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Jonah Magnus knew that he would be the one to bring the world’s end, someday. Others failed, because they didn’t know enough to succeed. But he had already fallen too deep into the clutches of his God, sacrificed so much of his humanity in the pursuit of knowledge, power, the certainty that he would be out of death’s reach. By the time Jonathan Sims was promoted to Head Archivist, reality was drawing a final breath. His long period of waiting, while his body slowly wasted away and turned to dust, was nearly over.
Beholding would allow him to preside over a ruined world. The End would be there, yes, but it would be under his control. He remembered their first encounter as a child. He had wandered into his Grandmothers chamber, where he had been told not to go. But Jonah was always too curious, paid the price of curiosity time and time again but never learned from his mistakes, the desire in his heart to know burned deep. He had watched, helpless and petrified in place, as it crept from her the tips of her toes to her ankles. Thin black strings wound themselves up her legs and then around her torso. She looked so afraid, the old women he had barely even had the chance to speak with. Her eyes went wild with a terrible fear, and then dulled to nothing as it finally reached her head. Before it completely took her, she turned her head to look at him, one last time.
“Jonah…”.
She had been pleading for salvation, like an eight year old child could have done anything to stop the inevitable. He never wanted to be that desperate. He refused to ever become nothing. From that day, he saw it everywhere. The black strings that tied themselves around his father’s old horse, the young servant boy with the pretty eyes that was always hacking up his lungs when he thought no one was around. When they died, something always pulled Jonah there to watch. He even found his way into the cellar where the servants slept, late at night. It was awful, how the life drained from the boy. He clawed at his throat and grasped for air, reduced to something pitiful and hopeless. Jonah knew he could have called for the house doctor, but he wasn’t supposed to be down there and didn’t want to get in trouble. Besides, he was always compelled to watch by something he didn’t yet understand. Even if he wanted to intervene, that heavy force might have stopped him. Jonah become more afraid of death with every encounter, until the possibility of his life ending was all he could think about.
No one knew what happened after death, not even the priests and vicars who claimed a hollow kind of certainty. He lost respect for them as he grew older. They couldn’t really claim to know anything. There were so many nights where he didn’t sleep because sleep required him to lose control of his body and mind, that loss of control was too close to death. There were moments where he helplessly watched as he felt his lungs close in and his heart begin to burn against his chest. Jonah Magnus hated being afraid, almost as much as he hated the idea of dying. But he only became more afraid as his childhood ended, until he was mostly unable to sleep and suffered multiple attacks of terror throughout the day. No one, not even his lovers, ever learned about this, his surface presentation was unwaveringly calm and self-assured. Still, he wondered if Mordechai Lukas had seen any potential for the Lonely within him.
Years later, something burrowed within the fabric of the University Library promised it could save him, if he sold it his humanity and his soul. Jonah listened. Others knew it was there. Robert Smirke ignored its call, but still acknowledged its existence when they spoke, telling Jonah to be wary. But he had never been a cautious boy, and he was not a cautious man.
When Smirke warned Jonah not to attempt the Watchers Crown, it was too late. He had given to much of himself to the Eye.
The first attempt failed and cost Jonah his body, the Archivist burned out within. But the second before everything went wrong, he felt the weight of an infinity bearing down on him in a way that words never could express. The gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher, as he brought it closer to this reality. That sliver of hope carried him through centuries of waiting. Should Jonah have felt guilt over the minds and bodies he invaded? All he knew was that the fear which ran deep within him overtook any kind of morality. Besides, they could never have been as devoted to the Beholding as he had learned to be.
Jon would never perform the act out of his own free will. He would have to be manipulated into it. Jonah was not The Web, but he was still an adept manipulator. Hide it within the statements that Jon had grown dependent on, once he started speaking his Archivist would be compelled to finish the statement, and the door would open. Jonah smiled softly as he wrote that incantation. Black ink shiny on the surface of the paper, sealing the fate of the world. Jon would be the prince, with his beautiful eyes. Jonah would be the king, ruling alongside his Archivist, beyond death, beyond fear. For an eternity they would be together.
He did, for a moment, pause to consider whether his plans might backfire. There was no way to know for sure what being the King of a Ruined World might truly mean. But for Jonah, there was no fate worse than death. Bennett was lost alone in the fog forever, but he still lived, even two centuries after his encounter with a slighted Lukas. At least Jonah knew that he had the Eye’s favor. He had been but a humble servant of his God for two centuries already, it owed him at least some kind of debt. So he was able to ignore any fear that dooming the world might doom him as well. At least for a while, the thought did creep into his mind on occasion. Had Smirke been right? Would Jonah be reduced to another twisted thing in a twisted world? But he was impulsive and reckless, and most of all, wanted to Know. So he delivered the statement to the cabin in Scotland, and bided his time, staring out of his window into a sky he knew would soon gaze back into him.
The second the change begun, Jonah knew he had miscalculated. Knowledge of everything everywhere at every time was rushing like a wave into his mind, tearing and twisting and scratching at everything he was, unravelling everything he had become. He felt the gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher once again, but god he had forgotten how cold it was. It was the farthest thing from human he could imagine, comprehend, but farther still. He Knew, in that fraction of an instant, that this thing, which he had worshipped for so many years, was not to be brought into reality. He had been so, so stupid and foolish, just a petty little man, a puppet of his own fear. And now it was time to pay the price. Every thread of knowledge cut into his mind, as Jonah, head held heavy in his hands, shaking and dizzy and so, so, terrified, climbed a set of stairs that grew ever taller. At the top was his office, where the Eye wanted him.
He could barely think, he wasn’t able to scream. Who was he? The knowledge, the Knowing was forced through him, into the abyssal eye behind his writhing form. It fractured every second of his existence. It burned him out from within. The Watching, He was The Watcher. The Pupil of The Eye.
He still had enough of himself left to be afraid. It Knew this, and so did The End. Words poured out of his mouth, speaking of the things he saw but also of the turmoil that had always been within him. “Chokes his withered throat and hacking cough that sounds like death is here for him who always knew and feared that this indecent end would carve its bitter name full deep inside his soul”
This was not death, but it was death, and Jonah cried. His tears were golden as the Watchers Crown he was forced to wear, and they were hot enough to burn as they slid down his face. He cried as his throat went raw from speaking and chanting and screaming praises to the Beholding. He had been there forever, only barely remembered a life before the change. Barely remembered his Archivist.
He watched as Jon walked in, Martin at his side. He watched as they tried to speak to him, knowing he couldn’t reply. Knowing the thing that heard them, or didn’t hear them, he could only watch, wasn’t Jonah anymore. He watched as Martin cursed at him. “Oi! Dickhead! Come down here so we can kick your arse!”.
The part of him that still was Jonah, was still afraid, wanted to cry out to His Archivist. He wanted to plead and scream like a child until His Archivist somehow saved him from this fate, took what was left of Jonah into his arms and promised him that the pain would stop, but he could only remain in his station, chanting a record of his own fear and suffering. It was in that instant that Jonah understood how his Grandmother felt. All those years ago, when she called his name, in vain, with a pleading look in her eyes.