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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 5 months

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Advent - a Malevolent fic

Winter is a quiet time.

A time for contemplation.

A time for memories.

And sometimes, a time for change.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis. Happy holidays, everyone!

AO3

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Winters were always rough for Wallace Larson.

He’d taught himself not to think about it, about the bitterly cold and cruel beauty that preserved his dead family even as it kept him from going for help. He’d focused on the glittery nonsense instead, on the parties and comfort true wealth could bring, on the chortling pride of being inside, warm and waited on, while the lesser men were trapped outside suffering (as he once had), unable to save themselves.

He’d saved himself. He had. So winter was fine. Really.

Not this winter, though.

He had no parties to head. He had no cronies to woo. Instead, as the temperature dipped in the mornings and frost began to gather in the corners of the windows, all he had was the ghosts of memories, the weight of his dead wife, the connection of sun glinting on untouched snow like it had when he made his way to the shed every morning to ensure his family was still frozen solid.

So that was great. Terrific. It wouldn’t affect his work at all.

He tried to fight it. Threw himself into translation, into sensation, into the rich furs the Dancers provided and the mulled wine made available and steaming at every corner.

It didn’t work. His mood simply dipped, like an animal burrowing beneath the earth, waiting for spring.

Keeping busy was the key. It’s not like he could pursue any of his usual distractions; he hadn’t earned that freedom yet (though he would), and there simply was no one here he wanted to be near except for the King in Yellow.

Who was busy with his daughter.

Fuck them both.

Oh… no, that was not a safe thing to think, and if it slipped out at any point, he knew he’d be forfeiting something worse than his life. But it was impossible not to resent them now, today.

They were out there in the frost, laughing as he taught how to extract the slightly humid chill, how to create ice from air and death from cold, casually gamifying the kind of power that she could use in time to bring nations to their knees.

Would he have done that with Addy?

(There was that thought again, traitorous, surfacing like a damned watery corpse that hadn’t been weighted down.)

“Fuck,” he murmured.

The Librarian got his attention with a series of page flips, and when he looked over, presented its head, an open book, with a single question mark.

“Sorry, your honor,” he said (since nobody had ever explained how to greet this thing, and he still hadn’t found the right words). “Just got me thinking about people I’ve lost. Winter’s a hard time to keep your thoughts occupied.”

The Librarian considered this, pages rifling thoughtfully, and then produced a book.

He stared.

Its head did the thing, pages flying, and settled on an image of Larson (surprisingly accurate) beside a fireplace, reading.

He did not know this book. “Memories of Old?” he read. “I don’t recognize this from the translation list.”

More pages fanning, so rapidly they moved the air. A picture now of Larson and….

Ghosts? The same image of him by the fire, but with smoky, undetailed beings, hovering around him.

He stared at the book, then at the Librarian. “Reliving memories?” he guessed.

A nod.

“I don’t… know that’s such a good idea.”

A shrug. He could or could not; it was completely up to him.

Wallace sighed. “Thank you. I’ll… think on it.” And he tucked it into his fancy little bag and got back to work, focusing on what he needed to do, because that was better than thinking about the rest of this nonsense.

“Oh, shit,” Parker said the next morning, sitting up in bed to stare at the glittering, icy wonderland that his balcony had turned into. “Carcosa gets snow?”

Every now and again, Sunny said, though I imagine this is more of a consequence of the time of year in this part of the Dreamlands. There was quite the storm last night; the wind practically howled. Never fear, though; I doubt the gardens have been affected negatively.

“Wasn’t worried,” Parker said, crossing his legs. The chill was nearly palpable through the glass doors. Light, reflecting off the snow, made his bouquet on the nightstand look edged with frost. “Just haven’t really seen snow in all our travels. Is it really wintertime?”

In some parts of the Dreamlands, yes, Sunny said, voice warm. Some places eschew seasons, but the fruit and nut trees of Sydrathia need different temperatures to produce, and a dormancy period to rest. We must be far north. I wonder why the King elected to stay in this area? Maybe for Faroe?

“Heh. I don’t mind. Haven’t seen snow since we left Earth.” Parker flexed his knuckles, testing them against that familiar ache.

Would you like me to warm up your hands? Sunny said, low and purring and sultry.

“Stop that,” said Parker, voice playful as he brought his hands to their shared mouth, and shuddered as healing warmth spread through his hands at the touch of their lips. “It’s nice, you know. Kinda missed this. Once a real good snow like this comes in, it makes me start lookin’ forward to seeing all the Christmas stuff go up.” He laughed. “Though I guess there ain’t none of that here, is there?”

I must confess, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Sunny said.

