How many of those professing to worship our kind have met in ancient tombs like this? Hidden away beneath the earth, like worms presuming to commune with men?”

“That’s not helping,” John snapped, taking in as much of the room as was visible. They both spotted Arthur’s sack of trinkets close to the door, just before Castaigne reached inside it. When he retrieved his hand, he was holding the ornate dagger, still stained with Arthur’s blood.

“Hastur,” John said urgently, drawing his hand up protectively over Arthur’s chest. “He’s going to kill him!”

“I can see that,” the King said through his teeth. “Just wait until he makes his move.”

“I don’t mind if you make a mess,” said Larson as he leaned against the open door frame, “though I do expect you to clean up after yourself.”

“I won’t shame your altar,” Castaigne reassured him gruffly. “You won’t participate?”

“No need to. But please, be my guest.”

Castaigne moved to stand at the end of the table, just in front of the sprawled and quietly groaning Arthur. “Ya stell'bsna Hastur,” he chanted as he held the dagger in front of him, and the King shuddered to hear his name spoken by such a pathetic creature. He continued in confident but ill-pronounced rambling, the ancient language shamed by his stubby, human tongue.

“He’s calling upon me,” the King explained. “He thinks Arthur has me half-trapped and seeks to release me from him.”

“Arthur, wake up!” John shouted, eyes locked on the dagger, hand poised in readiness. Arthur whined, squirming against the table; he hadn’t caught much of the ether, but he was still having trouble wrangling his limbs back to his control. “Arthur come on, he’s going to kill you!”

“Die, and return to your great city beyond the lake,” Castaigne continued to chant. He lifted the dagger above his head, and the ancient room itself seemed to flex and curve inward, focusing the deep, seething energies of the mountain. The three armors rattled in their alcoves, unwitting witnesses. Larson and Uncle looked on, one politely curious, the other cringing with dread. “Then we will open the gate anew for your great coming!”

He plunged the dagger downward. John rushed to intercept, the blade cutting a shallow gash along his hand before he could snatch Castaigne’s wrist to halt him. “Arthur!” he continued to holler, the tip of the dagger shuddering just above his heart. The King added as much of his own strength as he could, but Arthur’s muscles were weak with deprivation and could only be supported so much. He growled with a rush of fear, tendrils shifting and pawing against his altar with desperation he couldn’t act on. John’s memories of the Dark World clawed at his tatters, hooked under his ribs, but it wasn’t himself he feared for; the thought of Arthur Lester of all people, slowly losing his identity among an ocean of ghosts, turned his rational mind into hissing panic.

“Jo…” Arthur gagged, and with a sound of pain Uncle stormed forward. He snatched Castaigne by the elbow and drew him back.

“Uncle,” Larson scolded. “Let him go.”

“What—” Castaigne glared at Uncle indignantly as John slapped at Arthur’s face, trying to encourage him awake. “Larson, will you please control your beast?”

“Sir, I’ll ask you not to disparage my relation like that.”

“Arthur, get up!” the King snarled, and with a deep breath Arthur planted his heel in Castaigne’s stomach.

Castaigne doubled over, wheezing. The sound gave Arthur enough of a target, and he threw himself at his enemy, spilling them both onto the stone floor of the chamber.

“You son of a bitch!” Though still uncoordinated, Arthur clambered overtop of him and punched him across the mouth; Castaigne jerked beneath him and spat blood. “Was this written in your fucking files about me, huh?”

“Kill him, Arthur!” John shouted, already grasping for Castaigne’s throat—smearing his blood across his robe. They wrestled and cursed at each other, Castaigne no match for Arthur’s fury, but Arthur’s body woefully underprepared for a brawl. As they twisted and shouted, the King caught a glimpse of Larson urging Uncle back. Then the man bent down, calmly retrieving Castaigne’s fallen dagger.

Arthur got the upper hand again; he shoved Castaigne’s back to the floor and got his hands around his throat. The King couldn’t see Larson anymore, standing beside him, but his intent was clear. He imagined Arthur’s swift gasp, looking down to see the dagger emerging from his chest, and in panic he forced his will down through John into Arthur’s fingers. He took hold of Castaigne’s ashen hair, dragged his head forward and then forced it back with all his strength, into the stone.

Castaigne fell unconscious. His sleeping mind blossomed open for the King, who surged forward—face plunging through the pentacle mirror, through the veils separating worlds, through the boundary stretched thin beneath the mountain. He raked and burrowed into the human’s pitiful brain, devouring thought and memory. And Castaigne fell open for him. Like a mouse flinging itself into the jaws of a lion, the King in Yellow’s most ardent worshiper exulted in his own destruction, soul and spirit burned away by the radiance of his god.

