howtheyshine | SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

He's in the dark. He's in the dark again. A pocket of alive-darkness that he can feel the edges of, he can feel the void that waits.

Well hello there, Yellowhead. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm....

Call me Carmichael.

The laugh that bubbles through the name makes Yellow's soul creep.

You're Kayne.

A silence ripples outward from the nothing-space the voice takes up, a silence deeper than the emptiness of John's unoccupied body. Yel-- Edwin, Edwin curls in on himself, tightening into a tiny knot of spectral energy.

He said the wrong thing, he said the wrong thing, he's going to get hurt--

And how, my little poppet, did you know that.

I-I...

Actually. Know what? Doesn't matter. Sorry to pull the plug on that little experiment so abruptly, but see, I made a deal with your better half--

John!

He can't stop himself. He realizes how stupid the flare of hope is a moment later, when that oppressive empty cold bleak dead cold silent dark silent dark comes creeping back up between him and the voice of Kayne.

I made a deal with him to get him back to Arthur, which means you needed to clear the way.

Of course, I can't be bothered to babysit you.

So you've got a couple of options, here, kid.

Well, two. Which is more like one. Unless you want to go back to the Dark World, in which case--

No-- No, please, I don't care what you want, I'll do it, just--

Okay, okay, Jeeee-sus, stop groveling. It took John a few good centuries to get to that point.

Yellow goes quiet, cowed.

There's this guy I want you to meet. He's like the worst version of Arthur got all the color sucked out of it and given eternal life.

Wh... What?

Well, technically you did meet him. I guess now he gets a chance to meet you, since he's so fucking eager to lick the feet of a god.

The unhinged laughter rings in Yel-- Edwin, Edwin, Edwin's ears as he feels the world get abruptly smaller and his senses get stripped back to shadows.

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[No.] It's the refusal of a child who just got told a favorite story isn't true, at least in tone. More adamant, though, the stubbornness shaky but present. [That's the name I picked. It's who I am, it's who I want to be.]

"And the name you picked means nothing to me," he points out, his tone soothing as he heavily rolls his eyes. "You have to understand, my friend. If you want people to treat you like you mean something, you have to prove to them why they should respect you."

Why they should fear you, he doesn't say, but that is very much implied in the acidic pleasantries.

"So let's try that again, Mr Buck." His tone cools - not as cold as Arthur, but a distinct shift from the polite respect. "What. Are you. And why should I consent to being your vessel?"

[It means nothing right now, but... you don't know me yet.]

More uncertain than ever. That shift in tone makes him prickle all over with fear. Edwin... Yellow... Edwin doesn't think anyone can be as cold as Arthur when he gets angry, but the shift hits like a rising frosty wind all the same. He hadn't considered the possibility that Larson could drive him out. Maybe he has something that Arthur doesn't, knows things that Arthur doesn't--the latter is almost certainly true.

This man, this child-killer Arthur burned with hate for, doesn't want Edwin Buck. Edwin Buck isn't safe, Edwin Buck can't protect himself. Not like this. He just needs to get to John. Get John to hear him, to talk to him, and they can figure it out. Somehow, they can, they have to. But he needs to stay alive and intact and out of the Dark World. He needs to live.

[Th-the King in Yellow. I'm... half of him. I was.]

Edited 2024-03-27 05:32 (UTC)

Oh, that gets Larson to pause.

And the iron curtain falls, to let through something genuine - the shock and awe, delight beyond measure, basking in the majesty of knowing a god has chosen him to be his humble servant.

(Well. Half a god. They can work on that, surely.)

Then his mind shuts again, and he quotes with grave reverence.

"Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa."

And he lets out a shuddering exhale that speaks only of ecstasy, an almost lewd breathlessness. "Forgive me, your majesty. If I had only known, I would have been far more devout to your magnificent presence."

Let the idiotic thing think it was important, that Larson was in its debt for letting him live like he could expel it with a few well-chosen words. If it was right, he had unimaginable power on his hands.

Oh, he doesn't like this. He doesn't like the awe, he doesn't like the delight. It makes his spirit creep with something like goosebumps.

[That's... You don't need to do that. To call me majesty or anything like that. That's what I was, not what I am. And I-- I need to talk to my brother. My other... half.]

There's a soft chuckle, and it almost sounds warm.

Almost.

"I should ask you, your highness." With an insistent pressure to it. "Why are you so willing to admit to such... weakness? You are a god, you are far superior to any mere human that your presence dares brush against."

Arthur never spoke like this. This- almost insidious gentleness, trying to soothe without saying as much, coaxing the King into compliance. A door creaks as he walks, the echoes of the room getting abruptly smaller as his footsteps move from hardwood to carpet.

"Where is your... other half, then?"

If he had a heart it would be pounding hard enough to put pressure on his throat. If he had lungs he would be breathing too fast to get much air. He hates this, he prefers Arthur's honest cruelty to the bloodied silk of this man's words.

