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typewrite-dragon · 5 months

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Seeing Eye to Eye - TMA Lonely Ghosts AU

[AO3 Link]

This is set in the same universe as Ghosts Get Lonely Too. This particular story is set before that one. There are ripples now with him not encountering the Hunters nor Gerry's book. There are reasons for that. : ) Jonathan "Jon" Sims, frustrated with the lack of information to combat the Lonely, finds himself on a bus on the way home. He crosses paths with a young woman named Champagne Pailyu, an Avatar of the Eye.

Statement Begins

[Click]

The soft sounds of people speaking and the thumping sounds of what is likely the shift of clothes and backpacks fill the silence before the clearing of a throat. A soft voice voice is heard.

“Hello, is the-” The words are interrupted by a sudden surprised yelp by Jon while the owner of the other voice sighs and continues, “The seat beside you, is it taken?”

Soft panted breaths in and out and a breathless nervous chuckle, “I, yes. I mean- n-no. No it is not taken. I’m sorry I didn-”

“Didn’t See me there, I know. It happens a lot.” There is a tired acceptance in her tone, perhaps some amusement, “Do you mind if I sit with you?” “No, no I do not mind at all. Please.” Jon says it quickly, still trying to even his voice out.

“Thank you. My name is Champagne.” “Champagne? Really? I mean-” A stumbling of his words as he tries to course correct, “Jon. You may call me Jon. You ah… your parents must have been… the celebratory sort.”

There is a loud snort from Champagne, “A pleasure to meet you, Jon, and perhaps you are only half right. I never did get to ask them about it.”

An awkward silence as the voices in the background continue to fill the silence before the sound of a mechanical squeak and hiss of breaks before the engine grows louder and there is the distinct sound of a vehicle moving.

Finally, there is the rustle of fabric and then paper as the pages of something are being flipped through. The sound of a zipper follows in what is likely someone getting out a writing instrument. “Oh! You draw?” Jon suddenly asks, sounding desperate to chase away the awkward silence.

“Hm?” A moment and then Champagne adds, “Oh. Yes, I do.”

“Would you… may I see some of your work?” Jon asks tentatively, seeming to find relief in something normal for once. Yet there is a soft distortion around his words, a distant static.

There is a thoughtful sound and the tap of the pencil on the page, “I do not think you want to see my work, Jon.”

“Why not?” The sounds of static become stronger.

Silence and the static seems to fall away with an eerie sort of laugh coming from Champagne, “You are awfully new at this, aren’t you?”

Jon is clearly surprised with his own sound of confusion followed by, “New? What- What do you mean by new?”

“Oh gods, you are very new at this. I suppose I am too if we really think about it.”

“I don’t understand-”

“I suppose you wouldn’t. You should really eat soon, you are looking a bit peakish.”

“I am fairly certain food and drink are prohibited on the bus.” Jon says defensively, snapping at her without thinking. Then a soft gasp and he says in a hushed whisper, “Oh. Oh. Oh no, you’re one of-”

“Relax.” A tone that is both gentle and yet it was firm in the way it was a command. There starts being a scratch of pencil over paper, “I am an Avatar, yes. However, I have no intention to harm you. I cannot promise the same of your Strange Officer.”

Jon scoffs and there is a shift of fabric as he changes how he is sitting, “Forgive me for not believing you.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” Champagne tells him, “But I feel that,as new you are, you shouldn’t be looking at some of my art. You are welcome to watch me draw if you would like. This one shouldn’t be too horrible.”

“What? Do you scare people with terrible art skills?” Jon asks snaps, tone practically scathing.

“Something like that, but let’s just say I am a picky eater.” Continued scratch of pencil over paper while Champagne’s voice is calm and even, “You are not in danger of being consumed, Jon. I would like to think we are on the same side.”

“Same side? What side would that be?” The static again, but it does not sound as strong. Whatever compelling he is trying to do, it does not seem to be working on Champagne.

