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fuckthisshitimin · 2 years

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Take my picture (I want to last longer)

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September 21st, last autumn of Gerard Keay

Pictures on Martin's phone fail to carry the warmth of Jon’s eyes. The printed one tucked inside his wallet makes a better job at that, and the smile Jon addressed the camera is simpler than the way his fingers clench on Martin’s shirt when he opens the door.

Brown, deep eyes are open wide, and Martin cannot know why, cannot read in the pleats on Jon’s face, but he doesn’t need to.

He knows how to open his arms, he knows how to hold Jon tightly, he knows how to make it known that he’s here, with words he’s said a thousand times already, Hey, I missed you, how are you, the train was late, I’ll make tea, your hair smells nice, did you at least eat today, I love you, words that flood their apartment with familiarity, his heart spilling on the floor and Jon’s fingers spreading it carefully, welcoming him back, easing him into the colors of the kitchen, it’s green because Martin wanted it that way, and there are pots and pans hanging on the wall because this way Jon doesn’t have to bend down every time he cooks, the tea selection in the cupboard is eclectic but personal, presents and all-time favorites and seasonal ones, it wasn’t that cold outside, but it’s only when Jon has navigated Martin to the sink, it’s only when he pours water in the teapot that he feels warm again.

Jon’s side is leaning into his, and Martin is reminded this is his home. The one he made for himself, the one they decided on. He hums, when Jon’s fingers mingle with his own, restless despite the contact as Jon’s other hand is brought close to his mouth, nails soon to be bitten.

“I’m home.”

Jon’s frown relaxes a bit, and Martin goes through the top drawer to find an owl-shaped, dark green pendant. It is soft in his hand. “You are.”

“Do you want something else to bite?”

It’s only now Jon takes his hand out of his mouth, as if burned, looking sheepishly at the toy offered. He puts it around his neck without biting, and Martin can hear his fingers scratching the inside of his jeans’ pocket.

“Want to talk about that?”

The frown is back, and Jon’s eyes are pleading this time, his smile apologetic before it kisses Martin’s lips, and really, Jon has nothing to be sorry for. “Not really, no.”

“Mkay. Want to… uhm, hear about my weekend instead?”

It’s not a pleasant moment he offers, he knows. And Jon knows. But it’s easier with the weight of Jon’s head on his shoulder, easier when Jon asks questions, easier when he doesn’t hesitate to brush off the old worries that resurface every time, soothing the rampant anguish with practiced care.

Martin wants to heal. He does. But he remembers how desperate he was for it at first, how much he wanted to get rid of it, for Jon, he thought. Now he’s loved and the wound is still there, slow to fade away. Martin wants it to heal. But he isn’t so scared of the possibility it won’t anymore.

The park is almost chilly in the evening. But they won’t come inside yet. This is what coats are for, right? And walking just too fast, laughing just too loudly. Gerry won’t leave the park before they are kicked out. They won’t leave Michael before it is taken inside.

It’s smiling wildly, the kind of grin that makes its eyes look blue.

Gerry asked if they could draw it, earlier, a quick sketch, and Michael shook its head, and Gerry talked about their project. Michael needs to know.

It’s harder to tell it than it was telling the Archivist.

“You are, ah, oh, I… ah, so this is… a long-term project?”

Gerry can see the photographer’s lips tighten as soon as they close, bitten from inside and Jonathan Sims clears his throat, bringing two cups of tea to the table, with sugar and spoons. A chuckle turns into a pleased hum on their lips.

“’Long-term’ might be pushing it.”

Jonathan Sims’ face pales and Gerry grins. They’ve had time to get his head around the idea. To wrap their mind around it like gift paper, to be unraveled sooner than later. “Two years, tops. Probably closer to six months.”

Gerry’s host winces when he seats on the couch across from them, opening his mouth to talk before deciding against it. He settles on a curt nod, and Gerry relaxes on his seat, elongating their legs for a second. “Sorry I can’t give an exact deadline,” they say slowly, and something in their chest shifts pleasantly at Jonathan Sims’ widening eyes. He looks at them again, and Gerry gazes back.

Maybe that way, they could understand how he Sees the way he does.

Gerry didn't chose The Archivist on a whim. They didn't think it through exactly, either, but they trusted their guts, more like. Followed the hand that pushed their shoulder forward, when they first saw a photograph Jonathan Sims took, falling into the shadows like you fall from a cliff into the sea. It's a gasp, and suddenly drowning is easier than breathing.

He looks smaller in person, waist shrinking and tight shoulders, but his eyes are bigger than his shadow.

“Can I… ask what it is? It’s just that, that I will need to, aah, think ahead about… the… ah, evolution of your… state.”

Jonathan Sims’ voice is slow and exaggeratedly articulate, careful like a well-practiced but still dangerous knife trick. “Brain tumor. Too late to be treated, so I get to keep my hair until the end.”

A grave nod. Like the perspective of death could be in any way aggravated. But he doesn’t take his eyes off Gerry this time, he swallows the information, accepts it without questioning any further. Gerry knows it’s a lot to put on someone, but once it has settled in, something has shifted in Jonathan Sims’ whole being.

His movements are easier, his gaze is deeper, more focused, truly watching, truly listening with an eagerness that pushes Gerry towards him, words spilling out of their mouth easily as a magician’s flag rope.

“There aren’t many pictures of me, as of today, they say simply. And it doesn’t sit right, thinking that I’ll be gone, and my face will still be an elevator selfie on Instagram. It… I don’t think this is what dying is about. So, Archivist. Will you take my picture?”

Gerry can tell his mouth is dry just by looking at him gasp. They know, it’s so obvious, they know before they hear:

“Yes. I will.”

“They asked me to call them Gerry, too.”

Martin’s weekend had, unsurprisingly, been disastrous and when Martin closed his eyes and leaned into the couch, exhausted from the attention, Jon had told his own story. Had let Martin tag along as he revisited his encounter.

They had discussed the terms of the contract. The number of photographs, what Gerry wanted the memorial to look like, and they had a temporary agreement – a first contract, for a month, but by the time Jon let Gerry borrow his pen, felt the ghost of their warmth on his skin, he knew he would take the painter's picture until the end.

It is a seed of certainty planted in his chest, small and yet strong enough for him to hold on to without fearing crushing it.

“It sounds like a crush.”

Jon almost jumps at the word, head snapping to his boyfriend’s face. Martin is smiling kindly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean– I don’t… I worded this very poorly. Don’t think–”

“It would be okay if it was. I’m not saying it’s what it is. Just, you know. Just in case.”

Martin’s laughter is bubbly, in the air and in Jon’s chest, and he searches for a discomfort in his boyfriend’s face, a tell-tale sign of lying. He searches in vain. “Martin?”

“Yes, Love?”

“I don’t… I don’t think it’s a crush.”

He frowns, passing every word he knows in review to find one that would fit this. Attraction is something. Attracted, yes, attracted how? It’s a pull, a call, a yearning, but it’s steadier than that. “I am… curious about them.”

“Curious?”

Not this exactly. But he wants to spend more time with Gerry. He wants to get to know them. He wants them to know him. Maybe the right word would be hunger. Maybe the right word would be just that, right. It’s right. Being around Gerry is right. And Jon, well…

“I, ah, I guess it is… close enough for now?”

“Hm-hm. You’re making me curious, too.”

“Do you want to meet them?”

This would be right, too. Jon knows it. And Martin smiles at him and laughs, pulling his hair ever so slightly. “I don’t think that would be professional, Jon.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I am not! I’m… happy. You have no idea how nice it is, seeing you like that. You’re gleaming.”

