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The mood in Carcosa was tense. Well… not for most Carcosans.
They had few reasons to be unhappy. Commerce was great, the poorer sections (so-called) had enough food from the palace to offset any burgeoning desperation, the small criminals trying to gain a hold seemed to have lost both their leader and their direction, and court was running fine with Dagon at the helm.
Cthulhu wasn’t expected.
Cthulhu was… a problem.
So far, his island stayed in the sea, and Cthulhu stayed in the palace, and it wasn’t like he could even be here without the King in Yellow’s permission, so it was fine, this was fine, everything was fine.
Even if dreams skewed toward the dark and arcane. Even if merchants near the palace began quietly moving their stalls further away because too near, things tasted wrong, smelled strange, mismatched memory.
It only wasn’t a terrifying harbinger because they trusted the King. Who was… somewhere with his kid, but obviously knew what was happening. Right?
Right?
#
Faroe stumbled when they stepped together from the Scriptorium back into Carcosa and the flow of regular time. John steadied her, and she gave him a grateful look.
Then she scowled at her feet. Why was she tired? She hadn’t even done anything. She’d wandered the Dreamlands on her own, fought and trained for hours, survived the Storm. Nothing had happened! It was stupid to be tired!
Odd nudged her lightly. “You all right there?” He still looked… ashen. No one had had time to deal with the other Odd. Kayne had simply grabbed him, vanished, and reappeared without the guy, laughing. They’d bandaged Odd’s wounds. Gotten him some clothes. Nobody had talked about it yet.
She scowled at him. “Me? I’m fine. Are you all right?”
Odd didn’t answer at once. She knew that meant he was being honest, and slid her hand into his, encouraging.
He gave her a weak smile. “You know, I think I need some time before I can answer that?”
She nodded. “That’s very fair.”
And then Dagon came around the corner.
He was hurrying, perhaps sensing the waft of power from the Keeper’s place like fresh bread from an oven. His eyes were huge. His gaze locked onto her, and then he grinned—huge, shark-like, utterly terrifying… and comfortingly familiar. “Well, I’ll be a guppy.”
Faroe ran for him.
He grabbed her up, and it was a real hug, and sure, he smelled a little like low tide, but it wasn’t bad, and that he had missed her suddenly meant so much and she wasn’t even sure why.
Nibbles took that as her cue and leaped up to balance on his shoulder.
“Whoa, there,” he rumbled, neither kicking Nibbles off nor putting Faroe down. “Easy, tadpole. We’re all right.”
“Sir.” Parker nodded. “Uh. How long were we gone?”
“Five days. Started to worry about you people.” Dagon’s smile faded. “Listen. You all need some warnin’. Cthulhu’s here.”
Everyone went still. The little guy made a small noise and clutched Parker under the jacket.
“That guy?” said Arthur. “Yes, I met him.”
Everybody stared at him.
“You what,” said Parker flatly.
Arthur shrugged. Because of course he did.
“Yeah. He did. Your little music man's weird. Cthulhu is gonna be sniffing around,” Dagon said.
“I don’t care,” said Faroe.
Parker closed his eyes with a sigh. “Fucking hell, Lester.”
“Parker?” whispered the little guy in his jacket, and Parker held him tighter.
Dagon patted Faroe’s back, but now, he was looking at John. Really, really looking at John. “You healed up okay.”
“Healed up?” said Parker, looking at him. “What’d you do, attack the fucking Sleeper of R'lyeh?
John said nothing, placing one hand on Arthur’s chest to pull the man against himself.
“Are you serious?” Odd cried, somehow growing even more ashen.
“We’re fine,” John grumbled.
“Really, we are,” Arthur insisted.
Odd smacked himself in the face. “Well… all right. Right! I am going to suggest that none of us have the mental or emotional currency to deal with this right now. Is there anything else we need to know before we all dive headfirst into some form of comfort?”
Dagon patted Faroe’s back. “Well. I’m guessin’ it was no five days for you.”
“No,” she whispered. “It was not.”
“You’re home now,” Dagon rumbled, soothing. “Any news on… you know?”
“Hastur’s going to be okay,” said Arthur, low. “He’s going to be returning soon.” It sounded like a vow.
Dagon’s relief was visible. All his gills fluttered. A few of the spines along his back and arms sort of flexed, then folded tight. “Fuck. Good.” He stood taller. “Right. Nobody knows nothing happened. Right? So… I can tell you been through it, all of you.” He eyed Parker and his companion. Frowned. Clearly did not recognize whoever was under that jacket, and turned back to Arthur. “You gotta take up the con again. You feel me?”
“Play the game. Yes. We can do that,” Arthur said for them all before anyone could argue.
Parker murmured to the man around his chest. “You good?”
“Yes,” came, muffled. “I have to be.”
“You guys et yet?” said Dagon, finally sliding Faroe down. Nibbles stayed perched on his shoulder, keeping track of them all like a weird pirate parrot.
