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It was beyond Gertrude's power to stop Gerry’s seizure, but she knew how to react. She called 911, trying to explain, no, it's not a prank, she's just on vacation from London, yes, Gerry is her "son", and he has never had a seizure before. She didn't touch him, no matter how much she wanted to clean up his face of the tears and spittle.
She was very good at not looking into Gerry’s head. He had made it very clear that he would continue going to the ends of the Earth with her, from this dimension to the next, as long as she stayed out of his brain. Maybe that's why she didn't want to see the signs.
Throughout the day, he had been irritable. She figured maybe it was just the lack of coffee they had that morning. She wanted to be up and moving as soon as possible. She really just wanted to get out of America. It wasn't until they were walking back to their motel in the late hours of the night that he suddenly got woozy. He sat down in the middle of the sidewalk and went to get a cigarette before his seizure started. Gertude, at first, felt at a loss. After all that they had seen just in the last few weeks, her first thought certainly wasn't a seizure. She tried to wrack her brain, what Fear could cause bodily seizures? But when she came up with nothing, she decided it must have been a medical issue.
Gerry’s seizure only lasted two minutes and forty-six seconds. He was confused when it stopped, not quite awake, but not asleep. He likely hit his head on the pavement, and Gertrude knew not to move him for both of their safety. Through his slurred speech, she heard 'Mum' and 'Please', but she couldn't make out much else. If it did have something to do with Mary, perhaps it was caused by The Vast. Or The End. Or The Eye. God, why couldn’t Mary have been simple? Why did she only commit her studies to herself? She left Gerry behind to serve The Eye. Why couldn’t that be the simple answer?
When the paramedics arrived, they were quick to treat him. He became more lucid in the ambulance, starting to speak with a gritty tone. They cleaned his face and asked Gertrude most of the questions. ‘What is your relationship?’ 'Has this happened before?' 'Does he have any pre-existing conditions?'
They got him into a room quickly once they got to the hospital. It was late at night, so they had to wait until morning to do any scans or tests. Gerry refused to speak to Gertrude, saying his mind was foggy and that he wanted to get some rest.
When Gerry fell asleep, Gertrude wasn't too far behind. There was an uncomfortable chair in the room to sleep in, but much like a soldier, she had adapted to falling asleep quickly, pretty much anywhere.
They were both woken up by a nurse in teal-colored scrubs, with bleached blonde hair and a nose ring.
"Can I get you anything?" She asked Gerry. "You're gonna have a few blood tests soon, I see, so you might want to eat something. I can grab you breakfast."
"That'd be lovely," he said groggily. "And a cup of tea, maybe? One for me, and for her, too."
"You got it." She smiled before leaving.
Gertrude yawned as she sat up. "No one should be that happy to be at work this early in the morning." Gerry hummed in agreement. "How are you feeling?"
"My head is pounding," he murmured.
"I can imagine."
Gerry had known he was sick for a long time. He didn't know exactly what was wrong, but he knew he certainly wasn't healthy. He was rapidly losing weight, unable to keep down any food. He would be up for hours in the night, vomiting in their motel rooms across the globe. He would stumble and feel dizzy, usually claiming it was The Vast playing tricks whenever Gertrude noticed. His vision would double, which he claimed was The Eye. These lies worked for a good long while, until his seizure.
Now, he lies in a hospital bed, his eyes heavy and his head pounding. He knows something is wrong. He might even be able to narrow it down due to his symptoms, but he can't give up now. Not when the next ritual is so close.
"Wanna try getting up and walking around?" Gertrude asked. Gerry scoffed.
"You're the most evil old woman in the world."
"Eh, I'm sure there's been worse."
"Well, no, I do not want to try getting up and walking around."
"Suit yourself. All that walking we've been doing will go to waste."
"I fear it might anyway," he mumbled. They were both quiet for a moment. Somewhere, deep down, they both knew that something deeper was wrong and that the chances of him making it back to London were slim. He could practically feel the cells in his body dying, his body shrinking into the itchy sheets of the American hospital bed.
"I know what you want to say," Gerry said, clearing his throat to break the silence. "You would've known what was wrong if I let you look inside my head."
Gertrude paused. "I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind. But you have one of those faces, Gerry. You wear your emotions on your entire body. I can usually tell what you're thinking without looking. I knew that if you thought something was wrong, you would let me know. Or at least I thought I did."
There was a slight knock on the door, and they both jumped, instinctively reaching for tools that weren't there. The nurse from before just gave a soft smile. She was holding a metal tray with breakfast and two cups of hot tea. She handed Gertrude one of the cups and placed the tray on the sliding bedside table, which she had swiveled to be over Gerry’s body.
