[ID: A digital illustration of Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat white trans man with short curly light brown hair wearing a grey chest binder and round glasses. He is stood in the archives, holding a mug of tea with a cartoon cat on it in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Martin sighs, looking tired. End description.]
@jonmartinweek day 8, Free/AU day. This is a sequel to the AU I wrote for last year’s day 8, where Martin is a local god, and Jon is the scholar sent to investigate a mysterious fog in the valley where he resides. I recommend reading that first, as this won’t make much sense otherwise.
Thanks to the organizers of @jonmartinweek for such a fun event, and to everyone who’s read my fics this week! :)
*
The people of the valley tell a story about their god. Once, the story goes, their god sank into a deep sadness, and with his sorrow the valley sank into fog. For months they never saw the sun, never felt a cool breeze on their faces, only gray and clinging mist. The crops died in the ground, and the people despaired, for nothing they did could bring joy back to their god’s heart.
But then (the story continues) the scholar from the city came, with his books and his notebooks and his sharp, assessing eyes. He came to study the valley in fog, and the god in his grief, but then he and the god fell in love, and the power of their love swept the gloom away—
(“That is certainly not what happened,” Jon grumbles whenever he hears the story. “As if love were some magical cure-all for sorrow.”
“Poetic license, love,” Martin always tells him. “It’s a story, not an encyclopedia entry.”)
—and the sun shone down on the valley once again. And that is why the scholar from the city remained among them, rather than returning to his temple of knowledge. And why, every once in a while, their god leaves them for a time. For he has given so much to his people for so many long years, it’s only just that he should take time to follow his own desires—as the scholar informed them at great length and quite crossly.
(“I wasn’t cross,” Jon protests, “I was simply explaining—”
“I know, love,” Martin smiles. “But you can be a bit intimidating when you explain.”)
But their god is never gone for long, and he always returns to bring blessings to the valley again, the scholar from the city by his side. Their god has even chosen a name for himself, and while the people of the valley don’t quite see the need for him to have a name (“the god” has always been good enough for them), they respect his choice. Even if “Martin Blackwood” is a rather odd name for a god.
(“What’s so odd about Martin Blackwood?” Martin demands. “It’s a perfectly good name—it came from a book!”
“It’s a wonderful name,” Jon assures him. “Some people just lack imagination.”)
The story of the god and his scholar have spread far beyond the valley over the years, and from time to time another scholar will come from another city to investigate the truth of the tale. Martin always greets them kindly, though Jon is less welcoming. They remind him of how he first came here, treating the valley in fog as a curiosity—a mystery to be solved, with no care for the grief that lay behind it. Coming to the valley was the best choice he ever made; it brought him his love, and a new, more peaceful life. But still he sees his old self in those scholars with their relentless pursuit of knowledge, and it is not a resemblance he’s proud of.
The scholars always ask him the same questions: are you a priest of the god, does his divinity bestow any special favor upon you, why did he choose Martin Blackwood of all names? Jon scowls and answers the questions shortly. Martin is far more tolerant, speaking long and warmly of how Jon came to the valley, how they fell in love, how Jon encouraged him to travel to new places and learn new things.
“He changed my life,” Martin tells the latest scholar, his hand resting over Jon’s, the tingling buzz of his divinity dancing over Jon’s skin. “And for a life as long as mine has been, that’s saying a lot.”
“Isn’t it difficult, though?” the scholar asks, pen poised over her notebook. “To love a human—a mortal, knowing someday he will die.”
Martin shakes his head. “I don’t think about that,” he says.
Jon does, though. He has thought of it a lot, in the years since he first came to the valley. He has always been starkly aware of his own mortality, ever since his parents died in his childhood; it’s part of why he spent his youth in the pursuit of knowledge. The world was infinite, and his time here finite, and he wanted to understand as much as he could in the time he had.
(He’s found something more important than knowledge now, and infinitely more precious. Not that he isn’t still curious—he delights in journeying with Martin to new and interesting places, and he has taken up a congenial correspondance with his old temple, sharing what he learns on his travels and learning from them in return. But it is no longer the driving force of his life.)
Of course Jon’s death is many years away, barring an unfortunate accident. But in the existence of a god, the life of a human might as well be that of a mayfly, blinking in and out of being in an instant. And when he is gone, Martin will be alone again. Will he still travel, when Jon is dead? Will he go to new places and experience new things, take time for his own joys? Or will he fall back into his old life of endless servitude to the people who rely on him, the people he loves, never thinking of anything for himself?
