Chapter 5
Harry avoids touching the ground, some unidentifiable instinct telling him it’s a bad idea. Moving on the hoverboard feels a bit like he’s using it underwater. There’s still the same power behind it but it feels like the air around him is viscous, almost clinging to his face and body as he moves. At no point, no matter what speed he goes, does he feel wind, despite the constant drift of the whole world around him. The trees gradually stretch higher, as if he’s begun viewing them through a funhouse mirror, trunks twisting upwards until branches begin to tangle together above him, something he doesn’t truly process until the weave of them has grown so thick he’s not confident he could break through them if it came to it. Though that’s assuming they’re real to begin with.
A rift in the trees appears in front of him, as if some massive thing took a claw and brought it through the area, trees broken and fallen, earth upturned and disrupted in a foot deep gash in the center. When he approaches, he finds a band of perfectly smooth stone in the center of that gash, a narrow gap in the center of it forming a small empty stone channel formation that extends into the cloudy haze on either side. It’s the first sense of direction he’s found, so he picks left on a whim and follows the canal-like structure.
The channel ends with a boxy stone structure that comes up to his waist, a hollow slope leading into the channel. Atop that slope is a ring of the same smooth stone, a hollow spike in a hollow curved U-shape protruding from the furthest end.
And impaled on that spike is the half decayed body of a deer.
He stiffens automatically, eyes caught on the skin sloughing off of it, darkened flesh, and the maggots, of course there are maggots. He’d gotten so good at ignoring how it felt, the constant digging and tearing in his body, but that is thrown back to the forefront of his mind. It’s all he can feel, all over, he’s being torn apart, there are beetles and maggots and god knows what else inside him and they’re intent on tearing him apart until he’s put back in the ground. He takes a step backward, nearly slipping backwards off the glider, before he spins himself just to get his eyes off it, stop feeling it. He begins moving in the other direction, hoping that he’ll find something that won’t fill him with the impulse to tear a hole in his sleeves and scratch at his skin until he bleeds.
It’s hard to fully estimate the passage of time where he is, but his best guess is it's almost ten minutes before he finds the other end. A hollow forms in the marsh, though the thick weave of branches still extends over it. The channel of stone twists into itself, forming a tightly wound spiral of stone, the center of which is a simple dark hole in the stone. Looking closer at it, there’s just the faintest bit of rusty brown at the rim of it. The spike on the stone structure suddenly reappears in his mind, and he finds himself reconsidering if it’s really so unlikely that he could break through the branches.
Something stops him from trying, something that doesn’t quite feel like himself, though he finds himself neglecting to question that. He supposes that it is best for him to at least try to figure out what’s happening.
But that does mean…
He winces to himself, finding himself trying to look at the deer corpse only through the bottoms of his eyes as he lays it on the ground, trying to find a balance between not fucking looking at it and getting away from it as he tries to wipe decay off the spike. The slight rusty color of the channel and the way the corpse was impaled, left for who knows how long, gives him some theories, but he’s not exactly eager to try. Not out of fear of pain, or blood, but out of fear of what might be found if he really does some damage to his body. The continued life of those bugs should be proof enough things aren’t totally right in him. He just… can’t totally expel the image of maggots, of cutting himself on this and finding them wriggling beneath his skin just like that deer.
He swallows those fears, reminds himself that he quite literally chose this, he chose to put himself into a life of sacrificing his own well being for that of others. He chose this. It’s the job Peter was forced into by the bite and the one he chose to make up for everything he did before he died. And by that logic, it’s better him than Peter. Especially, he reasons, when there’s some pretty decent evidence he can survive most things anyway.
Not allowing himself to hesitate, he impales his wrist on the spike, staring upward at the trees to remain in denial about whatever might be beneath.
