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notexactlyrocketscience · 2 years ago

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TMA ending reflections (and theories about the sequel!)

When I initially listened to the ending, it felt like a good plan (and the prospects of a perfect happy ending) unnecessarily jeopardised. Jon and Martin’s panicked conversation sounded so hopeless and their final decision felt impulsive. Everything was in shambles, and a good outcome was unlikely at this point. The promise of Somewhere Else seemed like an empty euphemism to make certain death more bearable. I was frustrated, and heartbroken.

Now that I've taken a few days to process and distanced myself from the characters' momentary pain, I actually truly believe that what happened at the end was a happy accident instead.

I don’t think I can put it better than the Reddit post already has—The original plan proposed by Annabelle could have had equally (if not worse) disastrous outcomes. Even if it had been canonically executed, knowing the way Jonny and Alex love to write, things would still have been shown to end ambiguously—just less tragically poetic. For the purposes of the narrative, I think they did a great job of ending the series on a climactic, fulfilling (and hopeful!) note that remains faithful to the overall tone of The Magnus Archives. Jon and Martin weren’t exactly planning on doing what they did, but it’s given them a chance at the best and happiest ending that was up for grabs.

And I love that I genuinely don’t feel like I have to be in denial of the canon at all to fully believe in this interpretation, since it was left strictly ambiguous on purpose.

But there’s more!

The Magnus Protocol teaser has a seemingly unharmed (and physically corporeal) Martin surprised to see the familiar tape recorder show up again, long after he’s assumed they’ve stopped listening. This, plus the fact that Jonny and Alex have confirmed they will appear in TMA 2, tells me:

It’s unlikely that Jonny and Alex will appear simply to voice other side-characters, even those with distorted voices. It’s clear from Q&As that they take casting very seriously. I can’t see them double-casting (former) main characters.

So we’ll see Martin again, post-escape from Eyepocalypse. Not just an old S1-to-S5-era never-seen-before Magnus Archives tape found by Alice and Sam. Including formerly unrevealed tapes from TMA would be a really nice touch (and I hope we’ll get that too!), but I’m sure Jonny wouldn’t release that particular teaser if he wasn’t solidly planning on following through in some way. Jonny has always been very serious about giving the audience breadcrumb trails with properly viable clues.

Well … what about post-Eyepocalypse Jon? Well, I think Jon is only going to appear in such a way that either fully retains the ambiguity of the TMA ending, or hints/confirms in some way that he is also alive and unharmed (in whatever avatar or semi-avatar form).

In any case, if post-Eyepocalypse Martin (and maybe Jon) do indeed appear (which seems very likely at this point), it will also be implied or shown that they are, indeed, together—in a non-tragic, romantic, bordering on wholesome way.

I say this because confirming their death or separation after the TMA finale would completely ruin the sanctity of the ending. It’s really neatly tied up and beautiful as it is right now. Answering questions to ambiguous events negatively in sequels (eg having formerly surviving main characters simply as side-characters who die in sequels) is really hard to land properly. It borders on being disrespectful of the investment the audience put into the original. Jonny has always been very receptive and sensitive to these things.

However, showing that characters from a previously ambiguous ending are living their best lives as mysterious side-characters that pop in and out—bamboozling the main characters (but delighting the audience)—is a lot easier to execute favourably. It also keeps from taking attention away from the protagonists and the main plot of the sequel.

So my expectation (read: hope) is that we’re going to see Jon and Martin in our world, where the end of TMA implied that the tapes are, and where I assume The Magnus Protocol is set! They will be happy and together (this may be explicit or implied vaguely, I am not sure how they’d keep that completely ambiguous if the post-Eyepocalypse versions of the characters themselves explicitly appear), and nothing worse than TMA finale will happen to them.

I only have this belief because I have incredible faith in Jonny and Alex as writers! I think they subverted insensitive tropes creatively and did just about everything right in TMA, and I can’t say that about most authors I love. Yes, I do generally want my blorbos to be safe and happy, but the above is not just a culmination of my wishful thinking. Jonny and Alex have already said that they certainly aren’t going to try to overshadow TMA, but I’m also hoping The Magnus Protocol will complement TMA while not really trying to step on TMA’s toes. They didn't have to drop so many JonMartin return hints (or even write JonMartin into TMA 2 at all) but they did. Super excited and optimistic for what's to come!

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lycanlovingvampyre · 2 years ago

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MAG 170 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: moved to the next plant, now cutting the French tamarisk in my garden.

Aw man, I remember briefly stepping back into the house during this episode and described it to my spouse as "I don't know if I should laugh or cry" xD Like how often do we have to go through this, how many painful memories try to seep through? When I was listening again last year while cutting the hedges I started work in the morning with this episode and was like "Oof, what a way to start a day..." (the following day started with MAG 177, so not that much better xD). And every time I'm surprised how often Martin's memories get reset here, every time it makes me think of that not knowing if I should laugh or cry again.

MARTIN: "Oh! Hello. (bit of a halting laugh) …What are you?" There's already static during the first of these hellos. And as far as I remember there is always static at the end there when Martin seems to remember, only to forget everything again.

MARTIN: "Can’t tell through the – fog, sometimes. You feel – n,not friendly. Familiar?" Right at the beginning letting us know that it's the Lonely. Also, that statement about the recorder. Not friendly, but familiar. Of course, they've been using them for 2 years, but still don't know what they actually are. Martin's comment on them not being friendly though, he’s acting rather intuitive here and is pretty much always right about it... After all, the Web isn’t necessary friendly to them. It simply needs them for its own purposes. And right now, it needs Jon to carry on and not lose Martin to the Lonely.

MARTIN: "But it’s not – not, not really" NOT REALLY! (Haha, fun fact, I used that exact same structure this weekend and my spouse immediately called me out on it xD I totally wouldn't have noticed xD)

MARTIN: "Maybe you’re blank as well, same as me." T__T (a lot of that episode's probably gonna be like this...)

MARTIN: "Like – like, like when I try to think back, to focus – um, focus on – um –" [HE��S TRYING VERY HARD TO REMEMBER.] [STATIC SWELLS.] MARTIN: (pleasantly surprised) "Oh, oh! Oh. Hello! What are you;" Ah yes, remembered right, everytime there's static. It iiis kind of funny because usually this static is used for the Eye not the Lonely.

MARTIN: "Oh, I, I met someone; did I tell you? (movement) He’s – I, I don’t know. I like him. He doesn’t like me, though. Not really." *inhale* NOT REALLY!!! (Also, god Martin! T____T)

MARTIN: "I don’t blame him. I don’t like me sometimes, and I am me." GOD, MARTIN!!! Q____Q That is probably why he could like Jon even when he was horrible to him, that thinking is caused by his abusive mother. (Also that is a relatable sentence in general. At times I've also felt like, why would anyone like me if I don't even like myself? I phrased it "like I understand when people don't want to be friends with me, I wouldn't want to be friends with me." The mind can be something very weird...)

MARTIN: "Plus he’s – he’s my, my boss? Is that right? Ei, Ei,Either way, it’s probably for the best. Wouldn’t really be appropriate. You don’t need to worry; I’m not doodling his name on my desk or anything." I am so happy we get to hear Martin's feelings on early Jon first hand.

MARTIN: "His uh – his – his, um. His… name… Wait. Wait, what is his name? (distressed) I don’t – (more distressed, sharper) Why, wha– Why can’t I remember his name? His, his face, I don’t –" [MORE MOVEMENT, AND A THUD] [MARTIN GETS UP AND TAKES A FEW STEPS] MARTIN: (still audibly agitated) "Wh-Where am I?" It's his memory of Jon what's snapping him out of it! <3

MARTIN: "My house, I think. (heh) Nowhere comfortable. So I suppose this is it." That comment about his "home" right after the episode that explains that a home should be a place where you feel safe, an extension of yourself!

MARTIN: "It is my house, isn’t it? Must be. Must be." Also this. Like, it must be my house because why would anyone want me at their house...

MARTIN: "No, no, no, no, not, not tiredness, just the – fog. I – can’t see through the fog" A comment on depression? Always feeling tired, like you don't have the energy to do anything? Because it's not tiredness in the traditional sense, it's because of depression, because of the fog.

MARTIN: "It’s sort of weird, isn’t it? Smell can trigger memory so… powerfully." Oh yes, I do this certain smell = memory very often! Or, it just comes often to me naturally. I generally like it. Mostly it's triggering nostalgia.

MARTIN: "Started lying on my CV; did I tell you that. I didn’t want to. I-I mean I tried to be a good person, but we’re really up against it, and I – and I – I know they’re going to find me out; I just know it. They’ll ask something, or I’ll say something stupid, and then – and then they’ll know. They’ll know, and then –" Martin was probably a very good snack for Elias with that huge juicy secret. And he always was very alone.

MARTIN: "What am I doing; I can’t afford a place like this! I need money, not just for me, but for – for…" A yes, capitalism...

[THE SAME STATIC AS ALWAYS BEGINS TO RISE FROM THE BACKGROUND.] MARTIN: "No… No, no, no, that’s not right! I-I’m not alone, no! Not alone, there’s – there’s – J-J-Jon? Jon. (suddenly realizing) Jon! Jon!" There the static rises when Martin can remember and not when he forgets again. It that Jon catching a whiff of his Martin and trying to Know his way back to him? There's also static every time Martin forgets.

MARTIN: (suddenly to Jon, frantic) "Jon? Jon, I’m here; can you hear me? I can’t – it’s – it’s this place, I – wh-where are you; I need you, I nee– (laugh, but humorless) – I need you, Jon." [THERE’S AN UNEASY DISCORDANT TONE PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.] MARTIN: "Where – Where did you go." [A COUPLE MORE STEPS.] MARTIN: (voice about to break) "Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this on my own. Please. (inhale that could be a sob) I’m not enough on my own. Alone. (small, shaky) All. All alone." Can this episode get any more heartbreaking?

MARTIN: "Oh. Oh, hello. What’s this? Wow, retro! What are you up to, little buddy; just – listening?" Oh, hello. Are you still listening?

MARTIN: (half-whisper) "We should try to keep quiet actually, you know. Make sure not to wake her. The drugs – they, they hit her pretty hard, but – if you make enough noise and she wakes up, and – (quieter) and yeah, it’s not good. (bravado) Not a good time!" More about Martin's past! There isn't even more explanation needed, this tells us a lot about their situation and what it was like for him.

MARTIN: "Sometimes I wonder if I forget things on purpose. Easier not to think about them, I guess. Easier to just let them… slip away. They can’t hurt you if you don’t think about them; they can’t shout at you or call you names. (increasingly emotional) And I, I always think of Mum’s face when I’ve done something wrong, and I – (dead sober) Wait." See above.

MARTIN: "Did – Did she have a face? (berating) D-Don’t – Don’t be stupid, Martin; of course she had a face! (increasingly agitated) You just can’t remember it ‘cause – (breathing heavy) ‘Cause you’re a bad son; because you left you left her to rot in –" Martin blamed himself for so long for some many things that weren't his fault. That is a very interesting combination, he and Jon. In this regard I mean. Hm, don't think I ever found a fanfic which explored that? (If anyone got one to recommend, send it my way!)

So evil to let Martin remember Sasha. The friend no one remembers.

MARTIN: "I must have – left the window open. (struggles with the next word) L, L-L,Let the fog in." Blaming himself again. Thinking that of course it was him who brought him into this situation.

MARTIN: "Hm, they’re gone; that’s weird. I thought – I, I can feel them, but the words, they just – just wash away." That is such a strange thing to suffer from. I had anomic aphasia as side effect of meds once and I felt like I was going insane. You know on a very abstract level what you want to say, but it just won't take shape. It's frustrating.

