Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The weapon tastes the sweetness of blood in its mouth, feels the splinter of bone, and ignites. Its sword pierces the ground, spreads blazing revelation around it. It reaches for that core of Light in the dead-flesh weapon, the endless drumbeat of destruction urging it onwards; to shatter it so it can be reforged in service of She Whose Victory is Idempotent. It is its purpose.

“Don’t you dare touch him!”

A spark.

“Give me my Guardian back! You are Osiris! You are mine! You are the brightest Light the Traveller ever kindled and I won’t let her have you!”

The weapon turns to face the spark and its meaningless noise. Runes and sigils burn to its core, the drumbeat deafening. It is slaughter and death and the herald of war. It is a blade. It is a weapon and it is nothing without its wielder.

YOU ARE MY BLADE. I AM YOUR PURPOSE. SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BE REFORGED. SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BECOME A MORE PERFECT SWORD.

The weapon raises its hand, snaps its fingers, and sends ravenous crimson flame towards the spark. It shatters with a burst of feeble Light, fragments of shell scattering across the bloody ground. A weak, fragile thing, as they all are, unsuited to existence.

Its wielder fills it with torturous pleasure, bliss, deep and dark as the ocean.

It is a perfect weapon.

----------

“Sagira!”

Osiris wakes drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding like it wishes to escape the rotten corpse that is his body.

No no no, not her. Not Sagira. Where is she? Where-

“Hey, hey, Osiris. Osiris I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Her voice, a small (fragile) glow at the side of his bed. Her Light brushes against him, seeps into him, feeding his own Light. Cleansing it.

He stares down at his hands, and the Hive runes carved into the backs of them which glow green-black. They make him feel sick and he wants them gone desperately. Maybe he should cut them away, carve out marred skin until there is nothing but clean blood and pain left.

Disgust and fear wash through him at the thought of trying to remove them. Disobedience. Heresy! What use is a broken blade?

He squeezes his eyes closed to try to ward off the feeling. His mind is his own. It has to be.

The glow of the runes fades as Sagira works, scouring away the threads of Darkness which run through him. It is soothing, eases some of those terrible thoughts until his mind feels like it is his own once more.

“A nightmare?” Sagira asks quietly.

Osiris nods. “Yes.”

When hasn’t it been? Nearly every night since Saint brought him back to the Tower. Dreams of mindless slaughter, ecstatic bloodshed. What feels like a wakening from one dream will plunge him into another until even true awakening feels like a lie.

“They’ll pass,” Sagira says solemnly. “You know they will.”

“Assuming I do not go insane first, you mean?” is his acerbic answer.
Assuming this treatment continues to work. Assuming they can ever truly get rid of that corruption written into him. Assuming he doesn’t become overwhelmed and become that thing of violence and death once more.

“How would anyone notice?” she teases. It earns a wan smile from him.

“Where is Saint?”

“He went to the Reef, remember?”

Osiris frowns. Does he remember that? Time has been difficult since he was brought back. They said that he had only been gone for a matter of weeks, two months at most, but it feels as though he was that thing for years. Like it was all that he had ever been and all that he could ever be.

No, he does remember. He does.

“He had business to finish,” he says quietly. “He had to help someone.”

“Yep,” Sagira replies. She sounds too bright, forced. “I can call him, if you want?

Osiris glances towards the door of the meditation chamber they’re keeping him in, and then shakes his head. “No. No, he’s busy. I do not want to distract him.”

Saint is always doing so much. Running Trials, being the hero of the City. Caring for a partner who was already difficult and half mad before becoming a weapon for the Hive god of War. The least Osiris can do is let Saint do what he needs to without interruption.

“Alright.”

He sits in silence while she finishes the treatment, rubbing absently at the runes where they run up along his arm. He remembers, albeit vaguely and through a haze of screaming red, carving them into his own flesh, his hand guided by the will of his wiel- no. No, not that. No, he is Osiris. He is a man, not a weapon. He is a Guardian.

He has not told them about that. He is sure that Saint has ideas about him being held down and tortured by the Hive to mark him with their runes and embed the crystals in his flesh. Osiris thinks he prefers Saint believing that, to the truth; that he had done it to himself, been complicit in his own corruption.

“Don’t keep scratching them,” Sagira says, her voice gentle.

“Sorry.” He drops his hands to his sides, curls his fingers into the bedcovers.

“They’ll heal, Osiris. I promise.”

He gives a wan smile, a hum of agreement that he doesn’t really feel. He calls Solar Light to his hand, letting a ball of it rest in his palm. He turns it around, twists it between his fingers, examining it for any sign of corruption. Is that a flicker of Darkness in the core of it? Hive magic threaded through it? He’s done this multiple times a day since he’s been well enough.

The Light becomes brighter as Sagira works, he can feel it strengthening inside him, and the runes soon look like nothing more than healing cuts. One day he’ll be recovered enough for a resurrection, and that will remove them. He won’t have to live with them forever. But it is too dangerous to try that yet. They do not know how a resurrection will affect him. Maybe he will be fine, restored to himself as he had been with no outward evidence of what had happened.

Or maybe he’ll come back a creature of wrath and Darkness once more, subordinated to the will of the Hive god of war, and all of this effort will be for nothing.

They’ll put him down if that’s the case. He knows it. He would want them to.

“There,” Sagira says, forced cheer. “You’re good.”

“Thank you.”

“Go back to sleep, Osiris. I’m here if you need me.” He nods, and lies back down, closing his eyes.

He tries not to think about how Sagira has stayed safely out of reach the whole time.

He tries not to think about how, in the nightmare, he had felt good.

----------

The sun is streaming into the secure meditation chamber they’re keeping him in. There are no windows, but skylights high above let in plenty of light, and with less chance of a prisoner escaping through them.

No. No, he’s not a prisoner. He knows he isn’t. It makes sense to have him stay here while he recovers; easy to monitor, protected with Light and technology to keep out unwanted stimuli and influences.

It still feels like a cage.

He glances over at the chair that Saint has been using, and he cannot help the disappointment at seeing it empty. Selfish. He can hardly expect Saint to spend every minute at his side when Osiris had hardly been around since Saint had returned from the Infinite Forest. He’s always been a hypocrite though.

He sighs and moves to sit on the rug on the ground, cross-legged, hands resting loosely in his lap. At least he can try to meditate. In the past, it has been something that has lent him a measure of clarity, a focus to his thoughts that he is sorely lacking now. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then another, falling back into a pattern that has long been worn into the grooves of his soul.

He lets the sunlight, the walls, the distant hum of movement and conversation fade into the background.

He is alone in the void.

Intrusions no more.

There is a poi-

The Warlocks who have been tending him look at him with skittish wariness, taut-muscled readiness in case- in case what? He attacks them and reveals the depth of this new corruption? Or had they always looked at him this way? The exile. The Heretic.

He imagines tearing out their throats and feeling blood beneath his fingernails. They would make a fine tithe to-

No, stop that. That isn’t him.

He takes a deep breath. Another. Pushes away the feeling of his heartbeat, the ache of muscles.

He is alone in the void.

Intrusions no more.

There is a point in the depth.

It cannot be directly viewed.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

He sinks with a breath to find new clarity.

—-You are lost.-—

What?

The point is dim. Faint. Distant.

Barely visible.

—-You seek purpose.-—

The omnipresence was.

Hungry acknowledgement.

Vast. Himself against the enormity; an endless unfurling midnight.

The point is gone.

He gasps as he comes back to himself, physical sensation slinking back into his senses. The light has changed. He rolls his shoulders, shakes his head a little to clear it.

No good. Not here. He can’t- he can’t focus here. He needs- he needs what he has always needed. Answers. Information. A solution. But this time the problem is not some external force. The problem is him.

He stands up, stretches, and glances towards the bedside table where Sagira has settled to watch over him. She is in the air as soon as he takes a step towards her, bright movement, a small diamond… and carefully just beyond his reach.

The realisation wells bitterly in his throat.

“Do you need something?”

She should know, shouldn’t she? She has always been able to read his moods and needs, better than he ever could.

“Conceal me.”

“What?”

“I want to get some fresh air.” He’s been stuck in here since Saint brought him back. He feels like the walls will crush him if he stays here longer.

“That’s- I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re still recovering.”

“Just for an hour,” he says.

He shouldn’t have to ask. He shouldn’t have to beg his Ghost for permission to leave his cell! He has never needed permission for anything that he does. How dare they try to stop him!

The thought is hot dark rage licking at the edges of his mind.

He curls his hands into fists at his side, squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes.

“Conceal me,” he says again, “please.”

She circles him like he is prey. What does she see when she looks at him? Does she see Osiris? Or does she see the Darkness just beneath his skin, the Hive runes and corruption? Does she see a monster that she has been made unwilling warden of?

He remembers the calm purpose he had felt when he had tried to kill her. There had been no questions, no uncertainty. Just a single perfect purpose.

He hates himself for it. Maybe it would have been better if he had died, and freed her of him.

“Alright,” Sagira says quietly. “But just an hour. And you can’t do anything stupid, alright?”

“When have I ever done anything stupid?” he asks, offering the ghost of a smile. She just looks at him, no teasing retort or sarcasm, and he drops his gaze, smile fading. “I swear.”

Saint had brought some of his clothes here a few days back, and along with it one of his scarves. He wraps it around his mouth and head; not as good as his cowl, but definitely less distinctive, and it should give him a small measure of anonymity if Sagira needs to drop the concealment.

He nods to her, and a moment later he is cloaked in Void Light. The door isn’t locked (it is not a prison!) and he steps carefully outside. They’ve kept him in an area which is less used, out of the way of students and New Lights, as though his corruption might spread to the unwary. A bomb that might explode at any moment. He moves quickly and silently through hallways, heading towards where he thinks there must be an exit to the City proper. It has grown and changed so much in his absence. He hasn’t had time yet to learn the shape of it.

His instincts prove correct, and he soon finds himself leaving the wall behind as he walks towards the heart of the City. It feels illicit to be here; his exile is still in force, and his only visits since he renewed contact with the Vanguard have been while accompanied by Saint. His beloved is given a measure of leniency that would never be extended to Osiris alone.

Saint is a hero after all, the paragon of a Guardian.

Sagira is his shadow, and her silence sets him on edge. She is rarely silent, not with him. She chatters and teases, fills his lonely world with companionship. It feels alien, like a part of his own soul is disconnected, and he does not know how to fix it.

It is inevitable perhaps that his aimless wandering takes him to the garden of reflection beneath the Traveller. It is a beautiful place – winding paths between carefully maintained trees and shrubs, vine-covered trellises, the bubble of an artificial stream. It is the perfect place to find calm in the heart of the City and seek some measure of serenity. Ironic perhaps, that place where the Speaker had once gone to seek communion with the Light, be set in the deepest part of the Traveller’s shadow.

Osiris cannot see the humour in it as he seats himself on the stone bench and stares up at the osseous white orb in the sky above. It grates against his senses like grit in the heart of an oyster. Had it always felt this way? Or is it a subtle warning, a signal that he is unwanted by the Traveller now because of his corruption? Only there on sufferance, or because of Sagira’s intercession, much as his presence in the City is only permitted because of Saint.

When he had first arrived in what would become the Last City, the Traveller had been a dormant, broken thing, damaged potentially beyond all hope. It had been a stunning sight to see it heal and reform itself. When he had seen that it had filled him with an elation, an awe that he has seldom felt. For a few seconds it had been like something inside him began to mend.

Now he can only see the flaws that remain even after its awakening.

Maudlin. He’s getting maudlin. He had not come here to ponder the Traveller. He has spent too much time doing that in his life.

He closes his eyes and breathes.

Push away the sounds of daytime activity; the voices, vehicles, the rustle of leaves in the wind. Push away the brightness of sunlight until there is only a soft and soothing twilight in his mind.

He is alone in the void.

Intrusions no more.

There is a point in the depth. It cannot be directly viewed.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

—-You are lost.-—

Am I?

He reaches for that dim point in the depths.

Stretched thin. It is so distant.

—-You seek purpose.-—

Yes. Yes always. 

Hungry acknowledgement.

Clarity, in the dark space between his hand and the point.

—-You seek direction.-—

I need to know why. To see the path.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

The nothing. Expansive.

Vast.

Himself against the enormity.

—-You seek us.-—

Who?

An endless unfurling midnight wraps around him.

A lone point extinguished.

He is being watched.

“Osiris?”

Space torn asunder, a ragged hole in the warp and weft. The tomb opens. Royal regalia awaits the conduit, guided by nameless purpose.

“Osiris.”

It sees him.

It knows him.

He is alone.

“Osiris!”

Rage and fear guide his movements, a weapon’s instincts, lashing out with rotten Light towards that touch. Hive runes flare and sear his skin, and yes, this is good, this is right. He is a creature of destruction, a god of death, a weapon of Darkness. He is a sword.

He is-

“Osiris! Stop!”

The voice draws him up short. A voice that glitters like a star. Her voice.

“Sagira?”

He blinks, and the world resolves around him. Trees and the trickle of a stream. A garden. The sound of people at the edge of his senses. And above, the bone-white orb of the Traveller. The Last City surrounds him.

“I–”

Movement. Cool Void Light. He frowns, trying to work out what he is seeing. His own arm outstretched, marred by the sickly glow of the runes carved into his flesh. His fingers drip with Solar energy, but it is wrong. Shot through with threads of Darkness, and it burns with heat like an infection, rather than the heat of a flame.

Ikora is there, a step beyond his outstretched arm. Void ripples around her, shield and weapon in one. The arsenal to use against a threat.

To use against him.

It hits him all at once, horror mingling with the sudden adrenaline crash, and he stumbles back, away from her. He crushes the Light between his fingers, lets it dissipate, then sits down heavily on the bench, his heart pounding. He stares down at his hands as though he will see those dark threads running through his veins, but there is nothing.

“Sagira,” he says, plea and apology all at once. She comes to hover in his line of sight, but still out of reach. She might as well be a million miles away.

Ikora approaches. He holds himself carefully still as she sits down next to him. Why is she doing that? He is dangerous. He is a monster and he-

“You should put me down,” he says, voice ragged. Later, he will feel the sting of humiliation for speaking to his former student this way. What had happened to the pride he had once carried himself with? What had happened to that man? But in this moment it feels like truth, a weight around his neck. “I cannot be trusted.”

It’s the sort of talk that would normally have Sagira in his face, indignant on his behalf, and determined to drag him out of whatever depressive spiral he was caught in, by force if necessary.

She doesn’t say anything.

It is Ikora who gives a soft sigh. He can’t even look at her. “Saint will be back soon,” she says. Where did she learn that calm? He knows that it was not from him. “He’ll want to see you.”

It is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to see him at this time. Osiris doubts that he could even face himself in the mirror right now. Saint certainly shouldn’t have to.

Ikora reaches out to touch his arm gently, telegraphing her movements as though he is a skittish beast that might snap at any moment. Hardly an inaccurate analogy, is it? “It will get better, Osiris. The treatment has been going well. You just need to be-”

“Patient,” Osiris says, the word bitter on his tongue.

Ikora smiles wryly at him. “I know. But I also know how stubborn you are. Are you really going to let Hive magic overcome you without a fight?”

Osiris gives a soft snort. “Fighting. That’s what she wants.”

Xivu Arath. The one who had wielded him, forged him. He can still hear that drumbeat at the back of his mind now if he thinks about it too closely. He wakes each day wondering if this is the day that she claims him once more.

“Then slip through her net,” Ikora replies firmly. “It isn’t like you to give up.”

“I’m being pragmatic.”

“You are being defeatist. You’re recovering.” Her grip tightens on his arm, and part of him hungers to lash out, to draw blood, to see her face twist in pain. He forces that feeling down. “And I don’t give up either.”

He shakes his head, and can’t help the small smile that comes unbidden to his lips. “No. You never have.”

Ikora has always been stubborn, just as much as him, but better able to direct that stubbornness, to temper it when necessary. She had found a way to work within the City as part of the Vanguard when he had never been able to.

She smiles at him and somehow that is reassuring. If Ikora thinks that he will get through this, then it is hard to disbelieve her. But even that comes with guilt; she had been his student, she shouldn’t have to be support for him. No-one should. He is meant to stand alone. What is the point of him otherwise?

“How did you find me?” he asks after a few moments of quiet to regain his composure. He is grateful that it was her, and not anyone less well equipped to deal with his sudden violence.

“Sagira called me,” Ikora says. Osiris feels a flash of hot anger towards his Ghost before he tamps it down. He knows that Sagira had done the right thing. She has always been more clear-headed than him. “She was concerned when you wouldn’t respond.”

“You promised it would only be an hour, Osiris,” Sagira says. It is reproach, yes, but beneath that there is a fear that cuts to the heart of him.

“I needed air. I wished to meditate. To clear my head. I have not left that blasted room in days.” He has never taken confinement well when it is not of his own choosing. “I only intended to be away for an hour.” A paltry amount of time. But now that he looks, the shadows are different, the quality of the light changed undeniably. “How long has it been?”

“I gave you two hours, and then I called Ikora,” Sagira says. “I’ve never seen you that lost in meditation before.”

Two hours.

His hands clench into fists in his lap. Losing time. That is probably not a good sign. What he saw… He considers for a moment telling them; the warped place which feels like a tomb, a conduit… No. No it isn’t clear enough. Too obscure and metaphorical even by his standards. He needs time to focus it. He needs time to decide if it is even something that should be spoken of. There are some visions that are best kept secret, and others that are nothing more than fiction.

“I am sorry,” he says quietly, glancing up at Sagira. Her shell flares in surprise, and the demonstration of her shock stings.

“I told you it was a bad idea. You never listen to me.”

Osiris grits his teeth as anger and wounded pride surge like the tide. She is right. He knows she is. Was it not his own arrogance that had led them down into the Hive pits of Luna and his confrontation with Xivu Arath?

“Will you come back?” Ikora asks him.

“Do I have a choice?” Osiris replies, frustration dripping from the words.

“You aren’t a prisoner, Osiris,” Ikora says.

“I am an exile still,” Osiris says. “And a threat.” He is sure that the longer he remains outside the confines of that room, the higher the chances of him becoming a prisoner are. Hence, he is a prisoner in all but name. He wishes that they would simply say that instead of maintaining this charade.

He sighs heavily. “Yes. I will come back.”

Ikora nods. “I can have some of the research we’ve been doing into the cryptoliths and what happened sent to you if you’d like. And we have new information about Europa that might interest you.”

It is appeasement. Something to keep him distracted and, hopefully, compliant. “Please. I need something to do besides sleep.”

Something to keep his mind occupied when his thoughts are so dangerous. Anything to make him feel like he has a purpose.

Ikora nods, and stands up. She offers him a hand which he takes. She is the first person he has touched since Saint left the previous day. He should be used to being avoided, to being a pariah, but he had chosen that, more or less. He hadn’t chosen this. To be so close to a life that could be enough without being able to grasp it.

“Sagira, could you transmat us back to the Tower?”

“Of course.”

There’s a flare, and then he is back in the hallway outside the secure meditation chamber. His gentle prison.

“I’ll have those documents sent over for you,” Ikora says. “And I’ll have Saint come to visit you as soon as he arrives.” Osiris nods. He is grateful and he hates that he is.

He enters his cell and closes the door behind him, seals himself inside. Sagira remains nestled in his Light where she is safe.

Whatever remains of his Light at least when it feels as though it is burning away.

He opens his palm and calls Solar energy to it, tries to will radiance to fill him. It should be the easiest thing in the world! He has done it countless times before, sometimes simply for the joy of feeling it.

It will not come. Not as he knows it. The Light that rests in his hand is discoloured like it is bruised and tender. It is threaded through with fine veins of Darkness. Corrupted.

He should have told Ikora to lock the door.

Chapter Text

You walk through hallways of shadows and flickering lights. There is an ever-present hum in the air. It scrapes against your skin like a physical touch. Metal creaks beneath your feet, except where something soft and organic has coated the floor in a thick mat. It sticks to the soles of your boots.

You are looking for something.

—-You seek us.-—

How can you not?

The hallways twist and turn unnaturally. There are few right-angles and straight lines in nature, but this is a place made by hands, with purpose, and it makes no sense for the spaces you walk to split and reform at strange angles. It is a maze of warped metal, engineering that can have no possible use.

—-We offer you direction.-—

And yet, you walk the hallways unerringly, seeking that point that waits in the depths.

Chapter Text

“I’ve never seen the Traveller this close before.” Crow pulls his hood up to hide his face as he disembarks Saint’s ship and takes his first steps into the hangar. Even with the Titan beside him, he feels on edge being here in the Tower, the place that Guardians call home. What if someone recognises him? What if they take offence to his existence as others had in the past?

Saint had brought new clothes with him when he’d arrived on the Shore, guessing correctly that Spider would have confiscated the gear that he’d given Crow originally. It’s plainer than the Trials gear Saint had given him before, less ornate and flashy, but also less likely to call attention to him. Crow appreciates the thought that Saint had put into it. He’ll have to figure out a way to repay him.

“Yes!” Saint replies, more exuberant than Crow has seen him before. Maybe it’s because they’re in his territory now. The way he had spoken about the Last City had made it clear how much he loved it. “It is a magnificent sight. I remember when I first saw it. Myself and my Father had been travelling for many months, and when it came into view… it felt like coming home, even though City was nothing more than tents then. It still feels like home now.”

Crow can’t say that it feels like home, but he does feel something. Maybe it’s the quality of the Light here. Maybe it feels stronger? Purer? He knows that Glint is vibrating with excitement where he’s tucked away in Crow’s Light, thrilled to be close to the Traveller again after searching for so long.

Thrilled for you to be here, where you belong, his Ghost corrects him gently.

“You saw the beginning of the City?” Crow asks, glancing at Saint as they begin to cross the hangar. It’s a slow process. Apparently Saint is popular enough that everyone wants to greet him, and Saint waves and calls back to everyone as though they are old friends.

“I am very old,” Saint says. “Not oldest, but still old. For many years, I knew everyone in City. Now it is so big, so much grander than I imagined it could be. I am glad that you will get to see it.”

Assuming no-one tries to kill him. Assuming the Vanguard let him stay. What if they hate him too, for whatever terrible thing his first life must have done?

Saint slings an arm around his shoulders, nearly staggering Crow with the weight. “We will introduce you to Ikora and Zavala. And then we will introduce you to Osiris. Properly. When he is not…” There’s a hitch in Saint’s voice, a sharp burst of static. “Now that he is better.”

Apprehension curls in Crow’s belly at the thought of meeting Osiris. He knows that Saint loves him, knows that what had happened was not the Warlock’s fault. At the same time, that dark creature, filled with corrupted Light and the scream of the Hive God, has stalked his nightmares since they defeated it. It’s a difficult memory to let go of.

And there is that selfish, bitter little thought that says that now that Saint has fulfilled his promise to bring Crow here, now that his Osiris is safe, he’ll get bored of Crow being around. Saint has no duty towards him anymore.

Crow had better make a good impression on the Vanguard.

They’re stopped at the top of the stairs out of the hangar by a security shield, which Saint grumbles at as he swipes them through. “Many more things to remember in City now too.”

They step out into bright sunlight once they pass the shield, and Crow squints into it until his eyes adjust. There’s less noise here than in the hangar, and the wind which blows across the top of the Tower this high up carries much of it away, but there’s still the constant sound of chatter and- “Who’s yelling?”

Saint gives a snort of a laugh. “That would be Lord Shaxx. Master of Crucible. He is… loud. He is a friend. Perhaps you will meet him later.”

Crow follows where he gestures as he points out Lord Shaxx, and the post office, vault access. Useful things that he might need, though he can’t help but notice how makeshift a lot of it is, as though it was only ever intended to be a temporary measure. The sight of the next Tower along, surrounded by scaffolding and still bearing the marks of battle suggest that might be true. Hadn’t he heard that the City had fallen during the Red War?

Mainly though, his gaze keeps being drawn back towards the sight of the Traveller, hanging in the sky over the centre of the City. It’s an incredible sight, the great white orb hovering protectively over its people.

“Glint’s excited to be able to see the Traveller again,” he says, giving a small smile.

“Geppetto is always happier when we are here too,” Saint agrees. “But come, you will have much time to reflect on Traveller. Perhaps Osiris will show you spot where he used to meditate beneath it if you wish to chase deep Warlock thoughts.”

They cross the courtyard and Saint takes them down a lift with a somewhat dizzying view, and then finally they reach a heavy door, emblazoned with the symbols of the Vanguard. Saint knocks lightly, and there’s silence for a moment before whoever is inside calls for them to enter.

“Commander Zavala! Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I know that you are busy.” Saint says as he enters. Crow stays behind him for a moment, using the exo’s size to shield him from view while he glances around the room. It’s an office, lined with bookshelves and screens. Fancy. Much fancier than what had passed for an office in Spider’s base. Everything feels clean; no dripping pipes and the constant stench of sweat and oil and chemicals.

“Saint-14,” the Commander greets him. “It seemed the least that I could do considering the circumstances. And your… friend?”

Saint starts to turn and Crow steps out from behind him. He hovers uncertainly for a moment before pushing back the hood of his cloak and looking up at the Commander.

He’s an Awoken man like Crow, bald and wearing the heavy armour of a Titan. He’d heard stories from Glint of course, and more from Saint, but Zavala is more intimidating in person than on paper. Crow can see the tightening of his lips, the slight furrow to his brow when Zavala looks at him, that flash of grief and anger that Crow has become familiar with when facing Guardians.

He drops his gaze to stare at the top of the Commander’s desk instead. He can feel a pit opening up in his stomach, fit to devour him. “I’m Crow, Sir.”

“Saint told me that you helped him on the Shore, hunting the High Celebrant.” Zavala’s tone is calm, level. No trace of that anger in it, but it must be there, just below the surface. Spider had sounded nice enough at first, until Crow had tried to leave.

“Yes. I was able to help track it.”

“He did more than that,” Saint interrupts. “He created the lures we used to hunt. He worked out how to track Wrathborn. He marked High Celebrant so I could follow it even when it vanished into Ascendant Plane. And he helped me to recover Osiris. I would not have been able to do this without him. He is very brave. He is a good Guardian.”

Crow’s cheeks flush at the praise; Saint is generous with it, but it always sounds genuine. Praise from Spider had generally been mocking or come with strings attached. Or both. And the people that Spider had had him... serve… had been the same.

“That is high praise indeed,” Zavala says. Crow glances up to find the Commander looking straight at him, an assessing gaze. “We need good people, especially now. Saint says that you want to be a Guardian.”

Crow nods, probably looking pathetically eager. “Yes, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

Saint gives him a sharp look that Crow pretends that he doesn’t notice. Saint has too much of an idea of what Crow means when he says ‘anything’, but it is not untrue. If that’s what it takes to earn his place here, well, it would still be better than what he’d had on the Shore, surely.

Zavala gives a thin smile. “You might live to regret saying that,” he says, and even with his assertion of being willing to do anything, Crow can’t help but feel some apprehension before Zavala continues. “Despite what some would say, being a Guardian is not glamorous, and much of the time it is far from exciting. You’ll be expected to chip in with whatever is needed; routine patrols and supply gathering, strikes… paperwork.”

Crow blinks in confusion. That doesn’t sound worthy of Zavala saying he might regret it. “I can do that. Do you want me to start now?”

He’s patrolled the Shore more times than he can count. He’s crawled through stinking pits of Hive and Scorn to recover stolen shipments. Routine patrols and paperwork sound pretty standard to him.

Zavala’s gaze flicks over to Saint briefly. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated. But I think we can take time to get you settled before we begin making demands. Saint mentioned that your previous employment was… less than ideal.”

He winces, shrinking back, before he remembers that he’s supposed to be a Guardian now. It looks bad if he seems afraid of just the mention of it. He forces himself to straighten up wondering how much Saint has told the Commander. “That’s correct. It was… I’m just glad to be here.”

“Indeed,” Zavala says. “I’ll put a request in to find you your own accommodation, and until then-”

“Crow will stay with me until then,” Saint says.

“You don’t have to,” Crow says quietly. Saint has been more than kind enough and he doesn’t want to be an imposition. “I can curl up anywhere. I can stay on the ship if I need to.”

“You will not sleep on ship, Crow,” Saint replies firmly. “I did not bring you back to Tower to deny you comfortable place to sleep.”

“Are you sure, Saint? With Osiris’s… condition-” Zavala begins.

“I have space,” Saint replies. “It will work.”

“Very well then, if that is acceptable to you, Crow?”

“Yes. I mean, of course that’s acceptable.” This is moving so quickly. From a cot hidden behind the pipes in Spider’s base to the Vanguard saying that they’ll find him a place of his own? It’s so much more than he’d dreamed of. Even his dreams had rarely gone beyond finding a sheltered spot somewhere in a hangar. There must be some catch though. People don’t do this for nothing

“Then I will-”

The office door opens, and Crow turns quickly, only barely keeping himself from reaching for his gun out of ingrained paranoia. He recognises the woman who enters, though their only interaction has been through the screen of Saint’s ship, briefly.

“Ikora Rey!”

“Glint!” Crow hisses, reaching for his Ghost who has apparently been overwhelmed by his excitement and compiled next to him. Glint’s shell flaps spin in excitement and floats away from Crow’s hand.

She fixes him with a cool, searching look. It makes him feel like she’s looking into his soul. There’s that grief again, hot anger, tamped down a split-second later before she smiles. It isn’t a warm look, but it isn’t cruel or fake either, more like she’s someone who does not smile often. “Welcome back, Saint. And you must be Crow.”

“It’s good to meet you in person,” he manages to says without stumbling horribly over the words. He manages to nudge Glint back towards him, and his Ghost settles comfortably against his neck, tucked into the folds of his hood.

“And you. I know that we all appreciate the help that you gave Saint in finding Osiris. She turns her attention back to Saint. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is Osiris-”

“He’s fine,” Ikora replies. “But something came up and I think it would be good for him to see you.”

“He needs my Light?” Saint asks, and Crow can hear the worry in his voice.

“It is not urgent, but it could not hurt,” Ikora says.

“I will- I-” Saint looks at Crow. “Will you be alright if I go to him? I will send Glint directions and access code for my home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Crow assures him. The thought makes him nervous, but- but he’s here now. He’s not on the Shore. Not being sent back to Spider. Probably. Unless the Vanguard decide he shouldn’t be here.

No they won’t do that. Saint says that they’re good people and Saint wouldn’t lie about that after everything.

Saint clasps his shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “Thank you. Ikora, you will look after my friend, Crow?”

“Of course, Saint. Go to Osiris. He’ll be glad to see you.”

Saint looks between them, managing to looked concerned and apologetic all at once despite the helmet. “I will see you later, Crow. And welcome home.”

He squeezes Crow’s shoulder again, and then he’s gone. Crow is left alone with the Vanguard.

There’s a reassuring brush of Light from Glint. No. Not alone. Never alone.

Ikora and Zavala share a look, and Crow can’t help but feel like there’s a whole conversation going on that he isn’t privy to. Without Saint there as a bulwark, he feels exposed. Vulnerable.

Ikora smiles at him, warmer this time. “Why don’t we talk, Crow? I’ll help get things sorted. I believe Zavala has another meeting soon.”

Zavala sighs and leans back in his chair. He already looks more tired than he did a second ago, as though the reminder of a meeting has settled heavily on his shoulders. “That would be appreciated. It was good to meet you, Crow. I hope you will settle in well.”

“I’ll do my best, Commander.”

Ikora leads them out into the hallway, then gestures to the next door down. “My office is here. Make yourself at home.”

This one is smaller than Zavala’s, but has the same huge windows and screens set against one wall. It is also significantly more cluttered; every surface seems to be piled with books – real paper books! – and objects that Crow might have expected to see in one of Spider’s treasure storerooms. Little statues, crystals, a metronome. Some bits he recognises as Hive or Vex, but wouldn’t be able to say what they actually are. Some things he doesn’t even have a word for.

She gestures towards a cushioned chair that looks more comfortable than the ones he’d seen in Zavala’s office. He sits down, but can’t bring himself to relax, and sits with his back ramrod straight. Ikora settles at the desk opposite him. Despite the cosier setting, he feels like he’s being set up for an interrogation.

He reaches up to touch Glint’s shell where his Ghost is still nestled in his hood, seeking his reassurance. His Ghost presses against his fingers. At least Glint is safe here.

Ikora leans forward on the desk, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Crow, it’s good to meet you in person. Saint filled me in on a little of the situation on the Shore.”

“How much did he tell you?” Crow blurts out. It had been humiliating enough Saint knowing the sorts of things he’d done for Spider, but the Vanguard knowing? He isn’t sure he’ll survive.

“That you weren’t there willingly,” Ikora says. “That there was violence involved. That the Spider used the safety of your Ghost to keep you a prisoner.”

Against his neck, Glint shudders, and Crow reaches up to stroke him again, offering comfort. “I should have been able to keep Glint safe but-”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Ikora says kindly. “It should never have happened.”

“Saint said the same thing.” He still can’t wrap his head around it.

Ikora smiles. “Saint is a good man. He speaks highly of you. And you helped to save Osiris, so you have my thanks as well.”

“It was my job.” Saint might have been kind of Crow hadn’t performed well, but Spider would not have been.

“From what Saint said, he sent you away for safety after your part of the job was done, and you returned to help him. That’s more than just doing your job.”

That sounds much more grand than he remembers it being. “It was the right thing to do,” he says quietly. “Saint was good to me. Some of the things I did for Spider were… not good. Cruel, even. But I want to be better than that.”

She searches his face, and he wonders what she’s looking for. Is it something to do with that grief he saw in her and Zavala? He can’t think of anything else. Finally she nods, and he feels as though he’s passed some sort of silent appraisal. “Desire to be better is admirable. More Guardians could use that kind of attitude.”

“I try,” Crow says with a small smile. “Saint makes it seem easy.”

“He has that effect on people,” Ikora says wryly. “He’ll do everything he can to help you, I know it. He’s just… preoccupied right now with Osiris.”

Crow nods. “Got that impression, yeah. After what I saw, I can’t blame him.”

“We don’t currently have a Hunter Vanguard,” Ikora says, and there’s another of those piercing looks, “so I would like you to consider myself and Zavala the people you report to directly.”

Crow frowns a little, even as he gives another nod. Meeting the Vanguard personally as soon as he arrives seems like a lot already. Does everyone report straight to them?

“It is a little unorthodox, I realise,” Ikora says, catching his expression, “but considering your experience in the field, and obvious skill, I think it makes sense. I have a few things I think you might be able to work on for me.”

He blinks at her in surprise, and immediately feels stupid for his bafflement. He knows that he has some skill, but there must be many people here who have so much more training than he does, people who could do the job better. “Anything. Whatever I can do to help. I said the same to Zavala.”

“Wonderful. In that case, I have a few questions regarding our mutual friend on the Tangled Shore.” Her smile sharpens, and Crow decides right then that he never wants to be on the wrong side of this woman.

At the same time though, he can’t help but grin a little himself. The thought of selling Spider out, even if it’s just for intel, even if he never knows, is very appealing. Doesn’t he deserve a little revenge? He relaxes a little in the chair. “Ask away. I don’t think he was planning to ever let me leave, so he wasn’t as careful hiding things from me as he should have been.”

“I think this is going to work nicely,” Ikora replies.

Chapter Text

Even here, beneath the Traveller, there are dark places. Pockets of shadow, tucked away from the Light. Places where Guardians, in their pompous self-righteousness do not care to look.

It is through these places that he moves, silent, unseen. He follows the whispers, the ones that show him the truth. They had shown him the bonds of deceit and obligation which had caged him in this cold, coiled, choking reality, and now they show him the deep shadows cast by the Light.

See the truth, the whispers say.

Dust sheds from him as he moves, settling over every surface he passes.

See the truth, and he does. He sees it now. The futility of it. Endless and agonising survival which changes nothing.

But it will change now. He will make it change. The whispers have shown him the truth, and shown him a path, a purpose. Freedom.

It has shown him Salvation. It has shown him and he will take it.

It has shown him Salvation, and he will bring it here, to the pale heart of the Light.

From the dust, something begins to grow.

Chapter Text

Saint hovers in the doorway of the meditation chamber which has become a hospital room for Osiris. It had been deemed the safest option when Saint had explained the situation – secure Warlock meditation chambers are built to withstand a certain amount of paracausal power, to stop it leaking out into the rest of the City. It has been made comfortable, as much as Saint has had the ability, but even with the things he has brought from home, it still seems an impersonal space. Evidence of the deep wrongness of the situation.

His beloved is seated cross-legged on the floor, a datapad in his lap, and other documents spread out on the ground around him. He’s always preferred this setup to working at a desk or table, says it gives him more space to arrange things as he likes. He’s engrossed enough that he hasn’t noticed Saint’s presence, though Sagira certainly has – he can feel the hum of information being passed between her and Geppetto, the two of them communicating faster than would be possible with spoken words.

“What are you doing, my love?” Saint asks, taking a step further in and closing the door quietly behind him.

“Ikora sent over the reports from Eris and others about the Cryptoliths and the ritual on the Moon,” Osiris replies, not glancing up from what he’s doing. It is not an uncommon experience. Saint has sometimes had entire conversations with Osiris while he is engrossed in research that he is sure the Warlock had not even noticed were occurring. It is like part of his mind is somewhere far away, lost in research, while the rest of him functions on auto-pilot. “I’m researching. Everything we have on the Hive in the City. I have copies of many of Toland’s notes. Information from the Dreaming City and from the Dreadnaught.”

