2024-06-21 18:13:09 ¶ ●

A ficlet featuring Elias and time travel shenanigans. Enjoy!

***

True to form, the Crawling Rot crept across the Archives slowly, insidiously. By the time it made its presence known it was already deep inside the walls, burrowing its way into brick and mortar and stone, carving a home for itself, consuming and inevitable. It couldn’t be stopped, it couldn’t be fought, spreading and multiplying, a dozen new manifestations even as one was slain…

Elias felt the constant itch beneath his skin. It took considerable willpower to ignore, in fact. Normally he thrived on passivity and inaction, but now it became a delicate balancing act, between letting it run wild and trying to contain that which could not be contained…

But there was something new. A low buzz in the fabric of his Archives. He borrowed the eyes of one of the Assistants, but could not make sense of what he saw in this manner. Something - someone - was actively obscuring his vision. The Distortion? It seemed like a game it might like to play. Better make sure. Better safe than sorry.

He went down into the Archives and knocked on the door. Sasha and Tim were huddled on the other side, caught in frantic whispers, their bewilderment fresh and obvious in the air. Has Prentiss struck early? No, he was quite certain he would have felt it.

“Is everything all right?” He asked.

“Oh—Elias? Is that you?” Sasha replied.

“I believe so,” Elias said drily, and pushed the door open.

They weren’t injured in any obvious way. Elias scanned them thoroughly just in case, trying to determine the cause of this commotion.

“Is Jon around?” he asked, unnecessarily; he would have known if his Archivist had left his domain.

“Yeah, he’s taking a statement,” Tim said.

“Live statement?” Elias said.

That—no, that didn’t sound right. He hadn’t—he kept careful tabs on those touched by the Powers who might find their way here, and he hadn’t expected any one of them to show up today. And even if he should have missed it, Rosie would let him know. She had never failed him yet.

There was a familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck; the crushing weight of his Patron’s gaze, as familiar as it was terrifying. Something went wrong, Elias knew with sudden clarity; something was terribly, horribly wrong—

“Excuse me,” he said, pushing past the Assistants, heading straight for the Head Archivist’s office. He hadn’t—he hadn’t quite meant to move, but still his legs carried him onwards, as if following a path laid out in front of them, a few short steps before the edge of a cliff, and a drop into the endless oblivion.

Jon was at his desk, alive; he didn’t look up at Elias, he didn’t move, unable to tear his gaze away from the man in front of him. Fear paralyzed him, froze the blood in his veins and took the air from his lungs; it was too much, too soon, his fragile heart couldn’t cope with it yet, but his eyes were open, wide open, swallowed by the pupils. And—

“Who are you?” Elias asked, momentarily blinded by fury.

The statement-giver was sitting down with his back to the door; Elias could see greying hair pulled into a messy bun, and a hand on the desk, balling into a fist, brown skin dotted with scars.

“We aren’t done,” said the stranger, strange harmonics overlapping the familiar voice. “Continue.”

Jon trembled in his seat; his heart was beating dangerously fast, its rhythm growing erratic, its vessels incapable of feeding it for much longer. He could feel the web of them growing strained, threatening to break at any moment—

“I don’t—I don’t remember—“ Jon stammered. “I don’t remember his name. I don’t—“

The stranger sighed.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said. “Statement ends.”

Jon collapsed, heaving for breath and clutching at his chest; it felt like a heart attack but it wasn’t one, not truly. He would recover shortly, even if he didn’t believe it right now. The man was always so dramatic.

“What have you done to my Archivist?” Elias demanded.

The stranger laughed - a short, dry laugh, with very little humor to it. And that, too, was uncannily familiar. Some aspect of the Stranger, then? It would explain why Elias’ vision remained clouded.

“You know,” he began, then paused; everywhere around them, there was a buzz of static, tape recorders listening in with ravenous hunger. Elias felt a similar pull, gnawing at his own mind, begging to be filled.

But the man shook his head, then, and said, “No. I have nothing to say to you.”

“What—who are you?” Jon cut in, sharp and abrasive as ever.

Instead of answering, the stranger rose to his feet, and turned around.

The eyes looking back at him were unblinking, open wide, swallowed by the hungry maw of pupils; and Elias had felt the Beholding’s presence in the past, had trembled under the weight of Its attention, but never before had he experienced the sensation of standing face to face with It. He never considered himself a religious man but it did feel like seeing his God made flesh—all-seeing, all-knowing, power and terror and—

No. It couldn’t be. He’d know if the Ritual succeeded. The man in front of him couldn’t be what he seemed; there had to be another explanation. And now that he got over the initial shock, Elias noticed other features - this stranger and Jon looked remarkably alike…

And then the man punched him in the face.

