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The soft, familiar smell of a fresh rainfall was a kind shadow as Arthur picked his way down what could generously be called a path. The ground was still wet with the remnants of the previous night’s storm, but the morning had brought respite from the rain. Arthur had managed a few hours sleep in the windmill, despite the threat of the slowly flooding basement. As per John’s description, the sun had even come out in flashes throughout the day—all in all, it could have passed for a lovely English afternoon under different circumstances.
The map they had found in the windmill’s attic was sparsely detailed, but provided at least a tentative path forward to the castle John had seen in the Glass. Their only real fucking lead, just an image of a place that could be anywhere, hold any number of possibilities—or nothing at all. A lead nevertheless, and Arthur couldn’t focus on the myriad of ways it could go sour. Not now, not with the axe hanging over their heads, not with the lingering tension between them that neither seemed keen to reignite today.
John broke the silence, “Arthur, someone’s ahead of us. They’re heading towards us, down the path. It looks like a woman. I didn’t see her before, she came from the side. Another path, maybe. She’s seen us, but she doesn’t look hostile. Just act normal.”
It wasn’t helpful advice anyways, but Arthur hadn’t the faintest clue what passed for normal in the 13th century. Presumably, muttering to himself wasn’t on the list, so he only hummed in response.
“She’s coming closer. She’s looking you up and down, probably noticing our odd clothing and appearance. Her clothes are reminiscent of a religious habit, like a nun or a priest, but I can’t quite tell. She looks older, serenely walking through the wooded path like she’s not far from home. Perhaps she’s just out on an afternoon walk.”
It had been on his mind to find more appropriate clothing so as to not immediately stand out. They already had plenty of targets on their back, best not to exacerbate the issue. Hopefully this woman simply thought they had an odd sense of fashion.
“Greetings, traveler,” a woman’s voice spoke. It was placid, distant, but not altogether unpleasant. He inclined his head, unsure of how to respond.
“She’s focused on us, Arthur. She’s not trying to hide her curiosity. I suppose it was foolish to hope we wouldn’t stand out. She’s paused her stride, as if to engage us in conversation. Slow down.”
He cleared his throat as lightly as possible, trying to convey to John that he didn’t want to stay and talk. “Uh, yes. Greetings,” he spoke, pulling up a light smile, and hoping that was enough to pass.
“You look as though you’ve had a long journey, traveler. May I ask your name? I am Selda from the Trinity Chapel.”
He tried not to sigh audibly. With the most distant yet polite tone he could muster, he replied “Arthur Lester. I’m just passing through the area.” It would be easier to remember his own name, and previous pseudonyms hadn’t gotten him far anyways.
“She’s part of an organization, Arthur. She may have some information about the area. We should talk with her, ask her about–about any castles nearby, or even the soldiers!” John spoke, as Selda let out a curious hum.
“Are you passing anywhere in particular? We may be able to help, if necessary. Travelers are always welcome,” she said, providing an easy start to a conversation. John was right, which gave him a prickle of frustration.
“I… Well, I’m looking for something. Picking up a trail, you might say.” He paused, unsure of how much to share. “I’m following in the footsteps of three soldiers that were searching for–a stone. Something of great value, though not in the traditional sense. If you happen to know anything, or even have heard of them, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“She’s mulling it over. I can’t tell if she found it familiar, but something’s definitely sparked a reaction from her.” John said. Arthur felt an unsettled roiling in the pit of his stomach. There were too many abnormalities about them, ones that medieval religion would find blasphemous at best. Demonic at worst. He swallowed down the feeling—they just had to be careful. The possibility of a helpful lead was too important to ignore, and if she had no clues, at least they could move on.
“I’m not sure if that sounds familiar, but perhaps I could ask some of the others, if you’re willing to follow me back. It’s not far at all, only through the trees there. Many people come to us, seeking assistance from us or the guiding hand of the Lord, and it’s very possible someone may have more information.”
“Arthur, the three soldiers could have been here! Or someone who’s seen them. If not, we can just leave, right?”
He resisted the urge to sigh again, already exhausted by the prospect of making polite conversation with a religious sect. “That would be much appreciated, Selda.”