Jon doesn’t know the answer, but he fears it.
*
It is late afternoon in the dead of winter. Snow blankets the ground outside the cottage that serves as the god’s shrine as well as their home, but inside there is warmth and light, a stew pot bubbling over the fire and easy conversation, brimming with laughter and affection.
A knock on the door brings a worried frown to Martin’s face. The harvest is long since in storage, and the animals have been taken in from the fields; there’s no reason for any of his people to come to him today, unless something has gone amiss. He opens the door with Jon standing at his shoulder, and sees two of the women from a nearby farmstead, with a huddled shape between them.
“Please,” says one of them. “We found her wandering on the edges of the valley two days ago, injured and cold. We brought her to the farm and tended her wounds, gave her food, but she will not speak of what happened.”
“She hasn’t said a single word,” adds the other.
“We thought perhaps…you could speak with her? Find out what happened to her, where she came from—if she has kin waiting for her.”
“Come inside,” Martin says, standing back from the door. The local women step inside, bowing their heads reverently, hustling their charge in with them. For her part, the stranger seems to have little care of where she is, walking wherever she is directed. Martin guides her to a seat near the fire, then turns to the farmers, his expression creased with worry.
“I’m not sure if there’s much I can do,” he admits. “But I’ll try to speak with her. Oh—would you like some stew?”
The women seem overwhelmed at being offered stew by their god, and graciously accept. Jon ladles stew into bowls and sits at the table with the locals, while Martin crouches beside the woman, speaking quietly to her. Jon can’t make out the words, but he recognizes the warm, gentle tone, the kindness and caring Martin shows his people extending easily to this stranger. He does not hear the woman reply, and after several minutes, Martin gets up and joins them at the table with a sigh.
“She will not speak to me,” he says. “I’m not sure she hears me at all—something has hurt her heart deeply, and she has retreated from the world. I’m sorry.”
Jon glances over at the huddled, silent figure, and suddenly, inexplicably, he is certain that he needs to speak with her.
“Let me try,” he says, getting to his feet. The two farmers give him doubtful looks, and even Martin seems hesitant, but Jon is already crossing the room and crouching in front of the woman. He does not know why, but he knows without question what he must do.
“Will you look at me?” he asks. Slowly, the woman raises her head. There is a healing cut on her cheek, and her eyes are shadowed and fearful, but she meets his gaze, something like recognition there. Jon smiles, and offers her his hands, palms turned up.
“You can tell me what happened to you, if you’d like,” he says gently. “I think you’ll feel better if you do.”
The woman stares at him, long and hard, and then she nods minutely and places her hands in his. In a voice that starts hesitant, whispering, yet becomes more sure by the moment, she tells of how her traveling party were caught unawares by bandits in the mountains. All of her companions—her family and friends—were slain brutally, and she barely escaped in the cover of a snowstorm. She speaks of her fear, her grief, and Jon feels those things as she does, his heart aching with them. There is a feeling of absolute rightnessto it; he was meant to share in her burden, to offer her this catharsis.
There are tears running down her wounded face as she comes to the end of the story, and Jon can feel the tracks of tears on his own cheeks. She grips his hands tight, and whispers: “Thank you. I—I do feel better. Or at least, I think I will.”
A while later she leaves with the women from the farm, who promise she has a place in their home for as long as she wants it. She smiles gratefully at Jon as she leaves, and the locals give him questioning looks, and then Martin closes the door and turns to look at him. Jon doesn’t know what to say. He can still feel the woman’s grief and pain, a deep ache in the heart of him, yet along with it there is a bone deep satisfaction and a feeling like lightning running under his skin; he feels like he might scream or shudder apart or burst into flames, but it feels good. It feels like what he was always meant for.
“Martin,” he starts hesitantly, “I—”
“Your eyes,” says Martin, his voice full of wonder. “Look!” He rushes into their bedroom and returns with the little hand mirror they keep there, holding it up for Jon to see. Instead of their usual dark brown, Jon’s eyes are shining green, as brightly as Martin’s eyes shine blue.
As brightly as a god’s eyes.
Martin makes jasmine tea while Jon sits by the fire, waiting for his hands to stop trembling. At last the frantic energy abates, the lightning beneath his skin settling down into a warm glow at his core. Martin presses the teacup into his hands and sits beside him, his shoulder pressed to Jon’s.
