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They say that there is a Prince locked in a tower at the edge of the forest, spirited away where no one can reach, shrouded in Loneliness. They say that the Prince’s father made a deal with a Wizard, trading the Prince away to be his servant. The reasons vary - they say he did it for power, for protection, for a secret, but no one knows the truth.
They say that the Prince toils night and day, trapped in his prison of Isolation. They say that to release him would take a great sacrifice.
They say that the tower, and the Prince in turn, are under a spell, cast by the Wizard to keep the Prince forever in his grasp, magicked to been unseen by all mankind.
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The Archivist is not quite a man. The Archivist alone can See.
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Alone in his tower, the Prince completes his reports as the sun rises and sets, keeps his eyes turned from the tower’s single window. The Wizard is often absent, but the Prince is well-suited to his role, he knows his work by rote.
He works, and the sun rises and sets, and he keeps his eyes turned from the window, and the freedom below.
They say that this is all he does. That is not the truth.
Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, the Prince sings.
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The Archivist Watches and the Prince works, and the sun rises and sets.
One night, as the sun dips below the horizon, the Prince puts down his work, opens his mouth. Poetry falls from his lips, soft and lilting, and the sound reaches the forest’s edge where the Archivist stands.
The Archivist has found that he cannot look away.
He watches the glint of the Prince’s hair in the sunset, and looks to the expanse of space between the tower and the forest’s edge where he stands, and he takes a step forward.
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The Prince is well-versed in his role, he knows his work by rote, and when the Archivist stands at the tower’s base and calls let me in, the Prince shuts his eyes, keeps his eyes turned from the window, and tries to disappear.
So instead the Archivist climbs, brick by brick, until he finally reaches the top, and the Prince within.
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Come away with me, says the Archivist, grasping at the Prince’s hands. He can See, knows that now that the tower has been breached, all that is left to do is leave it. Together we can be free.
But the Tower is under a spell, and the Prince with it, and the spell is too strong. To release him would take a sacrifice.
You know I cannot come with you, the Prince says. He keeps his eyes turned from the window.
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There are thorns at the tower’s base. (To release him would take a sacrifice.)
The Archivist jumps.
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High in the tower, alone once again, the Prince finally turns to look out the window.
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The Archivist cannot See the tower anymore; cannot see anything at all. Blindness is not so bad, but without his Sight, he is untehtered, wandering.
It feels like years, walking with no direction. Eventually, as must happen, he passes through the town.
He cannot see, but he can hear the whispers.
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They say that the spell has been broken. They say that the ground had begun to shake, that the tower had become visible for one shining moment, that everyone had seen it. They say that the bricks had cracked, and the Wizard had fallen, and the tower had come tumbling to the ground.
And the Prince with it?, the Archivist asks.
But nobody knows the answer, and The Archivist cannot See.
He wanders, untethered.
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The Archivist cannot See, but he can hear.
From out of the darkness, the Archivist hears a voice, soft and lilting. Poetry falls from familiar lips; an anchor.
The Archivist turns and follows the sound.