That bit about Martin's granddad also feels so horrible. As a child funerals are a weird matter anyway and if something like this should happen... Phew. That was also around the time his father left. Losing two important family members in such rapid succession and then having to deal with his mother...

MARTIN: "Tape recorder. (heh) What, you want me to give you a statement, I –" [THE STATIC PRESSES.] MARTIN: (deadened voice) "Why. The Eye has won. It can already see everything;" Ha, that deadened voice sounds like Jon when he gets all ominous like the Eye is speaking through him again. But why would the Eye talk about itself like that. And this then again reminds me of Father Burroughs in MAG 19, when he was at Hill Top Road, when something (the Web?) used him so speak the words "I am not for you. I am marked."

MARTIN: "Oh, they nod and respond and say ‘No, Martin,’ or ‘Not now, Martin,’ or ‘Leave it, Martin –’ but, funny thing is – (false bright) I didn’t ask them to do anything!" I know, this is probably also a reference to his childhood and his upbringing. But when he does this impression he kind of sounds like Jon xD And I'm pretty sure Jon was also this dismissive of Martin that first year, when he wasn't outright hostile to him.

MARTIN: "Is that me? (unsure) Is – Is that me? Martin? Martin. Maartin. (close to Jon’s pronunciation) Martin." Maaahtin! First, really going for the jugular there, fan transcribers! Second,... I would have also pronounced Martin like that? xD What was that during the first (I think?) Magnus Protocol stream (that one on the 30th October?), MaRtin with that US-pronunciation is the real 15th Fear? xD

What's up with those uncomfortable chairs?? xD Why are they emphasized so often? Haven't gotten the significance of this, any ideas on this?

MARTIN: "I’m losing myself, and I – and I don’t know if I mind?" I know that mindset! There is so much in this episode that speaks to me so much!

MARTIN: "So much of what’s behind the fog hurts. So much of it just makes me wanna curl up with pain and embarrassment and – Maybe the fog’s here because I want it here. Is that why I opened the windows? Maybe I asked the fog to come." See bullet point of Martin saying "I must have – left the window open." But also with the flavor of creating this situation because the alternative is so incredibly hurtful. Which I absolutely understand. You can try to isolate yourself to avoid certain problems or conflicts, but that isolation opens a whole new can of worms.

MARTIN: "Hundreds, thousands of lost souls, wandering the halls. Hollow memories, with eyes full of tears. I’ve seen them. (shaky) They’re all trying to remember. T-To recall, to picture someone, anyone who loves them, and their hearts are all full of fear. Afraid that those people are gone forever. That maybe – maybe they never existed at all." Interesting to hear that concept of forgetting someone or being forgotten by others just hours after I finished Family Business!

MARTIN: "I-I fell behind. I was – I was too slow, and, and, and the fog caught up; I was following. Al-Always following, never leading. Never leading." Aw man, that's saying so much about his life in general and how his mind works.

MARTIN: "Yes. Jon, I remember him. (shaky exhale) I need to, I need to keep him here. If he can find me, I – he, he knows enough; surely he Knows enough to find me, but I can’t – (struggling) If I forget him, if, if I forget – me – maybe – maybe there’s nothing left to Know. No one to find." Yeah, that makes so much sense. There needs to be something left of Martin in order to find him. How can you find something that doesn't exist anymore, not in the way you want to find it.

MARTIN: "I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore; I am not lonely anymore. (voice shaking with effort) I want to have friends; I – no, I have friends. I-I’m in love. (heh) I am in love, and I will not forget that; I will not forget. (stronger) I am Martin Black–" JON: (far off, calling) "Martin!" Ah god, that is the perfect way to end Martin's odyssey through the memory manor. Him finally remembering himself. Remembering his friend, remembering Jon and his love for him. I think this is a classic anchor situation. Every time he got to something that remembered him of Jon, made him think of him, he found back to more and more of himself. His mother didn't do that, Sasha didn't do that. Elias of course not. But when he got to Jon, the fog loosened its grip.

JON (ON MIC): (relieved) "Oh, Martin; thank god, I – I was –" [AND IT SOUNDS LIKE HE’S EMBRACING HIM] JON: "I, I thought you were behind me." Yeah, never let go of him ever again! Also that bit of parallel to MAG 39/40. Martin thinking Jon was just behind him and utterly beating himself up about losing him (and Tim).

MARTIN: "I thought you’d left me behind. Gone on without me." JON: "No, never. N-Never, I, I just –" That's going to hurt so bad in about 30 episodes...

JON: "I, I didn’t want to – Look too h– I,I,I promised I wouldn’t Know you, and, and with the fog, and, and all the rooms, I, I just – I lost you; I’m – (inhale) I’m sorry." MARTIN: "It’s okay." [A BEAT OF JUST THEIR EXHALES.] JON: "No, I – I tried to use the – (sigh) to Know where you were, but it was – you, you were faint. It was so strange; it took me so long just to find you." Ahh, Jon sounds so frantic. Like he wants to respect Martin's privacy but then slowly realizing that this is serious and he might actually lose him there.

MARTIN: "It’s the Lonely, Jon. It’s me." JON: "Not anymore." [MARTIN MAKES A PLEASED LITTLE HM.] MARTIN: "No. (long inhale) No, not anymore." That fierce "Not anymore!" of Jon. Like also telling that place to keep its damp paws off his boyfriend. After all, he told Martin he won't let it hurt him. Martin did hate the burning building and was so scared, but this place here was a lot more dangerous for him that the fire.

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 170 #tma #tma spoilers

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markerbirthday · 1 year ago

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A rant: Why Jon and Martin WILL 100% be coming back in the Magnus Protocol.

Hello, John.

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

#the magnus archives #tma #magnus archives #jmart #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma jon #tma podcast #tmp #the magnus protocol #elsewhere #somewhere else #teaholding #martin blackwood

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squeeneyart · 2 years ago

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Curses - Chapter 3

AO3

The journey continues with better weather.

Martin and Jon struggle with nagging suspicion.

He wasn’t happy about magic being involved, but Martin was starting to see the shape of things.

If he understood correctly, the fae had an affinity for secrets and the unknown. With those false eyes on the fae’s wings peering at him and demanding his truth, Martin had been able to pick up on that rather quickly. It didn’t compel him to say the full truth, though. It simply made him itch until he divulged something.

“Nature, mostly. And people, the town I live in, how everything sort of… interconnects. How it all makes me feel.”

“Anything more specific?” the fae asked, tapping his fingers on his knee.

What was supposed to ‘satiate’ a fae hunger for information? “I don’t know, um-”

“What about last night?”

Martin paused. This part didn’t cause him much alarm, all things considered. In some weird way he was relieved at his companion’s partial honesty, and it wasn’t too different from someone asking him about himself to fill the silence. Clearly there was never going to be an out-and-out admission of the fae basically looking over Martin’s shoulder the night before, but all he’d seen was the block of scribbles that was his journal. And, well, it wasn’t like he didn’t have things to say.

“I wrote about not being able to write all I was thinking about. Having to choose my words carefully because of the limited space has its own benefits, but having barely any room to say what I feel is… stifling.”

He looked at the fae, whose face remained a mask of mild interest, and waited for some kind of affirmation that his… offering? Yes, that his offering of information would suffice and whether those eyes behind the fae’s back would cease their staring. The real eyes above continued their regard of him though, dark and attentive, and it made the hair on the back of Martin’s neck stand on end for very different reasons.

It would be very convenient to blame it on a glamour of some kind, but it wasn’t the first time this had happened to him. It was hard to help someone along the road, to talk to them, and not start to notice the nice little things about their face or voice. The forest was a quiet, lonely place, and it made other people so much sharper. Maybe it counted doubly for the fae themselves. That little bit of trust in him, as well, having someone rely on him was so, so nice, and when had he ever carried someone through like that? In the moment he’d been too busy trying not to slip in the downpour or drop the passed-out man on his back, but the physical proximity alone was enough to make his head spin in hindsight.

So yes, magic or not, he was feeling a bit warmer towards his companion as they sat in better weather. The sunlight coming in from the west and highlighting the shape of his face didn’t hurt.

When he didn’t get a response, Martin babbled on, “Probably a waste of the space, and honestly when I say it out loud it sounds like a bad metaphor, but that’s really what I was thinking about. Otherwise it’s all flowery bits about rain and the smell of burning leaves.”

The fae looked at him curiously and then nodded, shoulders relaxing. “That will work. I’m aware that you aren’t telling me everything, but that would be exhausting.”

“Glad I could help?” Martin said, looking down at his glasses. If it satisfied the fae’s desire to know and kept that creeping feeling of being watched away from him then he didn’t mind divulging those tidbits. He slid his glasses back in place. “I assume you don’t really…?”

“No, I’m afraid along with berry-picking my interests don’t lie with verse.”

“Then I won’t bore you with it,” he said with relief.

“Much appreciated,” the fae replied in kind.

None of it had been a lie, per se. He’d been describing a type of poetry he used to write, not much like what he wrote in his more dispirited present, but it was all there in the same journal. The subjects were mostly the same. At least that was settled. He certainly didn’t need either the magic of a secret-sniffing fae or the force of his own little fancies making him spill out anything he wouldn’t want to say otherwise.

It would’ve been nice if the fae had a genuine interest in Martin’s writings, though. The more he thought about it the more this exchange put a damper on his spirits.

“We have a bit further to go,” Martin said, tightening his low ponytail. “There’s an area up ahead where we’ll camp. Do you think you’ll need help again?”

“No, I think I can manage. I’m sure walking will help with the stiffness from being carried so long.”

“Sorry, I know it wasn’t comfortable…”

The fae shook his head. “I trust you had the right of it, though I’d like to know why you insisted on moving forward.”

“Oh,” Martin said, taking his time in grabbing his still damp cloak off the tree and ringing out the last of the rain. “Right. Like I said, there’s a place I want us to camp. I was worried we wouldn’t make it there by dark with the other breaks we took earlier.”

“Ah. I understand,” he replied, unconvincingly. “Is this area particularly safe?”

“I’ve had good luck with it. And we haven’t had any trouble the last two nights, have we?” Martin asked a little too sharply, and he saw the fae raise a brow. He cleared his throat and gave his cloak a final twist. “Sorry. Guess I’m set in how I do things, but it’ll be a good place to stop, honest. And I’ll keep better track of time so we don’t have a repeat of today.”

After a moment of consideration, the fae responded with a final stretch of his arms above him, “If you say so. I shouldn’t need to be carried either way. The transitions between summer and winter only happen twice a year, after all.”

Martin looked at him, confused. “What, that’s it? One day of passing out and it’s supposed to be summer?”

“Obviously the weather changes gradually, and I wouldn’t dismiss spring’s place. But yes, things should be moving sharply into summer now. I’m sure you’re just as happy to leave that awful season behind.” He gestured towards the road and they began to walk again.

“I actually don’t mind the winter most of the time?” Martin said, earning a flat look of disappointment. “Look, if it’s been a particularly good year then I get to spend it mostly inside staying warm and out of the fields!”

“So you like it as long as you can avoid it?” the fae said, nodding in understanding.

“I mean, I’d avoid being outside in the height of summer if I could.” A sour look crossed the fae’s face. “There's nothing wrong with it! I just don’t want to burn or pass out from the heat.”

“I guaranteed I wouldn’t curse you and you immediately deride my season. Unbelievable.” Despite the faces he was making, the fae spoke with a lightness. “Just remember when winter comes around how much you’ll miss the sun.”

He would’ve liked to make an argument for the benefits of staying indoors drinking something hot while snow fell outside, but with all the walking he’d done in the snow recently he wasn’t much inclined to defend his position. “I suppose I prefer the weather now to how it’s been.”

