The fog roils. The Archivist feels it whip and tear at him and tastes the salt on his tongue, but it cannot truly reach him. He does not belong to it, is not for it. He merely observes, catalogues, notes the fog's fury as he might note the time. It is there. He sees it.

But he no longer sees Martin. Somewhere, that is horrible. Somewhere, it needs to be rectified immediately.

The Archivist agrees. He is here to watch the dreamer, and he will not be denied his purpose by the arrogant machinations of the environment. He will have what he is owed. Even the dreamer understands. Even he calls out against this unjust separation.

The Archivist forgets the rest of his body and Looks. He Looks with eyes that are unbothered by inconsequential factors like wind or damp. They wheel around him in a frenzied orbit, piercing through the chaos of this manufactured storm until they find what he is looking for: the dreamer, Martin, struggling against the force of the gale. The Archivist Sees him, and the Archivist has him, remembering his hands to grip Martin's shoulders, remembering his arms to pull him in, remembering a body tall enough to hunch over and shield him from the storm, reconstituting himself into a rock, an anchor, a harbor.

This is not what the Archivist does.

John blinks, and draws in a shuddering breath, his chest pressing against the person that he's unthinkingly clutching to him, arms aching with the effort. He has just enough time to look down at a familiar head of wind-tossed hair, to blurt, "I--Martin?"

And then he's gone.