“Tell me what it felt like,” he asks, so Jon does; the certainty that he could help, the way he had felt the woman’s pain as she spoke, had taken it into himself. The lightning beneath his skin, a feeling like the spark of Martin’s divinity when they touch, but running straight through Jon’s veins and nerves, right down to his bones. Martin listens quietly, sipping his tea.
“What does it mean?” Jon asks plaintively, at the end. Martin thinks for a moment.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “But you helped her, in a way nobody else could. You felt her grief, shared her burden. Gave her strength to continue on. To me, that sounds a lot like something a god would do.”
Jon feels his face go hot, his stomach flipping over. “I—I’m not a god,that’s not—that’s impossible! You don’t just…become a god.”
“Don’t you?” Martin asks mildly. “Where do gods come from, then?”
“That’s a, uh, a matter of a lot of debate in academic circles,” Jon says. “It seems there are…several different paths to divinity. Some gods simply arise from the inherent mystic power of the universe, some are born of other immortal beings, or lifted to godhood through great acts that touch the divine—”
“Perhaps like a man who once cared for a god in his grief, helped to shoulder his burden when he was deep in despair? Who acted as a lantern in the fog for him, until he could find his way out? Who’s to say that the universe wouldn’t want such a man to act as a guiding light for others—a lantern in the fog for all the world?”
Jon says nothing, overwhelmed. His chest feels tight with the enormity of emotion, and there’s something welling up beneath it that might be hope.
I could stay, he thinks. I could stay with you always, I’d never have to leave you alone.
“I don’t know the truth of it, Jon,” Martin says. “For all I’m a god myself, I have no insight; all I can do is speculate. But I know that were I the great authority of the universe, I couldn’t imagine a kinder gift to the world than you.”
“Martin…” is all Jon can say, turning to him. Martin—his god, his beloved—pulls him close, and holds him there for a long time.
After a few hours Jon’s eyes do return to their usual brown, though if he looks closely in the mirror he thinks he can still see the sparks of green in their depths. Beyond that, it seems nothing else has changed, and for days he tries not to think about it. The implications are so vast, so overwhelming, that not thinking about it seems the most sensible course; there’s no way to test his potential godhood, so there’s little to be gained by mulling over it.
It’s maybe a week later when they go down to the village. Jon teasingly refers to it as Martin walking among his worshippers, and Martin rolls his eyes and says that Jon can go to fetch the supplies by himself if he prefers. They walk together in the end, boots splashing in the mud where the snowmelt has turned the ground soft. In the village market the people are always glad to see their god, and press their finest goods upon him while Martin protests that he and Jon only have four hands between them, and there’s only so much they can carry. Jon is engrossed in examining some pretty wooden carvings that a young woman is selling, and he doesn’t notice the man coming up alongside him until there’s a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” says the man, and Jon smiles expectantly, sure he’s about to be asked to request a favor from Martin: some blessing on a field or remedy for a sick animal. Instead, the man says: “I heard that you listen to people’s stories. Bad things that have happened, I mean. I heard that it helps?”
“Oh,” says Jon. “I, uh…”
“It’s just, my wife passed away, recently. She was ill for a long time, but losing her was still—” The man’s voice breaks, and Jon can see the tears clouding his eyes. “I was hoping, if there’s anything you can do?”
He leaves the request hanging, and how can Jon say no to that? Even if he feels like a fraud, how could he possibly say no? He tells Martin what he’s doing, and then he goes and sits in the man’s house, with the mementoes of his wife all around, and he takes the man’s hands in his and asks for his story. The man tells of his wife’s long illness, the weight of it on them both, and the far greater weight of her loss. The feeling that there is nothing beyond this, that he might as well be dead alongside her. Jon feels that pain in his own heart, takes that burden onto his own shoulders, enough to let this man see that there is a future. That there will be something after his grief.
“Thank you,” the man sobs at the end, gripping Jon’s hands like a plank in the ocean. “Thank you.”
When they return to the village square, Martin gives him a smile full of sheer adoration, and takes Jon’s hand in his. “Your eyes are green again,” he says.
Jon sighs. “I’m going to have to tell the Temple about this, aren’t I?”
“They’ll likely hear about it one way or another—it might as well be from you.” Martin’s smile turns mischievous. “Does this mean we’ll finally get a visit from your esteemed mentor?”
