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Death is intimate, the way he kills.
Fighting face to face, limbs locked around limbs, flesh meeting flesh in desperate striving. Crescent darts cutting throats, blood warm on his face. A savage duet that always ends in a solo.
His is the hand of justice, of vengeance, of divine retribution. His god is pleased with his work. "You have done well, my Moon Knight."
Harrow bows his head, too exhausted to rise from his knees.
He knows every cut and bruise and fracture will heal as though nothing ever happened. But right now, everything hurts. He wishes, selfishly, hopelessly, for someone who could give him the comfort of a caress.
It has been an eternity since anyone touched him without intent to wound.
#
Being Moon Knight is like nothing else.
When it's good, it's very good. The adrenalin of living in the moment. The exhilaration of being the best. The soaring purpose of having one goal, one focus, one destiny. Like he's an instrument playing his orchestrated part in the grand symphony of heaven and earth. How can anything else compare? He's not a spectator, raging and helpless over atrocities in the headlines. The guilty may evade the law, but they will never escape him.
When it's bad, it follows him into his dreams.
#
In the aftermath of the slaughter, Harrow sees the man watching from the shadows.
He comes to full alertness, ready for battle again. But the man doesn't look like the terrorists whose bodies lie twisted on the floor. He stands there, unarmed, unafraid, in sweatshirt and sweatpants, like he's just wandered in from exercise or woken up from sleep. Harrow passes a hand over his face, as though to dispel hallucination. Impossible that any casual bystander should be here, on this remote island whose secret base he has just destroyed.
Khonshu appears to ignore the man completely, congratulating Harrow on the success of the mission. Harrow only takes in half the words. He stares at the man, until even Khonshu notices and asks him to pay attention.
Harrow says, with reluctance, "You don't see anyone else here?"
Khonshu casts his gaze around slowly, and then finally settles on Harrow. There is a long pause. Khonshu is usually inscrutable, but this time, his voice is gentle. "Ghosts aren't real."
When Harrow looks again, the man has disappeared, like a mirage in the desert.
#
Harrow never stays in one place for long. The world is wide and full of evils. He goes where he's sent, and he does what he's told, stealing moments of sleep in anonymous hotels and motels and whatever shelter he can find.
He starts seeing the man, in the corner of his eye, wherever he goes. On the deck of a ferry, on the roof of a nightclub, in the basement of a warehouse. Despite what Khonshu implied, Harrow doesn't believe he's seeing ghosts. He no longer remembers the face of every person he has killed, but he knows he would remember this man. Something in the intensity of his gaze. He looks older than Harrow, maybe in his thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes, and an expression that moves between wistful and haunted.
Finally, when he appears on the hotel balcony, half hidden behind a potted plant, Harrow challenges him. "Do you have something to say, or are you just going to stand there?"
The man throws him a startled look. "Oh. Hello?" He gives a hesitant little wave. "You're taking this very calmly. No panicking or screaming. Or maybe that's just me."
Harrow twists a smile. "You're not the worst nightmare I've had."
The man cocks his head. "Oh, you think I'm a dream? Makes sense." He takes a deep breath. "I'm not a dream. My name is Steven Grant, and I'm from the future." He holds up a large hourglass on a chain around his neck, as though it should mean something.
Well, that's a new one. Harrow's not sure what to make of this. He's not even sure if he's really awake. He's had those kinds of nightmares before too.
"Am I dead?" Harrow says. "In the future." It's the first thing he thinks to ask. Maybe some instinct about the way Steven looks at him.
He knows he's hit the bullseye, when Steven's eyes go wide. "How did you know?"
"This isn't the kind of job that gets you a gold watch and a pension plan." Harrow is only the latest in a long line of avatars. He expects to die in harness, just like all the others before him. One of these days, Khonshu won't be able to heal him fast enough or resurrect him well enough. He's not sure what the limits are. He's not sure he wants to know. With morbid curiosity, he asks, "How long have I got?"
"… That's kind of a complicated question." Steven takes another deep breath. "I'm Moon Knight in the future. Sort of. And I'm here to save your life."
