Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon’s day is a well-worn, predictable routine. He wakes up in his little room to the first vestiges of morning intruding through the blinds. He watches the dust motes float around in the gentle light, trying to remember his dreams, before pulling himself out of bed. He quickly washes up, gets dressed, and refreshes the Seeing spell on his glasses before heading downstairs. 

First he double-checks his outgoing supply note, left on the counter, to make sure he hasn’t forgotten to request anything he urgently needs. After inspection, the note is rolled up and fastened with twine, then goes to the exchange window. On the floor beneath the window is a basket of carefully preserved potions and bundles of herbs Jon crafted. He compares the contents of the basket with the request list from last week to confirm that nothing is missing. 

Once he’s certain everything is in order, Jon pulls open the shutters, letting in the light and air of morning, and tries to appreciate it for a moment. Everything is the same as ever, though — a lightly-worn path hidden beneath the thick blanket of ever-flourishing grass and shrubbery, bordered on each side by woodland. A thin canopy of leaves casts white, dappled light across the ground, like a scatter of ever-swaying flowers. From where he stands, Jon can identify two bird nests in the branches overhead, another sign of early spring. 

Jon makes himself take a deep breath of fresh air, knowing he won’t be getting much more of it that day. Then he pushes himself back into the routine, reaching to pull up and set the extension of the window-sill. He places the supply note in a small, empty jar he’s tied with rope and hung from a thick nail. It rests against the outer wall at about eye-level, and soon it will be empty once more. Then he lifts the basket onto the sill and covers it, tying the cloth securely so nothing is liable to fall out. 

There’s a brief mental debate on whether or not he should leave the window open, but a shrewd certainty that some creature would take it as an invitation to crawl in and cause trouble compels Jon to close the shutters. With his most pressing morning chore complete, Jon sets about making himself a serviceable breakfast to get him through the day’s work. 

There’s a sense of relief once Jon walks into the back room which makes up his workspace. This is where he’s most comfortable, most focused. As Jon makes his way around the room, checking to make sure all is where it should be, he murmurs a spell and blows warmth and light into the handful of sconces hanging around. Soon there’s enough light to work with, and he settles in for a long day of potion-making. 

The hours pass, one by one, marked by the gradual dimming of the sconces and the smell of boiling brews. Jon refreshes his lights between chopping, peeling, slicing, smashing, mixing, cooking, stirring. It’s not until late afternoon that thirst finally drags him away, and even then, only for a moment.

Night falls before Jon feels he’s done enough. He’s hungry by the time his last potion for the day finishes steeping. Once it’s bottled and safely stored, he makes himself a light, bland dinner, something easy on his stomach. 

While he eats, Jon opens his notebook and updates his lists. He marks off the things he set out to complete today, writes down things that need to be attended to in the morning. He begins a new list of supplies he’ll be needing to stock up on; this one will receive updates over the next three days and be sent off just before his two days of rest. 

Speaking of the supply run. Jon puts his dishes away before going to the exchange window. As expected, he opens the shutters to find a sizable bundle of supplies, along with a small handful of tin containers. He brings them inside, collapsing the sill extension and closing the window once more. 

It’s dark in the house without any natural light, so Jon finally sets fire to some candles. Then he sorts through his delivery, putting things away in the kitchen, his workspace. There are a couple of books and toiletries he sets aside for the trip back to his room. Then, once the basket is empty, Jon inspects the bespelled bottle with his list of duties and requests. A quick word of unwinding lets him uncork the bottle, though fishing out the note is, as always, more difficult than it really should be. 

The contents of the note are as expected: medicine, mostly, along with a handful of more recreational potions. There are specific herbs required which only he can harvest and prepare safely; Jon schedules an outing in his notebook. At the very bottom of the paper, however, is a request for an enchantment, with the components he’ll need listed. Jon quickly writes his own copy of the instructions on a separate piece of paper, making a mental note to check some of his books to see if there’s anything that can help him with the process. He’s not as well-practiced when it comes to spellcraft, but he knows enough to get by. 

When it’s finally time to sleep, Jon takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes, letting them dangle from the chain to rest against his ribs. On his way up the stairs, he pauses at a small window. It opens up to the west side of the building where, growing up along the entire height of his house, there is a tree. Its bark is notably dark amidst the pale grey and chalky white of the smaller trees surrounding it, and its limbs are longer, more vertical. Its leaves are long and thin and a deep green nearing purple, while the fruit that weigh down each thin stem are a dull grey.

Jon opens the window, appreciating the slight breeze that flows in. When he replaces his glasses, Jon can see the true color of the fruit: deep, gently luminous purple. Jon reaches out to pluck two of the ripest fruits within reach. He can see sparks of magic when they’re pulled from their stems, tiny blue lights falling to the earth like glittering flakes of snow. 

In his room, Jon fully removes his glasses and settles the fruit by his bed. He removes his clothes, quickly washes, brushing his hair and teeth, before pulling on a nightgown and pouring a glass of water for the night. Then, as he sits beneath his thin covers and stares out of his window, counting the stars, he carefully removes the skin of the fruit, tucking each piece away in a piece of cloth.

The fruit, once peeled, is easily divided into four wedges. The juice runs dark and thick, almost sticky, on Jon’s tongue. But its sweetness is that of a kiss from a friend, placed with sincere ease right on the cheek. Jon eats it all slowly, feeling the magic settle. 

Chapter Text

On Jon’s first day of rest, it rains. A trickle that starts just after breakfast turns into an outright downpour hardly an hour later, and refuses to let up. It’s a shame, because Jon had intended to spend the better part of his afternoon fetching herbs and ingredients from the woods so he could use them throughout the next week. Plans dashed by the weather, he has no choice but to concede to a day of reading. 

He’s halfway through one of his old texts on the uses of roots when someone knocks on his door. It’s enough of a surprise to make Jon lose his grip on the book. It tumbles onto the floor, landing face-down in a heap that will no doubt cause unwanted creasing on a handful of pages. 

Jon stares across the room at the front door, nearly hidden behind an array of clutter that lives in the little alcove — a coat rack heavy with fabric; the tall vase to hold his umbrella and canes; his shoes, nets and baskets. It’s a normal door, fine dark wood like what’s seen throughout the rest of the cottage, except for the fact that it’s never, ever knocked on. No one comes here, and if they do, they certainly don’t knock on Jon’s front door. 

The sound is loud enough to cut through the steady thrum of rain, and even louder when it comes again, rousing Jon from his stupor. He slips onto his feet and hurries over to the door. With no small amount of reluctance — and once he’s got a good grip on one of his more sturdy canes — Jon opens the door.

The fellow outside is absolutely drenched. His thin cloak, darkened black by rain water, is plastered over a tall frame. The hood, which has clearly done nothing to protect his face, is likewise damp and dripping. Jon can just barely see one brown eye and a freckled cheek beneath wet hair and cloth. 

“Hi! Hello, um- so sorry to bother you,” he stammers. He’s raising his voice, and the rain seems louder now that Jon has the door open. “I’m, uh, the courier? And I just- well, your note, for the delivery, it sort of got too wet to read? You know...” He waves at the rain, being blown askew by the wind so it still hits him, even as he stands beneath the small stone archway. 

He then points helplessly in the direction of the exchange window. Jon looks at it over his shoulder, frowning deeply. Oh. The jar had likely been filled with water. 

“I apologize,” Jon tells the courier, feeling awkward. 

“Oh, it’s no problem, really!” The man seems quick to reassure Jon; he even pulls his hood back, pushing his hair out of his face, enough so Jon can see his expression better. He’s got a soft, round face, and a lopsided smile that Jon suspects is meant to be reassuring. “If you don’t mind, I can wait here while you write it up again? Maybe, uh, put it in another jar, with a lid this time, so it won’t get wet…?”

“I- yes. That sounds like… an idea,” Jon replies. He feels... a little conflicted. On the one hand, he wants nothing more than to escape this conversation, flee the front door and scribble down his groceries as quickly as he can, whatever it takes to send the man away. He doesn’t do this anymore — small talk, conversation. There’s a reason Jon lives away from town. 

But now that the man has moved his arm, Jon can see beneath his cloak, and he realizes not only is the courier trying to keep Jon’s small basket of outgoing supplies from getting soaked, but there’s something else tucked under his arm. Something for Jon, most likely. 

Alongside his concern for the supplies is a nagging feeling at the back of Jon’s mind. Jon can easily imagine his grandmother by the fireplace at their old house, instructing him to do this or that while they prepared for guests. More than once, people had come by needing medicine or advice from her, and she’d let them in, no matter how inopportune the timing was. Jon knew how to treat unexpected guests, even if he didn’t like having them.

“You can come in,” he offers, stepping away from the door and gesturing with one arm. 

His reluctance must not be subtle, because the man hurriedly shakes his head, holding up a hand. “Oh! N-no, no, you don’t have to invite me in or anything. I mean, I’m soaked through, I’ll get water everywhere-”

“Nonsense,” Jon interrupts. “Look, it’s fine. Just come in. It’s not practical to stand out there waiting; I can help you dry off, and if nothing else, perhaps the rain will let up before you’re on your way again.”

“Are you sure?” The man takes a half-step forward, just enough so his toe breaks the line of the threshold. “I really don’t want to intrude.” 

“It’s not an intrusion if I’m inviting you in,” Jon says, and he puts a bit more insistence behind his voice. Maybe if he sounds like he means it, the courier will pick up the pace. “You can call me Jon. What’s your name?” 

“Martin.” 

“Right then. I’ll get a stool for you to sit on.”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.” Jon closes the door and flees around a corner into the kitchen, keeping a firm grip on his cane. 

Soon, Martin sits on a tall stool next to the counter while Jon finishes a second draft of his list. As always, he’d remembered a couple things that had been forgotten on the previous note; he adds them now, feeling childish satisfaction at sneaking them on. Once he’s finished, Jon leaves the room to fetch more twine and another small jar. 

“Thanks,” says Martin as he accepts the jar. Jon watches him tuck it into a discreet pocket on the inside of his cloak. His nails are painted black, chipped at the ends. His hair is dark from the rain, gently curling as it begins to dry. When he looks back up at Jon, a rueful smile on his face, Jon notices that the warmth of the candles makes his eyes turn gold, like honey. “Sorry again for all the trouble,” Martin says. His voice is very soft for such a large man. “I’m afraid I’ve left a bit of a puddle on your kitchen floor.” 

Jon waves a hand at said offending water without breaking eye-contact. “It’s fine.” 

“I can, um, help clean it up-”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Jon tells him. “As if I’d let a guest clean anything in my house.”

To Jon’s surprise, this earns a chuckle from Martin. “Okay, okay… In that case, could I have a towel or something?”

“Yes, just a moment.”

Once Jon has fetched him something to dry off with, Martin asks, “So, is it just you out here?”

“Yes. I used to live in town, but after my grandmother died, well.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your gran.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t unexpected.”

“You know, I think I remember that actually,” Martin tells him, his tone light as he searches his memory. “She made medicine and stuff like that for everyone, right? She had a nice funeral.” 

Jon nods and wonders what his expression must be. His feelings on his grandmother are… mostly fine. Good, even. She’d looked after him the same way she’d looked after anyone else: with steady diligence and a life’s worth of accrued skill. It had been sad, when she passed away, but not unexpected and certainly not a tragedy. 

“It annoyed me a bit, how public it all was,” Jon finds himself admitting. “I didn’t get any time alone with her until after everyone else had gone.” 

Martin says nothing more, but he does nod, and somehow Jon is able to appreciate his quiet sympathy. Then, naturally, he becomes flustered at having said something so personal. The only logical course of action is to turn away from Martin and set about making tea. Jon asks, “What is it like, being a courier?” 

For the next half-hour or so, Jon serves Martin tea and listens to the man talk. It’s surprisingly not awful. By the time the rain finally lets up, Martin is mostly dry, and Jon has spoken more in one day than he has since… Well, he’s not sure. Since he moved, probably. 

Soon Martin is back at the door, basket under one arm. The parcel he’d been sent to deliver is back on the kitchen counter, and Jon’s already itching to find out what’s hidden in the plain brown paper and string. 

“Thanks again for letting me stay,” Martin says. 

“Think nothing of it,” Jon insists. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you dry off more,” he adds, gesturing to Martin’s still damp cloak and clothes. “I would have, if I could, but it’s a resting day for me.” 

“That’s when… you have to not use magic, right?” 

“More or less.”

“It’s okay! Really, just a sit down and a towel was more than enough. And, um, it was really nice to finally meet you,” he says. 

Jon, a bit dazed, merely offers his hand. Martin shakes it; his hands are large and surprisingly calloused. 

“Have a safe night,” Jon offers as he watches Martin go.

“You too!” 

Chapter Text

Days later, Jon returns from a morning walk just in time to see Martin coming up the hill to the exchange window. Jon tucks himself in the canopy’s shadow, watching from behind a thin tree as Martin trades his latest basket of goods for the supplies Jon has left out. He then dips a hand into the jar to fetch Jon’s grocery list, tucking it into his cloak. 

There’s a moment where Martin merely stands in front of the shutters, staring at them, then towards the front door. He shifts back and forth on his feet. Just as Jon becomes tempted to move, Martin shakes his head and makes his way back toward town. 

Beyond the brief non-encounter, Jon’s day goes as expected. As does the next, and the one after that. When next the time comes to send off his goods, however, Jon decides to leave the window open. The door to his workroom is also left ajar, so he hears when someone trudges up to the window and starts messing with things. 

Natural light spills into the workroom, clean and yellow. It cuts through the dim space Jon has made for himself, with his flickering sconces and well-worn books. Jon stands, rooted in place, mechanically cutting stalks until he hears the person leave. When he eventually collects the new basket from the sill, it’s with a frown he can’t seem to banish. 

The frown stays until after dinner, when he’s double-checking the delivery. It’s then that he notices the little jar at the bottom. There’s a note inside, along with what looks like tea leaves. 

The note is from Martin. Thank you again for letting me stay! Jon can tell with a quick sniff that it’s a pleasant mix of mint, chamomile, and lavender. 

It rains, a light but persistent drizzle that follows Jon to bed. That night he eats one fruit from the tree and saves its skin. In the morning, he makes tea with the leaves he was given. 

Finally, after two weeks of making potions and suffering cyclical internal debates, Jon waits with the window open. It’s a resting day, so he forces himself to settle on the couch with a book and stay there until he hears footsteps. When they’re close, he gets up and goes to the window.

Martin looks more than a little surprised to see him. Before he can speak, though, Jon asks, “I was wondering, are you the only one who does these runs?”

Martin waits until he’s within arms reach to speak. “Um, hello… Yes? I mean, I’m not the only courier, obviously, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who comes here for pick ups and deliveries.”

Jon quietly scoffs. “That’s not surprising.” 

“What do you mean?”

Rather than answer right off, Jon gives Martin a hard stare. The man is at least a head taller than Jon, yet squirms easily under his scrutiny. “Aren’t you afraid of me?” 

“Um, no? Why… Should I be?”

“People tend to be afraid of ‘witches’,” Jon says, clearly bitter. 

Martin only shrugs. “I know people who use magic. They seem just like anybody else. Why be afraid?”

“You’re not even the least bit intimidated by the witch who brews strange potions all alone in the woods like some sort of hermit?”

Martin snorts, then covers his face with a hand, clearly embarrassed. Jon takes a step closer to the window, close enough to feel the warmth of the sun when he rests his arms on the sill. 

Once Martin composes himself, he gives Jon a shrug, a little smirk. “Well, maybe I was curious about the ‘spooky witch’ living all alone at the edge of the woods… But then I met him. He doesn’t seem so scary to me.” 

“Oh, no?”

“He did make me tea, so I think he’s proven himself to be a perfectly polite fellow.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he merely puts a hand on his outgoing basket. “Well, this is for you. Obviously.” 

“And this is for you,” Martin says with a smile, handing Jon his bundle. 

Before he can leave, Jon forces himself to say, “Thank you for the tea. It’s quite good.” 

“Oh! It- it was nothing,” Martin tells him. There’s a faint dash of pink on his cheeks, darkening his freckles. “I grow most of the leaves at home.” 

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I like to garden- Just a bit, though. I’m not especially good at growing anything actually useful.” 

Jon raises a brow. “Define useful.” 

“I dunno… I don’t grow any food, or something for medicine. Mostly just flowers and weeds and tea leaves.” 

“All of those can be useful,” Jon tells him. “You can make something out of anything, just about.”

For a second it looks like Martin might argue, but then he merely shrugs and says, “I suppose you’d be the one to know. You work with that sort of stuff all the time, right?”

“I’d consider it a profession at this point,” Jon says, his tone light. Then he says, “Anyway, I apologize for keeping you.”

“Oh, yeah, I should head off. Have a good rest of your day, Jon.”

“And you, Martin.”

One afternoon, Martin makes his way to the window just as the sky turns grey. Jon, who has started keeping a closer eye on the weather, makes sure to keep the window open that day. He’s too busy to chat, but it wouldn’t do to miss the rain and have another note or package ruined. 

When he has a moment to peek out into the other room, Jon is surprised to see Martin is still there. It’s raining now; he can hear it faintly on the roof, but had been busy enough to tune out the worst of it. As Jon approaches the courier, he can both see and hear through the window exactly how heavy the rain really is. 

“Sorry for the loitering,” Martin says, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as there’s a bit of a break.” 

“It’s fine,” Jon tells him, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. He adjusts his glasses, noting with interest the vibrant nature of the package Martin has come to deliver. There are a few spell components he’s eager to get his hands on. “You best come in and sit,” he finds himself saying. “I don’t think the rain is going to let up anytime soon, and better you stay dry in here than get drenched when it could be avoided.”

“Oh! Are you sure that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t make the offer otherwise,” Jon tells him. “I’ll be busy, but I’m sure you’ll be fine on the couch?”

“Y-yeah, of course. Thank you.” 

Martin comes inside, leaving his damp shoes in the cluttered doorway. “There wasn’t supposed to be rain today,” he mutters, untying his cloak. “There’s a woman in town — friend of mine — who can do a bit of weather-reading. Skies were meant to be clear all day, apparently.” 

“I suppose you’re lucky you made it to the window in time, then.”

“Definitely! Thanks again.”

“It’s no trouble. You can sit here. I’d offer you something to drink, but I really must be getting back to my work.” Jon takes a few steps back to the other room, his mind already checking and double-checking what needs to be done with the potion he’s brewing. Just before he’s too far, though, he hesitates and adds, “If you’re really peckish, I suppose you can help yourself… Just, um, don’t make a mess, please.”

He doesn’t hear Martin’s reply, already shutting the door. It wouldn’t do to let himself get distracted anymore than he already has been.

When Jon eventually re-emerges, he notes that Martin did, in fact, help himself to the kitchen. There’s tea set out on the table next to the couch. An extra cup rests near Martin’s, empty. The courier twists around when he hears Jon approaching. “Would you like me to pour you some?” 

“I’ve got it,” Jon replies, finding his voice oddly weak. He pours himself a cup and sits across from Martin, balancing his saucer on one knee. 

The fear of an awkward silence is very real, but Martin seamlessly picks up their previous conversation, as if Jon hadn’t abandoned him for — he glances at one of his clocks — nearly fifty minutes. “There have been a lot of unexpectedly rainy days, actually,” Martin tells him. “Sasha’s usually really accurate when she gives us her predictions.” 

“The weather is not so easily known,” Jon says, shrugging with one shoulder. “Of all things in this world, it’s one of the most volatile.” 

“Well, sure, but we’ve always had pretty consistent weather here in Fairside, don’t you think?”

“The region is known for it,” Jon concedes. 

“Right. Summers are warm but never too hot, except for a couple of weeks. The springtime can be rainy, but that’s not usually until about a month has passed, you know? I guess it’s just strange to see so much of it this early.”

“I’ll admit, it’s been a bit of a bother. Certainly hasn’t made harvesting things any easier.”

“Oh, I know! I’ll tell you, my poor garden hasn’t been enjoying all the extra water in the slightest.”

The conversation goes on, shifting from the weather to gardening to this and that. All too soon, the rain begins its departure, and Martin insists he should get going.

Before he can, though, Jon asks if he can update his supply list. It’s just one small, quick addition, but he makes sure to fold it up tightly so Martin can’t see. Martin heads off, the hood of his cloak growing speckled with the last remnants of the storm. 

Chapter Text

The not-quite-seasonal bouts of rain persist. Sometimes Martin arrives at the house before the clouds even begin to form, but most often Jon finds him hiding beneath the window awning, and so he is often forced to invite the man inside. 

The third time this happens, once Martin has removed his damp cloak and shoes, already making his way toward the kitchen, Jon gathers his nerve. “I made something for you,” he tells Martin. Always easiest, he thinks, to be blunt about it. 

Martin looks so taken aback that Jon can’t help but huff a laugh and ask, “What?” 

“I- No, sorry! I just, um, I wasn’t expecting… You made something for me? Really?” 

Jon, somewhat uncomfortable with the level of pure incredulity in Martin’s tone, shuffles carefully on his feet. He’s using a cane today; the frequent rain has been hurting his left hip and knee as of late. “It’s nothing much, don’t get so worked up over it.”

He retreats to the back room, partially to escape Martin’s awed look, but mostly to retrieve the gift. When Martin takes it from his hand, Jon explains, “It’s a new cloak. I put a spell on it, so it should repel water. It’s also a bit bigger than the one you have now. Oh, and I had to sew them in myself, so I apologize if their quality isn’t the best, but there are pockets on the inside as well.” 

While he’s speaking, Martin unfolds the cloak. It’s a warm, earthy brown color that, in descending crescents, fades to deep blue. The hem is lined with a brighter blue-grey trim, while the inside of the cloak is a soft cream color. In Martin’s hands, the fabric looks sturdy but sleek. He can’t seem to stop running his palm over it, watching the material catch the light of the surrounding candles. “This is… This is beautiful! It- it’s too much! Jon, how much did this cloak even cost?”

“Oh, originally it wasn’t so different from the one you already have; the cloak itself wasn’t worth much, so please don’t worry.” 

“But… but the colors, and the design… It’s so lovely...” 

“It didn’t look like that before,” Jon explains. “That’s typically part of the transfiguration process; the feathers I used influenced its appearance.” 

“Feathers?”

“I used duck feathers in the spell,” Jon tells him. He steps a bit closer, just enough to catch part of the cloak and rub it between two fingers, scrutinizing his handiwork. “Duck feathers are pulling most of the weight here, but I also included coriander and garlic, and midnight zest to help it hold.” 

“You made this cloak out of all that?” 

“Potion making and spellcraft are… very different,” Jon says, “but while I certainly prefer and feel most comfortable with potions, a spell like this one isn’t particularly complicated. It only took a bit of extra care in making sure things measured out alright. In any case, it should keep you dry, which is the main point. Duck feathers are usually coated in a sort of oil, which helps them repel water.” 

While he speaks, Martin tries on the cloak. There’s a simple silver clasp to secure the front. Jon feels relief rush over him when he sees that the cloak is, indeed, long enough to cover most of Martin’s large frame. The hood is a bit bigger than his old one, too, allowing for more cover and visibility. 

“This is really amazing, Jon, thank you so much!” Martin tells him earnestly. “I… I really wish I knew anything about magic, or had some of my own, so I could give you something even half as good as this in return.”

“There’s no need to do that,” Jon mutters, stepping away to ruin any chance Martin might have of seeing the way his cheeks darken. “I’ll have to correct you on that other claim, though: you have magic, of course you do.”

“What? No I don’t.” Martin pulls the cloak carefully off his shoulders, now inspecting one of the inner pockets, even as he glances up at Jon with wide eyes. “My mum could use it, a bit, I think. But I’ve never shown any ability.”

“Not being able to use magic doesn’t mean you don’t have it,” Jon tells him, one brow raised. He feels a bit taken aback. “You really don’t know this? Did your mother never explain?”

“Sorry,” Martin replies, looking small and sheepish.

Jon curses himself, offering a raised hand and shake of the head to Martin. “No, it’s… I understand, I suppose. This is relatively basic knowledge, but I guess it’s no surprise you haven’t been told.” That’s a bit of a lie — especially now that Martin admitted to having a mother who could use her magic. Jon couldn’t imagine his grandmother failing to explain anything to him, even before he started showing. 

“Could you tell me?” Martin asks, heading for the couch. “I’m really quite curious, now. I mean, how on earth do you start with duck feathers and end up with this?” 

Jon lowers himself into what has now become his usual spot. Outside, the rain picks up. Wind gently bats the windowpanes, but there’s no threat of them being thrown open, nor of the roof leaking. It almost feels cozy, sitting here, the rumbling white noise of the storm a constant reminder of his and Martin’s distance from everything else. 

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Jon explains, “The basics aren’t especially difficult to parse. Everything in the world has magic; it’s fundamental. It exists in humans, animals, the plants, the earth, water, wind, etcetera. 

“The only true difference between you and me is that I have enough innate magic to exercise my influence on the world around me. You have magic, but… how should I put this… your natural reserve is too low. It would take something extraordinary to draw it out of you, and in any case, that would likely be dangerous.”

“How does using magic work, then?” 

Jon ponders the best way to explain, then asks, “You’ve witnessed the effects of magnets, haven’t you?”

“Magnets? Yes.” 

“Magic sort of works the same way. Imagine the magic inside of us is a magnet. Every magnet has a north and south pole — in this, opposites attract, while likes repel. The magic inside of me is a bit like a large magnet, and I have enough of a pull to influence the magic around me. Sometimes, my magic is easily influenced, or can easily influence, something else. At other times, it’s more difficult for me to engage with a type of magic, in the way that two magnets might naturally repel each other. It’s not a perfect, one-to-one metaphor, but I’m hoping it allows you a better grasp on the concept.”

Martin nods along. He seems genuinely interested in Jon’s words, clearly trying his best to follow along. Jon can feel himself getting more enthused as he speaks. 

“Following this framework, we could say that your magic is like a much smaller magnet in comparison: easily influenced by the force of magic around you, but unable to do much on its own. You can’t really fight back or try to exert control on anything, simply because you don’t have enough magic. So, while it’s still a part of you, it seems inert and thus absent. 

“Everything has magic, but the degree to which we can use our magic is almost entirely dependent on how much of it we have at birth. This is why the ability to use magic is seen as hereditary. There are exceptions, of course.”

“I… I think I understand,” Martin says. He seems to remember something, then, asking with a curious expression, “Is that why Sasha said I make a good anchor?” 

Jon jolts a bit in surprise. “You’ve been someone’s anchor before?”

“Yeah. One time, Sasha was asked to predict what the next year’s worth of crop yields would be… The council needed the information for… I dunno, something or other. You know, the sort of things big, important people worry about. In any case, Sasha needed to do a difficult Seeing spell in order to get the most accurate reading. She asked me to help, because I would make a good anchor. Didn’t really explain why, though I’ll admit I didn’t really ask for details at the time. I just wanted to help her out, mostly — she seemed proper stressed over the whole thing.”

“And the spell worked?”

“We’re only just to spring, of course, but so far things look good! From what I heard, the surrounding towns and villages had a lot of success with their first yields for spring. I think the rain threw us off a bit here, but nothing dire.” 

