#the martin blackwood in me is being summoned

[shittygaypornmagazine]

I think in these trying times it would be best for all of us to rehearse our official anthem so... the magnus archives is a podcast distributed by rusty quill and it is licenced under a creative commons non commercial attribution sharealike 4.0 international licence todays epidode was written and performed by jonathan sims and directed by alexander j newall for

[horizon-verizon]

When the ravens brought word of the battle back to the Red Keep, the green council hurriedly convened. All of the Sea Snake’s warnings had proved true. Casterly Rock, Highgarden, and Oldtown had been slow to reply to the king’s demand for more armies. When they did, they offered excuses and prevarications in the place of promises. The Lannisters were embroiled in their war against the Red Kraken, the Hightowers had lost too many men and had no capable commanders, little Lord Tyrell’s mother wrote to say that she had reason to doubt the loyalty of her son’s bannermen, and “being a mere woman, am not myself fit to lead a host to war.” Ser Tyland Lannister, Ser Marston Waters, and Ser Julian Wormwood had been dispatched across the narrow sea to seek after sellswords in Pentos, Tyrosh, and Myr, but none had yet returned. King Aegon II would soon stand naked before his enemies, all of the king’s men knew. Bloody Ben Blackwood, Kermit Tully, Sabitha Frey, and their brothers-in-victory were preparing to resume their advance upon the city, and only a few days behind them came Lord Cregan Stark and his northmen. The Braavosi fleet carrying the Arryn host had departed Gulltown and was sailing toward the Gullet, where only young Alyn Velaryon stood in its way...and the loyalty of Driftmark could not be relied upon. “Your Grace,” the Sea Snake said, when the rump of the once proud green council had assembled, “you must surrender. The city cannot endure another sack. Save your people and save yourself. If you abdicate in favor of Prince Aegon, he will allow you to take the black and live out your life with honor on the Wall.” “Will he?” King Aegon said. Munkun tells us he sounded hopeful. His mother entertained no such hope. “You fed his mother to your dragon,” she reminded her son. “The boy saw it all.” The king turned to her desperately. “What would you have me do?” “You have hostages,” the Queen Dowager replied. “Cut off one of the boy’s ears and send it to Lord Tully. Warn them he will lose another part for every mile they advance.” “Yes,” Aegon II said. “Good. It shall be done.” He summoned Ser Alfred Broome, who had served him so well on Dragonstone. “Go and see to it, ser.” As the knight took his leave, the king turned to Corlys Velaryon. “Tell your bastard to fight bravely, my lord. If he fails me, if any of these Braavosi pass the Gullet, your precious Lady Baela shall lose some parts as well.” The Sea Snake did not plead, or curse, or threaten. He nodded stiffly, rose, and took his leave. Mushroom says he exchanged a look with the Clubfoot as he went, but Mushroom was not present, and it seems most unlikely that a man as seasoned as Corlys Velaryon would act so clumsily at such a moment. For Aegon’s day was done, though he had yet to grasp it. The turncloaks in his midst had put their plans in motion the moment they learned of Lord Baratheon’s defeat upon the kingsroad.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 563-565 [Aegon II’s Death PT.1]

[wolftraps]

Hey, what if Martin meets The Archivist because it’s been Watching him from a distance since it came, but then Jane Prentiss trapped Martin in his apartment, and the Archivist couldn’t have that, so it appeared to smite her. Martin’s stuck in his apartment when he hears Jon’s voice going “Ceaseless Watcher-“ and then Jane starts screaming. Once the screaming stopped, Martin peeked out of his apartment, worried about Jon, and saw the Archivist. Martin: Jon?! Archivist: I AM THE ARCHIVIST

(Cont) Anyway, Martin thinks that something has happened to Jon and takes the Archivist with him back to the Institute in the hopes that Tim and Sasha can help him reverse Jon back to normal. Only, when he gets there, Jon is already there. Cue shock and confusion from everyone. Elias, Seeing the Archivist and wondering if this means his Ritual works, drops in for a visit: hello :). Archivist, only seeing another Avatar near Martin: (bristles). Elias, realising that he’s in danger: goodbye

[this AU is going to devour me]

The knocking stops so abruptly it actually takes Martin a minute to notice, the phantom echoes of it still rattling in his mind. It’s the voices that make him realize something has changed. They’re muffled, indistinct, and he’s wary of getting too close to the door still. But after a moment of silence, he can’t resist anymore, pressing an ear to the wood.

The sound of the worms is still there, but it’s different now. More spasm than writhe. And beyond them, a man is not so much speaking as... as intoning.

“- the agony of all your noxious devotion. Ceaseless Watcher, see this parasite in all its pitiful, writhing forms. Hear its sour song, feel its ravenous love. It. is. yours.”

Martin can only describe the sound that follows as a shriek because he has no stronger words. It’s a distorted, agonized scream that stabs through him and rattles his bones, and for all he’d been terrified by Prentiss lurking outside his door, the idea of something that could make her make a sound like that is paralyzing. For minutes, or maybe hours, he stands frozen with a hand hovering over the door knob petrified of what he might find on the other side. And for that entire time, not a single sound filters through from the hall.

Finally, he can’t take it any longer. Bracing himself, Martin eases the door open. He wants to breathe a sigh of relief when no worms flood in, but he can’t, because there’s still something standing in his hall, staring straight at him. Something that looks like-

“Jon?” Martin asks, perturbed and shaken and maybe a bit irritated. “What- what are you doing here? Where- Did you see Prentiss? What happened to her? What happened to you?”

“Martin Blackwood,” Jon says- because it is Jon, right? He sounds like Jon. He looks like Jon... mostly. Except now that Martin is looking, there are several scars that he doesn’t remember Jon having, that he could almost swear were closing eyes just a moment ago. His hair is longer than Jon’s should be. His face is gaunter. He’s... shaking. “Are you afraid?”

“I- I mean, yeah? I’ve been pretty well terrified out of my mind since yesterday, thanks.” The man continues to stare and Martin knows he isn’t asking about Prentiss. “Sh- should I be?

“It would be wise.” Martin wants to be indignant at the vague pseudo-threat, but the shiver running up his spine cuts the feeling short. Jon- probably Jon?- maybe-Jon tilts his head and still doesn’t blink. Has Martin seen him blink at all? “I have discomforted you.”

“A- a bit, yeah. You’re being... kind of creepy.”

“Yes. I... I’m meant to apologize now.” He says it like he’s going through a checklist or a flow-chart of social rules. This is what happened, so this is what you should do. “I’m... sorry.”

“S-sure. Er, look, Jon. I think maybe we should- go back to the Archives? And maybe talk to the others about this?” And hopefully one of them will have some idea what the hell is wrong with their boss. Jon somehow gives off the impression of looking into space and considering the suggestion while never actually taking his eyes off Martin.

“Will accompanying you be a more sufficient apology?” What kind of question is that?

“It’s not really... I’d be more comfortable than I am here?” Jon nods.

“Then I will accompany you. You should gather your things.”

-

The trip to the Institute is passed mostly in silence. Jon watches the people around them intently, unblinkingly, but even when his face is turned away, it still somehow feels like he’s staring straight at Martin. Sometimes, when Jon is mostly a dark shape in his peripheral vision, Martin could almost swear he sees eyes open in places where none should be.

“Look, Jon-” Martin starts as they near the Institute and the silence has gotten too heavy for him to take.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Jon cuts him off, though his tone is casual.

“S-sorry, what? I shouldn’t call you Jon? Why?”

“It will... discomfort him.”

“Who?” Martin already knows he’s going to hate the answer.

“Jonathan Sims.” Yep. He hates it.

“Al-alright. What should I call you then?”

The man who is not Jonathan Sims stands before the Magnus Institute and studies its façade. There’s something in his face, something like nostalgia, but also like disdain. He doesn’t look away from the building, but still he looks at Martin.

“I am the Archivist.”

-

Martin had hoped it would be more of a relief, when they finally made it into the archives. Instead he’s uncomfortably aware of the tension building inside him.

Tim looks up and seems surprised. “Martin! I thought you were sick. What are you... What the fuck.” He gapes at the Archivist, who takes in the archive while staring back and still somehow has not looked away from Martin. “Jon?!”

Whether it’s a summons or an incredulous question, the answer comes not from the man behind Martin but from the one exiting the office behind Tim.

“Yes, Tim? What-” Jon- the one Martin knows- the familiar one that makes Martin nervous but has never left him so terrifyingly unnerved- freezes.

“No,” the Archivist says in response to questions not asked. “I am not any of those things. What I am will not exist for a very long time and has both always and never existed before. None of those questions would help you understand.”

“Why-” Jon chokes, but can’t seem to finish the thought. After a few more false starts, he finally says, “You’re the Archivist, aren’t you? The one we’ve been getting statements about.”

“Yes.” In the long silence that follows, the sound of someone descending the basement stairs should have been clear, but the only reason Martin isn’t startled by Elias suddenly speaking directly behind him is because the Archivist turns to face him before he ever makes a noise.

“I see we have a guest,” Elias says, staring at the Archivist with a perturbingly hungry fascination. “Martin, wh-”

Martin stumbles back to his desk under the sudden weight of being Seen. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tim drop into his own chair and Jon, the real Jon, press himself against the wall. Elias doesn’t so much as sway, but he still seems off-balance.

“You don’t want to know the things I know,” the Archivist tells him.

Elias glares. “I rather think I do. Te-”

A second set of eyes snaps open on the Archivist’s cheeks. Then another. And another. Over its face, its neck, its hands. The sense of a hundred, a thousand, piercing eyes hovers in the air around it.

“You can try to steal or blind or destroy as many of my eyes as you can perceive,” the Archivist says. “But I will always have more.”

When Elias leaves and the weight lifts and most of the eyes close, the Archivist is still watching Martin, but it unnerves him now in an entirely different way. And when Sasha comes in with a coffee, frantically apologizing for being late, and freezes at the sight of two Jons, there’s something bone-chilling about hearing the Archivist ask,

“Who are you?”

[voiceless-terror]

Smile and Nod (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Six: “Stop, please”

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Elias Bouchard, Original Character

CW: Harassment, Unwanted Advances

Summary: 

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall?

Jon runs into trouble at the Institute’s annual donor party and has an unlikely rescuer. 

The Institute hosted a party for its most illustrious donors every spring. Jon had never been expected to go to it until his promotion to Head Archivist and even then he tried to get it out of it, to no avail.

“I’m afraid it’s part of your duties now as Head Archivist,” Elias had said. “We need to have a face for every department and I’m sure quite a few of our donors are anxious to meet Gertrude’s replacement. You understand, of course.” Jon nodded. “I trust you’ll be on your best behavior.” He hadn’t forgotten his promise to ‘be more lovely’ after the incident with Naomi Herne. 

“Yes, yes,” Jon sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to the event- sticking close to Elias’s side didn’t seem very appealing, but being left to the wolves was even worse. Elias seemed to notice his hesitation and paused, waiting for Jon to continue. Perhaps he didn’t have to go alone. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?

“W-Would it,” he began, cursing his stutter. “That is, I would like to- if you don’t mind, I think it would be valuable to have my assistants attend, as well?” He hated the uptick in his voice that made it sound more like a question. “I-I just think it would be a good experience for them to ah, meet the donors as well. Since they do a lot of the research.” Another reminder that he had no idea what he was doing; Elias hadn’t said anything about his methods in the Archives, so he only hoped that indicated a tacit agreement about the way things should be run. 

Jon watched several emotions flit across the man’s face, irritation and disappointment giving way to resignation. He tried to ignore the first two and focus on the last. “Alright,” Elias agreed with a sigh. “Please stress the formality of this event, particularly to Mr. Blackwood. You’ll be representing the Institute, and as such you will be expected to interact with our donors. See that you don’t use your assistants as a social crutch.” Damn. There goes his plan. At least I’ll have some support. 

So here he was, standing in the hallway with his assistants in an ill-fitting suit he last wore to the funeral of a distant cousin. It didn’t fit then, either. He hoped he didn’t look too much like a child in his father’s clothes, but the snickers from Tim and Sasha dashed any hope of that. They looked wonderful, of course, as they always did. Martin was in the same boat as Jon, fidgeting in a blazer and non-matching pants.

“Well boss, looks like it’s time to schmooze!” Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him through the door. Elias liked to have his parties in the main library- it was the most beautiful part of the Institute, aside from the entrance hall. The tables and desks that normally populated the center of the room had been cleared away to reveal a rather spacious area for guests to mingle and talk over the sound of a tasteful string quartet. The whole event was incredibly elegant and Jon felt like he very much did not belong.

“Ah, there he is!” He heard Elias call from the right-hand corner of the room, where he was surrounded by several well-to-do donors dressed to the nines. He gestured him over with a magnanimous hand and Jon instantly flushed. Tim squeezed his shoulder and pushed him in their general direction. “This is our new Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims. He’s been doing fine work thus far.”

After a moment Tim’s hand is replaced by Elias’s, firm and weighty on his shoulder. He’s exchanging pleasantries with people whose names he forgets almost instantly- their hands are cold and their voices distant, they talk over him as if he were a child they judged and found wanting. Elias’s hand did not move and he was anchored in place, even as they made no move to include him in their conversation.

He saw Martin give him a look of pity from the corner that he was currently occupying with Sasha and Tim. They had their hands full of hors d'oeuvres and drinks and Jon wished desperately for a glass of water, anything to keep his hands occupied. He turned to realize the  conversation had stopped and his companions were staring at him expectantly. “I’m sorry?” he hazarded, wondering if he’d been addressed.