"Dr. David should be in at around two o'clock to start some tests so we can see what's really up, okay? My name is Dahlia, and I'll be taking care of you most of the time. Is there anything else I can get for you at the moment?"
Gerry started, "I should be alright, thank you-"
"His head hurts," interrupted Gertrude. "Do you have anything?"
"I can grab you some Tylenol, but I'm afraid that's the strongest thing I have at the moment. I can get you some water, and hopefully, some food will help, too. But you can press this button-" She picked up the remote attached to Gerry’s bed and pointed to the red symbol at the top. "And I'll come running, okay? I'll be right back."
She stepped out of the room, and Gerry looked over at Gertrude. "You looked into my head, you old witch."
"At this point, it's for your own good, Gerard."
Gerry let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Right. Right, like leaving me under the dirt in a Buried domain was for my own good."
"I didn't know it was a-"
"Or like how locking me in the archives when you knew an avatar of the Dark had made its way in was for my own good."
"Gerard." She scolded. "This has nothing to do with all of that. For all we know, this is entirely medical and has nothing to do with any Fears."
"With our luck?"
Gertrude hummed in agreement. Dahlia knocked softly on the door again before walking in with a small paper cup with two capsules and another cup with water.
"Hopefully, this will help."
"It's paracetamol," Gertrude said when Gerry took the cups. His mouth made a small 'oh' shape. He smiled and thanked the nurse. When she walked out, he glared at Gertrude.
"You're not actually my mum, you know that, right? I'm an adult, I can ask questions and tell them when I have a headache on my own."
She sighed. "You're right, Gerard, I am not your mother. Your mother certainly wouldn't accompany you to the hospital."
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"
"Of course it is, it's paracetamol-"
"Not this. You. Your attitude." Gerry threw back the pills and chased them with the water. "You're gonna feel terrible if something ends up being wrong with me, and this is how you treated me at the end."
"Oh, please, Gerard, you're going to be fine." She sighed and stood up, grabbing her sweater and pulling it over her body. "I'm going to see if there are any books in the gift shop."
"Read a statement while you're gone. Maybe that'll cheer you up."
She grabbed her bag, rifling through the papers inside. "Let's see... Should I read Carol Flower's statement on her mysterious pillowcase that tries to suffocate her in the night, or Mitchell Roger's statement on his disappearing film collection?"
"I'm curious about the pillowcase. Let me know how that one goes."
"I'll get back to you on that. I'll be back before the doctor. Try to get some rest."
To say Gerard wasn't a fan of the tests would be an understatement. He didn't like all of the people poking and prodding at him. He didn't like it when they just kept taking more and more blood until he got so dizzy that he had to tell them to stop. He didn't like it when they put the sticky wires on his forehead. And his least favorite was the large machines they put him in. It reminded him too much of The Buried, of being shoved into the space under his mum’s desk while she worked so that he was out of sight but still close enough to her that he wouldn’t cry when he was a kid. Of being stuck under planks of wood, feeling the dirt pile up around him.
By the end of the day, he felt like he had gone through every test the American healthcare system had to offer. He made a joke about a pregnancy test, but the doctor didn't laugh.
The doctors, Gerry could tell, were very curious about the burn scars from the neck down. He told the truth. There was a fire. They didn't push much more, probably so that they wouldn't have to hear a potentially gory retelling of a house fire gone wrong. He didn't blame them. He heard enough of those stories working at the institute.
"We want to make sure all of the tests come back before we make any assumptions," Dr. David said. "So we'll probably come to a conclusion tomorrow. Until then, I wouldn't stress too much. Get some rest. I'm sure we'll have you across the pond in no time."
Gerry sleepily thanked the doctor as he was layed up in his hospital bed again. The hospital staff seemed to enjoy the fact that he was British, making jokes and references that he didn't care for very much.
Gertrude sat at the end of his bed late at night as he trembled and sweated from either the tests or whatever sickness was affecting him. She was trying to get him to drink water, even tea, but he just pushed it away.
"I'll vomit," he said shakily. "I know I will."
"Gerard..."
"Stop!" He coughed into his elbow, dry and rough. Gertrude grabbed the bedpan, but he pushed it away. "I don't need your help."
"Gerard, you're sick."
"Really? I was thinking I was the pinnacle of health at the moment."
"Gerard, you can't do this alone anymore."
"We shouldn't be here," he whimpered. "We should be out there, saving the world, putting the fears back in their place, you know? Not… Not in an American hospital.”
She scooted closer on the bed so that they were right next to each other. She held his hair back as he continued heaving, but very little came up.
“Would you rather be chasing Leitner’s right now?”
“I feel like I’m in a Leitner.”
“What’s this Leitner about?”
“Gertrude.”
“Humor me, Gerard.”
He scoffs. “I think… This Leitner is about a young man whose fear is not hospitals or death, but just America.”
