Chapter Text
Mr. Martin Blackwood, heir to the Blackwood Linen Company, had just sold the last of his late father’s textile mills to a Norwegian entrepreneur by the name of Jürgen Leitner.
He was accompanied on his journey across the North Sea by his solicitor, a Mr. Henry Richardson, and his wife and assistant, Mrs. Helen Richardson, who, Martin had secretly determined, was not only much more sociable than her taciturn husband, but also glaringly more knowledgable when it came to matters of business.
Having concluded the affair to everyone’s satisfaction (or so Martin liked to think; he did not necessarily take account of his own feelings concerning the matter in these speculations), Martin and his companions boarded the ferry from Bergen to Newcastle, a Bergenske Dampskibsselskab steamer named Arachne, on a cold and windy December evening.
The first night and day of the passage spun away uneventfully; the small group spent their waking hours in the cramped lounge, huddled in their coats. Mr. Richardson smoked his pipe and hid behind the same days-old newspaper, while Mrs. Richardson tried to teach Martin some obscure card game his mother would have been scandalised by (a not insignificant amount of gin being involved). Which was the reason Martin tried especially hard to memorise its rules, even though his mind kept drifting off into a strange, comfortable fog.
It must be the waves, Martin thought, rocked by the gentle up-and-down. I never knew I liked being on the sea this much. Uncle Peter will be pleased.
When they said their good-nights on the second and last evening of their journey, the wind was picking up and the gentle rocking was turning into more of an uncomfortable bucking. But this was no cause for concern considering the time of year, several members of the crew had reassured them. Perfectly normal. To be expected, even.
Only a few hours later, Martin awoke to the sound of screaming.
It was pitch black in his tiny cabin and he found himself toppled onto the floor from his narrow bed by one of the violent, jarring movements of the ship. His heavy portmanteau slid across the polished planks and smacked into his legs painfully as he tried to scramble to his feet.
Owing to the bitter cold he had slept fully clothed, coat and all, and was grateful for it; only he couldn’t find his shoes to save his life. He tumbled through the cabin door in his stockings and into a throng of bodies pushing through the corridor, panicked yells of “What’s going on?” and “Stay down!” and “God help us!” ringing in his ears.
There was a terrifying creaking noise and then the ship lurched forward, trembling and groaning like a giant beast, and people were smashed into the walls and each other and shrieked in the howling darkness. Martin was pushed up the stairs to the deck, dragged along blind and numb by the bodies of terrified passengers trying to escape the lower cabins.
The deck was raging chaos; spray and rain immediately soaked Martin to the bone as he tried to find something—anything—steady to hold on to. He grabbed the next best thing, which was someone’s arm, and was pulled portside on the slanting, slippery surface until he was flung into a metal guardrail. His invisible companion was not as lucky. Martin listened frozen with shock as they disappeared into the darkness, crying out in horror.
He allowed himself one overwhelmed sob and then heaved himself up, clinging to the cold metal with desperate strength, and squinted into the roaring night, icy water whipping his face.
The lights of the coast ahead flickered in and out of existence like fen fire. They were so close.
The wave came so fast he did not even have time to yell. Martin Blackwood was not a small man, and yet he was washed overboard as effortlessly as a threadbare rag.
———
Martin’s father had made sure his son was a decent swimmer.
It made no odds in the current circumstances.
Martin managed to emerge into the icy air with a hoarse cry and then was immediately swept headfirst into something hard and cruel. Bright colour exploded behind his eyelids and he fought for long painful seconds against losing consciousness with wild determination.
There was no conceivable up or down in the absolute blackness of the depths into which he was pulled. Martin tried to move anyway in hopes of reaching the surface, feeble and uncoordinated, fighting the instinct to breathe.
He was very cold, and very tired, and started to feel lightheaded. The naked panic was slowly receding, giving way to something inevitable, peaceful. His chest hurt.
It would not be long now.
And then—
There was a presence with him in the dark.
Something circled him several times before wiry arms wrapped around him, claws digging into his skin through his waterlogged clothes. Gripped by a deep old terror, Martin began to struggle. The arms only held him tighter; and then there was a voice.
Don’t, it said, deep and exasperated and clear as if spoken by someone standing in front of him in a close, quiet room.
Martin opened his mouth in shock and lost a few precious bubbles of air.
Don’t breathe yet. Just a little longer, the voice said, and then he was being dragged through the pressing black towards what he could only hope was up.
Three, it spoke, two, one. Now.
And Martin, at the end of strength and reasoning, gasped desperately for air and was genuinely surprised when his lungs didn’t fill with seawater. He sucked in huge, aching breaths through his freezing lips. There was a face next to his in the dark.
Well done.
Then his head was lying on a shoulder, back pressed against a narrow chest, and he was being hauled through the choppy midnight water with strong, rhythmic movements.
This is going to take a while, I apologise, the voice said, darkly serious. Please don’t freeze to death.
