#implied martin blackwood but also only if you squint | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alistair-blackwood · 4 years ago

Text

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

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fanfiction #this is how james cameron must feel #guys i swear avatar 2 is gonna happen!!#i swear!!#avatar 2 is def happening yal!!#momm

30 notes · View notes

statementends · 6 years ago

Note

For your prompt ask. Jon singing. Thank you.

So after hearing The Mechanisms, and talk on here about the Mechanisms I thought let’s go for it. I think someone mentioned it as Jon’s college band, but I can’t remember who. You know who you are anyway.

Edit: It was @avatarofthevast thanks for the inspiration!

Characters: Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker (Mentioned)

Pairings: None, Implied former Jon/Georgie, background Martin/Jon pining

Warnings: Only for Jon’s embarrassment

Rating: G

AO3: Link

Summary: Tim finds a certain video on YouTube.

“Honestly Tim, I have work to do.”

“I just need you to tell me if I’m crazy or not, just come here, Sasha.”

“YouTube? Tim what exactly have you been doing?”

“There was that Statement about ghost pirates, or aliens that was also a band, or whatever it was? Jon said it wasn’t a priority. He suggested the uh gentleman was probably high while listening to Bowie.”

“Jon said that?”

“He implied it, that isn’t the point. Out of a lark I youtubed space pirate cabaret.”

“Right?”

“Who does that look like to you, Sasha?”

“The one in the–oh my God.”

“It’s him, isn’t it? It has to be him!” Tim said gleefully. “Wait I’ll play it, it sounds like him too.”

“I can’t believe it. I can’t–”

Tim pressed play. A man dressed in steampunk-esq clothing who looked and sounded suspiciously like Jonathan Sims bantered with the crowd as an assortment of characters did soundchecks.

“He’s actually…” Sasha began.

“Having fun?”

“I mean… Jon is…” Sasha said trying to be diplomatic, but… “This seems so out of character.”

“Does he have a twin?”

“Hey!” Martin came up to them frowning. “Jon is recording in the next room and that’s loud. What are you listening to?”

“Martin, prepare to have your mind blown.”

Martin gave Tim a withering look. He looked over to Sasha who opened and closed her mouth. She gestured to the computer.

“IS THAT JON!?!?” Martin squeaked.

“He’s wearing eyeliner.” Tim grinned.

“He does sort of … get in to character with the statements,” Sasha said still in disbelief. They watched the video. Jon grinned rakishly out at the crowd. Martin was beet red by the end of it.

“He’s–he’s actually really quite good,” Martin stuttered.

“How does that become that?” Tim gestured towards Jon’s office.

“It’s not like we know about what he does on his off time, Tim. For all we know he still does it.” Sasha said. “He is private.”

“He–we can’t let him know we know,” Martin said looking terrified. “I mean–this is–he’ll be… mad, right?”

“It’s on YouTube, Martin.” Tim said.

“Okay, but it–he’ll be embarrassed about it. I mean… I wouldn’t want… if I were to have… recordings of myself doing something like this I wouldn’t–”

“We all know about the poetry Martin.” Tim told him.

“You–”

“It’s good you put it on tape or I’m sure Tim would have posted it himself,” Sasha said giving Tim a disapproving look.

“Never!” Tim protested. “But, if you happened to put it on a public website where anyone could see, you couldn’t blame me if I stumbled on it, could you?”

“I really don’t think we should mention it.”

“Mention what?” A low voice interrupted. The three of them jumped guiltily. Tim slammed the lid of his laptop closed.

“Nothing,” They all chorused at once.

Jon squinted at them. “Really?” He asked flatly.

Sasha coughed.

“Say, I was thinking,” Tim said before Jon could push. “We should all have a night out. There’s a new karaoke place I’ve been meaning to visit.”

“What?” Jon looked more confused now as if he had never heard the term ‘night out’ before. “I? We don’t do nights out…”

“Tim!” Martin said pleadingly.

“I’m a good singer,” Tim added.

Sasha snorted as if to contradict him.

“I am!” Tim glared at her, he turned his attention back to Jon. “What about you Jon? Can you sing?”

