Chapter Text
Martin had known they weren’t his friends. It wasn’t disappointing, or saddening, or even a shock to find they hadn’t considered him a friend either. It was just expected.
It had been a companionship of convenience, nothing more: Martin had been travelling north; they had been travelling north. Martin was lonely; they were kind. Everyone made new friends on the northern trails. Or so they claimed.
They had found him drinking cheap beer in a grotty pub, several unnamed villages ago. They had offered him conversation and warm smiles and Martin needed that warmth like he needed air to breathe. Two weeks he had been on the road, and for two weeks he had been Cold. Not cold; there was a difference.
It was a young man who found him, who lured him to their sides, who lent a thread of his own to the shackles around Martin’s wrists and placed a similar blindfold over his eyes. Invisible, intangible, unbreakable.
Until they broke it.
For almost a month, Martin travelled at the centre of their crew. There were at least ten of them, and at most fifty, and he was at the centre of it all. The Cold in his chest, in his bones, in his head, it lessened and he thought it good. A good sign.
They gave him food, they gave him companionship, they gave him the spot closest to the fire when the Cold rekindled, and they gave him warmth. But they did not give him friendship. And that was fine.
Until they left.
It was the Cold that woke him, and the cold. Martin opened bleary eyes to the sight of smouldering coals. He opened bleary eyes to an empty clearing, where he had closed them against ten to fifty bodies.
They had given him food, they had given him companionship, they had given him the spot closest to the fire. Now, they had left him with half a loaf of bread, a solemn resignation, and a spot closest to the ashes of a cold, dead fire.
It wasn’t disappointing, or saddening, or even a shock.
It was expected.
So Martin lay on the ground for a few seconds or perhaps an hour and stared and stared at the greying coals. Even the smoke was thinning, dying, growing cold. Martin lay with his head propped up by his bag and half a loaf of bread, and he felt himself growing Cold with it.
For a few seconds or perhaps an hour or perhaps the entire day, he lay and he watched and he waited. There was no sun this far through autumn, nothing to change the blandness of the sky he saw between the trees. It felt like that sky was watching him, too. Also waiting.
At what may have been mid-morning and may equally have been evening, Martin sat up. A thin layer of ash clung to his clothes and his hair. The cold had become unbearable, and worse than that, the malicious tendrils of real Cold had stopped their tender caressings, stabbing through his skin and bones and brain and teeth with a gleeful lack of urgency.
That, if nothing else, spurred him to collect firewood.
The Cold retreated with each branch he picked up from the edge of the clearing, but took great pleasure in pointing out the complete emptiness of his surroundings. No birds, no animals, no insects. No people and no sign that people had ever existed. No one except Martin , and who would want Martin ?
The whispers—if they were whispers—were mercifully quiet. Simply the act of blowing into the empty fire, kindling new flames from those long past, drowned out their voices. Later, the hiss of the damp wood burning, hotter and hotter, was loud enough to occupy Martin’s thoughts entirely. He stared into the flames. He waited.
The sky stared, too.
Eventually, the timeless day ended. The moment of it doing so wasn’t clear; all of a sudden, the grey sky above him was black and starless. Martin was sure he hadn’t replaced any of the firewood, but still it burnt. Still it kept him warm.
When the sky lightened once more, hours or breaths later, Martin pulled the loaf of bread from his bag and tore off a corner, remembering only belatedly that he should be hungry.
Overcome by sudden starvation, he ate it all.
And then he stared at the fire. And he waited.
Only when his waiting came to an end did Martin wonder what he was waiting for .
It was day again, though he was unsure how long it had been so far, and had little idea how long it would be until night. He wasn’t hungry, or thirsty, or tired. He hadn’t been anything for a while now. Despite the fire, the Cold was back, and although he couldn’t hear it he could feel it, deep inside.
And then he couldn’t.
There was a noise from ahead of him, from just beyond his sight. The noise came again, louder, closer. The footsteps continued to approach, slowly and steadily, until they faltered at the treeline. And then Martin, who had resolved himself to never hear another voice before his death, heard a quiet greeting. It was deafening.
“May I join you?”
Martin opened his mouth, his dry lips separating painfully, and found that he had momentarily forgotten how to speak. He nodded instead and the figure approached.
