Chapter Text
ARCHIVIST: Did you answer it?
MARTIN: No.
ARCHIVIST: Hm. Probably for the best. (163 - In The Trenches)
The sound of war was oppressive, everywhere around them and unrelenting. Martin kept stumbling over things in the water. He was a bit curious what they could be except when he started to focus, the part of him still belonging to the Eye gleefully informed him he just hit a foot and well. That's the most he can take. Jon moved with startling speed, unimpeded by mundane things like body parts and mud and the cacophony of a thousand burning rifles.
The unending rapport of gunfire was so noisy Martin should be forgiven for not hearing the sound at first. He trudged through the muck, keeping his breath steady and trying not to think about if he needed breath, what he's breathing, if he could dive beneath the mud and not need air -
Yes, the Eye whispered, yes, you could. You are beloved.
And - eugh. Who could've guessed he wouldn't be a fan of obsessive devotion? Maybe, before, he thought it'd be nice to feel so wanted. Not anymore.
Eventually, however, the sound cut through. It was distantly familiar, as if he'd known it somewhere in his memory but forgotten. After a few seconds of listening, Martin recognized the sound of a phone ringing. When he realized it was coming from behind him, he turned and spotted it.
A red phone box, sitting incongruously on the bank of the trench, a wide berth between it and the barbed wire that stretched across the rest of the shore. The sight disarmed him so much, Martin laughed. He covered his mouth with his hand. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Jon moving ever forward. Jon didn't hear the phone. Strange. Martin meant to call out when -
The phone rang again.
A wild thought appeared - maybe Jon didn't hear because - because it wasn't meant for him. Maybe it was meant for Martin.
He sloshed through the water toward the box. Even if Jon said they were protected, Martin erred on the side of caution. A wide circle of empty ground surrounded the box and he could see through the glass panes there was nothing inside it. Just the phone continuing to ring.
He opened the door, holding it ajar with his foot and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Martin! Lovely to speak with you finally." The cheery voice was unfamiliar, but a name nevertheless pooled in the back of his mind, rising steadily to the surface.
Martin scowled at the phone. "Annabelle Cane."
"Oh but you are strong with the Beholding. I had wondered how the Forsaken tempered you. No - don't hang up!"
Whether she knew or made a guess, the order still caused a swell of unease in Martin's throat. Unease and anger.
"If I talk to you, all you'll do is manipulate me and make me think awful things. No, thank you." He moved the receiver away from his ear.
"I can help him."
Martin paused. She found the only thing that would make him hesitate. Even though it was an obvious tell, Martin couldn't make himself regret considering, and so he brought the phone back up to his ear.
"Alright then. Though I'm not going to believe any of it," he said quickly. Annabelle hummed quietly down the line.
"Afraid it's too sensitive to discuss over the phone. How about a personal meeting, Martin?"
He laughed. Of course. "Well, that was as stupid as I thought it'd be."
He hung up before Annabelle could try to win him over with more lies or manipulation. He should've known better, but - what if she had been able to help? To do something other than wander through the apocalypse, watching Jon sink ever downward into something he's not sure he can handle? Martin can't afford to entertain the notion - that Annabelle Cane of all people would help him or Jon. If they were gonna make it out of the apocalypse, Martin had to be strong enough for both of them. He had to believe their faith in each other was enough to see them through.
He caught up with Jon, who turned and frowned at him like he hadn't realized Martin was missing.
"Everything alright?" Jon asked, the soft curve of his brow deepening with concern.
"I, er," Martin glanced behind him and the phone box was nowhere to be seen. Jon hadn't noticed it, but was that enough to keep it from him? It would be better not to fall into what Annabelle wanted, to let Jon know what she said, to be open and honest. But Martin wasn't sure how things were going to go in the apocalypse - they'd only been traveling for a few days, running into domains indifferent to their presence. Separated. It was terrifying and Jon was trying so hard to keep all his emotions wrapped up tight. It wouldn't do to worry him further.
"Just getting used to everything," Martin said. The furrow of Jon's face softened and he reached a hand to curl around Martin's shoulder, almost hesitantly, as if unsure of its welcome. Martin placed his own hand over it, squeezing.
"I know it's - a lot. But you're safe with me. And if - if you need anything, just - I'll be here." The earnest plea opened Jon's face up so much it speared right through Martin. He swallowed and leaned in.
"You sure the Eye can't poof us a car right now?" Martin whispered conspiratorially. The edge of Jon's mouth lifted.
"Pretty sure."
"Yeah. Maybe just a scooter?" When Jon laughed, Martin grinned. "Even a bike. Do you think the Eye could manage a bicycle?"
"I'm not sure any of those would help us in… this." Jon wiggled around so the muddy water sloshed.
Martin pulled Jon's hand off his shoulder and linked their fingers together. "Then let's get the hell out of here."
ANNABELLE: Does he even need you at all? (166 - The Worms)
Martin wasn't an idiot. He knew that Jon was powerful - he knew that when Jon survived the Unknowing, when Jon came to him and begged to let them carve out their eyes to be free, when he took the first step out of the cabin and into the destroyed world around them. Watching him - smite the Not Them was… a whole cadre of things. A damn wheel of feelings that spun and spun in Martin's chest and sometimes paused long enough for him to get overwhelmed with one.
He was always afraid, here in the world of the Beholding, but when Jon's voice rose in that commanding tone, when the creatures around him shuddered and cowered and the thing that had never been Sasha pleaded for its life, Martin had been scared in a way he hadn't before. Awed, probably. Wasn't that the thing with awe? People used it so regularly to describe ordinary events that they lost the essential quality of it - to be awed. To be overcome with the wonder of something, but also with dread and terror. To tremble before something more powerful that could obliterate you without thinking, never mind remorse.
Martin was in awe of Jon - for all meanings of the word.
But their time in the Stranger domain reminded Martin viscerally of what Jon is and what he can do. Their new lives consisted of an ever-reaching quest to get to the Panopticon, deal with Elias and not fall prey to the other monsters in the interim. Maybe Martin hadn't quite thought through how they were going to manage and what it meant for Jon to be the avatar of the Entity ruling over the apocalypse.
He knew now. He'd seen words - imbued with power and ritual, sure, but just words - rend a creature into non-existence. He’d figured they would probably have to kill to survive, but killing didn't mean much anymore. It was suffer, cause suffering, or nothingness. While it's comforting to know Jon could protect them from anything just short of the Eye itself, Martin could feel the reckoning of what that entailed sneaking up behind them. He just hoped they could outrun it.
If they were going to live a pro-monster killing existence, then Martin needed to figure out a way to excise the pesky inklings of guilt. He could support Jon going on a spree, murdering of all the things that hurt them when they were helpless. Martin knew helpless; he knew how it felt for everything to crumble out of your hands, to offer aid and be refused, to try and try and get nowhere. So to be able to actually do something? If they could finally stop passively enduring everything that came their way and be the cause of change, then Martin would allow for anything.
He deserved it, and Jon deserved it too. They couldn't stop feeling afraid - there was no way around that here. But they could have control of something.
So Martin didn't begrudge Jon his abilities and how he used them. He wished Jon could feel the same.
Hands in his pockets, Martin meandered around the realm of the Buried, the mud sucking at his shoes as he walked. He ran across a spade and that was a bit insensitive, wasn't it? In this place?
