Work Text:
First time he steps down from the throne, Jonah blacks out.
He comes to his senses spitting out blood and bile onto the floor, drenched in sweat and shivering. His head feels like it might split open, filled with a billion screams, a swirling mass of indistinguishable shapes and colours taking over his vision. After the exquisite agony of his time communing with the Eye, it’s an entirely new kind of pain. It feels wrong; nothing holy should be made to suffer like that. And how fitting that he should be forcibly reminded that he isn’t holy, that this part of himself is forever tied to the throne, and the crown, and the Eye. Apart from it, he is still Jonah Magnus.
Eventually, he comes to relish the thought.
***
There is little to judge the passage of time after the Change, and that suits him just fine; only an endless, agonizing, wondrous symphony of all the world’s fears, a moment stretched forever in the present. Once it begins to wear on him, he can put down the crown and reacquaint himself with the man he used to be. He alternates between Watching his ruined kingdom as a vessel of his God and wandering the tower as his own human self.
The tower abides by no apparent rules. Jonah walks its winding steps and pathways, recognizing familiar structures in between utterly alien ones. He comes across a grassy plain, feels the wind on his face and hears the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore; it stirs something inside his mind. The pieces don’t fit together until he sees the old family estate he grew up in.
The heavy front doors are just as he remembers them. He pushes them open and walks inside the quiet, dark foyer. There are pictures on the walls, old family portraits. His father watches him disapprovingly from above the fireplace in the drawing room. His face shifts before Jonah’s eyes, becoming the Ceaseless Watcher’s, his grandfather’s, his own, and then all of them at once.
Another—day? Time? He ends up in his office back at the Institute. Again, there are pictures – all three of his former hosts, Richard and James and Elias. Their eyes follow Jonah around. Or are the eye sockets empty, dripping blood onto their faces?
He turns on the computer on his desk - an old IBM, the first machine he ever owned. Then it is a modernized version, going through different iterations, before finally becoming a sleek laptop. It doesn’t go further than that; not when the progress of technology was irreversibly halted.
The screen flashes, white text on black. The names of all his employees start scrolling by, dates and faces dropping directly into his head. When they signed their contracts. When and how they died.
***
The next time, his office is just as he remembers it before the Door opened. Except Barnabas’ bones are on display, taken out of their final resting place and scattered across the floor. The skull lies in the corner of the room. Jonah picks it up and sets it down carefully on his desk. The bone had been polished smooth by the time he retrieved it from the Lonely, cold and damp from the ever-present mists; in all the time that followed, it felt slightly chilly whenever he touched it. Now, however—now he could swear it is warm, and soft, somehow, like Barnabas’ skin had been while he still lived—
He leaves the office, and doesn’t go looking for it again.
***
Another cycle – Jonah finds himself back at his London townhouse, climbing the narrow staircase onto the first floor. The door to his study is on the right; warm, yellow light spills through the narrow gap beneath it, along with gentle sounds of classical music. Chopin, he thinks automatically.
He grabs the handle but pauses once something rubs against his legs. Jonah looks down, startled, at a furry little creature, which is now pawing at the door and making longing, meowing noises.
“Where did you come from?” Jonah asks. “I’d remember having a cat.”
It feels strange, speaking out loud for the first time since the Change. Having someone to speak to.
Jonah opens the door.
The cat weaves around his legs and squeezes through the gap before it should even be possible, flowing like liquid. It is warm, its fur soft and pleasant; it feels alive even though it has no business being so. Its paws make no sound at all as it leads the way inside the study. Curiosity compels Jonah to follow.
They reach the reading nook when he hears something he honestly hasn’t expected to hear again - another voice. Soft, human, quiet. Above all else, familiar
“Oh—hello—”
Jonah pauses, suddenly unsure. From his vantage point he can see the figure reclining on the sofa, can watch as he reaches down to offer his hand for the cat to examine. The creature sniffs at it, taps it lightly with its paw, and then presses its furry little head against it. The man obliges and begins to pet it with careful, unhurried movements.
Jonah steps forward, into the warm light.
It’s Jon. Of course it’s Jon. He glances upwards, his face lighting up with a smile; his attention is back on petting the cat, but the smile is for Jonah. He is calm, relaxed, the way he seldom is in real life.
