Chapter Text
The sea is slate gray and still as death. Fog rests seamless on the water's surface, descending from above like a curtain. It stretches endlessly in all directions, never thinning or breaking, blanketing the world in dense, perfect silence.
Jon bursts through that silence in his crumbling rowboat, sending the sea rippling and fog swirling with loud, clumsy slaps of his flimsy oars on the water.
It had only just been the beginning of his journey when his arms started to ache, and it's been long enough since then that he's lost the concept of time altogether. His whole body shakes with the effort of rowing. Fog and sweat cling to him, amplifying the chill. His hair keeps getting in his eyes, but if he stops to brush it away, he might just stop for good, and stopping is not an option.
Somewhere along Jon’s journey, a light appeared in the distance, pale and blinking a steady rhythm. A promise of land, and the end of all this rowing. It has since remained at that distance, but it had appeared, so Jon must be getting closer.
If what Jon’s been told is true—and Jon has developed quite the skill for getting the truth—he will find a man called Martin when he reaches that light, and Martin will tell Jon everything he needs to know
Something massive and jagged scrapes along the bottom of Jon’s boat, bringing his journey to an abrupt end. His momentum carries him forward, and he doesn’t have the strength left to stop himself from pitching overboard.
He closes his eyes and braces for impact with icy water, and collides with wet, rocky earth. It should hurt, but he’s too cold to feel anything properly. He lies there, savoring the feeling of solid ground, and catches his breath.
Awareness of his surroundings comes on gradually. The first thing of note is a smell of smoke faint enough to almost miss above the tang of saltwater.
The second is sound. There are waves crashing around him, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. There’s also something unidentifiable somewhere far overhead, like pieces of metal hitting together, almost musical.
Jon turns to rest his cheek against the ground and opens his eyes.
The sea is moving like a sea should; rolling waves lap at the shore line. The fog has receded a few meters away from where Jon lies, and everything beyond it is obscured.
With a great deal of effort, Jon rolls onto his back. A night sky looms above, covered in thick storm clouds, almost at the point of bursting. A lighthouse, sat atop a cliff, juts against the sky.
Jon has made it.
Reignited, Jon gets to his feet and pulls his boat on shore.
It appears to be an island, small enough that its ends are visible on either side from Jon’s vantage point. The little patch of beach Jon’s found himself on is the only sign of land that isn’t made of towering cliffs. A wooden, skeletal staircase cuts across the rock face–the only way off the beach aside from rowing back into that cloying fog.
Jon approaches the base of the stairs. The wood is clearly distressed, chips of faded paint suggest it may have been painted white at some point, but that’s long since worn away. Jon tests the first step with his foot; it sinks under his weight with a creak that is just on the cusp of a snap.
The stairs stretch up and up, far out of Jon’s line of sight. He grips the safety rail with his good hand. Jagged bits of wood dig into his palm.
“You won't make it easy, will you?” He mutters.
The wind picks up for a moment, nearly pushing him back. The stairs sway and groan.
Jon grips the handrail tighter and readies himself with a deep breath.
He begins his ascent.
The stairs spit him out, struggling for breath, onto the deck of a cabin. It’s small and square, weather-beaten, wood slats splintered and warped from the sea air. A makeshift wind chime, crafted from empty tin cans, clangs in the breeze–the source of the strange metallic sound Jon heard on the beach. The curtains of the cabin’s singular window are drawn tight, but there is golden light peeking around the edges. Smoke billows from the chimney.
Someone’s home.
Jon approaches the cabin and knocks. The island plunges into silence as the wind and waves still, like the whole place is holding its breath.
“Hello?” Jon calls out. There’s not even a creak of floorboards from inside.
“My name is Jonathan Sims, I’m not here to cause you any trouble, I just—“
The door cracks open.The man who peers out is all at once everything Jon had been expecting and nothing at all. Like any good lighthouse keeper, he’s big and broad and clad in thick knit, with an unkempt beard and long, messy hair. But the face hidden underneath is soft and handsome, with dark eyes that would be warm in any other place. His expression is guarded, a carefully-crafted neutrality, but the fear buried behind it is unmistakable.
The beginnings of an electric little hum stir in Jon’s rib cage.
This man has a story to tell.
“Martin?” Jon says, keeping his voice low. “Martin Blackwood?”
Martin narrows his eyes at Jon. When he opens his mouth to speak, the first sound to come out is nothing but a hoarse whisper. He stops, clears his throat twice, resets.
“How do you know that?” Martin asks. His voice is soft and quiet.
Jon ignores him.
“Look, could I come in? I just have a couple of questions for you.”
“About what?” Martin asks. There’s an edge of defensiveness to it.
Thunder rumbles above them. Jon looks to the sky, then back at Martin.
“I can explain everything,” he says. “Inside.”
Martin studies Jon with narrowed eyes. The likelihood of Jon ever crossing the threshold dissipates with each second of tense silence that passes. Another low growl of thunder rumbles over head; closer now, more aggressive. Jon glances once more at the darkening clouds, unable to keep from bouncing on his heels.
“Look I can – I can make us tea.” He pulls his shoulder bag around to his front and unzips it, revealing an unopened tin of earl grey. “I heard it might be in short supply out here.”
Anyone with a less watchful eye would miss the way Martin’s face softens when his gaze shifts from Jon to the box of tea. There’s the barest hint of longing behind the stoicism, like Jon’s brought him gold.
“There’s no milk,” he says, curtly. He disappears back into his house, leaving the door cracked for Jon to let himself in.
The cabin is a proper cabin. All wood-paneled walls and bulky, distressed furniture of various bygone eras. A garishly upholstered, overstuffed loveseat sits off the entryway, and a thrown-together kitchenette squashes right up against that. A door on the far wall must lead to Martin’s bedroom. In the middle of it all, a wood burning stove crackles away, casting the room in dim, amber light.