“Tim!” Martin started shaking his head minutely.

Jon looked over the three of them. “What’s going on?” He asked suspiciously.

“For goodness sakes,” Sasha muttered. She turned and opened the laptop.

“Sasha!” Martin protested. Tim seemed caught between wanting the joke to go on a bit longer and not getting caught. Sasha brought up the screen again.

Jon froze looking at the video. He didn’t move at all, but his face slowly turned as red as Martin’s.

“Ah–I–I see…” He forced out. “That…”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re really quite good,” Sasha said kindly.

“I mean, your styling–”

“Tim.” Sasha elbowed him.

“Well it IS a good time,” Tim relented seeing the joke was over.

“How did you even find this?” Jon asked staring at the video still processing.

“By accident,” Tim said. “You were in a cabaret?”

“I–”

“I mean, you can’t really deny it, can you?”

“Leave him be, Tim,” Sasha said.

“My… friend started the group,” Jon said slowly. “She needed a male vocal lead with… the right level of… I think she said the right level of sarcasm… she wrote the songs and I would help her with the harmonies and practice it with her… she decided that it wouldn’t sound right with anyone else so she roped me into it… she has a podcast now, she’s always been very… artsy.”

“But you did it,” Martin blurted.

“Yes, well,” Jon tensed looking cornered. “It was … fun. I-I sort of–well I like acting. And I don’t… I–I do like …” He didn’t seem to be able to bring himself to finish the sentence. “Obviously I have better things to do now.” He finished. “And–and so do you. Don’t you all have work to do?”

“You… have a really lovely singing voice, Jon,” Martin managed. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Er. Yes. Well… thank you… Martin.” Jon picked at his sleeve not meeting any of their eyes. “Now… I’m just… going to go back to my office now.” He quickly retreated away from his three assistants the door latching firmly behind him.

“You didn’t have to tease him like that.” Martin turned to Tim a huge frown on his face.

“And you didn’t have to compliment him so much.” Tim grinned knowingly.

“W–wh–I don’t know what you mean. I was being polite!”

“We really do need to get back to work.” Sasha shook her head moving off.

“Right, polite, so you don’t want me to tell you the name of the band?”

“–I never… I didn’t say that,” Martin said. He tried to glance over Tim’s broad shoulder to catch another glimpse of the video.

Jon sat in his office head in his hands. He had really enjoyed his days as a singing immortal space pirate. It had been a good outlet for… a certain amount of drama he kept locked away behind his grumpy exterior. The last person on Earth he needed to know about it though was Tim Stoker. Sasha was fine, she wouldn’t hold it against him. And Martin…

Jon rubbed his forehead. At least Elias didn’t know. If there was one thing worse than his assistants knowing, it would be his boss knowing.

Little did Jon know of course, that Elias Knew since the job interview.

#tma #the magnus archives #tim stoker #jonathan sims #the mechanisms #fanfiction #sasha james #martin blackwood #amarantae #also honestly buy their stuff on bandcamp the mechanisms are amazing

228 notes · View notes

soveryanon · 6 years ago

Text

Reviewing time for MAG124 /o/

- There was a delicious echo between this statement and MAG021, in the sense that it had been the first statement involving Simon Fairchild (The Vast! ~Distance~!), with its follow-up interrupted because of… Martin popping up:

(MAG021) ARCHIVIST: […] It might just be a coincidence, but I recall the name “Simon Fairchild” was one of the ones used by– [DOOR OPENS, CHAIR TUMBLES] My god! Martin?! [SOMETHING SQUELCHES] What… What the hell is–? What are these things?! [CLICK.]

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: […] Still no sign of Peter Lukas of course, or Mar– [STATIC] Wait– Wait. [CHAIR SCRAPING] [OPENS DOOR, FAR:] Martin! Martin!