Which, Martin had to admit, was a valid concern. He was slowly losing all sensation in his limbs. A bottomless fatigue wrapped around his brain, and he went away for a while.
———
He came back around shivering violently. The relentless noise of raging wind and angry waves had receded into the background, the rain turned into a soft drizzle.
Someone hummed a strange and wordless tune that swept through Martin with a melancholy warmth.
He tried to move and realised he was lying on his back, half buried in a heap of something squishy and rustling. A sharp, fishy smell filled his nostrils. He squinted his eyes open to the first grey light of dawn and the dark face of a person looming above him.
“What happened?” Martin whispered, tongue clumsy with cold.
“You were drowning,” the person—man— said, a crease between his inky eyebrows, his voice deep and soft. This time it came from his mouth instead from inside Martin’s head.
Martin strained his neck and looked around. He was surrounded by a veritable mountain of dried seaweed and flat, ragged rocks. A little further down waves lapped against a sandy shore, deceptively calm.
“Where are we?”
“North Shields. Your ship ran aground on the Black Middens. I had to navigate around them— I’m sorry it took so long. The tide is high.”
Martin couldn’t help but gaze at the strangers’ mouth, transfixed. His teeth were… wrong. They looked like large, pointed pearls.
I almost drowned, Martin thought, and I’m freezing. And: Oh, he’s beautiful. Ah. Wait. Did I hit my head? Oh, yes, right.
The man stretched out his hand as if to touch Martin’s face, then pulled it back quickly. His fingernails were slate grey and curved. He was leaning across the large, flat rock next to Martin’s head on his bare arms as if it were a nice wooden side table, staring Martin down, sharp curiosity in his large, dark eyes. His naked torso was partially covered by long, slick-black strands of hair shot through with iron grey. He did not seem to feel the cold.
“W-who are you?” Martin wheezed, caught between terror and awe.
“I’m Jon,” the stranger said.
“Jon?” Martin squeaked, incredulous.
“Yes?” Jon said, wary, eyes narrowing. “It is short for Jonathan. Who are you?”
“Oh, no. My name is Martin Blackwood. And I am definitely dead.” Martin started laughing deliriously, then stopped abruptly, teeth chattering. “B-blazes, wait. A-are you an, an angel?”
Jon’s eruptive laugh was surprisingly high and sweet. “Mmh! I have no idea how you would come to such a conclusion, but no. I’m an archivist.”
“Y… wh… alright.” Martin’s voice came out airy and thin. He was hit by the next bout of forceful shivering and the world went a little out of focus. Jon’s blurry face screwed up with worry.
“You have hurt your head. You need to stay awake.”
Martin groaned, but tried to concentrate very hard on not slipping away. His thoughts were drifting by fog-like, so he kept staring up at the strange and very fine features of the man who had saved him. From a sinking ship. Oh good grief—
“God!” Martin yelped and tried to force himself upright. He made it to his elbows and then slumped back down. “W-what happened to the ferry? The, the other passengers? Mr. Richardson, Helen? Is Helen alright?” he babbled, frantically searching Jon’s face with his eyes. Jon leaned closer, half lying on the rock now, and tentatively laid his hand on Martin’s shoulder.
“The ship was definitely wrecked. As for the other passengers, some will be saved and some won’t. Unfortunately I do not know anything about a Mr. Richardson, or a Helen. I was able to pull you away because you had been dragged a decent distance from the rocks. I could not risk being battered against them myself. I am very sorry.”
“Ah, uhm,” Martin sniffled, “don’t apologise. And— thank you for saving my life? I, I don’t know what…”
Jon squeezed his shoulder. It stung. “I will wait with you until help arrives. They are coming down from Tynemouth, I can already hear them. Don’t worry.”
“Uh, thank— thank you.” Martin fumbled at the little finger of his left hand until he managed to slip his signet ring off. It was solid gold and heavy for its size.
He carefully pried Jon’s hand from his shoulder and pressed the ring into his palm. The other watched, wide-eyed, then unceremoniously took the ring and slipped it onto his middle-finger. He turned his hand, watching the metal glint in the pale morning light with a quizzical expression.
Martin smiled up at him shakily. “I am so sorry, I don’t have anything else on me to give you! Will you call at Holywell House, so I can thank you properly? It’s just about five miles up the coast from here.”
“You do not have to thank me, or give me— things,” Jon murmured and turned his gaze up and beyond the dunes, “but I would like to see your house someday.”
He made to pull the ring off again, but Martin said: “Please don’t!” and he stopped.
Jon’s face went still and oddly blank. Then he twitched, and his head whipped around, and he lifted his right arm and yelled: “Hello! Help! Over here!”
Martin managed to scramble into a half-sitting position more or less successfully despite his stiff limbs and throbbing head, and stared into the direction Jon was waving. He had to squint into the pale grey distance for quite some time before he could make out the figures moving down towards the beach.
When he turned back, Jon was gone. There was no trace of him in any direction Martin looked; it was as if he’d never been there at all.
Martin took a deep, shuddering breath and then started hoarsely calling for help.