He was cut off as his balance shifted slightly, as if John had shifted his arm abruptly. He instinctually jolted a step away as John spoke. “She grabbed our left forearm. Gently, as if to lead you, I suppose. I pulled back, but she was already dropping it as well. As if in surprise. She’s just staring at you now, lingering on our left arm. Perhaps she noticed our finger, the wooden one.”
At the same time, Selda said, “My apologies. It seemed almost as though you were blind, and I meant to lead you.” She still sounded taken aback.
“No, I’m not blind,” he replied, a shade harsher than he intended. It was frustrating, the thought that she had noticed his odd eyesight so quickly, that she had thought him so dependent as to need a stranger’s guidance. As if she hadn’t just seen him walking perfectly normally.
“My mistake. I only noticed your eyes…” she trailed off. “Pardon my rudeness, but… your finger is rather unusual, is it not?”
Damn. It had slipped his mind, the gloves they had bought in Albany long gone. Thrown by the question, he stammered, “Yes, I… there was an accident. A fire. The hand’s never been the same since.”
“She seems to accept that answer,” John said. “She’s still looking at us, though I can’t tell exactly what she’s thinking. Thoughtful, perhaps… as if she’s making up her mind about something. A fire, Arthur? Really?”
“I apologize, again,” Selda spoke, voice smooth once again. “It is this way, and as I said, not far.”
—-
The walk was short, with little further conversation. Arthur still felt the prickle of aggravation, and Selda seemed content to walk in silence. It didn’t stop her from setting a fast pace, allowing very little time to take in the changing scenery. It seemed they had been only minutes away from a small settlement, the grass under Arthur’s feet shifting to rough dirt.
John kept up the usual commentary, colored with a tinge of bewilderment at the small, medieval town. It sounded to be a collection of a dozen or so wooden houses, surrounded by farmland. A far cry from New York City. Still, however unfamiliar, it was nice to be among people again, hearing the bustle of civilization. Normal people, leading an ordinary life.
“We’re approaching a much larger building. At the edge of the town, but not as if on the outskirts. More like… the homes are all leading up to it. It’s still roughly built, but made of stone with an angled roof, like a church. It definitely seems like the center of this community, making it likely that anyone who passed through this town would have stayed here.”
As they entered the church, Selda spoke again. “I hope you won’t mind waiting for a moment. I’ll lead you to a room where you can sit, and then I’ll speak with the others. With any luck, someone will have the knowledge you seek.”
“That would be appreciated, Selda. Thank you,” Arthur said, as she led them to a side room.
“The room is small, with a table and two benches in the center,” John described as they sat down. “There’s not much else in here, but the room is clean. There’s a metal cross hanging above the door. Perhaps a room for private discussions. Do you think we should look around anywhere else in the building?”
“It’s tempting, but… I don’t think we should risk it right now. If we run into trouble, or she returns while we’re gone, I don’t want to risk losing out on anything they might know because we got impatient.”
“Fair enough. Who knows, this might lead us straight to the blackstone, and out of this mess.” John sounded far more hopeful then Arthur felt. Still, there was no harm in a positive attitude, at least until the next devastating coin dropped.
It was much sooner than he expected when he heard the door rasp open.
“It’s Selda. She’s smiling, Arthur,” John said. “She looks… satisfied. Perhaps she found something that could help!” Arthur certainly hoped so. For once in all this mess, he would love to have one straightforward goddamn answer. “She’s also carrying two small glasses, filled with an amber liquid. I can’t tell what’s in them… maybe tea, or alcohol. They appear to be identical.”
“I hope you’ll share a traditional drink with me, Arthur, to begin our acquaintance,” Selda said, accompanied by the sounds of her taking a seat across from them at the table. Her voice was smooth, calm, but Arthur still paused. The anxious twisting in his stomach had returned.
“She’s noticed you hesitating. We should try not to offend her if we want her to help us, Arthur.” John’s voice was approaching reproachful, which was fucking rich. He wasn’t the one who had to smile and act pleasant.
“I, uh, would be honored to,” he got out, and reached for the place he had heard the glass set. Lifting it, he could make out a faint, sharp tang of liquor. Great. Mystery alcohol from the Middle Ages.
