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He’s only a couple of steps through the door of the Institute when he feels it. Like a string pulled taut, there’s a pulsing insistence connecting his heart to what he can only assume is Elias’ own. Jon notices it this time; he’s grown stronger, ripped off the last shreds of humanity that he’d clung to when he’d made his way through the Panopticon for the first time. The Watcher’s Call beckons him to Elias, to the final meeting he’s arduously crossed this apocalyptic fearscape for.
Jon grasps for Martin’s hand in the dim lighting of the abandoned foyer, looks into his eyes and finds a sharp steel there, a presence that he could draw strength from if he needed to. But Jon’s fear hides under countless layers of guilt and warped satisfaction, and he can’t tell if the firm squeeze of his hand and the small nod he gives Martin before they step further inside is just another way he’s continuing to play-act at being human.
“Do you know—what we’re going to find in there?” Martin’s voice is steady, for the most part. As deep into the domain of the Beholding as they are, it seems unlikely that even Elias will be able to harm them. Then again, it’s entirely possible that he’s coaxed them here so that he could have the pleasure of capturing or killing them by his own hand. Jon stretches his consciousness as far as it can go through the building, but his extraneous eyes remain shut to everything except the thread.
“Elias,” Jon mutters, “Of course. He’s expecting us.”
“Well, let’s go say hello, then?” Martin smiles tentatively.
They follow the thread deep into the heart of the panopticon. No use resisting, and no reason not to, anyways. The Institute has twisted itself into— something , a landscape beyond physical navigation, a rat maze with the eyes of a thousand faceless scientists trained on it to see if the specimens make it out alive. Although the modus operandi of the Beholding doesn’t usually veer into the territory of the in comprehensible, it’s like he told Martin before: an eye can’t see inside itself.
Jon thinks about the story of Theseus, sent into Daedalus' labyrinth to slay the Minotaur with nothing to ensure his safe return except Ariadne’s ball of thread. He thinks, wildly, that his own powers of Beholding are something like Elias’ own twisted gifts of love to his chosen hero.
There’s a final surprise waiting for Jon and Martin at the end of their journey, something Jon finds frustrating for the sheer fact that he didn’t see it coming. When he steps through the threshold of the Panopticon, the door immediately slams closed behind him. Jon whirls around in shock, but it’s too late.
“Martin!” A few fruitless twists of the door handle prove ineffective, and Jon curses briefly, uselessly. He calls out one last time, slightly panicked, and hears no response. Was it really his haste, his eagerness for confrontation that made him bound forward the last few steps and leave Martin just a pace or two behind, when he’d been holding his hand the whole way up to that point? No, this has Elias’ meddling written all over it, the final, sharp yank on his threaded heart. And yet, Jon can sense that Martin isn’t in any danger. He’s removed from his line of sight, but in a comfortable way, like the way that he knew that the shapes looming in the dark beside his bed at night were just his lamp, his chair, his bedside table. Martin was safe. No need to kick up a fuss about it, not when there was something more important to do, now.
Slowly, Jon turns back around to fully face the figure in the center of the room. He locks eyes with Jonah Magnus, sitting on a throne that he’s hewn for himself and dressed in black and gold, the very picture of a king of a ruined world.
“Hello, Archivist.” The look in his eyes is so achingly familiar: smug, cagey, reserved, with a shiver of pride snuck in its very center. It’s almost like greeting an old friend.
“Hello, Jonah.”
--
Martin doesn’t realize that he and Jon have been separated, at first. When Jon disappears behind the door without him in tow, he just stands there for a moment, staring at the decayed oak paneling of the door until it — changes. He’s no longer in the tunnels under Millbank Prison, but instead what looks like an old-fashioned parlor room, Victorian, thoroughly ostentatious, and decked out with plush sofas and thick red rugs and curtains. There’s a portrait of Jonah Magnus hanging across from one of the sofas, hung on the hideous gold-patterned wall in a showy golden frame. Martin begrudgingly takes a seat, deciding it was better to stare the gauche portrait in the eyes than to have his back turned to it.