A muffled sound rose from the mud and before he recognized it, Martin found himself already digging. He sighed when he heard a ringing; he knew exactly who it was. He fished the phone out of the dirt and answered it, holding it several inches away from his face.
"What do you want, Annabelle?"
She hummed down the line. "That's not very polite, Martin."
"I don't care about polite!" He hissed into the phone, glancing around for Jon. "Stop calling me! I'm not going to have a meeting with you. We don't have anything to say to each other."
"I'm still willing to help him, Martin. To help you."
"No, thank you."
Even as Annabelle sighed, it sounded less like frustration and more like amusement, as if Martin was a pet that failed a simple trick. "That's disappointing. I do hope you'll be more… open-minded in the future."
"Probably not! Good-bye!" He didn't bother to hang up as he threw the phone as hard as he could. It plopped into the mud with a distant splash.
Martin's breath shook as it heaved out of him, and he wiped at his eyes with his forearm, not quite crying, but overcome with a feeling he refused to identify as regret. When he caught up to Jon, his face must show the conflict inside. Jon's eyebrows twisted and his mouth opened to say something. Martin wasn't sure if he could lie to him, so he caught him up in a hug. They hugged for longer than felt comfortable, until Martin believed his feet would keep him standing, keep him following.
ARCHIVIST: A beautiful oasis, untouched by the end of the world. (180 - Moving On)
Upton House sat, improbably, lovely and looming before them. Martin'd only ever seen something like it in magazines or documentaries, the fleeting background of someone's profile picture. His mother could never afford to take them anywhere like this, even before she got very sick, and they hadn't the funds when the school would schedule trips. The house ached with history, in the rough stonework, the faded paint, the painstakingly planted gardens dying nearby.
The glow of Jon's face sent a thread of wistfulness through Martin, wishing that he could take Jon to see things like this. Maybe they could've had a date at one of the other National Trust sites, walked through gardens where Jon rambled on and on about the different plants and the soil composition and the best time for growing certain things. They could've had one normal date. Instead, he examined the stonework around the massive doors.
"So what now? I don't see a doorbell."
Jon, delight still writ across his face, drew up next to Martin. "I'm not even sure this door actually opens."
It might've been the abandoned remains of what used to be a historical landmark but surely it functioned just like a regular house. Why else would there be a door? "But it should, it’s the front door! Besides, it’s the biggest one so if it’s not –"
Jon shrugged, taking a step back to peer at the other parts of the house as if another door should magically manifest. "Maybe they expect you to come in through the café or, I mean, they usually have a little gift shop or something."
"Okay, so where would they be?"
"No idea."
Standing outside of what could be a welcome respite and having no way to get inside began to press on Martin. He wondered if it had a kitchen, if it still worked, if they might have tea. "I thought you said you’d been here before."
"I said I might have been, and even if I have, I was twelve," Jon said, having moved on from the door to inspect the wild creep of some plant with tiny yellow flowers beginning to move up the wall.
Even as Martin watched, slightly exasperated Jon wasn't more invested in getting into the house, he couldn't help the side of his mouth pulling up, twitching at how wonderful it was to see Jon actually being happy. It'd been a very long time. And while lovely, there was an unease spreading in his stomach that made him want to get off the front steps. He liked it better when Jon knew what was coming, when Jon could determine the threat level before it found them. He let out a small, breathy laugh. “I’ll tell you what, it is more convenient when you know everything.”
Jon didn’t glance up from the flowers, but he opened his mouth to respond. The huge door clanked from the inside, as if something heavy was being unlatched, and started to swing open. A pleased grin spread across Jon’s face. “Oh! I guess I was wrong.”
Martin moved to stand slightly in front of Jon, as if to protect him from whatever was going to come out of the doorway. Without knowing the extent of what the new weird quirk to Jon’s powers meant, Martin couldn’t risk something happening to him. Jon’s hand fumbled at Martin’s elbow, then curled around his bicep, almost pulling him back.
The door opened and it was someone Martin had only seen in photographs. Her features were much sharper than he remembered, cheeks sunken in a bit, and the blonde of her hair faded to silver then white where a slight breeze ruffled the webs that cover a portion of her scalp. She smiled broadly at them and there’s a gap between her front teeth, so inanely incongruous with what Martin thought of her – manipulative, deadly Avatar of deceit – that it made Martin feel wrong-footed.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice bright and chipper as she opened the door wide.
“Is it?” Jon asked.
“Here it is. How wonderful it is to finally meet the two of you. We’ve been waiting.”
Martin turned, just slightly, to glance back at Jon. “Jon, this is – this is – this –“
“Annabelle Cane,” Jon intoned, his voice tired.
“Hello!” Annabelle said, waving. She stepped back and held the door open for them.
"S-s-should we-? Should we -?” Martin stuttered. He gripped Jon’s hand tight and tried to look more confident than he was feeling. From the way Annabelle smirked, he was probably not accomplishing it. What else were they going to do? Go back out into the apocalypse? Jon wanted to see this place, and Martin couldn’t help but feel drawn in. They should leave, but Annabelle teased them with a potential path, potential knowledge, and how could they refuse? Even if Martin wasn’t curious – and he was - Jon would want to know.
Jon’s fingers tightened around his. “I suppose so? Or we could…”
He gestured behind them and Martin sighed. “We’re already here, we might as well – you know.”
“Right.”
“This way!” Annabelle called, already inside the house and heading down the hall. They followed, walking too close together, but Martin could not make himself move away. Not with how Jon leaned against him, their legs almost getting tangled until he slung his arm around Jon’s waist. The house was beautiful in the stately, reserved way wealthy British things usually were, lush fabrics in muted tones against the floors and tasteful silver metalwork hinting at the sheer expense it took to keep something looking so effortlessly rich.
“I don’t like this place,” Martin whispered to Jon, who let out a breathy laugh.
“That’s not surprising, is it?”
“You can relax, Mr. Blackwood!” Annabelle called over her shoulder. “You’re perfectly safe here.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, doesn’t really feel like it.”
“Can’t help with that, sorry.” She slowed down, but Martin realized she only did so because he and Jon began slowing down. He looked at Jon, who practically hung off his arm, eyes closed, feet shuffling.
“Jon? Are you – are you okay?”
“Hmm. Just… very tired.” He slumped and Martin caught him, holding up his weight. Panic ratcheted up from his gut and Martin gave Jon a little shake. Though Jon didn't rouse, he mumbled and snuggled against Martin’s jumper.
Martin glared at Annabelle, who faced them and smiled her snide little smirk. “What did you do?”
“Me?” She raised her hand to her throat as if offended. “I’m just here to guide you. When was the last time you two slept?”
Ages. They haven’t needed sleep since before leaving the cabin. Martin had only tried it a few times, but being unable to wake Martin had disturbed Jon so much, he quit the practice. It wasn’t as if he needed it, it was just… a way to pass the time. A way to forget their circumstances and all of eternity stretching out ahead of them. Like when Martin hadn’t been able to feed both him and his mother and slept rather than deal with hunger pangs.
Martin picked up Jon, though his limbs began to drag, a lassitude settling over him like it did Jon, albeit slower. He should remember this, he should know why this worried something at the back of his mind, even as he stumbled forward to where Annabelle directed him to an open door.
The room they entered matched the rest of the house – navy blue and deep grays, a padded ottoman at the foot of the bed and large shuttered windows, white-on-white herringbone. Martin gently set Jon down and pulled them both the last few feet to the bed. Annabelle peered in the doorway. Martin struggled to sit up, determined to face Annabelle and not let her see him sleep, not let Jon be unconscious and vulnerable in her presence. Whatever happened to them continued to pull Martin under, and he knew he couldn't resist it.
