Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beneath the rays of the rising sun, an ibis quill etches marked of red ink onto a papyrus scroll. The marks make up an ancient script long lost to the sands of time, surviving solely due to the passing on of its existence to a secluded community of desert dwellers. What message did it hold, but a special one, especially as the text was accompanied by mysterious esoteric symbols of unknown origins. The last words finished and the bloody ink dried, the writer set down his quill and rolled up his handiwork with a sigh of satisfaction. “Azzy,” he called out as he stood, “It's finally complete. We're saved!”

Sitting in a corner, a small boy, nodding off, jolted to his feet. “You're done? Does that mean we can play now?”

With an airy laugh, the writer replied, “Yes, brother, it does. But first, I must see Father about something.”

The two brothers exited their stony abode and walked on the well-trodden path towards the river. As they passed, the villagers, hard at work, waved at them with a “good morning”. To the taller boy, some would approach to offer updates on the preparations for tonight's ritual or ask for advice, and the daughter of the resident healer, pushed by her two peers, blushed and turned away at the sight of him. For he, Nassir al-Zaman, was the eldest son of the village High Priest, and the future heir to the title. Handsome and brilliant and proficient with magic, he was the talk of the town. His younger brother, Aziz, envied him for his robustness and intelligence, but admired him for those same reasons.

They soon reach the main plaza, where, taking center stage, sat a stout step pyramid, with a staircase in each cardinal direction leading up to an obsidian slab at the peak, the sides of which were decorated with gold-painted etchings in the same indecipherable script as seen on Nassir's scroll. Next to the slab was his father, an aging man in a garish robe representative of his status, commanding a team of young men in setting up the décor. As he turned in the direction of his sons, his stern face softened into a gentle smile. “Boys, what brings you here so eagerly? The ceremony won't be for several hours.”

Passing on the rolled-up papyrus sheet, Nassir said, “I bring you my latest breakthrough. This is the product of a vision I had three nights ago, and it's the reason why I hadn't left the house until now.”

Opening the scroll and reading through the script, the old man's smile disappeared. “Nassir, are you absolutely sure about this? If something happens… if the ritual fails…”

“Trust me, Father, this is the way. He told me so.”

“He? You don't mean…!”

“Yes, he. He whom our ancestors spoke of, whose legacy had formed this thriving community of ours. If you follow the orders detailed in that script, his reign will resume and we will rise to even greater heights!”

Taking one last glance at the esoteric etchings, his father nodded and hid them within his robe. “If our great Pharaoh wishes it, so must it be.”

As they walk away from the temple, Aziz looked up at his brother and asked, “What was that about? I didn't understand a word of it.”

“You don't need to. Just wait a little while longer, and you'll see for yourself.”

His brows wrinkle with worry. “You're not gonna do something stupid, are you?”

Nassir's face, partially concealed under the shadows of his long bangs, reflected the dark emotions in his voice. “Brother, the world outside already sees us as fools for our beliefs. This would be the wisest decision we make. Under my direction, we will break their perception of reality and rule from the shadows.” Brushing his bangs aside, his expression brightens up. “Race you to the river!”

The boys ran over to the riverbank, where they played among the reeds, captured scarab beetles, and plucked dates from the palms to eat. As the body of Ra sunk lower down the horizon, transforming the sky from reds and yellows to deep purplish-blue, the fishermen and sailors parked their boats, and the farmers wiped the sweat from their brows as they retreated back into the village. From afar, Nassir and Aziz sat aside each other at the foot of a palm tree, watching the gradually appearing celestial bodies as the clock counted down to midnight.

“Brother, about what you said earlier, are you sure you'll be okay?”

“Of course! When have I steered you wrong?”

“Well, there was that one time…”

“Okay, maybe once or twice I did, but this isn't one of those. I can feel it.” Aziz did not look any more convinced. “Can you promise me something?”

“Whatever it is, I'll do it—I promise!”

He placed his hands on Aziz's tiny shoulders, his voice started to crack. “I can no longer lie: I am a little nervous about tonight's ceremony. Even with all the thought and planning I did, there is much that hasn't been tested; a whole number of things could happen. In case anything happens as a result, stay strong for me. Promise?”

