Chapter Text
[Image ID
A banner image for the fic. It shows magical light blasting upwards from an open book, illuminating the text, BUT IT BEATS THE DARKNESS, a Maevolent fic by SSJTrinity.
End ID]
Arthur screamed, and the entity knew he didn’t want to.
Arthur hated giving them that, losing self-control so the sound tore out of him rough and ragged, bleeding his throat and straining his tongue. So Arthur said, anyway. But, well, Larson’s people had just broken his big toe with a hammer, so screaming was perhaps inevitable.
This whole thing just wasn’t doing it for the entity the way it initially had. Arthur wasn’t giving in. Zero progress had been made on the entity’s freedom. Humans, he decided, sucked at torture, but lacking his own body made hands-on education impossible.
At least he could still play along. He laughed.That was a good hit! I do appreciate precision.
“Go to hell,” Arthur possibly said, a mangled and thick-throated sound, barely intelligible, which meant they were probably done for today. Once he was no longer functioning mentally, there was no point in continuing.
The usual tell was when Arthur lost the ability to tell them what they could do with their mothers.
It was ironic, really. Arthur could stop all this with just the tiniest bit of collaboration, of willingness, even a clever bit of deception, but he never did. The entity did not understand why.
One of the torturers pulled back and punched them in the face.
The entity saw it coming; Arthur did not, and took it full on the mouth, lips splitting. He groaned, choked, and sprayed enough blood to hint he’d bitten through his tongue again.
Wallace Larson waited, arms crossed, tapping his foot. Finally, he walked over, grabbed Arthur by the swollen, bruised jaw, and lifted his face.
Arthur tried to say fuck you (at least, the entity thought he did) and managed only a hiss of blood and froth.
“Well,” said Larson softly, studying him as though looking for a crossword clue. “I’m sure that was informative, but alas. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
They’d gotten no answers. Again. How long was this going to take? He’s got life in him yet.
“Yes, and I’d rather not chase that out, since we don’t precisely know what that would do to you, Your Greatness,” Larson said, and let go.
Arthur went limp, dangling from his chains.
“Take care of it,” Larson said like he did every night, and walked away. Arthur hung, breathing like a broken bellows, and mumbled something about… bunnies?
What? said the entity.
“Bunny,” Arthur managed, spitting blood with every syllable.
What the hell was he saying? An animal?
“Jumps. Random,” Arthur said, dribbling more blood. “Like the… footsteps.”
Ah. Arthur must mean the echo of Wallace’s fine shoes, cracking sharply as he marched down the hall and up the stairs and away from this dungeon. What a funny observation to make.
(Funny intriguing. The entity still planned to torture this man for what he’d taken, but he was leaning more and more toward “keep” instead of “kill” these days. Not that Arthur would like that. No. That was half the fun.)
The healers came in at last. They were shameful, the entity thought. They used magic, technically, but it was human magic, and about as elegant as the shit Arthur left in the corner bucket every morning. This magic didn’t actually heal him; it forced his body to heal itself at an accelerated rate—using his own body’s resources.
It had only been a few days, but the result was stark: yes, when they finished, he had no wounds. Yes, when they left, his bones were healed and his burns were smooth and shiny.
But also when they left, Arthur was visibly thinner, and so tired that he often curled around his empty, aching stomach and wept as if that could somehow bring relief.
In the beginning, this man had been in good shape. Now? He looked like a scarecrow, shock wrapped in skin, like his fat and muscle had been devoured.
It was a lot to put up with for the sake of a little information. Why wouldn’t he give in?
If only Arthur were actually stupid, it would make sense. He wasn’t stupid. The entity had figured that out with very little conversation, confirmed by the details Wallace provided—Arthur was a private investigator, relying on mental acuity, and his reputation was good.
That made his continual defiance baffling. So, like every night, the healers left. And, like every night, Arthur sobbed. But, unlike every night, the entity could take no more mystery. He had to ask: Why do you let them do this to you?
Arthur’s breath hitched. “The fuck do you mean, ‘let them?’ What am I going to do, turn into a mouse and escape? I couldn’t even see where to run.”
True. He’d been blind since the explosion. Since he and his stupid partner interrupted the final ritual, when both the partner and the book disappeared into thin fucking air. The entity owned Arthur’s eyes now. No, imbecile. Why won’t you just give them what they ask for? They’ll still kill you, but at least it would be quick. Surely, Arthur knew that. You’re dragging things out. You’re suffering when you don’t have to, and I can tell you don’t enjoy it. I want to know why!
A moment of silence passed while (as always) this foolish human took his time obeying. “It matters not how strait the gate,” Arthur mumbled, “how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
What the actual hell?
The entity wished he could stare this weirdo in the face. Fucking what?
“I have nothing to give them,” Arthur said instead of explaining.
Bullshit. You do. You have your knowledge. How you found this place. How you interfered. How you hurt me. The entity paused. And where the fuck your partner is now.
Arthur laughed weakly, a wheeze that sounded a million years old. “That especially, I will never tell. It won’t matter what they do. I hope Parker got away. I hope he’s bringing the gods-damned army to raze this place to the ground. I hope we all get chlorine-bombed and die.”
