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The first sign was the smell.
It wasn’t the fire smoke that clung to the wool of their sweaters, nor the damp and clean scent of the earth after a rainy day. It was the sweet, rotten stench of old paper and dust; of something spoiling in the air, in a place that had been sealed for centuries and had not meant to be stirred.
Jonathan Sims shot upright in bed, his heart a frantic, trapped bird beating against his ribs. His body was already thrumming with adrenaline before his mind had fully caught up. The darkness of their cottage bedroom was endless, a deep velvet blackness so different from the orange-grey haze of a London night. But now, it felt suffocating.
Next to him, Martin slept on, undisturbed. His breathing was a soft, steady rhythm; a pulse of peace in the silent room. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window, Jon could see the individual lashes resting against his cheek, the familiar, gentle slope of his nose. The solid, warm weight of him was usually Jon’s anchor, his absolute and final proof that they were here, they were safe, they were out. But the nightmare clung to him like cobwebs, its filaments hooked deep into the tender meat of his brain, and for a terrifying moment, even Martin’s presence felt like a memory.
He could still see it. Not the panopticon, not the twisting, woven horror of the puppeteer’s domain, nor the endless and crashing dread of the vast. This was older. Deeper. He could feel it deep inside his bones, a cold marrow deep certainty that had outlived the fears themselves.
He was back in the archives. Not the grimy mess of the Magnus Institute that he knew like the back of his scarred hand—but the ones that existed only in statements taken from dust and whispers. Endless shelves of crumbling vellum and cracked leather stretched on and on into a darkness that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic thrum, like the vein of some slumbering monstrosity. And he was reading. Of course he was reading. The compulsion was a current pulling him under, and what else was he made for?
The words weren't in any language he consciously knew, but he understood them with a terrible, terrible certainty. They were stories of endings. Not grand, apocalyptic endings, no. But small, personal ones.
The last thought of a woman buried alive, the taste of soil thick on her tongue. The final, fading beat of a star going cold in a forgotten galaxy, its light a dying sigh. The silence that clings to the last note of a song, a void that swallows sound forever.
And the voice, smooth like oiled silk and as old as the first waves hitting the sand, was whispering just behind his ear. It was the him, but stripped of his distant, cosmic condescension. This was his attention, focused and intimate and hungry. The figure stood beside him, then, form coalescing from the shifting shadows. Jonah Magnus, stretched thin like parchment over a frame of bone. His skin was the colour of old paper, and his eyes were not eyes but the polished, reflective lenses of a dozen antique spectacles, each one reflecting a tiny terrified fragment of Jon’s own face.
And he was reading along with the archivist, his voice a perfect, chilling echo of Jon’s own. "Let me tell you what you are, Archivist. You are a final draft. A last chapter. You collect endings because you are one yourself."
He had tried to drop the statement as if it were a burning ember, but his hands were spectral—ghosts of limbs that no longer obeyed him. The words were etching themselves onto the inside of his eyelids, and he knew, with a dread that was both new and ancient, that he could read the texture of the paper with his eyes closed. He could feel the knowledge, the horrible, terminal knowledge, seeping into him and he knew that when he finished this statement, there would be nothing left. Not of him, not of Martin, not of the world. Just a closed book on a silent, rusty shelf, eternally forgotten.
He swung his legs out of bed, his curls a dark cascade over his shoulders, the silver threads in his hair shining faintly like laced obsidian in the dark. He listened to the sound of Martin's breathing; one, two, three steady seconds– a deliberate counting to prove the world was still turning, before he found the courage to leave the warmth of their bed.
The floorboards were cold and rough against his bare feet. He leaned into the discomfort; the physical sensation was a jolt of reality meant to shatter the feverish architecture of his mind. He padded out of the bedroom and down the short hall, his gaze unconsciously cataloging the familiar landmarks of their home: the small, slightly crooked landscape Martin had painted, the patch on the wall where the plaster was a different shade, the way the third step from the top groaned a specific note under his weight. It was a habit born from a need to constantly verify his environment, to ensure it hadn't shifted back into something monstrous while he wasn't looking.
