Chapter Text
It had long been believed - amongst the elite, the illuminated, the chosen - that there were dark and terrible gods.
And what is a god, if it is not a thing that can be used?
***
“Annual General Meeting of the Venerable Sects of the Fourteen, Grand Priest of the Beholding, Elias Bouchard, presiding.”
Elias barely managed to restrain himself from adding ‘blah blah blah’, instead of following up with the articulate and well-mannered speech he’d rehearsed. He accepted the necessity of the rota system, but had never enjoyed his turn at hosting these occasions: having to spend so much time and money on all the people who put his hackles up the most.
That went double for Peter Lukas, with whom he was going through an even messier than usual divorce. The man was plain insufferable, in his chunky fisherman’s sweater and boots, not even trying to look civilised for the occasion.
Peter grinned right at him, as if he could hear the mental fashion critique, and started talking almost before Elias had finished. “Right, well, that’s enough chitchat. Why don’t we move on to the draw and get this over with? I have an early meeting tomorrow, I’d rather not have too late a night.”
“Have a little decorum, please, Peter. This is a solemn and sacred occasion, not some parcel to be torn into and ripped, because you have all the patience of a small child.”
Peter just raised a mocking eyebrow. And, yes, Elias’s piety was exactly as empty as Peter thought it was, but that made precisely no difference to the importance of the occasion. This ceremony was a large part of the glue which kept the sects from destroying each other; the pomp, circumstance, thrill, shared guilt, and faint flame of hope, on which their continued funding and cooperation hinged.
Elias was pretty sure that he was not alone in having come to the conclusion that the gods they served - the dread and mighty Fears to which they had devoted their lives - were, in fact, so much utter hogwash. A thick tapestry of supposition, coincidence, melodrama, scheming, opportunism and lies, woven together so well, and convincingly, that they had supported the sects for centuries.
What Lukas didn’t seem to understand, was that, when you believed in something that didn’t exist, you had to believe in it twice as hard. That you had to throw everything that you had into the set dressing and ritual, because there was nothing at all underneath.
And Elias was far too used to his comfortable lifestyle to voluntarily pluck it out from under himself by acknowledging the truth.
Annabelle Cane - another blot on the otherwise respectable ocean of business casual, with her bleached blonde hair and aggressively retro attire - smirked at both of them, with a knowing twinkle in her eye. She was a non-believer, for certain; and Elias rather thought she preferred things this way. If the gods existed for real, then they might try to fight what they were carefully moulded into.
With an air of even more ceremony than he’d originally intended, largely out of spite, Elias brought forth his box of names - a rather nice one, inlaid with jewellery and decorative woods, despite Peter’s suggestion that he just use a hat - and reached his hand into it.
“By the sacred rite of selection, as witnessed by the blessed, the one chosen of the gods to be their blood-gift and sacrifice, to bring their glory ever closer to the Great Coming of the Fourteen, is …” he plucked forth a folded piece of paper and intoned, impressively, “Jonathan Sims.”
Elias frowned with surprise, and deep annoyance, as Peter allowed a slow grin to cover his big, stupid face and get all tangled up in his beard.
“Sims, huh? Isn’t that the little guy with the stern, elderly professor vibe, even though he’s only, what, about twenty?”
“Twenty-eight.” Elias snapped, far too quickly, mentally correcting ‘elderly professor’ vibe, to ‘smokin’ hot professor’ vibe. He couldn’t help himself, he had a weakness for tweed jackets and the light, dusty scent of academia; especially when paired with exceptionally pretty eyes.
Peter just grinned again, with that sort of jovial malice which Elias had used to appreciate, when it wasn’t directed at himself.
“Right. One of your more promising employees, isn’t he? I’m rather surprised you put his name in.”
“I didn’t.”
Which was obviously something that Peter knew perfectly well. Honestly, it was no longer any of his business who caught Elias’s eye; and, while jealousy between them was hardly new, wrangling Jonathan’s name into the pot was a ridiculously petty move, even for Lukas.
Well, he needn’t think Elias was just going to take it. Certainly, Jon had seemed more spooked by Elias’s attentions, so far, than particularly amenable, but Elias liked to inspire a good healthy dose of fear in those he fixed his mind on. He knew well how to play the long game and mix in compliments, encouragement and skilled seduction, with a good helping of mind games and pressure; taking his time and enjoying the chase.
He very much didn’t like to lose.
“As there has clearly been some … administrative error … I will redraw the name …”
“Redraw the name which has been chosen by the gods, Elias? I’m sure you don’t mean that.”
