Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents

Day 1 - Vanguard - Shiro and Saladin discuss a potential candidate for Hunter Vanguard.

Day 2 - Trials - Saint and Crow discuss nightmares seen and unseen.

Day 3 - Nightmare - Saladin comforts Zavala after dealing with his Nightmare.

Day 4 - As the Crow Flies - The Guardian takes Crow out for a celebration after his victory with his Nightmare. 

Day 5 - Wrath - Petra and Jolyon discuss some news about Crow.

Day 6 - Breaking and Bending - Saint spends the evening with Osiris.

Day 7 - Little Talks - Zavala and Amanda spend some quality time together after recent events.

Day 8 - Haunted - The Guardian dreams of a Nightmare that doesn't belong to them.

Day 9 - Eye of the Storm - Crow and the Guardian retreat to the Guardian's ship.

Day 10 - Burden - Caiatl asks Saladin to tell her of Zavala's Nightmare.

Day 11 - Lost and Found - Zavala returns to a place he lost. 

Day 12 - Which Witch? - Eris and the Guardian discuss the Crown of Sorrow.

Day 13 - Do Not Touch - The Guardian confronts Caiatl after learning some distressing news.

Day 14 - Pyramid Scheme - Drifter and Eris camp out in Savathûn's Throne World.

Day 15 - Titan Fall - Safiyah comforts Zavala after a long siege.

Day 16 - Ghost Stories - Marcus Ren escapes a near-encounter with a Nightmare on the moon. His Ghost is worried. 

Day 17 - Did You Hear That? - Crow voices some of his reservations about Calus.

Day 18 - Darkness - The Guardian opens up to Crow about some of their burdens.

Day 19 - Worthy - Osiris wakes to meet a new Ghost.

Day 20 - Two Birds - Saint contemplates Osiris' new Ghost.

Day 21 - Guardian and Ghost - Fynch meets his new Guardian.

Day 22 - The Masks We Wear - Zavala attempts to comfort Caiatl after her experience with her Nightmare.

Day 23 - Sleepless - Crow comforts the Guardian when old fears reemerge. 

Day 24 - One Stone - Crow and Osiris take a walk together after Osiris' recovery.

Day 25 - Daydreams - The Guardian daydreams of sweet memories with Crow.

Day 26 - Trust - Shiro-4 meets Empress Caiatl.

Day 27 - What if... - Under Savathun's hold, Osiris lets himself believe in a future he once glimpsed.

Day 28 - Gilded Cage - Crow comforts the Guardian when they feel trapped.

Day 29 - Tired and Old - Zavala and Caiatl spend time together after Caiatl's victory.

Day 30 - Grief - Zavala and Ikora discuss an old friend.

Chapter Text

“You might not have to worry about the Hunter Vanguard position remaining open for much longer.” Saladin told Shiro as they were readying for bed.

With Saladin serving on Caiatl’s war council and consequently no longer living at the Iron Temple, Shiro had adjusted his schedule as best he could to spend time with him. For a few days during the week Saladin would run the Iron Banner, Shiro would leave the wolves to guard the Iron Temple and would stay with Saladin in his little apartment in the City. It had taken him a few tries to time it just right, but he’d managed to adjust his schedule so that he could turn in his monthly Vanguard reports while Saladin was busy running the Banner during the day, freeing up the evenings and nights to their own devices. He’d delivered his reports to Ikora and Zavala not hours earlier, but neither of them had told him anything about a potential candidate for the Hunter Vanguard position. He’d always assumed he was at the top of the list.

“What do you mean?” He asked Saladin, pushing himself up onto his elbows from where he’d been sprawled out on the bed. 

His day had been positively exhausting, first running his own patrols in the Cosmodrome, then covering patrols for a set of Hunters who’d been moved from their usual circuits on Luna to investigate the Leviathan. He felt like he’d explored half the entire moon before he’d returned to the Tower. He could practically still feel the Nightmares breathing down his neck. All he wanted to do was curl up in Saladin’s arms and sleep, but Saladin’s words had his attention rapt.

“Did Ana finally give up on putting Rasputin into an Exo?” He asked, dragging himself upright. “Or Marcus? Is he going to stop racing?”

“No.” Saldin answered, pulling the towel off his shoulders, still damp from the shower he’d just finished. He was dressed in only boxers, and to see him without his usual crest, the pendant he’d worn around his neck for centuries was striking. But he’d made his decision, and Shiro tried to accept it, forcing himself not to comment on the new scars that patterned Saladin’s chest, parting gifts from the challenges he’d endured against Caiatl’s warriors, Shiro guessed. He hung his towel over a hook and made his way into the bedroom. “Neither of those. I spoke to the Guardian earlier today, they say Eris helped Crow make peace with his former life, and that he wants to dedicate himself to righting Uldren’s wrongs. I imagine his primary task will be to restore balance to the Awoken people, but he said he’d also like to pick up Cayde’s old patrol sectors, help organize the Hunters.”

Shiro looked over Saladin before his gaze lowered, contemplative. For the longest time, he’d thought Cayde’s Dare had been foolish. Cayde had decided that whatever Hunter was going to kill him would have to assume his position as Hunter Vanguard. Shiro had never believed Cayde would be killed by another Hunter, but more than that, why would the Hunters agree to be led by someone who’d killed one of their own? A murderer, unless Cayde thought that a Hunter would only kill him out of nececisty, if he’d gone down a path he shouldn’t have, and needed to be brought to justice by someone brave enough to stand against him. When Cayde had been killed by Uldren, Shiro was convinced he’d doomed the Hunters to never have leadership again. He’d worried he’d need to enact a new Dare, make a bet with someone like Cayde and Andal had. The Guardian had even suggested it to him, thinking he’d go out on the hunt for Uldren. Whoever killed Uldren wouldn’t have to be Hunter Vanguard, but the Guardian was too valuable on the field to be shackled to the Tower, and Shiro hadn’t been ready to sign his life away.

After he’d heard Uldren had been reborn as a Guardian, he’d been just as scornful as everyone else. Why would the Traveler revive a killer? A murderer? Someone who’d butchered the Awoken people and had done unspeakable things to so many? He’d believed the Hunters would never recognize Crow, never accept him. Many of them likely wouldn’t, even still. But Crow was a new person, and if he’d accepted who he once was, he could learn from Uldren’s flaws, better himself. Uldren had been adored by his people. He’d been a leader, and a great warrior. In time, Shiro imagined Crow could be something similar.

“He’s Cayde’s Dare.” He told Saladin, his eyes lifting to the Iron Lord’s again. “Cayde’s Dare was that whatever Hunter killed him had to take up the Hunter Vanguard position. If Crow’s accepted Uldren as part of him, he’s the next in line.”

Saladin eyed him thoughtfully, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Would you let him take it?”

Shiro frowned. He’d been running from the Hunter Vanguard position for nearly four years now. It had been a death sentence for his friends. Sometimes he wondered if Cayde had laid out his Dare just so Shiro wouldn’t have to take it unless it was absolutely necessary, because Cayde would have had to turn into a monster for Shiro to even consider ending his life. But despite everything, since the moment he’d learned Cayde was dead, the position had always felt like his.

“He’s not ready.” Shiro said, and Saladin gave a little grunt of agreement. “But maybe I could help him until he is.”

Saladin arched a brow at him. “How so?” 

He slid off the bed, walking around to the other side, where he folded back the blankets and slipped inside.

“Crow is still young, inexperienced. He might have Uldren’s memories but he doesn’t know how to lead Guardians. I’ve been working for the Vanguard for years. I think if I wanted to, I could take the Hunter Vanguard position without much difficulty. I’ve already taken on a lot of those responsibilities behind the scenes.”

He’d promised himself it was only temporary, but after Cayde’s death, once he’s pieced himself together enough to function, he’d dug up Cayde’s lists, plotting out which Hunter controlled which zones. When the Hunters had been thrown into chaos, some of them all out defecting from the Tower, he’d reached out to many of them, ensuring they kept up their reports. Few knew of the responsibilities he’d assumed, but he sent a condensed file to Ikora every month, picking through the Hunter’s reports and highlighting points of interest or areas of suspicion. He knew it wasn’t all he could be doing, there was a note of cowardice in the fact that he would assume so many responsibilities and yet still reject the role both of his friends had held so valiantly, but he couldn’t help it. He settled for doing what he could.

“If I could introduce him to the Hunters, get them comfortable with responding to him as an authority figure, counsel him through the process, I think he’d make a great Hunter Vanguard one day.”

Saladin regarded him for a long moment, leaning back against the pillows on his side of the bed.

“What?” Shiro asked him, and Saladin shook his head.

“Nothing.” He said, but explained before Shiro could press. “It’s good to know there are people like you, who will do what it takes to protect the City and the Guardians, should my duties lead me elsewhere.”

Shiro felt his plates shift into a frown, and he almost couldn’t hold the Iron Lord’s gaze, pain stabbing into his very being.

“Saladin–” He started, but Saladin’s hand came up to cup his cheek, and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Shiro’s brow.

“I did not mean to upset you.” Saladin told him, drawing back enough to stare into his optics. “You and I both know the Empress cannot stay here forever, and when she leaves, I am bound to go with her.” 

“You don’t have to say it.” Shiro breathed, trying to avoid Saladin’s gaze. The Iron Lord had lost so much already, and yet Shiro was the one who couldn’t cope with the loss, who couldn’t imagine living apart from him.

“But,” Saladin’s other hand came up to hold his face, and he guided Shiro to meet his eyes again. “I will cherish every moment I get to spend with you.”

Shiro drew in a deep breath, forcing his systems to calm, like he was bringing himself back from the brink of tears. Saladin was right. They didn’t have forever. No one did. For all they knew, one of them would be long dead by the time the Empress and her troops left the City. Their time together was precious. It always had been. 

“Okay.” Shiro breathed, giving Saladin a small nod. The Iron Lord gave him a soft smile, leaning forward until their lips met in slow, soft kisses.

One of the Ghosts turned off the lights, Saladin and Shiro slid down into the bed, and Shiro spent the night curled in the arms of his Iron Lord, for as long as he could have him.

Chapter Text

“The Guardian tells me you were able to come to terms with your past life and vanquish your Nightmare.” Saint told Crow over dinner. “Congratulations.”

Crow had come to Saint’s apartment bearing the gift of takeout, as he usually did once a week. He and the Titan would eat dinner together and keep each other company in the face of their various trials and tribulations. Osiris still had yet to wake, and Crow had told Saint a little about his difficulty facing his Nightmare of Uldren. After their mission and Crow’s acceptance of Uldren, the Guardian had brought him to a ramen restaurant in the City, one they used to go to with Cayde after successful missions, or on long, difficult nights. Crow had gone there again tonight, and had brought the takeout back to Saint’s apartment in an effort to spread the love.

“I wouldn’t say vanquish, but thanks.” Crow said, nodding to Saint. His whole being felt lighter having reconciled with his past life. “I think I just realized that I didn’t have to be so afraid of him. His memories can help me. I can learn from his mistakes and right his wrongs. Maybe I can even bring some stability back to the Hunters.”

“That’s very noble of you.” Saint told him, and he gave Crow a kind smile. “I am proud of you. Accepting Uldren could not have been easy.” 

Crow felt his cheeks heat at Saint’s praise, and he lowered his head as he took a sip from his glass of water. “It wasn’t, but I’m glad I went through with it. Eris was really helpful in accepting him, and realizing my setbacks weren’t failures.”

Saint’s gaze lingered over the curtain that separated them from the room in which Osiris had lain for weeks, only to be moved back to the hospital as his condition refused to improve. It was a wonder Saint was even home now. Crow had expected to have to bring their dinner to the hospital, where they would eat at Osiris’ side, as it had been last week. His Ghost must have convinced him to rest. Crow knew more than a few people were taking turns watching over Osiris and Saint, maybe someone else was at the hospital with him now.

“I suppose that’s a lesson we all could stand to learn.” His voice was quiet, weak.

Crow followed his gaze, then reached out across the table to set a hand on Saint’s arm.

“None of this is your fault, Saint.”

The Titan’s jaw clenched, synthetic muscles flexing.

“He’s strong.” Crow felt his confidence wane after he said it. Osiris was strong, he had been. Crow might have never known the real man, but he’s heard plenty of stories about him. With his Light, Osiris had been an incredible warrior, but without it? Crow had no idea. If Savathûn had been holding him somewhere else while she’d been in the Tower, he’d likely been in a comatose state–whether induced by Savathûn or brought on by his own physical weakness–for nearly two years now. Only the strong could survive that, but how much longer could he hold out? Would he ever wake up? 

Crow watched Saint draw in a deep breath. Would it be kinder to prepare Saint for the possibility that Osiris would not wake up? What if all of this was another trick of Savathûn’s, to make them believe Osiris might one day wake up, when in reality, he’d been lost the moment Savathûn took him.

Crow drew in his own deep breath, pulling his hand back from Saint’s arm.

“The other night, you said you couldn’t come to help on the Leviathan because you knew what your nightmare would be.” Crow said, and Saint’s eyes lifted to his, watching him. His chest ached at the defensiveness in Saint’s features. “I know it’s hard, but if you ever wanted to talk about it, if you ever wanted help, I’m here for you.”

Saint’s eyes dropped down to the table, and he shook his head.

“I cannot.” He said, his voice deathly quiet.

“Okay.” Crow breathed, “but you’re not alone in this fight. You’re never alone.”

Saint drew in a shaking breath, then looked down at his empty bowl of ramen. 

“Have you had gelato?” He asked Crow suddenly, and when Crow shook his head, he rose to his feet, picking up their dishes and bringing them to the kitchen. “Come. You must try it. We will go for a walk.”

Crow helped him gather the dishes, and could only follow as Saint led him from the apartment and down to the city below, bathed in warm summer light as the sun set over the wall. They walked for perhaps ten minutes before Saint stopped in front of a little shop, a window open where an attendant was taking people’s orders and passing gelato through the window.

“I am sorry.” Saint told him, standing back from the shop. “I did not mean to be short with you. Discussing Osiris can be…” He trailed off, and Crow set a hand on his shoulder. Saint looked him in the eyes before offering him a small, thankful smile. “We all have our own nightmares, seen or unseen.”

Crow watched him breathe deep, like he was shrugging a weight off his shoulders. He nodded to the shop before them.

“Osiris and I used to come here before…everything. I was surprised it still remained when I returned.” He looked around them, at the plants in full bloom and the warm, evening sky. “Osiris enjoys the summer. I had hoped he might wake to enjoy this one but…there is still time. Whenever we could, we would spend evenings in the city. We would walk, have picnics in the gardens, eat gelato.” He stared longingly at the shop. “I hope one day we will do so again.”

Crow squeezed Saint’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will, Saint.”

The Titan smiled down at him, then gathered him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you, Crow.” He said into Crow’s hair. “I am glad that you’re here.” 

He let go with a bit of reluctance, but nodded towards the gelato shop. “They have many flavors. It may take you a while to decide.”

Crow smiled at Saint. If he were human, he had a feeling Saint would be wiping his eyes. Crow was nearly tearing up himself. His heart was full to bursting. Their lives certainly weren’t easy, but Osiris would wake up in due time. Until then, Crow would be here, supporting Saint for as long as he needed it.

“Okay.” He breathed, rubbing at one of his eyes. “Maybe you can tell me which flavors are the good ones?”

“Of course.” Saint said, and together they moved close enough to read the long list of flavors. “Osiris enjoys pistachio but he is wrong. Chocolate is the best."

Crow laughed, listening close as Saint prattled on, and he prayed that one day soon, Osiris would be here, too.

Chapter Text

Saladin is grateful Caiatl doesn’t ask questions. He provides only the necessary information; after overhearing Zavala’s Nightmare on coms, he feels his former apprentice could benefit from a helping hand. Caiatl only agrees.

“I’ve noticed he doesn’t fight his Nightmare the way Crow does.” Caiatl tells him. There is a question in her eyes, but she does not ask it, and Saladin does not answer. It is not his story to tell.

“He doesn’t.” Saladin agrees, and then Caiatl dismisses him and he’s in his ship in moments. 

The City is quiet when Saladin reaches it. The Tower is hushed, the sun long since set over the horizon, but Saladin knows his former student will be awake, even though he wishes he were not. Amanda Holiday greets him on the Hangar floor, and he watches her note the pinched expression on his face.

“Have you spoken to him recently?” Saladin asks her. He knows Zavala had his own son, years ago, but Zavala has long since been Amanda’s mentor. Saladin knows Zavala sees her almost as his own daughter.

“Not for long.” She tells him, setting a wrench down on her workbench. There’s a smear of oil across her forehead. “He spent most of the day on the HELM, came back here to file reports. I brought him dinner a few hours ago but I couldn’t stay long. The Guardian tells me his Nightmare’s been talking to them. Sounds tense.”

Saladin nods. “His doubts burden him. Caiatl and Eris have offered him support, but I hoped I might be able to get him to think clearly.”

“Seems like he could use the help.” The shipwright says, picking up a screwdriver. Saladin turns to leave. “Maybe see if you can get him to get some sleep while you’re at it.”

Saladin inclines his head. “I’ll certainly try.”

The lights are still on in Zavala’s office when Saladin enters. The Commander looks up as the door whirrs shut behind Saladin, and he can make out the deep bags under Zavala’s eyes, the exhaustion in his features.

“Saladin.” Zavala sits up straighter in his chair, fixing his posture as he’d been leaning on his desk.

“I know I already asked you about Safiya.” Saladin says, “If there’s anything I can do to help you, tell me. But I came to talk.”

Zavala gestures to the chairs that sit before his desk and Saladin takes one.

“What did you wish to discuss?” The Commander asks.

“The Guardian tells me these Nightmares are the embodiments of our own fears and doubts. That the Safiya that you see is no more than a speaker for your own misgivings.” He watches as Zavala lowers his gaze, and he rises from his chair. As fit as it is for a Commander, Zavala’s great desk puts too much distance between them. He moves to stand before the wall of windows behind them, at the rear to the office. “Caiatl has noticed you don’t challenge her.”

Zavala purses his lips.

“How can I?” He rubs a hand over his face. “She voices my very thoughts.”

“Does she?” Zavala lifts his head and Saladin fixes him with a firm look. “When you doubt yourself, do you not challenge it?”

Zavala sighs, so heavy Saladin can feel the weight of years of command on his shoulders.

“It isn’t that simple.” He says, and Saladin has to hold himself back from a firmer approach. It isn’t what Zavala needs now.

“I’ve heard some of what she says to you.” Saladin tells him, and Zavala turns his chair to look up at the Iron Lord, his eyes sad and tired. “You must know it’s not true. You lead Guardians, you don’t send them to their deaths.”

“You have no idea the amount of blood on my hands, Saladin.” There’s so much pain in Zavala’s eyes. Saladin’s only seen it a few times, but his chest aches with every force that would inflict such great suffering on his apprentice.

“I know what it’s like to be the one to survive.”

Zavala’s swallow is heavy. His eyes seem to turn glassy. Saladin wonders how his nights have been spent, alone in his home, with nothing but darkness and his thoughts, or here? Fighting desperately to avoid all of it. Plagued by his own conscience. Saladin takes his hand and hauls him to his feet.

He is not an affectionate man. Zavala was always better at showing emotion, showing that he cared, that he listened, that he could love, but Saladin does his best. He pulls his former apprentice into his embrace. Their armor is bulky and their chest plates clack, but his arms are around Zavala and after a moment’s surprise, Zavala returns the gesture. Saladin feels the Commander shudder. They don’t speak for long moments. Saladin holds Zavala until he eventually draws back, and the Commander wipes at his eyes, blinking away tears.

“I know weakness is the opposite of what we need right now.” He begins, and Saladin sets a hand on his shoulder.

“You are not required to be indestructible.” He tells Zavala. “I want to help you. Caiatl wants to help you. Eris seems to understand these Nightmares better than all of us. She can help you.” He inclines his head, looking into Zavala’s eyes. “This is not a battle you need fight alone.”

Zavala’s breath shudders out of him, but he nods. Saladin gives Zavala a small smile.

“Your Nightmare says Guardians are unfamiliar with pain. You and I both know that isn’t true.” He squeezes Zavala’s shoulder. “You’ve dealt with your fair share of pain, but you’ve survived, and you will survive this, too.”

Saladin lowers his voice, placing his other hand on Zavala’s other shoulder and stepping close to him.

“Safiyah loved you.” He breathes. “She respected you. She knew you. She saw you for everything you were, everything you are, and she chose you. I think she’d do it again.”

Zavala hangs his head, and Saladin holds his shoulders for long moments, until his breathing steadies and he lifts his gaze to Saladin once more.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, and Saladin gives him a soft smile, releasing him and stepping back.

“Can I walk you to your quarters?” He asks, and he watches Zavala glance to his desk, only to find it cleared, his data tablets gone, his Ghost hovering in their place.

“I suppose it would be best if I got some rest.” He allows, weakly returning Saladin’s smile.

“Good.” Saladin says, and together they leave the Commander’s office and head out into the night.

Chapter Text

Crow’s relief is infectious as the Guardian returns to the HELM. They listen as he tells them of his plans, righting Uldren’s wrongs and working to fix what Uldren left broken. The Guardian can feel his newfound peace in his very Light, it breathes a sigh of relief so like the one they’d heard from him on the Leviathan, after he’d reconciled with his Nightmare.

“I’m so proud of you, Crow.” They tell him, pulling him in for a tight hug.

“Thanks, Guardian.” He says, his arms wrapping around them in turn. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

When they draw back, they hold both of Crow’s shoulders and grin at him. “I have to check in with Eris, but after that, we should celebrate.”

Crow arches a brow, but he mirrors their smile.

“ You have time for celebrations?” He teases, and the Guardian pushes him back playfully, rolling their eyes, but they come back to grip his shoulder again, and their smile is warm and genuine.

“I always have time for you.”

They check in with Eris and meet Crow in the little hangar at the rear of the HELM, and they take the Guardian’s ship back to Earth and the Tower, and head down into the city. There’s still light in the sky even in the late evening as they walk among the buildings. They take Crow to a familiar little shop, a ramen restaurant. It’s a popular hangout for Guardians, complete with a framed picture of Cayde on the wall, and a number of Hunters bent over bowls of ramen. They explain to Crow that it’s the parent restaurant to the little ramen booth up in the Tower, and through knowing Cayde and uncovering a number of his staches, they happen to have a couple hundred long expired coupons the staff will randomly decide to accept.

“You think it’s alright for me to be here?” Crow asks them quietly as they enter, nodding to the framed picture of Cayde.

“Of course.” They promise. “If anyone gives you trouble, I’ll have a talk with them about it.”

A waiter leads them to a table and they pour over the menu, telling Crow about all the best dishes and various bowls of ramen. After they’ve ordered, Crow sits back in his seat, glancing around the restaurant. 

“So, you know this place pretty well?” He asks, and the Guardian nods.

“Cayde and I used to come here.” They take a sip of their water, looking around the shop. “Most of the time, we’d come here after successful missions. I’d be dead on my feet and Cayde would convince my fireteam that we all had to go for ramen as soon as the mission debrief was over. I think I even fell asleep in here a few times while Cayde and the team were still celebrating.”

The Guardian offers him a smile, and Crow grins back. “Sounds like a fun time.” He says, picking up his own water.

“It always was, with Cayde involved. A few times he even got Zavala and Ikora to come along with us. Back when things were simpler.” They let out a quiet sigh. “Other times, Cayde would take me here on rough days. When my missions didn’t end in victory but were more about survival. If I ever found an enemy I couldn’t bring down, I’d most likely end up here at the end of the night.”