Jon leans back, resting his cane on his lap, and nods. “That’s good,” he says, though his mind was beginning to wander. He hadn’t met this Sasha, but Martin had mentioned her more than a few times. She sounded relatively skilled in her spellcraft and divination especially. “The people… They don’t mind someone like Sasha so close by?”

“I think it’s been better, over the last couple of years,” Martin tells him. His tone is a little odd, soft but imploring in some way Jon can’t quite understand. “I think… Well, your grandmother did a lot of good, while she was alive. I remember folks sometimes saying this or that about ‘witches’, or whoever else could use magic… But really, it seems a lot more normal nowadays, even if I still don’t see much of it myself.” 

“Hm.”

“But, Jon, do you mind explaining how anchors work? You said I didn’t have enough magic to do anything with it… so why was I able to do something like that for Sasha?”

“Can you tell me what, exactly, Sasha had you do?”

“I didn’t do much of anything,” Martin insists, glancing away and shrugging. “Mostly just sat near her while she stared at a mirror on the wall. We held hands, and while she was staring and reciting the spell — I think it was a spell? — in a language I didn’t know, I remember feeling a sort of… tug, or something. It wasn’t super noticeable, at first. By the time it started aching a little, Sasha was finished with what she was doing. She just thanked me and said she had to write down all that she’d learned, so she didn’t have time to really talk about it or explain anything to me.”

“Ah. Well, anchors as a concept are mostly straightforward. As I said, everyone has magic in them. This means that, even if they can’t influence the world around them with their magic, it can still be affected by outside forces. Anchors are…” Jon fiddles with the cord on his glasses, thinking. “They… Well, the name gives it away, really: they anchor someone, so that they don’t get lost in whatever spell they’re casting. Sometimes, when someone has to use a particularly intensive or difficult spell, it can become very dangerous.

“...For example: imagine I must execute a spell. It will take longer than an hour — perhaps several — to finish. In order to accomplish this task, I will likely utilize a lot of my magic. However, running too low on your magic reserves is extremely dangerous; it can result in serious mental or physical issues, sometimes to a fatal degree. 

“Now, let’s use the magnets again. I am a small magnet, and I am trying to influence a much bigger magnet. My success with the spell relies on my ability to be just close enough to the big magnet to work with it, to work the magic in the way I want. However, that sort of stability is impossible to maintain indefinitely. If someone gets too deep into a spell, or if they’re careless, they can, essentially, be overtaken by the magic they’re attempting to work with.” 

A gentle exclamation of, “Oh, dear,” from Martin is enough to make Jon pause, mostly in amusement. He also can’t help noticing how dry his mouth feels, then. Licking his lips, he starts lifting himself from the couch. “I’m going to make a pot; would you like some tea?” 

Quick as a hare, Martin is on his feet and in Jon’s kitchen. “I’ll make it!”

“But-”

“You can sit down, it’s alright,” Martin tells him. “Think of it as a thank you for the cloak.” He tosses a look over his shoulder, one that is gently but firmly insisting Jon does as he suggests. With a frown and a grumble, Jon sits back in his chair. The dull throbbing of his left flank eases, just slightly. He fiddles with the grip on his cane and tries not to dwell on the effects of Martin’s quiet, easy kindness. 

Once they both have warm tea, Jon continues. “To answer your question, Martin: in essence, an anchor’s job is to hold the spellcaster steady. It works best when the spellcaster and the anchor are decently close, or related. Spending a lot of time around someone, it sort of… syncs your magic, in a sense. Makes the two more compatible. So your friend Sasha must have recognized that your magic was well-suited to hers, enough that you could act as an anchor while she worked on her Seeing spell.”

“So I mostly just held her steady?” Martin asks. “Kept her with one foot in reality, as it were, so she didn’t get… what, sucked into the magic?” 

“So she wouldn’t be lost, yes,” Jon nods. He takes a sip of his tea; it’s the brew Martin originally gifted him, and has since replenished. “To be an anchor is a great responsibility, even if it seems easy. She must have trusted you very much, especially when you weren’t so well-informed.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Martin says with a blush and a light chuckle. “We’re friends, sure, but I’m certain Sasha doesn’t think that much of me. She probably just thought I was the most convenient, to be honest; convenient and eager to help out, even with barely any information beforehand. Which… I mean, yeah, I guess she was right,” he laughs. 

Jon finds he wants to argue, but it’s not as if he knows anything about this Sasha, or really anything about Martin’s actual viability as an anchor. So, instead, he sips his tea, enjoying its warmth, before turning the discussion to a different subject.

Chapter Text

One windy day, when Jon can only exchange a quick hello to a harried Martin, who’s half an hour late starting his route, a letter arrives. 

Actually, it’s a scroll, which seems a bit archaic, even to Jon. Still, there’s certainly something lofty and compelling about receiving a scroll wrapped in deep red twine, especially when Jon already knows who must have sent it. 

He’s not pleased, exactly, with the summons, but at least he has time to prepare. He is to accompany his next week’s shipment of goods — not only that, he is to be escorted. Jon stares at those words for a while, frowning. He’s not sure what distresses him more: the idea that Martin won’t be the one trudging up the hill to see him that day, or the fact that that had been his first concern, not to mention the level of disappointment he’d felt. 

Jon rolls the scroll back up, ties it again, then places it in a small vase in his workroom where he’s sure to see it every day. 

A thunderstorm descends upon the region early in one morning, before the sun has even had a chance to show itself, and Jon is woken by rain pounding angrily against his windows. The trees outside shiver and groan in the face of unseasonably terrible weather. 

He’s deeply concerned, though truthfully not surprised, to see Martin making his way up through the howling wind and rain a few hours later. Unwilling to leave his window open, Jon had painted the image of an eye on a piece of paper using his watercolors, putting it in the jar hanging outside and making sure the lid was tight. It’s a bit hard to concentrate on the spell as he’s working, but Jon manages to catch it when Martin appears in view of the painting. Through glass and raindrops, his visage is warped and murky. Jon pauses in his chopping and fully closes one eye so he can get a better picture. 

Unexpectedly, for the very first time, Martin makes a beeline towards the front door rather than the window. He’s moving slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of dropping whatever’s underneath his cloak. The storm’s dominion of the sky is absolute, leaving everything beneath it dark and cast in grey; it’s impossible to make out what, exactly, Martin might be holding beneath the fabric, or his expression under the large hood of his cloak. 

Jon severs his connection with the painting, grabs his cane, and wipes his hand on his apron as he goes to meet Martin. He opens the front door just as Martin is turning the last corner. “Are you alright?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over all the rain and wind. 

Martin doesn’t answer at first, just stumbles inside. Jon grimaces at the mud and crushed greenery being trekked across his floors, but at least there’s very little water, once the remaining drops slide off Martin’s cloak. Jon gives himself a mental pat on the back — his work seems to be holding up well, if the obvious dryness of Martin and his attire is anything to go by. 

“Sorry for the mess!” Martin says as he shuffles, still slightly hunched, toward the kitchen. “Um, and sorry, again, but uh- You don’t have any animal allergies, do you?” 

Jon can only think to ask, “Which animal?” in the face of such a random inquiry. 

“Cats?”

Faster than his knee would like, Jon walks into the kitchen to look at Martin imploringly. “I’m fine with cats. What’s going on?” 

Finally, Martin reveals what’s beneath his cloak. In one hand is the handle of a basket, wrapped in thick cloth; Jon can tell from the way that Martin bears the burden that whatever’s in the delivery is unusually heavy. In Martin’s other arm, tucked in the crook of his elbow and held close to his chest, is a large greyish cat. A very familiar cat, actually. 

“Admiral! What on earth were you doing outside?” 

“Oh, you know them?” 

Setting aside his cane, Jon holds out his hands, and Martin eagerly passes the feline along. The Admiral’s long grey coat is covered in damp spots, mostly at the feet and tail — he must have been hiding, caught in the rain, when Martin found him. “This is The Admiral. He belongs to a friend of mine.” 

“Oh gosh, I didn’t cat-nap him, did I? I’ve never seen another house near here.”

“No, no, she lives on the opposite end of Fairside. Nowhere near here.” 

“I heard him calling from underneath a big bush,” Martin explains, putting the basket down in its usual spot on the kitchen counter. As Jon assists the Admiral in drying off his fur, humming a very gentle spell to dispel the water with one hand, he watches Martin seamlessly transition into pulling out the tea leaves and tiny cakes. A recent visit had revealed that both men quite enjoy sweets in small amounts. Jon ordered the cakes for just such an occasion not long after.

As his hand reaches The Admiral’s stomach, Jon discovers something caught up in the feline’s fur. A bit of careful detangling reveals something quite like a burr, only softer, and much too pale to be natural. He can’t help but smile. “You see, Martin, My friend — Georgie is her name — likes to send The Admiral over with messages.” 

“Oh! Is it faster to send a letter via cat?” Martin asks as he sets some water to boil. On one plate, he has already arranged a couple of the cakes. 

“On days that aren’t so rainy, I would say yes.” 

“I see. But how does he carry a letter over?”

Jon holds up the tiny burr. “It’s transformed,” he explains, “so that the Admiral can carry it over in his fur.”

Martin looks impressed. “That’s clever! By the way, Jon, do you have any fruit to go with the cakes?” 

Jon thinks it over as he sets The Admiral down on the floor. The cat meows at him, knocks his head against Jon’s shin, then departs for his spot by the fireplace. “You know, I think midnights would pair well, if you want one?” 

 “I- I’m sorry, a what?”

“A midnight.” 

“What’s that?” 

Jon scrunches his eyebrows. “You’ve never heard of a midnight before?” 

“Um… no? I mean, um, obviously… like, the time? But you’re saying it like it’s a… is that a fruit?” 

“...Yes.” Jon wishes he still had his cane in hand, something he could hold and fiddle with. Instead he wrings his hands, gently running his fingertips along the scars there: the remnants of an old burn across one palm, and faintly silver pockmarks decorating the other. “I can show you, if you like?” 

“Yeah! I’d love to see one, whatever it is.” 

Jon nods, then quickly goes upstairs. He passes the window at first, to put his note from Georgie on his nightstand so he remembers to read it later. Then he gets some of the special treats for The Admiral from his stash in the closet before heading back downstairs. Halfway down, he pauses at the window, frowning at the heavy rain falling against the glass. 

Ah, well, it can’t be helped. He’s about to eat a midnight anyway, so Jon figures there’s not much harm in using a spell for this. With a few quick words and a sharp gesture of one hand, Jon repels the rain by about two feet, until there’s a shallow sphere of space just outside the window where no rain falls. Jon opens the window and reaches out to pluck one of the midnights, but hesitates. Should he get two? No… one would be enough. But what if Martin doesn’t want to share? 

Jon thinks about cutting through the midnight’s skin, gently pulling apart the segmented center. He thinks about giving Martin a wedge. He reaches out and plucks the biggest midnight he can reach. It’s just slightly beyond the bounds of his spell, so Jon’s hand comes back a bit wet, but he’s determined not to mind. Once the window is closed and secured, Jon flicks his wrist to end the spell and hurries downstairs. 

Martin is all set in front of the fire, cakes and tea laid out on the long wooden table. The Admiral has wandered away from the fire and is currently sniffing Martin’s leg. 

Jon’s usual spot is on the opposite side of the table from Martin. It’s facing slightly away from the fire. In his mind, Jon justifies his choice to sit beside Martin on the couch as a practical one — there’s more light and warmth to be found, here, and it’ll be easier for them to share their food. With great effort, Jon does not dwell on the fact that this is the closest they’ve ever been, or that he can now count the individual freckles on Martin’s cheeks, or that he can see the way the fire makes Martin’s eyes glow like little suns. Nor does he acknowledge the clear surprise on Martin’s face at his unexpected proximity. Instead Jon presents the fruit he plucked like it’s some sort of priceless jewel. “This,” he says, “is a midnight.”

“Oh! It looks a bit like a tangerine or something.”

“It’s… similar.” With practiced ease, Jon digs the edge of his thumbnail into the thick skin of the fruit. “These are the reason this house was built in this exact spot. They’re a very rare fruit; there’s only one tree in the entire region, and it’s growing against the northern wall of this cottage.” 

Martin leans forward, just slightly, with interest. “Really? What makes them so special?” 

“They’re full of magic,” Jon tells him. The process of peeling the skin off the midnight soothes his nerves somewhat. Letting himself lean back into the couch, Jon gradually relaxes as he explains. “As I told you before, magic is present in all things. Midnights are special, though — they draw magic directly from the earth. It’s fuel to them in the same way other plants grow from water or the sun. This means that midnights have the highest concentration of magic of any other food that humans can eat.” 

Abruptly, The Admiral decides he’s tired of being ignored. Martin lets out a startled gasp as the cat hops into his lap. “Hello there,” he says, and offers his hand for inspection. The Admiral wastes no time, gently bumping his head into Martin’s waiting palm. As he gently scratches the cat’s ears, Martin asks, “Just a moment — didn’t you say before, when you gave me my cloak, that you used… midnight-something when you were making it?”

“Yes, that’s right!” Jon sits up straighter, inordinately pleased that Martin remembered what he had said. “Midnight zest is quite useful for potions and spells. It acts as a sort of bonding agent, typically increasing the persistence of a potion, usually, and can aid in helping with resistance when spellcrafting.” 

“Cool... And you can eat the fruit itself?” 

“Yes, it’s safe to eat. I typically have one or two during the week, usually on my resting days.” There’s none of the usual bitterness in Jon’s voice, but Martin chuckles anyway. He’s listened to Jon grumble over resting days before. But, as Jon has explained, it can be dangerous to continually use magic without breaks. The days of rest that Jon observes are a bare minimum practice for anyone who uses magic on a daily basis, especially the amount that Jon needs to in order to work. “They make it so the magic you possess can be used more effectively and efficiently. They can also replenish magic reserves in a pinch; not completely, mind you, but enough to get you through the day.” 

“That’s really neat. How come I’ve never heard of these before, if they’re so special?”

Jon takes the time to think over his response as he rests the midnight rind on a saucer. In his hands, the fruit is dark and soft. It takes hardly any effort to gently pry the segments apart with his finger, making a clean cut down the middle. He hands one half to Martin, who accepts it with the hand he isn’t using to pet The Admiral. Martin says, “Thanks,” in a quiet, sweet way that makes Jon feel too warm in front of the fire. 

Clearing his throat, Jon tries to continue. “The short answer is that midnights are a bit rare. I don’t know the exact history behind it all, or the technicalities of the horticulture involved in growing them, but trees like the one right outside are unusual finds. There simply isn’t enough of the fruit to attempt any form of mass harvest or distribution. So, if one is found, a building like this one is often constructed near or around it, so that someone who actually works routinely with their magic can make use of them… For the greater benefit of their community, of course.”

“That makes sense, I guess. So that’s why you live here, rather than somewhere back in Fairside?” 

“...Partly. My grandmother lived in the town proper, but she had permission to take midnights from the tree as she needed them. She would often send me up the hill to collect a few every first resting day. No one was living in the cottage, then.” 

Jon takes a moment to eat a slice. The familiar taste feels comforting on his tongue, and he quickly follows it up with a bite from one of the small cakes. The two textures together mix well, he finds, greatly pleased. As he’s taking a sip of his tea, Jon watches Martin follow his lead, awkwardly using one thumb to split a segment off from his half before bringing it up to his mouth. 

He bites down halfway; Jon can see the small spray of juice as Martin’s teeth break the skin. There are sparks of magic there, too, bright green where the fruit itself is dark. Martin makes a surprised humming sound as he chews. “This is yummy,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, they’re good.” 

Martin swallows, lips curled in an impish smile. “Usually things that are good for you taste pretty bad, don’t they?”

Jon chuckles. “Lucky for us, most fruit is sweet. Try it with the cake.” 

Martin eats, and Jon continues his story. “When my grandmother passed, I knew I wanted to move here. It was, if nothing else, convenient to be right next to the tree. I also… Well, I didn’t really want to stay in the old house.” 

At this, Jon falters slightly. The things he feels about his childhood, about his grandmother and her death… They’re more complicated than anything, even sitting with Martin and sharing a midnight. It’s been several years since Jon made the choice to bring himself here so he could try moving past it; on most days, the strange feeling that might be grief — he’s honestly not sure — doesn’t even bother him. Then there are those moments where he’s mixing a potion and isn’t sure what to do, or he spends too much time studying plants outside when he should be focusing on gathering ingredients, and all he can think about is his grandmother. 

It’s simply too much to say. Luckily for Jon, it doesn’t seem like he needs to. When he looks askance and helplessly shrugs, Martin just nods and smiles. There’s sympathy in his eyes. After taking a drink of his tea, he says, “I think I get it. I moved out of my old house a couple years back, when I came to Fairside. I’d been there my whole life… and sometimes I miss it. But a lot of the time, I don’t? It’s… weird. Kinda complicated.”

“Yeah…” Jon fiddles with his glasses, then says, “Mostly, though, I wanted to be alone.”

To this, Martin doesn’t say much, only eats the rest of his midnight slice while he pets The Admiral. Jon finds himself more than a bit grateful for the lull in conversation. He tries to settle into the silence, tries to let it become comfortable, to enjoy his food and his company. 

At some point, after he’s served them both more tea, Martin perks up as if he’s just remembered something. “You know, I’ve heard they’re having a meeting day at town hall, before the council,” he tells Jon. “I also noticed my schedule changed up a bit — it looks like I won’t be put on my usual route on that same day. Is something happening?”

Jon tries not to deflate or sigh, but his displeasure must be obvious, because Martin instantly tries to back off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or anything-” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not bothered by you, I promise.” Jon rolls his eyes. “I just hate being summoned.” 

“Summoned?”

“I was formally requested by the council to see them,” Jon explains. “I’m to be escorted, in fact, which is why you’ve been rescheduled. I suspect whoever they’re sending to drag me down the hill is going to be delivering my package instead of you.”

Martin’s expression seems caught between a sympathetic smile and a grimace. “Is going to a council meeting usually so awful?” 

“It just means they need me for something,” Jon gripes. “Most likely something tedious and time-consuming. And I’m sure it’ll have to be on a deadline, while I’m working on all my other orders, in spite of any personal projects I might be busy with.”

“I never realized they had you do so much. I mean, you always send back a fair amount of stuff with your bundles, but still.” 

“It’s not…” Jon’s righteous aggravation wilts a bit, and he can only shrug as he takes a sip of tea. “Nothing I do is impossible to accomplish. I’m never, ah, in over my head. And for what I receive in return — solitude, a space to work, all the resources I need more or less provided for me… The time and the attention aren’t things I’m not willing to give.” 

Martin nods, finishing his midnight. The Admiral mrrups and finally leaves his lap, slinking across the couch to climb all over Jon, who scowls even as he goes for the feline’s cheeks. Jon follows the line of his cheekbones with both thumbs, smoothing the thick fur so that the Admiral’s eyes scrunch up with pleasure. “Hello, good boy. Have you finally deigned to give your host some attention?” 

The Admiral meows; Martin chuckles. Jon lets himself smile and settle into the warm glow of the fire on their teacups; the distant murmur of the rain outside; Martin’s soft edges, his presence welcomed. 

Chapter Text

The day arrives for Jon’s summons. He wakes up and prepares himself with methodical, grim diligence. The dress he wears is plain and comfortable, reaching midway down his shins. The drizzle outside brings a chill for which his sleeves are welcomed, and the high neck makes him feel… secure. It’s not unlike something his grandmother would’ve worn, he realizes halfway through braiding his hair, and is entirely unsure of how he feels about that. His shoes are simple, dark boots. His shawl is bespelled, light, adding a bit of color to the muted tones of his outfit. 

It’s been quite a while since Jon has gone into town, and he’s determined not to look like some bedraggled oddity that’s crawled out of the woods. However he might feel about his grandmother and her legacy — the one that nips at his heels, relentlessly; the one that settles heavy on his shoulders while he works — Jon refuses to do anything to endanger the goodwill or reputation which persists where she does not. Jon will look professional, he will be professional. He is the grandson of a respected potion maker and spellcrafter, so he must act like it. 

With a wide-brim umbrella in one hand and a sturdy cane in the other, Jon waits outside for his escort. The rain isn’t so bad today, though at this point it does strike Jon as odd how it persists. It’s truly unexpected for the season; Jon is surprised he hasn’t heard more about instances of flooding nearby. As he wonders, idly, how far the weather reaches, Jon’s eventually distracted by a figure making their way up the long slope towards him. 

He doesn’t recognize the woman at all, but that’s not really surprising — Jon knows maybe five people who still live in Fairside personally, Martin included. The escort is tall, with chin-length blonde hair and a very no-nonsense look about her. Other than an umbrella, she’s carrying nothing with her, which causes Jon to frown as she approaches.

“Do you not have my delivery?” he can’t help but ask, already exhausted by the first of many irritations he’s sure to encounter that day. 

The woman makes a face at him. “Morning to you, too,” she says in a flat, yet somehow almost mocking tone. Then, “Don’t know anything about any delivery. Just me, here to fetch you. Come on, then.” 

Jon nearly sputters. He wants to argue, wants to focus his indignance somewhere, but the woman has already turned away to head back down the hill. With great reluctance, Jon follows her. Really, he shouldn’t even be surprised — of course the council wouldn’t send his supplies with the escort. No, no, that would be too damn sensible. Obviously they’d want to keep it, to ensure he comes along without a fuss. Now he’ll have to carry it back all on his own. Jon’s already dreading the sort of configuration he’ll have to work out just to carry a heavy basket along with an umbrella and his cane. The trek back home is going to be absolutely insufferable. 

Their walk to town is quiet. Jon isn’t sure how glad he is for that. On the one hand, he’s definitely not in the mood to make small talk. In fact, he’s sure if the woman did try talking to him, he’d have nothing good to say. He’s never been great with pleasantries or casual conversation with strangers, not even when he’s in the best of moods. On the other hand, though, Jon dislikes having to stew in his own frustration. Part of him wishes... 

He wishes Martin was here, actually. At least then he could have someone to commiserate with. Martin would listen, and he’d probably even laugh along, maybe say something nice or find some way to distract Jon from the anxiety growing in his bones, making his knee twinge. 

But Martin isn’t here, not right now. So the walk is quiet. It remains so until they’re nearly in town, just a few yards left before they break the treeline and hit cobblestone streets. Only then does his escort ask, “What’s your name, anyway?” 

Jon’s so startled that he nearly trips, and he’s fiercely glad he’s been trailing behind the woman this entire time. Her pace has remained pretty consistent, and not once has she looked back at Jon; he’s sure she could have easily left him behind if she wanted to. “I- I’m- My name is Jon.” 

“Yeah. Sims, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like that old goat from a few years ago,” she says. 

Jon bristles. Before he can help himself, he marches until they’re walking side-by-side. “My grandmother was not some old goat,” he snaps. “She was a healer and a great magic user.” 

“Huh, so you do have some bite to you,” says the escort. She’s glances down at him, smirk showing a flash of teeth. “Can see the resemblance, now.”

“What, you knew my grandmother?”

“Sure. Got in a lot of scraps, needed fancy magic bandaging as much as anyone else working in the guard. She supplied us. Got to meet her, a couple of times.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Guess she was good at her job, sure. Seemed like any other stern old lady to me, though.” 

Jon opens his mouth to say- something. He doesn’t really know, actually. So he shuts his mouth and simply stares, unsure of how he feels. 

“Name’s Daisy,” the escort says. “Not that you asked. Y’know, she didn’t really have many manners either.” 

Jon flinches, slightly, mostly from some strange sense of embarrassment. Is it for himself and his behavior, or for his grandmother? “Well, my grandmother, she could be… brusque?”

To his surprise, this earns a low, clipped chuckle from Daisy. “She sure was. In any case; sure I knew ‘bout you; everyone knows about little Sims living up in the witch’s house.” 

“Am I everything you were expecting?” Jon asks bitterly. 

Daisy, for the first time since they started their walk, shows some amount of real expression. Jon can tell it’s deliberately exaggerated, though — she even puts a finger to her chin and lifts her brows in a near-comic pantomime of thinking something over. Eventually she says, “No. Can’t say you are.” 

Their conversation ends abruptly as their shoes hit stone. As if a switch has flipped, Daisy’s back to her previous stoicism, resuming the quicker pace she’d been maintaining throughout their trek in the woods. Jon sighs, then follows, careful of where he places his cane.

Fairside is as it has always been: generally quiet, yet thrumming with life. Jon sees plenty of people milling about through the wide roads, umbrellas bobbing along, going about their daily business. Most of the residential areas are closer to the center of the town, whereas here, Jon can see the remnants of the market. Only a few stalls are set up; even some of the shops seem dim and unoccupied. He wonders how all the odd weather has affected businesses. 

Eventually they come to little stone staircases leading up into brick-and-mortar houses, built wide and sturdy with just enough space between them to share little gardens. Jon notices plenty of impromptu tarps and awnings have been installed by those desperate to save their delicate flowers from being overwatered. Still, most of what Jon sees is doing well enough, some vines absolutely thriving in the downpour, making their way up and up into the shingles and drainpipes. 

Stone, brick, creeping greenery; steel stair handrails and narrow alleys; tall dark street lamps, weedy cobblestone and dirt; this is Fairside. Just as Jon left it. He takes all the feelings inspired by seeing his childhood home and puts them in a little box, tucking it away to gather dust in the back of his mind. 

To reach the town hall, he and Daisy must cut through the round, open area that marks the absolute center of Fairside. Here, where cracked stone becomes weathered rock becomes choking grass, a tree grows. From what Jon understands — what his grandmother told him — the tree is the oldest mark of the town’s history. It was planted and sparked to life with the magic of those who settled in the region centuries ago. The thick, umber bark of the tree almost appears to have grown in subtly swirling patterns, while the leaves always sprout lush and green. It seems that the rain has done little to hinder the old tree’s ability to grow a new, healthy canopy, Jon notes with vague satisfaction. Second only to his grandmother, this tree has always been the most consistent and prominent figure in Jon’s life. Even now, as they walk past, he can practically hear its magic thrumming, can almost feel the way it pulses down into the earth, beneath the stone, the reach of old roots far and deep.

Town hall is, of course, standing tall before the tree. The wide, pale steps leading in seem unfairly daunting to Jon and his already aching knee. Daisy leads him towards the open doors, saying nothing about the extra seconds it takes him to catch up, nor the way he’s slightly winded. It’s a relief, at least, to finally be out of the rain. He pauses just inside to fold up his umbrella, taking in the high ceiling with some vague sense of nostalgia. He hasn’t been in the building for nearly five years. 

“This way,” Daisy directs him once he’s hung his umbrella on a hook with several others. Jon follows her through a door near the back. On the other side wait the council. They sit elevated a couple of feet, sitting upon a wide dais. Spread out and around the large room are easily movable wooden chairs, organized to function as pews. A handful of townsfolk with common complaints sit nearest to the back, patiently waiting for their turn to speak. Closer to the council members sit artisans and merchants with formal requests or complaints. No one looks back when the two of them enter, all focus centered on the woman standing before the council. She’s short, plump, and quite riled up. Jon’s eyebrows raise at the way she wags her fingers at the council while wrapping up what seems to have been a very long rant, “... You lot do little else but sit on your laurels watchin’ as Fairside slowly sinks into the ground. Something ought to be done! Shoulda been done the second week of all this accursed rain! Shoulda been done years ago!” 

