And, for a while, perhaps, he would let them.
But eventually… probably quite soon… he would reveal to them the words that Lorenzo Sanguedolce had whispered to him. And then they would realize that they must stay together. Even if the Demogorgon was years away, they would have to prepare, to gather others like them, to combat the darkness so that when the time came, they would be ready.
The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world, Sweetblood had said. Yet Conan Doyle did not believe that fate had already been written. Destiny, he knew, could be decided by those who were willing to grasp it in their hands and build their own fate from it.
The great darkness was coming. But he and his Menagerie would be there to greet it.
Until then…
"Arthur," Ceridwen said, bending low over him, blotting out his view of the others, of his friends gathered round him. He caught her scent, of spice and vanilla, saw the blue-white hue of her skin glisten in the moonlight. She kissed him gently, their lips barely grazing one another.
"Rest now."
Yes, he thought. He would rest.
But not for long.