The Guardian looks towards the picture on the wall, towards Cayde, offering them a grin and a thumbs up, even in death. 

“He always had a way of making me feel better.”  They breathed, and when they looked back, Crow was watching them, quiet, contemplative. “So do you. I don’t think you need to try to replace Cayde. I know you said–”

“I just want to help fix things.” Crow murmured quietly, his eyes on theirs.

“I know.” The Guardian nodded. “I just want you to know, you’re Crow. You’re perfect just the way you are, you don’t have to be anyone else.” They nod to the picture on the wall. “You don’t have to be him. You have your own path, whatever you want to do is up to you.”

Crow drew in a deep breath, but he nodded, giving the Guardian a little smile.

“Thanks, Guardian.” He breathed, and the Guardian reached out, taking his hand atop the table, lacing their fingers.

“I’m proud of you.” They tell him, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad you’ve found your path.”

“Me too.” Crow says, inclining his head. “Are you going to be alright with your Nightmare?”

The Guardian bites their lip. They’ve been trying not to think about their Nightmare. With everything going on, it had been easy to keep the focus on Crow and Uldren, and now with Zavala’s Nightmare acting up… they know they’ll have to face it eventually, but they're not sure what they’ll do when the time comes.

“I’ll have you with me, won’t I?” The Guardian asks him, and Crow nods.

“Of course, but that might not be enough.” Crow lowers his voice, shifting closer to them from across the table. “Have you seen it yet?”

The Guardian shakes their head. “Other than the Nightmares we’ve been containing with the harvester, no.” They confess. “I saw them while I was on the moon, when I first found the Pyramid, but I don’t know what this one will be. Those were never quite as…persistent as the Nightmares we’re facing now.”

“What do you think it will be?” Crow asked.

The Guardian opened their mouth to speak, but paused when a waiter arrived with their orders. Once their bowls were before them, and the waiter was gone, the Guardian stared down at their bowl, adjusting their chopsticks in their hand.

“I don’t know.” They breathe, “before I saw Ghaul, Crota, and the Fanatic. I think Ghaul might come back. Maybe SIVA, too, but I’m not sure what form it would take.”

“SIVA is that nanotechnology you told me about?” Crow asks, and the Guardian nods.

“The thing that killed the Iron Lords. When the House of Devils restarted production of it they augmented themselves with it. It also infected the old Iron Lords, reanimating them.”

Crow’s face shifts into a grimace. “That sounds awful. And Saladin was the only one to survive it the first time?”

“Yeah.” They looked down, slurping up some of their ramen if only to avoid the topic at hand for a few moments. “It sounds like it wasn’t pretty. I’m just glad we were able to put them to rest.”

“I’m sure Saladin appreciated it.” Crow says, and the Guardian nods, but they lapse into silence, staring at their ramen for long moments.

“Listen, Guardian,” Crow says, leaning forward to catch their attention. “Whatever your Nightmare is, I want you to know I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk about it, I’d be happy to listen.”

The Guardian offers him a little smile. “I know, thanks, Crow. We’ll face my Nightmare when we get to it, and I appreciate the help, but tonight’s about you.” They pick up their glass, raising it before him. “To Crow. To everything you’ll do.”

Chapter Text

Petra Venj presses her eye to her sniper scope, looking out over the expanse of Rheasilvia below her, rather than at the man lying at her side. 

“I hear Crow’s made peace with his past life.” She says, trying to keep her voice neutral. It’s hard to be nonchalant about Crow, it’s hard to detach him from the throng of heavy memories attached to his face. “Apparently he wants to fix things.”

Beside her, she hears the shift in the sand and the rustle of clothing as Jolyon Till the Rachis shifts, rolling onto his side. She sneaks a glance to find him arching a brow at her.

“Really?” He asks, and Petra turns her gaze back to her scope, lining up her gun with the head of a scorn Chieftain. She squeezes the trigger. The Supremacy kicks hard into her shoulder and the Chieftain falls.

“So says the Guardian.” She explains, looking for another target. “Emperor Calus is back with his Leviathan, orbiting Luna. Apparently he’s trying to connect with the Pyramid there. His ship is infested with Nightmares. The Guardians are working on eliminating them to weaken the connection to the Pyramid. Crow dealt with his recently. A manifestation of his doubts and fears, in the form of Uldren.”

Jolyon’s rifle booms just after Petra finishes speaking, and she lifts her eye from her scope briefly to see the blur of a faraway Taken Knight vanishing.

“So, what? Some figment of Uldren told him he was a terrible person and now he’s found his purpose?”

She can’t place the emotion in his tone. Anger or bitterness, she can’t tell. 

“I don’t know.” She answers, and they lapse into silence again. 

Petra spots a group of scorn moving too close to a group of hidden Corsairs and picks them off with her rifle. When the group has been dealt with, she lifts her head from her rifle with a quiet sigh. 

“If he wants to fix things, I imagine he’ll make his way here eventually.” 

Jolyon sighs quietly before he takes another shot, and Petra isn’t sure if the breath was for his shot or in reaction to her words.

“Straight back to Mara, like always.” He murmurs, then shifts onto his side again to look at Petra. “She still trying to get him back into her pocket?”

“I don’t think so.” She says, taking an admittedly bold step for the Queen’s Wrath. “She’s still Mara, but when we were working with him earlier, before the exorcism, it seemed like she thought a lot about their relationship before. She knows she can’t treat him like Uldren. I think she wants to correct some of her own mistakes, too.”

Jolyon eyes her for a moment, then shifts back to his rifle. “That’d be a first.” He says, so quiet Petra almost can’t hear it. He speaks up before Petra can retort. 

“Why are you telling me this, anyways?” He asks, abruptly looking up from his rifle. “Weren’t my orders to stay away?”

The bitterness is clear in his tone this time, and Petra looks away, taking in the view below them. The sniper perch provides an unparalleled view of Rheasilvia, beautiful in addition to its usefulness. She looks out over the Dreaming City, counting her Corsairs scattered across the landscape.

“Savathûn gave him his memories back.” She says after a long few moments, after Jolyon’s taken up his rifle again and set to peering through the scope. She wonders if he ever misses Uldren when he’s up here. He’s never needed a spotter, but Uldren would keep him company, banter with him, plan their next daring adventure.

“He might want to see you.” She tells him.

“What would you have me do?” The question is gruff and tired. She wonders if she should let it lie. Working with the Guardian to kill Uldren was difficult enough, but at least it gave her a sense of closure, a clear finish line for Uldren’s life. Jolyon didn’t get that, for him, Uldren’s death was that of decay, slow and painful.

“If he sought you out, maybe there would be nothing you could do.” She suggests, even if it feels like going behind her Queen’s back. If Mara is allowed to reconnect with Crow, to reconcile with everything that Uldren was, Jolyon should get that same opportunity. “You followed your orders. With all his work for Spider, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a pretty good tracker.”

Jolyon groans, lifting his head to cast a grimace at Petra. “His work for Spider?” He repeats, and Petra purses her lips. Jolyon doesn’t keep secrets, and he follows the Queen’s orders better than Uldren ever did. Petra had delivered the order for him to stay away, and he’d done so. If he’d gone looking into Crow, she’d have known about it.

“Spider is the one who named him Crow.” She tells him, “I told you about the abuse he suffered after he was first rezzed.” Jolyon nods. “A lot of it was at Spider’s hands. The Guardian was the one who rescued him.”

“Same Guardian who…” He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish.

“The same one.” Petra confirms. “The Queen has already dealt with Spider, he’ll receive justice for what he did.”

Jolyon frowns, but turns back to his rifle. “Knowing Spider, justice won’t undo any of the damage.”

“It won’t.” Petra confirms, “but he has a home now, with them. They care about him.” When Jolyon looks over at her, she amends her words. “Maybe not all of them, but enough. The Guardian has forgiven him. Their Vanguard Leaders look after him. He’s in good hands.”

Jolyon sighs quietly, sitting up, though he turns to still face Rheasilvia below. 

“That’s good to hear.” He says, then looks at Petra, giving her a small nod. “Thank you. I’m glad he’s found some peace.”

Petra inclines her head in return. “You’re welcome.” She tells him, and they stare out at the city together. She doesn’t know exactly the distinction between a Guardian and their past life. Whether Uldren’s soul lives on in Crow, or if Crow is someone completely new, built out of what Uldren was but separate from him. She supposes it doesn’t matter, but she hopes if Crow can find some measure of peace within himself, Uldren can rest a little easier, wherever he is.

Chapter Text

Osiris was not improving. That much was undeniable. 

Saint was trying not to let it hit him too hard, but he would be lying if he said he was succeeding. Publicly, he was doing his best to maintain a visage of hope, a steadfast belief in his partner and his abilities. Internally, he was a wreathing mess of doubt and shame. The idea that Osiris was not improving, that he was declining was hard to bear. Though he’d tried not to let it show, he’d been nearly inconsolable when he came to understand that Osiris needed to be moved back to the hospital, rather than remaining at home with Saint. He hadn’t even been able to make the decision all on his own. Ikora had been the one to push him to make the final call, when she’d seen that Osiris’ condition had refused to improve, and the effort of giving him care and remaining positive throughout had been too much for Saint to bear.

Ikora visited him often. Even when she’d been busy with Savathûn and her forces, if Ikora was in the City, she’d at least spend an hour with Saint. He couldn’t help but long for her company as he bought dinner and walked to the hospital. Crow had spent the evening with him a few nights ago, but he had no plans for another visitor. One would likely show up unannounced, but he longed for a distraction that seemed intent to elude him, at least for the time being.

He made his way towards the looming hospital, a small bag of takeout clutched in his fist. It was not an offensive structure. Had he seen it in other circumstances, he would have perhaps admired the architecture, or the professional but inviting interior. Instead, it seemed to him now as a place meant to reflect his failure. He’d been relieved to bring Osiris home after the initial few weeks he’d spent in the hospital. To have him end up back in it felt like he’d failed in his duty to take care of his partner. Should he not have woken by now? Was there something Saint could be doing better? Was there anything he could do to help him?

He breezed through the familiar check-in process, the staff greeting him by name, a gesture he returned in kind. While the familiarity had a sort of comfort in it, he did not want it. He would have preferred he never had the opportunity to know them, but he could see in their eyes that they knew that as well as he did, so he remained as kind as he could. Before long, he was in Osiris’ room, and he sank down into the seat by his bedside, setting his little bag of food on a small table.

“Hello, Osiris.” He greeted quietly, watching his lover for a moment before he rose and washed his hands in a little sink in the corner of the room. He felt exhausted. He knew he should speak, but he had no idea what to say. He felt a small nudge through his Light, as if Geppetto were telling him not to worry himself.

He sat back down with a quiet sigh, drawing the little table towards him and taking out his dinner. Spending mealtimes at Osiris’ bedside was a fairly regular occurrence by now.

“I’m sorry if I seem…tired.” He murmured. If Osiris could truly hear him, he did not want him to think Saint was beginning to lose faith in him, but his exhaustion was hard to ignore, and lying to his lover was not something he wanted for them, not after everything that had happened.

“There is a situation on Luna.” He explained to Osiris. He opened up the foil and paper that wrapped around his dinner, freeing the top of his burrito and taking a bite. It had been a long day. Admittedly, all he’d done was run errands, but weighed down by his emotions, he was exhausted and hungry, and he took a few bites of his meal before he stopped to explain.

“Calus’s ship–the Leviathan–is orbiting Luna.” He explained to Osiris. The former Warlock remained still, but his breathing and pulse were steady. If he was intrigued by Saint’s words, he gave no indication, not that Saint expected any. “The Guardians say Calus is a disciple of the Witness.” He seethed. Saint did not pretend to know all there was to know about Calus, but from what he did know of the Emperor in exile, he thought very little of him. “He’s managed to connect his ship to the Pyramid on the moon. His ship is infested with Nightmares. The Guardians are dealing with them but it does not seem like an easy battle.”

He took another few bites of his burrito. Geppetto transmatted a water bottle onto the table before him, and he took a sip.

“Crow was here. We discussed it. He told me about what the Nightmares are like. I don’t know if you remember.” He didn’t know if Osiris remembered Crow from his visits or otherwise, having never met him, besides possibly seeing him through whatever link Savathûn created between their minds so that she might know his thoughts and memories. He didn’t know if Osiris remembered anything from his time in the hospital. The doctors had told him patients in commas can occasionally hear what’s said around them, but no amount of Light, Awoken magic, or modern medicine had been able to determine whether Osiris’ state has been induced by Savathûn and her magic, or due to the conditions he was kept in.

“I think you would like Crow.” He told Osiris quietly. It was a sentiment he’d  expressed to Osiris many times. He hoped his lover was not tired of the words. “He is quick witted, strong willed. He is not afraid to speak his mind, though sometimes, he should not be so bold.”

He set aside his burrito, wiping off his hands before he reached for Osiris’.  “Some of his tendencies remind me of you.” He breathed. He’d seen Osiris in some of Crow’s biting remarks, his sudden displays of talent and tenacity. It made him ache for his loss all the more. 

“But,” he murmured, “I see you everywhere. Echoes of you, pieces of your influence. Guardians still have your sigil on guns and armor but it’s more than that. I hear you in Ikora’s  words, in Crow’s wit. I see you in every Dawnblade, every victory against the Vex. Every time I run the simulations for the Trials, I think of you.”

Saint had found himself in Osiris’ ship weeks ago, looking for a memento he’d thought should have been in Osiris’ study. When he’d searched, he’d found a bag of candy corn under one of the seats. He’d nearly broken on the spot.

Saint drew in a deep breath, around his choked throat. “You must come back soon, Osiris.” He pressed a kiss to his lover’s knuckles. “I miss you.”

Chapter Text

It’s a hard thing to admit, when Zavala has lived for years convinced he could rely on himself and only himself, but Amanda’s company is soothing. After his failure of a mission with the Guardian, with Safiya voicing his every buried fear and doubt, he feels cut up inside. The Guardian came to check on him after they’d returned, but he couldn’t explain his failures to them. He couldn’t bear to wade through the throng of old grief and twisted up guilt he harbors deep inside. He’d sent them to Eris, like a coward.

He hears Ikora’s voice, growling in his ear. Cowardice. All that she accused him of being after he lost another so close to him. After he couldn’t save another he’d wanted so desperately to protect. 

Amanda shifts in her seat, snapping Zavala back to reality as they sit in the cushioned chairs in the corner of his office, the table with his knitting supplies to her left side. She throws her legs over the right side of the chair, using Zavala’s current project–a half finished blanket–to cushion the metal arm at her back. She has a data tablet resting on her thighs and she works quietly, keeping Zavala company as he tries to do nothing more than read strike reports in the chair beside her.

“I know it hurts to listen, and I know it probably hurts to see her again,” the Guardian had told him when they’d come to check on him, “but I think the advice your nightmare is giving you isn’t all bad.”

Through their bond, he can feel the Guardian’s ache for him in his chest, even now. At first it felt like pity, unwanted and scorned, but the longer he feels it, the more he realizes it runs deeper. He realizes they’re hurting for him. He is a steadfast presence in their life, one they have come to know and care for, and seeing him in such pain causes them pain in response. 

“You should talk to someone. Tell someone about what you’re feeling, let someone ease your burden.” The Guardian had offered him a little smile. “I know I’m not the best at it, either, but I’m trying to get better at it, and I think talking can really help sometimes. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but maybe you could tell someone, or talk to someone who already knows.” They set a hand on his arm, just below his great pauldron, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to see Eris, but I’m here for you if you need me.”

He can’t help the stab of guilt he feels at their worry, still humming from their side of the bond that now stretches between himself, the Guardian, and Crow. At least Crow hadn’t been there to witness his failure, but he imagines the Hunter will know soon enough. He can’t help the grief he feels for Hakim and Safiya, or the guilt that’s followed him for centuries, but there’s a spark of humiliation that breathes fresh shame into him at the idea of how compromised he became in front of one of his Guardians. His best Guardian, but even Zavala must admit, they were never quite like the others, and over the years, they’ve grown to the point where Zavala might even call them a friend.

The Guardian had told him to speak to someone, and he would, eventually, but he couldn’t bear to now. Amanda had reached out to him though, as if she could sense the turmoil in his thoughts. She’d offered him company when he’d told her he couldn’t speak, couldn’t confess the shame that plagued him. He was glad he’d accepted, for her sake as well as his own. She’d looked tight as a wire when she’d entered, but the longer they sat in companionable silence, the more her tension had seemed to slip away. She’d sought him out, too, had agreed to stay with him, wanted to. She didn’t view him as some monster, as some ruthless leader who ordered his people to their deaths for a force that no longer cared for him. She looked at him with love in her eyes, regarded him with complete trust. She’d told him, quietly, breathing through old pain, that his presence even eased some of the hurt she felt for her parents. He worried what it might mean if he admitted she did the same for him and his loss of Hakim. Would he be the death of Amanda as well? 

His gaze shifts down to her prosthetic, a lingering reminder of the hardships she’d faced in the wilds as a child. He looks over her bare arms, at the scars that mar the tattoo on her right arm. She’d received them during the Red War. Once, he’d heard Cayde ask her if she might get the marks filled in, her tattoo would be easy enough to fix, after all, but she’d told him she wouldn’t. That she didn’t want to. The scars reminded her of what she’d endured, what they’d all endured. She didn’t mind the blemish to her tattoo. 

He’d been terrified that night. Terrified for her, for the Guardians, for the city. He’d been a Commander long enough to hold firm in times of crisis, and he’d promised himself over and over again that Amanda had made her choice, that every ounce of aid she gave him, every mission she ran was her choice, but it felt like Hakim all over again. He felt like he’d encouraged her, tempted her into dangerous situations. She was capable, but she wasn’t immortal. He’d spent the entire time on Titan worried she wouldn’t come back, that she would die in battle and there would be nothing he could do to save her. He’d hardly considered the danger to his own life without his connection to the Light.

“You okay?” Amanda snaps him from his thoughts again, though her voice is gentle, like she already knows the answer he will give. He tries to push the pain and fear from his face.

“I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.” He tells her, and Amanda nods, though she doesn’t seem reassured. He watches her set her tablet on the little table behind her. 

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it but the offer’s still open. Just in case.” She tells him, and he lets out a quiet sigh. Maybe he doesn’t have to tell her everything, maybe just a little will help ease some of the weight on his chest.

“Ikora tells me I have an instinct to father.” He says, and Amanda gives him a little smile, because of course she’s well aware. He has to look away from her face in order to continue. “I think she’s right, but that scares me.” His words slow until he can scarcely speak. “Because…”

He trails off. Amanda’s gaze is kind and open, waiting for him to finish, but he can’t think past the stab of pain through his chest. He can practically feel Hakim’s blood on his hands.

“Because my own son died in battle.” 

Amanda’s eyes widen in shock, and she shifts to sit up straighter, pulling her legs down, off the chair's arm and setting her feet on the floor once more.

“I worry that if I fathered him, and that was his fate, will the Guardians I preside over eventually do the same?”

He draws in a deep breath, and when he looks down he realizes his hands are shaking. He realizes he almost doesn’t want the Guardian to care about him, because he cares about them, and if something were to happen to them, if they were to die like Hakim… He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Zavala.” Amanda leans out of her chair to grip his hand, and her fingers wrap around his and squeeze. “You didn’t cause their deaths, and I bet you didn’t cause your son’s, either.”

Zavala shudders as he takes a deep breath. Amanda has been in the Tower for long enough to know of the multitude of Guardian deaths that weigh on him, a burden that seems to grow with every passing day. He can’t help the way he pulls back, drawing his hand out of hers and pressing his head into his hand for a long moment.

“My Nightmare at least believes this to be the case.” He explains to Amanda.

“Which means…” Amanda murmurs, “some part of you believes it, too.”

He gives her a wordless nod. He thinks of what Safiya said about the Guardian, about them being his new protégé. But they have the Light, they bear the weight of immortality just as much as he does. They’ve shown him time and time again that he won’t lose them.

They lapse into silence, and Zavala focuses on keeping his breathing steady. Just speaking about Hakim, even discussing him as impersonally as they are, it feels like his heart is being cleaved in two all over again. It reminds him of the aftermath of his death, of what he did. He remembers the shock in Safiya's eyes as he raised a gun at his own Ghost, the shock and fear and pain that had flooded his bond with Targe. He reaches out across that bond now, offering an apology, hoping to convey every ounce of guilt he’s ever felt for turning on his Ghost with the intent of violence. But Targe already knows.

“I yelled at Crow.” Amanda breathes, and the pain in her voice pulls Zavala from his thoughts. “I called him a murderer, said he killed Cayde.”

He watches her let out her breath, and he reaches out, taking her hand just as she took his. 

“I know it’s not true. And I need to apologize, I just…” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I feel terrible. Every time I think about it–”

She breaks off, shaking her head, and Zavala squeezes her hand gently. 

“Perhaps we both need time.” He breathes, and Amanda lets out a breathy sigh.

“Guess so.” She murmurs, lifting her eyes to him. “It felt good to get that off my chest.” She gives him a small smile, and Zavala returns it.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He murmurs, and Amanda’s smile brightens a little, her grip tightening on his hand. Suddenly she’s standing before him, and she uses her grip on his hand to haul him upright with surprising strength.

“Alright, Commander,” She gives him a grin, opening her arms. “Bring it in. Traveler knows we both need it.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Zavala sighs, but his smile remains, and he steps forward, drawing her into his arms and into his embrace. He rests his head atop hers. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

There is blood on the Guardian’s hands. Hot, red, human blood, staining blue Awoken hands, already smeared with dirt and gun oil. They’re coated in the blood of Eliksni like a second skin. Their own blood—no, not theirs, Zavala’s—coats his armor from the closing wounds that cover his body. He glows with healing Light, but all the Guardian can feel is pain. 

He’s knelt over a boy, a young man, his hands pressed against a deep, gouging wound. The Guardian recognizes it, the wound from a Fallen blade, rammed through his middle, then ripped back out. They know there’s nothing anyone can do for him, not without the Light. There’s nothing Zavala can do.

“Safiya,” He says, his voice a flood of pain and panic. “We have to get him inside. Tell me–” He shifts his hands from where they’d been pressed against the boy’s wound, moving to slip his arms under the boy’s knees and around his back. “Tell me what you need.”

“Zavala.” Safiya’s arms are stained up to the elbow in blood. The smear of a handprint colors her cheek, but tear tracks have carved into the drying blood.

“Please, Safi, we need to hurry.” He stumbles to his feet, even as the Guardian feels he knows it to be useless. The clearing around the house is littered with the bodies of the Fallen raiders, but there’s nothing more Zavala can do.

“Zavala.” Safiya’s hand rests on his arm and Zavala looks into her eyes. The Guardian feels like their soul is shattering. “He’s dead, Zavala.” 

Zavala stares into her eyes, and then he crumples to his knees. He draws Hakim against him and then his Light is pouring out of his chest. It wraps his son in a healing glow, as if Zavala could use his own power to restore his son, but the Guardian is all too familiar with their gift. They know his efforts will be in vain but he tries anyway, pouring out his power as his tears start to flow, and he sobs into his son’s chest as he exhausts himself.