“Do you think Leitner would really write America as a Fear?”
“Humor me.”
Gerry felt like he wasn’t present for the first half of the conversation. He spent most of it throwing up anyway. The doctor’s words just stuffed the cotton deeper and deeper in his ears. Gertrude was standing next to him, a hand on his shoulder in some flimsy attempt at comforting him. She was never very good at it.
“You have a few choices, Mr. Keay,” Dr. David said. Gerard tried his best not to gag again. The last time he’d been addressed like that was by Elias Bouchard, years ago.
He remembered it very clearly. Reading about his father’s time in the archives, knowing that if he wanted to find mysterious books for his mum, then this would be the place he would find them. He climbed the stairs and asked the kind receptionist if there was anyone he could talk to about applying. She hesitantly asked for his name, and she perked up when she heard ‘Keay’, then slightly deflated as if remembering clearly what happened to his father. She nodded and stood up, saying that she’d be right back.
And that’s when he saw Gertrude.
She recognized Gerard, of course, she did. From the baby photos to the bookstore to the fire, the only thing that had changed about him was his height, his piercings, and the paper-white burn scars that traveled from the neck down.
They weren’t hiring. They had enough researchers and just didn’t have any more room, but Gertrude wanted him, much to Elias’s dismay. After all, his minor was library sciences. He majored in art. But when Elias realized that this was Gerard Keay, Mary Keay’s son, he knew he would be perfect, that he was practically born marked.
“Welcome to The Magnus Institute, Mr. Keay.”
“Gerry is fine.”
Elias never called him Gerry.
“Gerard.” He blinked, Gertrude’s stern voice breaking him from his stupor.
“Sorry, sorry, um… Choices?”
The doctor hummed. “A few choices, all extremely risky. We could attempt a surgery, although I do have to inform you that the survival rate is about 38%.”
Gerard let's out a shaky breath, the action rattling his ribs. “Wh-What are my other options?”
“We could attempt,” said Dr. David, putting an extreme emphasis on the last word. “A form of intense chemotherapy to hopefully attack what is there and then treat it from the inside out, but the chances of success are very low at stage four, especially untreated.”
“Anything else?”
The doctor's voice dropped, almost like the one used to speak to a child. “We can provide end-of-life care here in the hospital, make you comfortable.”
Jesus Christ, I'm not a dog.
“At the rate of the development since your seizure, I'd give you about-”
“Stop,” interrupted Gerard. “I don't want to know. I just… I need time to think.”
Everyone in the room was silent for a moment before Gertrude said,
“Gerard, you don't have time.”
Gerard spent that night sitting in silence, not responding to anything Gertrude said, only nodding or giving a weak thumbs up.
Eventually, she would forcefully shove him aside and lie next to him, and he gently rested his pounding head on her shoulder. She didn't hug him or wrap her arm around him; she just sat there, occasionally mumbling something like You need to choose.
Part of Gerard didn't want to choose, but not choosing was a choice. It was one of the only options, really. Letting himself live out the rest of his weeks or days or hours until his illness caught up to him, allowing them pump him with painkillers and a piece of chocolate on the last day, and then they push the plunger. Maybe they'd even take him to the park!
Another option was the procedure, where they'd chip away parts of his skull to get to his brain and then chip away parts of his brain to get to the tumor, and then they'd yank it out, he supposed. But then what? If he woke up, what was next? They put his pieces back together, and he has to live the rest of his life?
He looked her way, feeling as though he was moving underwater. His eyes were hazy, perhaps from exhaustion, or maybe he was on the verge of tears. “You have to make a choice.”
She said it so casually, as if it were another option between comfort and first class on one of their many travels. He half-expected to look over and see her on her laptop, booking their next flight.
“Let’s go to Russia,” Gerard responded. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
“It’s cold this time of year, Gerard.” She sighed. “You and I both know that this is quite the crossroads for you. If you choose the surgery, the chances of your survival are low. The intense chemotherapy is… Certainly a choice, and it is yours to make at the end of the day, but the success rate is low and may only cause more pain.”
“So what you’re saying is that I’m dead either way.”
Gertrude hesitated. Hesitated. Gertrude Robinson did not hesitate. Gertrude was sure. She was stone-cold. She was lethally intelligent. And she never hesitated.
“What I am saying is,” she started. “That this is not supernatural. This is not a Fear. This is not an entity or an avatar. This is… Real.”
“Right, like all the bullshit we’ve seen in the past few years has been pure fiction.”
“You know what I mean, Gerard.”
“You know what, Gertrude, I don’t know,” Gerard spat. He tried to sit up, but his body collapsed beneath him, forcing him back into a lying position. He grunted in frustration. “I’m dying, Gertrude. I am perfectly aware that this isn’t a Fear or an entity or an avatar. It’s cancer. Brain cancer, left untreated for… God knows how long.”
