Chapter Text
Jon was at his wits end. Really truly at his wits end. He's tired, so so tired of this war of futility with his own body. Jon felt something deep, a terrible gnawing thing not just in his stomach but deep into his entrails, small intestine, kidneys, heart.
Everywhere.
And it hurt
Some days were better than others, sometimes after a particularly recent statement or after one of the assistants came back from an encounter with something terrible the ocean could be pushed back to something manageable. Those days were getting fewer and fewer, the times between the days where he felt more Jon than the Archivist were getting longer.
It hurt.
Jon walked back to the institute as Basira walked cold as stone beside him. She didn't look at him or even acknowledge him which was better than the sneer that she normally regarded him with. Which was fair after all Jon had facilitated. He wasn't the cause, but he definitely didn't stop. Like a frightened horse, Jon had charged head first into this world. Jon really had no one else to blame but himself. Why didn't he stop when he was stalking Tim and Martin? Why didn't he leave after Prentiss? He guessed it was too late by the time he was playing “Collect the horrible fear God marks” and globe hopping. Jon sighed and pulled his cardigan closer to himself. The temperature wasn't low, but Jon was still cold.
“When we get to the archives, you look for statements related to vast rituals and nothing else,” Basira doesn't look at him. She'd brought him along to play supernatural nobility. Much to Jon's endless frustration, avatars seem to seem him on at least on the same level. That didn't mean they stopped trying to kill him, but they gave him the time of day they didn't Basira or Meline. Some warped form of respect to hear him out if he caught him out.
or It could be sexism
It was definitely racism with a slaughter entity a few months ago. (A gun that had turned into a vessel for hate crimes that they shoved in a lockbox with an iron weight then threw into a well-connected to the vast.)
Rosie waved hello and Jon gave her a weary look that he tried to at least make seem like it was just normal insomnia. Basira gave her a sharp nod, and they descended into the archives.
There was a man waiting there.
A rather tall man even with the boots. 6’1 without 6’4 with. Jon knew exactly how he knew than.
The man was tattooed, eyes on each joint with bright red hair that brushed the small of his back. He was inspecting his nails and shaping them with a nail file. He was- he was-
Jon fought against the sweet call of the Eye and information. He could know who this was, it was on the tip of his tongue, but Jon forced his mind away from the information.
“You shouldn't do that,” He said now looking at them, eyes rich green with veins of gold in them like ore in a mine. Rather beautiful.
“Pardon?” Basira asks clenching her fists and hand hoving over a police baton.
“Wasn't talking to you, I was talking to him,” He juts his chin in Jon's direction.
“What?” Jon blinks in surprise.
“You shouldn't block the Eye like that, especially when its useful information, It'll give you migraines,” He said and Basira moved behind Jon and pulled out the baton. Her eyes are steely and her stance is primed for movement.
“Who. Are. You,” her voice is commanding and even using Jon as a shield she seems in control.
“I'm here to give a statement,” he says and shrugs. Jon feels something equal parts him and not him perk up. The part that was temporarily excited to do his actual on paper job was quickly squashed by the part of him that reminded him of nightmares and haunting.
“You can't really expect me to believe that,” Basira said incredulously.
“Believe what you want, it's what I'm here for,” He said and went back to his nails. Basira squinted and Melanie walked in from a side room.
“I- I can take him,” She said looking at him, heavy bags under her eye that Jon felt a surge of guilt about.
“No, I want to see the Archivist,” He eyes, narrow and pointed. Jon flinched as Basira turned to him now upset and accusatory.
“It's fine, I'll do it,” Jon stepped toward an office and opened the door. The tall guy put a file in the pocket of a long worn black jacket.
The man looked around the bare office with the lone tape recorder already running. Jon wasn't even surprised to see one. The man sat in the set across the desk, marbled eyes looking at him, studying, as if trying to pick him apart.
“Let’s begin, Statement of…” Jon raised an eyebrow.
“The Hound,” he said looking, just looking. Expecting something. Jon knew what a title sounded like. That name meant something and Jon wasn't sure what. It made him itch.
“Statement of the Hound, taken directly from subject, regarding?,” Jon felt a rush of relief, like a glass of water after a long time of running.
“His work with the Archivist,” the hound said still waiting, still looking for something.
“Khnan Eil was a good librarian. He loves his work. He loves the feel of clay beneath his hands, placing the tablets upon the shelves, walking the aisles by candle and dim sunset. Khnan Eil loves his dog, his beloved Mušēṣu Lemnūti, his loyal hound who chases away those would harm their halls.
Dogs are not good luck, he knows, they're wretched, violent things, but his Mušēṣu Lemnūti is not like that. He is a good boy, and he would never bring something dark upon their doorstep. He is a good boy and Khnan Eil loves him more than anything, his glossy fur and bright eyes and large ears, clever and quick and quiet. He is a smart dog, and there are those who would say it is all the more for malevolence, but Khnan Eil has raised him from birth and knows his heart. His Hound would never hurt him, and he will always guard their library. He is a good dog. He is his dog. He can't bear the thought of his death. Khnan Eil would miss his library, but he would miss his dog more, and so he hopes they die together. He wants to grow old with his beloved Mušēṣu Lemnūti. He is a good dog.
But the fears never cared about love.
They found a new part of The Royal Library of Ashurbanipal, a wide open room with a horrible eye painted into the floor. Khnah gazed into it, he did not hear his Hound’s bark or his fearful whines. He just stared at that open terrible eye. It swallowed his secrets and liked the taste of them. Khnan's love for knowledge became a thirst that clawed at his neck and gnawed at his brain. Mušēṣu Lemnūti stood beside him loyally. His master thirsted and he could smell what would quench that thirst. People followed him back to the archives and his master would learn and pull their secrets like teeth.