Martin is already in the kitchen setting a kettle on to boil when Jon slips inside. A gas burner clicks to life, and Martin comes to stand between Jon and the rest of the home, fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper.
“It’ll just be a minute,” he says, tipping his head towards the kitchen. He looks like he expects Jon to lunge any moment.
Jon drops to the couch, drawing his limbs in as close as he can, keeping himself small and non-threatening. The silence between them is weighted, interrupted only by the wind howling outside and the occasional clicks of the burner heating up.
Jon bounces his knees, and then--recognizing the anxious motion for what it is--wills himself to stop. "So," he speaks into the silence. "You're a lighthouse keeper."
Martin nods once. “Correct. And you are?”
“Oh. Right.” In all the time it took him to find this place, Jon never bothered to prepare a suitable cover story. “Er, Lukas. Peter Lukas sent me. To you.”
This is met with more wary silence.
“I’m–I’m a psychologist.” Jon babbles on, each word coming to him a fraction of a second before he speaks it. “I do wellness checks for individuals whose work requires periods of….prolonged isolation.” A half-truth.
After a moment of turning this over, Martin hums skeptically “Haven’t heard anything from Peter about this.”
“Really? He didn’t mention it?” A nervous huff of laughter. “Well, it’s involuntary, I’m afraid.”
Martins lips press into a thin line and he sighs long and heavy
“Right. How can I help you then?”
Jon pulls his bag into his lap and fiddles with the straps.
“I just need you to answer a few simple questions. First: How did you get here?”
Martin blinks, caught by surprise. “Oh. By..by boat? It’s sort of been a while. Can’t quite–can’t quite remember.” He shakes his head. “But I’m sure that’s it.”
Forgetfulness–a classic symptom of victims of the Forsaken. Jon's recorder is in his bag. His fingers itch for it. “And how long ago was that?”
A few drops of rain begin to patter against the roof. The first real thunderclap of the evening rattles the floorboards. Martin’s eyes go soft and unfocused. They slide from Jon to the floor, not truly seeing anything.
“It’s hard to keep track of time around here.” Martin says. He speaks in soft monotone, as though under hypnosis. “The days are all the same. They just sort of—“ He waves his hand in a vague motion, like water flowing downstream. “They just sort of bleed.”
Loss of time–another symptom. Jon frowns. “Can I ask–? How do you feel being out here by yourself? Lonely?”
Martin shrugs, there's almost a shyness to it. “Oh, it’s not so bad, really–dreary sometimes, but it’s sort of…nice.”
“‘Nice,’” Jon echoes. This is unexpected. None of the statements he’s read described the Forsaken as ‘nice.’
Martin gives another self-conscious little shrug. “Yeah. It’s–y’know – it’s predictable.” He’s still looking at the floor with glassy eyes. “Quiet.”
Jon hums, considering. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth.
“What did you do before you became a lighthouse keeper?”
“Uh..I don’t..” Martin’s eyebrows furrow as he reaches for a memory. Whatever he finds must be unsavory; he shakes his head, dispelling it with disdain. “Just whatever jobs would have me, I think. Don’t remember much about them. Just that none of them were any good.”
All his primness from before has cleared away, revealing a quiet, confused, sadness. His shoulders are hunched around his ears, his fingers still fiddle with the sleeve of his jumper, pulled low over his right hand.
The rain crescendos into a proper downpour, almost deafening as it hammers against the window panes. The air inside the cabin hums with swelling electricity. They’re getting close–circling that dark well of fear Jon can sense underlying Martin’s timid sadness. His story. All of Jon’s ordinary curiosity gives way to an unnatural need to know. Somewhere, in a place very far from this one, a thousand unblinking eyes turn their gaze to them.
Jon reaches for his bag.
“What can you tell me about before you came to this island? What brought you here?”
Martin swats the question away, growing more distraught. His empty stare drifts to the kitchen. “That tea should be done soon.”
“Martin, focus.”
Martin’s eyes snap to Jon. He looks tired. Scared. And perhaps a little angry.
“What brought you to this place?” Jon pushes.
“I don’t think I want to answer any more questions.” Martin says, pleading.
“Just one more, then.” The most important one. “What happened to you the day you came to this lighthouse?”
Martin shrinks back, looking very much like he’d like to run away. “I don’t understand. Nothing—nothing happened.”
“We both know that’s not true, Martin. Tell me what happened to you.”
Martin shakes his head, his voice is wet. “I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t remember.”
“I need you to. I need you to remember.”
Martin drives the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I. Can’t.” He punches the words out through gritted teeth. Lightning strikes outside, illuminating the side of his face in pale blue light. The ensuing thunder shakes the house in its frame.
Jon unearths his recorder from his bag and grips it tight in both hands. He presses the record button. The ‘click’ resonates through the room like a gunshot.
“Martin, look at me.”
Martin’s head snaps towards Jon as though jerked by an invisible string. He’s afraid, angry; his cheeks are wet. Jon takes hold of that string, creating a tether between them.
The room sharpens. Dust motes in the air, the grain in the wood floor, the blood vessel throbbing on Martin’s forehead. Everything is individually and equally visible in perfect clarity. Jon looks into and through every eye in the room and sees it all as one. There is not a corner of this place unknown to him now. It all thrums through him, making his bones buzz with manic electricity. He breathes deep, feeling the whole world expand with him.
“ What happened to you the day you came to the lighthouse, Martin?”
Martin takes in one shuddering breath, and the anger on his face gives way to abject terror.
The fire in the stove flickers once and extinguishes. Fog presses tight against the window, blotting out any light from outside. The wood of the cabin groans as though the walls are bending towards them. Threatening to snap and bury them both.