“It will only get better from here. Flying will be easier, for one.”

With some effort the fae hovered off the ground next to him for about five seconds before landing back on the road. A tiny amount of relief showed through his self-satisfaction. Oddly enough the wings didn’t seem to flap as much as Martin would’ve expected.

Martin nodded in genuine wonder. “Can I ask you a question about that?”

The fae nodded, still seemingly gratified by his own success.

“Would you still be able to fly if your wings were blocked by something? They don’t move the way I thought they would. Compared to, you know, birds and the like. It’s like you barely had to move them.”

“It’s more a matter of will. And the time of year, of course,” the fae explained, then gave him the side eye. “I won’t answer your actual question, though.”

“Wh- oh! Oh, right, okay, that does sound quite bad now that I think about it. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I trust by now that you’re not some sort of kidnapper taking advantage of the late seasonal change. But what a suspicious thing to ask,” the fae said, smiling in a way that made Martin’s stomach flip.

Three days. That’s how long he needed to keep his shit together around this man with nice if sometimes unsettling eyes. He wouldn’t get swept up in fae glamour nonsense if that’s what was happening, and he’d dealt with temporary attachments to strangers otherwise. When it came to taking down his own feelings before they went too far, he could call himself a marksman.

Martin smiled back calmly. “If summer is coming soon and you’re getting stronger, shouldn’t I be the one worried about suspicious questions?”

The fae snorted, waving his hand dismissively. “You’re my guide. By the time I’m at full strength we’ll have long left this place behind.”

The confidence was at once flippant and flattering, and he couldn’t find it in himself to respond. This didn’t seem to bother his companion who was more than fine with having the final word.

If he had anything to say about it the fae would get to the crossroads and reach Thornsbury in good time without any trouble, whatever his business might be. And it was probably for a good purpose. The fae’s personality didn’t point toward ill-intent or malice. He’d threatened to curse Martin, but he never made good on that threat and probably never intended to, and that meant something, right?

He knew better than to ask. Clearly the fae was getting stronger. What would Martin be able to do if this person had bad intentions for others up ahead? What could he do to stop someone with magic? Lead him into one of the places he knew to avoid, maybe, with beings that didn’t care whether their prey was fae or mortal. Would the creatures he knew of be strong enough for that if he needed them to be? What if the fae sensed his hypothetical intent? If so, he would probably have to-

“Are you all right?” the fae asked, troubled eyes probing Martin’s face.

Martin nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Tired from walking, I guess.”

“You seem agitated. Are you having doubts about your ability to lead me through?”

“What? No, I’m-”

“If that’s the case I would rather know-”

“We have three nights. After that will be the crossroads,” Martin said with no room for argument.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The night was uneventful, and they reached their next campsite in just under two hours. His guide did bring out the journal once he got the fire going, but even from a tree much closer to their campsite Jon knew it was a fool’s errand to try and decipher the increasingly small text. Instead he sat with his back against the trunk with one foot dangling down, his guide’s head and shoulders just in view. Something tugged gently at his mind, asking him to dig further into the unknown of this man, but he tried to shoo it away.

It could be difficult sometimes to tease apart the need to know from his other thoughts, if that was possible. Down below his guide wrote something and he did not know the subject. He wanted to know what that subject was. He wanted to know whether he was a subject to be examined.

Did his guide examine him?

Not at that moment. He was engrossed in his scribblings again, and even before they stopped he’d seemed lost in thought and far away. Jon thought of the expression he witnessed as his guide begged for them to keep moving. No fear or anger. Worry, though, plenty of worry.

His guide was hiding things. He knew this to be true, but he was leading Jon to his destination and cared whether he made it out of the woods, even if it meant walking for two and getting pelted with rain. If he hadn’t already, Jon believed in him now. Everyone hid things and Jon didn’t need to know every secret a stranger had.

But Jon’s guide hid something and with what little time they had left he most likely would never know it. And that irked him some.

In the morning his guide warned of a larger stream with sparse stepping stones. “I’ll have to go on foot, but it’ll be easier if you can fly over.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” Chances are he would be on his feet. He was glad to have the strength to get off the ground, but it didn’t mean he could fly uninhibited.

“It’s deeper than it looks and quite slippery so if you need to land-”

“I said I’ll manage,” Jon said, looking up with some annoyance. “Like I said, I won’t need to be carried again.”

“I wasn’t- Fine, okay.” His guide put his hands up in surrender. “You’re an adult. You can slip wherever you’d like.”

The stream was decently wide, with small rocks peeking up through the current. It was closer to a babbling brook, though, not a raging river. When Jon gave his guide a look, he got a shrug in response. “It doesn’t hurt to be careful. Some people don’t want to end up knee-deep in water at the start of the day.” Then his guide started to walk over the stones with more speed than he’d expected with his talk of caution.

He almost told the man to slow down and let him follow his steps, but with his own light feet Jon was more than capable of finding his own way over a stream. Off he went after his guide, shoes barely touching the stones before he was on to the next one. As he progressed, he tested his current limits by floating between each stride. Before he knew it he was caught up and surpassing the guide’s solid steps. He smiled as he passed, earning a slightly grumpy eyeroll.

“You do seem quite capable. Don’t be discouraged,” Jon said, reaching the other side without issue. His shoes were nearly dry.

“Yes, thank you, that’s very helpful,” said his guide, about halfway across and not happy about it.

Jon considered walking back across to meet him and walk alongside him the rest of the way, but he wasn’t feeling that mean today. Instead he waited at the edge and watched.

His guide really was going across at a good speed, so familiar he was with his route. How often did he have to visit these family members of his? How close was he with them to travel this winding way so many times? No thought at all seemed to go into it even with his feet dwarfing some of the stones that made up his path. All of that without the reassurance that he could slow himself if something went wrong. With the rocky start to his own journey, Jon was quite lucky to have stumbled into this person when he did. Jon almost said something aloud to that effect.

Unfortunately his vexed guide, almost to the edge and lifting his eyes towards Jon with the intent to speak, slipped.

It wasn’t a dangerous fall. The water couldn’t have been more than a foot deep near the edges. Still, Jon’s hands shot out and grabbed his guide by the arm, dragging him toward the land. One foot didn’t quite make it and was submerged in water, at which point a tendril of liquid wrapped around his ankle and yanked him down.

His guide yelped, one foot still firm on the grass, and looked down at the offending snare. “Oh, let go, you horrible little thing!”

“Was that always waiting below?”Jon said with gritted teeth, keeping his hold. He pulled as hard as he could, but this creature of the water stayed strong. The running water burbled, chuckling at his frustration. “I would have appreciated a warning!”

“It’s not usually- ugh, it’s not usually this far downstream!” His guide kicked a bit more, then flailed his hand about until he found a smooth stone. With a quick movement he skipped the stone through the tendril, right between the stream and his foot.

The burbling grew louder, their assailant having a grand old time, but its structure was weakened from the impact. With one hand still holding onto his guide’s arm, Jon snatched a nearby stone and tried to copy the motion. It didn’t quite land in the center of the vertical stream and he earned another mocking round of bubbles. “Oh, piss off-”

“Should just take-” His guide made one more throw down the center and the now distinct laughter grew to a crescendo. The vibrations unsteadied it further and allowed his guide to slip out of its grasp and scramble the rest of the way out, Jon still dragging him by the arm.

Once he’d determined them to be far enough from the water’s edge, Jon dropped to the ground with his frazzled guide. His heart pounded and he kept a grip on his guide’s arm, asking between heavy breaths, “So you know each other?”

“We’ve met once or twice.” His guide glared at the stream now flowing past with the utmost innocence. “It’s a nuisance, but not something that would be able to drown me.”

“Oh. Good,” Jon said, looking down at his hands still resting around his guide’s arm. “As my guide I still would’ve preferred you tell me-”

“I’m sorry, all right?” he spat, rubbing at his forehead. “It’s not usually here! It hasn’t been here for I don’t know how long, so of course it shows up when someone else is here, and normally I don’t slip!”

Jon stared at him for a minute, watching his guide pinch the bridge of his nose and breathe deeply. He bristled a little at the less-than-subtle accusation, but he wasn’t sure what to say. In the end he gently patted his guide on the arm. “It’s… only natural for a creature like that to change position. And there was no harm done?”

“Sure.” His guide frowned and took off his soaked boot, dumping the excess water. He then glanced down between them and quickly turned away. Jon saw his ear go red. “Sorry. Should’ve said something beforehand. And, um… thanks for helping. I think I’m good now?”

Jon opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but he felt the arm wiggle in his hold. He kept his hands where they were. “Ah. Right. Well, get your boot on so we can get going. I don’t trust that thing not to reach out and grab you again.” Jon made a point of glancing at the stream with disdain without showing too much interest.

“Okay?” They both stood, Jon pulling him up and away from the stream.

“Where would that put me if you got yanked downstream?” Jon asked as they walked. “We’re still a good ways away from the crossroads by your measure.”

“Only two nights-”

“And even if it’s normally clear skies and easy travels from this point forward, clearly things can change. If things are different from how you remember then it’s lucky we ran into each other when we did.”

“Unless you’re the reason something was different,” his guide said. “Maybe it came downstream because, I don’t know, it sensed you or something.”

Jon looked at him, unimpressed. “Or you’re embarrassed because you slipped. And don’t say I was distracting you by standing still and waiting for you to catch up.”

His guide opened and closed his mouth several times but no retort came. Instead he turned his face toward the trees, ears still visibly red. It wasn’t a wholly ridiculous argument, though. Perhaps with humans his guide had never encountered an issue at the stream and suddenly a fae presence shook things out of their normal habits. Or as a human the guide relied too much on memories of the last time he’d visited these woods and was frustrated by nature’s irritating habit of switching things around when no one was looking.

That Jon could understand. Being connected to nature didn’t mean enjoying every idiosyncrasy.

Once the stream was out of sight, Jon finally released his guide. It was an interesting start to their day, but as morning passed on nothing accosted them on the road. Clouds threatened rain but never made good on it. After two days straight it seemed they’d finally earned a break from keeping such close pace with each other, and around noon the sun made a relatively early appearance. All this combined, Jon’s guide mostly recovered from his sour mood and even reckoned they had time for a slightly longer lunch.

And as they sat on the side of the road, out came the crusty bread and hard cheese and that pitiful look of resignation.

Jon bit back a smile and said, “Are you exaggerating how much you hate your food to get sympathy, or are you kicking yourself even harder internally for not thinking your meals through?”

“Oh, shut up. You can eat things around here.” His guide looked down at the food in his lap and sighed, leaning back on his hands. “I wish I’d brought something sweeter. Thought it wouldn’t last the trip once things got hot, so I went for things I figured would stay.”

Jon patted him on the back, half sympathetic and half condescending. “I’m sure you’ll survive a few more days of your sad cheese.”

Instead of being comforted or irritated, his guide slumped a little and picked at his meal. “I guess.”

He’d picked the wrong topic of conversation. Already his guide was growing sullen. Jon looked down at his own food, still dull but with more variety, then back at his guide. This was a very normal man, his guide, easy to embarrass and quick to deflect. He also, without the overt threat of harm, helped where he could and if need be would carry someone through the rain while he got soaked.

Jon placed his bundle of food between them. “If I tell you it’s safe to eat and that I don’t intend to bind you, will you stop pouting and eat some of mine?”

His guide blinked at him. “I’m not that desperate-”

“I don’t care. Just have some berries so you don’t spend the rest of our meals together like that,” Jon said, gesturing at his guide’s face.