He obscures his own wrist with his hand once he needs to look down, finding the trail of his own blood in the channel extends farther out than is by any means logically possible. A couple hesitant seconds later, he pulls his wrist free, wincing when he sees he’s left a piece of his own skin on it, not realizing for several seconds that he can’t really feel it. Compulsively, he lifts his arm to look.
Though he can’t see any maggots or anything, the muscle tissue that he can see is diluted and dark in a way he knows isn’t natural. Dark purple, almost blank, surrounded by pale, much healthier skin. And it reeks, a foul smelling dark liquid leaking from the muscle, mixing with the blood. He snaps his head upwards, clenching his jaw, and wraps his hand tightly around the hole, numbly forcing himself to move back towards the spiral.
The bleeding stops too quickly.
A massive hole has formed at the other end of the canal, fragments of the spiral he found earlier sitting at the bottom of it. Leaning closer, he realizes that the dark bricks of the bottom of it aren’t disrupted by the same water-like ripples of everything else. He descends, reaching a hand out to touch the ground. It feels solid, frost-bitten cold despite the season, and he can find the slightly irregular shear to its surface. Real. Something real. He finally steps off the glider.
He begins to shift chunks of rubble out of his way, moving from the perimeter of the area inwards, almost like he’s following the same spiral that was once carved above where he stands now. The space is startlingly empty, mostly condensed into the center, though he finds the outer edges of the area have shapes carved into the stone, combinations of shapes and lines that mean absolutely fuck all to him, bisected by deep lines that lead him to the center, forming a structure almost like the spokes of a wheel with a circle carved into the center forming the hub. He has to praise the lack of pentagram here, at least it’s somewhat creative. Not something he’d find in any old cheesy satanic panic bargain bin horror movie.
He steps into the circle after a moment of hesitation, looping his fingers beneath the last piece of shattered stone to lift it, kneeling to do so, and-oh god, that’s an arm.
The slab of stone slips from his fingers, falling with a thunderous crash, his feet propelling him backwards because fuck that, head jerking upwards becaust is it really so impossible that he could just shoot his way upward out of this? But the weave of branches seems almost like it’s thicker. No light is getting through the knit of wood now. Damn it, that means…
He forces an exhale, stoops down to reach for the slap again, and drags it out of the way.
It looks like it was severed just above the elbow, the joint remaining intact. The skin is a bleache, sickly sort of white, remarkably similar to the color of his own sun-deprived skin, though the flesh looks far healthier than what he’s seen of his own. Splintered fragments of bone split through the muscle, bloodstained and sharp. The fingers are bent unnaturally, hooked like talons with the skin on the tips looking raw and bloody, like the person was scratching at something when it was removed. From the bottom of the palm to the end of the forearm there’s a jagged cut, deep enough that the edges of each side curl backwards, a deep but narrow V into the flesh, as if someone had begun to skin the limb but had been interrupted, leaving the thing to leak blood onto the stone.
He exhales, turns away, eyes landing upon the remaining objects. Several moss-green candles lay in a haphazard pile, wicks darkened but not melted enough to have undergone any sort of major use. Beside that pile, a heap of papers fall from an open satchel, in which he finds a tightly wound roll of leather in which he can feel something inside. He sets it to the side for the moment, picking up the papers.
“...rituals that function as requests for the aid or favor of the Old Ones genuinely require a component of life or flesh, preferred sacrifices and preparation of such sacrifices generally relating to the specific preferences of the specific being, with more being demanded with the weight of the tasks. Before requests are to be made, one should form a proper relationship with the relevant being by performing something that executes its desires or providing tribute freely given with nothing desired in return.
Rituals must be performed to the exact specifications of the Old One’s designed process and established preferences. If not done in such a capacity, the being may take offense, likely causing extreme destruction in the site of the botched ritual and surrounding areas, as well as intense physical consequences on the performer, such as death.
