#is valid

Jon’s Eyes try to find Robbie in the crowd. It’s unlikely but maybe, just maybe, Georgie will have brought them here…?

The crowd of apprentices and familiars is unusually sparse despite how close the Gathering is to starting, so it’s easy to See that Robbie isn’t in it.

His Eyes keep Looking though, hanging around long enough that Jon has to actively corral them into following him again.

One of them catches the attention of Tim Stoker who, against all reason, gives Jon something approaching a grudging nod.

Jon, who has been on what can politely described as “bad terms” with Tim ever since he went to the Desolation, is so shocked all he can really do is return a shaky little nod of his own before following Martin inside.

The oddities don’t stop there.

He finds himself and Martin confronted by Jane Prentiss, Witch of the Corruption.

She’s smiling unpleasantly, though considering all the wasp larvae crawling in and out of the many holes making up their hive, it can be argued that every expression she makes is unpleasant.

“Eye Witch,” The way the words come out is an awful mix of a rasp, a hiss and a purr. “So glad to finally be forming an alliance between our territories. The Corruption shall not forget the debts owed to you.”

Martin is glancing between Prentiss and Jon with such incredulity that Jon’s mildly worried he’ll strain something.

Jon does what he does best when he has no clue what the hell is going on.

He puts on his most firm and serious expression and inclines his head back, pretending he understands the situation perfectly. “Th-thank you. You have my word, the Eye will honor the ties between us as well.”

Prentiss lets out a hum that Jon…thinks is positive? Before she turns and strides off.

“What was that?” Martin whispers, frantic.

“I have no idea!” Jon mutters back.

No sooner has Prentiss left them in peace than they’re being confronted by the Witch that is Not Sasha James.

Or rather, the Grand Witch. The jewel-toned regalia which Nikola had worn so proudly looks gauche and ill-fitting on her, which given that she’s a Stranger may be the point.

She’s followed by a vaguely male mannequin which dogs her footsteps with something that Jon almost feels like he recognizes.

“Jonathan Sims. Witch of the Eye.” She says. “I would like to request negotiations for a ceasefire.”

Jon’s glare hardens, finding his footing on familiar ground. “You? After all you and yours have done? You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that.”

The mannequin gives what would be a derisive snort on any other being. “As if what Nikola did was in any way comparable to what you turned her into, and you setting Seven of the Fourteen on us—!”

Wait, what?

“Easy, Tom.” The Not!Sasha pacifies with a hand on the mannequin’s arm and a fond look, before turning a very obviously fake smile on him. “How about it, Witch of the Eye? A cessation of hostilities between us, with an embargo on either entering each others’ territories. Are these acceptable starting terms?”

Jon feels like he’s lost the plot a bit on this. Still, his mouth moves on its own as he says, “No attempts on your part to capture or claim Robbie. Non-negotiable.”

“Done.” The Not!Sasha says it almost before he’s finished speaking. “The further away from us that awful little familiar of yours is, the happier we’ll all be. I’ll be in contact to negotiate whose grounds we’ll meet on to formally discuss the terms once you’ve tied off your outstanding loose end.”

And with that she and what Jon thinks might be her boyfriend sweep away in that uncanny fashion which comes naturally to all Witches of the Stranger.

“What was that??” Martin whispers, nearly hysterical.

“I have no damn idea!” Jon mutters back, in a similar state himself.

They don’t quite flee towards where Georgie and the others are, but it’s a near thing.

Melanie, Georgie and Oliver are all huddled together, talking quietly and quickly. For some reason all of them look worse for wear.

“…out of control for months now!” Melanie is hissing. “We’re lucky no one’s been killed! This is bigger than us now, Georgie, bigger than your pride. Either you tell him, or I will!”

“Tell who what?” Martin asks as they draw level with the group.

The three of them freeze, eyes fixating on Jon.

“Well…” Georgie heaves a sigh. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, Jon, but…?”

She trails off, biting her lip.

“But?” Jon prompts, his Eyes clustering closer.

They note the slight tensing of her expression, the stiffening of her posture as though rigor mortis has set in.