From Martin coming back from his two weeks-long Prentiss siege (where~ he was~ all alone~ and nobody~ had checked~ on him~~~) and forcing himself into Jon’s office, to Jon running out of his own office to finally see Martin again after a week of being back to work (following his six months “coma”). It just… installed, right away, the shift between then and now? It hurts thx I hate it ♥

- *OBLIGATORY LOUD SHRIEKING* since in MAG120:

(MAG120) MARTIN: W… what… What are you doing here, mister Lukas? PETER: Please, call me Peter. MARTIN: N–no. No, I think I’m okay. PETER: As you like. […]

And now:

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: Wh–where have you been, I–I mean, I–I–I thought– MARTIN: N–no, no, I’ve… I’ve been here, I just, er… Y’know. Been busy. ARCHIVIST: Busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Working for Lukas. MARTIN: N–no, Pe–Peter’s… eh. It’s complicated. ARCHIVIST: … Right.

1°) *weeps loudly* Martin, what the heck happened for you to get on first name basis with “Peter”, now… (Answer: “Relationship Status: It’s Complicated”.) 2°) By contrast, I don’t think we've ever heard Jon ooze quite so much disrespect towards someone. I mean, calling Peter by his last name like this? Jon? Jon??? Even in the previous episode, he was still using first+last names (MAG123: “Working for Peter Lukas.” and it was exactly the same phrasing!!), he tends to use honorifics or mention people through first+last names or first name only, even for monsters… So by contrast, this makes it sound like he’s Out For Blood. Someone is reaaaally not enjoying the idea of Martin working for someone else, uh. 3°) … Martin literally denied working for “Lukas”…?? Is it a matter of “this is not what he’s doing right now”, is it a matter of Martin actually doing something for the Institute/something that is technically not Lukas-related, is it a matter of making a distinction between “Peter” / “Lukas”, is it a matter of a third party being involved? Or… Well. I have Questions And Ponderings about where Martin is (presumably in the Lonely dimension?) and what control he has over his comings and goings… but I also do wonder, since Martin slipped and almost said something when Jon spat Peter’s name, while Martin had been apparently very cautious not to tell Jon anything about his current whereabouts all through the exchange… what if. actually. Peter was there in the room right now and Martin knew it? MAG120 had demonstrated that characters not seeing Peter doesn't indicate that he isn’t actually witnessing events himself, since… he knew how Elias had behaved before revealing himself to Martin:

(MAG120) ELIAS: G– goodbye, Martin. Be seeing you. [DOOR CLOSES] [SILENCE] MARTIN: [LONG EXHALES] [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] PETER: Must be a relief. MARTIN: H– uh– PETER: Honestly, I thought there’d be more of a scene, but… he always surprises me.

… So, given that Jon is not hiding his annoyance about the mere concept of Peter (and given Jonathan “Bad Decisions” Sims’s luck overall), I… wonder… if this wasn’t Martin almost slipping up to say that Peter was there too, before remembering to not say anything about it? (But even if it wasn’t that during that scene, overall: I’m still wondering if Peter mightn’t be just roaming the Institute and having the time of his life listening to Jon’s complains about him and just. Not showing himself to him. Best way to avoid compulsion and to get on Jon’s nerves.)

- Curiously, the tape recorder got into static mode when Jon spotted Martin – not the distorted screeching sounds from Peter’s appearances (MAG100, MAG108, MAG120): usually, with Peter, there is a “peak” of it during his arrival/departure (well, departure in MAG100; the tape stopped while he was still there in MAG120, and he left through the door in MAG108), and a constant screeching as long as he’s there. Here, there was only a peak of static when Jon spotted Martin and, I think, nothing afterwards? Can’t 100% guarantee it, but I think it was the same static from Jon’s compulsion, which… could mean that it was Jon’s powers which allowed him to See Martin, because he was thinking of him?

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: […] Still no sign of Peter Lukas of course, or Mar– [STATIC] Wait– Wait. [CHAIR SCRAPING] [OPENS DOOR, FAR:] Martin! Martin! MARTIN: Oh. … Hi, Jon. ARCHIVIST: Martin, i–i–it’s… I, I–I haven’t seen you– MARTIN: Yeah. S–sorry.