For lack of words, Jon hums, fingers drifting towards his phone. He just learnt his favourite painter would be dead before long. He isn't sure he should be gleaming. He re-reads the message Gerard Keay sent him when they parted ways. It's a simple, Looking forward to working with you, Archivist, and yet it is dripping with a lazy playfulness Jon cannot unhear.

Martin is right. This isn't professional, this isn't appropriate. Jon ought to be distraught by the news, he shouldn't be, no, surely he shouldn't be gleaming. He shouldn't be, probably, looking forward to this. The itching voice scratches his mind again, and he lets out a muffled grunt to shut it down, typing a quick response. Martin's kiss on his hair grounds him.

So am I.

It was a pleasure to finally meet you, despite the circumstances.

He grimaces, erasing the last part. He types, sorry it had to be, and stops.

Surely he ought to be sorry. And thinking back on his day, a buzzing fills his chest, tingles his cheeks. He isn't. And he isn't sure it would be better if he was.

So am I. It is a pleasure, to finally meet you.

J. S.

#tma #mikhail writes #the magnus archives #jongerry #jongerrymartin #jonmartin #teaholding #jgm #jgm fic #tma fic #the magnus pod

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magnusmysteries · 3 years

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Part 3: The Wheel of Fear

The Magnus Archives was a horror podcast. It is now completed. Many of the show’s mysteries were never explained on the show. I intend to explain them. Spoilers for the show, but also spoilers if you wanna solve these mysteries yourself.

In the Architecture of Fear Smirke talks about a great wheel of fear. He talks of the fourteen powers, each with their opposites and their allies. I think Smirke believed the fourteen fears could be arranged in a circle, and that two fears on opposite sides of the circle are opposites.

In Old Passages there is a circular room with fourteen corridors leading out of it and a datestone that says “Robert Smirke. 1835. Balance and Fear.” I think each corridor represents a fear, with opposing fears placed opposite each other. The building is supposed to balance and thereby neutralize the fears. I think it works to some extent. In End of the Tunnel there is a similar structure. This one was damaged by a bomb during World War 2. This ruined the balance, and the Dark got out.

In Family Business Gerard says some fears really clash with each other, while others can blend together.

I tried to work out how Smirke arranged his fears on the wheel. I looked for episodes where two fears seemed to blend together and put them next to each other. With some fears it is fairly obvious they are neighbors, if you look for the clues. Others connections are harder to spot. I tried a few versions of the wheel that didn’t feel completely right. But then I found a version where suddenly lots of things clicked. It explained why the web table could trap the Not-Then, why Robert Monthauk’s ritual banished the darkness monster and things like that. I think this is the correct wheel:

Description of image: A circle with 14 spots similar to a clock. On each spot is a number and the name of a power: 1. Corruption. 2. Desolation. 3. Hunt. 4. Slaughter. 5. End. 6. Lonely. 7. Stranger. 8. Flesh. 9. Spiral. 10. Buried. 11. Dark. 12. Vast. 13. Eye. 14. Web.

Here is how powers overlap:

Corruption and Desolation

Desolation deals with suffering and loss of loved ones, and disease can cause both of those things.

Asag is a god of both fire and disease.

John Amherst is an avatar of both powers. There is fire in every episode he appears. In Taken Ill the old folks home he managed burns. It appears it was burned by Trevor and Julia, but this is misdirection. Amherst burned it himself. In Pest Control Amherst is burned, yet survives. In the Tale of A Field Hospital Jonathan notices the statement is charred. He speculates this happened when Gertrude burned the book. But I think the book spontaneously combusted. In A Cozy Cabin we learn that Gertrude is very much against burning books in the archives, and would have been more careful and not ruined the statement. And in Rotten Core Adelard says he will sit on Amherst’s throne and burn himself and it. I think that was a very bad idea, more on that in a later post.

In Squirm the protagonist, after being infected by worms, burns his own apartment down. He is influenced by Corruption/Desolation.

Desolation and Hunt

You can run from a hunter and you can run from fire.

Vampires are Hunt, Desolation and Corruption. In Vampire Killer we learn that vampires burn very easily. Because of the Desolation.

Why do vampires have a long bloodsucking tongue? Because the Corruption deals with mosquitoes.

There is a hint about the vampire-mosquito connection in Dead Horse; “That night the mosquitos were out in force, thick with fever, and hungry for our blood. I did my best to simply ignore them, safe as I was in my net. But over in Raleigh’s tent I kept hearing a sporadic thumping, or clapping sound, as if he were killing them with his bare hands. When I asked him about it the next day, he simply told me he had inside him a strong and enduring hatred of bloodsuckers.”

And then later: “Now, he and his crew were pinning the things that looked like men to trees, with long, iron spikes. They thrashed, and struggled, and a long, bulbous tongue hung from their throats, pinned by the iron of von Toll’s men. “I cannot stand bloodsuckers,” Raleigh said approvingly, as he conversed quietly with Baron von Toll in French.”

Also in Vampire Killer, the vampire offers rotten fruit to Trevor. Her house is dusty, a book Trevor picks up is damp and moldy and the bed is musty.

Hunt and Slaughter

The similarities are obvious.

Several of the Slaughter episodes have music that makes people go violent: The Piper, Strange Music, Grifter’s Bone, Civilian Casualties, Nemesis. Total War had singing corpses. Two hunter episodes also had music connection. First Hunt has the werewolf whistling “A-hunting-we-shall go”. Thrill of the Chase had the protagonist tapping her foot as if to music right before the violence started.

Thrill of The Chase is a Hunt/Slaughter episode. The Man in the mask is like a serial killer from a movie, very Slaughter. But it is a wolf mask, very Hunt.

Slaughter and End

People die in war.

Absent Without Leave covers both fears. Slaughter obviously, but it is also about the inevitableness of death.

Many Slaughter episodes deal with the living dead. And they usually seem to have a horrible existence: The guy getting stabbed in the Smell of Blood. All the soldiers fused together that shot Melanie. The dead people in Grifter’s Bone that had to fight each other. The dead woman in Absent without a leave. The corpses in the tunnel in the same episode. This makes people fear death since they don’t wanna end up like that.

The End also has the skin book which similarly makes people live after death, and it is agony. And Oliver Banks was alive after death.

In Total War, a Slaughter episode, the statement giver says he could believe he was dead and in hell.

End And Lonely

You’re all alone when you’re dead I guess.

In the episode Alone, the statement giver is almost drawn into an empty grave. Very End.

There is also a ghost in that episode. So life after death, like with the End and the Slaughter.

The Lucas family only meet for funerals.

From Boatswain’s call, regard Peter Lukas: “His eyes only moved a fraction of an inch to focus on me, but it felt as though the movement had the weight of a heavy stone door. Like a tomb. Don’t know why that’s what popped into my head, but there you go.”

Lonely and Stranger

If everyone is a stranger to you, you are lonely.

Lost in the Crowd and Monologue are Lonely/Stranger episodes.

Stranger and Flesh

Stranger deals with objects that behave like people. Flesh deals with thinking people are just flesh, an object.

Anatomy Class is a Stranger/Flesh episode.

Flesh and Spiral

Thinking you are just meat is a kind of madness.

In Killing Floor the protagonist is lost in a slaughterhouse maze, very Flesh and Spiral. He also walks a spiral staircase at some point.

I think Jared Hopworth is both Flesh and Spiral. Many reasons for him being Spiral: First: He prays on people with mental problems, body dysmorphia, anorexia etc.