“Our son George,” the woman over-enunciated, her tone condescending. Jon remembered vaguely that she had some connection to the Fairchilds, though her name wasn’t familiar. “-is over by the bar. I think you’ll find his company a bit more interesting, hm?” The group tittered and Jon felt shame rise in his throat as his boss’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Yes Jon, why don’t you introduce yourself?” Elias said genially enough, though Jon can tell he had disappointed him once again. Jon nodded, excusing himself to go to the corner to get a much-needed drink and to embarrass himself further. There was a man roughly his age fiddling around on his phone with a bored expression. He was tall and handsome but in the soft way of the rich, cruel and cherubic in equal measure. It unnerved Jon and he summoned up a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“G-George?” he asked, willing his voice to steady. The man looked up, expression unchanged as his eyes bored into Jon’s. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist-”

“Parents send you over?” he smirked and Jon felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. “Sorry you had to deal with them. This your first time at one of these? Median age here is usually around seventy five, give or take.” He laughed and Jon smiled, the man’s candor a bit charming even to him. 

“Y-Yes, I’m not really sure I should be here,” he admitted as George slid a drink into his hand. He took a grateful sip and closed his eyes at it’s smooth burn- this was expensive liquor and Jon was going to savor every last bit.

“That makes two of us,” the man nudged him with his elbow and Jon started to think the night might not be as bad as he thought. He glanced quickly over to the other side of the room- Tim winked and gave him a thumbs-up (which he ignored) and Martin’s face was carefully blank. Jon did not know what to make of that.

George, it seemed, was not all that bad. He listened patiently when Jon went off on a rant about book-binding, nodding and smiling at all the right parts. In return, Jon let him talk about finance for longer than was polite (and God was it boring). They’ve now had two drinks and Jon is feeling much, much looser. The smiles are genuine and unforced. He watches Elias nod in approval out of the corner of his eye and feels his chest warm with pride. Not a complete disappointment, am I?

But George is getting closer. It was fine when they were awkwardly perched on opposite ends of the bar and needed to hear one another, but this was getting too cozy for Jon’s tastes. He tries to take a casual step backwards but stumbles. George’s hand goes to his elbow to help steady him and stays there. 

“I-I think I need to-” he starts to mumble an excuse but the man is not having it.

“What do you say we get out of here?” He whispers, coming in closer. Jon’s nerves reach a fever-pitch but he does not want to show it, doesn’t want to make a scene so he keeps the smile pasted on his face. “My apartment’s not that far-”

“O-Oh, I’m f-fine, thanks,” he says, trying to dislodge the man’s arm but it is no use- he is much stronger than he looks and has at least half a foot on him. “I actually have plans-”

“With who?” George asks pityingly as Jon tries desperately to meet anyone’s eyes, even Elias’s. He tries to convey his plea without making it obvious to any other bystanders but his boss’s eyes slide right over him. He knows he saw, he knows-

“That’s why they sent you over, right?” George continues, his mouth dangerously close to Jon’s neck as he leans into whisper in his ear. “Pretty thing like you, get me to open the cheque book-”

“Good Lord no, let me go-” at this Jon scoffs, horrified as he tries to yank his arm away.

“Don’t make a scene,” the man says in a low and calming voice, though the leer on his face is clear to see. Jon feels terribly small. “You don’t want to disappoint the boss, do you?”

“Please,” he begs, all out of words. “Stop, please-”

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall? 

“I’m sorry?” George replies with a sneer, his voice raising in both pitch and volume and Jon is sure if people weren’t looking before, they’re looking now. “I’ll thank you to stay out of this, we were just leaving-”

“No,” Martin replies in that preternaturally calm voice, still smiling. “You weren’t. Now let him go, and we can forget this all happened, hm?” He puts a hand on the arm that’s holding Jon and there’s real strength behind it. George tries to wrench his arm away but Martin’s got it in a solid grip and he barely manages a wiggle.

“Let go of me now, or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Martin sounds bored. It is mystifying and Jon can do nothing but gape at the man. “You don’t want a scene, do you? Not in front of the family. Not again. So smile, and walk away.” There is a moment where Jon thinks they will come to blows but it passes. George manages to turn his scowl into a neutral expression, saving some dignity though he throws one last glare Jon’s way. “Not even worth it,” he mutters as he walks away. Jon leans against the bar, releasing a breath he did not realize he’d been holding.

“A-Are you alright, Jon?” Martin has a hand on his elbow but it’s okay now because it’s Martin and it feels right. His face has that same look he gets when he asks Jon whether he wants a cup of tea, or how he’s feeling or if he’s eaten that day. Worried, gentle.

“W-What was that?” is all Jon manages to get out, his voice in an embarrassingly high-pitch. Tim and Sasha are now making their way over with schooled expressions, though Jon can see the worry in their eyes. “Did you know that man? I-I mean, what the hell?” Jon realizes he’s sputtering and tries to get a handle on his swirling emotions. “N-Not that I’m not grateful, but good lord. ‘Not again?’”

Martin laughs, suddenly bashful. “I just guessed with that one, honestly. He looks like the type that’s thrown a fit or two, doesn’t he?” Tim and Sasha reach them and Martin is himself again, hunched over like he’s taking up too much space. This is the Martin that tiptoes around the archives, that’s always smiling and chattering about his day. Jon has never contemplated the man in much detail, but he is finding it hard to reconcile this new side of him. It’s not necessarily unwelcome. 

“Alright there, boss?” Tim inquires, good-natured but anxious. “Was going to come over, pretend to be your boyfriend and all but Martin said that would be ‘demeaning’ or whatever.” Tim rolls his eyes at this.

“I don’t know, Martin seemed to diffuse the situation pretty well,” Sasha eyes him curiously. “What did you say?”

“N-Nothing, really-”

“He asked him to leave,” Jon says, finding his voice and unable to take his eyes off Martin. “And he left.”

“Damn, okay,” Tim gives an appreciative whistle before knocking back the rest of his drink. “Working that Mart-o magic, I guess. This party blows, let’s hit the bars. Night’s still young!”

Sasha cheers and Martin looks at him questioningly- he surprises himself by nodding in agreement. “Yeah, let’s go.” He studiously ignores Elias breaking off from his group of sycophants and heading their way. He watches as Martin straightens himself minutely, blocking Jon with his body as Tim ushers them out the door before they can get stopped by the man. Jon knows he will get a tongue-lashing out of this but he doesn’t care right now. He feels small in Martin’s shadow but it is a safe small, like a blanket wrapped around him on a chilly night.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Martin asks as Tim and Sasha chatter ahead of them, arguing over their destination. “We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I can take you home.”

I can take you home.

“I’m fine,” he says though he knows the situation hasn’t quite set in yet. “I’d rather not be alone, I-I think.” Martin nods and gives him a smile. It is almost charming, and Jon returns it. He doesn’t really want another drink but he needs a distraction, any distraction.

The night is cold and Martin is close, big and safe and warm. And if Jon leans into his side when they finally agree on a bar, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856373

[entitynumber5]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker Characters: Sasha James, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (mentioned) Additional Tags: Episode: e026 A Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Elias Is Unpleasant, Minor Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Sasha James Lives, Not-Them Sasha James Doesn't Exist, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives) Series: Part 2 of this tired world could change AU Summary:

After a series of encounters, Sasha examines her role in the Archives.

(A sort-of follow-up to "a martyr in my bed tonight").

Because I can’t stop thinking about TMA series 1!!!! During the series 5 final act no less!!!!! Have some Sasha and Tim and Martin being friends and supporting each other (but watch out for Elias). I don’t know what this AU is going to be other than everyone will live. Writing is not coming easily at the moment so I am taking whatever inspiration strikes and running with it!!!

Content warnings: blood, injury, panic attacks, worms, dizziness, disorientation, voyeurism, invasions of privacy, surveillance, manipulation, gaslighting, isolation, mentions of past surgery, needles, trypanophobia (phobia of needles), medical anxiety, dermatillomania, exhaustion, insomnia, brief allusion to self-harm, nausea. 

Full text below!! I hope everyone is having a wonderful day <3

From where Sasha is sitting, she can just see through the thin, dirty window that stripes down the centre of the staff room door. There are stickers accumulating along its starboard side: a yellow biohazard warning stolen from Artefact Storage; colourful Pride memorabilia from a building society she doubts cares for the cause beyond June; the logo of the band Tim has been trying to get her into for years. She catalogues each one again, slowly, before looking through the slice of a window to where Martin is standing near the fridge, having a panic attack.

She wonders if he knows it isn’t quite a hiding place, that lonely gap between the fridge and the door. The staff room is not especially ergonomic, trying to be too many things at once, and because of this, there are bizarre breaks between appliances and furniture, spaces too awkward to be filled but large enough to linger in.

Martin lingers.

At first, she worried he’d seen something—a silver worm, burrowing into the bin or even the moulding countertop—or was already assessing this corner as a space that might be suited to a fire extinguisher. He was so calm when she arrived, even though it was six in the morning and her coat was stained with blood. He didn’t look like he’d been asleep, although he had been on edge. Expecting someone. Not her, though. Still, he’d taken it in his stride, wrapped her in one of the blankets they’d equipped the spare room with and led her to the chair in Jon’s office while he made calls. Tim first, then Jon. He spoke calmly to them both, only flinching when Jon snapped about how “there had better be a good reason for this, Martin” before Martin had a chance to explain. Listening to Martin then, she knew he hadn’t been asleep. His voice was lacking that rusty disuse, the weariness from being woken up. He sounded tired, but not that his rest had been disturbed. She wondered if he had been talking to himself in the night when it was silent in the Archives and no one else was around.

And then Jon had arrived. He looked unimpressed but otherwise deliberately neutral when Martin explained that he knew where the first aid kit was in Jon’s drawer, that he had already opened it and helped Sasha with her wound. Tim arrived and made a fuss and went to get coffee because Jon was irritated by his constant pacing and hovering. Martin disappeared. Sasha gave her statement.

Somehow, she ended up back in the open plan office, slumped at her own desk while Tim texts her from the Pret down the road and Jon searches endlessly for Jane Prentiss’s statement and Martin has a panic attack in the break room.

She should have intervened earlier. Intervened when he went to make her a cup of tea, but she had been too tired and disorientated to remind him she preferred coffee, that Tim was already on that particular mission. Intervened when the kettle boiled and popped and Martin went to get the milk from the fridge and something made him stop. A collapse of the calm he had gifted her, perhaps. One moment of intense, stubborn, heart-breaking resilience too much. She watches him breathe too fast. He’s right in front of the door; if someone opens it, they will open it into him. She thinks, I need to get up. I need to help. But she is just too tired.

Her phone buzzes. She manages to pull her eyes away, although the tiny motion disorientates her, and when she gets her bearings—she’s forgotten about Tim. There’s a prickling at the back of her neck, like the sensation of being watched, and she just has time to think not again before she is thrown off track by the arrival of Elias.

At least it’s not Michael this time. Although, to be honest, that thought is not as comforting as she expects.

“Sasha,” Elias says, his voice infused with a concern that makes her skin itch, “Jon informed me you were injured?”

Sasha forces a smile. “Thank you, Elias. For your concern. But it’s nothing serious. Really, I’ll be fine, Tim is actually out right now getting me some—”

“Coffee, yes. You’ll be needing it after such a long night.”

Her inhibitions are lower. She doesn’t have the energy to pick apart this conversation, to remember again and again that she is talking to her boss’s boss. She squints at him. “I, um—how did you—?”

“An assumption. Based on what Jon wrote in his email. You recall me mentioning that he had emailed about your unfortunate encounter?”

“Y-yes?” she replies, but she’s not sure she remembers.

“I came down here to speak to Martin, as a matter of fact, but it’s a good job I ran into you,” Elias continues jovially, “Why don’t you take a few days off? I’m sure you could use some rest and relaxation,”

“Jon already offered…”

“How generous of him.”

“But I—I’m not sure I need—”

“The Archives will be quite alright without you, Sasha,” Elias tells her with an odd smile, “Quite alright indeed.”

Sasha doesn’t say anything. Her head is spinning. She wants Tim to come back right now and diffuse the oddness of this situation with his bulldozer workplace humour.

“Now, would you happen to know where Martin actually is?”

The realisation comes, blessedly, with a moment of razor clarity: Martin. Elias is obscuring her limited vision through the staff room door, but Martin hasn’t left yet. The certainty that Elias knows this, somehow, grips her like a hand around the throat. He smiles placidly at her, but there is something cutting in his eyes, something that knows far too much.

“Nothing untoward, of course,” Elias adds, “But he has been going through a rather rough time lately and I wanted to check in with him. Jon has asked me to replace the fire suppressant system with CO2 in case of any future worm infestations. I thought that might also put Martin’s mind at ease somewhat. You know what he’s like.”

Sasha forces herself to meet Elias’s eyes. To not look over his shoulder, to give him any reason to even glance into the staff room. “He’s with Tim.”

Elias’s smile twitches. “Is that so? I could have sworn I saw him down here only a moment ago.”

Sasha continues to look him in the eye. She knows that the only way to look through the staff room door, the only way to catch a glimpse of Martin, would be from her desk chair, from the exact angle she had been sitting in. She had tested this. She used this particular trick when Jon was trying to hide from them all but she needed to ask him something.

Elias hasn’t seen Martin. And yet. It snags at her mind, her logic, that subconscious but vivid sense of wrongness.

“He’s not here,” Sasha says, “But you could tell me how the CO2 system works. In case one of us needs to activate it.”

Elias’s smile falls a fraction. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Another time,” Sasha echoes, trying to hold this as a promise in her mind. She feels like she needs to know. She understands now, the way Martin has sharpened himself in anticipation of an unavoidable future. He is not different, but he is not the same. None of us will be, she thinks. And it scares her how naturally that thought comes, as if from somewhere deep and unknown that she would not be able to conjure on demand.

“I’ll leave you to recover,” Elias says with false grace, “Take all the time you need.”

Sasha summons an insincere smile and hopes he doesn’t realise how desperately she wants him to leave. He turns and walks from the Archives without a glance in the direction of the staff room, but Sasha gets that same impression that he knows Martin is in there. Knows why Martin is in there.

She wraps her hand around the desk and uses it to leverage herself up. But the change in elevation is immediately a bad idea, and her wheely chair has a mind of its own, spinning away before she can throw herself back into it. She stumbles, spots cartwheeling across her vision, and she thinks she is about to fall when a hand closes around her elbow.