Aziz's eyes widened, taken aback by his brother's confession. All his young life, he looked up to him, saw him as this brave and strong young man, but watching him in this state, with wavering confidence, a new feeling lit up inside him. “Promise.”

Nassir stood to his feet, helping his brother up. “Come now, it's time.”

The blackened moon rose high as the people gathered around the pyramid. High Priest Asim al-Zaman started with a brief introduction speech greeting the new moon, then roused the crowd into reciting a chant in cryptic tongue, igniting the surrounding torches a purplish black. With the lighting of the torches came the main event. “Tonight is the night that the Black Pharaoh finally makes his return. We shall appease him with a proper sacrifice who will compensate as his host. But first we shall mark the chosen vessel so that the host body can withstand the intensity of our lord's being and retain its shape.” He points a finger in the direction of his sons. “Aziz al-Zaman, please step forward.”

Upon hearing his name uttered, Aziz's entire body starts to tremble. As he could feel the support on his feet give way, he felt a hand grasping his tightly. “Remember, Azzy,” his brother's voice whispered, “stay strong.” He nodded and, with Nassir's support, stepped up to the ebony slab and sat on it.

An assistant of the High Priest, a bowl of murky liquid in their hands, proceeded to paint Aziz's bare back with the paint, scarring it with the needle-based implementation. The mark, a disharmonious assortment of shapes and lines united by a circle with a pictographic depiction of some unearthly creature, its appendages reaching out to grasp the surrounding markings. Once the last mark had been drawn, the High Priest ordered Aziz to lie down on the slab, then called for Nassir to initiate the next step. Taking a deep breath, he recited the following, while the sounds of the assistants' flutes howled in shrill, dissonant tones:

“From the Black Throne, I call you,

Daemon Sultan of the core,

To the tune of the flutes I bid you to dance

Upon this earthly floor

Your messenger, your spawn, he orders you to fall

So as this world will crumble, we'll rise above all”

Whispers roused up in the crowd of worshipers, questioning the meaning behind the chant. Their queries were cut off by the screams of Aziz, writhing in pain as streams of blood leaked from his eyes. Aziz called out for Nassir, only for him to command the zealots to hold him down. An intense, searing pain flowed throughout his body, threatening to rip him apart atom by atom. Somebody make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP—

And then, nothingness. Around him, a blackness darker than any he had ever seen, with nary an inch of himself or anything else in sight. In his ears, only the faint sounds of flutes could be heard, singing tinny, inorganic notes. No matter brushed against his skin, for he could feel none. He saw nothing, he felt nothing, he sensed nothing, he was nothing. Am I dead, his thoughts spoke on instinct, unaware or uncaring of his practical nonexistence. His body—if he had any—took a step forward, then another, then another. He kept going, the flutes growing louder as his environment shifted, from the sheer nothingness to a crystalline interior. Alien markings circled the center, upon which was a great black throne. Resting upon the throne was a great, writhing mass whose appearance could only be described as chaotic. From the corner of his eye—which he physically no longer had—he saw reflected on the surfaces vague, shapeless figures dancing about, the sources of the disharmonious music. Remembering his brother's words, he approached the throne. “H-hello?”

Back in the plaza, the crowd's shock and despair grew as the body of Aziz al-Zaman suddenly went limp. Enraged, Asim turned to his remaining son. “Nassir, you came up with this rite, now explain yourself!”

Nassir's stern mien broke slowly, his lips curling up into a wide grin. “You fools, all of you. Have you ever thought about why you failed to summon your precious Black Pharaoh? It was amazing how you never considered the possibility that your lord was already among you.”

“You mean, you're—”

“That's right, 'father'…” The tone of his body gradually blackened, transforming himself into a shadowy figure with a pearly-white smile. “I am Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, ruler of the old dynasty.” He walked up to the slab and brushed Aziz's hair with his fingertips. “The vision, the sign, the incantation, those are not from the Black Pharaoh, but the Primordial Chaos—my father. After watching you idiots flounder about with your senseless rituals for the past few centuries, I grew impatient and threw down my trump card. My dear, aggravating, brainless father gained a sudden desire to see this oh-so-strange world for himself, so I laid down all the cards to ensure his safe descent.”