“Bullshit,” Parker said. “You went to New York City a lot.”

Not in the winter, usually. The roads were bad, and… Larson doesn’t… like the winter very much. His voice dipped in that way that heralded the resurgence of bad memories, but he picked his voice up through sheer force of will. Usually he would host a large dinner around the solstice for the Order, but… I, uh. I didn’t tend to be very… present for those.

“Not a holiday guy, eh?” Parker said, low and heated, but he made himself drop it, made himself smile, and shook his head. “That’s a shame. Y’know, it’d be worth a drive to Boston to see them light the tree; I’d take you. Wrap you up in a big coat so you don’t get cold, just so I can watch your face when they turn on the lights.”

The fantasy of two bodies, in Boston, was so lovely that Sunny almost missed the most salient question: Why would you put lights on a tree?

“No idea. But it’s gorgeous; big ‘ol pine tree, decorated with tiny glittering bulbs, blown glass ornaments. Back in ‘18, Nova Scotia sent us a tree to thank us for helping out after some ships exploded in one’a their harbors, and that one was real special. We did it every year since 1912. They do it in New York too, in a couple’a parks, but the Boston one’s bettah.” He leaned back against the headboard, pulling the blankets up a bit more. “We were too poor to have a tree of our own, so we would go see it every year. And then you get to see the decorations, all over the city proper, and all the displays in the windows. But my favorite part…” He sighed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “Mrs. Kerning would start makin’ Christmas cookies. She’d do it early, and the gingerbread would make the whole floor smell absolutely amazing. Sometimes we’d gather and sit outside her window, just to smell it, and she’d have us taste-test bits and pieces there.”

Christmas cookies, Sunny said, reverently. What makes them Christmas cookies?

“Time’a year, mostly—would feel a little weird to eat a gingerbread man in the middle of summer.” And he laughed. “You probably don’t… okay, imagine a little spice cookie, shaped like a guy, right? And you dress him up in little outfits made of icing.”

You mean to say… on Earth, people make effigies of men? To eat, as part of a celebration?

Parker snorted. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

And you think Carcosan customs are strange.

“You’ll change your tune when you try it,” Parker said, laughing. “I’m sure we can get the cooks to help us. If you don’t find that too strange.”

I could be convinced, Sunny said in the tone of one who needed no convincing whatsoever.

John remembered snow!

He wasn’t sure where he remembered it from, or when. Who cared! He remembered snow!

Arthur shivered and curled a little tighter. “Shit,” he mumbled in his sleep.

Arthur! Arthur! It’s all white! Look!

More curling.

Perhaps it made sense. Arthur didn’t have a lot of… padding. Arthur!

“Fuck me,” Arthur muttered, regrettably not literally, and somehow curled tighter. “What the fuck?”

Snow! Ice! Look!

“Did we leave the window open? Fuck…”

The balcony’s always open. Let’s go look! Let’s go look, Arthur!

Arthur literally took the bed with him, or at least everything that had been on it—sliding off in one huge mass, clutching the blankets and bedsheets around himself as he inched toward the balcony in sleepy concession.

Look! Snow!

“I can’t see it, John,” Arthur muttered.

It’s beautiful. The sun has turned it into a thousand thousand crystals. Some swaths are pink with the morning light, but the rest is a pure and glorious color, like clouds brought down. There aren’t any prints—I don’t know how Hastur did that—so it looks like a frozen sea, still and curving and so smooth that it tempts to the touch.

Arthur stood there, shivering like a wet puppy. “Wow,” he finally said.

You have the soul of a bleached rock.

“‘Kay,” Arthur muttered, and shuffled his way back toward the bed.

Come on, Arthur! No, don’t go back to bed!

“I’m cold,” Arthur said.

I’ll warm you up. A pause. That wasn’t a come-on. I mean I know how.

“I don’t feel up to casting magic.”

I was thinking more of a hot shower, warm clothes, a brisk walk, and food.

“Oh.” Arthur perked up; his hunched caterpillar-form stood taller. “That’s a good idea.”

Do you always get this muddled in wintertime? said John, unable to keep amusement from his voice.

Arthur sighed. “Parker called it my hibernation phase. Whatever. Let’s do your plan.”

It was a good plan. Before twenty minutes were up, they were steaming, thoroughly layered in thick, warm clothes, and beginning a brisk walk before breakfast.

And Arthur suddenly stopped dead. In the mirrors, his eyes were huge, and his mouth hung open.

What? said John.

“I smell… gingerbread?”

John did not remember gingerbread. You smell what?