Before her, watching, listening, are the council. There are five in total, but only one of them matters: Gertrude Robinson, seated front and center. She watches the woman with dark, serious eyes, fingers woven together. She takes in the complaints being flung her way with the same severity as someone inspecting a particularly resilient type of weed. How does one get their fingers in, grip enough of the rot hiding underneath, in order to successfully rip it from the good earth below? How does one accomplish such a task without disturbing the rest of the garden? 

At last, the woman’s rant ends. Gertrude offers a single, decisive nod. “Your concerns have been heard and recognized by the council,” she says. “Rest assured that the issues you’ve brought up have already been on the council’s thoughts. We understand it is our duty to serve the people, and so in this I agree there is much work to be done, and promise that steps are being taken to take care of the damages.” Then, after waiting a moment to let her words sink in, something changes just slightly in Gerturde’s demeanor: the near imperceptible sag of her shoulders, the most vague hint of familiar exasperation in her eyes. She gestures toward the door. “Now, Mrs. Marrien, if you would be so kind as surrendering the floor to someone else, so that they may bring us their concerns? It’s been nearly ten minutes.” 

Mrs. Marrien shows no hint of shame as she returns the nod, then turns with a flick of her skirt to walk out of the room. As she passes by, Jon sees the moment Gertrude realizes he and Daisy are there. Her gaze locks onto him, and he can’t help but feel like some sort of small animal caught out in the open by a hawk. “There you are.”

Turning briefly to a man sitting near the front, she says, “Forgive me, Mr. Thomas, but I’ll need to speak to Jonathan first.” Then she waves Jon over. “Come before the council, Jonathan. We have serious matters to discuss.” 

Jon bristles at the use of his full name. He would have preferred the distance of formalities, though he’s never enjoyed being called Mr. Sims, really. Still, it’s better than Gertrude Robinson addressing him with such familiarity. 

Nevertheless, Jon complies. He keeps his posture straight, tries not to waver, though his entire left side from the waist down is beginning to ache consistently; he feels very grateful for his cane. 

“Good afternoon,” Jon says once he’s standing before Gertrude and the council properly. He offers the slightest curtsy, tugging on his skirt as he bows, in a way similar to how he remembers his grandmother doing. “I am, as always, at the council’s service,” he recites.

“And we appreciate your cooperation and compliance,” Gertrude tells him. After a brief pause, she asks, “How are you, Jonathan?” 

Jon refuses to let the fact that he’s bothered show on his face or in his tone. He’s all too sure Gertrude knows anyway. “I’ve been well, Ms. Robinson, thank you for asking. Might I ask after the council?” 

“The council has been well. Of course, Jonathan, we did call you here for a reason. I’m sure I don’t have to ask if you’ve noticed the weather we’ve been having.”

Jon can’t help his sigh of relief. No matter how he feels about Gertrude by and large, this is one thing he has always admired about her: she’s never been one for wasting time. “I have.” 

“Well, this is the reason you were called today. The council would like to solicit your help in determining how to reduce the problems caused by all the rain. This last week has been spent assessing the extent of the existing damages and brainstorming various methods to mitigate the issues… However, there’s not currently any sign that the weather is going to be returning to anything resembling normal. 

“It occurred to us that there may be more magical methods of solving these problems.” Gertrude lifts one thin brow, eyes flashing. “We have much to discuss, Jonathan.” 

Almost an hour later, Jon flees the building as quickly as his leg — and luggage — will allow. It is, of course, still raining. By now the stone steps are slippery with puddles, and Jon has to be extra careful as he descends. It’s a bit of a nightmare, so bad he briefly considers abandoning his umbrella and using a spell to keep himself dry so he can free up his hand. 

Before he makes it off the stairs, though, Jon hears someone calling his name. “Jon? Jon!” 

If it had been an unfamiliar voice, Jon would have turned to them with the utmost reluctance, his face as blank as he could possibly make it despite his irritation. But when Jon turns, it’s with a swiftness that makes him teeter, just slightly, before he’s able to catch himself on his cane. Thank goodness it doesn't slip on the wet stone beneath him. With eyebrows raised in surprise, Jon blinks across the open courtyard and calls back, “Martin?”

“Hey!” Martin, who appears to have been walking with someone, briefly touches their arm before making his way over. He’s not in his usual courier clothes, instead sporting cable-knit sweater and more comfortable looking trousers. His umbrella is a bright spot of soft yellow against the dour backdrop of Fairside. “I can’t believe I caught you. Were- Ah, you were here for a council meeting, right?” 

Jon pushes the giddiness down- though, maybe not too far. He’s used to shoving it away so it can’t distract him, but it’s such a pleasant thing to feel after the day he’s had. So there’s no helping the way he steps closer to Martin, just a bit, as he rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, that was today. I hope you appreciated the break in your busy schedule, Martin.”

The courier laughs lightly, looking a bit shy for some reason. From behind, Jon can see the other person approaching. He’s a tall man, nearly as tall as Martin, with wide shoulders. His outfit matches Martin’s in style, casual and easy, though notably tighter on his form. Something about the way he walks and looks at Jon with interest makes Jon adjust his armful of things self-consciously. 

Martin’s eyes are drawn to this movement. “Here, can I hold this for you?” He gestures to the large basket Jon had, at last, been allowed to take on his way out of town hall. 

On any other day, Jon would argue; even now, he feels the urge to be stubborn and deny assistance. Then he thinks about his walk home, how miserable it’s going to be, and decides a moment of respite before tackling that endeavor might give him a second wind. He’ll need it, especially with his hip and knee as bad as they are now. “Sure. Yes, thank you Martin.”

Jon relinquishes the basket, and Martin tucks it against his side just as the friend catches up and says, “Hullo there! You a friend of Martin’s?”

Not knowing quite what to say, Jon settles with, “I’m Jonathan Sims, yes.” 

“Woah, really?” The surprise and delight in the man’s face takes Jon aback some. “So you’re the Jon guy Martin keeps talking about?”

“...I, um, I suppose?” Jon says, unsure. “Maybe?”

“Gosh,” Martin sighs, his cheeks red. He gives his friend a slight shove, just enough to unsettle droplets from his umbrella to splatter on the ground. “You make me sound like a horrible gossip!” 

“Nuh-uh! I’m just saying you’ve talked about him before. This is the fellow who lives up on the hill, right?” 

“Yes.” Then, to Jon, he says with an apologetic air, “Sorry, I’ve mentioned a couple of our visits to my friends? I- um, well, I got very excited when you gave me my new cloak, so I told them about you.” 

“It’s fine,” Jon says, wondering if that’s true. “So, this is…?” 

“This is Tim!” Martin hastily explains, patting the man on one shoulder. “He works at the library, along with Sasha — you know, the one I told you about, who can predict the weather?” 

“Yes, I remember her.” Jon, whose hands are still holding his cane and umbrella, can only offer a slight curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“You’re a formal one, aren’t you?” Tim says with a chuckle. He returns the gentle bow, though. “Timothy Stoker, at your service.” 

Martin shakes his head. “Don’t take his word on that.”

“Hey,” Tim protests, pouting dramatically.

“Anyway!” Martin turns back to Jon. “Were you going to spend some time in Fairside, Jon, or just head home?”

“I’m on my way home,” Jon says. Unfortunately, he’s too tired to hide the fact that he’s tired. “I’ve just been given a… project, you could say. It’s going to be time-consuming, and I should try getting a head-start on it as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, okay,” Martin says, nodding. After a few awkward seconds, he jolts forward, just a bit. Jon can feel the way Martin’s umbrella bumps his own, can feel the vibrations all the way back in his hand. Alongside the patter of the rain, Martin’s voice gently asks, “Could I walk with you? Um, I just mean, it looks like you could use a bit of help… With the basket, I mean, you know?” 

“Ah.” Jon finds himself nodding before he’s fully processed what, exactly, Martin has just said. “Yes, that would be fine.” 

“Okay!” Martin smiles brightly down at him, then turns back to Tim. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right Tim?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Jon peeks over Martin’s shoulder a bit, but it doesn’t seem like Tim is put out by his friend more or less ditching him. In fact, he offers a salute and a wink to them both as he turns away. “Don’t drown out there, lads!”

“Same for you,” Martin chuckles. Then he’s looking at Jon again with those warm eyes, that gentle look. The basket, full of potion materials and food, doesn’t seem to weigh much at all there, safely tucked in the crook of Martin’s arm. Jon realizes, slightly mortified, that he is a bit jealous of the basket. Martin’s voice cuts through his musings. “Shall we?” 

“Yes, yes. Come along then; this way.”

Chapter Text

Jon explains everything to Martin on the way up to his house. He doesn’t plan to, but when Martin politely inquires how the meeting went, Jon finds it spilling out of him before he can help himself. He used to have a lot more trouble talking to others… He wonders, idly, what has changed. Is it him? Or is it just Martin?

“Essentially, the weather has become enough of a problem that the council are coming to me for help.” Jon wrinkles his nose a bit. “Well, it may be more accurate to say they’re demanding I find a way to fix it.” 

“Really? But- is that something you can do?” 

Jon raises a brow. Martin blushes, shrugging. “Sorry, just, um, I mean- I get that you can use magic, which is grand, and I know you can do a lot of impressive things. But controlling the weather — or ‘fixing’ it, whatever — that seems like a big ask. Is that something that can be done by just one person?”

“I would suspect not. Which is why I’ll have to start doing some research.” Jon lets out a heavy sigh. “The council failed to offer any compensation for my assistance… I’ll have to figure out as much as I can while keeping up with my regular duties.”

“That’s not very fair,” Martin grumbles, but they both hear the meekness in his statement. There’s not much to be done about what the council decides is fair. “But I guess it does make sense. Keeping it from raining all season is kind of important, huh?” 

“I’d say so, personally,” Jon replies, his tone dry, and Martin giggles a bit. 

“So, what will you do?” 

“Hm. Well first of all, I’ll have to search my personal library for anything that might be helpful,” Jon says. “I don’t have too much that isn’t specifically about making potions and potion components, but there might be something useful in the couple of books on spellcraft that my grandmother left me. Those likely won’t cover anything beyond basics, though. 

“Then, while I’m working on all of my other potions, I’ll have to put aside time and resources to make a few specifically for this…” 

“What sort?” 

“Well, for starters, Ms. Robinson made it very clear that the people are worried over their gardens,” Jon explains. “Though to be fair, on a larger scale, there’s a similar issue with crop yields. The farms near the outskirts of Fairside have, allegedly, also been affected by the inconsistent weather. Too much rain could absolutely ruin their output for this season and likely prohibit their ability to plant for summertime. So, to help mitigate the damage in both situations, I can make a few potions to, for example, reduce the amount of water that gets absorbed by their roots… and perhaps something that can supplement their diets with nutrients they aren’t getting from lack of sunlight…” 

Martin doesn’t interrupt Jon while he speaks, so for the rest of the walk Jon rambles on a bit about his thoughts and plans. Most of what he has to do will require a good bit of spellwork if he’s to pull any of it off, but it really shouldn’t be impossible. The number of tasks ahead of him are, to be honest, more than a little harrowing. But Jon is determined to do what has been asked of him, to the best of his ability — it’s what’s expected, after all, and he has no desire to let down the people of Fairside. 

It’s only once Jon’s house is within view that Martin asks, “Do you want help with this?” 

“What, the basket?”

“Ah- no, no. I meant… well, your project with the weather. Is there any way I could help?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, ah, I do believe this is something I’ll have to deal with on my own.”

“But do you?” Though it’s cold and grey outside, Jon can still see the faint blush of pink on Martin’s cheeks. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry or be pushy or anything. It just sounds like a lot of work, you know? All on your own?”

“There’s not much to be done about it,” Jon tells him, shrugging one shoulder. They’re at the front door now, and Jon gratefully ducks beneath the archway out of the rain. “I’m the only one in Fairside with enough magic to do anything about it.” 

Martin follows, a frown on his face. “There’s Sasha too, though — can’t she do anything?”

“I couldn’t ask your friend for something like that.” Jon shuffles on his feet, uncomfortable at the thought of asking a perfect stranger to help him. “Besides, her skill in magic seems more focused on divination.” 

“I’ve seen her do other kinds of spells before,” Martin grumbles, but even he seems to understand Jon’s argument. “Fine, okay then — what about something I can do to help? I may not have magic, but there’s got to be something.”

“I just don’t think so, Martin.” Jon tries to offer a reassuring smile. “Most of what has to be done is a lot of reading and making potions or spells.” 

“You say that like I can’t read,” Martin says as he wrinkles his nose, though his rather light tone lets Jon know he’s joking. Then, suddenly, Martin’s expression becomes very bright and intent. “Oh, I know now! I can help you with the reading! Or, uh, getting books at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just said you’d have to be doing a lot of reading for this,” Martin explains. “So if you don’t have something already, you’ll need to go to the library for it. But I don’t think you’d really want to have to walk all the way to Fairside and back, let alone carrying a bunch of books, or if you get caught in bad weather.” 

Jon purses his lips. He hadn’t really thought about that, actually. Martin was right though: just the thought of having to make so many frequent trips into Fairside, most likely in the rain, made Jon painfully aware of his already aching bones. “That… wouldn’t be ideal, no.” 

“And you can’t exactly ask for books in your bundles,” Martin continues. “You’d have to know the exact name of the book, first of all, and someone else would have to find it for you. I don’t think that sort of thing would be covered by your courier service.”

“Not likely,” Jon agrees. 

Martin smiles down at Jon. The little amount of light supplied by such a grey afternoon shines through raindrops, refracting to dance across Martin’s face, his clothes, the dark stone of the archway. Jon is suddenly aware of how close they are — barely two feet of space separates them in their little bubble of dry, calm companionship. “So that’s something I can do to help. I can bring you some books every couple of days, ones that might help you with whatever you need. I can take them back, too, whenever you’re finished with one.”

“I…” Jon has to look away, just for a moment, feeling entirely too overwhelmed. He’s still looking out into the rain when he says, “I couldn’t ask you to do something like that, Martin, so much extra trouble-”

“It’s not trouble if I’m offering to do it,” Martin says, smirking slightly. His eyes are bright and warm with kindness as he continues, “It really won’t be out of my way, Jon. I can change the order of my route; if you don’t mind getting your normal package a bit later in the day, I’ll be able to come here last. That gives me time to finish my usual deliveries, swing by the library, and head back here.” With a slightly bigger smile — and a return of his previous blushing — Martin adds, “Then I won’t have to be off in such a hurry, either.” 

“Oh.” The hand that isn’t clutching Jon’s cane and is no longer burdened with his umbrella comes up to toy with the cord of his glasses. “I… Then, um, yes. Yes, thank you, that would be quite helpful, actually.” 

“Great!” 

They’re both quiet, for a moment, looking at each other — Martin with a slight grin and happiness sparkling in his eyes, Jon with vague apprehension, anticipation. It feels as if, in that moment, something should be happening. Jon’s not sure what though, and it puts him on edge. He tries not to let it dampen his mood, however, which remains much brighter than he’d expected upon coming home at the end of the day. 

“Thank you again, Martin, for walking me home,” Jon says, then feels his cheeks heat up. He hopes Martin won’t notice, turning to unlock and open his door as a means of hiding his face. Once he’s got a foot in the house and has set his umbrella against the wall, Jon turns to take the basket from Martin. “I suppose I’ll see you in a few days, then?” 

“Yeah.” Martin hands over Jon’s things. His hand, now free of it’s burden, joins the other in holding his umbrella handle. Something about it strikes Jon as particularly endearing. “I’ll be off, then. Good luck with everything, Jon! Have a good rest of your day.” 

“You too, Martin.” 

Jon falls into bed and sleeps almost immediately at the end of that night, but by morning his mind is focused on his new mission. For the next three days, whenever Jon has time between brewing potions, he reads every other book in his house for any information they might supply that could help him mitigate the damage from the wild weather. Not many of them are helpful, and by the time Martin comes to deliver his next package, Jon already has a long list of books to be brought on his next resting day. 

It feels like the next few weeks fly by. The days become a blur of reading, working, reading some more, fretting, spellcrafting, working…

And then the evenings become a routine of Martin delivering Jon’s supplies, and Martin staying over. He asks Jon about the books he’s read that day, and makes them both dinner while Jon thinks out loud for hours on end. It’s interesting — Martin doesn’t possess the ability to use his magic, but he makes a great sounding board for Jon. He asks the sorts of questions Jon would never think to address, and explaining them, more often than not, nudges him in a good direction. In fact, it’s Martin who shoots down one of Jon’s theoretical solutions to the problem of crops being overwatered. 

“You can’t just make something you’d mix into the earth.” 

“Well why not?” 

“We haven’t only been having rainy days, Jon. Sometimes there won’t be any rain for a long while, and the plants still need to be watered manually during times like that.”

“Yes, so?” 

“So,” Martin says, “what happens if you cover the ground with stuff that will repel any water so it can’t soak down to the roots?” 

“...Ah. Yes, uh, I suppose that would make it difficult for people to water the plants when they actually need watering.” 

“Could you do something that… I dunno, like something you can activate manually, and then turn off when you don’t need it?”

There was indeed something Jon could do like that. It took an entire week of fiddling, but eventually Jon managed to craft a spell and find the appropriate components to make it work. Martin spent a day helping him gather large stones with relatively smooth surfaces. The first handful of prototypes were then marked with a sigil using paint. After a quick infusion of magic from Jon, the stones were complete. Martin took a few of them home, more than happy to test them for Jon while he dove back into his potion work. 

The dry stones, as they came to be called, ended up working pretty well. They would keep a space within a certain radius totally dry — all one had to do was place it in their garden. A days worth of rain water could fall and the soil would remain relatively untouched. That way, when the stones were no longer needed, people could simply pick them up and relocate them. 

Jon wanted to feel satisfied when Martin took the first bundle of dry stones back with him that night. And he did feel a bit proud of himself, if only because of the way Martin readily praised his abilities. But as Jon closed the door behind Martin, the weight of his task only felt heavier. This was an effective solution to a specific problem, to be sure. But it was only that: one solution to a minor problem. Jon had many problems to solve. Producing more dry stones as they were needed would be time-consuming and magically draining. Even creating the first batch of had taken a lot out of Jon. 

Eating the other half of his midnight, Jon started seriously considering what, exactly, needed to be done. He was beginning to suspect there was really no way of accomplishing his task at the rate he’d been working. In essence, he was wasting weeks of his time coming up with ways to put a small bandage on a wound, one that was much bigger than the bandages and bleeding profusely. If Jon wanted to make any significant leeway in his project, he would have to start thinking bigger. 

There comes a resting day when the weather is unexpectedly nice. It’s positively pleasant, actually, with a gentle breeze rustling the flora and carrying the scent of spring — so long missed by the people of Fairside. 

On that day, as with all the other days that month, Martin lingers after delivering Jon’s bundle. But Martin’s barely through the front door before he says, “We should go out!” 

“What?” Jon had just settled back into his chair to get back to his book. It’s a dense hardback, and dreadfully dull, but possessed a fair amount of information concerning the origin of certain sigils, which Jon knew he could use more knowledge on. Still, he tries to suppress his relief as he puts the book back on the table. “What do you mean?”

Martin looks… spritely. He often appears to be in a relatively good mood, to be sure, but today he’s especially vibrant. Something about the weather seems to be bringing out a wistful side of him, for he answers, “We should go on a walk,” with a bit of a sigh. 

“What for?”

“It’s nice outside!” Martin gives Jon a playfully incredulous look. “When the weather is nice, you go on walks.” 

“I understand the concept, yes.”

“Then we should go!” 

“I-” Jon can’t think of anything to say, can only feebly gesture to his very boring book. “But I-”

“Jon, come on,” Martin says, coming to stand behind Jon’s chair. He doesn’t lean over Jon, but that doesn’t mean his presence has no effect. Already, Jon feels his tense muscles begin to relax. “You’ve been cooped up in your house for weeks now. It’ll be good for you, to go out for a bit.” 

“I’ve gone out,” Jon mutters under his breath.

Martin raises a brow at him. “Going down the same trails over and over again to get herbs and roots for work does not count. It’s a resting day, Jon, you shouldn’t be reading, you should be enjoying the weather while it’s not so crazy! Come on, just a quick walk.” 

“Hm.” 

“You can show me around,” Martin says. “I’d like to see some of the weird plants you use for your potions.” 

That… could be enjoyable, actually. Martin is, of course, all too correct — Jon has been spending quite a lot of time indoors lately. It would be a waste to stay in when he doesn’t have to. 

Plus, Martin will be with him. 

So Jon agrees, and after a bit of prep, they head off. Jon shows Martin his usual trails first, pointing out the bushels and groves of plants Jon will use for potions ingredients. He shows Martin where to find a special kind of fungus that grows in rotting, shadowed corners, and how to safely harvest it. He points out all sorts of tiny, innocuous flowers, and explains how their petals can be used. Then, once they veer off into the woods, into territory Jon has mostly left uncharted, Martin takes over. He points out the birds and tells Jon what kind they are and how they tend to sing. He also knows a surprising amount about edible plants, pointing out several things he’s used in dishes before. 

They end up spending a couple of hours just wandering around, peeking under rocks, exploring the leaf litter, gazing up into trees. It makes Jon feel… somewhat childish, actually, but in a good way. He remembers coming up to the tree on the hill with his grandmother to gather midnights. Sometimes, when she’d sent him off on his own, he would waste a bit of time peering into the trees. Sometimes he would explore the very edge of the forest, always staying within sight of the empty cottage. He liked the deep sound of the wood, and wondered over the many secrets it must hold. But Jon, always so conscious of his grandmother and her patience, never strayed too far. 

“I learned a lot about plants and stuff from books,” Martin explains, pointing out some windflowers he found hidden in the shadow of a tree. “That’s how I met Tim, actually, after I moved here — he likes to read too, so we’d see each other a lot in the library. The one in Arryl was a lot smaller than Fairside’s, but I liked to go there when I was younger, to read about plants and animals and poetry.” 

“You like poetry?” Jon asks from his seat on a rock. His knee was beginning to twinge, and he hadn’t brought a cane along, which was an oversight on his part. He didn’t want to slow Martin down, nor did he want to start heading back quite yet — Jon was grateful Martin had been the one to suggest taking a bit of a break. So Jon had settled onto a large rock while Martin sat, cross-legged, in front of a tree in the grass. 

“I do!” He pauses, like he’s thinking something over, then asks, “Do you read much poetry?”

“I don’t read any poetry,” Jon tells him. “I don’t… Well, it doesn’t appeal to me much. I suppose I don’t ‘get it’ the way one is supposed to.” 

Martin scrunches up his nose at that, looking a bit like he wants to say something. But then the moment passes, and he says, “Speaking of the library, that reminds me — I think you should really try coming down on your own sometime soon.”

Jon frowns. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to talk about work on this walk.” 

“I made the rules, so I get to say when you’re allowed to break them,” Martin informs him with a haughty expression. “Besides, this is important, and I don’t want to forget. It’s been harder to find any books that might be helpful to you just based off your lists. I really think it’d be easier for you to come down and pick some out for yourself.” 

“You’re probably right,” Jon grumbles. “I’ve recently decided to try coming at the problem from a slightly different angle… It would definitely be easier for me to find what I’m looking for if I go there myself, if only because I’m not particularly sure what it is I need to find.” 

“We can go tomorrow, if you want,” Martin suggests, “if you don’t mind doing it on your second resting day.”

“No, you’re right, it’s worth doing when I don’t have to spend time on any potions work.”

“We can grab a handful of books for you to use, then you can make a list of any other ones you think will be helpful, and I can bring them later in the week.” 

Jon nods. They sit, quiet for a while, listening to distant birdsong. Jon brings his braid over one shoulder so he can fiddle with it as he speaks. “Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you again,” Jon says, quietly. He wants to look up at Martin, but- things like this… it’s still difficult for him. “For helping.” 

“Of course!” comes the instant response. When Jon finally glances up, Martin is smiling at him. “That’s what friends are for.” 

Friends. So they are friends, then? It shouldn’t be news to Jon, not really; he and Martin have been spending practically every evening in each other’s company. On the days when Martin can’t stick around, Jon has found so many little things missing — the scent of warm tea, the sound of laughter, the joy of conversation. Another pair of shoes by the door. 

Jon has to look away, then, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. 

By the time they return to Jon’s house, both of them are dirty, scuffed up, and a bit tired. Jon’s knee aches, but the burn of his muscles feels good. It’s not quite evening yet, but Jon feels like he could have a light dinner and fall right to sleep. 

“See?” Martin asks, looking a bit worn, but so very content. He holds the door open for Jon, having reached it first. “Walks do wonders.”

Jon concedes with a light shove on Martin’s shoulder, but he knows he’s smiling.

Chapter Text

The next day is quite hot, but not intolerably, and Jon is more thankful that it’s not raining than bothered over the humidity. He puts on an airy dress, heading into Fairside with a cane and satchel. 

It would’ve been nice to walk there with Martin, or to meet him at the library itself, but he still had a route to run and wouldn’t be finished until noon at the earliest. So Jon is alone and unprotected upon entering the building. 

He’s immediately accosted by Tim, who had, apparently, been waiting for him. “Morning!”

“Oh. Good morning, Tim,” Jon replies, hoping it isn’t obvious he’s startled.

“Martin mentioned you’d be in today, and thought you might like help finding stuff,” Tim informs him. “So, if you want, Sasha and I already pulled out some books you can start with! Come on, we’re sitting over here.” 

Jon isn’t sure he has much choice, so he follows Tim through the stacks until they arrive at an open section with multiple tables and chairs. There’s a woman sitting at one of them, already nose-deep in one of the books. She doesn’t look up as they approach — in fact, she gives no sign she knows they’re there until Tim very purposefully rests his hand on the table, right between her and the book. “I’m back, Sash! Didn’t you miss me?”

“Not even one bit,” she responds with a smile. Then her eyes are locking onto Jon, and he realizes this is going to be a long day. “Is this him?”

“Yup! Martin’s witchy friend.” 

“Jonathan Sims,” Jon offers with a small curtsy, because it’s polite. “Martin has mentioned you before — Sasha James, right?”

“Yup, that’s me.” As she’s seated, Sasha can only respond with a wave. “I can use magic, too, but I don’t think nearly as much as you.” 

“He’s told me before that you’re good at Seeing?” 

“Pretty much my wheelhouse, yeah.” 

“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” Jon admits, finally taking a few steps closer. He’d forgotten how nice it is to speak to someone else who uses magic. “I’d be more than interested in discussing it further, but I did come here to do some actual research.”

“Lucky you, we’re both quite good at research!” Sasha gives him a big smile, and he sees the slight gap between her two front teeth, which would account for her slight lisp. “I was just looking through this one — Transformative Transmutation — and there’s one chapter that might be helpful…” 

Strangely, despite all of Jon’s reservations, the hours pass pleasantly. He finds himself quite charmed by Sasha’s pragmatic sensibilities, and the ease with which she wrangles the more energetic Tim Stoker. Tim’s more eccentric a person than Jon is used to dealing with, but it’s paired well with his genuine fever for the literary. He seems to know almost exactly where everything is, has quite an eye for catching inconsistencies in histories or collections of theoretical papers, and has a frankly intimidating amount of knowledge pertaining to architecture in general; Fairside’s in particular. 