As Nyarlathotep prattled on, a wave of memories flooded the High Priest's mind. Days before Nassir was born, his wife received a command from the Black Pharaoh to mark her newborn's body with a specific sigil as a sign of his blessing and protection. Staring directly at that same sigil, barely visible on the backside of his possessed son, sunk him deeper into despair. I've got what I devoted my whole life into, but at what cost?

Aziz's eyelids opened, but instead of human eyes, he saw with multicolored cosmic patterns and glimmers of stardust. His messy hair, once black, had turned blue as the Daemon Sultan's soul merged with his own. He rose from the slab to examine the world around him. “Oh, so the ritual was successful,” Nyarlathotep said cheerfully. “Everyone, meet Azathoth. Azzy, any words for our audience?” Aziz—now Azathoth—opened his mouth, but could only emit grunts and sparse syllables, before clenching his teeth as a great migraine overwhelmed him. The pain grew to unbearable point, and a loud screech rang out from the crowd, as the village healer watched in horror as her daughter, losing her humanoid shape, exploded into dust. As the dust spread through the air, Azathoth's migraine subsided, and he sighed in relief while Nyarlathotep cackled maniacally.

By morning, all that remained of the village was the debris from the shattered pyramid and buildings. The dust of the people—al-Zaman included—was blown away with the desert sands, leaving no remains of their existence. Nassir, accompanied by his young, sleepy brother, had little else to to but to continue southwards to Cairo, then from there, the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

I hate the city.

Somewhere in Arkham, Massachusetts, in the downtown area, Haley steps off of the bus. His golden hair blowing in the wind, he walks towards his destination: a triad of five-story buildings adorned with rusted silver circles of text that read “Miskatonic Dormitories”, distinguished by a bold letter. Shelby follows close by, her ebony curls bouncing with each step. Unlike Haley, her optimism shines through, more curious than disgusted by the drastic change in scenery, helped by the care given to the greenery lined upon the paths.

As they stride down the central path leading to the primary building, Dorm A, Shelby plucks a flower from the bordering grass beds and holds it out to him. “Cheer up, honeybun,” she says as she tickles his cheek with the petals. “I'm sure you'll grow to love this place. Even if you don't, you always have you-know-who.”

Haley flinches, but accepts her gift regardless. Gazing at the flower, its soft petals contrasting with its strong fragrance, his thoughts are sent back to the recent past.

The Dunwich countryside, a luscious pasture dotted with farmhouses and livestock, occasionally interrupted by dirt paths that branch out to distant towns and consecutive buildings of relevance. Far opposite from the most populated areas of the rural populace was the Whateley household, a rickety shelter half-buried within a hill, and a short walk down, the residence of their only neighbor, Haley. Haley's house was no less of a shamble and even smaller, but with with help from the Whateleys, he was kept in the company of many a goat and sheep, which offered him his main source of income.

Sitting on the fence, watching his livestock graze, his eyes glimmered as he spotted his old friend, Wilbur, dashing down the hillside. Short and pale, with a round, chinless face and unkempt black hair, Haley saw Wilbur as one of his own pets, treating him with special care. The small young man stopped to lean against the fence, out of breath from his lack of fitness, then went on to express his exciting bit of news.

“You got accepted by MU,” Haley asked, his shock elevating the volume of his voice more than usual.

In Wilbur's hands he held the wrinkled letter marked with the Miskatonic University seal. “Grandpa knew the Headmaster and sent a letter of recommendation to him—so Mr. Fisher told me.” His eyes welled up with tears. “He knew how much this meant to me, and I really am happy, but…”

His heart struck with pity, he embraced his dear human pet, brushing his fingers along the long river of inky black follicles. “I know you'll do fine. You studied and worked hard to get in, and no doubt they saw that potential in you. You'll do ol' Noah proud, Wil.”

Holding their hug for a moment longer while he cries all the nerves out of him, Wilbur then pulls away, a sweet smile on his youthful face. “Thanks, Haley. You're like the big brother I never had. I hope you'll come visit me in Arkham.”