There was a general murmur of disquiet and protest around the table, so marked that Elias made the mistake of looking at Annabelle with just a hint of a plea. She smiled a particularly amused smile, which meant that she would be of no help whatsoever.
“Surely, if Jonathan Sims’ name was not deliberately entered, then the fact that he has still somehow been chosen, is even more significant? Perhaps this means that this year shall be … the year? The last of the old and the first of the new?”
The tremor of excitement that followed suggested that perhaps Elias had overestimated the number of people here who had entirely lost their faith. Or perhaps they just none of them wanted to admit to it, by being in any way lacklustre about the achievement of their stated wishes and desires.
He considered his options. Galling though it would be to lose Jon - who was a dedicated and valuable researcher, with a pleasingly flexible attitude towards ‘reasonable working hours’, as well as being the intended object of his affections - he couldn’t afford to alienate the crowd.
Elias cast a fierce glance of promised vengeance at Peter, which he liked to think would follow him later and trouble his dreams, before nodding sagely.
“Of course, my dear Annabelle, you make an excellent point. Jonathan must be quite a special sacrifice indeed, for the gods to be so insistent. In fact, I propose that we do the ceremony in full tonight, as it was traditionally done, in honour of the occasion. We shall put back the start time a couple of hours, to accommodate the extra preparation needed.
Peter winced, just slightly, realising that he would be there more than late enough to risk missing his meeting, but it didn’t shake nearly enough of his smugness for Elias’ liking.
Well. A suitable revenge would take time to craft. Unlike Lukas, Elias didn’t believe in being hasty and clumsy about such things.
He would, absolutely, make the man pay for this.
~~~
Jon hated parties and he hated corporate parties even more. All of the usual noise, bustle, social pressure and insincerity, coupled with unsurpassed opportunities to make an absolute arse of oneself, quite possibly in a career-ending fashion.
And the Institute Anniversary Party was so notoriously dull, that even Elias Bouchard, the Head of the Institute himself, never attended; claiming it made a good training ground for prospective successors to shine.
So Jon had always intended to skip the whole thing entirely; just - not in exactly this particular fashion.
He had been on the verge of escaping from the building, blissfully unsocialised, when Elias had materialised right in front of him. The suddenness of his appearance was probably more due to Jon’s general preoccupation with his research projects, rather than any more supernatural cause, but it did set the tone to ‘sinister’, right from the off.
“Ah, Jon, just the person I wanted to see.”
Funnily enough, Elias was quite the last person that Jon wanted to see right now, with his fake smile; intent, and almost greedy, stare; and his tendency to make the sort of minor personal space violations, which always seemed just a little too petty to protest against, while nonetheless scraping against his nerves like sandpaper. Jon would really rather just go home and curl up with a book and a nice hot chocolate.
“I have rather a lot to do this evening, Elias, could this wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid this is urgent, Jon. But I promise not to detain you longer than necessary.”
Jon sighed, but he nodded curtly, followed Elias to his office, and politely sipped the slightly bitter tea which had been pressed upon him, while Elias, despite the alleged urgency of the occasion, merely sat at his desk for a moment and steepled his hands in silent consideration.
“Jon, let me ask you. Do you understand the purpose of The Magnus Institute?”
Jon looked up in surprise.
“We’re here to keep a record of strange and unusual instances either directly reported to us, or a part of local history, and to document, as far as we can, the background and any supporting, or other, circumstances.”
“That is what we do, certainly, or part of it. But do you understand why?”
That sounded like a trick question, loaded with all of the subtle meaning and hidden traps that Jon disliked intensely. He far preferred straightforward facts, which didn’t snake around and shimmy into different shapes and colours; turning on you, just as you believed you had the hang of things.
“History is important, in all aspects. And the effects, and origins, of so-called supernatural occurrences on the public have rarely been very stringently and reliably documented, without any trace of sensationalism or bias.”
Elias stared at Jon for a moment, until he felt a little warm and swimmy from the intensity of it. He honestly believed that he might have run, however irrational the urge, if his legs hadn’t chosen that moment to become all leaden and uncooperative. His empty mug slipped from his hands, almost in slow motion and if it smashed, then he didn’t hear it.
Jon couldn’t move, even when Elias walked over to him and lightly, regretfully, stroked his cheek.
“It’s such a shame. You had so much potential and so delightfully little of a clue about what’s really going on. I’d like to assure you, Jon, that choosing you for this was not my idea at all. But, sadly, the matter is out of my hands.”
