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It was true that the Fears were weaker, here, somewhere else. But they still existed, because humans still feared.
Usually, this didn’t make much of a difference in their lives, not nearly as much as it used to. But Jon still had the powers of the Archivist. He still had the scars, too, and eyes would open every now and then on them. While he was asleep, with the eyes that were actually connected to his brain closed, there would always be one or two open, if not more.
Jon had nightmares as well as good dreams, although they were his own, and not others he was forced to watch. And Martin noticed that he could tell, if he was woken up by one of those nightmares, which entity he was dreaming of, by what eyes opened on Jon’s body.
If the Web was entangling him, feeding him to spiders or conjuring up images of Martin lying to him, eyes would open on his knuckles. Martin took a while to figure that one out, and when he did, a shiver ran through him as he heard Jon’s voice on the tape: Knock, knock.
If the Eye was Watching him, leaving him bare and stripped of secrets, an eye opened in the middle of his forehead. Martin supposed it made sense, although he thought the symbolism was almost…trite.
If the Corruption was invading him, covering him with dirt and bugs, eyes would open all over him, on every scar left by Jane Prentiss’s worms. Martin hadn’t really gotten used to the mortifying ordeal of being perceived, so it was a bit uncomfortable for him, getting stared at in the middle of the night.
If the Spiral was twisting him, leading him through doors and mazes unnumbered, eyes would open in a spiral, rather like Christmas tree lights twisting down his body, glowing underneath his clothes. For all its deception, Martin mused, this pattern was very straightforward. Martin also noticed an eye that didn’t fit the pattern, somewhere in his chest, he thought. He couldn’t tell without moving Jon, and when he did (of course, Martin would wake him up from this twisting nightmare) the eyes would close again. Martin guessed one of the Distortions had stabbed him. It wasn’t too hard to guess at.
If the Stranger was leading him on, pretending to be Martin and Gertrude and Sasha again, eyes would open on his ears. Martin took a very long time to figure out why, even after he’d told Jon about all this. Jon Knew it was the Stranger’s pattern, but he didn’t know why. Then Martin had heard a calliope play, and he flashed back to the Unknowing. (Be still, for there is strange music.)
If the Desolation was laying waste to him, burning him until only charred bones remained, a single eye would open in the palm of his right hand. Martin cursed Jude Perry for it.
If the Vast was hurling him, taking the breath out of him and sending it to the winds…Martin woke up to the sound of hyperventilating one night. Jon was breathing hard and fast, clawing at his blanket. Martin wrapped his arms around him, stroking his chest and telling him it was all right, just a nightmare. Jon never knew it (unless maybe he Knew it), but when Martin’s hand brushed over his lungs, he saw a dark space, full of tubes branching into impossibly many tubes. They were lit, Martin realized with a start, by dozens of eyes. And Martin knew he was seeing into Jon’s lungs, through the eyes in there. It was only for a moment, but Martin wondered if Jon saw it too, when he slept.
If the Hunt was chasing him, creeping up on him and watching him with more hunger than the Eye, if possible, an eye would open on Jon’s neck. Martin knew it was stupid, he shouldn’t be rating Jon’s eldritch eye patterns that he got because he was being tormented by fear gods, but he hated this one. The scar on his neck already looked like a toothless mouth, or a pupil-less eye, and the eye actually being there…even after so much horror, it still gave Martin a shiver.
When the Slaughter was killing him, playing pipes that called him inexorably to his doom, an eye opened on his shoulder. Must be Melanie, Martin thought fondly. Three of Jon’s seven friends (for certain, loose definitions of the word) had stabbed him: him, Melanie, Daisy. And Michael or Helen, since there was that one random Spiral eye. But they weren’t friends with Jon.
When the End was beckoning him, showing him death, two eyes appeared on the back of his head. It gave Martin a start to find green eyes staring back at him from what appeared to be a void. Then, Jon woke too, and they closed, and Martin realized they were on the back of his head. Jon told him he’d dreamed of death, of Death, but Martin was still confused. They lay for a minute in silence before Jon spoke again. The optic nerves connected to the visual cortex in the brain, which was in the back of his head. It had been alive and firing when he was in his coma and Oliver Banks had given him a statement.
When the Flesh was bleeding him, drowning him in raw, pulsing meat, two eyes opened, one for each rib, on his lung. They glowed through his shirt. That was actually one of the easier ones for Martin to figure out, since this was a literal scar, not just an emotional one.
When the Buried was choking him, pushing him down deep below the earth, eyes lined his chest on all four sides. After Jon woke up gasping for breath, the eyes fading and closing all around his chest, Martin realized what that pattern was for.
When the Dark was removing his senses, moving shadows before him just out of sight, eyes would open on his eyelids. Martin had woken up one night from a nightmare of his own to find Jon’s eyes glowing green. This was pretty normal, and Martin cast his eyes over Jon to see what kind of nightmare this was, to better comfort him when he awoke. Then Jon awoke with a start, his eyes opening so fast that his eyelids moved before the glowing eyes faded, causing the backs of his eyes to go green. Martin asked him which entity, and for answer, Jon simply turned on the light. (That wasn’t usually what he did.)
When the Lonely was isolating him, surrounding him with fog, no eyes opened. Martin was confused at this one: it wasn’t the Dark, since that was eyes on the eyelids. Then Jon woke up, crying for Martin, grabbing at him. Martin held him for a while. It clicked then: this was the Lonely. Not a single eye was watching, not a single eye would keep Martin company in those dreams. Martin started to cry, just as Jon was, and they held each other tight.
But the worst one of all? When a single eye opened, green and alight, over Jon’s heart, while he slept.