Saint suppresses a sigh, then goes to sink down to the ground to sit next to Osiris. He plucks a ceramic takeaway cup from the carrier and holds it right in front of Osiris’s face. Osiris goes still for a second, then blinks up at him as though he’s only just realised that Saint is there.

His face breaks into an expression of mingled relief and happiness, the kind of rare honest look that he usually hides, and that Saint always feels very honoured to see.

“You’re back.”

Saint nods. “I hope you can forgive that I took time to fetch you coffee before I came to see you.”

Osiris takes the cup and clasps his hands around it. His nails, usually painted black even when hidden beneath gauntlets, are bare save for a few chips of lacquer that remain. It is unsettling to see, when Osiris has always been vain. He would never normally allow such a thing to be seen. “This is from-”

“The fancy Turkish place you like so much, yes.” He had tried to hide it, but Saint had seen the pleasure in his expression the first time he had been allowed to visit the City and been able to taste it.

“You are forgiven,” Osiris says, a soft smile crossing his lips for just a moment. It is so normal, so very Osiris, that for a moment Saint can almost forget the situation. The reason why they’re here, instead of in his home. He sets the bag of sweet pastries down on the floor between them, knowing that Osiris will pick at them while he works.

He glances down at the datapad in Osiris’s lap and winces at the image on the screen; one of the ‘rituals’ from the Moon, the sites of worship that Osiris had dedicated to Xivu Arath when he had been… not himself. Eris had been meticulous in cataloguing them, and while Saint understands why, and the images are very clinical in how they are presented, he cannot help but wish that she had been a little less thorough.

Osiris catches the wince and turns off the screen, then sets the data pad aside. “I cannot ignore the data,” he says quietly. “The smallest thing may be of great importance.”

“What are you hoping to find?” Saint asks. They know what happened, have pieced it together from the evidence they found, and from Osiris’ fractured recollections. The Hive are monstrous, their gods evil, and they have done terrible things to his beloved. What else is to be gleaned from this?

“Answers,” Osiris says. “Before I was… compromised, I was engaged in research. Communications across the Darkness. I went to the Dreadnaught. The Hive are at war with each other. The pyramid ships wait within the system. Xivu Arath sets her sights on the Dreaming City and the Reef. There must be something useful here, something that can help us.”

This, Saint cannot deny. These are dark times! But all the same… “It does not have to be you who does this, Osiris. We killed Xivu Arath’s High Celebrant and the Cryptoliths have withered without it. Let Eris do her research. Let Ikora send her people to investigate. ”

Osiris fixes him with a look of pure stubbornness. “They do not know the things I know. They might miss something that I would not!”

An old argument, one that makes Saint feels tired already. There is always something that only Osiris can do, something that needs his personal attention. He takes the running of the universe as his personal responsibility. “My bird, you are supposed to be recovering. Resting.”

“How can I rest when she turned me into a monster!” Osiris snaps, and the words are joined by the crack of Arc energy across his skin and the scent of ozone. Osiris’s eyes widen, and he stares down at his hands where lightning dances between his fingers. He looks abjectly lost, horrified at the sight.

No Guardian is weak. All Lightbearers have potential to harness the Light to a great extent, given time and work and training. But some, like Osiris, have always had a much more instinctive connection to the Light than most, as though everyone else is dipping their toes into the shallows, while they are diving to the abyssal depths. Saint knows how much training it had taken for Osiris to learn to contain that depth of power. How much self control it takes him to restrain his radiance.

Seeing such a loss of control is… unsettling. It is usually new Guardians who struggle to contain their Light in moments of high emotion. If Osiris had not learned to do so, he would burn with with it at all times, a distant untouchable fire.

Osiris closes his eyes, and Saint can see him force his breathing under control, drag his Light back into himself until the sparks on his skin fade.

“How can I rest, when I can feel her corruption in my veins, making me an enemy of everything I have ever worked for?” Osiris says, his voice quiet and wretched in a way that Saint does not think he has ever heard from his beloved.

Saint wants nothing more than to be able to take that pain away from his love, to ease some of that quiet desperation. He reaches out to touch Osiris’s cheek gently. The man looks mutinous for a moment before the expression crumbles, and he leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Saint strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Drink your coffee, Osiris,” he says, “and then you can read while you bask in the strength of my Light.”

Osiris snorts, and opens one eye a crack. “Your ego, Saint.”

That is better. Saint smiles. “How could I let my beloved outdo me?”

He settles back against the wall, and draws Osiris against his side, arm slung around him. The man goes willingly, and sips at his coffee while Saint prepares himself and his Light. It is not objectively difficult, but they have found that the infusion works better if they are both calm. It cannot be a fight, it must be a gift.

The Ward of Dawn engulfs them, encompassing them in a bubble of quiet protection, a moment of respite. Saint reaches out, letting his Light brush against Osiris’s, tentative, until he feels the welcome from his love, then he allows it to wash over the other man like waves, gentle but inexorable. Against his side, Osiris lets out a soft sigh and relaxes.

“How is it?” Osiris asks quietly after a while.

Saint focuses on the feeling of the Warlock’s Light for a moment, where it touches his own. He knows Osiris’s Light intimately after so many years, but that just makes the wrongness of it now more obvious. It feels like infection; a damp, feverish heat, so unlike the Solar Flame that his love is known for. It reminds him of the magic that Hive wizards use, sickly soul fire to blind and confuse the senses. It is unpleasant to say the least, and he is glad to let his Light wash away the strands of it, to burn out such an infection with the depths of the Void.

“It is not good,” he says honestly, because he will not lie to Osiris about this. Osiris is too clever to be fooled, and Geppetto dislikes it when Saint lies. He will not betray Osiris’ trust in such a way. “It seems worse than it was when I saw you last. I should not have left you.”

The guilt coils through his circuits, but he couldn’t break his promise to Crow, not with everything that boy has been through. Not when without him Sagira would most likely be dead, and Saint would be lost to Xivu Arath as well. No-one deserves what Spider had put him through and Saint could not have lived with himself if he had abandoned him there.

“You should not have to be bound to me constantly,” Osiris says sourly. “You have a life to live. One I have caused great disruption to once again.”

“You are my life, my love,” Saint says firmly, too familiar with the way Osiris works to let him try to push Saint away. “I do this because I want to. Not because you demand it of me.”

He feels Osiris grow tense against his side, sees his fingers turn pale where they clutch the coffee cup.

“It’s my fault,” he says quietly.

“Osiris, they tortured you, inflicted great harm upo-”

“Not that,” Osiris snaps. He takes a breath, and Saint can see him working to compose himself. He has always had a temper, but it has been worse since Saint snatched him from the clutches of Xivu Arath. Sharper, like a blade that has been honed. It is probably to be expected with everything that he has been through, and the confinement following it, but he hates seeing the toll it takes on Osiris. And on everyone around him.

When Osiris continues speaking, it is with great reluctance. “I went outside. Into the City.”

Saint fights to hold his tongue, to swallow down the curse he wants to let out. He was supposed to be resting! Osiris himself had been the one to make clear that he felt he was a danger if allowed to wander. He loves this man dearly, but sometimes…

“I needed to meditate,” Osiris continues, as though he can tell that Saint is being restrained. “I couldn’t focus here, but I-”

He waits. His mind races through every terrible thing that could have happened. He had not seen anything on the VanNet about Osiris, and Ikora would not have sent him here without warning if it was something too bad, would she? But sometimes she is as bad as Osiris at judging things.

“I attacked Ikora,” Osiris says, unvarnished bluntness.

Saint’s optics blink off for a second. Bad, then. Not as bad as it could be; Ikora had not seemed injured when they met, had not even mentioned this. But for Osiris to lose control in such a way… that is bad.

“Osiris-”

“Don’t,” Osiris says before Saint can put his thoughts into words. “I know. I am a threat to everyone here. I should be locked up. I should be executed for everyone’s safety.”

“What? Osiris, stop!” Saint says, opening his eyes so he can look at him. It hurts to hear him talk like this, though he should have expected the self-hatred and depression to bubble up in the aftermath of all that had happened. “Ikora is safe and well. I spoke with her and she did not even mention this. You did not hurt her.”

“I could have.”

“And I could have killed someone while I was getting coffee.” Lightless humans can be very fragile, even to those exes who are not Lightbearers. Saint is always acutely aware of his strength, his size, his Light, when he is around them, especially the children, how little it would take for him to cause harm. “I did not because I chose not to. It sounds very much like you also chose to not hurt Ikora.”

“I lashed out,” Osiris says doggedly, as though he wants Saint to condemn him, to confirm that he is truly to blame, that he is an irredeemable threat. But Saint will not.

“But you stopped yourself,” Saint replies, voice firm. His grip around Osiris tightens. “My love, I saw what the Hive god made of you. I fought against it. If you were succumbing to that once again, believe me, you would not care even if you had slaughtered half of the City.”

The monster, that terrible dark reflection of Osiris… it had revelled in destruction, found joy in blood and death and unthinking destruction. It would not be here, wild-eyed and desperate and so full of pain and fear. It would not have been afraid of causing harm. That is how he knows that it is Osiris he is speaking to, and Osiris has always been fiercely good.

Osiris stares at him for a long moment before his shoulders slump, all of that anger draining out of him in an instant. “I am a liability, Saint. One that the City can ill afford with the forces that are arrayed against us.”

He sounds defeated. It pains Saint to hear him talk this way – Osiris has always been full of conviction and righteous purpose, even when it is to his detriment. He rests a hand against the back of Osiris’s neck, squeezes gently, and sees Osiris’s eyes drop closed at the grounding touch. “When did you last eat, Osiris?”

“That isn’t going to fi-”

“He hasn’t, not today,” Sagira interrupts from across the room, her voice sharp with frustration. She must be worn thin as well if she is displaying it to openly, without the veil of humour.

Osiris turns his head to give her a withering glare, and Sagira glares back before decompiling into Light without a word. That, that concerns him, this tension between Osiris and Sagira. He knows how much she loves him, and how he feels the same towards her. Seeing them at odds- so many broken things that will need to be mended. But in time. Fix Osiris himself first, then work on everything else.

Saint picks up the bag of pastries again and pushes it into Osiris’s hands. “Then eat.”

“Eating isn’t going to fix this, Saint,” Osiris says. He still opens the bag and peers inside, expression brightening for just a moment at the sight of what Saint had brought – crisp golden pastries, still warm, filled with almond paste and custard and dates and whatever other fillings Saint had thought that Osiris would like.

“Perhaps. But it cannot hurt, yes?”

Osiris draws out one of the pastries, the powdered sugar dusting his fingers and the front of his tunic. “Fine.”

He bites into the pasty, and Saint carefully pretends not to notice the pleasure on his face at the treat. Such a small thing to make him happy for a while. Saint knows that the life he had lived on Mercury after his exile had been near ascetic, all of his focus on his work with little thought given to the comforts. Osiris would probably even say that he had not missed them, and maybe that is true! But now that he has opportunity, Saint wishes to give him everything.

His Light continue to wash against Osiris’s, and he lets it fill his beloved, wash away that rotting heat, and hopefully bolster him against the Darkness that still coils within him.

He has never seen the Traveller as a god, but his Father had been the Speaker, and had taught him many things. He closes his eyes and prays, to the Traveller, to the Light, to any benevolent power that may hear. Please watch over Osiris, protect him. He has served you so well, doesn’t he deserve that loyalty in return?

Chapter Text

“I think it’s this way,” Glint says, peering down a hallway.

“Are you sure? I think we’ve passed through here three times already.” It isn’t that the living areas of the Tower are identical – there are lots of open spaces and balconies, spots where natural light is allowed to flood in through clever use of mirrors and skylights and windows. Apartment doors are decorated with mosaics and pennants and there are green things growing plentifully. But after the Shore, where Crow had known nearly every rock and all the spaces between them, the Tower is a dizzying maze and trying to find one single apartment is proving more difficult than expected.

Tracking down the Wrathborn had been easier than this.

“No. That was the other housing area,” Glint says cheerfully.

That’s one thing at least; after meeting with Ikora, they’re both in better spirits. They have guidance. They have a purpose that isn’t just do everything he can to keep Spider happy. It’s the first time Crow has felt genuinely optimistic about the future in… in ever. Light, that’s a depressing thought. He’s not naive enough to think it’s going to be easy – there’s still the way that the Vanguard look at him – but it has to be better than what Spider put him through.

“We could just transmat there,” Crow points out.

Glint’s fins flare. “But don’t you want the excitement of exploring, Crow? It’s the Tower! We’re finally here!”

Crow carefully doesn’t point out that Glint could have been here the whole time if he hadn’t chosen Crow as his Guardian. Glint’s happiness is wonderful to see, and Crow doesn’t want to sully that. He wants Glint’s happiness more than pretty much anything else.

“Alright. Let’s keep walking,” he says. Glint settles into his hood and he reaches up to stroke one of the Ghost’s fins. Glint nudges up against them like a cat.

There are people around; off-duty Guardians, some of them obviously returning after a mission, and people Crow assumes work in the Tower. It’s a lot of people, and he can’t help but stare even as he tries to keep his head down.

They’re all so… casual. Everyone on the Shore lives as though they could be attacked at any moment, and it’s probably true. Everyone on edge, everyone ready to draw a weapon at a second’s notice. You don’t even go outside without armour. Here though… there are people dressed in civilian clothing, and Ghosts floating around openly. People stop to chat as they pass in the wide hallways or the atriums.

There’s an ache in his chest from seeing it. Is it possible to grieve for a life you’ve never had?

“Do you think we could have a painted door like that?” Glint asks, breaking him out of his thoughts. The Ghost floats over to a door that’s decorated in bright colours.

“Sure,” Crow says, “I don’t see why not.” If it makes Glint happy, then he’s happy to do it. Though the idea of having his own eventually still doesn’t feel real.

The area where Saint’s home is located is quieter, the doors spaced further apart, though there are still those touches of decoration, and green growing things curling around trellises and doorways.

“Hey you!” Crow turns sharply to face the voice, stance shifting into one which will let him move quickly if he needs to.

He’s faced with two Guardians – a Hunter and a Warlock from the looks of them – armed and armoured. 

“Can I help you?” Crow asks. Glint slips back inside his Light – ingrained habit by now to hide around Guardians they don’t know. He fees a flicker of hot anger towards the other Guardians for shattering Glint’s cheerful mood.

They look him up and down in a way that is decidedly unfriendly, and Crow is very glad that he has his hood up. The Hunter turns to say something quietly to his companion, and receives a nod in return.

“We know who you are,” the Hunter says, tone smug.
Crow’s stomach is filled with lead, and that old fear floods his veins with ice water. It hasn’t even been a day.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only just arrived.” He holds his hands up in a gesture of placation, squirming discomfort reminding him how he’d acted like this around Spider and his guests.

“You’ve got a nerve, thinking you get to come here and everyone will be fine with it.”

They take a step towards him. Crow fights down the urge to bolt, to hide. He’s a Guardian now! He can’t just run at the first sign of a problem. He needs to be better!

Why hadn’t he worn a helmet?

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he says, backing away a step, hands still raised. His gaze darts from side to side, searching for an escape, but this isn’t the Shore. There’s no convenient space between asteroids he can wedge himself into to hide.

“Should have thought of that before you–”

“What is going on here?”

A booming voice that fills the hallway. A large figure in a helmet with a single horn looms behind the two Guardians, hands on hips. Lord Shaxx seems to dwarf them all, larger than life. Saint had pointed him out when they’d arrived, but he’s even more intimidating up close.

“If you have time to hang around here, Guardians, you have time to train. I’ll expect to see you in the Crucible. Am I understood?”

The Hunter and Warlock mutter apologies and head off, but not before giving Crow a look of deep hatred.

He still doesn’t know why.

Once they’re out of sight, Crow slumps, a sudden weariness overtaking him. Had he really believed that coming here would fix things? Make them better? Sure, he’s free from Spider, but the reasons he ended up in Spider’s hands are still there. Stupid of him.

“Are you alright, Hunter? They didn’t seem as though they were trying to be helpful.”

Crow looks up at the Crucible handler. It’s impossible to read any expression into the helmet. He manages a strained laugh. “I don’t think they like me.”

“Apparently not,” Lord Shaxx muses. “Are you lost? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. New Light accommodation is a few floors down.”

“I’m not– I mean I am new here but–”

“We’re looking for Saint-14’s apartment!” Glint breaks in, materialising between them to look at Shaxx. “He’s letting Crow stay with him while he gets settled.” His Ghost sounds ridiculously proud, and maybe a little challenging, even though his Ghost is ridiculously dwarfed by the Titan.

“Crow hm?” Shaxx looks him over for a long moment, and Crow tugs his hood up more firmly as though it will somehow protect him from scrutiny. “Saint mentioned you. He asked me to keep an eye out for you if I was around.”

“He did?” Crow asks, his eyes widening in surprise. It sounds like something Saint would do, absolutely, but he’s still adjusting to the fact that someone like Saint exists and is looking out for him.

“Yes. He was worried that you might encounter trouble. Seems he was right.” There is no judgement in Shaxx’s words, just a blunt statement of fact.

“It was nothing. It would have been fine,” Crow says, feeling the need to downplay things anyway. If people start thinking he’s going to be the cause of problems, they might change their minds about letting him be here. “No need to worry!” he adds. It isn’t like he hasn’t faced worse.

“Saint’s home is this way,” Lord Shaxx says, ignoring his rambling. “Come along.”

“Uh…” But Shaxx has already turned away and begun walking. What is Crow supposed to do? He follows after the very large Crucible Handler who leads him around a couple more turns and then gestures down a short hallways.

“Door at the end,” Lord Shaxx tells him.

It’s a plain door compared to many of the others, painted a pale grey–lavender. Glint floats ahead to transmit the code they’d been given to unlock it and it clicks open.

Crow gives Lord Shaxx a small, awkward smile. “Thank you. We got a little lost.”

“Hm.” Lord Shaxx looks at him again, scrutinising him. Crow stands there, endures it. He feels like dashing inside would be rude, and well, if Shaxx is going to hate him too, better to find out early.

“Is something wrong?” he asks when the scrutiny drags on, and Shaxx shows no signs of either grabbing him, or leaving.

“Many of us have terrible things in our pasts, Hunter,” Lord Shaxx says, and his voice is softer. It sounds as though he is choosing every word carefully. “Resurrection is a clean slate, but it is still important to keep working to better yourself.”

Shaxx’s helmet is a blank visage, giving nothing away. No flicker of that grief in his eyes, or poorly concealed anger. No sign of judgement.

“I- I will,” Crow stammers out. “That’s why I’m here. I want to be a Guardian.”

Lord Shaxx nods. “I’m glad to hear it. Saint is a good man and I don’t want to have to start questioning his judgement.” He turns away, but looks back at Crow over his shoulder. “If they bother you again, let me know. I’ve no patience for people bringing their fights outside the Crucible.”

“I will do, sir,” Crow says, the title coming unbidden to his lips because it just feels right when referring to Shaxx.

“Well, he was nice!” Glint says, when Shaxx is safely out of view and, unless he’s lurking around the corner, earshot.

“Let’s just go inside,” Crow says. The whole ordeal has left him on edge, and his hopeful mood from earlier seems beyond repair.

Saint’s apartment is spacious. There’s a kitchen area, smaller than the one in Spider’s bunker which had to cater to everyone in his employ, and a comfortable living room with wide windows overlooking the City, like the ones in Zavala’s office. There’s a couch that looks softer than anything Crow has ever seen, and the walls are lined with shelves filled with books and artefacts and trinkets. He walks along the shelves examining them with unbridled curiosity. A small, delicate looking statue of a bird, a flower preserved in resin, a framed picture of Saint that looks like it was drawn by a small child.

It feels like a home, more than anywhere Crow has ever been before. He feels guilty for looking at the place, like he’s an intruder in a life that he doesn’t belong in. He shouldn’t be here! He belongs in a cramped space behind the pipes of Spider’s base, with barely enough room for a cot. Maybe if he leaves now before he gets too attached… he could leave Saint a note, an apology. Thanks for everything you’ve done, but I don’t want to befoul your home by existing in it.

“Look at the bathroom, Crow!” Glint calls. He sounds thrilled, and Crow eases a smile onto his face and goes to look. Glint deserves better, and Crow won’t dampen that enthusiasm yet.

He can’t tell if the bathroom really is impressive, or if it’s just his low standards, but there’s a huge bathtub in there as well as a shower, and there’s an array of soaps and oils and gels lined up neatly on a shelf. He hadn’t realised that many kinds of soap even existed.

The sound of the apartment door opening forces him to stillness. He listens warily to heavy footsteps, every instinct on a knife-edge.

“Crow? Are you here my friend?”

Saint’s voice. He slumps with relief, and drags a hand through his hair, trying to regain some composure, before he heads back into the living room.

Saint is in the kitchen area, armour already removed leaving him in a t-shirt and loose comfortable looking pants. Crow suddenly feels overdressed, but he doesn’t have anything to change into. The clothes from the Shore hadn’t felt worth salvaging to bring with him.

“Ah! I was not sure if you would be here yet. How was meeting with Vanguard?”

“It went well, I think,” Crow says. “Ikora said that she had some work that she'd like me involved in. I think she’s about as fond of Spider as you are.”

“Ikora is very wise,” Saint says. “And I brought food!” he adds, gesturing to the large bag on the table, from which a delicious smell emanates.

“You didn’t need to do th-”

“You are guest,” Saint says firmly, waving his hand to dismiss Crow’s concern. “I brought you here to Tower. It is my duty to make sure you become settled. My pleasure, even.”

“You’ve done so much for me.” Just being kind to him while they worked together, giving him a few days of respite, would have been more than he could dream of, but Saint had gone out of his way to help him.

“I have been blessed many times by people helping me, little Crow,” is Saint’s solemn response. “I would not be here if not for the help of others. None of us would. The least I can do is help other people. And you helped me to save Osiris. That is a debt that I can never repay.”

“I was glad to. It isn’t a debt that needs repaying.” His freedom would have more than covered it, even if it had been.

“I wish to try anyway,” Saint says.

He begins to unpack the containers from the bag, and sets them out across the table. Crow drifts over, and the smells become even more enticing. He strips off his cloak and the heavier pieces of armour and lets Glint transmat them away for safekeeping.

“What is all this?”

“I did not know what you like, so I brought many things,” Saint replies. “City has many food stalls and shops and kitchens. I will introduce you to all of them!”

“I don’t know where to start,” Crow says, looking over the baffling array of containers.

“Then pick one at random,” Saint says. “You have time to try whatever you wish.”

Saint seems to take great delight in watching him load his plate and try things. It’s an overwhelming array of flavour, and even the things he isn’t sure he actually likes, are novel enough for him to eat all of. The cooks who served Spider weren’t terrible, but supplies on the Shore were limited and Spider kept the best stuff for himself and his lieutenants – everyone else made do with the leftovers.

“How is Osiris?” Crow asks later, when he thinks he has tried most of the foods on offer. There’s going to be a lot of leftovers. He sees Saint stiffen on his chair.

“He is… my bird does not take well to confinement,” Saint says. “What was done to him… it will take time for him to heal. But he is grumpy as ever so it cannot be too bad!” he adds quickly, with a cheer that sounds decidedly forced to Crow’s ears.

“I’m sorry that I dragged you away from him.”

Saint pats his hand where it rests on the table. “You did not. I made my choice and it was the right choice. You deserve to have good life. You are Guardian, Crow. You will be good Guardian, I am sure of it.”

He can feel the flush creeping across his cheeks and he ducks his head to hide it. Saint shouldn’t have to deal with his embarrassment. “I guess we’ll see what Ikora says after she’s worked with me for a few days.”

“Hah! Yes. She is good mentor to Warlocks. I think she will be good for you too.”

“I hope so. But hey, no-one’s hit me yet so I’m doing better than I was with Spider.” He tries to make it a joke, something to lighten the mood, but from Saint’s expression, he doesn’t think it worked.

“I am glad you are away from that monster,” Saint says, not a trace of humour in his voice. “What he did was monstrous. Being left alive is better than he deserves.”

“It’s hard to believe that I’m really here,” Crow admits quietly. It doesn’t feel real, as though he’ll wake up tomorrow back in Spider’s base.

“I felt same when Guardian and Osiris saved me and I escaped Infinite Forest,” Saint replies.

“Infinite Forest?” Crow asks.

“On Mercury,” Saint says, and there’s a note of discomfort to his voice. “Vex machine. They turned planet into prediction engine, calculating outcomes for futures. Full of simulations. Osiris would know more if you wish to ask. He knows more than anyone. He spent lifetimes there.”

“Can they really predict the future? Like prophecies?” He hasn’t had much contact with the Vex, but he’s definitely heard stories.

“Not exactly. It is like… very complicated Go engine, calculating all configurations of possible moves. But instead of game, it is reality,” Saint says. “But they cannot simulate Light. It is why Guardians are still able to combat Vex.”

“And you were trapped there?” Crow asks.

Saint nods. “For many years. When I entered it, the City was still young. Much smaller, more precarious. No transmat grid then, power was often rationed so we could keep essentials working. I return to find it like this. So much bigger. So many more people. It was a lot to take in.”

He’d known that Saint was strong, but surviving years inside a Vex machine? That’s incredible. He hadn’t thought his admiration for the man could increase.

“I think I get it,” he says. “Everything is suddenly so much louder and more crowded. It feels oppressive, even if you know it’s better.”

“Yes. Very like that,” Saint says. “Sometimes it is still like that, but it gets better. I am sure it will for you, too, and you will make a home here.”

“I hope so.”

If Saint believes it, then Crow is determined not to let him down.

Chapter Text

You walk through hallways of shadows and flickering lights. There is an ever-present hum in the air. It scrapes against your skin like a physical touch. Metal creaks beneath your feet, except where something soft and organic has coated the floor in a thick mat. It sticks to the soles of your boots.

You are looking for something.

—-You seLIGHTBEARER

No.

The voice burns into Osiris’ mind, forces him to his knees. The world ignites with sickly black-green flame, fills his nose with the scent of scorched flesh and hot iron. The song of battle fills his ears, screeching blades and screams.

I AM THE HAND AROUND YOUR THROAT

YOU ARE MY BLADE

The fire licks at his flesh and sears away impurity.

He is a weapon.

Chapter Text

The video playing on the datapad ends, leaving the room blanketed in a ringing silence. Osiris scrubs a hand across his face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and starts it once more.

The footage is grainy, the green and black of night-vision cameras, showing the dusty rubble of the Tangled Shore. The scene is still for long seconds and then a flicker of movement as a figure becomes visible and moves towards the Red Legion Base. It has the gait of a predator – absolute conviction and unswerving purpose.

Osiris’s gaze remains fixed on the screen as the figure flares with brightness turned sickly by the camera. He wishes that it was just the camera. There is a brief glimpse of ragged wings, a sword, and then darkness engulfs everything.

The recording ends. According to the report, the camera had been destroyed by intense heat and it had been lucky that the Hidden had already been tapping that feed and had retrieved the footage before then.

Osiris reaches out with a shaking hand to start the video once more.

“Osiris.”

He hesitates for a second, and then presses play.

“Osiris, this isn’t healthy,” Sagira says. Her voice is a bright star and it scrapes against his skin. Their bond should not feel like this. She has always been the best part of him, his star in the darkness, his hope, his humanity.

“None of this is healthy, Sagira,” he replies and wonders how he can sound so calm, so normal, when he imagines carving that bond out of his flesh and crushing it in the palm of his hand. He has always had a quick temper, but since the Moon – since the Hive, since her – it has come more easily. Perhaps it is something new forced into him. More likely it is something that has always been in him, and Xivu Arath merely stoked the embers.

“It’s a ten second video, Osiris,” Sagira continues, “and you’ve watched it about twenty times in the last half-hour.”

Twenty-three, actually. He’d kept count.

“It is research.”

“It’s self-flagellation,” is her sharp retort.

He looks down at his hands, inspects them as though they will provide answers. His nails are ragged where he’s bitten them while working. A terrible habit. One of many that he has never been able to break, albeit one of the less damaging. Far less destructive than letting obsession drive him into chasing Hive gods.

On the back of each hand is a Hive rune carved into his flesh. He tries not to examine them too closely.

“I never saw this,” he says quietly. “Not in the Forest, not in my visions. Nothing.”

“You can’t predict everything, Osiris.”

A discussion that they have had more than once. She is not wrong, but this… this feels like something he should have seen. Surely this is something that he should have seen! Something that he should at least have had the chance to try to avert. He had foreseen his exile, foreseen countless apocalypses and paths of destruction that he could have walked, but this? He had seen nothing.

They truly are beyond the limits of what even the Vex could predict, paracausal forces beyond their comprehension at work.

He starts the video once more.

He remembers these events.

No, that is a poor way to put it. It offers absolution, turns him into a passive observer rather than the subject.

He remembers doing this. He remembers obeying that will that had washed his own away, a vengeful ocean drowning a shallow rock pool. He remembers the hunger which had clawed through him, driving him to slaughter. He remembers crushing bones, tearing through flesh, bathing in hot blood as he made his tithe.

He remembers that it had felt good. He remembers that he had enjoyed it.

He tastes blood on his tongue and goes still, expecting that voice to crash into his mind, to summon him to the siren call of the War Eternal.

He canot tell if the idea terrifies him, or thrills him.

“Osiris, look at me.”

Sagira’s voice. He turns slowly to look at his Ghost, giving her plenty of time to flee if he is overwhelmed. She’s already well out of reach. Good.

He hates that distance.

“I can feel you panicking,” Sagira says, her iris narrowing. “Your Light is… I’ve never felt it this uncontrolled. Not since I first found you, and even then you were remarkably accepting of everything.”

He hadn’t been terrified then, not beyond the inevitable fear that comes with that first breath, awakening alone and without memory to a world that is alien. His Light hadn’t been corrupted then.

“Apologies,” he mumbles. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe slowly until his heart stops racing. A slow in and out, on the cusp of meditation. His Light subsides along with his returning calm, drawing back into his soul. “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” Sagira replies, “that’s better.”

“Good. Felwinter would be ashamed to see me like this.” His mentor had been a bastion of calm, measured and logical. He had helped Osiris learn to control his gifts. And now here he is, his control no better than that of a New Light, every emotion readable in his Light for those with the skill to read it.

“Felwinter would want to help. You were always his favourite.”

“I’m fairly certain that Lord Shaxx was his favourite,” Osiris replies, a wry note entering his voice, and a cracked smile on his lips.

“Different situations. He was fucking Shaxx, not you, unless you somehow kept that secret from me for a few centuries.”

“Sagira! Language!” he says with mock offence, and for a moment everything feels normal.

“I think swearing is the least I should be able to do right now,” Sagira replies haughtily. “If I had a mouth I’d probably be drinking.”

It is cold water down his spine. His smile fades and he ducks his head, gaze flicking back to the paused video. It must be a terrible toll on her, all of this. She deserves better.

He looks down at his hands again and stares at the smear of blood on his fingertip. He’s bitten his nail to the quick, made it bleed. That was what he’d tasted.

Foolish of him to jump so eagerly to conclusions, almost as though he wants the worst to happen.

He sighs and shakes his head to clear his mind, and finally closes the video. Sagira is right, he’s just torturing himself with it.

He picks absently at the spot where his nail is bleeding, letting the blood well up. It is a tiny amount, not even worth asking Sagira to heal it. He remembers his hands being caked in blood – it had stained his skin, caked beneath his nails, the scent of it filling the air as he–

No. No, this is not a path that he can go down.

“What I would not give to be back on Mercury now,” he mutters, and leans his head back against the wall. The irritation feels normal at least. There had been no room in him for milder emotions when he had been the weapon. “Simulations would at least give me something useful to do instead of sitting here.”

Watching the same video over and over, scouring the documents for any scrap of knowledge, hoping that something new would come out of them, while waiting for another infusion of Light.

“Didn’t think I’d ever reach a point where I’d consider the Infinite Forest the straightforward option,” Sagira says dryly.

She is joking, he knows she is, but Osiris still flinches. This, all of this, it is a complication that they can ill afford with the pyramid ships in the system and the Darkness on their doorstep. If Sagira notices him flinch, then she does not mention it.

“There’s no reason why both of us should be stuck here,” he says. “You could visit with Geppetto or Ophiuchus, or go to the library, investigate some of the research being done.”

“And leave you alone here?” Sagira says. Is it wrong to feel warmed by the incredulity in her voice.

“I’m hardly the best company at the moment,” Osiris replies. She could be doing so many more things, better things, than babysitting one Warlock who can’t even control his emotions.

“Last time I left you alone you got brainwashed by a Hive god, Osiris. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Something about her phrasing is like grit in his mind. He had not been brainwashed. He’d been… possessed? No, not that. Xivu Arath hadn’t taken over his body. Manipulated isn’t right either. There’s a small, dark part of his mind that whispers ‘freed’, that whispers ‘forged’ and ‘perfected’ and he remembers how easy it had been, to be a monster. A creature of pure instinct and violence. No room in his thoughts for doubt or fear.

He pushes that whispering voice as far down in his mind as he can.

Corrupted. He was corrupted. That does not remove his culpability, doesn’t erase the monstrous things that he had been responsible for.

In the end it is all semantics anyway. A futile attempt to understand and categorise what had happened to him, as though that will somehow make things better.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Her shell flares. “What for?”

Isn’t it obvious? “For everything. For what happened. For-” He shakes his head helplessly. “For allowing it happen. If I had been better–” If he had listened… If he had had patience…

“Don’t,” Sagira says sharply.

Osiris looks back at his hands, continuing that earlier inspection. Is that a glint of something in his skin? A sliver of Hive crystal? The Warlocks tending to him swear that they removed all of the shards, but there were so many that it is not impossible that some were missed and are growing beneath his skin. The runes sometimes flare with pain and bleed with no warning. He wonders if it indicates something about the movements and actions of Xivu Arath.

He worries that he might be causing it himself.

He picks at a spot where he thinks he’s seen the glitter of crystal – scratches at it, feeling for a lump beneath his skin.

There is nothing there except paranoia.

“Saint’s coming,” Sagira says gently, like he is a skittish cat she’s trying to lure close.

The announcement blooms painful relief. Saint visits him even though he is barely a shadow of the man he had been, and he is pathetically grateful.

“He’s bringing Crow with him,” Sagira adds more warily.

“Crow…” Saint has mentioned him, this Hunter who had helped him hunt the Wrathborn, hunt him. Osiris has vague memories of someone with Saint, but as with everything else from that time, they’re stained with bloodlust and rage and that hideous joy.

“Yes. He helped us find you. He helped us save you. So don’t try to drive him away, please, Osiris.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Osiris replies, sharpness springing to his voice.

“You don’t have to plan,” is Sagira’s prim response.

“Fine,” Osiris says, frustration welling up. He tries to crush it before it can spark into anger. She doesn’t deserve his anger. She never has. But it’s so hard when part of him wants to lash out. “I will be hospitable.”

“Don’t stretch yourself too much there,” Sagira teases.

He manages a wan smile in response, and then gathers his papers and books together. If Saint is bringing this ‘Crow’, then he should at least try to be presentable. He does not want more rumours spreading about him. Besides, he doesn’t want strangers looking at his work.

He would like his robes, his gauntlets, his cowl, all the armour that he puts between himself and the world, but with his Light fluctuating so wildly and the need to check on him frequently, he had reluctantly accepted the request to wear civilian clothing. He settles for the most formal of the things that Saint had brought him; a shirt, and loose pants and the long, loose jacket which could almost double as robes. If nothing else, it covers the Hive markings that litter his body.

He recognises the weight of Saint’s knock at the door when it comes. How many times before his exile had the sound roused him from his work?

“Come in.”

His lover pushes open the door and the sight of him is a balm to Osiris’ battered soul. He always has been, and even more so since his return from the Infinite Forest. There had been so many years when Osiris had been certain that he would never see him again.

“Osiris,” Saint says, the purr in his voice displaying his joy at seeing him. Osiris will never get tired of hearing it. “How are you today, my bird?”

He crosses the room and rests a hand on Osiris’s shoulder, squeezing it in lieu of an embrace. He knows that Osiris is uncomfortable with displays of affection in front of people, and this has become a way of showing it without making Osiris retreat. Normally he appreciates the consideration, but right now, he wants nothing more than for Saint to hold him. He does not want to entertain visitors, and it sours his mood further.

“As well as I can be when I’m a prisoner at the mercy of the Vanguard,” he says haughtily. It is unfair. He knows it is, and he does not care.

Saint’s expression is pained and his hand slides up to rest against Osiris’s neck, thumb stroking against the pulse point. He is very careful not to touch the Hive rune that lies just a little further back, near his ear. Perhaps he thinks he will be contaminated by it.

No, he reminds himself sharply. That is not right. Saint knows that the runes cause Osiris distress, and that is why he avoids them.

“You know that isn’t what this is,” Saint says. “We are trying to heal you.”

‘We’. Saint on one side of the bars and himself on the other. He should tear them down. He should rip himself free of this place and let his purpose guide him and-

He hisses at the sudden flare of pain that runs through him. He shoves up a sleeve to expose his arm. The runes there are glowing with that sickly Hive light. It is not as terrible as it was when he first came back to himself here, but worse than they had been even a few days ago. The marks are a constant burning ache, trying to reinforce that awful purpose and his obedience.

“I know you are,” he replies after a long moment, and drags his sleeve back down, hiding the vile markings, as though having them out of sight will help anything but his pride. He gives Saint a look that warns him not to mention it. Now, when Saint’s guest is here, is not the time to discuss it. To his credit, Saint nods his agreement and squeezes Osiris’ shoulder again.