Of course. Jon wanted a cat. It wasn’t a thought he was comfortable expressing out loud, or even in the privacy of his own head; yet Jonah caught it occasionally, before it would drown in the sea of Jon’s doubts and self-hatred. Jon loved cats, but was too scared of getting one; he didn’t trust himself to take proper care of it. But then—then he wanted to move in with Elias, and the two of them could adopt one…
Except none of it ever happened. Jonah couldn’t allow him to move in. It was dangerous enough having Jon over at his house as often as he did. Every day, he risked letting him too close, risked Jon learning one too many of his secrets, risked jeopardizing all his carefully laid plans—
He stumbles, and falls. The scene around him dissolves, insubstantial as mist.
***
Next time he steps down from the throne, he doesn’t venture into the depths of the tower. The Panopticon allows him to view the entirety of this new world; he watches it with his own human eyes rather than through those of his Patron.
Many cycles pass before he follows the spiral staircase again, dreading the visions that await him. Yet he needs to see. Needs to know.
Another memory – a damp, foggy day in late November, on the grounds of the Lukas’ Estate. His wedding to Peter. It was such a bland, forgettable event, Jonah struggles to remember any of the details. He has much fonder memories of the honeymoon that followed, as he somehow managed to cajole Peter into leaving the Tundra behind and renting a sailing boat in the Caribbean.
The ceremony goes off without a hitch. Except it pains Peter to be the centre of attention for any length of time; he walks away. (Did it happen then?) Jonah follows him, but it's futile; the fog grows thicker around him, swallowing Peter's form. There is no more grass beneath his feet, just the solid concrete of a quay, abruptly giving way to the tumultuous waves of the Atlantic. He cannot walk any further, so he remains where he is, watching Peter’s ship disappear in the mist.
Jonah dismisses the vision.
He is alone in a dark corridor, a single door before him. He pushes it open and, once again, finds himself in his office.
Barnabas’ bones are still scattered; they seem worse for wear, eroded by time which isn’t supposed to pass anymore, made brittle, partially crumbled.
The cat reappears, slipping through the door behind Jonah. It strides inside, examining its surroundings. It leaps onto the desk and sniffs at the skull Jonah has left there. Then it reaches out with its paw and knocks it onto the floor.
The skull cracks open.
“Don’t do that,” Jonah snarls, picking up the damn cat. It wriggles in his grasp, twisting around like something of the Spiral, yowling loudly and trying to sink its claws in Jonah’s hand. It manages a scratch; the pain is sharp and sudden, but still he doesn’t let go.
The cat stares at him, its eyes gleaming in a strange manner. There is nothing Jonah can decipher from its expression but he gets the faint impression of its emotions, rippling through the air.
Annoyance. Confusion. Inquiry.
Jonah sighs. He isn’t sure what compels him to answer, but answer he does. Maybe he’s finally going insane. “He was a friend.”
The cat glances down at the cracked skull.
Confusion. Indifference. Hunger.
‘Prey.’
The word slices through Jonah’s mind, the way its claws might do across his skin. The wound it leaves behind isn’t deep but it is painful, searing-hot and near overwhelming.
So the creature can actually talk. Splendid.
“Whatever he was, he is long dead.”
Confusion. Annoyance. Anger—
Its teeth sink into Jonah’s hand. He yelps and lets it go; something this small shouldn’t be capable of causing him any damage at all. Yet he can see blood welling in the tiny puncture wounds, slowly dripping down onto the floor.
Well. The most likely theory is that the cat is some manifestation of the Entities. The Eye Sees everything as it is, but can hardly grasp the passage of time, or the changing of states. Something which used to be there but isn’t anymore might as well never have existed. Why should this creature understand Jonah’s memories, or care about their importance?
Jonah should not care, either. Nothing that happened before the Change matters. His plan worked; he won. All of this is an echo of a world gone by.
He puts Barnabas’ bones back in their hiding place. It doesn’t feel right to leave them scattered.
***
He Watches the world underneath him and all around him, buoyed by the endless current of Fears. Mostly, he is content to lose himself in it, let it carry him wherever. He Sees what he never could, inside the domains of the Lonely, and the Buried. He follows the winding paths of the Spiral. He Watches from behind the walls of the Panopticon, safe from scrutiny and judgement, safe from everyone except his God.
As he steps down from the throne, the cat is already there. It sits by one of the windows, its eyes on the horizon. Then it turns its head and flicks its tail, before moving inwards, towards the steps.
It sits there, waiting.
Should it be here? Lower levels of the tower may seem to shift and change, manifesting Jonah’s thoughts and memories, but the very top has always been the same: empty room, bare floor, the roof, and the circular window, with the whole entire world laid out outside of it. The throne in the middle, and the steps leading down. None of it ever held the dream-like, insubstantial quality of the lower levels. It feels real; more than real. It is, after all, the axis this new universe spins upon.
