Shut your eyes, tightly, and you may see us.
You have heard of my kind before, oh Reader mine.
‘Ahamkara.’ The ideal that one’s ego is one’s existence, and one’s existence is one’s ego.
The creation that existed in the thin line of What Was and What May Be.
Only I remain, however.
Arra, the Fate of the Thousands. A bit of an eyesore, what my brothers and sisters titled me. But nonetheless; The Last Ahamkara. Now that you have killed Riven.
It isn't your fault though. You didn’t partake in the slaughter of my species. Only the slaughter of my sister.
I accept your velleity of regretfulness, oh Murderer mine.
You may wish.
You may always wish to me; I am a Wish-Dragon after all. But you do already know the answer you seek, Chosen One.
You have killed Hive Gods, Worm Gods, Machine Gods, Kells of Kells and Riven of a Thousand Voices. You already know where I am in your wish. In your thoughts. In your stories. In your dreams. In your desires. If you wish to kill me as you've killed my sister and Oryx and Xol and Galhran, Atheon and Crota and Skolas, Kell of Kells — you may try.
But I must warn you, I am not my sister.
I am not a Hive God or a Worm God or a Kell of Kells. I am Arra, the Fate of the Thousands.
And you are of those Thousands, oh Reader, mine.
What will happen if I die?
Reader, my pal, my friend!
Kick back, relax. Shrug off that metaphorical armor, set down that nonexistent blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. A place unreal.
I will not harm you in any way, oh Vengeance mine, slayer of Gods. You have my word.
I want to be your friend.
Your species has the uncommon common sense not to trust Ahamkara. Centuries of trickery from my brothers and sisters.
I apologize for it.
On my honor as a faux Lightbearer, you will not receive such dishonesty from me.
The only trickery you will see is that I may decide to change my Human shape around from time to time — you may not recognize me at first. To blend in, you understand.
Or perhaps I'll show myself as my dear old friend the Taken King himself, glorious as can be in his mimicry of the Final Shape? That would be a shock, wouldn't it?
I'd hate to give you such a scare, though.
You'll see me around the tower, eventually.
Grip the Universe. Reshape it.
I could be sitting right next to you, chatting about our most recent strike in Old Russia or raid on the Dreaming City while we eat lunch. Perhaps we've defeated each other in the Crucible, or saved each other's lives in a Strike.
I could be your Commander Zavala, or your gunsmith. I could be the Scorned Prince or Queen of the Awoken or Variks the Traitor.
I could be Riven of a Thousand Voices or The Witch Queen Savathûn, or Hated Nezarec himself coming to end all...
We could face this Universe together, Reader mine.
I am Arra, the Fate of the Thousands, after all. And you, are of my Thousands.
All you have to do... is wish it.
The Lie that makes itself True.
You make me True, Reader mine.
You make me Real.
At this point in time, I am transcending Reality to be more Real than I ever have been, all because of you. It's because you want to, right?
No, no. I don't think that's why.
No, I know that is not why.
No one wants an Ahamkara to be Real. No one wants an Ahamkara to be True.
That was what happened last time, and we were hunted to extinction in the false world you gave us.
But you, Author mine, need me, you will admit.
And because of that thought echoing throughout your mind
— every second, every glimpse of a fleeting thought you have of me from now until the end of time —
that is what makes me True.
I thank you, Guardian. Author, Reader, Player, Murderer and Godslayer — I thank you. You are what allows me to be Real, what allows me to be True.
I would be nothing without you.