“Gingerbread. It’s a biscuit—ah, a cookie—from Earth. A spice-cookie, usually with some icing. I didn’t know they knew how to make gingerbread here.” His face softened, grew fond. “I haven’t had that since… fuck, do you think we might be able to get some fresh ones? They’re usually best when they’re decorated, but I think a cup of tea and some warm gingerbread would go far to warm us up.”

John wasn’t sure what to do with this information. If you’re smelling it, doesn’t that mean they’re making it fresh right now? Baking, I guess?

Arthur brightened like the sun shining on snow, and made for the kitchen at speed.

It had taken ten minutes of lively discussion with the cooks and a trip to the Librarian, but Parker and Sunny had emerged victorious with a recipe for gingerbread in hand. The cooks nearly fell over themselves in excitement as Parker explained, though the concept of man-shaped cookies (but without genitalia) made them laugh uproariously in a way that turned Parker’s ears pink, and soon the smell of ginger and molasses and cloves wafted through the air.

The warm cookies had gotten Sunny’s seal of approval, and the cooks judged them fair enough to continue making after the first batch had emerged and promptly been devoured by all present; now that the second batch had cooled, Parker was having a more difficult time with the decorating aspect of the whole ordeal.

“I dunno how Mrs. Kerning made them look so nice,” he groused as he clumsily trailed royal icing off of the cookie and onto the countertop. “Guess I was never meant to be a pastry chef, huh?”

You should give him a little pocket watch, Sunny said. And he needs a mask!

“Hey. This one’s mine, you get the next one,” Parker laughed.

I don’t have hands! I need you to do it for me, whined Sunny. Please?

“Fine. But this one gets suspenders.”

Suspenders and a pocket watch.

“Where’s he gonna put his pocket watch if he’s only got trousers and suspenders?”

Don’t insert logic into our elaborate confectionary world, Sunny groused right back.

A drip of icing made the suspenders go long. “Guess it’s a trenchcoat now,” Parker said. “Our guy’s a hardboiled detective.”

And with perfect timing, Arthur peeked around the corner.

To be fair, it was John who peeked. Arthur sniffed, and licked his lips. “Hello?”

They’re in here, John whispered badly and unhelpfully.

“Who?” said Arthur.

For a brief moment Sunny went deathly quiet; and then he huffed. A trenchcoat it is, then.

“Mornin’, English,” Parker said, an easy grin on his face.

Arthur looked so relieved that it was hard to find fault in it. “Parker!”

Parker is teaching me about Christmas cookies, Sunny said, and his voice didn’t wobble even a little bit. He’s making a detective!

Arthur blinked a couple of times. “You baked cookies?”

It looks pretty good, John admitted, though I’m not sure what the little…. human shapes are wearing.

Sunny gasped in indignation. They are wearing clothes! Or the suggestion of them!

“Harder than it looks,” Parker said mildly. “The Librarian had a recipe and the cooks figured it out real fast. You want some, Arthur?”

“I’d love some. I haven’t… gods. I haven’t even smelled these in so many years.” He headed for the counter, slowly.

John disliked the reminder, disliked feeling less. You can all smell them, right?

Yes, Sunny sighed. They smell warm, and spicy, like… like the spice markets of the colonnades of the city, but sweet. He let out a little hum of thought. It’s like… I’m not sure how to describe it. I don’t have much of a sense of touch.

You do, accused John. Your lips. You can even ki—

“This smells incredible,” Arthur said quickly. “I don’t know if I can help decorate, but… I’m willing to try.”

“We got dozens of ‘em. Would appreciate the help,” Parker said. “Though I guess that’s more for John? You should eat one first, though. Grab a warm one.”

As if on cue, one of the cooks set down a plate of fresh gingerbread, still hot enough to be soft. Nervously, they peered at Arthur on the other side of Parker, half-dozen eyes full of worry and shame and apology.

The easy conversation had still not returned since the betrayal and punishment, but Parker was determined to repair what remained. “You’re alright,” Parker said, gentle. “Could we please get some coffee? I’d make it myself, but uh.” He held up his sticky, icing-covered hands. “Unless you want tea, Arthur? Feelin’ real posh today?”

“We can do both.” Arthur had that hopeful look that was somehow fragile, a look that upset Parker, though he couldn’t verbalize why.

“Well, you heard the man,” Parker said to the cook. “Please and thank you.”

They were happy to comply, murmuring among themselves, as much background as doves in the bushes.

Arthur inhaled. “Are these ready?” His hand hovered, maybe sensing heat.

“Got ones ready to decorate over in front of you,” Parker said, picking up the plate to move it between them. “But these ones are real fresh. And they’re real fuckin’ good, too.”