“Whoa, steady there, Sash,” Tim murmurs. He slides the coffee holder carelessly onto her desk and puts his other arm around her, steadying her further. “You okay?”

“Tim,” Sasha says, still dizzy, “You’ve played poker, right?”

Tim huffs a small, confused laugh. “Let’s get you sitting down again.”

By the time he’s herded her chair back to the desk, still with one hand holding her steady, Sasha’s vision has cleared. She sinks gratefully back into the chair and grapples for the coffee holder, dragging it across the desk. There are four takeaway cups. She has no idea which one is hers. She wants to drop her head against the desk and sleep.

Tim crouches beside her chair, one hand soft against her forearm and the other shifting nervously at his side. He looks up at her, earnest and worried. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Sasha.”

“Poker. I need to ask you something about poker.”

“I’ll tell you all about poker once you’ve—”

“No, tell me now,” Sasha insists, “While I remember.”

“Alright, alright. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what people look like when they’ve shown their hand too early. You know, when they’ve—they’re winning but they’ve just told everyone they’re winning.”

“I mean, I just used to play in my college’s basement. And the others were all set on spending daddy’s money, so it wasn’t like anyone really cared if they gave the game away.”

Sasha groans. She brings her hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes, which feel heavy and sore. “Tim, just… humour me.”

“They looked smug, but…” Tim thinks for a moment, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Still smug, that’s a hard foundation to shake, but like for the first time in their life someone’s seeing through them. Is that—was that what you needed to hear?”

Sasha drops her hand and smiles tiredly at him. “Yeah. I’ll… I can try and explain, but…”

“Later, yeah?”

Sasha sighs gratefully. “Later.”

Through the door, Sasha sees Martin trying to steady himself. Deeper breaths, shaking out his hands to dispel some of their trembling. He tips his head back for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and seems to try forcefully summoning some semblance of calm.

“This one’s yours,” Tim says, placing one of the coffees in front of her, “I got the barrister to put extra caramel in there for you.”

“How sweet. When’s the wedding?”

“Psh,” Tim says with a flick of his hair, but there is a seriousness in his eyes that doesn’t match his words when he continues, “I have eyes only for you, my dear. And oh, would you look at that? I’m already on one knee! Sasha James, will you do me the honour—?”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Get up.”

“As you wish.” Tim winks before he stands.

“Can you go and check on Martin?”

“But I’m currently in the process of checking on you.”

“I’m fine. Martin’s having a panic attack in the staff room.”

Tim whips around before Sasha can tell him to be subtle about it, but it’s not like he can see through the door at his angle. “Oh, shit.”

Sasha leans slightly in her chair. Martin is no longer in view. He must have moved away from the door, which is good. Tim won’t crush him when he opens it. “Go now or he’ll open the new milk for no reason.”

“Oh, god, not the new milk,” Tim gasps.

“Tim.”

“Look, I’ve—we spoke the other day. About the panic attacks. He says he prefers to be alone for a bit, afterwards.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” Tim replies with a small, almost imperceptible flinch, “But Sash, you’re still covered in blood. Can I—will you let me check if you need stitches, at least?”

“Martin already looked at it,” Sasha replies, her tongue loosened by exhaustion and blood loss, “Did a pretty good job considering he never actually completed his first aid training.”

Tim smiles, half fond, half admonishing. “I am not letting you near Jon right now. There are some things he really doesn’t need to know.”

“Jon asks me to ‘free up’ official records and whatnot. It’s not like he doesn’t know,” Sasha replies. But she pauses for a moment, defensiveness eclipsed by guilt. “That one was accidental, though.”

“Finding out or letting it slip?”

“Both?” Sasha tries. Tim looks dubious.

“Right,” Tim announces, moving on, “Can I go all nurse Stoker yet?”

“Fine. But you’re checking on Martin afterwards. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Sasha eases off her coat again. The grey wool is stained and she is sure no amount of dry cleaning will get it out, besides the fact that she doesn’t want to weather the awkwardness and anxiety of having to explain it to them. Michael’s hands—talons?—had ripped a neat but gaping hole in the shoulder and sewing has never been her strong point. She could ask Tim to do it, she supposes. But it looks like a lost cause where it droops to the floor beneath her desk and comes to a mournful, final rest.

“I liked that coat,” she sighs.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Tim murmurs distractedly, now fully focused on his task, “Anything for you.”

Sasha grits her teeth as Tim carefully peels away the gauze Martin had applied earlier to inspect the wound beneath. She can feel the wound is clean, almost surgical. It throbs in a similar way to the incision on her lower back when she’d had a mole removed a few years ago, although there was no anaesthetic this time, no warning. Behind her, she hears Tim inhale sharply when the entire gash comes into view.

“That looks deep,” Tim says sympathetically.

“It’ll be fine.”

“I think you need stitches.”

“I don’t need stiches, Tim.”

“To be fair, Sasha, you can’t see it. I can take a picture or something. It’s deep. And it can’t hurt to check, can it? Just in case.” Tim pauses, taking a trembling breath. “Humour me.”

“You know I don’t like needles,” Sasha mutters.

“I know.” Tim’s voice is so warm, so reassuring.

“I really don’t like needles.”

“I’ll hold your hand.”

“What about Martin?”

“He can come with us.”

“He doesn’t like hospitals.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

Sasha glances at the door again. She still can’t see him. She wonders if he’s okay. If he has forced himself to go back to making tea, if he is composing himself so they won’t ask when he steps back into the office. “I was watching Gray’s Anatomy the other day on my break. I asked if he wanted to join me since he was looking sort of lonely, but he said he could never get into those kinds of shows, never liked anything to do with hospitals. I mean, I kind of had to force it out of him. I think he would have sat and watched it just to avoid offending me otherwise.”

Sasha knows from Tim’s silence that he knows something she doesn’t. She forces herself not to push.

The staff room door creaks open in a way only Martin can seem to manage—so quiet, so deliberately quiet they wouldn’t hear if they weren’t listening. Martin himself steps out, looking washed out and red-eyed. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but he does look like he’s rubbed at his eyes, scratched slightly at his cheeks. He musters a small, shaking smile for them both, a cup of tea in each hand. The surface of the tea ripples with the lingering motion of Martin’s hands.

“Hey, guys,” Martin says quietly, “Oh, Tim, I didn’t realise you—I didn’t make—but you can have this one. It’s got sugar in it. But I know you don’t mind sugar sometimes. Although it’s the mug with the—”

Tim moves around the desk so he’s hiding the coffee cups behind him. “Oh, no, you keep it, mate. It’s your tea. And you look like you could do with the caffeine.”

“Yeah, I need to get on with some follow-ups or Jon won’t exactly be happy with me.” Martin’s smile is still wan, still too small. “And I don’t want to fall asleep at my desk again,” he adds with false cheer.

“Didn’t Jon tell you?” Tim says cheerfully. Sasha marvels, for a moment, at his ease. She knows he is good at this—at seeming happy even when he is not—but her heart hurts at the ways life has forced Tim to lie. “We’ve got the rest of the day off.”

Martin frowns. The smile falls away quickly, as if grateful for the excuse. “We do?”

“Yeah. It’s a workplace rule.”

“About?” Martin says, dragging the word out in nervous curiosity.

“Traumatic events,” Tim replies seamlessly, “I’ll get you the employee handbook if you—”

“As long as we don’t get in trouble.” A humourless laugh from Martin. “As long as we don’t get in trouble, I’ll take it.”

“Why don’t you go and rest a bit? I know you had an early start with all the commotion this morning.” Tim gives Martin a gentle, encouraging smile. Sasha can only see it in profile, but she knows it well enough herself to grasp the full picture. “I’m going to take Sasha to A&E just in case she needs stiches, okay?”

“Oh.” Martin’s lips tremble almost imperceptibly. “Oh, Sasha, I—I didn’t know—I thought maybe it—I’m sorry. I really should have checked better, I—”

“Oh, Martin, no. No,” Sasha interrupts, as gently as she can, trying to mirror Tim’s calm, “You did a great job. Tim’s just being a mother hen.”

“You know me,” Tim adds merrily.

Martin looks even paler with guilt. “I can come with you. If you need someone to—I can tell the doctor about the first aid earlier if they need to know the details—”

“I’ll be fine, Martin,” Sasha tells him, “And Tim’s right. Go and sit down, at the very least. I woke you up far too early this morning.”

Martin looks almost like the words Sasha is thinking are on the tip of his tongue: I wasn’t asleep. But he offers another blank smile, a valiant attempt, but there is something deeply sad and guilty around his eyes. “Keep me updated?”

Sasha smiles. “Of course.”

“How about I come and let you know when we’re leaving? I need to let Jon know before we go, anyway, and Sasha’s not in a rush to go near any needles,” Tim offers.

Sasha wishes her desk wasn’t enclosed so she could kick Tim. Martin just nods and begins walking away, almost ghost-like, still holding both cups of tea as if he doesn’t know he is in possession of them. Sasha wonders when he will notice. If he will punish himself for it in some hidden, devastating way.

Like refusing to sleep under the guise of keeping watch.

“God,” Sasha murmurs, “I really—I feel awful.”

Tim watches the shadowed hallway Martin disappeared through. “I’ll talk to him. And you have nothing to feel bad about. You couldn’t help waking him up and it’s not like you were feeling—”

“It’s not that.” Sasha chews at her lip. She almost doesn’t want to tell him, even though she knows he won’t judge her. That almost makes it worse—that she shouldn’t be forgiven, but she will be if she speaks it aloud. “I was—I kept trying to make it logical in my mind. Jane Prentiss, the worms, Martin’s encounter. I realise now I was just trying to make myself feel better, but I kept telling myself that if she was really a serious threat, Martin would be dead. But, Tim, he’s—he’s far more resilient than any of us give him credit for, and I’ve been a complete—”

“Sasha,” Tim whispers, brushing his fingers against her knuckles where she’s clenching the desk again, “I understand. I do.”

“I guess I’m just a bit shaken by it all.”

“I know. We all are. But it’s going to be alright. I’m going to do everything in my power to make it alright.”

Sasha meets his determined gaze. “Me too.”

“Right, I’ll text Jon and tell him where we’re going. He’ll be elbow deep in statements somewhere and very grumpy if I interrupt.”

Sasha musters a weak laugh. “Don’t be mean. He was nice to me. I think he was worried.”

“Jonathan Sims? Worried?”

“Tim.”

“No,” Tim assents with an apologetic smile, “To be fair, it’s been a stressful few months. I know he cares. I just wish…”

“He’d show it a bit more?”

“Yeah. Just a bit.”

Sasha sighs. She gives Tim a weak push. “Please go and check on Martin. Don’t make me ask again.”

“Okay, okay, but…” Tim smiles, almost shy. “Can I kiss you?”

Sasha taps her forehead, just once. It’s a familiar, well-worn routine by now. Tim lowers his lips to her hairline, places a gentle kiss where she indicated and then moves away from her desk. He smiles, a genuine, real smile—nothing behind or beneath it. Uncomplicated, complete. She returns it.

“I’ll be back,” Tim warms in an overly-dramatic voice as he hurries away to check on Martin.

Sasha sits alone at her desk and thinks, incongruously, about fire extinguishers.

*

When the Archives are under attack, when Jane Prentiss roams hissing and writhing through the rooms and halls where she used to laugh with people she no longer knows are alive, Sasha doesn’t go to Elias.

When she finds the fire suppressant system, when it takes her nearly ten minutes to work out the wiring and the code and the mechanism, she is almost sick with the fear that she is too late.

When she finds out she was right on time, she weeps.

And when she looks at Jon and Tim’s scars, when she notices the shadows beneath Martin’s eyes, when she faces down her own nightmares about a siege that could have been so much worse and yet wrought so much damage, she still cannot help but think she dodged a bullet.

It’s a stranger of a feeling. The certainty of it is new and unsettling. But it doesn’t leave her, this sense that she escaped something intended for her. She cries with fear when she hears fire alarms, close or far, and finds herself intensely, unexplainably grateful.

[athina-blaine]

MoMM Update! - What to heck?

Hello, everyone! Unfortunately, Chapter 2 is still under works– the hiatus we mentioned back in our first update post has arrived and MoMM has to take a bit of a backseat for now. I was definitely overzealous in flinging around posting dates the way I did, and I apologize for that; I’d hate to have inflicted any unnecessary disappointment. I promise to practice more reservation in the future!

In the meantime, I’ve decided to go ahead and post the first half of the chapter under this cut– 6k words, 17 pages, I got it all right here for ya. [pats top of post]

Enjoy!

THE MONSTER OF MAGNUS MANOR

CHAPTER 2

THE ESTATE

(Chapter 1 here!)

Martin’s dreams were murky things, cut to the clop of fading hoofbeats and a pair of frightened eyes– eyes that kept locking with his own as the world faded in and out. At some point they’d manifested fully into a man– he was saying something, a string of urgent, unintelligible words that blistered the air around them.

“–tay with me, don’t– no, no, no, no–”

Martin’s vision greyed out before he could make out the rest.

When he resurfaced,  he was lying in a … a bed? Was … this the castle infirmary–? No, he didn’t think even Lord Barclay’s mattress was this comfortable. And the rock slab cots lining the servants’ infirmary didn’t have four poster canopies, either …

Strange dream. Everything wobbled, and grew dark again.

And then he was blinking awake. The bed and its canopy were still there, as lavish as they’d been in his dream. 

“Are you awake properly, this time?”

The unfamiliar voice had Martin lurching upright. Pain zinged through his skull; he groaned, pressing a hand to one eye.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I-I guess so?”

The man sitting beside him let out a slow breath, some of the stiffness unwinding from his posture. “You’ve had a few false starts,” he explained. “Understandable, given your head injury.”

Head injury. The events from earlier came rushing back to him– Martin’s vision was still swimming, but he recognised this man, or the colour of his eyes, at least. They were the same shade of brown as the mysterious figure from the fog. He’d since pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing dark skin marred with pockmarks on one side of his fine-boned face. His hair had been tied up in a silvering bird’s nest of a bun, and a few thin strands had fallen to brush the shoulders of a richly embroidered vest.