A loud sigh and a soft whistling and muttered sound that doesn’t sound like any spoken tongue is made by Champagne and the pencil continues to move, “New and Ignorant. Of all people to collect for the Eye. I suppose it is easier to fill an empty cup… or a bucket.”

“The Eye- Did Elias send you?” Jon demands with a hissing, growing increasingly frustrated that he cannot seem to get a clear answer. Perhaps, he is wondering everyone is under the Eye is this difficult.

“Stop trying to compel me, Jon. You have enough problems.” Champagne signs again, “I don’t Know who that is, but no one sent me. Judging by the feel of you, I imagine our… threads were always meant to cross. I just so happened to be on the same bus as you.”

A long silence and Jon finally speaks again, “You mentioned the Officer. So they are…?” He trails off, hoping for her to fill in the blank without actually compelling her on accident. He seems to be stumbling over that ability too without meaning to.

“Part of the Stranger I think. I suppose they could be of the Hunt.” Disgust in her voice as Champagne adds, “A disgustingly large number of law enforcement are. Usually they hunt in pair,s however, so I think this one is Stranger. It has that feeling of being off.”

“Yes they- they do that.” Jon admits, mollified, “Well do you happen to know a Gerard Keay or maybe even Gertrude Robinson?”

His voice was so hopeful, trying hard to find any answers at all. Champagne feels sorry for him, “No, I am afraid not, sorry. I do not know either of those people... Or Know them. I am sorry, Jon.”

A groan and a thump from Jon flopping back into his seat, “I have been trying to- you know what? Nevermind. It… no. No I am going to try to ask. You wouldn’t happen to know about the Unknowing would you?”

“Maybe you aren’t as new as I thought…” Champagne says, sounding absently curious as the sound of the pencil still working, “Unfortunately, I do not know much. I think it is a Ritual?”

“Oh.” Silence follows and then Jon continues, “Yes, it is a world ending ritual by the Stranger.” “Ew. Why did I have to be right?” The pencil on paper stops long enough to be noticed and then a soft sound of the the clicks on a mechanical pencil and the drawing resumes.

“I very much wish you were wrong. You know, I am beginning to think no one knows anything at all. I just… I need to stop this ritual.” Jon mutters and he sighs. Why was he even out here?

Champagne hums as she draws, “I know a little about how the Fears work. Not a terribly large amount, but maybe I Know something that can help give you ideas. The Stranger is rooted in nonsense and feeling off from reality. So perhaps you need cold undeniable logic.”

A thoughtful sound, “Perhaps… but if a ritual is so large… what would be big enough to stop it?”

“That is… a good question. I don’t know. It may need to be something just as large and disruptive.” Champagne shifts, the sound of fabric and paper before she continues, “Maybe some good old fashioned arson.”

A tired laugh that sounds like it is bordering on hysteria, “Maybe. Are you sure you don’t work with the Desolation?”

[Click]

The recorder turns on again, this time the sounds of people in the background are softer. There are more distant sounds of the beeps and hisses of a kitchen. There is more scratching of pencil over paper.

Jon’s voice comes through, “Oh, it feels good to stretch my legs again.”

Champagne laughing softly, “Not used to long rides like this, are you?”

Jon yelps in surprise and pants, his tone is sharp, “How do you keep doing that?”

More laughter and Champagne’s smile is in her voice, “Inherent ability. Before the Eye grabbed me. Anyway, the previous question about long trips still stands.”

A sigh, but it is followed by a good natured chuckle. He sounds at ease for once, it surprises even him, “No, no I really am not. The fact that you can travel for hours and still be in the same state is a bit mind boggling.”

“Ah right, you all can just take a wrong exit and end up in another country and stop there for lunch before heading back in time for a spot of tea.”