[I'm not. Superior. I'm not better than you j-just because of my nature. And weakness-- It's not weakness to be... it's not weakness to be honest. Or kind. O-or...]

Where is his brother? Down a hole with Arthur. Trying to survive. Probably trying to orient himself, remember what it's like to be part of a world with living things. He can't let Larson near John, he realizes. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to risk him or expose him that way.

[I don't know. Where he is, my b... my other half, I don't know.]

"Honesty isn't a weakness, sire," he tries instead, still with the simpering, appeasing tone. "You're being honest with me right now, and it puts us in an advantageous position. Because that means we know what you can do. We know what you're missing - and I. Know ways to find missing things."

And that simple declaration almost sounds like a threat; it's too hungry, too urgent, in a way that even he can't quite play off as anything but desperately sincere.

There's another creak as he drops into his desk chair with a groan, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. "So tell me, sire. Why me? I'm sure I've done nothing to raise your interest thus far in my life, I in fact stayed well away from your... predilections - as a means of ensuring I wouldn't offend you with such lacklustre offerings that I have these days."

It's not like he has a spare daughter lying around to sacrifice to the King. But the Great Old Ones he'd communicated with before had been more than grateful with his sweet, darling Addison. Perhaps he should have had more children, raised them right to be fit for such a sacrifice the next time.

He shouldn't have said he was half of the King. He shouldn't have let Larson know there was another piece out there to find. John isn't the King in Yellow any more, it's impossible for him to be, but it feels like telling Larson that is also a bad idea. He's caught between the need to protect--himself, John, Arthur--and the fact that he hasn't practiced lying in months.

[I was-- in Arthur. I saw what was coming. So I left him.]

"Ha!" It's a sharp single bark of laughter, and the wall slips to let that flicker of genuine, derisive amusement through. "So those awfully strange pauses he was taking... that was him listening to you. Wasn't it?"

Well, he wasn't going to make that same mistake. This entity would speak when it was damn well spoken to - he wasn't some pathetic twig of an Englishman who wouldn't even listen to the literal god deigning him worthy of its presence. Who did nothing but lie and backhandedly insult it.

"You know-" Not even giving Edwin a chance to reply to the rhetorical question. "I hope you understand that everything I said, I wholeheartedly believe in. Such... limited minds like Arthur Lester's that can't comprehend your majesty, they simply don't understand their place in the world anymore. But I do. And together, we could show everyone that you are a being who is to be respected, revered. As is your right."

[...You're wrong.]

For the first time, Edwin sounds cold himself, and it would probably be unsettling if Larson didn't already have so many advantages over him in this conversation.

[You're wrong about Arthur. He's not limited. He can comprehend just fine. He understands that what my place is should be what I choose, that who I am is more important than what I am. No one has a... a right to the kind of respect you're talking about, just because of what they are. And fear-- fear isn't the same as respect.]

He spreads his hands like he's conceding the point, like Edwin can even see the gesture.

"Of course not, your highness. No-one has the right to that respect. Or the right to anything, in that regard. The right to your presence, your kindness. All we have, if we are even born so lucky, is the right to choose."

There's a heavy weight to it, but it's still calm, trying to soothe, leaning into the anger with a lowering of his defense to offer it emotionally as well as verbally. "And therefore, why should we not choose to live a life of being respected? Of seeking the kind of power that protects us from those with- violent, unpredictable dispositions, like your Arthur." His tone settles into an easy, lulling tone, talking to a child. "I would never dream of lying to you, your majesty. I live to serve, I live so that you may flourish. And together..." He smiles, and the warmth enters his tone like a hot coal between his teeth. "We can choose to never fear anyone ever again."

Edited 2024-03-28 03:42 (UTC)

He doesn't answer right away, uncertainty creeping under the anger. Larson feels bad, what he's saying feels wrong, but Larson's certainty and the logic of it make bits of Edwin's psyche prickle with ill-ease.

Violent and unpredictable--Arthur wasn't that, not before, not before the King hurt him. It wasn't Edwin, maybe, but it was still his fault. He takes that thought and hangs on to it, thinks suddenly of what Malcolm said once in conversation.

[H-hurt people hurt people. I forgave Arthur already. A-and the kind of life I want, the kind of... of person I want to be, I can't have that without... some fear. Some... uncertainty. Some risk.]

Maybe he's doing this wrong, approaching it wrong. The voice in Larson's head shifts a little, an edge of eagerness washing out the uncertainty.

[It's worth it. The... the fear, it is worth it. And it's not everywhere, not in everything, not all the time. John-- my brother, he... loves me. And I love him. And it scared me to do it, but I can't imagine a world where he doesn't matter to me. A world where I wouldn't want him to be himself, the person he learned to choose. Gods-- gods don't... care. Choosing to care means everything.]

The sentimentality was nauseating.