Martin tallied it all up: posh manner, fine clothes, the thin, borderline regal cut of his face. Despite the incongruity of his scars and disheveled hair, the facts pointed to one thing– this had to be the lord of that mysterious estate.

A mysterious estate he was now inside, with an injury that had stars dancing before his eyes. “How–” Martin started, then paused to steady his breathing. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” The man pulled an ornate pocket watch from his vest pocket, squinting. “It’s about five o’clock.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Does it look like five o’clock in the morning to you?” the man demanded, gesturing to the window. He was right; a weak orange sunset had begun staining the sky, casting dark shadows from the treeline over the estate’s grounds.

“No.” The word had been torn from Martin’s mouth with a burst of horror. He scrambled for the sheets, startling a noise from his host.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Martin wasn’t listening; the image of Lord Barclay’s cold eyes as he told him, in unequivocal terms, that he was sacked had sent a low, buzzing static through his ears. “I’m sorry, thank you for taking me in, but I need t– I need to–” He had to get back– for his mum, if nothing else. Oh, God, if he lost this job now …

“What you need is to lie back down.” Martin’s bare foot had scarcely touched the floor before the man rose to his feet, thrusting a hand against his chest. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve been concussed.”

Martin was unceremoniously shoved back down. He could’ve fought back– the stranger’s wrists were stick-thin where they stuck out past the sleeves of his tunic, and Martin wasn’t exactly small– but the sudden motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and Martin couldn’t summon the strength for it.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” the man said, eyes fierce. “In your current state, you’ll collapse before you ever make it out of this forest. Is that what you want?”

The words hung in the air between them. Martin swallowed, shaking his head.

“Then lie down.”

Cowed, Martin sank back into the mattress. Once it was clear he wasn’t struggling, the man relaxed, withdrawing his hand from Martin’s chest.

“Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. Then his shoulders sagged. “I … apologise. I’m sure you have somewhere important to be, and you’ve been hurt as a direct result of my actions. Please believe me when I say this was not my intention.”

A heavy note of guilt rang through his voice, and Martin’s chest panged with instinctive sympathy. “I-it’s fine. It was just an accident.”

If anything, the grim set of his host’s mouth worsened. “I should also warn you– your horse ran off. I tried looking for her after bringing you here, but she doesn’t appear to be in the area.”

Oh God, Phillipa. “… she’s resourceful,” Martin said, but it was much weaker this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s found her way back home already.“ 

The stranger kept his gaze trained on his hands. “ … I– yes, of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Abruptly, he stood once more. “I assume you’re hungry? Now that you’re awake, I can bring you something to eat.”

Martin jumped. “Oh, uh.” It would have been a full day since he’d last eaten, by now. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep anything down. Based on the strange intensity in the man’s eyes, though, only one correct answer existed. “Y-yes, I– um, thank you. Actually some– some tea would be nice?”

A single, sharp nod was his only response; the man turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door. 

Martin held out a hand before he could stop himself. “Wait– wait.”

The man turned, arching one brow, and heat washed over Martin’s face. He hadn’t actually had anything important to say, but they hadn’t even exchanged names.

“Sorry, I just … wanted to thank you. For– for taking me in.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”

“A … pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin flushed. "Oh– just Martin is fine. Um … c-can I ask for your name?” 

Silence stretched taffy-thin between them as his host studied him, expression unreadable. Martin’s breath stilled in his lungs– was he being measured up? Found wanting somehow? He’d only asked for a name–

“Jon.”

Martin stiffened, but with a snap of his cloak, the man vanished, closing the door behind him.

Jon.

Martin wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Jon. It was so … common. Approachable, for such an unapproachable man. Perhaps it was a family name.

Musings about Jon’s name could only distract him for so long, however, with his worst case scenario waiting for him back in the real world. Barclay would make him beg if he wanted to continue working in the castle, especially after last night’s disaster. 

Martin dropped his head in his hands. He was as good as sacked.

Distraction. He needed a good distraction. Anything to take his mind off agonising– not like he could fix anything confined to a bed by a stranger.

Lifting his head, he took a moment to peer around the room. It was bigger than the servants’ dormitory he shared with the others back at Barclay’s castle. To his right was an old, carved wardrobe; the desk and chair beside it had been made out of smooth mahogany. Paintings, their colours dulled by time, were hanging lopsided on some of the walls– a stark contrast to the faded wallpaper beneath them. Settled over it all was a fine layer of dust; only the chair, and the bed Martin was lying in, had been cleared of it.

Obvious disuse aside, even Lord Barclay’s accommodations weren’t this opulent. An unexpected twinge of guilt shot through Martin’s chest, as if he was doing something wrong. Stealing comfort that didn’t belong to him.

By the time Jon came back, the sunset had shifted from orange to a slow-burning red that dappled the sky. Tucked in the crook of his elbow was an unidentifiable bolt of cloth, and in his hands, a dinner tray. A silver dinner tray. “I apologise for the simplicity of the meal,” Jon said. “It’s … been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to cook.”

Had … was Jon implying that he, the lord of this house, had cooked for Martin? Martin swallowed, tearing his gaze from Jon back to the tray. Why wouldn’t the kitchen staff be making his meals?

Jon didn’t hand him the tray so much as he slid it into Martin’s lap; on it was a bowl of boiled vegetables, and next to that, a steaming cup of tea. Simple, yes, but Martin was grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, really,” said Martin, entirely too genuine. Under the attentive eyes of his host, he shovelled a spoonful of turnip and carrot into his mouth, and started to chew. He stopped.

Jon leaned forward, poised. “How i– er, that is, I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”

Martin steeled himself and kept chewing, scrambling for a neutral expression. While the outside of the vegetables were soggy, their insides crunched against his molars, sending shudders down his spine. Underboiled, his mind supplied helpfully.

It was, perhaps, one of the worst meals he’d eaten in his life.

“It’s great,” he lied, smiling past the curdling in his stomach. Jon had made this himself, and Martin was going to die before he willingly insulted a lord to his face.

Jon released a quiet breath. “That’s … good.” He unwound the cloth draped over his forearm; it was a nightshirt and cap, made of fabric that could’ve been water for how it piled onto the sheets. “These are for you to wear to bed. You can find something to change into tomorrow in the wardrobe. Please inform me if there are any that don’t fit.” He winced. “And you’ll have to excuse me if you find anything that’s been chewed through. It’s impossible, keeping the moths out this time of year.”

“Tha– thank you?”

“You, ah,” Jon hesitated, before clearing his throat. “Seeing you’re here because of me, you’re welcome to stay until you’ve made a full recovery.” His voice grew guarded. “My only stipulation is that you remain in your rooms at night.”

Martin paused.

It wasn’t that unusual of a request– Martin was a stranger, of course Jon didn’t want him wandering about at night. No, what snagged Martin’s attention was the faint, nervous hitch of his shoulders as he said it.

“O-of course.” Martin’s throat bobbed. “Is it– can I ask why?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Oh, hell. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right. I-it’s just, I don’t know …” kind of strange? But the impatient twist of Jon’s mouth stopped him cold.

The silence dragged, then Jon crossed his arms. “I have a dog.”

“A … dog?”

“Yes. Big, vicious thing. He … patrols the manor at night– and he’s not partial to strangers.”

Oh. Well, that … that made sense, didn’t it? Still odd, though– Barclay had a whole team of hunting dogs, and none of them were allowed to wander the grounds without supervision. They weren’t pets, and they certainly weren’t guards. It appeared this one was, though.

“What’s his name?” Martin asked, before he could think better of it.

“What?”

“The dog.” Martin held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, it’s just, I love dogs. My neighbors had one when I was a kid. Ol’ Frankie.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed even further. “John.”

 “… John.”

“Yes.”

“John … the dog?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You named the dog after yourself?”

The look Jon shot him was equal parts baffled and incredulous, as if he were ludicrous for asking. “I came into possession of the dog after it received its name. And, besides, it’s John, spelled with an H.”

“I … see.” Martin didn’t see. “Obviously.” It had not been obvious.

Jon glowered, daring him to continue, then reached into his pocket. “One last thing. I noticed … well, here.” With an oddly stiff motion, he held out a small glass jar of salve. “For your hands. It would be irresponsible of me, as your host, to let them ulcerate unchecked.”

Startled, Martin glanced down at his hands– they were still covered in blisters from scrubbing last night’s mountain of dishes. He’d forgotten about them in all the chaos.

“Th-thanks,” he said, accepting the jar.

Clearing his throat, Jon stepped back. “I’ll let you finish your meal. You can expect me tomorrow morning with breakfast.” One hand on the door, he hesitated, then added in a soft undertone, “Get some rest.”

Jon was gone before Martin could answer. He was alone once again.

Unscrewing the lid of the jar, Martin gave the ointment an experimental sniff– honey and almonds. He scooped out a dollop and rubbed it into the damaged skin of his hands, sighing as it cooled the sting of his blisters. Astonishing, that Jon had noticed at all– Martin was so used to it, he would have left them to rot on his own.

He finished his dinner, half out of pragmaticism, half because he didn’t want to risk insulting his host. At least the tea was good.

Tray set aside, Martin began unbuttoning his dress shirt. What an unusual sight he must have made, passed out on the ground in formal wear. The clothes Jon had provided were silky against his skin, marred only by the must of disuse– still a luxury for a person with Martin’s background.

It wasn’t enough to distract him from the cold knot of trepidation that twisted inside his stomach. But Jon had been right; even if he had known the way, he would never make it back in his current state, especially without Phillipa. 

At the very least, things couldn’t get much worse. There was solace in that. 

Martin settled back against the pillows. With so many thoughts racing through his head, sleep should’ve been impossible– but the moment he closed his eyes, the rest of the world slipped away.

-

“Here you are!” Martin’s eyes flew open as Charles dropped the tray into his arms. Its contents had been obscured by a covering; Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of what was inside, but whatever it was, it was heavy enough that he buckled under its weight. 

Charles winked. “Better you than me, right?”

“R-right.”

“Well, go on then. He’s hungry!”

Pulse pounding in his ears, Martin scurried into the dark hallway. None of the candles had been lit, but he knew the way by heart. His arm shook under the weight of the tray– carrying it with both hands would’ve been easier, but that wasn’t proper. And Lord Barclay was so particular about being proper …

The grand door leading into the dining hall drew closer, and a coil of apprehension burrowed into Martin’s gut. An unusual smell had started emitting from the platter– sweet and gamey, meat mixed with sugar glaze. His feet moved, relentless, and with every step, that sinking pit of dread at the core of him grew heavier.

He opened the door. The dining hall was empty, save for where Barclay sat at the head of the table. A single lit candle shone down on the dozens of empty plates surrounding him. Barclay wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin, and waved Martin forward.

Martin’s hands were trembling. He placed the tray on the table in front of Barclay, in between the scattered, stained plates. At his Lord’s signal, he removed the covering with as much flourish as he could.

It was empty.

The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood on end. Run, his instincts screamed. Get away, now! 

Barclay looked up at him, green eyes glittering dangerously. “Well?”

Martin started– at some point he’d been lowered into a chair. In ginger increments, he leaned over until his head was resting against the cool metal plate, each shuddering breath fogging its silver coating. Barclay reached for his utensils; Martin squeezed his eyes shut, praying that, for once, Barclay wouldn’t start with–

“Eyes open.”

Swallowing, Martin obediently pried them back open. The fork hovered out-of-focus, brushing his eyelashes. 

Somewhere beyond Barclay’s hall, a voice brushed against the edges of his hearing. 

“–Hello?”

The fork plunged down–

-

Martin jolted awake, his hair drenched in sweat. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, illuminating swathes of dust motes floating through each beam. It must have been around mid-morning. Reflexive panic welled in the back of his throat (late, oh God, he was so incredibly late) before the events of yesterday came back to him. The panic slipped away, dulled with leaden resignation.

Sleeping in was nice, at least; when was the last time he’d been this indulgent? Giving in to the mattress’ siren’s call was tempting– he could have slept longer, waited until Jon came to wake him up. But while the dreams’ contents had slipped away faster than he could recall, their weight sat heavy on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t particularly interested in returning.

Taking a chance, he tossed aside his blanket and slid onto his feet. His heart lifted– had he recovered enough to make it back to the castle?

The world spun on its axis, and Martin caught himself against the wooden bed poster before he collapsed. 

Ah. As if he could be so lucky.

With one hand against the wall for support, Martin shuffled his way over to the wardrobe. The hinges creaked as he opened it– Lord, everything here needed a good cleaning. He’d have been tanned for letting a room fall into this much disrepair on Griffiths’ watch. Hopefully, the clothes would be in better–

Martin’s mind blanked. The clothes were indeed in better shape, but the options inside were … far more expensive than he was used to wearing. Was Jon not worried about Martin ruining them? Although they must’ve belonged to someone else– these were all too big for Jon. Whoever they belonged to, Martin prayed they wouldn’t mind him wearing their clothes.

He selected the plainest tunic and trousers he could find among the ornate, embroidered lot. None of them had moth holes, at least; Jon would be happy to hear that.

Speaking of his mysterious host …

As soon as he was confident he could walk without falling over, Martin opened the door to the hallway, glancing out into the hall. No dog; that was a good sign. Jon had mentioned bringing breakfast– the smartest idea was for Martin to wait inside his room, but his curiosity was burning. What did the estate of such an eccentric lord look like, anyway?

Surely he could risk a quick look around before Jon arrived.

Martin closed the door behind him with a gentle click, eyes roving over the hallway.

It appeared that the estate of a lord like Jon looked incredibly dusty.

Martin dragged an experimental finger over the surface of a nearby windowpane; it came back smeared with grime. Griffiths would’ve died on the spot– what on earth was Jon’s staff doing? Taking advantage of Jon’s generosity and shirking their responsibilities?

He picked a direction at random and began to walk, keeping one eye peeled for someone who could point him in a useful direction. This section of the manor appeared to have been functionally abandoned, though; perhaps Jon had wanted to ensure Martin’s privacy, although that seemed like an unnecessary effort.