It’s not long before the purpose of their separation is made clear to him. When Jonah Magnus appears in front of him, he is alone, with no indication as to where Jon has gone. He looks distraught, almost, before he schools his features into the perfect mask of smug victory that Martin had been expecting. Jonah had apparently decided to keep his usual style of business suits, but instead of the bland gray of an office bureaucrat, this one was black, trimmed with gold patterns and accented with little eye symbols on the buttons and cuffs, surprisingly subtle markers of his newfound status and power. What is distinctive about his appearance is his eyes. Three now, an extra one positioned on the center of his forehead in a bright shining green, distinct from the piercing glass-gray of his old eyes, eyes that had survived for almost two centuries just so, it seemed, they could fix Martin with a gloating gaze now.
“Hello, Elias.” Martin scoffs, refusing to be impressed or awed. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Martin,” Elias sounds delighted to see him again. Martin thinks back to the last time that they’d met in person, and finds himself remembering Elias’ gleeful smile when Martin had bested Peter Lukas and won his bet for him. The triumph of his small victory against Peter is soured now by the knowledge that it had been the tipping point to Elias’ own success in starting the apocalypse. Maybe if he’d played into Peter’s hands instead of Elias’, and carved up Jonah Magnus’ corpse when he’d had the chance, he wouldn’t be standing here now.
“Why am I here?” Martin doesn’t get up from where he’s sitting, and he watches as Jonah paces around the room before finally sitting down on the other couch, facing Martin.
“I just wanted to take the time to talk to the both of you alone. It could really get in the way of a decent conversation if the both of you tried something like—hm, overpowering me before we could even get the chance to talk.”
“So another power play, huh. And—Jon? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. I have no intention of hurting him. As to why you care though, I have to say that even though I have all the knowledge in the world at my fingertips, it still baffles me.” Elias flicks his hand dismissively.
“Well, because I love him, obviously. As if you don’t know that. As if you haven’t taken every chance to belittle me for it.” Martin bristles at that, as predictable as it is. But it’s different now, things have changed since he was burning statements with a borrowed lighter. He knows now that his feelings are reciprocated, and Elias’ pointed jabs won’t be able to take that away.
“Oh Martin, you still cherish your little...relationship, don’t you? It’s what you hold on to, what you reach for when you need somewhere to hide from all the horrors. Your faith in him doesn’t falter because you’ve made it your religion . You’re no better than me, signing yourself off to a god because you want protection.” Elias—no, Jonah—gets up and circles around Martin again as he sits stock-still on the luxurious sofa.
“So, you think your love for him is pure? You’re just fooling yourself. You think it’s something revolutionary, something out of a fairy tale.” Jonah bends down and trails his fingers over Martin’s cheek from behind him, caressing him with the soft touch of rose petals. “The prince wakes up and finally realizes that he loves you, that he’s loved you all along, and your patience and loyalty is rewarded through the will of heaven. Like I said back then, do you remember? Such loyalty to someone who treats you very badly. I guess he’s improved at that, has he? Or is he still the same broken-down monster, the one that snipes at you if you get some small thing wrong, the one who still oversteps your boundaries and is unable to open up to you despite your best efforts?”
Martin convinces himself with little hesitation that it’s Elias pulling memories up to the surface, not his own mind digging up buried grievances towards the man he loves. He holds onto Jon’s apologies, his small affirmations, every time that I love you spilled out of a mouth unused to saying something so tender.
“Don’t you think you’re being overdramatic? Jon is—I love Jon. It’s as simple as that, if you’d believe it,” Martin manages to snap, backing away from Jonah’s touch. “It’s different. You’ve made him into this—this monster , and he’s just trying to do good, and he feels so fucking guilty about it, and it’s not his fault!”