They were both silent for a moment.
Out of the two of them, one of them knew how long.
“You knew,” he whispered. “Didn’t you?”
Gertrude paused again. “I knew… Something. But it certainly wasn’t brain cancer. I thought that if you were ill… That if something was wrong, then it was a Fear, and if we acknowledged it, then we would be in danger.”
Gerard just started at the wall. A revelation. One he should have been expecting. Gertrude knew everything, of course, she did. She knew that he was sick. And she kept it to herself. And why else would Gertrude Robinson keep such a detrimental secret other than her own selfishness? Perhaps her loyalty to The Magnus Institute? Her devotion to The Eye? Was Gerard really so disposable that she wouldn’t even warn him that something was wrong?
At the end of the day, what was the Archivist if not just another monster?
“Did Elias know?” Asked Gerard.
“It’s… Certainly possible. But that’s neither here nor there.”
Gerard tried to speak, but he felt hot tears streaming down his face. His tongue felt like lead, and his mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton.
“We could have done something,” said Gerard in a small voice. “We could have… Caught it, removed it… And we could be out there right now taking care of things.”
“...What do you want me to say, Gerard?”
“I-I want you to-” He coughed again, Gertrude shifting to get him sitting up, tapping her hand on his back. He didn’t have the energy to push her away.
Somewhere, in the back of Gerard’s mind, was fear creeping up on him. Not like a Fear, not the Flesh or the Web, something more tangible. Something inside of himself. Like the stitches holding him together were fraying and splitting.
“Gertrude-” He gasped. “I think I’ve made my choice.” When she didn’t say anything, he painstakingly moved his head to look at her. “I’m going to die.”
Of course, Gertrude wasn’t going to push. If the man wanted to die, then so be it. She stopped his suicide attempt once when he was young after his mother had died, and he didn’t speak to her for almost a year. She wasn’t going to try to convince him to live again if she knew that he wasn’t going to change his mind. Gerard was not brave. In the face of danger, he was likely the first to run away. But in most cases, Gerard is incredibly stubborn. His mind is made up; Gerard Keay was going to die.
And so Gertrude Robinson spent the hours from 6:47 PM to 2:45 AM sitting next to him. A few of those hours he spent writing with shaky hands, telling her not to read what he wrote until she was gone. He said he even wrote a “shove it” letter to Elias, whatever that meant. Gertrude didn’t leave his side. She braided his hair at his request: "Don’t let me die ugly."
Gerard was special; everyone could see it, especially if they worked at the Magnus Institute. He could see through every Fear. He could get just close enough to them to brush over them with his fingertips without getting marked. Gerard wasn’t brave, but he was endlessly curious. It’s a miracle his curiosity didn’t kill him before the cancer did. In fact, Gertrude had pitched to Elias years ago that if she were to die while still working at the Institute, Gerard should become the new Archivist. Elias just chuckled and murmured something about “esteemed values of Jonah Magnus.” She didn’t stick around to listen to that spiel.
At around 1:52 AM, Gerard started to shiver. Gertrude layered the blankets on him to try to get him comfortable. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders as he mumbled into her shoulder. There was a slight chance he was cognizant, his brain likely full of fog. Through his mumbling, however, Gertrude heard him loud and clear;
Thank you for saving me.
I’m sorry about my dad.
I don’t really want to die.
I’m sorry that I’m going to die.
Please don’t let me die ugly.
Please try to find me.
Please don’t leave me behind.
Thank you for everything.
I’m sorry that I’m going to die.
Gerard’s mumbling eventually trailed off into dry heaves and shallow breaths, his body running ice cold before, at 2:44 AM, his second and final seizure started. Gertrude lay him flat in bed and got up from where she was sitting with him, standing over him and holding his hand as he shook and seized. This time, Gertrude did take the time to wipe his face. Neither of them was in danger. He was just dying.
The nurses rushed in, and some barely-alive part of Gerard wanted to tell them to leave. He was in there somewhere; he could feel himself in his own brain, writhing and shaking and trying to escape. He was terrified. He was outside of his body now, watching nurses push plungers into his IV.
His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs, though for what purpose even he could not have said. Perhaps he was simply trying to push away the smell of disinfectant and grief that rose from his hospital bed. She was there sometimes, the one he had followed around the world. There was almost sadness in her eyes. He felt himself begin to slip, the icy certainty of what was happening seeping through his flesh, and as he fell away for the final time, he felt that all-consuming fear. And his only thought was to cry out for his mother. But with the last vestige of his stubborn will, he refused. She would not claim his last moment. He was silent.
And so, at 2:46 AM, Gerard Keay ended.