By the time he reached what must have been the grand staircase of a foyer, he still hadn’t encountered another living being. Martin faltered, eyes grazing over the crusted windows, before dipping to linger on an old, broken gramophone at the bottom floor.

Where was everybody?

He continued trailing through the manor, more apprehensive now. Each step brought with it the sense he was a misplaced ghost; alone and drifting, untethered from reality. The layout of the hallways had a labyrinthian element to their design– a wise man would have turned back at risk of becoming lost, but … 

It was as if someone had wrapped a string around his joints, tugging his feet forward. Martin couldn’t have turned back even if he’d wanted to.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, crescendoing until they threatened to drive knives into his eardrums. No other noise penetrated the corridors; even the milky light filtering through the manor’s windows couldn’t reach him. The outside world had been choked off, as effectively as it had in the fog.

Panic swelled inside his lungs. Was there really nobody here? In a desperate bid, Martin threw open the first door to his left, hoping someone, anyone, would be on the other side.

Instead, he found the library. 

Stumbling backwards, his jaw went slack.

Martin had only seen two libraries in his life: the small, tattered bookshelf in the back of his mother’s church, and Lord Barclay’s personal collection– although the servants couldn’t make any selections for themselves. An entire room full of books, Martin had assumed it was among the largest collections of its kind.

He’d been wrong.

What stood before of him now were two stories worth of wall-to-wall bookshelves, brimming with texts and tomes in exquisite leather bindings. The scent of old parchment tickled Martin’s nose, sending him back to that dusty corner of the church, escaping through tattered parables and hymns.

Entranced, Martin stepped into the enormous room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. Giddy compulsion had him plucking out the first book he laid eyes on. A cookbook; although the language inside was unfamiliar, every page had been filled with mouthwatering illustrations. He selected another book at random: this time, a book of astronomy. And after that, a love story. Martin fought the urge to laugh, breathless. Just how many different books did Jon have?

Tucking all three in the crook of his arm, he continued down the aisle, reverent fingers brushing over each spine as he passed. A vast majority of them had been left untouched; preserved, perhaps, to maintain the appearance of esteem. That was the only reason Barclay ever added to his works. But occasionally, he’d come across a book with frayed pages, its spine threadbare.

Not mishandled, though. None of the pages had been dogeared, or the bindings broken. No, these carried the air of a book well-loved, read so many times over the years they’d been worn down to the glue. Martin took those with him as well, adding them to the growing collection in his arms.

When the first throbs of a sharp ache began pulsing at the back of his head, Martin ignored it. He couldn’t just leave, not with so much begging for his attention. When would he ever come across an opportunity to browse through a collection like this again? No, he had to make the most of it, while he still could.

But as Martin reached the far corner of the library, he slowed. A door was tucked away here, in a corner where no sunlight reached. It was nondescript, out of place in its simplicity– and yet, something about it drew Martin closer. Cool air seeped from between the door’s cracks, beckoning his curiosity.

His fingers grazed the brass handle–

“Don’t touch that.”

Martin yelped, books crashing to the ground.

Jon was standing at the end of the aisle with eyes like chips of ice. Heat bloomed across Martin’s face. This hadn’t been how he’d planned to encounter his host again: caught like a child sneaking sweets from the pantry.

“Sorry,” he stammered, scrambling to scoop up the fallen books. God, he’d dropped them. “I-I wasn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

“How many times do I have to say the word concussed before it sinks in?” With a sigh, Jon bent over to pick up the remaining books, depositing them on a random bookshelf before swiping the rest from Martin’s hands. Martin flinched, and the lines around Jon’s mouth deepened. "You’re in no condition to be wandering, let alone nosing around into places you shouldn’t.”

“I– I wasn’t trying to, to snoop or anything–”

“Really.” Jon shot a cool, pointed glance at the door. The flush crawled down to Martin’s neck, prickling in time with his erratic pulse. 

“Sorry,” he said again, lamely. “I really didn’t mean to– I-I was just … curious.”

“Curious. Of course.” With a sigh, Jon dropped the remaining books into another untidy stack, clapping dust off his hands. “I’ll show you back to your rooms– breakfast is waiting for you.”

Jon shouldered his way back out of the aisle, leaving Martin no choice but to follow. He was too embarrassed to protest even if he wanted to, but– his eyes lingered on the stack of books as they passed, mournful. It would have been nice to read at least one.

Jon urged him back into bed as soon as they reached Martin’s rooms, then turned to the breakfast tray he’d left on the desk. Martin fought down the growing dread at what Jon could have possibly prepared for this morning– but when Jon placed the tray on the bed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Bread, butter, and a bowl of chestnuts. Absolutely no risk of anything overboiled here. And the bread was fresh, too– delicate wisps of steam rose to curl in the dusty air. Had Jon made this himself as well? It had come out better than the first meal, that was certain.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbled, picking up the bread knife to smear butter over a slice. 

Jon’s frosty expression didn’t change. "Why in the world did– I can’t imagine what possessed you to roam around this morning. Do you have any idea what I experienced when I found you gone?”

A spasm of guilt tangled in Martin’s gut. “S-sorry. I just … wanted to look around, a little.”

“There’s nothing worth looking at. This place may as well be a mausoleum.” 

Martin’s head whipped up. "You can’t mean that.”

A wry silence.

“Seriously? But your– your library is amazing! I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

“Th– the library?” Some of the severity in Jon’s expression vanished; he blinked, opening and closing his mouth. “ … Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose. But I’m, ah … I’m not the owner of that collection.” A shy, almost pleased note crept into his voice. “I did help retrieve a few of the rarer tomes, however. ” 

Slice of bread halfway to his mouth, Martin paused. “You … but I thought …?” 

One arched brow crept toward Jon’s hairline. “You thought … ?” 

“I’m sorry, but– aren’t you the lord of this place?” 

“No.”

Martin took a moment to process this sudden collapse of his mental image for Jon. “But then who … why are you …?”

For someone so young, Jon had far too much stress lining his face. “It’s … complicated. You could say I inherited this place from its previous owner.” 

“Your father?”

“No,” Jon said, blanching. Then, without warning, he pitched forward. “I’ve been wondering if you’ll entertain a question from me.” 

Martin jolted, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “Y-yes?” 

Jon smoothed a hand over one of his cuffs. “You were dressed too nicely to be working in someplace like a smithy. But your hands … I assume you’re a labourer of some kind?” 

“Oh.” Flustered, Martin set down the piece of bread. Why would Jon want to know a mundane thing like that? “I’m, um, I’m a server in Lord Barclay’s estate, actually.” 

“Barclay?”  

“Yes, Lord Barclay. Lord Frederick Barclay?” Jon was still frowning. “Your Lord. Your Lord, if you live in this region.”

“You really expect me to know the name of every noble that goes parading themselves around these parts like an arsehole?”

“I-I … suppose not?” Martin didn’t understand how Jon couldn’t know, though. What about his taxes? “H-how about you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Well, you said the library wasn’t yours, right? And … you said you’re not the lord of the estate, yeah?” 

“In a legal sense, no.” 

Well that was an interesting answer, but Martin was learning not to ask for elaboration. “So, what do you … do?” 

Jon scowled. “I don’t see why it matters.”

“S-sorry.” 

“You apologise a great deal, you’re aware of this?”

“S–” Martin bit it back just in time, and Jon blew out a haggard, long-suffering sigh. 

“But I suppose it’s only a fair trade. If you really must know, I was – am, I suppose – the Head Archivist of this estate.”

Martin’s brows flew up– Head Archivist? That had to be rather prestigious. Did Barclay have a similar role anywhere present in his staff? The only thing Martin could think of that compared was … “So, like a librarian?”

“Not like a librarian.” But Jon’s mouth twitched. “I suppose there is some overlap. It was more than just filing books and keeping things tidy, though. We were also researchers.”

Martin perked up. “We?”

“… Yes. I … I did have a team working alongside me, previously. We researched unusual encounters, on behalf of our patron.”

“What kind of unusual encounters?” Fascinated, Martin leaned forward. “You mean like, like love affairs?”

“Nothing as salacious as that.” A slight smile broke out across his lips. “Although there– there was one time … ”

He stilled, trailing off. The fragile warmth that had been growing behind his eyes shuttered.

“Although … ?” Martin prompted after a beat.

Jon’s expression could’ve been carved from stone. He said nothing, shoulders hunched under some unseen burden.

A suspicion had been brewing in the back of Martin’s mind since his crawl through the manor’s hallways, and now, with Jon coiled tense as a spring in front of him, it came roaring back full force. Well, if there was ever a time for inquiries … “Can I ask you something?”

Jon huffed, and Martin winced. 

“Right. Um. I guess I just wanted to ask–” oh, how to phrase it …? “–is … is there anyone else … here?” 

Jon’s eyes lowered to rest on his hands. “No,” he said. “It’s just me. And now you, I suppose.”

And all at once, the pieces fell into place. Jon’s cooking, his nonchalance about the borrowed clothes, the dust that had settled in a thick carpet over everything Martin, or Jon himself, hadn’t touched. For the second time today Martin was left staring, dumbfounded. “… I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“This place is gigantic. Don’t you …” Martin glanced down at his lap, thumbing a loose thread in the duvet. “There’s really no one here?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Jon’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your pity. Why else would I be here if I didn’t prefer it this way?”

Martin opened his mouth, but Jon stood before he could reply, stormclouds thundering in his eyes. “This has been more than enough excitement for one day– I’ll let you get some rest.”

He’d already made it to the door when Martin regained control of his voice. “Thank you for the ointment.”

Jon stopped, one hand frozen on the door’s handle. “Pardon?”

“The hand cream. It, uh, it helped. Thank you for noticing. And … and I’m sorry for … everything, I guess.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then lifted his chin. “Glad I could be of some service.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Martin counted his footsteps until even their echoes faded down the hall entirely. 

It was probably for the best that he followed Jon’s instructions and got some rest. He had the gnawing sense that he was wearing out his welcome, fast.

He’d already nestled back into the mattress when a flash outside his window made him shoot back up.

Snow. Fluttering snowflakes were dancing on an invisible wind just beyond the glass. Martin rubbed his eyes– once, twice– but they were still there.

A trick of the light– it had to be. Some … half-asleep hallucination. He still had a ways to go before he was recovered, after all. Imagine– snow, at this time of year.

Putting it out of his mind, Martin pulled the duvet over him, and, with very little effort, drifted away again.

-

“–Hello?”

Martin stumbled to a halt, dinner tray in hand. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t have time to stop– there was still so much of the hallway left to go. But …

There. A door had appeared in the hall. Or had it always been there? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember …?

“You’re going to be late,” Charles said, somewhere off in the distance.

Late. Yes: Barclay’s dinner. He … he needed to leave. He was going to get everybody in trouble–

“–go.”

There it was again. Martin’s legs were stone; unable to move to the door, unable to move down the hallway. They had said go, right? He had to deliver Barclay’s dinner. But …

“You’re going to be late,” Mum said. Her eyes were hazy, unclear. What a wretched son he was; couldn’t even recall the colour of his own mother’s eyes …

“I’m sorry,” he said, but even he couldn’t tell who it was for.

-

Martin woke with aching arms and gummed eyes. Sunbeams were once again pouring in through his window, and this time, the accompanying disorientation faded faster.

Was it already morning? He must’ve slept right through dinner– this bloody mattress made it too easy.

And for once he was actually hungry. Properly hungry, too, without the accompanying nausea or weakness he’d grown accustomed to during his morning routine at the castle.

Today the silver tray was waiting for him on the desk– Jon had already come through this morning, likely an effort to keep him from waking, or wandering off again.

It was only as Martin was reaching for the tray that he noticed the books. Three of them, stacked on top of each other. Next to them were several pieces of folded parchment.

Martin, the letter started, with graceful, cursive handwriting, and something in Martin’s chest swooped low.

Here are some collections from the library, should you find yourself in need of entertainment. I had some difficulty choosing a recommendation, but I feel that these three have fairly universal appeal. Please take your injury into consideration, but I trust you to do what feels right for yourself.

Kinsey’s Survival on the Front Lines, especially, I find quite compelling. It’s a collection of memoirs from Kinsey’s time in war, and while a few have criticised his writing style as a bit dry, I find the contrast between his straightforwardness against the reality of war is how he’s able to make his point so clearly …

Martin read slowly, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each word. 

The letter was five pages total, front and back. All detailing Jon’s reasoning for the selections he’d made, from their historical relevance, to his opinion on their style of prose. Was there anything in Martin’s life that he could talk about for so long? That he was so passionate about? Maybe his poetry, mediocre as it was, but not with half as much eloquence.

Buried in the text, tucked between hesitant, tentative platitudes, were Jon’s personal reasons for enjoying each book, such as I would often find myself returning to this text during my apprenticeship, and Some might consider Williamson’s humour a bit crude, but I still found it enjoyable.

Martin lingered longest on these, drinking in each tidbit with the avidity of a book-starved scholar.

The letter concluded with,

By now I’ve realised I needn’t have gone on for so long, but I’ve already spent two hours writing this, and it seems a wasted effort if I just tossed it, so … there you are. If you made it this far, anyway. Admirable, if you have.

If the choice between the three books still proves to be too much, I would suggest Sutherland’s Mythos of the Ages as a start. It’s simple, but, as I’ve mentioned, the illustrative work is astounding, and although it’s rather sentimental, I find the tales of some comfort to me. 

Jon

Martin traced the elegant swoop of the J, heart ballooning in his chest until he might burst.

Oh.

–

If you would like to be notified of MoMM news and chapter updates, please message me your user name and I will tag you in future posts. Otherwise, check out the MoMM tag on my page in order to stay up to date.

 @itspandaatsume123​ @thesmallestzita​

[littleladymab]

tiny cracks of light - chapter 5

(master post)

Prelude- The footsteps that approach her study room are careful, but heavy. Someone not used to being light on their feet, but also trying their best to not make a noise. 

Sasha knows right away it must be the newest assistant. 