In cases where one’s successfully executed or another’s rituals must be undone for whatever reason, the god may accept a similar quantity of flesh. In cases where one might need to reverse the work of another, a connection-establishing work is not generally necessary. Most old ones will willingly partake in such negotiations for unraveling of works if a properly conducted ritual is executed and if they are provided their physical tribute. In these circumstances…”
He flips the page, hopeful for a continuation, or maybe it rewritten in sentences he’s capable of processing, but it’s blank. The majority of other pages are written in a script he doesn’t recognize. Remarkably similar, if he admits it to himself, to the script he found in the books in the hidden room he’d found. There’s only one other page in English. Instructions.
“... can be connected with relatively easily. Arrange in a circular formation seven green candles similar in height, unlit. Mentally number the candles from one to seven, one being the southernmost candle. Light candles without lifting them in this order: The sixth, the third, the fourth, the second, the seventh, the first. Leave the fifth unlit. Flesh tribute is generally preferred in right arms, the portion of which is entirely dependent on the weight of the task in question. Prior to severing, draw a one inch deep cut from the bottom of the palm to the end of the portion of the arm, using the veins as a guide. The life or death of the owner of the arm is irrelevant, but the severing must be conducted at the time of the ritual. Place the limb with the hand facing the unlit fifth candle, then light, focusing on the request. Verbal repetition may help, but is not required. Possible side effects for performers may vary…”
The gears in his mind turn ever frustratingly slowly, like he’s rotating every single puzzle piece in the box against each other until something fits together just to piece together a few sentences into something that his mind is capable of processing. Then, as if on autopilot, he lifts a hand to the leather, unrolling it slowly. A crimson stained dagger falls to the stone floor. It finally feels a little like the gears in his mind have sped up. When he died, or rather after he died, the autopsy… they removed his organs, he was sitting, alive, with an empty chest cavity for minutes on end. And his organs, when they were placed back, they reattached, rearranged themselves enough, stitched themselves back to each other. He can feel his heartbeat, even if it’s slower than it was. So… it’s not totally unreasonable to conclude that he can probably just… heal from most things. And it’s his job to solve this whole… a weird patch of land appears out of nowhere in the middle of Central Park thing, isn’t it? After all he did to Peter, a severed arm that it’s fair to assume he’ll have back eventually isn’t really that much to ask for. Especially if it’s protecting people from whatever kind of person would cut someone’s arm off to ask for a favor from… something.
And by that logic, if it’s not him, it’s Peter. And he’d rather it be him than Peter any day. That’s what had him taking that hit from Venom to begin with.
Those thoughts push him though arranging the candles, using the severed arm as a guide. If that one is the fifth, this direction is probably south. Probably, he’s really never been that smart. So it’s a fifty-fifty chance, really. He lights them by dragging a smaller chunk of stone against the blades on his arms, cascading sparks he’s lucky don’t accidentally light another candle unintentionally. He then pulls the glove from his left arm, rolling up his sleeve, staring numbly at his own pale skin, the already half sealed hole in his wrist and the mottled yellow and purple around it. He reaches for the leather, cuts a chunk. Shoves it into his own mouth.
He braces his own hand against the ground and raises the blade, pressing the tip into the curve of the bottom of his palm, and pulling downwards, flesh coming apart like a zipper being undone, the blood that spurted from it almost being enough to distract from the stench of decayed flesh that emanates from his own body, from the dark purple-brown that contrasts against the red exposed muscle of the unmoving, severed limb beside him. He groans into the leather, eyes clouding in pain, or maybe to hide the decaying flesh that hides beneath his skin from his eyes. Squinting away the tears, he forces himself to just finish it, raising the dagger one again and bringing it into the joint of his elbow, a slight pop as the area burns with pain. Dislocated, maybe it’ll be easier. He yanks it to one side, acid entering his throat as the blade encounters a sickening resistance from muscle, tearing with snapped tendrils of flesh and jagged lines like a tear in fabric. He brings it through the other direction, finds that same wet resistance, but it’s easier to get through this time. Then there’s a firmer, harder resistance, one that he can’t identify the source of with the vignette that’s forming in the edges of his vision. So he just pulls harder. There’s a loud snap, another burst of pain, and then the blade slips the rest of the way through, and he’s not totally sure how he lights the last candle with only one hand to his name, with the way his only thoughts are of pain, no sentences or words formed, and he can’t see through his cloudy eyes. He can still hear though, and the pouring of blood from the joint onto stone sounds almost exactly like how it sounds to draw a bath and hear water pour against the bottom of the tub, and he can almost pretend like he’s back leaning against MJ’s side as she tries to draw him a bath.