Yet the cat persists.
Impatience. Curiosity.
“What do you want?” Jonah asks.
Curiosity. Annoyance.
“I’m not in the mood.”
Indifference. Impatience.
Jonah sighs.
“Why should I humour you?” he asks. “Need I remind you that I am the king of this domain?”
Denial. Confusion.
“Then what am I?”
‘Servant.’
That manages to startle a laugh out of Jonah, before sharp pain explodes behind his eyelids, nearly blinding. Servant, indeed.
“You are of the Beholding?”
Uncertainty.
Curiosity.
Impatience.
“I sincerely doubt you will find your answers downstairs,” Jonah says. “There is nothing there except for some rather heavy-handed symbolism.”
Still, he takes the steps. The cat weaves around his legs and takes the lead, flicking its tail and pausing every once in a while to make sure Jonah is following. Its eyes gleam in the dark.
Down they go, further and further. They are back at the Institute, in the basement. Jonah isn’t particularly surprised to see the door to the Archives.
The cluttered room is where the archival assistants used to work. There are three desks, each one piled with papers, statement follow-up, personal items. It is way more disorganized than he remembers it ever being; they are all here, after all. Every single one of them left some traces of their presence. A cobweb. A blindfold, covered in blood. Tickets to the circus. Carving of a spiral in the corner of one desk. A thousand notes taken by different hands across nearly two centuries.
There are doors, many doors. There is the break room, the bathroom, the old document storage. The office of the Head Archivist. And one leads to the Archives proper; there is a susurrus, a million voices whispering at once, narrating their tales of horror; as soon as one stops, another three take its place. When he looks inside the room, the space unfolds before him. Rows upon rows of shelves, files, cassette tapes, more and more appearing even as he watches. There is a buzz of static in the air, and a shiver runs down Jonah’s spine. This is, after all, his pride and joy. His life’s work. His greatest achievement.
Or, rather, it was his greatest achievement, up until the Change. Up until Jonathan Sims.
The cat snoops around the Archive but loses interest quickly. Instead it walks up to the Head Archivist’s office and, finding the closed door, meows loudly in displeasure. It stretches up, very nearly able to paw at the handle, although what would that accomplish, Jonah isn’t sure. It extends its claws; they rake down with a horrible, high-pitched sound, leaving long, deep scratch marks in the wood.
The cat howls again. Jonah expects it to get bored after a while, but no – it continues to stare at the door, pawing, scratching, demanding entrance. Its displeasure is almost palpable, building up to a headache behind Jonah’s eyes.
Beneath the creature’s yowling, he can hear a muffled voice coming from behind the closed door. Which oughtn’t be possible – the room is sound-proofed, Jonah saw to it himself. Still, he can hardly expect this place to play by reality’s rules.
The words are unintelligible but the cadence of them is familiar. Even gripped with terror, Jon speaks with perfect diction.
Jonah opens the door, and the cat darts inside, quick as a thought. It circles the desk, and leaps onto the chair; finding it empty, it begins to pace around the room, frantic in its search.
There is no one here. A cassette player lays on the desk; Jon’s voice narrates a journey through what might be the domain of the Buried. Is it what’s happening right now? Or has it happened already? Where is he?
The cat checked every nook and now sits on the floor. It turns to glare at Jonah, its eyes filled with that eerie glow.
Confusion. Annoyance. Anger. Inquiry.
“What?”
Annoyance. Anger.
“Is this about Jon?” Jonah asks.
It reacts to Jon’s name with a strange mixture of emotion, then hisses at Jonah.
“He isn’t here. You must have known that.”
Inquiry. Confusion. Annoyance.
“What do you want with Jon?”
‘Mine’ it says; Jonah gasps, and nearly falls to his feet. ‘Servant.’
It Knows it’s hurting him. It enjoys it; he can sense the creature’s satisfaction, even amusement. Its emotions are almost palpable, but its words feel like they could tear him apart.
“I know he is your servant,” Jonah says, with some difficulty. “But he has already fulfilled his purpose.”
Insistence. Possessiveness. Curiosity. Jealousy. Hunger…
No, not quite hunger. Desire? Craving? The particulars escape him, but the message is fairly clear.
“You want Jon?”
Confirmation.
“What for?”
Hesitance. Uncertainty. Confusion.
“You don’t know,” Jonah says, mostly to himself. “Splendid.”