“Is it really?” The two walls to the side of the room suddenly seem to stretch and warp, the repetitive pattern of the wallpaper distorting into the distance. The room feels at once too cluttered and endlessly expansive, and the portrait of Jonah’s face appears on the wall no matter how far he looks in any direction. Jonah’s gaze, the gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher, is affixed on him now in a way that feels almost gratifying. A “take that” to all the times that Elias underestimated him, or berated him, or treated him as if he wasn’t a threat. But now—
“Yes. I gave him the push. But you and I both know that he could’ve stopped reading.” Martin’s blood runs cold. “He’s powerful. By that point, not more powerful than me, but certainly more powerful than words on a piece of paper. I couldn’t force him to read that statement from halfway across the country. But I knew that he would.”
“Jon wouldn’t have done this on purpose. I know—I know what he’s like! He wouldn’t have wanted to end the world, that’s just—he was so happy. I...I don’t even know why I’m bothering to argue with you. You’re just trying to manipulate me again. Well, I won’t let you this time.” Martin clamps his hands over his ears, aware of the childish picture he’s making but determined to hold his ground. He furiously looks around the room, looking for something—an exit, a clue, just anything—but he’s trapped in this background of Victorian furniture; countless dark-wood dressers and tables with knick-knacks collecting dust on top of them, heavy curtains, picture frames, no escape from eye contact.
“Maybe not,” Elias’ voice resonates soundlessly though his head, and Martin huffs and lowers his hands, knowing that it was a futile effort anyways. Elias smiles, and when he starts speaking again, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Maybe he didn’t want the world to end. He did seem so awfully torn up about it, that’s true. But in the moment, the choice that he made was to keep reading and see what happened. When Jon was offered the option to die without knowing or to live and see what he’d done...well, not quite the martyr you’ve been looking for, is it?”
“I don’t care about that,” Martin says, but he knows that he’s said it too quickly, he hasn’t had time to think about it at all. Does he care? Does it matter to him, how tied up to the Beholding’s whims Jon is? Martin thinks about what it took to get to the Panopticon, the monsters Jon had to kill, the new light in his eyes brought on by teaching creatures of fear how to feel afraid. Jon may have rid the world of several nightmares, but he’s been a part of a few himself. And Martin himself had liked it, had relished in it, had pleaded for it. “He doesn’t need to be punished for something that’s not...something that he never would’ve done without your influence.” Martin grasps for the blame, resolutely pins it and keeps pinning it onto Jonah.
“You’re a patient man, Martin. I have to commend you on that, I really do. And I am too. Pushing and pulling things slowly and carefully, until what we want falls into our lap...I can’t chastise you for doing the very same thing that I’ve done for the last century or so.”
“What’s your point,” Martin says coldly. Maybe the best strategy would be to stop talking, stop giving threads for Jonah to unravel. “You didn’t bring me here alone just to congratulate me, did you?”
“Maybe I did!” Jonah’s smile reaches his eyes. “I’ll have to make my leave now, attend to Jon, you know. But truly, congratulations, Martin. You’ve made yourself indispensable to my Archivist. Just like you’ve always wanted. If you really are fine with all the caveats that it entails...then who am I to stand in the way of true love?” With a final smug look, Jonah turns around and fades out of Martin’s view, folding out of whatever plane of existence this is. His voice leaves an echo as he goes, the word love stretching out between them until there’s nothing for it to be between , and Martin is left by himself in this uselessly lavish room, alone except for the ever-watching grey eyes of the portraits on the wall.
--
“I’ve missed you, my Archivist.” What hurts Jon the most is how sincere Elias is, how soft and tender the words sound as they leave his mouth.
“ Jonah ,” This is a hiss between his lips, an insult curled around his tongue. It cedes nothing and everything to deliberately ignore the name that he’s called this man by for years and put all his fierce poison into saying the other name.
“It’s—I can’t tell you how it feels to hear that name again, coming from you, no less.” Elias has the audacity to be pleased at this, and Jon immediately goes back on the defensive.
