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Oscar has always dreamed.
Often those dreams would be full of Alexander.
On a good day he might hear a tap on the window, just next to his cheap cot. He might have to shift quietly and slip a thin cardigan over his pyjamas to avoid the chill, making sure the other boys not Amy of the Fathers hear him. He’d creep to the window, feet numb against the cold stone floor, and peer outside.
The small face of Alexander would peer up at him, nose bright red from the cold, curls catching snowflakes; but with more flesh on his bones, fat on his face that made his pink cheeks chubby, he looked alive.
“Let me in, Oscar!” He’d plead from the other side of the frozen glass, and of course Oscar would rush to do so, to bring him in from the cold, to warm him under blankets and smother him with hugs.
Their bare feet would patter against the floor as they scurry back into bed, and his small yet no longer skinny form would curl into Oscar’s stomach and sob quivering prayers, not to God, but to his companion. His brother. He would pray for love.
Oscar would pray too. Though that was nothing new – the prayers for Alexander fell as easily from his sleeping tongue than his waking one. As he grew the other boys would comment on it, fathers would praise him for being so devoted in his faith to worship in his slumber.
On a bad day, he dreams of McKenna.
Of the sneer on his lip, the gleam in his eye, the way his fingers would twitch for the stick when someone just out of Oscar’s sight stumbled over their words in prayer.
Of the gentle drip, drip, drip of vermillion on the hammer.
Of the way his bones cracked as harshly as the horsewhips he’d wanted to import. The way his eye oozed, spurted thick mucus as the capillaries burst when Oscar dragged the sharp edge through the eye socket. The way his ghastly teeth, gnarled yellow things that he inherited from the tender kiss of tobacco, shattered under the blunt side of the hammer, gums left raw and bleeding, left to choke on the shards of his own incisors.
A gruesome scene, of course, one that leaves Oscar gagging some mornings. McKenna’s face only seems to get more warped each time he dreamt it. Never one he’ll regret, however.
Now, on worse days, he dreams of Arthur. Arthur, that day they met, cold and calculating and oh so intimidating, standing square shouldered in front of Oscar as he caught every lie Oscar had uttered. “Father” Arthur would call him, laced with venom and spat like the word was dirty in his mouth., and push him back into the quaint desk, where bible verses on little cards would scatter around them, and ink would spill and blot out the sermons written on them. Arthur would push him back regardless of that, as though he couldn’t even see the carnage, and lean in close and-
Arthur mounted upon the crucifix. Oscar stares as blood-soaked hammers pound nails into Arthur’s left hand. It squirms, along with his foot, where the rest of his body grows limp. His eyes are closed; tears collect in his soft eyelashes. They dazzle a shimmering gold in the light streaming in through the stained glass and carve rivulets down his face.
His purpose is positively picturesque. Sculpted with more love than the finest Michelangelo, each scar painted delicately with a fine brush, mapped like a treasure hunt on his body. He could count the moles on his thighs like stars, holy giants of gas and light, celestial bodies bigger than Oscar could ever consider.
Crowned with earthy, oaken leaves, red fruits blossoming from the stems. They look juicy and ripe, so incredibly tempting – with how hungry Oscar feels, and just how ravishing this meal looks…how could he refuse?
Most of the time he wakes up before his teeth pierce the apple’s flesh, his own subconscious a barrier to his will. But today, oh today Oscar sinks his canines into its skin, feels the sweet juices dribble down his chin, collect on his tongue, nectar pooling in his gut. It’s sweeter than any alcohol, sharper, more intoxicating. Oh Lord, let this continue filling him forever...
Oscar can still remember the syrupy taste by the time he wakes up.
Marie insisted he stay with her after he lost his arm. She was quite firm, and whilst Oscar would like to think himself a stronger man, he never could say no to her. It's been... well, domestic. Marie is more than a matriarch, but motherly. She doesn’t even ask for rent, only that he puts his money towards groceries, bills and such – it's a quaint life that Oscar’s happy to lead, especially in her and Hattie’s company.