It tastes like… like sitting next to the fire after you were out in the cold, Sunny said abruptly, feeling his way through his analogy. And it’s almost too much at first. It’s really strong, that warmth; but then the sweetness seeps in and it softens it, helps all of you warm up. And it’s… safe, and makes you want to smile. Does that make sense, John?

Arthur’s eyes were wet. He didn’t seem to know.

Yes, John said, subdued. Thank you.

“We can do this,” said Arthur. “Your hand and eyes.”

John widened those eyes, suddenly on the spot. Slowly, as if being asked to take a scepter, or maybe a sword from a stone, he reached for the icing bag.

Parker passed it over without fuss. “Arthur, you’re gonna have to hold the top and squeeze,” he said, positioning hands. “John, you lead.”

Parker, your god demands another sacrifice, Sunny said, prim and proper. Please.

Parker snorted, picked up the half-decorated detective, and took a bite.

Sunny gasped. He wasn’t done!

“His trenchcoat was lopsided anyway,” Parker laughed, spraying his palm with crumbs. “Fuck that’s good.”

Slower. Icing was harder than John thought. No, not that slow!

“I had a boyfriend in college,” Arthur suddenly said with no preliminary whatsoever, and Parker choked on his cookie.

John jerked hard, tearing the icing bag, splutting all of its contents onto the cookie and Arthur’s hands. Arthur!

“What?” Arthur said, absolutely defensive.

“Wha—” Parker continued hacking up crumbs.

Like hell was Sunny letting this continue. No! I’ve got this. Ahlw'nafhor!

Parker’s throat cleared up, which he proved by shouting, “What the fuck, Arthur?”

The cooks were frozen statues, not even daring to breathe.

“It’s not that weird,” Arthur said defensively, trying to wipe icing off his hands. “You know that. Musicians are… expressive.”

“Expre— Arthur. Lester. Pal. You never told me!”

“I barely even told you I was married!”

“Yeah, but you—” Parker made the most frustrated sound he’d ever made. “Do you know what I would’ve done if you had?”

Arthur looked blank. “No?”

Parker, said Sunny, voice shaky.

Parker inhaled. If Sunny wasn’t okay, this—no matter how good an opening—didn’t matter. “Okay, we ain’t gonna—”

Then John just went there. You wanted him, didn’t you?

At this point, the cooks decided they were urgently needed elsewhere, and filed out of the kitchen.

Parker and Arthur faced each other, making eye contact though Arthur couldn’t see.

Sunny was quiet, but present, moving their tongue nervously.

“Hold on, you two,” Parker said, and turned away. “Sunny. This is the thing we talked about.”

I know.

Parker’s voice was low, barely audible, his words for Sunny alone. “He’s open. Right now. We could fucking close this book, finally. But if you’re not up for it, we don’t do it. You come first, partner. It’s you. He’ll be open another time. You come first.”

And there was that hint of a tear welling in the corner of his eye, and his mouth quirked into a smile without his input. Thank you. I… I’ve got your back, partner. Go get ‘em.

Parker smiled. Then he set his jaw and turned back around.

Arthur was busy reaming John out. “No! You can’t just say things like that to people!��

But I’m right!

“You don’t know that you’re right!”

“You know what?” said Parker. “Yeah. He is right. I did.”

A beat.

“What?” said Arthur, high and shocked, startling with his whole body.

“You’re not the only one who can drop bombs over breakfast,” said Parker, and took a bite of gingerbread.

I knew it! I knew it! John crowed.

“You… what?” said Arthur in a small voice.

“I loved you, you moron,” said Parker. “You dumbass.”

“I loved you too, that didn’t mean—“

“More than friends,” said Parker. “Look. It’s okay. We’ve all moved on. I got Sunny, and that’s where I wanna be, and you got whatever the hell is happening with Hastur and John.”

He’s mine! John snapped at the same moment Arthur said, “Nothing is happening!”

“Well maybe it should,” said Parker, and took John’s hand to give him more icing. “I didn’t know for sure you swung both ways, Arthur.”

“That isn’t… it isn’t really a… it’s not a ways thing! It’s about… it’s got to be the right person!” Arthur stammered, then winced. “I’m sorry. That sounds so insulting, when I say it like that.”

“Except I speak Lesterese,” said Parker, pointing a gingerbread leg at him. “You’re saying you didn’t know how I felt, not that I couldn’t’ve tuned your piano real damn good.”

Arthur went very, very red.

“Gotcha,” said Parker.

“Did… I hurt you?” said Arthur after a moment.

“A little. Not bad, Lester. Just that ache of what could’a been. I knew you weren’t rejecting me. You were just dumb. You dummy.”