Well, that's definitely a new one. Harrow regards Steven with even more interest. So this is who Khonshu will pick after Harrow gets killed. Not what he would have expected. There's a warmth and sincerity about him, that seems at odds with being the Fist of Vengeance. "Aren't you afraid of changing the timeline?"
Steven gets a certain look in his eyes, and suddenly Harrow can see the steel beneath. "Maybe the timeline deserves to be changed."
#
Now that they've actually made contact, Steven stops lurking at a distance, and starts showing up to chat directly with Harrow. He always wears the hourglass. When the sand runs out, he vanishes again. Today he appears in the hour before dawn, when Harrow has finished his long and bloody night of work, and is preparing to sleep through the day like the dead. If the dead will let him.
"I don't believe in predestination," Steven says. "I just want to be clear about that up front. Punishing someone for future crimes is punishing an innocent person."
"Why are you telling me this?" Harrow says, darkly amused. He knows he is a murderer in the eyes of the law. He can live with that. He is justice in the eyes of his god. He wonders if Steven is a manifestation of his conscience. Trying to warn him and absolve him, at the same time. "Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?"
"It's not too late," Steven says, earnestly. "To change who you become."
"And what's that?"
"Someone who does believe in predestination."
Harrow is not a superstitious man, despite his service to an ancient moon deity. But he feels like a ghost just walked over his grave.
"To tell you the truth," Steven says, "you're not the first person I tried to go back in time to save."
That sounds foreboding. "Who?"
Steven says, simply, "I had a brother."
A world of loss in those words. "I'm sorry," Harrow says.
"It turns out there are rules, you know? To stop there from being a paradox. Like how you can't kill your own grandfather. You can't unmake yourself. The timeline won't let you. Though I suppose nothing stops you from becoming your own grandfather." Steven takes a breath. "Anyway. I thought, if I can't save him, maybe I can at least save someone."
Harrow isn't sure he understands all of these oblique references. He's not even sure that Steven isn't just a figment of his imagination. But one thing he does know for sure. No one has ever before decided he was the one who deserved saving.
#
Harrow likes to start his patrols with a visit to the late night coffee cart on the corner. He spots Steven chatting to the vendor, who hands him his cup and his change. Harrow stops in his tracks. He has just about come to terms with Steven being his own personal hallucination. But here he is, talking to someone else, like an ordinary person on the street. Is this all some elaborate prank?
Harrow marches up to the cart and grabs Steven by the wrist. "What is this?"
Steven startles, coffee sloshing over the side. "Oh! Harrow! I was just about to--"
"Who are you really?" Harrow says, low and fierce. "Is this a game to you? Or are you working for--"
"Hey," the vendor cuts in. "You buying or what?"
Harrow ignores him. He drags Steven away, pinning him up against a wall by the wrists. The coffee cup tumbles to the ground, fallen and forgotten. "You had me going for a while. All that time travel bullshit."
Steven gives him a confused look. "Did you think I was a hologram or something? I'm really here. Just from the future. Where do you think I keep disappearing off to?"
Harrow has no answer to that. Steven has appeared and disappeared in places no ordinary person could. There are other possibilities, of course. Magic. Aliens. Gods. But whatever the explanation, Steven Grant is no ordinary person, and this is no ordinary plot.
Maybe it is time travel after all.
Now that the first shock has faded, Harrow is conscious of the warm skin under his hands, the pulse beating in those wrists. Steven gazes back at him, eyes dark and wide. He can see his own reflection in their depths. They are standing far too close, breath almost mingling.
"You're real," Harrow says at last. "You're really real. So I'm not imagining you. But Khonshu--"
"Oh. That." Steven coughs awkwardly. "The gods can't see me. It would cause a time paradox, because of what they are. But anyone else can."
It makes as much sense as anything else. Harrow lets go and steps back, suddenly exhausted. Steven rubs his wrists, clearly relieved.
"… I'll buy you another coffee," Harrow says.
"It was for you," Steven admits. "I can't sleep if I have caffeine too late."
Harrow was once stabbed in the chest with a dull knife. It felt like someone was trying to rip open his heart. He feels exactly the same way now.
#
It takes a long time to dig a grave.
Steven has offered to help, but Harrow must do this alone. It has become a kind of ritual. Not for every kill he makes, no, that would be impossible. Only there are some deaths that demand it. So here they are, on a cold hillside, a corpse wrapped in a carpet, a shovel biting into dirt.