She speaks of Arthur often, tells he and Hattie of Arthur’s promise to come back and spend dinner with them someday. Oscar himself was quick to introduce them both to Daniel, he and Marie were at once connected. It was impossible to conceal Arthur’s name from Marie forever; he couldn’t ask Daniel to lie about his own son-in-law’s name, and Oscar slipped up only a week into the arrangement either way. Together they all make their way to church on Saturdays and Sundays to join Oscar in his sermons. To see them all together during mass, laughing and praying together in ways that Oscar had never seen from them, it’s a reminder of why he does this.
Today, however, is a Tuesday, and Oscar makes his way to church alone. Marie’s presence has been exceptionally effective at keeping him out of the bar. No bottles have made their way up to the attic where he sleeps; those that had in the first week of staying there mysteriously disappeared, and whenever he returned downstairs, he’d be fixed with a stern glare from his landlady. He allows himself a trip to The Tin God occasionally, just to write and sip slowly on a blood and sand. Arthur had been so incredibly right – they are wonderful. He's been practicing writing with his right hand – he never thought he’d have to do this again, since he became old enough to become a Father he’d relished in being allowed to write naturally with his left hand. Now gone, he must make do with his right, shaky letters filling pages upon pages. At first, he wrote psalms, verses, prayers. The curves were familiar to his fingers; all exercises his mentors had him do when forcing him to learn. Then the letters came, flowed from his pen like the first he wrote, countless drafts with no address, no destination, all written to the same person.
Church is quiet as it always is on a weekday, the occasional confession, a couple of stragglers here and there to pray, or visit a loved one’s grave in the cemetery. Lunch came and went with the soup kitchen, and quiet set in once more.
The sun is setting already, dazzling oranges, pinks and purples – amber, rose, violet, deep deep mauve – they warp into each other through the window, shine through the clouds, the glass causing the colours to spiral into one another.
Oscar hums to himself as he lights the candles in the chapel, humming a gentle tune he heard once on the radio, though was difficult to remember. The cross hangs above him, daunting almost, God forgive him for thinking it.
Sometimes it astonishes him just how much Arthur has seeped into his life, even after he left. His friends, his home, his hobbies. Every night, in the same bed as he, resting where his head had been. It almost hurts.
How many times has he wished to lie next to him?
Feel Arthur’s body brush against his,
Caress those scars, he undoubtedly has more hidden away,
In that gentle voice of his, perhaps he’d tell Oscar how he got them,
What a dream that would be...
.
.
.
“Oscar.”
What a dream, huh?
“O-Oscar can you hear me?”
“...”
“I know I left you. I'm sorry- look, Oscar please just look at me. You know who I am.”
His hands are so gentle on Oscar’s hips. Delicate, almost tentative. They circle the bone in soft, repetitive patterns, they make his head spin and his muscles go lax. Arthur's chest is broader than his remembers, leaning back into him is like falling into a bed of feathers.
“Arthur...?” he whispers, slightly dazed. He tilts his head back to look at his face – he looks no different to the day they met, clean shaven, blonde curls recently trimmed, though flying all over the place from their part. His eyes are gentle, and fixed right on his, a soft smile on his lips.
“Oscar...”
“I didn’t think you’d come back for me...”
Oscar's voice wavers as he presses his face into Arthur’s neck, breathes in his familiar musk... those there’s something more now, of a richer quality. Myrrh, maybe, and something earthy – like pine.
“Of course, I did. I missed you Oscar, so much. There's nothing stopping me from being here now. With you.”
His rouge lips press soft kisses to Oscar’s bared neck, a lamb pressing itself into the eager maw of a wolf, salivating at the thought of rows upon rows of ritual knives in its jaws tearing at his arteries.
“Arthur…”
“Yes Oscar?”
Arthur’s eyes peer at him with the gentle curiosity, fixed unwaveringly on Oscar’s face.
“…are you real?”
“Don’t I feel it? Oscar…. oh, Oscar I’m sorry I made you doubt me.”
Arthur looks right at him.