“Enough of this. Where’s Martin? Why have you separated us?” The compulsion that winds its way around his words is unintentional at first, but he leans into it, spitting out more questions in the hope that their combined power might be strong enough to actually coax an answer out of Elias. “What do you want? And — and how can we stop this? ”
“Oh Jon,” Elias’ eyes, all three of them, flutter once, and then he composes himself. “Martin is...somewhere safe, I assure you. I wouldn’t hurt him, there’s really no need to. As to why I separated you two — well, I just wanted a moment with you alone, my Archivist.” He holds back from answering the last two questions, an exercise of control that makes it clear that he’s still just outside of the reach of Jon’s powers. But at the very least, he seems to be telling the truth. Elias was—fond? Fond of Martin, as weird as it feels to realize that.
“Stop calling me that,” He doesn’t know why it affronts him so much until he realizes that it’s because of its unfamiliarity. Elias had rarely referred to him by his title, even at the very beginning. He wants to hear his name in Elias’ voice, just as he’d wanted to hear his given name from Jon’s.
“Would you rather I call you my Archive? It is your rightful position, after all.” He’s teasing now, dangling the dehumanizing title in front of Jon.
Jon grimaces. “Not—not that, either.”
“Jon it is, then.” Jonah says, softly, and Jon tries not to feel a spark of satisfaction at this return to form. When Jonah realizes that Jon is refusing to come closer, he sighs and slips off of the throne to approach him, allowing Jon this petty victory.
Jonah stands so close to Jon that they’re almost touching, a breath away from the brush of their noses against each other. “Jon, you’ve emerged from your chrysalis, and you’ve become so beautiful . The power of the Ceaseless Watcher — you’ve grown to wield it so comfortably. And you enjoy it too, don’t you?”
Jon can’t even bring himself to lie about that. It was the thing that’d eaten away at him every day since he’d read Jonah’s statement. How he’d savored it, the fear that coursed through the Earth and left the air feeling heavy with its honey-sweet taste, the intoxicating power at his fingertips that he’d used again and again to avenge himself or his friends. How good it’d felt to be at the top of the food chain. And, after it all, whenever he caught himself with a grin spreading over his face or felt the heady rush of fear blossoming warm inside him where his heart had been, the guilt and contrition would crush him. He couldn’t move or think or breathe without feeling like every step forward was one that was wholly unearned.
“What you must understand now, Jon, is that this is our victory. I couldn’t have done it without you—“
“
Yes
, because you manipulated me and
used
me at every turn. You’ve made me into—this, and now I have—I have to destroy you, put the world back in order.” Jon feels off-balance, scrabbling for the morality that was all that he had left.
Elias tilts his head mockingly, uses the inch or two he had on Jon’s height to his full advantage. “Oh, look at you. You still think that what we’ve done here is reversible? That you can just, what,
kill
me? And then everything will somehow go back to normal? You’re grasping onto straws, Jon. This is just an attempt to absolve that crushing guilt that you feel.” The softness that had been present in his voice until now is scraped away, no doubt in order to make sure that he feels the full extent of his words. Jon almost sobs with the truth of it.
“It’s not all that bad,” Elias murmurs. He reaches up and strokes Jon’s hair, watches with satisfaction as he twitches and leans into the touch against his better judgement. “Is it really so terrible to give in to how good it feels?”
“Elias—” Jon pleads, and doesn’t know what he’s pleading for.
“Please, Jon. Call me Jonah.”
“Jonah! I…” Jon grasps around in the haze of his mind for the familiar tendril of anger, holds onto it as tightly as he can in face of Elias’ manipulations. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Another manipulation. Another way that Elias is trying to convince him that these are his choices, and not the path that he’s been prodded down with both the stick and the carrot. “I can’t , you’re wrong, I have to...I have to...”
“You don’t even know what you should do, do you? You thought maybe that you’d get some information out of me, that something crucial would just fall into place and that you’d be able to save the world once and for all. Lazy, if you don’t mind me saying. Look into my mind now, Jon, I’m sure you won’t find it too difficult. No more lies. There is no way to stop what you’ve started, and all I want now is to rule, and watch , over it all. And with you by my side...I’ll treat you well. You deserve that much.”