“Not… in a few hours,” said Faroe, wiping her eyes.
“So mebbe dinner. You guys all did that together before, and it’d be weird to change it up now. I’ll join ya. They got a good kitchen here.”
“They do,” said Parker, and turned to them all. Meeting their gazes, one by one. “Are you up for it?”
Faroe stood tall and raised her chin. “For Carcosa. Yes.”
The guy under the jacket sniffled. “Yes,” he murmured, muffled.
Arthur sighed. “I don’t see why not.”
John was quiet.
They waited.
Nibbles bleated.
“Yes,” John finally said, and his hand on Arthur’s chest twitched.
“Dinner it is,” said Dagon. “Let’s go get comfy.”
#
They’d only been gone a couple of weeks—at least, from their perspective—but the familiar dining room seemed like something out of a dream, so bright, the far wall open above the balustrade, the sky pink with setting suns, flowering branches bobbing gently in the breeze, the fountain in the water garden just barely audible.
It was so different from the quiet, filtered-light of the library that for a moment, Faroe felt surreal. Unbalanced. Unsteady. Not… herself.
Wait. That wasn’t because of this. She had been trained, and knew mental manipulation when she felt it. “Cthulhu… where is he?”
Dagon looked up, listening to something only he could hear. “Wandering the garden out there. Prob’ly trying to sus out whatever spells Hastur’s using these days. He does that.”
“Rude,” Parker muttered.
“Nah. Curious. Which ain’t so bad on its own.” Dagon sat down at the foot of the table. Like Hastur, he’d shrunk himself enough to fit. “He’s always gotta know everything. Problem’s more how he views other people.”
Faroe’s lips tightened. “As experiments?”
“Naw. He’s not like that Outer God what took your dad.” Dagon’s voice was gentle. “Me, I like living things. Every frond of seaweed’s got something to say; every little fish’s got its own little spirit. But Cthulhu… Unless you’re at his level, you don’t really matter to him.”
“That explains a lot,” Faroe said, sharp as a letter opener.
“An asshole,” said Arthur as though finding confirmation.
“Don’t underestimate him,” Dagon said. “I promise you Hastur won’t.”
John shuddered and draped an arm around Arthur.
“You good, baby?” Parker murmured, pulling out his seat.
The man in his jacket took a deep breath. “I’m ready.” And he stepped free. The guy was small, thin, draped in a shirt that hung almost to his knees, hair long and white-blonde, watery blue eyes firmly down on the ground.
Dagon frowned at him. “Who’s that?”
“It’s Sunny,” said Faroe.
Dagon blinked once.
Sunny stood, trembling. Waiting for condemnation, for derision, for—
“Huh,” said Dagon. “Well, good for you.”
Nobody jeered, sneered, snarled. Sunny dared peek up.
“Welcome,” said Faroe. She gave a little bow. “I’m glad to finally see you.”
“You… you don’t…” Sunny’s eyes were already spiling over.
Arthur gave a smile in his direction. “Fucking glad you’re here. That’s what we are.”
Sunny took a shaky breath. He looked toward Parker.
Parker slid his arm around Sunny’s waist. “See?” he murmured, and kissed his head.
Arthur sat with a plop. “I could eat a horse,” he said, and that was the end of Sunny-Larson drama tonight.
“Two horses,” said Odd, still looking pale, the color of ash. His hands did not shake, but that took effort.
“Hastur feed you horses a lot?” said Dagon looking amused.
“Not usually, no,” said Faroe with a little smile.
Dancers came streaming in. As if they’d been eagerly waiting for everyone’s return, they each carried platters under cloches, and revealed a proper feast—roast duck, crisp potato pancakes, a beer-cheese dip called obatzda, soft pretzels, potroast, chocolate lebkuchen cherry balls—
“Oh,” said Faroe, suddenly remembering food.
Nibbled whuffed agreement.
“That smells really good,” said Arthur.
Sunny, still leaning into Parker, sat up straight. “Parker, look at it,” he added.
A few moments passed while platters were layered and plates were filled. There was more than enough; beer made an appearance, gold and frothy in enormous steins, and little by little, the mood rose.
“Better than a horse,” said Odd.
“Damn good,” said Dagon, finishing his third stein. “Don’t got too much of this under the sea.”
“Wheat,” said Odd with such sincerity that everyone laughed.
“Might could work something out,” Dagon said, studying his stein.
Faroe rolled her eyes. “You still haven’t figured out honey.”
He pointed at her. “No, you’re right. Still don’t got that.”
“Underwater bees,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I can’t even imagine what that would be like.”
“You wouldn’t need the same security measures, that’s for damn sure,” said Parker.
“Sunny. I have a question,” said John.
Sunny lowered the bowl of pot roast broth he’d held to his lips. “Yes?”
“Why are you so hairy?”