“Don’t do any… spider stuff while we’re… out,” Martin mumbled, eyes closing, curling around Jon who breathed deeply in his sleep.
Annabelle giggled and Martin would've scowled at her if he could summon the energy. Her voice faded as she started to pull the door shut. “Don’t let the spiderlings bite, Martin.”
Martin jolted out of his sleep, sat straight up and gasped. He patted around until he found – Jon. He hadn’t realized he'd been looking for him until he found him, and his heart eventually stopped trying to evacuate his chest. Sunshine seeped through a crack in the curtains and slanted over their prone bodies. Martin settled back down and traced Jon’s arm and shoulder with the barest touch. When he glanced up, he noticed that Jon’s eyes were open and flicking back and forth, as if he were reading. Martin hesitated.
“Jon? Are you alright?” He ran his thumb along the edge of Jon’s jaw, but Jon didn't move. His breathing stayed slow and steady, his body still and relaxed, as if – as if he were asleep. Martin grimaced. Was that a new thing? Did Jon sleep with his eyes open now? In Scotland, Martin sometimes caught Jon's eyes slightly parted when he slept, but not halfway open and moving. Bizarre. “Well, that’s not disturbing.”
In the golden light, Jon’s features all went warm, the lines gone from his forehead. He almost looked his age. He’d been curled up in the curve of Martin’s body, hand loosely fisted in his shirt. His brow briefly puckered when Martin removed his hand, but smoothed back out, sinking back into a restful sleep.
Martin jostled the bed as he shuffled off it, but Jon didn’t move. They both seem intact. If Annabelle left them alone to sleep without harming them or sending spiders down their throats, then she could afford to wait. Whatever she wanted, she either needed their cooperation or their attention. It meant, at the very least, that Martin had time to figure her out, and time for Jon to rest. Martin leaned over and pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek, the high arch of the bone, breathing in the warm smell of him, like clove and cedar.
When Martin wandered out of the room, he heard the rattle of ceramic and metal coming from further to the left, and headed that way. Strangely, he still felt a bit fuzzy, as if he couldn't quite shake the sleep. Martin couldn't be a stealthy person, too large and self-conscious for that, but he took his time, listening intently although it would be very convenient for Annabelle to discuss all of her nefarious plans at a loud volume just as Martin snuck up. Things rarely worked in his favor that way.
And yet, as he approached, the distinct cadence of Annabelle's voice drifted out of a partially closed door, answered by someone with a more lyrical accent - maybe French? Martin took his time to carefully tiptoe closer to the door to eavesdrop.
"- won't need to be worried about that. I can promise you that we're safe here from the things that plague this world. Although," her voice dipped quiet and Martin pressed against the door. "I don't think we are going to be very safe from people rudely listening in to private conversations."
Martin leaned back from the door just as it swung open. Annabelle smiled at him, despite her words, and made a sweeping gesture inviting him inside.
"How lovely for you to join us, Martin. Won't you come in?"
Once more, Martin had to remind himself that he and Jon had both promptly passed out when they’d arrived. They'd been asleep for some indiscernible amount of time, and if she wanted to hurt them, she would have. He wasn't about to trust Annabelle - the Web worked mostly through manipulation and that required someone being at least mostly awake - but he could trust that she wanted him alive for a little while longer. Martin followed her gesture, keeping his arms crossed over his chest.
The immaculate kitchen was beautiful and untouchable, like a magazine photo shoot rather than a place where people lived and cooked. It carried over the neutral colors of the rest of the house, though marble and stainless steel distinguished it from the other rooms. The only light was an open window looking out onto slightly less-than-immaculate lawns, leaving the other side of the kitchen in darkness. A ceramic tea set with pale pink roses sat on the gray-streaked counter in service with three steaming cups. A wave of - pain or longing or nostalgia - swept through Martin at the sight. How long since he'd had a proper tea? Since he brewed a cuppa at the perfect temperature with two spoons of sugar? Jon's, with only a splash of milk? Jon liked his tea a minute oversteeped and Martin always made sure to time it to get it just right.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Annabelle sat on one of the wooden stools pulled up to the bar, picking up a cup from the tray. Sitting perpendicular to her was a large man with Polynesian features, taller and wider than Martin and wearing an emerald waistcoat over a gray button-up. The man’s whole demeanor felt too formal for the end of the world, but he did fit perfectly in this fancy kitchen.
"Why, I don't think you've met," Annabelle said, smiling. "Mikaele, this is Martin Blackwood of the Magnus Institute. Or, I suppose it's formerly of the Magnus Institute. Martin, Mikaele Salesa, entrepreneur and keeper of the artifact making all this possible."
Martin pointed at Salesa, mouth dropped. "You! You're - you're in so many statements! You’ve caused so much pain -"
"Seems a bit irrelevant now, hm?" Salesa said, the owner of that lyrical voice. He sipped at his tea with a hand that dwarfed the cup. "Since you and your boyfriend ended the world."
"We didn't - That's not fair -!"
"Oh boys, stop that." Annabelle scooped another spoon of sugar in her tea, not at all perturbed by their raised voices. "Mikaele, I'm grateful to you for letting us stay here. May I speak with Martin alone?"
"Of course." Salesa dipped his head at Annabelle and winked at Martin, who scowled in response.
Martin watched Salesa leave, then slowly turned back to Annabelle. He gingerly took Salesa's vacated seat. It made sense that he was here. If anyone could figure out a way to carve some paradise in the apocalypse, it was the man who had his hands in everything and an obligation to nothing, but Martin was wary of more surprises. His arms tightened across his chest.
"I won't bite, Martin," Annabelle said, her smile widening just a fraction. He couldn't see any fangs but it didn't mean there weren't any. "Have some tea."
He hesitated, watching her, then picked up the tea. She'd set out three cups, all filled, prepared for his arrival. He didn't know what kind it was, if it was even real, but he was certain something as simple as poison wouldn't kill him. The Lonely wasn't restrained here, and he knew that it afforded him some sort of protection in this place.
"So."
"So." She sipped her tea.
"You got your meeting. What do you want?"
Her eyes glittered with his words and she gave him a little nod. She seemed amicable, but tempered by something else: determination? "I suppose I did. This wasn't my doing, you know. But I'm glad you're here."
Martin huffed. Maybe it was Jon's curiosity about there being a great unknown that led them here, but it couldn't be a coincidence Annabelle had found herself in a cozy spot to spin her threads where Jon would be weak and she would have the upper hand. Even if she couldn't ensure Jon’s arrival, she had to know things in this place had a tendency to happen regardless of logic. He drank his tea, grimacing a little. It was fine, but he'd missed this bit of normalcy for so long, he was tempted to brew a better pot.
"Martin," Annabelle said, but she left his name hanging, an unanchored tether. She wrapped both hands around her cup, but the amusement slowly fell from her face. Annabelle took a big breath. Like she'd made a decision. "Have you wondered about the tape recorders?"
Martin choked on his tea. He coughed, covering his mouth until he could recover. "Have I -? Of course I have! What they're for, how they work, why they're everywhere, even here! In the apocalypse! I used to think Elias - Jonah - Elias had a part. But -"
"But maybe not? Do you know what this place is?"