Or was that Jon’s… “Insight”, like when he knew Tim when would be there in MAG114? He was waiting for Tim, back then, so it was something he already knew; maybe the static here was Jon Knowing right now about Martin’s presence? There was something akin to a ruffling noise, back in MAG099, too, when he mentioned Gerry in relation to Gertrude (something he had never learned prior to that), and I’m not able to tell if it was Jon’s clothes ruffling or actual static… It could be the same thing in all cases, perhaps? … aaaand now that I think about it, the fact that he knew/felt that Basira had a statement in her bag in MAG122 could also be not because he Can Feel Statements Overall Since He Is Tied To Them (smells like food.), but due, also, to that ~Insight~, since same static. Don’t know! Jon, what the eff are your powers, what the eff are you, what the eff do you know about them, etc. But the static in MAG124 could also be unrelated to Jon: Peter’s appearance (with the huge screeching) had been preceded by static in MAG108, while Martin was deciding to ask Basira about Melanie and calling for her to no avail (implying that he was already getting isolated at this point, since Basira heard him call for her afterwards). Static might be showing up when people are getting Isolated/released from isolation, while the sharp distortions are Peter’s sounds specifically? We’re lacking data so far, since we don’t know much about what is happening exactly with Peter’s appearances and that other dimension overall? For example, were Peter’s three appearances in season 3 him sneaking his way into reality (and the tape recorder reacting to the intrusion and his presence because he’s a spook), or Peter swallowing a piece of reality into the Lonely (and the tape recorder reacting because it’s not in the right space anymore)? I wonder, more and more, if there isn't something about time being involved with the Lonely, rather than only space: Peter had made a lot of references to time in season 3, and there was the fact that Basira came in to see Martin as if he had just called her name (despite the fact that the whole Peter-Martin exchange had happened in the meantime)… *squints, once again, at Elias’s clock*

- Anyway, if it wasn’t a coincidence nor Martin’s decision to pop up, and if Peter was behind it: hey Peter, remember about that? :w

(MAG108) PETER: […] And what’s Elias like to work for? Aside from orchestrating unsettling encounters? MARTIN: That’s… that’s a lot of it, to be honest. PETER: And that’s not something you look for in an employer, I assume? MARTIN: Well, he’s… I mean, you just… you’ve just said he’s watching us.

(Jon, if you still can’t meet Peter: blame Martin, it was probably because of this that “unsettling encounters” don’t happen anymore around here.) (Martin had asked for less murder, too!! I still hope that the researchers from 3rd floor are okay >:()

- Yyyyeaaaaah, so Martin basically confirmed that, even though he is unreachable (MAG122: “We don’t see him around the Archives much these days. Best I can figure, he’s working on something with Lukas. […] he comes and goes. He’s busy. Well, he seems it.” / MAG123: “Martin is working very closely with The Lonely, who is, predictably enough, isolating him”), he’s basically here, though in the Lonely dimension/space/whatever?

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: Wh–where have you been, I–I mean, I–I–I thought– MARTIN: N–no, no, I’ve… I’ve been here, I just, er… Y’know. Been busy. ARCHIVIST: Busy.

Is it the exact same place of reality as in Barnabas Bennett’s letter (MAG092), since Barnabas has… ended up as bones? If it is the same one: *screams* about what Martin is risking and/or the implications behind the fact that Martin is still alive so far D: Is it because the Institute/Archives are Beholding’s territory that both spaces are still able to interact a bit? Barnabas had felt the difference (“I know that what is done by those I cannot see might be felt here – I have found glasses broken and pages torn that were not so the night before. It is my hope that if I leave a letter here, in your institute, you might find it, you might be able to save me.”) and Elias had confirmed that his letter had reached Jonah Magnus, so it indeed looks like the Institute/Beholding can pierce through it or act as a bridge or diminish the Lonely’s influence…