The link between them pulls taut as Martin, still frozen under Jon’s compulsion, tries very hard not to be seen.
They lock eyes, caught in each other’s headlights. Martin powerless to move now that he’s been Asked, and Jon unable to call off his Question until he receives an answer.
All Martin has to do is answer.
His jaw works soundlessly around a word that struggles not to form.
“I can’t,” is all he manages. His voice is so small. Shaking.
He shouldn’t be able to do this. Resisting compulsion shouldn’t be possible at all. Those that manage it, well, they don’t much resemble people at the end.
A thick black globule of blood seeps out of Martin’s right eye. He makes a small, confused sound, and fixes Jon with a look full of all the fear he’d asked for.
“Enough,” Jon whispers. But he’s no longer the only one Watching. He can’t look away, no matter how much he wants to. He’ll see it through to the very end. And despite all the horror, he will thrum with the power of it for days after. Not eating, or sleeping. Just seeing it. Over and over again.
“Just tell me,” He whispers. It’s not a command, just a desperate human plea.
Martin whimpers, and a fresh bead of blood wells up from his nose. Another red tear streaks down his cheek. His whole body trembles. He opens his mouth, and blood bubbles out from behind his teeth, slicking his beard. A sound tears out of him, primal and guttural. It’s happening.
The kettle whistles.
The link between them snaps. Jon is flung back against the couch. The tape recorder clatters to the ground, and clicks itself off, having lost interest. The sudden severance is dizzying. Jon slumps forward over his lap, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw against a wave of nausea.
It should be a relief, and, to some frayed remnant of humanity left behind in him, it is. But underneath that is the slavering, animalistic hunger that simply feels unsatisfied. It urges Jon to try again .
Across from him, Martin is coughing and heaving for air. It sounds painful. When Jon opens his eyes, he sees him on his knees, holding himself up with trembling arms, spitting blood onto the hardwood.
Jon doesn’t think, he just goes to him, all that hunger forgotten. He reaches to take Martin’s face into his hands and see that he’s alright.
“Martin, that wasn’t–”
With a flash of silvery light, Martin springs back. A second later, Jon feels a faint sting on his hand. When he looks, there is a fresh cut across his palm just beginning to bleed.
“You just, stay back!” Martin spits. He’s on his feet with his arms out straight in front of him. He’s wielding what appears to be a paring knife, small but sharp. His hands are shaking so badly he has to grip the handle in both to steady it.
Jon looks from the wound to Martin, and to his wound again. He touches it with disbelief. Had Martin been concealing that knife the whole time?
“Did you just slash me?”
“Shut up!” Martin says, “I-It’s my turn for questions now.” He sniffs and furiously wipes a tear away before re-leveling the knife at Jon.
Jon raises his hands to placate him, and sinks to the floor.
Martin nods, appeased.
“Okay. Right.” He bounces on his heels. “Um–What was that? How did you do it?”
Jon hesitates, grappling for the words, “It’s…nothing that can be explained succinctly,” he settles on, “Martin, you have to believe me that–”
“I said shut up! How do you know my name? I don’t believe Peter gave it to you.”
Jon flounders again.
“Well?” Martin says, punctuating it with a little wave of his knife.
Jon’s hands fly up reflexively
“I just-I just know sometimes! It’s-”
“You ‘just know’? What, like…like you’re some kind of psychic or–?”
Jon winces. It’s painful, but now isn’t the time for pedantry.“If that’s how you want to think of it, sure. I’m a psychic.”
“Horseshit.” Martin says. Then he seems to rethink it.
“Prove it. Know something else.”
Jon scoffs. “Like what?”
“Like…like what’s my middle name?”
“You don’t have one,” Jon answers instantly. Martin freezes, looking at him like he’s some undiscovered species of animal.
“What are you?”
Jon wilts.
“It’s not—“
“‘Something that can be explained succinctly?’” Martin mocks, fixing Jon with a withering glare.
Jon doesn’t say anything to that, just looks down at his hand where the cut from Martin’s knife used to be. He closes his fist, drawing it close to his chest.
“Why are you here?” Martin asks, after a silence. “And don’t give me any of that about Peter sending you again, it’s not even a very good lie.”
Jon blinks up at him, taken aback.
He’s clever, this man, with his useless, tiny knife. Even through all the fog, he’s had Jon clocked from the very beginning. An absurd, untimely warmth blooms under Jon’s ribs, and, under no control of his own, one corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile.
Martin catches it and bristles.
“Don’t laugh at me!” He squares his knife.
Jon’s smile drops, but that feeling remains. “I’m not, I’m sorry. It’s just…a tense situation.”
Martin glares at him, his eyes ablaze with the light of the fire, waiting for Jon’s answer.
“I’m here about the fog.” Jon relents, “Around this island. There have been–” he takes a deep breath “disappearances. I think the fog is to blame.”
This, it seems, is not the answer Martin is expecting. He softens, not quite lowering his blade, but no longer brandishing it.
“Oh,” he says quietly, “O-kay. Well. What’s that got to do with me?”
Jon pulls at a loose thread on his jumper. There’s a speck of blood on his sleeve. “Well it all seems to be focused around this island, so I thought–”
“What, I’m responsible?” Martin cuts him off, bristling again.
“No! Of course not. I just thought I could make you–" Jon sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose. "I just thought you might know. Something. Anything."
Martin lowers his knife all the way.
“Well. Sorry. But I don't. I can't help you." He does sound truly sorry. "And you could have just asked me, you know? I would have told you that."
"You don't remember." Jon whispers. He glowers at the drops of Martin’s blood on the floor.