A bittersweet twinge filled Haley's heart. Big brother… Those words, while one that caused great joy, also brought with it a sense of disappointment, of a relationship that, by human standards, was unlikely to progress further. Then there was the immediate situation. Wilbur, the one person apart from his mate whom he had ever cared for, was set to leave him soon. Already the distance between them had grown, on more levels than mere thought or emotion, and more than he was comfortable with. So many changes… I hate change. Why can't things stay the same as they've always been? Just you and me… Together forever…

“Haley, what's wrong? You're crying.”

Upon hearing Wilbur's voice, he snapped out of his trance, wiping his face clean of tears. “Sorry, Wil, I'm just sad to see you go.” He pets the top of his friend's head and gives a weak smile. “When you get to MU, gimme a call.”

Shortly after Wilbur left, Haley called up Shelby, who by chance happened to be starting at the same time, and after a few correspondences with the Innsmouth mayor, he was all set. Manipulating the school system to his favor was simple, but between forged documents, magical hypnosis, and plain old bribery, he worried about how his friend would react to his being there. After all, he was but a simple shepherd from the country, and Miskatonic University was a high-status college set in the city—as cliches go, it's equivalent to a fish out of water. If not for his mate's love and support, there's no telling what he would do.

He and Shelby check in at the front desk, where they are given their room keys, then part ways. As he makes way for the stairs—something about elevators unsettle him—he catches a faint whiff of a familiar scent, one in direct contrast to the flower in his possession, putrid and sulfur-like. His heart skips a beat as he turns around, hoping to find the source of the smell. Alas, as soon as he did, the smell has vanished, along with its belonged. Shaking it off as a momentary lapse in thought, he continues upwards.

Now on the second floor, he glances down at the number on his key: 207. He explores the hallway in search for a door of the same numerical, when his olfactory senses start acting up. That smell, his thoughts utter as the odor grows stronger. Eventually, he finds Room 207, and without hesitance, his hand reaches out to insert the key. The smell is at its peak, its owner's identity becoming clearer in his mind. His hand brushes against another, even paler than his own. Bemused, he turns his attention to the face behind the hand and odor.

Large, black eyes. Long, inky hair. Round, chinless face. With a voice louder than appropriate for the situation, the small one blurts out, “Haley?”

Chapter Text

Revving down Arkham's main street, a metallic blue monster, mounted by a red-helmed rider, swerves past the traffic, then slows down as it sets down on a metered parking spot in front of the convenience store. The rider stops to pet his steed before entering. Inside, he grabs a variety of necessities, including hair products, drinks, and cheap-to-prep ingredients. While heading towards the front of the building, he catches sight of something from the corner of his eye.

On the magazine rack is a local magazine that, on most days, he would never consider buying, yet on this day, its glamorous cover art has managed to lure him in, as if foretold by destiny. On the front is a handsome man of some foreign origin, with a long nose, mascara-lined eyes, and shiny obsidian hair, donned in gilded dress inspired by Ancient Egyptian monarchs. The rider pauses to read the bold title font splashed in front: “Rise of the Ancients: Egypt's Hottest Model Makes Waves in Arkham”.

His mouth lets out a barely-concealed “tsk” in contempt. Cocky-looking bastard. I hate him already.

He buys the magazine regardless.

Returning to his temporary home in the Miskatonic dormitories, he hangs up his helmet and orange leather jacket and tosses the glossy paper rag aside. As he's putting away the foodstuffs into the fridge and pantries, his roommate, a plump man with long, gray hair, picks up the magazine and raises a brow. “Hey, I know this guy,” he says. “He was on TV the other day. The sheer arrogance he exuded, it reminded me a lot of Nyarl—” The roommate is cut off by a piercing glare from his friend. “Er, not that it could be him, probably just a coincidence.” Despite his rushed response, there still reeks an air of certainty in his words.

His temper dampened, the rider speaks up. “Taksony, even if he's not Nyarlathotep, do you think he could be connected somehow?”