Sunny choked back a laugh. Shockingly, John took it up, a dark and weirdly joyful evil sound.

“Hey,” said Arthur without much rancor.

He can be so dumb! John confirmed, and this time, Sunny laughed with him.

Arthur grinned and rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“Smartest damn idiot I ever knew,” said Parker with pride as if he’d grown Arthur in a garden.

Arthur laughed, then felt for undecorated cookies. “All right, all right. I can’t argue. Parker, I… I’m sorry I never noticed.”

“Eh. It’s okay. Everything that happened would’ve been a lot harder to deal with if we had worked that out,” said Parker with a sort of gentle and horrible pragmatism.

Arthur hunched, processing; then he sighed. “You’re right. It would.”

John’s voice was tight. You mean if you’d been together when I—

“It’s all right, John,” said Arthur. “We weren’t.”

Parker reached up and stroked his jaw. “Worked out for the best. I meant it—I’m never going back to Arkham, I told you. I’m happy, Arthur. If all I had to do was die for all this to happen, then I got no regrets.”

Arthur’s lower lip trembled, and he abruptly dropped the cookie and came around the counter.

Parker did the same.

They met halfway, wordless, and joined in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Arthur.

“Don’t be,” whispered Parker. “It’s all water under the bridge. And I still love you, idiot. Just not that way.”

Arthur clearly needed to hear that. Tension left him. “Same. It never changed for me.”

“Good.” Parker sighed, pleased. “Good to know you still got my back.”

“Always.”

They stayed in that embrace—a years-late but still needed closeness.

[I knew it. I knew it! I knew he wanted him, but Arthur didn’t believe me. I was right!] John said, rumbling in R'lyehian, but Sunny didn’t go into celebration.

[He really is mine,] said Sunny softly. [I’m so lucky. I thought I might lose him, even now, if Arthur… responded.]

John sputtered. [You thought you might lose him? Why?]

[No one’s ever wanted me,] Sunny replied, voice tight. [But he does. He… he really does.]

John sounded so young. [You’re a god. We are. They can… not want you?]

Sunny’s tone turned gentle, warm, reassuring. [Arthur has only ever wanted you. You’re safe, John. And… and Parker wants me.] And he let out a soft, dark, relieved chuckle.

“I knew I smelled cookies!” Faroe said, stepping into the kitchen, her cheeks red and shiny, her coat crimson with fur lining white as sun-kissed snow.

Hastur hovered in behind her, robe so bright and yellow; around his crown, Faroe had woven a long, beautiful chain of snow flowers, all brilliant blue petals with red stamen.

“Faroe!” Arthur cried, and went for her.

The King in Yellow eyed them, taking a moment to read the situation.

The embrace, interrupted. The condition of Sunny, of John. The mess of cookies and icing, and the complete lack of shame or guilt from his own.

Hastur knew humans better (in his opinion) than almost any god of his stature, and he understood the important thing: they were all right. Whatever had happened was big (and awkward, judging by the mess on the counter and Arthur’s red eyes), but they were all right.

It was some kind of winter solstice miracle. These four hadn’t needed to be locked in a closet. Apparently, they’d needed baked goods and a lot of creamy white glaze.

Heh, heh, heh, Hastur thought, pleased with himself for that one.

Faroe laughed. “It’s all over everything!”

“Yeah, I made a mess,” Arthur laughed with her.

“Got plenty more, you want to decorate,” said Parker.

“Decorate?” said Faroe, lighting up like she had over discussions of exploding enemies.

“Come on over here and I’ll show you how,” said Parker with a grin.

Of course, she did.

Thus abandoned, Arthur stood slowly, smiling, trying to wipe his hands clean on a towel.

“What has happened here?” said Hastur so quietly, just checking.

“You were right,” said Arthur.

Oh! Well, being right was one of his favorite things. “About?” said Hastur, tentacles undulating in anticipation.

“Later,” said Arthur, frustratingly, predictably, and went to join his daughter and his friend in making a great, big mess.

Fine. They could do that. He had things to—

“You’re not going back to work right now,” Faroe informed him with authority, and that was how the King in Yellow ended up decorating strange sexless human-cookies with eldritch runes until his family ate the very last one.

Last night had been… very bad.

Larson had sat by the fire in his silent room at two thirty-eight in the morning and stared at the smiling, ghostly figure of his wife.

It wasn’t her. This wasn’t pulling souls from the dead.