A gulp slicks its way down Oscar’s throat. Arthur’s face is just next to his now, the tip of his nose tickling Oscar’s, breath warm and sweet on Oscar’s face. Lips slightly parted.
Silver eyes fluttering closed.
His face draws nearer still, both men’s breaths hitch.
Arthur looked right at him.
‘Arthur’ lets out a muffled yelp of confusion as his lips pucker against the palm of Oscar’s hand, a grim look on the priest’s face. What a dream this would be indeed.
“His eyes don’t look like that.”
“…hm?”
“Silver eyes. And even if you had accounted for that, Arthur doesn’t look at things the way you do. His eyes were always flitting about – I don’t think I’ve ever seen them focus on one thing, let alone myself. Oh, and the glass is warped, by the way.”
“Clever boy. You’re being very calm about my presence.”
“You don’t have to use his voice, Scratch.”
“…I’m surprised you remember me.”
Oscar snorts, “Aye, you’re difficult to forget.”
The tips of Arthur’s hair have started to curl, like snakes shifting around in the air of their own accord, a violet hue spreading from the tips of his fingers.
“You flatter me.”
“Get off.”
In a blink, the church has faded away, and they’re sat back inside his bedroom. Or at least, Oscar is, Arthur is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a nude woman, sprawled comfortably out on his bed, long hair curling all the way onto the floor, moving idly like mist, shifting hues from black to blue and back again in a way the makes his head dizzy.
She feathers sprout all over her, from the tips of her ears, the sides of her face, dotted along her tanned skin. A familiar violent hue crawls up her calves and forearms, and her lips are tinted a similar rouge Scratch gave Arthur.
“This old house again...”
Oscar’s brow furrows in confusion.
“Who’s this? I’ve never met her.”
“Hmmmm? Oh right. This is me.”
“…No, she’s not? Last I checked you were a monster, Scratch. Whose face have you stolen now?”
He’s already got the broom he keeps in the corner in hand, wielded like a spear towards Scratch. The woman takes in the sight and laughs, a wretched, impish squeal of a laugh. He swears he sees tears in her eyes.
“Oh- oh! Haaah…You are funny. Does this suit you better?”
The crawling shadow of her hair envelops her, and the twisted face of Scratch peers out. It’s the first time Oscar got a good look at him – a chimera-like form, a feline adjacent body, towering metres above Oscar, a long mane that behaves much like the woman’s hair, and large, folded violent wings.
It slinks towards Oscar, a low purr in its throat, flirting it’s long tail under his chin.
“…were you always a cat?”
“I was quite the convincing humanoid hm?” The familiar nails-on-a-chalkboard voice of Scratch scrapes out of its throat.
It nuzzles his side, pleased as punch at the way Oscar runs his finger through its mane.
“…hm. What are you trying to get from this?”
“Conversation, I suppose. I’ve no need for schemes or plans now, it’d be nice to just…take comfort in some domesticity.”
“You call this domestic?”
It just trills in response, and hops back onto the bed, the form of the woman returning, legs crossed politely, a smile on her lips.
“So, this is...you?”
“As myself as a shapeshifter can be.”
“...Understandable.”
“There’s little at stake now, Oscar. And there’s lots of information that you previously couldn’t be privy to – for your own good. But now, I think it’s time we talked.”
She pats the space on the bed next to her, demeanour playful and yet there’s earnest quality to her actions, a softness in her posture that he’s almost convinced is a ploy. So, Oscar sits, slightly rigid, ands folded nervously in his lap, as though in prayer.
“My name is Lillith. You were incredibly clever in pinning Scratch as a forgotten one, a fragment of myself. In Arthur’s desperation not to condemn you to my control – that stone, remember? - he found a way to send Scratch back to the world where I was imprisoned, reuniting us and making me whole again. So, I was freed. If it weren’t for your presence... well, I would still be Scratch.