"What would you do if you weren't Moon Knight?" Steven says.
Harrow looks at him blankly. The question makes no sense.
"You must have had dreams when you were growing up, right?" Steven persists. "I mean, you probably weren't hoping to become a masked vigilante or a cult leader? When I was a kid, I wanted to be an explorer. Me and my brother, we used to pretend we were adventurers, discovering lost cities and ancient ruins."
Harrow says, "And how did that work out for you?"
Steven flinches as if struck.
Harrow gets back to work with the shovel, balanced on the brink of the black pit. Moon Knight is not a job you retire from.
One of these days, the grave he digs will be his own.
#
The worst part is the aftermath of battle, when the righteous high ebbs away, and all Harrow is left with is cold reality. He stumbles back into the hotel room, feeling the familiar ache of his wounds crawling closed and his armour melting away. He collapses face first onto the bed, too exhausted for anything else.
It's no use. He's still running across the rooftops, hunting down the human predators turned into prey. Just him against the law of the jungle. There's only one moon in the sky.
Some time later, a voice rouses him. "Are you awake?"
Harrow sits bolt upright, heart pounding. "I'm awake. I swear."
But it's not Khonshu, calling him to action. It's Steven, looking at him with concern. "Are you okay?"
Harrow looks down at himself and the wreck of his clothes. The ceremonial armour takes the brunt of attacks, but it's not invulnerable. "Yeah. Most of the blood isn't mine."
"You're not going back on the streets again tonight?" Steven says.
"No rest for the wicked," Harrow answers. He gets to his feet. Wavers.
Steven catches his arm. "When did you last sleep properly?"
Harrow tries to remember. Apparently he takes too long to answer.
"Okay," Steven says. "Stop. Just stop."
Harrow stops. Surprised at the voice of authority. Surprised by his own reaction to it.
Steven manoeuvres him into the bathroom. Harrow glimpses his reflection in the mirror. There's blood in his hair. There's blood in a lot of places.
Steven heats up the shower, and pushes Harrow into the cubicle, bloodstained clothes and all. Steam rises like the breath of a volcano; water falls upon him like a benediction. He sheds his clothes like a snake sloughing its skin. He tilts his head forward, lets the spray wash over him, lets the blood swirl down the drain.
Steven is the one who finally turns off the shower, wraps him in a towel, and rubs dry his hair. Harrow shuts his eyes at the touch of fingers on his scalp, even through the thick layer of cotton terrycloth, and tries not to make inappropriate sounds.
"All done," Steven says, at last. He's a little flushed as well.
Harrow submits to being dressed, guided to bed, and covered in blankets. As he sinks onto the pillows, he makes one last protest. "If Khonshu summons me--"
"--he can go to voicemail," Steven says firmly.
The hourglass hangs from his neck, the sands falling silently. Harrow traces his fingers over the curved glass, not quite daring to reach out for its wearer. Too drowsy for dignity, he murmurs, "Will you be here when I wake up?"
"I'm here now." Steven lays a hand on his forehead. It's impossibly soothing, that human touch.
Harrow falls into a dreamless sleep.
#
Harrow stares out the hotel window at the endless rain. A night unfit for man or beast. The moon is lost behind clouds.
The ceremonial armour confers certain abilities, including enhanced awareness. He can sense the moment that Steven appears. A human presence suddenly in the room, heart beating strong and steady. A human reflection suddenly in the window, looking at Harrow looking at the rain.
Steven makes a dubious sound. "You sure you want to be out in that weather?"
Harrow lets the curtain fall. "Tell me to stay home tonight."
"Um, okay?" Steven says, obligingly, "You should probably stay home tonight?"
Harrow turns to face Steven. With a gesture, he dispels the ceremonial armour. Underneath, he wears a white linen shirt, open at the throat, and soft silk trousers. His feet are bare. He walks across the carpet towards Steven, who seems transfixed.
Harrow says, "Tell me to go back to bed."
Steven is getting a clue. His voice catches in his throat. "You should go back to bed."
Harrow sits down on the end of the bed. He smiles up at Steven disarmingly. "Is there anything else you want to tell me to do?"