The Guardian doesn’t know how long he tries. It feels like hours, until he’s shaking and sweating with the exertion. They feel Safiya’s hand on his shoulder, and she leans into him. Together they cradle their son and the Guardian has never known grief like Zavala feels. Pain and shame and anger and sadness, all consuming and all encompassing. Zavala sobs, and he doesn’t let his son go for hours. He and Safiya stay knelt in the clearing until the sun rises on a world where their son is dead, his skin ashen, his blood crusted on the skin of those who loved him most.

When the Guardian wakes, they can’t breathe. They choke on broken sobs, gasping as their grief feels like a knife that’s been driven into their chest. They writhe on their bed, fluctuating between devastation and panic as they fear they will suffocate under the force of their cries. There’s nothing their Ghost can do before they still from utter exhaustion, and their movements still to only the rise and fall of their chest, and the tears that roll across their face and down into the sheets below their head.

They can feel themself slipping away into exhaustion and oblivion when a soft knock sounds on their door. They nod to their Ghost, sitting up groggily as he flits over to the door and casts a beam of light at the button to open it, the door sliding away, into a pocket in the wall. On the other side, Eris Morn regards them with concern.

“Are you alright, Guardian? I heard your cries.” She asks quietly, and the Guardian nods. They know their face is flushed from their sobs, but a tinge of embarrassment joins the color on their cheeks, and they shift their gaze away from her. “May I come in?”

The Guardian nods again, and they smooth out the blankets at the end of their bed—Traveler, they must have been thrashing in their sleep—so that Eris might sit, the room offering few other places that might be suitable.

“Is this about your Nightmare?” She asks, and the Guardian shakes their head. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of their Nightmare since this whole mess began, besides the Nightmares they’ve been containing with the Harvester. 

“No.” The Guardian answers, and their voice is hoarse from crying. Would it be too much to hope that they’ve already dealt with their own Nightmares when they first found the Pyramid on Luna? “I think it’s about Zavala’s Nightmare.”

“Explain.” Eris tells them, but her voice is as gentle as it has been when she’s offered Crow and Zavala counsel, when the Guardian stood before them while they collapsed on their knees under the weight of their attempt to purge their Nightmares.

“I just saw Zavala’s son die.” They sniffle, winding their hands together in an effort to stop their shaking. “In my dream. I could feel everything. All his pain.” They struggle in a breath, their throat tight. “It feels like my chest is being ripped open.”

Eris frowns in contemplation, and they wish they could see her eyes, but the tone of her voice is clear enough as she puzzles over them. “When we forged the bond, I had anticipated you might experience varying effects of one another’s Nightmares while in their presence, like the way Crow’s Nightmare of Uldren would occasionally speak to you as if he were your own. Zavala’s Nightmare seems to wish to use you against him as well, bringing you into the fold of his suffering. This, however, is not what I predicted. The idea that you would be able to experience Zavala’s own thoughts and memories, or to imagine them in such clarity is…unexpected.”

She stands from where she’d seated herself on the end of their bed, pacing the little space before them.

“I…” The Guardian swallows. It feels like every part of them is shaking now, like their body can’t cope with the sudden flood of emotion running through them, emotion that doesn’t even belong to them. “I felt their emotions sometimes, Zavala’s and Crow’s, when we were dealing with their Nightmares. I’d feel Crow’s anger, or Zavala’s guilt. Just pieces of it, in my chest, like the bond was sending them to me.”

“That is similar to what I had predicted.” Eris tells them, inclining her head. “I wonder if what you’ve just experienced is a result of Zavala’s Nightmare attempting to maintain control over him.” The Guardian’s room doesn’t have any windows, none of the quarters on the HELM do, but Eris gestures around them. “Here, we are within reach of the Leviathan and the Nightmares aboard it. Zavala has returned to the City, but with the bond, your Nightmares are shared. I don’t know for certain that the Nightmares can invoke dreams, but it’s possible Zavala’s Nightmare has reached out to you as the only individual she can reach, and is hoping to further increase her power by reminding you of the pain Zavala has experienced.”

Eris pauses her pacing, and they feel her gaze on them as they let out a shaking breath, wiping at their eyes.

“But that is a matter for another time, perhaps.” She says, her voice softening. She finds her way to the edge of their bed once again, and her hand rests gently on their shoulder. “What you saw could not have been easy to watch. Tell me what you need, Guardian.”

The Guardian rubs the heels of their hands into their eyes, trying desperately to reign in another round of tears. Eris’s hand shifts from their shoulder, rubbing soothing circles along their back.

“I don’t know.” They breathe. “I’ve never felt like this before. Even with Cayde, my pain was…different.” They swallow hard, lifting their head to look at Eris. “I want to see Zavala, I want to hug him. I need to know that he’s alright.”

The Guardian knows that if they could see them, there would be sadness in her eyes as Eris tilts her head, offering them a sad smile. “Even if you went to him, I’m not sure you would find what you are hoping for.”

The Guardian wipes away a fresh tear, taking in a shaking breath as they nod. “I know.”

Chapter Text

“A ship can be more than fancy machinery and a means of transportation. 

 

It can be a destination in and of itself. A place of serenity. In times of war, those places are few and far between. Cherish the time in between battles. Allow yourself time to decompress, relax your mind and loosen your grip. Recharge. Those moments don’t last long, but offer enough time for reflection and preparation.

 

Perhaps cleaning up an overstocked inventory is a cathartic act for you, Guardian. A short meditative stretch or simply resting one’s eyes can afford you the clarity you’ll need to stay sharp and focused on the battlefield.

 

Whatever that may be for you, be sure to grant yourself the break you need. Appreciate the momentary respite. May it be a reminder of the peace we hope to bring to the Last City.” 

 

—Saint-14

The Guardian led Crow into their jumpship. In the little hangar in the HELM, they led the way up the ramp at the rear of the space, pausing at the top to wait for Crow to step inside, then closing it behind them. The jumpship hummed to life, and the Guardian’s Ghost piloted them gently through the HELM’s shielded opening and out of the hangar bay. Neither Crow, nor the Guardian spoke until they’d drifted into orbit around the moon, the Leviathan hidden from sight at the ship’s rear. 

“Your ship looks…different.” Crow said at last, glancing around the space.

It wasn’t particularly large. The ramp of the ship closed up into a room they’d made into their armory of sorts, weapons stored on racks on the walls on either side, crates of ammo stacked below them, on either side of the ramp. There were a couple storage bins wedged in the corner, filled with anything the Guardian could think of that might be necessary in an emergency. Beyond it led into the ship itself, a metal door separating the two spaces. In the room beyond the ramp, the Guardian had a bed built into a wall, a sorry excuse for a kitchen and bathroom, and the ship’s cockpit in the front.

“Hmm?” The Guardian glanced around. When was the last time Crow had been in their ship?

“The lights.” He pointed to a strand of fairy lights that wound their way around the little living space. “They’re new. Or new to me.”

“Oh.” The Guardian smiled, perching themself on the edge of their bed as they looked around the space. “I tried to spruce up the place a little bit.”

With the lights, a number of pictures adorned the wall, taken with their fireteam, or by their Ghost on various missions. There were even a few of the Guardian and Crow. On their bed, they’d added a collection of blankets and pillows which might end up on the floor whenever they actually wanted to sleep, but they added a pleasant atmosphere to the room.

“Do you decorate your ship?” They asked, patting the bed beside them.

Crow shrugged, sliding down to sit beside them. 

“I’ve never really thought about it.” He confessed. “I don’t have much to decorate with.”

“What about all that stuff in your crow’s nest?” The Guardian kicked off their boots, worming out of their bulkier armor and sliding back further onto the bed to lean on the wall. Crow’s face flushed, and the Guardian remembered with a little smile how embarrassed he’d been when Glint had called his hideout his crow’s nest. “Is all of that in your ship?”

“It is, but that’s not exactly decorations.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “For a while, that was all that I owned. I couldn’t keep anything at Spider’s because I knew it wouldn’t be safe.”

The Guardian pursed their lips in a pout. “Well, I guess Glint and I will just have to take you shopping sometime.”

Crow smiled, but he didn’t meet their gaze. “I’d like that.” He murmured. He bent over, following their example and taking off his own boots. 

“So,” he said when he’d straightened, “what gave you the idea to decorate your ship? I guess I assumed you’d be a little bit more…utilitarian about everything.”

The Guardian hummed. “For a while I was.” They told him. “When I was first revived, my ship was mostly just a means of transportation. I found my first one in the cosmodrome, the Fallen in the area had picked it clean of just about everything. It barely had seats. I got the essentials fixed up when I made it to the City, but I didn’t care to add much more. I think the Vanguard gave me my second ship. I had no idea you could live in them. I didn’t know they could have beds or kitchens or bathrooms. By now, I’ve seen plenty of ships better than this, bigger with full rooms on board, long range haulers with cabins and work rooms. With all my missions I like to keep something small, I didn’t think I should get too invested in it.”

“So what changed?” 

“My missions started getting more intense. I’d spend more time out in the field before I could make it back to the Tower. I needed something I could sleep in. Something with water and a bathroom. But I didn’t start decorating until I talked with Saint about his ship.” They smiled at Crow. “He talks about his ship like a home, a safe haven, the eye of his storm, I guess. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I needed something like that. A place to decompress and recharge.” They nodded at the window across from them, on the slanted ceiling where the roof met the wall, “you certainly can’t beat the views. And it’s nice to not have to go back to the Tower every time I want to take a nap.”

Crow followed their gaze out the window, to the hundreds of stars drifting beyond their view. 

“If you could have anything you ever wanted, what kind of things would you want in your ship?” They shifted on the bed to face him, sinking into some of the pillows. Crow sighed, casting a glance around them.

“Blankets.” He said. “And hot water. Plenty of food and supplies. But also…those lights? The ones that change color? And I’d want a spot for Glint. His own little bed or something.”

“That sounds sweet. Ghost has his own little perch up there.” They pointed to a shelf in the corner of the ship, a little pillow and blanket sat atop it. “He sometimes stays on the bed with me but I roll around a little too much for him. Apparently I trap him in the blankets a lot.”

Crow grinned at them. “Why does that not surprise me?” 

The Guardian rolled their eyes, punching his arm lightly. They’d crashed in enough places with Crow that they supposed they couldn’t blame him for knowing their sleeping habits. 

They lapsed into silence and the Guardian sighed, then stifled a yawn with the back of their hand, leaning back further into their pillows. Crow crawled over, and they arranged themselves until they lay side by side, stretched out on the little bunk. Being a Guardian of the Last City was tiring work. 

Crow reached down, taking their hand in his and lacing their fingers together. 

“Thanks for bringing me here.” He said, rolling his head to the side to look at them. “It’s nice to get away from everything for a little while.”

The Guardian smiled, patting their joined hands with their free hand before settling back into the pillows even further. “Don’t mention it.” They told him, then let out a louder, longer yawn. Crow smiled.

“Get some rest, Guardian. I’m sure you need it.”

Chapter Text

The Cabal Empress has never been one to shy away from saying what she means. She strives to be candid always. Her empire functions better without the honey-soaked lies her father was so prone to, but not for the first time recently, she finds herself wondering if she has been perhaps a touch too blunt.

The doubt of her usual steadfast convictions comes after she’s stepped away from the communications lines she and her forces have maintained with the Guardians aboard their HELM and their forces on her father’s ship. She leaves Saladin in her absence, but he will be joining her in her war room shortly, after he’s spoken to the Commander and the woman that is leading their efforts on the Leviathan, Eris Morn. She can’t help but wonder if any of them had heard the words she exchanged with the Commander, after she’d heard the torment his Nightmare had been putting him through.

She cannot remember her own words exactly, but she lashed out at the Nightmare, insulted it and refused to allow it to speak to Zavala as it had. After he had informed her that her words were unnecessary, she’d promised him she’d defend him from any threat, and had asked him if he would rather her stand aside instead. His words had been hesitant, confused. He’d thanked her and apologized in the same breath.

We need not tend our open wounds alone. 

There had been an offering in her words, one she had meant entirely—she did not speak falsehoods, not like this—but she wonders now if she had perhaps moved too quickly.

She’s so lost in her thoughts, gazing down at the war table she stands at, she doesn’t even hear Saladin’s approach. When she looks up, his eyes linger on hers expectantly, and she realizes he must’ve attempted to get her attention. 

“My apologies,” she tells him, inclining her head. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

Saladin returns her nod. She has come to understand this conveys a general acceptance. If he were not a man of so few words, he might have perhaps told her that she had no reason to apologize, or that all was forgiven.

“The Guardian is returning to the HELM for the time being.” Saladin tells her. “Nightmare containment will begin again tomorrow morning.” 

Caiatl nods, offering him silent thanks for his report. Unless a specific time zone or other base of operations has been established, Guardian operations functioned around the time of the Last City, allowing the Guardians to move from place to place without the hindrance of constant, repeated readjustment. Even her own forces have begun to function in accordance to such timing, Earth's daily rotation being not dissimilar to their own on Torobatl. 

“Eris is investigating plans for our next move concerning the Leviathan, but I’ve asked her to contact me should she require any assistance.” Saladin adds, his hands collapsed behind his back.

“Thank you. Inform me if the situation changes.” She tells Saladin, and he nods. For a moment, he seems to read her words as a dismissal—not unwarranted, she has dismissed him with similar words before—but she holds up a hand. 

“What can you tell me about the Commander’s Nightmare?”

Saladin frowns, looking at Caiatl with caution in his eyes.

“His burdens are not mine to expose.” He tells her after a long moment.

Caiatl regards him for a moment. Even when he’s dedicated his life to her, Saladin remains committed to protecting those his knowledge might compromise. His life is the only one he has committed to her, any information he possesses on others is only offered to her if he feels it will benefit the individuals it concerns. She certainly values his commitment to others, and she hopes to one day earn his loyalty beyond what has been pledged to her.

“Tell me only what you feel comfortable with sharing.” She says at last, meeting his gaze. “I can hear his pain, he is suffering and I don’t believe he would respond if I were to inquire personally. I only wish to help.”

Saladin frowns. He shifts to brace his hands on the war table below him. His sigh is a low rumble that reminds her of the Commander. 

“I will tell you.” He says at last. “Zavala is a capable warrior, but I fear my influence over him has caused him to be reluctant to reach out when he needs it.”

Caiatl nods. “I have seen as much in my interactions with him. He is reluctant to share his burdens.”

Saladin stares down at the war table, contemplating, gathering his thoughts. 

“His Nightmare is his late wife.” Saladin tells her at last, meeting her gaze. “He met her while he was under my command, during our Dark Age. All I taught Zavala was violence. She taught him love and affection. Eventually they married and adopted a son together, an infant boy that had been orphaned in Fallen raids.”

His eyes leave hers, and he stares down at the war table and the display spread across it.

“They left together to raise him. They built a house together, and Zavala gave up the life he knew to raise their son.” His gaze grows somber. “Hakim. He was a teenager when they were attacked by Fallen raiders. Zavala fought, but he couldn’t protect him. Safiya was a surgeon, but she couldn’t save him.”

Saladin meets her gaze once more, and there is pain in his eyes, an expression the Empress has never seen before. “Zavala blames himself for his son’s death. He has asked for forgiveness, but has yet to find it. Safiya never blamed him for Hakim’s death, it is Zavala who blames himself. He has not forgiven himself, all these years later.”

Caiatl regards her Valus for a long moment. Some small part of her had hoped that by knowing, she might have been able to ease Zavala’s burden in some way, that a solution might present itself to her if only she had the necessary information. She knows deep down that her hopes were foolish. If Zavala’s Nightmare is a manifestation of grief and guilt that has haunted him for so long, there is no easy solution, there can’t be. Caiatl does not know what it is like to have her own child, but she’s held the burden of command for long enough to understand the weight of lives in her hands. She knows the guilt that lays heavy on her when she feels a loss of life was her fault, that she failed in protecting her soldiers. She cannot imagine the weight of the life of one’s own child.

She draws in a slow, almost unsteady breath.

“Thank you for telling me.” She inclines her head to Saladin, and he reads the dismissal in her words, turning to leave.

He’s stepping through the door when she calls out to him.

“Saladin.” He turns, eyes expectant once more. She steels her spine. “I know you care for him. I will do whatever I can to ease his burden. You have my word.”

Saladin gives her a nod of respect. “You have my thanks, Empress.”

Chapter Text

The house is little more than rubble in an open clearing when Zavala finds his way back to it, but that is not unexpected. After he and Safiya had returned to their lives as they once were, he’d let this one fall away. He sees everything he once was in the rubble of his old home, withered by countless storms. It is as broken as his soul feels.

He’s glad for the rain clouds that choke the sky as he climbs the hill that will lead him into the meadow in which Hakim would play. Perched in the mountains as the house is, he can feel the usually dry air growing humid with the promise of rain. He can smell it on the wind. He remembers how soothing it used to be, at such high altitude, the clouds would slip over the sun, returning the layers of protection against it the atmosphere normally provides. He remembers how the rain would wash over the landscape, filling the brooks and streams with gurgling water.

He winds his way along the long covered path that once brought him to the threshold of his home. He remembers it in every step he takes, never deviating from it, despite the grass and wildflowers that have emerged in the summer warmth, indiscriminately covering the fields around him. He slows as he reaches a stream, water flowing through it. It crosses his path, but he is unhindered. Lifetimes ago, he built a bridge over it. He constructed it out of stone. So long he believed he would stay here. Countless years, he had hoped it might endure, and still it stands, the only thing that remains of this clearing.

It holds firm when he crosses over it, bearing his weight as it always has, and he makes his way further along the path. He has long since stopped believing this path will bring him home, regardless of what the rubble before him once was.

Beyond the bridge is the meadow that stands before the house. The same meadow he once littered with Fallen bodies. The same meadow where his wife cradled their dying son in his arms.

He looks across it now, marking the spot where his son fell, marking the places where he fell in his efforts to defend him. He has always tried to be a protector. He failed to protect his son, he’d hoped he would succeed in protecting the city, but he has failed in that, too. With every new threat that arises hoping to bring harm to the City, his shame deepens.

“You came here to reflect.” Targe’s voice is gentle as he appears beside Zavala. Zavala almost expects him to continue, but he stops. Between the two of them, it seems there’s always words going unsaid, but Zavala tries to hear them. 

Zavala knows he broke something between them when he turned on Targe with a gun, when he thought he could give up the Light, that destroying Targe and ridding himself of his so-called ‘gift’ would be a greater mercy than allowing himself to live on. Still, Targe cares for him, and Zavala cares for Targe. He knows the Ghost wouldn’t want him to come here and wallow in his doubts, just as he’s been doing for the past week as Safiya spells out his flaws for him in sharp detail.

He sighs deeply, breathing in the scent of rain and casting his gaze around the meadow once more, looking past the memories to what actually stands before him. The mountain’s wildflowers are in full bloom, the space around him covered in rich yellows and purple, dotted in pinks and reds. He strays from the long overrun path, wandering into the field around the house.

It’s almost a shame to pick the flowers, they decorate the field in a natural beauty he’s missed since he left this place behind, but as he crouches beside a cluster of yellow flowers, he remembers doing the same with Hakim, gathering flowers for Safiya. He remembers when his son was young, when Safiya would pretend she wasn’t watching them from the porch as Zavala led his toddling son around the meadow, pointing out flowers and helping him gather them. Zavala would gather it into a bouquet and place it into Hakim’s hands, who would giggle and squeal in delight as he pressed the flowers to Safiya. She would scoop him into her arms and laugh and smile, pretending to act surprised as she thanked him for the flowers. She’d take them both inside and Hakim would watch and one day help her cut the stems and place the flowers into a vase to display on the kitchen table. 

He breathes through the tightening of his throat, kneeling down to select another flower. He wanders around the clearing until he has a good handful of flowers, and then he finds his way behind the house. He winds his way down an old pathway, covered in the same flowers that decorates the meadow. He finds his way to a familiar hill, a sturdy stone set beneath a tree marking the hilltop. He kneels before the stone, setting his gathered flowers before him.

He lifts his eyes as the stone freckles with rain, droplets beginning to sprinkle over his skin. He draws a deep breath into his lungs, reaching out to brush the stone before him.

His son isn’t buried, not on this hill, and not any other. He and Safiya scattered his ashes among the hills where he was raised, but his life is marked by the stone on this hill, and another near where his mother was buried. Zavala runs his fingers over the stone, feeling the evidence of erosion under his fingertips, the stone withered by water and wind. He’s not sure how long he stares before the grasses behind him rustle, and he turns to find his mentor striding up the hill behind him.

“I thought I might find you here.” Saladin says, moving to stand beside him. Zavala returns his gaze to the stone, and Saladin reaches out, squeezing Zavala’s shoulder.

“I needed time to think.” Zavala says. He should stand, turn and face Saladin rather than remain on his knees, bent over by his grief, but the Iron Lord releases his shoulder. Zavala looks over in surprise as Saladin sinks to his knees beside him.

“I’m sure.” Saladin responds, his gaze sweeping over the flowers set at the stone’s base. “You’ve endured a great deal recently. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

Zavala doesn’t respond. He can’t. Saladin has already offered to ease some of his burden in these trying times, but Zavala doesn’t know how to accept the offer. He doesn’t want to. It’s not what he was trained to do. Leading the City is the burden he accepted years ago, he should be more than capable of seeing it through and upholding his commitment, even in times of crisis.

“I understand why you feel responsible for Hakim’s death.” Saladin tells him, his voice a low rumble. He’s quiet enough for Zavala to know he’s thinking of his own old aches, the loss of the other Iron Lords, one he once compared to Zavala as feeling like a severed limb, the ache and pain of something no longer there.

Zavala watches as the Iron Lord removes his gloves, then cards his fingers through the grasses before them, picking through the rocky, red soil beneath. 

“No son of yours would be willing to sit by while his father charged into battle.” Saladin tells him. He selects a stone from the ground, setting it atop the marker before them. “If you are to blame for raising him as such, then so be it, but his death is not yours to bear.” Zavala looks up to find Saladin’s eyes on his. “He made his choice.”

“I was his father, I was supposed to protect him.” Zavala’s voice sounds broken to his own ears. “I promised Safiya–”

“Think back, Zavala.” Saladin encourages, “I’m sure you realized as you raised him that part of being a father means learning to let go. He was old enough to make his own decisions. He chose to fight by your side.”

“He didn’t choose to die.”

“But he accepted the risk when he went out after you.”

Zavala draws in a deep, shuddering breath, hoping the rain that wets his face will mask the tears that slip unbidden down his cheeks.

“I’m not saying Hakim is to blame for his own death.” Saladin sets a hand on his shoulder, “but you need to recognize this was beyond your control.”

“I’m tired of not having control.” It comes out weaker than Zavala intended, and he gives his mentor a sad, apologetic smile, but Saladin only looks at him with sympathy in his eyes.

“I know, Commander.” It’s not the backhanded insult it could be from someone else, from someone who doesn’t understand. When Saladin recalls his title, Zavala knows he’s acknowledging the burden he bears with it, the weight of his leadership and the stress of the lives that lay in his hands. He tells him he understands. 

Saladin’s arm wraps around his shoulder and he pulls Zavala sideways, guiding him to lean against him. With him, he brings the weight of their years, and he remembers how Saladin had sat with him this same way on the anniversary of his son’s death, his mentor’s comfort never faltering when Zavala needed it. The Commander lets himself be pulled into his old friend’s embrace, and for once he allows the other man to shoulder some of his burden. 

Chapter Text

The Guardian could hear howling, a barely audible roar on the furthest reaches of their hearing. They could make no sense of it.

