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The Archivist doesn’t know when he started dancing.
Interior. Ballroom. The walls are tall and opulent, decorated head-to-toe with ostentatious jewels and gold moulding. Scattered on the walls are portraits of faces, some familiar, others less so, but in all of them, a recognition that the Archivist feels but could never understand how to show. Above, a chandelier of glass and diamond hangs, and the floors are ornate marble and intricately designed with pictures. They seem to tell a story, but the Archivist cannot seem to find the point at which it ends.
In the corner of the room, there is an old record player, so old, in fact, that the Archivist swears it must be from the late 1800s. From it, an all-too-pleasant tune pierces through the crackling static of the phonograph. The Archivist grew up listening to classical music, and his grandmother had always been fond of Chopin. Thus, the waltz that plays through the speakers is a familiar one to the Archivist. Its chipper tune does not bring him any joy, however, as he sways, hand-in-hand, and eye for an eye, with he who watches him all of the time.
“You’re a wonderful dancer.”
The words are spoken by the man with his right hand grasping his own, fingers intertwined and held high as they dance. Somehow, the Archivist knows the steps to the Watcher’s dance, and he finds himself moving along almost-effortlessly, so long as he allows the Watcher’s hand to guide him.
“I never learned how to dance.”
“Nonsense, Archivist. You’ve been learning from the start.”
The Watcher releases his left hand and spins the Archivist. As he whirls out and as his free hand reaches through the air, his glowing eyes lock with those of a portrait. She too danced here, once. He wonders how well she knew the steps.
“How long have we been dancing?” The Archivist asks, freezing in his position at arm’s length from the Watcher. “Tell me the truth.”
“Longer than you know.”
The flow of the dance is soured, and the Watcher scowls, giving the Archivist’s arm a firm tug to coax him back into the rhythm of the waltz. Curling himself back in, as he’s done more times than he can count, the Archivist finds himself wrapped in the Watcher’s arms, swaying back and forth to the time. One two three. Two two three.
The Watcher takes his left hand again and they continue as the music shifts, twirling in circles, stepping across the marble like they’ve done it their entire lives. Have they? the Archivist wonders. As long as he can remember, he’s been dancing. He just doesn’t know how long he can remember.
“I hate this,” the Archivist confesses, feeling the slight weight of the Watcher’s arm just below his shoulders.
“Quite unfortunate. After all, you’re doing brilliant.”
“No, I––” The Archivist stumbles over his feet, loosing his right hand from the Watcher’s to try and keep his balance. He swears that if he falls, he will fall millions of miles. Vertigo hits him and he collapses, knocking the wind right out of him only for a moment. “I don’t mean the dance. I hate not knowing. I hate that you won’t tell me anything.”
“Oh, Archivist. You’ll know in time. Don’t you understand by now that to know, you have to learn?” The Watcher grabs his hand again, yanks him off the ground, and the dance resumes, up tempo now. His left slides down to the Archivist’s waist and pulls him closer. “Watch… and learn.”
The Archivist feels the Watcher’s body against his as he guides his motions, reminding him the steps to the dance. The touch sickens the Archivist, and the hand the Watcher had grabbed seems to burn where it had been burned before, but he cannot pull away. Then, it fades.
The Archivist is no stranger to fear, and he feels it now. Maybe now is actually always. He does not know. All he knows is that he is afraid, and yet he cannot stop dancing.
“Why do I know the dance?” The Archivist demands as the Watcher dips him, turning his head to the side and letting his long hair loll over his shoulder. “Is it all a part of this?”
“Sure, in a way. But it’s not that simple, of course.” The Watcher leans over the Archivist, who refuses to return his gaze. He refuses, that is, until his own vision starts to fade. In a panic, the Archivist tightens his hold on the Watcher’s hand and back, reluctantly turning his head back towards him, allowing his sight to return. The Watcher greets him with a smirk and lifts him out of the dip, spinning him out again.
“I never asked for this.”