"I can guess. There's things, artifacts, that can ward off a particular Entity. I’ve never heard of it to this scale, but if anyone's gonna have something like that it would be Salesa. He's supposed to be dead, but he must've survived and… found something that kept him safe from the Eye? Maybe… maybe that camera with the cracked lens. It was the last thing he'd been looking for in the statement right before he died. Or, er, faked his death. It must carve out a space where the Beholding can't see. I suppose that's why Jon's so tired. Why I'm…" not as much, he didn't say aloud.
"Yes, your loyalties are more divided, aren't they?" It didn't sound like a question, the way she spoke it so confidently. "Pulled by the Forsaken, by I Know You, even us, the Spider."
Martin hiccuped a sharp laugh and shook his head. "Ah, no. I am not one of yours. I'm… I'm…"
"You never noticed the webs growing around your office?" She sipped her tea.
Martin's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He had noticed the webs. He cleaned them whenever he could, until he lost the capacity to care about it, the curiosity to discover what the Web wanted with him and the desire to do anything to stop it. And maybe he'd thought about it. It was impossible not to, wasn't it? Not to think about what Entities could own you? Which ones you could ignore? Which ones already had their hooks embedded?
He had never wanted to consider whether or not he'd fit with the Spider. He'd always liked spiders - that had nothing to do with the Web. He'd liked them before he knew about the supernatural, ever since he was a child, picking up stray bugs and setting them gently outside their flat to avoid certain death. And he was good at talking to people, always had been, and maybe it had felt… stronger the past few years but that didn't mean - that wasn't proof that -
Annabelle made a soft noise in her throat. "You didn't think it strange your persuasiveness became stronger, more adept? How often the recorders showed up for you?"
Martin narrowed his eyes. "What does this have to do with the recorders?"
"Surely you've wondered who they belong to? You thought perhaps Elias, but…?"
He drank the last bit of his bitter tea. He poured more of it, even though it wasn't great, even though he knew it'd gone cold. The stall was a time-honored tradition for him.
"It can't be the Eye because they wouldn't work here, and there's one right there. It's even on! You're saying - if they're yours - you've been listening in, spying, this whole time. But - why? Wouldn't the Eye just tell you everything you wanted? Elias didn't like your master, but he worked with you well enough when it suited him. What did you need?"
Annabelle slipped off the stool, one hand wrapped around her waist while the other came to rest beneath her chin. "The Mother of Puppets has never attempted a ritual. Did you wonder why?"
Martin shrugged. "Figured they tried. It just failed, like they were all doomed to."
"Hmm. The Web isn't the oldest Fear, but it is the only one, besides perhaps The Finality, approaching what you call sentience. It plans things. Events and outcomes and the movements of the others. It has never needed a ritual. The Web figured out, oh, about a decade ago that a ritual cannot be successfully completed by a single Entity. We are gestalt and it's folly to separate us at any point. In trying to define us, Smirke inadvertently prevented a successful ritual with his broken taxonomy.
"It wouldn't be long before someone belonging to the Beholding, privy to all that knowledge, also figured it out, so the Web wove its plans meticulously. Most of the Fears are easy to manipulate once you determine how they function, their motivation and desire. When we mark someone - and we mark plenty of individuals - we keep track of them. We knew that one day someone would attempt a real ritual. When one of our marked started working at the Magnus Institute, we knew it was time. Our final machination began."
Martin didn't understand. The Web couldn't want that - for something else to rule and for it to be subservient? Even with its ability to manipulate and maneuver, Martin had seen Web domains - they were still feeding the Eye. "Why would you want a ritual to succeed? One that's not yours?"
Annabelle tapped her nose, cheekily, and pointed back at Martin. "Why would we? The world is finite. There is only so much room to spread. We knew it would become harder and harder to feed. Eventually, the Last Assurance would deplete the world and we'd all starve. Our ritual was not to take control, but to escape."
"Escape?" Martin shook his head. "How?"
"One of your statements found it. The crack in Hill Top Road."
She expected him to remember all the statements? Martin thought back over them; he'd paid particular attention to Hill Top Road and how bizarre it was, the sheer amount of statements that took place there. He remembered. "Oh! That's, uh, the, uh, the Anya Vilette statement. So, the - the Web wants to escape through a crack?"
"It's not an architectural mishap, Martin. It's a rend in reality. That crack leads to a hundred, a million, an infinite number of worlds. If we were to spread, we would never go hungry."
Reeling a bit, Martin pressed his palms flat against his eyes. "So - wait. So - the Web wants to go through a crack in a house it owns. But why - why not just go?" He paused. "Oh, it's - it's erm. It's all - you said it's all connected. So - so you can't just go. You have to take all the others with you."
"That's it."
Martin scoffed. "How the hell are you gonna do that? It took you thousands of years to figure out the ritual with Jon. How long until you figure out this?"
Annabelle gave him a humorless smile. "We already have."
"What?" Martin looked around and his eye caught the tape recorder, merrily spooling away tape and their conversation. "The tapes. But - how? I don't get it."
"Reading the statements, the true statements, bound each Entity to our threads, bit by bit. All of them have been recorded by the people at your Institute, linked by our marked, and therefore all of them have become entangled in the Web. All the strings run through him."
Martin scrambled off the stool, knocking it over. He spluttered. "What does that mean? "
"Everyone who recorded has been touched by the Entities, not just the Spinner, not just the Watcher, but pieces of the others as well. Their contributions drew our net tighter. There will be no chance of a Fear falling through."
"If it all connects through Jon," Martin said slowly. "Then… what needs to happen to 'draw the net closed'?"
Annabelle touched her chin. "Jon needs to become the center of the Eye. He will have to dispose of Jonah Magnus, and then we will push him through the crack, dragging everything else with him."
A wave of cold washed through him, swept out the fear and the unease and the confidence and the suspicion. Dread, and such crippling sadness overwhelmed him; Martin grabbed the counter to stay upright. "He won't survive that."
"No, I don't imagine he will."
"I will not let you kill Jon." Martin took two steps toward Annabelle, not sure what he meant to do, but fueled by the urge to fix it, make her take it back. She raised her hands.
"I don't want to kill Jon."
"Of course you don't," he sneered. "Just the eldritch fear monster that controls you wants to."
"I -" Annabelle hesitated, the smugness leaving her face for the first time. She leaned closer. "I won't let him die if I can prevent it."
Confused and somewhat mollified, Martin retreated. She shifted her weight back and forth as if she couldn't hold still. He wanted to believe those words, that she actually wanted to save Jon, whether because she cared or it fit into her plans, but he couldn't dismiss all she'd done, the maneuvers and doubletalk that rendered everything she spoke into a puzzle waiting to be solved. Why did she want to help? What was in it for her? The Web never did anything forthright. He couldn't tell what game Annabelle was playing, but he'd have to participate enough to figure it out. He didn't - couldn't - trust her. He folded his arms.
"Ok, well, I don't believe that."
She nodded. "No, I didn't think you would. The Mother is here, strong, but I can limit that for a while."
"What? Why would you -"
Annabelle grabbed a velvet bag, so deeply green it only held color in snatches of light, that'd been laying near her and took a deep, fortifying breath. Her hands shook when she tried to open it, widening the minute tears in her previously unassailable avatar armor.
She drew out something the length of her forearm. It wasn't until she held it up in her hand that Martin could see what it was. A pair of pruning shears, crusted black with patina and brown with stains that spattered across the blades.They looked ancient and well-used.