The King opened his eyes to Arthur’s face, contorted in rage, and behind him, Larson poised with the dagger. “Larson, stop!”

Larson did stop, and a look of thoughtful confusion came over him as he stared hard into Castaigne’s—into the King’s—face. He took a step back and motioned for Uncle to keep his distance.

“What the fuck?” John breathed, and with Arthur’s hand now solely under his control, he grabbed Arthur’s right by the wrist to draw him back. “Arthur, stop! Hold on, he’s… oh my god.”

“What?” Arthur did stop, though he kept his hand fisted in the King’s robe as he caught his breath.

“That’s enough,” said the King. His mind was reeling, crammed into the puny box of Castaigne's skull, his limbs tingling and throbbing, his lungs shaky. He couldn’t make sense of how small and dense and wrong he felt, to speak nothing of his sluggishly bleeding scalp, his bruised stomach and shoulders, the coppery tang of blood. The air was thin and he hated breathing it. But Arthur’s body was still close to his—smothering almost, as John was so used to—and he depended on its axis to stay focused. “That’s enough,” he repeated. “Arthur’s not ready for the ritual. It’s not going to work here.”

“You think you can just—” Arthur began, but John put his hand to Arthur’s chest to halt him.

“Arthur, shut up,” he hissed. “Just play along—that’s not Castaigne anymore. Let him go.”

Arthur grunted in confusion, but after a moment he slid off and pushed away. The King sat up, grimacing, feeling out the gash in the back of his head. It wasn’t large but it bled a disturbing amount, and the feeling of hot slick rushing over his short, pudgy fingers drew a bark of laughter out of him. A decade ago, he had slunk through a portal not meant for him seeking this. It was enough to make a god laugh.

“Castaigne?” Larson prodded warily.

“Yes.” The King took in a deep breath of foul air and pushed to his feet. When he offered his hand, John took it. Arthur’s blood on him gave him a chill, and he realized only then that he couldn’t feel John anymore, hunkered in the pit of him like he had been. He pushed past an unwelcome sensation of mourning to help Arthur to his feet. “I’m all right,” he said. “But Arthur’s isn’t ready to ascend, not yet. I’ll be taking him back to Arkham with me.”

Arthur took in a hard breath, ready to retort or even to fight, but again John intervened. “Arthur shut your mouth. We’re about to walk out of here. Please, trust me.”

Arthur did clap his mouth shut, though his body was still wound tight, ready for another fight at any moment. Larson noted this with a raised eyebrow, asking, “Are you certain? You’re just going to walk him out of here by yourself and drive him home? He still seems…rather feisty.”

“Yes,” the King said without hesitation, fixing Larson with a hard stare. “Yes, we’re leaving. Right now.”

Larson stared straight back, but as their eyes met, a look of fascination crept into his expression. The King wondered how different he must have looked then, for Larson to detect him behind Castaigne’s mask. Whatever Larson himself was, he knew then what he was facing, and he took a slight step back.

“I wouldn’t dare keep you,” he said congenially, and he turned the dagger in his hand to offer it handle first.

The King took Arthur by the elbow—he flinched back at first, but more encouragements from John kept him from lashing out. He accepted the dagger as they headed toward the door and stowed it back in Arthur’s pack, which he then handed to him. Though baffled and fighting back curses, Arthur hefted the bag to his shoulder as they saw themselves out. Larson and Uncle followed at a distance. The King could feel their baffled and wary stares, but he did not break stride as he led them back down the corridor, toward the mansion proper.

“What the fuck is going on?” Arthur hissed under his breath.

“Just keep walking,” John told him, though after a moment of hemming he surrendered more. “It’s him, Arthur. The King has possessed Castaigne and taken his body. He’s—”

“What?” Arthur tried to pull away, but the King jerked him close again and kept walking.

“Quiet,” said the King, keeping his voice calm and neutral. “Wait until we’re away from Larson.”

He cast a glance behind them; Larson was still following at a safe distance, his eyes shining in the dark with cold intrigue. It gave him an unwelcome and humiliating chill.

They exited the tunnels out into the kitchen and pantry once more. Wendy was still there, and she stayed far out of their way as they passed through into the foyer. Closer to the door, the King spotted a handsome winter coat hanging up on a rack he assumed to be Castaigne’s. “Put this on,” he said, urging Arthur to set the pack down for the moment so he could help him into it.

