212. The Arbiter and the Archivist at the Crossroads

212. The Arbiter and the Archivist at the Crossroads

The Arbiter was undoubtably an Angel. Her tails were plentiful unlike Jury’s and her skin was as white as snow. The Archivist wondered if there were different types of Angels, but she kept this thought to herself as she approached the patient Arbiter, never knowing where to place her eyes.

An aura of excellence encased the fabled Archetype of Judgement. The aura was not a superficial, psychological phenomenon. It was physical, and the Archivist struggled to move through layer after layer. It felt like she was moving in a thick, vicious liquid the closer she approached until suddenly – it all faded away, and she fell forward. The weight of her giant book dragged her as braced for impact. But to her surprise –

She never touched the asphalt.

“Ngh? A-ah Thank you.” She uttered, her face an inch away from the ground as a tail suddenly found itself wrapped around her waist.

The Arbiter’s tail had extended in the blink of an eye. Her movements were inconceivable, and impossible to detect. It was as though it had teleported around her. Like a crane, the Archivist was slowly pulled along until she hovered just inches away from the calculating face of the nonchalant Arbiter.

“Ever clumsy after all this time. Centuries come and go for you. It must all feel like an instant.” She spoke.

“... Sometimes it feels like it’s all a dream.”

“If it were all a dream then I fear the nightmare we’ll awaken to. This third life is enough. Oh Archivist, are you afraid?” The Arbiter asked, breathing heavily as if sniffing her anxiousness.

“S-Sorry... T-This is the second time we’ve spoken... and I’ve never tried to speak to you again after you called me to your Floor. S-So...” The Archivist trailed off, still held like a carrot on a stick. Suddenly, the Arbiter reached out for her and, much to her surprise, clumsily fiddled with the timid girl’s hair.

It was as if she were blind.

“How can I, the Arbiter, turn my heart away from a friend. Neither of us remember it well, but I recognize that voice of yours.” She spoke softly, her voice like velvet as she slowly shut her eyes and continued. “A shame that I cannot confirm it with my eyes. It’s been... troubling judging our Beholder friends without my sight. Perhaps if you had spoken to me more, you would have known that you cannot ‘show’ me the happening beneath us through your book.”

Hidden behind the giant red book was a much smaller black one, shaped like a novella. This belonged to the Librarians and would allow her to spy on them through reading its ever updating contents.

“I-I’m –”

“Apologize when you are wrong. Much of the blame falls onto me for my limited approach. My wings can only take me so far. My sight can see less of the things you can see. I am envious of our honored friend.” She somehow managed to glance perfectly at Frost’s book in the girl’s arms. “Now more than ever since they carry my rightful sight.” She admitted to her blindness, although her ability to navigate the world was unhampered. “These Corrupted are imperative to our Awakening. It molds us into a more refined shape. Completes the incomplete us.”

“... I don’t know if I’ll gain anything by archiving those Corrupted in here.” The Archivist uttered as she was slowly placed onto another tail to sit on. They both stared off into the blue harbor. Not a single wave, wind or moon disturbed its motionless surface as it reflected nothing but the empty city and the silent sky.

It was all so frighteningly nostalgic.Geett the latest novels at novelhall.com

“Aside from memories, there is strength. You live on in perpetuity, never aging, so strength may not be a want of your heart.” Suddenly, one dozen wings flung out wide behind the Arbiter again, reaching various parts of the city. “The Icon of Judgement provides me wings, but I do not fly. There is an interesting Beholder who asked me ‘why do birds fly?’, and why I do not. Do you know why birds like me refuse to fly?”

“You’ve known I was here all this time? How terrifying.” Nav uttered, almost spiting her.

“Your voice is as monotone as I recall. Hello, nameless voice. I am assuming you can communicate directly with out honored friend?”

“I do not recognize you. But you are correct. I believe you had something you wished to discuss with Frost. Your Mark of Judgement has led to much unneeded tragedy.”

“I understand. Even I am susceptible to justice. Compensation will be difficult, but I have plans in mind. Oh voice, I’d like to have our first meeting remain special, so I’d like to ask that you keep our interaction a secret.” She kindly asked.

“I will guarantee nothing.”

The Archivist only smiled.

“That is enough for me. As for you, Archivist. There is a choice that needs to be made. Difficult as it is, I look at you with objective lenses and see that if a step is not taken, then perhaps that diary of his warning will become a prophecy after all. Clinging to this finite tale, rather than aspiring for an everlasting book... I personally despise that all can be condensed into words, strings, gears... The will and the spirit is never valued as a result.”

She created a golden apple from a condensed pile of feathers, placing it into the palm of the Archivist as she exchanged it for the feather stuck to her nose. The apple itself was incomplete. There was no flesh underneath. It was no more than the skin bloated with air.

“We change. Books do not. They should not, but they still do. The philosophy of us lacking the will to pave our own tale is baffling. But there is reality to all of this, unfortunately... Oh Archivist – I will bare witness to your first step upon these crossroads. 300 years too late, but for you, I consider it a miracle that you called out for me.”

“Frost... I just couldn’t stand to be hated.” The girl refused to take a bite from the apple, causing the Arbiter to reclaim it, reducing it to tiny, pale particles. They scattered like embers, and she fondly watched them rise to the black skies.

“A simple reason. It’s always been a struggle to wrap my mind around it. Through my limited memory I always did find it strange how someone who fell in love with language became so close with someone who turned out to be the most violent... The price of paradise. Both here and far. To what length will people go to reclaim a fragment of what was lost.” She reached out for the book, suddenly hesitating an inch away. “Steel your heart. Temper your soul. Ruffle the feathers of your spirit. Face the ever-changing future.”

She instead held out a hand, offering to guide the Archivist towards the heavyhearted path at her crossroads. There was too much to think about. It all spiraled in the back of her head. What mattered the most to her was preserving her most precious book, which she foresaw to outlast everything. This book meant everything to her, but so did Frost herself.

She took a step forward on her own rather than taking the Arbiter’s hand, and she tripped, dropping the tiny novella but still managing to cling onto the giant red book. Her knuckles were scratched and they bled as she walked towards the Arbiter, who picked up the book and kindly handed it over to her.

Their hands touched, and a pale light suddenly enveloped the Archivist. Before she knew it, her wounds had disappeared.

“Now then, shall we interpret this book? Please do recite it for me. I cannot see very well. Voice. You know what you must do.”

“There is much to relay. With this, I’m certain Frost will forgive you. Have courage, Archivist.”

The book opened, and they were quickly introduced to the Expositionist and his female companion once again. This time – with the Syndicate Frost and her group were poised to meet.

And in his hand was a golden seed.