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Martin doesn’t generally pay much attention to the affairs of other avatars or Entities, and he particularly avoids the Eye; having to accompany Simon to their benefit gala every few years when he’s the last one who manages to come up with an excuse is more than enough for him. So he’d known vaguely that their Archivist had been replaced, but had paid little attention to the replacement. Even without any foreknowledge, it’s obvious what the man now perched in his flat’s least comfortable armchair is.
Martin smiles genially, pointedly not acknowledging the scars, the bandaged hand (which answers the question of how he knew Martin’s address; he never should’ve gotten drunk enough to talk about his taste in men around Jude Perry), or the way he’s clearly trying to hide that he’s terrified of Martin.
Martin bustles back into the front room and presses a teacup into the Archivist’s hands. It nearly spills, between the hindrance of his bandaged hand and the fact that he obviously doesn’t want it but also doesn’t want to say so. “Er, no thank you!”
“Nonsense. It’ll do you good.” He gives the bandages and the bags under the Archivist’s eyes a significant look. His guess is right: the Archivist is still early enough in his becoming to be susceptible to judgment, and he takes the cup. It’s from Martin’s second favorite set, with little purple pansies around the rim. The saucers have real flowers preserved on their tops with resin.
He takes a seat on the squashy sofa opposite the Archivist and pushes the milk and sugar on the coffee table toward him in a silent offer. He takes advantage of the long moment where the Archivist’s attention is occupied by debating whether or not to accept the additives to examine the man unnoticed. He’s fine-boned, under the scars and sweat, like a bird. Small and uncared for, with the air of a fussy academic. Like if Martin pulled him into his arms to stop the constant trembling he’d fit perfectly against his chest.
Damn Jude.
“So, what brings you to my door, Archivist?” he asks when the other finally timidly selects a single sugar cube to drop into his cup.
“I- er- how did you?”
Martin smiles. “You really are new at this, aren’t you? I thought your lot were supposed to be all about knowledge.”
“My…?”
He snorts. “You, your Elias, Gertrude, may she rot in hell. No idea why the Eye bothers recruiting the way it does, seems like a pain compared to waiting for people who want to join to realize how. But it’s impatient. They all are.”
“And… your lot. Aren’t?” Martin raises an eyebrow at the fascinated, cautiously eager expression on the Archivist’s face, flattering as it is to have the man’s attention fixed on him so wholly . That’s getting dangerously close to a compulsion. Surely Elias at least made sure he had that under control before siccing his Archivist on the rest of them?
“Why would we want someone who hasn’t realized the majesty of the Vast for themselves?” His lips quirk with the memory of his own first brush with his patron.
“And how did you ‘realize?’”
The Archivist startles at the way Martin’s expression drops into severity. He keeps his tone light, though he can feel the compulsion taking hold. “Did you notice my windows? They’re quite lovely. ” They’re the best feature of the flat, big slices of sky- starry, at the moment- brought into the room. The Archivist’s gaze follows as he points to the nearest one, and that’s all it takes. The man’s eyes go wide as Martin shoves him into a scene like the one that had led to his own revelation.
“It’s rude to ask without permission,” Martin scolds, though he doubts the Archivist can hear him. He’s clawing at his throat, tea spilling across the floor (luckily the carpet kept the cup from breaking, he really does like this set), unaware of the room his body still technically sits in, the air still inflating his lungs. The recorder’s still going, though, so Martin’s words won’t be lost entirely.
-
My mum was always sick, through my whole childhood. Dad left when I was 8, so it was up to me to take care of her. I spent my whole childhood cooking for her, keeping things tidy, making sure she was comfortable and had taken her medicine. I went to school, but I didn’t really have any friends, and the teachers mostly ignored me. The minutia of caring for a single woman made up my entire world.
As time went on, Mum worked less and less, and our savings started to run out. I’d been responsible for the finances since I was fourteen, so I was the first to realize we wouldn’t have enough to live on anymore, when I was about sixteen. I dropped out of school and got two jobs, and it was almost enough. For a little while.
I spent most of the time I wasn’t at work or caring for Mum applying for higher paying jobs; I started to lie on my CV, just in case I could get somewhere to hire me without looking too close. By the time I got a third job at minimum wage, most of the groceries went on credit cards I knew I couldn’t pay off, and Mum was still getting sicker. Never sick enough to die and let me live my own life, though.
Sorry, that sounds dreadful. I didn’t feel that way at the time. Perspective, y’know?
When I was seventeen, I remember sitting at our kitchen table, looking at the bills. Mum was in her room with the telly on, and I could just barely hear it. Even if I ignored the credit cards entirely, we still didn’t have enough money, and I was exhausted, couldn’t fit another thing into my day, no matter how much I wanted to. I had all the debts and expenses added up on a sheet of notebook paper, and the number felt enormous.