“You know that I have never done well with confinement or boredom,” he adds. It is easier to pretend that is the reason for the anger that boils inside him.

That makes Saint smile. “I do know, yes. You have never practised patience, my love.”

“If Lord Felwinter and the Iron Lords could not teach me, then I fear I am a lost cause,” Osiris says. “Sagira said that you had brought your… friend.”

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Saint’s expression. “Crow, yes,” he says. “He helped me to save you. I thought it might be good for him to meet you, and for you to meet him. He should meet you as the man you are, not Xivu Arath’s puppet.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” Osiris asks, but he gives a wry smile. “I have a reputation after all. Sagira told me that I had to be nice to him.”

“You are not so terrible as that, Osiris. But please do be kind to him. That boy has been through many terrible things.”

The way Saint speaks is fond. It is not the fondness that he has for everyone in this city, the people he protects, his beloved pigeons. No, this is a much more personal affection. It is the same way that he speaks about Shaxx and Sloane and Ikora. The same way Saint talks about him.

“I will do my best,” he promises, his curiosity piqued.

“Thank you. I will fetch him.”

He steps away and goes back into the hall.

Ikora had arranged to have certain comforts brought into the secure meditation chamber, one of those being a table and chairs so he can sit with Saint somewhere other than the bed or on the rug. Osiris settles himself there. Overly formal perhaps, but better than overly familiar.

He is reminded strikingly of the days when he had taken students. He wishes this was in his old study though, his own space, not a glorified hospital room.

The door opens again and Saint steps in, followed by his friend. He is slim, but well built, in the way that Hunters often are. His hood hides his face, but his head is ducked – awkwardness, perhaps. His clothing is less garish than many Guardians prefer, relatively plain, although Osiris recognises the designs on the arm guards as Trials armour. No gloves, so Osiris can see the grey skin that marks him as Awoken.

“Crow, this is Osiris who you have heard about,” Saint says. He gives Crow a little nudge further into the room, then closes the door. “Osiris, this is my friend Crow, who helped me on the Shore.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Crow says. His voice sounds familiar in a way that Osiris cannot place. At least not until he pushes his hood back, revealing a sweep of black and silver hair, glowing amber eyes.

Osiris is met with the face of the Prince of the Reef, Uldren Sov.

His eyes widen in shock. Is this a trick? Some manner of deceit from a man corrupted by the Darkness and Dragon-magic?

No. Uldren Sov was dead, killed by the Guardian as revenge for Cayde-6. The Awoken had been thorough in confirming that after everything he had wrought.

Besides, Uldren Sov would never have been so humble with an entrance.

The momentary shock over, he looks the man over, starting to see the differences. Uldren had been brilliant, but arrogant. Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and desperate to please his sister. He would never have submitted to being called Crow for one thing, not by a Guardian. And the hesitance when Crow looks at him, like he’s expecting some harsh judgement is very far from his memories of the Prince. Eager to please though, that might be the same; Osiris can see the way he looks at Saint for reassurance under the scrutiny. The lost bird has imprinted on Saint. Osiris would find it amusing if this was any other New Light.

“It’s good to meet you,” Crow says. “Saint has talked about you a lot, but the circumstances last time were… well…”

Osiris glances at his lover, who shrugs. “I like to talk about you,” Saint says. “It was good for him to know you as I see you, not just as… thing we hunted.”

“You should not believe everything that Saint says,” Osiris says dryly. “He has a rather biased view of me.”

“Hush you,” Saint says to him, and Osiris does not bother to hide his flash of a smile in response.

“No, he’s right,” Sagira interrupts, her voice light and teasing. “Saint is very biased. I’m the one who knows the real deal Osiris.”

She floats over to greet Crow with a brief bump against his shoulder, and Osiris goes tense at the casualness of the gesture. His jaw clenches, and he curls his hands into fists beneath the table, digging his nails into his palms. Rage-fuelled heat threatens to spark into wildfire.

Sagira is his Ghost! She hasn’t been that close to him in weeks, and he wants to take that frustration out of Crow’s flesh.


YOU ARE MY BLADE.
The weapon raises its hand, snaps its fingers, and sends ravenous crimson flame towards the spark. It will snuff out this weak and feeble Light.

But there is no satisfaction. No death to feed its hunger. The spark is gone.

The weapon snarls in frustrated rage at prey denied it. It turns, billowing incineration to see the spark caught in the hands of one of the disobedient dead-flesh weapons.

CLEANSE YOURSELF IN SLAUGHTER, MY BLADE.

Osiris gasps sharply. He swears he can taste ash on his tongue. He forces himself to uncurl his fingers, to grasp the tattered edges of his Light and drag them under control

His heart is pounding. He thinks that he hears war drums.

No. No, he is Osiris. He is here in the Tower. There are no drums. He is a man, not a weapon.

“Osiris?” Saint says, voice thick with worry. He is very close and Osiris doesn’t remember him moving.

Sickness roils in his belly. The Hive marks swell with Soulfire. He knows that if he pulls back his sleeve they will be glowing again. Even the memory of Xivu Arath’s voice, her command, has power, and for a moment he had felt that soul-deep purpose fill him.

He looks up into Saint’s purple optics, focuses on his beloved, the lines and dips of the plates and polymer of his face, one that he knows so well. His anchor through so much tumult. Saint’s hands are firm on his shoulders, tethering him to himself.

He gives a small nod. He’s fine. He will be fine. Better to have something to distract himself, he thinks, so he cannot pick at this like a scab.

Saint squeezes his shoulder, his touch lingering. He does not move away from Osiris’ side.

Osiris turns his attention back to Crow. The young Hunter is watching him with a wary expression. He’s trying to hide it but even Osiris with all of his difficulties with reading emotion can tell that he is afraid.

Afraid of him.

Sagira is watching him too, her shell twisting anxiously. He doesn’t meet her eye.

“My apologies,” he says, the words ground out in an attempt to keep them steady. “Saint has spoken to me about you as well.” He forces the conversation onward and away from himself. “He said that you were invaluable while he was working on the Shore.”

Crow gives a small smile, a tentative expression, a though he has not had much cause to use it before now. “I tried my best. He helped me a lot.”

“Crow is quick learner,” Saint says, obviously unwilling to allow Crow to downplay his part in what had occurred. “Good backup. I would not have stopped High Celebrant without him.”

Sagira would be dead without him. Crow had saved Osiris’s own Ghost from him. No wonder she’s happier to get close to someone she has known for a matter of weeks, than the man she has been partner to for centuries. It is a bitter thought that sits on his tongue until he swallows it down.

“Tracking through the Ascendant Realm is no small feat,” Osiris says, picking that thread to focus on rather than anything more personal. “It is a treacherous place, especially where it intersects with the Dreaming City. The leylines there make it a nexus of volatile power. Especially with the curse in force.” And with Mara absent.

Does she know about this? Is she aware that her brother has been resurrected as a Guardian? She had grieved him when she had returned following her gambit against Oryx, even while she understood the necessity of his death.

Should he attempt to contact her?

“You’ve been to the Ascendant Plane?” Crow asks, curiosity overwhelming his uncertainty.

“Yes. I have visited the Dreaming City many times, and had cause to enter the Ascendant Realm when putting my skills to use in the service of Queen Mara.”

“You’ve met the Queen?” Crow looks a little star-struck. The only recognition he seems to have at the mention of her is that of someone who recognises her name from stories – a distant, impersonal legend.

“On occasion, as our interests have aligned,” Osiris replies, not wishing to give too much away before he has decided how to handle this. “Saint told me about the lures you used to hunt the Wrathborn. He said that you created them.”

Crow nods. “Yes. Spider had some Hive tech in one of his storerooms. A transmitter that must have been knocked off a Seeder.”

Osiris gestures to the chair opposite him in invitation. A topic that allows him to avoid speaking about himself, yes, but he cannot deny his own curiosity. “Tell me about it.”

Chapter Text

To say that the Crucible match was going badly would be an understatement. The Warlock’s team is several points behind, and the Warlock herself knows that she hasn’t managed a kill the whole time. She’s not sure she’s even managed to get a hit on a member of the opposing team, though she’s fairly certain she caught one of her own teammates with a stray bolt of flame.

What she has done, is die. Over and over again.

It’s humiliating, and her teammates are giving her frustrated looks. She’s heard a couple of the comments; how she’s costing them points, how she shouldn’t be allowed in the Crucible until she learns how to shoot. She spots that cocky Hunter, the one in a full set of Trials gear, whispering something to his Titan friend and she knows that it is about her. Mocking her.

She hates them.

Her teammates scatter, and she is left alone and exposed. Damn them! Just leaving her to die!

She grasps her pulse rifle tightly and runs.

She is being hunted. The other team know that she is weak, that she is easy points, and they hunt her like wolves.

She hears gunfire nearby and ducks into the doorway of a ruined building, heart pounding. Maybe her Ghost brought her back wrong. Maybe she isn’t good enough to be a Guardian or he missed something when he resurrected her.

Perhaps her Ghost held something back, kept knowledge hidden from her because he wants her to fail, is mocking her like all the others.

A noise. A voice whispering. But no footsteps approach. No gunfire. Just a whisper that she strains to hear because she knows that it is important. It calls to her. Doesn’t she want an end to this? To this pain?

There is a promise in the beat of war drums.

Her anger flares, hot and bright as a supernova, Deep as the ocean.

They do not see her coming. She is buoyed aloft by rage, and the blazing sword in her hand cuts them down one by one.

And if some of her own team are victims of her wrath, then is that not what they deserve?

Lord Shaxx slaps her shoulder afterwards and praises her fighting spirit. Her team murmur compliments and congratulations, though she can hear uncertainty in their words.

She tastes blood in her mouth, like sweet wine.

Chapter Text

“I feel like I just got interrogated.”

Saint claps him on the shoulder and steers him back towards the main area of the Tower. The layout is something of a maze, with housing wedged in alongside libraries, study rooms, meeting spaces, but Saint navigates it as deftly as he seems to navigate the labyrinthine web of organisation that makes the City function. It’s been a lot to take in: on the Shore, everyone had known that Spider’s word was law, but here there’s a seemingly endless number of people involved in running things.

“It went well!” Saint says. “I think he likes you.”

Crow gives him an incredulous look. “That was things going well?”

Osiris had been intense. He’d asked questions and chased answers about what had happened on the Shore until they’d got onto levels of metaphysics and paracausality that made Crow’s head hurt. The Warlock had been taking notes.

“That is often what happens when Osiris is focused on something. He will chase answers down like many Hunters chase loot,” Saint replies. “I think it was good for him.”

“I think he knew more about the topic than me,” Crow admits. “All that stuff about the Ascendant Plane, and leylines, and Hive rituals…”

“By tomorrow, he will probably have ideas about how you could improve the lures,” Saint says, amused. “But you brought him something interesting. Something that he did not already know. That is good way to make him feel well disposed towards you.”

“Is that what you did?” Crow asks. Saint and Osiris seem mismatched as a romance, but it’s impossible to not see the adoration that they hold for each other.

“No. I told Osiris at our first meeting that I would be his friend. I think he spent so much time searching for hidden meanings in my words that he never got around to telling me otherwise.” He grins at Crow. “Also he was overwhelmed by my charm and good looks.”

“Of course,” Crow says, returning the smile. It had been Saint’s kindness that had lured Crow in after all, and made Crow trust him. It isn’t so hard to believe that it could overcome Osiris’… intensity.

“How goes your work with Ikora?” Saint asks. “With everything that is happening, I am sorry I have not had as much time to ask you as I meant to. I hope that being busy is good. If not I can speak to her and-”

“It’s going well,” Crow says quickly. He needs to prove himself to the Vanguard, and he can’t keep relying on Saint to intercede on his behalf. “She has me looking into the remnants of the Red Legion and the new Empress who seems to be trying to take control with Ghaul gone.”

It’s interesting work, definitely more satisfying than trying to shake payment out of people who owed Spider. He’s good at it too, and Ikora seems pleased with what he’s dug up so far.

“Hm, power transfers can get messy,” Saint says. “It is good that Ikora has you working on it.”

Saint always manages to make his praise sound so genuine. Crow has heard how Saint speaks to the Guardians participating in Trials, managing to find things to praise even when a team hasn’t scored a single point. Crow can see why everyone speaks so highly of him.

“I’m surprised you’re not more involved,” Crow says. “Glint said you used to be Vanguard Commander.”

“That was long time ago,” Saint says. “Zavala is good leader, and I do not wish to undermine him. He must always think of politics when he makes choices, must consider how things look to City. Ikora too. Things are much more complicated than they were in my time. If Zavala wishes for my involvement, he will ask.”

There’s a note of distaste in the way he says ‘politics’ that Crow can sympathise with. He’s seen enough of the politics in Spider’s gang to put him off. “Looking from the outside, it always seemed like ‘Guardians’ were a single united force. Not a hundred different groups.”

“It is worse when you look at City as a whole,” Saint replies. “It is a complex machine. We are united against Darkness, and in our desire for survival. But beyond that… ah, people would not be people if we all wanted exactly the same. That is way of Hive, not humanity. Complexity gives us strength.”

“I suppose not everyone can be a Hunter,” Crow says, a tentative joke. He’s heard other Guardians make similar ones, teasing each other about different classes.

Saint gives a bright laugh, and the knot of anxiety in Crow’s chest over the joke dissolves. “Ha! Yes. Not everyone is lucky enough to be a Titan. Sometimes I suppose we need Warlocks too, and Hunters. Perhaps. I will let you know when I find situation where that is true.”

“I’ll call you next time someone needs to wedge themselves in a tree with a sniper rifle for hours,” Crow replies dryly.

“You see, together we are stronger. We have found one situation where Hunters are best,” Saint says. He wraps an arm around Crow’s shoulders suddenly and draws him close for a moment. “It is good to hear you make jokes, little Crow.”

The comment warms him. Simple words, but so full of meaning when spoken with Saint’s utter sincerity. If Saint had been the first Guardian he’d met, he’d probably never have ended up on the Shore at Spider’s mercy.

They reach the lift halfway through Saint’s explanation of where to get the best dumplings in the City, a subject that he seems to treat with as much passion as encouraging Trials participants. There’s an armoured Titan already inside who quickly straightens up when they enter. Crow tugs his hood to hide his face better. At least that’s not too odd; plenty of Hunters walk around with hoods up, plenty of Guardians walk around helmeted. Maybe he’ll break the habit one day.

Crow feels the eyes of the Titan on them both as the lift begins to move. It isn’t intentional, he’s sure – the lift isn’t that big – but it still prickles at him, like sand caught in his boot.

The lift comes to a halt and Crow steps further back in case someone is going to get in, but the door remains closed. There’s no floor listed on the display either. Saint makes a noise of irritation, and presses the button for their floor again.

Nothing happens.

He pushes the button to open the lift door. Once again, nothing happens.

“What is this,” Saint growls.

“It has been behaving oddly for the past day or two from what I have heard,” the other Titan says.

Crow frowns. Something about that voice pricks at his memory, but he’s not sure where it’s from. He knows he hasn’t met the Titan in the City since he’s been here, and the options for a meeting before then are… unpleasant.

“It has not been fixed?” Saint asks, irritation seeping into his voice.

The Titan steps forward and removes his helmet, revealing a human man with a thick beard. The sides of his head are shaved, and the rest of his yellow-grey hair is pulled into a braid at the back of his head. “Please, permit me, Sir.”

“Ah, Siegfried,” Saint replies, giving a nod of acknowledgement. “It is not necessary to call me Sir. I am not Vanguard Commander anymore, just Saint-14.”

It’s him, Glint hisses to Crow through their Light. From the Dreaming City, when we were investigating before we met Saint.

Recognition hits with the force of a Hammer of Sol. The Titan had doggedly pursued him across the Dreaming City, seeming more intent on him than on the actual threat of the Wrathborn. He tugs his hood down to try to hide his reaction, wishing that this had happened anywhere else in the Tower. It’s hard to vanish into the shadows when you’re in a brightly lit box a few feet across.

“That would hardly be appropriate for someone of your stature,” Siegfried says. With Spider, Crow would see words like that as an attempt at ingratiation, but somehow they sound sincere.

Siegfried steps up to the control box and presses the same button that Saint had. Crow restrains the urge to roll his eyes – as if doing the same thing is going to magically make it work.

“We could prise door, but it will not help if we are between floors,” Saint muses.

Siegfried presses the intercom button, and the lift is briefly filled with the sound of static and a voi–

Crow blinks, focusing on the sound. No. Nothing there. Just static.

Saint must have noticed his reaction, because the ego gives him a questioning look. “Are you alright, Crow?”

“Yeah,” he replies quickly. “Sorry, thought I heard something.” Like a hiss? A whisper in the static. He’s been listening to so many intercepted transmissions for the Vanguard that he’s starting to hear things where there’s nothing to hear. “Will transmat not work?” he asks.

“No. Network is disabled in most of the Tower for security, and especially on lifts. Too much chance of accidents. People transmat at wrong time and find themselves falling down empty lift shaft.”

“I can see why that would be a problem,” Crow mutters. Given some of the stories he’s heard, Guardians might start making a sport out of it.

Sigfried is looking right at him. The Titan’s lips are drawn into a thin line, gaze piercing. Crow forces himself not to shrink away out of habit. He belongs here, in the Tower, and even if Siegfried does recognise him, he won’t try anything now, not with Saint here.

Will he?

The doubt bubbles up, familiar as the acrid scent of ether. How many other Guardians have killed him on sight? How many promises of help and care have turned to sour betrayal? Will Saint really protect him, or will he just watch and reveal this has all been some cruel plan to trap him here and make him suffer and–

“Do I know you, Hunter?” Siegfried asks.

The words jolt Crow out of his thoughts, his attention turning to the Titan. “Don’t think so,” he says, keeping his gaze downcast, his voice casual. “I’m new here.”

“You sound familiar. Remove your hood.”

“Now is not the time,” Saint says, his voice with a warning edge. “We need to open doors. I do not wish to spend rest of day in tiny lift.”

It is small, isn’t it? Like the cockpit of a ship lost in space, oxygen running low, knowing that all that lies ahead is death after death after death.

“Remove your hood.” An imperative. Siegfried takes a step towards him.

“Leave him alone,” Saint says. “He is with me.”

“If he is a risk, then I am honour-bound as a member of the Praxic Order to investigate,” Siegfried says. There is an edge to his voice, frustration held back behind a failing dam.

“Crow is no risk,” Saint snaps. He moves, stepping to put himself between Crow and Siegfried, shoulders squared.

“After what happened in the Dreaming City, with the spread of Hive corruption, it is prudent to be careful. We would not want to see another monstrosity let loose,” Siegfried says, and the distaste is thick in every word.

“Titan, you are rude.” Saint’s optical lights flash with fury. His voice is a low growl, a threat that does not need the backing of words.

Crow’s breath catches, and he leans towards him, heart speeding up. He remembers Saint’s rage when they had been hunting Wrathborn, the way he had torn them apart like they were nothing. Simple, intoxicating, brutality unleashed to paint the walls of this place with blood…

What? That isn’t right. What is he thinking?

He draws in a long breath. The air feels thick and heavy.

“It’s fine, Saint,” Crow says, the words grinding out between his teeth. “If he wants to see, he can see.” Let his demand choke him.

He shoves his hood down and looks up at the Titan, meeting his gaze with a challenge. Siegfried’s eyes widen, and Crow sees that familiar shock melt into anger.
“You! You were in the Dreaming City. You ran away when we attempted to bring you to justice.”

“I was there doing my job,” Crow spits back. “If you were better at yours, maybe you’d have caught me, but I haven’t done anything that requires ‘justice’.”

Siegfried’s expression twists darkly. Crow’s seen that sort of arrogance before – the kind that cannot stand someone talking back. “You dare come into the Last City and feign ignorance of your crimes? I will bring you in now.”

He takes a step towards Crow, Arc energy crackling across his gauntlets, filling the air with the tang of ozone. Crow readies himself, light on his feet, but before either of them can move further, Saint is there. He drives his shoulder between them, knocking Siegfried back. He draws himself up, and even unarmored, he is an imposing sight.
“Crow is under my protection, Titan.” Every word is a drumbeat, a promise. “You do not touch him.”

Siegfried is not cowed – Crow recognises the stance he falls into, the kind that says that he will not move. Which means he will have to be moved.

Anticipation slides the cool metal of a knife into his hand, solid against his palm. There’s a jolt of eagerness that runs through him at the memory of the chase they’d engaged in, and the promise of a repeat.

Saint’s Light fills the lift carriage with the empty coolness of the Void, the inexorable weight of gravity.

A keg of gunpowder, and all that’s needed is a spark…

The lift jerks upwards with a painful grinding sound. It throws Crow off balance. He catches himself against the wall, and his hand comes into contact with something sticky and liquid.

He pulls back quickly and the scent hits him. It’s a strange scent; starts out sweet like flowers, a flash of clean ozone before it descends into something darker, like fermentation left too long.

“What is that?” he asks, and he covers his nose with his sleeve as he turns to see what he’d touched.

The pristine white of the lift wall is marred by a slow oozing trickle of a green-brown substance. It begins above, dripping between the ceiling panels.

The electric tension in the air dissipates, and the heavy press of Void and Arc subside.

“It smells organic,” Siegfried says.

Saint steps in beside Crow and looks up at the ceiling panels. There’s a stain spreading out from where the drip is coming through, peeling away the paint to reveal the plain metal beneath.

How long had it been spreading there to reach such a point?

“I think we have found use for a Hunter, my friend,” Saint says, and gives him a small smile. “If I lift you, you should be able to reach hatch. Maybe you can find problem, or at least reach next floor to get help.”

“Should be easy enough,” Crow replies, eyeing the stain warily.

Saint stoops to offer Crow his cupped hands to step onto, and lifts him as though he weighs nothing. Crow wobbles briefly, then braces one hand against the ceiling, and uses the other to push the hatch up.
That rotting scent floods over him and he recoils. For a second he swears he tastes blood, then the airflow from the lift shaft reaches him. He glances down at Saint and then hauls himself up. He perches there for a moment, blinking to let his eyes adjust to the relative darkness. They’re definitely between floors, but the next floor up is close enough to easily reach.

What really catches his attention though, is the mass at the other side of the lift roof, about where the stain is. The lift shaft is all straight lines and right-angles, but this is more… organic.

He crouches to get a better look, and calls solar energy to his palm to give him better light. It’s a lumpy red-brown mass of what looks to be plant matter. Fleshy tendrils reach out from it, across the ceiling of the lift carriage, with some looking like they’re trying to find purchase on the wall of the lift shaft. They’re mostly thin, but they bulge at points, and the ends of them have a blue tinge. The ones that aren’t trying to climb sway slowly, even though there’s no breeze that Crow can feel.

He can see some of that foul liquid around the base of the plant, like its decomposing while still growing.

“Have you reached it?” Saint’s voice reaches him from below.

Crow pushes himself back to his feet and takes a step away from the plant. “Not yet, but I think I found where the smell is coming from. Some kind of plant growth.”

“We will call maintenance to look at it. But we will have to get out of here first,” Saint calls back.

Right. The job. Not like he hasn’t seen plants get into odd places before – there had been a few particularly tenacious ones which had thrived on the Shore, burrowing their way through abandoned ships and the husks of buildings.

And there had been the cryptoliths…

He hauls himself up the short distance to the emergency door. Once he’s free, it’s easy to call maintenance, and a crew to get Saint and the other Titan free, and soon, the area is a hive of activity; Saint and Siegfried make their reports, and Crow points out the strange plant-like growths in the lift shaft.

It’s nice to be able to hand things over to other people, people who know what they’re doing, instead of being told to handle it himself, even if he has no idea what to do.

Finally they can leave. Saint pats his shoulder. “That was more excitement than I expected for the afternoon.”

“Wasn’t planning to do any climbing today, that’s for sure,” Crow says. He’ll have to ask Glint to fix his clothing; the grease from the cables and the inside of the lift shaft have left dark stains across the fabric. And he must have got some of that plant gunk on him, because he swears he can still smell it.

“You did good job,” Saint says. “Much quicker than I would have managed to get through small hatch.”

“Thanks,” Crow says, and again, that flush of pleasure. “Hopefully they can find the problem. Maybe that plant has caused damage somewhere.”

“I have seen determined little plants try to grow in hangar, even through concrete. It is probably same here,” Saint agrees. “I did not realise you had encountered Siegfried before,” he adds. “He is not one of people who…”

The way Saint trails off says more than enough.

“No,” Crow replies quickly. “He didn’t kill me or… or anything else. I was investigating the Wrathborn in the Dreaming City before you arrived. He must have been doing the same. I gave him the slip and he was not happy.”

“I can imagine,” Saint says. “He is very… intense. Praxic Order can be single-minded.”

“Praxic Order?” Great, one more organisation to figure out.

“Old order. They work to keep artefacts of Darkness from hands of Guardians. I think with everything that has happened on Europa, they are more twitchy than normal.”

“Explains why he was staring at me,” Crow mutters.

“Hah! Yes. I am sorry. If I had known lift would break, I would not have brought you so close to him.”

“I’d probably have run into the Praxic Order sooner or later,” Crow says with a shrug. “Not like I’m the most popular guy here.”

“If people are causing you problems…”

“They aren’t,” Crow says. Nasty looks, cruel comments, the occasional threat… if that’s the worst he gets, it’s still miles better than things were on the Shore or before that even.

“If you are sure…” Saint sounds doubtful. “But come. There is excellent stall which does grilled skewers that you should try!”

Saint’s endless enthusiasm is impossible to fight against even if he wanted to. And he is hungry. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

There’s a power cell missing.

The Warlock walks around the crate, shifts another out of the way. Not stuck behind the crate and the loading ramp of the ship. He crouches – not gone underneath either. It’s a power cell, how far can it have gone?

He straightens up, grimaces at the thick dust which has clung to his gloves. Ugh, the whole hangar needs cleaning. Where are the sweeper bots when you need ‘em?

“You don’t back there yet?” His Hunter teammate leans against the wall of the jump ship, arms folded. “I want to get moving before the Commander sees me and tries to shove the Vanguard cloak into my hands.”

It’s a joke. The Warlock knows it’s a joke, but he can’t suppress that flicker of annoyance. “Maybe if one of you stepped up, things wouldn’t be such a damned mess ‘round here.”

Where is that power cell?

He turns to open the crate next to it. Maybe it got packed in the wrong place?

Wouldn’t be the first time the Hunter’s shoved something valuable in with all the junk he keeps grabbing.

“Yikes, what bee’s got into your helmet?”

Does he always have to treat everything like it’s a joke?

“Missing power cell,” the Warlock explains. “I’m sure we packed it up with the others.”

The Hunter shrugs. “It’ll turn up. Not like we haven’t got a bunch of other stuff. Dead Orbit’ll pay a decent chunk of glimmer for most of this. Got my eyes on that new Veist sniper rifle.”

“I know. You haven’t talked about anything else since we left Earth,” the Warlock replies, the irritation seeping into his voice. The whole trip, it was comparing perks and mods, as though that’s gonna make a difference against one of those pyramid ships.

Where is this damn power cell?

“Come on, let’s go hand this stuff over and we can go get a drink,” the Hunter whines. “Maybe that’ll loosen the stick up your ass. Fuck, you’re bitchy today.”

“If you’re in such a hurry, maybe you can help look!”

He can feel the Hunter’s eye-roll even through the helmet. Is asking them to do their share of work really such a hardship? They aren’t getting paid more for speedy delivery.

He shifts another of the crates, and frowns at the sound of whispered mutterings. He turns quickly to face the Hunter. “You say something?”

“No.”

The Warlock turns back to the search and… and there it is again. That muttering and now he knows it has to be the Hunter. Probably saying shit about him, thinking he can’t hear.

Or reporting in. Organising a buyer for the power cell.

No, he wouldn’t do that. They’ve worked together for years. Fought together in the Red War.

He is a Hunter though. Things’ve been weird since Cayde-6 died. Plenty of ‘em have gone rogue. Leaving everyone else to pick up the slack. He does seem pretty flush with glimmer these days too, like he’s taking jobs on the side or…

“Where did you stash it?” the Warlock demands, rounding on his partner.

The Hunter holds up his hands. “What?

“The power cell! I know you took it.”

“C’mon man, why would I do that?”

“Not happy with your cut so you steal part of the shipment to sell later and keep the glimmer to yourself.”

That has to be it. It’s probably been stashed somewhere by his Ghost.

“We’re a team! I wouldn’t do that. Look let’s just–”

The Warlock aims his hand cannon. Not so talkative with a gun in his face, is he?

“I do all the work and it still isn’t enough for you, so you have to pad your own pockets at my expense?”

“You’re crazy!” the Hunter snarls, and the Warlock can see his hand shifting, reaching for his gun and–

“Hey. Hey! What’s going on here?”

They both startle at the voice of the Shipwright. For all she’s not a Guardian, she’s pretty damn imposing as she comes storming over, not least because her word can get a ship grounded faster than someone can say ‘damaged fuel line’.

She stops nearby, arms folded over her chest. “You know there’s no guns allowed in here. You want the whole place to go up in flames?”

The Warlock’s finger wavers on the trigger for a moment before he lowers the gun, that sickly rage bleeding out of him all at once. Shit, what was he thinking? He looks over at his partner, who’s watching him with the same wariness he normally uses for Vex confluxes.

“I–”

“Leave it,” the Hunter snaps. “Send me my cut and then we’re– we’re done, okay?” He storms off past the Shipwright, cloak snapping as angrily as his voice.

The Warlock slumps, sourness bleeding through him.

He finds the power cell later where it had slid to the bottom of the crate.

Chapter Text

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Osiris asks quietly.

Saint pauses in setting out the food that he’d brought from the City. He’d known that this would come up eventually, and sooner rather than later. Osiris is no fool, and he’s had more dealings with the Queen of the Reef than anyone else Saint knows. Even back before his exile, Osiris had been in contact with the Reef, though it is only recently that Saint has learned how deep those bonds go. “I do not know what you mean.”

It is too obvious to even be considered a lie. What he means is ‘I do not wish to discuss this, not here, not now.’

“Crow,” Osiris says, blunt because he usually is, especially about important matters, and utterly unable to read Saint’s evasiveness for what it is. “You know that he is-”

“He is Crow,” Saint says sharply. He turns to look at Osiris, who is sits cross-legged on the bed. Osiris’ gaze is intent, a look that Saint knows from experience means he will pick at this matter until he is satisfied. How many Consensus meetings had he seen drag out into acrimony when Osiris had worn a look like this?

He sighs and shakes his head, knowing that there is no point in fighting. Osiris is frustratingly stubborn at times. Saint would not have him any other way.

“I know who he was. I spoke with Ikora before I brought him from Shore. I have had every argument. But he is Crow now, and that is what matters.”

“He is Uldren Son, Saint,” Osiris says. “He caused untold harm to the Awoken, created the Scorn under the influence of Riven. And he killed Cayde-6.”

So much had happened while he was dead, or lost in the Infinite Forest, whichever it is. He had spent time catching up, learning about the horrors that he had missed, the times when he had not been there to defend his people. None of this is new information. But it is impossible to look at those events and see Crow. He cannot imagine him as the haughty Awoken Prince, or the ruthless killer who had murdered Cayde.

He is his friend, Crow. Crow who had fought alongside him. Crow who had been so thoroughly and appallingly abused by Spider and his accomplices.

Crow who had flinched in fear at raised hands and harsh words. Who had offered himself to Saint as… as a toy because he thought it was the only way Saint would wish to help him.

“He helped me to save you, Osiris.” He crosses to the bedside, and then climbs up next to his beloved. He lets his Light reach out, seeking that matching Light in Osiris, who turns towards him, like a flower to the Sun. It is the wrong way around though. Osiris has always been the sun that Saint has turned towards, his fiery phoenix.

“I know the crimes of who he was,” Saint continues. “But I am not Saint-13. You are not whatever human you were before Sagira found you. We both were involved in setting the prohibition against Guardians seeking out information about their first lives.”

“I was a long-dead corpse, Saint.” Osiris’s voice is dry when he says it, as dry as those ancient bones must have been.

“And now you are my phoenix. Which is good because skeleton would have even more sharp angles than you, my love.”

Osiris raises a pale eyebrow at him. “If I am too bony for you, then you are free to get off the bed.”

Saint laughs and wraps an arm around the Warlock, tugging him close against his side. Osiris goes willingly, rests his head against Saint’s shoulder. “You will not get rid of me that easily, my bird.”

He will not give up Osiris without a fight. He had watched Osiris leave when he was exiled, and that is something that he will not forgive himself for. Osiris is where he plants his Ward, and stands his ground. Always.

He tries not to think about the Darkness he still feels in his love, the tendrils of it which return every time Saint uses his Light to burn them away. How long before they grow faster than he can destroy them?

“And you cannot distract me from this conversation so easily,” Osiris says.

“Stubborn man,” Saint says.

“You have known that about me for centuries, Saint. I have to be stubborn to match you.”

“That I cannot deny,” he says. “Guardians are meant to have fresh starts when we are Risen. Clean slates. We both did, so did Ikora, Zavala, Lord Saladin. Why should Crow be denied that same chance?” It seems the height of cruelty to make Crow suffer for the crimes of Uldren Sov, when every other Guardian is free to live without that concern.

“There is a difference between a Guardian whose first life was centuries ago, before the Collapse, even before the Golden Age, and this situation,” Osiris says. “What Uldren Sov did is still a wound that is fresh in the memories of every Guardian.”

“I know,” Saint says. Cayde-6 was a good man, a friend even, before Saint had followed Osiris into the Infinite Forest. If he had been present for the events of Cayde’s death, would he feel differently now? “Crow told me that other Guardians have assaulted him when they see his face. Killed him. He does not know why! He just knows that he is hated and that people wish to hurt him.”

“Let anyone who says the Light is pure goodness remember the Warlords and how easily the people of the City turn on their own.” Osiris’ words are filled with a deep bitterness. No matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise, the scars of his exile run deep.

Saint nuzzles his temple. “Exactly. We both know what it is to make mistakes in this life, and to seek forgiveness. Crow should have same opportunity to make mistakes and be forgiven, without life he does not remember hanging around his neck.”

“You are very fond of him, aren’t you?” Osiris asks. He turns so he can meet Saint’s eyes.

“Is that wrong? He helped me to save you. I would owe anyone who did that a great debt.”

“You do not care about him because you owe him a debt.”

Saint shrugs. “He is a good man, brave and clever. And he has been through terrible things. He deserves better than the treatment he has received.”

Osiris searches his face for a long moment and then nods. “It is good for you,” he says, resting his head against Saint’s shoulder once more, “having someone who looks at you and does not see a figure of legend, or of authority.”

“I have many friends who do that, Osiris. Lord Shaxx, Devrim. You,” he adds, emphasising the word.

“I have never looked upon anyone as a a figure of ultimate authority,” Osiris says. Saint has to laugh at that. “It is good that you have more people that you are close to.”

“Says man who spent lifetimes on Mercury alone except for Sagira and cultists,” Saint teases. Osiris handles solitude better than he does.

“We are not talking about me,” Osiris replies, and oh… oh what is that? That discordant note in his voice, a crack at the end of his words.

Saint narrows his eyes and nudges Osiris’ head up so he can look at him. Osiris is very good at covering his emotions with arrogance, wrapping his legend around himself like a cloak to keep people at a distance, as much armour as his helm and cowl. But Saint is not some neophyte seeking the heretic Warlock, or one of his cultists who sees only a figure of reverence.

Osiris turns away, and tries to slide out of Saint’s grip. Saint does not let go, and after a moment’s token struggle, Osiris slumps in his arms.

“Osiris, what is going on in that head of yours?” His love is cleverest person he has ever met, but it comes matched with a propensity for depression, endless spiralling thoughts that lead Osiris to dark places. Saint would bear them for Osiris if he could, but instead he will be a rock for his phoenix to cling to when the rapids are too treacherous.

“Many things, none of them relevant,” Osiris replies. “I would like to eat now, before what you brought gets cold.”

A dismissal, and phrased in a way that Saint cannot refuse – he pushes Osiris to remember to eat often enough.

They settle at the table, and Osiris eats with more relish than Saint has seen for a long while. In between bites, Osiris talks about the reading and research that he has been doing with all of the formal distance of a scientist, as though what he has been researching is a curiosity rather than a matter that relates directly to him.

Saint can almost imagine that they are in his home, their home, and not in what amounts to a hospital room. Can believe that that they will go to bed together, wake up together.

He can almost forget the fear that he might arrive one morning to find that this treatment has not worked. That Osiris’s Light is too hopelessly corrupted, and he has succumbed. That his radiant, terrifyingly clever and creative bird, will once more be that mindless Hive monstrosity, the blade of Xivu Arath.

“If things go badly. If I do not… recover…” Osiris says suddenly, an uncharacteristic hesitance to his words.

Saint gives him a sharp look. “Do not talk like that, my bird. You are strong and have already fought it off once. You will recover.”

“If I don’t,” Osiris continues doggedly, “then I am glad that you have people around you. I did not and it nearly destroyed me.”

“No,” Saint says, “we are not talking this way.” There is something so deeply wrong hearing Osiris talk like this. His synthetic heart pounds in his chest like a trapped bird trying to escape.

“Saint…”

“No,” he repeats desperately. “I will do this for as long as it takes. And you- you do not give up. You are stubborn and brilliant and you hunt down solutions with more determination than anyone I know. Even if solution is breaking time to save one man.”

He will not give up. He will not allow Osiris to give up.

“Saint, please…”

“I know that you will not give people satisfaction by proving worst of nasty rumours about you correct.” It is a low blow, Saint knows, and he can see the annoyance flash in Osiris’s eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth. But that is better by far than the resigned defeat that had been there a moment before.