He moved into the main living area of the cottage. The embers of their evening fire still glowed like molten iron in the hearth, painting the room in phantom shadows that danced and twitched at the edge of his vision. The room was a testament to their life; a worn, colourful blanket thrown over the back of the sofa, a stack of books on the side table, a half-knitted project spilling from a basket in the corner.
He didn't turn on the lamp. The dark felt safer now, away from the bed, away from the risk of waking Martin with his trembling. Martin already carried his own ghosts; Jon didn't want to add more to his plate, to become just another burden in this fragile, hard-won peace they were building. The guilt of needing comfort was a familiar, acidic taste in the back of his throat.
He went to the kitchen, turning the tap and splashing icy water on his face. He gripped the cool porcelain, head bowed, as water dripped from his nose and chin, and he tried to remember how to breathe. The simple act felt like a complicated manoeuvre he’d once been taught but had since forgotten.
It was just a dream. A nightmare. A relic of a haunted mind. He’d had them before. So had Martin. They were to be expected, like phantom pains from a severed limb. The Fears were gone. They were here. They were safe. He recited the facts like a mantra, but his nervous system refused to believe it.
But the voice.. it had felt so real. So present. As if he hadn't just been banished, but had left a part of himself behind, a sleeper agent buried in the deep wiring of his brain, waiting for a trigger.
"You don't get to retire from being an ending, Jon. You just get to be the last one you'll ever read."
He squeezed his eyes shut, a heavy, shuddering sigh escaping him. "It's not real," he whispered to the quiet cottage, the words a fragile incantation against the terror. "It's not real."
The floorboard creaked behind him.
Jon didn’t spin around. He froze, every muscle locking in place. A deer in the headlights of a memory. The sound was a pinprick of pure terror in the quiet dark. For a heartstopping second, the nightmare bled through entirely. He wasn't in their kitchen. He was back in the archives, and the thing creeping up behind him had too many eyes, a smile too wide for its face, and a voice that knew the shape of his soul better than he did. It crept closer and closer and closer, the smell of dust and rot intensifying, until–
A soft, sleep-roughened voice cut through the static in his head, the space before his eyes clearing again. "Jon?"
It was Martin. Just Martin.
His Martin.
Jon’s shoulders slumped, a wave of relief so potent it left him dizzy. He kept his grip on the sink, his knuckles bone-white, focusing on the minute chips and scratches in the porcelain, using the sheer reality of it to anchor himself. He heard the soft shuffle of sock clad feet, and then Martin was there; a solid, warm presence beside him. A solid, warm presence beside him, his own breathing a calm counterpoint to Jon's ragged gasps.
"You're shaking," Martin murmured, his voice laced with a concern that was as familiar to Jon now as his own heartbeat.
Jon managed a jerky nod. He couldn't form words. His throat was sealed shut with the sticky remnant of fear. The part of his brain that handled language had been wiped by the primal part that only knew how to scream.
Martin’s sleep-soft expression changed, the sight of Jon’s state wiping away any lingering drowsiness. "Right," he said, his tone shifting from sleepy to practical in an instant. It was a tone Jon had come to rely on more than he'd ever admit. "Okay. Come on. Away from the cold."
A large, warm hand settled gently between Jon's shoulder blades, its pressure firm and grounding. Familiar. A touch that spoke of a thousand such moments of reassurance. He guided Jon away from the sink, through the living area, and onto the worn, lumpy sofa that faced the hearth. The embers cast just enough light to see the intimate outlines of their life together: Martin’s poetry books stacked chaotically on the floor, Jon’s half-finished crosswords on the side table, two mismatched mugs from the charity shop in the village.
A life built from small, salvaged things, each one a quiet declaration of us.
"Sit," Martin instructed softly. Jon sat, the springs of the old sofa groaning in protest. He watched as Martin moved to the kitchen, his movements slow and deliberate. He knew better than to make any sudden moves or loud noises. He didn't turn on the harsh overhead light, instead lighting the small oil-fed lamp on the counter, which cast a gentle, golden pool of light that pushed back the oppressive dark. The clink of ceramic, the rush of water from the tap, the soft thump of the kettle being set on the stove—each sound was a stitch sewing Jon back into the fabric of reality.