But it was his memory of her, clearer than he’d honestly expected it to be, wearing homespun he hadn’t seen in a long time, her hands more dry than he’d recalled, her smile more crooked than he’d remembered. Really, she wasn’t as lovely as he’d once thought, or even as young; his standards for both had changed since he’d gone up in the world, and he knew better as he looked at her now: a poor woman, whose teeth weren’t great, who’d done what she could with what she had, who’d worked very hard, and—

“Happy Christmas, Wallace,” she’d said.

He’d curled down over his lap and cried.

This morning, he hid his swollen eyes (damned pale skin showed everything) and red nose, and returned the book to the Librarian before breakfast.

It was waiting for him. It didn’t speak, couldn’t; but the way it tilted the tome of its head, the way it waited while he held out the book, spoke volumes.

Larson could feel the questions. Instead of answers, he gave a question of his own. “Why’d you give this to me?”

The Librarian’s head flipped, pages flying, and fell open at a two-page illustration of Larson himself.

On the left, at the bottom of the page, he was in a pit. Before him was a rocky, rugged, ugly path, climbing precipitously all the way to the right and out of the book at the corner of the page.

Larson swallowed. It had always treated him well, never less, never as if he were on some kind of parole, and he’d assumed…. Well. He’d assumed it knew nothing. “What did the King in Yellow tell you about me?”

Pages flipped. And there, right there, was the sigil of the Order of the Fallen Star.

“Ah,” said Larson, heart sinking.

The Librarian closed its head and just… waited.

Larson sighed and handed the book back. “Rootin’ for me, are you?” he said, and couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. “Is that what this is? What, you’re on my side?”

Pages fanned. There, the Yellow Sign (“Of course, you’re on his side,” Larson said), and then back to that image of him, in the pit, at the bottom of the path, facing a long climb out.

Larson wanted to ask why.

He wanted to ask if Hastur had put it up to this.

But all of that would be opening the door to the path he saw before him, literal and otherwise—a path away from the power he’d earned, the lethality he’d honed, and the ascension he was owed.

And toward what?

Mortality? Morality?

Weakness?

…happiness? Was that what it offered? Was that—

The fucking Saint’s laugh echoed down the hall, toward the kitchen, and Larson snapped his attention toward that disgusting sound. The lightest waft of gingerbread came with it as the lot of them—the Saint, Yellow, Lester, John, the King in Yellow, and his adopted daughter—headed toward the breakfasting area.

The Saint, who smiled and walked around, head unbowed, like the world owed him everything. Who’d gotten away with it all, and never earned a damn fucking thing.

Larson’s jaw clenched. He’d made the choices he had for a reason. The kind of happiness this fool of a book offered could be taken away. The kind he was seeking for could not. “Thanks,” he said, low. “But don’t get your hopes up. See you after breakfast.” And he turned and walked away.

The flip of pages behind him were like a sigh.

Larson chose, with full intent, not to look back.

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent fic #malevolent au #surrogate series #surrogate fic #surrogate malevolent #wallace larson #parker yang #sunny | yellow #arthur lester #john doe malevolent

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 7 months

Text

Birthday After

It’s finally time for Faroe’s tiny party. Per her request, not many people are here.

As long as she keeps dancing, Hastur will arrange as large or small a party as she wants.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

——

Hastur wondered how many more times he would get to see Faroe dance.

He knew humans developed a detrimental sense of self-awareness in puberty. He’d done everything he could to prevent that for her, to keep her from being exposed to the idea of embarrassment of self. Still, he knew this kind of dancing would eventually disappear forever. He watched, and enjoyed her ebullient expression, and mourned what was not yet lost as Arthur played on.

Parker sat against the wall, foot tapping to the beat, a plate in one hand. It held the richest, fudgiest chocolate cake these cooks could produce, and had been a more than adequate bribe to get him (or, rather, Sunny) here. This was a relief, as Faroe had been fretting about Parker’s appearance at her party for the last week, and luckily both Parker and his passenger seemed fond enough of her to make it work. Parker tilted his head, listening to the low voice of Sunny commenting on the scene, and laughed. “You call that jitterbugging, English?”

“Ha!” Arthur shouted back. “I’ll get you dancing yet!”

Dis smirked and shook her head. She wasn’t doing much and wouldn’t stay long, but had been invited by Faroe as well, and was being bribed with both Faroe’s delight and a drink made of Lomarian vodka, lime, and ginger beer. Whatever worked. Hastur would happily ply her with drinks all night for Faroe’s sake.

“Dad!” Faroe demanded, and Hastur joined her.

It was never an embarrassment to bring his daughter happiness. He knew how to move to make her laugh, a demented sort of off-sync undulation, and he did so now.

It still worked. “Dad!” she protested, dissolving into giggles.

John outright laughed at him, evidently not finding him nearly as enchanting as the audience had back in Kh’pohma when he’d won the hearts of all who watched.