“It is easiest if you take it down in one swallow,” said Selda.
Fuck it. He threw the shot back in one swift gulp. Promptly, he sputtered out a few short coughs. He’d had worse, surely. He’d spent years poured over a barstool. He couldn’t quite remember, not with the awful sharp, yet sickly sweet taste lingering in his mouth, burning in his throat and causing even his teeth a slight dull ache.
“She looks amused, now. Can you try not coughing her traditional drink over the table, Arthur?” John said, which really was splendidly helpful. He managed to choke back the coughs, but the ache in his teeth wasn’t fading.
“My apologies. It is very strong to those not accustomed to the taste,” Selda remarked. The note of satisfaction hadn’t faded from her voice. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words made it out. The ache had spread to his lips, a numbing sensation, and his mouth didn’t seem to be opening. He attempted to reach his hand up, but there seemed to be a weight settled into his muscles. His arm wouldn’t move, fighting a river current with all his might only to remain in one spot.
“Arthur, are you going to respond anytime soon, or are you just going to sit there?” John said. The words sounded far away, reaching him through a solid wall. He should be able to hear John better than that, right? Wasn’t it usually easier to hear him? It wasn’t important right now. What was important was—was… what were they doing?
The room was drowned out by crashing waves, echoing in his head, throbbing down to his bones. His heartbeat, maybe? Did it usually do that?
That wasn’t important, either. He was so tired. Surely it could wait?
Silently, the water swept him under.
—
“ARTHUR!”
Slowly, Arthur began to come back to awareness, reaching the surface in weak bursts. Where— what—the scattered pieces of his consciousness slipped between his fingers. Had he been asleep?
“Arthur, fucking—just wake up! Come on, come on…”
The voice was familiar, deeply so. John’s voice. He latched onto it, his mind useless, waterlogged and heavy.
“Please, Arthur, fucking wake up!” His voice… it was—panicked. John was close to panicking. He had to—he latched onto that voice and hauled himself over the edge into awareness. Something was wrong, John was scared, Arthur couldn’t remember where they were or even lift his arm—it was important.
“John?” he tried to say, but it came out muffled. Could he not even speak? He tried again. No, there was something there, preventing him from forming a full word. It was enough for John to hear, though.
”Fuck, Arthur, you’re awake! I don’t—I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t fucking see anything, Arthur. I don’t know—say something, Arthur!”
He made another muffled noise, louder this time, trying to convey the gag. It was fabric, maybe. Tied around the back of his head.
“You… Did they gag you? Jesus fucking Christ. They must have blindfolded us, as well. I thought… I don’t remember what happened, Arthur. I only came to consciousness a moment before you did.”
Did he really not remember? Was he—no, he heard a confused, almost groggy tone to John’s voice that he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before. Right now he had to take his words at face value. Whatever was going on, they needed to work together, which meant Arthur couldn’t second-guess every other sentence. Besides, though it had tipped over into anger now, he still heard the note of pure panic in John’s voice. He weakly tried to move his arm, then any limb at all, but met resistance. Restraints.
“The drink, Arthur. Fuck. I think they fucking drugged us—“
John cut himself off abruptly at the sound of voices from somewhere near Arthur’s feet.
“He’s awake—what?—he’s not supposed to be—not for hours—” The voices cut off, before someone spoke close to Arthur’s head.
“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to wake… but it’s too late now. Don’t worry. I sensed the stain of evil inhabiting you, but we can save you. It’ll be over soon, and you can be free. We’re going to free you, Arthur Lester.” The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite grasp the memory. It was kind with a steel backbone of determination, sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine.
”What the fuck do they mean, free you?” John growled. “They fucking drug us, restrain us, and call it freeing you?”
Whatever it was, Arthur didn’t want to stick around to find out. He tested the restraint at his arm again. Rope, it felt like. A little bit of give, but not enough to slip free. A strong knot, thick rope. Fuck. Too strong to break, too well tied to slip out from. Instead, he focused on the gag, digging his teeth into the fabric.