Arthur glared back at him, curses tucked into the snarl of his mouth, while John stared back through his eyes in wary amazement. Such a curious mix of expressions, on a face he knew so well but had only truly seen twice. It looked different, through human eyes, but not unpleasantly so. The King lifted his new hand to Arthur’s cheek; Arthur flinched but then held still, projecting defiance. To see his most admirable trait fixed on him so directly, so purely, gave the King a delicious chill.

“Arthur,” he said quietly. “I think I like you better from the outside.”

Arthur scowled, but again John warned him not to break character. With a deep breath he arranged his features into something approaching easy calm as he reclaimed his pack and turned his head toward their hosts again. “Uncle Jack,” he called, and Uncle shifted his weight back and forth. “Thank you, for your help. I’m going to be okay now.”

Uncle grumbled with concern, but he nodded. As the King urged Arthur back toward the door, it was then Larson calling after them that gave them pause.

“Mr. Castaigne,” he said, his voice sharp with fake niceties. “The Lodge will want to hear about this.”

“So tell them,” the King retorted, yanking the front door open. He pulled Arthur along, outside.

It was still afternoon. Though the King didn’t hesitate to draw them toward what appeared to be Castaigne’s car parked out front, he took in the sights of earth for the first time: its blue sky laden with slow clouds, so static compared to the Dreamlands, so immense and still; the tree-covered mountains rolling into the plains, speckled white; the tiny human dwellings that dotted the road. It wasn’t as pale as he’d expected. Its simplicity was even charming, in its own way, and he hummed quietly to himself as they climbed into the handsome Cadillac.

Arthur sank into the passenger seat and inhaled. “Are we alone now?”

“Yes,” said John.

Arthur turned at once and snatched the King by the throat. “Did you really think I’d just meekly slink away with you?” he snarled, while the King and John struggled to pry him off. “After what you’ve done—what you’ve put us through!”

“Arthur, wait!” John dug in with his nails, hissing at pressure it put on his wound. “Stop—this isn’t going to help anything!”

“The hell it won’t!” Arthur shouted, but he couldn’t fight off the King and his own hand at the same time; they tugged him off, and the King forced him back. When he reached for the car door handle, the King then had to grab his elbow again to keep him still.

“Arthur, that’s enough,” he scolded. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He hissed, covering the back of his throbbing head. “Hell.”

“Arthur, please listen,” John insisted. “We’re not safe anywhere on this mountain; we have to trust him for now, to get out of here.”

“Fuck!” Arthur spat, but he settled again. “I don’t trust him—not one inch, not for one moment.” He shook. “Never again.”

The King’s heart gave a foolish thump. “Nor should you,” he murmured, and he reached down the front of his robe to remove Castaigne’s necktie. He tossed it into Arthur’s lap. “Wrap that around your hand.”

“Huh?” Arthur picked it up, and only then did he notice the blood slicking his other hand. “Oh, John—I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Arthur.” John held still as Arthur wrapped the necktie around his wounded palm. “It's not deep, and...I can’t feel as much of the King as I did before. I feel safer, now.”

“Safer,” the King muttered, uncertain how to respond to that. He watched Arthur carefully tending to his partner and his stomach clenched with an unnamable emotion. “Well, I suppose you are, John. I can’t absorb you fully in this state.”

“Then what do you want from us?” Arthur demanded. “A human body on earth is what you were after all this time. What is it you want?”

“Hm?” The King frowned, considering that for a moment. He watched Arthur shiver, watched his other half gazing back at him. Then he reached over, and he pulled the taffy out of Arthur’s pajama pocket. He unwrapped it while the pair sat mystified and popped it into his mouth. It was sweet, and chewy—not terribly dissimilar to confections in the Dreamlands, but then again, when had he last taken the time to partake in those, either?

“That was mine,” Arthur grumbled, and the King chuckled as he started the car.

“I’ll make it up to you,” the King replied, something hot and eager bubbling under his new, human skin as he took hold of the wheel. “Who knows what awaits us now?”

He pulled away from the mansion. The machine wasn’t any more difficult to pilot than he had anticipated; he found himself smiling, even, as they made their way carefully down the twisted slope. “By the way,” he said, a peculiar tickle in his chest. “You can still address me as King if you want, but my name is Hastur.”

“Hastur,” Arthur repeated, his voice scornful and almost curdling around the syllables. He snorted. “Sure.”

His name, in Arthur’s voice; Hastur felt that little flutter in him grow. Said in anger and disgust, yes, but he had said John’s name in similar fashion plenty of times. He would have so many opportunities to hear his name said in other manners, just like his other Half. He wasn’t anywhere near finished with Arthur Lester yet.

The thought made him chuckle as they drove away, into the east. Back to Arkham.