“As for the journey that awaited us after... it was a long story. One I will allow Arthur to share with you when you inevitably find each other – but it led us to an encounter with a malevolent force, known by some as Nyarlathotep, to a select few as Kayne... and to myself as a father. A shitty one,”
Her brow furrows, draws her knees to her feathered chest. Disdain on her face, spite in her eyes, the thought of this man spikes venom through her blood. It’s a feeling he knows all too well, such a deep-seated hatred for those who are supposed to raise us. Somewhere, dead and buried in her hunched form, he sees Alexander, bruised and bloodied, starved half to death by the so-called ‘Father’ in charge of their welfare.
His body moves in a familiar pattern, his subconscious having orchestrated the movement many a dream, and draws a blanket around her shoulders. Her skin is soft as satin, cool against his hand. For a dream she is immeasurably real. She looks at him, amused, but says naught, provides only a short trill before continuing.
“Arthur was vital in stopping him and his crazed plans. Plans that could have ended the world. Would have, if it weren’t for our intervention. Arthur... he sacrificed a lot for our mission. I owe him so much. We all do. Either way, long story short, Kayne is trapped. In the same place he trapped me so long ago... serves him right.
“Anyways, his absence leaves a hole for me to fill – and leaves me as one of the most powerful entities in existence. Which is why I can afford to tell you all of this, there’s nothing that can threaten me now, nor anything I choose to protect.”
“...and you count me among those?”
“I do.”
Her violet fingertips brush his cheek with care, curl into his hair. It’s a pleasant sensation, to be touched tenderly. Something compels him to draw her closer, let her head rest on his shoulder. Oscar knows worship like the back of his right hand, between the blisters on his knees and the hymns on his tongue, he imagines he could placate a goddess well – it's a shame he were such a brash man.
“Are you the same Lillith I'd recognise?”
“Hmmm?”
“Jewish texts speak of Adam’s first wife – Lillith. Is that you?”
“Not directly, no. I’m no wife – believe me. But it wouldn’t surprise me if sightings of myself influenced said legends, I hear I make myself quite well known.”
“They call her a devil.”
“Men will call anything they fear a devil. Whomever receives the title ought to take it as a compliment.”
That makes Oscar snort. They called Alexander a devil long after he left, tales of his time in the tower twisted and mangled beyond recognition into a symbol of fear. Oscar could never quite bring himself to correct them.
“I know that's true,” Lillith hums as though she understands what he means. “Either way, she’s been adopted as a sort of feminist icon these days.”
“Well, if there’s any aspect of myself within her, I’d say I’m proud.”
Oscar nods in agreement, eyes becoming heavy – strange for a dream.
“That’s about all the time we have, I’m afraid. You have business to attend to,
“Do me a favour and go find Arthur. Tell him what you wrote in that letter – he was devastated he didn’t get to read it.”
“He didn’t? Why- no, how am i supposed to know where to find him?!”
“Just try for me, yes?”
*
Sun filters through the clear window above Oscar’s bed, seeping through his closed eyelids and stirring him from his sleep. It’s morning once more, and Lillith is gone. His duvet is heavy on his tired bones, and plush on his skin, the scent of Marie’s fabric softener pleasantly overwhelming his senses.
His shoulder still tingles with the sensation of her fluid, impossibly shifting hair, and the feathers on her cheeks that tickled his skin, and faintly across from him the aroma of myrrh and pine wafts into his nose.
Propped up prettily on his bedside table is a life-sized prosthetic arm. The plates are made of glimmering silver metal, and the ball joints such a familiar hue of violet. Oscar sits up in bed, the wooden floor cool on his feet, and takes the arm into his hand. It’s a technology far beyond that of today, and when he slots it onto the stump of his left arm, he watches at the fingers calibrate to his command. They move and flex in such a lifelike fashion that it’s beyond belief. Small stars are engraved on the fingerprints, carefully marked with precision.
Oscar can hardly believe his eyes.
Attached to the wrist is a small note; handwritten in looping, intricate script. It doesn’t take much guesswork for know who it’s from, even without being signed.
‘For the blessing of your presence,’
And on the other side:
‘13 Moseby Avenue, Arkham.’