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The apocalypse started over a century ago, with an act of betrayal.
Long ago, so long that Elias Bouchard would be hard-pressed to identify what is memory and what is the Beholding filling in the blanks, Jonah Magnus made a decision. He'd already been attempting for years to gather enough information, enough experiences, to be able to foresee and prevent another ritual like the one described to him and his colleagues by Smirke. He'd already been observing his compatriots, watching as, bit by bit, they each lost that all-important balance, each one gradually falling to their newfound patrons, each one sure to work their way to rituals of their own. He'd already become disillusioned by this goal, knowing now that it would not be safe - frankly, even possible - for him, one man alone, to stop even one of these people, let alone more than that; far more likely was the possibility of falling victim to these men, himself, by presenting himself as a threat. He could try, and die horribly — or worse. Or he could give up, and find himself suffering for eternity under the thumb of Lukas, or Scott, or anyone else who had found their way into the path of one of the Fourteen.
Or he could give in to the Eye he knew had been at his back his entire life, do as Smirke warned so strongly against from the very first day he'd shared this horror, and simply get there first.
It had only been a thought, only a horrible little idea worming into his mind, becoming more and more real and less and less unthinkable as time went on. If Jonah transformed the world for the Eye, all to escape his own suffering, what would that make him? The answer was clear: it would make him the greatest monster the planet had ever known. But that weighty truth wasn't stopping anyone else — and he was certain it would not, in the end. Still, it stayed a thought, a nasty little thing at the back of his mind, tempting him. You could do it, it seemed to say. What do you care for the rest of the world? Even without the Fears in the equation, the rest of the world will crush you under its heel, hurt you anyway.
But that wasn't true. Couldn't be. Jonah liked people well enough, and they liked him; even if he generally avoided company unless he could benefit from an interaction, even if often took advantage. He was, of course, no stranger to the harsh realities of life, the inequalities rampant in Edinburgh and London and everywhere else, the hazards of his own situation, but he knew better than to assume that all of it was a reflection of humanity's essence. He knew hurt, yes. But knew, too, that hurt wasn't all there was.
This grew harder to believe, the more stories he collected, the more the world started to feel like an anthill, a terrarium, observed and harassed by outside forces too immense to comprehend. Every possible hurt in the world now had a shape, and some of those shapes had minds, and some of those minds were happy to cause you suffering as soon as look at you. Were they any different, at all extricable from the people of daily life, the same people Jonah would have to damn in order to escape the endless torment of someone else's hell?
Still, it was difficult to think that these things existed in the same universe as people like Barnabas Bennett, people so unconcerned with questions of things beyond the tangible, who were cruel at times, but in such painfully human ways. Barnabas never cared much for the clawing questions of Jonah's work or the darkness lurking behind it, deeming it all fantastical, absurd, far flung from the grounded natural sciences he, himself, studied (or, at the very least, played at studying) along with the Royal Society. If Barnabas were capable of anything truly terrible, that thing would be managing to pull Jonah from his work long enough for him to temporarily forget the urgency of it.
Or that would have been the case, anyway, even as little as a year ago. There was, of course, bitter irony in the fact that Barnabas, rather than pull him from his path, helped him to become the very monster whispering temptations in the back of his mind.
Jonah read the letter again and again, after it appeared in his office. Poor, stupid Barnabas. How often had Jonah told him to stay away from Lukas and Scott and the others, to avoid confrontation, to just keep his damned mouth shut for once, while in their presence? And this foolish man hadn't listened. With a sort of bitter smugness, he had to wonder what Barnabas was thinking, now, of his own constant comments on Jonah's cautiousness. You see? Jonah wanted to say. Which one of us had the right idea? Which of us is trapped within the very concept of Loneliness, and which of us is enjoying a drink by the fire?
He knew what saving him would take. He would have to approach Lukas, entreat him to let his friend - his unreliable, disrespectful fool of a friend - go free. Lukas, one of the primary donors to his growing Institute. Lukas, who would undoubtedly want something in return, be it monetary, or something more otherworldly — and that was, of course, if he didn't decide to erase Jonah from the world, as well, regardless of the strength of their acquaintance. Helping Barnabas out of a hell of his own making would surely end in Jonah either dead or indebted, himself, and the very thought set the animal part of his brain thrashing.
But it was more than that. Jonah wanted to know what the consequences beyond this entrapment might be. Needed to know, in order to see the bigger picture, and to avoid these consequences, himself — but also out of pure, gnawing curiosity. What if Barnabas found his way out, eventually? What if the Forsaken kept him alive, and the letters began piling up on Jonah's desk? What would those letters look like? Would they fade, as Barnabas faded? Would they grow more desperate, more angry? Or would they stay the same, the passage of time growing meaningless? Would Barnabas slowly lose his mind, in his isolation? Or would he die, like any human abandoned and alone for too long, even with the basic necessities of food and drink?
It almost frightened Jonah, how badly he wanted to know. It did frighten him, how little his heart ached at the prospect of doing nothing, of waiting and watching (separate, he found, from the ache of losing someone, which was certainly present, but he knew the feeling of loss would, at least, fade with time). Years, now, Jonah had been friends - for he had to admit to friendship - with Barnabas. A connection outside of his own academic circle, more interested in the scientific than the architectural or theoretical, rash and arrogant and eager to be playfully put in his place — and, once away from the company of Jonah and his friends, so utterly alone.
It shouldn't have been so easy, to choose knowledge and safety over saving this man's life. To fold the letter back up and slip it into his safe. To collect the bundled-up bones from Mordechai, months later — and to not even wonder, as he smoothed his thumb over the clean, white brow-bone of Barnabas's skull, and roved his eyes over the tooth he'd watched him chip on a pipe, of all things, if he'd perhaps made a mistake.
It shouldn't have been so easy to decide that if he could do this to a friend, the rest of the world would be nothing.