The last thing Jon remembers is the theater- his spotty memory, the fog. That damn puppet standing over him, mocking him as the Anglerfish onstage behind her-
“TIM!” He screams, sitting up. His heart is hammering in his chest. Did the plan… work? He looks at his hands to check that he still has them. Despite having just crawled around in a dusty old building for several hours, he feels- clean. And then his eyes adjust to his surroundings. A garden, all vivid colors and topiaries and friendly little flowers. And occupants. That one has wings. That one is a talking horse.
He must have passed out, or been knocked out. His friends still need him. Jon struggles to his feet. The grass is plush and green against his scuffed shoes. At least he still has clothes on in this dream. Though it has been a very long time since he has dreamt anything quite so bizarre, when he dreams at all.
Something feels… off. Obviously the surroundings are completely insane but he’s able to get a glimpse of his reflection in one of the thick black marble stripes of an unusual decorative wall behind him. He looks a bit closer.
It’s all eyes. He’s all eyes. Across his forearms, his face, his neck- numerous and sickly green. And around his head he beholds a similar sight. A halo of sorts of green, unblinking eyes. He prods one of the ones on his forearm. It’s not quite as round as he expects, but it blinks uncomfortably, even if he himself doesn’t feel pain in response.
And then it hits him all at once- the Knowledge. Jon is forced back to the ground on his knees by the impact of it.
Angels and demons, throwing a little party on neutral ground and merely tolerating one another for the duration of the festivities. Above him lies heaven- the most generic, iconic form of heaven imaginable. Fluffy clouds and adorable cherubs. Beneath him, hell unfolds in a similar manner.
He is dead.
Jon gasps, fumbling for- oh. There. Despite being dead, he guesses, he still feels very much alive, with all of the aches and pains that accompany it. His cane rests nearby on the grass and he reaches for it, holding it close for a moment before trying to get back to his feet again.
It’s a while before he can make himself move from his spot- but curiosity has taken him as much as fear. And he needs to know what’s going on. The Archivist- does that still even apply in death? He takes a step and then another and follows the smell of fresh tea.
The Eye’s Fallen - The Arrival - Hellbound
A.
The last thing Jon remembers is the theater- his spotty memory, the fog. That damn puppet standing over him, mocking him as the Anglerfish onstage behind her-
“TIM!” He screams, sitting up. His heart is hammering in his chest. Did the plan… work? He looks at his hands to check that he still has them. Despite having just crawled around in a dusty old building for several hours, he feels- clean. And then his eyes adjust to his surroundings. A garden, all vivid colors and topiaries and friendly little flowers. And occupants. That one has wings. That one is a talking horse.
He must have passed out, or been knocked out. His friends still need him. Jon struggles to his feet. The grass is plush and green against his scuffed shoes. At least he still has clothes on in this dream. Though it has been a very long time since he has dreamt anything quite so bizarre, when he dreams at all.
Something feels… off. Obviously the surroundings are completely insane but he’s able to get a glimpse of his reflection in one of the thick black marble stripes of an unusual decorative wall behind him. He looks a bit closer.
It’s all eyes. He’s all eyes. Across his forearms, his face, his neck- numerous and sickly green. And around his head he beholds a similar sight. A halo of sorts of green, unblinking eyes. He prods one of the ones on his forearm. It’s not quite as round as he expects, but it blinks uncomfortably, even if he himself doesn’t feel pain in response.
And then it hits him all at once- the Knowledge. Jon is forced back to the ground on his knees by the impact of it.
Angels and demons, throwing a little party on neutral ground and merely tolerating one another for the duration of the festivities. Above him lies heaven- the most generic, iconic form of heaven imaginable. Fluffy clouds and adorable cherubs. Beneath him, hell unfolds in a similar manner.
He is dead.
Jon gasps, fumbling for- oh. There. Despite being dead, he guesses, he still feels very much alive, with all of the aches and pains that accompany it. His cane rests nearby on the grass and he reaches for it, holding it close for a moment before trying to get back to his feet again.
It’s a while before he can make himself move from his spot- but curiosity has taken him as much as fear. And he needs to know what’s going on. The Archivist- does that still even apply in death? He takes a step and then another and follows the smell of fresh tea.