- Okay, so regarding Martin himself: it was abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to tell Jon anything about what he’s doing, but also… He was shit at giving Jon reasons not to worry, and we have had ample proof that Martin can be very good at lying (he’d lied to everyone about going to uni for at least seven years before Jon extracted a confession out of him, and gave a stellar performance of getting surprised and hurt and offended when Jon asked him to stay behind in MAG116 in order to lower Elias’s guard, before suddenly turning steel-cold and in control as soon as Elias had left). So. How come Martin Blackwood wasn’t able to convincingly deceive Jon here? Was it because Jon spotting him was a surprise? Was it because Peter had suddenly dropped him back in the Archives as a ~little joke~ (Jon had mentioned Peter right before mentioning Martin)? Is it because Martin is still too weak to Jon / was very tense because he feared that Jon would compulse the hell out of him? Was it because he’s really really uncomfortable with what he’s doing, and fearing Jon’s reaction? Was it because he didn’t even care about being convincing? ;; He wasn’t surprised about Jon being awake and back, so either he had been able to see Jon even though Jon couldn’t see him, either Peter told him about Jon’s return. So… definitely, Martin is doing his thing and it’s ;; worrisome. I don’t think it’s worth hoping that the six past months (and Martin’s current… work…) haven’t messed him up, but I’m not sure that his exchange with Jon was indicative of his current state? It was mostly Martin trying to slip like water between Jon’s fingers, and trying to say the least possible (that part was obvious). So whatever he’s doing, it’s… probably not pretty, or could easily be interpreted as very bad without the full picture… (Martin is not stupid; he agreed to something in the trailer; he probably felt like he didn’t have much of a choice, or that he could get something valuable in exchange, and it clearly sounded like a sacrifice. That doesn’t mean that it’s not probably meant to backfire, but at the same time… he’s not currently being a victim?)

- BUT HAVING JON AWKWARDLY TRYING TO REACH WAS SO PAINFUL AND ~*IRONIC*~, rfdjfvjnfd I’m crying but I’m laughing and I love and I hate it. Jon not used to Martin trying his Best to not talk to him, Jon being the one who is trying to make small talk, Jon asking Martin about his poetry………………………. the stuttering, the long pauses, Martin perpetually trying to announce his departure………….. (And it also highlighted how… Jon doesn’t know much about Martin? He knows that he likes spiders, he discovered (creepily.) that Martin writes poetry (progress!! Jon didn’t say anything mean about it this time around, focusing on the activity rather than the result. Careful, Jon, next time, if Martin Gets Better, he’ll probably ask for your honest opinion about a piece and you’ll be screwed.), he knows that Martin makes tea, he knows that Martin used to write letters to his mother… that doesn’t make a lot of topics to try to grab his attention.) There is still something comforting in the fact that Jon is now trying, though? That he’s aware of what he has lost, and is trying to change, to reach, to inquire about others? Of course, it’s heart-wrenching that it’s not currently working, that the situation has changed, that it doesn’t evolve into communication, that… it might be too late. I don’t feel like it’s getting depressing, though (… not yet maybe.), because there are still efforts coming from Jon, and he seems to be following his decision from MAG117 about trusting and trying even when things don’t come to him naturally anymore. Season1!Jon wouldn’t have bothered. Season4!Jon might be too late for this, but he’s trying, and there is still hope (… for now) that it will matter in the end? (Or, precisely: it will fail, again and again, and the new tragedy will be that Jon and the others never managed to reach out at the same time.) Even with Martin’s departure, I wonder if Jon wasn’t still aiming for something:

(MAG124) MARTIN: … Look, Jon, I, I’ve really got to go, so… ARCHIVIST: Oh, er, okay… MARTIN: I’m, I’m sorry that you– ARCHIVIST: Wowowow, it was… good t–, it was good to see you. MARTIN: … Yeah. [STEPS LEAVING] ARCHIVIST: … yeah… [CLICK.]

The fact that Jon stopped Martin’s reflex to apologize and that “It was good to see you” meant that he wasn’t shutting Martin off, and maybe… throwing out an awkward attempt to give him something to fight off the Lonely? Those words are especially nice, especially caring (like Jon wasn’t asking anything out of Martin but giving something?), and it’s not a sentence that you would have expected coming from Jon’s mouth.

- There is currently a Thing about Jon coming back to his roots as Head Archivist (the statements from MAG122 and MAG123 were at the end of Gertrude’s direction/the beginning of Jon’s) and here, we kinda had a nod towards Jon’s first steps in the Institute… given that “Simon Fairchild” was one of the first cases Jon had studied as a researcher!