It came and went, sometimes sharp, filled with energy and motion as if someone were screaming from the tops of their lungs, other times it was weak, pained, whimpering, but it never grew any louder or softer. Sometimes it was human, other times it was not. Always, it seemed to echo from the Crown of Sorrow.

They stood before it now, eyes on it from behind the cover of their visor, watching it as their ears prickled to the faintest noise, the sound of whimpering. It felt like listening to someone die. A sloppy kill, unfinished. A mortal wound, only for the injured to escape with just enough of their life to curl up and die somewhere else. They stared at the crown, as if they might find the source of the sounds, beyond whatever otherworldly power the relic held deep within it. 

Their whole being was so fixated on it, they didn’t hear the sound of footsteps behind them, not until Eris Morn was standing at their side. She startled them into a flinch, Light coursing through their body, racing to their fingertips before they recognized her and forced themself to calm. 

“Guardian,” Eris inclined her head to them. “I did not mean to startle you.” She glanced towards the Crown, where they’d been staring until she’d arrived. “Did you need something?”

“No, I–” They broke off, frowning. The Guardian reached up, drawing their helmet off their head and tucking it under their arm. The noises didn’t stop. They could still hear the whimpers, reaching out towards them from the Crown, as if to draw them into it. “Can you…hear something? From the Crown?”

Eris’s gaze shifted over the Guardian for a moment before she looked back to the Crown. “It whispers to me.” They stared up at the towering relic. “Sometimes it seems as though it’s pleading with me, begging me for something.” She looked back to the Guardian, giving them a small shrug. “It is wise not to listen, though sometimes it can be difficult to ignore. What is it that you hear, Guardian?”

The Guardian grimaced. “I hear… pain. People whimpering or crying. At night, sometimes I hear this howling…” They shook their head, pushing the thoughts away, as if they could forget the hours they’d stayed awake, practically paralyzed listening to howls echoing along the HELM’s corridors, unnoticed by anyone else. “Savathûn made this, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Eris confirmed. “It subverts the wearer’s mind to Savathûn’s will, as well as giving them control over any Hive in the surrounding area, effectively merging their minds.” Eris returned her eyes to them. “Worry not, Guardian. It is under my control, now.”

Still, the Guardian frowned. “You’re sure it’s safe?” They didn’t doubt Eris, she was smarter and more powerful than they would ever know, but Calus had brought them into his Leviathan to kill the Crown’s bearer, Gahlran. They’d seen how little of him had been left at the end.

Eris gave them a rare smile. “Savathûn is not the only witch skilled in Hive magic.” She told them, “but yes, I have safeguards in place.”

The Guardian nodded, willing themself to be calm as they drew in a deep breath.

“I had another question.” They said, stepping away from the Crown and perching themself on the edge of a nearby crate. “How come I didn’t have to give an offering during the ritual?”

Eris hummed, turning her rock over in her hands. “I had wondered when you were going to ask me about the ritual.” She turned to face the Guardian fully. “I took the burden of your offering onto myself. It was a calculated risk on my part. It was necessary that you participate in the ritual, however I worried the nightmares might gain additional power over you if you were to present an offering, and it was more important for you to remain uncompromised by your nightmares as you’d be our primary agent in the field. Crow has done well to overcome his Nightmare, and Zavala will manage in due time. When considering your Nightmares, I feared they may be more challenging in nature, and potentially more dangerous." 

She fixed them with a level stare. "I will only endanger you as much as I have to, Guardian. You carry a heavy burden."

The Guardian’s brow’s rose. “Thank you, I didn’t realize–”

Eris held up a hand. “Think nothing of it, Guardian.”

The Guardian nodded, but stood up from the crate they’d found, pacing the room. “So if I didn’t offer anything during the ritual, will I still have a Nightmare on the Leviathan? Will you and Crow and Zavala be able to see it if I do?”

“That, I don’t know, Guardian.” Eris told them. “You’ve faced a great many threats, but only you decide whether or not these threats still hold power over you.”

The Guardian raised their eyes to Eris’, drawing in a deep breath. She was right, but not knowing was the hardest part. They’d faced horrors, fought enemies they wouldn’t have even imagined beforehand. But still, they’d worked hard to remain steady while they’d faced those threats, and they’d done their best to cope with the threats afterwards, but there was no telling what they had yet to face.

“Whatever happens, Guardian,” Eris said, moving to stand in front of them. She reached out, gripping their shoulder. “You will not have to face it alone.”

The Guardian swallowed hard, nodding to Eris. “I know. Thank you, Eris.”

Chapter Text

After living on Caiatl’s command ship for a number of months, reeling amidst an unfamiliar people and an unfamiliar culture, Saladin has learned to expect the unexpected. Despite that fact, even if he were given a thousand attempts, he would not have guessed he’d ever be faced with an angry Young Wolf, demanding they be let in to see the Cabal Empress.

He blinks in surprise as he enters the room. The Guardian is at the edge of the transmat bays, attempting to move further into the great vessel that is Caiatl’s command ship. A pair of armed guards are holding them back. Saladin can see the trepidation in their posture—the Young Wolf would never have even made it aboard the ship if they were armed, but a Guardian as famous and powerful as they are would not be on the top of any warrior’s list of prospective opponents. Still, the Guardian is barely half the size of each of the Cabal guards, and until they call on their Light, or put some real effort into their attempts, a hand from each of the guards is all they need to keep the Guardian in place.

“Saladin!” They snap as soon as they see him, and he nods to the guards currently holding them back. The guards release them and the Guardian stalks over to him, righting their armor as they walk. “Did you know?” They growl once they’ve reached his side, their voice low but brimming with anger.

“I’ve known for some time.” Saladin tells them simply. He turns on his heel, gesturing for them to follow him into the ship as he leads his way down a long corridor. 

“You knew and you’re still–” 

“I owe Caiatl my life.” Saladin turns on the Guardian, his voice a rough snarl. He should remain calm in the face of the Guardian’s anger, but tensions are high, his patience wearing thin. He cannot help but respond in kind. “Her past is none of my concern.”

The Guardian stops when he does, but they don’t falter or balk in the face of his anger. They press their lips together in a thin line, but say nothing. Saladin draws in a deep breath and continues walking.

The halls are empty around them, so late in the night, the only sounds come from his and the Guardian’s footsteps as they walk through the corridors, and the ever present hum of the ship’s systems. The Guardian should be exhausted. He knows enough about their missions to understand they’ve been diving deep into the Emperor Calus’ consciousness, drawing out his memories and exploring his mind. He knows it’s what they’ve discovered there that has them so angry, but it seems they’ve hardly taken a moment to rest. He can still see the signs of battle on them, blood crusted on their armor, grime smeared on their skin. 

“Are you willing to jeopardize the alliance over this matter?” He asks them after a long moment, eyeing them sideways as he continues to walk deeper into the ship. 

“She jeopardized the alliance by keeping this from us.” The Guardian returns, their eyes fixed straight ahead. 

Saladin felt himself sigh, but the Guardian held firm, unbending in their anger. It was a stubbornness he’d admired when they were on the battlefield, an unwillingness to give up, a commitment to protecting others and keeping those they cared for safe, but now it seemed to blind them. He worried what their anger might cause.

He led them through a set of doors, guards posted before it, and into an open room, furnished only with a few large couches, another set of guards standing at a door leading further in. 

“Wait here.” He told them, then with a nod to the guards, entered the chamber. 

The Cabal Empress turned as he approached, and he bowed his head in respect to her as he entered.

“They are very angry.” He warned her. “I fear they are not thinking clearly.” He’d already informed her of what this meeting was to be about, when the Guardian had called him in a rage demanding they speak with the Empress. She had accepted their request without so much as a hint of discomfort.

Caiatl only nodded. “Send them in, I will speak with them.”

Saladin returned her nod, exiting the room. The Guardian was waiting for him when he emerged before them.

“She will see you now.” He told them, and they moved to walk past them, but he caught their arm. “Guardian.” He met their eyes and they fixed him with a glare. “Try to think past your anger.”

They pulled their arm from his grip, stepping past him and through the doors that led into Caiatl’s study. Saladin followed with a quiet sigh. The Guardian wasted no time getting straight to the point.

“Why didn’t you tell us Ghaul was your mentor?” They snarled at the Empress. Saladin closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

“Does it matter?” The Empress’ tone remained neutral in the face of the Guardian’s anger. “Ghual was a great warrior among my people. I learned from him.”

“You didn’t just–” The Guardian broke off, drawing in a sharp breath. Saladin opened his eyes to see them pacing before her. “You cared about him. I know you did.” They said, stopping to face her.

“What do you accuse me of, Guardian?”

“You two were close.” The Guardian said, “How do we know you’re not trying to do the same thing he did? How do we know you won’t take the Light as soon as we trust you enough to turn our backs. You betrayed your own father, why not us?”

Caiatl let out a labored sigh. Saladin knew well enough from serving her that the topic of her father was frequently discussed. He had no doubt she was growing tired of it.

“You know my father, Guardian. Did you not betray him as well?” She reminded, and the Guardian pursed their lips. “As for my relationship with Ghual, it’s true I did care for him, but did you not care for Osiris when the Witch Queen wore his skin?”

The Guardian whirled. “That’s entirely different and you know it.”

“Is it?” Caiatl asked. Saladin couldn’t help his frown. Where was she going with this? “You believed she was someone else. She disappointed you.”

“She used me.” The Young Wolf hissed.

“And you mean to tell me you know every detail of my relationship with Ghaul?” She braced her hands on the desk that separated them. “Do not make the mistake of judging me for the actions of another. I fully intend to maintain this alliance and I have no loyalty to a dead man’s ambitions. You would do well to remember that.” She nodded to Saladin, still lingering in the back of the room. “See them out.”

Saladin met the Guardian’s eyes, gesturing to the door.

“Fine.” They snapped, taking a step towards the door before turning back to face the Empress. “I’ll be watching you. Ghaul destroyed my home. I won’t let that happen again.”

They turned, stalking from the room without another word. With one last glance at the Empress, Saladin followed.

Chapter Text

Eris Morn lays on a bedroll within Savathûn’s Throne World. The Drifter sits across from her, taking the first watch, warm as he picks at a dying fire. It’s not the first time they’ve camped together, they spent plenty of time together on Europa, but Drifter can’t help but watch her. He scans the horizon with his eyes, but always they gravitate back to Eris, tucked within her sleeping bag, the fire casting flickering light over her face.

Even in sleep, the glow of her eyes remains. They dim enough to show her eyes are closed, but a slight glow remains even still, flickering beneath her veil. She’s removed her armor, spiked pauldrons and her tunic, as well as her hood, but her veil and another head covering remain. The clothes lie neatly folded atop her boots beside her bedroll, and Drifter leans over to nudge them slightly further from the fire, the fabric warm under his touch. 

She draws in a sharp breath and Drifter freezes, his eyes flicking up to her face as he hopes he hasn’t woken her. He still finds it a little surprising she’s even willing to sleep around him. He’d rather not think of how willing he is to do the same. He stays on his hands and knees for a painfully long moment before she lets out the breath, shifting and settling back into her bedroll, her eyes still dim. He lets out his own breath in a quiet sigh of relief, easing himself back to sit down on his own bedroll, his eyes scanning the horizon once more.

The next time he finds his attention drawn to her, her breathing has quickened. He watches her face pinch, and she shifts in her sleep. She murmurs something he can’t discern, and he watches her shoulders shift. She hunches over herself, a quiet whimper slipping past her lips. He watches her writhe for a long moment. He stares, paralyzed with indecision for what feels like an eternity before he rises to his feet, carefully slipping around to kneel before her, the wall they’ve set up their camp against at his back, the fire and the rest of the swamp in front of him. The last thing he wants to do is box her in.

“Eris.” He whispers, reaching out to grip her shoulder. “Eris, wake up.”

She jolts upright with a shout, and the next thing he knows, he’s on his back in the dirt, Eris half on top of him as she holds a knife to his throat, her sleeping bag bunched around her lower torso and legs. He scrambles to show her his open hands.

“Just me. It’s just me.” He tells her, forcing down his own instinct to fight back. “You were having a nightmare.”

Recognition rolls across her face and she frowns, looking down at the knife in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. Then she’s hauling herself off him, the knife disappearing into her little pile of armor.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“Don’t worry about it, Moondust.” He says, flashing her one of his usual grins as he sits up, brushing the dirt off his armor. He tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding. “You looked like you’d rather be awake.” He rises to his feet, returning to his own bedroll and drawing out his canteen of water. “Here.”

For a moment, Eris looks taken aback, but she accepts the canteen, giving him a small nod. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He returns, and Eris sips from the canteen as he picks up the stick he’d been using to prod the fire. He spreads the coals around, coaxing them to burn slower and longer. He listens as her breathing slowly evens out.

“Did you wanna talk about it?” He asks after a few moments of silence. The offer comes from his lips before he can consider it, and he looks up from the fire to find Eris’ eyes on his.

“No.” She answers simply, though he can hear something in her tone, a hint of questioning. He arches a brow at her.

“What? You think I can’t talk about deep stuff?” His tone is teasing, any edge in it playful as he grins at Eris. She rolls her eyes, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

“It seems the only conversation topics you find interesting involve which alien substances can be consumed.” She tells him, her upper lip curled.

“Why d’ya think I know so much about all that?” He shoots back, “I didn’t start eating Hive ‘till I was desperate. Ol’ Drifter’s seen some things.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Eris responds, but she inclines her head in genuine acknowledgement. She hands his canteen back to him and he takes a long drink. “I appreciate the offer, Germaine.”

Drifter nods in acknowledgement. He’s long since given up on keeping her from calling him one of his lesser known names. He supposes it’s better than rat, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the way she teased him.

“It’s just…” She starts to continue, her gaze fixed on the fire as if mesmerized. “There are some nightmares I simply cannot discuss.”

He gives her a little toast with his canteen, taking another sip and wishing there was something more than water in it.

“You and me both, sister.” He passes her the canteen again and together they stare into the flames, passing their drink back and forth in the shadow of the Throne World’s Pyramid. Eventually, Eris tells him to rest, promising she’ll take the next watch, and Drifter falls asleep easier than he ever has in the Derelict.

Chapter Text

By the time the Fallen forces have finally been defeated, Zavala’s nearly dead on his feet. The other Iron Lords disappear into their quarters, but Zavala makes his way to Safiyah’s hospital. If there’s one blessing to the length of the siege, it’s that all the civilians were taken care of hours ago. Any civilians that had joined the Iron Lords in battle either fell or helped their forces make enough of an impact that it was safe for any Lightless to retreat back within the compound’s walls. He hopes that means Safiyah won’t be needed in her hospital. All he wants is to see her.

Zavala ducks as he reaches the tent, his entire body crying out in protest as he bends to slip below the flap, his muscles overworked and exhausted. Even his Light feels tired. 

He doesn’t even get the chance to properly look across the tent before Safiyah’s body collides with his. He stumbles back a step as her weight leans into him for the briefest second, before she realizes how unsteady he is, one of her arms wrapping around his torso as if she might support him. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” She breathes, and Zavala just stares at her. His entire being aches. He’s seen more death in the past few days than anyone should see in a hundred lifetimes. He’s alive but what does it mean to be alright?

“Can we go?” He tries to keep his voice quiet for the sake of her patients, but he’s not sure he could be loud if he wanted to. His voice is broken, rough from shouting on the battlefield for days. 

Safiyah nods, taking his hand and lacing her fingers with his. “Come with me.”

She leads him from the tent and he follows behind her as she guides him back to her own quarters. She guides him straight to the chair beside her bed and he sinks into it. His body wants to give out, he wants to slump over in it, but he holds himself upright, reaching for her with his gloved hands. He hopes they aren’t covered in blood.

“You must be tired, too–” He begins, but she cups his cheek with a gentle hand, smiling sadly down at him. 

“I did not just spend three days on a battlefield.” She tells him quietly.

Has it really been three days? The hours had blended together. He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten more than a bite of whatever rations had been raced to them when the fighting had calmed for mere moments. After he’d drained his canteen, any water he’d drank had come from a stream of snowmelt outside the compound’s walls. They’d fought their way through the days under the harsh sun, the nights lit up by the glow of their power or the flashes of light from Fallen explosives. He had no idea how many resurrections he’d endured. 

He lowers his gaze from hers, reaching for her. His hands settle over her hips and he guides her closer, wanting to feel her, to feel the rise and fall of her chest, feel the beat of her heart and know in his bones she is alive and safe. He wants to bring her to him but at the same time he feels as though he’s only managing to cling to her for support. She steps closer, to stand between his legs, and he presses his head to her torso. His eyes close, but he feels tears fighting their way out between his closed eyelids. His breathing is shaky, but she cradles his head to her chest, holding him close.

“Breathe, Zavala.” 

His arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her with the fraction of strength he has left. He grits his teeth against the sobs that bubble up in his chest, tears slipping down his cheeks. His breath shudders through his lungs, and Safiyah holds him for a long few moments before she slides from his grip, dropping down to her knees before him. She cups his cheek in her hand again, her thumb brushing away his tears, even though he knows what he must look like. He knows his whole body is smeared with dirt and grime and blood, but she looks into his eyes with nothing but deep love, love he’s never felt before, until she brushed his skin with her hands and showed him.

Another sob rises in his throat and he shuts his eyes tight against it. Safiyah’s free hand settles on his leg, giving his thigh a gentle squeeze. 

“Let me take care of you.” Her voice is so gentle, but Zavala feels like he’s being flayed alive. He should be relieved, happy their battle ended in victory, but Zavala hardly knows victory. They fight for survival, and so many didn’t make it that far. Safiyah is alive, but even her touch can’t erase the violence that rages behind his eyes, the feeling of blood coating his skin. 

He swallows hard, giving Safiyah a small nod, just enough to tell her he accepts her help. It's all he can manage. He wants to be free of his armor, he wants to collapse in her bed with her, but he mourns the thought of her hands leaving his skin for even a moment. She rises up enough to press her brow to his own, and Zavala tries to breathe deep, tries to master himself as if it will keep him from falling apart. Safiyah rises to her feet and she takes his hands, stripping away his gloves, then moving on to the plates that protect his forearms. Zavala traces her movements by feeling, keeping his eyes closed as she works.

Once, he would have been horrified by the very prospect of this situation. For so long, he’d tried to be the picture of strength before Safiyah, when he’d been content to know only war, without kindness. The idea of breaking in front of her would have been intolerable, but now? Zavala can’t imagine being without her. His very soul aches for her touch. He wants nothing else.

She removes his armor piece by piece, setting it neatly aside. His sobs slowly quiet, but her comforts remain. She removes the last of his armor and he reaches out to hold her hips again as she stands before him. He meets her gaze with his own.

“I’m tired.” He breathes, and Safiyah gives him a soft smile, bending to kiss his brow.

“Then rest, Zavala.” 

She helps him out of his undersuit, then uses a rag to clean the blood from his skin, left behind from injuries long since healed. There will be time for a proper bath later, when he can stand without his body screaming in protest. When he doesn’t feel like he’s falling apart. She takes his hand when she’s finished, and she helps him upright with surprising strength, guiding him to the bedrolls just beside them. He sinks onto the bedrolls, covered in furs and blankets, enough to fight the chill of the mountain stronghold. She kneels beside him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He can’t help but shudder at the brush of her skin against his, her hand gripping his upper arm.

“Can you stay?” He tries not to plead. Safiyah has wounded to attend to, he knows. It’s so rare that they’re able to spend a night together, to fall asleep and wake in the safety of each other’s arms, but Safiyah nods.

“Yes.” She promises. “I won’t leave.”

He sinks fully onto the bed, his eyes on her as she sheds her own outer layers. When she blows out the candles that light the space and slips into the bed beside him, it’s a fight to keep his eyes open. She tucks herself close, and Zavala’s arms come around her naturally. He breathes in the scent of her hair, soaks in the feeling of her warmth against his body. He shivers as her breath brushes across his skin. His strength is fading, but he holds her close.

“I love you.” He murmurs, so weakly he’s not even sure he said it aloud.

She presses a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, too.”

The din of battle still rings in his ears, but her words quiet the noise like fresh snow. Zavala sinks into sleep with the woman he loves cradled in his arms.

Chapter Text

“Marcus.” Didi’s voice sounds in her Guardian’s ear as they appear in his jumpship, his sparrow at his side.

He pulls off his helmet with a heavy sigh, already heading for the cockpit.

“Marcus.” Didi hurries to follow him, trailing him into the cockpit as he drops himself into the pilot’s chair and starts flipping switches. “Marcus, we should talk about this.”

“Later, Didi.” Marcus’s hands fly over the dashboard before he guides the ship up, off the lunar surface. He doesn’t even look in her direction, his eyes locked on the ship's windshield.

“Eyes on the road, Marcus.” The words are too quiet for her to hear. She can only sense them through their bond, the bond she holds in a desperate grip because he won’t so much as look at her. “Don’t look back.”

“Fine.” She says, relenting just a smidge. Marcus would only ignore her if something was wrong. He’s not cruel. “But once we get to warp speed, we should talk.”

Didi watches the muscles of Marcus’ jaw flex, but he says nothing. He should be exhausted. He’d been testing a new prototype for hours, riding so fast he’d been a blur, screaming across the lunar surface. She knows how much work the racing is, how much stress it puts on him as he hurdles around curves, narrowly avoiding whatever obstacles he encounters. Normally, there’s exhilaration, too. The adrenaline rush sings through his veins with a special kind of euphoria, but he hadn’t felt that tonight. She hadn’t seen it in the glint of his eyes or the sureness of his smile. Even when the prototypes blow out from under him, he always gets up with a grin, but it hadn’t been like that tonight. Tonight he’d been racing. Life or death racing. The kind of racing that left him so wiped, he collapsed into his bed without a word and crashed for hours.

She’d felt the way his pulse had jumped. He’d stopped to check the Sparrow’s instruments, then his back had gone ramrod straight. He’d jumped back onto the bike and gunned it. He’d gone to top speed, then switched off the fuel regulator despite Didi’s shouted warning. It was a miracle the night hadn’t ended in a fiery explosion and a busted prototype. He was running from something, but what, Didi didn’t have a clue.

She has to force herself to be patient as the ship climbs to orbit. He’s still going faster than he should be, but that’s not news for her Guardian. He hasn’t looked away from the windshield and the gauges below him since he sat down. She can’t tell what he’s thinking, and he certainly doesn’t volunteer any information. But the ship climbs until it reaches the altitude where Didi might guide them into orbit around the moon if they were staying, but Marcus moves past it, angling the ship for Earth. He types the coordinates of the Tower into the computer, even though they both know she can do it with half a thought. The equation runs and the ship signals its readiness for the jump to warp speed, but Marcus’ hand hesitates on the lever, like he isn’t quite ready to be home. He pulls the lever before Didi can say anything, and the ship takes control of itself, the space around them blurring into bright streaks beyond the windows.

“Alright, Marcus.” Didi says after a few moments, drifting to hover over the copilot’s chair. Still, her Guardian doesn’t face her.

“You said we would talk about this.” She reminds him, her voice lowering.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

His voice is breathless when he responds, his eyes still fixed ahead. The controls aren’t responding to his touch any longer, but his hands are shaking as he grips the ship’s stick.

“Marcus.” Her voice is soft this time. “What did you see?”

Marcus swallows hard, releasing the stick as he lets out a heavy sigh. Finally, he turns towards her in his seat, but he doesn’t look at her, dropping his gaze and shaking his head.