Taksony's smirk grows to a sharp-toothed grin, his Cheshire cat-like expression in distorted contrast with his toad-like features. “Maybe, maybe not. I may have mastery over ancient magics, but I'm no prophet. If you're so curious, we can always visit Uncle Hzi.” He receives a “tsk” in response, and as the rider makes way for the bedroom door, Tak's demeanor turns grim abruptly. “Connie, if that man does turn out to be the Black Pharaoh, I urge you not to act rashly. He may find fear in the light that you bring, but so too are you afraid of his darkness. When he learns of that, he will not hesitate to exploit that weakness, and the moment he does is the moment he will succeed.”

Entering the bedroom, “Connie”—Tak's nickname for Conleth—plops down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, and the mental image seared behind his eyelids is that of the princely Egyptian man, the confidence in his smile, the sensuality in his eyes, the lusciousness of his lips…

The shock from the image snaps him awake, cheeks flushed bright red and head plagued with sharp, throbbing pain. Dammit, what the hell was up with all that? It takes him a second to be aware of a pressure beside him, and his eyes turn downward in that general direction. Head rested upon his shoulder, a chubby arm wrapped over his torso as the rest of the soft, rotund body contorts itself to fit upon the remaining space on the bed, is Taksony, fast asleep. Calmed by his friend's presence, he adjusts himself to a more comfortable position and gently brushes his fingers against his greasy, silver locks. They were not lovers—though they had mused the notion, neither of them bothered to follow through, at least not on Tak's end—but Conleth, in his fantasizing of strange men, feels a sense of betrayal on his part, ignoring their camaraderie in favor of his budding fixation.

Watching the motions of Taksony's breathing, he thinks of the advice given to him. Suppose the man in his dreams was Nyarlathotep, would he be able to control his instinctual urges? For as long as he had existed, the Living Flame and the Crawling Chaos had always been enemies, reacting to each other's presence with simultaneous fear and fury. This enmity had been ingrained in them, despite their seeming lack of connection on the surface, as if Fate itself had birthed them with such estranged wiring. The last incident in which they met, Cthugha unleashed a rage so wild and outrageous, that an entire civilization burned in the process. Assuming the pieces in play have already been set for another encounter, there again is the feeling of betrayal, knowing well that he cannot keep any promises to restrain his inner berserker. There's only one way to know for sure: I have to meet with this “pharaoh” somehow.

The following morning, Conleth wakes up from a fitful sleep, dragging himself from the bed over to the kitchen, passing by the living room area as the television blares out the local news programming. As he pours himself a cup of coffee, a name rings in his ear. “Nassir al-Zaman will be attending Arkham's Miskatonic University starting next week. According to the famous model, he wishes to start his life anew, and believes that the world-renowned school will provide him with a variety of unique opportunities. We here at Arkham Today give him our blessings as the new semester rolls around.”

He almost drops his coffee as the broadcast plays. Fate's really out to fuck with me, is his immediate thought. This sudden announcement has caught him off-guard, leaving him little time to compose himself for the now-inevitable encounter. Watching the footage onscreen, he cannot help but scoff at the fashionably dressed young man, clad in a slate gray cardigan over an off-white blouse and black tie like some kind of private school prep. Then he catches a glint of something barely caught on camera: a small, obsidian ankh, its position inverted as it hangs from the fabric of the cardigan. There's no mistaking it, it's him.

“You caught it, too, didn't you,” Taksony asks, having walked from the couch to the sink while Conleth was entranced by the TV. “Bastard's not even trying to hide it, either. This could be trouble for the both of us.” Glancing at his friend's tightening grip on his mug, he adds, “Are you going to be fine with this?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?”

A pause as he takes in a deep breath, releasing the tension in his body. “I can do it. I'll walk up to that bastard and… and…” His cheeks slowly start turning a subtle shade of pink. “Shit, I lost my train of thought.” He takes a sip from his coffee, avoiding the gaze of the toad-man whose sly demeanor he's all too keen on.

“It's okay to say it. It happens to all of us, even me. And you know what they say about love and hate, eh?”

He responds with a cold shoulder, downing his coffee and retreating into the bathroom.