It was small, despite the deep register of its voice, and so slender Martin felt a pang of worry. It was the first real emotion he had experienced in days-weeks-years. As the stranger shuffled nearer to the fire, Martin stared at its boots. They stopped opposite him, where he sat slumped almost double to get closer to the flames, but they did not sit. Instead, a gloved hand slid from beneath the stranger’s cloak and reached out towards Martin, as if to shake his hand.
But it did not introduce itself, asking simply, “Are you ready?”
Martin frowned and found his vocal chords. “...Ready?” he roughly echoed, after a pause.
The stranger nodded, its hand not lowering an inch.
That was… unenlightening, but it did help Martin find his answer. Unexpectedly, he nodded too and reached up, his hand—cold and blue and frighteningly numb—settling into the stranger’s warm grip. Though he could not see its face, a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed him and Martin knew that he had pleased it. The knowledge sent a brief burst of anxiety through his insides.
It tugged, and in spite its small size, Martin stood easily on legs that should have immediately seized. The stranger did not let go of his hand, not until Martin had stepped forward, through the fire, to his rescuer’s side. The dead coals crunched beneath his boots. They had been cold for days.
Martin had been Cold for days.
But the stranger was warm.
Those gloved fingers burned his palm, wrist, elbow, soul. As the two of them walked away from the fire that may never have been lit, that may have never held a flame, that Martin had watched burn for timeless hours, the slight interlinking of their fingers thawed him slowly, gradually, and comfortingly. As they walked further and further from the clearing—never once speaking a word—his movements became more fluid, his thoughts were his own again:
He had never been quite so afraid.
If the stranger noticed his change in attitude, they made no mention of it.
But surely they had noticed the new tension in Martin’s shoulders, the unnatural rigidity of Martin’s hand in theirs. He had spotted them glancing up at him, every so often, but couldn’t bring himself to look back. There was nothing stopping him, he knew, and the face he glimpsed from the corner of his eye looked normal at least, even if he couldn’t make out any features. They slipped from his mind the moment he stopped focusing.
The problem was that this wasn’t Martin’s first encounter with an avatar. It wasn’t even his second. Martin was the unfortunate type; if there was danger, he tended to fall right in the middle no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.
Hence his current situation.
They were looking up at him again. Their head came just past Martin’s shoulder, their neck twisted quite obviously. If they were trying to hide their scrutiny, they were doing a fantastically poor job of it. Even if Martin had been blind, there’s no way he could have missed the heavy, weighted feeling of those eyes on him and through him and inside him.
They had been walking for nearly an hour, he and this stranger, with not a word spoken since the clearing. But now Martin remembered how to speak, how to ask questions, and he had so many of them.
The stranger’s hand burned in his, and Martin’s words burned in his throat. They walked for another hour like this, with the stranger’s fingers wrapped strong and firm around his. Martin was glad for the glove, as he was sure his palms were sweating.
But it was the stranger who broke the silence, so unexpected and abruptly Martin didn’t actually hear the words, only the deep and dry sound of their voice.
And so, rather predictably, Martin’s first proper words to his new companion were, “Sorry? I, uh, I didn’t quite catch that.”
There came a sound then that wasn’t quite a laugh; it didn’t have the humour. “I said,” the stranger said with no small amount of derision, “My name is Jon.”
“Oh,” Martin said. “Martin.”
And now Martin had a name for the stranger, and now everything felt worse.
They walked only for a few minutes before Jon spoke again. Martin now wished he would just stay quiet.
“So, Martin.” Jon’s fingers tightened slightly, as if making certain that Martin was listening this time. “What were you doing all the way out here?”
He didn’t want to answer. Not for any particular reason, really; just the way that Jon had asked, so casual and yet so hungry. Martin suddenly felt protective, though he had nothing to protect.
“I—um, got lost,” he eventually answered. “I was with a few others and they must’ve, uh, not seen me when they packed up? I–I mean, it gets pretty foggy out here. They must’ve just… yeah.”
Those heavy eyes were on him again, but they didn’t call out his lie. They just stared. Unblinking. “Were they friends of yours?”
The laugh that escaped Martin startled even him; Jon, tethered to his side, flinched slightly. “No, no. No, we weren’t friends.”
“I see.”