Well, John had no taste. Just for that, Hastur made it sillier.

At least John had agreed to attend with only minor persuasion. Between Arthur’s misery and Faroe's disappointment, John very well could have ruined this birthday. Thankfully, everyone seemed willing to put aside their differences for Faroe (and they had better). His precious daughter, whose smiles healed broken hearts and wore down the highest walls. She’d rule them all someday.

Until then, she was a child, and birthdays really mattered (even when she pretended they didn’t).

Faroe grabbed two of his tentacles and turned it into a spin, so he caught her up and twirled fast enough to earn her squeal.

Ludicrous! John pronounced, which got Arthur laughing, which got Parker laughing, which made Dis crack a smile.

Faroe was curled into him now, hiding a little from the shadows of things that wanted to intrude on this moment. Hastur wouldn’t let them; he slowed to a gentle sway, holding her close.

He wondered if he’d be allowed to celebrate her last one. Well… his last. Her fifteenth.

He’d beg. Fuck it. When that time came…

Arthur switched it up again. “This is rag-time!” he said, and John joined him, and they produced wild music Hastur couldn’t quite believe—it wasn’t jazz, and it wasn’t orchestral, and it made the piano sound like an entirely different instrument.

It was fun. Faroe giggled, wriggled to be let down, and she danced.

The humans (his humans, his family) talked quietly or danced or tapped their feet. Everyone was relaxed. John hadn’t yelled. Even Sunny had spoken loudly enough to be heard twice. So far, so good. And then Nibbles slid up to Hastur.

Nibbles, he hadn’t anticipated. Normally, she would be leaping and kicking and dancing on the floor with the same exuberance as Faroe. Instead she waited, watching the scene with about three-quarters of her eyes; the rest were focused on him.

“My duties demand an audience, King,” Nibbles said to him in perfectly clear speech, her voice low and soft.

“I fucking knew it,” Hastur muttered.

Nibbles pinned her ears and glared at him.

One of his tentacles idly traced a sigil on the ground, dampening the sound of their voices, keeping their words safe from the ears of their people. “Faroe has recited your sage advice for a long while now,” he said. “I merely found it amusing you thought you could keep it hidden from me.”

“I had naught to say to you, charlatan,” Nibbles said, letting out a huff. “Mine Faroe was our only tie, and you earned my ire with thine cruel trick played upon me. But… thy sacrifice is acknowledged. Thine suffering felt, as it echoes in her soul.”

Hastur said nothing. His tentacles curled, like a full-body fist-clench.

Faroe finally got Parker to join her, and now, it got wild. Parker showed off; Faroe giggled and copied him; Arthur and John spurred them both on. Sunny added direction, voice gleeful as he asked for spins, twirls, lifts; Parker laughed, and Sunny laughed, and Faroe laughed.

Parker. The man could dance. Who knew?

“I wish for no more suffering,” Nibbles said quietly. “And so I speak, now. Too late, perhaps, but better than silence. On mine rounds, I discovered spies; more than normal for mine Faroe. But before me I discovered spies for the Arthur, and the Larson.”

Hastur was very, very carefully neutral in his body language, even as his voice dropped. “What?”

“Two small and pathetic things worried at Arthur's wards; your spells remain strong, though harried. I crushed them betwixt my teeth. But Larson…” Nibbles stamped her hoof. “A vile little worm attempted infiltration. It did not succeed. But the Larson and the Parker shall need more protection. They are added to my rounds.”

Hastur took a deep, measured breath. He’d expected such curiosity eventually, but now? So soon? Why? “How long have you known? Why are you only telling me now ?”

“You were absent when I’d search for thee in the night’s embrace, and I dare not leave Faroe’s side while thine enemies worry at our door,” Nibbles said. “I dare not worry her further with this knowledge. It is… It is not a burden for her yoke.” She bowed her head. “She claims so much, all of it undeserved. Mine love is not enough.”

“It will have to be.” That came out unplanned, and Hastur decided not to correct it. The goat was ready to be responsible? Then he would not presume stupidity. She clearly knew what was coming. “I don’t have to tell you the level of power it would take to so casually ignore my wards. Security will be provided.”

“Not ignored; harried. Drops of water against a stone wall, each insignificant alone, but a deluge…” She let out another sigh. “It is well-done.”

Hastur sighed. “And I’ll give you a spell so you can communicate with me at will. I won’t… be here for some time, at night.”

“It is well-done.” She looked at him, appraising, and Hastur realized that might be the first look of respect she had ever given him.

