When the chaos clears from the brothers’ deaths, The Archivist feels it down into their core. Their assistants scurry into the shadows, trying to fix the books that fell off the shelf. Chalk finally crawls out from under the desk, wobbly and clinging desperately to the record keeper’s robe and trying to figure out what happened. Dust crawls out a moment later, hand tight over their mouth to keep from inhaling the disrupted dust of the library.
The Archivist puts a large hand on each of their heads, applying a gentle pressure to tell them not to go upstairs, yet. The upper floors may still be in chaos, even if the bursts of quakes have finally settled. A third hand reaches out, pointing to the knocked over chess table, a deep, rumbling trill echoing in the space around them.
It’s an effort to put the pieces back the way they were; but, an effort that sufficiently keeps them busy and distracted by what The Archivist scribbles into the long record of summoned Ghouls and humans and slowly—oh so slowly, forcing their hand to steady for the first time in centuries on centuries—strikes a line through the names of the newly deceased, from the bottom to the top.
Omega. Air. Water. Alpha. Cowbell. Special. Emeritus III.
Their hand pauses on the last name. The walls around them rumble and the youngest assistants immediately drop down to crouching under the chess table, even as it, too, trembles in reaction to the short burst of tremors. It’s only the safety of the pair that lets The Archivist pull a deep breath—one that echoes in the catacombs like a burst of wind and sends the loose papers scattering. Shrieking wails from the older Ghouls echo from further into the catacombs.
“Archivist? What was that—what’s wrong, what happened?”
Neither of them know. They will in time; but for now, The Archivist simply puts a hand on each of their heads again—a comfort for the pair and themself, as they finally strike through the last name.
Emeritus I.
They can’t keep the pair in the archives forever; they do eventually wander upstairs—Chalk desperately using the excuse of delivering a note to Emeritus I to escape and Dust finally succumbing to their allergies, unable to see through the swelling and tears and relentless sneezing.
The Archivist takes that stretch of time alone to close their log book, for the first time since the crusades… and slowly—oh so slowly—reaches up to gently snuff out each candle, allowing them to return to the darkness to mourn in peace, just as they did all those centuries ago.
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