“Is that so?” The Watcher chuckles, letting go of the Archivist’s hand so he continues to spin, stumbling out onto the dance floor alone. The Archivist looks around him, and for a moment, he cannot find the Watcher. Even the portraits on the walls lose their faces and he knows he is utterly alone. The waltz continues in the background, but he is frozen, unable to dance without his partner.
“Elias!” The Archivist calls, but who is Elias anyway? “W- Where are you?”
“You say you never asked for this, but here you are begging for it.”
The Archivist can see him now, across the floor. They stand still, eyes on each other, and the Watcher beckons him towards him with a finger.
“I do not want this!” The Archivist calls, and his voice echoes through the grand hall. As it does, there is a creaking noise, and the sound of rattling glass. The room is shaking.
“That has never mattered, Archivist. You need this.”
A snap. The chandelier falls, and the Archivist knows it will crush him if he doesn’t run, so he does— directly into the Watcher’s waiting arms. They are dancing again, as if it never happened. He does not know how long they have been dancing.
“Why?” The Archivist cannot wrap his head around any of it. There is some kind of blood now, filling his ears. He cannot hear anything but the rush of it, telling him he must know. He must hunt for knowledge. He must watch. He must feed. He must dance. “Why can’t I just stop dancing?”
As the rush of blood dissipates, the music returns under the Watcher’s voice. “You need the dance just as much as it needs you. You see that now, don't you, Archivist?”
He feels the Watcher’s hand on his waist again, holding him firmly in place, assuring that he moves with the accuracy needed for an aesthetically pleasing waltz. The Archivist isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to believe he needs any of this. Not really. He still wants to believe this is just a nightmare— that it can end.
“What if I kill you?”
The Watcher laughs. “You could never.”
“I know that I could.”
Like something overtook him, the Archivist breaks from the dance and pulls a knife out of nowhere, plunging it towards the Watcher’s heart. The Watcher only laughs, the sound filling the room, and the Archivist realizes the knife is as fake as it all is, and also just as real. “You can’t kill me, Archivist. You need me.”
Suddenly, dozens of cockroaches are swarming at the Archivist’s feet. He steps on them, one after another, but they keep coming back. His breath and heart rate quicken, but the Watcher bounds over to him again and that tender, swaying dance continues. The Watcher leads. The Archivist follows. As they dance, the insects die and disappear under their feet.
Sensing the Archivist’s fear, the Watcher releases the leading hand, and strokes the many small, round scars that dot the Archivist’s face. With the other, still wrapped around the Archivist’s lower back, he prods at a tender wound in his ribcage the Archivist doesn’t even know if he really has. “You’re already marked, don’t you see? There’s no escaping this, even if you did want to.”
The Archivist feels, with painful clarity, the places where his flesh came away with the worms. Where his ribs no longer were. He feels pain and injuries he had never even experienced. Or had he? It doesn’t seem to matter. He’s just a pile of meat and bones, dancing and dancing away.
“I do want to."
“No you don’t, darling.”
The Watcher keeps guiding him, impeccably as ever, moving in time together like they’re made to. They are made to. Somehow, the Archivist knows that, if nothing else. He despises it.
“What are you going to do if I try to escape?” The Archivist laughs. “Kill me? You need me more than I need you.”
“Oh, but that’s just it.” The Watcher dips him again, looking into those eyes and giving him a cruel smile. “We need each other. No more or less about it."
There is a sense of dread within the Archivist now, as they sway and spin to the upbeat waltz. It has been there for a long time, but now it fills him and seeps to the forefront. “What are we doing here, Elias? Why must we dance like this? Will more people die because we do?”
“That doesn’t matter, Archivist. People will die no matter what we do. All you need think about is your steps.”
One two three. Two two three.
“Will everybody die?” The Archivist feels he knows the answer. “Will the world end because of us?”
“Even I cannot predict the future, little Archivist. But I can tell you, it is possible that one of us, if not the world, will have to end to serve our purpose.”
“I don’t want to die.” The Archivist says, squeezing the Watcher’s hand as they move— ceaselessly, yet towards some inevitable end.
“That,” The Watcher replies, twirling the Archivist out again into the unknown, “is why we dance.”