Finally, she bursts out, “Melanie’s familiar is attempting to court Robbie!”

Jon promptly chokes on his own saliva.

Martin makes a worried noise and begins rubbing his back as he coughs.

“Georgie!” Melanie squawks in something resembling outrage.

Oliver is covering his face with his hand, for some reason.

“We didn’t want to bring it up,” Georgie says, cheeks flushed. “But I realized not long after they moved in, given what Emil did to them at the last Gathering. I’m not entirely sure he knew? What he was doing, by stabbing them there? But—“

“Explain.” It’s a legitimate struggle to keep the Compulsion out of his voice. Especially considering that the feeling of prickling-licking-a-tea-towel is back in full force.

Georgie gives him a cool look and makes a careless gesture. “It’s something. Something Melanie did to me not long after we first met. A wound inflicted close enough to the heart that you’ll feel it with every beat, but careful enough to avoid damaging the heart itself in any way. It’s weirdly romantic once you get down to it.”

Melanie’s cheeks are flushed, but there’s mutiny warring with affection in her eyes as she picks up where Georgie left off. “S dumb is what it is. So our magic gives us various impulses. Doesn’t mean he should’ve acted on them.”

“I think it’s sweet!” Georgie teases.

“I don’t.” It feels like Jon’s mouth is responding on autopilot. His body is prickling all over, uncomfortable and itchy.

And it’s not because of the idea that his familiar (good lord, they’re not even a teenager yet, how was this allowed to happen?) is apparently the subject of romantic interest from a violent ghost.

Well. Not just that, anyway.

Melanie’s expression creases with indignation that might be performative. “What, you think Emil’s not good enough for your familiar or something?! I’ll have you know—”

Fortunately the Gathering is called to order at that moment, so Jon remains blissfully ignorant to what she would have him know.

The entire meeting passes by Jon in a blur.

He can’t concentrate on what’s being said, can barely recognize that different people are taking turns speaking.

Because while talking over distance through the crystal ball diffused its effects somewhat, the unfiltered face-to-face interaction has made Jon realize what the source of that awful, dry-mouthed, prickling feeling is:

Georgie’s using the truth to lie to him.

And that. That hurts. Not in the least because Jon hasn’t any clue what she could possibly want to lie to him about.

He can’t even talk about it to Martin, because Martin murmured something about “need to have a Word with Oliver, love, won’t be but a minute, wait for me outside.”

And it’s as Jon’s waiting outside the inner sanctum that he is ambushed by the worst possible person in existence.

“Ah, Johnny-boy!” Says Trexel Geistman as he sidles up besides him. “Good old Johnners, that’s you. The Johnster! Johnston and Geistman, united at last!”

“No.” Jon grits out, as if the verbal denial will somehow affect the awful reality he’s found himself in.

Trexel Geistman fails to dematerialize. “Not a fan? Hm. Well I think those are much better than boring old John, but who knows? Who cares? I do, because that’s what Trexel does. He cares. Caring is the Geistman way, except for when it comes time to crush those ungrateful worms you call superiors or colleagues or family or friends under your boot! That’ll show them, Johnny! That’ll show them, for not coming to my ventwarming party—!”

Good lord, but Jon loathes Trexel Geistman. Every word out of the man’s mouth is nothing but pure drivel, coherent enough to make you feel like there should be a logic you’re following and responding to, but circuitous enough that trying to do so only results in frustration and a Spiral-induced migraine that effectively blinds him with its ferocity.

He’s trying to talk himself out of murdering the pompous little creep here and now and causing an international incident, and he’s not sure he’s succeeding.

“Jon.” A hand lands on his shoulder. “Might I steal you away for a word? Sorry, Mr. Geistman, important Eye business.”

Jon’s so grateful for the opportunity to escape that he doesn’t really protest Elias leading him away, even as Trexel Geistman babbles some nonsense beginning with, “But you tol—!”

His head is swimming as Elias leads him through passages that he’s not sure he knew existed before.

His Eyes try to keep track of the journey, but they’re affected by the pounding in his skull as well, too dizzy to really take in any relevant details.

