Jon is out on the cobblestone streets when it strikes him: he Knows, wholly and abruptly, that someone is waiting for him on the beach.
He goes in a hurry. The weather has been horrific, and the streets of Gaze are still flooded; he has soaked hems and squelching socks as he tries haplessly to weave his way through the market crowds. The oppressive feeling of being watched, that hideous deep-sea pressure upon his soul, doubles and redoubles as he reaches the long jumbled slope of the boardwalk. It shouldn't be that way; Gaze should be the worst of it; but he thrives in its vice grip, his whole being alight with it.
The pressure builds, builds, builds. He could die of how badly he needs to know what is on the beach.
Over and across the black sands, now, and his Omen follows as a shiver of smoke and a pair of luminous yellow eyes. Jon is breathless, the impression of an owl gliding behind his shoulder, the sea crashing loud and steady just beyond. It forms a pale seething backdrop under the moonlight, one figure silhouetted upon the sand.
It hits him like a tidal wave.
He remembers the way Martin hates the worms, the way his voice pitches up when he talks about them. (He remembers the creases of Martin's palm when they walk hand in hand.) He remembers how he sounds when his voice has gone rough with smoke and panic, hemmed into a burning building. (He remembers tucking himself against the crook of Martin's shoulder to cry.) He— the fog, the way he looks with his eyes gone dim and distant— the way he looks with tears in his eyes and a knife in his hand, oh.
John has raised a hand unthinking to his own heart, clutching at nothing, flexing mutely over the scar there. He remembers.
He moves forward as though in a trance, uncertain and then mindlessly fervent. He stumbles through the sand with the owl at his back, hand still clasped over his heart.
arrival.
He goes in a hurry. The weather has been horrific, and the streets of Gaze are still flooded; he has soaked hems and squelching socks as he tries haplessly to weave his way through the market crowds. The oppressive feeling of being watched, that hideous deep-sea pressure upon his soul, doubles and redoubles as he reaches the long jumbled slope of the boardwalk. It shouldn't be that way; Gaze should be the worst of it; but he thrives in its vice grip, his whole being alight with it.
The pressure builds, builds, builds. He could die of how badly he needs to know what is on the beach.
Over and across the black sands, now, and his Omen follows as a shiver of smoke and a pair of luminous yellow eyes. Jon is breathless, the impression of an owl gliding behind his shoulder, the sea crashing loud and steady just beyond. It forms a pale seething backdrop under the moonlight, one figure silhouetted upon the sand.
It hits him like a tidal wave.
He remembers the way Martin hates the worms, the way his voice pitches up when he talks about them. (He remembers the creases of Martin's palm when they walk hand in hand.) He remembers how he sounds when his voice has gone rough with smoke and panic, hemmed into a burning building. (He remembers tucking himself against the crook of Martin's shoulder to cry.) He— the fog, the way he looks with his eyes gone dim and distant— the way he looks with tears in his eyes and a knife in his hand, oh.
John has raised a hand unthinking to his own heart, clutching at nothing, flexing mutely over the scar there. He remembers.
He moves forward as though in a trance, uncertain and then mindlessly fervent. He stumbles through the sand with the owl at his back, hand still clasped over his heart.
"Martin?"