Second: In The Butcher’s Window he twists a bone into a spiral and inserts it in himself.

Third: The book The Boneturner's Tale makes nearby books bleed. I think objects that bleed, that should not have blood, is a sign of the Spiral. The door handle in a Sturdy Lock bled. The tree in Burned Out bled. I think the tree is Spiral, much more on that in another post. Books, door handles and trees that bleed are all impossible, madness. Some might object that blood also fits with the Flesh, but the Flesh is actually fairly into cleanliness. I’ll explain why below.

Fourth: when Michael Crew is tormented by the Spiral he tries to escape by using the Boneturner’s Tale. “...but when I tried to shift the bits of myself I thought might set me free, the only shapes I could form with them were laced with that horrid, hunting fractal.” You can’t escape from the Spiral by using a book of the Spiral.

Mary Keay seems to think the book that drops bones is of the Flesh “Just a bit of viscera. Poems about dying animals...” The book is part Flesh, hence the dying animals, but is also Spiral. If you see a book producing bones you’d think you’d gone mad right?

Also in Old Passages, the bone book is stored in the room corresponding to the Spiral. The floor of that room’s corridor apparently bleeds. “I put my hand onto the floor to push myself up, and it came away faintly tinged with red.” There is a mummified hand in the Spiral room, hands are often an element with the Spiral. Think of the Distortion’s hands, or the Worker-in-Clay’s weird hands, or the hands coming out of the pot in Lost and Found. After entering the room, the statement giver gets very confused. He says his memories start to blur, and he ends up apparently taking the wrong door several times. That’s the Spiral messing with his mind and making him lost.

The demon In Confession and Desecrated Host might be of Spiral/Flesh. Or it might be the two Fears working together. More on that in a later post.

Spiral and Buried

Strong claustrophobia can be irrational, a mental problem. The Spiral includes the fear of getting lost, and you can get lost in a cave.

The Distortion has a yellow door that is a portal to impossible places. The Coffin is yellow and is a portal to an impossible place.

Held in Customs is Buried/Spiral. Time behaved differently for the protagonist, typically Spiral. John says the protagonist got Alzheimer, but it is the Spiral messing with his memories.

Lost Johns’ Cave is Buried/Spiral/Dark. The protagonist's memories are all wrong, the Spiral has changed them. And the cave is a maze. Mazes are spiral. The statement giver is a big fan of darkness.

Buried and Dark

Caves are dark and cramped. The ocean is dark and choking.

Lights Out is Buried/Dark. Quote: “I was in the Sandman’s sack. (...) The darkness pressed in, and seemed to fill my mouth, my nose.” Also the Sandman spills sand from his mouth, similar to how people chocked on sand in Dust to Dust and how the man spit out mud in We All Ignore The Pit.

Submerged is Buried/Dark. The protagonist is in danger of drowning but there are lots of references to darkness: The lights at the lawyer office don't work because the lightbulb is filled with water. There is thunder but no lightning, that is there are no lights in the sky. There are no street lights or lights on in the other houses. Water is described as dark and murky. The lights of the cars come on, to show dark shapes moving in the water. Quote about the water: "It would wrap itself around me, reach down my throat and fill me with its choking darkness." The water is murky. Dark water is also in several Dark episodes: a Father Love, Nightfall, Tucked In and the Movement of the Heavens.

Dark and Vast

The ocean is dark and vast. Space is dark and vast.

High Pressure is a Dark/Vast/Buried episode. The space the protagonist enters seems too dark. The vastness of the underwater space and the size of the creature is Vast. The enormous pressure is Buried.

In Big Picture we learned that Hailey, of the Dark, helped make the diving bell for the Vast ritual.

In Old Passages the first corridor the statement giver is in, is of the Buried. He keeps thinking the corridor is getting narrower. When he gets to the circular room he looks down the other doorways. One makes him feel like he’s gonna fall into it. One is exceptionally dark. It’s the corridors of the Vast and the Dark. They would be the corridors next to the Buried, the first doorways the statement giver would look into.

Vast and Eye

From The Coming Storm, Mike Crew discussing the Vast and the Eye: “We have a lot in common, really. After all, what, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you, unless you really know the scale of what you’re facing?”

In The Architecture of Fear an enormous Eye fills the sky.

In Twice as Bright Jude says of Michael Crew “...he’s closer to your lot than mine.” Meaning the Vast is closer to the Eye than the Desolation.

Quote from Jurgen Leitner: “Imagine, you are an ant, and you have never before seen a human. Then one day, into your colony, a huge fingernail is thrust, scraping and digging. You flee to another entrance, only to be confronted by a staring eye gazing at you. You climb to the top, trying to find escape and, above you, can see the vast dark shadow of a boot falling upon you. Would that ant be able to construct these things into the form of a single human being? Or would it believe itself to be under attack by three different, equally terrible, but very distinct assailants?”

Jurgen is referencing four powers here, the eye is the Eye. The boot is the Vast and the Dark. The digging fingernail is the Buried. And these four powers are next to each other, so in a way they are the same.

When Jurgen said this he was compelled by John. John did not know that he was compelling Jurgen, but Jurgen did know. Jurgen seemed to not want to give too much information. He was perhaps worried John would learn that destroying the archives would kill John. That Leitner, indirectly, was planning to kill John. So Leitner talked in riddles. That way he could give into the compulsion without John getting wiser.

Eye and Web

Both powers can seem passive, waiting and watching. Spiders have eight eyes.

The Book A Guest for Mister Spider is part Eye. Mr. Spider has eight eyes of all shapes and sizes.

Archivists are Eye/Web. First, the way they compel people to speak is very Web.

Second, the ancient archivist in Alexandria had long spindly fingers. Like spider legs. In Web Development Annabelle Cane is also described as having long spindly fingers. In Thought For The Day Annabelle moves her fingers along the wall, “...like a spider”.

Third, In Doomed Voyage, after John takes Floyd’s statement, Floyd seems confused. John tried to soothe him. Then John says “It’s alright, Floyd. You just need a break.” Floyd says “Yeah. Sure”. I think John was mind controlling Floyd. I think there is a little static when John speaks. Static on the tape often indicates that something magic is happening.

In Heavy Goods John tells Breekon “Stop”. Breekon is upset. Then John extracts a statement from Breekon’s mind. I think John mind controlled Breekon to stand still. There’s definitely a lot of static.

In Infectious Doubts Gertrude tells Arthur that he can try to leave. It seems he tries but is unable to. I think Gertrude is mind controlling him to stay.

Web and Corruption

Insects and spiders are similar. Probably many people afraid of one of them are also afraid of the other.

In Hive Jane Prentiss talks about the song of the hive that affects her. She says webs has a song as well.

Each fear has an opposite:

The Corruption vs. The Flesh

Because rot harms meat.

The Flesh tends to be very clean. The student in Anatomy Class cleaned up all the blood they spilled. The slaughterhouse maze in killing Floor was very clean. This is to combat the Corruption.

The Man Upstairs was about a Flesh avatar being attacked by the corruption.

I think Blood Bag was also about the Corruption versus the Flesh. More on than in a later post.

The Desolation vs. The Spiral

I’ll explain why they are opposed in a later post, when I get to Hill Top Road.

The Hunt vs. The Buried

The Hunt is a lot about running from a predator. Can’t run in a cramped space.

When Daisy was in the Buried she was freed from the Hunt. It could not reach her there, because it was an opposite force.

The Slaughter vs. The Dark

I’ll explain why they are opposites in the next post.