"Oh god," Steven says convulsively.
"He's not here right now," Harrow says. "Just you and me." He runs a hand down Steven's chest. "Tell me what you want."
Steven swallows, his eyes darkened with arousal. "I really want to be in that bed with you." He checks himself. "I mean. Only if that's what you want too."
"I'm fairly sure we're on the same page here." Harrow takes Steven by the wrists, pressing kisses into his palms, twining their bodies closer together.
Steven is breathing hard. "I don't know if this is a good idea. What if I mess up the timeline? Or if I become my own grandfather?"
"You're not going to become your own grandfather," Harrow tells him, and draws him down onto the bed.
It's warm and sincere and a little awkward, just like Steven. It's hungry and desperate and a little feverish, just like Harrow. Skin on skin, clothes on the floor, the soft rhythm of rain on the roof. Learning the scars that never healed. Learning the secrets that touch uncovers.
Afterwards, they drift in the golden glow of lamplight and lassitude. Steven props himself up on one elbow, gazing down at Harrow with wonder.
"It's not really fair how handsome you are," he says. "Not that you weren't before! It's the bone structure. And the eyes. You have very compelling eyes."
Harrow knows. Charm is a weapon, and he uses every tool at hand. But it's different coming from Steven. "Tell me more."
Steven kisses him in answer.
When they break apart, Harrow says, "In the future, were we lovers?"
Steven freezes. "We--you--I mean--"
It's obvious the answer is no. Harrow doesn't know how to salvage the moment. He says, lamely, "I thought, maybe, is that why you came back to save me?"
"No. That's not why." Steven doesn't elaborate, and Harrow doesn't probe. He lets Steven hold him in the circle of his arms, guarding him against everything, true or false or unsolvable.
#
When Harrow wakes, Steven is gone, leaving only the imprint where he lay. The sky outside the window is fading from black to grey. Khonshu stands at the foot of the bed, the very incarnation of judgment.
"I'm sorry," Harrow says, scrambling to sit up. "I overslept."
"I am not the one to whom you owe apologies. How many people died while you were sleeping?"
Sirens wail in the distance, like the ululation of mourners. More deaths on his conscience. More blood on his hands. "I can't be everywhere," he pleads. "I can't save everyone."
Khonshu regards him dispassionately. "Then what use are you to me?"
#
The ship turns out to be a trap.
Harrow has been following their trail for a while, these arms dealers who are funding their trade with stolen antiquities. Harrow watches the crew load the cargo aboard in unmarked crates. There are only a dozen of them, a skeleton crew for a secret mission. When they turn their attention to readying the ship for departure, he moves like a silver ghost, masked and cloaked, into the depths of the hold. He has to be sure, before he unleashes the consequences.
He pries open the largest crate, needing no crowbar, only the strength of his hands. He gazes down on the gold and ebony figure of a king in repose. It's a stunning piece of ancient art: highly coveted by collectors, highly illegal to collect.
The door slams shut behind him. Harrow lunges towards it, but the clanking wheel locks it into place, the steel plates thick enough to hold back the pressure of the ocean. He hurls his crescent darts at the door, hoping magic can cut through metal. The air vents hiss out clouds of choking fumes. He falls to his knees. He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
Harrow comes back from the darkness with his throat raw and his head pounding. He's tied to a chair, steel cables binding him at wrist and ankle and chest. He tries to break loose, but his limbs will not obey. He lifts his head, still disoriented. Blurry shadows surround him. He blinks them into focus. Men with rifles. They're on one of the lower decks, an echoing space half filled with loading equipment.
"You had enough tranquilliser gas to take down an elephant," a man says. "Any normal man would be dead. But you're not a normal man, are you?"
This must be the leader of the arms dealers. A man with as many nicknames as passports, none of them pleasant. He holds one of the crescent darts, spinning it like a coin. "A servant of a moon deity."
So he's not just driven by avarice. He's a scholar of the lore. That makes him even more dangerous.
Khonshu, your avatar needs you. Lend me your strength. But the drugs have fogged his mind. His concentration is shot, and their connection is lost, as though the moon is eclipsed in shadow. His prayers go unanswered.
"Khonshu knows your crimes," Harrow says anyway. "His vengeance is coming."
