Chapter Text
Martin’s pace slows to a halt, his feet anchored to the winding gravel road. At first he’s not sure why, but an unsettling feeling had been building in his lungs with every breath, so gradually he hadn’t noticed until now. The world feels Lonely. There’s not a single other soul in sight; no birds, no cows, no people. It’s just him… and the fog rolling quietly over the endless field. Martin used to enjoy walks for this very reason; he craved the silence, the tranquility, and perhaps the isolation. Yet, the more time he spent alone, the more alluring that loneliness became, until Martin realized how dangerous it truly was.
Even with Peter Lukas dead, Martin’s sure The Lonely itself is after him. It had already gotten a taste, and surely wished to reclaim its victim. It hadn’t come for him with writhing worms or jagged fangs or crooked doors, it merely followed close behind, gentle yet persistent. The fog would whisper promises of safety in an uncertain world, and every time they would sound more tempting. Even now, Martin wants to walk into the field and let the frost envelop every blade of grass, feeling them caress his skin like frozen fingers, until they drag him under and never let him go.
Martin isn’t Lonely though, not like that. Sure, he’d felt isolated through much of his life, and yes, he’d lost most of his friends, but that didn’t matter. Peter tried to prey on some perceived loneliness, but Martin was tricking him. It was all a ploy to protect the man he loves; that has to be anything but Lonely, Martin assures himself. Besides, his plan succeeded! Jon’s still alive, and he came to save him, and by god they’re in love.
Snapping back to reality, Martin narrowly stops himself from stepping into the grass, pulling his foot away and quickly retreating from the field.
“You can’t have me,” he tells the fog, “I’m not alone, I have- There’s someone who cares about me and- and you can’t have me! I’m not yours!”
‘I’m Jon’s,’ he thinks to himself, a smile spreading over his face. That’s right, as horrible as the past few years have been, Martin can now wake up beside the man he’s loved for years, and know he finally loves him back.
“I’m going to go back home, because I miss my boyfriend-” the term paints Martin’s face bright red, and he needs a moment to cool down.
“I- I miss Jon, because I’m not lonely, and so I’m going home! Nice try, evil fog, but uh- better luck next time…!”
Feeling suitably embarrassed by yelling at an empty field, Martin turns on his heels and starts walking back towards the cabin. His home, he repeats to himself. Perhaps, after all this time, he’s finally found somewhere to rest his heart.
Of course, Martin knows it’s all too good to be true. Is he even surprised when a sense of dread crawls through him, or is the feeling predictable? He wishes it was nothing more than anxiety; Martin would rather be a paranoid wreck than face real horror. Yet, the closer he gets to the cabin, the deeper the dread becomes, and before long his beating heart is joined by the low hum of static. A few steps more, and his vision starts crackling, like a grainy film reel playing before his eyes.
Martin’s feet pound across the gravel road, kicking up debris as he begins sprinting towards his home. When he crests a hill and finally sees the building, only to find it bleeding sickly green light, he can barely keep himself from vomiting out of stress. Still, he pushes the terror down and keeps going;
‘For Jon,’ he tells himself, “For Jon.”
By the time Martin reaches the cabin, his ears ringing and eyes buzzing with static, he’s on the verge of tears. He hoped for the briefest moment that after all his loss, after all his suffering, maybe he could have just a moment of peace. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? This world is fundamentally horrific, and now that Martin knows the truth he can never leave. The Eye still watches over them, unblinking, trapping him and Jon in its gaze. They would never be safe, and Martin curses himself for even bothering to get his hopes up. Yet, he can’t dwell on his frustration. Even if their torment won’t end, he and Jon have survived this long, against all odds. Even if it comes from a sinister place, even if it means he must consume fear to survive, Jon has power now. He destroyed Peter, an avatar decades older than him, from inside his own domain. Maybe Martin lacks such power, unwilling to make the choice that Jon had, but he’ll still give support however he can. They’ve made it this far, even when it felt like the world was against them. Martin has to believe they’ll survive this too.
Grabbing the doorknob, a shock rips through Martin’s body and he barely bites down a pained gasp. The metal hums under his fingers, the entire cabin pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Martin hesitates for a moment, digging his teeth into his lip so hard they draw blood. If he enters that cabin and Jon is hurt, or… or worse… he’s not sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t want to open the box if it kills that cat. For a moment, he’d rather not know. But The Eye won’t tolerate his ignorance. The humming grows harsher against Martin’s skin, static churning violently in his senses, compelling him to enter. Look upon our glorious creation, it seems to whisper, and witness the birth of our transcendent vision.