They arrive in what Jon thinks might be a room? But it’s too curved, convex and concave, sending his poor brain reeling with the idea that he’s somehow stumbled into the Pupil of a giant Eye.

Elias’ voice is too loud, too echoing as he recites an incantation that Jon’s muddled brain can’t quite follow.

There’s the overwhelming THUD of doors slamming shut.

“El, Elias, what…?” Jon’s barely able to stammer, turning around.

His limbs lock in place under the luminous green gaze that greets him.

Jon can’t even move his mouth to speak as Elias walks forward and pushes him to his knees with a gentle touch.

His Eye are immobile witnesses, only able to watch as Elias manacles his wrists and ankles to the circular depression in the floor.

Why, Jon thinks but cannot say, what’s going on, why is Elias doing this?!

“Oh, Jonathan.” Elias smiles at him, responding to his frantically racing thoughts. “You only have yourself to blame for this, you know. If you’d just been a bit more observant, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

All of a sudden, like the moon emerging from behind the clouds to reveal something terrible in its stark light, Jon remembers.

Elias’ eyes were blue. Pale, watery, often red-rimmed blue, but blue all the same.

They had twinkled when Elias was high off his gourd, slurring about how proud he was of his four star apprentices, how he was sure they’d all surpass him in witchery someday.

Until one Gathering where Elias disappeared off somewhere after the meeting and remerged with green eyes so dark they resembled rotting mulch on the forest floor, with a calculating gleam turned on the four of them.

Eyes that had previously been in the head of former Grand Witch of the Eye, James Wright.

“Of course, if you had noticed, it’s unlikely it would’ve done you much good anyways.” The thing that is Not Elias Bouchard says as he pours the memories of how many times he has done this into Jon’s head, how many witches of the Eye he has brought to this very room before taking up the mantle of Grand Witch anew in fresher, younger bodies. Cheating death and amassing power in one fell swoop.

“After all, Knowing never saved poor Miss James, did it?”

Oh God.

Jon chokes on a whimper as he Sees it, sees Sasha putting the pieces together, attempting to bargain with what Jon now Knows is the First and Only Grand Witch of the Eye, Jonah Magnus.

Sees as she’s sent off to be Unmade at the hands of the Stranger Witches, the secret apparently dying with her.

“I really must thank you, Jon. The life you’re leading now is practically perfect.” The tool in Magnus’ hand is old, ornately carved, pristine. Jon Knows he is an expert on how to use it by now, hasn’t left even an incriminating bruise in well over three hundred years.

“Your powers are strong enough to reduce even a Grand Witch of the Stranger to a mere plaything, to say nothing of the way you smote her followers.” Magnus’ voice is reverential, almost proud. “You have secured steady alliances with the End, the Fog, and the Slaughter, to say nothing of your unwitting arrangements with the Flesh, the Buried, the Hunt, and the Corruption, thanks your little familiar. The Stranger has been severely reduced between the two of you, their Grand Witch so weak it will take next to nothing to wipe them from the map.”

He openly laughs at the confusion permeating Jon’s brain. “Ah yes. Ignorant of that, aren’t you? I’ll admit, it was a noble effort to try to send it away in an attempt to keep them out of my clutches. Pathetic, but noble. It’s a shame its devotion to you lead to it undoing all of your hard work. Did you know it only remained in the End for three days before it managed to give its protectors the slip? It can be quite creative, when it applies itsef.”

Three days?

Robbie was only with Georgie for three days?

Jon’s mind is forcibly transfixed on memories of teaching Robbie how to get to the End from Eye territory, back when they first started staying with him. Of ensuring they could plan diversions and re-routes through other domains, in case the quickest path was ever blocked.

But—! No. They were in the End, they are in the End, they have to be in the End, because Georgie—Georgie…

A thumb smooths over his cheekbone in a parody of comfort. “But rest assured, Jonathan. I’ll bring my familiar home from its gallivanting about the domains, and put it to far better use than you could have ever dreamed. It’s sacrifice will pave the way to greater understanding about a soon-to-be-extinct magic.”