In The Piper the Slaughter kills Jonathan Rayner of the Dark.

In A Father’s Love the father performs a ritual that involves killing many people. The ritual destroys the darkness monster that is coming for his daughter. I think this worked because it was a ritual of the Slaughter, the opposite of the Dark. The father is chanting as he stabs the human heart. The Slaughter is often associated with music.

The End vs. The Vast

From Dead Woman Walking, Georgie talking about the End: “The promise of a cold and lonely eternity in the grave would have been a mercy; at least it would be eternal. But everything ends, even the universe, even time. (...) ...the monumental realization of the scale we existed on. Not the meaningless vastness of the universe, but the… the smallness of it.” Sounds like the opposite of the Vast.

I think the Vast also deals with the fear of eternity. First: notice how Georgie said eternity would be a mercy.

Second: notice how old Simon Fairchild was.

Third: In Submerged we learn that Gertrude threw Jan Kilbride’s body into the pit to disrupt the Buried ritual. John says “But Gertrude also realized that the body need not be alive. Or in one piece. She thought it was a mercy. It wasn’t.” I think this means she chopped up the body, but Jan was still alive. Jan was touched by the Vast. I think this had made him immortal, to make him fear eternity.

Fourth: In Personal Space a door in password to the door is E109GHT8. Someone on the Magnus subreddit figured out what it means. It refers to the three fears that owned the space station, the Lonely, the Dark and the Vast. For the Lonely, the 10 should be read like lo, and the beginning of the nine as n, giving is elon, sounding like alone. For the Dark, the 9 sounds like ni, making 9GHT sound like night. For the Vast, the 8 sideways is an infinity symbol

Fifth: in Freefall, when the guy is falling through infinite sky, his watch has stopped and he doesn’t know how long he has fallen. It feels like hours or days. But when he returns it has not been that long. The spiral messes with time to make people doubt their sanity. The Vast does it to make people fear eternity.

Sixth, quote from A Matter of Perspective: “I don’t know how long I was floating for. I know it was less than a billion years, which is barely a heartbeat in the life of the universe, so how can it really be said to matter? The stars began to wink out, one by one, and I thought – perhaps for a second, perhaps for a hundred years…”

I believe the immortal gamblers from Cheating Death, Section 31 and Burial rites, were not of the End, like John thought, but of the Vast. They didn’t want to die at first, hence they gambled for life. That is the choice they made to embrace the Vast. But later they become afraid not of death, but the opposite, of not dying. The mummy in the pyramid tried to stab itself to death. The gambler in Section 31 tried to shoot himself. There is a symbol of infinity on the pyramid.

In High Pressure, the statement begins and ends with the statement giver saying she should be dead. She didn’t die because she was touched by the Vast.

The Stranger vs The Web

The Stranger makes dolls, puppets etc. into living things. The Web does the opposite, makes living people into puppets.

In Heavy Goods Breekon says of the Spider “It knows too much to truly be a stranger.” The Stranger has the Unknowing, a ritual based on not knowing things.

The Web table trapped a creature of the Stranger. Quote from Jonathan after he smashed the table: “Smash the table, kill the monster, stupid! Lazy, sloppy assumption. Of course the table was binding it. The table is webs and spiders. Spiders are something else. They don’t help each other, they oppose, they… they weaken.”

In Nightfall Officer Musterman tells John he doesn’t know who is listening to the tapes, but that he doesn’t like it. The tapes are Web and Mustermann is Stranger.

In Angler Fish, the Stranger targets smokers. Smokers, like other addicts, are weak to the Web. So the Stranger isn’t just getting victims, it is fighting the Web.

The Eye vs. The Lonely

Because if you’re watched you’re not alone.

In Personal Space, there is a camera apparently recording the lonely astronaut. But then he finds out the wires of the camera were severed from the start. So it is scary for the astronaut that no-one was watching him, the opposite of the Eye.

But if every fear has an opposite, what about the Extinction? Find out next post.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #robert smirke #jared hopworth

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gerrydelano · 3 years

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No End In Sight

Second Installment of the Pharos By Right series

Chapters: 1 / 7 Words: 6.2k Characters: Tim Stoker, Gerard Keay, Callum Brodie, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard (mentioned), Sasha James (mentioned), Jonathan Sims (mentioned)

Additional Tags: Archivist!Gerry, Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Fix-It of Sorts, Mostly Morbid Humor, Mystery, Angst and Fluff, BPD Tim, HoH Tim, POTS/EDS Gerry, Gertrude is in the skin book, Arguing, Like so much arguing in varying degrees, With a brief cameo/reprieve from Son Boy™

Chapter Summary:

“Well, that doesn’t leave us with many options. Zero, in fact. Zero is how many options that leaves us with.”

Gerry winces as he shrugs his sore shoulder. “The only other person I could think to ask is Gertrude.”

Tim sighs, tilting against the window. “Crying shame she’s dead, then.”

Or: On the bus back from yet another dead-end mission, Tim and Gerry find themselves suspicious of Elias. Back at Dekker’s safehouse, they hold council and achieve... mixed results.

CHAPTER ONE: WARFAIR

#gerrytim #timgerry #tim stoker #gerard keay #gerry delano #gertrude robinson #callum brodie #elias bouchard #the magnus archives #magnuspod #magpod #archivist gerry #tim #gerry #gertrude #callum #r.txt #r.writes #pbr tag

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arospecsyourblockdudes · 4 years

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good night to people who get wasted at college parties, people who freeze ominous keys in bowls of ice, people who creep on their neighbors as a hobby, people who have been menaced by Gerard Keay, trash collectors who get bags full of teeth, men who fuck worms, three-headed many-armed specters of war, people who tear up creepy trees in fits of rage, dads who have sheds full of glowing human hearts, homeless people who kill eldritch beasts, men who have prophetic dreams of death, more people who have been menaced by Gerard Keay, women who get hit by cars, gang members who are literally falling apart, people who sacrifice their sisters to cave monsters, men whose cat betrays them to the spiders, librarians with fucked-up bullies, people who are going to become vegan soon, priests who accidentally become cannibals, mothers who saw their son get eaten by the sky, Martin K Blackwood specifically, Victorian men who find fucked up tombs, women whose boyfriends got turned into dolls, people who get lost in old ass churches, Sasha James specifically, old men who keep getting supernaturally home-invaded, Melanie King specifically, old ass men who used to be the grim reaper, people who got lost in their meat factory, men who have seen werewolves and didn’t fuck them, worm ladies, sailors who sometimes got sacrificed to supernatural depression, college professors with weird students, some more people who were menaced by Gerard Keay, funeral directors that now have germophobia, dads who set themselves on fire to break a curse and men who have lost husbands to a homophobic pot

#thats all s1 baybee #tma #the magnus archives #so many ppl were menaced by gerry keay

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ofdreamsanddoodles · 4 years

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chapter 1/2 words: 8.9k characters: Gerard Keay additional tags: Gerry lives AU, Cancer, Recovery, POTS Gerry, EDS Gerry, Humor, Friendship, i just think gerry deserves to have a cool punk jewish roommate who has no idea who he is Part of the series To The Moon and Back

If it hadn’t been for the fact they had the same oncologist, Kira would think their new roommate was a vampire. And okay, sure, maybe being a cancer survivor didn’t automatically mean you couldn’t be a vampire too, but why wait until your tumor was gone to become immortal? Personally, Kira thought Gerry seemed like the kind of person who would be more concerned with keeping his long hair than being cancer-free. Basil thinks he’s mafia.

