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In the rare glimpses of consciousness, as he floats in the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus thinks one thought. "I didn't want this."
No, that's foolish. Of course he wanted this, he would think three years ago. Or was it five? Fifteen, seventy, a million lifetimes? Or was it just yesterday he has awoken in a cold sweat in his bed in the early 1800s, feverish and plagued with the first thoughts of his Watcher's Crown?
Of course he wanted this. He, Jonah Magnus, has succeeded where nobody had before. He has changed the world, and in doing so changed himself. He is the king of a ruined world, and he shall never die. He shall never die.
But, of course, for never dying to hold any kind of meaning, one must also be alive.
His breath hitches in his chest as he levitates - floating without grace and elegance. Raised above the ground in the air, in his own Panopticon, like he was hanged with an invisible rope. It feels just as suffocating, at least. He feels all that there is to feel, he sees all that there is to see and he writhes in blissful torment in the very center of a prison. His prison.
This is everything he's ever wanted, isn't it? To be as one with Beholding, to perceive and watch and listen and understand - isn't this everything? But, of course, for seeing and hearing and perceiving to hold any kind of meaning, one must be conscious to feel it. To understand it. And consciousness, he finds, is a mercy that he is rarely granted. Sometimes, in these rare glimpses of understanding, the assault of Watching on his senses gives way, if only for a moment, to crystal-clear recollection. A most wonderful dream.
And Jonah remembers.
"Knock-knock." Elias speaks in a slightly lilting voice as he slinks through the door, to the surprise of Tim, Martin and Sasha - and the utter bewilderment of his Archivist.
"Double boss!"
"Elias?"
Elias blinks, focusing his eyes - then smiles. "I'm not too late for cake, am I?"
They had a birthday party then. Elias had delighted in adding his little touch of foreshadowing to the traditional song - and then they all had a quaint little time over a glass of wine - Martin, though, ended up not drinking - and a slice of cake.
Cake. That was nice. Elias had to admit to himself that while his great plan was of utmost importance, he could spare some time for a little treat. That was, after all, the point of being alive, wasn't it?
Alive. What an interesting word. On first glance, it was quite straightforward, wasn't it? To be alive was simply that - to not be dead. Or, at least, that's what Jonah thought before.
Of course, for all his dreams of a changed world Jonah loved simply living. He loved cake, and he loved putting on a nice suit, and he loved to do his scheduling on Wednesdays, and to learn things other did not know, and to joke about things other did not understand, and to weave his plans and to lie and to watch his Archivist grow in power and to live.
Living. That was the je ne sais quoi of it all. And yet as he felt himself in the center of the giant tower, where he could not touch a wall or reach the ceiling or take a step on the floor and simply look out of the window- did he live? Or was he simply not dead? There is an aching realization, in those rare moments where he is aware enough to realize, that it is the latter. That he has worked tirelessly and knew and watched and waited and changed the world - and the one thing, the one truth he came to know was that he didn't want this after all.
And yet, death had still scared him - if there was even anything left to scare. After all these years, all these bodies swapped and all these names and all these masks - what had separated him from a Stranger other than the agonizing pressure in his skull? Was he, after all this, even the same Jonah Magnus that once dreamed to wear the Watcher's Crown - the crown that he knew was not meant for him?
Bloody tears of desperation pour from his eyes - ever-open, ever-seeing. Never a moment of respite. Never a moment of life. They flow down his cheeks, down his neck, over his chest and he can't raise a hand to wipe them off. His mouth is ever-open, and yet he cannot scream. In the rare glimpses of consciousness, as he floats in the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus thinks one thought. "I didn't want this." "This isn't what I wanted," a silent litany spills from his parted lips, and for a moment he can almost hear it, "this isn't what I wanted."
"Not like this."