Dagon choked. Then laughed.
Everybody stared at John for a beat.
“John!” Arthur said, aghast.
Sunny’s eyes were huge. “I… I don’t…”
“Every man’s body’s different, John, what the fuck,” said Parker in highly judgmental tone.
John turned to him. “Have you seen it?”
“Seen… Sunny’s body?” blurted Parker.
“Yes. Are you two having sex?”
Dagon doubled over, slapping his knee.
Faroe’s eyebrows rose. She ate in dignity and silence.
“John, you can’t just ask that!” Arthur cried.
“It’s okay if you are,” said John with a loftiness that ignored Dagon’s rising hilarity.
Sunny stared at him. “What is happening right now?”
And John said, “Arthur and I are also having sex.”
A beat.
Dagon lost it again.
Faroe rolled her eyes. “Finally,” she muttered.
Parker stared. “Really? Hot damn, Lester. Took you long enough.”
Sunny coughed, pale cheeks flushed scarlet. “Good for you?”
“A lot of sex,” John clarified, louder.
Parker nodded. “Sure. Anyway. Try this, lover,” he said, delivering roast duck to Sunny’s plate.
“This is stupid,” muttered Sunny, who had yet to use silverware, and went for the duck with his hands.
Arthur had gone as red as the cherries peeking from the lebkuchen cake balls.
Faroe was finishing her pot roast, providing Nibbles with a healthy second portion.
John bristled. “I said we’re having sex!”
“Th’nk y’ f’r shar’ng, J’n,” Sunny said through a mouth full of duck. “F’ck, thiz—fuck, this is delicious.”
“Don’t burn yourself,” Parker said through a grin.
“Different from your tastebuds,” said Sunny, looking amazed. “Will it all taste different?”
“One way to find out, sunshine.”
“Do you want to be hairy?” John demanded, apparently unhappy with their response. “Because your voice changed, so you clearly have control over your form.”
Parker glanced at Sunny, but said nothing.
“That’s… interesting,” Faroe said. “It did change.”
“John, leave them alone,” Arthur hissed, who was tired of magic and all that came with it.
Dagon wiped his eyes. “Damn, you do a good job of sounding young.”
That was an odd statement. Parker frowned at him.
Faroe was beyond caring. She'd eaten fast, and was leaning into Nibbles. “I think sleep is a good idea.”
John huffed. “The sex is very good.”
Arthur stood so quickly he banged into the table. “I'm taking dinner in my room,” he said, and then marched away without it.
“That's what the kids are calling it these days!” Dagon guffawed, cracking up all over again.
John rose. “I can give you advice!” he called at Sunny, then slithered after Arthur, shouting his name.
Odd laughed, shaking his head. “Honestly, those two…”
Dagon wiped his eyes. “Inseparable. I'm calling ‘em Jarthur.” He’d finished off the duck, the roast, the pretzels, and the dip.
Odd laughed. “They’d hate it. I'm in.”
“A nickname for the two of them?” rumbled Sunny. “There’s an idea.”
“Oh, I already have one for you,” said Odd, pointing with his fork. “Sunnyparks.”
Parker got a tiny smile and twined his fingers with Sunny’s under the table. “Ridiculous.”
“Kind of… endearing.” Sunny’s expression toward him could only be called doe-eyed.
Faroe giggled.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm glad you’re all back,” was all Dagon said, but Faroe understood how much that meant, and gave him a warm smile. Nibbles bleated her approval.
#
And out in the garden, Cthulhu rumbled his puzzlement.
That had not been his predicted pattern for the evening. None of them acted as expected. He knew Hastur well, knew how his people were—needy, obsequious, not at all properly subdued, still individual and grasping, but all of that had been… weirdly banal?
Ordinary mortal nonsense, that’s what he’d heard. From Hastur’s family?
They hadn’t even talked about him! Since when did Hastur’s people not talk about him?
Rumbling with the pleasure of a new mystery, he leaned back in this audaciously floral creation and studied the sky. He knew the stars as well as he knew his brother; knew their names, their songs, their lifespans and their dreams. And he knew they had changed.
Changed in the course of a few decades. That should be impossible.
Arthur Lester. The name whispered on the wind. The name that caught Azazoth’s breath. The lynchpin on which all of this might turn.
Time would tell. Cthulhu made a point of knowing himself, too, and it had been a long time since he’d encountered a thing he didn’t understand. He could admit this puzzled him.
The prophecies were not the same. How curious. He rumbled, and his face tentacles curled. Hastur had clearly stumbled onto something remarkable, and had no idea how valuable it was.
That was all right. The smart brother was involved now. This situation would be understood, resolved, and co-opted. Arthur Lester. Faroe. John. Whoever those others were—his spies said The Saint and Wallace Larson, but they called him Sunny. Clearly, his people would have to find more.
So would he. He smiled at the stars, and found himself glad there were still unknown depths to plumb.