Very happy to introduce you all to the first half of my fic in which gerry is surrounded by normal humans who have no idea what his deal is, but appreciate him anyways

#gerry keay #the magnus archives #tma #michael and julia & trevor all show up in this its just they r in it for such a short amount t of time its not worth tagging them #gerry delano #gerard keay #writing #to the moon

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composereggwrites · 4 years

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Love will not break your Heart (but dismiss your Fears)

Chapter 2: just let me go (we'll meet again soon)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: T

Characters/Ships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Alice “Daisy” Tonner/Basira Hussain, Gerard Keay, Gertrude Robinson

Additional: Reincarnation AU, Soul Bond, Team as Family, Autistic Jon, Post-Canon Fix-it, Childhood Friends, Hurt/Comfort

They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.

A wedding, a death, a fire, and Tim.

Chapter: 1 | 2 (below)

Ao3: 1 | 2

They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Martin?” he asks, one last time, because fear has made a home in his heart. A palace in his bones.

“Jon,” Martin says, looking him in the eyes, so full of determination, filled with warmth, with love. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Sap,” he mutters, but a smile creeps onto his face nonetheless. “We’ve already left the message for the girls, and well… This is really it, isn’t it?”

“Got cold feet?” Martin asks with a laugh.

“Always,” he snorts. “You’ve felt them when we’ve slept. You’re the space heater between the two of us.”

Heart beating in his chest, Jon takes Martin’s hands. The world is crumbling in every direction. A year of this hell has been far too long. Searching, aching for answers, for a way to fix the devastation he has wrought-- no, the devastation Jonah Magnus used him to usher into the world.

Jonah Magnus, who, like the rest of the institute, is no more than a pile of ash at their feet now. Martin had been quite happy to have the honor of setting that blaze.

It’s touching, in a way. Finding the answer on how to set them both free, and Martin chooses to do it for him. No more ash on Jonathan’s hands.

(He’s more than a little fragile, at the end of the world, but he could’ve been the one to do it. The one to bring Magnus to the ground. That he didn’t have to means more than he can express with words. Martin has always been looking out for him, even when he was too much a fool to realize).

The Web’s strings hang heavy in the air around them, coated with the remnants of their old life, of their meeting. But the Mother of Puppets doesn’t have control of all these ties. Jon’s body is linked to everything now, the perfect conduit of fear. The lynch-pin in this hellscape. Take him out, and the rest crumbles. The issue is in managing to kill a near-immortal Archive.

Martin has always been his anchor. He never needed that rib, Jon gets that now. And this is something they can use. Here.

“Martin, I love you,” Jon starts. “You keep me grounded. When I start to fall apart, you hold me together. Even as I dealt with the end of the world rather badly, you drew me back out of my shell. I promise to be at your side forever more, I promise to return the favor. You are not just a caretaker, you deserve to be taken care of, and I will be there for you. I am here, with you, as we stand, united.”

Martin is already tearing up, as his hands shake in Jon’s grasp. “Jon,” he says, with a waver in his voice. “I love you. I know, it was a long time coming. Back when we were both researchers, I thought I could ignore this little crush, because that’s what it was. But you’re so kind, underneath that abrasive exterior. You pretended that nothing could get to you, that you at most tolerated the people around you, but I could see through that.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m with you, until the end of time. I tie myself to you like I’ve done a hundred thousand times before, in less words. In actions. Every step we take together has brought us here, bound to each other at the end of the world, and I wouldn’t do this any other way.”

The strings around them pull taught, smash them together. Jon clings to Martin. Holds him tight as the web holds them tighter. It hurts, the Eye observing this, burning through them as he clings for dear life, but observation just makes it real. The Web tries to resist, but Jon pulls harder, pulls the strings of his own design, and lets them bind.

A thousand stars scream in the sky, but the roar of the still-burning fire is louder. The pounding of his heart in his ears louder still. Or maybe that’s Martin’s. He can’t really tell anymore, as their hearts beat to the same tune, in the same time.

As the pain dies down, he can feel Martin, there in his chest. An ache subdued by his presence at his side. A new hole carved and filled with love, with his anchor.

Jon laughs, hysterical, for just a second. Tears on his cheeks until Martin puts his hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

“Ready for the next step?” Martin asks, worry flooding his voice, and oh, he can feel that in his heart. All the concern for him, bubbling over the edges of the pot. It makes him gasp, legs trembling, and all he can do is grip Martin back. It’s all he can do to not drown in the Tsunami of Martin, the whirlpool with them both at the center.

“Give--Give me a second, yeah?” he whispers. “Don’t tell me when.”

“Oh,” Martin replies, no doubt feeling the outpouring of gratitude. “Yeah, alright.”

They hold each other. Letting the waves of emotion crash down, drowning out the fear, out the pain. Held close together. This is what matters.

Then--

Pain.

Sharp, biting pain. Driven into his chest.

Blood meets his lips as he coughs, his own sharpened rib embedded in his heart, by Martin’s trembling hand.

As Jonathan Sims falls, he holds Martin’s hand, and wishes he could muster the energy to wipe those tears away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, as the door in his mind becomes a vacuum, sucking all the fear out of him, waves of love and safety and peace replacing the frostbite of terror. “We’ll meet again, yeah?”

Martin nods. He sits down by Jon, and kisses him, ignoring the iron taste. Ignoring the poison that he takes from Jon’s mouth.

The fire closes in, and consumes them. But there is no fear. No pain.

The world bends.

Good cows stand in a field, and no Eye bears down from the sky. No people scream in terror on that day.

Four bodies are found dead in The Magnus Institute, and the world dreams of a year that never happened. A year of fear and pain burying itself deep in their hearts.

A year that will never come to pass.

And Jonathan Barker-King wakes up.

---

Jonathan has always been an odd child.

Georgie and Melanie knew this when adopting him.

But that doesn’t change the fact that one night, when he’s twelve years old, Melanie can feel him shaking her awake.

She rolls over, facing him. “Mm, what is it?” she murmurs, knowing the shaky hands as someone who is afraid.

Jon’s voice is heavy, edged with static, and Melanie wishes she could see his face, as he says, “There will be fire. We need to leave.”

That gets her out of bed, kicking Georgie awake.

“Mel, what’s wrong?” her wonderful, sleepy wife groans.

“Up up up, now! Phone Basira, tell her we don’t know how much time we all have, but we need to go.” She tries to keep her voice level, urgent but hushed.

It gets Georgie up, at least. Springing to her feet. “I’ll get the emergency bags. Fuck. Alright. Guess it couldn’t last forever.”

Melanie makes sure she’s holding Jon’s hand, as she leads him back to his room, digging out the always-packed travel bag hidden there. Filled with clothes and food and money, and for him, some books he’s shoved into it. “Pack up your laptop and anything else you want that will fit, alright?” she says, soft.

“Got it, mom,” he replies. “Go take care of what you need to. I’ll be out in five minutes. That’s the plan, yeah?”

She nods at him. “Very intelligent, you are.”

And then she dashes, grabbing her own bags and the keys, tossing them all in the trunk of the car. Important documents, keepsakes she knows they wouldn’t be able to bear losing, anything irreplaceable. From the the meowing coming from the back seat, it sounds like Georgie had managed to catch The Admiral and bundle him into the cat carrier, too. The stubborn old cat refused to die of old age or illness, but Desolation’s flames might be enough to do the trick, and none of them would want to risk it.

There’s sounds from the house next door, and that reassures her that Daisy and Basira are up now, no doubt going through the same protocol they’d set in place for just this event. Hopefully it’s a fluke, but they can’t take that chance.