She knows Tim's footsteps, someone who has never tried to tread carefully a day in his life. She is starting to learn Jon's, feather-light and unobtrusive — so much so that he has startled her several times when he's approached. 

(Every so often, she thinks she'll hear one of the others — Michael's echoing but deliberate step, Gerry's casual shuffle, Gertrude's sharp and pointed tap tap tap. But it is just the echoes of their memories. The Archives trying to keep her company when she is lonely, though she really wishes that they wouldn't try quite so hard.) 

A head pokes around the door, shortly followed by the shoulders and torso of the new assistant. "Uh-uhm, I'm sorry, are you Sasha?" 

"I am." She spins her pen around between her fingers before rising to her feet. "I'm sorry, the Watcher didn't give me your name—" 

"Oh. I'm Martin. Blackwood. Uh, Martin Blackwood, nice to meet you." He takes her offered hand and gives it a firm shake and gives her a shaky smile. 

"I take it that the Watcher was busy and sent you to me instead," she says with a smile of her own, and that seems to put him at ease. 

He nods and fusses with the cuff of his coat. "Yes, he… Seemed rather distracted." 

Sasha holds in her sigh and leads Martin out into the hall. "Then I'll be happy to show you around. There's not much to it, but I'm always available if you have any questions."

Martin nods again and follows after her, and she's suddenly overcome with the feeling that she has a puppy on her heels instead of a new coworker. 

But she catches the unabashed awe on his face as he listens to her words, and she knows that he will do just fine.

There is something missing, but Sasha doesn't know what it is.

The connection to the Eye is there, hovering, waiting. It is like she has the individual pieces of a spell pulled together, but they are waiting for the final key. A catalyst of some sort.

Does she need to go back to the Watcher for him to accept her on behalf of the Eye? Does she need something belonging to the Archivist, a focus while he is missing?

When she reaches, she can feel it humming, and when she lets her senses brush against it, it fills her with a fuzzy warmth. She can pluck the strings to see where the others are, and know how they are tethered to this place.

Basira's dark cord, threaded with gold, disappears off in the direction of the offices and the study rooms. Daisy's, sharp like wire but dusty and fragile, curls out onto the grounds.

Tim's burns, fire like teeth biting at the edges of her with an unfamiliar ferocity.

She pulls back so fast that she's sent reeling, dizzy with the phantom pain. Sasha extends a hand to catch herself on a shelf and instead someone catches onto her.

And then she feels like she's floating — the fire replaced by ice against her back, keeping her aloft. The sky overhead is dark, pitch, not a star in sight. When she breathes, her lungs constrict and water fills her nose as the hand that caught her pushes her down.

And then the hand is gone and she's standing knee-deep in the middle of a lake as the idea of trees crowd the shore and when she looks her arms aren't there, just darkness — like the sky, like when she closed her eyes and the Stranger's opened.

And then the first Eye opens, and the next and the next as it sees her, coils around the threads that she gathered, tugs on them hard enough to send her sprawling and she's somewhere else, on the shore of a different lake, this one vast and pale with fog, and Martin is kneeling before her with his arms around her shoulders and he is freezing.

"Sasha?" he asks, and she gets the feeling he has been repeating her name.

"What happened," she gasps, lifting one hand to cling to his arm, then his shoulder, as she tries to heave herself upright.

That's when she notices that everything is gone. No, not gone. Not like when Basira drew the closed eye on her forehead to summon the Blind to her. Muted. Softer. Indistinct, the way everything is under water.

Martin lets her stand, and glances over his shoulder to observe their surroundings.

"Where are we?" She spins in a slow circle, wobbling a bit as she regains her balance.

"I think," he says, cautious — testing every word before he says them. "I think that is where Jon is."

"What, here?" Sasha spreads her arms to encompass the expanse.

Martin shakes his head, and suddenly she realizes that he's not looking around.

He's just avoiding looking at her.

You scared him bad last time, didn't you? the thing inside of her purrs, delighted at her distress.

"Martin…?" Sasha reaches out and lets the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder, but despite how solid he had been seconds before when holding her, her hand goes right through. "Martin, what's happened?"

The question seems too big, all of a sudden, and she regrets even listening to Basira. She never should have left her cottage.

"Right now, we're in what you would call a pocket dimension, I think." Martin pushes himself to his feet and knocks the sand off his pants. Finally, he turns to her, expression drawn and exhausted. "We're safe here."

"Safe? From what?"

He gives her a meaningful look that quickly dissolves into something far more desperate. "Sasha, what you just saw… I think that's where Jon is."

She wants answers, and admittedly, that was one of her questions. But it's not the answer she wants, and it wasn't the question that was highest up on her priority list.

For a brief moment, she wonders if she would be able to force him to answer. But the thought leaves the taste of anise on her tongue, and so she pushes it to the back of her mind.

There's a sense of urgency in his words, though everything else about him is withdrawn and muted. That's when she realizes that she hadn't been able to hear his footsteps or sense his presence while in the Archives.

"No one will tell me what happened to you," she says, reaching for him again without thinking.

Martin flinches back. "A lot has happened since you left," he says, and she hates that this is the answer that everyone thinks is suitable enough to give her. "You were… The first, I think."

"The first what?"

"The first to crack," he says, and it is like she is suddenly looking through a fractured mirror. "There's something in the Archives that's breaking us apart." Martin is still able to speak, despite the heavy fog that seems to emanate from him with each breath. "Things bigger and stronger than us offering a solution."

This time, when Sasha reaches out, he lets her put her hand to his broken chest. "And this is your solution."

"And this is mine."

"So you won't help us look for Jon."

"I can't," he says, and she can feel the sorrow in his words. His shoulders sag, and the veneer is back and he is whole once again. "We can help in different ways, and the only way that I can is to make sure that whatever is trying to get to Jon is distracted enough that you can get to him first."

Sasha takes a hesitant step closer. He stands his ground, and gives a small nod.

So she closes the distance and wraps her arms around his shoulders, having to stand up on her tiptoes to reach him properly.

Martin returns her embrace. "Please find him," he says. "None of this means anything if he's not safe."

"I'll do all I can, Martin." She gives him one final squeeze before stepping back and letting him go. "Please, you stay safe too."

"I'm fine," he reassures, but she's not too sure how much she believes it. "I'm going to send you back now, but go to the others as soon as you can. This place has a way of sticking with you."

She wants to ask him what that is supposed to mean, if he’s not in danger of being pulled in completely, but by the time the question forms on the tip of her tongue, she's standing back at the center of the compass rose in the Archives — fog licking off her skin like steam, and the connection to the Eye lingering just beneath the surface.

She remembers the eyes opening across her skin as she stood in the lake, and a shiver runs down her spine.

Sasha takes a breath to steady herself, and rubs the heel of her hand over her forearm.

[charterandbarter]

I have seen some TMA/TAZ crossovers floating around (thank you @inkedinserendipity btw). I have never seen a TAZ but uh that eye imagery! If y’all will permit I would like to throw in my own two, angsts cents hahaha man I need sleep.

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR BOTH PODCASTS AHEAD

Alright, premise time:

What if that Hunger was all the Entities fused together? What if John was replaced by Jon & Jonah?

let’s say tma post canon is a bit like this: jon and martin make their way to the panopticon. jonah magnus is there, the heart of the world like the bastard he is. You have the key who opened the Door, and the bitch who twisted it into the lock. In the ensuing confrontation, jon opens the door again, drags every Entity kicking and screaming into its maw, and locks it for good with him on the other side.

But the thing is, he doesn’t go alone.

What’s an Archive without an Archivist? What use is a living chronicle of fear if there’s no beating, squishy, pitifully human heart to experience it? The Entities are always hungry, and as much as Jon’s performed beautifully before the Change, he’s sorta not the right,,,flavor of fear the Entities need. Getting the sum of human suffering shoved into your head can put a damper on the little terrors, yknow.

(so many jons. Jonny sims why must you do this to me)

ANYWAY! I will insert a readmore later maybe, when it is not 2am in my timezone & my brain allows! Apologies for you mobile people.

SPOILER WARNING FOR TMA AND TAZ: BALANCE

There’s two people who could fill the “squishy fear generation machine” role by the time Jon and Martin make it to the Panopticon. And Martin’s just made friends with the personification of backdoors.

Jon gets to say goodbye before Martin and Helen go. Maybe he has time to let Martin Know all the infinite ways he loves him. It still hurts.

Jon and Jonah fall through the door. The Entities swallow them whole.

it’s not really like Jekyll and Hyde, nor is it like Jon and Daisy trapped in the Buried. It’s just...hatred. Hatred, self-loathing, despair, and the regret of a thousand hopes shattered to stardust. By the time Jon and Jonah go through the door Jon’s compiled quite the Archive, but even all that suffering has a limit. When the stories finally run dry, they turn on themselves, on their only remaining humans left, until the difference between jon and jonah and the fears is nothing but so much churning stomach acid. A feedback loop of misery.

They cannot die. They can’t remember why. There is only yawning dread, and the desperate desire to fill it.

Martin Blackwood‘s plane is safe, of course. The Door will stay shut. But not every world has that luxury.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to get more time.

(how does it feel, Jonah Magnus, to be the Archivist? How does it feel to Know that the suffering of millions, including your own, is all your fault? how does it feel to remember the years of gaslighting, abuse, manipulation, and coercion that you inflicted, just because you were afraid of something as small as Death? how does it feel to hate yourself? how does it feel to commune with your fucking god?)

they tear through worlds and yank at the reins that keep them together, even as the two people holding those reins scream in mutually shared/felt agony. It’s hell, and it goes on forever.

When it comes time to play chess, it is Elias standing before Merle in a crisp, black suit. When Merle asks if the Hunger is his friend, it is Jon’s voice that chuckles before answering. And when They call existence horrible, who’s to say which person is actually talking anymore?

(As Merle dies, They notice the blossoms in Merle’s beard look like chamomile flowers. Something deep inside Them aches. It’s been a long time since They’ve had a cup of tea).

(I’ve only heard Merle Highchurch speak once, but in that one time he said life was about the joy you choose before insulting an elder god to his face. This man has Martin Blackwood/Absolute King™ energy don’t change my mind)

“Kiss my ass, you sanctimonious bastard.” Merle Highchurch says.

“Huh,” For a moment, a shiny burn scar glows through the fire licking Their hand, “I feel sad.”

Merle dies. The ache grows.

(For Them--The Archive, The Archivist, Jon--Merle is an anchor. For Jonah—and he Knows, now, he was Jonah Magnus, former king of the world—Merle’s a warning eons too late.)

I don’t know enough about taz balance to work out the rest of the details, unfortunately. I do know the image of Hunger!Jonah Magnus (no longer bound to Jon after an Arms Outstretched 2.0 moment) getting FUCKED UP by the Tres Horny Boyz delights me.

Really, though, Hunger!Jonah can enjoy his immortality trapped in Lucretia’s barrier-bubble-thing like the blind goldfish he is. But by the deities above and below Jon and Merle sitting on the beach looking out into the sunset is near and dear to my heart.

Perhaps it would be appropriate if Jon dissolved into the waves. There are worse ways to die than with a friend at your side and memories of chamomile tea. I’m sure Jon would think it’s more than he deserves, and yeah TMA is a tragedy so maybe it does fit the bittersweet but cathartic ending we’re expecting in canon.

However, I am a] a sap, and b] of the mind that if you can pick, learning to live well is better than hoping to die well. So here’s an alternative for my fellow saps:

When the dust settles, there’s one more refugee that the Bureau takes in. He’s pretty skinny even for a human, and his scars are weird as fuck, but hey everyone in the world just went through a multiplanar apocalypse so who are they to judge? He’s quick. Quiet. Has a strange accent, and loves to read. Maybe Angus Mcdonald likes him. If so, then he can’t be that bad.

(The moonbase libraries aren’t anything like the Archives. Jon can’t tell if that’s good or bad yet, but he has time to figure it out. It’s...nice, to read something for fun again.)

It takes a long while to grow from a level 1 to a level 17 caster, but Jon has time. He can--not recover, exactly, but settle into himself. Learn how to be, without being of use.

Does Jon become an Aberrant Mind!sorcerer with eyes that still inspire paranoia? Or a Conjuration Wizard that can summon tape recorders? Who the fuck knows. He certainly doesn’t! What a blessing—he doesn’t Know!

Jonathan Sims made it out alive. With enough work, perhaps he won’t regret it.

(Maybe this world has therapists. There’s a bone lady shooting fireworks floating around, surely a therapist won’t call him crazy if he tells them the truth, right?)

tl;dr: let Jon get adopted by the Tres Horny Boyz at the end of Story & Song while Jonah Magnus dissolves into seafoam, please. One day Jon brings Martin to the taz!plane via permanent Gate spell so they can have a kickass honeymoon on the literal moon. Martin brings a dog. The base goes bonkers. Everyone is crying. Let the survivors of the tma!plane LARP their DnD dreams.

[backofthebookshelf]

those martin/elias tags are causing me physical pain, and I would like more pls thanks

It isn't quite true that Elias had never looked twice at Martin Blackwood.  He'd been interesting, when he was first hired, this sweet-faced young man with a touch of the Beholding and a desperately kept secret. But the truth of it was petty and small, as most secrets were, and Elias had simply turned him loose in Research to fend for himself, his perpetual worry about being found out a steady stream of fear to feed his patron.

There isn't much of that scared young man left in the Martin who stands before him today, his glare as fierce as any gaze the Beholding can summon, the chill of the Lonely still clinging to his clothes. On reflection, even as a terrified teenager there had been something of this steel in Martin; pity he hadn't noticed it sooner. It could have been so useful.

"I suppose you think that you're just going to go back to running the place now," Martin says. He's taller now that he doesn't hunch his shoulders trying not to be seen, tall enough that he glares down his nose at Elias even from across the room.

"That was the idea, yes." The murder charges had been dropped, of course. Tape recorded confessions are one thing but there isn't any actual evidence, and decades of police resentment of the Head of the Magnus Institute can only go so far.

