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It wasn’t so bad, being buried, Jon felt. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing, of course, feeling the ground – the dirt the rocks the fucking worms – pressing onto him, but it could be worse.
He Knew the way out, which gave him an advantage over everyone who had ever been buried, really. He wasn’t entirely certain how he would reach the way out, but being buried wouldn’t kill him. Probably. Being buried alive probably wouldn’t kill him.
It was worse for Martin. Martin who had been so deep in the Lonely that Jon had almost lost him, Martin who wasn’t disconnected from his Entity down here, but more in tune – because Martin didn’t Know that Jon was there.
They were Buried alive, and the silence, the pressure, the absence of light, was all-encompassing and overpowering.
Jon Knew, of course, nothing could hide from the Beholder, not anymore – he had taken them all into himself, even if he hadn’t Known what would happen he had willingly accepted the Beholder and all it Beheld – and Jon wasn’t buried, he was Buried.
It could be debated if he was alive, and the answer to that was something even the Beholder couldn’t give; Martin was alive, however, and while Jon could physically feel him he Knew where he was, and he could get there.
A proper Avatar of the Buried could probably do it smoother, but Jon didn’t have the time nor feel like putting in the effort necessary to move silently through the dirt surrounding him; he simply found the thread that connected him to Martin – was it love? Was it his blood on the knife Martin still held? Was it the Beholder and the Beheld, always known to each other? – and he pulled as if it was a statement from a reticent witness.
He Knew the way, and he would be allowed through.
Martin, on the other hand, didn’t know – or indeed Know – anything of where he was. It felt foggy in the exact same way that the Lonely had when he’d almost lost himself to it – and yet it was nothing like it.
He held something, in his hand, and before he could think about why it might be a bad idea he twisted until he had it at eye level – whatever direction that was. Everything was pressing into him from every direction, and he wasn’t certain what was up or down – but he knew that whatever he was holding in his hand, that was important.
It was a knife.
It was a knife, and Martin knew that knife. The blood clinging to it wasn’t red, Martin wasn’t certain it could even be called blood anymore – ichor, maybe, or possibly just ink. The ink of every single book written, the ink of every statement ever printed down – or the plastic of every statement ever recorded?
Martin wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew it was Jon’s – whatever. He had slipped a knife between where ribs should have been and found a beating heart, something he thought many had begun to doubt the existence of even before the Beholder ritual had gone through.
Jon wasn’t callous, Martin knew – Jon felt too much, and if he allowed himself to feel for everyone who made a statement, he would be even more of a wreck.
Would have been? What tense should he use, anyway – he had stabbed Jon, and Jon probably had died – oh dear God he had killed Jon. He had killed Jon and then everything had exploded, and now he was – in the ground. He felt something wiggle in the vicinity of his left shoulder, and he decidedly ignored that it felt like worms. If he never saw a worm again in his life, it would be too soon.
He had killed Jon his boyfriend his partner he had killed his Jon.
The dirt around him grew foggy, and the fog repeated the litany back at him. The only person who had bothered to pull him from the fog of the Lonely, and he had killed him – he deserved to be in the fog again.
Something alive grabbed his shoulder, and Martin got a mouthful of dirt-ground-Buried as he screamed. The something tugged, pulling him backwards, and Martin kept spitting out the soil as he inexplicably moved.
Then they broke the surface, ascending from the dirt as if from a dive in a lake, and through soil-crusted lashes, Martin saw Jon.
”There you are,” said the beloved voice that could always pull Martin back from the brink of insanity (after driving him there, of course). For someone who had been recently been stabbed – was it recently? Martin didn’t think it felt that long ago – Jon looked remarkably healthy. Too healthy. The pockmarks from Jane Prentiss and her worms were – if not entirely gone, then faded into invisibility. The burns he had received from the Lightless Flame were – also gone? ”I can hear you.”
The Beholder wasn’t gone.
”None of them is, I think – but I don’t know where we are, so everyone’s equally stumped, at least.” Jon looked around, dirt still streaked across his face, and Martin decided it didn’t really matter.
The Beholder was All-knowing, omnipotent – but a dedicated boyfriend could surprise even the Entity it seemed, because as Martin threw himself at Jon, Jon toppled.
It would be a hilarious story to tell, sometime – when they had both stopped sobbing.