If it’s the past coming back to haunt them, with fire and flames, then they can’t afford to wait.

In ten minutes Georgie is at the wheel, and the car roars to life. Basira is getting the last of the Hussain-Tonner bags in their car, Martin bundled away in the back no doubt.

“Can I say goodbye?” Jon whispers, and Melanie sighs.

“Sorry, kiddo, but we gotta go.” She reaches out, holding his hand between the seats, as they peel out, headed far away.

He’s quiet, solemn. After five minutes of quiet, he sighs. “That’s alright. I’ll see him again, someday.”

“Yeah, no doubt about that,” she whispers back.

The next morning, their houses are on the news, as they watch in their hotel room, a hundred miles away. A fire, a roaring blaze, arson. But no bodies to be found.

“It was Jude, no doubt,” whispers Georgie, while Jon is fast asleep.

She nods. “Guess we tested our luck too long, staying in one place like that. If Jon hadn’t… Known. Then we might’ve been dead by now.”

“I’m worried,” Georgie sighs. “About him, about Martin. They-- We’re right, yeah? They saved the world together, and it involved a soulbond. They were both absolutely miserable before they saw each other that first time.”

Leaning her head on her wife, Melanie says, “Yeah, but… We’ll just have to make do, for now. Keep an eye out on them both. I think it might be a good idea to keep them separate, no contact, otherwise they’ll be sneaking out to the car some day and meeting each other halfway.”

Georgie snorts. “That’s absolutely something this Jon here would do. We’ve really spoiled him, huh?”

“From what I understand, we’ve been parenting just fine,” she says back, a roll of her unseeing eyes. “It’s his grandma who gave him all that childhood trauma last time. And a Leitner, what the fuck? How do you let an eight year old get his hands on one of those?”

That gets a full blown laugh. “Yeah, alright, you’re right. We’ve probably fucked him up somehow, but he’s not nearly as fucked up as when either of us first met him. Man, he needed some intensive therapy.”

---

Tim Stoker looks at the new-hire one time, and after the thought of I’m going to flirt with him so much passes through his head, another pops in of, wait that’d be weird--

Why?

He stares. Jonathan, the name tag reads, and why is that so familiar?

“Welcome aboard the library crew, my man!” He says out loud, giving a casual grin. “What’s a pretty boy such as yourself doing here?”

“You’re quite the flirt, Tim,” he says back with a laugh. “Sorry, not in the market right now. I’m not really… I’m not interested, mostly.”

He holds up his hands. “Hey, all cool, no worries, Jonny-boy.”

That gets a snort. “Call me Jon, nothing like that, please.”

“Got it, boss. Still haven’t answered my question,” he says.

“Oh, well…” Jon takes out a pen from his pocket, and twists it around his fingers, spinning to and fro. “I’m going to be working down in the archives, mostly. Gertrude’s taking me on as an… Well, an intern, I guess? Assistant? It pays decent, and it’s my chosen field, so… It’s a good chance.”

Tim nods. Opportunistic. Not many people get to work with good ole’ Gerty. “She works in the paranormal department yeah? That oughta be fun.”

“Parapsychology, specifically,” he says back. “With a focus currently in the not-apocalypse. Lots of info on that still to be gathered.”

“So you’re interested in spooky stuff, awesome!” Tim laughs. “You gotta tell me all the weird things. We should do a scary movie night sometime together.”

Jon stares at him, as if trying to piece together some mysterious puzzle. With big eyes, intense eyes, meeting his, looking into him, in a way that he hasn’t felt since--since--

A nasty migraine is forming in the back of Tim’s head.

Jon looks away.

“Sure, why not? You're off shift now, though, right? You should get to your class.”

“How did you--?” he starts to ask, but Jon has already descended the stairs into the archives.

The pain doesn’t go away, as he makes his way through math. It’s all numbers and easy problems. A blur as the teacher speaks, and he can’t focus. There’s something he’s forgetting. A nagging sense at the back of his mind, and he’d ask Sasha, or his roommate Martin for some help, except that seems like a very bad idea right now. He doesn’t know why. But it does.

Crashing onto his bed as soon as he gets back to his dorm is the best idea. Martin will assume he’s been out having fun, and he can sleep this stabbing agony off.

It almost works, too.

Fire, fire, so much fire.

Danny--who is Danny?-- Danny dead. The world a mess. Revolving around him in Stranger ways.

Falling apart.

Sasha is Not Sasha. Jonathan Sims is a Monster.

Martin is a stubborn fool.

The world blurs.

Explosions ring in his ears.

Tim Stoker r e m e m b e r s . . .

Shooting upright with a gasp, Tim stumbles out of bed. It had only been a few hours, but if anything the migraine has gotten worse.

He runs to the toilet, puking up whatever's in his stomach from that morning. Dizzy as another wave of nausea hits.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

There’s a knock on the door, and Martin -- Martin Blackwood, Martin Hussain-Tonner, fucking Martin -- is there, asking if he’s okay, in that kind way he always has.

“Yeah--” his voice cracks. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Just some bad food.”

“Alright,” comes the reply. “Let me know if you need some help.”

“Got it,” he croaks. And then he’s alone.

Sitting on the cold tile, he holds his head in his hands, groaning.

He needs to contact someone.

Who?

Jon--? No. Not Jon, not yet. It was Jon’s presence that did this to him, no doubt, but he didn’t seem to actually know Tim.

Gertrude, maybe?

Fuck it, Gertrude it is. He has her number, she’s his boss, after all.

^Hey, Gerty, I think my head just died. Absolutely exploded with pain. Not coming in tomorrow.^

Not the most formal, but she hasn’t minded before.

^Well, I hope you feel better, Tim. Remember to check in if you’re staying out too long. It’ll be a circus here, otherwise, if we’re understaffed.^

“Fuck,” he hisses out again, because she definitely remembers. And she knows what happened.

^Mind filling me in on how the circus is doing?”

^They’re all in bits and pieces. It was quite the display, or so I hear. I have the tapes, if you want to listen to them.^

Of course she does.

^Sure, I’ll grab them on my next shift, sound good?^

^See you then. Feel better, Tim.^

He does.

Looking at Sasha now, it’s bizarre. A deep pit in his stomach, knowing he forgot her, believed the Not!Sasha had been her for so long. It doesn’t sit right.

As he makes his way down the steps to the archive, he finds her following. A few feet before the door, he turns to look at her.

“Need to speak to Gertrude too?”

She blinks, crossing her arms. “If I do, it’s none of your business.”

A snort escapes him. “Learning how to be abrasive from our lovely head archivist?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, he wasn’t really that bad. I mean, I totally got killed during the worm thing, so whatever you went through, I guess I still need to find out, but… He was trying his best,” she says, nonchalant as she picks at her fingers.

“Did seeing him give you the worst migraine of two lives too, then?”

“Absolutely. I thought I was dying. Turns out I had!”

They both start to laugh. He bumps his shoulder against her. “God I missed ya, Sash. Things went whack without you there.”

“Did the two lovebirds ever manage to work out their problems?” she asks, rolling her eyes.

“Not before I got exploded! Shit got weird. Honestly, you missed a lot of stuff. I--Well I’d fill you in, but whatever tapes Gertrude has will probably do that for me,” Tim says, gesturing back to the door.

“Listening party?” Sasha suggests, as she steps forward to open it.

“Sure, maybe the trauma of listening to our own deaths will be easier with a friend and some good wine. Gotta be at your place though, cuz Martin doesn’t know.” He steps in with her.