Martin, instead of backing down, moves forward. Elias, stood in front of his desk, back in his place of power at last, just watches him. He's learned to use his height to intimidate - a trick he's picked up from Peter, no doubt. Elias tilts his chin to keep in eye contact, and though he hates the vulnerability of exposing his throat he keeps it off his face. He has nothing to fear here.

"The thing is," Martin says, "we've done really well without you, it turns out. Nobody needs you here, and nobody wants you here. So it would probably be for the best if you left us all alone. Probably before Melanie finds out you're back and starts getting creative. She's gotten much better since the last time she tried to kill you," he adds.

Elias smirks; it's nearly a reflex for him, but it's also very good to see the annoyance in Martin's eyes. "I'm sure you feel that way," he says soothingly. "We'll see what Jon has to say, shall we? Since I'm quite certain you haven't asked for his input before coming up here and throwing down ultimatums."

The flash of anger that crosses Martin's face is fascinating, but Elias doesn't get much chance to observe it before Martin is all the way into his space, his head dipping down, his teeth sinking into Elias's lip. Elias kisses back on instinct, pushing into it, swiping his tongue across Martin's upper lip. He manages a scrape of teeth of his own and hums in satisfaction Martin has a hand high up on Elias's shoulder, his thumb pressing into the jugular, and the other is leaning on the desk, caging him in.

He's already much too out of breath and it takes him just a moment too long to notice the threads weaving loosely about him, then tightening, pulling. The part of him that always watches the Archives is cut off, and Elias jerks away from Martin's mouth with a gasp. Martin is smiling at him, cold and distant; another thing, Elias thinks fuzzily, he's learned from Peter. Elias knows that expression all too well. "I did ask nicely," Martin says, as the spiderwebs pull tighter around them both and Elias begins to think that he's made a miscalculation.

[lucy-pepperwood]

Game Of Thrones

A Song of Ice and Fire 

Original Character

Lady Tully 

The Third Daughter of Lord Hoster Tully and Lady Minisa Whent.

Born 268, Lady Tully is two years younger than her sister Lysa and 4 years younger than her elder sister Catelyn. Lady Tully is 6 years older than her brother Edmure.

Possible Names for Lady Tully

Iliza ( pronounced like Eliza)

Jocelyn

Marjorie

Annelyse ( pronounced like Annielise)

Bethany

Milynda ( pronounced Milinda )

( Names should not start with C, L, or E )

Lady Tully inherited the blonde locks of her grandmother, The Lady Rosamund Whent. 

As she grows up, Lady Tully proves to be a sweet and well-mannered child. She loves her family dearly and always thought to please them. Never disobeying her parents and doing as her elder sisters asked. Whenever her family was feeling down, or they were ill, Lady Tully would make them gifts.

Lady Tully is a gifted wood carver and floral arrangement. Lady Tully also possesses skill in singing and high harp ( the kind of harp you cannot pick up and move).

As she grows up, Lady Tully becomes very protective of her elder sister Lysa. She and her sister Catelyn worry for her because she is remarkably absent-minded. 

Once her sister Lysa becomes pregnant with Petry Bealish's child, Lady Tully defends her sister. She argues with their father to have Lysa and Petry married, as it is what Lysa wants. Even though her father becomes enraged and beats them both, Lady Tully stands strong. 

Lady Tully argues that he should take up the Arryn betrothal because it is her duty to her family. She also claims that she is also blonde, a trait of the Arryn family.

All three Tully sisters are married on the same night. Lady Catelyn to Eddard Stark, Lady Lysa to Lord Petyr Bealish, and Lady Tully to Lord Jon Arryn.

Lord Bealish is shipped off the fingures, to "fortify" and "defend" them. Once all five ( which have been granted to him) are adequately situated, Lady Lysa can come to join him.

It appears as though both Lady Catelyn and Lysa become pregnant after their wedding night, while Lady Tully does not.

Lady Tully's lack of child becomes a concern because Jon Arryn might die in the war.

After the war is one, Lady Tully is immediately summoned to Kingslanding. Lord Hoster Tully send his daughter with 1,000 guards and 500 household members. 

As the highest-ranking lady within the court, Lady Tully is in charge of the running of the Keep. She, as directed by her husband, begins trying to make the Keep as loyal as possible to the new King. 

Lady Tully has all Targeryn artifacts stored; all Targaryen loyalists dismissed and banished from the capital. She has Baratheon men come and bring their workers and symbols to fill the Keep.  

Lady Tully rounds up the Dornish servants and workers and sends them with all of Princess Elia's items back to Dorne. Her Crown, jewels, dresses, letters, and personal artifacts. This does help relations with the Crown and the Dornish.

But it is replacing the servants that is Lady Tully's greatest achievement. For every Targeyn or Dornish servant dismissed, there are a Stormlander, Valeman, or Riverland men and women ready to fill their spot. 

By the time Lyanna Stark is declared dead, and King Robert has married Cersei Lannister, Lady Tully has filled every spot. There is no room for golden-haired spies to be put in place.

One month before Cersei Lannister marries King Robert, Lady Tully falls pregnant. 

Lady Tully miscarries in the fourth month. 

Despite this, Lady Tully keeps her excellent relationship with her husband. She and Jon dine together in the evenings and often take lunches together with King Robert. 

Lady Tully and King Robert develope a good relationship. He treats her, kindly. He declares he will be the best Uncle to her children. King Robert summons his cousin, Annabeth Eastermont, to court to serve as Lady Tullys Compain and lady and waiting. 

After Queen Cersei moves into the Keep, she and Lady Tully do not become friends. They are not enemies but are simply too different to ever be able to become friends. 

Where Lady Tully is religious and pays weekly homage to the 7. Queen Cersei is disinterested in religion. Where Queen Cersei is cunning and opportunistic. Lady Tully is simple and has little ambition. They have a cordial relation, as befitting the queen and the wife of the hand of the King. 

The two women take lunch together at the end of every week. To discuss court going on, the kitchen and servants and future play dates for their children. 

Once both women do have children, they become closer, often arranging playdates together and discussion which children to summon to court to become companions to their children.

Because of Lady Tully's presence in King Roberts and Queen Cersei's relationship, they are more cordial than in canon. It goes like this.

Queen Cersei will talk of her troubles to Lady Tully, Lady Tullys tells her lord husband, and Jon Arryn lambasts King Robert, and the relationship improves. 

Lady Tully miscarries her second baby before she even realizes she is pregnant. 

She successfully carries her third child to term. 

Heir Charles Arryn is born two months before Queen Cersei gives birth to her first child. ( Born 286 )

Queen Cersei gives birth to Prince Steffon Baratheon ( who lives instead of being born still )

Lady Tully will miscarry three more times before giving birth to her next child. 

Lord Arryn has to defend his wife to the small council. 

"Before Lady Tully, I had two wives, both died childlessly. The Tully sisters have both given birth with no troubles, Even the Birth of Charles was easy on Lady Tully. It is time to admit that the problem may be with me and not my wife."

Regardless, Lady Tully goes on to give birth to a second healthy child. During this pregnancy, Lady Tully spends the entire time on bed rest. 

Lady Tully gives birth in the last month of 288 to Lord Phillip Arryn.

At this time, Lady Tully's sisters both have had multiple children. Lady Catelyn has given birth to Heir Robb Stark, Lord Hoster, and Lady Sansa. Her sister Lady Lysa has given birth to Lady Caitlyn and Emilee Bealish.

Lady Sansa and Lady Emilee are both summoned to court to act as companions. 

Also, in 288, Queen Cersei gives birth to golden-haired green-eyed twins. Prince Daemon and Princess Joanna Baratheon. 

In the year 289, Queen Cersei gives birth to blonde hair green eyed Prince Joffrey Baratheon. In 290, queen Cersei gives birth to her last set of children. Black hair blue eyed triplets. Prince Edwin and Princesses Mrycella and Jocelyn. 

In the year 288, Lady Tully suffers two miscarriages. In the first month of 289, Lady Tully successfully gives birth to Lady Alyssa Arryn. A little over 9 months later, Lady Tully gives birth to a second daughter Lady Elizabeth Arryn. Then in the year, 291 Lady Arryn gives birth to her final child Lady Ophelia Arryn.

All of Lady Tully and Lord Arryns children were born pale blonde of hair and blue of eye. 

In the Red Keep, the children all play together and have good relations with each other. Queen Cersei had summoned her nephew Martin Lannister and Willam Marbrand to the capital to act as a company for her sons. 

Lady Tully summons Lady Sansa, Lady Emilee, and Lady Melissa Blackwood to come and serve as handmaids and friends for her and Queen Cersei's daughters. Also summoned is Yara Grayjoy after the rebellion. She is as much a hostage as her brother Theon. 

Eventually, both her sons leave the Keep to Foster in the Vale. Charles foster with Lord Yonce, and Philip with Lord Redford, where he meets Domerick Bolten. Lady Tully's daughters are betrothed and go on to have children of their own. They have none of the difficulties their mother had. 

Prince Steffon never fosters, but the King takes in many. Prince Joffery, Deamon, and Edwin all foster.  

Lady Alyssa and Princess Joanna are both betrothed to the Princes of Dorne, in hopes of smoothing relations. 

Lady Elizabeth is pledged to prince Deamon, and as a gift, King Robert gives them Stormsend. 

Lady Ophelia is pledged to a house in the Vale like both her brothers, This is to soothe the bannerman and re-cement their loyalty.

Prince Steffon is betrothed to Lady Sansa Stark

Prince Deamon to Lady Elizabeth Arryn and declared Stormsend Heir

Prince Joffery to Janei Lannister and taken on as Tywins Heir

Prince Edwin is not pledged to marry as of yet, he is set to be given a lordship, but it is still in discussion. 

Lady Tully creates a ripple effect on the story, In her life, King Robert loves all his children and has a hand in raising them. Queen Ceresi gives the realm liegitment heirs. Her sister, Lysa, is where she wanted to be, although ( this creates different problems). The kingdom is stable. Under King Roberts Rule, marriage between cousins falls out of fashion. Petyr Bealish is never named Master of Coin, but the Westeros kingdom still falls into debt. There is no war of 5 kings, but the Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen still pose a threat, as do the white walkers beyond the wall. 

[voiceless-terror]

‘Tis the Season

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker/Sasha James

Summary: 

The Archives Polycule celebrates the holidays. Featuring Disaster Jon, Hot Baker Martin, and Master Decorators Tim and Sasha.

“It’s a little crooked on the left side. You should fix that.”

After one too many of these comments, Jon was banished back inside.

If Tim had just let him on the ladder, it would be straight. It would be perfect. Jon was the one who suggested putting the lights up around the outside door of their flat (and secured permission to do so), he should’ve at least been involved in the execution. But Tim immediately vetoed the idea with a laugh. “You don’t have a great history with heights, boss. And you’ve always been a bit wobbly.” Jon took offense to that.

So he’d been stuck on the ground, pointing out every flaw in Tim’s attempt. He wanted to get everything right. None of them were religious, but it was their first holiday together and there was something very romantic about the season. At least, according to Martin. And if it put a smile on his face, Jon was willing to do it. He wasn’t immune to a little Christmas cheer himself, as much as he grumbled about it. 

Tim, however, was not listening to his advice. “You should go inside, you’re shivering,” he grunted as he attempted to string the lights further out of reach. Jon shook his head, determined to see this through to the end.

“I’m fine, it’s not that bad.”

“I was just being nice,” Tim replied, heaving a sigh as he looked over his work. He gazed down at Jon, looking irritated but fond. “You’re being a little pest. Go inside and help Martin with the cookies.” Jon shot him an offended look, but did as he was told. It was rather cold outside.

And Martin was very, very warm. It was always nice spending time with him in these domestic sort of ways, but Jon was an absolute mess in the kitchen. Martin was standing over the counter, flour on his apron and just a bit on his cheek. He shot him a dubious look as he entered, eyes going soft as he watched Jon shiver and taking his hands in his own to warm them up. Martin had big hands, soft but slightly calloused. Jon was embarrassed to admit it, but he liked the way they covered his own, smaller ones. It made him feel protected. Safe.

“Think you can handle mixing?”

“Of course.”

He could not. It wasn’t his fault he lacked coordination. 

After about five minutes cleaning up the mess he’d made on the counter (“And the sink, and the floor, how is that even possible, Jon?”) he’d been relegated to making little dough balls and setting them on the pan. That was easy enough. Tasty, too. Until he was caught. 

“Stop eating that!” His hand was batted away, sending one of the little balls of dough flying. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” Jon grumbled, picking up the dough from where it landed on the ground. 

“It is if you eat three of them.”

It was four, actually. But what Martin didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

One more mishap involving a hot pan, a napkin, and a fretting Martin, and he was sent to help Sasha decorate the tree. That was something he could do, easily. He had a nice eye for those sorts of things. 

Sasha disagreed.

“The garland’s crooked, Jon. Put it up a little higher.”

“I can’t reach there.”

“You have to put the heavy ornaments on the heavy branches. Else they’ll break.”

“It’s fine- oh. Sorry.”

“Look, just do the handmade ones, okay? They’re ugly and somehow indestructible.”

“I made that one!”

And that was why he was now sitting on the sofa, cocooned in a fluffy blanket with a cup of hot cocoa and a few cookies to ‘keep his hands busy,’ according to Martin. This was not an ideal situation- he was supposed to be helping them, not lazing about.

“I’m not doing anything, Sasha. What’s the point of decorating if we aren’t all involved?”

“Sorry, love. You’re just a bit of a mess, that’s all,” she attempted to look apologetic as she turned from her admittedly beautiful handiwork with the tree. “Just sit there and look pretty. Relax.”

“You are doing something,” Tim called from the doorway, where he was currently wiping his boots on a doormat. “You’re our Elf on a Shelf. Grouch on a Couch. Every flat needs one.”

He did feel quite cozy. And it was relaxing, as loathed as he was to admit it. The smell of cookies in the oven, the soft, cheery music in the background. Martin, Tim, Sasha. It was perfect. Maybe Martin wasn’t the only one who needed this. 