Jon laughs, it is a quiet sound, “I suppose we can. The… the fear that has a problem with vertigo… falling… ah-” “The Vast.” “Yes, that. They would have a field day here. I think.” Champagne hums quietly, “I think there might be an Avatar around the Grand Canyon. I haven’t had many issues with that one though so I couldn’t tell you.”

A low hum, “You really do not strike me as- you feel so… well adjusted for someone who is… well.” “A monster?” “No! No not- you don’t feel like a monster! You are actually, well, quite nice.”

“Well thank you.” Champagne responds softly, “I highly doubt anyone I have fed on would agree with you. I tend to target unpleasant people. I think this is the longest I have held a conversation with anyone that didn’t become a snack later.”

“How did you, ah-”

The pencil scratching paper stops suddenly, “Wait.”

A tense silence and she sighs, “They are trying very hard to find you, Jon.”

“I- what- they are here?!”

“Close.” Champagne makes a sound, it seems almost musical in quality, like a whistling wind, “Should be distracted for now.”

“What did you do?” Fear is filling his voice, unease and borderline hysteria filled with a very soft static.

“Jon relax, and please get your compelling under control. It is uncomfortable.” Champagne sighs, “Look, if you really want my story, we can do that. I have a feeling this food isn’t going to be enough and if you are taking down an entire ritual-”

“Then I will need all of the he- wait a minute. Hang on. What do you mean the food isn’t enough? Are you saying I am becoming like- that I am like you? But I am no-”

A low hum and Champagne speaks firmly, “Jon, relax. Breathe for me. You aren’t entirely lost yet. You are still human enough, maybe, I know the idea of lost control is unpleasant. I am sorry, but survival is… You are going to need to decide how far you are willing to go for the sake of saving others, alright? Sometimes… it means shaving off parts of yourself to make room for new parts.”

“Okay…” Shaking breaths and he swallows audibly, “Okay, I… thank you. I think.”

“Good. Now then, let’s feed you. Outside. A small walk should do us some good.”

“I-wh- are you sure? All of the other-”

“I am sure, Jon. At least one person deserves my story, and if it helps you save the world… well that is rather compelling all on its own.

People do not tend to like their secrets ripped out of them, I know. It is uncomfortable. However… I suppose I have done it enough to people that I can, should share mine. Whatever consequences follow… I suppose I deserve it.” Her tone is sad and soft.

“Oh, yes I… yes of course. Let’s… let’s walk.”

[Click]

It is a little quieter, save for the sounds of vehicles, albeit they sound almost distant. Muffled. The sound of footsteps is softened by the ground.

“So, Jon, how do you usually collect your… stories? Your tape recorder?”

“Oh I ah…” Jon makes a thoughtful sound, trying to find an answer. He wants to be respectful. He feels like he should be respectful, “I… well usually at the Institute I am… the Archivist… head Archivist. I… usually there is a little more formality, but yes I use this. The Statements, the real ones, do not seem to want to be digitized.”

He clears his throat, it feels awkward being outside and exposed. Yet, she seems absolutely at home in it. Whatever comfortable confidence she has out here, he wishes he could have some of it. Though he feels if he stays close he is somehow sheltered.

“Well, the world is your Archive, Mister Archivist.” She says dryly, “There are plenty of stories to be told out here. Plenty to collect.”

“Right… right you are I suppose.” A tired sigh and he huffs a small laugh, “Statement of Champagne….” “Pailyu.” “Pailyu? Your name is- I… oh god I am so sorry.” “It’s alright, Jon. I blame my mother. You don’t need to apologize for her choices.” “Yes, well um… right. Statement of Champagne Pailyu regarding…” “My background and how I became an Avatar of the Eye.” “Statement taken from source June 29th, 2017 by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. When you are ready.”

A slow deep breath and a long exhale, “Thank you, Jon. I suppose finding a good place to start is a bit difficult isn’t it? Trying to find the things that are important and are the defining points of your life that would make seasoned psychologists nod and scribble down notes as to why you are the way you are.