“Did you know they actually built the entirety of Fairside around that big tree?” Tim says, having just offered Jon a small book which gave an (allegedly comprehensive) overview of Fairside’s founding and development. “That’s why they built town hall right in front of it.”

“I did, actually,” Jon responds, and puts real effort into keeping his tone from sounding defensive or pedantic. Though he’s mostly enjoyed himself, it’s still quite stressful, talking like this with people who are basically strangers. He feels very self-conscious over his behavior in a way that has long since stopped being an issue when he’s with Martin. All the old worries nag at him, irritating and painful, like bug bites, and he’s constantly trying to keep in mind not to scratch. 

But these two aren’t just strangers, they’re Martin’s friends, and Jon wants to get along with them. He most certainly doesn’t want to ruin his chances of making a good impression by falling into all the old personal pitfalls that plagued his adolescence. 

Closing the book to demonstrate his engagement, Jon continues, “My grandmother would tell me stories, sometimes, about the First Fairchild who planted the seed that started this town.”

“Oh, right, you guys have that Fairchild family,” Sasha says, glancing up from her book on weather patterns in mountainous regions. 

“Indeed we do!” Tim confirmed. “Or, well, we did.” 

“Who was the last one alive?” 

“That would be Harriet Fairchild,” Jon answered. “Presumably; she left Fairside a long time ago. Simon Fairchild was the last who died in Fairside. Nana said she knew him, though he was quite a few years older than she was.”

Sasha leaned forward a bit, eyes bright. “Your grandmother? She’s the potion-maker, right?” 

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d gotten to meet her,” Sasha sighs. “I didn’t live in Fairside until a few years ago.” 

“But you knew of her?”

“Oh, sure! You know she made potions for some of the villages beyond the mountains, right? I’m from Nevvin, and we had some of her elixirs all the way over there.” 

“I never knew,” Jon said slowly. Idly, he wondered how many of the potions he made were being shipped so far away. “I helped my grandmother with her work, but mostly stayed by the cauldron — it wasn’t until her health started failing that I was told how to handle working directly with the council.” 

“There were stories about your grandmother in Nevvin,” Sasha said. “Barely anyone could use magic back there, so it’s still got a bit of that stigma. Some folks called her a witch from a wicked city full of deviant practitioners of magic.” Her words are a double-edged sword of amusement and bitterness. “You can guess why I ended up moving away.”

Jon nods, nose wrinkled. “I couldn’t imagine.” 

“I mean, I kinda get the hostility a bit,” Tim says. Something about his tone makes Jon wary. “It’s pretty calm over here, but in other places, there’s a lot more ambient magic that folks have to deal with.”

“That’s true,” Sasha says. “I know people who’ve nearly gotten lost in the woods that way. Some of them did. I even know one fellow who got saturated with magic while swimming, once, and it made him so sick he almost died.” 

Jon winced. Phenomena like that wasn’t extremely common, especially not in Fairside, but he’d been told stories like that by his grandmother. Magic was, at its heart, a wild and untamed thing. Humans exist alongside it and can live with it, but never conquer it. Just as one fears the unseen undertow, or the hidden predator, one must fear magic as a natural force. 

Still feeling a bit cautious over Tim’s abrupt shift in mood, Jon attempted to segue back to safer territory. “Anyway, Simon Fairchild was the last of the family line, but only as far as we are aware. Like Harriet, some of them left and never came back, but they could still be alive elsewhere.” 

“Chronic case of wanderlust, that lot,” Tim says, shifting through the books again.

“He never had any children?” Sasha asks.

“Nah, he married a man, and they either couldn't or didn’t want to,” Tim tells her. “The husband lived a bit longer than Simon, but… Shoot, I can’t remember his name. That’s gonna drive me crazy.” 

“Maybe there’s a book-”

“It was Cielo,” says a voice. Jon twists to find a short mand with messy bronze hair, and behind him-

The name, “Martin,” slips from Jon’s mouth before he even fully registers his friend. But there was Martin, smiling, looking slightly flushed. No doubt he’d hurried over directly from the post to join them. 

“Hi, Jon,” Martin says, beaming. Then he turns to the other man and says, “Thanks for showing me where they were, Mike.”

“No problem,” says Mike — Mike Crew, if Jon was remembering correctly. Tim had explained that he worked with four other people. Mike Crew was, technically, his boss; apparently his family owned the library itself. 

Mike quirks a brow at their table. “I sure hope you don’t expect me to be putting all of this away.” 

“Oh shove off,” snarks Tim. “I’ve got it. Where’s Gerry?” 

“Working in the back. It’s nearly dinnertime, you know.” 

Sasha perks up. “No way.” 

“You three have been at it for hours. All the chittering scared off several patrons.” 

“Now that’s just a boldfaced lie,” says Tim. “Nobody reads anymore.” 

“Right.” Mike has barely moved since the start of the conversation, nor has he bothered to even glance at anyone else besides Tim. Keeping it up, he lets his eyes rest somewhere above their heads as he asks, “How much longer are you lot going to be here? I was going to lock up early. I feel like it might rain soon.” As he says this, he fidgets with the scarf around his neck, and Jon just barely catches a glimpse of something pale branching across his skin. 

Before Tim can banter, Jon begins to stand. “This is fine, we can leave now. I think I’ve found more than enough to occupy myself with.” 

“You can only take five at a time,” Mike tells him. It spoken in a way that tells Jon he’s said this many, many times. 

“That’s fine. Just let me-” 

Jon instantly piles three books into his arms, then intensely debates a few of the others he’d been considering. Mike has already wandered back to the front of the library by the time Jon finally makes up his mind. 

It’s drizzling when their small group steps out of the building. Sasha and Tim offer quick goodbyes before dashing off, neither of whom thought to bring an umbrella. To be fair, neither had Jon, which was troublesome oversight on his part. He’d been halfway down the hill before realizing he’d forgotten it, and he’d been hoping he could get home before anything happened.

Luckily for him, Martin did bring an umbrella, and has no qualms with sharing. He’s holding it over both their heads as they step down the stairs, and Jon says, “I like them.”

“Tim and Sasha?” 

“Yes. We had some surprisingly interesting and productive conversations. Sasha, especially — she’s every bit as clever as you told me.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, Sasha’s really smart. Did you talk to her about her divination stuff?” 

“A bit. She explained how it’s been more or less impossible to predict any of the weather changes we’ve been having. I think I’ve told you before, but it is already incredibly difficult to weather-read with even fifty-percent accuracy, let alone one-hundred, and what we’re currently dealing with is obviously an extraordinary circumstance.” 

“Mmhm. Um, Jon?” 

Jon stops walking, taking a moment to re-adjust his hold on his satchel and make sure the flap wasn’t allowing any rain water to sneak in. “Yes?”

“It looks like it’s going to start raining harder,” Martin tells him, and Jon realizes he’s right. He can hear it in the way the raindrops fall on their umbrella, very gradually growing louder, hitting harder. “Do you- I mean, I figure you won’t want to run all the way home, or something, so if you’re comfortable with it, I can- we could go back to mine? Or- or maybe we could stop somewhere to have dinner while we wait?” 

Both suggestions make Jon’s heartbeat pick up unexpectedly. Then, he says, with surprising ease and certainty, “I’d prefer yours. I… I don’t want to get trapped in a place that might be, ah, crowded.” 

“Sure! Here, I don’t live too far off. Let’s go this way.”

Chapter Text

Keeping close, Martin leads Jon through the narrow walkways that weave between buildings. It’s mostly quiet out, with many folks having retreated home before the rain started. Sunlight still pushes its way through the scant smattering of clouds hanging high over them, smearing saturation in broad strokes across tiled roofs and bricks. From this or that angle, it sparks on the iron handrails, and shimmers in the tiny puddles as they grow and merge together.

Martin’s house isn’t so dissimilar from the others, only slightly bigger, single-story. There’s space on either side, separating him from his neighbors. On one side is a pathway, but on the other, nestled between tall brick walls, is a garden. Plants grow from the soiled space there; flowers spill over from little window boxes. All of them are somewhat shielded from the rain by the two roofs above, but as Martin unlocks his front door, Jon notices one of his dry stones has been placed beneath a bushel of lavender.

Somehow, Martin’s house looks exactly as Jon had been expecting it. Not that he’d really spent time imagining the inside of Martin's house — actually, until Martin made the offer, Jon hadn’t ever considered he might come here. It’s a warm space, though sparse, and not nearly as cluttered as Jon’s house. Martin has one couch in front of a small, dark fireplace. The few shelves and tables seem mostly devoid of superfluous decoration. Mostly, the empty spaces are occupied by potted plants, hues of green mixing with the earthy tones of wood and brick. 

Martin’s kitchen, much like Jon’s, is small and open to the sitting room. Once their shoes are off and Martin has stashed his umbrella, Jon is escorted to the couch. “You can sit, I’ll find something to heat up for dinner! Do you mind vegetable soup? Pretty sure I’ve got enough leftovers tucked away in the cold box.” 

“That sounds fine,” Jon says, and Martin slips away. 

Soon the soup is in a pot over the fire, and while they wait for their food to warm up, they talk. Jon sums up what he and the others managed to learn at the library that day, which unfortunately isn’t much. “It’s a start, though,” Jon sighs, adjusting his skirt. He feels the urge to pull his feet up onto the couch, but that would be dreadfully improper. “The books I brought along with me tonight may be of some help.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Certainly better than nothing.” Jon rests his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the wood of the ceiling. “I’ve always been good at doing research like this — I had to do it quite often for my grandmother, when she was too busy brewing and couldn’t leave the house. But it’s not how I prefer to be spending my time; I’d rather be doing something.” 

“You’ve been doing quite a lot,” Martin says. “I’m glad you had the others helping you out today. How did that part go, by the way?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You met Sasha today,” Martin expounds. “It was your first time really talking to Tim, too. I know you said you liked them, but how was it?”

“Oh! I- Yes, they were, um… they were both kind. I quite like Sasha, I think. She’s bright and inquisitive,” Jon summarizes. “Tim too, really — both of them were very helpful today.” 

Martin’s expression settles into something very pleased. He smiles as he says, “I’m really glad you all got along.”

For a while it’s quiet. Jon keeps looking at his bag, and eventually Martin tells him it’s more than fine if he wants to read while the food is being made. At first Jon protests, but as he’s learned, Martin can be incredibly stubborn. Especially, it seems, when he’s acting as host; Jon notices it in the way Martin moves, the tone of his voice — he’s demonstrably more comfortable on this side of things, it appears, than being someone’s guest. There’s an assuredness to Martin’s behavior that’s never been totally present when he’s at Jon’s house. It makes Jon feel a bit self-conscious, but not really in a bad way. Mostly he feels tended to and… safe, like the trials of the day are behind him, and now’s the time to rest without worry. 

So he doesn’t argue with Martin, simply picks out one of the books and begins to read. 

Soon enough the food is done, and Jon’s balancing a bowl of soup on his lap. Martin sits with him, leaning on the opposite arm of the couch. “So, what sort of book are you looking at?” he asks, blowing at his spoonful of food. 

Jon thinks of how to explain. “It’s a bit complicated, but essentially it’s a book exploring the theory behind spellcraft. I want to get a better understanding of it.” 

“You’ve mentioned more than once that you’re better with potions than with spells,” Martin says. “I guess I can understand having a preference or more skill with one specific thing, but what’s so different? I mean, you use spells when making potions, right?”

“It’s… Yes, essentially. But potions depend on components and their magical properties more than… It’s difficult to explain. A lot of it has to do with incantation, intuition, and intent.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“If not me, then you’ve surely seen Sasha use a spell or two. Do you remember the words she was saying when she did it?” 

“Um.. I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t think it was in any language I knew.” 

“It wouldn’t have been. Magic has... its own sort of language, and… See, this is the part that’s complicated…” Jon takes a few moments to eat, chewing on the best way to convey something that feels so instinctual. “The only way I can think to describe it is that magic — all magic — isn’t… inactive. It’s animated; it sort of has a will? There’s quite a bit of debate, actually, on how ‘alive’ magic is.”

“What, like… maybe magic is a thing like us? A living creature?” 

“Along those lines. Some theorists argue that magic created everything, but it is no more alive — or rather, sapient — than plants. Others think it may be the product of some ancient being or creature, something that was once very alive and more like us. It- it’s a dense argument, and one that will ultimately have no satisfying conclusion, so I digress. The important part is that magic works in ways we can’t totally understand.

“When someone like Sasha or I use a spell, often it’s one that was taught to us. Nana taught me lots of little things: how to make a light, how to mend small tears, how to test if water was safe to drink, how to make a basic shield, et cetera. I could go on — there are many spells used for common, every-day things.

“There are words — incantations — that must be used for all spells, but those common ones are so old that no one really knows who or where they come from. It’s arguably a dead language, one that only lives on because it’s passed orally through the generations.

“So, if we take into consideration that specific words are needed to accomplish specific goals, but the language used to craft incantations is not commonly known, taught, or disseminated in its entirety, if there even is an ‘entirety’ that can be encompassed in a method concise enough for humans to fully process or comprehend-”

Here, Martin holds up his spoon, an apologetic look on his face. “You’re starting to lose me,” he admits with a bit of a chuckle. “This is… wow, yeah, some uh… big picture stuff.” 

Jon waves a hand helplessly, offering a wry smile. “As I said, it’s a dense topic. Look, to answer your question without all the extra: spellcrafting is difficult because you have to do a lot of extra research to even figure out what, exactly, must be spoken to accomplish your task. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s extremely difficult. If you’ll recall, I mentioned that intuition is the other major factor when spellcrafting — this comes to play more heavily in the crafting side of things. You have to have a very strong idea of what sort of goal you wish to accomplish, and consolidate all elements at your disposal until you find something that works.”

Martin takes a thoughtful slurp of soup. “That sounds… very nebulous.” 

Jon shakes his head and shrugs, feeling defeated, but amused. “I’d love to do a better job of explaining, but to be quite frank I think all that research earlier on has taken its toll.”

“Not just that, I suspect. You’ve been so busy lately.” 

“There’s not much to do but keep busy,” Jon sighs. “The reason I’ve got this book is because I don’t think there’s anything to be done about the situation except, maybe, craft a spell to mitigate the damage of the weather.”

Humming thoughtfully, Martin crosses his legs and says, “You told me before that weather’s really hard to deal with, even using magic.”

“Yes.” 

“So there probably isn’t some spell that would just tell the rain to go away?” 

“Not likely. I mean, there are some known rituals that can be done that are said to influence weather patterns, but those tend to be insular — the knowledge is kept close within the community. I’m unlikely to find anything in a book that would be useful to our specific situation.”

“And you don’t think you could craft something like that whole cloth.”

“Oh gods, no. I lack the experience. And even if I didn’t, it’s my honest opinion that anyone who messes around with weather magic is just asking to be struck down by some awful karmic imbalance.” A sudden thought comes to Jon, and he blurts, “Which reminds me! That fellow, Mike Crew was his name, right? Did he have a scar under that scarf of his?”

“Oh, yeah. You can only see a bit of it-”

“It looked like a Lichtenberg scar,” Jon tells him. “You know, from lightning.”

Martin’s eyes are wide when he asks, “Lightning?” 

“If someone is struck by lightning, and they don’t die from it, they’re left with something called a Lichtenberg scar,” Jon explains. “Lots of little branching paths.”

“God, I- I don’t know, I mean, maybe? You make it sound pretty distinct.”

“They are, which is why I was curious. I only saw a bit of it, but enough to recognize it.” 

“It’s not like I’ve ever asked,” Martin tells him, shrugging one shoulder. His bowl is empty, and he stands up. Martin holds out a hand, and after a second of confusion, Jon quickly offers his mostly-empty bowl with gentle thanks. “I don’t talk to Mike much, but that’s no big surprise. Besides you, Tim and Sasha are really my only friends. So I couldn't tell you how Mike got his scar.”

Martin disappears into the kitchen to rinse off their dishes, leaving Jon alone with an odd, displeased feeling. It doesn’t seem quite right, he thinks, for Martin to say he doesn’t have any other friends. He strikes Jon as the sort of person who has a lot of friends. Martin is kind and attentive and always seems to know what Jon needs, and never oversteps boundaries or acts in an arrogant or cruel way. The idea that he’s lived in want of friendship feels… incorrect. 

Jon wants to say something — offer something — to Martin when he comes back into the room, but he doesn’t have a chance. Instead, Martin is the one who speaks. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Oh, um, sure?”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Martin begins, looking the slightest bit uncomfortable, like it’s a question he should know better than to ask. “You just… I’m just curious, if you don’t mind answering. But I was wondering what your grandmother was like?”

“You want me to tell you about Nana?” 

“If that’s okay,” Martin says, voice gentle with uncertainty. “You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s… I don’t mind talking about her.” Jon sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Was there… I mean, do you want to know anything in particular?”

“Just the sort of woman she was,” Martin explains. “You see, I’ve only lived in Fairside for a couple of years. I never actually met her, but it seems like everyone else knew her. I guess I’m just wondering what she was like. And how- how was she? To you, I mean. It… it sounds like you two were close.”

“...Well, I suppose we were,” Jon starts. “We only really had each other. When my parents died, I was very young, and my grandmother was my only living family — I suppose I was to her, as well. She lost her son, and I’m sure it was very difficult, to lose her only child and now have to take care of another one, at her age. I wasn’t exactly… that is, it was known that I could use magic by then, but I had no idea how. From what I can remember, which isn’t much, neither of my parents could use it. This is to say I came to my grandmother newly orphaned and having no idea of how to control myself or my abilities.

“I was… a deeply annoying child,” Jon says with an awkward chuckle. “I was very excited by magic, but it was hard for me to stay focused on one element of it for long. My grandmother put a lot of time and energy into teaching me, which was difficult when she also had so much work to do. There still weren’t many others who used magic in Fairside by then, and most of them traveled. There was no one else who could take care of me or teach me what I needed to know, nor could anyone else take up Nana’s duties. She did it all on her own.”

“Wow.” Martin looked genuinely impressed, though there was something in his expression that prompted Jon to continue:

“Nana, she- Considering the circumstances, she did an admirable job raising me. Sometimes I would have to be left alone while she worked, and in those days I spent a lot of time wandering. I explored Fairside on my lonesome, discovering all the little nooks and crannies there were to find. I remember spending a lot of time at the tree, though I wasn’t sure why I was drawn to it at the time. I suspect now it has something to do with how much magic it possesses.” 

“The tree?”

“Yes, the- the large tree in front of town hall. It’s very, very old, you know. The first thing planted in Fairside, by the First Fairchild.”

“Oh, I see! You liked to spend time there?”

“I’d sit between the roots and read, usually,” Jon says, smiling at the memory. It was always warm and quiet there. “But of course, when my grandmother began training me properly, I couldn’t do that as much. I had to stay closer to home, so she could call on me when needed to help assist with any potions or errands. It wasn’t technically an apprenticeship, but that’s essentially what it was. Nana taught me everything she knew, expecting me to take her place.” 

“Was it difficult? To learn all of that so young?”

“No, not at all! I was very interested in learning it. Sure, some things took a while to get used to, and I made mistakes-” Jon breaks himself off with another laugh, then holds out his left arm. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the spots?”

“I- Yeah, sure,” Martin admits, glancing. Jon can’t recall ever having caught Martin staring at the strangely pale scars speckled up along his left side. Only a couple are on his face, the most obvious resting just over his cheekbone. “I’ve, uh, I’ve wondered before, but-”

“They’re from a brewing accident,” Jon tells him. “When I was young, I put the wrong component in a potion, and it reacted badly. The entire cauldron exploded, unfortunately.”

“Oh no!” 

Jon laughs again, waving a hand. “It was- well, alright, it wasn’t exactly fine when it happened. It was an expensive mistake, and I wasted a lot of very useful ingredients.”

“Were you okay?” 

“Obviously.”

Martin gives him a sour look. “You know what I mean, Jon.”

“I was… alive. I was fine, really,” Jon insists. “Just burned. The potion splattered on me, and that’s what made the scars. It’s why they're so light, you see, despite my skin. Unlike this one.” 

Jon holds up his right hand, showing off the burn on his palm. “This one is more recent, and entirely my own fault — carelessness. I put a corrosive potion in the wrong container, which melted almost instantly in my hand while I was holding it.”

At this, Martin pales. “That sounds awful.” 

There’s a level of discomfort in Martin’s voice that warns Jon this subject might be touchy. “Sorry,” he offers, resting his hand back on his lap, palm-down. “I shouldn’t be talking about injuries in such detail.” 

“No, no, it’s- I just hate burns. Like, really hate burns,” Martin explains. “Just thinking about something like that- Yeah, sorry, it just isn’t my cup of tea.” 

“Then let’s backtrack a bit.”

“Yes, please,” Martin says, waving a hand and looking quite grateful.

“There’s not much more that needs to be said. Nana was… very good at what she did. She taught me how to be very good at it. Really, she was more of a mentor than anything else… perhaps even more than a grandmother. I think we were both more comfortable thinking of each other in that way — teacher and student.”

“Hm.” Martin was leaning back, looking comfortable, but deep in thought. Jon squirms a bit in his chair. When Martin notices, he offers a smile. “Sorry, I hope I’m not… I was just curious. It sounds like your grandmother was a really big influence on you? And I never really got to know her. I went to her funeral, because it seemed like a big deal — everyone went at the time. It was sort of surreal, especially after… um, well, after going to my mum’s funeral. It was really different.”

“Oh?”

“When my mum died, it was really just me,” Martin tells him, his voice soft, a little blank. “There were a few other people who came. Some older women who’d been helping me out, neighbors mostly. But no one else, really. My grandfather had died a long time before, and that was the last of our family, from what I’m aware.

“So, I guess it was just an interesting difference? My mum’s funeral felt so important, but it was a really small, quiet thing. Then I went to the funeral of someone I’d never even met, and it was like an event. I mean- sorry, that sounds really inappropriate, doesn’t it? I just meant that… Well. It seemed like a real sad thing, when your grandmother passed away.”

“It was,” Jon says, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. Martin’s looking away, now, into the fire. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

“...Are you okay?”

“Sorry, just… Um, it’s just still difficult, sometimes. Remembering.”

“Yeah.” Jon watches the fire, too. “I know what you mean.”

Martin, unsurprisingly, insists on escorting Jon back home. It’s still raining, a dark and glistening world waiting just beyond the threshold. Jon waits while Martin dons his cloak, then summons a handful of light, enunciating the spell so that Martin can hear the words he speaks. It’s a small spell, quickly cast, sounding mostly of soft consonants. The golden light blooms between them, warming their faces as the fire did, and Jon can see Martin’s smile through the stormy shadows surrounding them. 

It’s a quiet trek. Both men seem all talked out, a bit worn down from discussions of their pasts, the people still living there. Jon is, honestly, more surprised at how light he feels after everything. Talking about his grandmother… well, he’s never really done it. There was a brief time when he thought he was comfortable bringing up the subject with Georgie, back when they were still together, but that got messy fairly quickly after Nana passed. Then there was no one else, only Jon and the house on that lonely hill. 

But now there’s Martin, walking beside him, holding the umbrella and keeping most of it over Jon, shielding him from rain that could easily be repelled or magicked dry should it fall on him. Still, it’s nice. Jon lets himself stand just the slightest bit closer to Martin, close enough for their shoulders to touch. 

Through the town and the trees, across sodden grass, they eventually make it back to Jon’s place. It stands, tall and sturdy and dark, calling out to Jon with its assured comfort. Yet, he hesitates. Martin takes him to the archway of his door, and they both duck under it, the umbrella falling away just enough to make room. Standing there, together, quite close, and Jon recalls the last time this happened. He holds the light close to his chest, cradling it like a tiny bird fluttering with nerves. He could feel the magic in that space, holding them, too. 

“Alright then,” Martin sighs, giving Jon a look of sure affection. It’s enough to make Jon shiver. “It was nice to have you over! And thanks for letting me walk you home.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

Martin only smiles. “I know.” 

“Thank you,” Jon says, and really means it, so much he thinks he might cry. There are too many things to thank Martin for. He wishes he was better at this, knew how to do it right. In the moment, his only idea — or is it simply desire? — seems so bold and out of place that he can hardly begin to imagine attempting it. 

Yet, as Martin begins to re-adjust the hood of his cloak and lift the umbrella, ready to bid his final farewell and depart, Jon can’t stop himself from reaching out. One hand pulls away from the light, resting on Martin’s cloak. The material shimmers blue-silver beneath Jon’s magic, with hints of golden-brown to match the light in Martin’s eyes, curiously watching. 

“I…” Jon dares to take a breath, then dares to step closer. He moves his hand up Martin’s arm to his shoulder. His fingers catch the edge of Martin’s hood, gently pulling it back and off his head. Martin steps back beneath the archway so that they’re standing toe-to-toe in the almost-dark. The rain, once more, isolates them in that space, and Jon can nearly believe that the world has gone away, leaving only them and the magic. 

Martin’s hair is dry, pulled back with a band, though wavy strands have escaped. Jon hardly thinks twice about lifting a finger to push them back, tucking them away behind Martin’s ear. He can see the way Martin’s expression begins to change, in subtle ways Jon can’t put into words. He can only feel the difference, and it’s that which finally makes him ask, “Martin do you… I mean, could you, um… Could you just come forward, slightly, please?”

Martin complies, bending forward slowly, until their faces are nearly level. Then Jon moves forward, the light between them almost smothered between their chests; on tip-toes, Jon’s lips meet Martin’s cheek. 

It’s a gentle kiss, brief and a little cold, but when Jon pulls back he feels he’s never been warmer in all his life. The light in his free hand pulses faintly, then dims, then evens out as Martin shyly smiles. 

“Thank you,” Jon says again, because that’s all he can think to say, and he really does mean it. 

Martin straightens up. He lifts one hand to take the one Jon has left on his shoulder, then holds it between them, for just a moment longer. “Of course, Jon,” he says, soft as the shadows cast from the glow of Jon’s magic.

Chapter Text

Each day, the sun rises, casting its light across the mountains like a wave slowly crashing into the valleys and below. Sometimes, that light is stopped by dark clouds, which deliver rain instead. Then, with increasing frequency, it is broken into fragments and scattered across snowy ground, caught in snowflakes that tickle noses and worry brows. The people of Fairside watch, wary, yet life goes on; every day, it rises with the sun, whether they can see the sun or not.

The next few weeks of Jon’s life become something rote, yet non-linear. When he’s not working, he’s reading, and if he’s not reading, he’s spending time with Martin and- and his friends. Jon spends so much time in Fairside that other people — faces that were once familiar — begin nodding from afar or saying hello on his way to and from the library. At first, Jon is a mess of nerves with each encounter, haunted by old anxieties and guilt he can’t quite name. Gradually, with every rainy day that passes, it becomes easier to face them. He nods back, he smiles. 

Work and research continue unerringly. On every one of Jon’s resting days, he dutifully makes his way down into Fairside to spend his afternoons in the library. He’s kept company by a rotating cast — often Tim or Sasha, sometimes Martin if he has a day off or makes his deliveries more quickly than usual. As of late, the other employee, Gerry Delano, has started assisting Jon. He’s presented some interesting perspectives on magic — he has some minor ability to use it himself, though nothing on the same level as Sasha or Jon. 