Martin starts turning the knob, but not for The Eye’s sake. He isn’t here to be its captive audience; he’s long since tired of being a pawn. He’s here to protect Jon; if that means opposing The Eye every step of the way, that’s what he’ll do. With a grim determination burning in his chest, Martin opens the door.
Fortunately, Jon isn’t dead. When Martin’s gaze gets dragged to his boyfriend, he’s still standing, reading a statement. For the briefest moment, Martin tries to convince himself that everything’s alright. Sure the static and green light seems troubling, but Martin hasn’t seen Jon record a statement since he became a true avatar. Maybe this display is normal for The Archivist. This idea is short lived; the closer Martin looks, the more unsettling the scene becomes. Jon’s fingertips are stained with some inky substance, the statement painted with dark streaks. Perhaps Martin could lie to himself and say it came from the paper itself… if that same substance wasn’t dripping from Jon’s eyes.
Eyes that gleam a horrible piercing green.
“Jon?” Martin calls out, but Jon does not acknowledge him. He simply continues his statement, and Martin shivers at the way he grins as he speaks. It’s a look of triumph, and it makes Martin’s blood run cold. The floor creaks as Martin steps closer, speaking up to be heard over the static.
“Jon, it’s me, it- it’s Martin. I don’t- are statements supposed to be like this? They were never this way when I… just- how about you do another one, okay?”
Once more Jon doesn’t notice him, still caught up in the statement. Martin understands that recording is like a trance; you become The Eye’s personal actor until it’s complete. It was easy to interrupt Jon in the beginning, but so much had changed over the years. Maybe Martin had to wait until the statement was over… but kind of story would cause all this? It’s hard to hear the words over the buzz of static but-
Oh. Oh, that was his name. That was definitely his name; something about a wager. But why would a statement talk about him? Sure, Jon technically got his own statement after he cornered that poor woman, but Martin never did anything like that. He wasn’t even an avatar! So if this statement was about him, then either he’d forgotten something that important, or…
“Elias,” Martin gasps. “Oh god- Jon- Jon you have to stop reading! Come on, whatever he’s planning, you can’t let him! Come on, please! Stop!”
Martin takes another step towards Jon, and the man finally looks at him, though it’s more accurate to say Jon looks through him.
“How is Martin, by the way?” Jon asks, his grin and cadence a perfect imitation of their former boss. Martin knows with absolute certainty that Elias, that Jonah, is staring through Jon and into him. His heart starts beating so violently he swears it could shatter his ribcage.
“He looks well,” Elias continues in Jon’s voice. “You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.”
“ You…” Martin feels his body trembling, not just with fear, but with anger.
“You don’t get to tell me what I’ve earned!” he yells, lunging forward to tear the paper out of Jon’s hands. He has to struggle, but Martin’s always been larger than Jon, and with a sharp tug he snatches it away.
“I earned- I earned some happiness! Some peace! After all you took from us, both of us, we earned this life together, and… and you don’t get to take that away!”
The tearing of paper pierces the static, plunging everything into silence. For a moment Martin catches his breath, watching Jon intensely, waiting for the spell to break. Jon is perfectly still, the only movement is a thick trail of ink dripping down his forehead and across his cheek.
Then the smile returns, wider than ever.
"And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date.”
There is a crash as Martin falls to his knees. He is paralyzed, kneeling in front of his boyfriend as Elias continues speaking through him.
The Ceaseless Watcher. The time of our victory. For a moment, Jon’s eyes latch onto Martin, though they’re not his eyes. It’s Jonah’s way of saying this is Martin’s victory too. But it isn’t. It can’t be. Martin refuses to accept that after everything they’ve been through, after everything they lost, Jonah’s about to complete his ritual with Jon as his altar. Martin knows he has to do something, anything to stop this!
Jon doesn’t respond when Martin grabs him by the shoulders. The inky fluid has been crawling up his arms and down his neck; Martin can feel it buzzing under his palms. The contact sends a tremor through his body, nearly making him collapse once more, but Martin refuses to let go. Not again.
“Jon- Jon you have to listen to me. It’s Martin, I’m here, I-I’m here, and Elias is trying to complete the Watcher’s Crown, and he’s making you complete it, p-probably with this statement. I know it will be hard and I- I know that The Eye has been trying to consume you, and maybe part of you wants this, this ‘victory’, but you have to fight it! I know you can, you’ve been fighting it all this time and, a-and you don’t need to do this, you’re strong- you’re stronger than The Eye and- and- and I love you ! I love you I love you- please, please come back to me!”
