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The Archivist lies in wait.
It lies in wait, by the festering gaping hole from whence it came. It waits for another that may join it.
It does not know much about this new world, into which it was flung, bloody and screaming as an infant. Rebirth.
It does Know, for it chooses not to Look. Its eyes, more numerous than the foreign stars that wink intermittently above its twisted form, are all trained on that impossible fracture in the ground. They have been since its arrival.
It does not know how long it has waited. It has not bothered to count. It could have been days or aeons. Life could have bloomed from inert nothing, divided, grown, become vibrant and diverse, died and gone to dust in the time since it has begun waiting. It does not know, for it does not care. The heat death of the universe could pass and it would not notice, its dark and sprawling body indistinguishable from the abyss surrounding it.
The Weaver may have followed it here. She may have not. It does not bother to check. It matters not.
For the Archivist is waiting, still. Its multitudinous eyes remain fixed on the same spot in the earth, coiling its body around it, protective. Loving, even.
If it chose to look, it would have seen a world unsettled by the sudden and inexplicable arrival of Fear, scrambling to adjust itself to its new state of being, but it does not look, therefore it does not see. This messy terror might have been some sort of pleasant sustenance for the Archivist, but it does not care. For it is Watching. It is Waiting.
After what may be seconds or centuries, a hand appears. It grasps blindly, searching for purchase at the mouth of the gap in the foundations of reality. It is pale, and dirt-streaked, and the very air shimmers with unspoken paradoxes around it. The Archivist startles, its gaze growing in intensity. The hand finally grips the earth around it, and a second emerges, followed by a body. He is equally caked in grime as that first hand, and a brownish stain down the front of his shirt may be congealed blood. It may not. He rolls onto his back and pants, belly heaving with the force of his breaths as he takes in the sight of the strange stars above him. He barely has a moment of respite before they wink out and he is set upon by the Archivist. Its nonsensical form surrounds him, pressing and fretting and pawing erratically. He gasps in shock, trying to push himself into an upright position before being pushed back by the clicking mass of Being. It makes what it hopes are soothing noises and lays what might be its head across his chest, clustering eyes still focussed on his face. He gasps in realisation, reaching out a shaking hand.
It is you, he says, tears springing to his eyes. Yes, it agrees, clasping his hand. It is me, and we are together.
It waits no longer.