Dressed lightly for the transitioning autumn weather, bag slung over his shoulder, Conleth treks over to the school cafe, hoping to grab a quick bite to eat before heading to class. As he waits for the line to thin out, the walls echo with a loud racket coming from the entrance. From the corner of his eye, he spots a growing crowd clearing a path as a certain preppy fashionista struts through the doors. The celebrity stops in his tracks mere arm's length from the delinquent, and they lock eyes, the tension thickening. Their thoughts are mutual, expressed in tandem: “You.”

The people around them, fearful of the potential conflict, step back a safe distance, with some running for their lives. A handful whip out their smartphones to take pictures or record video. Aware of the controversy this could bring, Nassir cracks a smile and grabs the other's hand to shake it. “I cannot believe it! My old online buddy, attending the same school as me? What a coincidence!”

Conleth blinks, more perplexed than vexed, but is told to play along. “Uh, yeah. I didn't think I'd see you here of all places. Guess I should've told you what school I go to beforehand. Small world, man.”

“Oh, don't act so shy. We're friends, aren't we?” The Egyptian's mien looks strained to its limits. “Come now, we simply have to catch up. I'll buy!”

After paying for donuts and coffee, Nassir drags Conleth—quite forcefully—to an isolated bench in the nearby park, activating a magical veil to reduce their presence as they stop to rest. Sitting on opposite ends of the bench, reaching closer solely to grab donuts from the bag between them, the earlier atmosphere returns with a vengeance. Between bites, he looks at the young man next to him, his handsome face furrowed in disgruntlement as he devours the pastry in his mouth. “Hey, what the hell was that back there? You could've just left instead of causing a ruckus.”

He scoffs. “And go hungry? I did what I had to, and so long as we don't do anything to attract attention, the rumors will die down eventually. Besides,” he glances in Conleth's direction as he snatches a donut from his hand, “I need to have a word with you, Old One to Old One.”

“Since we're on that subject, why are you here, of all places? With your so-called 'prestige', you could've done whatever you wanted anywhere in the world.”

“You do know that Miskatonic is the world's largest source of occult knowledge, right? I seriously hope you're not that dense. That aside, I've heard from a little birdy that an interesting little specimen happens to be in the area.”

“Little birdy…?”

“It's like they say in business: It's not what you know, but who you know. Being a member of the Black Court, I have access to all sorts of information and privileges thanks to my heritage. That's more than I can say for you, mongrel. And with my massive online presence, I happened to get in contact with a very important relative.”

He grits his teeth and grabs another donut. Going through his limited knowledge of Nyarlathotep's family tree, the only other one he could recall knowing about with his level of power comes to the tip of his tongue: “Umr at-Tawil.”

“Oh, so you have met. What a small world we live in right now.” He stands up, claiming the bag before the flaming mongrel could, and turns to face him directly. “I'll leave you to your business, but the next time we cross paths, I will not be as merciful.”

“As will I.” A cocky smirk on his face, he adds, “Maybe you should cut back on the sweets. Don't wanna ruin your perfect figure.” He receives a flung bag to the face.

“Maybe you should watch your mouth.” With a huff, Nassir storms off.

Conleth, last donut in hand, merely sits back, observing the sway of his hips and roundness of his rear as it shrinks in the distance. In their brief interaction, he saw behind the devilish Old One a sliver of humanity, possibly belonging to the mortal vessel he stole from, which only adds to the frustrating flux of emotions going through him. Frustrating though Nyarlathotep may be, he cannot help but feel a strange sense of excitement, akin to the moment of finding a worthy rival in competition. May the best man win, as they say.

Chapter Text

In the countryside town of Dunwich, Massachusetts, there stood a dilapidated house built on the side of a hill. In the attic of the house, one could spot an albino woman, her scrawny frame in paint-stained clothes, singing to herself as she paced back and forth. Looking through the window inside, amidst the clutter beside the walls, was a baby crib, a mobile, and a dresser overflowing with tiny garments. The walls were painted in a mishmash of colors, forming abstract visions of earthly and non-earthly things. Though the time had yet to come, she eagerly awaited the day when that room would no longer be vacant.

“Lavinia,” an elderly voice called out from below. “Come down here. There's someone I want you too meet.”

