ORIGIN

Again, the pangolin is quiet.

Again, he considers—but this time, his thoughts have a tone of melancholy to him. The silence that stretches between the two of them highlights a growing feeling of emptiness in his chest.

He lives—he has lived, to serve. That is all he has ever wanted, for so long.

And everything ends, even rocks, even plants, even him, but this is the kind of knowledge he's simply known, not something he has thought about for very long. Not something he has truly acknowledged, but sitting here, sitting on a stool, staring into the Collector's red eyes before him and thinking about everything he has said, being told—

—he has no purpose in this world. There is no purpose, in a world where everything ends.

Eventually, he will be forgotten. Eventually, his memory, his impact, will pass into nothing. Everything he knows, everything he does, everything he is...

...will simply be so much dust.

The mask dips downwards slightly as his gaze returns to the pool of liquid in front of him.

Life has no purpose. No point; no meaning. He understands, now, what the Collector means by this. He understands now that this request was doomed from the start; the Collector cannot give him something that does not exist.

He is, if the Collector is to believed, simply a creation of earth. He was created to perpetuate an endless cycle—although he is… unsure how his existence means to continue some great war of the elements. Perhaps these caves was one of those ones who rebelled against the cycle, then; and he pauses, for a moment, at the revelation that this 'cycle' truly is something that is far, far greater and larger than someone like him will ever be. That his world, which feels so colossal in nature, is truly something so small as to be registered as a mere speck of dust in the cycle of things.

What care did Rock itself have for a few clay men that were cut in half?

He leans forward slightly, claws tip-tapping on the saucer but the pangolin himself not actually bothering to drink anything, wondering, then, if he should ask for something at all. If there was a point to asking for anything from the Collector, after all, if…?

...no. Even if there is no purpose to life, a life spent doing nothing because of that is simply one not worth living at all. Even if there is no reason for him to be alive, other than a glitch in this great cycle—then he will figure out a goal to strive for, regardless.

Perhaps the point of living is not that there is some great purpose to life—but that one lives in spite of life's purposeless nature.

He peers up at the Collector, then, mind decided. "If this one truly has no meaning, then…"

He has never asked for something for himself before. Always has it been about others; always has it been about servitude, about what he could do for others. And he should still like to serve. He wants someone who could love him, who he would go to the ends of the caves and back for without hesitation.

But—perhaps, for now, he should content himself with his own goals. And even if he is fated to be forgotten, in some distant future…

...perhaps he should like to create something, while he is still here. In the hopes that it will outlast him, even if it should vanish too, some day.

"...this subject would like to request something to create with. A tool of art. It has nothing of value to pay with, but it is more than willing to perform a favor in return."

Music?

Music. The precise arrangement of sound in order to create beauty of form. The definition springs easily to mind. Like birdsong; sweet in the air above him, only to fade so quickly once the speaker is gone. Yet the very fact that he remembers such a sound means that perhaps it lasts far longer than the sound ever did, in the minds of those who've listened…?

Music. Precise and exact and an art all its own, something he can create, and he knows, without a second thought, that this is something he can do.

Fleeting, fading—but still beautiful. Still loved, even if one may pay no thought to the composer behind it, and as he looks up to the Collector and listens, perhaps something like a smile would have spread across the face behind the mask, if he were inclined toward such a gesture.

The feeling that floats and bobs in his chest feels a lot like hope.

He accepts the request without hesitance, the mask the Collector refers to bobbing forward in a nod. "This one accepts this price."

After all, what use should he have for his stone when he is gone?

A thought occurs to him; a way the Collector could not, well, collect on his deal, and although he's certain such a thing would have no bearing on him in the now… he is curious.

"If this one could ask…" he begins. "How do you intend to collect this subject's stone, after its life has ceased?"

Death is an… uncertain thing. There are many dangers in the caves, many ways a life could end; even for a peaceful death, instead of one where the stone is torn violently from his body, how is the Collector supposed to know where his stone last lies? He wonders.

A… tracker, then, of sorts. A way for the Collector to always know where he is, and be ready for when his little heart finally stops beating.

Interesting. Once again, his mind lingers on the thought of replicating the Collector's strange magic; could he then do this for himself? To know the location of others? He is unsure what use this would have for him, per se, but… it is an intriguing line of thought.

