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The Archivist spends his days searching for the broken pieces of other people's lives. He haunts the fields and forest like a ghost; he picks through the trash and wonders through those hidden alleys in every city and village he comes to. He makes his most important discoveries in the shed husk of cicadas and in stones polished smooth by the river; in frayed of pieces of string and chipped porcelain cups. When he finds those pieces , he wraps them carefully in silk and takes them home with him.
On the days when the weather keeps him indoors he goes to his library and examines each of the new additions to his archives. There is no judgement in his examination only an earnest desire to understand. The rabbit's foot he pulled from a dumpster thumps impatiently in his palms and the antique scale he bought at a thrift shop quivers indignantly every time he touches it. There is a girl’s clover hair pin that shies away from his fingers. A cracked pair of glasses, a few birds feather, and two cracked egg shells rest quietly on the table and wait for him to begin.
The Archivist forgives the scale when it tries to burn his fingers and rubs at the bruises the rabbit’s foot left on his palm. He hums softly to the hairpin until it’s trembling calms. When he has gotten each of the pieces to settle he begins the delicate task of repairing and cleaning them.
His fingers are deft and gentle. He has done this process a thousand times and knows exactly what he must do to heal and preserve the treasures waiting on his table. He polishes the scales until they shine and washes the dirt from the discarded rabbit's foot. He finds a new lense for the broken glasses and smooths the bird feathers straight. He does his best to glue the cracked egg shells back into place.
Once all the rough edges are mended and his treasures are polished to a shine he holds them to his ear and listens to them speak. With his right hand he carefully transcribes their stories onto thick pieces of vellum.
He does this for every piece he finds no matter how grotesque and broken it is. Even if the piece is beyond his power to repair he will still take the time to write down any tale it wishes to tell him. When he is done listening and the treasures lay quietly on the table he binds the pages into a book and places them in his library.
One day the Archivist stays out too late searching for items to add to his collection and is forced to make his way home in the dark. As he walks back to his castle he sees a flashing light out of the corner of his eye. It is coming from the moon. He stops and squints and as the light approaches he is able to make out the shapes in the bright light. It is a carriage being driven by a team of six white horses.
The carriage lands in front of the Archivist. The doors swing open and a purple-haired man steps out. The man bows before the archivist and raises his hand in invitation.
“Who are you?” asks the Archivist.
“I am the Prince of the Moon.”
“Why have you come to see me?”
The Prince leans closer and inhales deeply. “You fascinate me.”
The Archivist leans back and blushes. He lowers his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“I have watched you from my palace for a long time. What do you think you will find in all those lives you collect? What are you searching for?”
The Archivist pauses and clasps his hands together. “I am looking for myself,” he answers nervously.
“Allow me to help you,” says the Prince. Barely stopping to think, the Archivist takes the man’s hand and steps into the carriage.
They arrive at the Prince’s palace. “Welcome to my home,” the Prince says as he helps the Archivist out of the carriage. The Palace is soft and airy; a place made from daydreams and starlight.
The Prince rings a small silver bell and a small army of servants appear to help them out of the carriage. “Go with them and we will speak more once you have rested.”
The Archivist is guided down hallways of diamond and silver. He passes vases filled with wild moon roses that drip pearls from their petals. He sees the Prince’s pets, odd creatures made of satin and lace. He floats through a world of blue and bliss. He feels as if he is floating through a world of hedonism and pleasure.
The Archivist is taken to a bathhouse where he is bathed in fragrant water and dressed in fine, silk robes. One servant presses a goblet of strong dark wine into his hands and he drinks. He is taken back to the rooms the Prince has prepared for him where he e curls into a bed made of mist and dandelion fluff and falls asleep.
When he wakes he is naked and tied to a long table. There are people sitting around him wielding knives and forks, their gleaming plates ready for a meal. Some are wearing masks and some are wearing white coats; the court jesters cackle as the tumble down the length of the table. The Archivist hears the tinkle of that delicate silver bell and cranes his head to look up at. The Prince sits at the head of the table smiling smugly at the helpless Archivist.
A masked man carrying a cleaver stomps into the hall. The Archivist wails in fear while the Prince’s guests cheer in anticipation. The Chef lifts his mask and throws the Archivist a terrible grin. Then the Chef covers his face and leans over the Archivist. With one easy motion he cuts open the muscle and flesh of the Archivist’s chest. The Chef reaches down to trace his exposed sternum then roughly pulls the bones of his rib cage apart. The Chef reaches past the split and cracked bone so he can pull out the Archivist’s stomach. He places it on a plate and serves it to his guests. The liver, kidneys, intestines, are all removed and served next. His heart is the last piece to be taken.
All the while the Archivists lies there listening to the clink of silverware against porcelain, the satisfied belches of the diners, and the wet sound of his own meat being eaten. When the feast is over the Chef clears him from the table and hands his empty carcass back to the servants.
The Archivist passes out and when he wakes he is tucked back into his bed dressed in those fine silk robes and his skin smelling like perfumed bath water. He runs a hand over his chest and he can feel his heart beating beneath the unblemished skin.
The Archivist realizes that he is a prisoner here. Every evening he is given a glass of that strong, dark wine. If he refuses to drink it the servants force it down his throat. Then he wakes up bound to the dinner table for the feast.
One day the Chef cuts him open and frowns. The Archivists organs are rotted and black. Maggots suck at his insides and putrid black goo pools in his chest cavity. The Chef sighs and motions for the others to come closer. They all hover around him making noises of revulsion and disgust.
“Well this simply isn’t fit to eat,” the Prince announces and then turns to apologize to his guests for the ruined meal.
The Archivist sleeps again. He dreams of his library and his castle. He dreams of open fields and the frightened little hairpin. He thinks about a wise old fox and a little cat he used to own. More often than not he dreams of the puppet Queen who sleeps in his throne room and refuses to speak to him.
When he wakes up this time he is in the field where he first met the Prince. There is a dark storm cloud on the horizon. The lightning is flashing in the distance and the ground is already reverberating with the fierce thunder echoing across the sky.
He stumbles to his feet awkwardly and runs back towards the castle hoping that he can get there before the storm reaches him.