On evenings like that, Martin always walks Jon home. He listens to Jon as he thinks out loud over what he’s read that day, the many ways he hopes to solve the plethora of problems laid at his feet. Sometimes, Martin offers an idea or two of his own, and their conversations wind long, uninterrupted paths all the way back to Jon’s house. 

Usually Martin stays, but not for very long. They’ll share dinner, sometimes, or if there’s not enough time, a midnight will be split between them. Then, with a smile, Martin will say his goodbyes under the archway, and…

It hasn’t happened again. The… the kissing. Jon hasn’t tried to, anyway, and neither has Martin, and sometimes Jon frets over it. Did he make a mistake? Was Martin uncomfortable over what happened, and he was only trying to spare Jon’s feelings by avoiding the subject altogether? If he felt the same way, he would do something to show it, right? 

It’s been so long since Jon has tried to be… Well, the first and last person he dated was Georgie, and when that relationship had met its bitter end, Jon hadn’t been interested in trying again with anyone else. He’d gone away, hiding up on his distant hill, far from all the things that still hurt so much. It was hard, handling them by himself, and so he’d decided he would rather not handle them at all. It was easier to be isolated from Fairside, focus on his work, and let the days pass quietly. 

It takes a long time for Jon to admit, lying in bed, secure in the darkness of his room, that he doesn’t want to go back to what he had before. Each day now is a struggle, presenting some new issue or obstacle for Jon to fight against, to overcome. But he values what he gains every time he leaves his house and braves the people of Fairside. Martin might have brought something of it to him, tucked away like a gift in his delivery baskets, but Jon knows he’ll lose it all if he lets the fear build up around him again, cutting him off from everyone else.

And what is he afraid of, really? Jon makes himself face this question every time Martin gives him that smile — the one that lets Jon know everything’s fine. He has his worries, his doubts, but without any words, Martin can assuage them. It makes Jon feel so light inside, despite everything going on. With his whole heart, he wants to reach out for Martin, maybe give back the feeling of safety and understanding and… 

Why does he hesitate? Why doesn’t he reach out, when Martin is so near? 

Seeing another grey morning, with its snowflakes and flurries, Jon makes his decision. Things are fine as they are now, and he thinks Martin understands that Jon is… distracted. They’re all working towards the same goal, now — it’s a major concern for everyone who lives in Fairside. The weather problem must be fixed, and Jon is at the center of finding that solution. Martin helps, every day, and Jon understands this steadfast support might be coming at the expense of Martin’s own wants and needs.

If that’s the case, then Jon knows what he has to do. He promises himself that, as soon as this whole issue is resolved, he’ll talk to Martin. Perhaps, by then, he’ll even have the courage to admit to himself what he’s really feeling.

“I can’t see straight anymore.”

Across from Tim, Jon lets out a sigh, and closes his book. “I’m afraid I have to agree. We’ve been at this for quite a while.”

“Yeah…” Sasha reluctantly looks away from her loose pile of documents and papers. Taking off her round glasses, she rubs at her eyes and asks, “What time is it?”

“Nearly sundown,” Martin supplies from the other end of the table. He and Gerry have been talking quietly for a while now; Jon can’t remember exactly when they peeled off from the group, but he thinks Gerry was explaining something about spells to Martin, and they hadn’t wanted to disturb the others. Now they both shuffle closer, collecting books and stacking them. 

The cleanup process is simple enough, and Jon sets aside his handful of books to take home. Martin takes them up and walks with him to the front so Mike can check them out. 

“Any luck tonight?” Mike asks with his usual polite interest. 

“Maybe,” Jon sighs, but he’s not sure there’s anything really. For the last week or so, he’s felt a bit like he’s running in circles. He’s learned quite a lot more about magical theory than he thought he knew previously, but it’s still so difficult to find anything that could help in a concrete way. Spellcraft is difficult and takes so much time — Jon can’t waste time or resources on something that won’t work or can’t be managed. The only option they have is to find something pre-existing that will definitely work, or somehow stumble upon the right combination of disparate parts that could, maybe, be cobbled together into a working spell. 

When Jon and Martin leave, the others are already standing outside. They say their goodbyes, with Sasha giving Jon a one-armed hug before walking off with Tim. Gerry salutes and heads in a different direction, leaving only Jon and Martin standing on the library steps, appreciating the warm golden light of evening. It’s has been quite a nice day, which now constitutes unusual weather. 

“Can I walk you home?” Martin asks, just as he always does. 

This time, Jon shakes his head, but he still steps in close, just enough to gently loop one hand through Martin’s arm to tug him along. “Actually, I wanted to visit a friend today. She’s been wanting to meet you, so if you were alright with that, would you like to come along?”

“A friend?”

“I can’t remember — have I ever mentioned Georgie to you?”

“Um… I think, once or twice. That’s the lady who owns that big grey cat who comes to your house sometimes, right? Admiral?”

“Yes, The Admiral is her owner. She and I are friends. She lives at the opposite end of Fairside from me with her partner. I don’t see them often because it’s a bit of a walk both ways, and… Well, before, I wasn’t coming into Fairside much.”

“Yeah. I’ll come!” Martin says with a gentle smile, and they’re off. 

Georgie’s house rests, somewhat sequestered, between the empty husk of another building and the side of a cliff. It’s an old house, modified over the years to accommodate more people and more modern structure, but the simple design and stonework proves its status as a relic. Georgie’s door isn’t much more than a block of ill-shaped wood jammed into a hole in the stone, sticking at first, then creaking open with one firm kick at its base from the inside. There stands Georgie, looking very pleased to see she has visitors. “Jonathan!” 

“Georgina,” Jon responds flatly, then chuckles as she steps forward to hug him. He pats her shoulder, appreciating the weight and warmth of her against him. Their breakup had been — a little messy. But then Melanie came to Fairside, and Georgie needed Jon to help the other woman acclimate to things, and- In the end, things got better. They’d managed to make up, and now Jon understood that he did still love Georgie, and she loved him, but they were more suited to being friends than anything else. 

Georgie pulls away, just enough to give Jon a swift kiss on the cheek, before turning to his companion. “You must be Martin,” she decides, sounding very sure of herself. She holds out a hand. “I’m Georgie Barker; pleased to finally meet you!”

“Oh! I- yeah, that’s me,” Martin says, blushing. He shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet a friend of Jon’s.”

“Likewise,” Georgie says, and something in her tone makes Jon frown at her, then poke at her side. She giggles and dances away from his hand, gesturing for them to come in. “Mel and I sat down to eat, you wanna join?”

Martin squeaks, “We- I mean, um, I’d hate to impose-”

“Don’t think it counts when dinner’s just some toast ‘n jam, mostly,” said a voice from the other room. “And we’ve far too much cottage pie to complain over anyone else having some. It’ll go bad otherwise!”

“You’re really doing us a favor,” Georgie agrees conspiratorially, glancing over her shoulder as they enter the kitchen. “Dear Melanie made entirely too much the other day and really expected me to eat all of it.”

“You love cottage pie!” Melanie was already seated at the table, tearing into at a piece of bread with red jam on it. Then she asked, “Who’s that with Jon?”

“It’s that Martin fellow,” Georgie tells her. She crosses the length of the table, carefully sidling between the chairs and the wall, to deliver a kiss to her forehead. “The courier, you know.”

“Oh yeah! Hey.” Melanie waves her fork roughly in the direction of the doorway, though Martin has already drifted toward one of the chairs. “Good to meet you.” 

“Hello,” Martin greets, his voice quiet with shy understanding. Melanie’s head tilts to focus on him more, and he smiles. “Pleased to meet you both. You made this cottage pie?” 

“Damn right I did,” Melanie grumbles, “for my lovely girlfriend, who hardly appreciates it.” 

“Entirely too much,” Georgie says again, shaking her head as she takes her seat next to Melanie. 

Jon sits next to Martin, and soon the two men are served, digging in while Melanie and Georgie continue to talk. The atmosphere is familiar and comforting to Jon, but he feels almost hyper-aware of Martin, hoping he doesn’t feel too out-of-place having dinner with two strangers. Luckily that doesn’t seem to be an issue: Martin is pulled into the conversation early on, and soon enough he’s laughing at Melanie’s brass jokes and talking to Georgie about her travels. 

“You’ve been to the city?” he asks with a sense of wonder in his voice. 

“A couple times, yeah. I like to go new places, but you know — money. Can’t wander too far from home, especially nowadays.” 

“Yeah,” Martin nods along with great sympathy. “I’ve always wanted to go to the city. I think- I mean, I don’t really remember, but I think I went once with my dad when I was really young? I’m not sure of the memory though.”

“It’s alright.” Melanie shrugs. “The charm wears off the first time you see someone pissing in a corner in broad daylight, which happens like, maybe an hour after you’ve been there.” 

Jon wrinkled his nose. “I thought discussions of bowel movements were officially banned from the dinner table.”

“Hush up Sims, this is my house.”

“Actually, it’s my house,” Georgie pipes in, grinning. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m just a fixture that takes up space.”

“Like a lamp,” Jon helpfully supplies, keeping his tone light, and he barely flinches when Georgie reaches over to smack his shoulder. 

Melanie looks perfectly scandalized. “Insulted my own home!” 

“My home,” Georgie snorts. She then turns to Jon and says, “Stop antagonizing my very pretty lamp.” 

“Fine.” Jon takes his last bite of pie and pushes his plate away. “I actually wanted to talk to the both of you about something.”

They listen as he explains his situation. Georgie knows some of it, of course — every now and then, he’ll send minor updates on his progress via The Admiral. It’s the first time he’s gotten to explain in detail how much is going on, though, and by the end of it, both Georgie and Melanie look decently impressed. 

“You’ve been at this for how long now?” Georgie asks. 

Jon sighs, rolling his shoulders, feeling quite tired just thinking about it. “I don’t know… a couple of months? Two months?” 

“Just over two,” Martin agrees. He’s been quiet while Jon was talking, finishing his food and nodding along. Now he perks up and asks, “Can one of you use magic? Is that why we’re here, Jon?” 

“And here I thought you were just popping in to say hello to your friends,” Melanie jokes, rolling her color-washed eyes. Then to Martin she says, “Sorta. I used to.” 

“Used to?”

“Technically I still can,” she explains, wiggling her fingers. “But not the way I used to. Had an accident—” She gestures at her face. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Martin says. 

“It’s alright! Kind of a cool story, actually? Wanna hear?” Melanie leans forward on her elbows, grinning in Martin’s direction, and Jon scoffs. 

“Melanie, don’t-”

“No, I’m serious! I never get to talk about my cool, badass blinding story,” she insists, pretending to whine. She turns to Georgie. “Please? C’mon, you can help with all the boring parts.”

“...It is kind of a cool story,” Georgie says, smiling at Martin. “If you’d like to hear it?”

Martin glances at Jon, but he only shrugs, taking one last sip of water. “It’s an interesting story, for sure.” 

“I would like to, then,” Martin agrees, and Melanie claps her hands. 

In short order, the table is cleared, and Melanie is ushering them to the small sitting area. Her cane taps the leg of the tiny couch, and then she smacks the cushions on top. “Sit here!” 

As they sit, she takes a few steps over until she’s at a comfortable chair. “Right, so, way back, I used to travel all over the place,” she says, settling down and pulling her legs up to tuck them underneath her. She settles her cane against the side of the chair. Through the doorway leading  into the kitchen, Jon hears Georgie starting on dish washing. He leans against the arm of the couch, trying to catch her eye, and when he does, offers a look and a vague gesture with his hands. She just shakes her head and waves him off. Then she actually winks, nodding her head at Martin, before turning away. 

Face burning, Jon turns back to Melanie, grateful for the fact that Martin is clearly distracted by her story. Jon tunes in just as Melanie finishes explaining why she started traveling in the first place. 

“So you believe in ghosts and things?” Martin asks. “Have you ever seen one?”

“It might not be what you’d call a ghost, exactly,” Melanie says. “It’s more like… Well, magic does all sorts of wonky things to a place, and to people. I believe that magic can sort of… hm, like, stain a place? Especially if someone who has a lot of magic dies, or is really close to the place where they died. Their magic — or, like, their essence? — stays there, and it can make things weird.” 

“Not that anything like this has ever been conclusively proven or demonstrated,” Jon interjects over Martin’s shoulder, and tries not to grin when Melanie exclaims with indignance. 

“You wouldn’t know a ghost if it came up behind you and bit you in the arse,” she says. “See, then there are folks like Jon over here who’d rather everything be boring and dull and say ‘oh, it’s just residual magic, it’s causing auditory hallucinations’, or grief-stricken relatives or whatever.”

“You’ve admitted before it could absolutely be those things!” Jon counters, pointing accusingly at her. “Remember that one letter-”

“Anyway, you’re interrupting my cool story, Jon, so why don’t you hush up and let the blind girl talk?” 

Jon harrumphs and settles down, crossing his arms, and quietly appreciates Martin’s unsubtle giggling. He can just see the way Martin’s cheeks are turned up with his smile, and with how close they have to sit on the couch, he can feel the vibrations of his laughter across the scant inches of space between them. Jon tries to suppress his feelings and focus in on the story. 

“Right, where was I?”

“You were telling me about the first time you came here.” 

“Yeah! So, see, Fairside’s pretty well-known for being founded by magic-users, and of course the Fairchilds, who are arguably the strongest, most long-lived magical family bloodline on record. That’s how I met Georgie, actually. There was this little festival thing happening or whatever, something about celebrating the magic of the ancestors for blessing the land or something? I don’t remember, but I thought if I was gonna meet anyone else with magic, it’d likely be at this place. 

“Both of these two were there — Jon and Georgie.” Melanie pauses, then shouts toward the kitchen, “Where you two on a date that night?”

“Don’t think so!” Georgie calls back. “That was, uh- right before.”

“Oh.” 

Jon speaks up, just loud enough to explain to them both, “It was a sort of tradition to go. The Night of Candles. Everyone would gather around the tree at the center of town and light candles, say a little spell, and make a wish for the town. You were supposed to wish for things like successful crop yields or healthy babies.” 

“Or good weather. Maybe that’s the problem,” Georgie says, popping her head in through the doorway, wiping at her hands with a rag. “No one wished for that last year, and it pissed off the tree!” 

“I’ll bet on that,” Melanie says, smirking. 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, that’s why Georgie and I were there together. We’d been going as friends before we were dating, and…” He pauses, then reluctantly adds, “It was the last night I expected to be there, honestly. I wanted to go and be there with Georgie before I moved up to the hill.”

“So it was the night of bringing way too many fire starters to the very flammable tree,” Melanie says, and Jon leans back in his spot on the couch, a bit twitchy with nerves and relief. He feels something touch his knee and looks to see Martin’s leg has gotten closer. After a second of internal debate, Jon scoots just a bit closer, so their thighs touch. 

Melanie continues to explain how she ran into Georgie and Jon, the first two people near her age she’d been able to find in the crowd, and ask them what was going on. She and Georgie got on right away, while Jon hung back. At the first mention of her traveling, ghost-hunting career, Jon proceeded to make the worst impression possible, and ended up splitting off from the other two. 

“I thought Jon was a prick,” Melanie laughs, “and I was right! But I guess he’s not so bad now. We talked a lot in our letters and I got to know him a little better. So at least now I know why he’s such a stick in the mud.”

“I still can’t believe you wrote to me,” Jon mumbles. He adds, louder so Georgie can hear, “I can’t believe you told her she should write!” 

“I thought it’d be funny?” Georgie admits, finally done with the cleaning. There aren’t any chairs left, so she steals the pillow from Melanie’s and tosses it onto the floor, sitting there. 

“Anyway, that’s how the three of us met. I came back to visit Fairside a couple of times, saw Georgie. Sometimes I’d stay for a week or so, then head off again. Sometimes I was just passing through. But I kept coming back. Fairside is a good place to stock up, and there are lots of different ways to head out if you want to travel. 

“Anyway, one day I’m looking into this abandoned village. I never learned the history of it, exactly, only that people used to live there and then… didn’t. A lot of it was sort of burned down, so it was really impossible to tell what exactly happened, but my money was always on raiding, they’d been pillaged or something. 

“I was trying to get a good read on some of the hotspots I sensed there. At one point I found what I believed to be a graveyard, which was giving off the idea that some really dense pockets of magic existed there. I didn’t mean to get too close, but I guess it’s not exactly a science, figuring out what counts as too close… So, maybe I angered a spirit or something? But I got shot for it.”

Martin jumps in his seat. “You were shot?” 

“Yeah, I got hit by… I don’t really know what it was, actually? Some sort of magic, but it felt like a bullet. It hurt like hell and it did a number on my leg; I couldn’t walk for a couple days afterward. Then after all that, my magic was… different. Wonky, at first, and then there would be these… I guess you’d call them flares. It was like all of a sudden, and the most random times, my magic would be way more powerful than it usually was. Sometimes it happened while I wasn’t doing anything at all, and it always caught me off guard, but I knew I had to do something with all the excess, or I’d get hurt. So I’d just do the first thing I could think of to expel it, and usually that… wasn’t good.

“It quickly grew to be a problem. People are wary of magic at the best of times, especially out on the countryside, in little towns, but even in the city. Some girl running around exploding random objects and bleeding magic so heavily even strangers on the street could pick up on it wasn’t going to end well, no matter what.

“It got to the point where I had to start avoiding towns altogether. Then most people,” Melanie said, her tone getting a bit more grim. “It was… not great. The magic that was- I don’t know what it was doing, exactly, but maybe infecting me? It was starting to get so bad I couldn’t tell where my magic ended and this other magic began. Maybe by then, they were the same thing. But it wasn’t what I’d been living with before, and it was difficult to control and it hurt.

“Then, one day, I woke up, and I was just… lost.”

“Lost?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Melanie says, rubbing the bridge of her nose with one hand. “I just… I just had no idea where I was. It wasn’t like I’d wandered into the woods and gone off the trail. I had absolutely no sense of direction anymore. I could barely see anything- or, if I did, I’d forget what I’d just seen as soon as it was out of sight. The world just became this sort of unknowable, scary place for me. I don’t know what really went on, if I’d been spirited someplace by the magic, or if I was actually stumbling through the countryside, totally delusional and not knowing it. If it was my own fucked up magic getting me lost, or if I’d wandered into some sort of… something, I don’t know. 

“All I really did know was that, wherever I’d ended up, it was bad, and I had to find some way of getting out. So I had to do a spell. It was a Seeing spell, something to help me find… I wasn’t sure, exactly, what to try looking for. I didn’t really have a ‘home’ to go to, you know? I’d been living the nomadic life for so long, I couldn’t think of any one place I wanted to try being. And I didn’t have a ton of friends… I…” 

At this point, Melanie blushes faintly, looking begrudging as she admits, “I guess I could have been thinking of Georgie, since this is where I ended up. Took everything I had, but eventually the spell got me through whatever place I’d been lost in. Next thing I know, my head is splitting — for a little while, I thought I was going to die. I think I blacked out while using the spell at some point, honestly, I really don’t remember a lot of what happened past a certain point. It was pretty nightmarish. But when I woke up, Georgie was there.”

“She showed up in front of the house,” Georgie explains, a serious expression on her face. She reaches up for Melanie’s hand, tapping the woman’s knee until it’s supplied. Their fingers link together, and Georgie continues. “It was dark out, but I thought I heard something, like… Like a chanting sound? I would’ve stayed in, but the voice sounded familiar. I looked out the window and there was this weird fog everywhere. Or- well, it wasn’t really fog. It looked more like everything outside was just… getting fuzzier. It was harder to tell what was what. The trees didn’t look like trees, and even all the colors seemed wrong, even though I couldn’t tell you now that they’d actually changed so much. 

“The voice kept getting closer, and I still couldn’t understand what it was saying, but I definitely recognized it, so I eventually went outside. And once I realized it was Melanie talking, I called back. Eventually I found her stumbling into view. It was really weird — at first she was just a shadow, like the trees, but then suddenly it was her.” Georgie pauses, then says, “Her eyes were- I dunno. Burning. It was really intense.” 

“Wow.” Martin’s voice is hardly a breath. He says to Melanie, “I’m really glad you’re okay! That sounds… horrible, really.”

“It was,” she says, but with a bittersweet smile. “I’m just lucky I guess.”

“So you’re saying that it was the spell that made you blind?” Martin asks.

“Yeah, it was too much for me to handle. I don’t remember how long I was holding it, but obviously it was too long.” 

“Is that because-” Martin looks a bit shy, but eventually asks, “Was it because you didn’t have an anchor?” 

“Yeah, probably! Like I said, I’ve done a spell like that before, but last time I had an old colleague helping me out, and I only had to use it for a few minutes to figure out which direction we had to go. Spells like that — looking far distances, or trying to find something really specific — can take a lot out of you. I didn’t have anyone with me when I was lost, obviously, so I had to sustain it all on my own. I figure that’s why I can’t use magic now; I sorta burned through my reserves maintaining the spell, and whatever infected my magic before got burned along with it.” 

“She can still do little things,” Georgie adds. “Make light or heat, stuff like that.” 

“Yeah, little things.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, but Melanie waves him off. 

“It’s really fine! Better this than dead.” She smirks, resting her chin on one hand. “Although, maybe then I could’ve turned into a ghost. That’d be sort of cool. Then I could’ve haunted Jon for the rest of his life.” 

“Perish the thought,” Jon says, and the others laugh. 

Eventually it gets late, and so Jon tells Martin, “You can go home without me; I’m going to stay the night here.”

“Oh, alright! Are you sure?”

“I want to catch up on some things with the others,” Jon tells him as they walk to the front door. He briefly rests his hand on Martin’s arm, offering a smile, then pulls away. “Get home safe.” 

It’s a swifter goodbye than he’s used to nowadays, with Martin, but entirely necessary. The courier’s hardly been gone for five seconds before Melanie loudly inquiries, “Right, so, that was the bloke you said Jon fancies, right Georgie?” 

“Mmhm!” Georgie responds, with far too much cheer. She grins at Jon, and though this is the exact reason he chose to visit in the first place — aside from introducing them to Martin — he can’t help but feel a little cornered. “So. Martin, huh?”

Melanie says, “I like him; he laughed at all my jokes.”

“Martin is very polite,” Jon tells her pointedly, then carefully makes his way back to the couch, careful of her legs as she feebly kicks in the direction of his voice. He falls into his previous seat, letting out a sigh, posture dissolving in a way he’d never let anyone else witness. But it’s just Georgie, and Melanie literally can’t see him, so Jon doesn’t bother with propriety. He puts his hands on his face and sighs again.

“Oh, wow,” Georgie says, finally pushing herself up from the ground so she can sit next to Jon. “You’ve got it really bad.” 

“Shut up,” Jon grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. In the next moment, he says, “I like him so much and I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“Sounds just like you.”

“I know,” Jon sighs.

Melanie speaks up, saying, “Is just asking him out too difficult for you? He’s obviously into you, and I can’t even see the guy.”

“It’s… complicated,” Jon protests.

“That’s what everyone says, except they’re always wrong. It’s never as complicated as you make it out to be in your head.”

“But it is complicated.” Jon sits up and frowns at his hands where they fidget on his skirt. “With everything going on- It’s all just too important to let myself — either of us — get distracted by… this. Whatever it is. It’s selfish.”

“That’s not selfish,” Georgie protests, but despite her frown, she seems to consider Jon’s words. “I can’t say you’re wrong about the other stuff, though. How has all that been going, by the way? Your last update made it sound like you were swamped.”

“I still am,” Jon tells her. “Progress has been slow. All of us are doing our best to search for anything that might be useful, but so far? Not much luck.”

“You’re trying to do a weather spell, right?” Melanie asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s ballsy of you.”

“I don’t want to! I know it’s going to be dangerous, which is why this is not the time to be letting myself get sidetracked by frivolities. I have to focus.”

Georgie sighed and leaned back on the couch, resting her chin in one hand. “So, what, you’re just going to ignore this guy you like?”

“I… I’m not going to ignore Martin. I don’t think I can, really, at this point.” After a moment of hesitation, Jon reluctantly admits, “We’ve kissed, just the one time though-”

“You’ve kissed! Why are we even having this conversation, then?” Melanie exclaims. 

“It- It’s not so straightforward as that!” Jon snaps, flustered — he knows he’s blushing, and he knows Georgie is close enough to spot it. “I kissed him, but, but it wasn’t much of anything, just a peck on the cheek, and he probably just thought it was a thank you gesture more than anything-”

“God.” Melanie slumps into a position in her chair that looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re totally useless, Jon.”

Jon can’t think of a way to refute her, so he just stays quiet, glaring. 

A second later, he feels Georgie’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s a lot to deal with, Jon. Maybe it is best to put the Martin thing aside, for now? He’ll still be there afterwards. I mean, it sounds like he took the kiss thing well enough, right?”

“Right…”

“So yeah, if it’s stressing you out, just try not to think about it too much for now.”

From the corner of his eye, Jon can see Melanie grimace, but she doesn’t say anything. So Jon just nods along with Georgie. “I… I do think that would be best.” 

“Just for now, though.” Georgie smirks. “You should still tell him how you feel later.”

“Ah… right.”

Jon doesn’t stay much longer than that. He’s teased for lying to Martin about staying the night — “That’s not a great way to start a relationship, Jon.” —  but Jon explains he wanted to talk with them alone for a bit, and Martin would have insisted on walking him home.

“Cute,” Georgie notes, to Jon’s embarrassment.

Georgie gives him a hug before sending him off, and he parts from Melanie with a handshake. Just before Jon makes it off the property, though, he hears Melanie call out to him. Turning, he sees her carefully walking down uneven stones steps after him, feeling along with her cane; he hastily makes his way back over to her. “What is it, Melanie?”

“I just wanted to tell you something,” she says, reaching out a hand. When Jon takes it, she tugs, gesturing with her cane towards the side of the house, where Georgie grows their vegetables. “We can talk over this way.”

Slowly, she leads him away from the house, still gripping his hand in one of hers. Eventually they come to the end of Georgie’s property, where grass becomes weeds, and from there grow the beginnings of a forest, disguising a natural path that leads into the mountains. Melanie’s eyes, so pale, gaze out into the quiet dark. The sun had long since disappeared, leaving only moonlight to outline the world around them. 

“D’you remember when Georgie said, before she found me out here, that she heard me chanting something?”

“Yes.” 

“It was a spell. At least, I’m pretty sure it was. And I don’t mean the Seeing spell, I mean something else.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know what kind of spell it was, I just know it wasn’t anything I’d already learned. It just sort of… came to me. I think it’s what led me to Georgie, sort of. The Seeing spell definitely helped me know which way to go, I think, but… Actually being able to get here? I think that came from the other one.” 

Jon hums, thinking. “And you’re sure you never heard the spell before?”

“No, it was something totally new to me. It felt..” Melanie closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. “It felt… like peace. I was so… scared, when I got lost. I was in so much pain from the Seeing spell, and I knew if I broke it for even a second, I was never going to get away from that place. Then those words came to mind, and I felt… a lot safer. I didn’t know what I was saying or why, but I just kept repeating the words, over and over, and the more I said it, the more sure I was that I was going somewhere good.” 

