#but I still have my doubts and feel...empty-ish regarding it

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

fireworks (and their ashes)

CHAPTER 2

(AO3)

A woman stumbles loudly down the stairs to the Archives.

Jon involuntarily knew that she was coming long before she entered the building, which is quite a thing to get used to, but at least he can try to meet her at the bottom of the stairs rather than force her to try to communicate to someone that she needs to make a Statement.

The haggard-looking woman has the bar along the stairwell in a white-knuckled grip as she limps her way down. There's no elevator to the Archives, unfortunately, and Jon's not in much of a position to help her, either. He leans heavily on his cane and holds out his less-scarred hand for support once she gets close enough to reach it. She smiles at him in thanks, and nearly tries to talk before seemingly remembering the clean white bandages that are wrapped around her throat.

When they do, eventually, get to Jon's office, the woman tries to communicate using a few haphazard signs, and then finally resorting to pulling out her phone and beginning to type. Jon holds up a single hand, unobtrusively enough that it takes her a moment to notice it, and she stops typing and looks up at him.

"Are you here to make a Statement?" Jon asks, and the woman nods slightly before wincing. The wound must be quite recent, then, considering that even that small movement causes that much pain.

Jon digs through his desk drawers for a moment, having nearly forgotten which drawer the empty Statement forms were stored in, but he eventually finds them and puts one in front of her, along with a pen. Then, he pulls out another file that he's supposed to be doing follow-up on- though he's only doing work at all so the woman can make her Statement in peace without him staring creepily at her the entire time- and sets about doing a bit of background research on his computer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her begin to fill out the form.

Statement of Eleanor Greene, regarding the man who tried to kill her. Statement given and recorded 6th March, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

I thank God every day for my daughter.

She's a miracle baby, because she somehow managed to be conceived despite multiple forms of birth control, but I don't love her any less for it. I won't pretend it wasn't difficult to raise her alone, but we've managed, and she is quite possibly the best thing that's happened to me. I've thanked God for her for years, because I'd never known just how fulfilling it would be to become a parent.

Recently, I also began to thank Him for leading me to name her Sasha. I don't think I would still be alive if I'd named her anything else.

It was only a week ago that I nearly died, and just two days since I was released from the hospital. It seems so strange to me now, to be in my own house with this injury, almost like I'd been imagining that going back home would magically reverse this and fix me entirely. That's not how this works, though, I know that, but it still feels so odd, odder still to live in my own house and know, truly, that there are demons that walk this Earth with the rest of us.

How else would I describe them? The scarred man and the devil woman whispering in his ear, both of them demons, or else vengeful angels here for the rapture- but I highly doubt there was anything holy about them.

The scariest thing, despite everything else that they did, despite everything else that I'm going to be telling you, is that neither of them looked anything out of the ordinary. The man had long-ish hair, just past his shoulders, I'd say, while the woman had hers buzzed short. They wore casual street clothes. The only truly distinctive parts of either of their appearances was the intricate-looking tattoo that could just barely be seen on the man's wrist, poking out of the sleeve of his coat, but I wouldn't have looked at either of them twice under normal circumstances.

The man was smoking a cigarette while leaning against a wall, somewhat ahead of where I was walking. The woman was leaning against the same wall, either already having finished her cigarette or not having smoked one at all, and neither of them were talking. The woman was watching me as I approached to pass, and the man was only looking at his cigarette. I didn't blame him; he looked tired. He looked like he needed it.

This whole thing only started because I decided to be bothered by something he did. He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement just in front of me, though it did not hit me. I could have just kept walking, and the whole thing wouldn't have happened. Instead, I stopped short, and glared at him while he was fishing in his pockets and paying me no mind at all.

"Excuse me," I'd said, in a rather nasty tone of voice, I admit, "I would rather not step on your filthy litter, thank you."

He looked up at me, and then gave me a strangely evaluating look before glancing over at the woman. She'd been watching with a mean little smirk on her face, like she knew that something was going to happen and she couldn't wait to get involved. Finally, he said to the woman, seeming entirely as though he was ignoring me completely, "No strings, right?"

The woman smiled, and echoed, "No strings."