By the time he’s done Martin is sobbing; his palms have long since gone numb, but his fingers still grip Jon’s shoulders. As the words wash over Jon, he begins to speak slower and slower, his smile fading, sounding less triumphant and more… confused. Every word becomes a struggle as Jon starts to fight, and some clarity returns to his eyes, which finally stare back at Martin. Eventually, he manages to stop speaking altogether, his jaw shaking with the strain of trying to hold back the words.
“ Please… Jon…” Martin whispers, “what do you see?”
Jon’s body twitches, his head tilting to look Martin in the eyes. The gaze almost seems to be his own, and Martin allows himself the faintest glimmer of hope.
“You,” Jon responds, and relief washes over Martin, who moves to pull his boyfriend into an embrace.
Then Jon’s body trembles again, and as he opens his mouth a torrent of ink spills out and stains his chest. No, stain is not the right word. It looks deeper than that, as though the ink has torn a hole through him, leaving an absence in reality itself. Through this void, Martin can see the shapes of glowing green eyes blink to life, staring out at him with anticipation.
“...who watch and know and understand none,” The Archivist continues, the smile readorning his face, and Martin cannot help but scream in anguish.
The ink continues consuming The Archivist as he reads, the static whistling louder in Martin’s skull, vibrating through his entire body. For a moment he considers giving up; what could he possibly do to stop this? He wasn’t there for the Unknowing, or the Extinguished Sun, he had no explosives, he wasn’t Gertrude. Though, really, anyone would be better equipped than him. Sasha (the real Sasha) would already have some brilliant plan, and Tim would be willing to incapacitate or even kill Jon to save the world. So would Daisy, Basira, Melanie… but to Martin, hurting Jon is unthinkable, even if it ensures Jonah’s victory.
Yet, Martin refuses to let his love be used against him. He had to try to wield it for himself, to use that love where others could not. Jon’s love had pulled him from the depths of The Lonely, his could free Jon from The Eye.
“...and drink in all that is not yours by right-,” The Archivist exclaims, before he’s suddenly interrupted.
Ignoring the buzzing static that prickles his skin, Martin grips The Archivist’s face and leans in for a kiss. His lips meet a smooth, glassy surface, which sends agony crackling through his nerves. It tastes of ink and battery acid, and numbs his senses to anything but the rising static. Martin almost gets lost in it, as though his entire body is falling into that watching absence.
“Come to us in your wholeness,” beckons the voice, not formed by lips and vocal cords, not limited to flesh, but resonating throughout the static.
Jon’s voice is still so captivating, even now.
Emptiness suddenly floods Martin’s senses, it clears his head and lets him step away before he’s submerged. When he wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, it comes back smeared with ink. Martin’s show of love came far too late. The Archivist’s face is blank, his body a featureless silhouette, and for one more moment, the world holds its breath.
“ Come to us in your perfection.”
The Watcher’s Crown blinks open above The Archivist’s head: a wreath of piercing emerald eyes. They gleam above the flowing tendrils of inky hair that frame his face, no longer featureless, but watching Martin with the outlines of five green eyes. They burn like a star as they drink in the world, observing Martin as one would observe a wounded bird.
Martin is in tears, his face still burning, and buzzing, and numb. His sobs are drowned out by the sound of the world tearing at the seams. He can almost feel them, The Entities, as they claw at the threshold, their anticipation mounting, the time of their conquest at hand.
But it’s not over yet, and as long as there’s still time Martin has to keep trying. Even if this world has nothing for him, he just can’t give up. If not for the sake of the world, then just so Jon won’t carry the burden of ending it. So, despite the pain, Martin holds The Archivist, holds Jon , even as the embrace destroys him.
“Bring all that is fear and all that is terror,”
“Pl… Pluh… eeas…” Martin’s mouth is so numb can barely force out the words. Begging won’t do anything now, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Elias must be laughing at him.
“and all that is the awful dread that crawls,”
Martin can’t even feel the tears he knows are sliding down his cheeks. He just wants to hold Jon’s hand, his real hand, not this twisted imprint of the man he loves. He wants to drink tea with him, read together by the fire, curl up together in bed. This was supposed to be their happy ending.
“and chokes and blinds,”
At the very least, Martin’s glad he can stay by Jon’s side. The numbness has overpowered the pain, and the static is almost calming. Maybe they can find a way to fix this. At least they’ll be together, in life, in love, in hell, in death, in whatever may come. Content in this small comfort, Martin finally gives up, letting himself collapse into his lover’s arms.
