The Collector's Story: The Loss of a Bond

It wasn't often that he was disappointed by a new addition to his Collection, or by the changes that it caused. There was one time that he remembered when he'd been disappointed, but he tried not to think about that. Every other object, with the memories wrapped up in it, had been highly satisfying, fulfilling the urge to take and watch for at least a little while.

Rarely did it take long before things began to fall apart because of the loss of a new piece of his Collection. He would wait and watch for a day, maybe two, and enjoy the ruin he had caused. Then he would be on his way, back to the Collection to install the new piece.

This time... he had much longer to wait. He'd finally found something to take for his Collection, which had made him all but dance with glee when he found it: the twisted, melted, utterly useless-- or at least with a use he hadn't yet found-- remains of his chosen mortal's weapon, a symbol not only of his imprisonment but also the blow which had been given to his self-confidence. The latter wasn't exactly something he took, but perhaps it would be part of the ruin. In either case, he would cherish the twisted chrome and plastic and gunpowder, set it among the beautiful things in his Collection, and remember what he had felt when he realized the additional thing he had "taken", without meaning to.

But even though he'd taken it, an object which he could hold and admire and care for, nothing had changed. And nothing would change, not for far too long of a time, because the final ruin was not in his hands, not on his time, but on the time of another. It was on a schedule, and nothing he could do could speed that schedule up. It was a very long, unusually long schedule... and he really wasn't used to this kind of waiting. Always, always in the past things fell apart immediately. Merely a few days was enough to see a lesser being brought low, to the lowest point of its life, and that was all he really wanted to see, so that was all he stayed to see.

Now, though he'd seen this particular one brought low by fear, chafing at his restrictions, and generally dissatisfied with his state... it was not his lowest point. He still hadn't seen the lowest point. He couldn't leave satisfied without seeing that. So he watched, still.

Watching his chosen mortal-- if, in fact, the creature was mortal, which he was beginning to doubt-- flip through his machine-shows, stretch and run and pummel things, wander the deck, and on the whole be very bored was becoming just as boring as doing those things. He had never really been bored before, and it was an uncomfortable thing to be. Restless, perhaps, or displeased, certainly, but never bored. He was slowly growing impatient with his choice, or at least with how little control he had in it, now. He cradled the twisted, deformed weapon tenderly, sitting in a little-used corridor on the Chosen's deck of the Storm of the Black Wasteland, and thought about his dilemma.

He was dissatisfied, he knew that. The lesser being he'd taken from was supposed to be dissatisfied-- no, he was supposed to be miserable, but he wasn't yet, which was another dissatisfaction-- but not him. Yet... he was. He was wasting time. He knew that, as well. Time which could be better spent finding more things for his Collection, or at least finding new places where he might someday wish to find things for his Collection, since often he returned to places that seemed promising to investigate anew. But he was bound to seeing this particular choice through; he had never not seen a choice through, and he wasn't going to start now....

So he was trapped on this massive craft as much as his current not-mortal. Unlike the not-mortal, however, he was trapped of his own will. Worse, he was itching again, somewhere in the back of his awareness. The urge to take and take and take and watch was tickling him, but what could he do about it? He was bound. He was stuck. He had already chosen, and he didn't even know yet if he'd well or chosen chosen poorly.

And all this thinking was starting to make him itchy and tired and unhappy, on top of the boredom and dissatisfaction.

Someone walked by, a new Chosen most likely, with one of the Custodians to show her around. What they were doing in this out-of-the-way, nearly-empty corridor, he didn't know, but neither did he care. He watched them, invisible and silent, taking in what he would from each of them. Testing their hearts, rifling through their desires, looking for what was dearest to each of them. He did it automatically and without thought, for his thoughts were still whirling unhappily around his dilemma. Perhaps it could be a moment's distraction, a reason to stop his difficult thinking at least for a moment, if he found something interesting.

But then he caught the sense of beautiful need wafting from the Chosen, and all actual thought went right out of his head for one blissful moment. It was like getting a whiff of a beloved scent, like a sip of water to a man dying of thirst, like a fix to an addict. Such focused, pure desire made the love attached to his last addition to his Collection seem pale, thin, and amorphous, a waste of his time and attention. Unworthy of his Collection. Compared to this, that love was a ghost.

He wound up drifting after the pair, drawn by what he sensed, listening to them talk with only a tiny particle of his attention. The Chosen wanted to be far from the bulk of the others here-- hence, being in the near-empty hall of rooms-- wanted peace and quiet for the three days until the hatching. The rest of him was focused on that need, that desire, that love-- the kind of love that could break a mortal, if it were shattered. It was the very kind of love that he sought with such delight to destroy, and it called to him. There wasn't an itch yet, but he thought if he paid it too much attention, there might be. And he almost didn't care, because it was such a wonderful desire. Oh, if only, if only he were free of this current choice, this current ruin, free to take again!

That was when the answer came to him, so suddenly that he stopped again and broke into a wide, pleased smile that no one could see.

Just because he was waiting for one ruin to come about didn't mean he had to confine himself to that one ruin for the terrible age of time it would take to come about. He was on a crowded, busy craft-- a city unto itself, a small world unto itself-- full of people who wanted, needed, loved, and could lose. There were so many things here he could find, to take, to add to his Collection. So many loves he could destroy. Even confining himself to the Chosen decks, out of deference to the various deities and meta-mages on the Storm of the Black Wasteland, there were dozens-- scores-- hundreds of mortals and even not-mortals, whether staying there or working there or just visiting to check on things.

The very thought made him giddy.

Right there and then, he left on a whirlwind tour of the Chosen decks, the egg bays, and the hangars, touching the mind of everyone he came across who was mortal or close to it, collecting wishes and hopes and desires as he went. There were so many-- so many!-- things that he could take, and he could see the paths of destruction he could cause in each brief life. It was wonderful, and he couldn't imagine how he had missed seeing it all before. He'd just been so focused, so narrow-minded, and now his eyes were open....

But now he had something to do while he waited, and he thought he would start with that Chosen who had caused the revelation. It seemed only fitting, he thought, since it was she who gave him the idea to bide his time with expanding his own Collection further so he need not share in the last one's boredom. Besides, her need was so strong, the desire of her heart so powerful, that it would be beautiful watching her spiral down into chaos.

The desire of this little human mortal's heart was to bond. She wanted someone to love her and need her, someone to be at her side forever, even if it was someone who used her and abused her. It was a twisted love, pure in and of itself, but such an obsession and rooted in such pain that it was a weakness as much as a strength-- though to him, all such desires were weakness. This was, she told herself, her last chance.

And he was going to take it from her. He was going to take her bond.

Sometimes, he did it because he wanted to. Sometimes, he did it because he needed to. Sometimes he did it because he was curious about what would happen. Sometimes he did it because he thought it was deserved. Most of the time, though, he did it because it was an itch: an unreasoning, irrational, unrelenting itch.

This time... he did it because he was bored.