My mother perhaps is a point. It always seems to start with a parent, doesn’t it? Her name was Ciara Pailyu. She was… well I actually don’t know if she was ever a good woman. If you knew what she did, I suppose you would find that she really was an awful monster.

The Fears had nothing to do with it. She was the one who chose my name. I suppose alone, Champagne is a pretty enough name, but combined with Pailyu and suddenly I was reduced to something empty and only useful for other people’s enjoyment. To hold onto things that would only be discarded later. Temporary. Fleeting. Forgettable.

It is fitting really, and I guess that was always her intention. You see, if you have a chance to study the history of folklore and mythology, there are a great many gods and goddesses and beings out there. One of them was Carmun. She was a powerful witch, powerful enough to be called a goddess, who caused famine and rot. Perhaps… she would have gotten along well with the Corruption. My mother, apparently, was a descendant. By extension, so was I. Carmun wished to roam the Earth once more and reached out to my mother to make a deal. Wished to inhabit a body and wouldn’t you know it, my mother had a first born available. Not an ounce of hesitation in selling off her own child and in sealing away my voice so that I could not make any deals myself.

Of course I had not known that was the reason I could not speak at the time. I was an infant then, barely a personality and completely defenseless. My father, Niyol, did not know what she had done and had just assumed I was born mute. He did not love me any less and I think perhaps that was the only reason I ever survived being around my mother. Being sold to one day be Carmun’s vessel was not the only thing ‘strange’ about me. Oh no, I had to be able to see ghosts. Ghosts and spirits and gods. To be able to see the unseen and communicate with them. I could even interact with them just as easily I do you.

Most would just assume that they were the imaginary friends of a little child, but they were all so very real and so very kind. While I could not speak any living languages, the ghosts taught me how to speak the language of the dead. It is more of a breathy whistling sound, perhaps a little static sounding. When you are little and children are prone to making such unusual vocalizations, it worked out well for me. Still hurt, but I managed. I could communicate.

So I grew with my first language being that of the dead, with none the wiser. No one else understood of course, which my mother used as a reason to dismiss me easily. I think… my ability to see ghosts and to communicate with them was why I could also sneak about as though I were one myself. Out of sight and out of mind. Seen but not heard. I scared her often enough as a child when I tried to get her attention. Startled my father too, but I think he started to recognize what I was able to do. I think he could see them, but instead of the clarity I had, his was more like shadows from the corners of his eyes. That turned out to be a hereditary trait, perhaps amplified by the ritual used on me to steal my voice away.

It wasn’t until I was six that I could talk. The neighbor’s dog had passed and was now a ghost. She was a large chocolate lab named Cocoa. She was a protective sort and I loved her. Even had a little brown dog toy that my father got for me.

One day, she chose to appear in the form of an old woman to talk to me. So I did not realize at the time that she was, in fact, the dog. I was upset that I could not speak in a way that my mother understood. She acted angry and lashed out at me for being incapable of speech as though she wasn’t the one to take it away from me.

There is something powerful about unconditional love. Especially from a loyal dog. She had helped me simply to help, having been kind and patient when I was small and trying to navigate the world around myself. She took it upon herself to remove the seal, though there is still a scar left behind. A reminder.

Suddenly, I could use my voice, though I hurt, and everything was intense enough that even my father could see Cocoa. Found me outside with her. Was warned that I was not safe. So that night we left so that I could live with my grandfather on the reservation and my father promised to return soon. That he would join us. Soon became a word I no longer trusted. A promise at the end of our regular phone calls. My father died when I was eleven.

My grandfather raised me as best he could. Raised me with the traditions of our people. The stories. The practices. Encouraged me to use my voice. He was a severe man, but the gentlest one I knew. He taught me how to navigate the world that was largely unseen by most.