“I don’t know.” He breathes. Didi drops low to catch his eyes, and she watches as he looks at her for a brief moment, pain in his eyes before he looks away just as quickly.

“A Nightmare?” She guesses. She’d expected they’d run into one sooner or later. According to Vanguard channels, they’ve become more active since the Leviathan drew into orbit over the moon.

“I don’t know.” He says again. He scrubs a hand over his face, raking his fingers through sweat damp hair. 

Didi reaches down their bond, surprised to find pain roaring in his leg. She pinpoints it immediately, an old injury from the start of the Red War, long since healed. He’d been racing to the Peregrine district the night the City had fallen, dodging Cabal tanks and Red Legion along the way. Even Lightless, he’d been a sight to see, but an explosion had destroyed his sparrow mid-ride. He’d been thrown, his leg snapped. A Cabal Centurion had him by the throat before his partner Enoch had saved him and carried him to safety. No amount of resurrections or healing has managed to stop the phantom pains, even if they don't happen often.

“Maybe.” He says at last, and Didi draws back, watching her Guardian. “I don’t know who, though.”

She has to hurry out of the way as Marcus stands in a rush, already drawing off his racing jacket. It’s not the one he wears in competition, bright red and flashy enough to draw plenty of eyes. This one in black, lightly armored at Didi’s instance, given he tests his prototypes in uncontrolled zones. He worms out of it as if the fabric is burning him, tossing it onto one of the chairs behind him as he steps into the ship’s living space. He rakes his hands through his hair again, his undershirt clinging to his skin, the fabric damp with sweat.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Didi says, watching as he paces.

“I don’t know what I’m thinking.” He fights down a deep breath, but his hands are still shaking. He keeps his weight off his right leg, as if he’s still hindered by the old injury. Whatever the Nightmare was, it has him more rattled than Didi has seen in a while. She hasn’t felt stress from him like this since Cayde-6 died, or since the Pyramids arrived.

“Should I call Enoch?”

Marcus’s head jerks up, worry lighting his features in a flash.

“What?” He asks, then shakes his head, his eyes firm. “No.”

“Marcus,” she tries to be calm, but her tone is edging towards worry. “You need to talk about this with someone. You need to sort through it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He says, but his pacing resumes. “I don’t even know who that was, how am I supposed to talk about it?”

“Maybe start by thinking about why you ran.” She drifts in front of him until he has to stop his pacing or push her out of the way. He stops, looking into her eye as she hovers close. “What are you so afraid of seeing?”

Marcus closes his eyes, drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lets it out in a rush, but his eyes stay closed.

“A lot.” He breathes.

Didi bumps against his forehead gently, and his hand comes up to cradle her. His fingers are still trembling, ever so slightly, but she can feel his heartbeat starting to calm.

“Breathe, Marcus.” She murmurs, “I’m with you.”

Chapter Text

The Leviathan was disgusting. 

Crow might have come to terms with his Nightmare, and he might have been able to run his reconnaissance missions with the Guardian relatively unhindered by the ship’s more troubling paracausal inhabitants, but that didn’t change the fact that the Leviathan disturbed him to his core. The ship itself, but primarily the Emperor in exile that commanded it.

“So you’re saying there was a period of months where Calus just showered you with gifts?”

He and the Guardian were deep in the Leviathan, wandering amid dark tunnels and decay. The Guardian had told him of their history with Calus before, but Crow would rather hash out the details than be left to silence in the dank, creaking ship that may or may not be haunted. Hadn’t he overheard Calus mention to them that the ship’s passageways had changed since they'd been here last? He didn’t want to think about it.

“Yeah, pretty much.” The Guardian said, terse and to the point. Their eyes were fixed on the corridor ahead, their gun held in a tight grip. Crow didn’t recognize it as one he knew them to have used in the past, a scout rifle with Osiris’ sigil emblazoned on the side, but they held it like it was already a prized possession.

“Just like that? No strings attached?” He could understand if the Guardian maybe didn’t want to talk, but that didn’t mean he would stop, not if it meant hyper-fixating on every little noise that sounded around them as they picked their way through the ship. Maybe the Guardian’s Ghost would chime in if they didn’t want to keep up the conversation.

The Guardian held up a hand as they came to a set of open doors on either side of the corridor they were following. Crow hurried to their side, and at the Guardian’s signal they stepped in front of the doors, then each entered a room, the lights from their Ghost’s sweeping over the dark spaces. 

“Clear.” The Guardian called to him after a moment. “Nothing in here but storage.”

Crow did a quick sweep of the room he’d entered, his findings similar.

“Same here.” He responded, and they met back in the corridor and continued on. “So, Calus?” He prompted after a moment.

“It wasn’t exactly free.” The Guardian told him, their tone having relaxed a little. Their eyes dropped down to the egregore spores covering nearly every surface around them. Calus had told then not long ago that he could use the spores to feel through the ship, as if it were his own body. He wondered if he was listening now, feeling them as they trekked through abandoned corridors. 

“He was bribing me. He wanted me to kill Gahlran, the warrior he bred to be capable of bearing the Crown of Sorrow.” They explained. Their arm darted out in front of him, stopping him just before he walked straight into an upturned storage bin. “Careful.” 

Crow felt his cheeks heat, but stepped around. “Thanks.”

The Guardian only gave him a little nod, continuing forward. “He also wanted me to abandon the City and become one of his Shadows.”

“Was he always trying to tempt you with riches and wine?” Crow thought back to one of the messages from Calus he’d overheard on their coms, Calus telling the Guardian he’d lift a chalice to their lips on the night they joined him, and they’d feast. He wrinkled his nose. Crow had the pleasure of seeing the Guardian drunk before—and playing a significant hand in getting them there—but he hoped it was an honor Calus would never be afforded.

The Guardian let out a humorless snort. “Yeah. He’s been trying to get in my pants for years.”

Crow grimaced. “That’s disgusting.” If Calus really could feel through the ship, he wondered if it would be too much to give the wall a good kick to show the Emperor how he felt about his advances, but he doubted Calus would be too impacted by it, and he’d rather not risk his and the Guardian’s position with unnecessary noise. 

“You ever meet him?” He asked, aiming for harmless curiosity. His tone came out more trepidatious. 

“Never in person.” They responded, pausing to test a closed door. When it didn’t budge, they gave up with a shrug. “I think he’s playing hard to get.”

“Ugh.” Crow shook his head, “stop joking about that. It grosses me out.”

The Guardian paused, looking back to give him a sharp grin. “Imagine how I feel.” They continued down the corridor, looking almost unaffected. “Did you hear what he said to me the other day?” 

They opened their mouth to keep going, perhaps to recite some of what Calus had said, but Crow stopped them.

“What, about caressing his dark reaches? Yeah I don’t need to hear that ever again.” Crow told them, and the Guardian inclined their head.

“Understandable, me neither.”

Crow shuddered, hoping to clear the memory of Calus’ booming voice from his head. Every time he spoke, it was like Crow could feel his voice in every part of his body.

“How can you act so unfazed by all of that? Doesn’t it freak you out a little bit?” He asked them, picking up his pace to walk by their side.

The Guardian sighed, eventually slowing to a stop. “Calus is smart enough to know that I’m a threat to him. That’s why we’ve only interacted through his animatronics. Everything he says is just talk. If he were really stupid enough to try to get me into bed with him, he’d just be setting me up for the perfect opportunity for me to kill him.”

“Calus has an army on his side, you don’t think he could find a way to force you to submit if he was able to get his hands on you?”

“If he somehow got me under his control, I think he’d have plenty of more important things for me to do.” The Guardian turned, walking on ahead. “He’d probably send me to kill Caiatl.”

“So you’re not concerned for your own wellbeing at all?”

The words had barely left his lips before the faint sound of deep laughter reverberated through the corridor. The Guardian froze.

“Did you hear that?”

Crow nodded, his gun already gripped in both hands. “I heard it.”

“Over there.” The Guardian’s Ghost said, pointing his light towards an open door ahead of them. “I think it came from in there.”

Crow and the Guardian shared a look, weapons at the ready, they crept towards the open doorway.

“Come here, Guardians. Do not be afraid.” Calus’ voice rolled through the hallway.

They stepped into the path of the doorway and Crow looked inside to find a decaying animatronic slumped against the far wall, its eyes lit and glowing. The Guardian entered the room hesitantly, and after checking over the space, Crow grabbed a storage crate and dragged it into the path of the open doors before he followed the Guardian in. If Calus had really likened the ship to his body, there was no way in hell Crow was letting him trap them in here.

“Lightbearer. None of your kind have ventured this far into my depths. Have you considered my offer?”

Calus’ deep voice boomed through the animatronic, its red eyes aglow, its very shape disintegrating, sparking and falling to ruin before Crow’s eyes. He tried hard not to focus on the Emperor's words, instead studying the machine before him

“Ugh, why do these things have those teeth?” He gestured to the animatronic’s face, frowning at the Guardian. “Look at it, are those fangs?”

“Hmmm.” The animatronic rumbled. “Your voice is familiar to me. You must be the one they call ‘Crow.’”

Crow couldn’t help but step back. It almost felt like the animatronic’s eyes shifted to look at him.

“You have fallen from my daughter’s favor, but I would treasure you. I would bring you into my embrace, open you to the truths I have learned. With me, you would find purpose beyond the mistakes made by another man."

“Leave him out of this, Calus.” The Guardian snapped.

“So they do speak. Delightful.” Calus practically purred. “Very well. Seek me out, Guardian, and just as you have shared your voice with me, we shall share in all things. Find me and you will stand beside me and bathe in the opulence I have to offer. Power and wealth will be yours for eternity, and with it you will have everything you desire.”

Calus didn’t wait for them to respond, the animatronic’s lights flickering out, the sparks sputtering out until the whole machine went dark. The Guardian scowled down at it.

“At least for Calus I’d say that was relatively tame.” They lifted their gaze to Crow, who was trying desperately not to look rattled. He should have expected Calus would know him, that he would attempt to leverage his past against him. The Guardian set a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

Crow looked back down at the dark animatronic and let out a heavy sigh, giving the Guardian a grateful nod. “Yeah, me too. Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

The Ziggurat almost seems to hum at the Guardian’s approach. As they mount the stairs, power seems to thrum through them, humming through the soles of their boots, climbing up their legs and winding itself around their core. They breathe through the sensation, climbing the steps until they reach the platform at the top, looking out over the landscape of ice and snow. Even with their visor, they squint against the bright light.

They grip a stalk of egregore fungus in their fist, just as Eris had told them to. They consider both ends, their free hand wreathed in solar Light for a moment before they lower it to their side, the flames vanishing. They stare at the stalk for a long moment, then sigh, dropping their arm to their side and walking to the lip of the Ziggurat. They drop down to sit at the edge, their legs dangling over the perilous drop. With another sigh, they fall back until they’re lying upon the hard stone, the egregore still clenched in a fist. They hardly lie there for a minute, jolting upright at the sound of footsteps behind them.

“Guardian.” They recognize Crow’s voice as they watch him saunter up the steps behind them. “I hope you don’t mind, I got your location from your Ghost.”

The Guardian raises a brow at their Ghost, who shrugs his shell.

“What? You didn’t tell me not to tell anyone where you were.” He protests, drifting a little closer to Crow as he continues towards them. The Hunter ambles towards the edge of the platform, looking around.

“This is the Ziggurat?” He asks them. They nod. They’d told Crow about most of their time on Europa, but they didn’t know how much of it he’d explored himself. “You sure it’s safe?”

“You can never be sure when Darkness is involved,” their Ghost supplies, casting his gaze over the structure. “But I’d say it’s relatively safe. It hasn’t hurt us yet.”

Crow grunts, dropping down to sit beside them. “I’ll take that.” He says, then glances over at them. “What are you doing out here, anyways?” 

He’s wearing a helmet, just as they are, making eye contact just about pointless, but the Guardian lowers their gaze anyways. 

“Eris told me about some experiment she and Drifter did.” They explain, lifting the stock of egregore still clenched in their fist. “Apparently egregore responds with Darkness when you light it on fire. She said it allows you to see visions and hear voices.”

Crow regards the plant in their hand with skepticism. “You know, the Eliksni on the shore used to say something similar about some ether plant that grew out there, but I think they were just high.”

The Guardian rolls their eyes. “Apparently it resonates with Pyramid tech. It sings.”

From the tilt of his head, Crow looks unconvinced, but he moves on. “So you came out here to test it?” They nod. “What’s stopping you?”

The Guardian lets out a heavy sigh, as if they’re hoping to purge tensions from within their very bones.

“Eris said these visions have the potential to be really informative surrounding our fight with the Darkness. She suspects the Darkness might be willing to reveal things to me that it wouldn’t show to other people.” They explain. She hadn’t told them they had to conduct the experiment, but she’d certainly communicated its potential benefits. “But I’m not sure I want to let the Darkness in another time.”

They set the stalk of egregore behind them and Crow slips a knife from his belt, laying it atop the stalk to weigh it down in the harsh Europan winds.

“What do you mean?” Crow asks, glancing at them before looking back out over the landscape.

“I know the Light might not be an entirely benevolent force, and I know the Darkness might not be an entirely malicious force, but they both have agendas. I just…” They scowl up at the sky, at the Pyramid ships they once saw hovering over their planets and moons, at the Traveler, ever elusive as it stands watch over the Last City. “I get so tired of being a pawn in someone else’s schemes. If I do this, I’m just giving the Darkness another chance to tell me what it wants me to do.”

“No one says you have to listen, Guardian.” Crow reminds them quietly. They shake their head.

“What happens if I don’t?” They ask. “What if I lead the system to ruin all because I couldn’t take the help that was being offered to me?”

“I don’t think this is about the egregore anymore.” Crow murmurs, and the Guardian draws their knees up to their chest.

“Yeah.” They huff, pressing their helmet to their knees. “One way or another, everyone wants something from me, and I want to protect the City but I’m just sick of being expected to bend over backwards for everyone. I can’t keep up with all of that.”

“No one could.” Crow murmurs, reaching out to set a hand on their shoulder. “Listen, there’s a lot on your plate, and I get that maybe it would feel stressful if you took a break, but I think you need one. Let’s head back to the HELM, get some rest.”

They frown at him. “Crow, I can’t.” They have to keep moving, keep chipping away at every little thing they have to do, no matter how long it takes them.

“You can. ” He presses. “I’ll talk to Eris. Whatever you have to do with the Leviathan and the Nightmares, I’ll have her assign me everything that you don’t absolutely have to do yourself. That way you can focus on other things. After you get some rest. Deal?”

The Guardian watches him for a long minute. “You’re sure about this?” He nods firmly. 

“I’m sure.” He promises, rising to his feet and offering them a hand.

They sigh, but nod, accepting his hand. “Alright, deal. Let’s go take a break.”

Even with his helmet in the way, they can tell Crow is grinning. “Great idea, Guardian.”

Chapter Text

Osiris wakes to warmth in his chest. It feels like the heat of Mercury. It reminds him of when the city was still young, when he and Saint would lie barely clothed on lake beaches, letting the sunlight warm their very bones. The longer he lays still, the more he realizes the warmth spreads beyond his chest. It flows to the pads of his fingers, the tips of his toes, traveling out along his body from a spot of light weight on the center of his chest. He doesn’t believe what he is feeling.

For a moment, his heart soars. There is warmth in his skin and the gentle weight on his chest emulates the feel of Sagira resting atop him, when she would park herself on his chest and refuse to move until he rested, as if her weight could in any way keep him from continuing his work. For a brief moment, he considers that everything he experienced could just be a bad dream, that he will wake to find Sagira atop his chest, halting his investigation into the missing planets so that he might get a few hours of rest. But this is not Sagira. He can feel that just as surely as he can feel the rise and fall of his own chest, the softness of the sheets against his skin. This is…someone new.

He opens his eyes and the weight vanishes, his vision is blurry, but as he blinks the fog from his eyes he thinks he sees the outline of a Ghost, jumping from him as if burned by his touch. The longer he looks, the more he considers an alternative—that Osiris might have burned from the Ghost’s touch, rather than the other way around.

The Ghost’s eye glows green, and neither of them speak as they study one another. They have four prongs that make up their shell, made of chitin, bleached almost white. One of them is broken, ending in a jagged point close to their eye. Hive, clearly, just as he’d spied through Savathûn’s eyes before he’d drifted into what he’d expected to be an endless slumber. Part of him wants to be afraid, but there is nothing malicious in the Ghost’s gaze, and the warmth still flows through his chest, though in less force. He would almost call it tentative. The Ghost themself looks worried, their shell drawn close to their body, drifting back from Osiris, a harsh change to the quiet dedication he’d felt just seconds earlier, as they rested on his chest.

Osiris, weaker than he has ever felt, reaches out a hand. The Ghost watches him for a long moment before they creep closer, carefully lowering themself onto his palm. He moves to curl his fingers around them and the Ghost flinches, nearly jumping from his hand. Osiris keeps his fingers flat.

He opens his mouth to speak but his throat feels filled with ash. He tries to swallow but the effort does little for him. Instead, he reaches inward, taking up the bond that lays between him, feeling along the heat emanating from his chest to the being beyond it.

You’re scared. 

The Ghost flinches again, their eye widening in shock. Osiris feels the corner of his lip twitch into what he hopes to be a sympathetic expression.

My apologies. He tells them, willing the words he sends along their bond to be soft and quiet. You’ve never had a Guardian communicate with you like this?

The Ghost nods in confirmation, their shell almost seeming to tremble, but they stay atop Osiris’ hand.

Why are you scared? 

“I, uh–” The Ghost drifts back in his hand, leaving his palm and creeping back towards his fingers. They speak aloud, rather than using the bond between them. Osiris suspects they don’t know how. “I know what you must think of me. Guardians haven’t been too kind to me and the other Ghosts like me. Whatever you would want to do to me would be pretty justified, all things considered.”

Osiris regards the Ghost in his palm. 

Because you served the Hive?

The Ghost nods.

Perhaps Osiris should be angry. Perhaps blind hatred and a ruthless pursuit of revenge would protect him from any further hurt, but he feels their warmth breathing through his body, and he knows they have no intention of harming him.

You chose me. 

The Ghost nods again. 

Why? 

The Ghost’s shell shifts in what Osiris would guess to be trepidation, and they look away from Osiris briefly.

“After I joined up with the Hive, my Guardian was a Knight. The longer we were together, the more I realized I’d made a mistake. He died and I didn’t want to revive him.” The Ghost looked back at Osiris, tentatively meeting his gaze. “I helped the Vanguard bring down Savathûn. I heard about what happened to you, what she did…” The Ghost trails off, deflating with a little sigh. “I’m not trying to use you to make up for my mistakes. That’s on me. But I’ve heard a lot about you. I just thought…maybe I could help you. I thought we might have a connection. I know what the Hive are like, I thought maybe I could help you deal with what happened.” The Ghost’s voice falters, and they look down, away from Osiris’ gaze. “I know I’m probably not worthy of you. I just…wanted to help.”

Osiris reaches out along their bond, trying to draw upon some of the warmth the Ghost has been sharing with him, hoping to comfort and heal him. He directs it down the bond, not as a refusal, but in an attempt at comfort, layering the bond they now share with mutual warmth.

What’s your name?

The Ghost looks back up at him, surprise evident in their eye, but Osiris holds steady.

“Fynch.” The Ghost says at last, and Osiris inclines his head, even as exhaustion ripples through him. He lowers himself back down to lay fully on the bed, gently nudging Fynch from his palm and placing them back atop his chest. 

I’m Osiris.

Fynch lets out a nervous little laugh, but settles back on Osiris’ chest. 

“I know.” They say, and Osiris feels the ghost of a smile pull at his lips.

I’m glad you chose me, Fynch. Osiris tells them, and he feels surprise roll through their bond, along with a hint of gut-churning guilt. The heat warming his chest magnifies, and Fynch presses themself a little closer to Osiris.

“Thank you.” Fynch murmurs, their voice soft, filled with an old ache. Osiris’ eyes are closing. He can already feel himself starting to drift off. 

“I couldn’t let you die.” Fynch breathes, so quiet Osiris almost doesn’t catch it, but the room is silent save for the hum of the hospital’s machinery. 

Osiris feels a wave of emotion flood through him, and he raises his hand to lay it on his chest, brushing Fynch’s shell with his thumb gently. It’s not exactly an effective communication, but he hopes Fynch understands regardless. He couldn't speak if he wanted to, not even mind to mind through their bond.

“You should get some rest.” The Ghost says gently, perhaps reading the emotion flooding Osiris and offering him a tactful reprieve. “Saint will be back soon.”

Osiris settles further into the bed, letting his Ghost’s words soothe him. Saint. Soon he’ll be able to see Saint. He feels some of his tension ebb away, and he drifts off to sleep once more.

Chapter Text

Saint isn’t sure how he feels about this new Ghost. Fynch. On the one hand, he has been hurt by Savathûn, and by the Hive. They share a comradery in that way, a sense of right and wrong. He was even brave enough to turn against the Hive and help the Guardian defeat the Witch Queen. The Guardian trusts him, and they told Saint as much when they met him in Osiris’ hospital room, the new Ghost and Ikora with them. He has proven his loyalty to the City and to humanity.

On the other hand, Fynch chose to join the Hive. Saint is beginning to understand the consequences Fynch has dealt with because of that choice, and maybe he should be more accepting of the Ghost given he recognizes his mistake, but it is hard to set the knowledge aside. Joining the Hive is a costly mistake. Even if Fynch has moved past it, and is working to make up for his choice, he made it regardless. Saint isn’t sure he should allow someone with that past around Osiris.

Unfortunately he has little choice. Though Saint is loath to admit it, Osiris has been steadily declining for months. Doctors have been gently asking him whether or not keeping his partner alive is worth it. He hasn’t stirred from his slumber, and even he is beginning to wonder whether it would be a greater mercy to simply release Osiris from his suffering. Saint is beginning to think it might be cruel to hope for him to wake in this tattered world, no matter how much he might miss him.

But Fynch has changed that. From the moment the little Ghost entered Osiris’ hospital room, Saint had known the decision was made. He could feel the Ghost’s very Light reaching for Osiris, as if the Traveler had planned for them to be together all along, and Fynch needed to go through his Hive Knight Guardian and his espionage in the Throne World in order to find Osiris. He must admit, the two share a great deal. They both have suffered at the hands of the Hive in ways Saint will never understand. The Ghost is wary, hurt. The Guardian has tried to show him warmth, but he needs a partner, someone he can devote himself to, someone who will accept him in turn.

Fynch has already devoted himself to Osiris. The Warlock has yet to wake but Fynch spends all hours at his side. He’s spoken to all the doctors that have seen and cared for Osiris. He spends hours a day working to heal his Guardian. Saint watches as he uses his Light to explore the bond within him. Fynch believes he’s burning away Savathûn’s spells, piece by piece. Osiris already seems to be improving under his watchful eye.

It isn’t Saint’s opinion that really matters, though. As much as Fynch fights for his approval, it is Osiris who will set the tone for their partnership. In their time together, Fynch has mentioned to Saint how horrifying it was to watch the Guardian destroy Hive Ghosts. He’s come to terms with the necessity of it, but he still bears his own green eye and chitin shell. Saint realized that in making their bond, in returning the Light to Osiris, Fynch has effectively given Osiris the power to kill him. When he wakes, Osiris might very well deem such actions necessary. Saint can tell it weighs heavy on the Ghost.

“Do you think he’ll hate me?” 