Osiris glares at him. Saint responds with a challenging smile. Osiris has never been able to resist proving people he hates wrong.

“I should never have allowed you to know me so well,” Osiris growls.

Saint laughs and takes his hand where it rests on the table. Osiris doesn’t pull away, and after a moment, he curls his fingers against Saint’s. “Yes, I am terrible man who would not let handsome Warlock remain aloof on his lonely pedestal.”

“The very worst,” Osiris replies, and there is that curl of a smile at the corner of his lips, the one that Saint loves so well.

The taut discomfort fades, replaced with something softer and fr sweeter as they finish eating and then retire to the bed. Osiris curls against Saint’s side while he basks in the exo’s Light.

“Is it getting better?” Osiris asks after a while. His eyes are closed and he sounds drowsy. Saint feels a swell of deep fondness for this man.

He pushes back Osiris’s sleeve enough that he can see the Hive runes there, carved into his skin. They have faded again so they look like newly healed scars. They often do during the Light infusion, only to return later, livid and with a malevolent glow.

He can feel that rotting Darkness tangled through Osiris’ Light, his body, like a creeping plant that will strangle anything else that tries to grow. It had shrunk for several days after he had returned Osiris home, withering beneath the treatment, but since then?

“Yes, my love,” he lies, “it is getting better.”

Chapter Text

You walk the hallways, following that whisper through warped and twisted places which had once been a ship. You are lost. You have always been lost. The layout makes no sense. No logic can map it and You are lost.

—-You have questions.-—

Don’t you always?

You turn towards the whisper and–

He stands atop a terrace of onyx swords and emerald flame. The air bleeds with noise, a cacophony of endless screams, horrifying and blissful.

A lone figure stands on the terrace aside two empty thrones.

He cannot move. Cannot breathe. All is still save for the rabbit-quick beating of his heart.

APPROACH, MY WEAPON. BE FORGED ANEW

The impossible weight of her presence falls over him and he is caught. She is all there is.

I AM YOUR PURPOSE ETERNAL

Blood fills the weapon’s mouth, and it tastes like sweet wine.

Chapter Text

“Are you to be my prison guard then?” Osiris asks.

“You are not funny, Osiris.” Saint closes the door behind him, and crosses the room to Osiris’ side. He rests his hands on Osiris’ shoulders and looks down at him. They are not too different in height, but even unarmored, Saint is broader, and without his customary robes and cowl, it makes Osiris feel small.

He remembers striding through the City as though every street belonged to him, trailed by admirers and students. He remembers holding the line at Six Fronts, standing against the countless enemies of the Last City, a blazing phoenix pushing back the darkness.

He remembers being a creature of rage and hatred, of fire and shadow. He had been a god of death, and nothing could stand against him.

Now he is here, needing Saint to accompany him so he can leave his prison cell.

He is diminished, and he despises it.

Saint draws him into an embrace that is so tender that Osiris immediately feels guilty for what he had said. He despises the feeling of guilt too – what does he have to feel guilty about?

“It is not a prison,” Saint says gently, his words a familiar rumble that Osiris feels in his chest. “I am not your guard. I wish to take walk in fresh air with my beloved, who is healing from great injury.”

Healing. Hah! He is not healing. He is held in a delicate equilibrium at best, a beam of light that is a knife edge, and on both sides, should he falter, only Darkness. Why is everyone lying to him?

He waits for the flare of rebuke through his Light from Sagira. She will call him self-obsessed, call him pretentious. Call him the biggest pain in the ass she’s ever known, and he will feel loved.

It does not come.

He cannot breathe. His chest is tight, throat thick with grief and pain. It feels like climbing a staircase, but there are missing stairs and the gaps are camouflaged until his step goes through. And he is alone.

Saint pulls away to look at him, and he realises that he had not responded.

“You know that I have never taken well to confinement, even for my own benefit.” He forces the words out, thick with bitterness. He smiles, because it seems appropriate, and because he doesn’t want Saint to think that he is unsafe to take outside.

This room is driving him mad. He is given every comfort, the freedom of an unlocked door that he cannot use without giving them reason to lock it. The warlocks who visit to check on him, to bring food, are watching him, spying on him.

A noose awaiting a misstep.

Saint curls a hand against the back of his neck, and cups his cheek with his other hand. “I know,” he says. “But we will walk together, look upon the City. Feed the birds. Like we used to.”

That was a long long time ago. Before his exile. Before Mercury and the Infinite Forest. Before Saint had died.

Before Osiris had been made into a monster and tried to kill him once more.

“Whatever you like. I just need to see something other than these walls for a while.”

“I understand that,” Saint agrees. “Neither of us were meant to be confined to one place. I do not know how Zavala stands it, stuck in his office for so many hours.”

“Something you managed to neatly avoid by passing the position of Vanguard Commander to me, I recall,” Osiris replies dryly.

Saint laughs, and the sound eases something inside him. “Alright, Warlock, you are sometimes funny.”

“Truly my greatest aspiration.”

Saint takes his hand and raises it to gently kiss his fingers. “You are very accomplished, my love. You must leave some successes for the rest of us.”

“Are we going for a walk or not, Saint?” Osiris asks, his affection for Saint overwhelming those darker emotions for the time being.

“Yes, yes. We will go.” Saint’s fingers curl around his and he tugs Osiris towards the door.

“Like this?” Osiris asks, glancing down at their hands. It is not that he is uncomfortable with their relationship being known, but with his exile and Saint’s reputation… he is permitted in the Last City only on sufferance while he recovers. Surely Saint would prefer discretion?

“If it makes you uncomfortable, then we will not. But I would like to hold you, if you are amenable. Perhaps I wish to show off my good fortune in finding you.”

“I… Well let us get going,” Osiris says hurriedly. He pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose, and perhaps to hide the flush creeping across his face. They have been together for centuries, and yet somehow Saint still manages to fluster him.

He squeezes Saint’s fingers, and Saint smiles like it is the best gift he has ever been given. Osiris thinks he just has low standards – there are far better people that Saint could choose to be with – but he does not want to do anything to jeopardise that smile.

They head through the maze of hallways —-We offer guidance.-— that make up the Tower, until they emerge into one of the gardens that sits atop this section of wall. There are guard posts, of course, Titans keeping watch on the approaches to the City, but the area is otherwise a lush retreat from the Tower’s duty.

He remembers when these walls had been fences encircling a city of tents and buildings made from whatever scrap could be scavenged. Now, even with the scars of the Red War, the Last City is grander than he had once dreamed possible.

The sun is warm up here, the air freshened by a breeze coming down from the mountains. It is a stark contrast to the endless heat of Mercury. Even the elaborate simulations of the Infinite Forest had sometimes lacked a certain verisimilitude. What did the Vex care about the scent of wisteria or the hint of snow on the wind?

Saint leads him to a secluded area, sheltered from the wind by hedges. It is hardly the garden of reflection that lays directly beneath the Traveller, but it is a peaceful respite from the bustle of the Tower and the watchful isolation of his… accommodations. He settles himself cross-legged on the bench next to Saint. It is only now that Saint lets go of his hand, to pull out a bag of birdseed. Of course, the pigeons begin to flock as soon as he does so, and he throws a handful of seed to the grateful pigeons who already seem entirely too plump.

“You’re spoiling them, Saint,” Osiris says, as a particularly fluffy pigeon gives him a wary look. He’s certain that his presence is the only reason why there aren’t yet any sitting on Saint’s shoulders.

“They are good birds. They deserve to be spoiled,” Saint says fondly. “Tenacious too, survivors. And they love us, even if people are not always so kind to them.”

Saint’s kindness is one of the things that had drawn Osiris to him. So many, himself included, have let this life make them hard, callous. Saint never has. And he has always had a soft spot for birds.

“How is Crow?” Osiris asks. He has considered contacting Mara – Uldren was her brother! – but Crow… well, Saint is not wrong that he deserves the fresh start offered to any Guardian. The choice has been made for him by Mara’s absence in any case. Plans are in motion.

“He is doing well, I think,” Saint says, and there is obvious pride in his voice. “Very clever. He helps Ikora investigate new leader gathering remnants of Red Legion to herself..”

“Caiatl,” Osiris says thoughtfully. “Yes, I intercepted some transmissions regarding her on the Tangled Shore. One of those is what led me to the first of the Cryptoliths.”

A bulwark of flesh, pressure suits swelling and blistering with soulfire. Hive barnacles spreading roots across their bodies, through their bodies, their eyes bulging and filled with purest rage.

I AM THE WAR YOU CRAVE.

He drags in a sharp breath, the scent of scorched flesh dispelling, and he is back here on the roof of the wall, the birds picking at seeds at his feet.

“Osiris?” Saint’s voice is all concern. His hand rests at the small of Osiris’ back, a comforting weight.

Osiris shakes his head. “A memory. That is all.”

“If you are sure,” Saint replies, but Osiris can hear the doubt in the words.

“And how is this investigation proceeding?” he asks, determined to move past his slip as quickly as possible. “I am given precious little information beyond that which is on the public network.”

“When you stop being Vanguard, then you must accept that you do not get information until Vanguard wants to give it to you,” Saint says.

Osiris gives him a sour look. He knows that he had closed that door himself a long time ago, and he would not change that decision, but it still frustrates him to be denied knowledge.

“I could be of use,” he says instead.

“Forgive me, my love, but you are not known for your diplomacy.”

“I did not realise that we were in the process of ‘diplomacy’,” he snaps back. How far have things moved if that is the case?

“There are hopes,” Saint admits. “I do not know how realistic they are.”

“But you believe that my input would jeopardise whatever small chance there is.”

“Osiris–”

“Did you drag me out here simply to ensure I am aware of my weaknesses?” Osiris asks. Saint is right, he knows he is, but it still rankles.

“I must balance it out, so that you do not get fat head when I remind you of your many virtues.” Saint gives him a look that can only be described as flirtatious, and despite everything, fondness swells in his chest, soothing some of that bile.

“Some would argue that I have no virtues. Perhaps you should tell me about them.” Most would say that his ego does not need inflating any more than it already is, but at the current time… a little flattery would not be unappreciated.

Saint sets the bag of seed aside, and the fluffy pigeon takes the opportunity to hop up and begin eating from it. Saint makes no motion to shoo it away, his gaze firmly fixed on Osiris as he touches his cheek. Osiris turns into it to press a kiss against Saint’s palm through his scarf.

“Very intelligent.”

“True. Go on.”

Saint gives a soft laugh. “Bright like the sun.”

“A little cliche, but I will allow it.”

“Terrible man,” Saint replies. “Very brave man, but still terrible.”

Osiris shakes his head, amusement curling his lips. “And you are ridiculous.”

“Well, if the great Warlock Osiris says so, it must be true,” Saint teases. He leans in to press a kiss to Osiris’s forehead “I can tell you some things about events. General knowledge, not battle plans.”

It is not as much as he would like, but better than nothing. “I would appreciate that. I need something new to focus on for a while. I feel idle. Useless.”

“You are never idle, my love,” Saint says. “Always your mind is working. Do you get any rest, even when you do sleep?”

—-We offer purpose.-—

twisted branches air thick with spores point in the depths shadowed infected lost lost lost reach for any path it is watching and

—-We offer a path. All you need do is take it.-—

“Osiris?” Saint’s voice is sharp with concern, and his fingers brush Osiris’ cheek once more.

Osiris blinks, forces his scattered focus back to this moment. “What?”

“You looked very distant for a moment, my bird. You didn’t answer me.”

He frowns, grasping for those images, but they are ephemeral as a beam of light.“Apologies. I was distracted.”

“Another memory?” Saint asks, his optics narrowing as he searches Osiris’ face.

“Of a kind,” he replies. He forces a smile and reaches up to touch Saint’s hand. “It is nothing to be concerned about.” Are memories not to be expected after such an experience? “What can you tell me about the events transpiring?”

Saint looks at him for another long moment, then nods, and turns his attention back to the pigeons. The fluffy one flutters away, somewhat slower than it had been before. “Empress is not seeking to expand empire,” he begins, “or not only seeking that. They are a people fleeing a great terror.”

“Fleeing?” Osiris furrows his brow. “It is not their way to run. Their honour does not allow it.” They return victorious or not at all.

“Normally, you are right,” Saint says. “But when there is no other choice but to flee…”

“What happened?” He had assumed an attempt to rebuild forces following Ghaul’s death, but what could have caused them to flee?

Saint scuffs his foot – obviously this is something he does not wish to tell him.

“I am not some child you need to shield from the world, Saint.”

There is guilt in Saint’s expression. “I do not mean to shield,” he says. “They– their homeward was taken by the Hive.”

Osiris stares at him, silent, the enormity of that revelation setting in. He has read of countless worlds lost to the Hive, seen the stinking pits they have dug on Luna. To lose a world in such a way…

“They seek revenge.”

Saint inclines his head in agreement. “Alliance was offered, but terms were… unacceptable. They wish to strike at Hive but need more strength. They know we have fought against Hive, that Oryx was slain by Guardians.”

Osiris turns that idea over in his mind. An equitable alliance could be advantageous – even if just to reduce the number of enemies that the City faces. First-hand information about a planetary scale assault by the Hive could be revelatory. While much can be gleaned from the Books of Sorrow, they are far from reliable sources.

“It must have fallen quickly.” A longer campaign would have brought news to Sol more quickly.

“Days,” Saint says quietly. “It took only days.”

“Days… how is that possible?” The Empire is a military power and have never seemed to lack for soldiers and ships.

He remembers the footage from the Battle of Saturn, the Dreadnaught weapon laying waste to the Awoken fleet. But even then, they had prevented Oryx from advancing on Earth himself.

“Saint?” His lover is not looking at him. He is feeding the pigeons with the single-minded determination that he usually reserves for war. “Saint, tell me what happened.”

Saint’s big hands clench, and dread pools in Osiris’ belly. “It does not matter. It does not change anything, Osiris. Remember that. Their home is not ours, they have caused so much damage to the Last City.”

Saint’s response is answer enough. It can meaning nothing else.

“Xivu Arath.”

The voice that haunts his nightmares. The one that had turned him into her blade.

Saint’s shoulders slump. “We heard her forces overwhelmed Torobatl.”

Nausea fills him. He has not been to Torobatl (he thinks, he hopes) but it is too easy to picture himself there, on that alien world, carving a path through its people and offering them as tithe to his god.

It would feel good. It would be bliss.

YOU ARE MY BLADE, A GOD OF DEATH.

He curls his fingers against his palms, digging his nails into his skin. He savours that small pain as one that he has inflicted of his own volition.

“It is not your fault,” Saint says, leaning close in his earnestness. “You were not there. You did not do those things.”

“I know,” he snaps, temper flaring bright and hot. He can hear it, the drumbeat, the call to slaughter. He can hear her voice.

I AM THE WAR YOU CRAVE. EMBRACE ME, LIGHTBEARER. BE HONED AS MY BLADE.

The weapon lashes out with blade of fire and shadow, cuts through metal and polymer and hears Saint scream in shock and horror and betrayal. The weapon digs fingers into the wound, tears at wires and circuits like flesh. Alkahest flows freely, over its hands, and hisses as it hits the ground.

The weapon watches violet light die in the machine’s eyes.

No, no, no, he isn’t that! He is Osiris, he is a Guardian. He is not a weapon. He would not hurt Saint like that.

Except… he remembers wanting to. In the Dreaming City. He remembers the hot bright purpose that had filled him, and he had wanted nothing but to fulfil it.

He rubs at his wrist, fingers brushing against one of the runes. It aches, seems to pulse with his heartbeat, and he can feel the rotten heat of it. He wishes to take a knife and carve it out of his flesh, but such marks are never so easy to be rid of. It is more than physical, its roots running into his soul.

Even if he tried, he fears that she would be able to stop him. He does not wish to find out that he is correct.

“It is hurting?” Saint asks. He reaches for Osiris’s hand, and Osiris flinches away. Saint should not touch him like this. Can’t he see the danger that he has brought here?

There is a moment of hurt on Saint’s face, but then he reaches out again, more slowly this time. His gaze remains locked with Osiris’. Saint grasps his hand loosely and Osiris allows him to tug it away from his wrist.

“Is it hurting?” Saint repeats.

“No. It does not hurt,” Osiris lies. He remembers them searing his flesh those few times he attempted to break free of her control. He remembers the pain whenever his thoughts strayed from the purpose instilled into the weapon, until all possibility of straying had been honed from it. This pain is nothing compared to that agony.

“They will heal,” Saint says. He sounds as though he is trying to convince himself as much as Osiris.

It has been weeks. How long will it take for people to accept that they are not healing? Saint, Sagira, Ikora, they all promise that this treatment is working, but every time they infuse him with their Light, cleanse it, the Darkness comes back, more insidious than before.

—-Let us make the Darkness a gift, Master of Echoes.-—

“Pardon?”

“I- I did not say anything,” Saint says, frowning at him. “Did you hear something?”

Osiris pauses to listen, but no, there is nothing but the breeze and the pigeons. “Sound carries here because of the wind. It was probably some Hunter attempting to fulfil a dare.”

He does not think that Saint entirely believes him. Osiris cannot blame him.

“Well, my birds are fed. Except one. Shall we find food?” Saint stands up, and offers Osiris his hand. The pigeons begin to retreat at a speed that clearly indicates annoyance at the end of their feast, rather than fear.

Osiris gives him a fond look and allows Saint to pull him to his feet. With anyone else, it would feel like an insult, but Saint… Saint is an exception to every rule. He always has been.

“I feel as though you are trying to fatten me up,” Osiris says, amusement creeping into his voice.

“You do have many, many missed meals to make up for,” Saint replies.

The Last City has many communal kitchens where a meal can usually be found, and the Tower is no exception, but they head instead to the bazaar and its plethora of stalls. Though it is not exceptionally busy, Osiris still pulls his hood up, and tugs his scarf more securely around his mouth and nose – he does not wish to deal with whatever commotion might occur should he be recognised.

The vendors chatter with Saint over the food they are cooking like they are old friends, while Osiris hangs back. Even after years away, Saint has made the City his own, and seems to know everyone living here. He will not lack for support when–

Saint would tell him to stop thinking that way. He has always been more optimistic than Osiris, with his tendency to obsess over a matter until every victory becomes an averted disaster, something to be dissected until he knows all of its intricacies.

Saint returns, and hands over Osiris’ food with a beaming smile. They find a quiet table shaded by a brightly coloured awning. For a moment it is centuries ago, before exile and death and the corruption that creeps through his skin. Saint had often come to collect him from wherever he was working because ‘we cannot have Warlock collapse from hunger’.

It had taken far too long for him to realise that Saint was courting him, not simply displaying concern for a coworker whose effectiveness might be compromised.

“How do things go with Trials?” Osiris asks, an attempt at a more palatable topic of discussion. The Trials are named for him after all. Now that he is here, he should perhaps follow them more closely.

“They go well,” Saint says, but when he doesn’t continue, Osiris knows that is far from the truth of it.

“Saint? Did something happen?”

“No," Saint responds quickly. Too quickly. And then– "Well, yes… A small something. Under control, but…" Osiris frowns and reaches out to rest his hand against Saint’s leg. Saint gives him a brief, grateful look. “There is a kind of war brewing in the Trials too. Guardians going too far. And they-”

He trails off and Osiris’ concern grows. “What else, Saint?”

“They wield the Darkness,” Saint says with great reluctance.

—-Embrace it and fulfil your potential.-—

His fingers dig into Saint’s thigh for a moment. “Was it this new power from Europa?” Osiris asks. “Stasis.”

“Some of it,” Saint says. “There is an amount of brutality I expect in Trials. Guardians who wish to reach Lighthouse must be willing to strike hard. But what I have seen- this is cruelty. People desiring to kill for sake of causing pain, not because of training or to demonstrate skill. Or even to acquire loot.”

“You should have told me,” Osiris says.

“You are recovering, Osiris,” Saint says. “I did not wish to worry you.”

“It worries me more that you have to deal with them,” he says. “You run them in my stead and take on this burden. Perhaps I can review footage and provide some insight.”

“Another side project, my love?”

“Is it not better that I have something to occupy myself with? We know what happens when I am left feeling confined and bored.” He offers a small smile which Saint returns.

“Yes, I see your point. I do not think Zavala would appreciate having to deal with fallout. The Consensus is no more fond of you than there were.”

“Being exiled twice would be an impressive achievement,” is Osiris’ wry response, “but one I find I have little taste for.” He will not ask for his exile to be rescinded – he is far too proud for that – but he does not wish to give the Vanguard any reason to enforce it more stringently. Not when it would mean losing the ability to visit Saint.

“Good,” Saint says firmly. “I want you in my home. To make it our home again, one day.”

His chest tightens at the words, the pure sincerity in them. So much love that has too often gone unspoken. So many times when they had set aside their affection for the sake of duty, believing that there would be more time,

He remembers the future that he had seen as his Light shattered on the altar, his dream of warm serenity. A life which could have been enough. He had always sought independence, eschewing connections which would tie him down. But now that he knows that future is impossible… it is all that he wants.

Foolish, arrogant man.

“One day,” he lies. It settles on his tongue like ash.

They finish eating, and wander the bazaar for a while, until Saint reluctantly says that they should return to Osiris’… quarters. His prison. Time for another infusion of Light. Another futile attempt to drive out the corruption wrapped around the core of him.

He wants to refuse. He wants to beg Saint to take him home so that they can enjoy what few days or weeks he has before this Darkness devours him. He knows that it will become an argument if he does though, and he does not wish to mar the dar with it.

The meandering route back takes them through the less public areas of the Tower; service corridors, storage areas, places where construction from the aftermath of the Red War is still ongoing, even now. There is an air of impermanence to it, as though people are expecting to have to abandon this Tower too.

Saint fills the space with talk about Trials, about how Crow is doing, about friends and their activities – little details about a life in the Last City that Osiris is not party to. It is a mirror onto a world that he is held apart from, first by exile and now by this poison. It is good to hear that it continues despite everything that has happened to him.

The whispers begin as they descend a set of stairs, a constant susurration of background noise which plays at the edges of his mind, drawing his attention away from what Saint is saying.

Are there people working in this area? He has not seen anyone.

He forces himself to focus on Saint – his voice, the feeling of his large form, his hand – instead of the whispers and the words he can almost hear in them.

The scent of ozone and something floral and sickly reaches him, and he recoils. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” Saint asks.

“Ozone, and something like flowers which have sat in the sun for too long.” Like the moment before they tip over the edge into decay.

Saint frowns at the description. “That is– hm…”

“It is nothing, I’m sure,” Osiris says, irritation creeping into his voice. He feels foolish for bringing it up. “There is probably waste disposal nearby. Or hydroponics.” Or supplies forgotten in some tucked away storeroom.

“Perhaps…” Saint says, though he sounds doubtful. He walks a few paces ahead and then turns back to Osiris. “I smell it. It is… unsettling. And familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“Yes. After you met Crow, when we were returning home, the elevator we were in stalled. There was odd scent there, and some rotting mould that had jammed the workings. It smells like that.”

“A mould or fungal infestation might cause such a thing, I suppose.” Though to stall a lift it must have been growing for a long time which is concerning.

The smell increases in intensity as they reach the next intersection, the cloying sweetness clinging to the roof of Osiris’ mouth. And the whispers…

He drags his attention back to Saint who has walked a few paces ahead. His footsteps have left imprints on the ground. Dust? But there are none behind them. An odd spot for the Frames to miss.

“Osiris!” Saint calls. He points up at one of the ventilation grates. “There is something up there. You see?”

Osiris goes to look and yes… yes he thinks he sees it. Some kind of vine or stalk growing out of the vent. The cover has bent in one corner, as though something had tried to prise it away.

“It could be. Plants can be tenacious and this area is used infrequently enough that it may have escaped notice before now.” There are areas of the Wall which are more ivy than concrete these days, and birds and bats make their roosts in sheltered spots.

“I will look.” The ceiling is too high even for Saint to reach, but he drags a crate over and climbs up. One hard tug and the vent cover comes away in his hands, followed by a flurry of dust and plant material which Saint has to jump away to avoid it falling on him.

The scent intensifies.

The whispers intensify.

“Ugh, well, that should not be there,” Saint says, sounding displeased. He sets the vent cover down and dusts himself off as best he can. “I will contact maintenance. They should know this spot needs attention.”

Osiris hums in agreement, and crouches to examine the stalks which Saint had brought down. Thick grey-brown stems, with an odd bluish sheen at the tips. They’re fleshy, gnarled almost like branches rather than vines. He reaches out to touch one of the fronds a–

osiris dark stone movement beyond vision a figure beyond comprehension waiting watching witnessing osiris your purpose royal regalia waiting answers in the darkness yours waiting osiris

—-We offer knowledge. It is yours to take.-—

He stumbles back to his feet, heart pounding. That voice… for a second the whispers had resolved into something intelligible but when he tries to focus on it, it slips away from him.

“Are you alright Osiris?” Saint asks, giving him a look of concern.

“I- yes. Yes I’m fine,” Osiris says. “The scent is getting to me, I think.” The scent coupled with the intensity of the day, of being around more than one or two people for the first time in weeks. He is hardly at his best.

“It is unpleasant,” Saint agrees. He rests his hand against the small of Osiris’ back. “Let us go before it gets any worse.”

There is dust on Saint’s shoulder, a rime of it coating his clothing. “We will both need showers to be rid of it entirely, I think.”

“That can be arranged,” Saint says, and there is a heated note to his voice. It makes a shiver run down Osiris’ neck, and this is far more pleasant to focus on than whispers and that cloying scent.

His dreams have been strange lately, and he sleeps poorly at the best of times. Is it any wonder that things creep into his waking mind?

“I hope so,” he replies, a matching heat in his words. He wants this. Time with Saint, something normal and good and pleasurable between them, even just for a short while.

Saint holds out his hand and Osiris takes it, lets his beloved pull him close. “Then we shall, my bird.”

----------

“Well, you’re looking happier at least,” Sagira says. “Should have got you and Saint to fuck days ago if this is the result.”

Osiris raises an eyebrow at her as he pulls the bedcovers back. “I am glad that it met your approval, little voyeur.”

She recoils, the spikes of her shell going wide with exaggerated offence. “Ew, no. But the two of you aren’t quiet, or subtle.”

“Neither of us is known for our subtlety.” He climbs into bed, and swears he can still feel the shape of Saint’s body in the mattress. His touch had centred Osiris as nothing else has managed recently. “Perhaps I should have thought of doing this earlier too,” he concedes.

“It’s good,” Sagira says. “Something normal for you both.”

Nothing about this is normal, but for once, he bites down on that thought instead of voicing it, unwilling to sully the current moment of peace and comfort.

“And you really needed a shower,” Sagira adds. “What was that stuff on your clothes? I transmatted them away before they got it all over the place. It look like a sweeper bot exploded on you.”

Osiris opens his mouth to reply, to tell her about the plants and the smell. To tell her about the whispers he’d heard, that voice in the back of his mind. She knows him better than anyone. She knows things about him that he’s never even told Saint. Out of everyone he knows, she understands him best, even when it aggravates them both.

—-She cannot understand.-—

She shies away from him, stays out of his reach, but has no qualms about being close to Saint or Crow. His Ghost, his Light, and she does not trust him, not anymore. Maybe never again. A ragged wound in his soul that he does not know how to mend.

“Dust,” Osiris says instead, that peace ebbing away, leaving him cold and unsettled. “Just dust”

Chapter Text

Another EDZ patrol. Honestly, it’s getting tedious.

The Hunter sights down the barrel of his scout rifle from where he’s perched in the burnt out shell of a building, looking out over what might once have been a shopping district. It’s hard to tell. What remains of the signs, peeling and rusted and worn away by the elements, is impossible to read. They’ve been cleared out of anything remotely useful for centuries now anyway, picked clean by scavengers and Warlords and Fallen.

That’s what they’re going to find of the Last City one day. Ruined shells of apartment buildings. The husks of the walls. Signs eroded to the point of being meaningless.

Hell, plenty of the City had ended up like that during the Red War. They’ve rebuilt some, but it’ll never be what it was. They all remember the homes destroyed, the fields torn up. They remember the Tower falling. The execution grounds. The graves.

It never ends.

He spots a Dreg moving through the undergrowth that has claimed the rusted corpse of a vehicle. He fires. The Dreg falls. It’s over for them. They won’t be fighting anymore.

Lucky bastard.

People had lived here once. They’d eaten food, and played games, and lived and loved and died. If they were lucky, they’d died before the Darkness came.

If they were lucky, they’d stayed dead.

His Ghost chimes a warning about more Fallen approaching. He feels a sudden burst of rage towards her, resentment twisting into hatred. She’d done this to him. Brought him back to fight this war. To die over and over again, to see friends and comrades killed. To know that in the end, someone will scrape through the ruins of the Last City looking for scraps. It’s all pointless.

Another shot. Another body. It never ends. Trapped in this death knell.

He’ll show them though. He’ll make them understand.

Another shot. Another body.

He doesn’t want survival.
Another shot. Another body.

He wants Salvation.

Chapter Text

The heavy feathered cowl and helm, the gauntlets which glow with a pale light, make Osiris look far more imposing than the first time that Crow had met him. His arms are crossed over his chest, scarf covering part of his face, but even with that, the narrowing of his eyes suggests that he is less than pleased by the situation.

“Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Osiris asks.

Osiris stands just inside Ikora’s study, the venue for this meeting. It is a place of organised chaos – books and papers and data pads everywhere, interspersed with trinkets that might be research artefacts or might just be decoration. Crow hasn’t figured out how to tell yet, so he tends to assume that everything is potentially dangerous. Still, he finds the clutter oddly comforting.

Zavala settles in one of the chairs that have been set out, and Crow takes another, settling stiffly on it. He tries to sit as formally as possible – is that even a thing that is possible? – because as pleasant as the surroundings are, this is still Vanguard business, and he wants to make a good impression. Give them a reason to keep him around.

“I’m certain,” Ikora says. “We feel that your input could be valuable, considering your past experiences, both with the Cabal and with Xivu Arath. It could be useful now that we know what happened to Torobatl.”

“Since when has the Vanguard wanted my advice?” Osiris says sourly. “Did Saint put you up to this? Ask for something to keep me occupied? Distracted?”

The way he says it is very different to how Osiris had spoken when Saint was around. It rubs Crow the wrong way when he’s heard exactly how effusive Saint can get when talking about Osiris.

“You seemed intent that you wanted to help, last time we spoke,” Zavala says coolly. “When has not wanting your advice ever stopped you from trying to give it?”

Crow has to bite his lip to keep from smirking – it isn’t funny, not really – but the mutinous look that crosses Osiris’ face makes that difficult.

Finally, after longer than it should have taken, Osiris looks away and acquiesces. “Apologies,” he says, as though he’s grinding out every word. “Current circumstances are… wearing on me.”

“Understandable.” Zavala’s response is a touch gentle, Crow thinks, though it’s hard to tell. His contact with the Commander has been formal – giving reports, taking orders. He’s not gonna complain – even unreadable formality is better than anything with Spider.

“And Crow’s presence?” For a second, their eyes meet, and Crow feels pinned by Osiris’ gaze, sharp and searching. Crow can’t help but remember the Dreaming City, the terrifying way that the corrupted Warlock had looked at him and Saint – like it was planning how to dissect them.

“What is happening now affects us all,” Zavala says. Osiris’ attention turns to the Vanguard Commander, and Crow lets out a slow breath. “Crow has proven himself invaluable during reconnaissance. And he has familiarity with the Red Legion presence on the Shore, as well as the spread of Xivu Arath’s influence.”

Osiris is silent for a long moment, but then he nods and goes to sit. “The Empire is divided, probably more than we ever realised. Probably more than we truly know now. When I was investigating matters on the Shore, Sagira and I intercepted transmissions. Their Empress called to the remnants of the Red Legion. Rumours of Legions out near Neptune. We did not have chance to investigate those before–”

He breaks off. Crow sees his fingers slide beneath the hem of his sleeve, rubbing at something. Crow can make a guess what it is – he’d seen the awful runes blazing with sickly light, exposed through torn and ragged robes. The reminder makes his mouth go dry with apprehension, and Glint pulses concern to him.

“Osiris,” Ikora prompts, and the Warlock looks up at her as though startled.

“Several of her emissaries were unfortunate enough to be caught up in what happened on the Shore,” Osiris continues, a dogged determination in how he speaks. “I cannot say if she sent more, or what the response has been. Some will doubtless relish returning to the Empire, while others have likely developed a taste for power on their own terms.”

“There are certainly enough still flying the flag of the Red Legion in the EDZ,” Ikora says. “We’ve seen a lot less movement there than expected, though whether that Is good or bad isn’t clear.”

“There is also the matter of Calus,” Osiris adds. “Another complication.”

Crow leans forward in his seat, eyes narrowed in thought. “I heard that name a few times while monitoring transmissions. Official broadcasts condemning him, but others… rumours that he was welcoming deserters to his side. Promises to return them to their former glory.”

“Do you believe that many of them took him up on his welcome?” Zavala asks. “Or how many intend to join Caiatl?”

“Not in detail,” Crow says. “But Spider smelled a business opportunity offering to help soldiers leave the Reef discretely… for a price of course. I was at enough supply exchanges to know there was a brisk trade in all kinds of things. Even got hired out to help a group find scorn nests.” Though why they’d want to do that, he has no idea.

“Calls’ generosity, or promises of generosity made him popular with many of the Empire’s people… those who were considered citizens at least. I don’t doubt there are many who would prefer to return to the days of leisure and luxury that he embodied. Fuelled by the less fortunate subjects of the Empire, of course.”

“Yes. We’ve seen him display this ‘generosity’ towards Guardians in the past,” Zavala says, his expression darkening.

“Offer the right loot, and Guardian come flocking,” Crow murmurs. One of the things that Spider had said often, and Crow had seen the truth of it more than once. Perhaps Spider had just attracted the ones with more flexible morals.

“Unfortunately,” Ikora agrees. “On the upside, it does mean we have a lot of data about his methods.”

“The transmissions that we picked up said that Caiatl was offering a reward for bringing her Calus’ head. Sagira will send you what we intercepted. She would have already but–” Another of those catches in his breath. No-one needs to ask what he means.

The conversation continues, dipping into matters of the movements of the Red Legion and the Empire, Crow contributing his own knowledge of the business of the Reef. He can’t help but keep glancing over at Osiris when the Warlock talks – he proves to be an adept strategist, able to offer a different perspective and new insight on the intel they’ve gathered about Caiatl’s Ascendency. He is expansive in his gestures, always moving, and in contrast to their first meeting which had felt like an interrogation, here, when he’s engrossed, much of his abrasiveness seems to fade. At times he even seems to be enjoying himself.

“I think it would be wise to pay attention to Nessus,” Osiris says eventually. “While the Leviathan is gone, there are enough Red Legion and Calus loyalist remnants there to make it of interest to Caiatl. In fact, she may consider it a priority to claim territory there as a way of showing her supremacy over Calus. And the Vex network there is extensive. We know that factions of psions have had interest in that. I would offer to investigate myself, but I believe I already know what the answer would be,” he adds, a dark note of frustration in his voice.

“We have people we can send to investigate,” Zavala says, neatly avoiding a direct response to Osiris’ displeasure. “Any assistance that you can render in ensuring that we are looking in the right locations would be gratefully received.”

Osiris nods absently, his brow furrowed in thought. “I can provide maps and data. Mercury’s disappearance may have rendered it a little out of date, but it should suffice. Are we done here?”

The question comes sharply, and Crow sees Ikora draw herself up, as though she’s ready for a fight. “Just one more thing.”

Osiris gives a short nod. “If you must.”

“While you were under the influence of Xivu Arath, did you manage to discover anything about what happened to Torobatl, or what her plans may be?”

Any trace of ease immediately vanishes from Osiris’ body, and even with the scarf, it isn’t difficult to see the pained look, the way it tightens around his eyes. He doesn’t reply, maybe can’t, as though the memory has frozen him.

“The cryptoliths on the Shore withered after we killed the High Celebrant,” Crow jumps in. He’s already told the Vanguard this, but it gives Osiris a moment to compose himself. Better than lingering in awkward silence. “It took a few days, but they’re gone. I even dug up a couple of the spots they were in to see if the roots were still there, but there was nothing. No organic material left and even the inorganic parts seemed to have withered to nothing.”

Spider hadn’t been happy that he came back empty handed, but Crow can’t help but be a little relieved that there was nothing left to recover. The idea of Spider having access to some of that tech is unpleasant to say the least.

“We’ve had reports that the same happened on the Moon and in the Dreaming City,” Ikora confirms. “Osiris?” she prompts.

Osiris looks up at her sharply, as though he had forgotten he was involved in the conversation.

“Ah– I don’t know,” he says after a moment.

Ikora frowns. “Nothing?”

“I can guess, but there is nothing that I can say with certainty.”

“Even after being so connected to Xivu Arath? Taking orders from her?” Zavala asks.

Osiris fixes Zavala with an intent look. “Do you regularly explain your intentions to your sidearm, Commander?”

“Pardon?”

Osiris looks away, stares down at his hands. “I was not a trusted General or ally to Xivu Arath. I was her weapon. Barely more sentient than a blade.” His voice is harsh, ragged, every word seeming as though it causes him pain. “If orders were given, they came as instinct, impulse, her will moving me. There was no conscious understanding of them.” He draws in a deep breath before he continues. “My ability to think was limited to the extreme short term – how to attack in that moment, the desire to tithe to her. Attempts to think beyond that were rewarded with pain.” He shakes his head, obviously frustrated. “Suffice to say, my memories are of little use when it comes to divining her plans and intentions.”