“We were just travelling together, for a bit,” Martin rushed on, unsure why he would tell a perfect stranger. Though, admittedly, he was holding said stranger’s hand. “These woods get a bit… spooky . On your own.”
Jon snorted; a perfectly normal sound. All of Martin’s hair stood on end.
“ Spooky ,” Jon repeated. “That may be the kindest word anyone has ever used to describe this place.”
“What are you doing here?” Martin blurted before his brain could catch up. Thankfully, the question seemed to amuse his company, rather than antagonise.
“Oh,” Jon sounded a bit thrown off. “Well. For the sake of honesty, I guess I should tell you I’m a bit spooky myself.”
“Just because you’re spooky doesn’t mean you need to live in a haunted forest.”
“I’m afraid in this case I have little choice.” Martin felt Jon’s shrug pull at his arm. “Can we maybe refrain from using the word spooky for a few minutes?”
“Okay, sorry.”
“It’s fine, Martin.”
The sound of his name being tested and tasted by whatever walked beside him sent another thrill through Martin. He stubbornly called it fear, though he knew the warming of his ears to be an odd sign of fright. So was the gentle flutter in his stomach.
The truth is, Martin knew himself to be the kind of person who would throw himself at any sign of friendship, and Jon was still holding his hand. The Cold was further away now than it had been in years; the first time he had felt it was the day his father left, and since then it had merely grown as he had. It had never really gone away.
Now it was a background whisper, quieter even than it had been while surrounded by ten or fifty travel companions. Just because this stranger had used his name.
“So… Jon,” he started, and wondered whether he had imagined Jon stiffening a little at his side. “Where exactly are we going?”
They walked, and kept walking, and Martin began to worry that he had imagined asking his question. Should he risk asking again? But if he had said it and Jon just didn’t want to answer, then it would be rude , wouldn’t it? To ask a second time? But what if he hadn’t —
“My home.”
So he had asked, after all.
“O-oh,” Martin stuttered, once the words properly hit his brain. “But–I– Why , exactly?”
Jon was looking at him. Martin wanted to look back, more than anything, but something kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. His voice was soft when he asked, “Would you rather stay in that clearing?”
Unconsciously, Martin shivered. He knew Jon felt it. “No. Probably not.”
“Hm.” The heavy eyes left him. “Well. I won’t say my home is less, um, spooky than the clearing, but it’s certainly safer.”
Martin didn’t know how to respond, so he let out an awkward laugh. “I thought we banned that word.”
Jon’s answering laugh was loud and short; more of a bark than anything. “We did. I apologise, Martin.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Martin hurried to reassure him. “I actually quite like the word.”
“Hm? How so?”
“Well, it, uh, makes everything seem… less serious, I suppose. It’s like, um, I could focus on how-how dark it is here, or how I never see any animals but I keep seeing, uh, movement .” He paused, licked his lips, frowned. “Or I could just say these woods are spooky and move on.”
“I see.”
“Well, a-another word could be ‘creepy’ or ‘eerie’ or, um, ‘sinister’, but they don’t sound so…”
“Whimsical?” Jon suggested in a tone that more than strongly hinted at a raised eyebrow. Martin stuttered.
“ Whimsical is—I was going to suggest… I’ve lost it now! But I was not going to say whimsical, I was…”
He trailed off, words dying in his throat, because they had arrived at a large, brick building. It looked almost normal, and rather plain, and it stuck out like a sore thumb; a three-storey high thumb in the middle of the northern woods. Martin had seen buildings not too dissimilar from this one in the richer and more populous cities of his travels—but no, never in someplace so remote.
It didn’t belong here.
“Welcome,” Jon said from somewhere near his shoulder. “We should go inside.”
Martin felt the tug on his hand but didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could. “Wait,” he found himself saying—not to Jon’s face, which he still couldn’t see, but to the vague sense of Jon’s confusion. “You didn’t answer my question before.”
Jon stopped pulling. “What question would that be?”
Martin really wished he could meet Jon’s eyes to ask, to ensure he wasn’t lying when— if —he answered. But it came as no shock that he couldn’t lower his gaze further than the top of Jon’s dark and tangled hair, and it was no surprise to find that the face below it was nothing more than an aggressively unfocused blur in his periphery. Nevertheless, Martin took a deep breath, and he asked again:
“Why did you bring me here?”