“Oh hell,” Jon groans. Of course Elias won’t pass up a chance to see this for himself, one of his own students, becoming a god—or something like one, at least? He’s not sure they’ll ever be rid of the man.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” says Martin. “And I very much look forward to meeting him, after all you’ve told me.”
“All right,” says Jon, “I’ll let Elias know. But don’t say I didn’t warn you—and he is not staying with us.”
“Whatever you say, love,” says Martin, and kisses his cheek.
*
The people of the valley tell a story about their gods. One god, they explain, cares for the life of the valley. He makes sure the soft rains fall in spring, and in summer the sun shines on the growing crops; in the winter he gentles the freezing winds, and protects the valley from the worst of the frost. Their other god cares for the hearts of the people. Where there is grief and pain he brings comfort and support, a healing of the soul and a promise that there will be life beyond sorrow.
Their gods are not always in the valley, they tell the visitors who come from far and wide. At times they travel into the world beyond, to share their gifts with those who are not fortunate enough to live in the most blessed of valleys.
(“And because they are their own people who they don’t belong to us, and they deserve a holiday once in a while,” the people of the valley add, with a reverence that implies this was explained to them at length and with considerablefervor.)
If visitors are lucky enough to arrive when the gods are in residence, the people of the valley point them towards the little cottage on the hillside that acts as a shrine. There is always a fire in the hearth, when the gods are there, usually with a tea kettle or a pot of stew bubbling over it. Those who visit the shrine are welcomed warmly (though anyone wearing scholar’s robes gets a cool, skeptical eye from one of the residents) and if they need help, the gods of the valley give it freely.
And if anyone thinks that Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims are rather unusual names for gods, well, they keep that to themselves.
[image description: a looking-from-above view down at a large, lavender teacup on a small plate, which sits center on a light brown background. The teacup is full of swirling, brown tea. Curled around the plate on the teacup’s right are two green sprigs of mint, with darker green centers on their leaves. The words, “Day 8: Free // AU Day” are centered in curly writing across the surface of the tea.]
Martin notices it first in front of the bathroom mirror, one morning while he’s brushing his teeth. He frowns at his reflection, leans in and squints to make sure it’s not just a trick of the light, grasping at the offending lock of hair.
“What are you looking at?” asks Jon, who’s pottering around in the cabinet behind him.
“I’m going gray,” Martin says. It’s unmistakable now he looks at it, silvery strands scattered among the red-blond of his hair. Not as stark a contrast as the gray in Jon’s black hair, which is probably why he didn’t notice it until now, but definitely apparent. Jon pops into the frame of his reflection, peering at the crown of Martin’s head.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, as if it’s a mildly interesting fact. He kisses Martin on the cheek. “Welcome to the club, love.”
He doesn’t sound at all sympathetic.
The gray hair is just the start of it. After that, Martin starts to notice all sorts of other things; the way his knees creak, the twinge in his lower back if he’s slept on it funny the night before, the involuntary grunt of exertion that escapes him when he gets up from a low-riding chair. Hangovers are the worst part. Not that he’s ever been a wild party animal, but these days if he so much as looks at a glass of Sauvignon Blanc the wrong way he gets an all day headache.
There’s no two ways about it: he’s getting old.
“I’m getting old,” he complains while searching for the glasses he’s recently started wearing to read. Jon, who’s worn glasses since he was a kid, snorts.
“Yes, well, that’s linear time for you.”
“I’m getting old,” he despairs when his joints ache the day after they went hill walking; it wasn’t even that steep of a climb. Jon gives him a sympathetic look and pats his shoulder.
“I’ll get you a hot water bottle.”
“I’m getting old,” he mutters groggily when he’s shaken awake from where he fell asleep in front of the telly. Jon just smiles and kisses the crown of his head.
“Time for bed, old man.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he demands, while they’re having lunch in their local pub one Sunday afternoon.
“What’s that?” asks Jon, eating some Yorkshire pudding.
“Gettingold. It’s one of those things, you know? You never think it’ll actually happen to you.”
Jon pauses for a moment, considering seriously. He always considers his answers seriously, no matter how frivolous the question; it’s one of the many things Martin loves about him. Finally, he shakes his head.
“No, it doesn’t bother me.” Then he frowns. “It bothers youthough.”
“I mean…a bit? I know that probably makes me sound shallow or something. It’s just—I spent my whole twenties working at the Institute and worrying about being found out, and then years being actively terrorized by our evil boss, and I dunno, it just kind of feels like I missed out on being young? Like that was something the Eye…took from me. From us.”