He was a wonderful anchor, and it was good to have someone, as the other children tended to avoid me once my novelty wore off. I was the ‘weird girl’ that talked to nothing. The one who struggled to speak and made ‘odd’ sounds. I didn’t mind too much. I had my friends, even if they were dead. The ones who had given me a voice even when I had none to begin with.

I took to art as another form of expression, perhaps inspired by the fact my grandfather ran a tattoo shop. I was always happy to watch him work. It was amazing to see how he could fill empty space with lines and colors and it could all become so coherent. He encouraged that in me as well.

I did well enough in school for him not to worry, and the additional lessons about the world outside of what I knew was to keep me safe. To keep me aware that not all things were my friends. I grew into adulthood and he… he grew ill and passed.

I mourned, though I had mourned for a while leading up to it as his memory became fragmented and his health declined. He had long given me the shop and changed the name too. The Heron’s Flower.

It was in that shop that through the door walked, well, a god. A volatile one who claimed to be looking for my grandfather. When he realized he was not there, I apparently was just going to have to do.

He did not want to give me a name to call him by and insisted I could call him whatever I wish, so I had given him one myself. I gave him the name Réalta. He was… unpleasant. Crass. Tried to get a rise out of me. I was fairly despondent by then. No anchors to really speak of.

I drew something that upset him. That hit too close to home. First Impressions can be quite upsetting. Then he decided I was attractive. I figured it was just the fleeting interest of an immortal. I would be soon forgotten or I would age and he would lose interest. Perhaps I went along with it because was just lonely. In retrospect, I really should have just adopted a dog. Animals are better than people.

I will save you from needing to listen to the details of my love life, but I did grow to love him. He actually remained with me. I couldn’t tell you if it was a good relationship or not. I didn’t have much to compare it to.

The problem was… he caused a lot of harm to others over the course of his lifetime. Comparable to the Desolation. To try and claim revenge against a literal deity is a fool’s errand, but when you are desperate and in enough pain, I suppose you will be willing to do anything. Of course, many people try for, well, an eye for an eye. I was attacked, because I mattered to him. Last year, I was attacked in a place I should have been safe, my shop. I fought back. I managed to talk him down. Learned his name and why he hurt. I found out why I became the unfortunate target for blood lust and rage. Réalta did not accept my attempts to keep things from turning to bloodshed. I tried to keep things from getting out of hand, but the one who hurt me… who attacked me because he hurt so much. Davin still held anger and Réalta did too, but only one of them had power and in the end… Davin burned.

Even when I asked… begged for him to not be. I risked being burnt myself. I still have the scar, shaped like his hand on my arm like some sort of brand. It made drawing for myself the first few weeks near impossible. I was stubborn however and worked through it.

I had considered just… walking away from him. From everyone else. Everything inside of me told me to leave. Screamed at me to run, but I loved him. I felt that he deserved for me to tell him in person that I needed space away from him. To breathe. To think. Though if I am being honest, that house was still home to me. One of the few things, aside from the shop, that was mine. A shared space at the time, but the house was still mine. Never have I done well in a cage, Jon, and being told I belonged to him like some sort of property did not sit well with me. So I went back to the place I called home. I really wish I hadn’t. Maybe things would have ended differently.

Maybe waiting would have just been delaying the inevitable. I had thought that perhaps all of the trepidation was simply because I did not enjoy confrontation. I was someone who had to work not to vanish from perception. I often wonder if the Lonely had also wanted a piece of me… perhaps it still does. The Fears have always been so… isolating. Probably explains why there are so many cults tied to the Fears. People desperate for connection.

Ah sorry… I am rambling. Running and hiding from the point. I guess this is the part that I…

Gods… I always forget how much it still weighs on me. The clarity that remains in my mind. In my nightmares… I walked through the door of my home and heard Réalta arguing with the shade of a woman. One who was old and powerful. I did not know who she was yet, but I could feel that some part of me had a tie to her. It felt unpleasant like the vitality of every nearby thing would slough away and leave only rot as evidence of her existence.