He sensed a crease between Jon’s brows. “You were in the clearing—”
“Yes, but why ? I–I won't say I’m not grateful—” he rushed to clarify, “I am, really—but–but—”
Martin cut himself off, his free hand twitching from the strong desire to fidget nervously. Jon just watched him, catalogued the discomfort twisting his features, impassively and without strong emotion himself. Eventually, he released a near-silent sigh.
“You want to know why I came to find you.”
Martin dithered, unsure he would put it so bluntly, but then gave in with a nod of acquiescence. “I… suppose so. Yes.”
Jon’s sigh was audible this time; deep and weary. “Why don’t we go inside, Martin.”
A thousand insect legs scurried down his spine. “I’d prefer to stay out here, if that’s alright.”
“Even though it’s spooky?” Jon huffed a small laugh, but Martin couldn’t join in. His guts were squirming too fiercely, too frantically. “Sorry, that was… not the time. Martin.” He hesitated, then exhaled heavily. “I was hoping to tell you over a cup of tea, if I’m honest. This is my first time and I… well, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I thought tea might be nice.”
“First time for what? Jon?”
This time, it was Jon who seemed nervous. His fingers twitched, the nails scraping lightly against the back of Martin’s hand and he finally— finally —looked away, towards the misplaced and looming house.
“I’m new to this position, Martin,” he said after a moment or two, speaking as if confessing a great sin. “ Too new for this, probably, but I—like I said, I don’t have much choice in the matter. Most Archivists have their assistants before starting here—”
“Assistants?”
“Yes, the people who help the Archivist with his duties. Uh, and the Archivist, he—”
“I know what the Archivist is.” Everyone knew the Archivist. Many assumed he was a relative of the Grim Reaper, a cousin of the Boogeyman. The innocent assumed he was a concept or a symbol; a funny little name to curse when the tingling on your neck became unbearable, when you turned to see no one watching, when you knew someone’s eyes were on you anyway.
The unfortunates knew he had a body, a home, at least two eyes. The unfortunates knew the feeling of being watched was less a feeling and more a knowledge ; the really unfortunate knew the Archivist’s name was currently Jon.
There was currently only one really unfortunate.
Jon recoiled slightly, slowly, seemingly taken aback by the steel in Martin’s voice. “Oh,” he started. “Well, uh. Would you like to come in?”
Martin stepped back as far as their linked fingers would allow. “I… I won’t be your assistant, Jon.”
“What do you mean, you won’t?”
“I–I have a life , Jon!” Martin suddenly exploded, his voice desperate and thin. “Plans! Friend’s who’ll–who’ll worry about me if I just disappear. I’m sorry, but I—I can’t just drop everything to help you sort stories.”
Jon frowned, his own voice carefully blank in the way that promised pain. “You said you know what the Archivist is.”
“...Yes. Yes, I–I do.”
“And I’m sure by now you understand that I’m the Archivist.”
Martin’s skin was buzzing. His teeth were filled with ants. “I… suspected it.”
“Then you should know—” Jon was quiet; he was booming; the words were gentle but heavy and full of warning and Martin was falling but his feet were on solid ground; he would not survive this if Jon did not wish him to, “—that I Know when you’re lying. Even if I couldn’t, I found you three days deep in the Lonely. Friends, Martin?” He was cruel. So cruel. How had Martin thought him any different, even for a second? “ Plans ? Be honest: you have nothing better to do with your life than sort stories .”
Martin stared at Jon's shoulder, his mouth dry. "Let go of me."
"What?"
"Let go of my hand."
For a breath, Martin thought he would listen. The fingers weakened, loosened, until he could barely feel them if not for the warmth they emanated. But then they tightened again—only just a bit, but it burned; it burned and Martin couldn't let go. He was cold and his hand was on fire and he was terrified that this instant would never end.
"Martin," Jon sounded baffled, frantic, "just—"
"No!" Martin cried. He twisted. He pulled. He felt the Cold, pressing in, but couldn't stop. "Why are you even holding my hand, anyway? Let me go!"
There was fear—isn't that ironic?—there was fear in the Archivist's voice:
"Martin, you don’t—"
And then he disappeared.