When she touched the metal, Annabelle visibly wilted. She staggered, knees buckling, before righting herself. Her skin lost its warmth, her lips dried, her breath a shuddering raspy thing. He almost put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, a small glimpse into what she used to be leaking through. He didn't. She wasn't a friend.
"It isn't as strong as the camera, but it works. I don't want to kill Jon, Martin. I don't want any of that. I want to free this place and eliminate the Entities."
Martin stared at her, then began to laugh. "Oh, you almost got me!"
Annabelle leaned back over the counter, reaching into the shadows beyond her satchel, and drew something out. It was a length of rope, heavy and certainly decades old, frayed and dirty. She held it with a care that he hadn't seen from her before. Purposeful.
"Don't panic, Martin."
His laugh went sharp. "Now I'm definitely going to panic."
She uncoiled the rope, stretching it along the counter between them. Her hand traced the sprawl of it with a gentle reverence. It'd been cut at one end and the other ended in a loop, sort of like a noose.
"Uh -"
A sound, the whumph of a pilot light igniting a spark, filled the room and in the next instance, a figure appeared next to Annabelle: willowy, feminine, and on fire.
Martin yelped and scrambled back.
"It's alright," the figure said in a sweet Welsh accent. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're on fire."
"Yes, but you're not."
That was true. Martin looked back and forth between the figure and Annabelle, trying to calm his stuttering breath. An uneasy feeling welled in his gut. This felt familiar, somehow, a young woman burning, vaguely translucent, like a -
"Oh bloody hell, you're that ghost." Martin covered his mouth briefly. "In Clapton. Kept a woman awake at night, sometimes burned things."
The woman nodded. "Yes. After I died, Diego took everything to his flat. I just followed the rope."
Martin slumped back onto the stool, forcefully suppressing the well of hysteria threatening at his throat. He could remember a Diego in the statements, an agent of the Desolation, present at the death of their chosen one. He clarified, almost hoping he wasn't right. "Diego Rivera."
"Yes, that idiot."
Annabelle giggled and Martin snickered and he choked on a pained gasp that threatened to turn into a sob. He'd seen a lot of things in the apocalypse, seen stuff that would've destroyed him a few years ago, but somehow this did it. Somehow, the idea that he'd gotten caught up in whatever little plan Annabelle devised, that she'd dragged Agnes Montague into it - whatever it turned out to be, it wouldn't be good - and would be costly. He rubbed at his eyes. "I… I thought the Web and the Desolation didn't get along."
"It's what makes this easier."
"Okay… and what is this? You manipulated the apocalypse and you're the messiah of destruction but you both wanna save the world," he said incredulously, pointing at the two of them in turn.
"I was a college student," Annabelle said softly. She stared past Martin, distant. "A girl, terrified of spiders. Loved Arsenal. And they killed me."
"Yeah, and filled you with spiders! You're not that person anymore. You died."
"Is your Jon 'that person' still? He died too, I hear."
Martin went stiff. He fought back the tears that pricked his eyes. It wasn't anything that hadn't occurred to him before, haunted his dreams, tore him from sleep with 'who is this man?' Does it matter that Jon died, if he came back? All avatars had a death of some sort - it was part of the whole transformation thing. But was he any less Jon? Jon who went out of his way to befriend stray cats, who meticulously sewed all the holes in Martin's jumpers when he absconded with them, who fussed if the labels for spices weren't turned out. Was that someone consumed by the Eye?
No. Martin didn't accept that - couldn't accept that.
"Let's say I believe you. That I buy into your… altruistic goal. Why are you talking to me? Why not ask Jon? He's - well, he's the most powerful person around."
Annabelle and Agnes exchanged glances and Martin's stomach churned with the cold weight of foreboding. They knew the details of this plan and they were trying to figure out the best way to ease him into it. He knew what it would look like, what string they would pull (it's what Martin would do), and he'd fight them on it however much he could.
"Hey, no, what's that? Why'd you both just -"
"You're right. Jon is immensely powerful. And he will have a role to play," Annabelle said, taking the teapot to the sink.
"No, yours was awful. Let me." Martin intercepted her, taking the pot out of her hands without touching or getting too close. She swayed with the movement, arms wrapped around her torso. Martin filled the kettle with water and set it on the hob, even as his hands trembled. He took a deep breath, then turned to face them.
"Why am I here? You called me."
"I can't share our secrets with you unless you agree, Martin," Annabelle said, her smile faint and wavering. She really was suffering without her connection to the Web. And she'd set aside whatever prejudice the Mother instilled in her about Ruin to team up with Agnes - if she was pulling strings here, she was cutting the ones tying her to her patron.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Does your plan include, uh, throwing Jon into this crack in reality?"
"No," Agnes said. "I can't guarantee he'll live, but it's the best chance for everyone to make it. In - including Jon."
The kettle whistled and Martin jumped. He busied himself preparing the tea, waiting in silence while it steeped. Agnes sounded so quiet and sincere, tinged with a sort of resignation, like she knew Martin would refuse to help. He knew such a feeling intimately, the lack of support and confidence, so stubborn to get something done, even if you had to pull yourself along every bloody inch of it. Her story expanded in Martin's mind, the gaps of the statements he knew about her filling in, filling out. She was always headed for tragedy, always doomed, from the moment her mother crumbled to ashes around her, moreso when the Web tied her to Gertrude. She was waiting for Martin to be another disappointment in her life - her death. He avoided eye contact with her; her dark eyes were wide and pleading and in moments she reminded him of Jon. He'd do anything for Jon but she wasn't him, it wasn't the same situation.
He poured out three cups and carefully carried them to the counter. Martin placed one in front of where Annabelle sat on her stool again and the other next to the wispy form of Agnes. He blanched. There was no way the ghost lady was gonna be able to drink tea.
"Oh, er, sorry. Must be hard to, erm, hold cups. Being a, erm, ghost."
She held her hand over the cup, the heat of her mingling with the steam rising from the cup in visible waves. "I can't do much of anything in this state, you're right. That's part of our plan. Making me into… something more useful."
Martin took a sip, sighing with the familiar taste. Of course they'd thought of Agnes' predicament. Of course. "That sounds great! Simple. How exactly are we going to accomplish it?"
Annabelle smiled and spread her fingers across the countertop. "Are you going to help us? Your Jon can't know until we are close to the end. It's near impossible for him to hide things from the Eye."
Was that true? Maybe - it'd make sense. But Martin didn't want to use Jon's promise not to Know him against him. Jon hadn't shared any plans about what to do once they reached the Panopticon. Kill Jonah? Maybe. Burn down the whole place? Maybe. None of it sounded like it would solve the main problem - Jon becoming the center of this hellscape. He didn't want to hide anything from Jon, though the reverse wasn't true, and maybe it would be worth it. If he could solve this in a way that kept Jon from succumbing to the Eye, from the burden of all this falling onto him yet again then Martin would do it. Jon had saved him again and again - Martin could show that he felt just as strongly, that he could be there for Jon too.
"So you won't tell me any details until I agree to a plan I know nothing about, except that it might help Jon." Martin took another drink, trying to hide the shake of his hand. ".... yes. Erm, yeah. Yes. I'll do your plan. But, uh, it's - it's forfeit if you betray us."
"Agreed."