Gertrude looks at them, a box set on the empty chair. “Take it, have fun. I believe it’ll do the job enough to fill you in.”

“Thanks Gerty! We’ll get them back to ya’ when we’re done!” Tim says, giving a wave as Sasha scoops up the box. He can feel her hatred of the nickname, but it’s far too late to stop him from using it now.

They pick up on tape 39, conveniently labeled in order by Gertrude no doubt, for Sasha’s sake.

It’s awful.

She’d been spared the paranoia, the depths Jon had been plunged into.

They stop on tape 50, for the night. It hurts too much to keep going.

---

Jon wakes up from his nightmare.

Shaking, terror coursing through his veins. Memories he can’t remember. He’s not a fool.

Reincarnation was part of what he’d studied, while looking into parapsychology. No conclusive evidence, of course, that’s impossible to get. Almost everything presented as esoteric is false. The most true subjects tend to involve the apocalypse, and even then, it’s not a sure shot.

But they always involve dreams. Dreams of memories. Past lives mean past memories, trying to find their way to the present.

And his dreams have been getting worse.

But that’s ridiculous, right? Utterly ridiculous. He’s being superstitious. Gullible. There’s never been proof of reincarnation adequately presented. To think he had a past life is to give into the folly of the people he criticizes.

(He knows, deep in his soul, that some things are true. He can’t discount everything.

But there’s no need to let this knowledge consume him.)

Jon sighs, sitting up. It wouldn’t do to dwell on this, not when he has a test today that he needs to last-minute cram for.

His phone lights up by his side, though, and he picks it up. Blinking blearily at the screen in confusion before yesterday hits him.

^Hey Jon! Good morning! How are you doing?^

From the contact of Martin!!

A smile spreads over his face, dragging him out of bed and through his morning routine. Food. Toothbrushing. Clothes. Heading out for his class early, instead of almost late for once.

^I’m good, Martin. I have a test today, soon. Going to study for that. How about you?^

The reply comes almost instantly, which drops a small pit in his stomach, because martin’s first text had been two hours before Jon had gotten up.

^I’m good too! Thanks for asking! I’m working on an essay right now, but nothing super important.^

^Well, don’t let me keep you from your work.^ He’d feel bad if he were the reason Martin got a bad grade. It’d be awful.

^Nah, I don’t really need to worry about this class. I’m passing with a 96% right now, and I’m one of the only people who talks in class. Like, during the discussions and all!^

^Teacher’s pet, are you?^

Jon can picture the little laugh Martin does at this, scrunched up nose and crinkled eyes. ^Better than failing, that’s for sure. You’re absolutely someone who sits in the back of the class and does his best to avoid conversation, though, aren’t you?^

He chuckles, smiling. Then he rubs his neck, glancing around as he walks to make sure no one is staring. There’s the usual bustle of people, but no one looking at him. Just leaves falling in the breeze, and the nip of the autumn air. He’s good, so far, but it’d be dangerous to keep this up inside.

(He might not care, because this is Martin. Self-consciousness be damned.)

^Yeah, you’ve got me pinned.^ he says back.

^I hide behind my laptop screen whenever I can, studiously take notes, and never talk to another living soul if I can avoid it.^

^Wow, what a nerd :P^

^Can’t believe my best friend is a nerd :P^

Jon has to take a second to pause, sigh, and roll his eyes, because Martin, please. ^You mean the same friend who would spend hours recounting books he’d read to you in perfect detail? Or the friend who once asked their teacher for more homework because he was bored? That friend?^

^Absolutely.^

^What a shock.^

^I’ve been completely betrayed by your sudden nerdom that has arisen in the past 11 years that I have totally never encountered before.^

That tugs a full-fledged laugh out of Jon, and he has to duck onto a less-used path behind a building to hide for a full minute, because Jonathan Sims does not randomly laugh at his phone in public.

When the coast is clear, he keeps walking, and slips into the building with the ease of someone whose had classes in it for three years already. He navigates to his classroom and takes his (unofficial) seat in the back, pulling out his notes and pretending like he’s studying, not thinking about Martin.

^I feel like I’m not the only nerd in this conversation.” The text sends as a quick reply, and then he follows it up with: ^Also, in class now. Going to study. Chat later?^

^Of course! Let me know when you’re free! See ya :D^

He rubs his face, setting his phone to silent and in his bag, trying to scrub away the blush that must be rising to his cheeks.

Martin is… So Martin.

Over the past decade Jon had wanted so much to reconnect with his old friend. An ache in his chest, screaming until all he knew was the noise, yearning to find him. Fixated on the missing piece until the misery became background radiation in his life, his new normal. Settled deep in his bones. Uncomfortable weight buried in his skin, just enough to fade into his usual, everyday pain. There, but not the focus.

(Not usually. There were some days, some nights, where the loss of Martin dug its claws in. His body full of hooks and they pulled. As if trying to tug him closer. Back to Martin.

He almost followed it, a few times. Deep in his mind, a haze of the gaping hole, guiding his feet onto an unknown path. But he never went far. Always turned around and walked back home. His moms raised him well, he knows better than to be alone.

College the first year was scary. Terror welling in his throat. New people, new places. Too many unknowns.)

One small, niggling little voice in Jon’s head, a voice filled with the needles of anxiety, had tried to tell him that Martin wouldn’t be the same. That if they ever reunited, Martin wouldn’t care about him. Or maybe, maybe the years had warped his thoughts, his understanding of who his friend was. An idealized image instead of the real person.

But he also remembers Martin fretting over him when Jon fell ill. Spending the night out of worry, sneaking in through his window to bring him medicine at midnight.

He remembers Martin listening as Jon rambled, and then rambling in turn. Jon knows so much about spiders to this day, because Martin had found a book and read all about it to him.

He remembers the poetry, still scrawled in notebooks and on pieces of paper he refused to throw away. Packed into that bag as from the fire they escaped.

That voice in his head never held any real sway.

But it’s nice to be proven right, for a change.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #georgie barker #melanie king #jonmartin #what the girlfriends #gelanie #guess who realized they never posted this to tumblr!!!#I forgot #pls subscribe on ao3 #that's so much more reliable than following my tumblr I beg of u

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ncfan-1 · 5 years

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A Book of Viscera

Mary Keay didn't believe in unsolvable mysteries, and as it happened, she didn't believe in coincidences, either, not where fear was concerned. But whether a mystery could be solved in a human lifetime, that was another matter. And perhaps the book of poetry Doctor Tillerson had had in her safe wasn't worth the effort, after all.

So I had to choose what to write as my last fic of 2018, and I chose this. You’re welcome.

[Also on AO3 | Dreamwidth | Pillowfort]

[CN/TW: Animal cruelty, non-explicit murder]

------------------

There were so many mysteries in the world whose answers were just out of reach, just beyond the grasp of man. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with three of the pieces missing. You were so close to having a full picture of what was going on, but there were gaps, and the gaps would never be filled in. But Mary Keay knew someone who had a very different perspective on what jigsaw puzzles were good for, and she didn’t believe in unsolvable mysteries, anyways. There was nothing beyond her ability to uncover. Whether she could uncover it in her lifetime was another matter.

It would have helped to know whether Doctor Tillerson had found the books separately, or if they had come to her as a set. It seemed to strain credulity that one person could just find two of the books in separate incidents, without it having some immediately visible effect on her person, but then, her Gerard had tracked down three to date, and the first he’d found, the very first…

Coincidence, perhaps. And perhaps it was merely coincidence that book of bones and book of skin (originally) were both written in Sanskrit. The books couldn’t all be written in English, after all. The world was a big place—vaster by far than you could imagine, and tighter than you ever dreamed—and fear gripped the minds of all people. The Flesh was so random that coincidence was certainly a possibility.

