absolutely nothing ever happens to the Archivist again. that is to say, everything that will and has ever happened to the Archivist ceases, if just for a moment. he discovers in that moment, that sensations tend to linger. there’s something innate in the un-death grip on the back of his head, pushing gently into the flesh of a shoulder, a trapezius tense as he leans. there is a love here, deep and ugly, that is never spoken. a dagger plunges into the Archivist's esophagus. it hardly surprises him - the knife pinches and twists what had once been considered flesh and blood, lips are soft on the left of his temple and tears warmed by the heat of another drip onto the opening wound in the back of his neck. the salt stings.
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