Elias staggered backwards, reflexively raising his hand to the sharp pain in his cheek.

“Jesus Christ, what—“ Jon said, while the stranger aimed another blow.

Elias was ready this time. He moved at the last moment; his assailant hit the door instead and toppled forward, spitting foul curses in Jon’s voice.

“Come back here,” he snarled.

His knuckles were bloodied, possibly broken. Still he came back up, throwing himself at Elias; his movements were reckless, fueled by pure rage and all-consuming hatred. Elias managed to block him, grab one of the arms; he tried looking, pulling anything useful out of the eyes in front of him, flood the mind with terror and pain, but there was nothing to latch onto—or, rather, there was too much of it all at once, like trying to catch a single raindrop in a torrential downpour.

He landed heavily on the Archivist’s desk, all air knocked out of his lungs. A glint of metal in the corner of his eyes; he panicked, throwing his arms up, anything. Sharp pain laced up his arm, where the blade must have pierced skin. But he managed to grab a hold on the other man’s wrists, hold, hold on while the tip of the knife inched closer and closer to his face, hairbreadth above his right eye—

The knife disappeared, as did the weight on his chest. His assailant had been wrenched backwards, probably by one of the archival assistants. Elias breathed out, holding back an undignified whimper, and covered his face with his hands. His eye. His eyes. No, they were still where they should be, it was all right. They were all right. They hadn’t been injured.

“Are you hurt?” Jon asked from somewhere above him. Elias flinched, but it was his Jon speaking. There was no reason to fear him.

“No,” he said coolly.

“A little help here?” Tim shouted.

The commotion was still going on. Tim and Martin were wrestling with the stranger, trying to get him to drop the knife. But clearly whatever madness had been driving the man up until now had ran its course. He seemed to shrink in on himself, backing away from the two of them with wide, terrified eyes, the knife clutched protectively to his chest.

“Drop the knife, mate,” Tim said. He and Martin towered over the—over Jon. The man was Jon, or a being made to look like him. Older by about a decade, face weathered, hair almost entirely grey; dressed with none of Jon’s usual desperate insecurity, in loose jeans and a sweater several sizes too large on him. But the resemblance was unmistakable.

“No,” Not-Jon said; his grip on the knife turned white. “But it’s all right. I’m—I’m putting it away now.”

He sheathed the blade under their apprehensive gaze, hiding it beneath the large sweater. Then he raised his empty, horribly scarred hands. “There. See?”

“I’m calling the police,” Sasha said flatly, the phone already pressed to her ear.

Not-Jon’s lips twisted into a humorless smile. “No, you are not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you want to question me yourself,” not!Jon said. “And I think—I think everyone will be better off if I just leave.” He huffed a short, bitter laugh; his shoulders trembled, and he backed away another step, to lean against the wall and bury his face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he mumbled, voice muffled and strained with—pain? Guilt? “I really am very sorry about that…”

“You can’t just leave,” Jon said sharply. “You tried to kill Elias, we won’t just let you go—“

“I think it’s a very good reason to let me go, actually” not!Jon said. “I’m still armed, after all.”

“Who, um—who are you?” Martin asked timidly.

Not!Jon froze. He kept his face covered still, maybe in a futile attempt to hide his identity.

“You look—you look just like Jon.”

“No, he does not,” Jon said in his snottiest, most abrasive tone of voice. “What on earth are you talking about, Martin?”

Martin deflated. Not!Jon lowered his hands and stared at his other self.

“Good lord, you are such a prick,” he said slowly. “I never realized…”

“Oh, so you’ve met before?” Tim asked, smirking.

Elias finally got his breathing under control and managed to get back on his feet. There was a shallow cut on his forearm, a smear of blood on his shirt; no doubt his hair looked a horrible mess. He righted the tie, his vest and shirt, smoothing down any creases, and then calmly wiped off the blood with a handkerchief.

Not!Jon was glaring at him, with a very Jon-like expression. Their eyes met; Elias caught flashes of the man’s hostility, vague impressions and images —Gertrude’s bullet-ridden corpse, the tunnels—

“I think I should leave now,” not!Jon said. “Wouldn’t you agree? Elias?”

Terror crept down Elias’ spine. Not!Jon knew him; knew him in a deep, visceral way, all his secrets, lies, weaknesses… all his fears…

“Yes,” he said. “I think that would be for the best.”