“I’m thinking we should bring the ol’ Research traditions to the Archives,” Tim said, settling in beside him, Jon instinctively leaning into his side. “Give Martin the true holiday experience.”

Sasha barked out a laugh. “You just want to bring back the mistletoe.”

“You caught me, Sash. Maybe Secret Santa too-”

“That doesn’t work when we’ve all already bought presents for each other,” Jon argued. His first year, someone had drawn his name and didn’t bother to get him anything, though they still attended the year-end party and exchange. It was very embarrassing, and just a little bit saddening (another thing he won’t admit). Every year since, Sasha and Tim managed to draw his name, even as the department got bigger. A happy coincidence.

“Still could be fun,” Martin was leaning against the kitchen door frame, looking so good in that apron it was almost unfair. “Didn’t you used to dress up as Santa, Tim?”

“Um, it was actually ‘Old Holiday Present Man’ I’ll have you know. But in case you were wondering- yes, people did sit in my lap and tell me what gifts they wanted. What was it you wished for, Jon?”

“The same I did every year,” Jon rolled his eyes, his facing burning at the memory.  “To never face such public embarrassment again.”

The others snickered. “And yet-”

“Every year, wasn’t it?”

“-you sat on my lap.”

“Shut up,” Jon muttered. “You made me.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” Jon wanted to make a rebuttal but he was just so warm, so content. The lights in the tree twinkled in his blurry vision and he had to fight back a yawn. The radio had turned to one of the old Christmas hymns, the type he’d always preferred to sing along too. He couldn’t summon the energy to do it, however, so instead he just hummed along.

“You have such a nice voice,” Sasha commented, as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You could be our little radio.”

Jon let out a soft snort. “I’m bigger than a radio, Sasha.”

“Hm, maybe.”

He let his eyes slip shut, curling his legs up on the couch and leaning further into Tim’s side. A little nap wouldn’t hurt. But Tim nudged him up, ignoring his grunt of protest.

“Can’t go to sleep on me now. You’ve got the most important job of all!” He opened his eyes to find Sasha waving the tree topper in front of his face, an obnoxiously bright gold star. Jon sighed, though he didn’t fight the smile on his face as he took it out of her hands.

“Well I’m going to need a chair, first of all-”

“Who needs a chair when you have a Martin?” Tim proclaimed. And as easy as that, he was unceremoniously scooped up under his arms and led over to the tree in a strong grip, his startled sounds of protest ignored. 

“Go on then, put it up.”

“Don’t drop it,” Sasha added unhelpfully. “It was quite expensive.”

“I won’t,” Jon sniped, although his hands were shaking slightly as he reached out to place it on the top of the tree and adjust it as needed.  The three let out an only slightly condescending cheer, which Jon ignored. “There. Happy? Now you can put me down.” He wasn’t so much put down as he was placed back in Tim’s arms, Sasha and Martin joining in on the too-small couch. As stupid and cheesy as it sounded, he took a small amount of pride in being able to accomplish something without messing it up- it felt nice. That is, until Tim’s next words.

“Think it’s a little crooked.”

Martin put a preemptive hand on Jon’s back, as if to stop him from rearing up to argue. “Shush, Tim. It’s fine.”

“I’ll fix it later.”

“Don’t you dare.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014597

[voiceless-terror]

Prompt Care (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Ten: Trail of Blood

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James

CW: Minor Injury, Blood

Summary: 

Martin has a minor injury at work. Jon attempts first aid. The key word here is 'attempts.'

There was a trail of blood leading to the break room.

Martin didn’t mean to make a mess. He’s always been incredibly tidy- he had to be, really, with a mother like his. Couldn’t have her tripping over anything in the house and yelling at him later. Martin was a quick study and now whenever he left a room it tended to be cleaner than when he entered it.

So when he carelessly sliced his hand with a particularly sharp letter-opener he immediately made his way to the break room sink to bleed more conveniently and promised himself to clean up the aftermath. It wasn’t a very deep cut- it wouldn’t need stitches, but his left palm was still bleeding rather profusely. “Damn,” he cursed as he grabbed at a towel to halt the flow of blood which was now trickling down his arm. Hope I didn’t get anything on the file. Last thing I need is Jon yelling at me for ‘damaging institute property’ or whatever.

“Good Lord, what is this?” Wonderful. He turned to see Jon standing in the doorway, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the droplets on the ground. Hey, it’s not that much. It irritated him how adorable he found the expression on Jon’s face. Despite how badly his boss treated him, summoning up anger against him was not one of his strong suits.

“Just a- ah, ow- minor cut here, nothing to worry about,” he stuttered, attempting to go for a sheepish smile. He hissed as he removed the towel to inspect the wound- the bleeding seemed to be slowing down, but the giant red stain on the towel was a bit disturbing. Martin’s a deft hand at first aid but the kit was in the main break room upstairs and of course the institute wouldn’t spring for more than one. “I’ll clean it up, I promise. I’m just going to go-”

“Martin,”  Jon looked faintly nauseated and to his shock, slightly concerned. He approached with quick steps, taking Martin’s arm and grabbing it rather abruptly to inspect it. He looked even more disgusted, if possible, but Martin was too shocked by his closeness to feel offended. “Hold on.”

“U-Um, alright,” he stood motionless and bleeding as Jon started to take control of the situation, fumbling through drawers. It warmed his heart a bit to think that he might actually care enough to-

Hang on.

In Jon’s hands was a bundle of cheap napkins from Tim’s last takeaway and a roll of scotch tape. And he looked... proud?  He had the same look on his face that he got whenever he lectured Martin- haughty in the way of ‘I know exactly what I’m talking about and exactly what I’m doing.’ But instead of research methods it was first aid, and instead of file folders and statements it was napkins and a roll of tape. Martin was frozen in fear, unsure of what Jon had planned.

“This should do the trick,” Jon’s voice was matter-of-fact and Martin could only gape as he pressed a stack of rough napkins to his palm and held it there, ignoring Martin’s hiss of pain. “Now hold that,” he instructed. Martin did as he was told, obedient even to his own detriment. And then he watched in absolute horror as Jonathan Sims unspooled the roll of tape and wound it around the napkins, his brow furrowed in concentration as he executed his post-apocalyptic version of first aid as if they were in an abandoned McDonald’s parking lot instead of a fully-functioning research institution. Why do I find this man attractive? What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with him?

“There!” Jon said as he finished his monstrosity, looking at Martin’s hand (or what he could see of it, being a rolled up mass of paper and adhesive) with an approving eye. “That should be fine for now, right?” He looked up at Martin, his eyes asking- no, expecting gratitude. He wondered, not for the first time, how Jon had managed to live long enough to get to this position.

“Hnh,” he responded intelligently, attempting to make some sort of nod. His hand was actually in quite a bit of pain now, stinging as the napkin started to cling to the wound. Martin held it back over the sink as he was certain this makeshift bandage wasn’t going to last long (and he was also going to rip it off as soon as Jon exited the room, Jesus Christ). Jon opened his mouth to respond before noticing his closeness and abruptly back-stepping, almost hitting a chair in his haste to get away.

“W-Well,” he stuttered, and the haughty mask was right back in place, though his face was a little red. “Now you won’t bleed everywhere and I won’t have to look at it.” Jon paused in the doorway, giving him one last look. “You’re welcome.” The door shut.

Martin stood in place for several seconds, his hand still hovering over the sink. “Thanks?”

A moment later the door reopened and Martin was terrified it would be Jon armed with more tape but it was only Sasha. “What’s all this-are you alright, Martin?” She eyed him critically. “You look really pale. Why don’t you sit down?” He was feeling light-headed and rather shaky. He sat down on a chair as Sasha came over, only then noticing his hand. “Um, what is-”

“Cut my hand,” he replied faintly, laying his hand across the table as Sasha sat down. “Jon...helped me patch it up.” Sasha stared.

“Is that scotch tape and napkins?”

“It is absolutely scotch tape and napkins.”

They both stared at each other before bursting into uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down Martin’s face as he looked at the bundle of trash attached to his hand. Sasha was no better, practically choking on laughter as she got back up. “I’m going to go fetch the first aid kit. Really, Martin-why did you let him do that?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said as his chuckles died off. “I think I might have blacked out for a moment there.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em. Just wait until I tell Tim.”

Sasha came back swiftly and helped him disassemble Jon’s bandage with a minimal amount of pain and replace it with something much saner. Luckily it had been on his left hand, meaning he could still type and write with his right. Jon had left a file at his desk and he still had quite a bit of work to do. But as he made his way out of the break room he noticed the file was gone- now on Tim’s desk- and in its place was a rapidly cooling cup of tea in his favorite mug. It tasted just the way Jon liked it and exactly the way Martin hated his.

He drank the entire cup.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929954

[athina-blaine]

MoMM Chapter 2: The Estate, Part 1 (Preview)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured here is subject to edits or deletion!)

THE MONSTER OF MAGNUS MANOR

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a man who wanted to save the world, and instead, nearly destroyed it.

Before he was forced to commit this great evil, the man fled— but the failed ritual inflicted him with a terrible curse, and he concealed himself inside a dark, lonesome manor. As the years passed and the solitude ate him, he never ventured to the outside world, ever again.

But that was alright. The man preferred it this way. For there remained not one person, living or dead, who was better for having known Jonathan Sims.

-

“Aren’t you lonely, Mister Blackwood?”

CHAPTER 2

Martin's dreams were murky things, cut with the clop of fading hoofbeats and a pair of frightened eyes. Did he know those eyes? They weren't familiar, but something about them drew him in as the world faded in and out ...

He was in a bed. Was this the castle infirmary? His recollection was vague, but Martin could've sworn he'd taken a nasty fall on his head. But, no– he doubted even the mattress in Lord Barclay’s chambers was this comfortable. The rock slab cots lining the servants’ infirmary certainly didn’t have four poster canopies, anyway ...

Strange dream, he thought, before everything wobbled, and it all went dark again.

And then he was blinking awake. The bed and its canopy were still there, just as plush as they’d been in his dream. 

“Are you awake properly, this time?” someone asked.

It was the man from before. Martin lurched upright, and pain zinged through his skull. He groaned, pressing a hand to one eye.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I-I guess so?”

The man let out a slow breath, stiff posture unwinding. “You’ve had a few false starts,” he explained. “Understandable, given your head injury.”

With his vision still swimming, Martin could do little more than stare. Martin did know this man– at least, he recognised the brown colour of his eyes. They were the same shade as the mysterious figure from before. He’d since removed the hood of his cloak, revealing skin marred with pockmarks on one side of his face. His dark, silvering hair had been tied up in a bird's nest of a bun at the back of his head.

That was odd. While the man’s posh manner and fine clothing indicated he was likely the lord of this estate, the rest of his appearance didn’t match what Martin had learned to recognise in a noble at all.

“How–” Martin started, then paused to steady his breathing. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” The man pulled out a pocket watch, squinting. “It’s about five o’clock.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Does it look like five o’clock in the morning to you?” the man demanded, gesturing to the window. He was right; the weak orange of sunset had begun dappling the sky, casting dark shadows from the treeline over the estate’s grounds.

The fog was gone, and Martin had been out cold for nearly eleven hours.

With a burst of horror, he moved to scramble out of bed, prompting a startled noise from his host.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry, thank you for taking me in, but I need t– I need to–”

“What you need is to lie back down.” Martin’s bare foot had scarcely touched the floor when the man thrust a hand against his chest. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve been concussed.”

Martin wasn’t listening; the image of Lord Barclay’s cold eyes as he told him, in unequivocal terms, that he was sacked had sent a low, buzzing static through his ears. He had to get back– for his mum, if nothing else. Oh, Christ, if he lost this job now ...

He tried to stand, but the man had also risen to his feet; Martin was shoved back down. He could've fought it – the stranger's wrists were stick-thin where they stuck out past the sleeves of his tunic – but then a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and Martin couldn't summon the strength needed.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” the man said, eyes fierce. “In your current state, you’ll collapse before you ever make it out of this forest. Do you want that to happen?”

Martin swallowed, shaking his head.

“Then lie down.”

Cowed, Martin sank back into the mattress. The man relaxed, withdrawing his hand from Martin’s chest.

“Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. His shoulders sagged. “I … apologise. I’m sure you have somewhere important to be, and you’ve been hurt as a direct result of my actions. Please believe me when I say this was not my intention.”

His voice rang heavy with guilt, and Martin couldn’t help a pang of sympathy. “I-it’s fine. It was just an accident.”

If anything, the grim set of his host’s mouth twisted even further. “I should also tell you– your horse ran off. I tried looking for her after bringing you here, but she doesn’t appear to be in the area anymore.”

Oh, God, Phillipa.

"... she's resourceful," Martin said, voice weak; he tried and failed to ignore the nausea churning in his belly. "I wouldn't be surprised if she’s found her way back home already." 

“I– yes, of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Abruptly, he stood. “Are you hungry? Now that you’re up, I can bring you something to eat.”

Martin jumped. “Oh, uh,” he said, pressing a hand against his stomach. Had it really been a full day since he'd last eaten? He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep anything down. Based on the strange intensity in the man’s eyes, though, there was likely only one correct answer. “Yes, um, thank you. Some– some tea would be nice?”

A single, sharp nod was his only response; the man turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door.  Martin held out a hand before he could stop himself. “Wait.”

The man turned, arching one brow, and heat washed over Martin’s face. He hadn’t actually had anything important to say, but it seemed wrong to end their first conversation like this. They hadn’t even exchanged names.

“Sorry, I just … wanted to say thank you. For– for taking me in.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”

The man inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin flushed. "Oh– just Martin is fine. Um ... c-can I ask for your name?"

A long moment stretched between them as his host merely stared, expression unreadable. Martin's breath stilled in his lungs– was he being measured? Found wanting somehow? He'd only asked for his name–

“Jon.”

Martin stiffened, but with a curt billow of his cloak, the man vanished, closing the door behind him.

Jon.

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Catch the full chapter on Sep 25th!

Check out the Monster of Magnus Manor here!