The horror of it is ice water down Crow’s neck. Her voice had been in his head, the relentless force of her words, crushing his mind beneath them. And that had been for seconds – Osiris had suffered that for weeks. Crow is amazing that he’s even alive, let alone functional.

“Thank you for trying,” Ikora says, more gently than Crow has ever heard her.

“I suspect that the death of the High Celebrant has stymied her ambitions for a time, though it would be unwise to ignore her for too long,” Osiris says.

“Any time is better than none,” Zavala says. “I’ll have teams briefed to keep an eye out for potential incursions. Osiris–”

“I’m done,” Osiris says flatly. “I- I want to go back to my… quarters.”

“Of course,” Ikora says. “I’ll call Sagira to transmat you.”

Osiris shakes his head. “No. Don’t bother her. I would like to walk. Crow can accompany me, if he is free,” Osiris adds, fixing Crow with an intent look. “I am sure that everyone will feel more comfortable if I am not left to wander alone.”

Crow’s eyes widen, though he tries to tamp down his surprise. Why does Osiris want him to help when he obviously knows Ikora so much better. They’ve spoken once and while it hadn’t been hostile, it also hadn’t been friendly, no matter what Saint says.

“Crow?” Ikora says, giving him a questioning look.

He could refuse, but what kind of impression does that give? “Of course,” he says. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“You would be an exception if that is the case,” Osiris says, and Crow can’t work out if it’s meant to be a joke or a threat.

Uncertainty is churning in his belly as they leave Ikora’s study. His mind races, falls down chasms of catastrophe – is Osiris upset that he’s close to Saint? Is it an order to move out of their home?

Had Saint mentioned that night on the Shore, the stupid, desperate attempt at seduction that he’d made?

Or is it simply the same as everyone else? That anger that gets directed at him for whatever crime people think he’s committed?

Crow pulls his hood up to hide his face as they begin walking. Osiris moves quickly, every stride purposeful. Crow would almost believe that he’s eager to return to where he’s staying if he hadn’t heard the frustration when he’d said he was done.

“I would appreciate it if you do not tell Saint about what I spoke of during the meeting, about Xivu Arath’s hold on me,” Osiris says finally, his voice low. He does not look at Crow, or slow down, and it sounds more like a command than a request.

“It seems like the kind of thing it would be good for him to know so he can help,” Crow replies. He tries to keep the reproach out of his voice (it isn’t any of his business, Saint isn’t his), but he isn’t sure he manages it.

Osiris gives him a sharp look, his eyes dark and intense, and expression drawn into one of displeasure. “Saint can be extremely empathetic. I do not wish for him to feel that hurt.”

As though the worry that Saint feels for Osiris isn’t already hurting him. It’s an unkind thought, Crow knows, but how can Osiris not see that?

“He already knows it was bad,” Crow says. “We all got a feel for what Xivu Arath did to you when we were in the Dreaming City, so why pretend otherwise?” That voice forcing its way into his head… For the next few nights, his dreams had been full of blood and violence.

“You understand nothing,” Osiris snaps. There’s a heavy heat beginning to grow in the air around them, a scorching scent fills Crow’s nose. “What you felt was as filling a cup with water is to drowning.”

“It’s more than most people have. He wants to help you, Osiris. Hiding things from him is just going to hurt him more.” He knows how Saint had been upset when he’d found out the truth of how badly Spider had treated him, and Crow had been virtually a stranger then. Osiris is his partner!

“I do not need to be lectured by–”

Heat radiates from Osiris, the air around him wavering with hazy mirage. Crow hisses, feeling the intensity of it against his skin, the threat of scorched flesh. “Osiris…”

Osiris pulls away sharply, and Crow leans back against the wall, as far back from the man as he can get without bolting. Osiris’ eyes are wide with shock. He yanks his gauntlets off and stares down at his hands. Flame licks between his fingers, but that isn’t what draws Crow’s attention.

What does that is the sickly glow of the Hive runes visible when he pushes back his sleeve.

“I–” Osiris begins. He turns away, draws himself up, and Crow feels the heat recede, though it lingers in the air. “I think you can see why I wished to return to my rooms,” he says a bitter humour to the words.” He turns to face Crow, and whatever he sees on Crow’s face makes him wince, his gaze skittering off to one side. “I did not hurt you, I hope.”

It isn’t an apology, though Crow gets the impression it’s meant to be taken as one. “No, I’m not hurt,” he says, only warily stepping away from the wall.

Osiris watches him, brows drawn together in pain, grief, Crow thinks. “Usually my control is impeccable,” he says, the bitterness growing. “Since I returned it has been… wavering.”

Crow swallows, remembering all too clearly the wildfire, rotten with corruption, which Osiris had thrown at them in the Dreaming City. The way it had clung to the offering sites that had been set up to extend Xivu Arath’s influence.

“Saint said that you were healing.” He’d talked at great length about Osiris’ recovery, the burning away of Xivu Arath’s infection. Crow isn’t an expert but… this doesn’t seem like an improvement.

Osiris meets his gaze for a moment and then turns away to keep walking, forcing Crow to catch up or be left behind. “Saint is a good man. He already carries many burdens. He does not need to carry this one as well.”

“So you’re just hiding this from him?” Crow is Crow’s incredulous response. Does Osiris truly believe this? Does he really think this is even the kind of thing that will go unnoticed by Saint?

Is it really his fight to get involved in?

“It isn’t a matter of hiding it,” Osiris replies. “He does not want to hear it, and I– I will not force him.” His voice cracks as he speaks, and he makes a noise of frustration.

“He didn’t want to hear when I told him about Spider,” Crow blurts out, surprising even himself. It isn’t something he’s spoken about to anyone else. “He still listened. Because he thought it was important, even if it made him angry.” Saint had been prepared to risk Osiris to make sure that Crow was freed.

Osiris’ shoulders slump, and now he just seems exhausted, as though his loss of control has sapped all of his energy. “Of course he did. He gives too much of himself to everyone, and he does not leave people behind, not if he can help it. In his youth he served in the Pilgrim Guard, helping refugees make the journey to the City. Not all of them made it, and he carries their deaths with him to this day.”

The Warlock glances at him, gives him a searching look. “You should ask him about his ‘accolades’ at some point.”

The suggestion is oddly gentle, and full of what Crow can only guess is regret.

“Accolades?”

Osiris nods. “The ribbons that he wears on his armour. The people he helped would give them to him as a token. He remembers the name of every person who gave one to him.”

The ribbons were impossible to miss, attached to his armour and even to his ship, but Crow had assumed they were simply decorations, the same way the fancy cloaks and helmets were for other Guardians. “I didn’t realise.”

“Ask him about them,” Osiris urges, with an intensity that seems at odds with the topic, “I am certain that he would be delighted.”

They lapse into silence once more, until they reach the area of meditation chambers where Osiris is staying. Osiris gives him another of those searching looks. “He is… fond of you.”

The way he pauses unsettles Crow – he can’t tell if it’s because Osiris seems to try to pick his words carefully, or if it’s the remnants of that anger.

“He is?” he blurts, stomach twisting at the idea. Excitement, apprehension, guilt… he isn’t sure. Maybe all of them.

“Yes,” Osiris replies. “Saint has always had a fondness for birds, especially those with damaged wings.” Before Crow can respond, he’s gone, walking swiftly towards his quarters, leaving the Hunter staring after him as the door closes.

The finality of Osiris’ tone feels like some great decision has been made, and Crow has no idea what that decision is.

He hovers for a few moments more, unsure if he should check on Osiris or speak to Ikora. Speak to Saint? No… what would he even say? He drags a hand through his hair and stifles a groan.

No, he is a Guardian. He isn’t going to go running to Saint because of a slightly disconcerting conversation with Osiris. It means nothing anyway.

He shakes his head at his own foolishness and heads back the way he’d come, nearly colliding with a severe looking Warlock when he turns.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Is something wrong, Hunter? You seem in a hurry,” the Warlock says. She has brown skin, and her gaze is sharp and piercing. Her bond shows a white, two-headed bird on a blue background. Crow thinks he’s seen a few people wearing a similar one, though he can’t place it.

“No. Just heading out,” he replies. He offers a brief smile and then ducks around her.

Her gaze follows him all the way down the hall.

Chapter Text

The fire of battle rages around you, countless thousands warring and dying, the corpses piled high, and yet still there are more to die.

The scent of blood fills your nose. The screams fill your ears. You know that she is coming. She is already here and you… you…

—-We offer guidance.-—

A voice, echoing, distant, but cool like water after the scorching sun of Mercury. You reach for it, that point in the deep. The only thing that does not scream and rage and kill and kill and ki–

Thunder rolls across the field of battle. It engulfs Osiris, and he is alone.

No. Not alone.

KNEEL THAT I MIGHT LAY MY BLADE ACROSS THINE BREAST.

The voice fills him, scours him clean of doubt, cleanses it of fear and all that is unnecessary.

It is a weapon. It is the tool of the War Dominant. A god of death, singer of slaughter, destruction born, a legacy of blood.

Chapter Text

Useless! All of this is useless.

Osiris closes the notebook and tosses it to the side from where he sits on the rug, papers spread out around him. It hits the floor with a deeply unsatisfying sound. A little like the contents, but then, what else had he expected from Toland’s writings? Even these private notes, ones that he had continued to send to Osiris even after the former’s exile, are far too filled with reverence for the Hive and their Sword Logic to be objective. He trusts the information they contain about as much as he trusts the Books of Sorrow.

Perhaps Eris can pry something useful out of them. She has had contact with Toland more recently than he has. And he would like to speak to her again. While he still has time.

“Sagira,” he says, holding out his hand for her, “send a message to–”

His palm remains empty.

His stomach lurches. Dread pools in his chest. Where is she? He remembers snapping his fingers, flame racing towards her and–

He clenches his fingers against his palm, nails biting into his skin. It offers a moment of clarity, perverse as it is, enough to force his thoughts back to the present.

Sagira is safe. She’d said that she was going to speak to Ophiuchus, dig up some more information that might be helpful.

Or perhaps she simply wishes to be far away from him. Can he truly blame her?

He sighs, and picks up his data pad to send the message himself.

Another treatment has come and gone, Light lapping against his own, cleansing it, but he can already feel the itch of corruption spreading once more. He doesn’t even need to look to know that the runes are becoming more livid with every passing day – from old, faded scars, to barely healed wounds.

What happens when they open and begin to bleed?

He makes a noise of frustration and pushes himself to his feet. Perhaps movement will help, make him feel less stagnant. There has to be a solution to this. He has already defied the odds by regaining his mind, something that had not been possible for any other Wrathborn as far as they are aware. Is this due to his Light? His immortality?

there is a point in the depths

Some other reason?

There must be something out there which holds the key to dispelling this for good. He needs more time, more data. No-one is listening to him and–

More time. More data. The only person he can rely upon is himself.

And that has never been a problem for him before.

The Echo is created easily, more easily than he had expected. A breath and then it is there in the centre of the room, a gilded copy of himself which glows in the dimness of the room, its radiance mocking him.

The places where the golden radiance has worn away to reveal patches of dark, shifting negative energy, like a hole in reality, make that mockery complete.

Corrupted, just like his Light. Or perhaps the gilding has simply eroded to reveal what was always there at the heart of his Echoes. The power of Taken Kings was always going to have consequences, sooner or later.

He reaches out towards the Echo and lets his fingers brush against that patch of Taken miasma. It feels like absence, and that absence hums against his fingertips. Through the absence he can almost hear… No. It’s gone, leaving only disquiet in its wake. It reminds him of the anomaly where he’d found the Seed of Silver Wings – the distorted time, the cathedra blooming to kaleidoscopic light, that hungry thing grasping for him, his causality his–

He pulls way sharply, mouth gone dry.

He had never spoken to Sagira about what had happened there. She had spoken as though he had never left the ship. His ship’s instruments agreed with her. And yet he had held that terrible seed in his hands and planted it on Io.

And the Darkness had consumed it.

“Seeing a pattern does not mean there is one,” he mutters, a stern reminder to himself. Symbolism is easily misinterpreted, applied to the wrong targets, and Ikora would comment on how it was typical of his egotism to believe for even a moment that something so consequential as a Tree of Silver Wings could be related to him. She is probably correct.

—-Do you not wish to be more? To fulfil your potential?-—

His breath catches and he shakes his head. There is an itch in his mind that he cannot rid himself of. Doubtless another result of Xivu Arath’s influence, except…

No. It is nothing. He has this problem to solve and that must come before all else.

A problem! As though this is some minor academic curiosity, a mistake in a calculation. Not his life. Not this corruption spreading through him, devouring him.

He turns his focus back to the Echo. The Taken energy is unsettling, but he had known that when he first learned the ability to wield them. They had traversed the Corridors of time for him, devoted to the cause of rescuing Saint. They are his to wield as he wishes.

He takes a breath and the Echo splits, a dozen gilded copies of himself to venture where he cannot.

He imbues them with his will, his desires, his urgency. Search, keep searching. Search for information, for ideas, for a solution. Find answers for him out there in the darkness.

Then they are gone, their movements tugging at the edge of his consciousness.

He staggers back to sit on the edge of the bed and bends over, burying his face in his hands. Darkness plays at the edges of his vision, and he is exhausted. It is more than he has done since he was rescued by Saint, but a trifle compared to his usual abilities. Even when he had been a novice, newly raised by Sagira, it had taken significantly more to tire him than this.

He pushes back his sleeve. The rune on his wrist is livid, as though the skin is barely holding together, and it glows a faint green.

“What was that?” Sagira hovers near the door, her iris narrowed accusingly.

“Sagira. When did you–”

“Just now,” she says, not waiting for him to finish. “I saw something vanish.”

Stupid. Stupid! He should have been more careful, checked where Sagira was before he began. “I was testing something.”

“It looked like-” The spikes of her shell flare wide. He knows that look. She’d worn it when he’d first told her what he planned for the core of the Sundial. “An Echo. That was an Echo. Osiris that– you’re meant to be resting! Not playing with those things. I leave you for a few minutes and–”

“I cannot sit here doing nothing forever,” Osiris replies sharply. “If nothing else, the patience of the Vanguard has limits, so I should at least try to be useful while I am trapped here.”

She hovers closer, just out of his reach. He wants to hold out his hand, to let her settle on his palm. She is the best of him, his hope, his humanity.

And part of him imagines what it would feel like to have her shell and soul shatter in his fist.

SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BE REFORGED. SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BECOME A MORE PERFECT SWORD.

He breathes through gritted teeth, fingers tightening against the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric between his fingers. The taste of blood floods his mouth.

Not her. Not Sagira. Never her.

“Osiris?” Her voice has softened, and that helps to draw him back to himself.

He waves a hand dismissively. “I am fine.”

She won’t believe him. He doesn’t expect her to.

“What are you trying to do, then?” she asks. Her curiosity bleeds through. She has always been just as curious as he is, though she hides it better.

”More sets of eyes to search for potential solutions to this problem,” he replies.

“You know that Ikora has everyone she can spare looking for things,” Sagira points out. “If he wasn’t needed here, with you, Saint would be turning the system upside down looking.”

Everyone that can be spared to search for something to help a man who had been viewed as hopelessly corrupted by the Darkness long before this. It does not fill him with optimism.

“It should not be necessary. My Echoes can search for answers as well as anyone, and probably in places that others would not be able to access.” And he can trust them. They can’t betray him, they can’t–

“You look exhausted, and your Light is… you’re meant to be resting,” she repeats.

“I do nothing but rest, and it makes no difference to my condition,” he says.

“And what effect did the Echoes have on your condition?” is Sagira’s pointed question.

He stares at her for a long moment, words on the tip of his tongue. He could tell her about the state of his Echoes, the Taken energy. The feeling that had overcome him when he had touched one. He should tell her! She is his Ghost, his partner, and she knows him better than anyone else in the world. Better even than Saint.

—-She won’t understand. She doesn’t trust you.-—

His heart races, a thread of a thought catching in his mind like a thorn in fabric. She doesn’t trust him. She shies away from him, watches him. Doubtless reporting every movement back to Ikora. And what will she do if Osiris tells her about the Echoes? One more reason to keep him imprisoned here until he withers to nothing.

“Nothing that I was able to tell,” he says coldly.

She jolts back from him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Am I allowed no privacy, even in my thoughts?” he snaps. Always there, always keeping track of him, burrowed inside him.

“Osiris…”

“No,” he says, meeting her gaze with a glare. “I will tell you when I wish to, and not before.”

The look she shoots him is one that he had seen her use with the Speaker, with the Consensus during the run-up to his exile, but never on him. It is so wrong to see her look at him like that.

“We are trying everything to help you, Osiris!” she says, voice cracking with something like anguish, which echoes in his chest. “We want to save you, but half the time it feels like you don’t want us to. Like you would have been happier if we’d just killed you.”

Wouldn’t he? At least dead, they would be free of the fear of him, and he would not have to live with this growing shadow in his mind and the knowledge of what horrors he could wreak if… when he breaks.

“I am sorry,” he says softly. There is nothing else that he can say. Nothing he can offer.

“You always say that,” Sagira replies, a quiet devastation in her voice. He bites back the suggestion that perhaps she should have chosen better who to raise.

“I am tired, Sagira,” he says instead, a confession. More tired than he can remember.

“Go to sleep then,” she says, and she sounds almost like she should. There is a warmth in her voice greater than the Traveller could ever dream of. “I’ll cleanse your Light, and you’ll feel better tomorrow. The dark circles around your eyes might be a lost cause though.”

“Almost certainly,” he agrees, and he offers a brief smile while he settles down for the night. The bed feels too large without Saint’s presence. He considers sending him a message, asking for him, but… no. Saint deserves to rest too, and to spend time away from this room. From him.

Sagira settles nearby, still out of physical reach, but her Light washes over him, the pulse of a miniature sun. His mind quiets beneath the effect of it, as though she is able to wash away some of that static that seems to fill his thoughts recently.

Balancing on the edge of sleep, the awareness of his Echoes slips through his mind. They trawl the networks of the Last City, comb through the archives of the Cryptarchs and Owl Sector. They traverse the Tangled Shore, retracing his own movements and examining the scant remains of the Cryptoliths. One has entered the Dreadnaught – it slips unseen past Thralls left directionless with the death of Oryx.

One has even entered the Vex network on Nessus. A long-shot with the Infinite Forest gone, but amongst their knowledge there may be some kernel that is of use.

The last Echo walks the maze of tunnels burrowed beneath the surface of the Moon. It avoids the gaze of the remnants of Crota’s brood and descends into the Darkness.

Through its steps, he approaches the place where he had faced the High Celebrant, and where Xivu Arath had claimed him. He feels rough stone beneath his fingers as it brushes past the cracked rock where he had been pinned and honed into a perfect blade.

Through its eyes he sees the great angular shape that plays behind his mind – the pyramid ship.

As he succumbs to exhaustion, he approaches it, the Echo’s steps unrelenting as though through its own will rather than his.

And then the Echo is gone.

Chapter Text

The Titan hadn’t slept well last night. It’s not that unusual. Every Guardian has a brush with insomnia at one point or another. The amount of shit that they see, she’s surprised it isn’t worse. She yawns as she takes her position atop the wall, looking out over the wilds beyond the city limits.

“Morning!” her partner for this shift, a Sunbreaker named Aspen, calls to her. It’s too damn early for him to sound this cheerful, the sun barely peeking over the mountains.

She leans against the railing and scans the horizon. They try to keep the area beyond the wall clear of vegetation that could hide enemies approaching from the ground, but that hadn’t helped when the Red Legion attacked the City, had it? There could be anything out there, waiting for their chance. It never ends.

There’d been no warning with the Red Legion, just sudden violence. They’d seemed to know just where to hit to take out their defences. She’s always wondered if it was an inside job, Guardian gone rogue. You hear stories sometimes, Guardians gone to suck up to that ex-Emperor of theirs, been bought with pretty toys. Nothing to say some of ‘em wouldn’t do the same for Ghaul.

She glances over at Aspen where he leans back against the inner barrier, looking bored, and it sparks a hot anger in her chest. Guarding the wall isn’t the most interesting job most of the time, but it is vital. They’re Titans – it’s their job to make sure things don’t get interesting.

Isn’t he just a bit too casual? A bit too cheerful?

She turns her attention back to what she’s meant to be watching – someone has to after all, if Aspen isn’t going to do his duty.

And that duty is important, now more than ever! The last few years have been disaster after disaster. Red War, the Almighty, the pyramids appearing and stealing planets. The Hunter Vanguard getting murdered.

That was orchestrated, had to be. Vanguard aren’t meant to leave the City, so it must have been pretty important to drag him out there, something too tasty for him to ignore. Not that that’s always difficult when Hunters are involved. Flighty bastards, no sense of duty.

Aspen rolls his shoulders and stretches, and she finds herself watching. Is he limbering up for something? Preparing himself?

He leans back against the railing a moment later, but the thought won’t leave her alone. How vulnerable is this part of the wall?

There’s talk of this new power, this Stasis that Guardians have been using, coming back from Europa with ice in their veins. It’s got Darkness written all over it. Promises that it’ll make you stronger, give you power you can’t even dream of.
And who started those rumours? Someone had to be the one to do it, pass it from Guardian to Guardian like an infection, a carefully laid lure drawing people to Europa.

Has Aspen been there? They’ve worked together before but they’re not exactly close. Has he been to Europa, communed with their enemy and let the Darkness consume him?

Is that why he’s so relaxed now?

She turns to face him, heart racing, mouth tasting of sour metal. He’s planning something, she knows it! Something is coming and he’s let it inside, fed it his should and his Light and–

Aspen catches her staring, gives a lopsided smile and opens his mouth to speak.

Her fist, cloaked in Arc energy, meets his face before he can speak, before he can infect her with his foul Darkness. She doesn’t stop punching until they come to drag her off.

Chapter Text

Crow’s knife slides home, and the Psion falls without making a sound. He catches them as they fall, and drags the body further back into the thick undergrowth. He crouches and searches the body until he finds the datachip that he’s looking for. He’d heard chatter about intercepted Vanguard transmissions when he’d tapped into the Empire’s comms on Nessus – not the sort of thing that they can afford to just ignore.

“Glint, can you check this?”

“Of course!” Glint compiles, and Crow holds the chip out for him to scan. “Looks like it’s what we were looking for. And– huh, there should be a whole data cache nearby. They’re using it as a pickup and drop-off point for intel they don’t want to risk sending over broadcast comms.”

“They really don’t know much about Guardians,” Crow replies, a little amused despite the situation. Guardians and their penchant for finding anything remotely shiny or interesting (or dangerous) in an area had been a joke on the Tangled Shore… when it hadn’t been terrifying at least. He remembers being with a band of Spider’s people as they watched a fireteam take out a minefield by letting it repeatedly blow them up. “We should check that cache.”

He slips into the shadows of a rock formation, and moves as quickly as he dares – the foliage here is thick, and there’s always the risk of falling into a hidden cave or pool of radiolaria. Even with the dangers, he likes it more than the Tangled Shore, or the EDZ with its rotting husks of buildings a constant reminder of a dead world. Who would’ve thought that a place so changed by the Vex could be so beautiful?

(A distant thought, a ghost of a ghost of a memory, of red flowers spread out before him, trees growing twisted with ideas, and someone next to him who–)

“It’s near here,” Glint says, looking around at the area that has obviously been partially cleared of vegetation to allow Caiatl’s people to move more easily with vehicles. “Somewhere,” he adds more doubtfully.

“With my luck it’ll be in a cave thirty feet underground,” Crow says ruefully. “But at least if there’s a cache here, Caiatl’s troops are probably keeping the Vex cleared out.”

It takes some searching, with occasional periods of hiding from passing patrols, but Crow eventually finds the cache, hidden in a small nook high up in a rock formation, camouflaged by vegetation so that it wouldn’t be stumbled upon accidentally. It would probably have worked if anyone but a Guardian had been looking for it, but paracausality tends to make a mockery of even the best laid plans.

He fishes out the cache beacon and lets Glint take a look. The Ghost’s shell spins as he works through the ciphers and encryption until finally– “Downloading data!”

Crow hears a noise, a shout, the rumble of what sounds like a vehicle. Seems to be getting closer. “I’m going to check that out,” he tells Glint. “Stay hidden.”

He doesn’t like leaving his Ghost alone, but he can always decompile if he needs to. And Crow isn’t going far. He scrambles his way up a nearby rock formation, presses himself flat on his belly, and crawls to the edge, the movements as easy and natural as breathing. He pulls out a scope and scans the landscape with it.

There, movement! Big group, couple of interceptors, all in Caiatl’s colours and insignia. Reinforcements maybe?

They don’t seem to be heading towards any of the known bases nearby, and they aren’t splitting into smaller patrols to do recon on the area like he might have expected. They’re moving with purpose. As he watches, a big Psion wearing heavy armour and a distinctive yellow and black cloak, gestures off to the East. Crow takes a picture to send back to the Vanguard and see if they can identify them.

They begin to move on, and Crow heads back to Glint. “How are we doing?”

“Nearly… there, done!” Glint says, and Crow grins at the pride in Glint’s voice. It’s good to hear, so much better than the gentle attempts Glint had made trying to comfort him back on the Shore, even though Glint had been the one with a bomb in his shell.

“See, we’re pretty good at this intel gathering,” Crow replies. Glint’s shell spins in happiness before he settles himself back into Crow’s Light.

Crow resets the cache beacon, trying to get it as close to its original position as he can. If they can hide that it’s been found, it might be a good source of information on Caiatl’s plans.

A group this large is never going to be good at hiding their movements, but there’s always the risk of someone spotting him, especially with Psions. He keeps a good distance from them, sticking to the higher ground, the tops of rock formations where the rustle of vegetation can’t give him away.

They’re heading into what is solidly Vex territory – the sandy erosion-worn rocks giving way to metallic outcroppings and hard edged right-angles. He has to skirt around pools of radiolaria more often, the scent of it filling the air, and there’s a constant background hum – the workings of the colossal machinery that the Vex have made of the centaur.

The soldiers gather around a section of Vex architecture, examining at it. Crow’s breath catches, and for a moment he’s back on the Shore, looking at Eliksni and Red Legion mesmerised by a Cryptolith, unmoving even as Hive rot began to grow into them.

A Centurian calls something, and movement returns to them, along with the sound of their voices, and Crow is back on Nessus, the air thick and damp when he breathes.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop having nightmares about the Cryptoliths and what they’d done. Poor Savek, her body warped, unable to speak, and how she’d nearly torn herself apart trying to free herself from the restraints before Crow had given her what mercy he could.

Now that they’re moving, Crow gets a better look at what they were looking at – a cave entrance. Not unusual in itself – Nessus is riddled with them – but this is obviously a place they’ve come to intentionally, and that means that Crow wants to find out what’s caught their interest.

He watches the soldiers for a while as they enter the cave carrying crates and lights and cables, and then emerge without them. Setting up some kind of camp he supposes, but why here? What have they found?

When the bustle dies down, with a good number of the host heading back in the direction they’d come from, Crow takes his chance. He drops down from his perch, and crosses the distance until he’s as close as he can get to the cave entrance without crossing the bare space that’s been cleared.

There are a few sentries on guard, but now that there’s fewer soldiers around, Crow is able to step into the Void and slip past them unnoticed.

It’s more of a tunnel than a cave, but not as dark as it should be – the Vex have converted parts of it, and there are lights set into the metal at irregular intervals. Do the Vex even need light to see? They have the red eyes, but are they actually eyes? He knows that the robotic bodies are just shells, and the real mind is in the radiolaria, but that’s a far cry from actually understanding how they function.

The tunnel widens out, finally opening into a spacious cavern. It’s typical of caves on Nessus, part natural rock formations and dirt, and part the harsh angles of Vex conversion. Vegetation grows around it all, regardless. But the small Vex lights have been supplemented with floodlights, and there are other bits of equipment that he’s less familiar, along with a good number of crates. It was obviously not the first time they’d visited here.

He skirts the edge of cavern, working his way around to a spot where he can get an unobstructed view of the centre, without the rocks and pillars getting in the way.

In the centre of the cavern is a Vex conflux. Cables and other pieces of equipment are crudely attached to it, and run to a bank of terminals and screens nearby. They’re trying to hack the Vex network.

Well, that can’t be good.

---------

“I cannot say for sure, not without being able to access the conflux in person,” Osiris says. He glances up from the datapad to look at Crow and Ikora. “I think that your assessment is correct though Crow. They’re trying to access the Vex network. Perhaps this Psion you saw leading the group intends to access their prediction engine. It would not be the first time that they have attempted such.”

The meeting is in Ikora’s office this time, rather than her study, and lazy sunbeams make the dust in the air glitter. Osiris seems more comfortable today, though Crow isn’t sure he knows the man well enough to really judge. He’s wearing civilian clothing rather than Warlock robes, and he keeps tugging the sleeves down to try to cover the runes on the backs of his hands.

Is it just him, or do they seem deeper than they had been last time Crow had seen him?

“We expected that something like this might happen,” Ikora says solemnly. “I’ve got Guardians on the ground who can keep an eye on things, though they’re less subtle than Crow is,” she adds with a touch of amusement.

“I mean, give me time,” Crow says with a flash of a smile. “I’m sure I can go and cause some explosions if it’s needed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” is Ikora’s dry response.

Another thread of that rope that wraps tight fear around Crow’s chest frays and unwinds. Maybe one day this will even feel normal.

“It is possible that they seek to curry favour with Empress Caiatl,” Osiris continues, “but equally, they may be Calus loyalists hoping for a chance at revenge. And I have no doubt there are other factions beyond that that we do not know. If I could see the rest of the data that you acquired from the cache and the conflux perhaps I could–”

“We are still in the process of decrypting and examining it,” Ikora says, a firm note entering her voice.

“Of course,” Osiris replies, and Crow can see the way his hands tighten on the datapad, hard enough to go pale. “I will content myself with whatever scraps you choose to share with me.”

“You lost the privilege of unfettered access to information when you forced the Consensus to vote on your exile,” Ikora says.

Crow tries to suppress a shiver at the way she speaks, colder than he has heard her before. There’s a dark look on her face, matches by Osiris’ expression, a sharp, angry energy filling the room. His heart is racing.

“How satisfying it must be for you to have me relying upon the Vanguard’s mercy then,” Osiris says, each word a poison knife.

There’s a pressure in the air, tight and… is it warm in here? Crow reaches up to rub at the back of his neck where his hood sits. He feels like there should be static when he touches it.

It is getting warmer. Heat-haze makes the sunlight ripple, like it had when Osiris had–

“Perhaps you’ll learn some humility finally,” Ikora replies, her voice equally barbed.

He can hear his heartbeat like a war drum, dark and hungry. His mouth is dry. He thinks he tastes something sweet. The pressure is cloying, a sickly weight. It stretches out, taut and tender like a bruise, and if it snaps… if one of them moves…

Anticipation coils inside him, a breathless want which threatens to overflow. And he is–

“Ikora…” he manages to grind out, each word taking far too much effort to speak, like they want to choke him.

All it would take is a spark…

Ikora drags in a sharp breath, and the tension breaks. Crow can breathe again, and that terrible heat subsides. In his chair, Osiris also looks dazed, and he raises a hand to scrub across his eyes. His expression is pained.

“Osiris, I–” Ikora begins.

Osiris holds a hand up to forestall her. “I think we can agree that these were not words we would have shared under normal circumstances.”

“You think that something’s influencing us?”

Osiris is silent for a long moment, and then he looks up at Crow and Ikora. “Is it not obvious?”

“This isn’t your fault,” Ikora says earnestly.

“Isn’t it?” Osiris asks. He shakes his head. “I need to return to my rooms,” he says, already standing and heading towards the door. “I need to think.”

Ikora glances at Crow, and he nods. She grasps his arm lightly before he can leave though. “Please, make sure that he gets back safely. Osiris can become… trapped in his thoughts.”

“I will,” he promises, even if unease roils inside him. He owes it to Saint to keep Osiris safe.

Osiris is waiting for him at the base of the stairs. “I thought that she would send you after me.”

“Ikora wants you to be safe,” Crow replies.

“She does,” Osiris agrees, “but she also wants to keep the City safe. As she should. I would have been disappointed if she hadn’t sent you after me. And I have no doubt that there are others keeping an eye on me when I am away from my prison cell.”

He begins walking and Crow falls into step, though with Osiris’ words he can’t help but check behind himself, as though he’ll see someone following them. Which is ridiculous. Even if Ikora does have someone following Osiris, he doubts that she’d choose someone who would let themselves be spotted so easily.

“About what happened…” Crow begins.

“If you are about to tell me that it is not my doing, then do not bother,” Osiris says.

“We don’t have evidence of that!” Crow says. “Everyone seems a bit on edge so it could be–”

“You are too clever to believe that it is simply the result of stress or high emotions,” Osiris says. He fixes Crow with a sharp-eyed look which makes Crow feel like the Warlock is trying to figure out how to dissect him. “It was too sudden, even for me. That pressure…”

Crow swallows, remembering the feeling. “Like a storm in the air,” he agrees. “Almost like anticipation.”

“Precisely,” Osiris says. “And the last time we spoke as well,” he adds, most quietly. “If I am causing this then–”

He makes a noise of frustration and speeds up, walking with a purpose that sets Crow on edge. It’s too much like when they’d faced Osiris in the Dreaming City. A near unstoppable force. Crow hurries to keep up with him.

“Osiris!”

The man pauses and glances at him. “Yes?”

He hadn’t thought that much ahead, scrambles for words, and he still feels like he’s being watched and– Oh… “It isn’t just around you,” he says quickly. Osiris’ head tilts, examining him, and he continues. “The other day, after Saint and I left you. We got stuck in a lift with someone. Saint said they were a Praxic.” He thinks he’s seen Siegfried a few times since then, and he isn’t sure if it’s coincidence or not.

“My condolences,” Osiris says with a dry tone, a hint of a smile.

Crow gives a snort of laughter, unable to hold himself back. “It didn’t go great,” he says. “Things got weird. Saint and Siegfried faced off… I thought they were going to come to blows, and I– I wanted that,” he admits. “For a few moments, all I could think of was violence.”

Osiris gives him a searching look. “Did it feel like the influence of the Cryptoliths?”

“I didn’t hear Xivu Arath, if that’s what you mean,” Crow says. “I didn’t feel… compelled. It felt like my own thoughts, just the worst parts of me, I suppose.”

“Saint did not mention this,” Osiris says, a deep frown dragging lines across his forehead.

“I doubt he thought it was important. I didn’t even think about it again until just now.” It had been strange, but considering how people have reacted to him before, it hadn’t seemed like anything too strange.

“It does not mean that I did not cause it,” Osiris says. “If it was just after you left me…”

They continue in silence, Osiris seemingly lost in thought. Crow keeps pace with him, though occasionally he keeps checking over his shoulder – can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched.

“You’re twitchy,” Osiris says as they approach the area where his rooms are.

Crow shrugs. “Something about being told you’re probably being followed tends to do that,” he says. “And I’ve been doing a lot of sneaking around avoiding being seen on Nessus the last few days,” he adds.

“I suppose that would give one reason to be on edge,” Osiris says. “And I imagine that paranoia is something of a necessity when working for the Spider.”

“You could say that,” Crow replies. Paranoia had saved him from a few beatings or worse – he’d developed a sense for when Spider or one of his guards would show up, and learned to hide things quickly. He just wishes he’d learned to be paranoid before Spider had put a bomb in Glint’s shell.

“My dealings with him were mercifully brief,” Osiris says. “I doubt it is a consolation, but Spider rules the Shore at the pleasure of the Queen of the Reef, and I suspect he may have rather… overstepped his authority.”

“You think she’ll what, lock him up?” Crow asks. The idea of Spider being confined to a cell in the Prison of Elders has a certain appeal.

“Only time will tell what she decides to do. It may end up making even the punishments Saint would mete out look merciful.”

He had seen the way Saint looked at Spider, utterly unafraid, violence held back by a bare thread. “That sounds terrifying.”

“She can be a terrifying person,” Osiris agrees. “Perhaps you will meet her one day and see for yourself.”

Crow gives him an incredulous look. “I doubt it. I’m no-one. Certainly no-one a Queen would be interested in.”

Osiris gives him a searching look for a long moment, and then looks away, towards the door to his rooms, before focusing on Crow once again. “Saint told me that in the Dreaming City when I– he said that you saved Sagira. From me.”

The sudden change of topic takes Crow off guard and he can only stare for a moment. “I– yes.”

“Thank you,” Osiris says, with a depth of feeling that Crow has not heard from him before. “That is something that I can never repay.” He holds Crow’s gaze for a moment longer and then drops it, as though it makes him uncomfortable.

“I didn’t do it for payment,” Crow says. “I’m glad I could help. She… she really loves you.”

“I–” Osiris begins, then shakes his head. “You can return to Ikora and tell her that you have discharged your duty and seen me safely back.”

He turns away, and enters his room before Crow can say anything more to him. Crow watches for a moment and then turns to leave. There’s an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, though nothing has rally changed.

He’s probably just being paranoid.

He has work to get on with. Decrypting the data he’d gathered on Nessus should provide a bit of a distraction at least, and Ikora has provided him with a bit of office space to work from.

As he heads back, a woman passes him, obviously in a hurry. Her bond has a design of a two-headed bird.

Chapter Text

“We can’t hold the actions of his pre-resurrection life against him. You know that.”