“and falls and twists,”
And yet.
Despite his resignation, something still tugs at Martin. He doesn’t want to die like this. He doesn’t want to live in a nightmare. It isn’t fair. He’s sick of it, not just this latest apocalyptic display, but sick of everything; being flung from disaster to disaster, with barely any time to rest; always being watched and scrutinized, his pitiful squirming observed with amusement. He’s sick of being used like a pawn, and though he loves Jon, he’s sick of watching him get hurt. It’s all too much. He just wants it to go away.
“and leaves-”
Martin pushes himself off of The Archivist, standing upright, towering above him. The green light glints off his glasses and obscures his eyes. He still feels numb, but the feeling is familiar, it’s followed him his entire life. It’s simple to move through it, move with it, to open his lips and cry out:
“STOP!”
Then all at once, the fog rushes in through every crevice, smothering the static as the world cuts to white.
--------
From the depths of fear, The Archivist can feel something against his skin. It’s the faintest sensation, but it reminds him that he’s capable of feeling; it interrupts the ceaseless stillness like a ripple through a pond. The sensation soon joined by another one, and then another, still muffled, but unquestioningly there. Tiny pinpricks fall across his body, and every time The Archivist can feel them a little more. He can also feel his feet, if only for the cold that washes through them, sending a shiver through the body he had almost forgotten. He takes a moment to immerse himself in the stimuli: something prickles his skin, laps at his ankles, caresses his legs. It is all so refreshingly cold, and The Archivist can feel his will returning as the droplets wash the abyss from his eyes. The resulting light is harsh, at first he flinches away, before his vision begins to readjust. The Archivist looks away from that which gazes back at him, and onto the figure standing before him.
It’s Martin. Martin is here. Though he’d left on a walk mere minutes ago, Jon realizes how deeply he had missed him. Soon, tears spring to his eyes to assist the rain. For it is raining here, Jon realizes, though he doesn’t know where here is. Not at first. He’s rather confused why he isn’t in the cabin, why Martin’s gripping his shoulders, and why a pleasant day had so quickly turned to rain.
Jon stares down at his still numbed body for answers, only to find it stained with inky liquid, which the rain continues to wash away. It bleeds through the water encircling Jon’s ankles, before being dashed apart by the rippling cascade. He notes the grass beneath the shallows, which gently tangles and untangles around his shoes, dancing in the current. Jon then casts his gaze to the horizon, and finds the line unbroken. This place is empty, there is nothing but the water and the sky, stretching on in endless parallel. Jon could almost mistake it for The Vast, were it not for the bracing cold, which seems to radiate from Martin himself.
But why would they be in The Lonely? Had Martin brought them here? Jon opens his mouth to ask, but only succeeds in choking up more ink. Martin himself appears to be breathing heavily, his mouth moving silently, as though recovering from a great effort. The last time they’d been here it was Peter’s doing, but the man was long since dead. Jon had hoped Martin was just a victim, but for him to access The Lonely by himself, nevermind drag someone in with him, proves this incorrect. So then why?
Allowing them both a moment to rest, Jon ponders the events following Martin’s departure. He had taken one of the given statements, something about a fire. He thought he’d chosen it for an easy meal; The Desolation was often straightforward since he’d figured out the Lightless Flame. But the truth was… something had drawn Jon’s eye to the statement, and he’d grown too complacent to question why. How foolish of him to presume safety, even for a moment. But what actually happened? He tries to recall the words of the statement, and-
Hello, Jon.
His blood runs cold as he remembers how Jonah stole his voice, how he spoke through Jon to explain everything. It was always just a game, every trauma was either planned or furthered Jonah’s goals through sheer coincidence. His goals… he was going to use Jon to start a ritual, the true ritual, the only one that could possibly work.
Jon’s vision fades as he remembers the abyss. From within it he had felt himself reach out, with words of prayer, with trembling hands, with watching eyes. He reached towards the edge of reality, and it began to split open; from behind the tear he witnessed them. He saw The Entities, incomprehensible in their majesty, so powerful was their terror that Jon knew, if he was missing even one of their blessings, it would’ve obliterated him. Above them gazed The Eye, glittering with pride as it observed its precious Archivist. Being a victim was terrifying, but wasn’t it scarier to be loved by such horrors? In that moment, no, Jon could think of nothing better; he reached out lovingly with open arms, beckoning them to him, and to his world.
Then, as he was about to open their path, a figure took him by the hands, and the abyss was drowned in a torrent of fog.
