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There really was no end, was there?
Jon sits there, staring at the tape recorder, seemingly mezmorized.
He had just finished recording a statement, and he should probably start recording another, shouldn't he?
But he just sat there…
Thinking.
The death of Gertrude Robinson, what took over Sasha, what the unknowing was…
What was the one thing weaving this all together, the answer?
He needed to know.
He couldn't have another death, another new thread-
Another mystery.
No more mysteries.
But he couldn't record another statement right now.
Sure, he had the drive, but he didn't have the energy, he knew that.
But still, just one more…
How bad could it possibly be for him?
Who even cares at this point?
And so, he grabs a file, and clicks the start button on the tape recorder that was miraculously on his desk.
“Statement of Gavin Crumble, regarding his experience at Slyde Park. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims-”
The archivist.
He immediately stands, perking up, out of whatever trance the statements put on him.
“Who was that?”
If there was ever a good time for him to be able to snatch the answers right out of someone's throat, it would be now.
I am the angel of knowledge.
Great!
This is what he needed, right?
“Where are you?”
I am everywhere. I am nowhere. I am the eyes that watch you when you don't see anyone around, but you could feel a distinct presence other then your own. I am that knowledge that you so desperately want, but is just out of your reach if you quit. I am the whispers in your head, telling you more, more, it couldn't hurt, right?
He feels an arm grab his wrist, and drag him…
Wait.
He recognized these corridors, these directions.
They were taking him to the tunnels.
“Why are you taking me down there?”
I will show you it all.
…
“I see.”
That was all he could manage to whisper, as he went through the candlelit halls of damp, gray stone.
Somehow, they were able to navigate it so easily.
Do you feel it?
He feels a breeze brush over him, as he-
He felt it.
He feels a rush of knowledge wash over him like a tidal wave crushing the sand, a body being brutally scratched and scratched until there was blood, pouring out of it, like a shovel, stabbing into the ground to start digging the grave of the fallen, like a bug, flying at full speed into the spider's web.
“Yes..”
He reaches a tower, and the Angel sits him down in a chair.
He looks behind him, and he sees a body..
“Where are his eyes?”
He looks forward, finally getting a good look at his muse.
…
The archivist smiles.
Right where they've always been, archivist. Watching over my institute.
A wave of calm washes over him, like gentle water on the shore of endless sediment that make up the unfathomable large sand in the beach of the mind.
This was it now.
This was where he was meant to be.
Angel of knowledge, do you see it? The distant memories, the fragments of the past that make up that big picture, that ever-growing tapestry?
A grin spreads onto his face, at least the part that the archivist could see.
Good. Keep going.
He finally opens his eyes, but not like he always did.
Not in the weak, naive way that humanity saw the world, but in a different way..
A better way.
Let the music of the night guide you.
He could finally see it all.
He could see the wolf-like being chasing the old man in the woods, a women of pure fire, a man almost suffocating in a field of fog and sand, someone falling through the endless sky…
And he drank it all in.
I see it.
He takes a shaky breath.
I see it all.
The Angel stood right behind him, lurking above him.
Are you scared, Jon?
Yes.
Perfect.