“No,” The word falls out of his mouth before he even registers it, too used to putting up a contrary front to Elias’ whims. “Rule over it all…? That’s not what I wanted at all, I just wanted—”
“What, a normal life?” Elias’ voice turns cold again. Jon knows what this is, knows that Elias is doing this so that Jon falls right back into his grasp, leaving him vulnerable so that he crawls to him, demanding answers, demanding comfort.
“Yes! Is that so hard to believe, that I would want to, I don’t know, live normally? Have friends without eventually backstabbing them in supernatural ways that I didn’t think were possible or that I didn’t know I was even responsible for?” Jon thinks about cake during his birthday and rum raisin ice cream and drinks shared at the bar down the street from the Institute.
“Hmm,” Jonah sneers, “Did you really? A normal life, well, how far would you have contorted yourself to bring that fantasy anywhere close to reality? A precocious child since the beginning, always stuffy and peculiar, with an uncertainty about social norms that led you to become dismissive of them entirely in an effort to defend yourself. Before you became the perfect conduit for the Beholding, before I made you the Head Archivist, even before Mr. Spider—how confident are you that your life would’ve ended up normal ?”
“ Don’t psychoanalyze me.” The nostalgic tint of his memories fades, and Jon thinks about the broken remains of the friendships he’d managed to keep during the last couple of years of his life working at the Institute. The deaths of Tim and Sasha, the fractures he’s left between him and Georgie, Melanie, Basira. Even between Martin, and it’s amazing, it’s an act of grace, that Martin still loves him.
“It’s not a bad thing, really. Not being normal , that is. But of course, this just makes it all the more rewarding when you find people who understand ,” Elias leans in close, takes one of Jon’s hands in his, clutches it tightly and holds it up to his chest. “And Jon, even now, at the end of the world, I understand you like no one ever has. You still hide things from Martin — sometimes on his request, sometimes because you’re too ashamed to admit them. I understand your curiosity, your abrasiveness, your monstrosity. I know how hard it is for you to talk about your emotions , but there’s no need to worry when I can just—skim them off the top of your mind, honestly.”
“Don’t look into my mind, either, Christ—”
“How about you don’t try to pretend that it’s not a relief—”
“And—and it’s different with Martin. If you won’t get out of my head , why don’t you spend your time in there taking a long, hard look at what I feel about him, how much I—I love him.” It’s hard to admit it, to drag it out into the open like this, to say the words that he’d never thought he’d have the right to say.
“Of course,” Jonah drops his hand and backs away, just enough so that Jon can feel the absence of his body heat. “Of course. You love him. Yes, that’s true. He loves you so much, and you deserve it so little. You love him so much, and you barely know him at all. Now, far be it for me to comment on the complicated nature of love, but— well . I don’t mind your relationship, I think it’s quite—cute, really. But don’t let it get in your way. The people you love — they’re yours to watch over, not to have . Haven’t I told you this before?” He walks back over to sit on his throne, and now compels Jon to walk closer to him, no longer giving him the option to refuse. Jon inches forward, feels the rough stone floor scrape beneath his feet. The panopticon has been so unchanged in its interior, when both its placement and its surroundings have warped so completely. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the corpse of Jonah Magnus, slouched in the back corner the same as it had been the first time he’d glanced at it before diving headfirst into the Lonely. It looks sad, almost. Forgotten.
Jon stands in front of Jonah now, and knows that even though he’s the one looking up at him, the control of the situation remains firmly in Jonah’s hands.
“You’re so afraid of being manipulated by me, even though half of what has happened to you has come out of your own choices or your own ridiculous luck. But Martin ? He’s been there the whole time, and he’s been waiting so patiently for this, you know. There’s something sickening about that, isn’t there? Did you ever stop to wonder if the image of you that he holds in his head is really you , anymore? He’s wanted this for so long, and now—you’re clinging to each other, the only familiar thing left in this ruined world. And,” Elias holds Jon’s hands again, clasping the both of them between his, interlacing his fingers in a way that mocks prayer. “If you somehow manage to find a way to bring the world back, what then? Another return to normalcy?”