The smile that splits Elias’ cheeks is nightmarish. “Though of course the work I’ll do on it will pale in comparison to what I’ll be able to do to dear Martin. I’ve done good work with Peter, of course, but a Fog Witch with genuine emotional attachment? Think of the possibilities, Jon. Will he ever even realize the man he’s saying ‘I love you’ to is gone?”

Rage sparks uselessly through Jon’s paralyzed limbs, leaving him able to do little more than bare his teeth in defiance. Don’t you dare touch them.

“How sweet.” The tool is poised over his right eye. “Well, I’m afraid this is goodbye, Jonathan. If it’s any consolation, you far exceeded everything I’d hoped you’d b—”

BANG!

Jonah Magnus pulls back, a frown marring his features. “What in the world…?”

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The harsh blows continue, as if something is throwing itself against every door to this place with all its might. It does so in a way that’s rhythmic, the pulse of boots marching to war, of bones cracking beneath a fist.

Magnus sneers, leaning back over Jon’s face. “It seems time is of the essence. This won’t be as clean as I’d li—”

“GBWEH!”

That actually causes Magnus to startle back as he looks up at something that has somehow entered the room.

Something that stinks of alcohol, lotion, and half-rotted fish.

Jon, who cannot operate his vocal cords, wishes he could groan in despair.

“Geistman?!” Magnus snaps, obviously as repulsed as Jon now is. “How did you—?! Ugh, never mind, get back to your vents and your boozing, you blithering, incompetent—!”

Jon’s head has been tilted upwards all this time, to better allow for Magnus to perform his little “operation”.

Which means he has a perfect view of the vent that is suddenly present in the ceiling, and Robbie dropping out of it with murder in their eyes and jaw unhinged.

There’s a short, sharp scream from Magnus that ends in a wet gurgle.

Then all of a sudden, Elias’ voice is shouting something indecipherable that’s less a counter-incantation and more a frantic desire to Stop, to Open, to LET JON GO.

He finds his limbs loosening, slacking from their rictus as his eyes blink and move and swarm over to his familiar.

Robbie’s spitting something out with a disgusted look on their face, head shaking and hands flapping by their sides.

Then they spot him and their expression turns frantic as they run full-tilt over to him, colliding heavily as they practically trip over themself to get a good look at his face, staring at his eyes with a desperation bordering on manic.

“I, it.” His tongue feels thick and heavy, unwilling to obey him. “S okay, Robbie. He didn’t. It’s me. It’s me.”

His familiar’s eyes fill with tears as they fling their arms around him and bury their head in his chest.

Jon rests his head on top of theirs as best he can while manacled, trying to soothe their gasping sobs. There’ll be plenty of time to scold them for running off and not sending him any word of their harebrained schemes later. Now he can let himself feel the relief that they’re here, they’re alright.

Or perhaps not.

Jon’s Eyes catch sight of Magnus rising, blood staining Elias’ high collar, his tool clutched in a tight-knuckled grip and raised over his head like a dagger as he staggers towards them.

Jon curls over Robbie as best he can, trying to summon some, any of the power that allowed him to reduce Nikola to lifelessness—!

Several things happen in rapid succession.

A pair of large, cool, familiar arms coil around Jon and Robbie, yanking them through the Fog and away from their attacker.

There’s the harsh thud of several doors opening at once, pouding footsteps and panicked voices filling the room.

Magnus is impaled from behind on several shard of glass and metal, as Melanie’s familiar unleashes his wrath.

A swarm of butterflies descends as Magnus gurgles and topples forward again, the earth itself reaching up to claim him.

Jon’s thankful that the Gathering’s been over for long enough that most of the other attendants have gone home.

It means there’s less witnesses for the apparent murder of the Grand Witch of the Eye.

Though, Jon considers, looking around at the motley crew gathered in the corridor outside of Jonah Magnus’ de-eyeballing room, there are still quite a lot of them.

Thankfully Trexel Geistman is not one of them.

“So let me see if I’ve got this right.” Martin says, looking desperately like he wants to pinch the bridge of his nose but is wholly unwilling to release his grip on Jon and Robbie to do so.

