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"I... I can't defeat you..." The words are broken: beaten down, and hopeless. His leg is screaming at him, sharp, shooting agony blazing through him at every moment from the shattered bones. But it is nothing, nothing compared to the agony in his very soul at the certainty that John is about to leave him, willingly, choosing to let the King win. And all to save Arthur's sorry, worthless life.
His trembling fingers land on the lid of the music box, and, almost without thinking, he flips it open. The last few strains of his daughter's lullaby drift out into the air, hopelessly small in the vast echoing plateau around them. It stirs a memory in his mind, a dim recognition, and he clicks the lid closed with a sudden, grim resolution.
His voice is stronger when he continues. "But I don’t have to let you win."
"What?" John says, and "What?" the King echoes, their voices so similar and yet so different.
Arthur picks up the dagger again, weighing it in his hand, and speaks his answer to John and John alone. "That’s… that’s what Daniel told me. John, it wasn’t that life is loss. He said…" His hand tightens around the hilt. "He said, 'You cannot defeat it, but you don’t have to let it win.'"
"Arthur…" John begins, horror in his voice.
"I know what this dagger is for."
"Don’t!"
Arthur lifts the blade to his own throat, voice thick with unspoken apology, and sorrow. "Goodbye, John."
"Arthur!" John screams, and then the bite of cold metal is pressing into the soft skin of his throat, and then-
There is a wrenching, tearing noise in the air, and Arthur is thrown back in the sudden impact as the whole plateau shakes around them. A strangled cry forces itself from his throat; he can hear John's furious swearing in his head, though it is almost drowned out by the strange, distorted screech that fills the air, and the buzzing, static rise that accompanies it.
It seems like it goes on forever, and when it finally stops it leaves a ringing silence in its wake.
"Arthur? Arthur!"
Arthur groans in acknowledgement. "John?"
"Oh thank god." He doesn't think he's ever heard his friend sound so shaken. "Two men have fallen from the sky, Arthur. They lie on the ground no more than twenty feet from us. I can't tell if they're dead or unconscious, but the King is distracted for the moment. Arthur, we need to move."
"My leg..." Arthur murmurs.
"We can-"
There's a sound. It's a distinctly human sound, to Arthur's ears, a low groan of pain and misery that he can sympathize with immensely. And then a voice, trembling and scared, says: "John?"
"What the-" John begins, but he's interrupted by another voice crying out in relief.
"Martin! I'm here!"
"Oh." John sounds slightly mollified. "One of the men who fell is named John. He's... they're embracing each other. The King has started to move toward them, but..." His voice trails off for a moment, and Arthur waits, breathing heavily, trying not to whimper in pain. And then John speaks again, and the low horror in his voice sends a shiver of terror racing down Arthur's spine. "Oh my god."
"What? What is it?"
"There's... jesus."
"John."
"It's the sky, Arthur," John says. "It’s torn open again, and something is coming through. Beings of immense power and misery, the likes of which I have never seen... the sky, Arthur, the sky!"
"What?" Arthur pushes, terrified and impatient.
"It's looking back."
"What?" His breath is coming shallow in his chest, and he can feel his heart racing like a trapped bird.
"We need to move."
"My leg-"
"Fuck your leg, we need to get out of here! This may be our only chance!"
"Okay," Arthur breathes. "Okay." He scrabbles on the ground beside him; finds the dagger where it had fallen and shoves it back into their bag. "I- I'll need your help, I can't-"
"I know, just move."
Slowly, painfully, Arthur turns over, so that he can crawl on hands and one knee while the other leg drags out behind him. He feels like he's going to pass out from the pain, but John's urgent voice in his head spurs him on.
"If we can get off the plateau before the King notices us again we might have a chance to make it," he says. "He's looking at the sky now, staring down whatever is coming through, it's- oh."
"What?"
"The people, the two men who fell through. They're on their feet now, hurrying our way. They're... jesus."
"What?"
"They're covered in blood."