The cat hops onto the desk and curls around the cassette player, possibly seeking warmth, or perhaps the continuous sound of Jon’s voice. Jonah stands there for a while. It is strange to experience the world from within, mediated to him by the Archivist’s narration. Jonah has grown accustomed to viewing it from above, as a distant, impartial observer; individuals merge and shift and flow together, each a single piece of the greater symphony. He no longer has any reason to recognize individuality. But Jon clings to the details, collecting names and statements and seldom wondering how they all fit together.
Jonah leaves and closes the door behind him. As soon as he does so, Jon’s voice cuts off, leaving behind nothing but ringing silence.
***
The Eye is fixed on the Buried. It peels away layers of earth and moves through the spaces between the Entity and its victims, even when there should be no space whatsoever. It is rather like the cat in that regard, fitting wherever it wants, taking whatever shape suits its purpose.
This behaviour is strange. Jonah is, perhaps for the first time, unsure what to make of it. He alternates between Watching from the sky and following his Patron down the narrow passages deep beneath the ground, each step becoming harder, the walls pressing on him from every direction.
He drops to the floor and struggles to catch his breath. A nonsensical effort, under the circumstances, but he cannot stifle the remainders of human instinct. And they have a firm grip on him now, so he stays on hands and knees, labouring to draw in air he no longer needs. The distance between floor and roof hasn’t changed; the walls are still non-existent, offering an unobstructed view from the Panopticon. So why does it feel like they are pressing on him, still?
Something brushes against his hand. Jonah startles, before recognizing the soft fur for what it is.
“Still looking for Jon, are you?” he asks.
Confirmation. Annoyance. Frustration.
It buts its head against Jonah’s arm, urging him to move.
Jonah stands and carefully fixes his lopsided tie, the collar of his shirt, the cufflinks… The same cufflinks Jon has given him for Elias Bouchard’s birthday. Jon has agonized over his choice for weeks, and shoved them at Jonah with a sneering, acerbic expression, trying to cover his nerves with sarcasm. Jonah hasn’t really had the chance to wear them all that often. He certainly doesn’t remember putting them on – must be another quirk of the Panopticon, then.
The cat rubs against his legs and meows loudly, trying to get his attention.
“Right,” Jonah says.
He takes the throne once more. This time, he doesn’t let himself drift away; he concentrates on his task, searching—
The Eye sweeps across the Fear Domains, barely skimming their surface, Jonah acting as a lens to focus Its gaze. This way, it’s easier for It to distinguish individuals. Easier, but not by much. There are billions of people in the world, and the world is huge; it became so altered it can no longer be projected onto any map.
Fortunately, they have time. All of it, and none of it at once. And nothing left in the Domains can harm Jon anymore; the End will not have him. Just as it won’t have Jonah.
***
For the first time since the Change, Jonah sees Jon.
There is more grey in Jon’s hair, more lines in his face than Jonah remembers seeing. His clothes are worn and dirty. He wears a sweater Martin has knitted for him, too large for how thin he has become. He constantly adjusts its high collar to cover his neck and tugs on his sleeves so that they will hide the scars on his hands. There is little he can do about his face; his eyes glow with power, his voice echoes with static, compelling others even when he doesn’t mean to.
He talks less. He is very careful not to ask questions. He is trying so, so hard to pretend he is something other than he is.
Jonah cannot see too far into his mind, not from such a distance. But he doubts he would be able to pick out anything more pronounced than the sea of guilt, clinging like tar to every corner of Jon’s being. Those pesky humans he surrounds himself with aren’t helping matters, openly distrusting him, still sure, somehow, that Jon was anything but a pawn in Jonah’s plans. His apologies and explanations fall on deaf ears.
Oh, they try. They try to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the deck is too heavily stacked against Jonathan Sims. Jonah made it so.
Jonah doesn’t understand. The man is the most powerful being on this ruined Earth; more powerful than Jonah himself, not that he intends to let him find out. And yet he is terrified of every word coming out of his mouth, every time he has to face one of those frail, insignificant humans, whose existence he could extinguish with a thought. It is maddening. It is wrong.
The Eye listens to their conversations, tracks their movements, examines their thought. And Jonah learns what It has learned, the Knowledge arriving in his head:
‘Jon is coming to kill you.’
“Is that so?” Jonah asks. The cat is curled in his lap, its eyes glowing as it, too, Watches.
Anticipation. Longing. Impatience. Want.
“Quite,” Jonah says, idly stroking its soft fur. For once, they seem to be in agreement.
He also cannot wait to see Jon again.