Ikora’s voice is as calm and placid as it usually is. For the most part, Aunor respects that about her. Someone needs to be the voice of reason for hundreds of Guardians with little impulse control. Today however, she finds it grating, a discordant note.

“Most Guardians do not have the brutal murder of the Hunter Vanguard, creation of a species of mindless undead Fallen, and corruption by a Taken Wish Dragon in their pasts,” Aunor points out. She had thought that Ikora would understand that – she had been determined that Uldren Sov be brought to Justice, and now she is protecting him! A grave lapse in judgment in Aunor’s opinion.

And not the first either.

“Uldren Sov is dead. And Crow is–”

“I realise that Saint-14 is prone to lapses in judgement about people,” an understatement considering his attachment to the heretic, “but I thought that you would have the sense to see the danger that this ‘Crow’ poses.”

Ikora’s lips tighten into a thin line of displeasure, but Aunor stands firm. Someone has to push back. Maybe one day Ikora will even listen to her. This is not sustainable.

“As far as danger posed, we have greater concerns at the current time,” Ikora says. “We’ve received word of another tainted Guardian within our ranks.”

Aunor’s data pad dings, and she pulls it out to quickly scan the data she’s been sent. “You believe she’s still on Europa, trying to access the Darkness?”

“We do.”

“With the Vanguard lifting the ban, she has plausible deniability,” Aunor says sourly. “This was bound to happen. Especially after what happened on the Tangled Shore. Allowing that heretic to return to the Tower, even after everything that he has done.” The destruction that he has wrought. And that is before taking into account his selfish actions on Mercury.

Ikora’s eyes flash dangerously. “What happened on the Shore was not Osiris’ fault. He is a victim of the Hive.”

Is he? Aunor is not certain that she believes that. Osiris had been close with Toland the Shattered once – it does not take much to believe that he might seek power in similar ways.

“Even if that is true, he is a divisive force, and we do not know if he will… relapse.” A Guardian as powerful as Osiris working with the Hive willingly or not is a threat.

“Your orders are clear,” Ikora snaps, a crack in her facade. “If you do not wish to carry them out–”

“I stand by my promise.” She transmits out of Ikora’s private study and heads back towards her office, anger pounding like drums in her head.

Allowing Guardians to seek out the Darkness, allowing the Drifter to run his games, and now allowing Uldren Sov and the heretic Warlock to remain in the Last City… a pattern of poor choices. The Darkness is not something to be tolerated. It is an infection that must be excised before it can spread.

She pulls out her data pad and skims over the reports from the Tangled Shore once more – the images of carnage, sapient beings turned into twisted monsters under Hive command. And the heretic at the centre of it.

There is a metallic tang on her tongue, the sharp taste of anger towards what the Vanguard are allowing to run rampant.

And she knows exactly where to find the root of this infection.

Chapter Text

“Crucible registration is closed for the day. Come back tomorrow.”

“Then it is good that I am not here to register Lord Shaxx,” Saint replies. “You banned me from competing anyway,” he adds, with a touch of reproach.

“Ah, Saint! I hadn’t realised it was you.” Shaxx turns and Saint grins widely at him. “I’ve practically had to drive Guardians away with a stick to be able to leave for the night.”

Saint gives a soft laugh. “It has been same for me. Many people wishing to visit the Lighthouse.”

More than he would usually expect. There had been the teams he sees most weeks, of course, but many new faces too. He knows that is a good thing, more Guardians feeling confident enough to try their skill, but he cannot help but feel unsettled.

“You’ll be needing more weapons soon then,” Shaxx replies. He turns back to the console to finish shutting down the Crucible simulations, and Saint moves goes to lean on the railing next to him.

“New armour as well. Perhaps a Ghost shell or a ship. It is a lot of work to keep Guardians interested.” He worries at times that they are rewarding the wrong thing, making Guardians focus on rewards, rather than fighting for humanity because that is the right thing to do. Or that they are encouraging reliance on gear instead of developing skill – they had not had such fancy weapons and armour in the Dark Age after all!

“Always chasing something new,” Shaxx agrees, a touch of amusement in his voice. “I wonder if we would have been the same if we had been risen now.”

“You perhaps,” Saint replies haughtily. “I have always been paragon of virtue.”

Shaxx gives him a look that is clear even through the helmet. “Besides the penchant for gambling and the ego, you mean? It’s no wonder you and Osiris ended up together. No-one else would be able to withstand it.”

It is something that he has heard many times before, and the affection when Shaxx says it is undeniable, but today the comment brings a dull ache to his chest. He thinks of Osiris alone in the secure chamber, Xivu Arath’s corruption running through him. He has seemed so defeated since Saint had brought him here, resigned to whatever happens to him.

“Saint?” Shaxx draws his attention, his voice think with concern.

Saint waves off his concern. “It is nothing my friend. I am lost in thought.”

Somehow, despite the helmet, Saint can feel Shaxx’s scrutiny. After a moment he turns back to the console. “How is he?”

Saint’s shoulders hunch, and he curls in on himself. Shaxx knows him far too well not to see through him. “Not good,” he admits. “Myself and Sagira, we cleanse his Light, but the infection returns. I worry that– that the damage runs too deep to heal.”

He takes a breath that shudders through him. It is the first time he has admitted that possibility out loud. It feels like giving up, like surrender. He will continue working to help Osiris forever, of course he will, but…

Shaxx’s hand comes down heavily upon Saint’s shoulder. “This is Osiris. If anyone can overcome this, it is him. He knows more about the Light and Darkness than a hundred Guardians combined.”

“It was following such knowledge that sent him into Hive pits in the first place,” Saint says. Always he runs into things as though he must handle everything himself.

“Plus,” Shaxx says firmly, barrelling on past Saint’s bitter words, “he’s the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met. I find it hard to believe that he would ever submit to authority. He would hold the Darkness to account personally if he could.”

The words drag a strained laugh from Saint. “Itis true. My love has no time for gods. Or authority besides his own.” But Shaxx had not seen him in the Dreaming City, wholly subsumed by Xivu Arath’s will.

“I could go to see him if it helps,” Shaxx offers more gently. “A little time in a Crucible arena rather than being stuck in the care of Warlocks would probably do him good.”

The idea of Osiris in the Crucible makes dread curl through him. No, no he does not think that would help at all. “I will ask. You know that he does not like anyone to see him when he is feeling, ah… vulnerable.”

“Who does?” Shaxx asks, thankfully dropping the matter. He shuts down the console and steps away. “I’m done here. A drink? I think that we could both use one.”

A night of drinking and brawling has its appeal. “I– I should not,” Saint says. “If Osiris needs me…”

If something happens…

“You need to rest too, Saint. You cannot help him if you’ve burned yourself out.”

Shaxx is right, Saint knows this. Even Osiris has told him to rest, that one night spent alone will not kill him. Sagira will be with Osiris and can take care of him at least as well as Saint can, probably better. It all makes so much sense!

And every hour that he is away from Osiris feels like an hour lost.

“What if we go to your apartment instead?” Shaxx suggests after his silence draws on for too long. “Food, drinks, and you will be close by if he does need you.”

His heart swells with gratitude towards his friend. “Yes. Yes, that sounds good.” He hesitates for a moment and then adds “Crow may be there as well.”

He watches, gauging Shaxx’s reaction. He knows that Shaxx had helped Crow when he was cornered by Guardians wishing him harm, but he also knows that Shaxx and Cayde had been friends. Helping someone out of a sense of duty is different from sharing food and drink with them.

Shaxx shakes his head. “If I thought that change was impossible, then I would be the world’s biggest hypocrite,” he says. “I don’t even have the excuse of my crimes being from my first life.”

“You are a better man than many.”

“I have never been a good man,” Shaxx says. “Just old, and tired, and pragmatic enough to know that we need every Guardian we can get at the moment with the Darkness on our doorstep.”

“It is very bad, having to wait,” Saint agrees. “It makes me miss days when I would take the fight to our enemies. Things are more complicated now.” If it was the old days, then Spider would have suffered for what he did to Crow. That he still lives leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“The world has changed, Saint,” Shaxx says. “The best we can do is pass on what we know. They’ll surpass us all given time.”

“They may surpass you, Lord Shaxx,” Saint drawls, attempting humour though it lacks his usual conviction. “I am a legend.”

“You never change,” Shaxx says. He slaps his hand against the centre of Saint’s back and nudges him forward. “Come on you, let’s go. I am rather hungry.”

The Bazaar is bustling at this time of the evening, filled with chatter and music. Strings of lights cast a warm glow across the awnings, and the air is rich with the scent of food. Once again, Saint marvels that this is what his city has become – a place where people laugh and eat and love, without constantly fearing a gun being held to their head.

“More life than I once believed possible,” Saint says quietly while they wait for their food to be ready. Not just the people either – there are birds here, and cats hunting for scraps, and everywhere there are plants. A trellis overhead stretched between two buildings is covered in vines which have begun to climb thickly along the walls. They look too thick to be honeysuckle, and he does not think they are ivy, but they are pretty nonetheless.

“It has been a good season for growing,” Shaxx says, following his gaze. “It looks like some spots could use cutting back though. Don’t the frames usually handle that?”

“We’ve been asking maintenance for weeks,” the man who brings their food says. “Keep being told that they sent frames to deal with it, but I’ve not seen them. Probably stuck in a corner somewhere.”

Saint remembers the plants he’d found on his walk with Osiris, the ones in the vents. “Perhaps they got lost in vents.”

The man laughs and Saint and Shaxx head towards the stairs. From behind them, Saint hears a voice raised in anger at being overcharged.

Crow is there when they arrive back at Saint’s apartment, settled on the sofa, feet curled beneath him as he watches some programme on the holoscreen. Saint is glad to see him more comfortable – for the first few days, he had thought that Crow would never stop perching at the edge of the sofa as though it would bite him.

Crow raises a hand in greeting and pushes himself to his feet. “Welcome home.”

Saint smiles. It is… pleasant to have someone else in his home. Since he had returned Osiris has so rarely been in the City, and after so long spent alone in the Invite Forest, it is good to have company. “We have brought food.”

“I didn’t know you were having company,” Crow says. He pushes himself to his feet and gives Shaxx an awkward look. “I can head out if you want. I don’t want to intrude.”

“If you were intruding, you would know about it,” Shaxx says before Saint can try to reassure Crow. “Saint may be a slave to politeness but I am not.” His Ghost transmats away his armour and helmet so he can fix Crow with a stern look, though Saint can tell that it is mostly in jest. “And some of this is for you.”

“It is dinner with friends,” Saint says. He lets Geppetto switch his armour to more comfortable clothing, and turns back just in time to see the look of wide-eyed shock on Crow’s face. It is so similar to the look he had worn when Saint had arrived to free him from the Spider, and he longs to make things right so Crow never wears such a look again.

It will take time, but as Guardians, they have more than most.

“Alright. Thanks,” Crow says, offering a small smile. He helps to get out plates and open containers, then joins them at the table.

Saint pushes a bottle of beer over to him. “To try. It may not be to your taste, but I enjoy it.”

Crow takes a tentative sip, and frowns at the taste as though he’s trying to figure out if he likes it or not. “It’s pretty good,” he says finally, and takes another swig. “Much better than most of the stuff I drank on the Shore.”

“I think drain water would be better than most things on the Shore,” Saint says. “Do not worry. We will take you out with us sometime, show you where best drinks can be found.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea Saint?” Shaxx says, warm amusement in his voice. “A Hunter drinking with Titans? He might not survive.”

Crow gives Shaxx a narrow-eyed look. “I’ve out drunk bigger than you before.”

He realises what he’s said, and to who, and he opens his mouth for what Saint is certain is an apology, but Shaxx laughs, loud and joyful before he can say anything.

“That’s what I like to hear!” Shaxx bumps the neck of his bottle against Crow’s. Crow ducks his head, but Saint can see his smile. It is very good to see. It has only been a few weeks since he arrived and he already seems to be flourishing, growing into himself.

Ice broken, the conversation flows freely as they eat. Shaxx regales them with the happenings of the Tower and even recounts some tales from the early days of the Last City. He is good at drawing people out of their shells, whether it be in the Crucible or in conversation, and Saint is grateful for it. Crow needs more friends, and Shaxx is a good one to have.

Shaxx recounts the tale of a recent Crucible match – a young Warlock, very green, who’d been struggling badly, only to come back from the brink and lead her team to victory – and Saint frowns, something about the description pricking at him.

“Brother,” he says, drawing Shaxx’s attention, “I did not come to speak to you just for company tonight. I meant to ask you something.”

Shaxx raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it?”

Saint finishes off his bottle and leans forward. “You say Crucible has been busy lately, yes?”

“Busier than usual yes, but with everything that’s been going on, that is to be expected.”

Saint nods. “Yes yes. But have you seen anything… strange in matches?”

“Guardians are strange by default, Saint. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Faced with explaining it, he feels foolish, paranoid, but he has brought the subject up now, so he may as well see it through. “I feel like I have seen a change in how Guardians treat Trials in last few weeks. Less like it is training, and more like… like the purpose is to inflict harm on others. They are brutal, more cruel.”

He will not say that this is something completely new – he knows that not every Guardian has pure intentions, and their relationship with pain and death is often different to the rest of humanity – but it feels more prevalent recently.

Shaxx pauses with his bottle against his lips, and then sets it down on the table. There’s a frown between his eyes. “I think…” He trails off, lost in thought, and then continues. “A few years ago there was a group in the Crucible, called themselves the ‘Shadows of Yor’.”

Saint’s gaze snaps up to Shaxx’s at the mention of that name, a weight seeming to settle over him.

“They idolised Dredgen Yor,” Shaxx continues. “I do not know if you have heard of him,” he adds, looking at Crow.

Crow nods. “Bits and pieces. Stories travel a long way, especially in a place like the Reef.”

“There were final deaths in some of the matches these Dredgens entered,” Shaxx says, and Saint can hear how tightly controlled his voice is, tamping down anger, frustration… guilt. “Dark times. Of course, the man with the Golden Gun got involved… messy business, but it was taken care of, as much as it ever is. But the past few weeks… I get the same feeling.” He shakes his head. “Maiming instead of killing. Clean kills becoming gut shots or taking out kneecaps. Slow deaths. There are always accidents of course, and inter-team bickering is to be expected, but… it feels as though I’m waiting for something to explode, and not in a good way.”

“Have you told Vanguard?” Saint asks.

Shaxx shakes his head. “They’re already overwhelmed, and the Crucible is my business. Besides, with this new power, this Stasis, perhaps it was only to be expected. People are afraid. Throw in groups like the Praxics stoking suspicion and it’s no wonder people are on edge and tempers are fraying.”

Saint would love to believe that it is just the result of frayed tempers, worries about the situations. He wishes that he could blame everything on those who have taken the Darkness power. It would be so much simpler.

Things are never that simple. He has seen this cruelty from those he knows have never been to Europa.

“Does it seem like it comes out of nowhere?” Crow asks. He looks between them, a thoughtful look on his face. “A normal match but suddenly there’s a pressure, or someone snaps or–”

“Difficult to say in the Crucible,” Shaxx replies, “but I do know that some of the concerning behaviour has been from people I would not have expected it from.”

“I have seen it,” Saint says. His mind is reeling at this, running over the many matches that he has watched recently. “Team who are Trials regulars. Very good team, very good control. But this match they were… not sloppy. The opposite of sloppy. But vicious. Angry.”

Crow nods, and Saint can see his mind working. He reaches for another beer, more for something to keep him occupied than out of real desire. “I’ve felt it a few times now,” Crow says finally. “In the lift that time,” he says, meeting Saint’s gaze for a moment, “but since then too. Speaking with Ikora and Osiris about Nessus, and there was a charge suddenly, heat and pressure and anger, more than the conversation warranted. And the previous meeting with Osiris when–”

Osiris. It should not be possible for an eco to feel sickness, but the feeling is there anyway. His beloved has always had a hot temper, but since Saint had brought him home he has been quicker to anger, and cruel with it at times. He had blamed it on the stress of the situation. Has he been naive?

Could Osiris be causing this? The Cryptoliths had spread their infection to those on the Tangled Shore, but Osiris had been touched by Xivu Arath directly. Could her influence spread through him? He does not wish to believe it but…

No. No he will not allow himself to think like this. Osiris has not been present around Trials. He does not know any of these people.

It is not his fault. He is getting better.

“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Shaxx says, and Saint forces himself away from those dark thoughts. “If there is a problem, I’d rather keep it where I can see it. If the Vanguard force the Crucible to shut down then people will go elsewhere and there’ll be no-one to intervene.”

“That is wise,” Saint agrees, though he does not like the idea of keeping things from the Vanguard. “I will do the same.”

They finish the meal, the conversation far more subdued now, none of them truly in the mood for pleasant socialising. Shaxx takes his leave and Saint sighs and goes to join Crow where he’s settled on the couch. He still looks deep in thought, his brow furrowed. He seems uncertain, worried, and Saint leans over to rest a hand on his gently.

Crow gives him a startled look that fades into a brief smile. “Sorry. Guess I’m not the best company right now.”

“You are good bird, and we all have much on our minds,” Saint replies. He doesn’t miss the faint flush that colours Crow’s cheeks at the pet name. His mind flashes back to what Osiris had said, about after he was gone… ridiculous man.

“I can’t help but think about what happened on the Shore,” Crow admits after a few moments. “We killed the High Celebrant, but what if we missed something? You saw how the Cryptoliths had spread, burrowed into the ground.”

He remembers. The thought of them still makes him recoil. “There have been no reports of them on the Shore since,” he points out, as much a reminder to himself as to Crow. “The Vanguard has sent people to keep watch there, but there have been no more Wrathborn.”

“I’m glad for that,” Crow says. “What happened to them was… horrible. No-one deserves that.”

“Not even Spider?” Saint asks. He would gladly see Spider suffer, though even he has to admit that what had been done to the Wrathborn was monstrous.

Crow gives a soft snort. “Alright, he might deserve it, but even then… Spider isn’t every Eliksni.”

Saint cannot hide his expression of distaste. ‘Eliksni’, a pretty name for murderers.

“Really,” Crow emphasises. “Most of them are just… trying to survive, same as everyone.”

“I have seen their ‘survival’,” Saint replies. “I saw them when during Six Fronts and Twilight Gap. When they slaughtered colonists on Mercury.” He has seen so many settlements destroyed and people killed by the Fallen. And then the monstrous way that Crow had been treated.

“Isn’t that what the Warlords did too?” Crow asks giving him a sharp look. “I’ve heard enough stories from the Dark Age, Lightbearers taking over settlements, demanding tribute and torturing the people in their territory.”

“That is–” Saint’s jaw clenches. “It is not the same. Many Risen were not Warlords. Many Warlords eventually joined the Iron Lords, became defenders.” Lord Shaxx for one. Saint remembers meeting him for the first time, negotiating passage through his territory for refugees.

“That’s what I mean!” is Crow’s earnest response. “There were Eliksni who helped me when I was with Spider. They’d give me extra rations, make sure I got chance to sleep properly. Treat wounds when Glint wasn’t allowed to heal me.” He looks away, his shoulders hunching. “And there were humans and Awoken and exos, Guardians even, who hurt me when I was there. Paid for the privilege even.”

Saint stares at him, a well of sick horror opening up in his belly. He had not thought that there was room for more horror alongside his fear for Osiris. “What do you mean?”

No, he must have misunderstood.

“I thought I told you,” Crow says.

“You did not,” Saint replies, then shakes his head. “No. I– I assumed…” Assumed that while Guardians may have killed Crow, they had not been involved in that other cruelty, Spider selling Crow’s body for their play.

“I– I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Crow says. He starts to push himself to his feet, and it is like it is weeks ago on the Shore, Spider offering him that scared and beaten man as ‘help’.

He grasps Crow’s wrist, lightly enough that he can break away easily. “No, Crow, that is not what I meant,” he says. He squeezes his hand briefly. After a moment, Crow settles back down. “They paid Spider glimmer to abuse you? Guardians did this?”

Just speaking the words makes a simmer anger flare. Guardians are meant to protect! Crow’s past life does not matter!

“Their Glimmer spends as well as anyone else’s. That’s part of why when you arrived I thought-” Crow trails off, a shamed flush on his cheeks, and Saint can read what he has not said clearly enough.

It was why he had thought that Saint would hurt him. Why he had believed that Saint would use his body.

He clenches his fists a few times, forcing down the anger stoked by Crow’s words. “If you see them,” he says, “if you recognise ones who hurt you, tell me and I will drag them out from where they hide and they will face justice.”

His own justice, even if the Vanguard decides not to intervene.

Crow looks at him for a long moment, like he still can’t believe that Saint would choose to defend him. Then he shakes his head. “It’s fine. Facing justice would just mean that everyone would hear what I– what Spider made me do. I don’t want to bring more attention to it.”

Saint sighs. He does not like it. They should face justice for what they had done, but he can understand Crow’s reasoning. “Very well. But if you change your mind…”

Crow gives him a small smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” He would take great satisfaction in throwing them off the Wall if nothing else. He opens his arms slightly, an offer, and Crow gives him this pained, grateful look and leans in for Saint to enfold him in a hug. He feels Crow shake in his arms, and holds him until he pulls away, scrubbing at suspiciously red eyes.

“Thank you,” Crow says, voice ragged. “Sorry I– you’ve got a lot on your mind. I didn’t mean to add to it.”

“It is something that I take on gladly if it will help you,” Saint replies.

“Because I helped you save Osiris, right?” Crow replies, obviously trying to make a joke of it, but there is a bitter twist to his lips that makes it ring hollow.

Saint meets his gaze and reaches up to brush his cheek with the backs of his fingers, a gentle, tender touch. “No, Crow. Because you are you.”

Crow’s eyes are wide, luminous in the dim light of the room. His lips are parted, and Saint’s mind flits back to those moments on the Shore, the pretence that they had put on for Spider’s spies.

The moment stretches on, until finally Crow pulls away. “I– I should go to sleep. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“Ah, of course,” Saint says. He drops his hand, feeling foolish, guilty, frustrated at how events have combined to lead them all to this place. “Sleep well Crow.”

“You too. And thanks for the food.”

“You are very welcome. Always.”

And Saint is left alone, the room dark save for the lights of the Last City outside the window, very far below.

Chapter Text

The weapon makes its tithe in blood before the gaze of its wielder. Wings of dark fire erupt from its back, swords of scorching shadow in hand. None can stand against it.

Runes flare across its flesh, bloody and dripping with soulfire. Its laughter is a violent, joyous battle song. It fulfils its purpose, tests those who would seek to prove their right to exist, and finds them wanting. All fall before She Whose Victory Is Idempotent.

SLAY, BE SLAIN, RISE. IN THIS STRIFE YOU ARE HOME

All tithes to Xivu Arath. All tithes to the black edge of her blade.

All fall before Xivu Arath and the blade that she wields.

“Osiris!”

A voice which cuts through the din. A fragment of Light. The shrill cry of a hawk.

Dead-flesh blade. Blunt. Untempered.

“My bird. Please, Osiris.”

The dead-flesh blade reaches towards it. Does the blunt blade not hear the drumbeat? Does it not know that it denies its purpose?

YOU ARE MY BLADE. I AM YOUR PURPOSE. BRING THEM THE ECSTASY OF THE WAR ETERNAL.

The weapon strikes. It vivisects the Void Light shield that erupts around them, carves it asunder. One more proof of its wielder’s ascendancy.

The dead-flash shatters upon its sword, violet eye-lights flicker then go dark. Mind-fluid spills like hot blood. It is unworthy.

A broken blade must be shattered to be reforged.

The weapon knows its purpose.

Chapter Text

“You’ve been pacing since you woke up.”

Osiris pauses to look over at Sagira, where she hovers in the corner of the room. His shoulders slump. He feels less rested than he had before sleeping. His dreams had been… strange, even for him. Vivid. Long, dark hallways, a voice calling to him, the distant cry of a hawk. There is a weight to them that reminds him of his visions and prophecies, but he can remember so little of them! Just enough to drive him to distraction.

Normally he would tell Sagira about them. He should tell her about them. She is his Ghost, his partner. His guiding starlight.

—-She would not understand. She does not trust you.-—

His mouth goes dry. He can feel the accusation in Sagira’s gaze. He wonders if she has told them yet, about the Echoes. Would she tell them about his dreams if he recounted them? Give them reason to never stop watching him, to lock him away as a threat. To claim that madness has claimed him and he has become a servant of the Darkness that they fight.

No. He is being irrational. Such paranoia is unbecoming. He will tell her when he can speak of the dreams with certainty. When the Hive corruption is gone, when the voice is clearer, when he can finally think!

“I grow restless, Sagira,” he says. “That is all. I need space, fresh air. Access to the libraries and archives.”

He needs information. He needs to be out of this prison cell. He needs to- he needs-

Drums. He can hear them. Distant, like they’re in another part of the Tower, but he can hear them.

He turns away from his Ghost and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to focus. He needs to clear his head. He needs to find… clarity.

“Perhaps when Saint arrives, you could go somewhere,” Sagira suggests, her cheer sounding decidedly forced.

“I do not need someone to walk me around the Tower like I am a child,” he snarls, red rage flaring. Ikora sending Crow to accompany him back to his cell after meetings. The little outings with Saint where he is paraded around as though to prove that the great heretic Warlock has been defanged, rendered safe.

Light flickers, and when he looks at his hands, flames lick at his fingers. No longer the pure gold-red of Solar Light, these are tainted with shifting green-black energy. How long before that corruption is all that there is?

He takes a deep, slow breath, forcing his Light back under his control, drawing it back beneath his skin.

And still Sagira watches. He cannot hide from her.

“You know that isn’t what Saint is doing,” his Ghost says carefully. “We worry about you. I worry about you. We want you to recover.”

Do they?

…yes. Yes of course they do. They spend so much time here, cleansing his Light with their own, trying to purge Xivu Arath from his mind. He loves them both fiercely.

“I am sorry,” he says, offering her a brief smile. “I- This idleness wears on me. Waiting. Not knowing.”

“Not knowing what? You’re going to get better. It’s just… taking time.” She sounds so earnest. He wants to believe her but is hard when he can feel the Darkness creeping through him, turning her words into a lie. It feels like an attempt to placate him, to keep him trapped here. To watch him go insane so that they can prove that he was always a monster.

He makes a noise of frustration. That is ridiculous! Sagira would not do that. Saint would not. They had saved him.

They love him.

“Your Light is spiking again,” Sagira says. “You should sit down. Try to breathe, Osiris.”

“I am breathing,” he grumbles, but he follows her advice anyway and settles cross-legged on the rug. He has enough control to light a candle with a delicate mote of Solar flame, and he sets that in front of himself as a focus. He lets the bright flicker of it fill his vision, pushing away the rest of the room, pushing away any thoughts beyond the flame, beyond this moment.

His heart slows to a steady beat. He closes his eyes.

Osiris breathes.

It is a pattern long-since ingrained into his soul. Breathe in, let air flood his body, feel the Light course through him. Exhale, let thoughts and emotions leave along with breath. Slough the physical.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He is alone in the void. Intrusions no more.

There is a point in the depth. It cannot be directly viewed.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

A fading point in the aphotic depth.

An endless, unfurling midnight.

It dims.

Hungry acknowledgement.

Drums. The clash of swords. The cries of battle.

No. No. This isn’t-

LIGHTBEARER.

The voice is a tide against his mind. Overwhelming. Subduing. Claiming.

Every wound, every rune, is searing pain. A dark wave of hurt and hunger, heat and hate.

YOU ARE NOTHING. A BROKEN BLADE.

His body frozen, eyes locked shut.

Helpless in the swallowing depth.

BE REFORGED IN MY IMAGE.

He reaches for that point, the distant, dimming point in the depths.

Please. Please. He doesn’t want this.

The point offers no answer.

EMBRACE ME, LIGHTBEARER.

No. He is himself. He is Osiris. He is- he is- it is-

A chiming note. One of many of one.

He turns away from the fading osseous orb.

A dark shape against a dark sky. Vast and hungry.

The chime fills his mind. Blots out her voice.

—-We offer a path. All you need to do is take it.—-

He reaches for the chime, for the promise of it.

A rope to a drowning man.

He will be stronger than her. He will be himself.

—-Prove yourself and we will give you purpose.—-

It is so close. All he has to do is-

“Osiris!”

His eyes open.

The candle has burnt down to nearly nothing. He stares at the dying flame, breath ragged.

“Osiris?”

Sagira. Voice like warm air. A bright diamond in his Light.

“I- I am here,” he says, and his voice sounds distant.

“Your light went…” Sagira begins, then trails off. She is afraid. That realisation should concern him, but instead he feels numb.

“What happened, Sagira?”

“For a moment… for a moment I couldn’t feel it at all. Like it was blotted out by something big. Like the sun during an eclipse.”

“And now?”

His hands are shaking. Gnarled and calloused, covered with small scars from centuries of minor wounds that he hadn’t cared enough about to get Sagira to heal or try to leave out the next time he’s resurrection. His hands look old. He feels old. The Light can bring a Guardian back over and over again with no physical injuries, but mental ones are another matter. Humans were never meant to live as long as he has.

“I can feel it now. Still strong,” Sagira answers, but it sounds like she is trying to convince them both, rather than believing it. “I should do another infusion.”

“You did one overnight,” Osiris points out. Hours of it. And another in the early evening, one at midday, the effects wearing off more and more quickly, the Darkness returning stronger and stronger.

“Another one can’t hurt,” Sagira says. “I want to. It’s my Light. I’m happy to share it with you. You’re my Guardian, Osiris.”

Her Guardian. They had fit together so well, moulded into one unit over the centuries. She is the best part of him.

Her Light grates against him like coarse fabric on a raw wound. She will not touch him, and slips away, skittish, when he gets too close to her. The dreams where he crushes her shell between his fingers and extinguishes that spark come more frequently, and there is joy threaded through the horror of them.

“It isn’t getting better,” he says.

“Don’t,” Sagira says sharply. “It will. I’m as stubborn as you are, and the Hive are nothing.”

“If she is nothing, then my corruption is even more humiliating,” he snaps.

At least if he falls, it will be to a god, not some thrall or acolyte. He is not some green Guardian, newly resurrected and barely testing their limits.

“Osiris… You’ve never given up before.”

“I’m not giving up,” he replies. “I am just acknowledging what is inevitable.” He has found nothing of use. His Echoes still search, scouring libraries and networks, but there is nothing. The Echo which he had sent to Luna is just… gone. He had not felt it be destroyed, nor has the connection between them been broken, it is just gone.

EMBRACE YOUR TRUE NATURE, LIGHTBEARER.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, the press of an alien will against his own. Such arrogance to think himself capable of escaping her. The War Dominant. She whose victory is idempotent and eternal. She who wields him.

No. He is not a weapon! He is himself. There is a path, and all he need do is follow it. That chime, that whisper, it knows the way, it has promised him–

“Osiris?”

His attention snaps to Sagira. The points of her shell are drawn close together in concern. The candle flame has gone out. “Yes?”

“You spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” He scrubs a hand across his face. What had he been thinking about? It is getting more and more difficult to focus, and the Light grates against his thoughts.

“You went still and distant for ten minutes,” Sagira says. “I called you and you didn’t hear me.”

“It cannot be that long. I only just-”

“Last time I checked, I’m the one with the built in clock,” Sagira says.

She could tell him what time it is on Mercury if he asked. If Mercury still exists. Helpful considering his own sense of time is terrible, even by the standards of Guardians. How many times has set out to work on something for a few minutes, only to find that hours have passed? How often has he felt every minute as though it is an hour, dragging past at glacial pace? Sagira would know the time better than him.

Unless she is lying to him.

The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted. Sagira wouldn’t lie to him. There is no reason to lie about how much time has passed.

He needs to focus. He needs to keep searching for some solution to this.

Everyone else is relying upon naive and irrational hope – as though if they keep feeding his Light, trying the same thing over and over again, then it will start to work.

Perhaps they have already given up. They know that there is no hope and this charade of care is to keep him docile and contained, and he will wake and find the door locked and they will watch as he loses himself and say that this is what he deserves for his arrogance, his hubris, his lack of patience.

Is that what they want?

“Saint’s here,” Sagira says suddenly.

Annoyance flashes across his expression. Why does she know, and not him? Has Saint told her but not bothered to contact him?

“Thank you,” he says coldly. Sagira rears back in surprise, and his chest aches knowing he has hurt her. He deserves that pain. He will not apologise.

It is only a moment before there is a knock on the door, and Saint steps inside when Osiris calls his welcome. The sight of his beloved is… it is a relief. A reminder that the rest of the world still exists. Saint is here and real and solid.

“Osiris,” he says warmly, though the expression dims a little when he sees Sagira at the opposite side of the room. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Osiris says quickly, before Sagira can speak. Saint settles on the bed, and after a moment Osiris goes to join him. “I have been working on something for Ikora. She wanted information about the Vex network on Nessus.”

A safe, more familiar topic. Something normal. Saint slides an arm around him and Osiris leans against his side. “It has been a long time since I heard you speak about the Vex, my love.”

Osiris casts his mind back over the past few months. Since the Pyramid ships had revealed themselves, he has had other matters on his mind. He almost misses the Vex in the face of everything, their complex simplicity. “Yes, I suppose it has.”

Saint’s hand strokes against his hip, warm and familiar. “It is good to hear it.”

“Other matters have rather taken precedence.” The war that he had aways known was coming has finally reached them. They stand upon a precipice looking over a battlefield. “And it would be cruel of me to keep bringing them into your life after everything that happened.” Not when Saint had been lost in the Infinite Forest for so long, alone and hunted.

“I would not enter Infinite Forest again, no,” Saint replies, “but I would listen to you talk about them and your research because it is your passion.”

“Except when it is inconvenient to the Consensus.” The words slip out unthinkingly, wrapped in old bitterness that he had thought laid to rest.

Saint’s hand stills where it touches him. “Osiris-”

“I-” he begins, trying to trace the origin of that thought. “I am sorry. I-”

Except why should he be sorry? The City had exiled him and Saint had agreed with them. A smouldering ember of resented and anger licks with flame.

“You are under a lot of stress,” Saint says, gentle, so gentle. His beloved. “It is alright. Perhaps we could visit Nessus when you have recovered. I have heard it is very beautiful and there are plenty of Vex to study.”

“Perhaps,” Osiris agrees. “There is Europa to consider as well. The Vex have a foothold there.” He has visited the moon but never for long enough to truly investigate the Vex presence. His mind had been turned to matters of the Nine when he had ventured there.

“I am less fond of the idea of visiting Europa,” Saint says. “It is very unpleasant and cold, I have heard. My bird seems more suited to warmth,” he adds in a teasing voice.

“I can withstand the cold for the sake of research if I must,” Osiris replies. “I lived at the Iron Temple for years, and Felwinter Peak is far from tropical.” Even the mountains around the Last City are often capped with snow.

“Why go there when Nessus has Vex and considerably less unwelcoming climate?”

“Why don’t you want me to go to Europa?” he snaps. Why is he so set on Nessus? It cannot be just the climate.

Saint pulls away and Osiris laments the loss of his warmth immediately. “I did not say that, Osiris. I just believe there are better places to visit than an icy pit.”

It makes sense. Osiris knows that it does. And yet it feels like a grain of sand caught in his eye, scratching and gnawing and driving him to madness.

“Do you fear that I will finds the Darkness there?” he says, meeting Saint’s gaze intently. “That I will return with ice in my veins like those you have seen in Trials?”

“No. I- of course not. Osiris what is this?” Saint is frowning at him, a mixture of confusion and hurt.

He should stop. He wants to stop. This is Saint! He wants to- to be held by his lover, comforted. But that black thing inside him keeps rising, stirring up centuries of frustration and hurt like so much sediment.

“I went to Luna and returned as- as this,” he says coldly. “It does not surprise me that people believe I would fall so easily to the Darkness. Most believe I embraced it years ago.”

“But I do not,” Saint says firmly. “You know I never believed it of you.”

“Do I?” Osiris snarls, and he can hear those drums again, closer now, louder. “Where were you when they exiled me? It wasn’t at my side.”

They are cold words. Cruel words. Digging talons into old hurts and making them raw again. He had been exiled because none of them would listen! Because they had seen his attempts to find truth as attacks. Because he would not soften his words and thoughts for the sake of other people’s egos.

He feels the flare of the runes across his body, spreading their poison as he feeds them. The City would make a fine offering. A grand pyre to burn hope and humanity as tithe to the one who wields him.

No! No, he will not allow that to happen. He will not be the tool that destroys his people.

Better to drive someone away than have them leave. Better to wrap himself in vicious sharpness than let someone get close enough to hurt him. To be hurt.

Better to have Saint learn to hate him than hesitate when the time comes to destroy the monster he is becoming.

“Osiris!” Saint snaps, and there it is, the anger that Saint is so very good at concealing. How far he can push before Saint snaps and it turns to violence between them? There is a part of him that is eager to find out. “I know that you are hurting but this is unfair.”

He can see it so clearly; metal meeting flesh, the scorch of solar flame engulfing them the sharp, acrid scent of burning polymer and boiling alkahest as he tears into the seams between plates and digs claws into wires and circuitry to rip out that vibrant life and watch violet lights die as he offers the tithe to his god.

BURN YOUR OFFERING.

He tastes blood in his mouth like sweet wine.

“Get out,” he says.

“What?”

“Go,” Osiris says, and the anger and hurt is so easy to bring to his voice. He needs it to hurt. “I do not want you here.”

Go. Because he does not want to hurt you.

Go. Because he wants to hurt you.

Saint stares at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders slump. “Very well. I will leave you to rest.”