Mušēṣu Lemnūti was a good dog.
Khana would die, killed by boils and puss and burrowing Scarabs. Mušēṣu Lemnūti lived on; he lied beside his master’s body. He Knew what had happened, Knew he needed to find the next Master, but not yet. He’d stay right there for a while longer.
Archivist after Archivist, Mušēṣu Lemnūti out lived them all. He took on new names, new forms for their comfort and taste. Thick coats to live within ancient monasteries or a small body to travel quickly on new iron trains. Eventually he figured out how to walk on the legs of a man. He spoke their tongue and accepted he was no longer the faithful companion of Khnan Eil. He was the Hound of the Archivist.
Jon rubbed his eyes and sighed again.
“So you retrieve people with statements for the Archivist so they can collect their knowledge,”
“And avoid all the nasty things beyond the archive,” The Hound smiled and wiggled his tattooed fingered toward the door.
Jon sighed heavily. Just when he thought his life couldn't get any more insane. This wasn't what he needed. Wasn't what he wanted at all. He didn't need more spooky shit throwing a football at his head. He didn't need something making not taking statements harder than it was. The idea of this constant stream of potential victims in his office made him shutter. What was he going to tell Basira and Meline who already didn't think of him as human? He didn't think that a mystical being that was devoted to making spreading the terror of the Eye as easy for him as possible would go over well.
“Ok, do I just call you Hound or?” Jon asked. If there wasn't a human name then Jon would give him one.
“Gerard, or Gerry, Gerry Delano,” Delano, where had he heard that name?
“You wouldn't happen to know a Eric Delano?” Jon asked careful to keep the buzzing static of computation out of his voice. Gerry's jaw clenched and looked upset.
“Yeah, knew him for a while. Good man,” Gerry didn't meet Jon's eyes, instead inspecting the books about Jon's office. So they were connected. Jon filed this information away.
“If you followed the Archivist then did you work with Gertrude?” Jon asks again, curiosity getting the better of his fatigue or tact.
“For a spell, the desolation got the best of me near the end of the Archivist before her, and so I really only knew her toward the end of her life,” Gerry sounded bitter now rather than sad. Jon felt lighter. He knew Gertrude, after all the fighting and digging in boxes for statements to figure out how to stop the Unknowing, someone who knew her personally sat right across from him.
The sick joke was not lost on him.
“Uh, I'm sorry for your loss,” Jon didn't know if the man across from him felt remorse.
“It's fine, I've got you now,” Gerry said and Jon startled back. What was that supposed to mean?
“I'm supposed to not only fetch statements but guard the Archivist. Gertrude was shot when I was supposed to be protecting her. Now a new Archivist has been named, and I have a new chance,” Gerry leaned forward onto his elbows and looked directly at Jon, holding his gaze in an iron grip.
“I won't fail,”
Outside in the main room of the archives, Basira looked like she didn’t believe a lick of what he’d just explained.
“I’m just telling you what he told me,” Jon replied irritably.
“You understand how an immortal dog man meant to serve specifically you is a bit unbelievable,” Melanie said from where she leaned against a desk.
“Why don’t we ask Elias,” Daisy chimed in. Everyone in the room whirled to look at her.
“I have several months of reasons why we don’t ask Elias!” Melanie made wild gestures and gestured around to the archives. Her face was twisted in rage and it made Jon recoil and sour. The scalpel digging into his flesh; blood seeping into his clothes.
He tried not to let it show on his face.
“Where is Elias anyway,” Gerry asked. Jon jumped in a good imitation of a spooked cat.
“Prison,” Basira answered with a chilling look. Gerry busted out with a solid cackle. Jon’s heart clenched. How long had anyone laughed genuinely in the archives? It felt out of place now. Water and oil.
Prentiss... Not since Prentiss...
“Good for you all, would have paid money to see that,” Gerry said, standing next to Jon, using his shoulder as an armrest.
That was-
That was an interesting feeling.
Had someone pumped some kind of knock out gas in? Was this the work of an avatar? Jon would have smelled weed if it was that.
“What are you doing to him?” Daisy snarled, literally her lips pulled up and she looked ready to pounce. Jon really wanted a nap.
“Just taking some of the fear hunger, Easy there Jon,” Gerry had a large solid hand on his chest keeping him upright. Oh, being touched felt nice.
“Why is he all- all loopy!” Daisy bristled.
“I’m essentially taking part of a heavy weight off his shoulders, he’s going to be affected,” Gerry said. His tone was rushed to explain before Daisy set herself on him. The rest of the room shifted away from the two and their almost fight. Jon registered what Gerry was saying. It did feel like he could unclench a muscle he’d kept taut for too long. The ocean of knowledge was not pressing as hard against his control.
“Reinforcing the door,” Jon murmured, still half out of it. Gerry raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah whatever that means,” Gerry now rubbed large circles on his back and that also felt very nice.
Daisy still looked unhappy at Gerry but was willing to back down. Jon Knew the Hunt was flaring up. It fed off her anger and urged her to start the chase. She really couldn't afford to relapse right now.
“I'll take him to see Elias, I don't expect straight answers, but his reaction might be all I need,” Basira spoke, gathering the coat she had placed on the back of a chair upon getting into the archives.
“What makes you think I'm just going to go with you?” Gerry replies. this was getting to school yard fight levels of petty. Jon had learned that life was easier when you just do what Basira asks.
“Please just go with,” Jon asked looking up at Gerry from where he had slowly slid to the floor. Gerry made a “tch” sound; annoyance palpable. He marched up to Basira, pointedly not looking at her. That was going to be a headache in the making.