I love that canonically, Agnes is described as having "mousey brown" hair, but we all just went "hmm. no"
agnes montague is so funny. like, this kid was just wandering around messing up the web's plans because she can, and then ended up turning her back on being the antichrist because she got the world's most clueless boyfriend
I am drawing another Agnes also, but I am impatient :-)
I got bored and decided that yes, I will be self indulgent
- - -
The thought is like a wave - building up and up inside Agnes' head until it meets the shore and crashes against it. Before it can pull away, Agnes is opening her lips; "I would like to wear a wedding dress."
The breeze, while strong enough to carry the smell of smoking leather and ash and fresh coffee, does nothing to steal her words away. Agnes turns to Jon, who has just arrived back, hands full with three takeaway coffee cups, to find him gazing at her in that intense way that he does, as if she is something to figure out. Agnes doesn't take offence to it - it is just how Jon is. Gerry's thick, black boots make thudding noises against the concrete of the wall that he's sitting on while the man himself hums, digesting the statement.
"Why?" Jon asks, curiosity robbing him of patience.
Agnes takes her coffee from him with a grateful smile before shrugging and letting it bubble with her touch.
"Does she need a reason?" Gerry challenges.
Agnes can hear the grin in his voice as she takes a sip of her coffee. While she has no need for food or drink, recently she has been treating herself. Hazelnut coffee is her latest obsession.
Jon makes a face. "Of course not." The gravel beneath his feet shifts - a sharp, crumbling kind of sound - and Jon is turning away to hand Gerry the coffee he ordered. Gerry takes the offered coffee with a grin and cradles the cup between his hands, the faded inky eyes tattooed on his joints staring at Agnes passively.
Agnes stares back and takes a sip of her coffee, relishing in the feeling of the coffee trickling down her throat, the burn of it melding with the usual fire that burns within her. She licks her lips, tasting hazelnut.
"Why not," Gerry says, disrupting the steam coming from the hole in the lid of the cup by blowing at it, "could be fun." He takes a small swig.
Jon looks like he is considering Gerry's idea of fun, eyes flicking from the man to the smouldering pile of what was once a Leitner in the middle of the gravel path. After a pause, he nods. "I can do some research for you," he offers.
Agnes smiles - she would like that very much.
Jon places his cup next to Gerry and folds up the cardboard carrier, hand shooting into his pocket to bring out that familiar lighter. Agnes sees Gerry's eyes flick towards it. It's a muted golden Zippo lighter, engraved with a spider's web. Herself and Gerry have spent several occasions discussing it. Jon always dismisses it, never seemingly realising that he has it until he pulls it out to use it.
Flames catch and Jon tosses the quickly burning cardboard onto the burnt remains. Agnes and Gerry share a look. He raises an eyebrow, his thoughts on a similar path to her own. Agnes brings the coffee to her lips, giving a small shrug.
Jon awkwardly clears his throat, catching their silent interaction and Agnes lets herself smile behind the cardboard cup. Gerry taps the toe of his boot against Jon's leg in reassurance and moves over on the wall. Gerry was good at that, even if he never treated it as anything special. Jon settled next to him, taking his tea in hand. Lighter forgotten.
Gerry stretches his head to the side. "Do we know anything about wedding dresses?" Back to the subject at hand. He's smiling in that lazy way of his. Jon hums in consideration, his mouth full of tea. He swallows and begins to ask about her preferences, hand gestures and all. Bridal suites and their distance from her flat.
Agnes admits that it was a sudden decision, one that may have been sparked by the sight of the brides on the covers of magazines in Aldi. And that she knows that she would look beautiful in a wedding dress.
As expected, her friends agree.
agnes: fuck the web sb: what about annabelle-- agnes: did u not hear me?