"Your god will have to find himself another avatar first," the leader says. "This one is about to go missing."
For the first time, Harrow notices the four steel drums on the deck. There's also a table, a tarpaulin, and a cleaver.
Oh god, no.
He thinks he must have made some incoherent sound. Because the leader smiles in satisfaction. "You've caused us a great deal of trouble. We're eager to pay back the debt."
Harrow feels too stunned to plead for his life or beg for mercy, even if it would make a difference. All he can think is, Khonshu! Where are you?
The leader seems to read his mind. "We're in the middle of the ocean. No one is coming for you."
The deck tilts as the ship rolls over a great wave. Men stagger and curse. The leader speaks into his radio. "Then sort it out!" He grimaces. "Watch him. But don't get in range." He heads upstairs, leaving half a dozen armed men on guard.
The minutes stretch out into eternity. Harrow stops praying and starts counting. How much time he has left to be alive and whole and sane. It hurts to breathe. It hurts not to breathe. The four steel drums loom large in his awareness. If it wasn't for the fact that he felt the ship move, he would suspect this prolonged waiting was a deliberate form of torture.
The deck tilts again. The cleaver slides off the table and across the planks. Before it can get to Harrow, one of the men stops it with his foot. With a knowing grin, he bends down to pick it up.
A lot of things happen all at once.
The lights go out. Shouting. Gunfire. Screams. The thump of bodies hitting the ground. Harrow struggles to break out of his bonds. He doesn't want to die alone in the dark. Then a voice whispers in his ear.
"It's all right," Steven says, "I've got you."
#
It takes a day for the drugs to wear off.
Everything else will take longer.
Steven is the one who finds them a new safehouse while Harrow recovers. A small apartment, cosy and anonymous, above a village square. Through the open windows float the cries of market vendors, the raucous laughter of old women, and the shouts of kids playing ball. It doesn't completely keep the dreams at bay. But it helps.
Harrow wakes up to the sizzle of hot oil and the aroma of roast vegetables.
"I made breakfast," Steven says. He serves up a dish of chickpeas, tomato, and eggplant, drizzled with a lemon and garlic sauce. "It's vegan." Then he pauses, seeing Harrow's expression. "You're not vegan. Not yet."
"Not yet," Harrow says. He digs in anyway. The flavours are strong and simple, filling him with warmth like sunshine. "Thank you."
They both know that's not all he means, but Steven says, "It's a very easy recipe--"
Harrow listens as he eats, letting Steven's delighted enthusiasm wash over him. This could be his life. In another life. He's afraid to ask, Are you leaving, now that you have no reason to stay? Do you have no reason to stay?
He reaches across the table to take Steven by the hand. Steven returns his clasp, a soft smile blossoming. It gives Harrow the courage to speak. "You did it. You saved me. You succeeded in your mission."
Steven goes still. "No. I didn't." Slowly, he says, "That wasn't what happened before. That's not how you were supposed to die."
"Well, no one else could have done it. Maybe you already changed the timeline."
Steven looks troubled. He's stopped smiling.
Harrow has stopped smiling too. But it's too late to go back. "What's wrong?"
"What I told you before--that you died in the future--I need to tell you the truth." Steven closes his eyes, and opens them again. Full of heartbreaking honesty. "It was me. I was the one who killed you."
Harrow stares at him. Blank.
Steven plunges on. "There was a war between gods. You were on the wrong side. Khonshu ordered Moon Knight to execute you. Marc wanted to spare you. Jake wanted to kill you. It wasn't my choice. But it was still my hands that did it."
Harrow gazes down at their joined hands. He should feel betrayed. This is deception by omission. But all he can feel is a strange sense of relief. He trusts Steven to make it quick and clean. He would never feed Harrow to the cleavers and the drums. Harrow presses Steven's hand to his heart. "It's all right if it's you."
Steven makes a small noise of surprise and distress. Looks at him with pained eyes. "It's not all right," he says. "It's not all right at all."
#
In the dream, Harrow kneels before Khonshu in his temple. A ritual chanting fills the air, but he can't make out the words. Khonshu beckons him forward, towards the altar. Harrow rises and approaches. Then he stops dead.
