Chapter Text
You know, it don’t take too much to throw even a real settled god off his game.
I been around a long time. A long time. Seen reality go from swirling void to sparkling water under stars, seen life spring up all around where it’s least expected, seen some pretty crazy things change in that life, too. You all got no idea what “evolution” really fucking means.
I seen a lot in my time. I still somehow ended up with a brother—for lack of a better term, here, since we ain’t actually related—who confounds the flounder outta me, and pretty regularly, too. “Whaddaya mean, you haven’t told them yet?”
Oh, he looks at me like the saddest piece of beauty that ever got clipped from some black and gold cape, all elegant and swirling, all drooping, but he sure didn’t forget to add little weency sparkles in the depths of his robe and along his dark hide. “I… haven’t told them yet.”
I gave him a month. He had two months before that. What the fuck? “You had time.”
Even more droopy. Still sparkly, though, so he ain’t too down.
I sigh. “Don’t tell me you waited so I’d do it for you.”
Ope, there he goes—big eyes, little tips of his tentacles curling, folding his hands… “I… certainly would appreciate help.”
“They’re gonna be mad you waited this long,” I tell him.
And he looks away, and in this moment—just this moment—there’s no sparkling. His flesh is dark as the space between stars, and the edges of his robe don’t billow. “They will be no matter what I do.”
Yeah, he gets it. If I know him, he’s been beating himself up about this for months instead of fucking telling them and dealing with the fallout. Making it worse for himself. Maybe fucking punishing himself. I sigh. He makes me sigh. He also makes it real hard to stay mad at him. Some days, anyway. “Yep. That’s true.”
He hasn’t gone back to sparkling yet.
“Damn it, Hastur…”
“I know.” He’s looking at the floor now. “Arthur ensured I knew. And now…”
“And now?”
“If I wait twenty-four hours, he will tell them himself.”
So I guffaw at him, and it ain’t my best moment. We gods can all be a little cruel, sometimes. “Got you by the short and curlies! Good little piano man.”
He gives me a slightly disgusted look; the edge of his robe flutters once. “Help me. Please.”
Yeah, yeah, of course I’m gonna, but… “Shit. You could’ve warned me you’d throw me in the damn fire.”
He’s looking down again.
“You really want me to take charge of this part?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t like how I do it.”
He throws his hands in the air. “As if I like any part of this!”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes!”
“Then I’ll take the reins, and you better do what I say.”
Oh, that little glare, ha! He don’t know how infuriating it is. How it just… sits on you, under your skin, that particular spit of rebellion. He’s got more in common with his funny little Englishman than he knows. “Fine,” he declares.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Follow me, and if you don’t follow my lead, I swear I’m holding you on the fucking floor until you do.”
So he pouts after me down the hall, back to sparkling, back to fluttering (though he sure seems to be trying too hard), and I spot how he sorta flexes it all at each window we pass. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. Eh. You get called fucking gorgeous by everything with sixty eyes for a few thousand years, it’d go to your head, too.
“We’re gonna do this in order,” I inform him.
He glances at me, crown cutting the air. “What order do you have in mind?”
“Start with the people who know. Move to folks who don’t.”
“Odd,” he says at once. “We will start with Odd.”
That bard sure is something. “We’ll start there, then.”
#
Odd is such a pretty little thing. Not really my taste, but I’d hardly say no to a tumble in the seaweed. I never forgot how quick and clever he could be. Good little spy, if he wanted to.
“Oh!” he says, rising from his bed like he’s on wires and made of grace. “Welcome! To what do I owe such an auspicious visit?” And he gives a little naughty grin to Hastur before bowing to us both, a real pretty sweep.
“Yeah.” I jerk my thumb at Hastur. “He’s got something to say.”
“I already told him,” Hastur mutters.
“Don’t care. This is warm-up time. Get your ass over here and talk, or I will.”
Odd’s eyes are real damn huge as he glances between us, still half-bowed.
Hastur floats forward, all graceful, tentacles spread. Guess I couldn’t expect him to do this in a ordinary way… “My own. My marked. My beloved Odd,” he says, and then he bows, and I damn well know that ain’t an ordinary sight. “You know my fate in three and a half years.”
Odd walks slowly to Hastur like every step is an unspoken word, and he looks over at me real subtle; it’s like he’s gauging how much I know, how much of this is gonna be a performance versus real honesty. I can appreciate that. He’s a proper Marked, unlike that piano man. “Oh, my King,” he murmurs. “Is it that time? Truly?”