“Wha …”
But Jon couldn’t manage more than a syllable before his tongue stopped working and his consciousness started rapidly losing integrity. He thought he felt the soft, unwelcome press of Elias’s lips against his own, before feeling nothing at all.
***
He would have preferred Jon’s participation - whether willing or resistant - but as there was no hope for that now, Elias indulged himself, for just a moment, in exploratory kisses and in stroking Jon’s soft, thick hair: the premature streaks of grey contrasting, rather attractively, with the darkness of the rest, and with his finely-boned face, so young and naive, when sleep had soothed away its tendency to sharpness. So much potential indeed. He would have been delightful to mould and shape into something belonging purely to Elias.
But there was no point in repining for what might have been.
Jon was small and light enough for Elias to lift him, with little difficulty, as far as his office couch, but he would still be somewhat of a chore to get all the way downstairs. So, he called for Breekon and Hope, Nikola Orsinov’s personal entourage, who always attended these ceremonies and did the grunt work without complaint. Whether they were true believers or simply indifferent to suffering if it got them a regular paycheck, Elias neither knew nor cared. They were strong, efficient and good with blood. That was all that was necessary.
Breekon picked up Jon as easily as Elias might pick up a kitten, preparatory to drowning it, and they made their way through the carefully hidden door, down to the basement beneath the basement, where only those of the Fourteen - and their victims - had ever entered.
Ordinarily, Elias would have left all of the more practical preparations to Hope and Breekon, but on this occasion he directed them to concentrate on cleaning and decorating the altar, while he stripped, cleansed and oiled the sacrifice personally, for proper presentation to the gods.
When, exactly, it had been determined that the Great and Terrible Fears, Who Are Our Masters preferred their sacrifices freshly scrubbed, with just a hint of bergamot, Elias couldn’t say, but he had always been a stickler for tradition, especially since he became convinced that there was nothing whatsoever of any worth or substance behind it.
When Jon was correctly prepared, Elias dressed him in a loose pair of trousers, slightly shimmery, and added just a touch of eye liner, for the theatrics of it all. Jon’s eyes were his best feature, so large, deep and dark with intensity; yet so revealing of the vulnerability he liked to keep hidden beneath a stern and defensive exterior. Whenever Elias had pushed a little, with his game of subtle chase and seduction, Jon’s eyes had resembled a hunted deer, who was trying very hard to pretend that things were just fine, thank you, and failing utterly. It had been delicious.
At least Elias would get to see that trapped deer look again, for one last time, heightened by terror and pain.
The altar wasn’t far, so, when it was ready, Elias carried Jon over and stretched him out upon it, adjusting the slim silvery chains so that they pulled him taut, with no room to struggle. Breekon had arranged the knives and candles with his usual neatness and Hope, the flowers and incense.
Jon himself was warm and breathtaking against the pale, cold stone and shining silver; and, all in all, everything looked rather beautiful. If his god had actually existed, Elias rather thought it would have been appreciative of the effort.
He leant down for one last kiss, before applying a gag. It wouldn’t do to interrupt the chanting and speeches with indecorous begging and screams.
After that, the only preparations required were a quick read through of the older ceremony, which took a little longer than the standard one, and involved some extra speeches (rather fatiguing to the tongue) and a little time to indulge both in the simple, bittersweet attractiveness of Jon on the altar and vaguely formed notions of vengeance, against his very much ex-lover.
Then it was time to don his ceremonial robes, let the others file in, each similarly robed, though in the particular colour and style befitting of their god; and begin.
***
Jon became aware of a soft, attractive chanting at the edge of hearing, almost hypnotic at first, until the discomfort of his current position intruded too insistently to ignore. His arms were stretched out above his head, pulled so tight that his bones almost creaked, and his legs had been similarly treated. His breath came short and shallow and oddly muffled, as he opened his eyes to the awareness that something was terribly wrong.
Jon found himself staring up at a giant eye, carved into the ceiling with harsh, malevolent strokes, so that all of its rancour and bile was pouring directly onto him, an intense ray of hate.
Instinctively he made to try and run, but he found that the only part of him he could move was his head. He could feel the cloth binding his lips; the cuffs wrapped snugly around his wrists and ankles; the hard stone pressing into his back. The cold from the stone seeped steadily, cockily, into his naked skin, as if it planned to make a home there.
Jon tried desperately to think of any innocuous circumstances under which he might be shirtless, gagged, and chained to, what he was increasingly thinking of as, a sacrificial altar; but his imagination was resoundingly failing him.