This seemed to create a conflict in his guide, but caution was winning out. He leaned back further and avoided Jon’s eyes. A necessary precaution, of course, and Jon should’ve known to let it go at that moment. Glamours, cursed foods, emotions influenced by subtle magics, pulling back from those threats was only natural. Any human with common sense knew better than to look at such an offer with anything but trepidation.

But it hurt. It hurt, so Jon didn’t think all too hard when his mouth ran off without him. “My name is Jon, fully Jonathan Sims, and this offer of food is just from one person to another, a kindness. Is that enough?” The mild desperation in Jon’s voice was mortifying, but the frustration needed to be dealt with.

The force of the admission was enough to knock the air out of his guide and he coughed quite a few times. Hairs loose from his ponytail floated as if lifted by static. His incredulous expression made Jon’s ears go hot and twitchy. His name over a few berries? But he’d taken action and would accept the consequences. Even then he felt the protection a secret name afforded leave him, a window left open to let in a cold draft.

With as much dignity as he could muster he pushed the bundle forward and repeated, “Is that enough?”

His guide laughed at him. Only for a moment but he laughed at Jon in disbelief. Before Jon could pull back his offering or go on about the gravity of his actions his guide took a few berries out of the bundle and ate them.

Then, with an honest relief that filed down Jon’s irritation to a grain of sand, his guide offered a hand to him. “You don’t know how grateful I am. Really, it’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time.”

Flummoxed, Jon reached out and shook it. It was much larger than his, its grip firm and friendly. “You have very low standards.”

“I’d offer you some of mine, but I won’t make you eat it out of politeness.” There was more laughter in his tone than Jon had heard their whole journey thus far, and from this closer distance, in that rare spot of sunlight, he found he quite enjoyed what ease did to his face. “My name is Martin Blackwood. Glad to have something to call you.”

In comparison this reveal didn’t have the same metaphysical effects. Jon just knew his name now. He knew Martin’s full name, an unexpected reciprocation whose truth rang between his ears, and the draft felt warmer by the second as they shook on their newly established familiarity. “Likewise. Normally I wouldn’t have divulged but this will make the rest of the trip much more pleasant.”

Martin released his hand and took another berry, smiling brightly at him. “You were right. I was lucky to run into you.”

“Berries can’t mean that much,” Jon joked, leaning his cheek against one fist.

“Well obviously it’s not just the berries. That would be really sad. But this was really nice of you,” Martin hesitated, then continued, “Thank you, Jon.”

It was all the more apparent beside Martin’s kindness and honesty that he hid something quite large indeed, and Jon shoved that knowledge, that instinct to pick Martin apart, as hard and as far down as he could. When spoken aloud by others his name didn’t usually express much warmth. Martin’s regard stood in stark contrast, soft and inviting, and while he wasn’t full-on giddy Jon couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face.

“You’re welcome, Martin.”

#tma #the magnus archives #fae au #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #curses fic

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shoggoth-the-bitch · 9 months ago

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Seeing it Through

I should really go to bed...

Three option?

Option 1 is bad... option 2 is also bad... Is option to just do nothing?

It is... That sounds like it would be bad too...

All of these options suck so hard!

These are all very good questions.

I'm very glad these guys are finally accepting that it's not just Jon's fault that everything went to shit. Everyone here had some hand in what happened in the end. Even if it was only the act of doing nothing.

This is another good question.

Surely this world can't be the only one where the fears have power like this. I legit believe that the entities gained power through mass fears. Which is to say that there's no way the fears don't exist elsewhere. I think the only thing this act is doing is simply opening the door between worlds and connecting the fears to all other versions of themselves.

Wow! Jon! You want to choose to kill everyone!

All of this is bad...

"Nice lighter." Such a weird line in hindsight... wait, is Georgie taking the lighter?

These two saying they love each other makes me very happy. But also sad.

Damn, Martin listened to all the tapes and still fell in love with him?!

Jon! You were literally manipulated to do it!

I have so many feelings about everything going on right now!

Damn, Martin is volunteering to do the murder. Fun...

#the magnus archives #tma #live blogging #episode 199

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notexactlyrocketscience · 2 years ago

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Now that I've taken a few days to process and distanced myself from the characters' momentary pain, I actually truly believe that what happened at the end was a happy accident instead.

And I love that I genuinely don’t feel like I have to be in denial of the canon at all to fully believe in this interpretation, since it was left strictly ambiguous on purpose.

But there’s more!

I finished listening to the Magnus Archives last night, and just wanted to thank these two users in r/TheMagnusArchives for providing posts that finally soothed my broken heart a little bit in the morning. I hope they can do the same for you, too, if you’re also easily utterly devastated by endings that even have a smidge of dark uncertainty.

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iceeckos12 · 3 years ago

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A time travel au. angst and h/c. inspired by this post

Warnings: jon’s very low self-esteem

“What do you think of him?” Jon suddenly asks, staring blankly at the wall of the breakroom.

Tim pauses in the middle of chewing his sandwich to give him a long, considering look.

He’s mostly decided to suspend his disbelief until further notice, simply to keep from losing his mind. What else is one supposed to do when future versions of Jon and Martin, who are also apparently dating, tell you that your workplace is currently involved in a plot to end the world? Ideally he would’ve processed one big revelation at a time, but apparently they don’t have time for that, so goodbye grip on reality, it was nice knowing you. I’ll hit the restart button as soon as things start making sense again.

Tim wipes his hand across his mouth, swallows, and asks, “You mean Jon II?”

Jon rolls his eyes, like Tim’s being obtuse on purpose just to annoy him. “Yes, I mean...him. Me. Jon II.” Then his nose wrinkles amusingly, the same way it always does whenever he says the moniker. He’s hated it since the beginning, but it was a battle he quickly lost, what with all three of his assistants opposing him.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t have thought twice about shrugging and answering, but...Jon’s been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Oh sure, he’d blushed up a storm upon learning that his future self and Martin were dating, and he’d expressed his own misgivings at the beginning, but...since then he’s been eerily, silently watchful. In Tim’s experience, when presented with this sort of puzzle Jon generally buries himself in research, and doesn’t emerge until he’s good and ready to do so.

There’s something else on his mind.

So Tim puts down his sandwich and gives himself a moment to think carefully through his response. “I mean...he’s a lot like you, obviously. But he seems…” What’s a polite way to say, the trauma and the boyfriend seems to have made him a little more easygoing? He certainly smiles more freely than he ever has, which...honestly, makes Tim want to cry sometimes. How horrible, that so much abject cruelty had just made him more kind. “...tired. A little less high-strung?”

“I see,” Jon says, turning his mulish gaze to his curry, dragging his spoon through the thick sauce.

Tim waits a beat longer, but when nothing else seems forthcoming he prompts, “Why do you ask?”

Jon’s reaction is only to press his lips into a thin, tight line. Tim knows this mood; he’s weighing how insecure he’ll look if he says whatever’s actually bothering him out loud, versus how much he wants someone else to hear it. Pushing him now will only make him clam up, so Tim just waits.

Tim’s patience is rewarded when Jon blurts, “But you like him. You...you all do.”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly, because it’s true. Martin’s so enamoured with a Jon that actually likes him that he keeps bringing him tea just to get another glimpse of that gentle, thankful smile, just to strike up another conversation about nothing. Sasha has decided that he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her, and insists on consulting him whenever she reads a new true statement.

Tim’s personally a little unnerved by the awful, sad way future Jon looks at him sometimes, or the way he flinches back whenever someone tries to touch him without warning. But he’d taken Tim aside and quietly explained everything he knew about what happened to Danny, so.

Oh, Tim thinks, feeling like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Jon may be an old hand at fooling others with his grumpy persona, but Tim knows that he’s just using it to hide his massive inferiority complex. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Jon ducks his head, and his ears darken. Gotcha, Tim thinks.

“Jon, you know that that’s still you, right?” he explains gently, quietly relieved that it’s not something more complicated. “We like him just as much as we like you, because you’re the same person.”

“But he’s not the same, is he?” Jon protests. “Look at the scars on his neck, on his hand. And he has panic attacks, and he flinches at loud noises, and, and—”

He breaks off, biting down hard on his lip, threading a hand through his hair.

Tim stares at him, feeling off-kilter, like he missed a step coming down the stairs. That doesn’t sound like jealousy. “...Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, his breath escaping him in thready, devastated gasps.

He can’t tell what’s going on in Jon’s head, and it’s starting to scare him. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon just sits there for a moment long, tugging at his hair, staring sightlessly at the middle distance. Tim gently untangles his fingers, giving him something a little more solid to hold onto.

“You all like him,” he says at last. “You all...he’s so kind, and he’s funny, and you like him, because someone hurt him first. He’s different—we’re different—because someone cut our throat and burned our hand, and you like him better.”

Tim’s horrified. “Jon—”

“Should I accept that?” he continues, the words flooding from him like a dam finally exploding in a shower of groaning wood and weathered stone. “Do I—how do I carry on knowing that I could be the person I want to become, if only I give myself to monstrosity, if only I let myself be hurt like that?”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen to you!” Tim interrupts, voice higher and more frightened than he meant it to be. He’s applying duct tape to a raging river. He has no fucking idea how to fix this. “You don’t deserve—”

“Don’t I?” Jon demands, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t I deserve to be happy? Or am I unworthy of even this kind of improvement? Am I doomed to be like this forever?” Tears well in his eyes, spill over. “Don’t I deserve it?”

And then he slowly, inevitably, dissolves into tears, his slim shoulders shaking as he curls over and buries his face in his elbow. Tim drapes an arm across his back, angling his body so he can gently tuck Jon’s head against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Even if Jon were in any shape to hear it, he has no idea how to fix this.

Tim could tell him that he and Martin and Sasha all think that he’s fine the way he is, and it’s the stress of an apparently eldritch job that’s causing him to push people away, but he doubts Jon would believe it. Words mean nothing when actions have been screaming something entirely different all this time, and Jon’s always been more observant than they give him credit for.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispers when the tears finally start to slow, dropping a kiss onto silver and black hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

Jon pulls away and shrugs, averting his reddened eyes. Tim squeezes his elbow to prevent him from retreating entirely. They sit like that for a moment, Jon going very still and very tense under Tim’s hand, settling into the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, sniffing heavily. He’s aiming for his usual brusque, dry tone, but his voice is shaking, and he’s not fooling anyone. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Before Tim can stop himself, an incredulous laugh rips out of him. “Jon,” he says quickly, “We’re well beyond professional. You know that, right? You don’t have to hide from me.”

Jon flushes. “Yes, well—it was unfair for me to put this on you, as your fr—as…” His expression goes all fragile and uncertain, and Tim’s heart aches.

“It’s not unfair,” Tim corrects gently. “As your friend,” and here he pauses for emphasis, “I want to know when you’re feeling like this.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, then straightens and scrubs the teartracks from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Tim nods reassuringly, takes a deep breath, and makes an educated guess. “I know you’re scared, Jon. We all are. This place is...horrible, and seeing what you went through is...terrifying. I can’t imagine how that must be for you.” He lets his eyes flicker up. Jon’s still watching him, rapt, and good, good. I haven’t lost him. “I won’t deny that he’s getting along with Sasha and Martin quite well, but...but that’s not because of what he—you—went through. It’s because….right now, you’re pushing people away because you’re scared, but he’s already done that. He knows that pushing people away just means you end up alone. It doesn’t mean he’s a better person, just that he’s a little wiser.”

“But how can you be sure?” Jon asks, leaning forward, eyes big and desperate.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have become your friend if I didn’t like you,” Tim admits unashamedly.

His bold honesty is rewarded by Jon flushing and ducking his head.

“But even so,” he continues, sobering, “Even if you were the worst person on the planet—and you’re not—you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt like that, no matter what the outcome. Does that make sense?”