“What? They’re doing something, Arthur. They’re… tying something, maybe. Around your arm, just above the elbow—shit. It’s tight. It feels like it’s cutting off circulation. What the fuck is going on?”
A deep, tense chill struck him, a sharp wave of fear. That sounded like a tourniquet being tied around John’s arm, and whatever that meant, it was very distinctly bad. The last time a tourniquet had been used was… at the farmhouse, with Oscar, and… He pulled at his bound wrist again, gathering whatever strength he could pull from the lingering haze, and tried to raise his body up from the table. His torso was tied down, as well as his legs, but why? What were they planning that he needed to be this restrained? He tried to speak again, fighting the gag.
Next to his ear, again, came the soft voice. This time, he was able to grasp the memory—it was Selda. “Don’t struggle. We’re going to help you. Save you from the demon inhabiting you. We’ll remove it for you, just relax.”
”What the fuck. What the fuck do they mean, remove it?” John spat. The anger of a terrified, cornered animal.
Arthur focused his efforts on breaking the gag. If he could at least speak to them, maybe he could stop them. If he could speak to John, maybe they could make a plan. If he could even just scream aloud, the way even a cow led to the slaughter could cry out…
“They–there’s something on my arm—No! Fuck, fucking get back, don’t you fucking dare–” John’s words were cut off by a pained growl, quickly devolving into a scream of agony.
Fuck. Were they–were they cutting off John’s fucking arm?!
He began to thrash desperately against the restraints, yelling incoherently into the gag. How fucking dare they cut off John’s arm, how fucking dare they tie him down and act like it was some merciful act, some kind service? He felt his wrist begin to draw blood and pulled harder, frantically trying to free his hand.
John was still screaming, a tormented sound that filled Arthur’s consciousness, drowning out any other senses. He pulled harder, but the rope wouldn’t fucking budge. He had to do something, he couldn’t just lie here, he had to get them out—
His body weakened in one swift crash, chilled and empty, the pressure of an all-encompassing void he had felt once before. The power of a god, willing himself into form, into power–the power of the King in Yellow.
Good. John was manifesting, he thought blearily. He could drive them back, free them.
In the same breath, the pressure faded, John settled back into his head, both of them breathing hard with exertion and panic.
“I can’t…I think it’s the drugs, Arthur, fuck. Fuck. They’ve paused, but I don’t think they’re stopping. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do, they’re fucking cutting off our arm, Arthur, I don’t know how to stop them. I’m sorry.” John’s voice was frantic and painfully, painfully weak. Arthur choked on a sudden sob. There was nothing he could fucking do, not even a comforting word he could speak through the fucking gag. Just a silent, helpless witness.
Was this—was this how John felt? Trapped and powerless, unable to even speak with the outside world?
His wrist was raw, the rope digging into an open, bloody wound, but he tugged still. It was the only thing he could do. He refused to believe it was futile. There was always a way. There had to be a way.
“They’re coming back, they’re—Get the fuck away!" Arthur again felt that wave of power, a crushing weight and a limitless void at once, but it dissipated quicker than before. He thrashed in response—surely he could—he could—
“Be not afraid. We’re almost done, you can be whole once again in the face of the Lord.” That kind, placid voice made bile rise in Arthur’s throat. He imagined breaking free, tearing into the woman’s throat, causing her pain ten times worse than the one that resonated in Arthur’s being. That John was feeling as they sawed through his arm, his sparse connection with the outside world. His only power to act, to touch, to make a physical impression on his surroundings.
John began to scream again, ragged and broken. He didn’t have a throat, and yet his voice sounded torn from raw, bloody, tortured vocal cords. The sound cut Arthur to the bone, echoed in his ears, drove sobs from his own throat. Tears were streaming from his eyes—his or John’s, he wasn’t sure. He would do anything to stop that pain, if only he could do something. Anything. As always, useless to help when it really mattered.
He began to feel a steady beat in his left shoulder. Not pain, but a rhythmic pulse. It was—oh god… it was the distant sensation of bone, slowly and methodically sawn apart. John’s arm, the bone meticulously severed, torturously slow. He fought down the urge to vomit.