It could have been much worse. A vivid splatter of viscera trailing up a wall. Jon closes his eyes against an after-shock of nausea.
Martin clears his throat. The floorboards creak as he shuffles his weight.
“Look. I’m sorry that you wasted your time, but y-you should go. Whatever you’re looking for, I don’t think it’s here.”
Ah. Right. Jon looks at Martin, wrung out and pale, fiddling with his knife, looking like he would very much like this frightening stranger to get out of his house and let him wash the blood off his face.
“Of course,” Jon whispers. “I’m sorry.” He gathers his recorder and his bag and hoists himself off the floor, feeling all wrung-out himself.
Martin is already at the front door with a hand on the knob, eager to usher Jon out. Jon keeps his eyes on the floor as he joins him.
“Martin, what happened earlier, that wasn’t–I didn’t think that could–” he snaps his jaw shut and sighs through his nose. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Martin studies the wood grain of the door, still clutching his knife to his chest. He lets out a deep sigh and tightens his grip on the handle.
“I believe you,” he says, “but I still need you to go.” He opens the door.
The world beyond the threshold is invisible behind a thick wall of fog and pelting rain. Lightning illuminates the scene in a flash of blinding white, quickly followed by a deafening boom of thunder. A gale of wind blasts Jon’s hair out of his face and scatters dust colored sand onto their shoes. The wind chime knocks free from its hook and clatters off down the stairs.
The door of the cabin slams shut an inch away from Jon’s nose, sealing it all away.
Martin rests his forehead against the door and grimaces.
“Tomorrow.” He says, through a clenched jaw.
“S-sorry. What?” Jon asks, struggling to catch up.
“You can leave tomorrow,” Martin says, keeping his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the door. He still grips the handle like he might change his mind.
“Martin, are you sure? You don’t have to–”
“Well you obviously can’t go out in that .” He gestures sharply at the door. “You can just spend the night on the couch and leave when it calms down. It’s-it’s fine.”
It clearly isn’t fine, but Jon isn’t going to argue.
“Thank you Martin. This is…far more than I deserve.”
“Correct,” Martin says. His mouth is a flat line. “ Please don’t make me regret this.”
“I won't, I promise I won't. I’ll be out of here first thing. I promise.”
Jon dips his head to catch Martin’s eye, needing Martin to see him when he says this. Martin meets his gaze begrudgingly.
“This is kind of you,” Jon says with as much sincerity as he can muster, “You’re very kind, Martin.”
Martin holds Jon’s eye contact for three seconds before he reaches his limit and looks at the floor.
“I need to clean my face.”
He turns away, retreating to his room with his little knife in hand. He locks the door firmly behind him, leaving Jon standing stupidly on the threshold, dazed and once again filled with untimely fondness.
~~~~~~~~
Martin’s sofa is the sort of plush, overstuffed thing that’s a relief to sink into at the end of a long day, but reveals itself to be a trap once the novelty wears off. Jon sinks into the cushions like quicksand. Sitting up would be a feat of core strength that he simply does not possess at this moment, so there’s no choice but for him to lie there, joints aching, and replay the events of the day on a loop.
With each repetition of the memory, he sees himself at the split; the moment right before he throws it all into ruin, where Martin is telling him— telling him — he can’t answer. It gleams with such clarity it’s almost tangible, like he could grab himself by the shoulders and stop the rest from happening.
He never can quite manage it though, no matter how clear it seems. No matter how loudly he screams at himself to stop, he always reaches for his recorder, Martin always spits blood onto the floor, and he always looks at Jon like that . Over and over. He wishes he could forget it.
A telephone rings.
Jon jolts so violently he’s freed from the clutches of the sofa cushions. He whips his head around, searching for the source.
The phone rings again.
It’s in the kitchen, right next to Martin’s bedroom door. A bulky, antique rotary mounted right there on the wall. How hadn’t he seen it before?
The ring is so loud it could shatter the whole world.
Martin’s door creaks open, and Jon throws himself back onto the couch with near terminal velocity. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to silence his heavy breathing behind a closed mouth. If Martin knows Jon is awake, he might not answer.
Jon never hears Martin’s footsteps on the floor, but moments later his voice comes from the kitchen, flat and hollow.
“Hello.”
Absolute silence.
“It does.”
Jon doesn’t dare breathe in the pauses between words. The silence is so dense the slightest shift in position would shatter it.
“I can’t–Now isn’t really–” Martin stops, as though interrupted. He sighs. “I just need–” He sucks in a shuddering gasp, and then there’s silence.
Jon waits for two whole minutes, stock still and eyes shut tight, for something else to happen, but nothing ever does. There’s just silence. He peeks open one eye.
Martin’s face is inches away from his, studying him with clinical detachment.
Jon lurches up and back, covering his mouth with one shaking hand to keep himself from shouting.
Martin is kneeling in front of the couch, he doesn't react to Jon other than to shift so they're eye level again. Something about his eyes seems wrong. When he looks at Jon, he feels cold down in his bones.
“Jesus Christ, Martin what is it?” He’s too scared to speak in anything but a whisper.
Martin just looks at him with that cold detachment.
"You're not real," he says. His cheeks are wet like he’s been crying.
He turns to look out the window with the slow precision of someone who is being hunted. Not even his clothes rustle as he moves. The room is so quiet.
He must see something awful out there, judging by his expression, but, for once, Jon can’t bring himself to look.
“What do you see?” he asks, almost inaudibly.
“Nothing,” Martin says, as though ‘Nothing’ is a living being with teeth waiting outside their door.
"I don't know what this place is.”
He speaks now like he had earlier when Jon had asked his first questions; like he's under some kind of thrall.
Jon steels himself and reaches out a shaking hand to Martin’s shoulder. He’s freezing, even through the fabric of his shirt.