Fynch’s words come late one night, when Saint has sat at Osiris’ bedside for hours, holding the Warlock’s hand in his own. The lights in the room are out. Saint might fall asleep if not for the hum of the hospital noise, the soft glow of the Ghost’s eyes as he sits atop Osiris’ chest, his skin lit faintly with the power of Fynch’s Light.

Saint lifts his eyes to Fynch, who has shifted just enough to look at him, though his shell is drawn tight around his center. This anxiety, these questions, they’re not uncommon, not in the days since Fynch formed their bond.

“It’s just…Savathûn hurt him so bad.” Fynch’s voice is weak. “I know I helped stop her but…what if he wakes up and all he sees is Hive?”

Saint draws in a deep breath. There have been moments, late at night, where he thought he should let this Ghost bring his lover back, then take him in his fist and destroy him, but that is not something Fynch deserves.

“Osiris has been badly hurt.” Saint acknowledges. “I don’t know what he will think of you, not after everything that has been done to him, but he is a fair man. Given time, I believe he will see you for all that you are, and he will judge you accordingly.”

Fynch’s shell droops, but not in relief. He lifts himself off Osiris’ chest, drifting back to look at his face, his eyes closed in sleep.

“Was it wrong of me to choose him without his permission?” Fynch asks. “I know he might not want me, but what if he doesn’t even want to be a Guardian anymore?”

Saint holds out his arm. He had tried holding Fynch in his palm, days ago, but the Ghost nearly writhed in panic at the touch. Saint knew what he was imagining, he knew how Guardians would crush Hive Ghosts in their hands with a hint of Light and paracausal power, and he let him be. In the contact he’s offered Fynch since, he’s kept his hands away from him, offering the Ghost a perch on his arm or on his shoulder. Fynch settles onto his forearm, looking up at Saint with worry in his eye.

“You did not have a choice.” Saint reminds him gently. “You saved his life, for that I am grateful, and I believe Osiris is grateful as well. He can decide whether or not he wishes to return to his duties once he wakes, but you have not hurt him by choosing him.”

Fynch nods, though he does not look entirely convinced. Saint can feel his Light fluttering about the room, writhing with nervous energy even as he continues to devote a great deal to Osiris and his recovery.

“You’re right.” The Ghost murmurs. “You’re right. I’m just…nervous, I guess.” He glances back at Saint, new worry in his eye. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to replace Sagira.”

Saint feels old pain ache in his chest. Despite the months she’s been gone, the loss of Sagira still stings him, ripping into the core of his being. He misses her light, her energy, her wit. He misses her encouragement and positivity, her sarcasm. He can only imagine how Osiris will feel when he wakes without her. He struggles in a deep breath.

“You’re not.” He tells Fynch. It is not a question, but the Ghost nods in confirmation. “Osiris will see that.”

They lapse into silence, and eventually Fynch drifts up, settling himself on Saint’s shoulder. Saint would not ask him to admit it, but he guesses the contact has been helpful for him. A reminder that Saint has allowed him into the life he and Osiris share, reminding him that there is good to be found, and comfort even for one who has made his mistakes.

“Thank you, Saint.” He murmurs, and Saint nods, setting a hand on his chest below where Fynch perches. He does not touch him, but he hopes the gesture of comfort is enough. 

Together they look on towards Osiris’ sleeping form, and Saint prays the harm being done to Osiris has come to an end, instead to be replaced with a time of warmth and love.

Chapter Text

Osiris would wake up soon. Knowing that he’d done something good, that the great Osiris would finally be coming back, that he was free of Savathûn’s presence, and thanks to Fynch no less, he was thrilled. Or he should have been. Fynch was going to meet his Guardian, his partner. The Light had decided they should be together, so shouldn’t he be excited? Shouldn’t he be pleased? Or happy for himself? For the future he was going to have?

He didn’t feel happy. He felt scared, afraid for his life, scared. It felt like when Guardians looked at him with malice in their eyes. It felt like the fear of being discovered by Savathûn and her goons after he’d betrayed them. It felt like the fear that had shot through him when he’d stabbed the point of his shell into his Knight’s eye and prayed to the Traveler that they would die.

What if Osiris didn’t want him? What would people think of him? A great Warlock, brought low by Savathûn, nearly killed only to be healed by a Hive Ghost after his first had given her life to save him. Would they think Savathûn still held power over him? That he and Fynch were conspiring to turn on the City?

The worries spiraled within him. He couldn’t contain them, couldn’t stop them. What if Osiris wanted to kill him?

Fynch shuddered, but drifted a little closer to his Guardian, redoubling his healing efforts. He’d made his choice when he decided to bond with Osiris. If Osiris didn’t want him, if Osiris thought he couldn’t be redeemed, that was his decision. 

He’d asked Saint about it, late one night after he’d spent hours digging through Osiris’ being, searching for Hive spells. His worries had been quiet, pervasive. He hadn’t been able to dodge them, he still couldn’t, but Saint didn’t think Osiris would harm him. He was a good man, his judgment of Fynch would be fair and honest. But what if Osiris was afraid? What if Osiris was as afraid as he was? How would they move past that?

He didn’t have time to come up with an answer, shocked from his thoughts as Osiris stirred below him. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, sat on the center of Osiris’ chest, warm Light flowing out of him as he worked to heal Osiris’ body, bit by bit. Saint wasn’t there. He’d gone back to his apartment after Geppetto had convinced him to rest, if Osiris woke now, there would be no one to explain to him—

Osiris peeled his eyes open and Fynch leapt from his chest with a start. He hovered in the air above him watching as Osiris blinked the sleep from his eyes. It looked like he could hardly lift his head from the pillow below him, but Fynch watched as his eyes focused, looking over him. He held his gaze as best he could, his Light still flowing through Osiris’ chest, still healing him. He pulled his shell close around him under the weight of Osiris’ stare. Would this be it? Would the Warlock decide to kill him?

Osiris lifted a hand out to him, and Fynch stared. This was his Guardian, he should trust him, and yet all he could feel was ice cold anxiety, wrapping tight around his shell. Fynch looked back down at Osiris’ hand, trying to focus himself in the here and now. Slowly, he drifted closer, until he could set himself down on Osiris’ palm. His fingers curled and Fynch jumped, but Osiris’ hand flattened quickly.

The Guardian before him opened his mouth to speak, but little more than a puff of air met him. He tried to swallow, but his second attempt at words came out even quieter, and Fynch suddenly worried his healing had been inadequate. He hadn’t noticed significant damage to Osiris’ vocal cords. Had he missed something?

You’re scared.

Osiris voice sounded beside his own thoughts, louder and clearer than his own mess of fear and anxiety. Fynch felt himself flinch, his eye going wide. It was like Osiris was speaking within his mind, sending his thoughts down a bridge that lay between them. He’d heard other Ghosts talk of their bond between them and their Guardians. His Knight had never been interested enough to figure it out, preferring to bark orders to him verbally, so that all might hear.

My apologies. The voice softened in his head, and Osiris offered him a sympathetic look. You’ve never had a Guardian communicate with you like this?

Fynch nodded in confirmation. Osiris’ voice was soft and gentle but everything felt overwhelming. His whole being was rigid with fear.

Why are you scared?

Well, that was certainly a question.

“I, uh…” Fynch fidgeted in Osiris’ hand, drifting back from his palm and towards his fingers. He thought about trying to send the words down the bridge Osiris has used but it was too much to deal with. “I know what you must think of me.” He told Osiris, almost worried the reminder would have Osiris’ hand snapping around him, crushing him with just a hint of his power. Fynch had thought his Knight had been strong, but since he bonded with Osiris? He couldn't even comprehend the strength of Light that coursed through the Warlock’s veins. “Guardians haven’t been too kind to me and the other Ghosts like me. Whatever you would want to do with me would be pretty justified, all things considered.”

Savathûn had wreaked havoc on this man and Fynch had decided to join her. He might have played a key part in her death, but what did that matter when his eye still glowed green, his shell still made of chitin?

Osiris looked him over again, and Fynch tried not to cringe.

Because you served the Hive?

Fynch nodded, and he watched Osiris consider it. He watched the judgment in his eyes as he looked over Fynch’s shell, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with softness.

You chose me.

Fynch didn’t want to even dare hope, but he nodded again.

Why?

Fynch shifted with unease, looking away from Osiris. How was he supposed to answer that? It didn’t feel like he chose to bond with Osiris, it felt like destiny. It had felt like Osiris was meant to be his Guardian, that Fynch needed to be the one to protect him. But he’d still sought him out.

“After I joined up with the Hive, my Guardian was a Knight. The longer we were together, the more I realized I’d made a mistake. He died and I didn’t want to revive him.” He dared lift his gaze to Osiris again, searching for the malice he thought should be hiding behind his eyes. He found none. “I helped the Vanguard bring down Savathûn. I heard about what happened to you, what she did…” Osiris didn’t need him to tell him what he’d been through. Fynch sighed quietly, wishing it did the same thing for him as it did for anyone with lungs. “I’m not trying to use you to make up for my mistakes. That’s on me. But I’ve heard a lot about you. I just thought…maybe I could help you. I thought we might have a connection. I know what the Hive are like, I thought maybe I could help you deal with what happened.” He looked away from Osiris. He was a betrayer and a turncoat in the face of Osiris’ brilliance. “I know I’m probably not worthy of you. I just…wanted to help.”

Osiris should be scorning him, he felt pathetic and exhausted. He was good for nothing and shouldn’t be trusted by anyone. Why had he thought he could be Osiris’ Ghost?

Warmth tingled along the bridge between them, brushing acceptance and comfort over him.

What’s your name?

Fynch looked up in shock. How could he–? Was Osiris really accepting him? Was he giving him a chance? Why would he? 

The Warlock was steady before him, his gaze strong despite his physical weakness.

“Fynch.” He murmured, and Osiris inclined his head. Weakness seemed to be catching up to him, exhaustion rallying around him again. He still needed more rest. 

The Warlock shifted to lay back against the bed properly, and he nudged Fynch from his palm, back onto his chest where he’d sat before. 

I’m Osiris.

A nervous laugh bubbled out of him, and Fynch shifted on Osiris’ chest, settling into the contact.

“I know.” He told Osiris, and he watched as the corner of his lip twitched upward in a soft smile.

I’m glad you chose me, Fynch.

If Osiris hadn’t surprised him before, he certainly was now. Not only had he given him a chance, shown him kindness, but he’d openly told him he accepted him, that he approved. Even after everything Fynch had done. Guilt swelled up through Fynch’s being, and he pressed himself closer against Osiris, doubling down on his work to heal him.

“Thank you.” He murmured, as if it would even begin to acknowledge the gift Osiris was giving him. Osiris’ eyes began to drift closed, but Fynch wasn’t ready to let him go again, not yet.

“I couldn’t let you die.” He said, his voice no more than a whisper. Osiris raised a hand to his chest, gently brushing his thumb to Glint’s shell. Through their bond, Fynch felt a wave of emotion shudder through his Guardian.

“You should get some rest.” He told Osiris, relenting at last. He looked exhausted, and Fynch had been healing him for long enough, he couldn’t solve all his problems with Light, he needed rest. “Saint will be back soon.”

He suspected Saint wouldn’t return until morning, but he doubted Osiris would wake before his return, especially not after Fynch shared every detail of what had occurred with Geppetto. The words seemed to comfort something in Osiris, and he relaxed further into the hospital bed, tensions ebbing from his body as he drifted to sleep. Fynch settled onto his chest, taking up his vigil once more.

Chapter Text

Sharp words greet Zavala’s ears as soon as he enters her office.

“I’ve already spoken with Eris, Commander. Your presence is not needed here.” She tells him, her voice lined with bitterness like old blades, weathered and weary, but still sharp enough to cut. He opens his mouth to respond, but when no words come out, Caiatl eyes him suspiciously. “I’ve agreed to partake in her ritual. Have you come to speak of something else?”

“Yes.” Zavala answers, more readily this time. In all the time he’s known her, Caiatl has been bold and strong, encouraging and generally positive. He has seen her angry, and he has seen her frustrated, but never has he seen her as bitter as she sounds as she stands before him. It takes him a moment to recover from his shock at the sight.

He casts his eyes around the space, words seeming to vacate his brain. Office is the wrong word for this room. Caiatl’s private study is much like her war room. There is a large table at the center of the space, lit up with holograms depicting the moon and the Leviathan. A portion of it tracks the main areas within the Leviathan, just as the war table on the HELM does when Zavala is on board. The walls of the space are lined with shelves, covered in books, mementos, and weapons, likely whatever they were able to save during Torobatl’s fall. From the diligent attention given to them, the way they gleam on the shelves even when the books have grown dusty, they must be precious. She has a desk at the back of the space, and she stands before it, watching him. He presses his lips together, realizing just how much his eyes had been wandering. He needs to speak, he needs to tell her why he’s come.

“I’m not here as a Commander.” He says, and her eyes narrow at him. “I know how difficult it is to deal with your Nightmare, especially in the position you’re in.”

“You don’t understand the position I’m in.” She growls low at him, and he lifts his hands, but she turns away with a huff of frustration. “Your world has not fallen, Commander. You are not dealing with conspirators and betrayers.”

Zavala’s grateful she cannot see his face as his brows lift. Caiatl has always been knowledgeable of humanity’s history, and she’s updated often enough on the state of their affairs to know that the City is not the peaceful utopia some might imagine it to be.

“The City is the only safe place on Earth for civilians.” Zavala tells her, keeping his voice calm and neutral. “Ghaul saw that it fell, and Ikora and I have been dealing with dissenters and conspirators for years.”

She huffs another sigh, perhaps at the truth of his words. He hopes she doesn’t take them as an example of his victories compared to her failures. He dares a step closer.

“Torobatl was not your failure, Caiatl.” He murmurs, and Caiatl whirls on him, seething.

“I am supposed to be their Empress.” She seethes, jabbing a finger to point out, beyond the confines of her study. “I am everything that is holding my people together and my father would doom our entire civilization to death if it meant exacting his revenge against me.” She rounds her desk, sinking into the chair behind it, the energy seeming to fade from her body. She presses her head into her hand. “I am supposed to be leading the charge against him, yet I cannot deal with a single Nightmare.”

Zavala stands before Caiatl’s desk, watching her with concern in his eyes.

“You offered your support when I was dealing with my own Nightmare.” He reminds her, his voice soft. “Allow me to offer mine.”

She lowers her hand, regarding him with a cold stare.

“There is nothing I can imagine you might be able to assist me with.” She tells him flatly, and he frowns.

“Caiatl, you and I both know this isn’t a battle you can win with strength alone.” He says, seating himself on the edge of one of the cabal sized chairs that sit before her desk. He feels so small within it, even wearing all his armor.. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re dealing with.” When her eyes remain cold, he dares to go on. “Please.”

Zavala cares for this woman. He does not understand the half of it, but Caiatl has shown him strength and kindness. She has encouraged him in his lowest moments and offered him her own strength. He cares for her enough to look beyond the mask she wears, to see the pain that lingers beneath. 

Caiatl regards him for a long moment before she breathes a heavy sigh. 

“Ghaul and my father led me in opposite directions.” She begins. “My father encouraged complacency. He wanted me to be what you might call a princess, rather than an empress. He wanted me to drink in the wealth he had acquired, but I would not stand for it. Dominus encouraged violence. He was a great warrior, strong enough to raze your city to the ground. As a child, I hoped to follow in his footsteps, but violence will not lead my people, as much as many of them would demand it.”

She casts her eyes down to her desk, running a finger along its edge.

“Ghaul was stronger than my father could ever be. As a child I wanted to be just like him, and now, to deliberately turn my back on the choices he would have made feels like weakness. I have failed in my efforts to defeat him.”

“Your failure does not define you.” Zavala reminds her, the same sentiment he’d heard from Eris when he’d been in Caiatl’s place. “And you may have failed to defeat him this time, but that does not mean you will continue to fail.”

Caiatl’s gaze is hard, frustrated. “My personal hardships are getting in the way of my empire.” She says, “surely you must understand why I cannot allow this to happen, Commander.”

Zavala presses his lips together. As a Commander, he does know where she’s coming from, but he can also read the way she uses his title against him. He came here to comfort her, not because of their alliance, or because he needed to offer a gesture of good faith to her and her troops, but because he cares for her as a person. He’d renounced his title when he’d entered, but she seems insistent upon reminding him that he cannot escape it, not even for a moment. 

“I do understand.” Zavala promises, giving her a small nod, “but I also know that if we allow our personal problems to fester, if we don’t take the time to care for ourselves, we will never be able to lead.” He meets her eyes and holds his gaze steady. “Part of being a leader is knowing when to ask for help.” He stands, stepping close to her desk until he can reach out across it. He lays his hand gently over hers.

“Let me help, Caiatl.”

Her eyes drift shut, but she doesn’t move her hand from his, and after a moment, she gives him a small nod.

“Alright, Zavala.”

Chapter Text

Making it to the HELM isn’t enough. The egregore has grown, crawling its way out of the left wing of the HELM and making its way towards the center space. The Guardian is just glad it hasn’t made its way back to their quarters yet. 

They transmat into the center room, Crow landing beside them. They’d finally called it a day after being in the Leviathan for hours, exploring its passageways and fighting Nightmares. The Guardian can’t help the way they’re shaken. Spending hours listening to Caiatl’s Nightmare, to the voice of a man that inflicted such great suffering on them years ago…they can’t help the way their hands shake. They can’t help the pounding of their heart.

They almost want to fight it out. If Crow hadn’t been with them, they would have. If they couldn’t stand being on the Leviathan they’d go somewhere else, to the Crucible or to the moon to fight in the Altar of Sorrow, anywhere where they could fight and fight until they were so exhausted they couldn’t even think. The Leviathan has sapped their strength like frigid water, but even their exhaustion can’t quell the panic that rises through them.

They murmur their best attempt at an excuse to Crow, heading straight for their quarters without another word. Their chest feels tight, their armor too restrictive, like it’s restricting their breathing. Their hands tremble as they tug at it, stripping off the protective layers until they’re left in their thin under armor. Even locked away in their quarters, it’s like they can hear the egregore whispering to them. They cast their eyes frantically around the room, expecting to find a visage of Ghaul looming over them, anything to give a face to their fears, but he isn’t there.

Tears well in their eyes, and they realize they’re kneeling on the floor. They gasp as the same sickening feeling riots through them, all their strength sapped from their being as their Light is taken from them. They feel an age old sting as Ghaul batters them across his ship, their Ghost clutched in their palm. They feel the way he flies from their hand,  disappearing as he plummets into the city below. They can still hear their own broken cry, echoing in their ears as they’re powerless to save him.

Ghaul looks regal as he stands over them, and they’re weak, powerless to even move. He shifts his weight back, lifting his foot to push them and then they’re plummeting, falling down and down and down to the city below. Fear riots through their body but there’s nothing they can do as they hurtle downwards. Buildings rise up around them, the ground growing closer and closer until—

“Guardian!” A strong hand grips their shoulder and the Guardian flinches, blinking the tears from their eyes to find Crow kneeling in front of them, holding their shoulder in his hand. “Breathe, Guardian.”

Their hand wraps around his wrist as they squirm backwards. They know it’s just Crow, they know Crow, and yet terror still likes every inch of their being. They can’t think straight, lost in fear and confusion. When their movements become more frantic, Crow releases them, holding up his hands.

“Guardian, look at me.” He tells them, worry bleeding into his tone. “We’re on the HELM, remember? You’re safe, I promise.”

They glance sideways as Ghost drifts closer to them, hesitantly butting his shell against their forehead. 

“You’re alright.” Crow breathes, and they draw in a trembling breath. 

There is no Ghaul, no thousand foot drop, no Red Legion. The Light is alive in their veins, writhing in response to their anxiety but there. It hasn’t been taken by Ghaul, Ghaul is dead. He’s dead.

They press their face into their hands and Crow creeps over to them, setting his hand on their shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” They murmur, their voice weak and broken.

“It’s okay.” Crow promises. “Can I…can I give you a hug?”

They nod, their lip trembling. Their tears haven’t even dried on their cheeks but they’re already on the edge of crying again at the comfort Crow offers them. He reaches out, wrapping his arms around them and drawing them against him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

They sniffle, wiping at their eyes with their sleeve while they hold onto Crow’s arm with their other hand, keeping his arms in place around them.

“You know how Caiatl’s Nightmare is Ghaul?” They croak, their voice weak. They can feel Crow’s nod as he leans against them. “You know how Ghaul attacked the City?” 

They shiver in his grip. Just admitting it feels like they’re letting him in. It’s a wonder Ghaul hasn’t come to haunt them, too. 

“It’s just…bringing up some bad memories.”

They draw back enough to look at Crow, his face awash with sympathy.

“I’m so sorry, Guardian.” He breathes. His hands have slipped down to hold their arms, but they relish the fact that he hasn’t broken contact with them. It grounds them to the here and now, quiets the voice of Ghaul echoing in their head. “Is there anything I can do?”

They shake their head. “Just stay.”

The Guardian would admit that they have fears, failures and shortcomings just like anyone else, but Crow is the only one they’re vulnerable around. He’s seen them at their best, slaying the enemies of humanity and fighting hard, the thrill of the challenge singing through their veins alongside the adrenaline, and he’s seen them at their worst. He’s seen them when the nightmares break them, when the panic attacks rob the oxygen from their lungs and their body is convinced they’re at war in the safety of their own room. He’s laughed with them and cried with them. Murmured soothing words to them just as they’d done for him when he needed it. 

He holds them with the same sureness as he always does, and he nods. He grips their arms as he presses his forehead to theirs, his eyes closing. They close their own, leaning into the contact. His hand drifts up to cradle the back of their head, his fingers brushing gently through the hair at the base of their skull. Their hands knot themselves in his armor and they slide even closer to him, matching their breathing to his.

“I’m here for you, Guardian.” He whispers. “I’ll always be here.”

Chapter Text

Osiris has not known Crow for very long. He’s become acquainted with the Guardian after finally waking in the hospital, seeking to build off any knowledge of the Hunter he was able to glean through Savathûn’s eyes. He knows Saint adores him, having been quick to sing his praises at any moment, much to Crow’s eternal embarrassment. Despite the tension in the air between them that loomed over their first few meetings together, Osiris has started to like him, as well. He visits often, always with the gift of food, and Osiris can’t help but recall his knowledge of Crow’s time on the Shore as he realizes how precious the gift might be to Crow, even now as he lives in the City with a stable living situation and income.

He pushes the darker thoughts from his mind, bringing himself back to his surroundings. He and Crow are on a walk through the City. It was deemed necessary for Osiris’ recovery that he spend time being physically active, and Osiris is happy to oblige. For now, the most he can do is a leisurely stroll through the City, but he does not mind. Osiris needed to get out and about, and Crow had confessed to having not explored the City a great deal during his time within it. As a result, Crow walks by his side as they stroll along a back pathway, his hood down, his face lifted to the sky as Glint flits around him. He looks happy, at ease, worlds away from the man Osiris once glimpsed, hiding behind a mask at the demand of words spoken from his own lips.

“I’m sorry Savathûn made you hide for so long.” Osiris tells him, shifting his eyes back ahead of them. It’s difficult to talk about Savathûn, especially with those she harmed so deeply.

Crow offers him a tight lipped smile. “It all worked out in the end.” He responds. “More or less. Besides, it’s not your fault.”

Osiris offers an unconvinced hum in response, and he and Crow continue their leisurely pace forward. 