Arthur breathes out, hard. "Human?"
"Yes, I- I think so."
"Excuse me!" It’s one of the human voices from before; British and off-puttingly polite, given the circumstances.
"That was the short, fat one," John says. "He's trying to wave us down."
"I-" Arthur begins, low, then throws caution to the wind and calls back. "What?"
"Look, just-" Footsteps. Now the voice is close. "What's going on here?"
Arthur almost laughs. "I could ask you the same thing."
"W- we just got here, we don't know-"
"We shouldn't trust them, Arthur," John cuts over him.
"We shouldn't trust him, Martin," the other man says, at the same time, his voice low.
"I don't know if we have much choice," Arthur mutters, and is vaguely satisfied to hear the sentiment echoed by the first man - by Martin.
"Look," Arthur says, louder. "We need to get away from here. I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but unless you are very unwise indeed you don't want to be here when the King notices us again. Or whatever is in the sky."
"That's-" The word is cut off in a clothy sound.
"The one called Martin has just elbowed the one called John in the side," John narrates. "They know more than they're saying."
Arthur presses his lips together, keeping silent. He doesn't think that changes their options, much.
"Where do we go?" Martin asks, briskly.
"Off the plateau," Arthur says. "Away from here. But-" He huffs. "My leg is broken. I need help."
"Arthur-"
"Shit." There's a sudden rush of air, and a rustling. John changes tack quickly.
"He's kneeling down by your side, stretching out his arm to you. Lift your right arm and let him slip it over his shoulder. I'll support us on the left."
Arthur does as instructed, and before he's prepared for it he's being lifted, a strong arm wrapping around his back and pulling him off his knees and into an approximation of a standing position. He bites back a scream at the flare of pain that shoots through him at the movement.
A second arm slips around his left side, balancing him out, and the pain eases as most of his weight is lifted into the air. All he needs to do is keep a slight contact with the ground with his one good foot, and he's alright.
"I'm Martin, by the way," Martin says. "Martin Blackwood."
"Oh- uh. Arthur Lester. And...?" He inclines his head a little to the man on his left.
"Jonathan. Er, Jon. Sims."
"Oh," John says. "Jon. Not John." He sounds, in Arthur's opinion, slightly too satisfied at the lack of an H.
"So what way do we go?" Martin asks, breathless.
Arthur feels a pull in his shoulder as John gestures with their left hand. "That way," he says.
A sound rips through the air before they can move. It's not a sound that can be described by any words Arthur knows, but it is loud, and it is painful, and it is furious.
"What was that?" Martin gasps. "Jon?"
"What-?"
"I don't know," Jon says grimly, and John makes a consternated noise. "But I think we should move before we have to find out."
"This is fucking confusing," John mutters, and then continues urgently. "That was the King, Arthur. He's attempting to fight whatever came through the sky, but it will not distract him long. We need to move."
"Let's hurry," Arthur suggests, but he hardly needs to, as Jon and Martin are already hurrying them all across the plain.
"Who's the yellow guy?" Jon asks, tugging Arthur along another step.
"He's-" Arthur hisses as the movement jolts his leg. "The King in Yellow."
"Like the play?" Martin asks.
"The-?"
"I don't like this, Arthur," John cuts over him, sounding worried. "How are they able to look at the King so easily? They should be driven mad."
"Let's worry about that later," Arthur hisses. Jon and Martin are talking over his head, arguing about whatever play Martin had brought up, and they do not hear him. "We've got bigger problems at the moment."
John is silent for a long moment. Then he says, reluctantly, "We're not going to make it off the plateau."
Arthur grits his teeth. He'd expected as much. "The King?"
"The Dancers."
As if on cue, Martin jolts. "What are those things?"
"Nikola's ilk?" Jon says, and it sounds like a quip.
"There's too many of them, Arthur, and they're headed right for us. We won't be able to get through, we'll be cut to shreds."