With a skip to her step, she went downstairs into the kitchen, where an old man—her father, known to the public as Wizard—sat on the dining table across from their guest. A young man—no, a boy, perhaps, she could not tell—with silvery-white hair half-shrouded under a pale cloak, and a round face dotted with freckles. What most surprised her, however, were the clouded eyes that seemed to look not at her, but past her, facing in a direction slightly over her shoulder. Is he…?

“My child, allow me to introduce you to Umr at-Tawil. He's an old friend of mine who came from a far-off place to see us.”

Umr's gaze shifted, locked directly onto Lavinia's as he stood up and curtseyed with the loose ends of his cloak. “A pleasure to meet you, miss,” he said, his voice a gentle, airy lilt, every bit as ethereal as his appearance. “I hope you'll forgive me if my gaze comes across as a bit unusual. As you may have noticed, my vision is far from ideal. But as long as I have somebody to keep me company, I can see as well as anybody else… somewhat.” This caught her off-guard—the words he used, the way he spoke them, something about them were off.

“It's nice to meet you, Mr. at-Tawil—”

“Please, call me Umr. Any family of Noah's is family to me.” he pauses for a bit, then asked, “If you don't mind, I would like to see the attic.”

“The attic? But why…?” She turned to her father, who nodded in consent. It struck her exactly what his intent was. Looking at Umr again, her worry washed away, relieved by his smile, which she sensed was genuine and, more surprisingly, mutual. “Of course. We are family, right?”

Umr opens his eyes. Sitting on his knees before a coffee table, cup of piping hot tea in his hands, his heart sinks. With the aid of his familiar, he can see himself through its eyes, acknowledging second- and firsthand just how empty the room is. He waves his hand, sending the small creature off to a more important task.

A minute later, in creeps the only other “true” resident of the house. Naked save for the blanket draped over his shoulders, with shaggy gray hair reaching down to his knees, the plump male approaches the table. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I got caught up in a chat with Joey. Would you like dinner?”

“Yes, but if you don't mind, I would like you to keep me company tonight.”

A twitch of hesitance, then he responds with, “If you wish it, I have no choice but to comply.”

Umr lets out his trademark laugh, soft and childlike. “C'mon, Hzi, don't act so stiff! We're living under the same roof, you can loosen up a bit.”

“Sorry, force of habit, I guess. Shall I start making dinner?”

“Yes, but, uh…” His freckled cheeks a light shade of pink, he says, “Can you put on some clothes… please?”

“I would if any of the ones you bought me fit.”

“What? I thought I got the size right last time!” He sighs in disappointment. “Well, at least put on the apron.”

“That's even worse,” Hzi interjects, his mind churning with racy thoughts. Thoughts which, when prodded by Umr's clairvoyance, cause him to giggle, heightening the humiliation. Knowing exactly what's going on, Hzi relents and heads into the kitchen.

In the half-cluttered attic of the Whateley residence, Umr stared in awe at the mural of warped, multicolored formations, contrasted directly with the pearly white crib and its pastel coverings. He approached one of the shapes, a five-pointed smattering of hues on the wall behind the crib, and reached out to touch it when Lavinia stopped him short. “Don't touch it, it's still wet!”

He dropped his hand and turned to face her. “Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I just found myself drawn to it.”

A wary tone to her voice, she said, “I thought you were blind.”

“I am—mostly. But as long as I have an extra set of eyes, I can see as well as anyone. Sort of.”

She spoke no further on the subject. This was one of Father's friends, after all—they all had some propensity for the occult arts, and Umr without a doubt used his to compensate for his disability. However, there was something else about him that sent a wave of confusion and disarray to her mental state, a powerful, indescribable sensation in his aura that distinguished him from the average magus. Then there was the smell: that strong, putrid stench of sulfur and decay. Even with her limited magical senses, she could tell from the moment their eyes met that he was not what he seemed.

“You're wondering what I am, right? That is understandable. If you were thinking 'he cannot be human', then you would be correct. Have you studied from your father's books recently?”

Lavinia paused to mull over the question. Umr at-Tawil, had she known of that name before? Her mind dwelled back to a memory of her father lending her his copy of the legendary Necronomicon, its worn cover protecting the yellowed pages inside, of her reading from those rough-written texts under candlelight, of the rituals and chants inscribed. Umr at-Tawil, the Lurker at the Threshold, wielder of the Silver Key… Yog-Sothoth.