“It’s alright, Martin, you’re just–you’re just sleepwalking.” He rubs Martin’s arm, hoping to bring some warmth back to him.
Martin turns that icy stare back to Jon, his expression grim.
“I don’t think I can leave.”
Nothing Jon can say would be of any help. Instead, he sighs and gently pushes Martin back- just enough to give himself room to stand- and wraps a hand around his arm. He tugs, bringing Martin to his feet.
"Come on,” he says softly, “let's get you back to bed.”
Martin allows himself to be led to his bedroom, giving hardly any indication that he’s aware anything’s happening to him at all. When they reach the edge of his bed he drops right onto it, sitting and staring at the floor with blank eyes. It’s only when Jon makes to leave that he seems to wake back up; his frigid fingers circle Jon’s wrist as he turns away, anchoring him in place.
“Will you stay?” His voice is so soft it’s barely there.
Jon turns slowly on his heels to face Martin.
“‘Stay?’”
“Here,” Martin says. He gives Jon’s arm a little tug, and Jon comes along easily, their knees brush. “Just for a little bit.”
He looks at Jon like he’s all that stands between Martin and oblivion. Like he’ll fade away to nothingness if Jon denies him this.
But it’s not Martin . It can’t be. It’s his starved subconscious grasping for companionship after going so long without anyone.
Jon is starving too, but it wouldn’t be right. He slips out of Martin’s hand, apologizing with a passing brush of his thumb to his wrist.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Martin.”
Martin nods solemnly, like his fate is sealed.
“It’s been so lonely here. It’s always cold.”
Jon’s hands flutter in front of him, hover in the air between them, then drop back to his sides with clench fists. He sighs, heavy and remorseful.
“Oh, Martin, I know. But I’m–we’re going to figure this out” He swallows thickly, “I know I made a mess of things tonight but–”
Martin cuts him off with a shake of his head and a sad smile. He lies back on his bed, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.
“It’s alright, Jon. You can go.”
Jon doesn’t want to go. There’s so much to understand about what’s happening here, so many loose ends that need untangling, and, above all, Martin is lying there like he’s ready for the ocean to burst through his window and carry him away. It very well may, given where they are. Jon can't just go.
He huffs and lowers himself to the floor beside Martin’s bed, leaning his back against his nightstand.
Martin’s cheek falls against the mattress and he raises one puzzled eyebrow at Jon.
“I’m just going to stay here until you fall asleep.” Jon says. “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
Martin rolls onto his side and looks at Jon. Really looks at him for the first time the whole night. His eyes are so bright and clear that it seems impossible for him to be under any sort of influence. But what else could explain this?
“Thank you,” he whispers. Jon has to look away.
“Yes, well. I still don’t think you’re going to be very happy about this in the morning,” but Martin shakes his head.
“It’s only a dream, Jon.”
There’s nothing to say to that. The room falls into silence, the mundane kind, softly interrupted by the usual creaks and pops of an old house, and the gentle patter of a waning storm. Shortly after, Martin’s soft snores join the mix of ambient noise, and Jon allows his head to drop onto the bed. Satisfied that, tonight at least, Martin will not be fading away into nothingness.
Outside, the fog remains pressed flush against the window pane, rendering the world beyond completely invisible. Just two lonely men on their island, floating in the middle of endless emptiness. It is not so hard to believe it could all just be a dream.
**********
It must be the grey light of morning that wakes him. He hadn’t realized he’d slept, and he certainly doesn’t feel like he’s rested, but clearly time has passed. His neck aches from falling asleep sitting up with his head bent off to the side
Martin is still there, still asleep. His face is pressed hard into the mattress, all slack and soft, and his breath is slow and deep. He doesn’t look like he’ll be waking up anytime soon.
So there’s time.
Jon’s still in his clothes from the day before, and he only has the one bag with him, so getting out is a quick and quiet affair. He fixes the pillows on the sofa and hoists his bag over his shoulder. With that, all evidence of Jon having ever been there is erased. Maybe, by the time Martin wakes up, it will all seem like a nightmare.
Jon does leave the tea, though; it seems fair.
He opens the door just wide enough to slip through, and it doesn’t even squeak on his hinges. This place, it seems, wants him gone.
He stands on the landing of the stairs, looking at the crooked, winding journey before him. Mist settles over the island. The wind and waves from the previous night have yet to rise. The place is drenched in the holy silence of early dawn. Jon begins his descent.
He can’t give up, obviously–there’s so much to figure out, and Martin is still trapped–but there’s no way he can stay after what he’s done.
Maybe he can wait. Give Martin time to forget. Come back with a clean slate and a better understanding. Do it right this time, without hurting anyone.
But then, how long can Martin last out here on his own? The rules of this place are unclear. Is Martin just a passive victim here, sustained by The Lonely so it can sustain itself on him? Or is it taking from him but by bit? Wasting him away until there’s nothing left? His hand had been so weightless last night, like he was all fog under his skin.
The stairs are longer than Jon remembers. The mist lays thick over the island, it dampens the weathered steps, making them all the more precarious. He stops to catch his breath and spark up a cigarette. The click of the flint wheel echoes in the silence.
None of this would be a problem, of course, if Jon hadn’t done what he always does.
He can’t help himself. Before he can even think to stop and ask himself if he’s actually helping, he’s already gone and made everything worse. He’ll do it over and over again until he’s burned through everyone and everything. It’s just what he does.
Maybe Martin would be better off if he stayed gone. The others certainly would have been.
Jon steps on a loose board and the creak of it under his foot is it snaps him out of his ruminating enough to notice the fog has grown so dense it swallows the stairs a meter ahead of him. It swallows the sky, too, and the ocean.
