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You were a week late.
It remains unknown to me why I ever thought that. By what span of time you could have been 'late' by is shrouded in mystery. When the words had slipped from me, I recall your companion laughing at your helm's tilt.
"Don't sweat it, he says stuff like that all the time!"
I suppose I did, and I suppose I still do. Ridiculous things with little influence. An agent discarded, I've become intimate with my fate, as you have yours.
I can feel the trace of conversation following after, between Ghosts and Guardian, albeit my memory placed little importance on anything aside from the state of your gear. Dirt and mud yet to be shaken from the plates, a faint scent of earth clinging to the back of your boots as the first licks of blood adorned your helmet.
Fresh from the grave. Nothing to exchange for wares, had your friend been lacking in generosity. You chose a rocket launcher, and your friend chose to dismiss his disagreement with a cough.
"It will serve you well," I assured.
You were silent, but there was more than enough thanks in the way your palms weighed the weapon and how your head bowed in an awkward nod.
Weeks later you paid your visit, same as usual. Yet this time you were alone.
You were late, in common terms. The weekend had come to a close. I was resigned that you would not wish to keep up your weekly streak. Such an erroneous thought, upon reflection. One that I recall clearly being popped by the sound of soles landing at the bottom of stairs, and the near-unnoticeable squish of boots as you tracked grime through the hall.
"We were held up," your Ghost began. "Is there still time before you have to leave?"
"The Nine find the loss of time permissible if their gifts find worthy wielders."
"Oh. Well, that's…kind of them. We're here for something specific."
I glanced from you to the Traveler's kin as you hopped on one foot, scraping gunk from the other. A question must have been caught in my gaze. You cleared your throat.
"Company," you stated, quiet enough to prevent the sound from bouncing around the room. "Your…company."
Your words were rusty, unpracticed, and your hands flexed as a reminder that they could last without constant hold around a gun. The request itself seemed just as foreign to your tongue. Your touch danced around each of your digits, taking them into account. It reminded me of my own.
I moved back as a discomforting knot formed against my spine. It was alleviated, temporarily. Tips of fingers idly traced the palms of my gloves as I considered the request. There was an urging presence in the back of my mind. It wished for me to agree. Hardly my own will, but a familiar prodding that I could only assume was allowance.
"Extended visitation for this…company…is acceptable, I believe. But I will warn you, Guardian, there are not many places for me to go that will not draw stares."
"A small price to pay," you assured, voice stronger now. "Besides, I draw plenty on my own."
I hoped my thanks could be heard in my breath as it steadied, and seen in my shoulders as they relaxed.
Years blended together. I do think half the time was spent in a quiet unawareness as the cycle continued. Very little change, very little for focus to cling to. The ribbons that bound my wrists were as tight as they were loose, as suffocating as they were far. Torn between being needed and disowned. As though I was kept at arms length. I could be neither glad or disappointed by this. Their reasoning was sound.
I served. I changed. Past routine crumbled to dust as current routine wore on me the longer it ran. Such is the fate of cells, to return to their birthplace. It could not be helped that mine was from naught, and it could not be helped that to naught I would return. I have resigned to this. There is little I can do to halt that mighty ouroboros.
Yet there was a positive to this repetition. You.
Week after week after week after week I was guaranteed your visits and company. On few occasions you did not buy from my wares, preferring to sit nearby and rest. I did not fully understand why you would do so near an agent burdened by the weight of his own being, but I would never be the one to deny you the company you chose. Not when I enjoyed it as much as you did.
"Guardian, you have returned. Perhaps you had forgotten to purchase something of interest during your last…" My voice died in my throat as you stumbled forward and kneeled in front of me, before falling over fully. You rose again moments later with the same vigor as usual. I tilted my head. "Does something ail you, Guardian?"
"I was wondering when that would happen," the Ghost puffed. "Exhaustion, Xûr. Per usual. I tell them to rest while they have a break and they trek aaaaall the way out here instead."
A contemplative note hummed in my throat, and my hands clasped together. "Perhaps you should heed your Ghost's instructions, Guardian. While I am sure the Nine are flattered that you should desire their gifts so greatly, it would be unfortunate if your state of enervation were to pervade your consciousness later during more trying times."
My fingers tugged at the collar of the shirt beneath my robes and massaged the damaged skin. It had been a long weekend. Many customers, many attempts to haggle, many failed explanations…and there still remained one day before my departure.
"Thank you," the little drone nodded to me, and I bowed my head in response. "See, even Xûr agrees. I'd be more lenient if we had more pressing matters on our hands, but this has been the first time you've allowed yourself a cleared schedule in ages. You should—and they're out again."
He circled above your collapsed body. "Not dead this time, though."
How fortunate.
Less fortunate, however, was the simple fact that I was now trapped. At some point before losing consciousness, your body must have found the energy to wrap a hand around my ankle. Even with your grip now loosened, I found it difficult to pull away for fear of startling you awake.
