Chapter Text
That was it.
That was the last of it.
He shut the storage unit door, locking it for it to hopefully never be opened again until a significant time has passed. He knew it would open back up, and The King would have a new victim, but the least he could do was prolong the inevitable.
He probably should have destroyed it, or wiped it clean, yet he kept this locker just in case something happened. He didn’t know why he was still making back up plans, he already knew how everything was going to play out. Maybe he did this solely to follow the script.
Whatever.
He turned his back on the remnants of his personal belongings. Everything he had was sold, he dropped out of his Ivy League college and used the leftover money that was supposed to pay for it to buy a small house, far, far, far away from everything. It was in the woods, where the nearest town was a three hour drive. He didn’t really feel like he deserved to be connected to human society anyways, he didn’t feel human anymore.
He walked back to his car slowly, his head hurt and he was really tired. His mom had been calling him non-stop for the past week, he was thinking of ditching his phone somewhere, not like he really needed it anymore anyways. He slumped into his car, and slammed his head against the steering wheel, trying his best not to cry.
“Papa.” A small voice chirped, the voice of a baby that should have been too young to talk, yet it spoke anyways. He turned back to it, and saw his newborn child sitting and staring patiently in its car seat. It disturbed him greatly, it already knew how to walk and talk without problem, could recite its ABC’s, could do algebra, it could do all the things newborns shouldn’t.
He hesitated to call it a child, a mini god if you will. He had been used as an incubator for that god damn King’s spawn and now felt obligated to care for it. A part of him wanted to leave it behind at the hospital, yet he knew he would just be dooming all who came across it.
He needed to hide it. To make sure it never existed in the eyes of humans. They couldn’t handle this kind of knowledge, this kind of torture.
He still felt the need to play hero, at least as long as he could before his death.
He started the car, and drove off without a word.
Year One
The house was decently furnished, yet sparse. It was fine, it wasn’t a home anyways, more of a prison where he was simultaneously the guard and the prisoner. He placed the child into its room, no windows, no decorations, only a singular crib laid in the center. He then shut the door and tried to ignore its presence as he set out the few remaining things he decided that either he was too attached to discard, or found useful.
Papers and pens make time pass faster, he used to love sitting down and writing literature in his free time, but now it didn’t really bring him joy but it passed the time. He placed a few of his own armor work on display, not like he would have gotten that much money out of it anyways if he sold it. Besides, it was one of the few things that managed to make him smile. He remembered how much he loved researching roman, greek, and medieval armor, trying his best to replicate. It was perfectly imperfect, one could tell someone inexperienced yet earnest made it.
He wished he could go back, stop himself from playing that stupid game any longer, but it was too late.
No longer would he be the dorky nerd kid who took things way too seriously and at the same time not seriously enough.
He was now just a thing, a thing eternally intertwined with The King in Yellow.
A thing to care for His Heir.
He walked up to his new room, it was larger than the nursery, yet not by much. There was a single king bed and a wardrobe. He lazily tossed the bag of his clothes towards the wardrobe, and then collapsed onto the bed. He exhaled into the mattress, ignoring the throbbing in his head.
He stayed still for a moment. Trying to find some semblance of peace. But peace was impossible.
He stood back up and walked over to the nursery, just to check on it. He opened the door to the dark room slowly, almost as if he was scared something was going to jump out at him. He honestly would have preferred that, instead of the parasite he had been given. The room was quiet, and it didn’t acknowledge his presence. He leaned a bit closer, only to see its eyes closed tight.
Good. It was asleep.
He closed the door again, and turned around to go to the bathroom, just to stare at himself in the mirror for a second. Once he finally saw himself for the first time in what would be months, he stilled.
His eyes were heavy, no longer did they carry the shine of curiosity, there was nothing to be curious about anyways. His locs were outgrown, his skin was pale, he was skinner, he looked almost like a walking corpse. He stared at himself for a second longer, before he started looking for a pair of scissors in his room. It’s not like he worried about his image anymore, and besides he had no one to impress.
His helmet fell off its shelf, rolling to his feet as the empty darkness stared up at him. Its gold color shines as the sun hits it perfectly.
Maybe one thing to impress.
But he’d rather die than become its pretty pet.
He finally found a pair of scissors and cut his hair with no caution or hesitation, it would have been easier to buzz it but he had no such tools.
Once he was done, he ran his hand through the uneven cut, yet he could care less. He tossed the scissors to the side, letting it fall who knows where. He picked up the helmet and placed it back on its shelf before ascending up the stairs to his room.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
He nestled comfortably against the cold pillow and thin blanket, closing his eyes shut as if to block out any light. The last thing he could see was a flash of yellow.
Why do you insist on being stubborn?
The next couple of months weren’t anything special. He kept a routine to have some semblance of normal, he would wake at nine, feed The Heir, make food for himself, and either write absolute nonsense or stand still outside until either it was late or The Heir requested him.
The Heir was strange, he really didn’t know what to do with it. Well, he did know, but it felt off. As if he wasn’t supposed to be in its presence, let alone care for it and call it his.
The Heir knew everything, everything that is, was, or will be, just like The King. Yet for some odd reason, it only spoke in questions.
“Why must we eat?”
“Why do you think the deer in the wild run from us?”
“Why do people insist on doing things that are meaningless?”
For a being that knows all, it acted as if it knew nothing at all. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed that it wasn’t acting the way he expected it to, or relieved that it acted more like a child and not a God.
He never answered its questions, a simple, “You know”, and it didn’t speak until the next hour.
It didn’t do much, it couldn’t do much really. Its body was still too fragile and could barely bear the weight of themself on their legs yet. So it was content in staying in its carrier down stairs and staying completely still. It was as if it was its own throne, frozen in time just like how he first saw The King as.
He hated it. He hated it so much. He hated the way it called him “father” or “papa”, he hated how it stared at him as if he owed it something. Love and care? Why should he? It wasn’t his child, it was a product that he happened to make himself. He felt no pride, no hope, no joy, only inevitably. He hated how he knew it would weep at his grave, as if he did anything more than ignore its existence. He didn’t know why it wanted him, same as how he didn’t know why The King wanted him.
It scared him, he now knew everything, but he supposed even the thoughts of Gods were uncertain.
The year would pass, spring, summer, fall, and winter would fly through. In the spring, he planted some produce, to limit his future trips into town as much as possible. In summer, he would take The Heir to a nearby lake to cool it off, it would sit in the water and stare as fish swam past. In fall, he would start sewing more clothes for The Heir, he didn’t bother to buy regular clothes only using what the hospital gifted to him, but since fall was approaching he made warmer clothes. It had a strange taste towards clothing, preferring that of the royal medieval style clothing rather than the modern day, but he had no energy to argue with it.
In winter, he gave it a name. Not really of his own will.
“Why must you have a name and not I?” It asked, sitting as still as it always had as he made breakfast for himself.
“My mother actually cared for me, and it's not like you need a name do you?” He responded rather coldly.
“Well I desire one.” It spoke its first phrase that wasn’t a question, and he turned back a little bewildered.
“Fine. What name do you wish for?” He spoke after a pause of silence, turning back to his food.
“You come up with one.” It stared at him, and he let out a small groan.
“June?”
“No.”
“Veronica?” He offered again.
“No.”
“Arrietty.” He sighed into his hands, preparing for this exchange to go on for longer.
“That sounds good. I would like you to call me that from now on papa.” It nodded, surprising him decently.
“Don’t call me papa,” he grimaced, "it's odd.”
“Then shall I call you by your name?” It asked, and he stayed silent for a second.
“Papa is fine.” He then turned to walk back up to his room.