👀 thinking of a Critical Role - TMA AU where desolation!Caleb is the Agnes to Astrid's Jack Barnabus...Astrid's neck scar
so i was thinking about this post i made some more and i feel like looking at the way the stories of evan lukas, agnes, and gerry are told to us is really interesting.
all three of them have this commonality where they were created to carry a legacy, to serve (or in gerry’s case, take advantage of) these entities; and each of them found at least some way to rebel against this, to take back their own agency and self-definition. agnes dated jack and chose the end of her life, gerry burned books and helped strays, evan completely broke from his family, made friends, fell in love.
but in the end, all three of them have their agency stolen again in death. gerry is bound into the book; evan lukas is buried at moorland house by relatives who take the chance to prey on his beloved. and then we come to agnes, who on some level did choose her death, but it also seems related to her connection with hilltop road and gertrude, which she had absolutely no control over.
and deeper than that, for agnes, comes what arthur nolan puts into words:
“Never really knew what she felt ‘bout any of it, not really. Not in her own words. Guess that’s the thing about being the… chosen one, or... at the end of it, you’re always just the point of someone else’s story, everyone clamoring to say what you were, what you meant, and your thoughts on it all don’t mean nothing.”
(Episode 145, Infectious Doubts)
One thing that I know frustrated some people is that we never got to hear Agnes on podcast, but in the context of the above quote I think that was absolutely an intentional choice. Agnes never got to tell her own story; the closest we get is the story told by people like Arthur Nolan or Jack Barnabas, who claimed to love her. But the stories they tell are all mired in what they wanted her to be far more than who she was. The final loss of agency is that who she was was forgotten, replaced by what she could do for others, what she meant to them.
And, to a lesser extent, the same happens to Evan Lukas. He had friends, loved ones, and Naomi, but he was buried, the ceremony intended to memorialize one’s life, as a Lukas, on some lonely stretch of moor. And even looking at Naomi’s statement... it doesn’t tell us much about him, really, how he got out or what he felt about the whole thing beyond that he didn’t get along with his family. She loved him, but at least to the listener, his story is lost in favor of what he meant to her and what she lost when he died.
Gerry, we can see, was headed the same way. We get a lot of bystander’s statements about him, about how he saved them or creeped them out, and we get the statements of both his parents (though Mary barely mentions him). And in death, he’s sealed into a book for some inscrutable purpose of Gertrude’s, and then reduced to his utility as a monster manual for Trevor and Julia, and then for Jon.
But meeting Jon changes everything, because even though Jon desperately needs the information Gerry can give him, he insists on treating Gerry as a person. The big example of this is him burning Gerry’s page, fulfilling his wishes rather than treating him like an object, of course, and that’s an incredible moment. But even before that, in episode 111, Gerry tells Jon about the storage unit immediately after his page is ripped out; Jon could feasibly just dismiss him and move on. Instead, they have the conversation that fed all us shippers, and then Jon asks if Gerry wants to give a statement.
Obviously Jon does get some fulfillment out of people giving statements, but he doesn’t compel Gerry, and it seems pretty clear at least to me that he wouldn’t have pressed the issue if Gerry said no. What Jon does here, instead, is give Gerry the opportunity that Agnes and Evan Lukas never had: he gets to tell his own story.
And I think that it’s genuinely lovely that Jon is the one to make this change. Obviously the tapes have taken on a sinister cast with the final revelations as far as the Web, but I think it’s worth viewing them in light of what they meant to Jon, back then. He doesn’t want to be-- refuses to be-- another goddamn mystery.
Because Jon, with all his struggles with the Web and Elias and his own transformation, also engages heavily with this question of agency. And above all, he doesn’t want to be defined by whatever incidentals someone pieces together about him; he wants his story to be preserved, and he wants, as much as possible, to write it himself.
And he wants other people to have the same; he doesn’t want them to be forgotten. He has everyone record their thoughts before the Unknowing in Testament; he listens, over and over, to the scraps of recording he gets of Gertrude, Gerry, Tim and Sasha. And when he finally stops Jonah, he does it-- at least partially-- in their memory.
Whether you believe Jon succeeded in defining his own story or not, I think there’s beauty in his desire to remember the stories of the people around him, as they were and as they wanted them to be told.
How in the holy fucking hell does Agnes Montague put clothes on???
Like-- we know this bitch’s not wearing a fucking fire resistant hazmat suit, so h o w t h e f u c k.
Unless Jack Barnabas fell in love with a bitch that looked like she just walked out of a gas chamber, I don’t know how she would put on clothes.
This bitch can legit burn through everything.
Make. It. Make. Sense.
Hoop for Episode 67 - Burning Desire, for @marks.b_ who kindly donated to the Palestine Children Relief Fund. Thank you!!
"Without warning, she put her hands either side of my head. I realized it was the first time our skin had ever touched, and I could feel the intense, hellish heat that radiated from inside her. But it was too late. She leaned in and kissed me.