I was not present for the entire argument, but when I came across them in the kitchen there were scorch marks on the floor as Réalta was arguing, again about how I belonged to him. I didn’t want him to destroy the only home I really cared for, and I remember yelling at him and I demanded to know what he was doing. I forgot to be afraid of the woman beside him.

Everything else happened so fast once their eyes were on me. You see, the inherent ability I have to just… fade into obscurity, it doesn’t work if someone is constantly trying to track me. Someone has to make a conscious effort to remember I exist. Had to make a conscious effort to follow me and keep their eyes on me. If they became distracted then maybe I would have a chance to escape. Except the woman was Carmun. The very goddess I was bound to. The one I was to become a vessel for. Apparently I was ripe for the picking and she wanted her body now.

All eyes were on me and even without a pencil in hand, the clear Impression I had gotten from them was burned into my mind. She was going to oust me from my own body. She was going to take all I created and make only rot come from my fingertips. Festering blight and famine and no one prepared to stop her. The other… fire and destruction and somehow he too was linked to Carmun, although in that moment I did not know how.”

Champagne has to pause then, her breathing shaky despite herself. Reliving this moment in sharp detail as she often did hurt her. “Champagne, are you-” “I’m fine, Jon… just… let me finish this. It needs to be said. Someone else needs to Know what I did.” Her voice is sharp but quiet and she takes a few more breaths before she continues.

“Statement resumes I guess. Heh. So… Carmun turned on me and in that moment Réalta turned on her. Flames again trying to lash out, except it also was going to consume and destroy my home. Destroy one of the few links I had to the one anchor I had grown to rely on.

For a long terrifying moment, I stood frozen in fear. I did not want to be seen. I did not want their eyes on me, wild with wanting control over me or my body. I did not want rot to spread from my fingertips. I did not want to burn in the ashes of the emotions of a man I foolishly thought loved me.

I had tried to run, thought that perhaps maybe if I got outside that they would follow. It was such a stupid idea: To run. To try to save the house, my grandfather’s house, before my own life. It is possible that I had been worried that house would be the place I would die in. That the last memories in a home that was full of love would become one full of terror and loss and destruction.

No matter my reasons, I ran. I ran and made it as far as the living room before I felt that wretched witch grab my hair and try to wrench me back. I had long learned to deal with ghosts and spirits by then and I went down onto the floor kicking and screaming to get her to let go. At the same time, flames erupted and Réalta had started to try and burn her. She let go, though my hair suffered in the process. I was scrambling to find anything to defend myself, scrambling across the floor towards one of the end tables I kept some tools in. The two were fighting behind me while I practically ripped the drawer out and the contents scattered. In the process, I knocked loose a false bottom on the drawer. I do not know how I spent so many years not knowing this thing was in my house. It was old and dusty. Older than any pen like that should have been. It was a long thing and a pale lavender in color and it… It called to me. It scared me. Part of me Knew I had a choice to make. I could be killed and my body taken over to rot the world with impunity. I could be trapped by destructive flames that simply wanted me to be a possession. Branded and eventually burned to ash if I tried to stray too far or if something else coveted what he owned or… I could take this tool before me. I swear the world went still as my hand hovered over it. The fighting seemed so distant. I had a choice and I had been so certain that I had known enough to maintain control over my life even with whatever… force that was tied to that pen. A force that felt like an endless pit that wanted to simply consume. That would never be full.

Yet… at least it would be on my terms.

I could make that choice.

I grabbed the pen.

Everything was suddenly intense. The world was now a terrible awful brilliant clarity that would make any artist weep. The flames were hot twisting ambers and yellows and reds and the soot left behind was ashen black threatening to turn into the brilliant colors of flames. The same carpet was rotting and the wood and paint of the space around them had begun to peel and warp between the heat and the corruption fighting one another. Discolored greys and sickly yellows fighting with intense flames.