They’re silent for a moment, standing together, listening to the nighttime sounds. A gentle wind, only slightly cold, swims through the dark forest canopy, and Jon idly wonders if it’s going to snow again. Before his worries can weigh his mind, though, Melanie says in a low, serious voice, “I wanted to tell you. The words. The spell. It helped me when I really needed it, and… Look, Jon, I don’t know exactly what you’re going to have to do to fix this weird weather, but something in my gut is telling me it won’t be easy. And I know you’re too much of an idiot to ask for help when you really need it, and you’re stupid enough to do something that could probably get you killed if you felt like you had to.”

“Hey-”

“So I’m telling you this, because if you have to do some sort of big spell, I don’t want you getting lost in it,” she tells him. Jon swallows the indignance he felt at her previous words, the feeling disappearing fast. Instead he stares at her, ruminating in the earnestness. 

“Okay. Tell me.”

She tells him. Leans right into his ear and whispers the phrase into his ear. The shape of it tickles his senses, cementing itself instantly in his memory. Jon mouths the words back, then says them loud enough so Melanie will be able to hear, and she nods. “That’s it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just… be careful,” she grouses, poking his foot gently with the end of her cane. After another quiet moment, she adds, “I was alone, when it happened. I didn’t have a choice over whether or not I’d die without anyone helping me out. I’m lucky help came to me regardless. If you need an anchor, Jon, you should ask for one.” 

“I doubt things will get that serious,” Jon says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. He doubts Melanie buys it, but she doesn’t say anything else. Merely turns heel and starts off toward the house. 

Jon walks with her to the door. To his surprise, she pulls him into a hug, one arm around his waist while the other holds her cane. Jon manages to hug back before she pulls away. “Don’t get lost in the dark on your way home!” she teases, and closes the door behind her. 

Chapter Text

Jon sits staring out the window, watching as rain falls in sheets across Fairside. There’s a book in his lap, but he’s not reading, weary of the many words that have begun to swim in his vision. Tim is out cold on the table, having fallen asleep while reading about practical uses for gemstones in ritualistic spellcrafting. Sasha has been writing down anything she thinks could construct a half-useful spell, but now her pen is still as she, too, stares out the window. 

“Do you think it’s going to flood?” she asks idly, sounding very tired. Jon shrugs. “It used to flood sometimes, in my hometown. The whole street would be in a foot of water. I always wondered how all that water could be there, instead of going somewhere else.” 

Jon opens his mouth to answer, but what comes out is a startled shout as the window flashes. Half a second later, thunder booms through the library, and Tim is startled awake. He jerks his head up, eyes wide. “What the hell?” 

“Just some thunder,” Sasha tells him. She reaches over to pat his shaking hand. “Have a nice nap?”

“Gods, what time is it?”

“Not sure. It got dark a while ago, but that’s just from the storm, I think.”

“Martin’s here,” Jon says, hoping that offers some idea of the time. Martin doesn’t usually arrive at the library until later, and that was… what, an hour ago? Maybe two? Jon wonders if the rain will let up anytime soon — it’s probably time to go home for the night. 

Tim nods, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s he at?”

“With Gerry, fetching more books,”  Sasha answers.

“We should tell them they don’t have to,” Jon mutters, finally turning away from the window. The sound of rain against the building grows even louder, as if angry over Jon’s attention wandering. “I don’t think there’s much use in any of us keeping at it for tonight.”

“Yeah, I feel dead on my feet,” Tim says, yawning. “Not looking forward to getting home in the middle of this, though.”

“We should probably wait a bit,” Sasha says, and smiles at Tim’s groan. “What, you want to wade out in that?”

“I just want to sleep,” Tim grumbles. “In my bed.” 

“My tables not good enough for you, Stoker?” Mike’s torso peers at them from behind one of the bookshelves. He looks vaguely concerned. “It’s a mess outside. The lot of you might have to stay for a while.” 

“Yeah, we were just-”

Suddenly, there’s a violently bright light streaming in through the window, and they hardly have time to blink in surprise before the loudest noise Jon’s ever heard is ripping through the air. All four of them jump, and somewhere in the stacks Jon hears a startled yelp. The whole world trembles around him as the growling aftershocks of thunder ripple past them. 

The rain outside is terrible, and Jon realizes the storm has turned into something entirely different. It slams against the window hard enough to threaten, and Jon, half in a daze, gets out of his chair to move away from it. The world outside is a swirl of darkness, but flashes of lightning continue to illuminate the rain. Everyone stares at the window, then looks to each other; all around them is silent but for the roar of rain against the library, and now the howling wind. 

A few seconds later, Martin and Gerry arrive. “That sounded way too close,” Gerry states, his tone dark. 

As if in agreement, the sky splits again, and another clap of thunder booms. Jon feels an arm drape around his shoulders, pulling him even further from the window he couldn’t stop staring at. “Get away from all the windows!” Martin tells them, dragging Jon further into the stacks and gesturing for the others to follow. “I think- I think it might be a hurricane outside.” 

“Better that than a tornado!” Tim shouts over the too-loud noise of the rain. “Oh, gods, I hope I didn’t just jinx us.”                                    

“There- there couldn’t possibly...” Jon mutters, but he simply doesn’t know. It shouldn’t be possible that they’re having a hurricane this far inland. Jon runs along with Martin and the others. Mike takes the lead at some point, ushering them toward the front of the library. There are no windows, but the front doors have been blown open — wind and rain cascade into the lobby, and through the doorway they can see the chaos outside. 

The streets are already overrun with water, debris ripping its way past on harsh winds. A few people who are outside hastily make their way to cover — a couple of them now diving into the library. The group moves forward, catching drenched civilians as they stumble out of the storm, but Jon runs past them, outside, horrified and mesmerized by it. 

The floodwater is up to his calves, and Jon can feel the pull of it, a current borne from swirling wind. In only a few seconds, he’s completely drenched, but barely registers it — he’s distracted by the power of the storm. It rushes through him, batters against him, overwhelmingly powerful. Jon wavers and falls to his knees, sobbing with the force of the storm. 

“Jon!” A voice from behind, nearly lost in the roaring cacophony. A moment later someone’s at Jon’s shoulder. He looks up, and through rain — or is it his tears? — he sees Martin trying to pull him up. Together, they get Jon to his feet, but when Martin tries to bring Jon into the library, Jon resists. He can feel it… something coming. It hovers in the air, between the raindrops, waiting, poised to strike—

Like a volley of blows, lightning strikes. One wicked bolt light hits a house nearby, and half the porch immediately explodes. Jon can smell the electricity, the scorched wood. The fire that springs forth is quickly doused by rain, but the destruction and the screams remain.

A second after that, another strike comes down, and Jon can see it hit the great tree. He feels a sick burning sensation all throughout his body, as if his bones are electrified; he breaks away from Martin and makes a run for it, waterlogged, forced to fight through the churning water that floods the streets. 

He turns several corners, eventually coming to the center of town. There, as the storm reaches its crescendo, he watches as more lightning flicks like a serpent’s tongue from the dark sky, dancing in the leaves of the tree. The tree itself glitters, as if there’s frost hidden in the shadows of its leaves, illuminated with every touch of the lightning. Jon can feel its electric current pulse through the core of the tree, then dance outward throughout the rest of Fairside. It sparks at his ankles, submerged in water, and he cries out as the last strike blinds him and he falls with a splash to the ground, twitching with pain. 

Martin’s there on his knees sometime later, Jon can’t be sure when, pulling Jon up into his arms, saying something — but Jon can’t hear. Everything is muffled but for the sound of something like water, flowing slowly, thick and sweet around him. Without deciding to do so, Jon closes his eyes. 

Against the judgement of his friends, Jon spends the next morning walking through Fairside, assessing the damage. There’s debris everywhere, and more than two-dozen houses suffered some amount of damage during the storm. Jon sees families huddled together on their porches or loitering in the streets. There are guardsman everywhere, speaking with those displaced and combing through Fairside to make sure no one’s been caught in any rubble or lost during the storm. Jon even sees Daisy sifting through the remains of one house struck by lightning. She’s with another woman, the two of them talking in low voices he can’t hear. Just once, on accident, they lock eyes as he walks past. Daisy lifts one thick brow, as if in question, before turning back to her work.

He tries not to stay too long, but he has to see it… And, just as he suspected, the tree at the center of town is fine. Jon inspects it thoroughly, but can find no evidence of what happened the night before — there are no scorch marks, no ruined leaves on the ground, nothing burned or broken. Despite his lack of surprise, Jon feels relief wash through him at the knowledge that the tree has been left untouched, enough that he doesn’t even occur to him that there might be something unsettling about what he’s discovered.

Jon spends the rest of the day locked away in his room, sleeping, illogically drained. He doesn’t understand what happened to him during the storm, but it took a lot out of him. As soon as he had the chance, he spoke to Sasha about it, and she admitted to feeling something too. Not nearly as strongly as Jon did, though.

“Probably because you were standing knee-deep in the water,” Martin had interjected, exasperation and worry coloring his voice. “Water conducts electricity, you know! What were you thinking?”

Jon hadn't been thinking. He’d just… felt. Or maybe it had been his horror, looking into the storm and seeing his failure. 

And somehow, deep down, Jon understood that the hurricane wasn’t going to be the worst of it. 

The next week passes wet and miserable. Two more storms hit, though thankfully they’re nowhere near as dangerous as the hurricane. They bleed into each other, the first hardly letting up for half a day before throwing Fairside back into darkness. Jon spends this time in self-exile, sleeping in his room and refusing any visitors — even Martin. He’s too tired and too ashamed to face anyone. 

Eventually, that shame morphs into disgust at his own moroseness, and Jon throws himself back into his work. 

One night finds Jon three-hours deep in a text about the history of magic in their region. He’s interrupted by the sound of Martin’s voice. “...and it’s getting sort of late…”

“Hm?” Jon glances up, blinking away the strain he feels behind his eyes. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I was trying to get your attention,” Martin tells him. He gestures to the dark windows, then the door. “It’s pretty late? I think it might be time to turn in.”

“That’s fair,” Jon says. Then he turns back to his book; it takes him a second to remember to tack on a, “Good night,” at the end. 

Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t seem to be enough for Martin. He hears the other man sigh, then get up from his chair. The Admiral, who deigned to join them that evening, mrrps in displeasure as his comfortable seat heads off into the kitchen. 

An inkling of concern nips at Jon, but soon enough his focus is back on the book. He has just enough time to finish the page before a hand descends from beyond his line of sight and grabs it. The book is taken from him, and Jon exclaims with surprise and displeasure, “Hey!” 

“Really, Jon.” Martin’s expression is stern, and he resolutely closes the book after placing one of Jon’s many makeshift bookmarks inside. Jon’s grown to know this look quite well — Martin started using it a lot more after… well, after that night. “You’ve been curled up on the couch with your nose in this book all day.”

“I need to finish it.”

“You can finish it tomorrow.” Already, Martin is walking away, taking the book with him. “I made tea. Have some, and then you can go to bed.”

“I can’t just sleep,” Jon grouses. “I need to keep looking into these books. Once they’re finished, I’ll swap them for more.”

“There is not one thing you just said that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Martin insists, bringing in two mugs of tea. He places one in front of Jon, then sits beside him.

In the face of Martin’s resoluteness, Jon finds himself growing frustrated, even angry. He pushes himself slightly away from Martin, huddling into the very edge of the couch, glaring. “It’s my house. I can do what I like, and that includes reading any of my books for as long as I please.”

For a second, Martin looks too surprised to speak — and maybe a bit hurt, though Jon chooses not to dwell on whether or not he really saw something like that in Martin’s eyes. Then, in the next moment, Martin composes himself. He says, simply, “I’m not going to force you to do anything, Jon. I can’t, not really. But you know you have to take care of yourself too, right?”

“That’s what resting days are for.”

“You spend all the days you should be resting doing more of this.”

“I have to, Martin!”

“Not this hard! Jon, you’re going to burn yourself out at this rate.”

“I have to do it!” Jon shouts, startling them both. He can feel himself trembling, and digs his fingers into his skirt, holding it in an iron grip. “I have to do something! I can’t- I can’t let this get any worse than it already has, and all I can do is look through all of these useless books, hoping to find some scrap of- of anything that will let me fix this!” 

“Jon-”

“That storm,” Jon mutters, voice faltering. He looks away, trying to catch his breath. “You don’t understand… That storm, it… It’s only going to be worse next time, Martin.” 

“I know.” Martin’s voice is slow and sympathetic, but a second later Jon feels a hand on his shoulder, and the grip is firm. “But Jon, you’re still just one person. You can’t keep doing this, you’re going to wear yourself out until there’s not anything left that can help.” 

“What do you want from me?” Jon asks his shaking hands, hiding his face behind the curtain of his hair. “What else can I do?”

“Let us help you,” Martin tells him gently. “You have friends who want to help you, Jon.”

“You’re already helping me,” Jon protests, but the fire has left him. He sighs instead, leaning back on the arm of the couch and rubbing at his eyes. At last, his exhaustion is too strong for him to ignore it. He shyly peeks at Martin, offering an apologetic smile. “Thank you. For helping.”

Martin only smiles back. “Of course! We’re all in this with you, Jon. So please don’t push yourself too hard, okay?” 

“I’ll… try.” 

After a moment of silence, Martin moves in a slightly jerky way, like he meant to do something, then decided not to halfway. A second later he asks, blushing, “Um, do you want a hug? I just- You look a bit like you need one.” 

A light, gentle feeling consumes Jon, drowning any sense of awkwardness. He shifts forward, hesitantly opening his arms to Martin, who smiles and gently pulls him in. The two of them have hugged before, but Jon’s always immeasurably charmed by the experience. It might sound obvious, to say Jon feels held, but that’s the only way he can think to sum it up: it’s warmth and comfort. It makes him feel much smaller than he is, yet safer for it.

Once they part, Martin takes a sip of his mostly-forgotten tea, then stands. As Jon leans forward to taste his, the courier shuffles on his feet. He’s got an odd look on his face, prompting Jon to ask, “Everything alright?” 

“Y-yeah! It’s just- I should be leaving.” 

Jon stands, leaving his cup on the table. “Right, right.” 

As usual, Jon walks him to the door. The night is quiet, but unseasonably warm; it’s enough that Martin foregoes his cloak, draping it over one arm instead. Under the archway, he pauses, and something in his eyes makes Jon’s breath catch. “Do you… I mean, um, would it be alright if I…”

“Spit it out, Martin,” Jon says, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. 

“Just- could I kiss you? Not like- just, just like you did, the other night…? Is that alright?” 

“Oh...“ Jon tugs at his skirt, glancing away for just a second before saying, “Yes, that would be quite alright.”

“Oh! Oh, okay.” 

When he glances up again, Martin is smiling, and Jon feels like he might have been floating. He closes his eyes as Martin draws close, and for just a moment, feels Martin’s breath against his cheek. Then there’s the kiss, warm and dry. It lingers. Jon sighs, taking half a step closer, resting a hand on Martin’s arm. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and Martin hums in happy agreement before disappearing into the humid, dark night. 

Chapter Text

Jon rests flat on his back, staring up at the sky, and tries to let himself just… breathe. 

It’s a resting day, and Martin has convinced Jon to spend the morning outside. The warm sunlight and gentle breezes are a respite from the last week of turbulent weather. Even here, in the small meadow where Jon often collects rosemary and juniper, the woods are marked with evidence of the last few days. Broken branches reach out at them from bedraggled shrubbery, and the two of them had needed to be very careful not to step into the muddy banks of flooded areas. On their walk, Jon had spotted multiple nests destroyed or abandoned by the animals that once lived there. He silently wonders over the fact that there remain any animals at all — don’t they understand what was going on? Can’t they feel it through their connection to the land? 

Maybe I should just take it as a good omen, Jon think to himself, still incredulous. But it’s hard to feel overly pessimistic on a day like this. The birds are still singing; they play a harmony with the swaying grass, the whispering canopy that tosses light haphazardly across the forest floor. Martin is beside him, sitting upright for now, looking over the green expanse in search of something. 

He hums when he finds it, then looks down at Jon with a smile. “Okay, got it. I spy something… red.”

With some reluctance, Jon sits up. He’s wearing a light cardigan today, and he lets it slip off his shoulders as he considers the scene before him. There are mostly grasses and flowers, with a couple of trees bearing under-ripe fruits. Something twitches in the shadows: a lone squirrel with a reddish coat, working on some sort of nut. 

“Is it the squirrel?”

Martin tsks. “You’re too good at this game!” 

“Maybe you’re just bad at picking things,” Jon teases with a smile. 

“You go then.”

“I spy something… pink.”

Martin spends a few minutes scrutinizing everything within range that Jon could’ve possibly picked. Eventually he shakes his head in defeat and asks, “Fine, what is it?”

With a single finger, Jon pokes at the natural, healthy blush on Martin’s cheek. “Right there.”

The blush grows harsher, which was Jon’s intent; he laughs as Martin shoves him, crying indignantly, “You’re a filthy cheater! I’m never playing I Spy with you again.”

“A different game, then?”

“Fine. Hm…”

While Martin thinks it over, Jon falls back to look at the clouds. They crawl by just as lazily as the hours. It’s odd to think that so much is happening, that Jon is so busy these days, when in this very moment he feels nothing but peace. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so relaxed, so untethered from his everyday life and worries. 

Martin’s voice pulls him back from his musings. “How about twenty questions? You ask me something, and I ask you something back, and we just keep going like that until we hit twenty?”

“Twenty seems like a lot,” Jon says, squirming just slightly and adjusting the skirt of his dress. It’s shorter than his usual, stopping just past his knees. Both men discarded their shoes a while ago, and he feels the faintest tickle of grass reach him from the edge of their blanket. “How about ten?”

“That’s fine. Do you want to go first?”

“Sure. You know, if I were, as you like to accuse, a ‘filthy cheater’, I might have said that was your first question to me.”

Martin rolls his eyes, but says nothing else, waiting for Jon’s question. He thinks it over, going through all the obvious things until he stumbles over a gap in his knowledge. It feels like something he should already know, and yet… “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” Martin tells him. At Jon’s surprised look, he asks, “What?”

‘I’m twenty-eight,” Jon says.

“I’m older than you?” 

Jon frowns at his tone. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Sorry, just- I just thought you were older than me?” 

“No wonder what gave you that idea,” Jon says flatly. 

“Don’t get all grumpy,” Martin tells him with a bit of a smirk. He shifts his weight so one hand can slide across the blanket, gently tugging at some of Jon’s hair. “I like the silver in your hair, it’s pretty.” 

“It’s also come in a decade too soon, entirely uninvited.” 

“You can’t help it if you're stressed. You’ve got a pretty demanding job, Jon.”

Jon waves a hand, hoping to change the subject when he says, “Your turn.” 

“Um, alright. How about… What sort of hobbies do you have? And don’t say reading.” 

Jon frowns deeply. “Why can’t I say reading?” 

“Because it’s an obvious answer that I already know.” 

“...Define ‘hobby’.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Something you do for fun, not work.” 

“Well, I like to go on walks.” 

“But you only walk around the woods to gather potion supplies, right?”

“...I like to… cook?” 

Martin stares him down. “You like to cook? Or you can cook, because you have to?” 

Jon reaches up to smack Martin’s elbow, frustrated. “Leave me alone! So what if all I do is work or read? I- I read for fun, too! I like to learn new things, and reading books is the way to do that.”

“You should really find a couple of hobbies just for you though,” Martin insists. “Maybe something that’ll get you out of the house more.”

“Well, what sort of hobbies do you have?” Jon asks, only sounding a little bitter — he hopes. “I’m sure they must all be terribly interesting.” 

Martin sputters, then turns away, blushing. After a moment he finally says, “I like to, um, write a little.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember a long while ago, I told you I like to read poetry? Well, I sort of like to write it, too.” 

“Really? What sort of poetry?”

“Oh, just, any kind. Sometimes I write about, like, nature, or just what I see outside. Houses, people, that sort of thing. Sometimes I write about, you know, my feelings or whatever.” It’s beyond Jon’s vision from where he’s lying, but he thinks he can see Martin picking at the grass like a restless child. “It’s not much really. Just something I do when I feel like it, or sometimes to make me feel better? Nothing fancy.”

“...I’ve never really understood the appeal of poetry,” Jon admits quietly, trying to keep his tone neutral. In truth, he’s never really liked poetry at all — he finds most of it too flowery or abstract to engage with. It’s easier for him to appreciate a book on history than a poem about something from history. “Doesn’t it feel, I don’t know, pretentious? Making something like that?”

The second after he speaks, Jon regrets his words, but Martin doesn’t seem all that bothered. He turns back to Jon with a faint, understanding smile on his face. “It can sometimes,” he admits. “But it can be fun, too. It’s challenging, trying to find the right words… You want it to mean what you mean, right? But it’s also supposed to sound right, even if you lose the meaning sometimes. Really, it’s more like you have to work to find a balance of the two.” 

“I couldn’t do something like that.” 

“You have other strengths,” Martin tells him, like it’s a simple truth, and Jon fidgets under his affectionate gaze. 

They go on like that for a while, tossing questions back and forth, often volunteering their own form of answer. Jon learns that Martin has a fear of small spaces, a love for spiders (this had started a brief but intense argument between the two), and a penchant for getting himself into fights as a teenager. 

“I just can’t believe you punched him,” Jon couldn’t help but interject during Martin’s story — a mostly-lighthearted tale about a bully who’d cornered Martin one day to steal something he’d bought, only to be socked in the nose. 

“Yes, well,” Martin sighs, sounding equal parts amused and embarrassed over his past behavior. “It was a hard time, and I really couldn’t let him make off with my things. Most of it was food I wouldn’t have been able to afford buying all over again.” 

“Still. I can’t imagine you hitting anybody.”

“I didn’t want to! I sort of panicked? I tried to apologize… but that just sort of led to another fight. I didn’t hit him that time! Just, uh, pushed him into a gutter.”

“I’m not sure I can condone all that violence,” Jon says, crossing his arms. “And here I thought you were a polite boy raised on good morals.” 

“I was raised on home-grown tea and snide remarks from my ill mother,” Martin retorts. His tone is light, but Jon has come to view Martin’s mother as something of a sore subject. He’s mentioned before that it gets easier, but it’s still difficult for him sometimes. Plus Jon isn’t overly-fond of the way Martin talks about her, the things he says she did or said to him while she was alive. 

“You’ve got one more question,” Jon says, hoping to push past it. By now the sunlight has grown warmer with the onset of evening. The shadows, once light and blue, grow long as light disappears beyond the canopy. Still, the air remains comfortably warm, and the smell of the flowers around them is strong on the breeze. Jon closes his eyes, clasping his hands over his stomach. 

It takes longer than Jon expects for Martin to speak again. When he pries open one eye to glance over, Martin is already staring at him. He doesn’t flinch at being caught, but his cheeks do grow delightfully pink once more. Jon quirks a brow. “Yes?”

In Martin’s hand is a stem of sweet alyssum, something Jon hadn’t noticed until just now. He watches the two tiny white flowers twirl between Martin’s fingers. Then he watches, keeping very still, as Martin reaches over to carefully tuck it behind Jon’s ear. The stem tickles him as it settles in his hair. It’s gotten a little harder to breathe. 

“Can I kiss you again?” Martin asks. He’s much closer now, hanging over Jon just a little, enough for his soft edges to shield Jon from the fading sunlight. Like this, Jon can see all his flyaway curls, thin and golden. They’re in stark contrast with his eyes, darker than usual, waiting with eager intent for Jon’s answer.

“Would it be like before?” Jon asks, his voice the whisper of the wind in the grass.

“Not quite,” Martin says, just as softly. 

Jon brings up one hand to touch Martin’s cheek — it’s soft and warm beneath his fingertips. When he moves on to Martin’s neck, his fingers get tangled with his hair, and Jon thinks he quite likes the feel of it against his skin. It only takes the slightest tug to bring Martin in closer, and Jon lets his eyes slip closed once again as their lips meet. 

This kiss feels different from the ones before it, though Jon’s not sure he could put it into words if he tried. Maybe Martin could, with his poetry. It feels like the quiet of the day, the good fortune they’ve found amidst a storm of ill tidings. It’s like they stand in the eye of that storm, a moment of absolute stillness, so powerful he can feel it ringing in his ears. 

Martin pulls away slowly. Jon holds him close, but doesn’t kiss him again. Instead he makes a sound somewhere in his throat — asking, or calling, though for what he’s not really sure. Martin’s eyes flutter open and he smiles. 

There’s a lot of work to be done, but that’s later, at the end of the day. Jon intends to stay where he is with Martin, until it’s dark enough that they’ll be forced to hold hands on their way home.

Chapter Text

The new month arrives. Jon is summoned to stand before Gertrude and the council. He leaves the building with shaking hands and has to pause on the steps to steady himself. 

The past few days have been awash with rain, hour-long torrents often carrying hail with them. This morning, Jon had been escorted once again by Daisy, and the two of them were forced to trudge through slushy earth and frosted grass. More than once, Jon nearly lost his footing, the end of his cane slipping on some hidden patch of ice or sinking into the ground where it was unnaturally waterlogged. On each occasion, Daisy reacted faster than him, one hand reaching out quick as a viper to snag his arm and hold him steady. They didn’t speak beyond Jon’s mumbled thank yous. 

Now he was in Fairside, shivering under the cold of morning as well as the expectations of the council. 

Sasha had been there as well, her services as a Seer having been officially commandeered by the council. Based on her predictions, another hurricane — or something equally awful — was likely to hit them within the next few weeks. The meeting had been hours long, an intense and frightening display of the council’s internal politics. In the end, Gertrude got her way as she always did, though her proposal had been a massively unpopular one: at the first sign of an increase in dangerous weather patterns, Fairside would evacuate. 

Her role being of crucial importance to this plan, Sasha had been forced to say, while Jon was all but ousted from the meeting hall. His weeks of research and theories had been scrutinized by the council, who pecked at each scrap of information like carrion birds on a near-barren carcass. Nothing he’d brought to the table was good enough. The worst part was that Jon agreed with them. 

Jon needed to do something. Something had to be done. It was beginning to dawn on him — really sink in — the idea that another storm like the one they’d suffered could actually cause irreparable damage to the town. And if it was categorically worse than the previous hurricane? Fairside might not survive it, nor its people. 

And so his afternoons and evenings constantly find him in the library. The only consolation is that Jon doesn’t have to work alone — at least one or two of the others are always present, helping him find books or comb through ones they’ve already looked at. 

Usually, it’s Tim and Sasha. Sometimes it’s just Tim, or Gerry as well.  Martin isn’t always able to join them before the sun has long disappeared, but he never fails to walk Jon home after a long day of fruitless research. 

Tonight, it seems they’ve all found the time to pitch in and help. As if it’s been any real use, Jon thinks bitterly, though the entirety of that bitterness is focused in on himself. 

It’s late — later than usual. Jon is seriously considering just falling asleep on or under the table. By the looks of the others, they might even join him. 

Jon collapses like a puppet off its strings, face resting woefully between the pages of his book. He feels a hand come to rest comfortingly between his shoulder blades: Martin. But the other man doesn’t say anything; they all feel the weight of their task and the unlikelihood of success upon them. 

Then, from between the stacks, someone sighs. “Hey… Look, I might have something for you.” 

Jon’s head snaps up to stare at Mike, who’s half in the shadows. He always seems pointedly disinterested when the others spend their evenings doing research. Never bothered to help before, which Jon couldn’t understand — he lived in Fairside too, didn’t he? “What do you mean?” he asks warily. 