There are no words to describe the pain. My face erupted in boiling agony as I felt my skin start to crack and peel, and the heat washed over me, erasing all thoughts in blistering white. I felt the fat in my cheeks liquefy and bubble as I tried to scream, but my lips wouldn’t work."
Careful when you kiss actually hot women 😏
I know they’re terrible garbage fire people but I admit listening to the TMA statements from the Cult of the Lightless Flame where it’s basically like
‘So we brought forth our prophesied messiah in the form of a human child with an eternal fire bound within and then realised very shortly none of us have any idea about raising a child’
Is something that I think if TMA was a different type of story would be like a sitcom set up
pros of dating agnes: warm, very warm; smells nice, always; warm coffee & tea, always; will literally be happy no matter what the date is; very pretty; will kill the spiders for you, happily; has a lot of candles; literally god-like ????
cons of dating agnes: see mag67. also see putting up with mi.ke cre.w & jud.e p.erry for wildly different reasons.
Agnes Montague drinks ginger tea
This is Agnes Montague
Keep my wicker wanting
Somewhere buried in all those files
A character study fanfic of Agnes Montague.
She was fire.
Delicious, delightful, warm, welcoming and alive.
She was fire and she was alive.
She was surrounded by smoke. It felt almost palpable on her hands, her cheeks, her lips. The smoke curled towards her, wanted her, and she wanted it too. As she breathed in, she felt it tickle her nose on its way to her lungs. She could feel it awaken every cell it passed. Set every cell ablaze. Set every cell right.
She breathed out, and in again. Out. In. the smoke danced in the dimly lit room. She had the fleeting desire to join the smoke and flame in their alluring patterns, but was content to lie down and consume the life-giving fumes. For now. The smoke fed her, because it fed her fire, and they were one and the same.
Her name meant holy. Pure. She certainly was. How could she not be, when she was divinity unto itself? She was destruction incarnate and they all felt it. Her most of all. She was white-hot to the touch, brilliant to the sight, often too celestial to even hold in the mind. She held lives in her slender hands and ignited them as easily as a spark ignites tinder.
Not every life though. She was careful with the lives of her likes. Almost-likes. Of course, there was no one like her, God made manifest. But almost-likes. Those who cared for her and loved her and gave her life back when she began to fray at the edges. Those who rejoiced in destruction and served the Desolation alongside her. Her almost-likes, she handled with care.
She loved life. She loved being the holy vessel to her god, loved using her more-than-mortal hands to execute its will and follow its whims and please it. It had been her role since birth, her purpose growing up and her only joy as an adult. Her only option. It was her only option, because she couldn’t fathom that any other way of existing could give her as much fulfilment. There was nothing she wanted more than to be-
Well. Agnes wasn’t, really. She existed as a chalice, and filled with her content, she was content.
She did not know much of emotion, but she knew some. She knew contentment from the flickering candles, love from her caregivers, and immense satisfaction from ruined lives and potential.
Agnes knew another emotion, too. Something needling at her in recognition with every life she consumed.
She breathed in. She had been longing for the sweet scent of hopelessness, and for the glowing sensation it evoked in her. She gazed at the flames’ living shadows on the wall as she felt herself ignite, the sputtering fire inside her coming alive once again. She breathed out as the smoldering feeling of despair settled into her bones. It was a relief. She needed this in order to properly serve her god. She needed it in order to feel like herself. Subservience to her god was who she was. She was the incandescent Desolation.
Her life consisted of ruining others. She delighted in it because of her nature as fire incarnate. That was who she had been raised to be and who she was.
She watched as the home she had set ablaze slowly burned to ash. Rich shades of ruby and amber played across the surrounding trees and something in her very core rejoiced at the sight. She didn’t know the details of the newly homeless family’s situation, but her almost-likes had been happy enough to let her burn it. And she felt the pure correctness of the fire in her rejoicing core.
There was something else, too. A flickering feeling of something Agnes was not used to. That needling.
She was highly attuned to the sense of others’ potential, quelled or otherwise. And she could feel… She, too, had potential, and she felt-
No. There was no she. There was only they. It. The Desolation, which she adored. How could she not? Could she not?
