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Beep, beep, bleep.
The room was silent. Only the sterile, dull sound of the machine's beeps broke up the thick air. It did little to bring anything into the white hospital room.
If one listened closely, you would be able to hear short raspy breaths. Each one was barely audible, but there was still a strain behind each one. Very little left to fight for, yet still clinging on.
Admirable.
For the time being at the very least.
The Archivist, laying on the bed. His time was up, that was surely the reason. After all, why else have we placed ourselves in this very room?
"It'll be alright. You can let it out." Soothing, his voice was gentle, directed to the little sheep laid bundled up on top of the blankets. The only response was the shuffling of fabric and hooves as the creature tried to burrow itself closer to him.
Wincing a bit, he brought his hand up and entangled his fingers in the little sheep's wool.
"I'll miss you," the little sheep let out a small sad bleat.
"I know."
"I'll really, really miss you."
As little pinpricks of tears started to well up, the little sheep dived up into the Archivist's lap and hid its head in the folds of his shirt.
The silence fell down once again. To him, it was comfortable, a time of peace where the both of them could breathe and be in each other's presence.
To the little sheep, it was agonising, a refusal of an answer and a betrayal in the heart. What the heart felt, the brain understood it was not the truth.
"This story is coming to a close," the Archivist spoke again, "There may be a chance I will see you soon."
The words did little to soothe the little sheep.
"I want it to stay like this," it cried, "There wasn't enough time."
There was nothing he could say to that. Only time would be able to heal the stubborn little sheep. Hiccups and little cries in the form of small bleats bounced around the room.
Then for a while, it dropped back to silence once more. To the Archivist, it was comfortable. A start to accepting the inevitable and the road that would have to be taken.
To the little electric sheep, it was like the world was crashing down.
"Thank you for existing."
"No," the Archivist rebutted, "Thank you for filling my dreams with joy."
Vision blurring, he closed his eyes. With the ghost of a smile, he laid back on the bed. The pain was subsiding.
He opened his eyes once again. The little sheep was gone. His chapter was coming to a close.
The memories would be forever saved, but now Fulgur Ovid was no more.