Jon looks thoughtful as he says, “I—yes. Yes, that makes sense.”

He can tell though, that Jon doesn’t quite believe him. That’s okay—honestly, it’s what he was expecting. Tim’s been running headfirst into the wall that is Jon’s terrible self-esteem for as long as they’ve been friends. This problem is going to take more than one half-assed pep talk.

That’s okay, though. Jon’s worth the effort.

#tma #my writing #iceeckos12 writes

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gentlemancrow · 3 years ago

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idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonMartin #Jmart #Fan fic #Crow Writes #Ask Drabble #Fricklefracklefloof

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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1 I am somehow not convinced that Aegon is real. He's just another invader, like Dany. He will gain support, but whether he takes over KL is doubtful (D&D wouldn't have left Cersei on the throne, they're not that inventive). Martin wants to show what happens when people play with power, and Varys played; Tywin did; the Martells did; Tyrion did; Cersei will. And if Aegon is not real, then Ashara/Lemore is in it for revenge. It's bound to get very ugly; and a king of the ashes will come out of it.

2 And what strikes me is that Varys' speech at the end of ADWD shouts for Jon. The discarded one, who never believed he was special (unlike Aegon). He's the one who has learned the hard way; sacrificed himself for others (family); has the best interest of common people at heart (Free Folk); is about to fight a desperate war for saving humanity again. Jon is already too troubled to be burdened more and Aegon adds nothing to his arc. But we'll see how that goes.

Hi there!

I’m going to disagree firmly on both counts.

Aegon being real (which is only semi-relevant because he believes himself to be real, so all his emotions are equivalent to being real) makes way more of an impact.

He has personal connections that far surpass those of Dany, both to the Lannisters and the Starks:

Cersei thought she would marry Rhaegar and looked down on Elia

Tywin had Elia, Rhaenys and “Aegon” murdered to remove this very threat

Jaime killed the insane grandfather Aerys and felt terrible guilt over Rhaella’s abuse and failing Elia and her children

he is the legacy of Elia Martell, whose murder inspires basically the entire Dornish plotline, which is all tied up with the Lannisters

he is the one to whom the series title “A Song of Ice and Fire” is dedicated in the text

his caretakers actually lived through the rebellion and know the old court: JonCon, Ashara, Varys...

as a son of Dorne and Targaryens, he mirrors the good side of Aegon the Unlikely, unlike Dany who mirrors his bad ending (straw hat v. fire magic) and with his education (unlike Dany) he may actually lead to a short period of stability after facing off against the Lannisters, giving him the legitimacy of getting good results over simply having a claim

his father abandoned Elia to kidnap Lyanna, leading to the outbreak of the Rebellion, resulting in... Jon Snow

Ashara can even likely confirm the identity of Jon Snow and may potentially have been the mother of another dead cousin by Brandon Stark who died in Aegon’s place (!)

Jon Snow is his half-brother, and they have a lot of potential for both conflict and very reluctant bonding over being Rhaegar’s sons born for prophecy

unlike Dany, dutiful Aegon is actually likely to understand the War for the Dawn as his duty

What does Dany have to compare? She has no connection to a living family in Westeros, three advisors exiled in disgrace - and three dragons like the original invader. Many many people think about Aegon here or there because his death mattered to them at least in the abstract, but Dany? Eh. Everything boils down to her decision to invade. No one cares about her or her claim on a personal level.

Aegon is the heir Dany imagines herself to be, and he will “steal” her happy ending fantasy. Dany “the usurpers dogs stole our home” Targaryen will be instrumental in ending her own line. What could be more darkly poetic than that?

Darkness and abuse of power and vengeance? We have seen that. We will see more of it. A Targaryen hope spot rallying the continent on the brink? Not so much.

As for Jon, he is half-Targaryen, and there is only limited drama in this, considering he can rightfully assume that his father’s side is comprised of 100% vicious rampant idiots. There’s some self-loathing potential in this, sure, but it’s also not very deep.

If, however, you double down on his Robb trauma by giving him a literal half-brother who is pretty okay, there you have interesting connecting points. He can argue with Aegon about Northern independence, about kingship, about duty and about identity in a way that he would not be able to with Dany because she is either too volatile, too dangerous, too entitled or, frankly, too uneducated. He can contrast or mirror his choices with brother-king Robb, ruminate on what constitutes family (blood or experience) and - crucially - conclude that the Targaryen ancestry he carries is not a solid fate. He is neither a monster nor a hero for any of it. Only his choices determine that.

No one can understand his identity struggles the way Aegon can.

Dany will offer no such complexity. She is a 100% Targ incest baby and is coming on dragons. She is the bogeyman. If he sees her kill Aegon, he will know beyond a shadow of a doubt what he is facing, and everything that transpires from there will ride on those stakes. Big drama.

#asoiaf #aegon vi targaryen #young griff #jon snow #anti daenerys targaryen #long post

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lemonlimetoast · 5 years ago

Text

Sorry I keep rbing this I ran out of tag space but..... Damn this hits close

Y'all not to be annoying but I'm gonna start talking about TMA on here because I've been listening to it. Spoilers in the tags

#i remember people talking about how rhey had ro make a statement about how they didnt intend the podcast to hit too close to reality. i didn #t get that and disregarded it but.... the extinction??? hhahaahhaahahahha this is pretty funny and also kinda sad #tmarants #tmaspoilers #midnighttalk #EP 151 BTW I THINK I WOULD LIKE VERY MUCH TO FOR MARTIN TO HIT PETER. I WOULD LIKE HIM TO STOP ISOLATING HIMSELF THIS HITS TOO CLOSE TO HOM #i am so scared for martin and jon. i hope they are ok (i know they end up somewhat ok but this is a lot of unknown (lol) anticipation).#ep 154 and they both make me sad. i think martin should have- well thats not the point- or rather was the point. how the tables have turned #that jon will blindly trust in martins mysterious plan as martin used to do with jon. poetic almost if they weren't both so dumb #oh 🥺🥺🥺 ep 155 and melanie...... i hope shell be ok on her own snd without sight. i think Jon is going to have to make a decision #AHAHAHAH THE EXTINCTION USING A PANDEMIC???? hahahahahah too close too home lmaoooo #oh jk. but aw Georgie and Melanie uwu. aww the admiral 🥺🥺 it's just jon huh? and helen huh :) anyway big setup for finale #i wish Helen would help im so afraid for jon. and martin. I. mmmm.whats going on alsp wow the sound editing and the music 👌👌👌#OH SHIT IS THAT THE NOT SASHA. I DONT VERY MUCH LIKE THAT AT ALL. I HOPE PETER DIES IM THIS HURTS. im nervous. my stomach hurts. why doesn'#martin care. I know WHY but im. jonah. Magnus?!?!?? WHAT THE FUCKS HAPPENING #ep 158 beginning btw. ah hi elias for once I'm glad heres here. nice sound effects....is elias ... Jonah #?? im. this is her death. i feel like this ep is going to be very intense. why do people ship peter and elias this is messed up im gonna cr #dont die he said 🥺 im so so scared.tell me basira doesn't die. or Daisy. 🥺🥺martin makes me uwu hes doing so good yes. wait wtf is happeni #jon 🥺🥺 hey so martins gone and jons definitely gonna follow him and I'm definitely crying dw about it pls i want them to talk and stuff #beginning ep 159 i am so scared and it hurts to cry bc my ribs hurt but hhh hhhhhhholy shit i think i saw a spoiler and this is where that #happens huh? im ... crying very hard rn. ngl this is a bit pretty gay. also i hate that Peter brings up really good points. my legit fears.#martin :/ he did just he really loved jon and i hurt very bad. oh no :(( wait yes jon get a statement pls be powerful now of all times this #is very hard for me. i would simply like jon and martin to be happy #perhaps together. tho i'm a little apprehensive to say that. just in case. in case it doesn't actually happen or im just crazy.#what are these background noises I'm so nervous. im so afraid of what's about to happen. the archive is jon #im so so scared. elias- jonah is a bitch. a stupid piece of shit. that thunder sounded like a trashcan. collection of scars. huh. theyre all #marks. i no longer wish jon to have so much power. Peter was a dumb shit but i hate elias with my soul. my face is sneering. NO JON DO NOT #REPEAT FUCK I NO WHY DID MARTIN LEAVE. of course the eye is the only ritual that would work. its how it would have to be. fuck.#why does jon sound. THAT LAUGH WAS NOT HUMAN or sob? im #god could you imagine having to wait after that lol

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

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hello! i hope it's okay to ask, i was wondering if you have any good merfolk/selkie tma au fic recs? i've been looking for them on ao3 but apparently i'm not very good at filtering because i can't really find anything aside from the 3 or 4 i've read already. feel free to ignore this if you don't have any or just don't feel like answering! thank you either way<3 (also i just wanted to say i love your tma fantasy week fics, i read most of them at 3am and they made me so ridiculously happy)

thank you so much! 💛💛💛 i’d be happy to give some recommendations!

i’m not sure what you’ve already read, so i’ll just include everything!

(list begins below the cut)

The Sea Calls Me Home | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: mothjons | tumblr: @mothjons

When Martin Blackwood takes a job working at Peter Lukas's estate, in the highlands of Scotland, he meets an odd man down by the shore, who looks at him like no one ever has. This man proves to be another secret Martin Blackwood must keep, for more reasons than one.

To be so sure of a love the world denies is a heavy burden to bear. But bearing it was, and will always be, a choice. And it's one that Martin has chosen.

Mer!Jon, Historical AU! One of my favorite TMA fics. Heavy on the angst but has a happy ending, and the writing is beautiful!

What Belongs to the Sea | jonelias, lonely eyes, jonmartin, rated M | Ao3: TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly | tumblr: @twodrunkencelestials, @apatheticbutterflies

“My grandmother taught me about selkies,” said the tattooed man. “Said it’s good luck for them to grace your ship. To treat ‘em right, and they’ll guide you safe.”

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to believe.

Selkie!Jon, angst with happy ending. Has darker themes, so be sure to heed content warnings! The endgame ship is jonmartin.

Breathe in the Salt | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: SqueeneyTodd

Martin Blackwood works in a lighthouse that echoes too much against a sea he doesn't care for.

The lighthouse isn't meant to have people in it.

Selkie AU focsed around mystery! Martin’s mother is a selkie and he works at a lighthouse that has some very strange happenings. Jon, Tim, and Sasha come to investigate.

as the clouds roll by | jongeorgie, jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: PitViperOfDoom | tumblr: @pitviperofdoom

If Jon had a penny for every time someone stole his coat and told him it was for his own good, he would have two pennies. It wasn't a lot, but it still happened twice.

Selkie!Jon, angst and hurt/comfort. Featuring terrible person Jurgen Leitner and Kitsune!Georgie. This is the prequel to and i won’t let you choke which is also excellent!

kith, kin and tread softly | jonmartin, timsasha, rated G | Ao3: bibliocratic | tumblr: @bibliocratic

Jon is 100%, bonafide human being before Beholding gets its hands on him.

This is not entirely true for the other members of his team.

and

Their existence narrows into endurance, survival. Knowing how hard every day is going to be and surviving it anyway, hand in unlovable hand.

Or: Despite everything, the OG Archive crew live through season 4.

Fantasy AU where Tim is a phoenix, Sasha is a mermaid, and Martin is a selkie. Featuring hurt/comfort, found family, and averted apocalypse

A Box of Sea-Scented Memories | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: ArtificialDaydreams | tumblr: @artificialdaydreamer

When Martin was a child he moved to a small town by the coast and his best friend just also happened to be a seal who loved tuna fish sandwiches, headpats, and bringing him gifts. The shoebox of treasures was practically all he took with him when he left a year later.