“I know what it is like to suffer because of others' shortsightedness.” Osiris tells him after a moment. “I’m sorry you had to experience that from me.”

“It wasn’t you.” Crow says. “And I’m sorry for everything she did to you, too. You didn’t deserve that either.”

They lapse into silence and Osiris looks at the buildings around them as they walk along a pedestrian street. This section of the City is older, relatively undamaged during the Red War. The buildings have stucco siding, embellished with rich mosaics and plants draped over walls. It makes for warm scenery despite the rainy, overcast day, and Osiris is happy to use the quiet corner of the city as a distraction from his thoughts.

He’s sweeping his eyes over the entrance to an alleyway nearby when movement catches his gaze He stutters a step, pausing just in time to see a heavy stone sail through the air and nail Crow straight in the forehead. It hits him so hard he cries out, stumbling a step, a hand immediately rising to protect his face. Osiris whirls on the assailant, his withering glare catching a pair of Guardians at the entrance to the alleyway a bit ahead of them, off to their left. At the sight of him, their eyes go wide in surprise, and they drop the remaining stones in their hands and disappear into the alleyway at a sprint.

Osiris knows better than to try to go after them, and he turns to face Crow once more, the Hunter squinting through the streak of blood that already runs from his forehead into his right eye. His right hand hovers over the knives stowed in his belt, his left hand covering his forehead without touching the wound.

“They’re gone?” He asks, his voice tight. Osiris takes a step closer, realizing his expression looks dazed, his pupils wide, his eyes unfocused. Tears streak down his cheeks, mingling with the blood on his face.

“They’re gone.” Osiris confirms, and he reaches out towards Crow only for the other man to sink to his knees, both hands coming up to clutch at his head.

“Shit, that hurt. ” He hisses, his Ghost—Glint, Osiris recalls—flitting closer to him only for Crow to push him away, his hands splaying on the pavement as he doubles over and retches. 

Osiris meets Glint’s eye and they share a worried look. Glint drifts closer, and a healing glow envelops the Guardian.

Crow lets out a sigh of relief, pushing himself back to sit back on his feet as he catches his breath. 

“Thanks, Glint.” He murmurs, grimacing as he wipes at his mouth.

Osiris helps him to his feet, holding his shoulder to steady him as he cups the left side of Crow’s face, inspecting the now-closed wound. Cold sweat meets Osiris’ fingers and Osiris is once again ever thankful for the blessing of Ghosts as Crow’s concussion has been dealt with as quickly as it arose.

“Are you alright?” There’s still blood covering Crow’s face, but his eyes are clear and focused as he meets Osiris’ gaze steadily. His shoulder is tense below Osiris hand, trembling lightly with whatever adrenaline surged in response to the wound, but he nods, his tears drying quickly.

“I’m fine.” He promises, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. It only smears the blood covering half of Crow’s face, and Osiris grimaces.

“Come with me.” He tells Crow, leading him back towards his and Saint’s apartment. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Crow holds up his hands, already trying to refuse.

“It’s okay, Osiris, really. I can just go back to my place.” 

Osiris fixes him with a hard look and Crow relents, stepping up to his side and following him back.

“Does this happen to you often?” Osiris asks, when he’s fairly certain Crow won’t bolt the minute Osiris takes his eyes off him.

“It hasn’t happened so much recently, but yeah.” His voice is quiet, weary.

Osiris is well aware of the turbulent history surrounding Crow’s past life. He’s also well aware that to hold Crow accountable for those deeds is ridiculous and entirely unfair. To even hold Uldren accountable for the deeds doesn’t seem entirely justified either, given how far gone he was when he committed them.

“Are the attackers always Guardians?” 

Crow shakes his head. The blood is already starting to dry against his skin.

“No. Usually they’re Guardians but there have been a few Tower workers, too.” He breathes out a little sigh. “There were a few of Amanda's people in the Hangar that confronted me a few weeks ago, after we…” He trails off, pressing his lips together. “Had a falling out. I guess they probably knew Cayde.”

They drift into silence as they walk. Osiris wants to offer an apology, but it feels hollow. Crow will insist it isn’t his fault, but that’s not the point, and there’s very little Osiris can do to stop the attacks from happening. They’re nearly to Osiris and Saint’s apartment when Crow speaks up.

“I’m actually a little surprised you accepted me so easily.” Crow tells him and Osiris arches a brow.

“Why?”

He shrugs, rubbing his fingers together and staring down at the dried blood crusted on them. 

“I dunno, I just figured you’d know what he did to the Awoken people. And I thought you might be upset for Ikora, given how close she was to Cayde.” 

Osiris looked over at Crow, studying him for a moment. It was hard to judge his facial expression given the blood smeared across his face, and after a moment he had to look away.

“I know enough to judge you for your own actions.”

He leads Crow into the apartment building and Crow draws his hood on, over his head. They make their way to the elevators, managing to be on the receiving end of only a few concerned looks. Osiris leads the way to his and Saint’s apartment, though he has a feeling Crow knows the way just as well as he does, if not better.

“Oh, you’re home early.” Saint’s voice greets them when Osiris lets them inside. “I wasn’t expecting you until–”

Saint breaks off as he steps into the entryway. Osiris watches his optics flicker over Crow and he takes a step forward, gently pushing Crow’s hood from his head.

“What happened?” He looks between Crow and Osiris.

Crow does his best to keep his head up, but his cheeks are flushed with shame and Osiris gives him a moment to offer an explanation. When he doesn’t, Osiris looks back to Saint.

“A Guardian threw a rock at him.” He tells Saint. When Saint’s jaw tightens in anger, Osiris lifts his hands. “By the time we saw them it was too late. They ran off as soon as it was done.”

Saint sighs a deep breath, but he gives Osiris a nod. 

“There are cookies in the oven.” He tells Osiris, “Will you take them out when they’re ready? I will take care of Crow.”

“It’s really fine, I don’t want to be a bother, I can just–” Crow stammers, but Saint reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

“No, we will look after you.” The Titan tells Crow. He gives Osiris another nod and Osiris returns it, then Saint takes Crow by the arm and they disappear into the bathroom. With the way Crow doesn’t try to protest anymore, Osiris wonders if this has occurred more than once.

He heads to the kitchen, seating himself at the breakfast bar so that he can watch the timer on the oven. By the time Saint and Crow return, he’s taken the cookies from the oven and they’re cooling on a rack. Crow’s face is flushed, but clean of blood, his hair damp as it hangs over his forehead. Glint flits happily around him and Osiris can’t help his smile as the Ghost glances between the cookies, Saint and his Guardian with a hopeful look.

Saint notices the cookies immediately and he washes his hands in the sink before approaching the rack on the counter. He looks over at Osiris as he holds a hand over the cookies.

“How are they? Have you had one?”

Osiris shakes his head and Saint huffs, pulling out a set of little plates. He places a cookie on each plate, placing the biggest before Crow. Saint talks over him when he tries to protest.

“Eat. They are better warm.” Saint tells him, and he fixes him with a look until he relents and takes a bite. 

The Hunter practically melts at the taste of it, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. Osiris bites into his own cookie with a hidden smile. When Saint’s baking skills have been adequately praised, Crow sits up straighter, looking between Saint and Osiris, his face serious.

“Thank you.” He tells them, “for everything. It means a lot to me.”

Saint puts a second cookie on his plate before he can refuse. Crow opens his mouth, but thinks better of it, silencing his own protest. Osiris’ heart swells at the fondness in Saint’s eyes as he reaches out across the breakfast bar to hold Crow’s arm.

“You are good bird.” Emotion simmers in Crow’s eyes and he flips his wrist to turn his palm face-up, gripping Saint’s arm in return.

“Thank you.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but at the pure warmth flowing between the two of them, at the affection in Saint’s eyes and the thankfulness in Crow’s, Osiris is very grateful for the new bird they’ve brought into their little flock. He only wishes it hadn't taken so much suffering to get him there, but from the warmth of affection that fills the room could burn away any old pain.

Chapter Text

The Guardian lays sprawled out on their bunk within their ship. Through the windows around them they can spy the moon and the Leviathan, drifting through space as they hang in orbit around Earth. The Guardian’s ship orbits the two, the Leviathan hovering over earth like a second little moon.

They keep their gaze away from it, laying on their bed in their underarmor, a thick sweater thrown on to combat the chill that comes with shedding the protective layers. They tuck their arms behind their head, closing their eyes as they focus on breathing steadily, in and out. The anxiety that wraps around their chest like a knot seems to loosen, just a bit.

“Hey, Ghost?” Their companion materializes beside them. “Do you think you could play some white noise? Like rain sounds, maybe?”

Ghost inclines his shell in a little nod. “Of course, Guardian.” 

In moments, sound covers their ship like a blanket, raindrops pattering on leaves in a dense forest, plopping into puddles forming below. The Guardian closes their eyes, letting themself drift back to calm memories.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Crow’s voice blooms in their memory, watching as the Guardian throws off their boots and socks, drawing up their leg armor to wade ankle deep into the lake they’ve dragged Crow to.

They’re somewhere in the EDZ, out past the Farm, away from the Eliksni camps and roving bands of Hive or Cabal. The forest around them is filled with the quiet chirping of birds, the patter of rain on leaves and the smell of damp earth. The Guardian breathes it like a drug.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” They haul off their cloak, throwing it to the shore with their boots. They work themself free of the top half of their armor as Crow eyes the sky.

“Because it's raining?” He says, following them to the edge of the lake. The water laps over the toes of his boots and the Guardian grins at him as they chuck their armor at him. He ducks around their chestplate, but catches their gauntlets, rolling his eyes at them before he tosses them into the growing pile of their armor. “Isn’t lightning drawn to water?”

“It’s sprinkling.” They point out, eyeing the sky. It’s slightly more than sprinkling, but not enough for the Guardian to worry. They haven’t seen a hint of lightning all day. “I think we’ll be fine.”

They toss their shirt off, over their head, but find Crow watching them, looking unconvinced. 

“C’mon, Crow!” They take a step back towards the shore, tossing off their leg armor. “I’ll have Ghost warn us if any lighting starts coming too close, deal?”

He presses his lips together as the Guardian strips off their under armor. The Guardian grins at the flush in Crow’s cheeks as he glances away from them, clad only in their underwear.

“Suit yourself!” They call over their shoulder, and then they’re gone, racing deeper into the lake before they can dive under the surface and leave Crow waiting on the shore behind them. They swim down, running their hands along the rocks at the bottom of the lake, clear and clean water all around them. When they push themself back up to the surface, they shiver at the feel of the cool raindrops on their skin, tiling their head back and closing their eyes.

Movement catches their attention behind them, and they turn back to the shore to find Crow pulling his shirt off, over his head, his boots and socks gone as he stands on the sandy shore. They grin at him. He steps towards the water but draws back with a squeak as he dips his toes in it.

“Guardian, this water is so cold!” He says, his voice a near wail. The Guardian throws their head back and laughs. Crow grumbles as he works his way out of the rest of his clothes.

When he wades into the water, his body is rife with tension, his jaw clenched against the cold.

“I guess this is the peer pressure Glint warned me about.” He grumbles, and the Guardian rolls their eyes.

“Put your head underwater, you won’t feel so cold.” They tell him, and he raises his brows at them.

“You want me to warm myself up by getting more wet? ” Crow demands, and the Guardian rolls their eyes again.

“Just trust me, it’ll help.” They reach out towards him and Crow eyes them hesitantly, but he lets them reach out and take his arms. “Here, I’ll do it with you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, you’ve already done it.” Crow protests.

“And I’m not cold.” 

Crow frowns at them when he can’t come up with a retort, and the Guardian grins. 

“C’mon, on three, okay?” When Crow doesn’t protest—verbally at least—they count down, then use their grip on his arms to guide him under the water with them. They dunk their heads and bob back up to the surface and the Guardian releases Crow, laying back to float on their back, letting the rain patter over their skin.

“For the record, I’m still cold.” 

The Guardian rolls over onto their stomach. “I think I know what might help.” They tell Crow. He frowns at them.

“I don’t like that look, Guardian.” Crow barely has a chance to finish before the Guardian lunges into motion, sweeping their arms across the water to throw it at Crow in a harsh splash. 

He yelps, but quickly copies their movements, splashing water on the Guardian in return. In moments they descend into all out war, throwing water on one another, then pushing each other, and trying to tackle each other into the lake. The rain cascades around them, increasing to all-out pouring, water streaming down their faces from the lake and the rain. Crow flings water at the Guardian until they nearly choke on it. The Guardian uses a handful of leaves to attempt to block Crow’s vision, holding them over his eyes as he fights their grip. 

Crow has them by the shoulders, trying to leverage them under the water with his weight when a bolt of lightning lights up the sky and thunder crashes overhead, so loud they both shriek. They hurdle for the shore, shouting and yelling nonsense, already in a fit of panicky laughter when they collapse on the beach. They summon Ghost, and through bouts of laughter demand to know why he hadn’t warned them. He insists the thunder wasn’t nearly as loud as they thought, but they hardly hear his justifications as their laughter swells to nonsensical levels. 

The Guardian feels themself drifting back to the present, and when they open their eyes they’re still laid out on their bunk in their ship. Ghost sits on his little bed on a shelf in the corner, and the rain sounds continue to cascade around them. They roll onto their hands and knees, waking up their body just enough to crawl below the covers of their bed, and nestled in soft sheets, the sounds of sweet laughter still filling their mind, they drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The Cabal aboard Caiatl’s command ship are starting to recognize him. That doesn’t seem like a good sign.

Logically, Shiro knows he’s overinterpreting it. Caiatl has made it clear that Saladin is allowed visitors so long as their presence does not interfere with the commitment Saladin made to the Cabal Empress, but the fact that he’s becoming recognizable twists his gut into a knot of discomfort. He and Saladin are both Lightbearers, he could visit Saladin once a year and eventually he’d become recognizable on the command ship. He just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

As a Guardian on a Cabal ship, he sticks out like a sore thumb, that much is true. But what bothers him is the way the Cabal guards assess him less and less, the gleam of recognition in their eyes as they allow him from the transmatt bay and deeper into the vessel. When Saladin isn’t there to meet him, Shiro stops short. He glances back towards the guards behind him just as the Cabal Empress steps into view, and there’s nothing Shiro can do, nowhere for Shiro to go as she approaches him, her eyes meeting his.

“Shiro-4.” She greets him with a respectful nod, and he returns it, trying to hide his tension. When’s the last time anyone referred to him with his number?

“Empress Caiatl.” He returns, hoping his nod and her title is enough respect on her command ship. She’s not his Empress, he shouldn’t bow to her, but this is her ship– He shuts down the line of thought before he can get too carried away. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Caiat tells him. “I’ve heard of you from Valus Forge. He is not one for details, but I imagine you must be quite fierce for him to value you at his side.”

Shiro can’t help the way his chin dips with slight embarrassment. He knows Saladin isn’t one to discuss his private life, but to be known, or at least heard of by a number of Cabal he doesn’t know is an unnerving prospect.

“I’ve heard a bit about you from Saladin as well.” Shiro tells the Empress. He feels like he’s fighting to gain his footing, thrown off while battling on difficult terrain. A conversation shouldn’t be this difficult for him, but he wants a way out. Now. “Is he–” 

In all the times he’s been on this ship, he transmatts directly to Saladin’s quarters, or Saladin meets him at the transmat bay to walk him there himself. To have the man not here is startling.

“His meeting on the HELM went long.” Caiatl explains simply. “He will be along shortly. Until then, walk with me.” She gestures down the long corridor and Shiro sweeps his gaze around them, but there’s no exit for him in sight, and he follows the Empress with a curt nod.

“I make it my business to know who is aboard my ship.” She tells him, and Shiro feels his back straighten. He’s been on this ship enough times to know the way to Saladin’s quarters—even when the hallways all manage to look nearly identical—but he has yet to feel comfortable in it. He hardly comes up to the Empress’ waist. He has to reach up to use their doors. It feels he’s been shrunken down to the size of a doll. “For my Valus’ privacy, I thought it best to wait for a natural moment for us to meet,” she glances down at Shiro. “And here we are.”

“Here we are.” Shiro murmurs, unable to say anything else.

She pauses in the corridor, turning to face him. “I understand you are a Vanguard operative, as a Hunter, you serve as a scout, is that correct?”

“Yes.” Shiro confirms, holding her eye contact. Her gaze is sharp, assessing.

“What does that entail?”

Shiro opens his mouth to answer, but pauses, pressing his lips together for a moment. “I patrol sections of Eastern Europe. We have a lot of new Guardians that come out of that area so I reinforce our people there, take out high value targets and eliminate any potential power developments before they can arise.” When her eyes don’t leave his, but she doesn’t speak, he shifts into a slightly more solid stance. “Most of the specifics of my work are classified.”

If she has the clearance, she can dig for it herself, but the best part of Shiro’s work is the classified sections that spare him from painful conversations like these.

“And how did you meet Valus Forge?” 

The title is so unfamiliar to Shiro he nearly falters. He knows it, of course he does, but he’s never held Valus Forge close in his mind the way he has Lord Saladin—first with annoyance and begrudging respect—then later, just Saladin—with care and affection and deep trust.

“Fallen Splicers started to utilize an old golden age nanotechnology in Old Russia. I found it in my patrol sector and the Vanguard reached out to Saladin due to his…personal experience with it.” Shiro explains. From Caiatl’s gaze, she can tell there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t ask. “We were tasked with commanding the Guardians and ensuring the elimination of the threat.”

“And how did you come to be as you are now?”

“The mission turned out to be pretty intense. I came to respect him the longer we worked together, and when the threat was dealt with I decided to stay with him at the Iron Temple. Things got more complicated when the Red War started. We realized it was life and death.”

Caiatl smiles at him, and Shiro tries not to show his shock too obviously.

“There’s nothing like the fear of death to spur feelings into actions.” She tells him, and despite himself, Shiro smiles back.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He tilts his head. “Maybe Ghaul brought the system a few good things after all.”

Caiatl’s expression cools, her brow furrowing. “The Ghaul I knew was a great warrior.” She tells him, and Shiro can’t help but hear something else in her tone. Longing, perhaps? “But, he forgot his honor when he attacked your civilians. His actions have made the foundation for our alliance difficult to build.”

Shiro lets out a quiet sigh. “Ghaul left a lot of scars on this system and its people.” He admits, watching Caiatl as she turns to meet his eyes again. “We might be healed, but people remember the blades that cut them. For humanity, we’re only just now realizing distinctions need to be made between the people who hurt us and the people who didn’t. It might take time for people to realize your empire isn’t a threat to them.”

Caiatl’s expression softens as she nods in response to his words.

“Well,” she says, “if all your people come to that realization as quickly as you have, there is hope for our alliance yet.”

Shiro blinks. “What?” He can’t manage anything more.

Caiatl smiles at him. “I must admit Exos are relatively unfamiliar to me, but your body language mirrors that of humans and Awoken. You were tense when we first began to speak, but now you are relaxed. You’ve spoken freely. Is that not a measure of trust?”

Shiro stares at her for a long moment. Had she really been reading him that well? Had he really underestimated an Empress that much? 

“I guess it is.” He manages at last, and Caiatl smiles at him. 

“It was nice to meet you, Shiro.” She nods behind him and Shiro glances back just as Saladin steps up to his side. “I’ll leave you to it.” She gives her Valus a nod and leaves without another word.

Shiro is still staring after her when Saladin’s hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“Sorry I’m late.” He tells Shiro, looking towards the Empress disappearing down the hall. “What was that?”

“The start of an alliance.”

Chapter Text

“Give Saint…my private drive,” Osiris exhales and closes his eyes. He sees himself in a million permutations. Each path: a life in glimpses. He takes what he can from them. Not enough to savor, but enough to be immortalized in nostalgic haze. In one, he is a blazing warrior, driving back the horrors of the longest nights. Another, a vigiled gargoyle atop the infinite forest. A grizzled elder overseeing keen disciples. 

 

In so many, he is dead.

 

But there is one where Osiris finds happiness. He finds a time away from strife. He finds Saint—a dream of warm serenity. The peace to his purpose. With Saint, there is a future that could have been enough.”

Osiris dwells on the memory, the glimpse of what could have been. He holds it like a lifeline when Savathûn has him captive. When he fights, when he pushes her from his mind and screams at her for the harm she’s inflicting on those he loves, she rips into him with claws of agony. He holds the vision close in those times. Sagira sacrificed herself for that life. For the life where he could be happy, with Saint, alive. He holds it close. A vision of what can be, if only he can survive the Witch Queen. 

When the nights are long, when he is alone in the raging ocean, without a speck of land in sight, he imagines he is there, that glimpse stretched out into an eternity, dependent only on how long he can sustain it.

Osiris wakes to sunlight on his skin. Saint’s body lies against his, and Osiris is cradled against a metal chest, held in the circle of Saint’s arms. There is no threat that could break them, no Witch Queen, no Vex, no Infinite Forest to keep them apart. Osiris wakes in the bed they share in their city apartment, warm sunlight caressing his skin, as gentle as the touch of his lover at his back.

He turns to face Saint. The Titan is still asleep, but his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Osiris shifts closer to him, and Saint’s arms tighten around him in response. He moves until his face is pressed to Saint’s chest, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing over Osiris’ face as he presses his nose to the fabric and breathes deep. There is not a Hive spell powerful enough to make him forget the way Saint smells, but there are no Hive spells here. Saint’s arms come around him and he pulls Osiris close, holding him so tightly Osiris could forget anything and everything else.

He wants those arms to stay wrapped around him forever.

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go, stirring as Osiris remains tucked into his arms. His optics are still flickering to life when he leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Osiris’ head.

“G’morning.” He mumbles, his voice heavy with sleep. Osiris feels warmth bloom through his body and he hums his greeting back into Saint’s chest. 

He leans up, pressing a kiss to Saint’s collarbone, then to the base of Saint’s throat. He presses Saint’s shoulder until Saint rolls onto his back and Osiris crawls to lay half on top of him, pressing kisses up his throat. Saint’s hands slide up his sides, his fingers dipping under the hem of Osiris shirt to brush at bare skin as he settles his hands at Osiris’ hips. Osiris presses kisses along his jaw, then draws his tongue along the pane of Saint’s jaw. Saint sucks in a sharp breath.

He opens his mouth to speak when Osiris pulls back enough to look at him, and Osiris holds a finger to his lips.

“Please.” He breathes. Saint’s expression softens, and he gives Osiris a nod.

Osiris removes his hand, laying his hands over Saint’s chest, feeling the solid muscle and metal below, and he captures Saint’s lips in a kiss. 

The kiss is slow, gentle but not without heat. In it, Osiris breathes everything that he wishes he could have, everything he’s longed for as Savathûn has kept him locked away in her prison. His tongue laps into Saint’s mouth and Saint’s grip tightens on his hips. Suddenly Saint is lifting him, drawing Osiris fully onto him. He shifts until he’s half-upright, straddling Saint as he leans down on his chest, kissing Saint with pure want.

He pulls himself closer, and Saint pushes himself to sit up, and then they’re chest to chest. Osiris’ want swells into near desperation, and he kisses Saint hard until he has to draw back, pressing his forehead to Saint’s as he pants, struggling to catch his breath. Saint reaches out, his hand cupping the back of Osiris’ neck.

“Nightmares again?” He murmurs, as if Savathûn is only a vision in Osiris’ dreams, as if his life has not been ripped to pieces by Hive gods. Saint’s fingers run soothingly over his skin, as if he’s coaxing Osiris to remember that this is real, that Saint is really here and not just a crutch Osiris dreams up to get through the day.