(MAG051) ARCHIVIST: […] One of my first cases as a researcher for the Institute in 2012 was looking into the history of a jeweller in Hackney, that had reported cases becoming cracked in the night. Nothing was ever taken but, each morning it would be like a heavy weight had been dropped upon them. Looking into it, it turned out that the jewels had, in the 1930s, belonged to a con artist and fence, who had attracted the displeasure of the local population. When one particularly irate customer threw him out of a fourth-floor window into a crowded street at midday… no one claimed to have seen anything. A minor possible haunting with a decidedly pedestrian backstory, but notable because while I was never able to discover the original name of the con artist, one of his many, many aliases was Simon Fairchild, and it appeared on several business listings around the time. Whether it’s a coincidence or not is something of a moot point at this stage, however.

(YEEEET) So, Simon again. I had stupidly assumed that he might have died in MAG051 (August 2006, expedition to retrieve antiques from a 19th century steam yacht, “The Maria Fairchild”), because there had been no trace of him after the events and the statement-giver had been told by the Captain, when inquiring about him, that “The sea is a dangerous place”. But nop, he was still active in 2012 and it looks like it’s his Thing to just… come and go (after taking someone in the process). Woopsies. But since he’s someone who is tied to Jon’s first steps in the Institute, and that Jon said that:

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: Simon Fairchild is one of the… recurrent figures that I think disquiets me the most. Not simply for what he does, the endless spaces of highs or depths to which he’s so quick to condemn his victims, but… the joy he seems to take in doing so. And I don’t think there is much to this tale beyond that: an evil man tormenting and killing simply for his own pleasure, and to feed the power that sustains him. […] I do not think I ever wish to meet him.

1°) Oh My Gods, Jon, Don’t Bring It On Yourself. (10 episodes later (probably): Jon Meets Simon Fairchild.) (I mean. You know your luck, Jon. Don’t tempt fate.) 2°) The casual shade towards (other) monsters, Jon, please… Hey, old man! Jon finds you stereotypical and too random for his taste. I’m really reassured that Jon is using a few keywords such as “victims”, “evil”, “tormenting”, and that he’s… looking down on him. That’s also good. The less neutral Jon will be about Avatars hurting people, the betteeerrrr ;; (I’m afraid of him getting… used to that dynamic, insensitive to it? Perceiving it as something normal, and mostly concerned about the ~creativity~ displayed?) (Simon had been compared to a “vulture” back in MAG051, and we also had the case of Mike Crew preying on the acrophobic brother back in MAG075… it’s not even specifically a Vast thing (since we’ve also had Elias swooping in as soon as Melanie mentioning being desperate in MAG084, or Peter around Martin) but I’m still nervously laughing that they just. Go nnyYYYOOOOOOOOOOMM as soon as someone vulnerable to their Patron is feeling things.)

- (Simon was fairly recognizable, it wasn’t especially “!!” that Jon went straight to the… meat during the post-statement, and highlighted right away that it was him although he hadn’t been named. It just makes it even more surprising that he didn’t even mention the possibilty of the girl being Annabelle Cane in MAG123. Jon, are you hiding something again? Or are the spiders encouraging you to not think too much about her…?)

- (I’m not mentioning the statement much in itself but: that was dreadful, really loved it, really resenting the fact that the episode just happened to be released when we got snow in Paris, really reassured that I could avoid the tramway during a few days and that I don’t go to the mountains anymore =D)

- nervouslaughter.wav that the statement had a son and his mother (and no father anymore) being close and then drifting away => poof! Martin invoked in the adjacent room. (mARTIN……)

- “It’s been a week and… Melanie’s attitude towards me hasn’t softened” => It sounds like Jon is back to the ~casual~ rhythm of one statement a week, which was more or less his cruising speed excepting for awful accumulations due to Circumstances. That’s a kind of normalcy he can have some control over and it’s a bit reassuring that the statement dependency doesn’t seem to have escalated, what’s with his new… status.

- Still no reference to MAG118 and MAG120’s tapes but That Means Nothing given that Jon tends to overall hide things and to reveal them much later. (He didn’t ask Martin about his mother, at least.)

- (Also: who is currently in possession of the Web lighter right now? And has Jon... stopped smoking, since he woke up.)