“That’s—that’s not what this is about. That’s not what any of this is about. I want to bring the world back, I don’t want to sit up here in this dismal tower and take it all in like we’re at the top of a fucking Ferris wheel.” Jon’s words fall sharp and bitter, but he doesn’t move away from Elias’ grasp. “I’ll admit that —I enjoyed it. Sure, I can’t help but enjoy the monster that I’ve become. But Martin — and Daisy, and Georgie, and everyone else still left alive, they don’t deserve to be tortured forever just because I’m some sort of sick pervert voyeur now!” He turns his head in shame, but doesn’t move from where Elias is holding him.
For a moment, it’s silent between them. When Elias speaks again, the words are kind, forgiving. “Jon, don’t feel so guilty. You can’t turn back time, you can’t undo what’s already done, but what you’ve done is—wonderful. You can be by my side, at your rightful position. We’ve come so far, my Archivist... Jon .” Elias won’t beg him. He’s kneeling before him, grasping his hands, showing subservience in a way that Jon knows he’s never done before, and still he won’t beg him for it.
“Jonah—” And Jon wavers. Of course he wavers. But in the end— “I won’t. I’m--sorry.”
“I know.” Elias says, and Jon almost believes the regret behind his eyes when he stands up and places a firm hand on Jon’s forehead.
Jon’s world goes black for a single, blissful second. And then it explodes.
It’s not a loss of consciousness, it’s an expansion of consciousness, the dilation of his all-seeing gaze, stretched further and further into depths previously unreachable. He’s felt a shade of this before, when he’d tried to use his powers to ask if it was possible for the world to be taken back. But if that time felt like looking into the sun, this time feels as if he’s been thrown onto its surface. Every nerve in his body fries with the intensity of the knowledge, the fear, that pours into him at an unrelenting speed. He can’t turn away from his own gaze, his eyes held open to see everything , all the terrified humans living out their never-ending fears at the whims of their respective dread powers, the fear that rises like heat from the Earth itself as it trembles through the throes of its extinction, the knowledge of every creature that has ever lived or will live. Past, present, future—and the Archive to look over it all.
Elias gently removes Jon’s head from where it’s fallen onto his lap and strokes through his hair one last time before leaving him there, kneeling at the base of his throne, eyes flickering with an incomprehensible light and tears of ecstasy streaming down his face.
--
Again, he’s being underestimated by Elias. It’s annoying, he has to admit. Martin has destroyed or in some way dismantled every piece of furniture and stupid trinket in the room, starting with the portrait and working outwards. It’s not some sort of rage-filled tantrum, but instead a methodical destruction that aims to test the very limits of this illusion. But still the walls seem to reach out endlessly, and no matter how many portraits he gouges with the fancy letter opener he found in one of the cabinets, there are far too many blinking into existence to take its place.
So, this method was futile, then. Martin takes a moment to survey the room from where he stands, the only remaining clean spot, surrounded by ripped-up couches, overturned dressers, torn down curtains, strewn mirrors, broken picture frames. He’s not even convinced that there is a way out.
At least, that’s what he thinks until he sees a single black spider crawl its way out from behind the portrait frame.
“I’ve already checked there,” he says, exasperated. “But if you insist…!”
Martin carefully moves a large portrait off of the wall and examines the space that was behind it, running his fingers over the wallpaper to see if there were any strange bumps in the surface, anything that might indicate an exit. Finding nothing, he sighs and flops down next to where he leaned the portrait against an overturned writing desk. He casts a forlorn gaze to the portrait and moves to turn it face forward again, maybe just so he can look at Jonah’s eminently punchable face as he curses him out. But as he does so, his hand slips through the back of the portrait and into empty space. Space that was definitely not a part of this accursed waiting room.
“Oh, behind the eyes, duh,” he mutters, and steps through the frame.