Everything escalated very quickly after that. One moment, I was standing on the pavement, glaring at a rude man in an interaction I was under the vague impression I'd forget by time I made it home that evening, and the next I was flat on my back on that same pavement, his hands curled around my throat while the woman kneeled down next to me and just watched.

"Oh, look at her, she's terrified already and you haven't even done anything! You're doing wonderfully." She said in a saccharine voice, like that of a primary school teacher encouraging a slower pupil in basic arithmetic. As she spoke, the hands around my throat seemed to burn, like it wasn't enough that he was choking me to death, he just had to start burning me too.

"Shut up and be useful, will you?" The man growled in response, and the woman simply laughed, in a way that was only reminiscent of the crackle of a particularly large bonfire. It could have been welcoming, in the right circumstances, but now was only dangerous. It suited her in a way that warmth and invitation did not.

This is when my memory starts to get a bit blurry. He wasn't quite cutting off my air flow, but it was hard enough to breathe that I could feel myself beginning to black out. I knew I was going to die, then and there, on a populated street- there should have been people around, why didn't there seem to be any in the moment?- tinged with the slightly sweet smell of burning flesh.

"Oh, but I am, don't you see it? Rage is so easy, you don't need control yet so long as you can get yourself in a fury at the drop of a hat. You're too slow now, not angry enough. Think of... hmm. I don't know, think of whatever the hell reason you had for getting up again." She encouraged, though her tone slowly grew more dismissive as she went on, like whatever they were united in, whatever she was educating him in, they'd had very different reasons for joining. Whatever the hell reason he had seemed to be good enough for him, though, because I could swear I felt my skin start to crack from the heat.

I couldn't die, not then. I still had my daughter, she still needed me! She needed me!

I still don't know how I managed to do it. The doctors all said my voice box is damaged beyond repair, that whatever fire I had around my throat would've burned away my speech capabilities after less than thirty seconds, but I swear it had been minutes since he'd started this torture. No matter what the truth is, though, I still barely breathed out her name, a desperate plea for my Sasha.

The name must have meant something to him, because his grip suddenly became slack, just enough for me to get a good lungful of air. I had to think quickly, because his momentary mercy wouldn't have been forever, I could tell that right away, so I kicked at him as much as I could while he was still distracted.

I don't know how I managed to escape. The woman looked like she was going to give chase, but then she looked back at the man and started laughing at him, calling him "sentimental" and "weak," and I took that as my chance to run.

Nobody seemed to be around, even though I knew there had been people nearby when I was walking. Perhaps they'd all run when they saw the man attacking me? Not unlikely, especially since there's no way I wasn't burned. There's no way the man was human, anyway; it would've been smarter to keep out of the way of those demons.

I don't know how long it was before I found someone who could help. Long enough that I had to put my hands around my throat to staunch the bleeding, long enough to notice the sole of my shoe- the one I'd used to kick at my assailant- had melted and begun to burn my foot. Someone did help in the end, though- the first passersby I saw, in fact, he called an ambulance and helped make sure I got to the hospital safely.

Like I told you earlier, my voice box is damaged to such a degree that most doctors said I'd never speak again. Even the more optimistic of them told me I'd never sound the same. I'll have scars the rest of my life.

I've been learning sign language, but it's slow going. I only know about three signs so far, but Sasha's been learning along with me. I think... I think things will get better, at least. I won't be stuck like this.

I just thought that you'd be interested in hearing- well, reading- about it. An encounter with a real demon.

Statement ends.

Jon records the Statement long after Ms. Greene leaves, meaning that he's alone with his thoughts on what this Statement means.

It has to be Tim, right? Tim and Jude, still terrorizing random Londoners, though to what end? What does "no strings" mean? Do they have a deal, an arrangement of some kind? Jude teaches Tim how to properly be an Avatar of the Desolation, for... what? Out of the goodness of her own heart? The chance to slowly try to indoctrinate him into the Cult of the Lightless Flame? Some other ulterior motive? He highly doubts that there would really be no strings attached to that sort of arrangement, especially with Jude Perry involved.

Tim's escalating. He's grown more personal in his attempted murders, going from blowing up a building to choking out somebody's mother. What happened in the time between December and last week that would've escalated things this much?

Jon sighs, and leans back in his chair. He rubs at his eyes, hoping that some kind of revelation will make itself clear to him, but nothing does.