Mary didn’t especially believe in coincidences where fear was concerned, though. The connections were there, like glistening strands of silk holding it all together. And coincidence offended her sense of mystery, anyhow.

Mary was still a child when she had first set about learning Sanskrit. At the time, she had thought that learning Sanskrit was necessary to truly put the skin book to its full use—Doctor Tillerson had been such a mutilated, incomplete thing that Mary thought that writing in English just wasn’t the thing (And to be fair, her best results had always come from Sanskrit). Learning to speak and read and write in Sanskrit would make it easier to discern just how the skin book worked, and the bone book bore learning more about, as well.

Her mother had been confused. Her mother was gone often enough, exhausted by her work at the Institute and what the Eye asked of her in return for its patronage, that it had been easy to hide the books from her, even when that entailed regular disposal of bent and twisted animal bones. Mary told her mother that she was just broadening her horizons, and Elsa von Closen, daughter of (an impoverished branch of) a noble house, took to that explanation enthusiastically. Started pushing Mary towards French and German and Latin, but still, it was better than nothing.

Mary didn’t think her mother had ever suspected, which was delicious. Her mother, whom she had watched more than once wrench secrets from the minds of the unwilling, whom she had watched convince their landlord into lowering their rent—“You will never know how I knew; just know that I could tell everyone else what I know”—couldn’t tell that her daughter had two items of power tucked away in her matchbox of a bedroom. It was enough to buoy Mary whenever the process of becoming literate and conversant in Sanskrit hit a snag.

She was nearly a woman by the time she had gained mastery in the language, and her studies of the books of skin and bone could commence in earnest. Always, the skin book took precedent. Mary would admit that readily. It called to her more clearly than did the bone book, and it held such possibilities…

She’d tested animals first—that was easier, that was less dangerous—and had met with disappointment. Whatever power the skin book was granted as a conduit of the End, it did not appear to extend to animals; the skin book was a horror for humanity only. On the rare occasion she managed to skin a pelt fit to write on, once Mary had sewn it into the book, there was no effect. Nothing happened, and more than once she had ripped out the stitches with a snarl, flinging the pelt into the nearest alleyway bin with a short, sharp stroke of her arm.

(This was, as it happened, rather more difficult to hide from her mother than had been the simple storage of the two books in her childhood bedroom. Mary wasn’t quite as good at cleaning specks of blood from her skin and her clothes as she had thought she was, and of course her mother noticed. Elsa always looked at her so strangely when Mary came home after an experiment with one of the local stray cats.

“Mary, darling, have you been in a fight?”

Mary found her own place to live not long afterwards.)

Mary’s early alliances had been born primarily to facilitate the business of procuring fresh bodies for her experiments. As was the same in every age of its existence, London had a robust network of connected persons (and otherwise) who didn’t need much of a reason to kill someone, and didn’t ask much in return for an excuse to satisfy their own urges. Just small favors, really, and if it meant that Mary was remembered as someone helpful, someone resourceful, so much the better.

She learned the tricks from them. She took what she needed from them. Not that any of them ever seemed to realize that that was what was happening; no one ever seemed to realize that they were just as much a commodity as the people whose fear they consumed. If Mary had to guess, she’d say that glutting your own base urges too frequently doesn’t do much for your intelligence. Discipline is better for the mind.

Always, the most emphasis had to be on uncovering and mastering the secrets of the skin book. But in between that, there was time for the bone book.

Not that the bone book, as it seemed, had too many secrets to yield up. It was a simple book of poetry about dying animals. And it wasn’t especially good poetry, either. It had neither artistry nor grace; it was just a cacophonous mess of blood and pain and fear.

(Writhe on the ground with a spear in your belly Writhe and the tip drives in deeper Like a spoon in a pot the spear tip gathers your innards to itself Ready to yank them out and dash them to the ground Your dimming eyes will be filled with the red sight of your mutilation You will not escape with a scar)

Mary sometimes wondered at the age of the books. The skin book was, it was clear, quite old. The earliest pages were in a dialect of Sanskrit that her studies informed her was quite archaic, and though time had neither left the earliest pages rotten nor unreadable, they clearly bore the withered marks of great age. The bone book, on the other hand, was written in a much more modern dialect of Sanskrit; Mary had encountered only a handful of words she couldn’t make sense of.

As best as she could tell, all the bone book did on its own was drop bones. That, it did quite a lot of, constantly dropping bird and rat and snake bones, and other small bones Mary couldn’t identify. Mary did wonder sometimes why the bones all seemed to be bent and twisted into such odd shapes. She perhaps could have come by the answers if she had allowed certain of the people in her little network to examine it, but Mary was not a novice, and she knew how this game was played. You don’t win by showing all your cards, after all.

(You are trapped fast between two giant pincers The prongs are soft and ridged and yet unyielding Struggle all you like and you will never escape You quiver in this iron embrace for eternities untold And then, pressure And then, agony as that terrible pressure descends upon your wing And then, a tearing that is like the tearing of the world as it is flung into the void You will never fly again)

On its own, the bone book was rather uninspiring, but Mary was not a child to be fooled by uninspiring appearances. Naturally, it was time for experiments.

She tried reading poems over the corpses for a while. That elicited no results that Mary could discern.

She tried copying some of the shorter poems into the margins of her newly-created pages. That created a mess of sometimes astonishing proportions. The results were so badly garbled that Mary found the pages completely unusable, and had no choice but to rip them out.

She had tried writing the entries in the style (if you could really call it thus) of the poems in the bone book. All that did was produce inferior results, equal to Mary’s first experiments with humans when she was a young woman.

It was just a book of viscera, after all, and when Jurgen Leitner had come sniffing around asking if Mary had anything strange she’d like to sell, she offered it up to him. Showed him the way it dropped bones almost constantly, and struggled not to laugh when he took the thing much more seriously than he ought to have, and paid her a sum that certainly far exceeded the temporal value of the book. It wasn’t like she disabused him of the notions that had clearly popped into his head. She wished him joy of it, and sent him on his way. The money he’d given her could be considered recompense for all the times he’d been in her bookshop and not bought anything.

(The blood that pounds in your veins rushes to water the earth You have been running so long, and all for naught The hunters wear your kin’s skins as trophies and soon they will wear yours You shall be a trophy for your hunters and a symbol of terror to your kin You shall never see your cubs again)

The bone book was Leitner’s now, and Mary didn’t expect to see it again. When the library was attacked, she suspected it had either been reclaimed by the Flesh, or simply been destroyed. So long as no agent of the Flesh realized that it was she who had kept it out of circulation for so many decades, Mary didn’t really care what became of it.

And then, first of the three he found, of all the books of power he could have found, her Gerard carried it back to her one night.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, but that offended Mary’s sense of mystery too much for her to ever accept it. The idea that the mystery would outlive her offended her even more, but ah, well, that was what one’s children were for. And she had a certain contingency plan in the works, anyways.

But being stamped with Leitner’s seal had not made the bone book any less opaque than it had been when its cover was unmarked. Mary tried a couple more experiments, just to see if things she’d not tried before might yield results, but nothing.

“Huh,” Mary muttered one morning as she leafed through the little book, a slight frown stealing over her mouth.

There was a new page.

#The Magnus Archives #Fanfic #Mary Keay #TW animal cruelty #TW animal death #Tw murder #What was up with that book anyways?

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