That fog stil cradles them both, whispering promises of safety. Jon can understand why this place lured Martin in… after spending so long running from snarling, writhing, twisting terrors… there’s a peace to The Lonely. How strange to think that an Entity should save him from completing their ritual. No… that’s not true. Martin saved him.
With the ink scrubbed from his skin, Jon feels the full force of the rain pouring down on him. Even now it’s still so gentle. He reaches his hands (still burnt, still scarred, but human) and places them on Martin’s shoulders, mirroring the way his boyfriend still holds onto him.
“Martin,” Jon whispers, his voice soft and loving, as if making up for the wasted years he sneered the man’s name.
“Martin, you did it. You stopped the ritual you- you saved the world.”
Jon begins to laugh, a joyous, genuine sound, the kind he hasn’t made in years. His utter relief echoes towards the unbroken horizon, the only sound amidst the pouring rain. He leans in for an embrace when…
“I…”
It’s Martin, and Jon realizes he hadn’t been speaking until now. No, that’s not right. He just hadn’t been speaking to Jon. Instead, he’d been muttering words under his breath, fingers curling into Jon’s shoulders, as though bracing himself.
“Martin…? Are you alright…?” Jon asks, concern creeping into his voice.
“I…. I-iiiii…..” Martin stammers, gripping Jon even tighter. It’s then Jon finally peers through the swirling fog, and notices three things:
Martin’s voice is echoing, as though he’s miles away, the way it sounded within Peter’s corner of The Lonely.
Martin’s eyes are obscured behind his glasses, which are so fogged up as to be opaque. The reflection seems to flicker slightly, like a snowstorm through the mist.
There’s another noise beneath the rain, a growing static hum. It’s unfamiliar to Jon, unlike the kind that he sometimes hears at the base of his skull. That static crackles and pops, it has a harshness to it. This static is gentle, but far more persistent in its song.
“Martin, we should get out of here.” Jon says quickly, looking for an exit. “I can find us a way out. Don’t worry, things will be alr-”
“Ah- Ah- I. I-I. Iiiii…. Oh-” Martin falters, falling against Jon as he digs nails into the fabric of his sweater.
“Martin!” Jon reaches to catch him, trying to keep him upright. His skin feels like ice, it burns against the scar on Jon’s hand, nearly making him pull away. But he still holds his boyfriend tight. The static noise is only growing, and it’s joined by a humming in Jon’s chest. He looks down to see another stain, only this one isn’t ink, but a splatter of static snow. Staring back at Martin’s face, Jon sees the static in his glasses has only grown brighter, and it flows beneath the rims like tears, though Jon still can’t see his eyes.
“I… Oh-oh… I Oh… p- oh- peh…. N-nnggh…”
The water beneath them begins to churn, casting outwards in concentric waves. The sky above them boils, with silver clouds weaving through each other, dancing with anticipation. Steam ascends around them in marble columns, and every blade of grass rises from the water to reach towards the heavens.
Jon reaches a trembling hand towards Martin’s face before his vision fades again, and he’s back in the abyss. The figure has turned around to face The Entities. They still hold Jon’s hand, though with the other they reach towards their patient audience. Jon can feel the static flowing within him: through every hole, in the absence of his ribs, across the scarring on his neck and hand, reverberating through every mark, visible and invisible. It flows from him into the figure, and Jon can see it move through them as well, worming and spiralling through their own marks. Another presence joins the fourteen looming before them; the fledgling Extinction called forth by its mark within the figure’s heart. However, its presence is not the strongest among them… and neither is The Eye’s, which has broken its gaze as though in deference. The fog that obscured them is only growing thicker, a wall of pure emptiness that consumes the abyss, until it’s all that remains. A tendril swirls forward, and the figure extends a hand, lovingly threading their fingers with the mist.
In The Lonely, Martin stares back at Jon in silence, as static tears stream down his frigid skin. One of them drips off his chin and falls into the stormy water, and it suddenly goes still, plunging the world into absolute silence; a hush falling over the crowd before the curtain rises.
Jon can catch the faintest glimpse of an eye behind the static snowfall of his lover’s glasses, white and empty as the unbroken horizon. Martin is smiling, not in the cruel way that Jonah curled Jon’s mouth, but something more apologetic, as if to say ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t have our happy ending.’
But Martin does not say this, and as much as he wants to say “I love you,” he does not say this either.
What he does say, what echoes across all of reality, is:
“I open the door.”
Then all at once the clouds part, and fear descends upon the world like rain.