The program in the other room was about the universe. How we don’t know how big it is, and we never can, because it’s constantly, infinitely expanding. And I looked down at the bills and the bank statements, and I knew that would never stop expanding either. I felt so hopeless in that moment; I’d done everything I could, but I still couldn’t take care of Mum. I started to cry, just a bit. Mum was never an especially comforting woman, but I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted her to pat me on the back and say it would all work out, or pull out some magic solution she’d had the entire time, if only I’d explained the problem.
She snapped at me when I went into her room, even though she wasn’t napping or even really watching the program. Mad at me interrupting. At being reminded I existed, even though I did everything for her.
There was a spinning graphic of the universe of the screen, and as I stood there with my mouth open trying to figure out what to say to Mum, I imagined it expanding off the screen into the room, consuming my life and all its problems in its enormity. Mum was getting worked up, so I stepped over to put my hand on her shoulder to try to coax her back into the pillows.
I used to fancy myself a poet, but I don’t think I could ever find the words to describe what happened next. Saying that my little figment manifested, and the telescope images jumped off the screen to devour the room, leaving Mum and I adrift in space, is technically accurate, but doesn’t really encompass the way all the air rushed out, how the colors of the room seemed to bleed and blur into new surroundings. The euphoria of something beyond understanding.
Mum screamed, and then she started screaming at me. I’d always told myself, all through my childhood, that she was only sharp because she was in pain and suffering, in a way I couldn’t understand because I had always been healthy. But there, well. Obviously I was under just as much stress as her, adrift in the cosmos with no idea how we got there or how we were still alive, still breathing, the only things separating us from total void the single point of contact of my hand on her shoulder. And it wasn’t as though I’d done anything! I don’t know why the Vast chose that moment to reach out and touch me, but it wasn’t anything I asked for, not consciously at least. Nothing she should have been able to blame me for.
Looking out at the nebula we drifted in- it was beautiful. Beautiful, and unfathomably infinite in that beauty. I knew I was only seeing a tiny fraction of what was out there, and it was still so much I could barely comprehend what lay before me. It seemed silly, that mere minutes before I had thought my bills and debts were equally infinite. They were insignificant- I was insignificant- in the face of such endless beauty. And I always had been.
All the tasks that had filled my days, the jobs and Mum, had always seemed like they were all consuming, but I realized that they weren’t. I’d let the life of one woman consume me, made it into a mockery of the true infinity I recognized only now. I wanted to abandon it, devote myself to the truth, but then the thought of the bills and the doctors and work came crashing back. It may have been insignificant, but it held me in place all the same. My chest felt tight for a moment as I thought of how inescapable it all seemed.
But none of it was there. There were no pills or nurses or bosses in that endless slice of universe. There was nothing of my old life- except Mum.
The choice felt obvious. I had a bit of panic and guilt, when I finally returned home- how could I not, without the one thing I’d spent my entire life focused on? But the thrill of the Vast soothed that away quickly enough. I don’t regret it now. It was the best decision I ever made.
All it took was that hand on her shoulder. A push, and the tirade that had continued in the background of my epiphany was cut off. “In space, no one can hear you scream.” And after a moment I couldn’t see her, either. The one thing that had consumed my entire life was gone, and I was alone in my god ’s embrace.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. I think eventually I stopped breathing, either the instinct or whatever store of oxygen had accompanied us evaporating in the face of eternity.
It felt like a long time, but when I was finally transported back to our house, to Mum’s room, the same program was still running. It looked exactly as I’d left it, only the bed was empty. I sat on the edge of it and watched the rest of the documentary, though the images and projections seemed paltry compared to what I’d experienced.
Just as it ended, there was a knock on the door. I’d started to worry in the meantime, about how I was going to explain Mum vanishing, about what I’d done, and for a moment I was certain it was the police. That they’d somehow found out what I’d done and come to arrest me.
It wasn’t, of course. It was Simon. I’ve no idea how, but the old man seems to know the instant someone accepts our patron anywhere in the northern hemisphere. I let him bowl me over, stunned by the aftermath of my experience and his general manner. He saw the bills on the table and scoffed. “No need to worry about that, my boy! You’re part of the family, now!” Turns out, there was a magic solution to my problems, but Mum didn’t have it. She was just what I needed to give up.
-
The Archivist’s eyes are wide and teary when Martin focuses back on him, arms held around his chest, bringing a pitiful mockery of the Choke into Martin’s vista. Ah, well. It wasn’t as though he’d expected the Archivist to appreciate it properly anyway.
The man falls off his chair when Martin pulls him back, and the realization that there’s air in his lungs manifests in a series of gasping whimpers he doesn’t seem to realize he’s making. Martin stares at him, crumpled there on the floor, for a long moment before sighing and setting his tea on the table. The Archivist really is quite handsome, even with the scars. And he’s so pitiful it tugs on the parts of Martin’s heart he rarely indulges anymore.
He crouches down, and the Archivist clings as he gathers him into his arms. “There, we are, Archivist ,” he murmurs, “I’m sure you’ve learnt your lesson. Wasn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”