Fuck, said the entity, unsure if he were impressed or disgusted or just pissed off.
He didn’t get the chance to pursue it. Like every night, Arthur tipped into miserable sleep.
#
There’d been no body in the rubble. The book was gone. Larson said there’d a glimpse of gold and wonder as the entity himself—King, god, ruler of all he surveyed—began to come through. Then Arthur and his partner showed up, and it went to hell.
Partner missing. Book missing. Endless days of torture, screaming, crying. More defiance hurled in the face of reason and logic.
Arthur was not stupid. Why did he keep doing this? Why?
“He was using it to kill innocent people!” said Arthur about the book.
So? Just humans! They’re dying, anyway, mortals, their lives given in my service, which gives them meaning!
“He stole their lives’ meaning,” Arthur argued, and that confused the entity so much that there were no more questions for an hour.
What was he talking about? How could a mortal life ever have meaning? Ever have worth?
When Arthur woke that night, summoned to consciousness by the scent of food, the entity tried again. Is it because you thought your life had meaning? he said as Arthur desperately ate dinner, pot roast left over from the rich man’s table.
“All lives do,” Arthur said.
Oh, please. No, said the entity, trying for patience. Mortal lives don’t. They’re over so fast; anything they do fades away, like flowers in a field. Only the immortal have purpose.
Arthur laughed around a mouthful of cold carrots and potato. “Wrong. That makes their purpose more important than any stupid immortal ideals.”
Right. So. Arthur wasn’t stupid, but maybe he was insane. Explain that. Now.
“Think about it,” said Arthur between swallows. “Say you’ve got limited time; a mortal life. You don’t have eternity to correct your fucking mistakes, or research the best path forward. You have to find meaning, and what you do with it matters because it’s your only chance. No do-overs. That makes every individual life absolutely precious. Unique. You talk about flowers, but I’ll bet you appreciate ones that bloom rarely and briefly. Morning Glories, all around.” He licked the plate.
The entity fell silent again.
Arthur felt around where the plate had been. “Is there any more?”
The entity stayed silent. Was he inspired? Insulted? He didn’t know. This damned human kept making him feel things he had no words for.
“Please, fuck, is there any more?”
No.
Arthur sighed. “Well. Thanks anyway.” He lay back down.
His clothing hung on him as if he’d stolen it from a man twice his width. Purpose or not, this mortal body couldn’t survive much longer, and that was concerning. Larson had been right; they didn’t know what would happen to him, to all that remained of the King in Yellow, when Arthur died.
The entity did not want to die. Your body is failing. You know that, don’t you?
“Yes.” Soft.
You want a purpose? Meaning? Let me go, Arthur Lester. Larson said you can.
Arthur wiped his mouth. “No.”
The entity growled. Why the hell not?
“He’d fuck you up.”
What the hell was this? What?
“I know men like him,” Arthur said, rough like steel wool. “He said you’re severed. Even if he got you back, you wouldn’t be what he wanted. He doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice other people for power; that’s why we tracked him down. What in fuck do you think he’ll do to you when you’re helpless in his hands?”
(A nightmare. This was a nightmare. Oh, he’d keep Arthur once he got his body back, oh yes, and Arthur would regret.)
What will he do? What will he do? He’ll worship me, is what he’ll do!
“No, he won’t,” said Arthur. “If I let you go, I’m condemning you. So fucking forget it.”
Madness! You’re insane!
Arthur said nothing.
Stubbornness! Is that your purpose, then? Being insane?
Arthur snorted. “Sure.”
Sarcasm, the entity scoffed. Then what is your oh-so-important purpose, you disgusting mortal man?
“Helping people,” said Arthur at once.
Hel… ping… w… you… why?
“Why? What kind of… because they need it!” said Arthur.
It made no sense! No one is coming to help you.
“It isn’t transactional, for fuck’s sake.” Arthur sighed.
Lunacy! It’s not?
“We help people because it's right. We help people because it’s good. We help each other because it makes us better than animals, because it's our choice to act in the face of selfishness.” Arthur’s voice caught.
But no one is coming to help you, the entity said again, because two and two were making orange.
“What does that have to do with how I choose to act?”
The entity fell silent again.
Arthur curled on the wooden board that was his bed.
Arthur.
“What?”
The entity couldn’t believe he was doing this. There’s… an apple. You missed it. It rolled toward the door.
Arthur gasped and crawled for it. “Where? Where?”
To your right. Just… there.
Arthur didn’t bother trying to clean it (between his skin and his clothes, the floor was probably cleaner). He bit deep. He groaned.
The entity was quiet.
Tears slid down Arthur’s cheeks. “Thank you.” He took another bite. Another groan. More tears. He ate the whole thing except for the stem, then crawled back to his board and curled up, licking his fingers to get the last of the lingering flavor.
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up. It didn’t… You… you’re welcome.
Arthur said nothing, and the entity was glad. Darkness came for them both, and the entity braced himself for the interminable boredom of mortal sleep.