He twists around to look back the way he came. That, too, is obscured in fog.
The staircase is long, perhaps he’s nearing the end. Perhaps he only needs to walk a minute or two more, and he'll find himself on solid ground. He grips the safety rail, slick with precipitation, and presses forward, taking one stair at a time.
He does this for ten minutes and never reaches the bottom. The stairs, it seems, are endless.
“Oh god. Oh fuck,” he breathes. He presses himself against the guardrail and wraps both arms around it, suddenly overcome by a wave of vertigo. His legs shake and his breath is ragged and the stairs stretch on and on and on in either direction.
“Hello?” He calls out.
No answer. No waves, no thunder, no charming homemade wind chime. Not even an echo back. Just miles and miles of empty, impenetrable silence.
The fog settles low and heavy on Jon, like it intends to sink into him. His hair and clothes are wet with it. The stairs too. If he moves again he might slip and fall. Break his neck. Lie there, unable to move or call for help, knowing nobody will come for him. Waiting to die slow and alone.
Maybe Martin would come down these stairs one day and find Jon’s salt-weathered remains. He wouldn’t remember Jon by then. He’d just be stuck with an anonymous corpse and nobody to call. Nothing to do but put on his work gloves and push it out to sea. Go back up to his cabin and forget that too.
“God. Fuck. Martin?”
Jon turns around and clambers up the stairs. Up and up and up. Calling Martin’s name so often that his throat gets raw. Each step feels like it should bring him over the top of the cliff and onto the deck of Martin’s cabin. Face to face with the warm light and the smoke billowing from the chimney. A place trying so hard to be warm in this desolate landscape.
Martin would come out when he heard Jon, confused and annoyed. What’s this strange man doing outside his cabin still, making such a fuss?
Jon sees it with so much clarity that every moment it doesn’t happen sends him further into panic. Just when it seems this really is going to last forever, he bowls into a warm solid weight, and he knows by the sound of the ensuing curse that he’s found Martin.
He’s above trying to maintain any sense of decorum. He grips Martin’s shirt tight just as his own knees give out.
Martin’s feet scrabble against the wet wood as he struggles to steady both of them at the same time. One arm wraps securely around Jon’s waist and catches him before his knees collide with the steps. Jon clings to him and lets him carry all of his weight.
“Shit, shit, shit, okay. Okay. Shit.” Martin’s breath ghosts over Jon’s ear. Jon buries his face in Martin’s jumper, seeking the heat and the comfort of contact.
Martin drags them onto the porch, still muttering his string of swears. He must manage to get them inside because the air warms up and Jon can smell wood burning. They shift, and then Jon is being lowered into the overstuffed couch. He finds it much more of a comfort now.
Martin’s arm unwinds from his back, and one broad, warm palm comes to land on Jon’s shoulder. The other firmly cups Jon’s face.
Martin directs Jon’s head until they are eye to eye. He looks serious and clinical, like a doctor. His lips move, he must be speaking, but all Jon can think about is the warmth of Martin’s palm on his cheek.
The skin to skin contact is intense, almost burning. Jon pushes into it; he can’t get close enough. He wants to turn his face into that palm and close his eyes and forget anything else but the warm, solid weight of Martin.
Martin gives him two firm pats to the cheek. It’s not a slap but it’s enough to snap Jon out of it.
“I need you to focus. Can you do that?” He says, in a voice that's all business.
Jon nods.
“I need you to tell me what happened. Is there something out there I should know about?”
Jon laughs ruefully.
“No. No, there’s Nothing out there.”
Martin relaxes some.
“Okay. So there’s nothing coming to get us?”
Jon laughs again, near delirious.
“Exactly. Nothing is coming to get us.”
Martin’s eyes rove over Jon’s face. The hand on his cheek moves up to press against his forehead. Jon leans into that too.
“Christ, you’re freezing,” Martin says, mostly to himself. He draws back with determination. He lets go of Jon, leaving two cold voids where his hands had been.
“Okay. O-okay. I’m going to get you something to dry off with. Will you be okay while I do that?”
Jon is grounded enough not to throw himself at Martin and beg him not to leave, but only just. He nods, and Martin leaves to his bedroom.
The window is big and luminous grey in Jon's peripheral vision. The fog waits outside, looking in at him like a grinning beast. Jon doesn’t look back. If he does that will be all the invitation it needs to come in and devour them both.
Instead he closes his eyes and listens close to the sounds of Martin. The floorboards creaking under the heavy soles of his boots, the clacking of clothes hangers against each other as he rummages through his closet, his soft voice while he endlessly mutters to himself, keeping a running list of what needs to be done, sighing, swearing.
He returns momentarily to drape a coarse grey towel over Jon's shoulders, and leaves just as quickly to put the kettle on.
The drying off process is sluggish. Now that the shock has worn off, the physical effects of running up an uncountable number of stairs slam into Jon all at once. His lungs, throat, and legs all burn, and his arms are so limp he has to rest his elbows on his knees while he scrubs his hair.
It doesn’t do as much as a hot shower and clean, dry clothes, but he feels much better by the time Martin comes back with the tea.
Martin hands Jon a mug and perches on the farthest edge of the couch from him. Even with his efforts, their knees are almost touching. The heat in the tiny space between them is magnetic.
Jon presses his mug to his chest and lets his blood carry the warmth out to the rest of his body. It’s not what he wants, but it will do.
“What’s all this about?” Martin asks. “Why are you still here?”
Jon huffs a bitter laugh.
“I’m sorry. I really tried to leave but the um—the fog came for me.”
“Oh, right.” Martin scoffs. “The erm–the evil fog.” He puts a ghostly affectation on the last two words, waggling his fingers like bug legs.
Jon just stares at him.
“Oh, you’re serious.”