He lowers himself to the ground, doing his best to focus through the pain. Everything back to normal, that’s it. All he needs. He’ll take the arm, it’s fine. He rests his head against the ground, thoughts feeling increasingly thick, like his skull is just filled with honey. His side is warm. That’s probably blood. It doesn’t bother him in the way it probably should. He exhales, tries to focus, rolls onto his back, trying to focus on a spot he picks on the rim of the hole as his sight darkens even more at the edges, unfocused and hazy. His thoughts grow slower, thicker. He barely processes that there’s someone watching him before he blacks out.
He’s awoken by the sun warming his face.
His eyes flick open and he’s laying in grass, surrounded by sturdy oaks that cast patterned shadows into the patch of sun he’s awoken in, bushes obscuring a bike path a few dozen feet away. He lifts himself up with two intact arms sitting up before he investigates further, finding his removed glove on one side of him and the glider on the other. The arm he remembers cutting off is whole, though the skin does look a little red and feel ever so slightly raw to the touch. And, pulling his sleeve back down, there’s a ring of scar tissue so faint that he’s not sure if he’s imagining it. He slowly lowers himself back to the ground, pulling his glove back onto his shaking hand. His entire body is burning up, throat feeling coated with acid, sweat sticking to the insides of the suit.
He rolls over and pulls his mask off to throw up at the same moment he can hear a trademark thwipp-ing behind him.
“Where-” He hears Peter freeze behind him. “What’s wrong, are you okay?” Spoken so earnestly his chest tightens.
Harry chokes up something viscous and sticky, watching blood mixed with something black and tarlike splatter onto the grass, burning his throat as he chokes more out, struggling to breathe in between mouthfuls to spit out. He can feel the presence right over his shoulder, a gentle weight against his side that makes his skin buzz and a hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Hey, hey. Get it all out, you’re okay, you’re okay.”
A couple more hacked out mouthfuls of blood and tar-stuff pass, the proportions becoming increasingly blood until he spits out a mouthful of liquid that just tastes fully metallic and remains hunched, arms trembling but breathing, lungs and stomach feeling raw.
Peter pulls him gently backwards and he folds into his movement like he’s made of cardboard, letting Peter settle him against a tree with an arm around his back. It’s too tender. He’s tempted to remind Peter about that boyfriend of his, that he probably wouldn’t like it if Peter was half-cuddling with another guy with his face so close that a stray breeze could make them kiss if it weren’t for the mask.
“What happened?”
Harry doesn’t like lying. He really doesn’t. But no matter what that black shit was, Harry does know that he… has a history of seeing and hearing things that aren’t real. And that the whole thing that night didn’t totally seem real, a little hazy and nonsensical. And with that being the situation, and that night resulting in him cutting off his own now intact arm, it seems… maybe the best that he avoids the truth. He doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but the idea of his closest friends thinking that he’s crazy is enough to overcome that. He doesn’t like lying, but other people knowing he hears voices is something he’s willing to lie to prevent. Not like Peter of all people can actually get on him for that anyways.
“Was following some drug dealer, or I thought he was a drug dealer. There was some gas I inhaled, and even if I beat his ass and left him for the cops I think I passed out from it over Central Park.”