"Very well," Annabelle said, humming appreciatively when she tried her tea. "The plan is still to get to the Panopticon. It's the seat of power here and nothing done outside of it will have any lasting effect. Jon must take control of the Eye and connect to all the domains. All the ties exist, and I will be there to strengthen them. The Web believes if we send Jon through the crack, it can pull the entirety of the Fears through to other worlds. Since precision is crucial, the Web will allow me to control that ability. With your help, Jon won't throw me out. Once we are connected, Agnes will… destroy it all. 'Burn the Archives,' as you might say."
Martin scrubbed a hand through his hair. He let out an amused huff. "Sounds straightforward. It can't be as easy as all that."
"No, it won't be easy," Annabelle said. "We'll be hiding the plan from those we serve. Those who give us power and sustain us. It will be dangerous the whole time. And it depends on whether you can convince Jon. Whether he will trust you."
Martin scoffed. "Right. That should be easy, since I'm keeping this huge secret from him."
"Exactly."
With a sigh, Martin motioned to Agnes. "So, we just carry around your rope until needed? Throw it down on the floor of the Panopticon so you can do your… whoosh, flames everywhere?"
Agnes flickered closer, moving with a jerky stop-motion that sent shivers down Martin's spine. "That is, perhaps, the most difficult part of this. We are… chosen. Crafted by our gods to perform best for them. We were meant to serve, and they ensured that we would. It has made us very powerful, even when we are separated from them directly, a side effect I don't think they anticipated."
"I, uh, I don't think I'm chosen," Martin said, echoes of Peter's words lingering in the air. "I had… powers, I guess, through the Lonely, but not really anymore? I never fully bought into it. And I definitely wasn't, erm, 'crafted.'"
"You're right - you have inklings of power, but you're not - not the same as we are."
"Yeah, you and Annabelle are, em, special."
"And Jon."
Martin stilled. "You, and you, and Jon. Of course. I -" The unease started to coalesce in his throat and Martin didn't know exactly what was coming, but it wasn't going to be something he liked. He hated the plan already, hated the idea of keeping something from Jon, hated relying on these two people who'd only ever hurt others.
"I can wield the Destruction. It would be… rapturous with the chance to destroy the Web and all its competitors. It is the ruin that drives it. Even in self-immolation." Agnes rested one fiery palm against her cheek. "Like this, however, I can't even pick up a cup."
"So - so what - so what is the plan, there? To, er, to get you - get you a body you can - you know, do something with?" Even as he said it, Martin's mind started clicking things into place, started whirring with the conclusion that he was refusing to see.
"You, Martin. You could -"
Martin let out a high-pitched giggle. "Ha! No - nope! No, I don't think so - sorry, but I can't agree to - to that. I won't tell anyone your plan but I can't - no."
Agnes moved aside when he walked past her and her wide sad eyes. Annabelle rose to shaky feet and didn't chase after him, merely leaned against the counter. He almost made it to the door, intending to walk right out, to go back to where Jon was and hide there with him until they had to leave.
"You're the only one who can do this, Martin," Annabelle said. "You're the only person protected by the Eye but not controlled by it. You can get into the Panopticon unmolested."
He spun on his heel, grinning at them with something that felt less like mirth and more like hysteria. "Ah, yeah, no. This has been - enlightening! But I can't stay anymore. I can't - right."
"What do you think is going to happen?" Annabelle called. He had one hand on the door, pressed lightly against the white paint, fingernails dirty and bitten low. "When you get to the Panopticon. What do you think is going to happen?"
"I -"
"Will you kill Jonah Magnus? If you do, Jon will, assuredly, take his place. What do you think you solve by giving the Watcher exactly what it wants? What would you do to save Jon? What wouldn't you do?"
Martin bowed his head. What would they do when they reached the Panopticon? They hadn't talked much about it, focusing on the getting there, on the finding familiar faces who might still be alive. The only intent he'd managed to suss out was that Jon wanted to oust Jonah. But Annabelle wasn't wrong - Jon would take Jonah's place. Jon would be the new center of the Eye's power. However this place worked, it couldn't want to let go of that. And Jon - he wouldn't let people suffer, even if it meant hurting himself. Or worse. Martin curled his hand up into a fist, nails scraping the wood, and gave the closed door a quiet thump.
Maybe there was something Martin wouldn't do for Jon, some situation where he weighed the consequences more dire than letting Jon go, and at that time, he'd sacrifice. This wasn't it. He could do this and if it released the whole world and saved Jon in the process? How could he even consider anything else?
What was he worth in the face of all that?
He leaned against his fist, eyes closed. "Alright. What would it - what would it entail? This - thing you want to do."
"A ritual, to bind us together," Agnes said, and he could almost hear the cool slide of sympathy in her voice. "Not dissimilar to what the Web did with Gertrude and I years ago. Then, when the situation called for it, I could use my powers, through you, to burn it all away."
"Right," he whispered. He cleared his throat and turned around. "Right. Well, then, I'm ready to do it, but you've got to let me say goodbye to Jon. When the time comes. It wasn't part of the agreement but I didn't know all the particulars so now I'm putting my foot down. When the time comes, you've got to let me say goodbye."
"You won't -" Annabelle almost let a touch of surprise color her controlled voice. "You won't die from this, Martin. It should be a… cohabitation."
"Oh. Oh, I -" Martin nodded. He'd thought - well, he'd thought that even if his body was strong enough to withstand being a vessel for Agnes, his mind sure wouldn't. But if they thought he could survive it then - that was good news. It seemed a shame to die anyway, after Jon had gone through so much trouble to save him.
"Come to the garden. I have everything there." Annabelle looped Agnes' rope over her shoulder and left. Martin followed.
The gardens held a wild beauty in them, the care and planning that'd gone into them when Upton House still functioned as a showpiece for the National Trust and not the hideaway of apocalypse refugees, obvious in the delineated rows of flowers, the crumbling bits of stone around them. With the collapse of all that, the gardens had bloomed into riotous color, spots of blue cockle overgrowing the wilting hyacinths, daisies and marigolds sounding a fanfare in the grass between that'd given way to their insistent blooms. Tendrils of some creeping plant fell over the dilapidated exit toward the garden, dropping little pink petals into Annabelle's hair and twisting into puffs of ashes and smoke when they got too near Agnes.
The sun warmed too strongly for an English morning, but Martin didn't begrudge the shine if it meant he no longer saw the gray storms of the Eye watching over them. He wiped at the sweat collecting on his brow, chuckling at the mundanity of it. He hadn't needed to eat or sleep or rest for so long - it was almost comforting to feel it again.
There was a cleared-out space amongst all the foliage, and Annabelle stood in the center. She poured water into a large stone basin she had sat over some wood. He couldn't quite make sense of it until he got closer. It looked like a pot, wide and shallow, innocuously placed atop unburned wood, surrounded by furrowed earth that had been hastily cleared for the imminent fire. Annabelle unwound the rope from where it'd been coiled up on her shoulder and dropped it inside.
Agnes' ghost appeared near the basin, the waves of heat coming off her more noticeable here, surrounded by greenery and life, wilting whenever she got too near. She knelt next to the little pyre and placed her hand amongst the logs. They started to smoke, and then caught, the faint flicker of flames ringing the bottom of the basin. Within a few minutes, the water began to boil.
Martin stayed at the edge of the clearing. Annabelle motioned for him to come forward, and he did so, dragging his feet and trying to keep away from the basin and the flaming ghost as long as he could. Annabelle encouraged him to get closer. He frowned.