In. Out. The smoke trickled into her depleted, smoldering cells. One after another, they lit up, becoming a searing heat that warmed her soul. She laid on the floor, watching the smoke curl in the faint, flickering light. She laid on the floor, but she could have stood up, could have run a thousand miles, could have done anything, could have stood up and run away from here, free to do as she pleased for the first time in her life.
Agnes inhaled heavily. The thoughts slipped away from her like fumes on the wind. She didn’t need to stand up, did not need to do anything at all, not when the smoke and its delicious anguish sustained her and made her feel right. Finally, she felt right. She felt white-hot and holy and imbued, just like she was supposed to.
Her touch could melt a person’s insides with the lightest caress. She delighted in the action, especially when her victim was a child, or someone else with unlimited potential. This was what made her feel sated.
Her almost-likes delighted as well. They used their own spark alongside her and they reached rapture together by destroying every life they came across. Agnes and these people who cared for her and loved her and gave her life back when she began to fray at the edges and took all choice away from her.
Agnes delighted in the ruining of lives, and she delighted the most when the lives had contained unlimited choices and possibilities. It gave her a flicker of bitter vindication, because her own life had contained no choices or possibilities or potential, had never even been her own-
The fumes from the candles had a wonderful scent, utterly unlike anything else. It smelled like life.
Agnes let her lungs fill anew and was in turn filled with blessed relief. She needed the smoke, because it made her and the Desolation one, and she needed to be one with her god. She didn’t know who she was if she was alone.
No. There was no alone. She couldn’t be alone, because she was the Desolation made flesh.
Again, she watched a house burn to the ground. Again, she watched the brilliant colours sweep across her surroundings, and again, she was among her people. Her almost-likes. Her caregivers and lovers and jailers.
Agnes gazed at the house as it burned and burned. She could feel the ruined potential. She could feel her own ruined potential. Who would she have been if not for her would-be caregivers and lovers?
She remembered the flickers of anger she had felt before. She remembered her feelings of jealousy and bitterness directed at everyone whose life was theirs to shape.
She felt something other than hunger or satiety or pleasure or delight. She felt alone. She felt empty, a bone-hollowing emptiness she had never before experienced. She felt like Agnes, sans Desolation, but in desolation.
She felt like Agnes, but she didn’t know who Agnes was when not intertwined with her god. She had been created to be nothing but a vessel, and without her content she was nothing but a hollow shell.
There was something, though. A sputtering, new-born fury. Burning.
Her lovers saw that the change in her, and so they jailed her.
The room was black still when they lit the candles.
In. Out. In. Out.
The smoke permeated her. It made her feel like herself. Finally. It had been so long since she had felt like herself, perfectly aligned with her god, as was her purpose. She breathed in. Out. The writhing smoke gifted her the sense of relief that came with being one with her god, a sense of relief that she had been waiting desperately for.
The dancing fumes continued their path through her systems, and gave her back her beloved heat.
The burning reminded Agnes of something else, a feeling of… was it anger?
Surely not. There was no space in her life for anger. There was only her god, its destruction and her lovers.
Her jailers. Her people who had put her here against her will, who had conceived her and birthed her and raised her with one single purpose, to sacrifice her to a god of destruction.
The burning spark blossomed in her chest. It was anger, no, fury, and it consumed her. The Desolation was relegated to the edges of Agnes’s mind as she fought to understand this novel feeling. This sense of… anger directed at those who stole her life from her. This sense of grief at the thought that she could have led a different life. A life for herself.
Agnes sat up. She blinked once. Twice. The smoke danced still, gray curtains before the flickering shadows playing on the walls. She stood up suddenly, stumbling, strangely sore.
Why had she stood up? The smoke pressed against her lips, eager to imbue her once more. She did not want to be imbued. She wanted… She, Agnes, wanted.
She bent and blew out the candles. The dark was as new to her as the anger had been, as was this new sensation pricking her skin. Coldness, she realized, and shivered. Unpleasant. She wanted to light the candles again and go back to the comfort, but the thought made her understand that she had a choice, and that feeling was not unpleasant. A choice, for the first time in her life. Not unpleasant at all.
Agnes drank in the sharp, fresh air and took a few faltering steps forward. She did not have a course traced out anymore.
But perhaps that was the point.
Edited version of my Agnes fic!
I’m shamelessly gonna promote my Agnes Montague fic from back in january. ✌️