Jonathan Sims' childhood friend has just returned after almost twenty years spent apart. Sadly Martin doesn't recognize him, and it's not like Jon can tell him about being a selkie. It's a good thing Martin has a lot of experience talking with seals, and Jon's an excellent listener.

Selkie!Jon, childhood friends AU. Very very cute, and seeing this plot bunny come to fruition has been lovely!

It Will Set You Free | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: cinnamoniic | tumblr: @cinnamoniic

He’s heard the stories. He knows his mother wouldn’t take another step on land if she could help it, not anymore. It took a long time for him to feel comfortable walking alone on the beach without anticipating torches and pitchforks at his first footfall, skin-thieves and scoundrels looking to steal him away.

Martin’s supposed to avoid humans, but he’s never been great at resisting temptation. In the aftermath of a dreadful storm, he finds himself and his sealskin coat trapped in the home of his mysterious human crush, Jon.

Selkie!Martin, hurt/comfort. My favorite part of this fic is Martin not really understanding human things!

and, just to include some of mine:

to take the road less traveled by | polyarchives, rated G

Once upon a time, in a land divided by water and mountains and the hands of men into fourteen kingdoms, there was a prince. His name was Prince Timothy of the House of Stoker, ruling over the land of the fae, and though he was neither fae nor human, he would do as a prince should, even if his heart lay beyond, in the kingdom of ever-watching eyes. So when his father commanded him to venture beyond the land of the fae and into the spiraling forests of the Twisting Deceit, wherein lay a tower so high it was thought to touch the stars, and rescue a trapped princess from that tower, Prince Timothy donned the lightest of leather armors, plucked his bow from the armory, and left his kingdom behind in the glow of the rising sun.

Of Prince Timothy, his lovers, and a princess trapped in a tower.

Fantasy AU with Selkie!Martin (and others). A fairytale-style fic with multiple character perspectives coming together over the span of the fic.

delphinus | jonpeter, rated T

Three and a half weeks ago, Peter had packed enough supplies for four months, set sail from port, and had breathed in the salt of the sea with a relief that was as palpable upon his tongue as the taste of brine. He would cast a net over the side of his ship and inspect its contents for anything that might spark his interest (or, on occasion, make a sum of money). More often, though, he simply released the mass of wriggling fish back into the sea and settled for watching the sun dip below the horizon, with only the gentle rocking of the boat to keep him company.

Two and a half weeks ago, Peter had pulled the net over the side of his fishing boat, straining at the weight of it, and found a pair of sharp brown eyes staring back at him.

Mer!Jon, no fear entities AU. In which Peter is not as terrible as he is in canon and there is an approximation of fluff.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic rec list #anon #ask #i wasn't sure what ships you liked so i just included everything #feel free to ignore some if they make you uncomfortable!

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years ago

Text

If That’s What it is

A difficult reunion. cw for strained friendships.

Tim doesn’t remember how to be friends.

The was never the one… He could fake it… once. Or maybe he really was like that. Was he ever as friendly as people seemed to think? Was he just filling a roll? Covering for his hurt? Where does the facade end?

It doesn’t help matters that this is Jon. Jon. How can he rebuild bridges long set on fire then torn down then had both sides bricked over and a cemetery developed between the halves.

Sat on opposite ends of the couch in the quiet of a London flat.

The distance of a few handspans may as well be a journey of a thousand steps.

It may as well be made of pages of misdeeds, or the longest novels written stacked end to end and must be read to cross.

Why is he even here?

It was fine when he… what did he even think?

That Jon had gone full monster? That he intentionally ended the world? That he died trying to prevent whatever the fuck that was? That he simply died years before, maybe when Tim supposedly had. He doesn’t know what he thought but he had deniability, for whatever that was worth.

Jon keeps opening his mouth, as if to speak, but shuts it tightly every time.

This isn’t the first attempt. Nor is it the second.

Just… the most awkward, as hard as it was to beat the previous encounters.

Encounter one:

Scene: the grocery store.

Enter Tim, minding his own damn business with his headphones in. Loud enough that he can actually hear it, even if it means just about everyone else in the store can hear it too. Probably should be paying more attention to his surroundings as he runs into someone when he’s trying to buy peanut butter. The someone probably says ‘oof,’ but Tim can’t hear it.

“Sorry, mate.” He offers a bit of an apologetic smile. (Smiling has gotten easier, but… But not as easy as it was.)

He doesn’t plan to meet the eyes of whoever he ran into, but even he can hear the squeak when the someone, Martin, catches sight of him properly.

“TIM?”

Oh shit. It’s Martin. Martin Blackwood. Martin K. Blackwood. Archival assistant. (Does he count as a one night stand if the “one night” was over two weeks on in the nightmarish magical mystery ride of the Distortion’s hallways?) Friend? Abomination apologist. Friend. …Yes, a friend who thinks Tim is very very dead.

Martin’s shopping is on the ground, and without thinking, Tim has helped Martin to the ground and is pushing his head between his knees to stave off what is shaping up to be a panic attack.

Tim hasn’t even paused his music.

It’s still blaring something irritatingly of the wrong mood into his ears.

Once Martin has his breath back, he starts signing furiously.

And Tim has to stand back stunned at the barrage affection and anger and resentment and relief, and off balance that Martin still remembers the sign he learned for Tim.

He leaves without his peanut butter, and with a coil of guilt deep in his gut, with nothing to curb the ringing in his ears because he can’t tolerate music right now, and an address and a number ‘only if he is ready to step on his anger and listen to Jon, for once.’ He hadn’t even gotten a word in. He hadn’t even told him that Sasha was alive.

Just been yelled at in a grocery store.

Encounter two:

Scene: A Living Room, night.

“Jon isn’t here.” Martin tells him this before even letting him in. “He knows you are, but he isn’t here. He’s having dinner with some other teachers in his department. It’s just us.” Martin’s signing this.

Tim is wearing his hearing aids, but Martin is signing anyhow. Maybe it’s easier for him to get it out through that halfway-to-icy expression on his face. Maybe it’s out of coldness, but Tim can’t help but feel a warmth deep in his chest that Martin remembered the BSL he labored over when he was assigned to the archives.

Tim swallows hard around the hope and bitterness and anger and regret and longing. He nods. “Thanks for having me.” He signs quietly.

Martin ushers him in, and hands him a cup of tea. It’s still hot. It’s just how Tim takes it. And he’s sat on a squashy couch, staring at a squashy cat who is glaring at him.

Well. That seems fitting.

Cat glaring. Martin… almost glaring. No, not glaring. He’s got his own tea. And he is sipping it, giving a very chilly look to the poor wall.

Tim takes in the photos on the wall, while avoiding Martin’s eyes. All Polaroids. There’s Jon and Martin in Martin’s ratty looking jumpers (ones that were significantly more new when they first met) standing in the countryside squashed together and laughing their assess off. Jon in oversized wellies, covered in mud, facing off against a cow. Jon standing in the shallows of a pond, looking peacefully into the distance. Martin asleep, in a rustic bedroom, golden morning light spilling across his lax and happy face. There is a frame containing the Litany Against Fear from Dune. A frame with a page from Slaughterhouse Five. …A frame with a picture of a young and unsecured Jon looking grumpy, a young and happy and probably drunk Tim with an arm slung around him, and an arm around Sasha who is giving a blushing Martin bunny ears. That one has a place of honor. It’s a little worn looking, but in a way that makes it clear it survived a lot… the end of the world, in fact.

Seeing it hits Tim square in the chest. It hurts.

Martin finishes his tea and turns towards Tim.

“So.”

Tim puts his nearly cool tea down on the coffee table. The squashy cat keeps glaring at him from an equally squashy arm chair. He faces Martin, but can’t quite meet his eye. Martin is waiting for him to talk.

“Didn’t die. Thought I would. Thought I had. Didn’t. Walked away. Got a job. I… I uh. Found Sasha. Stranger had fucked her up pretty badly, so don’t be mad at her for not calling, she had a lot of trouble remembering and being remembered. Survived the apocalypse. Got on with life, or tried to. Got some therapy.”

He braces himself for the impact. He’s mentioned Sasha over text, but still. Not to mention, it’s all a lot.

Martin’s jaw tightens.

“Thought you could just, let me think you died? Tim, the only person who came back from the Unknowing was Basira. The only one. Call me selfish, but you died, Jon essentially died, we thought Daisy had died. Then my mother died too. I know you had your head up your ass, but do you know what that did to me? Yeah, sure, great, you got out. Whoop-de-fucking-do. You could have called. Or texted. Or sent a letter. Anything! And you know what? Partly it was a relief, because at least I thought you were happy. Or at peace. Or at the very least you wouldn’t be there to harass Jon anymore. But you all died. It was just me. Everyone I cared about was dead. Six month Jon was dead. And no, don’t you dare get on Jon’s case about that. He mourned you. He still is mourning you. He’s been walking on air since you and Sasha… Tim, I swear, if you hurt him… If you hurt him again, you will regret it. You will only see him if you are ready to listen. You don’t have to forgive, but you are not allowed to be cruel.”

Tim doesn’t have a single doubt. “I… I’ve missed him. I’m sorry.”

“No yelling, no grabbing, no sudden movements, nothing passive aggressive. And I will be in the next room and so help me, if you scare him…”

Martin lets the threat hang.

It hurts. It isn’t anything he’s ever gotten from Martin. Didn’t think Martin had enough of a spine for it. …But. But he guesses when everyone dies(? he has a lot of questions, but it doesn’t look like Martin is in the right headspace to answer them, and Tim might not be either. His breathing is uneven and his face is hot and he isn’t sure if he wants to break something or cry or scream or maybe just repaint his and Sasha’s home all in one go.)… Well… he doesn’t have to guess. He knows exactly what that can do to a person. And it isn’t pretty. He feels the guilt coiling again. He wants to tear it out and stomp on it. But… but he guesses, the guilt can guide him. He needs to do right by the people that used to be his friends. The people he’s missed every day since he got his head on straight with extensive therapy and a variety of coping mechanisms.

The scene: The same squashy couch, in the same quiet flat.

The squashy cat is in Jon’s lap. The cat is glaring, and Jon is staring at him with those giant, hopeful, tired, guilty eyes. Haunted and rimmed in shadow, as ever.

He knows Martin is in the next room, ready to step in if he needs to.

All Tim needs to do… is reach out.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #tim stoker #timothy stoker #martin blackwood #hoh tim #cw strained friendships #reunions #fic #my words #my fic

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lycanlovingvampyre · 2 years ago

Text

MAG 106 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: putting up a new fence

Hearing the episode title I somehow already suspected this could be a space one...

Huh... The spinning of the tape breaks off there for a moment after Melanie's clap (1:21). I never noticed this. Probably always thought it was a brief loading error. Thought it now too at first, but I went back to check.

"More than large enough for the swell of humanity to grow, and ultimately extinguish itself." Hm, a touch of the Extinction there?

"and when I think of it too deeply, I feel like I’m going to throw up. Like a sort of existential vertigo." Yeah, I know this feeling. When I try to think of things which are incomprehensible for me I get this weird feeling and feel dizzy.

"I knew that if it chose to cry out, it would have destroyed me utterly." The Vast is the most cosmic of all horrors of the Entities. This literally sounds like an Old One.

"And I wish that I could convince myself that ignorance was the same thing as safety." Louder, for Jon in S1!

Although this is a statement with a lot of rambling and very little actually happening (and usually I simply cannot follow those kind of statements) I absolutely love this one. I'm not only afraid of heights and I hate falling (generally avoid rides with a drop at theme parks), the aspect of one's own insignificance compared to the sheer size of the universe really gets to me, but also fascinates me.