“Yeah…” Peter says slowly, though his tone doesn’t indicate disbelief. He leans away from Harry, falling into a seated position. “I wish you would have told me you were going to start doing this. I would have helped you figure it out.” His tone is so painfully earnest.
Yeah, because Harry’s going to ask him when he can’t even look him in the eyes.
“What?” Of course he said it out loud. Peter looks shocked he even noticed.
He forces himself to straighten up. “Take the mask off, Pete.”
He half expects Peter to resist, to insist that they might be seen, but Peter pulls it over his head, wide blue eyes staring at him like he’s not really real. But alternating between staring at his forehead and at his nose, really. Not in the eyes. Never in the eyes.
“You don’t look me in the eyes. Haven’t since I got back. I know the gas changed how they look, but you won’t even do it when I wear the contacts. Do you feel guilty? I chose to jump in front of you, there’s no reason-”
“It’s not that!” Peter cuts in, beginning to rock himself. “I just-I can’t tell you, if you know it’ll hurt you.”
He coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, because it’s gone so well when you’ve hidden things from me to stop me from being hurt in the past.” It’s a low blow, not fair, not the same, and they both know it, but he still watches guilt rise into Peter’s expression and doesn’t take it back.
“Me and MJ both held you when you died.” He starts slowly.
Harry laughs sharply. “Yeah, buddy. I know. I was there.”
Peter thoroughly ignores him. “I think you were looking at the sunrise when it happened, or it looked like you were. I think MJ might have been too. But I was still looking at you. How you were lit. Because even if you hadn’t died just yet, I was… I was still worried that I would forget you someday. Because…” Peter is reaching forward, brushing his scarred cheek slowly with one hand. Thoughts of reminding him about his boyfriend rise to the surface but are blown away by a breeze that ruffles Peter’s hair as his thumb slowly roams over the deepest, most prominent scar that travels from his cheekbone to his lips. “You chose to be good, and you died for me. And I didn’t want to forget that. It seemed right to remember you like that, with this all lit in the sun. But…” Peter exhales, watery eyes glancing towards his lips. It suddenly occurs to Harry that he doesn’t mind the lack of eye contact if he’s looking at his lips. “But that means you died with your eyes open. And I could see it the moment you died, I could just tell. I had to close your eyes. But the moment it happened, I just knew. The light was gone from them, the warmth. You weren’t there anymore, and that was one of the worst things I’ve ever felt. I’d seen people die, but most of them died with their eyes closed, and they didn’t mean as much to me as you did. I didn’t love them like I loved you. And you’re back, and things should be perfect and great because I have what I wanted most back. But…” Their faces are too close. “Your eyes still look how they did then. They still look dead.”
Peter kisses him. And the warmth and haze in his mind is enough that he barely hears the last sentence, can’t remember the laundry list of reasons why he knows he shouldn’t. His heart is just beating so rapidly it’s almost normal again as he tilts his head closer, absolutely no focus going towards making the kiss decent, his body just going lax and soft as Peter takes a gentle, hesitant, experimental control of it that makes too much sense for Peter Parker. He lifts his hands to his shoulders, the constant dread that weighs on him dispersing.
And his brain slowly ticks along, processing each individual word Peter had said. The moment the realization sets in, the warmth is gone, replaced by claws of cold curling into his stomach, the rapid recollection of the many reasons why he shouldn’t, that he’s trying to be better and sometimes that means what he wants doesn’t really matter.
“No.” Harry grasps Peter’s shoulders and pushes him away, beginning to stand as Peter crouches below, looking confused. “I’m trying to be better than I was. So I don’t think I’m going to be the other guy again because it’ll benefit you this time. You have that boyfriend, remember? Remember?” It’s cold, harsher than it needs to be on Peter, but it’s the exact level of harsh Harry needs to be able to remind himself. The level of harsh someone should be with Harry, because if there’s anything the scars on Harry’s face prove, it’s that he needs to be hurt. A lifetime of entitlement means that being hurt is just how he learns.