"Can you, you know," Martin makes an uncertain noise. "Ceaseless Watcher... yadda yadda yadda?"
"I really don't think I'm up for that."
"Can't you do something?" Arthur hisses. "Make them go away?"
"If I could do that I'd have done it earlier, Arthur!"
"You still got that knife, Martin?"
"Please don't remind me."
"John," Arthur snaps, sotto voice, as the sound of the Dancers draws nearer. "You need to do something, or else we. Are going. To die!"
"What the fuck makes you think I can do anything?" John shouts. "I'm a fucking voice in your head!"
"You were the fucking King, weren't you?" Arthur snaps. "Figure something out!"
"I-"
The Dancers reach them. Martin cries out in pain, and Jon in alarm.
"Martin!"
"It cut me!"
"Arthur, I-"
"Just get us out of here!"
"I don't-"
"John!"
And then-
Nothing.
~~~~~
Sensation comes back as Arthur slams into the ground, hard. He rolls on impact, over a cold, wet- snow. He rolls through snow.
When he comes to a halt he lays still for a moment, panting. Freezing wind whips around him, stinging his face.
"Jon! Where are you?" That voice is Martin, Arthur thinks.
John stirs in his mind, a familiar and welcome presence. "What-?"
"Martin! Thank god!"
"Oh," John says, sounding vaguely grumpy. "The other Jon."
Arthur can't help it; he laughs, painful and exhausted. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm glad you're here, John."
"Yes," John murmurs, sounding almost fond. "Likewise."
"What happened?" Martin asks, in the distance.
"Good question," Arthur murmurs. "John, what happened? Where are we?"
"We're... home." John hesitates over the words, but a slow swell of satisfaction builds in his voice as he continues. "We're back on earth. I did it, Arthur, I fucking did it! I brought us home."
"We-" Arthur inhales. The air is cold and clear, underlaid by the sharp bite of pine. It smells real. A bubble of excitement builds in his chest. "We're home! But why- how-?"
"It's like you said," John says. "I am the King. Everything he knows, I knew once. And he knows how to send people between the worlds."
"And you- you remembered?"
"Yes."
"That's amazing."
"Oh. I, uh-" John sounds almost flustered by the praise, but he does not get the chance to finish the sentence because a voice from out of the snow echoes over to them.
"Arthur?" It's Jon - the other Jon. He sounds worried. "Are you there?"
"Maybe he didn't come with us?" Martin, now, and Arthur sighs and then pushes himself into a sitting position to call back.
"I'm here!"
"Arthur?"
"Here!"
"Keep talking!" Jon calls. "We'll come to you!"
"What do you want me to say?" Arthur shouts, but he can already hear footsteps crashing through the underbrush. "Just- come this way!"
"I can see them, Arthur," John tells him. "They make darker shapes against the blackness of the night, emerging from the blowing snow like ghostly shadows."
"It's night?" Arthur asks, regretting that he hadn't asked John to describe their surroundings before calling their new friends over.
"Yes," John says, and then, as if he could read Arthur's mind: "We're in a clearing in deep woodland. Tall pines surround us, growing close and thick. Fresh snow covers the ground, unbroken save for the impact we made upon landing. More snow falls around us, though it is difficult to tell if it is actively falling or simply being blown off the treetops by the wind. It's dark, but the faintest of light permeates the night, as though a full moon is reflecting down from the clouds above." He pauses for a moment, then continues. "Martin and the other Jon are approaching from our right. They're almost here."
"Arthur?" Jon calls, on cue. "Is that you?"
"Yes," Arthur replies. "Yes, we're- I'm here."
Muffled footsteps approach through the snow. He can hear their heavy breathing, and a chattering of teeth.
"C-come on," Martin says, his voice unsteady with the cold. "Let's find some sh-shelter."
It seems impossible that there would be anywhere safe from the cold in this dark and empty forest. Yet, somehow, in a stroke of luck beyond Arthur's belief, they manage to find an abandoned cabin. John describes it to him as Jon and Martin help him inside: the fireplace, the bed, the writing desk and the closed chest... Arthur loans them his lighter to start a fire, when Jon says he recently lost his own.