Nice to see that the rest of the archival team is actually helping Martin with the statements.

MELANIE: "Also, I um, I can’t find Jan Kilbride." Sounds like he has been swallowed up by the earth! *badum tss*

BASIRA: "Yeah, it’s, it is not cool down here." MELANIE: "Summer in the basement, I suppose." Is it really hot in some basements in the summer? Because mine is always cool. Very comfortable in summer, too cold in winter.

BASIRA: [ugh] "That boy needs to relax." MELANIE: "Or at least find someone else to fuss over!" BASIRA: "Yeah, he’s got it bad." This is top quality office gossip!

BASIRA: "Do you know if he and Jon ever…" MELANIE: "No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t." BASIRA: "Like, at all?" MELANIE: "Yeah." First of all, Georgie randomly telling a mutual that Jon is ace, it that allowed? Second, Melanie randomly telling a mutual (and co-worker!) that Jon is ace... General opinion on the confirmation of an ace character: Yay!!! I don't really know what to think of confirmation happening by mentioning it in bonus material, a lot of people probably won't catch it that way, so having it in the main canon story is great! Then, yeah, it's kind of hard to reveal it when sex isn't really a topic in itself in the story. It comes up very rarely in statements, implied with Tim and towards the end with Georgie and Melanie. So how do you touch upon a topic that isn't really a topic? Have people talk about it and I think the gossip was a good way to handle that. The benefit of the gossip and especially the circumstance of who is telling it makes it vague to leave room for interpretations so people can put him anywhere on the spectrum. The vagueness of certain story points is doing a great service for fan content in my opinion. As someone who asked themself why I had not yet come across proper ace representation in fiction, hearing of poor little meow meow Jon being ace made me so happy!

BASIRA: "No way. I used to love that show. I mean, the first couple of seasons, at least. Took a weird turn in season three, when they introduced –" I heard this may be again a reference to The Black Tapes?? Yes, no, maybe?

ELIAS: "Whatever I’m planning needs to be stopped even if it cost a few lives. Including your own." That's very Gertrude-y of Melanie. Except for the part of risking her own life, that's very Slaughter-y.

Ben's voice acting is so on point!

When I heard Ivy Meadows I immediately knew, this is going to be bad. I remembered very well that this was the care home from MAG 36.

So that knowledge-insertion torture... THAT was the moment I finally decided "Holy shit... Elias really is evil!"

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 106 #tma #tma spoilers

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staysaneathome · 3 years ago

Text

This Was Not A Dare, Reigen

Jon glares at each of the— the suspects traitors in front of him, tape recorder clutched tight in one hand.

Martin, wringing his hands uselessly, eyes wide and beseeching. Tim, fists clenched hard enough for his knuckles to go white and returning his gaze with a death stare of his own. Sasha, arms folded to form a barrier between Jon and herself, expression a perfect mask of concern. Reigen, radiating disappointment in every one of his gestures and quips. Elias, eyes weary, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Some intervention this is turning out to be.

Jon wants to scream. Wants to reach out and shake someone, anyone, until they admit he’s making sense and it’s the rest of the world that’s gone mad.

Every single one of them (except Martin) could’ve killed Gertrude. He knows he has no proof that they did, but he has no proof that they didn’t either, can’t they see that? If they don’t want him to suspect them, it should be easy for them to actually give him proof of their innocence (like Martin did), instead of just repeating platitudes of “you know this isn’t acceptable adult behavior, Jon” and “you’re better than this, Jon”.

Who cares about knowing better or acceptable behavior when it’s your very life on the line? He’s half tempted to throttle the con artist, see how dignified or adult he is when he’s the one with a murderer on his tail!

…Not that Jon is a murderer. It’s just the principle of the thing, is all.

“Jon,” Elias says, tone soothing in all the ways he doesn’t want it to be. “This is absurd. This goes far beyond an unhealthy work environment. I’ll admit it’s partly my fault for letting it get this bad, I should have intervened earlier.”

Reigen cuts in with a hand gesture that is as effusive as it is dismissive. “That doesn’t make his behavior okay, Bouchard-san. It may be bad here, but Jon chose to follow me, Tim and Sasha, and yell at Martin, rather than going to the police or paying a detective, like Herlock Sholmes or something.”

Jon sputters. “Wh- It’s Sherlock Holmes, not—and he’s fictional!”

Reigen blinks sleepily, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Jon all but shouts, rapidly reconsidering his stance on braining the sardonic little git with his tape recorder. “Don’t you even—an-and you’re deflecting again! Just like with your ridiculous ‘haunted gun’ nonsense!”

“I’m not!” Reigen says, clearly deflecting. “I’ve seen this kind of thing loads of times as the number one psychic. When a weapon kills lots of people over 100 years, the bad energy gets bigger and bigger until the gun grows an evil spirit and is hungry—”

“I refuse to believe Gertrude Robinson was murdered by a sentient blunderbuss!!”

“Be that as it may,” Elias interrupts, shooting them both a stern frown. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about, Jon. Given how badly it’s affected your work ethic, I will be taking direct action to ensure it does not continue.”

Jon can feel his shoulders hunch almost against his will, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of whatever punishment is about to be unjustly inflicted on him.

Only Martin looks half as worried as he feels, glancing between him and Elias nervously. By contrast, Tim looks downright triumphant, smirk nasty and vindictive. Sasha’s somewhere between those two, not openly celebrating his soon-to-be-downfall, but not acting like she’d lift a finger on his behalf either, though he’s unsure why that feels like it should surprise him. She’s always been as neutral as Switzerland.

Reigen, oddly enough, has more in common with Martin than with Tim. He’s staring at Elias like he’s waiting for a bit of news he knows he won’t like.

Jon thinks he’d appreciate that more if he wasn’t about to be unfairly lambasted simply for trying to stop a murderer and bring justice for an old woman who probably died frightened and alone. Much like Jon probably will once he’s been hobbled by whatever Elias is about to say next.

“Such as by restricting access to the archives from members of the public who are ultimately doing you more harm than good.”

…Wait.

What?

“What?!” Tim, Martin, and Sasha echo.

Reigen glances between them all, blinking in confusion.

Jon shares the sentiment entirely. His punishment is…for someone else to be removed from the archives? Someone he doesn’t employ or even like that much, no less?

He must have misheard, surely.

Though maybe not, given how Tim looks aghast, glancing between Elias and Reigen. “Okay, no, Reigen’s clearly not the problem here—”

“I’m very sorry, Tim, but Jon has made several remarks about the disruptive nature of Mr. Arataka’s presence in the archives.” Elias sighs. “From the arguments like the one we just witnessed to the nonsensical purchases of oddities inspired by his presence, such as Duolingo subscriptions,” Meaningful glare at Jon who resists the urge to clutch his phone guiltily, “That are now billed on the Archives’ expenses, it unfortunately seems as though he is dragging down productivity for all of you as an active stressor.”

“But we’re much better equipped to take statements from people who don’t speak English because of that!” Martin protests, stepping forward. “Isn’t it an advantage to have a more, more international perspective for our work?”

“One positive in a sea of negatives does not an advantage make.” Elias says, sounding infuriatingly like he’s misquoting something. “And really Martin, how realistic is it that this would help in more than a few isolated cases? I expected better from you.”

Martin’s face crumples, and his shoulders hunch, making himself smaller.

Jon finds his own mouth opening to—what? Say something? What would he even say?

Luckily, Sasha intervenes before he can dig his own grave further. “That’s as may be, but he’s a wonder for morale. He and Jon are funny, not anything serious, and I don’t think we’d have come to you about Jon‘s behavior unless he encouraged us to—”

“Which only fits into the delusion where Jon feels an outsider is rallying his subordinates against him, which is not good for his paranoid outlook.” Elias replies calmly. “And it’s never a healthy work environment when one employee feels the others are making them the butt of a joke.”

“I’d say that’s not as bad as when the boss feels he has the right to violate everyone’s privacy whenever he wants to just ’cause he’s feeling sad!” Tim growls.

Elias begins to answer, before Reigen finally speaks up.

“Sorry,” The con artist says carefully. “But you are…«I know this one…» banning me from the Archives? Yes?”

“That is the long and short of it, yes.” Elias says, grudgingly

“Why?” Reigen challenges, eyes hard and searching. “What have I, personally, done that’s wrong here? What behavior do I need to correct?”

There’s a moment of silence. The whirring of the tape recorder sounds uncomfortably loud.

“Mr. Arataka, are you currently under the employ of the Magnus Institute?” Elias asks, brow furrowed.

“Ah, no, no, but—”

“Are you looking to become employed by the Institute at this point in time, as a prospective member of the Archival Staff?” He fires off rapidly.

“Su-Sorry, but if you could just go a little slower—”

“Then I am afraid that unless you’re looking to fill out an employment contract or a Statement form, we cannot help you, Mr. Arataka.” Elias spreads his hands wide. “We are an academic institution, a place of research and learning. The Institute cannot allow for social dalliances on company time, especially not when those visits are negatively contributing to the work environment and the wellbeing of our staff.”

Tim throws up his hands, “I-I cannot believe this!”

Reigen’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment.

“Arataka is my…what do you call it? First name?” He says, at last. “Using it in this context is…inappropriate. Please call me Reigen, if you would, Bouchard-san.”

“Of course. My mistake, Mr. Reigen.” Elias does have the decency to look somewhat abashed. “Though, regrettably, I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises within the next twenty minutes, or I will be forced to call security.”

Reigen nods, jerkily, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Jon almost wants to call out to the fraud as he turns to go, grab him by the shoulder, pick another argument, something. He knows he should be happy, be glad that this thorn in his side will finally stop bothering him, but instead he just feels—befuddled. Off-kilter.

What happened to the man who once spent three hours arguing for the “spiritual effectiveness” of entirely performative and useless rituals, saying that ensuring his clients left his office fooled and contented was better than actually uncovering genuine supernatural forces and learning all there was to know about them? Why is he going so-so easily now, when he’s made Jon fight tooth and nail in every debate he’s had with the so-called psychic?

At the door, the con man pauses.

“Bouchard-san. You said I could come back if I had a statement to give?”

Elias shifts in his seat, looking bemused. “W-well, yes. That is a service we do provide. Of course, the statement would have to be genuine, and verifiable as such before we let you back into the Archives.”

“We don’t even do that for most of the rubbish we do take,” Tim mutters under his breath, and though Jon is glad he’s not the one being shot a quelling look, he does have to agree.

The con man turns back.

He’s got that smirk on his face that immediately puts Jon’s hackles up on instinct, prepared to argue against whatever inane point he’s come up with now to defend his phony psychic title.

“Gotcha.” Reigen says, far too cheerfully. «Ja ne.»

Then he strolls out of the office, as cool as a cucumber.

Jon could even swear he hears him whistling as he makes his way down the stairs.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“I’d do him.” Sasha pipes up, unhelpfully.

“Sasha!” Martin hisses, scandalized. “D-don’t you have a, a—”

“Oh, I don’t have to worry about that.” She remarks, far too blasé for someone in a newly committed relationship. “Tom’s heard about him too, and he agreed he’s just our type.”

“And I’m not?” Tim jokes, but there’s a hard edge to it that Jon’s found himself increasingly familiar with in the past few weeks.

Sasha shrugs with a mischievous little smile, as if that mattered very little to her.

Elias coughs. “Right. Well. Whatever your relations to Mr. Reigen are, please try to limit them to outside the workplace in future.”

The rest of the intervention is surprisingly subdued. Elias gives Jon access to the footage from the cameras in the rest of the Institute, and Tim bodychecks him on the way out of the office, muttering about how nice it must be to never face any consequences for his actions. Sasha follows, the way she won’t meet his eyes a condemnation in its own right.