Not only that, I could hear yelling about a deal that was made. The Eye wanted to Know. I wanted to Know. I wanted to know what this deal was.

I grabbed the nearest book, an address book I think, and flipped it open and started to draw. I had no control over my hand and while part of me desperately wanted to stop because I felt I was about to do something awful, I also needed to know what they wanted with me.

The world warped as ink became a scribbling swirling chaos that formed distinct shapes on paper. The area around is twisting and warping around us as the scene became something familiar and yet not. My childhood home from before I could speak. As the paper was filled with ink and inexplicably was changing color as I went, there were two bodies on the floor of what was once my bedroom. Mutilated and rotting as though they had been forgotten and abandoned for a long time.

By then, Réalta and Carmun realized something was wrong. That they were suddenly on a stage and the memory versions of them both stood beside the bodies. They both realized what it was, but the one who reacted first was the man I thought loved me.

They had made a deal. They had made a terrible and awful deal. Carmun wanted him to hand me over. My father’s death in an effort to protect me from my mother’s choices and my grandfather had done his best to shelter me from a storm that was still threatening to take me. Réalta had not come to my shop by accident. Had not come to simply find someone willing to place ink on his skin. He came to kill a man who was no longer there and had decided instead of honoring his deal, he would keep me all to himself.

I was angry. Angrier still as I watched the scene play out, as I watched Carmun consume my mother’s soul. I Watched her consume my father, claiming their existence to fuel her own with no chance for me to ever call upon them. Ended. Gone forevermore.

I watched as the bodies lay rotting and then were burned away by the fiery god who only knew how to destroy what people loved most. I watched and watched and watched as though I was there in that moment in time. The scent of burning rotting bodies filled my senses, the heat kissed my flesh and threatened to take me with it. Even though I cried, I could still see it all so clearly.

Réalta begged me to stop, pleaded with me and tried to tell me it was all a lie. That he loved me. That he was never intending to follow through. That he was so so sorry. I was too angry with him to believe him. Not until it was too late as I turned the page and filled it with more detailed scribbling art. His most painful secrets and vulnerabilities torn from him and put on display for me to see and for him to relive.

It was too late and the irony is that he did love me. It was not enough to save him, and with that burned out and his very existence devoured by the ever hungry Eye. A delicious main course, but of course it wanted dessert.

Centuries upon centuries of vulnerabilities and all Carmun could do was watch in horror and wait for her turn. I filled that book with their secrets. With their screams. With their deepest most agonizing pains.

I filled every single page with fire and rot. With countless deaths and loneliness by their hands or the cost of their own actions. I watched every single moment of that terrible montage as the Watcher gorged itself upon the Fear of gods. I watched with sick delight as I made Carmun suffer for what she had done to me. To countless others before me.

I was delighted, I was terrified, I was sobbing and angry and tangled in memories and emotions not mine. I was lost.

Then it was done. I do not know how long I stayed in that space, but when I came back to reality I was suddenly dizzy and trembling. My hair was burnt and destroyed. There were scorched patches on the rug twisted with the warped rotten wood. As though I had drawn the rest of the home back to what it should have been, but that single mark of both remained. A coffee stain on the canvas of my life.

I wanted to collapse there, but some stubborn part of me pushed through. I was weak and yet energized by what I had done. As though the Eye was rewarding me for a job well done. I cleaned the house as best I could. All save the mark on the floor and the book remained as physical evidence.

I burned the book, but the memories still live in my head. Flooding me with terrible knowledge of centuries. For a long moment, I was lost in that as I wandered the house. I would find myself sitting in places Réalta once did. Displaying his mannerisms with the terrible truth of killing someone who did truly believe he loved me.

I would speak ancient and old tongues that were lost to colonization and time. I would look for sons I did not have. I would look for lovers that no longer were there. It was not until I found one of my sketchbooks that I came to myself. A solid anchor wrapped in leather and one of my first pieces I had drawn in it. An Impression.