Performance—but it’s for Hastur, not for me. Its refreshing that Hastur found himself a marked with a set of brains between his ears instead of vicious self serving cunning. Shame it’s now, of all times.
“It is.” Hastur’s head is still down, his crown cutting little curlicues of golden light that vanish like sparks.
Odd exhales slowly, studying him. “Do you want company?”
“I…”
“At least for the first few,” says Odd, touching the nearest tentacle coiled at waist-height, “since I presume you’re saving Faroe until last.”
Smart fella.
“Yes,” says Hastur.
“Then I’ve got your back,” Odd vows.
Hastur looks at me.
“Practice,” I say, and point.
He turns back. “Odd. My own. My marked… my bard. In twelve hundred and forty-two days, Nyarlathotep, who calls himself Kayne, will take my life. There is no preventing this. There is no way to stop him. I have looked. Because this axe looms above me, sharp and unyielding, I must dedicate myself to ensuring you survive when I am gone.”
Well, that’s gonna fall fucking apart the next time he tries it, but I guess it’s at least honest. “That’s a step.”
Odd leans in and sorta whispers like he’s on stage someplace. “I take it you were supposed to have delivered this news before the return of our vaunted sea lord?”
“Yes.” Grouchy as fuck.
Odd shakes his head, eyebrows up. “That was terrible, then. Try again.”
Hastur shoots straight up like someone poked him where the sun don’t shine. “What?”
“There’s no way you’ll deliver that convincingly or clearly to anyone,” says Odd, crossing his arms like a sassy little morsel. “Again.”
Hastur’s tentacles twitch. “My own…”
“My Lord?”
“In three years and change Nyarlathotep, who calls himself Kayne—”
Odd gasps, eyes wide, hand over his heart.
Hastur gives him a bit of a look. “Kayne will take my life. There is no preventing thi—”
“No!” Odd’s cry is almost convincing—he runs to Hastur’s side, tears gleaming like the moon on the waves, seizes his cloak. “No! There has to be something!”
Hastur jumps a bit. “My own, you know this…”
“I’m acting, Hastur, come on now,” says Odd, wiping at a tear. “You need to be ready. Take two.”
I laugh, big guffaws, because this little bard has Hastur wrapped around his finger and is schooling him like a guppy.
Hastur glares at me.
“One more time,” says Odd to me, and I can recognize that it takes a pretty solid pair of brass balls and a decent size bucket of smarts to do that to a Great Old One.
“Do it.”
#
So fifteen minutes later, they got a whole lot of nothing. Hastur’s still performing. I’m just an old fool, but I’m pretty sure he’s trying to avoid the painful part by making the whole thing an act. It’s not going to work. He loves that little girl too much. The first tear from her, and he’s gonna shatter.
I shift my weight. “Time’s up.”
Odd sighs. “So be it. We’ll make it work.”
So now I’m leading the way back out. “You’re not gonna hold it together in the real thing.”
“Fuck off,” Hastur mutters, close to ugly as he gets.
“Next one needs to be genuine, or you’re fucked.”
He growls.
Well. I warned him. Those who don’t listen have to feel, as the old saying goes.
“Ah,” says Odd. “Them.”
“Yes,” he says.
Odd whistles a little tune and dampens the sound around us. Nice trick.
Hastur knocks.
That little Saint guy opens the door, brow knit, frowning. He’s got a good frown; wears it real good. “What do you people want?”
“I need to speak to both of you,” says Hastur, sounding fucking choked. I guess this one ain’t gonna be smooth like with Odd.
The little guy peeks around Parker’s shoulders. Heh; Sunny’s put on some muscle in the last few months. Good for him. “What is it?”
Hastur shoves into their room.
He didn’t really get permission to do that, but nobody’s yelling, so I guess this is normal for him. The pair ain’t dressed for company—the Saint’s got some pajama pants on, at least, but the little one’s got a robe wrapped around him, not quite quick enough to hide the slinky silk nightie underneath. If the original owner of the body’d been wearing it I’d raise an eye ridge, but of course Hastur’s get would decide to sleep in something fancy and flouncy.
Hastur’s… well. Not his offspring, after all. Guess that cat’s outta the bag.
“I must make a confession,” says Hastur.
Odd touches the edge of one tentacle with his fingertips.
“Okay,” says the Saint, crossing his arms like he already doubts all of this.
Hastur takes a breath. “Kayne.”
Parker stiffens, uncrosses his arms. Fists all tight. “What about him?”
“Easy,” Sunny murmurs, touching the back of his arm.
“He’s going to kill me.”
Well, how about that. Hastur just said it! Didn’t expect that.
They stare at him.