“I don’t know if it’s going to be any help,” Mike tells Jon, shrugging. He reaches up to fiddle with his scarf, which Jon has noticed he’s always wearing, even when the weather turns stiflingly hot. “But I also don’t know if you’re going to find anything else that will. Besides, who knows… Maybe you’ll find something in all that stuff that doesn’t mean anything to me, since I don’t know magic.” 

Sasha stands up in her chair, staring critically at Mike. “Can you explain what ‘that stuff’ is?” 

“It’s… family stuff,” Mike tells her, looking very uncomfortable. After shuffling on his feet for a second, he sighs again. “Come on. I’ll just- It’ll be easier to explain if I show you.” 

Sharing curious looks, the group shuffles on after Mike, who leads them past the front desk into a back room. Beyond that room, there’s another door. For this one, Mike pulls out a small ring of keys, and uses one to unlock and open it. It creaks, slightly, as it opens, but there’s no rust on the hinges, nor any dust to be seen. Given he’s wearing his glasses, Jon can See a shimmer of magic just beyond the threshold. “What is this spell?” he asks Mike.

“So there is magic? I was never sure, just figured that’s what kept the place so clean,” he says. “I think it keeps out dust and pests, you know, moths and things. It never gets too hot or damp or anything. There are sconces already inside, and they stay lit; I tried to light a candle in here once, just to test out a theory, and the wick wouldn’t burn.”

“Some sort of preservation spell,” Sasha mumbles behind them, sounding deeply interested. Jon feels it too, like all of his prior fatigue is forgotten. He makes to slide into the room past Mike, but the man holds out his elbow to block Jon. 

“One sec, I’ve got to use the key again,” Mike says. “I don’t know what happens if you try to cross without me, but we probably shouldn’t risk finding out, should we? I mean… maybe later, if one of you volunteers.” 

Jon frowns, but steps back. Mike holds up his key. He doesn’t mime like he’s unlocking something invisible, merely holds it out until it touches the wall of magic. Jon can see blue sparks react to the touch of the silver key. Then Mike says, “So are we Rooted, and so are we Free.”

The shimmer recedes, and Mike leads them into the room. The room appears small, with little space for everyone to move comfortably, but only because it’s full to bursting. There are books and binders and stacks of loose papers tied into bundles with twine, all carefully organized on a lone bookshelf. There are multiple small trunks against some of the walls, and between those, various artifacts. Jon immediately focuses in on one of the handful of statues. It’s against the farthest wall, tucked into the corner, but he instantly recognizes who it’s meant to be, despite the deterioration due to age.

“That’s the First Fairchild,” he says, pointing out the statue. 

Martin follows his gesture. “Who’s that…?” 

“They’re the founder of Fairside,” Jon explains. Then gives Martin a wry look. “If you couldn’t tell.” 

“That’s why it’s called Fairside?” 

“Sure is,” Mike tells them. “See, way back when they found this place, the weather was really good, and the land was rich for farming. The Fairchilds were a powerful magical family — they’re the ones who founded this land, technically.”

“The First Fairchild was an amazing magic user!” Tim cites, looking excited. “I remember reading about them — they’re the one who chose exactly where Fairside was going to be built. They even planted the tree, right?” 

“Yes, they planted the tree,” Jon says, faltering slightly as his mind flits back to that moment- water and lightning and the feeling of something calling to him.

“Did they have a name?” Martin asks, staring at the statue. 

Gerry, who’d drifted over to the one desk in the room, looked up from the document he’d been inspecting. “That’s a good question, I never caught their name.” 

“They don’t have one,” Tim explains. “Well, I mean obviously they must have had a name, but we don’t know it. They’re never referred to by name in any of the history books.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Tim’s mouth opens to respond, but Mike cuts him off. “They wanted focus on their surname,” he says. “Amos believed it would be the best way to ‘secure the liberties and status of the family’ or something like that.” 

Martin perks up. “Amos? Was that their name?” 

“Yeah.”

Jon asks, “And how do you know this?”

Mike looks awkward again. He tugs at his scarf, then reluctantly says, “Because… well, technically, I’m a Fairchild too.” 

So this is how the story goes:

When Mike was only eight years old, a storm ripped through Fairside with little warning. Mike had been out playing in a field with his friend when it arrived, and while the two were running home, lightening struck Mike directly. 

(“And you survived?” Martin asked, looking amazed and worried. 

Mike only shrugged, fiddling with his scarf. “I’m here, aren’t I?”)

Mike wasn’t the only victim of the storm. It came with such ferocity and longevity that in the days that followed, it caused landslides, flooding, and the deaths of several people. In a cruel twist of fate, two of those people were Mike’s parents. 

They’d been home, Mike explained, while he was being tended to by Harriet Fairchild. She knew magic, and was using it to stabilize Mike and revitalize his nervous system after the lightening strike. So Mike wasn’t home when the foundation of his house, old and slowly rotting, ruined further by the wind and rain, suddenly collapsed, and his parents sunk down with it into the mud.

When Mike eventually woke up, he was an orphan. But not for very long. 

“Simon was the one who wanted to adopt me into the family,” Mike explains. His expression is as plain as ever, but there’s a hint of something in his voice when he speaks about Simon. Is it affection, Jon wonders. Some part of him feels an echo of it in himself, and it makes him think of his grandmother. He shifts uneasily where he sits atop one of the chests. They’ve all settled down, some on chests, some on the floor. Martin sits near Jon’s feet, clearly enraptured by Mike’s story.

“That’s how they did it,” Mike continues. “I don’t really know why. Maybe the First Fairchild, Amos, couldn’t have children themself? Maybe they just didn’t want them. In any case, it started a sort of tradition. Which is — or was, at least — technically a secret; most people these days don’t know about it. So just don’t go gossiping, alright?”

“But the Fairchilds were a family,” Tim interjects. “What happened to the others, didn’t they have kids?” 

“Some left, some stayed,” Mike explains. “A few died. A few had kids. It didn’t really matter, you see, because Amos had already chosen who would continue on their line. It didn’t have much to do with blood, for them. What was the point? It was all about the name. And bloodlines don’t guarantee magic, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Sasha says, bright with intrigue. “So Amos chose kids who could use magic to become honorary Fairchilds?”

“More or less,” Mike said. “That’s why any magic user who wasn’t a Fairchild always seemed like an odd occurrence — most folks who were approached about it would readily accept the offer of being adopted into the family. 

“But I wasn’t magic, so I never really understood why Simon chose me. I guess he just liked me? He was sort of an odd guy like that, he’d do all sorts of things for a lark. Harriet was technically the one who adopted me, but really it was Simon’s idea, and he always treated me the most like I was family.

“In any case, I wasn’t going to argue with him. Simon Fairchild was the oldest and most respected person in the whole town — what was I supposed to do, tell him no thank you and go back to the home and parents I didn’t have anymore? So when he asked if I wanted to be a Fairchild, I just said yes.” 

“I can’t believe this,” Gerry says. “How does no one know about this?”

“Well, it used to be something of an open secret. People didn’t want to stir up trouble with the very powerful magic user who literally founded the place they were settling into, you know? They just looked the other way. No one talked about it. Eventually, people forgot. Children would get taken into the fold every decade or so and no one really batted an eye.

“I guess some people know… Gertrude Robinson does. Her family has been sort of close with the Fairchilds for a long time. She’s one of the only people who knows I’m part of the family. She told me she wouldn’t tell anyone about me, so long as I let her be head of the council. I wasn’t going to do it, and Harriet had no interest in politics either. It worked out in the end.”

“I- sorry, this is all extremely interesting,” Jon says, and he means it, but he’s feeling tired all over again and it reminds him why they’re here in the first place. “But what does any of this have to do with the situation we’re in now? Why did you bring us here?”

“Because everything in here belongs to the Fairchilds,” Mike replies. “There are things that date all the way back to Amos, almost four-hundred years... That’s how I know most of this stuff, by the way: Simon told me a lot of it, but he only knew it because of these old journals and documents. 

“I figured… Well, I really have no idea what’s going on out there or how to fix it. I don’t know if there’s anything in the library that’s going to be able to help you. But maybe something here will. There’s a lot of history about Fairside, probably a lot of stuff no one has any idea about. This little library has been kept a secret in the family for centuries.” 

And so they search. 

It’s difficult to get started, as they were already exhausted from the day. But it isn’t long before Jon finds himself hooked to the ancient texts. There’s an untold plethora of knowledge secreted away in this one, small room. They find old journals and diagrams of ‘family trees’, naming and describing every Fairchild who had been born or adopted into the family. There are personal diaries and more professional travelogues, detailing the daily lives of their owners to varying degrees of detail. Tim finds old rudimentary maps, chronicling the slow but steady expansion of Fairside along the eastern mountain range. 

It’s the stash of Simon Fairchild’s personal diaries that Jon eventually settles on, flicking through and trying to find as much useful information as possible. Unfortunately for him, it seems Simon was a verbose person with a penchant for flowery language: pages upon pages were little more than whimsical musings on various, inconsequential day-to-day happenings.

Jon quickly grows frustrated, but dares not overlook what might be an incredibly useful resource. So when Martin asks how he can help, Jon gives him all the older notebooks that he’s only had time to skim. “They could use a more thorough examination,” Jon explains, already reaching for another one. “See if you spot anything I missed.”

Gerry, Sasha, and Mike are mostly organizing loose papers and inspecting bundles of documents. There is plenty of interesting information to be found — financial records, files with information on some of the very old families who originated in Fairside, and more — but none of it useful to their current task. It seems to break Sasha’s heart to leave any of it uninspected, but she concedes to organizing things as best as she could with Gerry and Mike’s help (and fervently asks (or demands?) that Mike let her continue looking through it all later on.)

Then, finally, Jon finds something. “Look,” he says to Martin, leaning over and showing him the page of the journal he’s on. “Simon mentions storms here.”

Martin reads aloud: 

“Third month, seventh day. Quite a bit of rain, and unseasonal. Got rained out of a picnic with Dear Ceilo. Seemed to come out of nowhere! Funny, when things like that happen.” 

“Third month, tenth day. Something rather queer really is happening! We’ve had nearly a week of rain, and today, quite a bad storm. The fury of the wind! The torrential pour! I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years, not in Fairside.”

“Third month, twenty-fourth day. It seems something is wrong. There’s been a dreadful scourge of rain that won’t let us alone, and with it, hail and harsh winds. There has even been a small tornado sighted at the very edges of our region. Can you believe it? A tornado! I’ve never before witnessed a tornado, yet here one falls right at my doorstep. 

“The council is growing concerned. We’ll have to see what comes of all this. How exciting!”

Martin breaks off for a moment to mutter, “He’s a bubbly guy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, the hint of a smile on his face. “He was.”

Jon and Martin continue, and eventually the night Mike described to them makes its appearance in the journal: 

“Fourth month, fifth day. Bad storm, devastating last few days. Eight have died! We’ve had to bespell the bodies until the weather allows for proper burial. 

“I have adopted a new boy, named Mike Crew — he was struck by lightening!! I wonder what it felt like. He has a lovely scar up his torso now, but likes to keep it covered up when he can. Quiet boy, but he seems smart. Shame about his parents. I thought the lightening might have been a gift to him, but he seems to exhibit no further inclination for magic. It does appear, however, that he is now able to predict weather to some extent — always gets antsy the day before more rain comes. 

“Council looking into issue now. I’ve volunteered to research the Fairchild records to see if there are any clues. This is shaping up to be a real mystery! I wonder how things will turn out.”

“You can predict the weather?” Sasha asks, staring at Mike. 

Mike shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe? No idea if that’s magic or anything, I just get a sort of… well, I don’t know. A feeling. Usually I know when it’s going to rain. I’ve been feeling it more now, lately, with all the bad weather.”

“Is that why you’re always trying to shove us out of the library?”

“At least half the reason.” 

While they talk, Jon carefully scans the next few pages of the book. What he gathers is that Simon spoke with the council and they eventually determined a spell had to be done to try locating any sources of wild, ambient magic, which they believed to be the cause of the bad weather. Simon volunteered his and Harriet’s services. 

Finding something interesting, Jon resumes the reading:

“Fifth month, fourteenth day. Did a spell with Harriet — it really has been too long! She’s a delightful girl, very fun to work with, easily bothered by my antics.

“The spell was successful, and our findings perhaps obvious: the tree is the source. I’ve always known it to be a very magical thing, but to be causing so much damage right under our noses? How devious! Advised against chopping it down, when the council was told our findings. I do believe I saw something about the tree mentioned in Amos’ letters. Will look into it! Very excited!”

Gerry, who had been listening while looking through a box of old trinkets, asks, “Letters?”

“I know where those are!” Sasha tells them brightly, and dives for a bundle set off to the side. There are several stacks of folded papers wrapped in twine. Jon can see magic on the thread and assumes that’s what’s kept the paper so pristine despite the many, many years they’ve been sitting in some box. 

As she grabs a few of the stacks, pulling them into her lap, she says, “I skimmed over some of them, but I couldn’t tell who they were written for. At first I thought they might just be weird diary entries, but now I’m thinking Amos was writing them like they were talking to their descendants.”

After a moment of discussion, Sasha divides the letters between them all, and everyone starts reading, careful not to rip or wrinkle any of the pages. This time it’s Tim who makes a sound of discovery. “Got something, I think.” 

The page Tim reads seems to be one of the earliest, with Amos describing the discovery of Fairside and extrapolating on how perfect for a settlement it would be, if only the weather was more amicable. They describe winds that ripped along the mountain paths, and days-long rainstorms that plagued the region during spring and summer. 

But Amos was determined to stake their claim on the land and begin crafting their legacy. 

In the end, it all comes down to a spell, a seed, and one forever-long night. Amos describes an opening incantation —  “These two hands, magic making, weaving soul to soul.” — but offers little reference for components used in the ritual. Overall, their recollection of the experience is dreadfully vague, but Amos appears sure in their conviction that the spell was a success, and in subsequent letters repeatedly comments on the pleasant, consistent weather patterns. 

“Wait a minute — this sounds insane,” Sasha protests, scooching across the floor to read over Tim’s shoulder in disbelief. “You’re telling me that Amos established the groundwork for a region-wide spell restricting weather patterns all by themself?”

“Everyone always told me Amos was the best of us,” Mike comments. “They possessed magic like no one would believe these days.” 

“Still, it’s astronomically unlikely they could pull something like this off without dying.” 

“Maybe they didn’t pull it off,” Jon mutters grimly, then turns back to Fairchild’s journal, hastily searching for his thoughts on the subject. When he finds the page he wants, he reads:

“Fifth month, sixteenth day. After going through Amos’ letters, I managed to discover a thrilling secret: the entire settlement of Fairside is cast in the glow of a most peculiar and magnificent bit of spellcraft! Dear Amos managed to concoct a delightfully convoluted ritual all on their own, which I suppose is to be expected, they’ve always struck me as a bit of a show pony. Anyway, based on their notes, the spell is a bit of a bastard, and I’m not sure if we’ll be able to manage fixing it. Will consult the council and Harriet tomorrow.”

“Fifth month, twentieth day. Our first attempt was a total disaster! It went like this: to the best of my ability, I attempted to meet the specification for the ritual. I can only assume not many components were needed, and I suspect at least one thing was not listed which is required, and I will have to put some real effort into learning what that is. 

“All was well at first, but I thought Harriet and I would be enough to sustain the spell on our own, and it seems I was wrong. We couldn’t even begin to penetrate the spell, let alone dig into it enough to work out a way to fix what was broken.”

“Fifth month, twenty-second day. Another failure. I don’t understand what’s missing! We brought in two others, one for each of us, to act as anchors. Same results. I’ll have to go back to Amos’ letters to see if there’s anything I missed.”

The next handful of entries are similar, with Fairchild’s enthusiastic tone souring as he goes longer and longer without any success. Reading along, soaking in this man’s confusion and frustration, makes Jon feel seen, not to mention horribly nauseous. 

Then something changes. “Sixth month, thirteenth day,” Jon recites, “I think I’ve figured it out. I’ve been approaching the issues presented by the failed rituals all wrong. I should have known Amos — such an egomaniac — would have influenced the spell itself. They crafted and performed the entire thing on their own; for so long I thought the issue was a lack of power, not too much. I suspect only one person can perform the ritual. I’ve no idea if this includes the presence of an anchor, but I’d best not test to find out. 

“Things have been getting steadily worse the longer we go at it. Harriet’s exhausted from working to heal those injured from storms or sick from displacement and exposure to the elements. The council won’t leave me alone. Ceilo worries after me and how little I’ve been sleeping. I’ll have to assure him it will all be over soon, as I know what to do now. We’ll see how it goes!”

There’s a conspicuous gap between entries. When Jon turns the page, a full month has passed, and he feels his anxiety spike. He’s almost too unsettled to read, but the need to know makes him push forward. 

“Seventh month, ninth day. Home at last. Almost died! How exhilarating!

“Did the spell, made it work. Somehow! I’m not entirely sure. The details are hazy. I don’t remember exactly what happened after the start. I wouldn’t allow Harriet to act as an anchor, but she insisted on watching; no one else was there. She tells me I’d been working at the spell for a very long time, then suddenly collapsed, and was dreadfully sick! Magical depletion, mainly. I was asleep for a full week following. But no rain in all that time. It seems Fairside has returned to her old serenity. 

“I suppose the debacle was fun, if one can excuse the ‘almost dying’ part, and I find I can. Still, I get the feeling I didn’t settle things completely. Something tells me that spell will begin unraveling again. It lasted quite a long time since Amos first set it up — I’m not likely to be around when things start going wrong again. 

“When I’m not so tired, I will draw up what is needed for the ritual I performed.”

The next two pages consist of notes and lists of components, along with the words from the original incantation. 

“We found it,” Jon whispers, hearing the relief and amazement in his own voice. “We’ve finally found it. The- the start of it, at least.”

Sasha stands up and comes to sit near Jon, looking critically through Simon’s journal. “All the elements of this spell feel so disparate,” she mutters. “Simon clearly just slapped something together to act as a bandage for a much bigger problem.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Mike asks. 

“Sure,” Jon replies. “But it clearly wasn’t ‘set’ right. The spell is already unraveling again.”

Sasha jumps back in. “It sounds like Simon found the most basic building blocks required from Amos’, then adjusted what he thought he needed for the spell to work. Then it was just a matter of realizing he had to do it on his own.” 

Martin leans forward. “What did he mean by that?” he asks. “Why would only one person be able to do such a big spell, instead of getting help?”

“If Amos crafted the spell themself, that means it was likely something made whole cloth,” Jon explains. “Sometimes, for very new spells, the person who crafts them sets a precedent for how they work.” 

“Simon called Amos an egomaniac,” Tim says. “So, what, they made the spell all about them?”

“Sounds like Amos to me,” Mike offers. 

Gerry stands up, sighing, and dusts off the knees of his trousers. “All that doesn’t matter much, we just need to know if it’s enough to work with.”

“It should be enough,” Jon says, then adds, “Maybe. I’ll have to do more research. There must be some way of making the effects more permanent. We can’t have this same problem happening every few decades.” 

“That sounds like a big ask,” Martin mumbles.

“Yeah, on top of an already impossible one,” Sasha adds, giving Jon an odd look. “Do you really think it can be done?”

Jon takes Simon’s book from Sasha and gently closes it, then starts to gather some of the other material he’s deemed useful during his search. “We’ve run out of time. I think it’ll have to do.”

Chapter Text

“Jon?”

Amid a sea of books, loose documents, and empty teacups, Jon sits on his couch. There’s a book in his lap, but he’s not looking at it — no, his gaze is focused on the slim journal open in front of him. His lips move soundlessly as he feels the shape of the incantation on his tongue,  his lips. It tastes like nothing, dusty and worthless. 

From behind, Martin approaches and rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon startles. “What? I’m sorry?”

“Jon, I was asking how much longer you think-”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Jon’s already turned back to his work. Spread out all around him are the pieces to an impossible puzzle, and it’s his job to fake his way into composing a complete picture. 

Martin doesn’t speak up again, not right away. He leaves Jon to his work, heading back into the kitchen. Some time later — Jon’s really not sure how much time, honestly — Martin’s back with him in front of the fire. The room is cozy, even if the atmosphere isn’t. Outside, rain attacks the roof and windows, as if demanding entry. It’s been raining nonstop for two days straight. Sasha’s convinced things are about to get very, very bad before the week is over. 

With a grimace, Jon tosses aside the book in his lap and reaches out for another one. 

At the very edge of Jon’s periphery, he notices Martin moving books and paper, but none of them are what Jon needs right now, so he leaves his companion to it. A few minutes later, a hand comes to rest on the pages Jon was staring at. “Jon.”

“Martin, I can’t-”

“Hush,” Martin interrupts, not unkindly, and that makes Jon look up at last. Martin’s got a midnight in his hand. His thumbnail worries at its skin. “Eat something, please? And drink some water?”

“...Fine.” 

They split the midnight. Martin asks how he can help, and Jon hands him a book on safety precautions for rituals. He’s already read it more than once — it’s not an especially thick book — but it’s probably enough new information to keep Martin occupied until Jon has managed to… 

...What is he doing? Jon falters, and the words of the book before him start to blur. He’s spent days reading, checking, theorizing. He’s consulted his books and those from the Fairchild collection; he’s discussed spellcraft theory with Sasha for hours. He’s spoken with Gertrude. He’s made his choice. 

Jon eats a wedge of the midnight and feels its magic settle into his being. It’s a comforting sensation, like sinking into warm water after a long day. It makes Jon feel more sure of himself and what he has to do. He’s the only one who can do it, after all. So why does the fruit taste so bitter?

Feeling the finality of it all settle onto his shoulders, Jon closes his book.

Martin perks up immediately. He glances up from his reading, giving Jon a cautiously optimistic look. “Done for the night?”

“I think so, yes,” Jon mumbles. “I- I have a decent idea of what I’ll have to do.”

“That’s good!” Martin smiles, and sets his book aside. Then, to Jon’s dismay, he asks, “What’s the plan?” 

“...The plan is, uh, simple,” Jon starts, then hesitates. He feels like if he takes one more bite of fruit, he’ll choke on it. “I’ll have to perform a ritual similar to that of Amos and Simon Fairchild. I’ll need to recreate it fairly closely. The way it’s described in the journals, it’s a complicated spell that’s been bound to the land so long, it will be impossible to undo completely. So the only option is to attempt a sort of… revision.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It just means I’ll have to dig into the spell, unravel it part of the way, then weave it back together. In the best case scenario, this will strengthen the original purpose of the spell, which was to keep the weather in Fairside consistent and suitable for humans.”

“Alright.” Martin nods along, but his expression has turned fairly serious. “That… that doesn’t sound very simple, Jon.”

“It’s what has to be done,” Jon says, shrugging. “In theory, it will work. I have the incantation for the original spell, as well as all the components listed for Simon’s ritual. Essentially, I’ll be using both parts to craft my own spell that will do what I need.” 

“So there’s no way you could completely remove the spell.”

Jon shakes his head, dread brewing in his stomach. “No, Simon made that very clear in the section of his diary where he described his many attempts. The spell is too old and too powerful.” 

“Okay… You’ve said before that ritualistic spells- or, um, just very strong spells in general, right? That they can be dangerous to do by yourself…”

“They can be,” Jon says, because that’s true and he doesn’t like to lie to Martin. “Which is why I’ve been doing as much as I can to prepare.”

Martin’s quiet for a moment. Then he asks, quietly, “You’re really the only one who can do this?”

Jon nods, but he’s not looking at Martin. Sasha’s not strong enough, and Melanie couldn’t possibly do it; their magic reserves wouldn’t be nearly enough required to sustain the spell for as long as Jon is expecting. Amos Fairchild crafted a spell that only one person could possibly affect at a time. 

“When were you going to try?”

“Tomorrow,” Jon answers immediately. He’d talked to Gertrude about it, and they’d agreed. Daisy Tonner, who would be in charge of the town evacuation, had been there too. The dour gleam of her blue eyes still stuck with Jon, and she’d given him some unreadable look on their way out of the conference room. 

“So soon?” 

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” 

Silence, for a bit. Martin finishes his food; Jon sets his last remaining wedge off to the side, aiming instead for his tea, now lukewarm. Martin waits until he’s taken a full sip before speaking again. “Jon, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Jon feels frozen, like some small animal caught out in the open. He stares at Martin and tries not to sound nervous when he asks, “Yes?”

“I was just thinking… This ritual, the spell — all of it sounds really intense. And- and I was reading that book, right, and one part of it reminded me of something you told me before. About anchors?”

“No.”

Martin’s eyes grow wide as looks at Jon with surprise. “What?”

It’s a trial to control his breathing, but Jon manages to speak again, keeping his voice firm and even as he says, “No, Martin.”

He hopes against hope that Martin will drop it. That he won’t argue or ask. But he’s grown to know Martin, hasn’t he? To really know him. So Jon isn’t really surprised when his friend’s expression turns stubborn. “Jon! This is going to be too dangerous for you to do it without an anchor!”

He’s right, of course. Martin isn’t stupid, he’s was clever and he remembers the things that count. That doesn’t stop Jon from snapping, “I don’t want you to!” 

Martin flinches, his hurt clear to see. Jon wants more than anything to take it back, but the dread is building and panic has joined it, buzzing in his chest, anxious and threatening to take him over completely.

“...But you…” Fragile as a wisp, Martin’s voice falters. He looks away from Jon, clearly trying to compose himself. Fingers curl into fists on his lap. Jon feels his own begin to shake. When Martin looks up again, the intensity of his glare pins Jon where he sits. “You said, before. That people who- if it was someone close, if they spent a lot of time together…”

“Martin-”

“You said that they would be-” Martin breathes hard, then stands up. Jon worries for a moment he might leave, and knows in that moment, if Martin did leave him, his heart might break. Dread, panic, fear. 

“I would be a good anchor for you,” Martin says. It is a fact. So why does he ask, “Wouldn’t I?”

Jon knows if he says nothing, Martin will drop it. He might hate Jon for it. He might leave. But wouldn’t that be better? There is no stop to what’s coming, and Jon knows what he has to do, it’s just-

Martin’s eyes shine amber-brown, glittering as they catch the firelight, and Jon feels tears in his own eyes. He hangs his head and whispers, “I’m sorry.” 

“Why? Jon, please just tell me what’s wrong!” 

“I have to do it alone!” Jon cries. Pleads. “I can’t- You have to leave with everyone else, because if you don’t, you’ll die, Martin.” 

He heard Martin draw in a sharp breath. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m-” Jon wipes at his face, hiding his tears, his shame. “I’m going to mess it up. I’m going to ruin it, I can’t do it-”

“Of course you can do it, Jon,” Martin tells him. There’s a weight beside Jon, sinking onto the edge of the couch where he’s curled up. One warm hand rests on his back, rubbing in gentle circles — it only makes Jon cry harder. “Jon, why would you say that?”

“I can’t do this on my own,” Jon admits, defeated. “I’m going to ruin the spell, and it’s going to make everything worse, and the storm- it’s going to be so, so bad, Martin. Fairside isn’t going to be there anymore.”

“Jon. Jon, can you please look at me?” 

He doesn’t want to, but he looks. Martin’s eyes still have a bit of shine to them, but the edge of hurt has gone. Now he just looks like- Jon doesn’t know. It makes him feel small, though, and like he wants to cry again, but for different reasons than despair. 