- Okay so if they don’t leave the Institute much and kind of live in the Archives nowadays, what are they all doing with all this free time, since…

(MAG122) ARCHIVIST: […] No notes or follow-up in the statement, and obviously no research done by myself or… my team. (MAG123) ARCHIVIST: […] The investigation is tricky, I don’t want to impose on Basira and, obviously, Melanie and… Martin… aren’t available, but I did do some light searching myself on Gregory Cox. (MAG124) ARCHIVIST: […] In other cases, I might think for locations noteworthy, might to try to piece together some wider plan. But Fairchild seems to travel far and wide for his victims, with no motivation other than… variety. I do not think I ever wish to meet him. … Of course, even if I did want to do research into the statement, I wouldn’t have any help doing so.

… they’ve never been this bad at doing the follow-ups, holy heck. But ;; Sasha was the one who could hack, Tim was the one flirting his way into records, and they’re both gone. Martin sometimes went to talk to people (and have them weep on him) and he’s unavailable. Melanie is, uh, not keen on helping. Which leaves Basira, who had connections in the police, so mmm. Indeed, if she’s not helping Jon with follow-ups, what is she doing…

- So !!! regarding Basira!!

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: […] And Basira, though she is very willing to talk, still doesn’t seem to trust me enough to let me in on whatever plans she might have – if she has any plans at all, of course. I could… make her tell me, I know that, but… I can’t afford to burn any more bridges.

1°) =D Yeah, Basira said she was “more of a talker” in her first appearance (MAG043). I wonder (due to that “very willing to talk” which sounded like… Jon.) if she’s trying to keep Jon updated with the Institute’s mundane gossip. 2°) I had somehow not considered that Basira could be planning something, and I feel so stupid about it… she’s Basira! Aaaaaaaaaand. I wonder if she’s been researching The Watcher’s Crown by herself? She picked up that their ritual was still a possibility (MAG123), she had been the one to notice the regularity surrounding The Dark’s (MAG108): she’s very good at drawing connections between data to understand patterns. And it would also explain why she’s so cautious around Jon: as long as she has no way to be sure that Jon is against their ritual, as long as she doesn’t know what state Jon currently is in, it wouldn’t be a good idea to share what she has found. Jon by himself hasn’t done much to be reassuring, since he… Knew that she had a statement on her as soon as he woke up, and asked for it even before asking for water. From an external point of view, his awakening made him look more inhuman than human, even though he’s also been quite good behaviour-wise since then… 3°) Jon’s argument for not compulsing her is a tiny (TINY) bit creepy, since he’s thinking about the strategic consequences more than uuuuuuuh, Basira’s feelings on the matter??? But it’s also… typical Jon. The fact he’s aware of consequences is even an improvement compared to season 1? But it’s also highlighting that either the need to know, either the stress of people hiding things from him, is taking its toll on him, and I don’t know how long it will last before he snaps ;;

… I do wonder if that won’t be Jon’s dilemma pretty soon: trying to trust the assistants like he had decided to at the end of season 3, not probing them too much, waiting for them to open up to him when they feel it’s Right, not compulsing the truth out of them (and accepting that they’re taking risks and could get harmed in their own involvements), or… compulsing them hard and extorting what is actually happening (losing what remains of their trust in the process, directing their disgust/hate towards him maybe, but also ensuring that he would be able to save their lives)? I mean, for Jon, Tim just happened. He chose to trust Tim, to give Tim the opportunity Tim sought, and Tim didn’t come back from that. That could change his perspective a bit about his way to try and save the assistants.

(Overall: AHAHAHAHAHA, SOBBING ABOUT MARTIN, WOW THAT WAS SO RUDE. SO, SO RUDE. At this point, only Elias will to be happy to ~see~ that Jon has woken up, uh.)

#it's... interesting how the fact that other characters are barely telling jon anything #gives an impression of constant surveillance in the background?#it's worse than in season 3 (where they hadn't been subtle at all); it's worse than when *elias* had been around...#the magnus archives #mag124 #tma season 4 #tma liveblog #tma spoilers

27 notes · View notes