"John!" Martin cries again, and the fog answers him with brutal celerity, pouring into his mouth, filling his lungs to choke him. It does not wish to hurt him, he knows that; it does not like to punish, would rather comfort and hold. But he has ignored its directive too many times now, allowed the Archivist in, and that will not go unanswered.
Martin feels himself surrendering by degrees, losing the will to fight against the bitter wind that holds him fast, the smothering despair that threatens to drown him; maybe he falls to his knees, maybe it's more metaphysical than that. It doesn't really matter if there's no one here to see.
When the world rips apart, it's not like it was before, the sinking ship, the devouring sea. This time it does not collapse inward, but is breached from without. Martin sees - he doesn't understand what he sees. A swirling display of impossible celestial bodies, each one an eye, unraveling and exploding outward from a singular point of orbit. The point originates from everywhere; this is impossible, but that's what it does. The eyes are looking everywhere, in every direction at once; this, too, is impossible, and yet. They seek and search until, in harmonious unison, they find him. They surround him, pushing back the storm, and as the fog drains rapidly out of him, a pent up scream escapes along with it.
There are slender hands upon him, long-fingered and delicate, drawing him in; arms that enfold him, fitting close against his back; a looming body that curls over him in a protective embrace. The wind, the fog, the oceanic squall, it remains, raging, trying to reach him, but he can feel it break upon the back of the body that holds him, anchoring him here to this lighthouse of a man.
Huddled against a narrow chest, Martin looks up, blinking away mist and salt-spray like he's emerging from darkness into light, though there is little light here. John looks down at him. John looks down at him. He speaks, bewildered, human, and Martin has no time to panic or recoil or have any idea what to do with his hands before John vanishes as abruptly as he'd come.
The storm settles. The fog encroaches. Martin does fall this time, crumpling softly to his knees on the quiet deck of a wooden ship in a cold, familiar sea. The fog curls back over him, reproachful and weak, an animal licking its wounds. It holds him, it comforts. It reaches into his heart and tries to tell him he's been abandoned. The sentiment rings hollow; Martin knows better than that. But he also knows it doesn't matter. It's better this way. There is no reason to be afraid.
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Martin feels himself surrendering by degrees, losing the will to fight against the bitter wind that holds him fast, the smothering despair that threatens to drown him; maybe he falls to his knees, maybe it's more metaphysical than that. It doesn't really matter if there's no one here to see.
When the world rips apart, it's not like it was before, the sinking ship, the devouring sea. This time it does not collapse inward, but is breached from without. Martin sees - he doesn't understand what he sees. A swirling display of impossible celestial bodies, each one an eye, unraveling and exploding outward from a singular point of orbit. The point originates from everywhere; this is impossible, but that's what it does. The eyes are looking everywhere, in every direction at once; this, too, is impossible, and yet. They seek and search until, in harmonious unison, they find him. They surround him, pushing back the storm, and as the fog drains rapidly out of him, a pent up scream escapes along with it.
There are slender hands upon him, long-fingered and delicate, drawing him in; arms that enfold him, fitting close against his back; a looming body that curls over him in a protective embrace. The wind, the fog, the oceanic squall, it remains, raging, trying to reach him, but he can feel it break upon the back of the body that holds him, anchoring him here to this lighthouse of a man.
Huddled against a narrow chest, Martin looks up, blinking away mist and salt-spray like he's emerging from darkness into light, though there is little light here. John looks down at him. John looks down at him. He speaks, bewildered, human, and Martin has no time to panic or recoil or have any idea what to do with his hands before John vanishes as abruptly as he'd come.
The storm settles. The fog encroaches. Martin does fall this time, crumpling softly to his knees on the quiet deck of a wooden ship in a cold, familiar sea. The fog curls back over him, reproachful and weak, an animal licking its wounds. It holds him, it comforts. It reaches into his heart and tries to tell him he's been abandoned. The sentiment rings hollow; Martin knows better than that. But he also knows it doesn't matter. It's better this way. There is no reason to be afraid.