He heard a horrible, sickening snap, the resulting force snapping through his whole body, accompanied by the worst scream he’d heard yet. The worst sound he’d heard in his entire life, he thought. He screamed in response—or maybe he’d been screaming the entire time, stifled by the gag. His throat did feel scraped dry, as if hours had passed. Maybe they had.
He thought John’s voice faded, quieting down to only soft, agonized breathing. It was hard to tell when it still rang in his ears. Maybe it would never be gone.
His heartbeat throbbed behind his eyes, pulsing in his left shoulder, accompanied by the too-familiar weakness of blood loss. He knew the same heartbeat was mirrored in what remained of John’s arm.
They laid on the table for some minutes more, Arthur straining to hear what was happening. Over the pounding waves of blood rushing through his head and John’s pained breathing, he thought he heard the rustling of rough fabric. Perhaps they were wrapping the wound. It was obvious that they had lost a lot of blood, but it seemed that the tourniquet had prevented their life from bleeding out.
“It is finished. We have rid your body of the demon, and now you may be free. I am sorry for the pain, but you will be your own once again.”
The ropes around his body were cut, one by one. Arthur tensed, wanting to lash out, to fight, his whole body trembling with the force of his rage. But something gave him pause. Just a flash amidst the blinding anger, but he knew he couldn’t ignore it. Just the words, ‘now you may go free’. They were going to let them go, now that they had—now that they were content. His blood boiled to let them think they had won, to go quietly, but… this was not a fight he could win, was it? There were multiple people in the room. Arthur himself was still weakened by whatever they had drugged him with, as well as the blood loss. Without the inhuman force of his rage, he was barely sure he could stand. And John, John was still silent, the only sign of his presence short, ragged breaths.
His wrist was released, sending a jolt of pain up his right arm. The wound he had opened in desperation gave him the focus he needed to take a breath. He had to be smart. If he could do nothing else, he could at least get them to safety. It was the only thing he had to offer at the moment.
The gag was released, the last restraint. He sat up slowly, breathing through the sensation of falling, the urge to slip back into unconsciousness. Pushing down the thrum of retaliation, waiting a breath below the surface. He reached over to his left arm—John’s arm—or what was left, and gently ran his fingers down from the shoulder, attempting to gauge the damage. There. The wound had been wrapped in linen, with nothing below it, a ghost of a limb that they had severed, mangled—
He leaned to the side and vomited.
“We understand it may be a change, but you’ll come to see that we’ve done you a merciful act, Arthur Lester. Those who fall may always be redeemed. We’ve only given you the push you need. In time, you will come to thank us.” Selda spoke in front of him, the same self-satisfied voice that had been with them throughout. Arthur clenched his fist hard into his trouser leg, instead of wrapping it around her neck and squeezing, tight and merciless.
Fortunately, they didn’t seem to need him to respond. The thought of thanking them sent another surge of bile up his throat. If he couldn’t fight, he had to be out of this place and the pervasive smell of blood staining the air. His foot brushed against a familiar weight, their bag, which he grabbed. As he lifted his head, his senses spun under a fresh surge of lightheadedness, nearly drowning out the room.
“We can lead you to a room where you can rest,” said a new voice. Younger perhaps. He didn’t particularly care. “The door is straight ahead, this way.” A hand grazed his right forearm— presumably to help him up, but he recoiled sharply. The hand pulled away, but his arm still prickled, as if tainted. He drew another deep breath.
“I can find my own way to the exit.” He tried to keep his emotion out of his voice, landing somewhere flat and distant. He forced himself to his feet, standing steady only with sheer force of will.
“Are you certain? Do you not wish to wait and regain your strength before leaving?” Another hand grazed his arm, which he threw off with all the force he could spare.
“Don’t touch me,” he forced out. “I’m leaving.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved. He heard the people part for them, which was just as well. He didn’t think he could restrain himself again, and he needed every ounce of strength to get them to safety. As he cleared the door, John spoke up weakly.
“Left. There’s an open door leading outside.”
He turned left silently. They couldn’t risk being heard speaking, letting them realize that John hadn’t been…removed. Only tortured. The fingernails of his right hand dug into his palm. His whole body was shaking, he realized. He focused his energy into taking one firm step after another.