The earth beneath you did not desire for you to return to the waking realm so soon, either. I could feel it—the same presence that urged me before to accept your offer. It wished to hold your form, to embrace and comfort for as long as your weary cells chose to rest in its dirt. I shared this sentiment, to an extent.
I could only hope that such a hug of ground and breeze did not leave any figments of trials in your sleep. I have my own when they wish something of me. The most recent had been repetitive visions of a horse; the closer I drew to it, the more I could hear.
Multitudinous gunfire, certain references I failed to place, and spinning. Much spinning. A selection of the sorts—one outcome pulled of five. Twice.
And you. There was always you. Although, it did not look like the you which laid at my feet. You were adorned with the stars—a form not dissimilar to the horse's—and your voice rang with a distant choir of others. Each time you spoke, I could hear refractions of realities bounce around your being before leaving as one tongue. And in every echo, there was…profound affection.
I could not understand why this was. I could not see what they meant in showing such visions to me. The Nine were enigmas far greater than myself, and I knew this fact intimately, but there was an unease formed from lack of clarity. I was left to guess: was it a curse or blessing? Was the change a burden such as my own, or was it a gift to carry you to serve? I feared to ask them these questions, and I feared to turn to the stars above for an outlet. For if these dreams truly were glimpses of time, I could not bear if they reported my admittance of deep concern to a Weapon not even unsheathed.
A flare of heat, and the thoughts were pulled from the front of my mind to a distant part of consciousness. I shivered, unnerved, for a reason I found myself unwanting to recall to its fullest. Instead, I stood, patiently, and allowed you your rest. Perhaps one day I would be allowed to do more.
Ah. That was the purpose of the horse.
As you approached me after the show—Dares of Eternity, as the equine wished it be called—there was a worry in my heart. It was hardly my will to drag you to Eternity so unexpectedly. Hardly my choice to have you blindly participate in rounds of entertainment.
There was a short huff, and the threat of something laid bare before me in the form of glints off gold coins. Of a reality—multiple realities laying in wait to slip into my conscious and knot the thread of my thoughts with enough tension to snap them from the essence of my mind—
A gloved weight on my shoulder, and a breathy laugh. Close to a wheeze.
You…weren't mad.
Your other hand gestured to the hoard, to the chests, to the great steed, and then your index tapped my chest in amusement. Something left your helm. It often troubles me that I cannot recall what. But there is a comfort in knowing the tone the words were spoken in.
Joy.
A joy strong enough to spark a small, pinprick of pride in the fiber of my being.
A whinny from below, and my mind cleared. Right.
"The horse desires for you to play a plethora more rounds, contestant," the word was new, but far from unwanted. "Promised prizes and sparkling spoils await your claim, should you Dare to compete for them."
I motioned to the piles of gold, the mountainous amounts of coin and curiosities that filled the chamber with splendor. A splendor greatly alluring, for Lightbearer and mortal alike.
Your helmet didn't display a shimmer of want to inspect the wealth, your hold still solid.
There was a pause. Your hand slipped from shoulder to hood, fixing it back into place for me. The tenderness in the action made me doubt that those hands could rip vitality from their foes with equal ease.
"Consider it cocky or overzealous," you held my chin between your index and thumb, "but such treasure was mine long before a bullet landed in any of those Taken."
With that, you turned, leaving Eternity to pursue…something. Of what, I did not know. (Though I was amply aware of the rapidity of the caged vessel within my chest.)
Not until later, when it would appear you had taken an interest in unfamiliar attire. Less sleek, more pronounced, and by the Nine how you chose to flaunt your skill in those pigments of pink. Dares of Eternity: a gameshow, a combination of two worlds, which you did an exceptional job tying together. How could you not, when you played along so nicely and treated gunfire as tempo for your dance?
My appreciation of such a bewitching waltz was (and is) rather pathetic, but it could not be helped. My eyes drank in each performance as a liquid ambrosia, and it still astounds me that the great steed has yet to tease me for being a carouser.
From there, time became nothing but a blur. In a positive sense, I suppose. One dread long faded away. There were others, of course. I could feel my masters shifting—drifting, ever so noticeably. A building of pressure, a bite yet to be hooked, a turmoil destined to unfurl. Even my memories made are dependent on the steed's will. For whenever it bids its farewell, so will all remembrance of your performances from the horse's games.
But even with memory on the brink, every treasurer felled and each wheel spun creates something in my mind that I will tenderly hold in the quivering digits of this body. Something that fills a well far within the confusion of my cells and warms my voice with a pride I would not expect possible. Something that when you greet this disgraced Emissary, whether in the Tower or in Eternity itself, reminds me what an honor it is to be your host.
I do not wish to part with such feelings, but a wish from an agent so minuscule is difficult to guarantee granted. I entrust you with the knowledge of these musings, since none of this would have been possible without you.
So remember all this for me when I cannot, Guardian. And from the bottom of my heart,
Thank you for playing.