Martin returned with two steaming mugs, the scent of chamomile and honey cutting through the last of the phantom dust. He handed one to Jon, their fingers brushing briefly. "Chamomile. With honey. No caffeine to… hm, to whatever's going on in there." He tapped his own temple gently, a small, tired smile touching his lips before he sat down beside Jon, close enough that their thighs touched. The contact was another anchor, a point of warmth in the cold aftermath of the dream.
Jon wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his frozen fingers. He took a tentative sip. The tea was too sweet, just the way Martin made it, and the cloying familiarity of it was a relief. He could taste the specific brand of honey they bought from the market, could see the tiny chip on the mug's rim against his lip.
"Bad one?" Martin asked after a moment of comfortable silence, broken only by the soft hiss and crackle of the embers.
Jon nodded, staring into the amber depths of his mug as if he could search for answers there. "Yes," he managed, the word rough.
"Want to talk about it?"
He didn't. He desperately didn't. Giving voice to the nightmare felt like granting it power, like inviting the thing from his dreams to take a seat in their living room and make itself at home. But he also knew, from bloody experience, that letting it fester inside the dark of his own mind was worse. It would grow enough to start feeding on him, and he refused to let it take this from them, too.
"It was the archives," he began, his voice a low, rusty thing. "But the.. the idea of them. It was endless." He closed his eyes, and the image of the nightmare flashed behind them, clear and horrifying. "I was reading a statement. A statement about.. endings." He shuddered, the memory of those words washing over him again. The last thought, the final beat, the clinging silence. "He was there. Jonah. And he wasn't just watching. He was narrating through me." Jon’s voice dropped to a whisper. "He said I was a final draft. A last chapter."
He risked a glance at Martin. His face was somber in the flickering light, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wasn't dismissing it. He was listening and that alone made Jon feel marginally less insane, marginally more tethered to the man beside him and not the monster in his head.
"It felt so real, Martin," Jon whispered, the confession torn from him. "It felt like it had never left. Like I carried it here in a suitcase, and I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to unpack it. What if.. what if our being here isn't a victory? What if it's just a.. a pause?" He paused, swallowing thickly, the fear a stone in his throat. The question was a groove in his mind, a path his anxiety travelled down most nights.
"What if I'm a loaded gun in this peaceful, quiet world, and one day I'll just.." He couldn't even look at Martin as he voiced his deepest terror. "Go off?"
The fear, his deepest and most secret, was out now, hanging in the air between them like a poisonous cloud. What if I hurt you? The thought was a constant, low-grade hum beneath the surface of his thoughts, the legacy of having been a weapon once before.
Martin was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the dying fire as if searching for an answer in the coals. Jon braced himself for the platitudes. It was just a dream. You're safe now. It's over.
But Martin never gave him platitudes.
"Okay," Martin said finally, setting his mug down with a soft clink. He turned to face Jon fully, his expression serious but not afraid. "Let's say you're right. Let's say, for argument's sake, that there's a seed of it still in you. A.. a potential."
Jon flinched. He hadn't expected Martin to agree, even hypothetically. The validation of his fear was terrifying.
"Then what?" Jon asked, his voice barely audible, as if by speaking any louder he would stir the terror awake.
"Then we watch it," Martin said, his voice steady and sure, a rock in the storm of Jon's anxiety. "Together. We don't let it grow in the dark. We bring it out here, into the light, where we can see it. We name it. We call it a nightmare, a memory, a– a fucking asshole trauma! We don't let it be a monster in the closet." He reached out and took Jon's hand, lacing their fingers together in a grip that warmed his heart. "You're not a loaded gun, Jon. You're a man who survived a war. And you have scars." He squeezed his hand, his thumb stroking over the back of Jon's knuckles. "This is how we tend to the scars. We clean them, we bandage them, and we wait for them to heal, even when they ache. Even when it hurts."
Tears pricked hotly at the corners of Jon's eyes. He looked away, embarrassed by the show of vulnerability, but Martin didn't let go, his hold firm and certain.