“You,” A squeeze of Jon’s arm which he replies to with a nudge of his head into Martin’s shoulder. “Somehow the most sensible person in this scenario, thought that the best way to protect Robbie was to send them to the End so they couldn’t get caught in the crossfire when Nikola attacked your cottage.”

“Hey.” Jon mutters without heat. Martin gives him a quick, pacifying kiss on the forehead.

“Georgie agreed with this and took Robbie in. But you,” A squeeze of Robbie’s shoulder, who fidgets and looks guilty. “Somehow got it into your head to run away from the End, to…what? Fight the Stranger witches directly, or something?”

Robbie shakes their head as they sign, “I wanted to come home. I wanted to protect Jon. I kept having to make detours, though. They were trying to stop me.”

Martin heaves a sigh. “Which is, I suppose how you all got involved?”

Petra Ito, apprentice of the Buried, gives a careless shrug with her arm around Frey Lukas’ hunched shoulders. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Robbie helped me an’ Janey get rid of the spiders! So Janey said I could go!” Des Fuentes-Macías, the very young apprentice of the Corruption, pipes up. Prentiss has a proud hand set on his head.

“I just wanted to torch it.” Tim admits, a flame sprouting from his clicked fingers that has Robbie flinching minutely. “But then I got the chance to burn even more of the stranger fuckers.”

“I-I wasn’t actually involved in, in any of this until this morning, when they arrived on the Fog’s borders, so…" Frey Lukas trails off under Martin’s hard stare, head ducking again. “Sorry.”

The Monster Pig has wandered off back into the Eye room after a few cursory sniffs.

Emil Walpole, Melanie’s wayward familiar of the Slaughter, flickers slightly even as he hovers a few centimeters above the floor, steadfastly not looking at anyone. “…They asked for my help.”

Jon can’t quite decide if that raises his estimation of Mr. Walpole or not. Especially given that Robbie’s face feels hot when they hide a small smile in Jon’s arm.

“Okay,” Martin begins diplomatically. “And I’m guessing that while Robbie was trying to get back to Jon, Georgie, you were trying to…what, rescue them? While keeping Jon in the dark about it?”

“Me and Melanie were helping as best we could.” Oliver chimes in as Melanie nods. “Ever since Robbie and Emil vanished from the Slaughter together.”

“But why?” Jon bursts out, unable to keep quiet any longer, eyes fixed on Georgie. “Why hide it from me? Why lie that everything was fine when it wasn’t?”

She somehow looks small, even in her End regalia, one foot scuffing the floor.

“I didn’t—!” She pauses, takes a breath, and starts again. “You came to me for help and trusted me to look after them, Jon. I didn’t want to betray that faith and disappoint you, not when I thought I could have the situation in hand.”

Jon’s mouth works soundlessly. He can appreciate that, but. But.

“But the problem was that Robbie was more resourceful than you gave them credit for.” Martin’s gentle tone continues. “And by the time you were considering telling Jon, it had already gone on long enough that admitting felt like it would be worse than not. Even though he had a right to know from the start.”

Georgie gives a weak huff of laughter as she nods.

Melanie plasters herself against Georgie’s side and glares daggers at the room. “Lay off. She was just trying to do her best.”

“No, love.” Georgie nuzzles into her hair, and then straightens to look at Jon. “I am truly sorry, Jon. For keeping you in the dark.”

Jon nods, trying to decide how he feels about that, but ultimately being too exhausted to come to any firm conclusions.

At his side, Robbie circles a fist over their chest. “I’m sorry for running away. I didn’t want to make you sad. I just wanted to go home.”

Georgie quirks a small smile at that, but doesn’t say anything else.

“So.” Martin says. “At some point, Robbie and company find out about Jonah Magnus’ eyeball-stealing and race here in the nick of time to stop it happening, with Frey providing cover to sneak them all into the Gathering…how did you find out about that, anyway?”

“It was the lady that wasn’t!” Des Fuentes-Macías pipes up. “She said the old Eye man was gonna steal his!”

Robbie nods, signing, “The One Who Isn’t Sasha James contained her memories after eating up her life. She traded The Grand Imposter’s secret to us, so we could save Jon. And then we hit the slimy Spiral man until he agreed to help.”