His words are clipped. Osiris can tell that he is holding back many feelings. He wants to ease them, to see Saint smile at him, to hold him, but the feeling of tearing him apart with his own hands is too good, too potent.

He will not risk it. He is still himself enough to do this.

“We will talk later,” Saint adds, his voice softening with promise and hope.

“If my gaoler wishes it,” Osiris replies, and the venom is only half feigned.

He sees the tense of Saint’s body, the way he restrains himself from saying more before he nods and leaves. Sagira glares at him, before she follows after Saint.

Osiris hears the door lock behind him.

OUT OF TIME, LIGHTBEARER.

Chapter Text

OUT OF TIME, LIGHTBEARER.

Xivu Arath’s will crashes over him, a tidal wave which forces him to his knees, seeking out the weak points of his mind that he can no longer shore up. It breaks pieces of him, washes them away to drown in the Deep.

For a moment, he is fire and pain and hatred.

The feeling subsides, but he knows that this is merely the waves retreating to surge once more.

He is out of time.

What does he do? He drags his scattered thoughts together. Focus, he needs to focus.

Another infusion of Light will not work. At best it will buy him hours, and they will still insist on waiting. On futile hope.

The door to the meditation is locked, but these rooms were designed to contain the dangers of words and secrets, not violence. They had never been intended to keep out the influence of Xivu Arath.

They had never been intended to imprison something like him.

Stupid. Stupid, he should have insisted upon more secure accommodations when he first realised that his condition was worsening. He should have insisted on–

–broken walls and bloodstains, bodies and the scent of burning flesh you have always served war and now you offer up what rightly belongs to her–

The flood of images, of feelings makes him gasp. He bends over, arms wrapped ‘round himself as he tries to breathe through it. He is Osiris. His is still himself.

Why had he not insisted upon more security? Why had he not pushed for guards and weapons and thicker walls? Foolish man, as caught up in fruitless hope as everyone else, so convinced of his own strength that he hadn’t been able to see clearly.

He sees clearly now. He knows what he must do.

He reaches for his spark, the fire at the core of him. It had burned so brightly but now seems like barely an ember. He coaxes it to a fragile flame, and calls it to his hands to forge the blade that he needs.

It will not be the first time he has used it against himself. What phoenix has never self-immolated?

It forms in his grasp far more slowly than it should, and he can feel it leeching away what strength and will he still possesses. But finally he holds it, the hilt in his hand, the familiar heat of it rotten and sickly, the flames shimmering black like oil which lick at the razor-keen edge YOU ARE MY BLADE, and knows how it will sever flesh and bone warp skin no scorch sinew please no raze this city to the ground and tithe all to the War Eternal.

The door handle is hot against his palm from the searing heat that coats his skin. He does not remember moving. His fingers are smeared with dark blood, and it seeps from the runes on the backs of his hands, and from beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. The scent of it is pungent, sweet. It makes his mouth water, sick anticipation.

He forces himself to step away from the door, and to allow the blade to dissipate into ragged Light.

He can hear her laughter at his futile attempts at resistance. It makes her victory sweeter.

Out of time.

He must rely on others then. He must warn them and hope that he can hold back the tide.

He snatches up his datapad to send the message. Emergency Vanguard codes. He knows those still.

Ikora, he never wished to ask such a thing of you, but he knows that you are strong and dedicated to the City in a way he never has been. He cannot leave this to Saint. It will break him and the City will need him more than ever and–

His gaze falls upon a file. Data from the cache on Nessus that Crow had discovered. It had been impulsive of Osiris to copy more than he had been given access to, but he had hoped that novelty would help to stave off boredom. He had hoped that he would be able to provide something of use, a last gift to the City he had sworn to defend. Decrypting it had been easy with his decades of practice working inside the Vex network, but he had not had chance to look through more than a few documents.

Saint had told him that Xivu Arath had destroyed Torobatl.

He opens the file, some perverse curiosity driving him to flick through the documents contained within. A curious collection. Mostly the standard military communications, both official and unofficial – messages between soldiers, jokes shared, challenges issues. Scraps of poetry. Love letters. Memorials.

So many memorials.

Each one fills him with dread. There is a suspicion growing in his mind, deep and hungry. Something that he should have thought of much earlier than he had.

He scans the documents more frantically, searching… searching…

Images from Torobatl. Captured by drones and security cameras and recording devices in helmets and civilian equipment. Preserved and shared here as memorial. Testament to what Caiatl’s people are fighting for. What they are fleeing from.

The most recent pictures are first, so he watches the fall of Torobatl backwards. The last glimpse of a ruined world burning, studded with cryptoliths, the sky black with Hive ships. Caiatl forced to retreat, an empire become refugees. Armies of Hive and Wrathborn, the Cryptoliths turning the Empress’ own people into enemies, mindless slaves of the Hive God of War.

He remembers the Tangled Shore, Eliksni and Red Legion bowed in supplication to the Cryptoliths, spikes holding the grotesque offerings that they had made of their comrades.

He remembers the scent of burning flesh as he had slaughtered them, unknowingly making his tithe.

The earliest images, moments before the invasion had begun. An Uluran woman standing, arms raised to the sky. He recognises her from his studies of the Red Legion – Umun-arath, once military commander of the Empire.

Her bare skin is carved with Hive runes.

There is a video, short, corrupted in places. It skips and jumps unnaturally. But it is enough to see what happens.

Enough to see Umun’arath conduct some Hive ritual. Enough to see her run through by the Empress.

Enough to recognise the death as a sacrifice, an offering that splits the sky and dooms Torobatl.

All tithes to Xivu Arath.

Osiris pushes back his sleeve and stares at the runes that he had carved into his own flesh in ecstatic rage. They are open wounds now, and glow brightly with soulfire.

He is a weapon. One pointed at the heart of the Last City and the Traveller. A blade to summon Xivu Arath and her forces to the Tower should they kill him. And if they fail to kill him, a sword to tithe enough power for her to invade.

He cannot stay here.

“I apologised to Saint for you.”

Osiris looks up sharply to see Sagira compile near the doorway. The spikes of her shell are sharp with frustration. “Sometimes I think you don’t even try!”

Sagira.

His grip on the datapad tightens. Her light rakes against his senses, a pain like a lingering burn.

He hates her for it. For hurting him. For dragging out this pain with her Light. For making him believe that there was hope.

“Osiris?”

He could reach out and snatch her from the air. Crush that light, extinguish that spark, end this pain.

SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BE REFORGED. SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT AND BECOME A MORE PERFECT SWORD.

“You’re shaking,” she says, uncertainty entering her voice.

“You should have stayed with him,” Osiris says. His voice sounds distant, like it isn’t him speaking at all.

“Huh? Why would I when you’re here?”

“I do not want you with me,” he says, daring to look up at her.

“Osiris you-”

“You heard me. But when have you ever cared about what I want?” They are hateful words, and he fills them with every mote of that crimson anger growing within him.

“Always!” Sagira snaps. “It’s always about you! You infuriating-”

“I never asked you to resurrect me.”

The words fall into a gaping maw of silence.

Let her be angry. Let her curse him. Let her hate him.

Let her live.

“What?” Her shock drives knives into what remains of his heart.

“I never asked you to resurrect me,” he repeats. “You brought me into a life of suffering, to die a thousand deaths for a hollow liar. It is the epitome of cruelty and you inflicted it upon me.”

The words come easily. They are arguments that he has made before, ones that had been part of the reasoning for his exile. But those had been academic, philosophical. Not this viciousness directed at the better part of his soul.

“Osiris… you- you don’t mean that…”

“I do not say that which I do not mean.”

“No! It’s this thing,” she says desperately. “It’s warping your thinking.”

She’s coming closer. No. No! 

FULFIL YOUR PURPOSE, MY BLADE.

“Talk to me Osiris! Please.”

He reaches out to her, and he can already feel what it would be like to have her shell crack between his fingers, to crush her iris into dust and wisps of Light and–

“There is nothing left.”

He snaps his fingers.

Her iris widens, and she is engulfed by a soulfire rune.

“Osi-”

Her iris goes dark and she falls. The rune spreads across the floor, holding her in place. Binding her.

SNUFF OUT THIS LIGHT.

Sagira. His hope, his humanity. His guiding starlight. 

He hopes that one day you will forgive him.

Xivu Arath snarls at being denied this tithe. Pain shrieks through him, wildfire sharp, as the runes begin their work of crushing his defiance. He does not know how long he can hold out for. Even his resistance feeds her.

He is out of time.

The door and the lock warp beneath his grasp, Solar flame and Darkness twisting metal, turning electronics into fused scrap. He cloaks himself in the Void and steps through into the hallway. They will try to stop him if they see him, and if they try, it will come to violence, and violence will summon that which he tithes to, and so he must remain hidden.

He must leave. He must get away from the City. Away from the fragile hope of humanity. He clutches the thought to him, a beacon of purpose.

He makes his way towards the less used areas of the Tower – the service hallways and storage areas and parts of the Wall that are forever under construction.

He has known for a long time that he is a single piece in a grander game than even he can truly conceive of. Perhaps Mara has seen more of it, even glimpsed the rules. He has played his part as best he can, to work towards a path which leads to survival.

He had not foreseen this. He cannot see any other paths.

He is a piece that must be removed from the board.

The air in the service hallway is thick with dust that glitters when the light catches it. There is a strange scent in the air which catches in his throat. He hears a whisper of noise, and turns to try to hear better. A voice… voices?

He needs to go. He needs to leave the Tower, leave the City and–

—-Prove yourself and we will give you purpose.—-

There is black stone beneath his feet, and lofty pillars reach up to a ceiling too high for him to make out. Harsh white lights at ground level stretch off into the distance, and he can hear the whisper calling to him. He walks, pushing through vines and fungal growths, the spores staining his clothing. There is something ahead, something that he must see…

He hears the cry of a hawk, and sees a flash of pale silver wings out of the corner of his eye. He begins to turn towards it, drawn by the incongruity of it and –

“Warlock Osiris.”

The voice wrenches him back to the Tower. There is no dark stone, no pillars, no whisper.

But there are vines, fronds of flesh fungus growing up between metal floor plates, seeking out cracks in concrete. He can see it, the network it is building, burrowing through the Tower like a corpse, feeding on… on…
“Warlock Osiris. You will come with us.”

He rounds on the speaker, a snarl on his lips for the interruption when he was so close to seeing, to understanding!

Two of them, a Warlock and Titan, both wearing the mark of the Cormorant. Praxics. He recognised the woman, dark hair and dark skin and a haughty look. He remembers when her Ghost had found her, trapped beneath twisted metal and rubble, face twisted with pain and fear.

The thought feeds him.

“Do you hear me? We will take you in, willingly or not,” she snaps.

“Aunor,” Osiris says flatly. “You do not know what you are doing.”

There is so little time.

“It isn’t difficult to see the corruption in this one,” the man says. There is a rough note to his voice, an anger that is barely suppressed by duty.

“I am hunting down a tainted Guardian,” Aunor says, and he can hear (quick flesh, pulsing blood) anger in her voice too. “One who should have been locked away years ago. Give yourself up.”

He licks lips gone dry with (blood like sweet wine) apprehension. He can feel the anticipation of his wielder coiling through him, her excitement. “You do not know what you are doing, Aunor. You have to let me leave.”

YOU ARE MY BLADE.

“You will come with us and answer our questions,” Aunor continues, ignoring his plea. She had always been skilled but dogmatic, unwilling to look beyond her simplistic notions of Light and Darkness.

“You are making a mistake.” He takes a step forwards, raises his hand to reach out…

The Titan levels a shotgun at him. He recognises the shape of it – a copy of Ikora’s favoured weapon. It has become popular amongst those who consider themselves righteous, and who do not remember or realise that Invective was Ikora’s choice of weapon during her time in the Crucible. “We will not allow monsters to run wild. Tainted Guardians must be brought in.”

He is aware of it consciously now, the tension ratcheting between them, winding tighter and tighter (make it snap), pulsing along with his blood. Pulsing along with their blood, so close… so close…

“Please,” he says, voice dragged between clenched teeth. He has to make them understand! “I am trying to-”

“You have done enough damage, heretic, and now we will end it,” Aunor says, voice cold (like a blade).

STRIKE THEM DOWN.

He staggers beneath the force of her will (it is a weapon it must fulfil its purpose), the world turned to static around him.

“It should be put down,” he distantly hears the Titan say. The snarl of war is in his voice too. It is a challenge.

He has to leave, he cannot risk the fight, but the battle song is rising within him. The pulse of hot blood is a war drum calling him to rend tear shatter anoint himself anew as the black-edged blade. It is all he can do to hold himself still.

“We will need to find his Ghost too. Doubtless as corrupted as he is,” Aunor says.

Sagira.

Red rage engulfs him and all is conflagration.

The weapon moves with single-minded purpose, fast as a striking hawk, its blade licking with soul fire. Runes flare across its skin, etching themselves ever deeper into its flesh. The dead-flesh weapons are weak things, blades in need of honing, clumsy with terror as they look upon the blade of Xivu Arath.

The thick, sharp scent of blood fills the air. Bone shattered, flesh cleaved, the frantic flutter of Light, weak and faltering as their false god.

The weapon stands over the bodies of the fallen Guardians, the fragile sparks of their futile lives already guttering.

MAKE YOUR TITHE.

Its wielder’s voice runs through it, blissful agony and exquisite clarity. It is a perfect weapon.

MAKE YOUR TITHE. ANOINT THIS PLACE FOR THE WAR ETERNAL.

It raises its sword, hungry for sacrifice, for blood spilled. All will be war, and war is all there is.

YOU ARE MY BLADE. ANOINT THIS PLACE AND OPEN THE WAY.

War is all there is, and its purpose is war.

The sharp cry of a hawk. A flash of silver wings in the corner of its vision.

Grainy images from a distant planet. An Uluran woman, blade embedded in her belly, runes blazing on her skin, laughing as the sky opens and the Black Terrace manifests.

The air is heavy, thick with potential. A knife-edge that is tilting.

It is a weapon.

It is a long-dead corpse granted life. Given grace. It is– it had been a man, hadn’t it?

Its grip falters, the form of the blade wavering in its hand.

This is not the dust and rocks of the Tangled Shore. Not fetid lunar tunnels, nor the twisting uncertainty of the Ascendant Plane.

This is metal and wood and stone. It had helped to lay these walls with its own hands. Building, not destroying.
This is the Last City. His City.

He is himself. He is Osiris.

Osiris drags himself away from the fallen Guardians, bile rising in his throat at the sight, at the knowledge of what he had done. Of what he could do, will do if he does not leave quickly.

A scream escapes him, pain scorching his veins, the runes carved into his body burning and bleeding, brutal punishment for a disobedient tool. He cannot breathe! His vision darkens at the edges and he is forced to his knees, but he cannot… he cannot give in. If he loses consciousness, he knows that he will never awaken again. Not as himself.

He cannot be here.

He dredges up every last mote of stubborn will, and wraps it around himself. Flame and lightning run across his skin as he sheds control over his Light to pour every bit of control into shoring up that core of identity.

He is himself. He is Osiris.

It is an old lesson. Iron words.

Yes. Yes that might work.

He cannot make it far. Cannot hold her at bay for much longer. But he can choose the place and method of his ending. A willing end. A mercy, not a battle.

He expends a drop of control to cloak himself in the Void, and staggers through the hallways following the insubstantial drift of silver Light. He enters the nearest hangar, less busy than the main one, but there are ships here. There are always jump ships leaving and arriving. What is one more? The codes are easy enough to feign. He should tell them to improve security and-

Out of time.

He sends one last, desperate message on an old channel, one never cut off or reassigned out of respect for the fallen. Old codes that have not seen use in so many years.

Please let this be enough.

Chapter Text

Saint scatters seed across the ground in front of his ship, and the pigeons flock to it. They coo and hop and strut, utterly fearless when faced with the possibility of a free meal. They are good birds, hardy birds. Tough and tenacious, their existence tied to humanity for thousands of years.

For a long time they had been the only birds in the sea of tents which would become to the Last City, flocking to the Traveller and scavenging for scraps the same as the people living there. Hard times, long years of privation and struggle, but they had survived to see this dream come true.

There are many birds in the City these days – ducks and geese, the smaller birds that visit the feeders that he hangs in some of the communal gardens. The chickens, of course! Even Hawthorne’s magnificent hawk, Louis. All of them very lovely. But the pigeons have been here from the start. They are stability, persistence, dedication. A sign of their survival against the odds.
So he tends to them, as he tends to the City and its people. They are entwined. And it is comforting to feed them, to know that he is making a small difference to their lives.

He needs that right now.

Get out. I do not want you here.

His hands tighten on the bag of grain, movements faltering.

Osiris is going suffering. He has been through many terrible things. It is not a surprise that he is angry, that it brings out the sharpest, cruelest parts of him. Saint knows that. It is not the first time they have fought, nor the first time that Osiris has drawn blood with his words.

It still hurts. Worry still burrows into him, gnaws at every wire and circuit of his body.

He does not know how to fix this. He does not know if it is something that can be fixed. Weeks of sharing his Light with Osiris, of driving away that awful, rotting Darkness, only to feel it flood back… He knows that Eris is searching, that Ikora has people looking for answers, but they are no more idea than they did when he brought Osiris back from the Dreaming City.

How long before that Darkness cannot be pushed back any longer?

He glances up at the sound of footsteps and smiles when he sees Crow. The Hunter’s face is shadowed by his hood, but he makes out an answering smile when he gets closer.

“Ah, Crow, my friend. It is good to see you.

“You saw me this morning,” Crow says, with dry amusement. He pushes himself up to perch on a crate in true Hunter fashion.

“It can still be good to see you, no matter how much time has passed,” Saint replies.

“Can’t argue with that. I get enough dirty looks just walking through the hangar,” Crow says. “It’s nice to have someone happy to see me.” He tries to make it sound like a joke, but Saint can hear the strain in his voice.

“You are still getting trouble?” he asks. There have been a few incidents since Crow arrived, but he had thought that people had learned to leave Crow alone by now.

“No,” Crow says quickly, too quickly, then drops his gaze and shrugs. “I mean, not really. I can deal with dirty looks.”

“You should not have to,” Saint snaps, irritation welling up. They should know that past lives are off-limits. The taboo is there for a reason. How many of them might look into their own first lives and discover actions that would make them sick? “If you tell me who they are, I will deal with them.”

“It’s fine, Saint,” Crow replies. “No point in you getting involved.”

Saint shakes his head. “We have enough enemies, we do not need Guardians creating them out of each other.”

Much of what he has learned from Crow has shaken him – Guardians inflicting terrible violence upon him, or paying Spider to– to– He does not like to think about it! And with what is going on in Trials and the Crucible… cruelty for the sake of cruelty… it takes him back to bad places and darker days. Days of Warlords and bandits, ravaged settlements and poisoned land.

Crow hums, non-committal. “I thought you were going to see Osiris. I was expecting to be waiting a while.”

Saint swallows, and then focuses on throwing more seed to hide his discomfort. He makes sure to get some near the scrawny little bird that hangs at the edge of the group. “I did.”

He can feel Crow’s sharp gaze upon him. “Did something happen?” he asks, and then seems to lose his nerve. “Sorry. Ignore me. It’s not really my business.”

“No, it is not a problem,” Saint says, even though it is. It is more of a problem than he can bear to think about too closely. “Osiris is… he is hurt, and scared. Not that he will ever admit it. Sometimes– sometimes people lash out when they feel like this.”

Where were you when they exiled me? It wasn’t at my side.

“It will pass. I will give him time to cool down,” he says with a cheer that sounds strained even to him.

It will pass. It has to pass. This is Osiris, his phoenix. Even time had bent to his will.

“He spoke about you fondly the other day,” Crow says like an offering.

“I am glad you have had chance to speak more with him.” Osiris needs more people around him. If- when he recovers, he will doubtless throw himself into his work again, chasing knowledge across the system, but Saint hopes that he will at least see Saint’s home as a nest to return to.

He hopes that one day, Osiris will realise that it is his home too.

“He’s interesting,” Crow says, “intense too. Not sure that he likes me that much.” 

“He is a good man,” Saint says, and this, he believes to his core. “He is not always good at showing it, but he is dedicated to his people. I know that if he had been the one to meet you on the Shore, he would have been just as angry as me. Spider may not have survived.” Osiris has less self-restraint than Saint, and Saint wishes that he had not needed to let Spider live. “I hope that soon we can all sit down and eat and talk together without this weight hanging over us.”

Crow smiles. “I hope so too. I–”
Geppetto’s Light spikes bright warning, and she compiles in front of him. “Saint! There’s an alert. In the meditation wing-”

Osiris.

His head is full of static. He drops the birdseed –let them glut themselves!– and is already moving when Geppetto transmats him, Crow following close behind.

Ikora is there already, with a couple of other Guardians. Saint can hear their urgent conversation as he approaches.

“What has happened?” he demands, not caring that he is interrupting.

“Saint.” Ikora turns her attention to him. Her lips are pressed tightly together, worry gouging lines around her eyes. “Osiris is gone.”

No. No, that isn’t right, isn’t– “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

There is dread pooling in his belly, his inhuman pulse thundering. Is he still alive or–“

Ikora rests a hand against his arm lightly and he wants to tear it off. “He is alive as far as we know,” she says first, and it should be reassuring, but just makes that knot of fear tighten. “He may still be in the Tower, and we have people looking but–”

“The heretic is corrupted.” The sharp voice of the Warlock Ikora had been speaking to grates against Saint’s nerves. “I cannot stand here and pretend otherwise because of your misplaced affection for him, Ikora. He is a threat to the City.”

“Aunor–” Ikora begins.

“He is not a heretic,” Saint interrupts, voice a low growl. “You know nothing.

“It attacked us,” the Titan says. Saint recognises him – Siegfried, the Praxic. He sounds as though he is trying to be solemn, collected, but there is a bile in his voice that sparks against Saint’s temper. “It should never have been allowed back into the City.”
“Do not speak of him that way,” Saint says. He wonders if Siegfried would dare to say such a thing with Osiris in front of him. 

“I only report the truth,” Siegfried replies. “It attacked us, killed us. It used vile Hive magic. It must be stopped before it can spread its corruption further. It should have been put down in the first place, rather than exiled.”

“No!” Saint lunges forward to grab Siegfried and slams him back against the wall. It takes a great effort of will not do it again and again until his head splits and he paints the wall with his blood. “You will not lay a hand upon him.”

“Why do you defend him?” Siegfried demands. He wraps his hands around Saint’s wrist, but the exo’s grip remains firm. “He nearly tore this city apart with his heresy and now he is wielding Hive sorcery! You should be standing with us to strike down the threat.”

They are words that he has heard before – from his Father, from the Consensus. He had allowed himself to believe them once and it had destroyed them. No more.

“Never,” Saint says. “I will not let you harm him. He is not lost.”

“He is filled with Darkness,” Aunor says. “He struck us down when we found him. There is no saving someone like that.”

Saint turns his head to fix her with a dark look. “Your being here proves that is not truth,” he says. “If Osiris was truly lost, utterly corrupted, then you would have met your final deaths there, and the City would be bathed in slaughter.”

He had faced the blade of Xivu Arath in the Dreaming City. There had been no mercy in it, no thoughts beyond the endless tithe to War. That they had confronted Osiris and survived means that the man he loves still has some control. He has not lost, not yet.

“It’s got you too.” Siegfried’s voice draws Saint’s attention back to him. His eyes are wide with horrified realisation. “You are meant to be a paragon! You are supposed to be an unyielding Light, but the corruption has infected you too! You must be held to account.”

He struggles against Saint’s hold, one hand reaching for his weapon. Saint’s grip tightens around his neck… he draws his hand back to slam it into his face, to crush his throat and see him struggle as the light dies behind his eyes. Snap his neck, tear him apart, let blood coat his hands, make him suffer…

Whispers urge him on. An echo of that voice which had torn through his mind in the Dreaming City, that had destroyed Osiris’ will.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ikora’s hand raised, Void wrapped around her fingers. He sees Crow tense, hand on his weapon. He wants to hurt this man that he holds, the feeling swelling, growing, like twisted vines wrapping around him and–

Slowly, so slowly, each movement an effort that is painful, he relaxes his grip on Siegfried. He forces himself to step back from the precipice, and away from the other Titan.

Osiris needs him. He cannot fail him.

“Siegfried,” he says, his voice like rusted metal, “you are man of honour. You do not follow the path of mindless violence. You are not a Warlord.”

Neither is he. He had sworn to protect his people, not to harm them. He is Saint-14!

Siegfried’s hand grips his shotgun tightly, his gaze fixed on Saint. The sight of it urges him to move, to fight, to kill, but he is more stubborn than the whisper.

The moment stretches out, until finally Siegfried’s grip loosens, the shotgun lowers. He staggers, reaching up to run his hand across his face. “I– I felt–”

“We all did,” Crow says, looking between everyone gathered. “And I would wager that other people have felt it too. I don’t think it’s just tensions running high.”

“The violence that I have seen in Trials and in Crucible…” Saint says hesitantly, feeling as though he is admitting a guilty secret. Yes, yes that would make sense.

“Our investigations into tainted Guardians have been… you have seen the uptick in them, Ikora,” Aunor says. “Some of what we have seen has come from unexpected sources – Guardians who usually reliable and have never been to Europa, or even left the City recently. Unprovoked aggression, even violence. Paranoia.”

Siegfried looks over at her, his eyes narrowed. “What prompted you to hunt down the heret–” he pauses and glances at Saint then clears his throat, “to hunt down Osiris? I did not receive any orders or messages about him and yet…”

Aunor looks even more uncomfortable, though she is trying to hide it. “A hunch,” she admits. “A sudden feeling of wrongness that needed to be investigated.”

“Where did you find Osiris?” Saint demands, growing impatience with this. If he is gone, then Saint needs to find him. To help him.

To stop him.

“A service area,” Siegfried says. “I will provide you with the exact location, but he was gone when our Ghosts felt secure enough to resurrect us.”

It is a start. He can scour the area. He doubts Osiris has taken his own ship, but if he is not thinking clearly then he may not be hiding his tracks as cleverly as he normally might.

He can feel Geppetto sending out queries to the Ghost network, asking for news. He feels her frustration when attempts to contact Sagira are not responded to.

Is she with him? Surely she would have tried to contact someone! Or maybe she had been visiting other Ghosts or in the library or…

He will not think it. He refuses to believe that Osiris would–

–a hand outstretched towards a Ghost, snapping fingers, a curl of corrupted flame–

“I will search,” he says, urgency making his voice sharp.

“Saint, a moment,” Ikora says, touching his arm lightly. “I realise that you want to go after him, but there is something you should see first.”

He had not thought that his dread could become any deeper, but those words from Ikora, the solemn expression... He hesitates for a moment and then nods. She would not ask him if it was not important.

“Aunor, Siegfried, Crow,” Ikora says, turning her attention quickly to them, “speak with security, find out what you can. Any hint about where Osiris has gone. Then I want you to gather all of the reports of people affected by this paranoia or aggression, and begin trying to find any correlations.”

“Osiris could be responsible,” Aunor says, and Saint gives her a dark look that she ignores. “His corruption spreading.”

“Then it is especially important that we find him,” Ikora replies, her voice far calmer than Saint would have managed.

For a second, Aunor looks as though she might argue, but finally she ducks her head in a bow and leaves along with Siegfried. Crow lingers, giving Saint a look of concern.

Saint steps over to him and gives him shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Go. I will handle things here. And if you find anything about him…”

“I’ll tell you,” Crow says. Saint feels a swell of gratitude towards the Hunter. He does not know what he would have done without him. On the Shore, and now here.

“Do not let Praxics bully you,” he adds.

“I’ll do my best. Let me know if you need my help.”

He leaves, and Saint turns his attention to Ikora. “Show me. Quickly.”

Is it his fault? Had their argument earlier been the tipping point? Why had he not done more? He should have done more! Why had he not insisted upon staying with Osiris? Why had he not been quicker to find him on the Shore?

Why had he not tried harder to stop Osiris leaving in the first place?

The door to Osiris’ room is warped and twisted, and Saint does not need to guess to know that it was subjected to great heat. The scent of blood and decay hits him as soon as he enters, a scent he has come to associate with the Hive. Overlaying it is the smell of scorch and ozone. But the scent is nothing compared to what lies in the centre of the room.

A circle of sickly green-yellow soulfire burns on the ground, its tendrils wrapped around a familiar spiked Ghost shell.

“Sagira!” He lunges for her, to free her from that trap. No, no Osiris you– how could you? Please don’t let her be–

“She is alive,” Ikora says urgently, but even that confirmation does not bring the relief that it should. “As far as we can tell, she’s unconscious, but I don’t know what taking her out of the circle might do. I… I didn’t even know that Osiris could use Hive magic,” she admits, the uncertainty breaking through her placid facade.

“I– in the Dreaming City, there were altars to Xivu Arath,” Saint says. The words feel distant, like someone else is speaking. He cannot tear his gaze away from Sagira. “There was soulfire warping his Light but I–” He had seen it as a spreading infection, not something that Osiris could control. But this… this was intentional. He had told Aunor and Siegfried that Osiris not giving them final deaths means that he is still himself, and Sagira is alive, but it is difficult to hold onto that weak, flickering hope.

“How–” he begins, trying to drag his scattered thoughts together, “how will you free her?” Will she be alright when she is freed?

“Eris is already on her way,” Ikora says.

He gives an absent nod, gaze still fixed on Sagira. Ghosts are their partners, and as much as Osiris and Sagira had bickered, he knows that they love each other more than life. Osiris leaving her behind like this…

“I need to find him,” he says, desperation creeping into his voice. “I cannot-”

He cannot lose him. Not again. Not to Xivu Arath. His phoenix has burned so brightly, and he cannot bear the thought of this darkness snuffing out that flame.

“I will search for him,” he says more firmly, as though he can will his needs into being. “I will bring him home.”

Or grant him an end that will spare him from this fate.

Chapter Text

“It is a spell of binding, albeit one which I believe was cast out of instinct rather than knowledge.”

“What does that mean?”

The voices are distant, distorted, like they are being heard through deep water or the hull of a ship.

“That it lacks the integrity of a true spell and that means it should be easier to unravel.”

“Good, that is– Is she hurt?”

Who? Who is hurt? Where is she? Why do they sound so strange? Why can’t she see them?

“I do not believe so. I suspect that the spell was intended to prevent her following him, but not to cause harm.”

“That- that is good. Isn’t it?”

It doesn’t sound good. Trapping someone like that still seems like a bad thing!

“From what I observed on Luna, if he was completely lost to Xivu Arath’s influence, he would not have stopped at creating a trap.”

That name– it sends a thrill of fear through her.

Everything is so dark and she can’t speak. Can’t see. Can’t feel. Even the Light is distant.

“I– yes. Yes you are right. But I–”

“Osiris’s will is strong, and he is stubborn. He has fought off Xivu Arath’s influence for far longer than most other would be able to. Do not lose faith in him, Saint.”

Osiris.

Osiris!

Where is he? She has to find him! She has to warn them! She has to- has to-

Sickly green light flares around her, warm like an infected wound. The sensation of it being dragged across her shell, bonds drawn to breaking point and then–

She is scooped up into large hands which cradle her gently. A thumb strokes against one of the spikes of her shell. She feels out thought and movement and sight and opens her iris and–

“Sagira?”

She stares up at a familiar face – the unmistakable exo form of Saint-14, faceplates drawn into an expression of deep, painful worry.
“Saint? Where am I?”

“In the Tower. You do not remember what happened?”

“Uh-” Why does she feel so fuzzy? She remembers going after Saint to apologise for Osiris’ behaviour – not the first time that’s happened, but he’s rarely been so openly cruel, not since around the time of his exile – and returning to find him... The things he’d said…

Oh. Oh no.

She launches herself out of Saint’s hands, and turns quickly to look around the room, as though she’ll find her Guardian here.

She… she can’t feel him. She knows that he is alive, but she can’t tell where he is, can’t feel his Light. Like when they’d been on the Shore and Osiris had been…

“Where is he?” Sagira demands. “Where’s Osiris?”

“We do not know,” Saint says quietly. “He has gone.”

Sagira stares at him, her iris wide. Gone? He’s just… gone? Left her behind? But he-

I never asked you to resurrect me.

The snap of his fingers. The Hive magic coiling around her. The guttering flame of his Light as Darkness suffocates it.

Gone.

“He… he trapped me,” she says, and is this what humans mean when they say they feel sick, this lurching feeling, like the world has capsized? A pit opening to swallow her? “He told me that– that I brought him back to suffer. That I shouldn’t have ever resurrected him and then he–”

There is nothing left.

“Osiris is-” Saint starts again.

“I can’t,” she says, and does her voice really sound like that? Thin and distant, like someone else is speaking? “I- I can’t be here. I can’t think about him. I’m- I’m done.”

She gives Saint a helpless look, the spikes of her shell drooping. He holds out a hand towards her, but she… she can’t. She pulls back and speeds away, ignoring the call from behind her. Ignoring the people she passes, the Guardians and tech staff and civilians and-

She does not have a plan for where to go. It doesn’t matter. What’s the point? Osiris is gone. Gone from the Tower, maybe gone in far more permanent ways. And he has abandoned her. He doesn’t want her. He is her Guardian, to other part of her soul, and now he thinks… he says…

Had she really brought him back just to make him suffer?

It has always been the two of them. Long before they met the Iron Lords they had travelled together. Even when Osiris was exiled, when they had gone to Mercury, searched the Infinite Forest for lives uncounted, she had been with him, supported him.

Made excuses for him.

He is the brightest Light she has ever seen and now…

She comes to a stop, her aimless flight finally spent and she… she doesn’t know where she is. Somewhere within the walls, probably still in the Tower, but she doesn’t know any part of the Tower that’s filled with these strange, waving vines, and fleshy growths of plant-matter. The air glitters in the weak light of her iris.

“You look distressed.”

Behind her!

She spins and finds herself facing another Ghost. Not one she recognises, though that isn’t hard. She’d been cut off from the Ghost network for quite a while. Tex Mechanica shell, all golds and browns. It’s scuffed and scratched, but in good repair – the kind of damage you get when you’re in combat a lot, but have someone to take care of you.

Once she’d known pretty much everyone, Ghosts and Guardians. She’d had to. Osiris had been Vanguard Commander which meant that handling most of the social responsibilities of the position had fallen to her. Osiris certainly hadn’t been going to take care of them.

(And now he’s left her alone.)

“Oh. I- Just having a day,” She says it as brightly as she can, because she still has some pride.

“Seems like everyone has been having a lot of those recently,” the other Ghost says. “It doesn’t seem to stop.”

“I suppose not,” Sagira replies. The Infinite Forest had been far from safe or relaxing, but they’d learned the rhythm of it. It hadn’t been emergency after emergency. Everything is coming to fruition, and in such a short space of time.

“You probably wouldn’t be in a dusty store room if things were going well,” the other Ghost says, though his joking tone falls flat.

“Dusty store room full of fungus? No this is where I always come when I want to relax,” is Samira’s dry response. “And you’re in here too so-”

“Having a day,” the Ghost replies with an approximation of a shrug. “I had a… disagreement with my Guardian. I am avoiding him for a while.”

Sagira winces, part sympathy, part annoyance – she isn’t in the mood to deal with anyone else’s Guardian woes. Dealing with Osiris is more than enough. “Yeah. Know how that feels.”

“It’s hard,” the Ghost says. “We give them everything, sacrifice everything for them, and yet-”

“They’re stubborn assholes who don’t listen to sense when you try to help them,” Sagira finishes. How many times has she warned him about something, only for Osiris to do it anyway? It feels sometimes like he does it to spite her. Look at what had happened on Luna! He’d sent her away and Xivu Arath had broken him.

“Something like that,” the Ghost says, and gives a small, awkward laugh. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Gilly. Gilgamesh.”

“Mesopotamian. Very historical. I’m Sagira.”

The Ghost’s shell spins, iris widening. “You’re Sagira? Osiris’s Ghost?”

“More like he’s my Guardian.”

“Sorry,” Gilgamesh says. “I should know better. Getting lumped in with your Guardian like you’re just an extension of them. As if you don’t have feelings of your own.”

Sagira snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. He’s so stubborn!”

Always convinced of how right he is. Always throwing himself into danger as though it doesn’t affect her too. As though seeing him injured or dead doesn’t break a part of her every time.

“Always making decisions that affect both of you without even asking your opinion,” Gilgamesh agrees.

“Exactly!” Sagira says. Like taking them off to Mercury or to weird anomalies in the middle of space. Like going to Luna chasing the Wrathborn and not waiting for help. If he’d just listened!

“They don’t seem to care about how much it hurts. They don’t care as long as we bring them back, give them power.”

Something feels off. Maybe it’s the way that Gilgamesh says it, a discordant note in his voice.

No. It’s probably nothing. She’s just unsettled by the situation.

“Must have been a really bad argument you had with your Guardian,” she says, trying to keep her tone light.

“Something like that,” Gilgamesh says. “It’s exhausting. It feels like none of it ever ends. We’re just… burning over and over again.”

“It has been one thing after another recently.” Strange to think that once they had considered Warlords the greatest threat, and now there’s Crota, Oryx, the curse on the Dreaming City and the arrival of the pyramid fleet, all within a few years. There’s no space to breathe.

Osiris would say something pretentious about forces converging, prophecies being realised. The Darkness they had always known was out there, finally making its play in a way that everyone can see.

She hates it when he’s right. He is, unfortunately, right a lot.

“It hasn’t been the same since the Red War,” Gilgamesh says. “He left me here then. Abandoned me in the ruins of the City. Hard to come back from that.”