--
It’s forever until Jonah returns. It’s about fifteen minutes. Time twists like it does during a nightmare, and Jon knows and knows but can’t process any of it at all until there’s a soft touch on his forehead and all of his eyes can blink again. His limbs can’t hold him upright, there’s no use in even trying, and so he resigns himself to remaining in a crumpled heap at the base of the throne, Elias’ hand having moved now from his forehead to resting comfortingly on top of his head, which has been carefully placed back onto Elias’ lap. He’s breathing hard in jittery, painful inhales, and there’s stains on Elias’ slacks where his tears have smeared onto them. He understands, though, that this is what Elias intends for him for the rest of eternity. A pitiful capitulation that he’s sure that neither of them will be ever entirely happy with. For all of his manipulations, Elias had been unable to secure his last desire: Jon choosing his victory of his own free will.
Jon almost resigns himself to this, the half-state between giving up and resisting. Gathering strength for his next move, at which point Jonah will immediately prod him into that state of ceaseless knowledge. But then—
“Jon!” Martin’s voice cuts through the stagnation. The space in Jon’s chest throbs painfully. “...Jon! What—what did you do? You said you wouldn’t hurt him!”
“He isn’t hurt, really. He’s simply...tired. I assure you he wasn’t harmed by any of it, but there are limits , as much as it pains me to admit.” Elias’ voice floats down from above him, and Jon drinks in the conversation as if it’s water pressed to his lips.
“What do you want, Elias.” It’s the same thing that Jon asked, at the very beginning, but this time Elias answers it, Martin’s weary question with no powers of compulsion behind it at all.
“The same thing I’ve always wanted, Martin,” Elias’ steady voice has a hairline crack of weakness in it. He’s lost the upper hand, and he knows it. “All the power of the world, to escape death, and — my Archivist.”
“ Your Archivist. Really.”
“Think about what I’ve said, won’t you” Elias sighs and fixes Martin with his well-deserved eye contact. “It’s...better this way. You love Jonathan Sims. But we both know this has been doomed from the beginning. True love , well maybe. But I don’t want to keep you here as I intend to keep him. You could give in too, Martin. I believe in you. You’ve really...grown into your role.”
“So it’s back to this again, huh? Battle of wills? I’m not going to — change my mind about this. I’m...this is for me. Not for him. This isn’t waiting , you know, so you can stop trying to convince me that I don’t love him and maybe start putting a little effort in to convince me if this is the right thing to do, for — the world, I guess. You’ve misjudged me...again. Goddamn it —” Martin goes to punch Elias in the face, and his fist is firmly caught before it can connect, having been a move so easily telegraphed even without Elias’ near-omniscience. What said omniscience misses, however, is Jon’s quick intake of breath before his hand shoots up and slides across Elias’ face. The brief contact is all that is needed for the circuit to connect, and for Jon to channel whatever terrible power that he’d been subject to back through Elias’ mind.
Elias’ eyes flash in that horrible light, twin streams of sharp gray-white beams and a single brilliant green one arching through the air as he crumples backwards in his throne. Jon wrenches himself up, then promptly half-collapses back on the ground with the exertion.
“Jon—” Martin stays still for a moment, staring at Elias’ body to see if it springs back up. Then, he runs at Jon and holds him so tightly that it manages to prop him into somewhat of an upright position.
“Mmph—! M-Martin, we’re going to make it, we’re going to—I’ve figured it out. We’re going to end this.” He gasps and finds that tears are once again spilling out of his eyes.
“We are? What’s—what’s the plan, then? Are you going to kill him? Let’s do it.” The steel is still there in Martin’s voice, and Jon could laugh at how happy it makes him. He stands up with Martin’s help, leaning heavily on his shoulder, and turns so that he can look at the prone form of Jonah Magnus twitch with the full force of their god’s sight.
“No, not kill him.” It’s a tiny, tangible idea, born out of Jon’s forced awakening and taking root in the back of his mind until he could finally recognize it for what it was. There was a way, beyond what Elias had ever known, to reverse the apocalypse. And it started here, with the Ceaseless Watcher himself.
With a touch as light as a leaf falling on top of still water, Jon reaches forward and presses his fingertips to Jonah’s forehead.