Another ability that perhaps was why the Eye won out in its claim of me. The first Impression I get when I meet anyone. An urge to draw things I did not recognize nor had any importance to me, but had great importance to those that they were drawn for. Sometimes great changes would cause a new Impression to be made. Always more detailed and I would better recognize who they belonged to if I knew the person better.

It was my grandfather’s Impression. Drawn after we had gotten the call that my parents had died. A terrible accident, they claimed. We had both known better, but knew better than to investigate then.

The drawing was of a nest of twigs, bones and branches in a tree and within was a worn and dented bucket whose handle was held by a large blue heron. Inside the bucket was a brittle brilliant orange orchid that seemed half-way towards death. Bones of the dead that made the nest. Rot threatening the trunk as much as fire was trying to. A shadow of a predator circling. Red splotches that must have been blood. A protector determined to shelter his flower from the world that was too much. Colors splashed all over in a way that was nonsense and yet… I realized it was me that he was protecting. That my grandfather had put so much of himself into protecting me from the world beyond. Tried to teach me as best he could.

I suppose it was not enough in the end, he could only protect me for so long and the bucket was no doubt upended by now, but… I found myself. I fed the Eye enough to make it… amenable to my terms. I would choose who to feed it. I would feed only the worst and most terrible at the cost of myself, filling that empty bucket with terrible things and memories in an effort to keep any more of it from spilling out into the world.

There are a lot of terrible people and I suppose, in reality, I am one of them.”

There is a shuddering breath and at some point Champagne must have started crying. Soft sniffles as she tries to calm herself. There is a rustle of fabric as Jon starts making sounds of concern and panic. “Oh my god, I am- hold-hold on here I… I have a napkin in my pocket somewhere- I uh… st-statement ends.” A soft ah-hah and Jon holds his hand out to her. He sounds worn out as well, but also sounds far more steady than before, “Here. I… I think the bus is going to leave soon. We should go.”

“Thank you… and yeah. We should,”

[Click]

[Click] The sound of a busy airport in the background. Though with the clinking of glasses, it sounds a lot like they are sitting in a busy restaurant.

“Are you absolutely sure you do not want to come with me?” Jon asks earnestly, worry in his voice.

Champagne laughs tiredly and there is the sound of a glass being lifted and glass clinking inside as she knocks back her drink and sets the glass down, “Not really, but I think I am more a danger to your mission than not. Besides, someone needs to distract the Stranger so you can get home with your skin still attached to you.”

Jon groans and sighs before taking a sip of something, “Hopefully I can find answers when I get home. Cold Hard Logic sounds like a tall order when it comes to these Fears.”

“It does, but I am sure you will figure it out.” Champagne and the sound of a shift of clothes and the sound of bumping her bumping shoulders with him, “And don’t become a Stranger yourself. You have my number now. Reach out once in a while. Provided you don’t forget about me.”

“How could I possibly forget the person who fed Gods to the Eye? Or snuck past the TSA?” Jon muses at her.

A soft snort from Champagne and silence before an announcement is made over the loudspeakers and she hums, “Sounds like you should get to your gate, Jon. Thanks for the drink. I genuinely wish you the best of luck. Please try to take care of yourself and trust your anchors.”

“Oh! Yes, well I make no promises…” A sound of confusion as he trails off, “I… what was I saying?”

The shuffle of paper being slid over to himself and picked up and another sound of confusion, “What is this?” Another muffled announcement over the loudspeakers and realization seems to seep in when Jon gasps.

[Click]

#jonathan sims #Jarchivist #tma jon #fanfiction #my writing #Champagne Pailyu #OCs #TMA AU #I need to name this AU #Maybe Lonely Ghosts?#Lonely seems to be a very prominent issue in both stories #Lonely Ghosts AU #The Magnus Archives #writing #fanfic

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