Jon sighs and buries his face in his hands. “Deadly.”
He tells Martin what happened on the stairs, at the end of it, Martin clutches his tea and stares into the fire with a severe expression.
“O-kay. So..what? Does this mean we’re-we’re trapped here or-?”
“ You were already trapped here,” Jon reminds him. “But, yes, it would seem I am now also unable to leave. Alive anyway.”
“Hang on,” Martin says, “what do you mean I was already trapped here? This is-this is my house!”
Jon snorts.
“Come on, Martin, you're smarter than that.”
Martin sputters in offense, but Jon charges on before he can defend himself.
“You don’t remember anything about your life before you were a lighthouse keeper, you don’t know when you got here, you don’t even know how.” He counts each point on his fingers. “The only reason you haven’t realized it already is because you wont let yourself think about it.”
“How do you know what I think about?”
Jon rests his chin in his palm and just looks at him, mouth flat and one eyebrow arched.
Martin opens and closes his mouth to argue three times, each yielding no results, before deflating and staring into his tea.
“Maybe,” he says quietly.
Jon softens; all of this is new to Martin, he can’t forget that. He reaches for something comforting to say, but Martin plows ahead.
“Okay. So. What do we do?” He squares his shoulders and looks at Jon like he expects him to have all the answers. Jon flounders.
“W-well, for whatever reason, this place obviously doesn’t want you to remember anything about your life before, right? There must be a reason why. So, it stands to reason that If you remember, you might know the way out?”
“Okay but how ?” Martin growls, growing agitated. “I mean last night you asked me what happened and I almost exploded. How do we know that won't just happen again?”
Jon winces, “that wasn’t…that was asking too much of you. If we’re going to do this, we need to go slowly. Little things: birthday, favorite color, that sort of thing. We can work our way up. I don’t think it’s something that can happen over night”
Martin stares into his tea, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“How do you know all this?” He asks, after a silence.
Jon sighs. Never a simple question with this man.
“I study things like this,” He says, “this fog. I’m familiar with how it works.”
“Okay well how does it work?” It explodes out of him in a burst of frustration. It’s easy to understand; just yesterday he’d been a simple lighthouse keeper, but now isn't the time to have that conversation.
“I think that may be a bit much for right now,” Jon says, softly.
“Great!” Martin throws his hands in the air and jumps to his feet, his mug clatters to the ground and rolls across the floor, spilling the remainder of his tea in a long arch, “so it turns out I have a whole life I don’t remember, I’m supernaturally stranded on an island in the literal middle of nowhere, with you , and you won't even tell me anything helpful about it because you’d much rather be patronizing!”
“I’m not being patroni–”
“Stop. Absolutely stop right now.” He twists the hair at his temples into his fists and closes his eyes, taking a deep steadying breath through his nose. Despite Martin’s frustration, the gesture is endearing. Jon bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
After three deep breaths, Martin drops his hands.
“This is a lot to process," he says, with the illusion of calm, "I just need a moment to think.” He makes for the front door.
“Errr,” Jon says, wincing. Martin stops with his hand on the door knob.
“For Christ’s sake what is it now?” He says through gritted teeth, all his newfound composure already evaporated.
“Well, it’s just that places like this thrive on isolation, and now that It knows I’m here, it might be more aggressive. Which means it’s probably safer not to wander off too far on our own. For now, at least.”
“I can’t even be alone now?” Martin cries, “Can I go to my room, at least? Or should we handcuff ourselves together?”
Ideally, Martin would stay where Jon can see him, but the fog hadn’t come for him while they were both in the house, and there’s no telling what one more bit of bad news will do to Martin, so Jon relents.
“I’m sure that’s fine, just–” Martin doesn’t wait for Jon to finish before storming off to his room and slamming the door. Shortly after, the lock clunks into place. Message received.
“--be safe,” Jon sighs.
With Martin gone, and nothing left but to wait for him, Jon crosses to the window and looks out, coming face to face with the fog still pressed flush against the glass. He grins at it.
In its attempts, the manifestation of all the world’s Loneliness has driven Jon and Martin together , giving Jon no choice but to stay and figure things out. From this vantage point, Jon’s already won.
The fog doesn’t look so vicious now. Only spurned. Pathetic.
Jon draws the curtains.
~~~~~~~
When the sun–presumably–starts to set and the pale grey of the day gives way to the powder blue of evening, the rain begins. It starts as a gentle pitter-patter, but, as the sky darkens, it swells into a proper storm: all angry wind and window-rattling thunder. It’s the second night in a row to have a storm like this.
Curious.
It’s been hours since Martin sequestered himself in his room, and Jon’s hands itch for something to do.
He’d long since cleaned up Martin’s spilled tea, and washed their mugs, and he can only stoke the fire so many times before it’s overkill. Martin’s clearly done with him for the evening, so there’s no one to talk to. All that’s left to do is pace, and chew his fingernails, and daydream about having a cigarette.
It’s not really the cigarette he wants, it’s the excuse to stand outside and not think about anything. He misses the gentle rhythm of it. Hand to mouth to side to mouth again. The click of the lighter. The smell and the fizzle of the burning tobacco. Tactile and grounding.
Jon stops his pacing and gives the room a once over, eyes coming to rest on Martin’s tea kettle. Well. It’s something.
Making tea doesn’t settle the cravings, but the familiarity of the ritual is a nice distraction.
Martin emerges, as if summoned, at the whistle of the kettle, and that’s nice too. Jon hides his smile with a turned back and sets about preparing two mugs.
Martin accepts Jon’s offering with a terse nod, and retreats to the living room without a word. He settles on the floor in front of the fire, all subdued and serious. Jon, not sure what he’s allowed, takes the couch. He stares at Martin’s broad back, shrouded in shadow.
