His words were mumbled and soft, try as Artemus did, he could never, at first, make out what exactly his son was saying, all he knew was that Garrett's words were full of venom, as though he were hissing and spitting at someone unseen.
And once the sleeptalking began, it was as though the floodgates opened, and everything, every little thing that Artemus had noticed in the short weeks that Garrett was by his side seemed to cascade out of control.
Artemus could only watch as, day by day, the familiar shade of russet brown in his son's eyes bled to Primal blue as the illusion of a poppy bloomed in Garrett's eye.
Artemus could only listen as night by night, the faint words his son mumbled in the throws of his dreams became clearer and clearer. Mumbles became murmurs which became groggily slurred drawls of speech through unconsciously cumbersome lips, teeth and tongue.
Of course, Artemus could only hear one side of the conversation, Garrett's side, but even then, he could tell that it was not a pleasant conversation…
It seemed that Garrett was fighting his dreams tooth and nail, the most common word uttered during the night being, "No." Over and over, as though Garrett was attempting to drown out someone, or something, else.
During one particularly bad late night argument, where Garrett damnwell nearly screamed, "Shut the fuck up!" Into Artemus' chest, the Keeper gently, carefully began running his fingers through his son's hair, hoping to somehow sooth his boy in any way he could.
Nothing seemed to help…
Not humming, not a gentle touch. Hell, it even took Artemus far too long to wake Garrett from his nightmare. Garrett, who would stir to the drop of a pin, let alone a call of his name, had to be shaken awake that night.
And when Garrett finally did respond to Artemus' gentle shaking of his shoulder, any relief the Keeper felt was swiftly buried by grief.
Garrett sat bolt upright in bed with his final word, another 'shut up' of some nature, dying on his tongue as he silenced himself with a sharp inhale. Artemus was likewise struck dumb, simply watching his son beside him in quiet awe and horror.
His right eye, his scarred eye, the eye housing the Primal… was glowing in a spectacular fashion… Illuminating the entire room in a dim wash of pale blue light…
What stood out most to the Keeper however was the fact that, beyond the ethereal lusture of his son's eye, the whites of Garrett's eyes, both of them, had become an impossibly dark shade of ink…
Artemus didn't need to guess who exactly his son was speaking to in his dreams…
Artemus never spoke to Garrett about his nightly visitor, nor did he bring up the happenings with anyone, not even Keeper Varia.
Orland had been more than willing to attempt to cut out his son's eye for the mere chance of obtaining the smallest sliver of information. And Artemus had no doubt that if he were not present to fight on Garrett's behalf, Orland would have ordered far, far more to be taken from Garrett.
Artemus dreaded the idea of what the First Keeper would do should he learn that the Leviathan was reaching out to Garrett in his dreams. Artemus doubted that Orland would be anywhere near as 'generous' as he had regarding the surgery he had insisted on.
No, Artemus could see a thousand horrors that Orland could put his boy through, all to draw the Leviathan's gaze towards his selfish self.
Garrett seemed to understand the gravity of his situation at least. He had always loved his history lessons, always loved learning about the past, myths and legends. He knew the lore of the Primordial Sea, he knew of the Leviathan.
He knew what it meant if the dead child came to you in your dreams.
And, quite clearly, Garrett wanted no part in any greater plan.
He was no hero, no leader of any new age, no shepherd of change, no herald of revolution. He was a thief. Nothing more, nothing less.
So every morning, Garrett would apologize whenever he saw the bags beneath Artemus' eyes darken, he would help around the house wherever he could, and never once mentioned the nightly incidents.
Still… There was a certain sense of… Urgency, to the situation.
It was common knowledge, within the Haven at least, that the Leviathan was, above all else, a trickster, despite the Pagans claiming the Leviathan to be a god of fate and change, first and foremost, the Leviathan desired to be entertained, and through the annals of history, that entertainment came in the form of offering lesser men promises of power, and then watching the destruction brought forth by those who had earned the dead child's favour.
Consent was not required on the recipient's part, nor was an offer made needed by the Leviathan.
So to see Garrett fight, night after night, in a desperate bid to fend off the accursed boon, was a baffling thing.
Perhaps it was due to the severity of the situation that the Leviathan hesitated to so freely hand out its mark to the thief. Or maybe Garrett was actually dodging any and all attempts to receive the mark in his dreams.
Still, perhaps, inevitably, the patience of the god ran thinner, or thicker than the thief's.
Artemus watched in the dead of night as the sacred Glyph faded onto the back of his son's hand, like the full moon on a cloud ladened night, peering through the veil slowly, slowly until the last of the clouds passed by, revealing the beauty hidden behind them.
Garrett fell still afterwards, and did not move for the rest of the night.
Artemus kissed his son's forehead gently as he pulled the blankets up over them...
The very next day.
Artemus awoke to an empty nest once more.