“Oh,” says Jon, his expression going soft and sad.
“It’s stupid, I know.”
“It’snot,” Jon insists, reaching across the table to lay his hand on top of Martin’s. “You’re right—the Eye took all that from us. I spent my thirtieth birthday in a coma.” He gives a sardonic little laugh, and Martin’s heart hurts for him; it always does, even after all this time, when he thinks of Jon lying in that hospital bed.
“Jon…”
Jon shakes his head. “I’m not trying to make this about me, I just mean…all that—what we lost—it bothers me, of course, but getting older doesn’t.” He smiles. “Did you know that we’ve now officially been here longer than we worked together at the Institute—and…all the rest?”
“We have?” Martin frowns, calculating in his head, and wow…Jon is right. How did he not notice the time passing by like that? Their life here, in this world that’s so like their own—though not exactly—has become comfortable. Well worn and familiar, like a favorite jumper that you scarcely even notice you’re wearing, it fits so perfectly.
“Almost six years now,” Jon confirms. “We’ve been here together for longer than we even knew each other back there. Getting older doesn’t bother me, because every ache and pain and gray hair is a reminder that the Institute, Jonah Magnus—all of it is in our past. This is our life, and I want to live it together until we’re properly old—absolutely ancient—until the time we’ve been together is mostof our lives. That sounds pretty wonderful to me.”
“That…sounds pretty wonderful to me, too,” says Martin. There’s a lump rising in his throat and a suspicious wetness in his eyes that he has to blink away. He grips Jon’s hand tighter across the table, and smiles at him. Jon smiles back, and Martin sees the precise moment it turns into a mischievous smirk.
“Of course, if you want to dye your hair and go clubbing, I’ll fully support you,” says Jon, and a helpless huff of laughter escapes Martin’s lips.
“Oh shut up,” he says affectionately.
“No, really,” Jon continues, grinning like a Cheshire cat now. “Maybe you should look into getting a sports car? I hear that’s a classic move when you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“So is trading in your partner for someone younger,” says Martin with a mock glare, but the effect is ruined when Jon bursts out laughing, and then Martin’s laughing properly too, tears of mirth running down his cheeks.
“Seriously though,” says Jon when they’ve both recovered. “The way you’re feeling—it’s normal. People worry about getting older. If you want to talk about it any time, I promise I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Martin says; honestly, he feels better already. Jon smiles.
“Of course, love,” he says, and then: “It’s the least I can do for a venerated elder of the community.”
“Oi!” Martin grins, and then they’re laughing again, and everything’s good. The past is in the past, and the future is theirs to live, and everything’s good.
For everyone who says this is fucked up, SM volunteered to have the extent of her fear immunity (and other neurodivergence-like symptoms) studied. Of course scientists jumped on it. They started with horror movies (she enjoyed them, but didn’t feel fear) and other scary things in a controlled environment. They also tested her ability to feel other emotions and relate to other scenes from films. The suffocation simulation involved the direction injection of CO2 into her bloodstream. There was also a control group of nuerotypical people. The interesting part is that she was more freaked out than they were, likely because the control group could temper their fear with the knowledge that they weren’t in any real danger. But she is unable to process context clues in regards to fear.
This was in 1994, so an ethics board was involved and this provided us very useful insight into the neurological nature of fear and the purpose of the amygdala. Also she’s almost been murdered on multiple occasions. This is one of the least dangerous things that’s happened to her.
i think the most interesting thing about this is that it implies the fear of suffocation is not something that is processed or propagated by the amygdala, which is a rather new part of the brain compared to the brainstem. fear of suffocation is a far deeper, older, and more instinctual fear, something so deep that even creatures without a limbic system might experience it.
I’m sorry. I know this song doesn’t fit well with their relationship. I also know that this song is the soundtrack for ANOTHER podcast. I really have no excuses for what I did haha
Hope it’s not too dark…
Song: when somebody needs you by will wood
Ps: if you are a fan of gravity falls, tma and welcome to nightvale you should listen to camp here and there please please please check it out….
It’s not even my idea, and I’m sure someone has thought about this before, but I can’t I just can’t….
Archivist or Elias but
Khkhkhkh I’m so stupid I know I KNOW
I don’t have much time so I didn’t draw Elias sorry also I’m afraid I can’t draw him like this because it’s just TOO funny for me and….i just…. I start laughing when I just imagine him khkhkhkh …. sorry sorry you can hate me I understand