“You’re not going to be doing this on your own,” Martin tells him. His tone leaves no room for argument. Before Jon can say anything else, Martin continues on to say, “This all sounds really, really scary, and you’re right, if this spell doesn’t go well… It’ll be bad. But that’s only if you fail, Jon, and you’re not going to.”

“But-”

“And even if you did fail…” Martin’s other hand, the one that isn’t rubbing Jon’s back, sneaks into Jon’s lap to hold his. It’s the left one, dotted with pale scars. Martin’s thumb rubs at the nearest one, soothing and affectionate. “Even if there was no chance of this spell working, I still wouldn’t leave you behind.” 

Jon can only shake his head, but Martin doesn’t relent. He stays with Jon like that, helping him settle down. Pulls Jon close so he can tuck Jon’s head beneath his chin. Martin’s shirt smells clean, like dried flowers, like spring. Jon cries lightly into his collar, sniffling and suppressing the sobs that threaten to bubble out of him. 

After a while, when Jon’s a little quieter, Martin asks, “Were you really going to take everything on by yourself?”

“I’m the only one who can do the spell,” Jon mumbles into his shirt, feeling at once embarrassed and relieved to have admitted everything. “I would rather you all be safe somewhere than risk staying behind for no reason.”

“But you should have an anchor,” Martin insists, gently rocking Jon a little as he speaks. “Of course I would want to help you.” 

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Jon,” Martin chides. “You’ve explained it yourself: an anchor helps for these sorts of things. I can be there for you to help keep your magic focused or whatever. I mean…” Jon can’t see Martin’s face, but thinks he can hear the way Martin gets a little flustered. “We’ve been spending so much time together lately… and, ah, we- I mean, I feel really close to you.” At this, he hugs Jon just a bit tighter. Jon shivers, and squeezes the hand holding his where they rest tangled on his lap. “If there’s even the faintest chance that my being there will help you finish the spell correctly, then I should be there. I want to be there.” 

“...Maybe.” Jon sighs, pulling away to rub at his face again, but not hide away. He looks at Martin, feeling the weight of everything on his shoulders. “I- I just don’t know, Martin. It’s a lot, and I’ve never… I’ve never felt like…”

Soon, Jon’s hand is captured between both of Martin’s. The touch feels immensely comforting, warm and safe. “I believe you can do it,” Martin tells him. He sounds so sure of himself, and Jon just can’t understand why. “I’ll be with you, and I’ll help you, too. You don’t have to do this by yourself, Jon, and frankly I’m not going to let you, okay?” 

“Okay.” Jon feels like all the air is leaving his body. He deflates, letting himself fall against Martin again, resting his weight on his companion. 

“Okay.” Martin breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief against Jon’s hair. “Now, you should try explaining everything to me, okay? The more I know going in, the better this will be for both of us.”

“Right.” 

Jon pulls away, taking a deep breath. Then, with his hand still held between Martin’s, Jon starts telling him what they can both expect when working the spell.

Chapter Text

Martin spends the night. 

He sleeps on the couch downstairs, but Jon feels his presence so strongly it’s like he’s right there in the bed. It takes a half-bottle of a shimmering purple potion to get Jon to sleep. Usually he’d refrain from such methods, but more than ever, he needs a good night’s sleep. 

It should feel uncanny to have Martin there in his house so early the next morning. Sure, Martin used to come to bring supplies and carry out Jon’s deliveries, but this… it should feel different. Yet the only strange thing is how natural it feels to find him curled up on Jon’s clearly too-small couch. Beneath the blanket, he looks so much smaller than he is. 

They eat a small breakfast together, splitting a midnight over toast and jam. Jon eats as much as he can, but only manages a few bites of the toast and two wedges from the fruit. It’ll be enough to buoy him through the ritual, he hopes. Martin doesn’t finish his breakfast, either, his chewing slow and contemplative. Jon reminds him to leave what’s left of his fruit in his napkin; if things don’t end in disaster, Jon will need the leftovers for his work. 

He finds it difficult to imagine there might not be a tomorrow. There simply has to be more beyond this day; he wants to walk home with Martin, to invite him in for tea, to talk with him by the fire again. He wants to see the Admiral with a note from Georgie or Melanie, to hold the large cat in his lap and smooth its fur down. He wants to be able to go back to Fairside, to the library and see everyone again. 

These are thoughts he tries to keep in mind — things to look forward to, things to fight for. Jon doesn’t want to fail, and so he’s going to try his best not to. And he won’t be alone. Even that simple fact is enough to keep him feeling more optimistic. 

It’s windy when they leave the cottage, and the sky remains a cold grey. If there’s rain, it falls so gently that Jon can’t feel it on his skin. From the top of the hill, Jon can see the misty base of the far off eastern mountains. 

Just as they’re about to begin their trek down the slope into town, Martin hesitates. Jon adjusts his shawl and gives him a look. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I just forgot something. One sec?”

Martin slips back into the cottage, returning only a moment later. He walks up to Jon, offering one arm, a small smile on his face. “Shall we?”

Jon takes his arm with the hand that isn’t holding his cane. “Yes… Let’s do this.”

Fairside is awash with activity as they approach. Jon watches families carry possessions out of their homes and into communal carts, with children and elderly relatives being stored alongside heirlooms and necessities. Here and there he can spot uniformed guards. Some are helping to carry or relocate items; Jon can hear more than one conversation with a guardsman explaining what, exactly, is happening. Which would explain the way eyes keep catching on Jon as he and Martin pass. Jon tucks himself closer to Martin, who seems like he’s trying his best to keep himself between Jon and the crowd. 

They keep their pace brisk, and soon enough, arrive at the center of Fairside. Here stands the tree, just as tall and gnarled as ever, radiating power as it’s buffeted by the wind.  Jon thinks of those afternoons he spent in the shadow of its leaves. At the time, he’d felt more safe and content among the roots of the tree than anywhere else. It has always made Jon feel humbled, intimidated — yet, also, strengthened by its mere presence.

Now, looking at it and knowing what he was about to do, Jon can only feel uneasy.

Gertrude is here, along with some other members of the council. Jon also sees Daisy nearby, instructing a small group of others on the guard. At her side is her partner, a woman Jon couldn’t quite remember the name of — started with a B, maybe? She’d been in one or two of the meetings, including the one where Gertrude’s evacuation plan had been outlined. While Daisy was busy directing people, the other woman’s gaze flitted past and somehow landed directly on Jon. He flinched, hastily turning away. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Jon grits through his teeth, feeling dreadfully not fine. Martin’s hand runs a soothing line down his back until it rests right in the crook of it, a reassuring presence. Jon tries to relax, and leans for the briefest moment against Martin’s solid form before pulling away once more. 

Gertrude doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Are you ready, Jonathan?”

“I am,” he tells her. Maybe he’s lying, or maybe he isn’t — it doesn’t matter anymore. 

“And who is this man?”

“This is Martin; he’s my anchor,” Jon explains, and this he does mean with absolute conviction. Gertrude gives Martin a once-over, and her expression isn’t exactly approving, but there’s not really any time to be fussy, is there? Instead she nods to Martin, says, “We’re grateful for your service to Fairside. The council wishes the both of you luck.” 

The man at her back — Adelard, Jon thinks his name is — puts a hand on Gertrude’s shoulder and tells her something in a low, even voice. Gertrude hums in affirmation, then begins to move away. “We’ll be leading the civilians out of Fairside and towards the eastern mountains,” she explains one last time. “There are old settlements and caves. We’ll be staying there overnight. Members of the guard will be sent at some point to check in on you… depending on how things look from where we’re standing.”

Jon nods. There’s no doubt that, whatever happens, the outcome will be obvious even from such a distance.

Martin nods as well, offering a small, “Be safe,” before Gertrude and Adelard make their departure. Neither looks back, and soon they’ve disappeared in the crowd of citizens. 

So Jon and Martin set to work. 

All things considered, the setting up ritual is relatively straightforward. Jon draws a circle with the tree at its center, then a smaller circle, about a quarter of the size of the original, around the tree, making sure the very edge meets the line of the first circle. It’s within this smaller circle that Jon and Martin will be sitting during the ritual. 

While Jon works, Martin sets tall candles and prepares a small mixture of powder, soil, and herbs. Once it’s finished, Martin takes his place in the smaller circle and buries the acorn seed Jon gave him earlier in the shallow mixture. 

Jon goes around the circle to light each candle with magic, muttering the words first spoken by Amos Fairchild, then written in Simon Fairchild’s notebook: “These two hands, magic making, weaving soul to soul.”

“Are you ready?” Jon asks Martin, finally sitting to face him on the opposite side of the small bowl. He can feel a change beginning. The air around them grows heavy with potential energy and humidity; above them, the sky begins to darken, clouds bulging with rain. The wind grows increasingly riotous, though Jon distantly registers that no dirt nor debris seems to be flying towards them. He can hear the leaves of the great tree rustle, but it’s not as upset as it was during any of the previous storms. It appears more… restless, to Jon. Maybe even eager. 

Martin gives Jon a long, searching look, then nods. He holds out his hands. “I’m ready. Are you, Jon?”

The storm coils around them, watching, ready to strike. 

“I am,” Jon says, and places his hands in Martin’s open palms. 

He can feel it — Martin’s magic. The faint, subdued flutter of something delicate, but strong. It’s sweet and warm, like the tiny body of some living thing with a fluttering heartbeat. Jon closes his eyes and lets himself focus on it, attune to it. The magic, sun rays and open hearth, tucks itself away somewhere at his core. 

When Jon opens his eyes, he sees much more than he did before. There’s Martin, in essence, the rough shape of a man — a friend — indistinct against the cobalt blues and ashy grey, tawny brown, ancient and whorled and knotted, the crown of deep green. 

Before him, in the little bowl, a tiny sprout begins to grow. Jon looks at it. From the sprout, magic blooms, and he knows it is not the sprout’s magic. Jon moves; his hands stay in Martin’s hands, but the new pair paint fading rivers of light and illusion in their wake. Jon’s new hands reach out to greet the sprout and its siphoned magic. 

Jon speaks the words that grow in little clusters on his tongue, tickling the roof of his mouth. The sprout grows. A leaf begins to unfurl. Jon begins to unfurl. He speaks the words. Around them, outside the inner circle, a storm is raging. There is no wind, no rain, to disturb the sprout or the tree or the man across from him. No part of Jon is moved, no part of Jon moves; only his hands, coaxing, calling out, seeking. The sprout grows. The storm becomes light becomes heat becomes blinding, and Jon closes his eyes-

(just for a moment)

-opens them again to see the tree. 

There is an eye above the tree, open space and an empty sky, the serenity of the epicenter. Jon feels the power of the storm, a vortex stalking along the edges of that eye, waiting to break in and rip everything apart. But Jon knows, somewhere deeper than his heart or mind, that if the storm could come in, only he would be torn. The tree would remain. The tree remains forever. 

Jon reaches out to greet it. 

The magic is immediate and everywhere, brighter than lightning, wider than the sky. Jon sinks into the horrible, beautiful, tangled mess of fraying tendrils in knots. He lifts his arms and weaves between them, invading.

It’s nearly enough to knock him out, the power that swims and sings here. Jon feels it work through his body in ways he could never hope to describe, too tumultuous and effervescent to explain in simple, human words. But he keeps his task in mind. It’s difficult. He tries to focus, feels for his magic and finds something lighter, kinder, holding onto him. Something touching his hand, cradling him, waiting for him. 

Jon steels himself and touches the spellwork once more. His arms twist against the knots; his hands tuck in and out like water, searching, gently prying and tugging. One strand at a time, he thinks. He finds where the spell is loose, allowing the absolute slightest amount of give, and pulls. It comes along, yarn unspooling, a single thread to lead him from beginning to end. 

Jon feels all sorts of things as he works. Power and love. Excitement. Pride. Grief. Beneath it all is something so wild and nameless it threatens more than once to sweep him away into its heart. It’s yawning and hungry and forever. But Jon concentrates. He speaks the words, gently, changing when they must, evolving ever always, bending, just a bit now and then, enough to flow and find its shape. 

He feels Simon there, and remembers the diary entries, the curiosity, the tragedy. Simon’s failed attempt left the spell only the faintest bit more stable, but his nature could never have persisted to contain it. Jon feels him, is buffeted by his memory like a gale. Simon tugs and swirls around Jon, more interested in him than the weave, interested in his power, interested in his friend…

Jon bristles, gripping the weave tighter, and ignores the wind and its antics. Focus. Focus. It’s not only him, here.

Jon tries to remember all the moving parts, the task, the ritual. Faintly, like a distant echo, he remembers those ancient words that Amos spoke; he can feel them in the weave. They look to Jon, observe him, feel him, and covet him. They see his power, his magic. They caress him, wanting to seep in, to own him. But he is not one of theirs. Jon pulls away and focuses on his work. 

Then he feels it. Beneath the Fairchilds and their magic, there is a root. It is the root of all things. Jon can feel it in himself, down to his marrow, the curve of his blood, the electricity in his spine, every color of his mind and heart and magic. The earth is alive in him. It is comfortable, hungry, safe — home. The water beneath them is never still, it sinks and rises, it transforms, it travels, it is carried up and up and up. Jon is like the water, carried into the sinew of something magnificent, the rings and whorls and knots. It is solid, everlasting, more ancient than Amos or his magic, more wild than Simon, more loving than anything Jon has ever felt, even from that which is his own. The touch of magic, its guiding light and its shadow upon him, its love pulsing deep inside him. Jon is carried higher, into the branches, the many leaves, leaves dancing, catching, holding, drinking. And he can feel the promise of sunlight. He can feel the rain. He can feel the wind. He can feel the cool sky, the earth, the air, the lifeblood of his sap, his roots spreading out, his leaves shivering, his spine a column hundreds of years old and yet older still, older than all of himself or what is above or below him. 

He can feel a bird building a nest. It’s not where it should be, though, between his branches, hidden in the leaves. It is inside him, deep at his core, where the rings and water live. It’s bright and warm with a fluttering heart. 

He can feel a hand in his. 

He can feel his hands, tangled in the magic of the spell, the delicate, intricate weave. 

He can feel his hands. He can feel his magic. He can feel his heart. He can feel his ears. Drumming, buzzing. Swimming. Hearing something. Someone calling. A sweet voice. 

He can feel his voice, his throat. With it, he speaks a word. Something he was given. Something like a gift. Something like a secret. He speaks again, and more feelings come. 

Jon can feel his arms. He moves them, out of and then into the weave. He works. 

Jon can hear the tree, and knows it is not him, it is something separate but similar, it is family, it loves him and wants him, but he cannot let himself fall. 

And he won’t. He has an anchor. 

Jon can feel the magic at his core. He weaves. He spins. He works. He breathes. 

He sinks. 

He fades. 

Water at the core. Flowing up, up, up. 

“...hear me?”

The cool sap, the lifeblood. Flowing down, down, down.

“Jon? Jon!”

There’s the taste of something familiar.

“...Mmm…” Jon breathes, feeling it creep into his lungs, filling them up. Once he’s started, it’s like he can’t stop, and when he exhales, it comes in a surprised gust that ends with a coughing fit. 

“Oh, thank you, thank goodness,” says the trembling voice above him, and that can only be Martin. Jon finally forces his eyes open. At first there’s only a shadow swimming in light. Then he blinks furiously, clearing it up until there’s Martin. Behind him, the sky is open, calm and blue. “Jon, are you okay? Can- can you see me? Can you hear me?”

“I can,” Jon struggles to say. He licks his lips. “What…?” 

“Here, eat this first. I’ve got one wedge left.” Martin brings something up to Jon’s lips, and he realizes only after his first bite what it is. At Jon’s expression, Martin explains, “I grabbed the one from breakfast. I thought… I dunno, I just figured it might be better to have one on hand, in case something happened? You’d been doing the spell for a really long time, you see, and after a while you just collapsed! You weren’t-” 

Here, Martin pauses to catch his breath. Jon brings up a hand, gently touching Martin’s wrist and guiding it so he can finish the last few bites of the midnight. When he speaks again, Martin’s voice is near to a whisper. “You weren’t moving, and you were hardly breathing, but I could feel your heartbeat. I knew I couldn’t leave, because then I would break the connection as your anchor. For a minute I had no idea what to do, but then I remembered the midnight, and what you said about not having enough magic, and I thought- I’d been hoping-”

“You did the right thing,” Jon grunts. He was becoming more aware of his surroundings. All around them were pools of rainwater, glittering between the cobblestones and making the shackled roofs of Fairside glisten in the sunlight. But there was sunlight, and wispy clouds, and no more angry wind. Jon stared, his eyes wide. “Did… Did it work?”

Through all the concern and anxiety, Martin managed a smile, and Jon thought he looked beautiful. “Yeah. I think it did.”

Chapter Text

Jon’s days evolve into a new, comfortable routine. 

He wakes up in his tiny bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, before reluctantly pulling himself from the covers to prepare for another day of work. Once washed and dressed, Jon descends the stairs. Lately, he’s had the Admiral over for company, and so he often finds the cat waiting for him by the stairs inquiring about breakfast. Jon feeds them both quickly, then slips into his back room to work. He leaves the door behind him cracked ever so slightly.

The hours pass, but not too many of them — sooner than later, Jon hears the front door open and a voice come in, greeting the Admiral. The old, familiar tension in Jon’s shoulders finally begins to melt away as he listens to the sounds of someone rustling around in his kitchen, preparing lunch. 

It’s not too long before that voice calls out to Jon. As soon as he’s able to put a pause on his work, Jon leaves the room to join Martin.

“Hey,” Martin says, poking at something in the pan with a wooden spatula. His other arm is free; it lifts, beaconing to Jon, who tucks into the embrace without much thought. A kiss finds the crown of his head. “How’s work?”

“Fine.” 

“Really? Not doing anything special?”

Usually, Martin is able to be more subtle than this; to be fair, he isn’t really trying. It’s already been a couple of weeks since Jon started working on, as Martin calls it, a ‘very secret and special spell not fit for the ears of commoners.’ He’s been gently — and then not so gently — prodding Jon for a while to tell him about it, but Jon is adamant in keeping it a surprise. 

So Jon replies with a smirk, saying, “No, nothing special. What’s for lunch?”

Martin, expecting this, drops the subject with a falsely-exasperated sigh. They talk about other things instead, catching up on each other’s day; they eat, saying little, but feeling content. Eventually Jon asks, “Are you running today?”

“It’s my day off. Someone else will be here for the delivery in an hour or two, I’m guessing.”

“Right. Anything special I should ask for this time?”

“I don’t think so! Oh, maybe some more of that black tea? You’re nearly out.”

Jon hums, taking their dishes and heading off to put them away and write his delivery order. 

When he opens the small window to place his order in the bottle, he takes a deep breath. The air outside is crisp, with a fresh breeze only slightly tinged with a chill. Autumn has ripened to a fine golden-orange, the smell of it full and heavy. It’s immeasurably pleasant to Jon, who’s always appreciated the look and feel of the fall season. Yet, soon, it will be gone, buried beneath shallow blankets of snow. Jon’s intent on enjoying the season while it lasts.

“Are the others going to be here very soon?” he asks Martin, gaze still turned outside. 

From behind him, Martin replies, “Not for a few more hours. It’ll probably be dark by then.”

“Alright. Have you got anything to prepare?”

“A couple things! I’ll work while you do, so go ahead and finish up so you won’t be busy!”

Jon waves a hand dismissively, but does as he says, leaving the delivery window open to let in the cool air.

Just as dusk is falling, voices float up from beyond the gentle slope of the hill.

First come Tim and Sasha, with Gerry just behind them. They bring along various dishes — a basket of fruits from the market, a shallow dish of something that smells like pasta — and carefully set them up in Jon’s kitchen. It’s instantly too busy, and Jon leaves his friends to their rowdy rearrangement of his things, retreating to the couch. There, he reads and waits. 

Not long after, the Admiral harkens the arrival of his owners with a loud cry, abandoning Jon’s lap to greet them at the door. Georgie and Melanie bring another round of chatter, but as Jon watches over the back of his couch, he finds he can’t resent any of the noise. The delivery window is still open, and the breeze from outside — cooler, now — ruffles the curtain. When Martin comes over to give him a kiss on the forehead, Jon says, “We should close that window before we set up.” 

“Alright, I can do that. You’ll start the fire?”

Jon does. Soon, everyone’s gathered with him around the hearth. Most of the food is placed on the low table at the center, but Jon holds the fruit basket in his lap, holding it out for everyone else to take from when they ask. They spend the rest of the evening talking, laughing, teasing each other. Sasha shares anecdotes about Nevvin, the city she grew up in, and Melanie regales them with various stories about — alleged — ghost encounters. 

Eventually, the group begins to wind down. Georgie’s already half asleep on the chair with the Admiral in her lap. Sasha’s stolen one of Jon’s books, reading it while Tim and Gerry speak quietly about various happenings at the library. Jon sees his chance and takes Martin’s hand. 

Martin looks at him, making a questioning sound. 

“I want to show you something really quick,” Jon tells him. It’s hard to keep his hand from trembling, but he manages it, though it’s hard to tell whether his nerves show in his voice. “Will you step outside with me for a minute?”

“Sure, of course,” Martin says, and tells the others he and Jon have to go check on something really quick. 

“Need any help?” Melanie asks, and something in her tone makes Jon think she’s teasing them. 

So he dryly answers, “No, Melanie, but thank you,” while tugging at Martin’s hand. 

They step outside. The moon is out, casting enough light for them to appreciate the shape of the late hour. Jon can hear the wind in the trees, can feel it on his skin. He doesn’t have his cane, so he wraps his arm around Martin’s to keep steady. “To the side of the house?” he gently implores, and Martin helps support him as they pick their way through slightly taller, wilder grass and tree roots. Jon’s allowed this area to grow a up a bit more, which means it’s more woodland than lawn. Luckily, neither man trips, and a moment later they’re beneath the midnight tree. Only a handful of fruit remains hanging on its branches, though some lay nearly hidden in the grass at the base of the tree. Jon makes a mental note to grab those in the morning, before they rot, but now’s not the time. He turns his attention fully to Martin.

“I’ve been working on something,” he begins; Martin interrupts with a tiny snort.

“Oh, have you?”

“Yes!” Jon lightly bats at Martin’s arm, then says, “Now listen, would you? It’s a spell. It wasn’t an obscure or overly difficult one, but I wanted to tweak a few things so I had a bit more control over it, and those took time. But I’m ready to show you what I’ve been planning.” 

After one last second of hesitation, Jon reaches into the pocket of his skirt and fishes out two sheets of paper, checking them to make sure he hands Martin the correct one first. After summoning a handful of light to read by, Jon begins to explain: “See, this is a crude rendition of the cottage floorplan. I didn’t do all the proper math, but it gives you a good idea of how much space there is. You’ve seen how small the upstairs is…”

“Yeah, you’ve got a really small bedroom,” Martin remarks, looking at the sketch. After taking a deep breath, Jon hands him the second paper, folded. As Martin opens it, he explains, “This is… a vague guess at how I could expand the building. You see, conventional construction methods would take quite a long time, and it would be risky, because of the midnight tree; any construction would have to happen around it, and that wouldn’t be easy, so-”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted, sounding slightly breathless. Jon faltered, then stopped speaking altogether, ringing his hands. Martin pointed to a spot on the paper, his brows creasing. “You drew a new bedroom here.” 

“Yes… And, I, um, I figured it would be best to keep the other bedroom, of course, if nothing else it’s good to have a- a guest bedroom. If the other became a master bedroom, I mean. Given it’s larger. Would be larger, if, if I did the spell to construct it.”

“You want to make your house larger, and add a master bedroom?”

Jon shyly shuffles closer to Martin, using one hand to gently tug his arms down until Jon can see the sketch more clearly. He reaches a hand out, tapping part of the picture. “It wouldn’t just be the bedroom. There would be a hallway here, and I was thinking I could expand my workroom like this, then add some more storage space. That way I could stockpile materials more easily. There’d also be a new washroom, though it’s small. And- it was just a thought, but if we pull out the wall here, we could expand the kitchen, maybe have some extra space in the sitting room for more furniture or storage...”

Jon feels that he’s rambling and forces himself to stop. Martin doesn’t speak for a while. They both stare at the papers in his hands. Jon tries not to fidget from nerves or shiver from the cold, standing still and turning his gaze up to check Martin’s expression. 

Martin’s already looking at him, which makes Jon jump in surprise. At that, Martin’s expression turns into something brighter than the dark, muted tones of the evening. “Jon, you keep saying ‘we’... Does this mean…? Do you want me to move in with you?”

Surely, there’s no way Martin could possibly see the way Jon starts furiously blushing, but given how merily the conjured light glows, he doesn’t suppose there’s much hope for his dignity. Jon flaps one hand and sputters, “I mean- you don’t have to, obviously, we- we haven’t been together more than a few months, and it’s not even been a year since we met, but- I just thought… You come over. Often. And, and it’s quite a ways up, just to visit, and you can never stay the night because I have no room in my bedroom — yes, I know you sleep on the couch when you have to, but Martin, you really are too big for it, I know it hurts your back when you-”

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asks, cutting Jon off mid-rant. Jon frowns, but after catching his breath, nods his consent. 

The kiss is little more than a peck on the lips, but it lingers. When Martin does pull away, he stays close, resting his forehead against Jon’s. His breath is warm against Jon’s cheek when he sighs. “The spell… Will you need help with it?”

Jon can’t help smiling. “I might need an anchor, just to be safe,” he mutters. “It’s not dangerous, but it will take a while, and require a bit of finesse to set everything just right.”

“Okay.” Martin pulls back, takes a deep breath, and looks up at the stars. “Okay.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… Thank you,” Martin says, then turns away, towards the trees, blinking a bit too much. When Jon realizes what’s happening, he makes a sound of distress, reaching up to wipe the tears away. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles, but the tears don’t stop. 

“Why…?” 

“It’s- stupid.”

“It’s not. Will you tell me? You don’t have to,” Jon tells him, keeping his voice soft. 

Martin fights to regain his composure, but his words come out trembling when he says, “It’s just- just- no one’s ever... made room for me before.” 

“Oh, Martin.” Jon’s hand moves from Martin’s cheek to his neck, gently tugging, until the man leans down to hide his face against Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s sure it can’t be comfortable, but Martin just hugs him, muttering apologies. Jon pets his hair and lets him cry. 

Eventually, he feels he has to speak, so he says, “Of course I want to give you space here, you deserve to be comfortable. I like having you around. I’m… I’m so glad you’re here.” Jon closes his eyes, fighting against the prickling feeling there. “I’m really glad I met you, Martin.” 

“I’m glad I met you, too,” Martin replies. 

They stand outside, together, for only a few minutes. Martin’s quick to pull himself together, wiping at his eyes and nose with a shirt sleeve. Jon takes Martin’s free hand with both of his own, drawing it up to kiss. “Let’s go back inside,” he says. “We’ll get you warm by the fire.”

“Oh, goodness.” Martin laughs awkwardly around one last sniffle. “The others will be able to tell I’ve been crying.” 

“If they say anything rude, I’ll put a curse on them,” Jon says, and that makes Martin laugh, which is wonderful. Jon smiles, gently tugging him along, and they head back inside — together.