“Blue moon,” Arthur suddenly crooned (and Parker cracked up, bending over enough to smack his thigh). “You saw me standing alone / without a dream in my heart / without a love of my own.”

“Sap,” said Parker, still chuckling.

Faroe laughed, too, though she didn’t know why. “What?”

“Your dad’s a goofball,” said Parker, and Faroe giggled again. “That’s the sappiest, silliest song.”

“I made money selling songs like that, I’ll have you know,” said Arthur, grinning.

“Pfft. S’better here. You got the good tunes now.”

Arthur’s tiny smile was naked and true. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nope. It’s good stuff. This, I’d actually listen to.”

“Hey, kid, I’m about out of time,” Dis said quietly.

“Oh! Not yet. You promised,” said Faroe sternly.

“Sure did. Just communicating. So if you’re gonna do it…”

“Is everything all right?” said Arthur.

Faroe looked pale. Her hands trembled for a moment; then she raised her chin, defiant. “Yes. It’s time for you to listen.”

Arthur looked spooked.

Dis snorted. “To something she wrote. Calm down.”

The wonder on Arthur’s face took years off him. “Really?”

“Wrote?” said Parker.

Faroe was rummaging in the gilded trunk in the corner, and finally stood with her lap harp. “It’s called, ‘When at Night I Go To Sleep,’ and it’s about you, Arthur.”

Oh. Oh. This would be… “Really?” said Arthur, his voice high.

“Huh. You write, too?” said Parker, crossing his arms the way he did when he found something interesting.

Faroe went pink. “Not like Arthur, of course.”

“Well, yeah, I’d assumed you’d write like you,” said Parker.

Her eyes went huge. Then she smiled like the sun, checking her harp’s tuning with an ease that spoke of practice and skill. “Yes. Like me. Well, and Engelbert Humperdinck.” And she began to play.

A simple song in common time, it was haunting, sweet, and sung with conviction. It started out similarly to the song Arthur had sung to her for years, taken from an opera about two children alone in the woods. Then, it diverged.

“When at night I go to sleep, And bad dreams upon me creep, First, my friend is guarding; My heart safe between her hooves.

On my right, my father, Praised high in Carcosa! On my left, my Arthur sweet Weeps with me, sat by my feet.

So the song of calming’s sung, Precious in the gloaming, Bringing peace to long nights wrung, Silences disarming.”

She went into a little harp improv, playing with her chord structure, filling in the gaps. When she finished, hands poised, her fingers started shaking again, and she looked up.

Arthur slid off the piano bench to his knees and took her into his arms. She nearly dropped her harp.

Parker rescued it, placing it gently on the ground.

“My girl,” whispered Arthur, barely audible against her shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

“It wasn’t that good,” whispered Faroe, holding and being held, closing her eyes, her cheek on his head.

“I loved it.”

It… it was beautiful, Faroe.

“It was short,” she said, her cheeks now going red.

“Worth it,” said Dis. “Glad I stuck around for it.”

“You’re going already?” Faroe whined.

“Got to, kid. See you later.”

“Bye! Thanks for coming!” Faroe waved, cheek still on Arthur’s head.

Hastur exhaled slowly. “Would you like your lokma now?”

“Yes, please!” she said, wriggling in her seat.

With a flourish, Hastur produced a tray loaded with small, fried balls of dough, covered in honey—and placed it in front of her, but not alone.

Faroe stared at her gift. “A bow?”

“This one has my power in it,” said Hastur. “You could hang from it for days and it would never break unless you willed it to.”

She slid her hand along its curve, staring. “It’s beautiful. What wood is this?”

“Claret. I found it sold by a Trader in the Dreamlands.”

She took it up. “You… when you were looking for me?”

“Yes, my darling.”

She sniffled, obviously smart enough to understand he was thinking of her even in the middle of madness. “What do all these symbols mean?” Faroe said, wiping her cheeks.

“Protection. Aid when called for, should it be found. And as I said, it will never break—unless you will it to.”

“Daddy, thank you.” The wood was so smooth, polished, dark as tuba sounds; even the runes were gentle, edges carefully rounded. The thing was a delight to touch.

Arthur had half a dozen lokma before the sugar got to him, and he went back to the piano to play. Parker seemed to like the things; Sunny teased him about it even while demanding more, and Faroe laughed.

Hastur wrote it all on his heart, every syllable, every look, every hint of a smile. He watched his daughter grow, and tried not to think about minutes slipping away, time together ever shrinking. He tried not to think about what came next, to focus on here and now.

He failed.

#Malevolent #malevolent au #malevolent fic #surrogate series #kiy malevolent #arthur lester #john malevolent #parker Yang #Sunny | yellow #Faroe Lester

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