"I'm good here, thanks."
"You have to breathe in the vapor," she said. The basin was steaming, spirals of it drifting out thicker than they should, tinted gray with the light, almost billowing like… like… fog.
The familiarity of it speared Martin's heart and he almost tumbled back. He tried to shake the image of Peter and the Lonely from his mind, how willingly he’d fallen into it, what he'd given up and the emptiness that had made such a home inside him. He couldn't go back to the cavernous void that resided in his chest for so long. To save people, yes - but he hadn't even managed that. He shook his head, wanting to back away, glancing up at Agnes.
She gave him a small nod of encouragement. She was dead and trying to help; the least he could do was follow her example. He leaned into the steam, which felt hot closest to the basin, but cooled, quickly became a mist, a dense, cold thing that wrapped around his head. He breathed it in.
"Here," Annabelle said, her voice so distant he almost couldn't hear it. She held something up to his mouth and Martin shuddered to drink whatever it was. He didn't trust Annabelle, but if she wanted him to do this, then it must be part of the whole thing and he was committed to helping, no matter what. He took a sip.
He burned. The fire swelled inside him, ignited his lungs and his throat and his belly and his heart until he gasped from it, inhaling the thick fog around him. The flame consumed him. He tried to cry out but his voice had incinerated and he reached out to grab something to steady him, breathing in and in and in and getting no relief, even as the fog condensed on his hair, touched his cheeks.
Someone caught his hands and the pain seared, a flash of bright intensity so hot, so overwhelming it stopped feeling like heat and melted his senses together - it was acrid like burnt hair and sour like fearful sweat and so coarse it scraped his flesh raw. He cried but the tears went nowhere, evaporating before his cheeks had even begun to feel them.
"It's alright," a voice said in his mind. It wasn't a balm, too fiery and intense for that, but his muscles relaxed anyway. The sweetness of it began to soothe out the other sensations, muddle them into something manageable. "I've got you. We can endure this - it's only a little, after all."
Martin collapsed to his knees, not far away enough from the fire to miss it, his trousers brushing against the flames, his hands splashing into the boiling water and -
It didn't hurt. It felt - gentle. Like bathwater, like a relieved breath, like a kiss to the forehead before you slipped off to sleep. He blinked several times to clear his eyes.
Annabelle's face betrayed nothing, blank and pleasant, only the slightest furrow between her brows remarking on what she'd seen. She held a wide-mouthed copper cup in her hands. Martin looked from her to the basin, and back again.
"Wait -" he said, his voice raspy until he coughed. "Wait, did you make me drink what was in the basin?"
"It worked," Annabelle said, unrepentant.
"That had - that had manky rope stuff in it! With - eugh!" He spat a few times, but there was no taste in his mouth except the faint lingering bitterness of charcoal. He licked his dry lips. "So did… did it work?"
When she tilted her head, he huffed to himself and tried to focus inward, to feel whatever it was he was supposed to feel. There wasn't much difference except that his stomach felt… warmer, like embers on a cooling fire. Still, that didn’t necessarily mean he'd successfully merged with the avatar of Desolation, right? He glanced up to see if Agnes was there, but her ghost was gone. Then, he realized that he was kneeling in the fire, the flames licking up his trousers.
"Oh fuck!" he shouted, scuttling backward. The flame clung to him the way honey dripped viscous from a spoon, a strand of dancing red and orange connecting him until it snapped and he was sprawled in the overgrown grass, panting.
Unburnt.
He checked over his skin frantically, looking for any sign of the fire that had wrapped around him. Nothing. The fabric of his trousers wasn't even singed. He sucked in a sharp breath.
"I told you - I have you." It was Agnes, her soft voice thrumming through him and coming from a place just next to him, as if she was leaning over to whisper in his ear. She wasn't there - not in person. Whatever they'd tried to do, they'd accomplished it. He and Agnes were merged, for all that meant.
"Okay, then!" Martin clenched his hands into fists a few times, struggling to get to his feet. Annabelle hadn't moved to help him, not even when he wobbled and nearly tumbled back down. He managed. "Okay, let's - can I - do I get the heat powers now? You know, the melty and the lightless flame and all that?"
Even before he heard her voice, Martin felt a wave of disappointment and chagrin spill over his chest, tighten his lungs. Agnes spoke. "No. We couldn't do all of it at once."
"You mean -" he stopped, and spun to look at Annabelle, eyebrows raised. "You mean we have to do this again?"
Even as she raised her hands in mock surrender, the smug curl of a smile slid up her face. "I can't hear whatever she's saying to you. But if you don’t want unwelcome questions, you'd better figure out how to converse without speaking aloud."
Or the game would be up. Martin talked to himself (didn't all people? It wasn't something only he did!) but not like this. Not the way he would with Agnes. He'd have to practice while Jon was asleep, however long that was. He marched over to Annabelle, pointing at her. "Hey, don't do that - don't deflect. What does she mean it couldn't all be done at once?"
Annabelle tilted her chin to the side, averting her gaze to look at the dying fire in front of her. "As you have to keep this from the Eye, I have to keep exactly what I’m doing from the Web. The Mother generally leaves us to our plotting, confident that it will feed her eventually, but the magnitude of what we're trying here could… pique her interest."
"Okay…?"
"I couldn't get all the information I needed. Establishing a link between the two of you is as far as I've been able to figure out. I know there’s more, somewhere in the Mother's access to the Eye's stores, but I have to find it. I'll have it by the time you reach the Panopticon." She didn't look at him, and he knew she wasn't as sure as she sounded.
"Right, of course you will. Guaranteed, that." He sighed. "What does this mean for us now, then?"
"You're unaffected by heat," Agnes said, a little sparkle of mirth in her voice. "Obviously."
"Yeah , obviously."
"And I assume you'll be able to figure out certain things. I can feel the constraints on my abilities like this. I have… I suppose you could call it an instinct for shatter points. I can always discern where I need to press to start a catastrophe. It's almost always something small, easy. But, like this, I can't see where they lead, how to ignite them." She hummed a bit and Martin almost felt her hand along his forearm, lifting like a ballet instructor tutoring a student - his hand floated up with hers. "That's the extent of it. I cannot affect you more than that."
The sensation sent shivers down his spine, the lack of resistance his own body had to her manipulations, and the way it didn't make him afraid. Her power stalked behind his ribs like a caged thing, pacing, waiting to be freed. The emotion lurking inside him didn't have that tang of fear - it was… anticipation.
He breathed out. "I gotta - I have to get back to Jon. I'll… we'll work on the communication thing. And you work on the rest of this ritual."
Time worked at Upton, despite the whole world being under the control of the Eye, gray and unchanging. As Martin went back into the house, the sunlight shifted to fire, deep oranges and reds flaring over the bland portraiture on the walls. He struggled to remember which of the many doors led to Jon.
"Your abilities don't come with an abnormally good sense of direction, do they?" Martin asked, trying to pitch his voice inside, however that was going to work.
Agnes' quiet chuckle curled up his nape. "'fraid not. Maybe you could ask him."
"Him? Who -" Martin whipped around and saw Salesa walking toward them. "No, not him. He’s awful!"
"You're right; ask one of the other people living here."
"Wait, are there really - no, you're being sarcastic. Only I get to be sarcastic in my own head."
"You know how to deal with men like him," she said, confidence thrumming in her words. And she was, well, right. He knew how to handle older men who thought their money and influence made them stronger than others, made them worthier and greater and better. It was impossible to convince them that wasn't true, so you had to lean into it.