Looking around as far as he could in this position, Jon saw nothing at all that contradicted his worst assumptions. Robed figures chanting were bad enough, and the many, many candles flickered and guttered with far more creepiness than romanticism; but it was the knives which really confirmed that he was utterly, utterly screwed.
They lay on the stone around him, in some arcane pattern, each blade sharpened and honed so well that Jon could almost feel the bite of them just by looking. He tried to scream, to protest, to do anything but lie there helplessly to be sacrificed; but that turned out, in fact, to be all that he was capable of doing.
One by one the robed figures moved forward, each ignoring his muffled, desperate sounds, and raising a knife.
The first four were largely indistinguishable, each muttering a tedious homily about dedicating this gracious offering to their god - though he thought he heard one of them add an ‘I guess’ - before making a sharp, precise incision in some part of Jon; the searing pain of each one not diminished in the slightest by his knowledge that it was coming.
The fifth was tall and graceful, her features less obscured by the hood than the others, and with a voice both distinctive and amused. Instead of speaking of her god, she took a moment to just look at him.
“Such a charming little fly, caught in an empty web. Is it better or worse for you, I wonder, to know that your death is for nothing more glorious and eternal than greed and the desperate need to maintain the status quo of privilege? No one here really believes in all this, I think, but they do all believe that they’re special. Deserving.
“Well, I assure you that they are not special and neither are you. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and your punishment is death. A small, pointless tragedy, at the hands of those more powerful than yourself, which won’t make so much as a ripple in the pond of consequence. But, trust me: there are far worse things than that.”
She cut into his side, the blood slipping out of him, almost shyly, to mingle with the rest, and nodded at him, before moving back into the crowd.
The next few thankfully didn’t feel the need to point out his immense insignificance, as they lacklustrely dedicated him to their gods and stabbed him; which was, admittedly, a very minor improvement, but he didn’t have a huge amount to grab onto at this point.
The blood loss wasn’t yet irreversible, but he was beginning to feel heavier and heavier, the cold of the stone now boldly commandeering his body and weighing it down; the pain a nagging constant, which kept pulling his mind away from thoughts of why and how and whether there was something, anything, he could do.
“I’m sorry about this.” The speaker was soft-spoken and, from what Jon could tell under the hood, blandly attractive. “I keep telling myself that, next time, I’ll say no. Next time, I’ll make a stand. But it wouldn’t make a difference. Whether I’m here, or not, whether our gods exist or they don’t, there’ll always be another victim, their blood spilled to keep the machine going.
“I’m sorry, I truly am. This won’t be quick. But death is not so bad, really. It resolves a lot of things. A lot of conflicts. I think, when my own time comes, it will be a bit of a relief.”
The apologies did nothing to take the sting out of the sharp and searing cut; the deepest yet. Jon thought that he couldn’t possibly have any more blood in him, but still it leaked out of every wound, so painfully slowly; and it seemed that he was expected to linger for a while yet, for their amusement.
The fourteenth and last figure was familiar in his movements, even before he came close enough for Jon to glimpse his face.
Despite his exhaustion, Jon found himself snarling through the gag, his trapped and heavy limbs making one more useless attempt to break free.
“Ah, Jonathan. As I said, I really didn’t mean for you to be chosen. Personally, I had my eye on that useless lump in the library, the dithery one. But, as there is no help for it, I hope it’s some consolation that you make a perfectly excellent sacrifice. Quite exquisite, I assure you. If the gods truly existed, they would be very pleased with their offering.
“Goodbye, Jon.”
Elias raised his knife, with an unnecessary flourish, and made one last cut, circling Jon’s heart. It would have been better to have sunk into it and got this over with, but it seemed that Jon wasn’t to be granted that courtesy.
Instead, he was left to slowly bleed his life away, as the chanting around him stepped up; mystical symbols were sketched in the air; there was strange, wild dancing; and the flaring of candles; all in a useless ceremony, which no one there even believed in.
Jon almost wished that a god would actually arise and take him, just to see the look of utter shock on their faces. But, no, what they needed was a god who had no truck with worshippers and manipulators; preferably a good, smitey one who objected to deaths being made in their name and intended to make that very clear.
In his muddled exhaustion, the air seemed to ripple and flex, and then do some wild dancing of its own. Jon felt himself leave his body. Right, that would be his blood finally running out then.
He didn’t even try to fight it, as the world melted away and he melted along with it.