Even Martin doesn’t say anything to him, just bites his lip and hurries past back down to the Archives. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t.

Even as he settles in to watch and rewatch the CCTV records of Gertrude’s last week alive, Jon can’t shake the ridiculous feeling of foreboding that’s dogged him since Reigen left.

Most of him wants to say it comes from the fact that despite the fact that Reigen has not appeared in any of the camera records for the Magnus Institute before he started his term as Head Archivist in 2016, isn’t banning him from the Archives just letting the con man run around London with impunity, with no way for Jon to ascertain his movements or motives? That instead of solving a problem, Elias has just given a potential murderer free reign to escape?

But a small part of Jon, one that never could deny the sensation of being watched, that is frozen in second-hand terror whenever he reads a Statement, knows, Knows that it this stems more from the idea that the fraud will actually accomplish what Elias has unwittingly challenged him to do.

The illogical but pervasive surety that he will do so.

Jon’s not sure if he’s more afraid that Reigen Arataka will vanish entirely, another unfortunate victim become an unsolved mystery.

Or that he’ll come back, and bring whatever he’s managed to unearth on his insane quest with him.

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toosicktoocare · 4 years ago

Text

No one asked for this— I just wanted to write how recording statements is actually starting to get to Martin more than he lets on.

Setting: S3 with soft JonMartin.

(Currently taking prompts for The Magnus Archives!)

Tim’s walking toward the door of the archives, though, he isn’t quite sure why because he doesn’t plan on recording a statement. He can’t explain why, but whenever he reads the curved, old, faded letters of a statement, a foul taste coats the back of his tongue. One of the “perks” of this job, he assumes.

Still, he finds, more often than not, that he’s oddly drawn toward the archives, that, during his aimless wandering throughout the day, he always ends up outside the archives door. Most of the time, he doesn’t open the door, but a few times, he’s found himself in the archives, staring blankly at a statement almost as if in a trance.

He stops before the closed door, hand frozen in the air just before the doorknob. He can hear a voice filtering softly through the small gap at the bottom of the door, and he drops his hand to his side and leans forward, listening closely.

Martin, he concludes almost immediately. He can hear Martin reading through the ending of a statement, his voice slightly darker, almost edging the line of an unknown, furious passion, as if he’s the one who wrote the statement originally. But, when the statement ends, he can hear Martin let out a long, shuddering breath, and then Martin’s stuttering through his final thoughts, his voice barely above a whisper and cracking every few words.

Tim’s muscles twitch with a muted need to open the door, to try and bring comfort to Martin, especially since Martin’s been appearing rather zombie-like over the last few days, paler than normal and almost dazed. But, just as quickly as the feeling flicks across his bones, it disappears because how can he bring comfort when he, himself, is unwillingly to accept comfort?

He breathes through a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping against the low breath. He may not know how to help Martin, not with the Institute bearing down on him, but he knows who will.

***

Jon’s lost within a statement, his mind wrapped around the cursive words on the paper in front of him, when his phone begins buzzing insistently beside his leg, promptly scaring The Admiral off the couch.

He expects Georgie or Martin. He even begrudgingly expects Elias, but what he doesn’t expect is to see Tim’s name flashing across the screen. He makes a split second, conscious decision to keep the tape recorder on as he answers the phone, heart already taking to a too quick thump against his ribs.

“T-Tim,” he stutters in lieu of greeting, voice echoing the surprise etched across his face.

“Jon.”

Tim’s voice, as it has been for weeks now, is cold, indifferent, and Jon’s heart falters slightly.

“How, um, how are you?” There’s a long sigh on the other line.

“I didn’t call for a friendly chat, Jon.”

While Jon didn’t expect Tim’s call, he’s not surprised by Tim’s tone, by Tim’s attitude toward him. Still, he can’t keep the wave of muted defeat and guilt that washes over him, and he sinks back against the couch, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“Why did you call then?” Another, longer sigh follows, and he swears he can hear the cogs turning in Tim’s mind.

“It’s Martin.”

Jon bolts forward, body tensing around the two words, and his fingers tighten around his phone. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?” He begins to mentally curse himself for not doing more to keep his staff safe as numerous, grim scenarios cross his mind.

“He’s fine. Well, actually, he’s not. But he’s not hurt or anything.”

Jon struggles to decipher Tim’s words, seeing it as some foreign code he simply doesn’t have the time time crack. He can feel panic lacing the edge of his mind, and it mirrors in his tone. “Get on with it, Tim. What’s wrong with Martin?”

“It’s the statements.”

Tim pauses, voice quiet on the other line, and Jon presses his phone a little harder to his ear, waiting with bated breath.

“He’s not you, Jon. He can’t just read one then move onto the next one. I think they are really starting to get to him. He doesn’t seem well.”

Each word is heavier than the previous, and Jon can feel the weight against his chest, an unseen pressure pushing past his ribs to his lungs and heart. It’s a cold feeling, and he unconsciously shivers.

“I can’t... You need to talk to him.”

Though Tim doesn’t say it aloud, Jon knows what’s gone unsaid, and he mentally supplies the unspoken conclusion of Tim’s sentence: ‘Because this is your fault.’

“Of course,” he mutters into the phone, already pressing stop on the tape recorder and getting to his feet, determination breaking the pressure in his chest. “Is there...?”

“No. Nothing else.”

Tim goes silent on the other end, but he doesn’t end the call, and Jon takes a moment to pause where he’s been shoving his feet into a pair of boots and just hang onto the notion that Tim’s still there, that maybe he hasn’t given up on him completely.

“Right.” Tim clears his throat. “Bye, Jon.”

The call drops, and Jon pockets his phone with a faltering frown, confused, but, for the first time in a long time, slightly hopeful for Tim sounded just a smidge more normal toward him in those last three words.

***

Jon’s made it to the archives door relatively unseen. Though, he’s aware that Elias knows he’s here without having seen the man, and he did share a silent, mutual nod with Tim when they crossed paths a few moments ago.

On the other side of the closed door, he can hear Martin mumbling through his final thoughts on a statement, picking up on the evident, tired frustration laced within his tone. His stomach twists uncomfortably, and, as he’s been on the other side of this door one too many times, he knocks, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wood.

“Oh, um, c-come in.”

Jon pushes the door open, holding one hand out when Martin jumps to his feet, knocking some papers over in the process.

“Jon!”

“Careful,” Jon says quickly, stepping into the room fully.

“Sorry,” Martin’s voice falls slightly, his cheeks going pink. “Why are you here? Er, well, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. Don’t get me wrong, Jon. I’m happy you’re here... Well, I’m happy to see you, I mean. Just,” Martin pauses, hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt, “what brings you here today? Need more statements?”

Jon takes a moment to drag his eyes from the dark circles casting shadows underneath Martin’s eyes, up to his rumpled hair, looking as if he’s spent far too long raking his fingers through it, and to his eyes, meeting the wide, almost panicked look that makes his heart sink low into his stomach. He’s sure that he’s been on the reverse side of this countless times, and he briefly considers apologizing to Martin for putting him through this so many times.

Without fully working through his thoughts, he spits out the first, coherent word. “Lunch.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Martin steps around the desk, rubs one hand over the back of his neck.

“Lunch,” Jon repeats. He clears his throat. “Would you... Do you want to join me for lunch?”

“Oh. Oh! Um...” Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and if Jon weren’t completely worried about his health and mental well-being, he would consider smiling.

“Sure! Yeah. Lunch sounds great.”

***

Jon opts for a small diner that’s about a ten minute walk from the Institute. It’s quiet when they slip inside, the lunch rush not quite kicking in yet, and they’re quick to put in their orders when a nice waitress greets them at their table, a corner booth a bit away from wandering ears.

They take to small, mindless chatter at first, with Martin doing the bulk of the talking. He talks about the staff, Elias, a movie he watched the other night, a new convenience store that’s opened close to his flat, but when their food arrives, Jon takes very quick note to Martin picking up and setting down fries without actually eating anything.

“You aren’t eating.”

Martin flushes a soft pink, and he bows his head slightly. “Oh, sorry! I’m not that hungry.” His voice grows soft with the admittance, and Jon frowns, ignoring his burger entirely.

“Are you alright, Martin?”

“What? Of course!” As if to further prove his point, he shoves a fry in his mouth with a forced smile.

Jon considers his options, finally working through the fact that the truth will most likely yield better results. “Tim called,” he says, and Martin raises a brow.

“Have you two made up?”

“Not exactly,” Jon mutters lowly. “He’s worried about you. He thinks the statements are starting to... get to you.”

“Oh, I’m fine!”

Jon can see right through Martin, reading his practiced, light-hearted attitude like an open book. He sighs quietly, finger absently smoothing around the rim of his tea cup.

“Martin, I know how hard this job is. You can... I want you to know that you can talk to me.” He picks his words carefully, not wishing to push Martin under the pressure of compulsion.

And yet, Martin all but deflates across from him, and Jon’s hand twitches with a jolting need to reach out to him.

“I really am trying, Jon. It’s just... Some of the statements... I don’t know how you do it,” Martin admits. “Each one brings this chilly fear that I can’t shake. It follows me home.” He pauses, eyes casting to the table. “I’ve been dreaming about the statements, you know? Nightmares really.” He laughs weakly. “It’s a bit embarrassing, but I’ll wake up screaming. I’m a bit worried my neighbors might file a noise complaint.”

Jon’s hand stops its absent movement, instead falling to the table and curling into a tight fist. His teeth are clenched tightly, and the anger that floods his mind bleeds down to his chest, burning against his heart.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” He can’t help the demanding tone. He only hopes that Martin will know it’s out of pure concern.

“I didn’t want to worry you! You’ve had so much going on. The murder... the kidnapping! The last thing I want to do is whine to you about how some of the statements scare me!”

“You’re...” Jon sucks in a shuddering breath and holds it in his lungs, unsure of what’s the correct thing to say, lost for words as he’s so used to spitting out sentences that were written for him. He knows that he wants to assure Martin that his feelings are completely valid and that his fear is justified. He knows that he wants to run back to the institute and slam Elias into a wall. He knows that he wants-

“-Jon? Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

The breath Jon lets out is long, uneven, but it helps to ease the prickling, hot anger. “You need to tell me when you’re feeling overwhelmed with the job. I know I’m not there, but I’m still the archivist.”

The label is sour on his tongue, but it’s what he knows needs to be said. “Believe me, Martin, when I tell you that this is not a job you can do alone.” He wishes, in that moment, that it is a job he could do alone, that he could relieve his staff of their duties without any consequences, but he can’t. So, he’s stuck with the next best thing.

“So, you have to let me help you.” Martin’s gone still across from him, mouth agape slightly, and Jon’s just considering that he somehow broke Martin when Martin finally clears his throat.

"Okay.”

Jon’s not sure if it’s a trick of the poor lighting in the diner, but Martin’s pale face looks a bit better, taking to a soft pink color, and unconsciously, Jon reaches out, cupping his rough palm atop Martin’s hand.

“Call me, Martin. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, if you need me, call me. I want to help.”

Jon’s not sure how, but he’s verbalizing what Martin’s been saying to him through looks alone since he first because the archivist. It’s an odd feeling being on the other side, being the one who’s deeply concerned for another. He pulls his hand back when Martin gives it one, tight squeeze.

“I will,” Martin whispers, and Jon smiles, soft, but unabashedly genuine, and the wide, open smile Martin returns momentarily takes Jon away from every single worry.

For just a moment, it’s just Jon and Martin sitting in a small diner, and Jon clings to that.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #rusty quill tma #tma fanfic #my writing #my tma writing #jon/martin #hurt/comfort #fan work #emotional hurt/comfort

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