“What?” says Parker.
“When Faroe turns fifteen, he will kill me.”
The stares get harder. Sunny’s breathing too fast. “No,” he says. “No.”
“What the fuck?” says Parker, feet apart, braced. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Sunny’s almost panting. “But he… he can’t, Hastur we need—”
“Do you think I can stop it?” Hastur snaps, and he sure as hell didn’t do that with Odd. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? Studied? Yearned? I cannot stop him! At least while he’s focused on me, he’ll eschew the rest of you!”
Dead silence while they gape at him, mouths open. The Saint looks like he’s about to go beating some heads in or something.
Odd sighs and steps forward. “Sorry, my loves,” he says quietly. “He’s… he’s already gone through this. All the stages of denial. All the possible avenues.” His voice is thick. “If there’s a way… we haven’t found it yet.”
I don’t think that was acting. I don’t think that grief, like a damn tsunami, could be faked by even Pan himself.
Parker’s anger shifts a little, sorta mellows. “You’re sure of this?”
“Yes.” Hastur’s voice is quiet but final.
Sunny’s wheezing. Parker spins and grabs him, scoops him up, breathing awful fast himself. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
Odd hangs his head.
Hastur is very still—all except a few tentacles which keep twisting, rolling over each other like anxious hands. “It is… beyond time that you knew. I will change no plans. Our direction—”
“We,” says Parker quietly.
Uh-oh.
“What?” says Hastur.
Parker’s holding his little guy tight, like he’s making sure nobody goes flying into pieces as he turns to Odd. “You said we.”
Odd folds his hands behind his back, like he’s standing in front of the firing squad. “I did.”
“You knew,” Parker says, staring at Odd. “You fuckin’ knew. How long?”
“Before he marked me.” Odd feels no shame, or at least he looks like he don’t.
Sunny stares at him, breathing hard and fast. Parker turns a little to face him with a frown. “This whole time?”
Odd bows his head.
“The plan—” Hastur begins.
Sunny wheezes something that sounds like Parker’s name, and the Saint fucking snaps. “Get out,” he snarls, turning with his teeth bared, with no fear in his eyes, with rage making the scars on his clenched hands white. “Get out!”
Not my circus, not my clownfish, and I am out that door. Hastur grabs Odd and swoops out after me, clutching his bard like a toy.
Slam goes the door.
There’s a beat.
I cross my arms. “So how’d that live show go for you?”
“Oh, shut up,” Hastur bitches.
“They need time,” Odd sighs. “I think we maybe should have started with Arthur and John." He pats Hastur’s limbs like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. There’s a lot of ‘em, since Hastur appears intent to wrap his bard up.
“But John…” Hastur rumbles.
“I think it’s a safe bet that Arthur’s told him by now,” soothes Odd. “View it like me: as practice. You might even ask for some tips for Faroe—” He squeaks as Hastur tucks him into his cloak.
I blink at the lump under the gold robe. “You eating him?”
“No,” Hastur growls.
“Okay. Well. Arthur and John?”
“Gimmim uh mommpht,” says Odd somewhere beneath the tentacles and cloaks.
“I’m fine,” Hastur whispers. “I am fine.”
I sigh. “I know you’re not.”
He’s silent.
I sigh again. “Come on, Nugget. Get it over with, and then it’s fucking over with.”
“I will never be forgiven,” he intones like he’s on stage which is how I know he’s still okay, and we’re off.
#
Good music wafts outta that room like sweet smells from a baker’s kitchen. Hot damn. “Sounds like that, I get why you insist on staying out of the water.”
Hastur gestures at me, vaguely rude, half-felt.
“You can do this, my lord, my love, my brilliant tongue,” Odd murmurs, still clutched like a damn doll and patting whatever’s closest.
“Of course I can,” Hastur says with no conviction at all, and opens up.
Woof. Is that fucking John?
I mean, yeah, that’s his pretty little guise, but damn. Daaaamn. Somebody grew up a little.
“Hastur,” John says, rising from his prone drape over the piano like some fancy cloth.
Arthur stops, fingers real deep in some crazy jazz chord. I’m betting he felt something weird going on. I’m betting he’s not taken by surprise.
“My own,” says Hastur, low.
Arthur turns. “Is it time?”
John looms behind him like some living shadow, and the power coming off him… fuck, he had that power the whole time, but it’s different. Feels like when he finally stopped flopping around like dehydrated jelly bouncing down a hill and got control. He’s focused.
He feels like a grown Great Old One. Shit.
Hastur don’t seem surprised. “My own.”
Arthur waits.
