“We’re at a crossroads, Arthur.”
Arthur staggers to a halt with a grateful sigh that’s closer to a wheeze and looks around. “Which way?”
“I can’t tell. There’s no signpost.”
“Fuck.” They’ve been walking such a long damn time. He drops to his haunches to think.
“Sheee-it, son. You’re the most haunted sonuvabitch I ever seen.”
Arthur spins toward the new voice, one knee down and ready to jump and run, while John gives a startled exclamation. “Arthur, I didn’t see him! Where…? It’s…he’s an old man, in filthy boots and a broad brimmed hat. His beard is going gray. He doesn’t have a vehicle or a travel bag. Maybe…he looks like he might be a local farmer? He’s just…standing there, the way we came, watching us. I think he’s waiting for you to say something.”
“I, I, uh. Are you from around here?” Arthur pushes himself to his feet, dusting off the knee and seat of his pants where they’d hit the dirt.
“You could say that.” The man sounds amused, almost like he’s got a secret joke.
Arthur is so fucking sick of those.
“I’m heading to Arkham,” he says curtly. “Can you give me directions, by any chance?”
The man doesn’t answer. “He’s studying us,” John reports, sounding suspicious himself–though privately Arthur thinks he’s sulking a little about being sneaked up on.
“It ain’t Arkham you want to get to,” the man says after a moment. Arthur opens his mouth to argue but the old man keeps right on going. “You don’t know where you’re going.”
Arthur sees red. It takes everything he’s got not to lay into the old bastard. He counts to ten and reminds himself repeatedly that he’s a detective, and he knows better than to alienate the person who has the information he needs.
“Thank you,” he says flatly when he can open his mouth safely again. “But Arkham will do for now.”
“It’s that way,” the old man says with a shrug loud enough for Arthur to hear. “But when you don’t know where you want to go, you’d do better to sit a spell and figure it out than hare about the countryside.”
“He’s pointing to his left,” John says. “Our right.”
Arthur turns in that direction. “Thanks,” he says again. It comes out sadder than he intended, all his indignation draining out of him suddenly. “But sometimes you have to go in order to figure out where you’re going to.”
“Ah.” The man is behind them now. Not following, just watching them go. “You’re one of those, are you? Poor boy. Miles to go before you sleep.”
Arthur—or John, maybe, he’s not sure which of them starts it—spins around, startled.
“He…he’s gone?” John stammers. “Goddammit, Arthur, I don’t see him! I fucking–” He breathes out hard enough that it’s a growl in Arthur’s head. More composed, he continues, snapping off each word, “Arthur, how did he know that?”
“It’s a popular poem, John.” The words are automatic, an excuse he’s not sure he believes himself. Most of his mind is on where the old man went–and came from. “It’s getting dark, isn’t it? Could he have just…gone out of sight?”
John sighs heavily. The sound is exhausted. “Maybe. Does it matter? After everything we’ve seen, does it matter if it’s explainable or not?”
Arthur fights with himself about that, as if he could bully the answer into being what he wants it to be. After a moment, he sighs, as heavy and weary as John did, and turns to follow the road to Arkham.