Salesa swaggered - Martin hadn't known any person in real life to swagger, but the slanting gait to Salesa's walk couldn't be anything else. Martin crossed his arms. A slow unctuous smile spread across Salesa's face.
"Mr. Blackwood, hello. Did you have a good chat with Madame Arachne?"
Oh, you're so clever, Martin thought. Agnes laughed, but Salesa didn't react. Progress! "Yeah, I did. Thanks for asking. Actually, thanks for letting us stay here. Maybe Annabelle suggested it, but it's your artifact keeping us safe."
"It's my pleasure. We may not have been allies in the world before, but here, we are not at odds."
"Yeah, the, er, the enemy of my friend is…"
"'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,'" Salesa said magnanimously.
"Right, of course." Martin let out an embarrassed little giggle and Salesa dipped his head as if he often handed out corrections of well-known idioms to hapless fools. "Anyway, I might've been a bit rude earlier and I'm sorry about it."
"Ah, it's no trouble. I would like to speak to your man, whenever he wakes up." Salesa smiled, handsome and charming and Martin looked away like a coquette.
"Yeah, I, uh, I'll let him know. Actually, um, if you wouldn't mind? I have no clue which door we came through. Could you, ha, could you show me?" Agnes' laugh echoed in his head, but Martin kept his sheepish grin from turning harsh.
"Just over there, Mr. Blackwood." He pointed to one of the innumerable identical doors.
"Right, yes. Thanks. Thanks!" Martin slipped away, making sure to brush against Salesa's sleeve as he passed by.
The sunlight peeking into the room had changed direction, and shadow enveloped the bed, despite the day not yet done. Martin slowly exhaled, seeing Jon curled up as tight as he could around one of the pillows, face hidden with one hand around his head.
Whatever Martin had been feeling - the trepidation and uncertainty and fear - recoiled from the sight of Jon. The exquisite curl of his fingers, stained with ink even after all this time. The way his feet, so much paler than the rest of him, poked out of the bottom of the light blue sheets. Martin almost couldn't disturb the scene, wanted to take a picture of it and tuck it away forever in his mind to pick back up when they fought, when Jon started to lose himself, when all of Martin's doubt and self-deprecation drained away to remind himself that Jon had trusted him. Jon let go around him, even if it'd been artificially introduced this time.
"Oh, that's love love," Agnes said, melancholy coating her words like a patina of rust. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, it's - it's love love." Martin hiccuped with a laugh, pressing his hand over his mouth. "Both sides. I think."
"How d'ya find out for sure?" Agnes said, and her desire to move closer compelled Martin, made him take those few steps to be right beside the bed. He'd felt the gentleness of the urge, something he could've resisted. But he hadn't - he'd wanted to get closer too.
"I don't think you can. That's part of it, isn't it? You're always wondering." Martin sighed and leaned forward to brush back a few strands of hair that'd fallen over Jon's eyes. "That's trust. Belief. You need one of them to have a relationship."
"And if it's not enough?"
"It's never enough." Martin felt the urge to smile, the way he always did when things grew too serious, too close to truths he didn't want to inspect, and he refrained, tried to keep his mind slipping away from a topic Agnes obviously wanted to know more about.
He knew Jon loved him. He was entirely certain. For the most part. Jon said it, hadn't he? And they traveled together for - ages. They were always around each other and still, somehow, they still wanted to be around each other. That was a sign, right? You'd put up with whatever weirdness someone else had, because the other parts were enough? Because that weirdness became the part of them you loved? Because you did love them? Right?
"You're always guessing," Martin said softly.
"It's always been the most helpful in my efforts," Agnes said. She slid her ghostly hand down Martin's arm so she could feel where he rubbed Jon's hair between his fingers. "Love, true or not, twists like you wouldn't believe. If I find out what someone loves, I can do anything."
Martin scoffed. "You mean you can destroy anything."
"There's very little distinction."
"Martin?" Jon mumbled.
Martin jerked back, surprised, and pulled his hand away, losing his balance so he almost tripped over his feet and fell. Jon lifted his head from the pillow, scrunching up his eyes as he blinked and looked around the room.
"Who were you -" he yawned, interrupting himself. "Who were you talking with?"
The presence of Agnes retreated from his limbs, setting up like an ember near his heart and leaving his extremities cold. Martin shuddered with the loss. "Ah! Er, yes, erm. Just myself! Sorry. I - ah, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"No, no it's alright. I shouldn't have fallen asleep." Jon's eyes widened, and he stopped. "I… wait. I shouldn't be sleeping - what's wrong?"
"The Eye isn't, erm, working? here."
"Right. Of course. I've lost my connection and it was… right." The peaceful moue that'd settled over Jon's face faded away, replaced with furrowed brows and a deepening frown. Martin sat on the bed. Jon shifted out from under the covers, emerging from his chrysalis with a struggle. Their hands lay side by side.
Agnes sent an urge down Martin's forearm, twitching the pinky of his hand. Martin gave in, took Jon's hand in his.
"How are you feeling?"
"Hmm?" Jon looked up from where he'd been gazing at their folded hands, the line between his brows gone. "Ah. Well enough, I suppose. Still tired. And… and a bit hungry? I haven't felt hungry like this in… in a long time."
Martin snorted. "Well, there is plenty to eat here. Salesa has it all set up -"
"Salesa?"
"Right. Right. You've been - yes. So, erm, Salesa's responsible for all this. He's using an artifact to hide it from the Eye. Which, when you think about it, we've seen something like it before, you remember?"
"I really don't."
"With the, uh, the syringe? Yeah? Remember, that one statement, the, uh, the mosquitos - it was awful, but, the, er -"
"How does that -?"
"It's something similar. Something that keeps out the Eye. It's probably why you're so… affected." The fear of seeing Jon weakened rose up in Martin's throat, and he tightened his grip. Jon turned his hand around so their fingers entwined.
"And why you're awake before me. You aren't under the Eye's influence as much. Interesting." Jon made a soft noise in his throat, and he bit the corner of his lip. It'd been a long time since Martin had seen that expression, the infinite knowledge at Jon’s disposal rendering it moot lately. Something tightened in Martin's chest.
"Let's get you something to eat and then you can bother Salesa all about it. Annabelle too."
Jon frowned, nose scrunching as if he'd smelled something foul. "Annabelle."
Martin laughed. "I know, right?"
MARTIN: You're sure we can't stay longer? (181 - Ignorance)
Jon pulled Martin to a stop, fingers tangled in the loose elbow of Martin's sweater. All his sweaters were stretched from this tactic, Jon choosing the physical sensation rather than words. Martin obliged.
"What is it?"
Jon's eyes - which had been steadily becoming more green since he'd woken from the coma, the brown bleeding out until they were only this, sharp and eerie and vibrant - scanned over him, the corner of his mouth tugged down. "Are you alright?"
Martin's spine went stiff, even as he fought not to have a reaction. He smiled nervously, then tried to quell it, and the expression on his face must've been spectacular. Jon raised an eyebrow.
"I'm fine!" Martin squeaked. Jon's brow went higher. With a sigh, Martin tried again. "I'm not fine, of course I'm not fine. But I'm - okay. I'm making it. Is there - is there something wrong? Are you alright?"
"No," Jon said quietly, and wrapped his hand around Martin's forearm. "But I'm making it."