“I have… something I must tell you,” says Hastur.
Arthur waits.
John doesn’t have tentacles. He’s got power, though, and it slides in sweeps and swoops over Arthur, invisible to most folks. Yowza.
“In three years’ time, a tragedy will happen,” says Hastur, and for all of me, he sounds like he’s making it up as he goes. “Kayne… has promised to take my life upon Faroe’s fifteenth birthday.”
Arthur swallows. It’s thick sounding, heavy. Bad.
“There is nothing I can do.” Hastur stands there, limbs limp.
“It’s about damn time,” John growls, resting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Have you told Faroe?”
Arthur rests his hand over John’s.
“No. Next.”
Arthur nods. Rises. Approaches.
John turns him a little to the left so he aims right.
And Arthur embraces the King in Yellow.
Should be ridiculous. He’s all tiny, and human, and a weird human, at that, and Hastur is fucking eternal—comparatively, even with what we’re here to talk about. It’s power to speak shit into existence versus power to bleed real pretty. It shouldn’t balance out.
But it does. It does balance the fuck out, and as Hastur sort of curls down over him, holding him with arms and tentacles, it almost feels like Arthur’s the one who’s great and old, like Arthur’s the one bringing the weight of years and experience and a real long point of view.
I stare. John looks… I dunno. Half like he wants to jump in there and bite something, half like he’s bored. Well, I think them two’s gonna be busy for a while, so I drift near him. “Hey.”
John looks at me.
“What happened to you?” I don’t see a reason to dick around the point.
“I woke up.” He’s back to watching them.
“What’s that mean?”
He looks at me again. “It means I’ve finally accepted myself.” A beat. “He did. He taught me how.”
“That guy?” I jerk my thumb toward him. “He’s real bad at that.”
“He saw me clearly. He accepted me. We’re working on the rest.”
So that makes two Kings in Yellow running around this place. That won’t work. It’s gonna be an issue, a big one, but I don’t think this is the time to talk it up.
“My own,” Hastur whispers. “She will hate me for this.”
“That’s the real reason, you know,” Arthur murmurs, muffled a little in his robe. “I understand your concern for caring for us and making us ready, but her disappointment, anger, and grief are far greater a deterrent.”
Hastur is shaking.
“It will be worse the longer you wait,” Arthur says softly. “That’s just how it is. It can’t get better. It can only get worse. There’s no reason to wait longer.”
“No. You are right.” Hastur finally straightens. His head’s down; can’t see a single eye behind that mask-face of his. He turns to face John. “You may need to step up.”
John shrugs. “Are you planning to run away or explode?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t need to.”
“John, please.”
Yikes. Okay, John, come on, now. Don’t kick a guy when he’s being vulnerable. That’s how you stop people from being vulnerable.
“Fine,” John says.
Hastur slumps a little—relief, I think. “It is time.”
“Did the practice help?” says Odd quietly.
“No.”
Odd nods. “Do you want us there with you?”
And in this moment, you can see the family this asshole’s managed to build. They’ll go in there with him, be witnesses to what’s gonna probably a fuck-awful conversation, and they’ll do it out of love.
Honestly? About time Hastur got himself a family. About damn time.
“I think I owe her privacy for this,” Hastur says slowly. Because yeah, he’d probaly prefer having a peanut gallery in there with him, a cheer-leading squad, but he’s right; that girl deserves to respond to this in private.
“When you’re done, we can take next steps,” I say, trying for soothing. “But we don’t got to do it right away, you hear? Maybe first we’ll go get real drunk.”
Hastur laughs weakly. “We shall see. Thank you. I…” He pauses, tentacles curved and frozen, and looks at all of us. “Thank you.”
Arthur pats his arm. “Go. We’ll be waiting.”
Hastur puts Odd down, strokes his fluffy hair, and heads for the door.
#
He’s real quiet. Walking—well, slithering, or whatever goes on down there—instead of floating.
I’m startin’ to feel bad. “You want help?”
He looks at me.
“You really can’t do this, I got your back. You know that, right?”
He stops and embraces me.
Yeah. This was on me. I never should’a let it get this quiet between us. “Is that a yes?”
“No. I must do this. I owe her this. I cannot let… one of my last major acts in her life be one of cowardice.”
Three years and change. It ain’t long. “All right. Want me in the hall?”
“Maybe a little further. I don’t know how she’s going to react.”
Not well. “Okay. I’ll be down that-a-way. Good luck.”
He knocks on her door. Hears the cheery come in! And enters.
Ain’t nothing more I can do for the man. What a fucked up day this is.