In front of the altar waits an empty sarcophagus. Lined up in a row beside it are four canopic jars. There is the scrape of metal on stone. When Harrow turns, Khonshu is holding his crescent moon staff, its curved blade sharp as a scythe. "Come to me. My willing sacrifice."
Don't, Harrow wants to say, but his voice is stuck in his throat.
The blade comes down, and Harrow wakes up.
It was so real, he has to touch his chest to make sure he's still whole. Then he sees Khonshu standing over him. Harrow finds his voice. He has things to say.
"Where were you?" Harrow demands. "Where were you when I needed you?" He's never spoken to his god like this before. But he's never lived through nightmares like this before.
Khonshu regards him evenly. "Who do you think sent the storm? I drew the moon close to the earth and swelled the tides. At no little cost." He adds, "I had faith in you, that you would prevail."
Harrow knows he didn't prevail. And he's not sure about the faith either.
#
In the dark before dawn, Harrow lies awake. Beside him, Steven murmurs in his sleep. Harrow kisses him on the back of the neck. "Wake up. It's nearly sunrise."
If only this moment could last forever, in the unmapped world between night and day.
"What is it?" Steven says, with a sleepy half smile.
"Take me with you," Harrow says. "Back to your time. I want to be with you always. Not just like this."
Steven sits up. "I--I don't think that's possible. It doesn't work like that. You're supposed to change your future. Not--skip ahead."
"Then stay," Harrow urges. "Stay here with me."
Steven shakes his head, getting that certain look in his eyes again. "That's not a good idea. It might break the timeline--"
"Then let it break! I'm dead anyway in your timeline. Isn't that what you came here to fix?"
"Yes. I mean, I think so. But--" Steven looks down at the hourglass, the sand running out relentlessly.
Harrow seizes the hourglass and pulls it towards him. Steven moves forward, drawn by the chain. "Stop it, don't mess with that--" He grabs at the hourglass. Harrow wrenches it away. Their shadows dance on the wall like a classical frieze come to life. The chain snaps apart. The hourglass smashes on the floor. They both stare in dismay at the shattered glass and spilled sand.
"What have you done?" Steven whispers, clutching the broken chain.
A gust of wind blasts through the room, sending papers flying and windows shaking.
"How very interesting," a familiar voice says.
Khonshu looms over them, a cadaverous shape with a hollow skull, his robes flowing like shadowy wings. He is looking directly at them both, the weight of his attention like the force of gravity.
Steven stares at him in dread. "You can see me?"
"I can see you," Khonshu confirms. "All of you. What an intriguing phenomenon. A mind fractured into facets. To think that someone like you might be fitted to take on the mantle of my avatar. Perfectly shaped for this purpose." Khonshu regards Steven with fascination, and Harrow feels a surge of jealousy.
Khonshu says, slowly, deliberately, "You were born in a dark cave."
Steven goes white. "No. You wouldn't. Don't you dare. You stay away from my brother."
"I have done nothing that was not fated to happen." Khonshu fades away, teleporting elsewhere and elsewhen. In his wake, the wind swirls, scattering the sand.
"Oh no. Oh no. Randall…" Steven is completely distraught. Harrow has no idea what to do or what to say. "Mum blamed Marc. But it was me all along! You can't unmake yourself. But you can make yourself. Maybe you're destined to make yourself. I thought I could change the past. But this was the past--it was always the past--" Steven breaks off his wild rambling. He stares at Harrow in horror. "You. When I met you. Did you already know? Did you always know?"
Harrow shakes his head. "I don't know anything. Please--Steven--" He reaches out a hand.
Steven jerks away, trembling violently. "I can't. I'm sorry. I have to go." Worse than hate or fear, his eyes are mortally wounded. Harrow thinks of Psyche waking Eros with the lamp and the knife.
"Wait!" Harrow says, desperately. "Will I ever see you again?"
Steven says, simply, "I won't know you."
He looks out the open window at the dawn. As the last grains of sand fly away, he vanishes into the light. All that remains are the shards of the shattered hourglass.
Harrow is alone in an empty room, surrounded by devastation. But did he ever expect he deserved otherwise? He walks through the broken glass on bare feet, bleeding and bleeding and not even feeling it.