Her vision turned to black.

Shuffling back into the living room, Hzi, wearing nothing but a frilly pink apron, sets the tray with this evening's dinner—a simple array of fried porkchops over rice and steamed vegetables. Umr comments on how quickly he got it done, only to be met with a bemused chuckle. “For one with so much dominance over time, you're terrible with keeping track of it.”

“With something as infinite and easily entangled as time, it's remarkably easy to lose sight of it.” He picks up his fork and tests the meal, grinning in delight.

“You know how you asked me to keep an eye on Nassir's online activity? Today, he announced that he'll be arriving in Arkham to attend Miskatonic U. The media's going nuts over it. More importantly, I managed to get in touch with him.”

Umr's eyes widen. “Really? What did he say?”

“He wishes to see you. He's curious about you-know-who.”

A grim silence threatens to disrupt the atmosphere. “What does Nyarlathotep want my child for?”

“I tried asking the same question, but he kept dodging it. There's something else you should know. The Daemon Sultan will be accompanying him.”

Umr bites his lower lip in frustration. Why does the Crawling Chaos insist on flirting with danger this way? Is he planning to destroy all of them? What are his motives?

Burdened by the rising tension, Hzi blurts out, “Funny thing happened today. So in Arcane World, my buddy and I were hanging with our guild, planning this raid party…”

The rest of the conversation mutes out, a muddled blur of uneventful chatter.

When Lavinia awoke, she was face-to-face with another: Umr at-Tawil, ethereal and ageless as ever. She looked around, then straight up. Around them, stone formations of multiple hues, some inconceivable to the human imagination, towering high towards the endless abyss of celestial bodies and abstract geometries, a full moon shining overhead. Most shocking to her, she was completely without clothing. It's that time, she realized, recalling the ritual bookmarked by her father, etched into her subconscious. The corners of her vision began to dim as her perception of reality warped. The once-handsome man, now an amorphous beast with pulsating orbs emerging from his flesh, leaned towards her, then whispered in her ear in his alien tongue. “By agreeing to this pact, you will bound yourself to me in body, mind, and spirit. By taking my seed, our lineage shall pass on, continuing the cycle old as time. You have one last chance to relinquish this pact, though be warned, it shall not be without consequence. Do you still accept your fate?”

Shaken, but still determined to live up to the Whateley name, she nodded. She laid her hands on what she assumed to be his face and answered with a crooked smile, “So shall it be.”

Once their plates are cleared and their bellies full, Umr and Hzi part ways, the latter slinking down to the basement to resume his online antics, and the former cautiously stepping to his bedroom to lie down. Umr's current companion, a multi-legged hairy insectoid with six beady eyes throughout its elongated body, curls up on his lap, demanding to be petted. With a sad smile, he gives it what it wants, until it happily slips away into the interdimensional void. Now alone and sightless, he is left to his thoughts. Lavinia…

Lanky, hollow-eyed, and pallid, she was not attractive in the conventional sense, but to Umr, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Perhaps it was due to the supernatural nature of their pact that he felt this way, but as long as his offspring were allowed to thrive, he would do anything to protect her. When she birthed their twins, their precious treasures, he was there by her side. When the second twin's inception proved too unstable to remain on this earthly plane, he was there to remove the burden for her sake. When circumstances outside of his control forced him to leave his new family, he left the old Wizard with a letter detailing his wishes for his child to carry out. Among those wishes was for him to outlive his mother and grandfather.

He knew she was not long for this world. All creatures on this planet have pitifully short lifespans, by his kind's standards. Yet her passing hit him far more than he had expected. He did not love her as two humans would—it was a mutual pact made out of obligation, to inherit the blood of the Old Ones and increase their power. “Pity” sounds a more accurate term, or so he tells himself. Regardless of what he calls it, he cared for her, and as his last direct kin, he cares even more for his child, Wilbur.

Becoming bored with wallowing in his own pity, he breaks the promise he made with his housemate and taps into his mind's eye, eavesdropping on his online activities until sleep overtakes him.