Of course he'd loved Addison, with all his heart and more. That was why it mattered that he had sacrificed her, to prove to the gods his willingness to their cause, that he was worth their attention and was willing to pay to follow their cause. To be worthy of the power they could, had, did offer him.

But the thing is... they weren't necessarily clever. Not in the ways that mattered.

"John, was it?" he drawls, and it's a warning, a glint in the dark. "Your brother's name." He gives a small gasp, and the mocking derision he breathes into it does not reach past the wall. "You don't happen to be referring to the same John that Arthur was just crying about?" His voice slows, dangerous like the shadow beneath a boat. The rustle of bushes before the wolf leaps from behind them. "Because I seem to recall him saying John was back."

Oh. Oh no. Edwin says nothing to that, withdraws as much as he can into the already-limited space he's been given to occupy. He can't let Larson hurt John, he won't, and until he can figure out how to navigate that iron wall maybe the best way to protect John and Arthur is silence.

"Oh, Edwin," he drawls, and his tone is aching (from how hard he's trying not to sound utterly delighted). "Your majesty, I must apologise most profusely. You saw how Arthur was insulting me in my own house, he was disrespecting the life I worked so hard for, he was threatening me with violence I knew he would follow through on, until my legacy was nothing more than blood under his fingernails. If I had known he had somehow come into possession of your other half..."

He lets out a long, tremulous sigh, because he is fucking exhausted and this migraine is still pounding like his brain is going to melt out his ears even with all his defenses.

"I'm afraid we may have seen the last of him."

[No.]

The word bursts out, sudden and absolute. A mix of defiance and certainty.

[He'll protect Arthur, he can...]

John can heal him. Even without a body of his own, even if he can't use everything he has access to.

Everything he has access to.

Access. Access Edwin now has, too.

He can feel it like an echo, the pain in Larson's head. Tentatively, very very carefully, he tries to ease it away.

The sudden outburst makes him flinch as his head throbs, making him grunt quietly with the displeasure of it.

He was rapidly starting to wonder how much pathetic drivel he would have to spout to get this thing to play along.

Larson takes a breath, to try and calm himself down - and notices immediately when his headache vanishes.

Well.

"Your highness, did you just... heal me?"

Very warily: [Yes.]

The elation that lights through him is entirely genuine, even if it's tinted with a more lurid pleasure. Thank the gods-- no, no. Thank the King in Yellow for blessing him with this sliver of power, that he can certainly turn around to doing his bidding sooner or later.

"Iä, iä, H'aaztre," he all but groans, the worship too real to keep wholly behind the curtain. "The Unspeakable One, the Feaster from Afar, Great Prince of the Old Ones. I am your humble servant."

All at once he misses Hunter so intensely he would cry if he had any ability to do it.

There's an ache, a helplessness, a hopeless fatigue, the sense of being unheard and unheeded in a way he hasn't felt since he first had a conscious thought outside of the Dark World.

[That's not who I am. That's not me.]

Larson knows so much, though. He knows so much. He can't let the man near John or Arthur, but maybe, maybe he can use Larson's knowledge to help himself.

"Perhaps not yet, your highness. You are, after all, by your own admission, only half of the god you used to be."

He pushes himself to his feet again, and a sudden wave of exhaustion hits him so hard that his head spins, and for a moment his hands grip the desk white-knuckled until it passes.

Migraine free he might be, but the King's presence in his body was still a... difficult thing to adjust to. Frankly it was a miracle he'd survived for so long in his mere presence; perhaps there was some truth to its admission.

"But for now, my liege - while I cannot speak to the depths of pleasure that is being chosen by you as your personal vessel in this mortal realm... even your most loyal servants do require rest. Perhaps in the morning we can reconvene, and begin to... to organise the best way in which to reunite you with your... better. Half."

His better half. That's right. The Arthur who knows him, who loves him, is not the one that's here. The Arthur that's here is the one who made and hates him, even if he doesn't know that. There's no one here who cares, no one here who's even aware of his existence.

In this world, in this place, he's not the King. He's not Edwin. He's just... Yellow.

[You're weaker than Arthur.] It's quiet, vicious, tired. [Rest if you need to rest.]

Larson is silent for a few moments.

"A word of advice, your majesty," he says, and this, this is cold.

But again, different: Arthur's is a knife slipped between two ribs, sharp and immediately clear. Larson's is the click of a hammer, of the gun pressed to the back of the head.

"For all you may know about humanity and madness - you are in my world now. So I would suggest that if you want your other half back as badly as you seem to... you will respect me. Or I will see fit to show you what humanity is capable of doing to gods that don't fulfil their part of a bargain."

[What bargain?]

It's the tone of a cornered cat, the hiss of an animal willing to do whatever damage it has to, either to itself or its enemy if it means coming out alive.

[I don't want him back. I never said I did. His name is John, he's his own person, he's not part of the King in Yellow any more.]

SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

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