Outside, a light breeze blew, clearing the lingering smell of blood from Arthur’s senses. As discreetly as he could, he whispered, “Is there anyone nearby?”
“No. Straight ahead, there’s a path leading out of the town,” John said, his voice still torn and soft. Arthur reached over to their left shoulder, gently setting his hand well above the wrapped wound. He didn’t know if John could even feel it, if there was any part left of the arm that he controlled. He didn’t know what else to do.
The loss of what was technically his arm should have been overwhelming, but he found it barely a twinge at present. His left arm hadn’t truly felt like his in a long while, anyways. Not since Yellow, when he did regain control, and it had only reinforced the loss of his friend. It was John’s arm, and would be until they could separate. Would have been. Wasn’t, anymore.
No, what he felt keenly was the pain of watching a loved one suffer. Not knowing how to help, which pieces could be put back together and which would shatter on contact.
Before he could put together a sentence, John spoke. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”
What the fuck was he apologizing for?
Baffled, Arthur stammered, “What—why are you apologizing? I’m not the one who had to endure that, why…?”
“Your fucking arm got cut off, Arthur, or did you miss that part?” John spat, lashing out, but the effect was thoroughly ruined by the crack in his voice.
“Your arm, John. I wasn’t the one who—“
Arthur’s words were barreled over, without even seemingly being heard. “You lost your fucking arm, Arthur. Permanently! For no reason except that I controlled it. I couldn’t—I couldn’t—I’m sorry, Arthur.”
A painful chasm opened in his stomach, aching stronger than a kick to the ribs. A breath caught deep in his throat.
“Don’t apologize to me, John. Jesus Christ. You think… you think I blame you for this?” He tried to keep his voice calm, hold back the scream, or the sob, he wasn’t sure which. John stayed silent, which was enough of an answer.
He inhaled deeply, shaking on the way out. “How could I? John, you tell me—what could you have done? What could either of us have done? This wasn’t your fault.”
How strange it was, to be arguing this point. He was certain he knew the crushing guilt he heard in John’s voice far too well. But as intimately as he remembered the choking, consuming feeling, he had no idea how to ease it, how to convince John that there was nothing he could have done.
Maybe he couldn’t. Not right now at least, the wound still fresh.
“I know you probably can’t believe me right now, John. But I don’t blame you. You weren’t at fault. If anyone, I was the one who accepted a drink from them. There was nothing we could have done, and… and there’s no point in arguing it. It’s over now.”
He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. John still didn’t respond, remaining uncharacteristically quiet. It unsettled him more than he cared to think about. John was rarely silent, his voice a constant backdrop as they moved through the world.
He decided to switch tactics. It didn’t seem like John wanted to argue this point at the moment, and Arthur needed to hear his voice right now. Talking to him, not the residual shadow of his screams.
”How badly does it hurt? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Another pause. “Bad. I don’t think there’s anything to be done. At the end, I think they were closing the wound before they wrapped it. They didn’t want you dead, only… freed.” There was a bitter emphasis on the last word, prickling at Arthur’s senses.
“Not freed, John. Their religious bullshit was just that. Bullshit.”
“Was it?” John replied, softly.
“Of course it was. They don’t know the first thing about us, John. I never, never would have asked for this. You know that, right?” After everything, he had to know, right? Even as hurt, as betrayed as he had been, they were supposed to find a path through it together.
“I… I know, Arthur. I’m just… I just need to process. I don’t know what we’re going to do now, with Kayne, with any path forward. It’s too much, I just need…” John trailed off.
“It’s alright. I understand, and we’ll find a way through this. Together. I promise.”
Truthfully, he was trying not to let his own panic seep into his voice. Their mission had already seemed insurmountable. Now, burdened with a new severe injury, no new information, and a freshly devastating blow to John’s autonomy, the only thing stopping him from curling in a ball and screaming was the visceral need to push through for John’s sake. He hadn’t been the one to feel what must have been excruciating torment, with John unable to even pass out to ease the pain. He had to be the strong one, here.
There had to be a way through. He was going to claw his way through this new mess, no matter what. One foot after the other. And maybe, someday, they could finally rest.