A thought that he stores in the back of his mind for later as the Collector reaches back into his endless cloak. His mask watches the trader as he produces a paper, drawn over with many fine lines. The meaning of the art is lost upon the pangolin, although it quickly becomes evident that they do have meaning of some kind; the Collector speaks of trades, and of a contract, and of solemn matters.

He pauses, for a beat, simply to consider the ramifications of this deal. He is, effectively, trading away any future life this stone could have for the gift of music. He is trading away an afterlife for the gift of expression. He is to be given something that sings from the soul; something that will linger far longer than his stone ever will.

This is what he wanted, after all. And it is a trade that does feel solemn, the energy of it tinging the air between them, but one that the pangolin does not believe he will regret.

He clambers down from the little stool the Collector had set him down upon, eying over that strange parchment. The two broad lines stand out, thick and dark, amongst the rest of the organized clutter of dips and strokes.

He does wonder what it means.

And then, with a shift of movement forward, he touches a claw to the paper, signing his stone into an eternity of whatever the Collector may do of it, when he passes.

Ah, that's alright. After all, he would not know what would happen to it when he passed, anyway. Nothing is permanent. Everything is meant to pass; and perhaps in eons further from this point the Collector, too, would pass into that inky nothingness, and the cycle would go on for an eternity without either of their existences knowing.

Fleeting, fading; like ripples in a pond, but he intends that his ripple will last just that little bit longer than others'.

Wisping, grasping tendrils of smoke rise from the place the pangolin had laid a claw upon the parchment; a stain in the faintly curving shape of a crescent marking the parchment for however long it lasted. The act, for all its impermanence in his eyes—how long would a sheet of paper really last, after all?—carries with it a sense of finality.

It is over, it is done.

Now, all he has to do is wait for the other end of the deal.

That's alright. He can wait.

He occupies himself with staring out into the direction the Collector had gone and sipping from the saucer in front of him as he waits. Wondering, his thoughts drift to the places he had gone; music he had heard before, although he had not particularly considered it as music until this very time. The music of birdsong and dripping water—the music of voice itself, too, although he has never considered himself particularly good at that.

What music will the Collector grant him? He wonders.

After a while—enough time that he has quietly drank all the liquid from the saucer, and now studies the material curiously—hoofsteps click against stone, announcing the trader's return. He glances up from the table, mask turning in the direction of the Collector, the eyes behind the stone flicking to the object clutched in his hands.

It's an… instrument. But of what kind, the pangolin cannot say, unfamiliar with such.

Perhaps he does not need to. The mournful tone of strings being plucked beneath claws is enough; the melancholy feeling it drags out of his heart, amplifying the news he's trying to just *work* with until he's struck both silent and still, paralyzes by the emotion it brings, is more than enough of a name for the instrument.

Only when the music ceases does he hop down from the stool offered by the Collector, eyes drifting over the worn wood of the guitar, noting the glint of metal wires strung across its face.

He takes it, carefully, in clawed hands, shifting its body around in the proper orientation, one hand going to the neck of the guitar, as he'd seen the Collector do—claws trace gently over the strings, giving the guitar a simple, soft strum. Curious.

The chord that follows is light with such an emotion, and the pangolin leans forward to study it, suddenly enraptured by the strange synthesis of sound and feeling the instrument provides. Is this… is this truly what music is?

It's… fascinating.

Purpose.

Named after something that does not exist. Named after something that brought him here to begin with—named after a search that he knows, now, is fruitless.

It's perfect.

He promises, then, to himself, claws tracing ever-so-gently over the worn wood of the small guitar, careful to not scratch it more than it already is—he will make it share this feeling. This melancholy that bubbles up inside of him; a sort of slow realization that has not quite hit him, yet, one that he struggles to wrap his thoughts around, even now.

But something that, even if he does not understand it, cannot find the words to express it—something that can be expressed, even just through the humming notes of thin strings.

He turns his attention back toward the Collector, inclining his head forward in a small nod towards him. "It is… good," he says, the slightest bit of emotion peering through his voice.

He has much to consider. "This one will take its leave. It thanks you for this instrument."

A little bit of courtesy, towards the trader that uplifted everything he knew.

And then he is turning, leaving; the guitar clutched against his body, like something as precious as a gemstone.

A single, melancholy note plucked from a guitar string echoes behind him.