“Traded?” Jon asks, feeling wary. “Traded for what?”

Emil Walpole’s smile is chilling. “Not finishing what we started in the Stranger’s domain.”

Suddenly a lot of context for Jon’s earlier conversation with the new Grand Witch of the Stranger slots into place.

“So, what?” Tim interrupts. “We killed old Jimmy Magma, yippee for us. Does that mean Jon’s the new Grand Witch of the Eye?”

The very thought of it sends a shudder of pure revulsion down Jon’s spine. “Oh lord, I hope not. Elias, Elias’ body is still mostly functional, I, I think? Maybe we can—?”

The Monster Pig emerges from the Eye room, licking its chops clean.

Everyone stares at it as it gives a vaguely self-conscious grunt and trots off, presumably to make its way back to the Flesh’s territory.

“Well.” Oliver says. “I suppose that answers that question?”

“Wonderful. Just. Just wonderful.” Jon groans. He doesn’t want to become a Grand Witch yet, doesn’t want to have to leave his little cottage, forsake Robbie or Martin for any of the new responsibilities that will surely fall to him, without even an apprentice in training to help him manage them.

Oh good lord, he’s going to have to be diplomatic. Jon’s not got a diplomatic bone in his body, there’s no way he’s cut out for this.

“Well, about that…” Frey Lukas glances at Petra, who sighs and reaches into one of her many pockets to pull out what looks like a particularly mucky metal tin.

The contents of the tin inspire several groans of revulsion from the onlookers.

“Good lord.” Jon mutters as Robbie cringes and hides their face between him and Martin. “Did you really…?”

“Well,” Frey Lukas is actually standing up straight now, xir eyes bright. “When everyone told me what was going on, I figured that probably meant that there aren’t any real measures in place for the transferral of power, between witches of the Eye? Given that it was just Jonah Magnus giving it to himself every time. So I thought it was best to have a contingency prepared, like Martin’s always telling me.”

Martin quirks a small half smile at that, and Jon can’t not quickly peck the dimple that lovely expression brings out.

“Plus Grand Witches just need to be there, not actually do anything. That’s what they have us for.” Petra adds, closing up the tin. “S how Hezekiah keeps holding onto the position in the Buried. Wouldn’t be surprised if half his brains are mulch by now.”

Georgie inclines her head. “That’s…not entirely incorrect. But you’d still need a vessel for him while the power transfer is ongoing, and poor Elias. Well. Isn’t, anymore. Now what do we use?”

There’s a moment of contemplative silence.

“I believe,” Jon says slowly, the grin growing on his face only matched by the incredulous one on Martin’s, “I may have an idea.”

“You only have yourself to blame for this, you know.” Jon tells the scarecrow.

Jonah Magnus’ eyes glare at him hatefully from what he now knows is Nikola’s face.

It’s the perfect prison, really. In order to ever let the body have any chance of reanimating, Magnus will have to give up his dependence on Eye magic and his need for total control to let Nikola’s Stranger magic take autonomy.

And Jon’s suffered under his tutelage for enough years to know that this is something Jonah Magnus has no capacity for.

“Don’t worry.” He tells Magnus. “This won’t be forever. Just until I’ve got some other Eye witches properly trained up and established myself well enough to take over the Grand Witch position. Then we’ll give this puppet to Tim to make a bonfire with. He and Melanie are particularly excited for that. Frey too, if you can believe it. Xey’re very protective of xir uncle and xir teacher.”

He delights in the glimmer of fear that’s entered Magnus’s gaze.

His Eyes tell him that Robbie and Martin are on their way to being done with the cake they’ve been baking, that Melanie, Emil, Georgie, and Oliver are almost here for afternoon tea.

There’s a bar of Martin’s “properly bubbly” soap by his sink, Robbie’s converted what used to be the spare room in the cottage into their permanent bedroom, there are several ladybirds with spots ranging from thirteen to seven flying around, and Farmer Peter’s Damn Cow is safely in its field, chewing a cud of grass for once.