They help to splint his broken leg. It hurts like hell, but once it is done he can move without the sickening feeling of the bones grinding together, so on the whole it's an improvement.
And then Jon and Martin step back, and before Arthur can so much as thank them Martin speaks.
"Can you... excuse us for a moment?" he says. "We just need a moment alone."
"You're not the only ones," Arthur mutters, as footsteps retreat across the wooden floor, leaving him alone by the fireplace. "...What are they doing?"
"They've moved to the far corner, they're... embracing," John says, his voice taking on a surprised, but warm, tone. "They look like they're finally letting themselves feel everything that's happened to them. Martin has thrown his arms around Jon's neck, and Jon is holding him, pressing his face into Martin's hair." He pauses for a moment. "I believe they're both crying."
"Then we should probably give them some privacy," Arthur says firmly, turning his head back to face the fire.
"Yes."
Neither of them speaks for a long moment. Arthur shifts into a more comfortable position, pulling his unbroken leg up to his chest and wrapping his arm around it, hugging his knee. After a moment, John's arm mirrors the motion.
"Arthur," he says softly.
"John," Arthur acknowledges.
"You almost killed yourself."
If Arthur could, he would close his eyes. As it is, he just keeps his face turned to the fire, feeling its warmth dance across his skin.
"I almost killed us," he corrects. He's almost certain John would have died with him.
"Why?"
"I couldn't let him win."
"I would have fought him." There's a low, vicious certainty in John's voice, and Arthur knows he means it.
"You shouldn’t have to."
"Arthur."
Arthur's hand tightens into the fabric of his own shirt where he's gripping his left bicep. "I couldn't lose you," he admits softly. "Dying would be preferable to-" The words choke off.
John's hand lifts. Arthur feels it at his neck, gentle fingertips tracing the point where the knife had pressed. "Nor I, you," he murmurs. "Letting him win would be preferable to that."
Arthur does not know what to do with the depth of emotion in those words. He swallows thickly, and feels John's fingers trace the movement of his throat. Then the hand drops down again to wrap around his knee.
Neither of them speaks. The silence hangs in the air around them, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft, almost inaudible murmurs from across the room.
Arthur takes a deep breath, feeling the rush of air in and out of his lungs. Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. It feels like a rare privilege, to be able to just sit and breathe, and be safe.
Footsteps. He glances back over his shoulder, and John obliges him with a description. His voice is soft, still, as though unwilling to break the quiet atmosphere of the cabin.
"They're crossing the room toward us. Their hands are interlocked; tear-tracks stain their faces, but they appear... calm. Whatever they were discussing, it seems to have come to a peaceful resolution." He pauses, as a rustle of fabric fills the air next to Arthur. "They've sat down next to us, side by side. Martin is closer. He is leaning back into Jon's shoulder, allowing the other man to throw an arm around him. They are both looking at the fire, avoiding our gaze."
Arthur turns away again, not wanting to be caught staring.
There is a pause.
"So," Jon says eventually. "We should talk."
Arthur makes a vague noise of agreement.
"What happened to you, Arthur?"
He huffs a laugh. "I could ask you the same thing."
There's a pause. "It's a long story."
"Likewise."
Another pause.
"They're looking at each other," John murmurs in his head. "They seem to be having a silent conversation, seeking agreement in each other's eyes." He hesitates a moment. "Arthur, are we sure we should trust them?"
Arthur barely moves his lips, speaking as softly as he possibly can. "I think so, yes. They've helped us."
John sighs, acquiescing. "Alright." After a moment, he continues. "They seem to have come to the same conclusion."
It's Martin that speaks next, with a hint of a smile in his voice. "We've got time."
It's a clear indication to go first. Arthur shifts into a more comfortable position; clears his throat. "Very well then," he says, and begins. "It all started with a book..."