A softness came over Martin’s face then, a look of such unshakable affection that it made Jon’s chest ache. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?" Martin continued, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. "I don't see an ending. I see someone who keeps trying to begin. Every morning you get up and you make that awful, bitter coffee and you frown at the crossword like it's offended you. You try to plant vegetables in that pathetic, rocky patch of soil out back, even though everything dies. You argue with me about the proper pronunciation of 'scone'." A real, genuine smile, small but bright, finally broke through on Martin’s face. "That's not an ending, Jon." His voice lowered to a whisper, meant for Jon alone. "And I see you. Just you. And I love you."
A sob, caught in Jon's throat. The words, so simply stated, destroyed the last of his defences. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Martin's shoulder, hiding his tear-streaked face in the familiar wool of his sweater. Martin’s free hand came up to cradle the back of his head, his fingers tangling gently in Jon's messy, silver-streaked hair, holding him together as he fell apart.
"They feel so real," Jon mumbled into the fabric, the warmth of Martin's embrace and the solid beat of his heart finally chasing away the last clinging remains of the paper and dust stench.
"I know," Martin whispered into his hair. "I know they do. But they're not. This is real. My terrible sweater is real. That leaky tap we still haven't fixed is real." He paused, and Jon felt him take a deep breath, his chest expanding against Jon’s cheek. "My love for you is real. That's the most real thing I've ever known."
They sat like that for a long time, as Jon's breathing evened out to match Martin's and the tremors in his hands finally stilled. The nightmare was not forgotten, but robbed of its power, boxed up and placed on a high shelf by Martin's simple certainty and the overwhelming truth of his love. It was a temporary reprieve, he knew. The box would likely rattle again tomorrow. Or the next week. But for now, it was quiet.
Eventually, Martin spoke again, his hand moving from Jon's head to rub slow circles on his back. "The sun's thinking about it," he said, his voice hushed as he nodded towards the window.
Jon lifted his head, his eyes feeling raw and heavy. He blinked, and his gaze, without his conscious intent, focused on the fine, almost invisible down on Martin’s cheek, gilded by the light. The deep blue outside was indeed beginning to lighten at the edges; a pale, silvery grey hinting at the dawn to come.
"Come on," Martin said, standing and pulling Jon up with him, their hands still linked. He led him not back to the bedroom, where the shadows of the dream might still linger, but to the front door. He grabbed the woven blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around both of their shoulders. Then he opened the door.
The cold, clean air of the Scottish morning hit them; a shocking contrast to the fear-tainted air of the night. The world was washed in shades of grey and indigo, the outlines of the hills just beginning to emerge from the darkness like sleeping giants. The silence was immense, broken only by the distant cry of a bird and the whisper of the wind through the ground.
They stood on the doorstep, huddled together under the blanket, and watched as the sky slowly bled from grey to a soft, bruised lavender, then to a brilliant, fiery gold that set the few scattered clouds ablaze. The first sharp rays of the sun crested the distant hills, painting the landscape in light. It illuminated every dewdrop on the grass like a scattered diamond, the rough texture of the stone walls, the grey smoke curling from their own chimney. It was a world made in perfect, beautiful, mundane detail, a world that was here.
It was a beginning. A new one. Just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow would be. The promise of it was a tangible thing, settling over Jon’s shoulders as lightly as the blanket.
Martin squeezed Jon's hand, his skin warm against Jon's cooler touch. "See?" he said, his voice quiet with awe, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Another one."
Jon looked away from the sunrise and at Martin, at his face illuminated by the dawn, his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of a hope that Jon feared he would never truly possess himself, but was learning to believe in because Martin did. The nightmare was a ghost. This—the bite of the cold air, the blinding rise of the sun, the shared weight of the blanket, and the solid breathing presence of the man beside him who knew all his monsters and loved him anyway—this was the substance. This was the truth of his life now.
He leaned his head against Martin's shoulder and let out a long, slow breath, watching it mist in the cold air. The last of the tension seeped from his shoulders. It wouldn't last, this peace, but it was here now and that was enough. He turned his face and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against the wool of Martin’s sweater, right over his heart, a silent testament to everything he felt but couldn't say.
"Another one," he echoed, his voice firmer now, laced with a fragile certainty. And for the first time since he'd woken in a cold sweat, he believed it.
For this moment, at least, he believed it.