“Something like that.” Osiris breathes, and Saint presses a kiss to his brow.

“I am here.” He murmurs, giving Osiris’ elbow a gentle squeeze in emphasis. “But Sagira will want to know about these. Talking to her might help you.”

Osiris has to fight his own shaky gasp, and he drops his head to Saint’s chest to breathe through the surge of pain that threatens to cleave his chest in two.

“Oh,” Saint murmurs, “that nightmare.”

Osiris fights to draw a steady breath, and Saint’s Light presses into him, breathing gentle warmth into his body. It pulls at his own Light, stroking the solar that remains within his soul and Osiris presses himself closer. He tucks his head into Saint’s shoulder and Saint wraps his arms around him.

“They are only nightmares, Osiris.” Saint breathes, his hand running soothingly along Osiris’ spine. “They are not real. You are here, with me. This is real.”

Osiris presses his face against Saint’s neck and inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of him that feels so real . Saint continues his gentle murmuring, holding Osiris so securely he can almost believe the Titan is telling the truth, and that his fears were only ever foul nightmares. Almost.

Chapter Text

Crow sat on a tall stool, his back to the bar table behind him within one of the HELM’s common rooms, watching the Guardian pace before him. They stalked across the room, moving nearly to the wall before they turned around and paced the other way, outpacing the stars shifting slowly past the window. They looked like a caged animal, nervous tension making them jittery, until they had to move, had to do something to burn off the energy rolling through their body. Crow just sat, watching them.

It wasn’t like they should be particularly riled up. Crow knew his Guardian. They’d patrolled the Leviathan for hours, defeating Nightmares left and right, exploring the depths of the ship’s underbelly; he felt like they hadn’t paused all day. But the Guardian had still been overactive. They were like a pot boiling over on the stove. Crow knew his Guardian, so he’d taken them on a series of strike missions afterwards, following them across the system defeating high value targets until he felt like he would drop, but clearly, he hadn’t put a dent in the Guardian’s energy.

“Will you tell me what’s with you?” He demanded, the words a tad sharper than he’d intended. He’d been picking at them all day, prying at their unease as gently as he could, trying to get them to open up just a sliver, but nothing. He hadn’t made any progress all day, the Guardian had deflected and dodged his attempts like he was just another opponent, and they were impervious to his attacks.

The Guardian paused their pacing briefly, glancing back at him, slight shock in their features. It was almost like his irritation shocked them, but there was no way Crow was that good at hiding it. If the Guardian hadn’t seen it all day…maybe this was worse than he thought.

“Nothing’s with me.” They told him once they’d recovered from their shock, and Crow bit back his growl of frustration, turning it into an annoyed huff. “What? What’s with you? ” They asked him, their features shifting into a frown of distaste.

“ I’m fine.” Crow snapped, “you’re the one who's been pacing for an hour.”

The Guardian opened their mouth to snap back, but Crow had them and they knew it. They crossed their arms, turning to face away from him. “It hasn’t been an hour.” They murmured over their shoulder, and Crow rolled his eyes.

“Hour or not, something’s bothering you.” Crow shifted forward on his stool, sliding down to plant his feet on the ground, reaching back to grip the stool behind him. “Tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing.” They told him, but they wouldn’t meet Crow’s eyes, and Crow had to reign in another frustrated sigh.

It was Crow’s turn to cross his arms, and he fixed the Guardian with a glare until they finally looked at him. They let out a small sigh of their own at the clear demand for more information.

“You know I don’t like to sit still.” They told him at last, and Crow threw up his hands.

“Sit still? You haven’t stopped all day! You were even pacing when we stopped for lunch.” He took a step forward, trying to calm himself as he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just trying to help. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

The Guardian glared at him. “I didn’t mean physically.” They snapped, and Crow frowned, but they drew in a breath to speak again and he clamped his mouth shut. “I feel like I’m in a cage. Eris and I have been talking about how Calus doesn’t seem at all worried about what we’re doing with the Nightmares, and it’s starting to freak me out. We’ve made no progress in the last week and Calus doesn’t seem to even care about the work we’ve been doing for over a month now. He hasn’t done anything. ”

They’d resumed their pacing as they spoke, but they came to a stop when they finished, and Crow noticed their hands were shaking at their sides, their fingers flexed in their sturdy gloves. “I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a trap, just waiting for it to spring.”

Crow knew the feeling. When he’d been younger, without Uldren’s memories, when he’d been on the Shore with only Glint to look after him, there had been plenty of times where he’d realized too late that he’d just stepped into someone else’s plan, gotten too deep too quickly. He remembered the prickle of anticipation, the sharp fear in his chest as his mind roared, demanding to know what was going to happen to him, but the only thing he could do was wait for the blow he wouldn’t see coming. 

“It’s like fighting Savathûn all over again.” The Guardian grumbled, and Crow moved over to them, taking advantage of the fact that for once, their feet were still on the floor below them. He set a hand on their shoulder.

“Listen, I know it’s tough waiting for things to happen, but you’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t usually affect you like this.” He reminded them gently, squeezing their shoulder and waiting for them to meet his gaze. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else bothering you?” 

The Guardian drew in a deep breath, then another. Finally, they lifted their eyes to Crow’s.

“I don’t think I have a Nightmare aboard the Leviathan. I don’t think the Pyramid made one for me.”

Crow blinked, taken aback. “And that’s a bad thing?”

The Guardian groaned in frustration, pushing his hand off their shoulder and starting to pace again. For a moment, Crow thought he should be hurt, or at least irritated by the action, but he had the distinct feeling this had nothing to do with him.

“I don’t know. ” They told him, pressing their head into their hands. Even covering their eyes they turned perfectly, narrowly avoiding the walls of the room as they kept their face covered even as they paced. Eventually, they took their hands down, but they didn’t stop pacing. “Look, you and I both know I have shit I haven’t sorted. We all do. Giving me a Nightmare, a powerful one, would keep Calus’s hold over the Pyramid for a while, maybe even forever if it was good enough.” They met Crow’s gaze, and as he looked into their eyes, he recognized the heavy weight that lay upon them, built to a suffocating pressure even after they’d been alive for so few years. “I can think of a lot of things that Nightmare could be.”

Crow watched them for a moment.

“Guardian,” he began, his tone level, “Having a Nightmare forces you to deal with what you’re going through. I’ve been carrying around my guilt about Uldren for years. Zavala’s been carrying around his guilt about his son for centuries. I wouldn’t say either of us are entirely over it, but we both took a hard look at what we’d gone through and we came out the other side having made honest improvements.” The Guardian had stilled again, and Crow approached them, setting both hands on their shoulders as if it would stop them from any further pacing. “Maybe the Pyramid didn’t want to give you that chance, but you don’t need someone telling you all the things you regret to bring change to your life. You can do it yourself, whenever you want.”

“And what happens if a Nightmare does show up for me?” They asked, their voice quiet.

Crow released their shoulder with his right hand, reaching out to take their hand and hold it between them. He gave their hand a firm squeeze.

“Then we face it together.”

Chapter Text

Zavala followed Caiatl to her quarters within her command ship. After Caiatl’s victory against her Nightmare, they’d debriefed in Caiatl’s war room, rather than aboard the HELM. Caiatl had led them through the ships quarters, Saladin at her flank with Zavala following behind, walking beside the Guardian and Eris. He’d watched the Guardian’s gaze flicker over their surroundings as they walked, their tension visible. After the battle they’d just fought, he wasn’t surprised by the reaction. He’d been sure to pull them aside after the debrief, telling them they’d fought well. He’d even gone as far as giving them a gentle reminder to take care of themself after everything they’d seen, reminding them that despite the looming threat, they should take time off, should they need it.

The Guardian had nodded, and he’d watched them go, weary under the stress of all the battles they’d been fighting, and the battles yet to come. The knowledge that their victory was not fully achieved, that something worse was to come had them all in a somber mood by the end of their meeting, but Zavala followed Caiatl back to her quarters for a more private celebration of their victory.

“Your Guardian,” She said, breaking the silence as they walked side by side towards her quarters. “They do not look well. How are they?”

“Mentally?” Zavala lifted his eyes to Caiatl’s. “I suspect they feel as we do, tired and old.”

“Even though they have not had to contend with their own Nightmare?” Her voice was not judgmental, but rather curious. If the Guardian was to contend with their own Nightmares, Zavala suspected they would feel much worse than tired and old.

“In a way, they have.” Zavala told her, “Both yours and Crow’s Nightmares have been significant figures in the Guardian’s past. Uldren killed their mentor, the Hunter Vanguard, Cayde, right in front of them. After that, they tracked him down and killed him. Although they succeeded, I believe the ordeal left them more scarred than they would care to admit.”

Caiatl’s face lifted in quiet surprise. “I did not think you one for revenge, Commander.” She remarked, and Zavala smiled, shaking his head.

“I am not.” He confirmed, “the Guardian acted against my orders.”

Caiatl’s surprise remained. “I did not think the Guardian was one to disobey orders.”

Zavala shrugged. “Not without good reason, I suppose.” He studied the floor for a moment, even as they walked. “The events that occurred in the Reef nearly threw the system into chaos, but had the Guardian not intervened when they did, things might have been much worse.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment as Caiatl had nothing to offer him in response.

“What about Ghaul?” She asked him after a moment. “I know he attacked your City, but was the confrontation between them…personal?”

Zavala nodded gravely. During the Red War, after the City had fallen and they’d escaped to Titan, or to the Farm, he’d wondered if things might’ve been different if he hadn’t ordered the Guardian to assault Ghaul’s ship, or if he’d thought enough to send them with a team.

“On the night Ghaul attacked the City, I ordered the Guardian to assault Ghaul’s command ship.” Caiatl’s face hardened and Zavala had to look away, focusing his eyes on the corridor before them. “They fought their way into his ship, but when they faced Ghaul, he ripped the Light from them and threw them and their Ghost off the ship. It was a miracle they survived the fall.”

Zavala had heard it on comms when it happened. He’d heard the Guardian’s pained gasps as the Light was ripped out of them, the cry when they’d lost their Ghost and the sickening crack of their helmet shattering on the City’s streets, then silence. Deafening silence.

“Afterwards,” Zavala drew in a deep breath, “They were the one that attacked Ghaul when we took back the City. I don’t know what would have happened had the Traveler not awoken.”

“I see.” Caiatl murmured, and they paused as they reached her quarters. She nodded to her guards, exchanging a few words in Ulurant he didn’t catch, then led him inside.

“Your Guardian is not old.” Caiatl told him, “we have their victories well documented. They have been active in the field for less than a decade.”

Zavala nodded, “Indeed. I believe they are almost eight years old now?” 

“How can one so young feel old?” She led him into her sitting room, sinking down onto a couch. Zavala seated himself across from her. 

“They may be young, but they carry a great deal of weight in their years.” He gave her a small smile, “You said the Cabal tell stories of me, I can only imagine what kind of legend they have become.”

Caiatl inclined her head. “My people tell stories of their exploits. I suspect even their presence here tonight will have caused a stir.”

“Perhaps your people will be too busy telling stories of your victory, Caiatl.” He suggested, and Caiatl gave him a sharp smile.

“I will break you in half, small-man.” She told him, a smile in her voice as she echoed her statement from their call earlier. Zavala’s face lit with a grin.

“Your victory is commendable, Caiatl.” He told her, sobering slightly, though his smile remained softly on his lips.

“It is not the war.” She told him, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. 

“Perhaps, but it was you who told me that all victories should be celebrated, no matter how small.”

Caiatl smiled softly. “It was.” She murmured, “I felt you needed the encouragement, at the time.”

Zavala thought back to their earlier conversation, their discussion over comms just after he’d received word of her battle. He drew in a deep breath.

“Caiatl, I know I am not as open with you as I—”

She reached out, leaning across the space between them to take his hand in hers. His words faltered, his eyes meeting hers, honest and open.

“I see you, Zavala.” She told him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “And if you have more of yourself to share with me, I will accept it just as I have accepted the rest of you.”

Zavala pressed his lips together, swallowing hard at the flood of emotion that coursed through him. How many people could genuinely say the same? That they knew him for all that he was? Saladin, perhaps. Safiyah, at one time, and Ikora, but the list was small, and no one looked at him the way Caiatl did.

Her hand remained holding onto his, and she gave him a gentle tug, until he rose from his seat and she guided him to the couch. He sat himself gingerly beside her, facing her, sitting so close his knees pressed against her thighs. She released his hand, reaching out to cup his face, her hand so large she could nearly cradle his head in the palm of her hand.

“I see you, Zavala.” She murmured, “just as you see me.”

He reached out a hand, holding onto her arm as she held his head, her thumb brushing softly over his skin. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, and her thumb moved to hover over his lips, brushing them with a feather-light touch. He pressed a kiss to the pad of her thumb, and when he opened his eyes, her gaze was locked on him.

“I see now what Ghaul was to your people.” She murmured, her thumb pressing down just slightly, as if she were asking him not to speak. “I know he left behind many scars. Your City has healed, but I believe your people will need to see the fruits of this alliance for a great deal longer before they will be convinced I do not wish them harm. I will grant them that.”

Zavala’s eyes searched over her face, and she lifted her thumb from his lips so that he might speak.

“You believe they will not understand what we have?”

He too had worried over what his people might think if he and Caiatl acted on their feelings, if the warmth between them grew into something more. Would it be deemed political? An act to solidify the alliance? Or would Zavala be crossing a line, allowing the student of one who had destroyed humanity’s city and slaughtered thousands to grow so close to him? It could be an act of betrayal.

Caiatl shook her head. “Not yet.” 

Zavala felt his face shift into a frown. Everything he did, he did for humanity. Every action, a sacrifice for the wellbeing of his people. For their sakes, would he deny himself this? This warmth and comfort? Shelter from the raging storm around him? How could he? Was he wrong to choose happiness? The last time he had, it had ended with his son, lifeless in his arms, but he and Caiatl could never turn their backs on their people. Even if they chose each other, they could not walk away from their current lives, and the roles they had already chosen.

“Caiatl, I don’t want—”

“Peace, Zavala.” She murmured, her thumb brushing over his lips again. He gripped her arm in both his hands, leaning into the touch. He pressed another kiss to her thumb, and her features shifted into an expression of fondness. “I do not mean to suggest that we should give up what we have.”

Zavala felt himself relax, and he hoped his eyes conveyed the relief he could feel blooming in his chest. 

“There will come a time for us to tell our people of what we have. Until then we will have moments like these.” Her eyes softened, “I’m sorry I cannot offer you more.”

“I treasure every moment I have with you, no matter how few.” There was conviction in his eyes when he spoke, and Caiatl’s eyes softened further. He shifted until he could rise onto his knees before her, and her hand shifted, sliding down from cradling his head to holding his hip, steadying him as he placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned in, his movements slow and unhurried. Gingerly, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her right tusk, then the left.

Her hand trailed him as he drew back, and when he met her eyes, they spoke of things words could not.

Caiatl reached up to remove her helmet, and she leaned down, pressing her forehead to his. He breathed into the contact, his eyes closing as they hold one another close. After a while, he rose onto his knees again, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. When he sat back down, Caiatl drew him close. There would be battles ahead, but for now, they let themselves be.

Chapter Text

Zavala wasn’t expecting to find Ikora in his office when he entered, returning to his office after a visit to the HELM to finish processing the last of the paperwork pertaining to the Vanguard’s operations in the Leviathan. He wanted it out of the way. Something was going to change, things were about to get worse, and he wanted to be ready for it. But he hadn’t been expecting to return to find Ikora, in the late evening as night sunk onto the city, inspecting the shelves of his office as if she had not read every book on them already—and even written some of them, as well.

“Zavala.” Her eyes caught his as he entered, and she gave him a polite smile, returning the book she’d been looking at to its place on the shelf. “I was hoping we could speak.”

Zavala gave her a nod, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Of course,” He told her, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. I hope you didn’t wait long?” 

“No.” Ikora shook her head, “I asked Targe to notify me when your ship docked in the hangar. I’ve only been here for a few minutes.”

“I see.” He stepped further into the room, rounding his desk and seating himself behind it. Ikora sat down across from him. He tried to hide his surprise at her words. Targe had told him nothing of her request. Perhaps she had asked him not to. “What did you want to discuss?”

He couldn’t help the prick of anticipation in his chest. He and Ikora had little time for formal meetings, and less still for something unscheduled. If she was coming to him unannounced, something must have happened, but what would be urgent enough for her to show up unannounced, but not worth sending him a message? 

Ikora smiled again, but there was something sad in her eyes. The formality between them felt almost stifling. There had been times, before their system seemed to be falling apart at the seams, when Zavala had been the stickler for formality but even he would relax in the privacy of their Vanguard meetings. When they could set the business aside and make little jokes or enjoy one another’s company. As much as he had been the one to remind Cayde of their expectations of formality, halfheartedly fighting the loosing battle of returning their focus to official matters, he missed those times greatly.

“I’m not here for a formal meeting, Zavala.” She told him, and he felt himself relax just slightly, but confusion grew in place of his worries. “I wanted to see how you were doing. I know I wasn’t very present when you were dealing with your Nightmare. I’m sorry.”

Zavala couldn’t quite hold her gaze, looking away from her and down at his desk. 

“It’s alright, Ikora.” He told her, lifting his eyes once more. “It was difficult to overcome, but I did. I have been holding onto my doubts for long enough.”

“Do you feel better? Now that it’s over?” Her eyes were colored by the question, curiosity blooming beneath, but mixed with something almost like…desperation. Zavala felt concern stir in his gut.

He shook his head. “No.” He murmured, his voice low. He drew in a deep breath, trying to give Ikora a somewhat warm expression. “I believe in discussing it with Caiatl I described myself as feeling tired and old.”

Ikora smiled softly, looking down as she laced her fingers together on her lap, her legs crossed at the knees, her back straight. 

“I can certainly understand the feeling.” She murmured, and there was something weary in her expression as her smile fell.

“You visited the Leviathan, early on.” Zavala recalled, “was there someone waiting for you?” He asked, then worried he’d been too intrusive. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

Ikora drew in a deep breath. “There was.” She confirmed, her voice soft. Her eyes were sad when she met his. “Cayde.”

Zavala felt his chest ache at the mere mention of their old friend. He had worried himself if he might face a Nightmare of Cayde, or a mass of Guardians whose deaths he felt responsible for, but Hakim had been the first warrior he’d lost in battle. Every death that had weighed on him afterwards had lined up behind the face of his son, boring into him with lifeless eyes.

“I had…begun to wonder if facing him might be better for me. Or if I would just be returning to something I’d rather not relive.” Zavala had seen how deeply Cayde’s death had impacted her. They were still working to bridge the gap it had split between them, the loss of their friend creating a chasm that at the time had seemed impossible to cross. Zavala knew now that it wasn’t, but some days were harder for them than others.

“We are not responsible for his death.” Zavala reminded her quietly. “ You are not responsible for his death.” They were words he’d uttered to himself over and over, late at night when the video feeds from the Guardian’s Ghost haunted his memory. When Cayde’s voice rasped in his ear.

You tell Zavala and Ikora…the Vanguard…is the best bet I ever…lost.

Cayde wanted them to know he didn’t regret it, and yet his last words had cut through Zavala like a knife because was it not his duties to the City and to the Vanguard that had gotten him killed? Cayde had taken action against a threat that would eventually move against the City if they let it, and Zavala had sent him one Guardian to support his efforts. One Guardian. Would things have been different if he’d listened? If he had given the threat that was Uldren Sov the attention he deserved? 

But wishing would get them nowhere.

Ikora’s lips were pressed together tightly, and she gave him a stiff nod in acknowledgment of his words, but did not speak.

“What did he say to you?” Zavala asked instead.

Ikora frowned. “He talked about Crow. He was angry at me for welcoming him to the Tower. He called him a murderer.”

Zavala sighed wearily. It was a sentiment they’d both heard plenty of times, Hunters angry for retribution that had already been delivered by someone else’s hands, so blinded by their anger that they couldn’t properly remember the man in whose name they fought so hard. As much as his anger wanted to win, as much as he wanted to lash out at them for corrupting the memory of his friend with their false ideals, he just felt hollow. Tired and old, yet again.

He met Ikora’s eyes across the space between them. “They are only your doubts.” 

“Mine and many others.” Ikora breathed, “but still untrue.”

Zavala felt a hint of tension bleed out of him, grateful Ikora could acknowledge the false claims. Still, he knew it didn’t make bearing those doubts and fears any easier.

“Cayde would have liked him.” She murmured. “Crow. He would have thought that Uldren becoming a Guardian was the best trick of fate there ever was, but he would have been kind to Crow.”

Zavala smiled softly, pressing his head into one of his hands. Cayde and Crow were similar in many ways, brash, bright as fire and sharp as knives, they would have wreaked havoc if they could. 

“We wouldn’t have survived the stunts they would have pulled together.” He murmured, and Ikora laughed softly. It was weak, a bare chuckle, but Zavala’s heart bloomed to hear it. When was the last time either of them had been truly happy? Not bone weary and exhausted by the weight of their roles.

“No,” She agreed, her voice warm with her smile. “We wouldn’t have. But I would have liked to see it, anyway.”

Zavala watched her for a long moment, breathing around the ache in his chest that had tightened to the point of pain, hoping the memories of Cayde’s rasping voice would not return in his dreams.

“Do you want to face him?” He asked her, and Ikora frowned again, drawing in a deep breath. 

“I don’t know.” She met his eyes, looking tired and afraid. “I worry that if I do, I will not be able to overcome my doubts. But I also wonder if those fears are only my desire to choose cowardice.”

“It isn’t cowardice to acknowledge when things are difficult for us.” Zavala murmured. “And you don’t need to face your Nightmare through a ritual and a combat mission to overcome your own doubts. In fact, I’m not sure facing your Nightmare would be an entirely beneficial experience.”

Ikora’s expression turned guarded. “Why?”

Zavala felt his chin dip just slightly. “You said your Nightmare was of Cayde. The Guardian has been going aboard the Leviathan during all the missions where we have attempted to sever Calus' connection to the pyramid and overcome the Nightmares. Every time, they have to fight someone. For Caiatl, they fought Ghaul, for Crow, they fought the Fanatic. If your Nightmare is Cayde, I imagine they’d be fighting either Cayde or Uldren. I cannot imagine that would be a beneficial battle for anyone, to fight or simply to witness.”

Ikora breathed a sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Zavala.” Her eyes drifted away from him, shifting around his office before she met his gaze again. “Is it wrong for me not to face him?”

Her voice was quiet, holding a tentativeness Zavala had rarely ever heard from her. 

“It’s not.” He told her, holding her gaze. “I believe, when you’re ready, you will face him in your own way. Nightmare or not.”

Ikora nodded. “Thank you.” She breathed, and he reached across his desk, holding out his hand. When she set her hand in his, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, and after a moment, she gave him a sad smile. “He wouldn’t want this for us.”

Zavala returned her sad smile. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Cayde would rather they remember him with epic tales of his exploits, jokes and laughter that honored his life and the man he was. He wouldn’t want them to be dragged down by uncertainty and grief.

“I was going to finish some paperwork,” Zavala began, gauging Ikora with his eyes. “But, perhaps we could both use a small break. And, since you’re here–”

Light kindled in Ikora’s eyes, warm and hopeful. “Ramen?” She asked, and Zavala smiled.

“My thoughts exactly.”