Silence stretches on between them, dense with everything that needs said, only made heavier by the storm raging outside.
Twice Jon goes to break it with something menial, if only to ease the tension, but Martin’s serious expression as he stares into the fire stops him both times. Whatever he needs to say, he’ll say in his own time.
The fire doesn’t do much to warm the room, but the tea is so hot it almost burns. It might be too hot anywhere else, but here the sting cuts through the dullness surrounding them.. Jon swallows it down without letting it cool, savoring the way it settles in his core.
Martin surprises Jon with a long, indulgent sip of his own.
“God this is good,” he says quietly, almost as though Jon isn’t meant to hear it.
The earnestness of it makes Jon smile.
“Even though there’s no milk?”
Martin’s answering laugh is perfunctory, but it’s better than nothing.
“Been a long time since you’ve had any?” Jon asks, before they can lapse back into silence.
Martin shrugs, “There’s some here but it’s not like this. It’s–I don’t like it very much. I didn't pick it out, it's always just sort of been here.” He scoffs. “Never questioned that until today.” He frowns bitterly into his mug.
Jon takes a deep, steadying breath. It's been all day and they still haven't talked about Martin's "sleepwalking", no use putting it off any further.
"Martin, do you remember what happened last night?"
Martin's blank stare tells him everything he needs to know.
"Thought so," Jon mutters. He sits up straight and squares his shoulders. "You got a phone call, after you went to your room. I'm not sure what they said but when hung up you seemed strange…not lucid. I'm not surprised you don't remember."
Martin keeps up that blank stare for three seconds more before setting his mug down and burying his face in his hands. His body heaves with a bone deep sigh.
"Why didn't you mention this earlier?" He says from behind his hands, not angry now, just exhausted. Jon feels for him.
"I didn't want to overwhelm you. You were already so upset with everything else, I didn't think it was the right time."
Martin sighs once more, and pulls his hands away from his face.
“That's fair,” he readjusts to face Jon, "so, do you 'know' who called?"
"I don't. Places like this don't often lend themselves to being 'Known'.. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me "
Martin shakes his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. He looks at Jon.
“Things were a lot simpler before you got here, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Jon says. He really is.
“No, it’s not your fault, and I know you're trying to help, I’m just–” He presses his palms into his eyes. “I’m just scared.”
It would be nice to kneel before him and pull his hands away from his face and tell him there's no reason to be afraid. He might like that. He might need that. But it's not the sort of comfort Jon can give.
Jon shifts forward, one hand hovering impotently, not even close enough to brush against his shoulder.
“Martin," he whispers, "whatever happens, we'll figure it out. You- you won't be alone.”
It's clumsy and insufficient, but when Martin lifts his head, he smiles at Jon. It’s unpracticed and close-lipped, but it reaches all the way up to his eyes, which counts surely as a victory.
“Thank you.” he whispers. Jon returns his smile.
They finish their tea in silence, easy and companionable now. Even the storm fades into a gentle lull, just on the edge of Jon’s awareness. He falls against the arm of the couch, sagging under the weight of the past two days. He closes his eyes and lets his empty mug drop onto the cushion; he’ll put it away later. Right now he just needs to rest.
Just as sleep starts to pull him under, Martin breaks the silence.
“I think my favorite color is yellow.”
Jon opens his eyes to see him looking sheepishly into his mug, rolling it in his palms.
“Not sure if that’s a memory or something I just made up,” he continues, “but it feels right.”
The golden glow from the dwindling fire is in his hair. It glitters in his eyes and glances off the curve of his cheek bone. It dances on the rim of his mug, where his thumb runs thoughtful circles.
Yellow, Jon thinks, in his unguarded exhaustion, feels very right indeed.
~~~
The phone rings again that night.
Jon startles out the first restful sleep he’s had in years to find his limbs trapped in a blanket he has no memory of donning. He wrestles with it as that god damned phone screams in the kitchen, freeing himself just as Martin appears.
This time, when Martin answers, Jon watches.
“Hello.”
A pause, for whoever is speaking to finish.
“It does.”
Pause.
“I can’t–Now isn’t really–”
He flinches, taking the same shuddering gasp as the night before. He stands frozen for a moment, shoulders still tense, before turning slowly around.
His eyes take in the cabin, wide and wild like it’s the first time he’s truly seen the place. They land on the window, then on Jon. All his fear melts away into a sad smile.
“Hi, Jon,” he whispers.
He drops the phone into the receiver and crosses to the window. He opens the curtains, peering out with that same despair as the night before. Jon comes to his side, looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what he sees.
Nothing. Just opaque fog against the window.
“Do you feel it?” Martin asks. “It’s waiting on us.”
“Martin, who’s calling you?”
Martin scoffs
“Peter’s all that’s left anymore.”
"Lukas?" Jon asks, his train of thought sputters out as Martin grips his hand. He squeezes tight like he thinks Jon is going to drift away if he lets go. His fingers are just as frigid as they were the previous night.
“I hate this place, Jon,” Martin says “I lose myself sometimes. I don't know. I don’t know where I go.”
Jon stares at the side of his face, drawn and grave. His eyes are wet; one tear drips down his cheek. He doesn’t look back at Jon.
Jon rubs his thumb across Martin’s cold knuckles. It might be wishful thinking, but he thinks he may feel them warm under his touch, ever so slightly.
“It’s okay.” He says, “It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Martin doesn't let go of Jon after he guides him back to bed, so Jon sits on the edge of his mattress and holds his hand until he's surely asleep. He doesn't let go until all the warmth returns to Martin's fingers.
Afterwards, he slips back into the main room and retrieves the phone from the receiver. He presses it to his ear.
Nothing on the other side but cold silence.