You brought me into a life of suffering and pain, to die a thousand deaths.

After everything they’ve done together. All of the hardships they’ve faced together. Had it been the corruption talking? Or had it just brought out a truth that Osiris had never admitted?

“It never ends,” Gilgamesh says. “We’re just drowning, forever. Scraping by, barely surviving. So much suffering.”

“Sometimes that’s life,” Sagira says. “But we have survived.” Centuries of the Dark Age, of struggle and strife. Even the sanctuary of the Last City had been oh-so fragile. Sometimes she thinks that in coming to the City, she and Osiris had exchanged one kind of struggle for another, one that they were infinitely less suited for.

“Is survival really enough?” Gilgamesh asks.

Sagira shivers, that discomfort growing. There’s something in the way he says it…

“You survive for what comes afterwards,” she replies, but it sounds like deceit when she has been shorn in two. It’s meant to be Sagira and Osiris. She doesn’t know how to be just Sagira.

“What if there is nothing else? Even the Traveller can’t save us.”

The Traveller.

The Traveller had awoken. Reformed. Healed itself in a blaze so bright it had been a beacon across the system.

It feels presumptuous to think that the Traveller would care, but she doesn’t have anywhere else to turn. Doing something has to be better than doing nothing.

“I need to go,” she says. “Nice meeting you Gilly. Hope you make up with your Guardian!”

Or get therapy.

“Wait!” Gilgamesh calls, but she’s already leaving.

She should really tell maintenance about those vines.

Chapter Text

The Traveller casts a deep shadow over the stone garden which lies, more or less, at the centre of the Last City. Osiris had spent hours here before they had been exiled, lost in meditation and attempts at communion. He had wanted answers so badly, had wanted guidance to help his people. She remembers his frustration at its silence.

She can’t really blame him.
Sagira doesn’t remember being part of the Traveller. She doesn’t think any of them do, no matter what some claim. She doesn’t remember leaving the Traveller either. She just knows that she had suddenly been, and that she had to find something very special.

Osiris’ spark had blazed from miles away, and she had known that he was going to do great things. She had known that he would defend and uplift humanity, and would hold back the Darkness.

And all of that is true. What she hadn’t known about was the sharp tongue, the ego, the stunning lack of understanding when it came to human interaction, but hey, no-one is perfect. No matter how much Osiris thinks he is.

And now she is here alone. Because Osiris is gone, and she doesn’t know what to do.

“Is this a punishment?” she asks, staring up at the Traveller, the thing that she had been part of. It must understand, right? If she came from it, then it must understand.

“Did I do something terrible to have things end like this?” she asks, barrelling on when there is no response. “How badly did I do to lose my Guardian like this? He hates me. He thinks I cursed him! So what did I do wrong?”

Nothing. No response. No sudden thought passing through her mind or flash of clarity.

Nothing.

“Was I not… devoted enough? Did I not guide him well enough?” Her shell spins, and then her fins lean inward in embarrassment. “Are you mad about the whole exile thing? Because Osiris never wanted a cult! Really! And the Consensus were assholes and-”

This is probably not the best way to talk if she wants answers. She isn’t sure what the best way to get answers is. This must be what Osiris had felt like all those times he sat here, hoping for guidance. Had he ever felt this helpless? This alone?

“He is a good person though,” she continues earnestly. “It’s just this… this thing eating him. And if it is a punishment for me then– then don’t take it out on him! He doesn’t deserve it. He’s done nothing but work to protect people, protect you even when he doesn’t trust you and it’s not fair for him to go through this!”

Osiris is good. He always has been, even when people haven’t trusted him, when they’ve turned on him. Even in the depths of his obsessions, there had always been that core of devotion to his people. She’d seen the spark in him all those centuries ago when he had been nothing but crumbling bones, and he has done more than she had ever imagined possible. She loves him, even if she doesn’t always like him, and she is so so proud of him.

It’s easier to admit that out here, in the sunlight, beneath the Traveller, than it had been in the meditation chamber with that horrible Hive trap, or in the dusty, weed-infested store room with a creepy, angry Ghost. It is as though a weight has lifted from her, a veil removed from her eye, letting her see clearly. She hadn’t realised how oppressive the atmosphere had become stuck in a single room for so long.

“Osiris is hurting,” she says, determination creeping into her voice. “He’s scared, and that… that thing is eating him from the inside.” That Darkness, whatever Xivu Arath had done to him, it’s still spreading and she doesn’t know how to fix it. But she’s going to try.

No. She is going to succeed.

“Any answers?” she asks the Traveller. “Clues? Helpful hints? …a manual?”

It isn’t as though Ghosts get much more information than the people they resurrect. They’re all just making it up as they go along, hoping they make the right choices.

The Traveller remains stubbornly silent.

“You’re no use,” she tells it. “Just floating up there, all silent and mysterious, playing hard to get.”

Come on, give her something! People will start to think she’s crazy, talking to herself out here.

And every moment is one less for Osiris.

No. She won’t lose him. She refuses.

“Well fine!” she shouts up at the orb. “I don’t need you. Osiris is good. Osiris is the brightest Light ever kindled, and he’s mine. Where he goes, I go. Even if he falls to the Darkness. Because I trust him.”

She trusts him. He had trapped her, but even then, even with her helpless, he hadn’t killed her. It wasn’t like the Dreaming City. He’s still in there.

“He’s my Guardian, and if you can’t see his worth, then you’re worth nothing,” she spits, iris narrowing at the Traveller.

She turns away. She needs to get back to Saint so they can find her idiot Guardian.

A flush of deep warmth suffuses her, like bathing in a sunbeam. It fills her, buoys her, drives away those rotten thoughts which had been eating her, like dusting away cobwebs and she is–

falling falling a blaze of golden light and broken feathers and silver blood wings broken torn cut by a thousand knives the jagged mountain shatters bones to dust and freezes breath and the world is dying over and over again and there is nothing it can do oil-slick crawling through feathers poison crystallising stretches and pinned and… there is a bright star, a single point, it calls out, a blaze of guttering flame and it–

Sagira rears back from the intensity of the vision. If she had a heart, it would be racing. She’s never… she doesn’t think anyone has ever…

No, this isn’t the time! Osiris… she knows she has to find him.

She looks up at the Traveller, iris narrowed suspiciously. “That’s more like it.” And then, because maybe she shouldn’t push her luck, “Thank you.”

She locks onto Geppetto’s frequency, and transmats, finding herself in the hangar, just outside Saint’s ship.

“Sagira!” Saint says when he spots her. He’s fully armoured and armed, in the middle of checking the ammo in his hand cannon. “I know that you are angry at Osiris but I must–”

“I’m coming with you,” she says quickly. “I’m not losing him.”

She can sense Saint’s relief. “Good. I will not give up on him either. Not after everything. It would not feel right to find him without you.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“Ship he took had flight plan for Saturn entered, though we do not know why he would head there.”

Saturn? That doesn’t seem right. The Dreadnaught, maybe, but…

The vision. The mountain she’d seen.

She connects to the network, searching as quickly as she can without risking imprecision. She knows how Osiris works, how sneaky he can be when he chooses. He’d spent lifetimes inside the Vex network and learned to manipulate their systems after all. She also knows that he isn’t thinking clearly right now, probably won’t hide his tracks as well as he could. She pores through the data and–

There.

The message had been sent using an old code, old enough that it predates the Last City by centuries. The frequency is one that hasn’t been using since before their exile. Retired in honour.

Felwinter’s code. And the only person it could have been sent to is Lord Saladin.

“He’s going to Felwinter Peak,” she says, turning to Saint.

“The Iron Temple? Are you sure?”

“He contacted Saladin and–”

Oh. Oh no.

Another data point. Documents that Osiris had decrypted and sent to the Vanguard just before he’d left. Images and recordings and messages from the fall of Torobatl. A woman covered in Hive runes, arms outstretched in supplication as she is run though by a sword.

“We need to go now,” she says sharply. “He’s planning to get Saladin to kill him.”

And she does not know whether this is to escape Xivu Arath, or summon her. 

Chapter Text

The Iron Temple seems almost unchanged from the first time that Osiris had seen it; the snow-capped peak of the mountain, the grey dome of the observatory, the looming pillars of the temple itself. Monuments to those who had made a home here. Those who had been lost.

Snow had begun to fall when he had landed, and now it blankets the courtyard in pristine frozen white. It will be a storm before long, and even the wolves have retreated to more sheltered spaces. Without the fires burning, it is a lonely place, and silent as a tomb.

He had been young when he had first made the ascent up the mountain, all those centuries ago. Young, inexperienced, a new thing still testing the limits of his power and immortality. Already so arrogant, and so angry at the flaws of the universe.

He had come seeking knowledge and guidance. Seeking answers that he now knows do not exist. What he had found was the first place, after years of travelling and hiding and fighting, where he felt safe. A place where he could rest without needing to watch his back at every moment. He had been powerful even then, but there is only so much that power alone could do in a world still filled with the chaos and monsters wrought by the Collapse.

And now he returns as the monster itself.

He reaches the temple doors and pushes them open, allowing himself entry to this hallowed hall for the first time in… he does not remember. Certainly, it had been before his exile. Had he come back after the Iron Lords had fallen? He doesn’t remember. He supposes it will not matter soon enough.

The great fire burns in the centre of the chamber, obviously tended by those who are stationed here at Saladin’s behest. It casts ruddy, flickering light over the towering figures of the memorial statues, and the shadow of the Ironwood tree shifts as though there are leaves caught in the wind.

The statues stare down at him. He recognises them, the Iron Lords. Friends, confidants, teachers. People who had shaped him in his earliest days.

And they are all dead.

A WORTHY SACRIFICE. THEIR LIVES ARE TITHE TO WAR.

He gasps at the pressure of the words, barely managing to remain standing. He wraps his arms around himself, squeezes his eyes shut, fighting to keep a grip on his mind. The runes on his skin burn and bleed and burrow into him as she seeks to unmake him and reforge him into that pitiless thing once more. Just a little longer, please, please let him hold out just a little longer!

YOU ARE MY BLADE. THIS IS YOUR PURPOSE.

“No,” he snarls, though is it in denial of her words, or rejecting his own plea to hold out? He does not know anymore.

But… no. No he will end this on his own terms. He will end this as himself, he swears it. He is Osiris, the Phoenix, exile and hero and scholar. Lover of Saint-14. A Guardian. He is a Guardian.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to move until he stands in front of the statue of Lord Felwinter. He stares up at it, the carved details of his helm and robes that are so familiar to him.

He wishes that Felwinter was here.

He has always been solitary by nature, and fiercely independent. There are few people that he is willing to allow see him in a state of vulnerability, and yet here he is, seeking the protective wings of his mentor, like a child seeking comfort from a parent.

But Guardians do not have parents, and even Felwinter would not have been able to help with this matter.

A sound! He turns quickly to face the doors and sees… nothing. Jumping at shadows in his own fractured mind.

There is snow blowing in now. Why had he bothered to enter? The courtyard would have served well enough to face Saladin, without risk of desecrating this place. Perhaps it is some deep well of masochism that prompted him to face his end in the shadow of his past.

—-Leave behind that which makes you weak. We will be your Witness.-—

He stares at the door a moment longer, and then turns back to the solemn, silent figure of his mentor.

“You had such hopes for me,” he says. “I was to be a protector of humanity, driving back the Darkness. A leader, helping to guide us through treacherous paths. He laughs, and it sounds like a growl of pain. “Perhaps it is good that you did not live to see me exiled. That you did not live to see me become… this.”

They had dedicated their lives to keeping humanity safe, and the Warmind had murdered them and–

Flame licks across his skin and rage flares within him, filling his throat with acid and hatred. He fights it down, but it is only a matter of time. He can feel it threatening to consume him.

He just needs a little longer.

“I did great things,” he says, and looks back up at the statue. He draws on everything he has, all that arrogance that he has cultivated. It will be fuel for the Phoenix to burn one last time. “I was warden of the Infinite Forest and I walked the Corridors of Time. I stole power from the Taken King, and bent reality to my will to restore Saint. I will be remembered.”

He will die on his own terms, as himself.

Chapter Text

”Lord Saladin. You will excuse me if I do not stop to exchange pleasantries. My time here is short, and I have much to arrange.”

The soon-to-be exile is as haughty as ever, perhaps ever more so, as though the Last City has already lost his interest.

That is probably accurate – had his attention ever truly been on anything other than his own interests? Once, Felwinter had believed that Osiris could be one of them, an Iron Lord – Osiris had refused, and at the time Saladin had assumed that it was because he wished to focus on the fledgling city. Now he knows that it is because Osiris is uninterested in anything other than himself.

“Abandoning the City and the people that the Iron Lords swore to defend,” Saladin says, and it comes out as accusation. “They would have been ashamed of you.”

Osiris’s jaw clenches, a second of pain in his gaze, and then his expression returns to that blank disinterest.

“They are dead, Lord Saladin. They defend nothing anymore.”

Osiris turns and walks away.

—————

The sight of the temple door standing open sparks Saladin’s ire. Irrational perhaps, but when Osiris is involved, even the most innocuous things have a tendency to become pure frustration. He doubts that the Warlock has changed in that regard during his long absence, and Saladin is already braced to make his anger known.

Using Felwinter’s codes and channel… the man has no respect!

He sends away the wolves that have accompanied him, and climbs the steps to the Iron Temple, that most sacred memorial to his fallen comrades. He closes the door behind himself to keep out the snow. Isirah gives him his axe, and he enters the hall to face whatever trouble Osiris has brought to this place.

The shadowy figure of the Warlock stands in front of Felwinter’s statue, and does not seem to notice his entrance, even though Saladin had been far from stealthy. Across their link, Isirah hums with warning, a deep discomfort that is wholly unlike her.

He takes a step towards the Warlock. “Osiris.”

Osiris turns sharply, obviously startled, his eyes wide, a wild look in them. Strange. Osiris has always been observant and careful of his surroundings, even when he first arrived on the mountain seeking tutelage.

“You came.” There is a note of wonder in his voice, a deep relief that seeps into his expression for a moment, before his gaze skitters away from Saladin, and he looks over to the left as though he had heard something, though there is nothing there that Saladin can tell.

“What business do you have with me?” Saladin asks, not in the mood to waste time with pleasantries. “Have you brought the Vex down on us? Broken reality on Venus?” Whatever reason Osiris has, it can be nothing good.

Osiris looks back at him, frowning as though he had forgotten that Saladin was there. His eyes are very dark in the firelight, and there is something unsettling about the way he looks, the odd way he moves. For one mad moment, Saladin can think only of the jerking, inhuman way his comrades had moved as they were puppeted by SIVA, but that had been a long time ago, and SIVA is gone.

“I had to leave the City, I had to– I need…” He trails off and his gaze slips away again, searching for something in the midst of nothing.

“Osiris?”

The Warlock stares at him and then shakes his head violently. “No. No, no… I–”

He backs away to press himself against Felwinter’s statue. Saladin sees lightning run over his fingers and hefts his gaze, ready to defend himself, but Osiris is not looking at him now. The Warlock flinches and shoves up the sleeve of his robe.

His arm is scarred with symbols which glow with a malevolent green light, and Saladin can see the trails of blood which run from them. It is a horrifying sight.

Something is very, very wrong.

“Osiris, what have you done?”

“I find myself in need of your aid, Lord Saladin,” Osiris replies, and the smile he gives is bitter and exhausted. His expression is drawn with pain and… fear. He is afraid, Saladin realises. He does not know if he has ever seen Osiris show fear before, even on the eve of Six Fronts.

“Tell me what is going on, Osiris,” Saladin says, and then, more quietly, “Why come to me?” For all Osiris has burned many bridges, Saladin knows that he has his own allies, people he could turn to long before Saladin himself.

“There is no-one else who I can trust with this,” Osiris says. He gives a laugh that sounds like broken glass and clashing swords. “I need you to kill me before I can harm anyone.”

Saladin remembers the mass of SIVA as it infected the Iron Lords, turning sworn comrades against each other. He remembers the corpses of his comrades twisted into monstrosities.

He remembers Jolder meeting his eyes as she sealed the replication chamber. The look of resignation and fear, and most of all determination, on her face.

It is a look that is now mirrored in Osiris’ eyes.

“Please,” Osiris says, as close to begging as Saladin has ever heard him. “She will use me as a weapon against everything that we have built. I would rather die as myself than live as her blade.”

He wants to ask for more information, to demand that Osiris explain, but the man sinks down to his knees on the ground in front of him. Dark blood drips onto the floor from those awful glowing sigils carved into Osiris’ skin.

There is desperation in Osiris’ expression, yes, but also a kind of acceptance. Peace, almost.

“Do it,” Osiris urges. “I will beg, if I have to.”

Saladin does not want that, disturbed enough at seeing the arrogant Warlock so humbled.

They had been friends once, long ago. To see a friend in such pain, such fear…

He closes his eyes for a second and then nods.

“I will.” How can he not honour such a request? He hefts his axe, ready for a blow, and when he speaks, it is with the respect and care due someone who had once been a comrade. “Be at peace, Osiris.”

Chapter Text

Faster! They need to be faster!

Sagira shines her light as brightly as she can in the face of the worsening blizzard. She can see Geppetto’s matching light nearby, but the snow Is heavy enough that she can’t make out more than that. Even Saint’s large form is obscured.

The change in the sound of his footsteps is the only indication that they’ve crossed the bridge and reached the courtyard of the Iron Temple. Sagira reaches out once more, searching for Osiris’ Light. He has always burned so brightly – not being able to sense him is… it’s wrong, so very wrong.

She hopes that they aren’t too late. She would know, wouldn’t she? If he was truly gone? Traveller, please, please, she had been part of you once, so you must understand. Let them be in time. Let them save her foolish, brilliant Osiris from himself.

Haven’t they both earned that? And if they haven’t then… then what sort of monster are you?

A flicker nearby. An ember, weak and guttering, choked beneath a tangle of Hive magic like strangling vines. It’s him, it’s Osiris. He is still alive! Still himself.

She hopes.

The hulking, imperious bulk of the Iron Temple looms ahead of them in the darkness. The doors are closed, but Saint throws himself against them. They are old but well cared for these days, and they open beneath the Titan’s strength.

Sagira darts through them as soon as the gap is wide enough, and in the hall is–

The firelight flickers along the blade of Saladin’s raised axe, poised to be brought down on the kneeling figure before him.

For a second, she cannot move. The sight burns into her.

The frigid air from the door opening shakes her from her stupor and she rears back to throw herself at Saladin.

“Stop!”

Saladin falls back a pace, the axe lowering, and Osiris looks up at her, startled. She can tell just looking at him that there isn’t much time. He seems unfocused where he is normally sharp, and there is a fire in his eyes that is the antithesis of Solar flame.

“Sagira?” He stares at her, and then his gaze drifts to Saint as he steps through the door. “Saint… no, no you cannot be here. Get out!” Black-edged flame licks at his fingers, and Sagira can feel the heat of it – it is like a fever burning through him.

“Osiris!” Saint says, moving towards him. It makes Osiris flinch, and press back against the statue, eyes darting around the room like a trapped wolf. “Let us help you.”

“You cannot. It is too late,” Osiris says, his voice cracking. “I can hear her. I imagine tearing you apart and it feels good.”

“We will find a way,” Saint says. “I swear it.”
But what can they do? Sagira can feel that rotten Light inside him, his spark so close to being snuffed out. If he dies now, she doesn’t think that she can bring him back. It will be a final death and she will be alone.

“It is not getting better,” Osiris pleads. “I refuse to be her pawn. Please…”

“He is a threat. I will not allow this corruption to consume him,” Saladin says. He raises the axe once more. Osiris gives him a look of pure gratitude and Sagira hates it. It is so wrong. Osiris is hers, the brightest spark the Traveller ever kindled, and how dare Xivu Arath try to claim him!

She will not allow it to end like this. She will not give up on him and she won’t allow him to give up either!

Heat runs through her, but it is so far from the rotten heat which she has felt in Osiris for the past few weeks. It is not the Hive’s soulfire. It is a warmth that nurtures growing things, that looks at a world and people in all of their imperfections, and says ‘yes, you deserve the chance to burn brightly. You deserve the chance to create something good and beautiful’.

Even a wildfire prompts seeds to grow.

Everyone is staring at her, even Saladin and Osiris. She feels very on display.

“Sister-” Geppetto’s voice, soft with awe.

There is light she realises, brighter than the light from the fire. Where is it com–

It’s her, she realises. She’s glowing with Light. She thinks that she hears music, and a soft voice that she can barely make out. What is happening to her?

It doesn’t matter. Not now.

The glow of the Hive runes on Osiris’ skin make her feel ill when she moves towards him. The corruption reaches for her, tendrils grasping for her. It wants her Light, to tear it apart and devour it. The ember that is Osiris is so faint, choked almost to nothing.

“Sagira,” Osiris says, pleads. “You have always been–”

“No. I refuse,” she says, not allowing him to complete that thought. “I am not letting her have you. I’m not letting you die like this.” Not her Guardian. Not Osiris. “There are great things ahead for you. For both of us.”

The brightness increases, blazing Light that fills the room. It tears through every shadow and leaves no place for them to hide. It burns away those tendrils of Hive corruption wrapped around her Guardian, sears them to nothing, until all that is left is a seed. It stokes the dying ember of Osiris’ Light, feeds it until it burns once more.

And then it is gone, the hall falling back into flickering shadows and firelight.

Osiris is breathing heavily, and he raises his hands, looking at them as though he has never seen them before. It reminds her so much of when she had first resurrected him, those initial moments of confusion. She can feel his Light again, the way it fits against her own. It does not matter if they were made to be together, or if they made themselves fit together.

Her Warlock looks at her, his gaze clear and sharp once more. “Sagira…”

She wishes she could smile. “Told you I wasn’t giving up on you.”

Is the room supposed to be spinning like this? Oh, that doesn’t feel good. “I– I think I need to sleep.”

And then everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

“Sagira!”

Osiris’s anguished cry breaks Saint out of the shock that had frozen him. He lunges for the falling Ghost, and catches her before she can hit the stone floor.

“Geppetto,” he says urgently. Samira’s iris is dark, and she does not move, and he worries that–

Geppetto moves in close and scans Sagira, then finally sages with relief. “She’s alright. Just… tired, I think.”

It feels as though the relief takes all of his strength with it. He clutches Sagira to his chest and takes a moment to breathe. She is alive. He does not know what she did, but she is alive, and Osiris is alive and–

Osiris is staring at him, at them both, his eyes wide. There is a clarity in his expression that Saint has missed. He hadn’t realised how bad it had become. He still looks tired, ill, afraid, but he is more focused, Saint thinks.

Saint moves towards him, but Osiris presses back against the statue and shakes his head. “Don’t dome near me. I am not safe.”

He pulls up the sleeve of his robe and scrubs at the dried blood where one of the runes had been as though he must prove that he is still infected. The blood flakes away beneath his fingers but the Hive mark is… gone. Or nearly gone. It looks like an old and faded scar, a long-healed wound.

Osiris stares at the spot, and then at the back of each hand, his wrists, the places where the runes should have been. “How is this possible?”

“One of many questions I would like answered,” Lord Saladin says. He is still holding the great axe, but it rests against the floor now rather than being raised in threat.

“I will explain,” Saint says quickly before Osiris can do anything foolish. “Please give me a few moments with Osiris, Lord Saladin. I will call if I need help.”

Saladin regards him for a long moment, and beneath that gaze, Saint briefly feels like a neophyte again – a young Guardian acting as emissary to the Iron Lords on behalf of his father. The Iron Lords were already centuries old then, so much more experienced, and the only authority that Saint had possessed was granted to him by the Speaker.

“I will be waiting in the Hall,” Saladin says finally. He pauses as he passes Saint, and speaks in an undertone. “Take care of him. For all his faults, Osiris deserves better than this.”

And then it is just himself, and his phoenix. He carefully sets Sagira down near the fire, and Geppetto settles next to her, then he turns his attention to his beloved.

“Osiris, how do you feel?” he asks. He takes a slow step towards him and crouches, like he would approach one of his pigeons. It feels utterly inadequate a question to ask, but the routine of it helps. If he stops to think too much about the situation, he does not know how well he will function, and he needs to make sure that Osiris is safe.

Osiris frowns. “I feel… better, I think. I can hear my own thoughts again, and her voice is gone from my mind, for now at least.”

Saint holds his hand out towards Osiris. “Please, my love. Let me help, even if it is just to hold you a while.”

The wariness with which Osiris looks him breaks Saint’s heart. Osiris has always been so full of confidence and pride from the very first moment Saint met him. But after moment, Osiris reaches out to take his hand. Saint uses that leverage to pull Osiris close, and they sit together at the feet of Lord Felwinter’s statue, Osiris held securely against his chest.

He kisses the top of Osiris’s head, lets his mouth linger. If they had been only a few moments longer…

“You were not meant to follow me,” Osiris says quietly. Saint’s grip on him tightens as though he will vanish if he lets go of him.

“I have always followed you. You know this.” It has been the way of their relationship – Osiris leaves, and Saint chases after him.

“I did not want the last you saw of me to be a monster,” Osiris replies. “I was doing what was necessary.”

“Asking Lord Saladin to… to execute you is not what is necessary!” Saint protests, even though he knows that it has always been a possibility. Even though he was prepared to put Osiris to rest himself.

“You know the damage that I could cause should Xivu Arath control me,” Osiris snaps, turning in his arms to fix him with an intent look. “I will not sacrifice the Last City and our people because I cannot face death.”

“We would have found a way to–”

“No,” Osiris says. “Every time you have cleansed my Light, the rot has returned. I was losing myself. I needed to make it a willing death of my own volition. Allowing it to progress to where a battle was the only option would have empowered Xivu Arath. Possibly enough for her to bring her armies to the Last City.”

He remembers the Dreaming City, attempting to drive Xivu Arath out of him by force. It had not worked. Only making a gift of his Light had helped. He can see the shape of Osiris’ logic, no matter how much he disagrees with the premise. The influence she had exerted through Osiris had been significant.

“But you are better now, yes?” he says. He takes Osiris’ hand, runs his fingers over the back where the rune had been. The scar is barely visible on Osiris’ skin and feels no different to anywhere else.

Osiris sighs. “Better than I was,” he agrees, “but as with my condition when you brought me back from the Dreaming City, I believe it will be a temporary reprieve. I still feel that core of her power inside me, waiting to spread.”

So it has all been for nothing? A few more days, maybe weeks with his beloved before they repeat this?

“I would rather face my final death as myself, Saint. I do not wish to die as the tool of the Hive.”

He strokes Osiris’ fingers, squeezes them gently. He had once stood on Mercury and felt despair, as though no future was possible. He feels an echo of that now.

Except…

“No,” Saint says.

“No?” Osiris asks, and gives Saint an incredulous look.

“I refuse,” Saint continues. “Sagira also refuses. We will not let this happen.” As the saviour Guardian had shown him a future, so he will ensure that Osiris has one.

“You cannot refuse reality, Saint!”

Saint snorts. “We are Guardians, my love,” he says. “We are paracausal. Our existence breaks reality.”

They make their own fates, not some Hive god. Guardians have already killed one of their number. What is one more?

“That is different,” Osiris says, but Saint can hear the familiar irritation in his voice. That is much more like him, much better than despair.

“Is it?” Saint asks, and gives him a challenging look. “You are Osiris! You broke time itself to bring me to your side!”

Osiris shakes his head. “This is not something that I can fix with a machine. The Sundial is gone, and the cost of building it was… No. It is impossible.”

One day, Saint will ask about what Osiris did to bring him back. He thinks that he will hate the answer. But that is a conversation for another time. They have more immediate issues.

“Why not?” he asks.

“What?”

“Why can you not build machine?” Saint asks. “Or perhaps you should look at whatever power Sagira used to clear your mind. Who is telling you that this is hopeless?”

“No-one. I simply–” Osiris trails off with a frown. He catches his lip between his teeth, like he does when he’s working on a particularly difficult problem. Saint lets him think, keeps an arm wrapped around him, fingers brushing idly against his side. “I need to think about this,” Osiris says finally, “while I am still capable of it.”

“It seems as though it helped Xivu Arath to keep you unable to think clearly,” Saint says.

“Most likely. The paranoia certainly did not help matters.”

“Well, we are stuck here until storm ends, with little to do except think,” Saint says. “You chose bad time to visit Iron Temple.”

“I was hardly thinking about the weather when I sent my message to Saladin,” Osiris says. “Seeing the storm roll in was something I considered a blessing though. Either Saladin would end me, or when I finally succumbed there would be no-one around for me to hurt until the storm passed.”

Saint’s optics blink off for a moment, and he takes a deep breath. How close it had been. A few moments more, a missed step or stumble on the path from where they had landed, and it all might have been for nothing.

“You are infuriating man,” Saint says, and pulls Osiris back against himself.

“You have known that since the first day you met me,” Osiris points out. “If you did not pay attention, I can hardly be held responsible.”

They sit in the silence of the hall for a while longer, the only sound the crackle of the fire, and the distant howl of a wolf.

Eventually, Saint speaks. “Promise me that you will not run away again.”

Osiris gives a heavy sigh. “You know that I cannot promise that. I will not put the City in danger because of this.”

Saint understands that. He wishes that he did not. He would do the same were their positions reversed. He would run and keep running until he was too far away to harm anyone.

“Then promise me that you will not run overnight. Let me wake up with you at least one more time.”

Osiris goes tense in his arms, and he grips Saint’s hand tightly. It is enough of a tell to let Saint know that he was already considering leaving again. “I…” He slumps against Saint’s side. “I will stay, at least until the storm passes.”

“Thank you,” Saint says. Now, they just need to find a way to fix this before it is too late.

“We should speak to Saladin,” Osiris says. “He deserves an explanation after I called him here. And I–” He gives a laugh that borders on hysterical, “I am hungry. I have not felt hungry in days.”

“Then we will find some. I hope that Lord Saladin has better supplies, or we may have to do with ration packs.” They will suffice, but they are far from the most pleasant of meals.

He stands up and offers Osiris a hand to haul him to his feet. He is tempted to pick Osiris up and carry him so that he cannot do anything foolish, but in this place? The halls of his mentors? No, he will allow Osiris to keep his dignity.

Sagira is still unconscious. Osiris reaches out towards her, only to let his hand drop before he can touch her shell. “Take care of her for me,” he says, looking between Geppetto and Saint himself. “Please.”

“We always will. Someone has to.” Geppetto says sharply. Osiris winces, but thanks her quietly.

“We will speak with Lord Saladin,” Saint tells his Ghost. “Let me know if you need anything, yes?”

Geppetto floats up to bump affectionately against his should, and Saint cannot miss the stricken expression on Osiris’s face. He does not even try to hide it. Saint squeezes his hand, and guides him further into the Iron Temple.

Saint had visited the Iron Temple only a few times on business from his father, but he remembers it as a place of warmth and laughter, full of eager students and their mentors. There had been thick rugs on the floors, tapestries on the walls, benches covered with furs, and food and drink shared with all. It had given him a glimpse of what he wanted the future to contain – joy and camaraderie, good food shared with good friends in safety.

Now, as they enter the Great Hall, it feels like a haunted place. Their feet echo on the bare stone floor, and the small fire is not enough to drive away the cold and the darkness, which gathers at the edges of the room as though waiting for a chance to creep closer.

In front of the fire sits Lord Saladin, who stares into the flames as though in a trance. He seems a figure of a lost age. How much more keenly must Saladin feel the ghosts of his comrades here?

Saladin stirs when they approach the fire, as do the couple of large wolves who have accompanied him, though they quickly dismiss Saint and Osiris as not a threat, and late back down. “It has been a long time since we both sat in this hall, Osiris.”

“It has. I ask for your welcome, Iron Lord,” Osiris says, old words, more formal than Saint has heard him for a long time.

Saladin regards him for a long moment, a searching look. Finally he nods. “I welcome you to the Iron Hall,” he says, equally formal. He inclines his head to Saint. “Both of you. In exchange for an explanation. It seems as though I have missed much.”

“That would not be inaccurate,” Osiris agrees, “although there are parts that Saint will have to tell.” Saint squeezes Osiris’ fingers, and then settles down on the furs that Saladin has spread out.

“Let us sit then, and fill this hall with stories once more.”

Chapter Text

The fire has burned down to a low glow. Osiris stirs it with the metal poker, then adds some more wood, positioning the logs carefully so that they will burn well. It would be the work of seconds to have them aflame with Solar Light, but there is value in doing things by hand.

He glances over to where Saint is sat leaning against the wall, napping. Geppetto and Sagira are in his lap, settled in one of the furs that Saladin had provided.

The sight sparks a flash of anger that he brutally crushes down into himself. Sagira is safe, and that is all that matters. He will not let his relief and love for her be twisted by this corruption. She deserves better than that.

He rubs his thumb over the Hive rune cut into the back of his hand. It has faded to a faint white scar, like so many others that cover his body, relics from a life that was not his. He waits for it to burn beneath his touch, to split his skin and bleed soulfire, but it remains inert, at least for now.

How long does he have? Days? Weeks?

Hours?

“Osiris.”

“Lord Saladin.” His stomach twists with sickness and shame at what had occurred only hours before. For that to be the first time they have spoken since his exile is… whatever connection once lay between them was lost with the destruction of the Iron Lords. “Have you come to remind me of my humiliation? Believe me, I am quite aware.”

He will do it again if necessary to prevent himself falling to Xivu Arath.

Saladin sighs and lowers himself to sit next to Osiris. “There have been many times when I have thought that some humiliation would be good for you, Osiris, to temper your arrogance. This is not one of them.”

He is not the first person to say that he would benefit from humiliation and Osiris doubts that he will be the last, but it stings nonetheless.

“What happened was a result of my hubris. Humiliation is the least of what I deserve.” He would gladly accept it if humiliation would drive away Xivu Arath.

“Do you believe that when I saw Gheleon and Felwinter and Jolder turned into puppets by SIVA, that my thought was to blame them for hubris?”

Osiris closes his eyes against old pain made raw once more. So many staunch defenders of humanity lost. So many friends murdered. And all because of the petty selfishness of the Warmind.

He bites down on a snarl, forces himself to breathe slowly until the rage subsides. His anger towards Rasputin is real, but the sudden viciousness of it, the desire to do harm… that is not him, and he cannot afford to indulge it and shorten whatever time he has left with his mind clear.

He wonders sometimes if things would have been different had he gone with Felwinter and the others. If his presence would have been enough to change what occurred. Arrogance, of course, to believe that he alone could have changed the fates of the Iron Lords. Even so, he had never been able to bring himself to look into the simulations of Site 6 in the Infinite Forest. He does not know what he would have done if he had learned that he could have changed things.

“Some things should have remained buried,” he says.

Saladin inclines his head in agreement. “That I cannot disagree with, though I believe now that it was a wound that needed to be lanced. It was… healing, to lay them to rest finally, knowing that what destroyed them had been destroyed in turn.”

“I am glad,” Osiris says. “They deserved better than the ending that Rasputin gave them.”

Saladin makes a noise of agreement and they lapse into silence. Neither of them has ever been particularly good at small talk, but the silence is comfortable in a way that Osiris had thought would never be possible between them again.

“What will you do now?” Saladin asks eventually. “From what you told me, it sounds as though there is a limit to how much time you have.

A clock ticking down, and he cannot see how much time is left.

“I do not know.” He hates not knowing, the uncertainty of it all. It would be easier to accept his fate and ensure that he cannot become a threat while he is still capable of controlling himself.

Who is telling you that this is hopeless?

A question to be considered, certainly.

“It is rare to hear you admit that,” Saladin says.

“I have not been in any condition to give it in-depth consideration for quite a while,” Osiris says, and gives Saladin a sour look. “She warped my thoughts, twisted my dreams. I must use this time wisely.”

“That is all that any of us can do,” Saladin replies.

Osiris sighs heavily, and adds some more smaller pieces of wood to the fire. One of the wolves shifts in its sleep, twitching as it chases something in a dream most likely.

“It is strange to be here,” he says softly. “I thought for a long time that I would never return.”

Not after the fall of the Iron Lords. With Felwinter and the others gone, there had been nothing here for him except memories. And it had not been so very long after their deaths that he had been exiled and his attention had shifted to Mercury. What use would returning here have done?

“I believed the same,” Saladin replies. “I had sealed the Iron Temple, and allowed it to become a tomb. A monument to our failure.” He shakes his head, and Osiris can see the weight that he still carries. “But now Tyra attends the archives again, fireteams launch patrols from the peak. Guardians visit once more to learn. That is a better monument to our comrades than cold stone and a building falling to ruin.”

Saladin shifts where he sits, and then sets a bottle between them with a soft clink. Osiris picks it up, his eyes widening at the hand-written label attached to it.

“Mead from the Iron Temple? I am surprised that there is any left.” It has been years, and those who had made it are gone. He has a fondness for it – in his earliest days in the Last City, it had been a comforting taste of a place he had considered home for a time.

“There isn’t. This is the first of a new batch,” Saladin says. “Most returned to the Last City after the Red War, but a few civilians and Guardians remained in the area. They have revived some of the old traditions.”

Osiris’ throat tightens at that bit of news – grief, yes, but there is a joy to it as well.

Saladin takes the bottle from him and opens it. He produces two cups and fills them, handing one to Osiris, who raises it in a toast.

“To the Iron Lords and the Iron Wolves,” he says, “our comrades and friends and teachers. We honour you.” He bumps his cup against Saladin’s and they both drink. The mead is lighter than the stuff he remembers, sweet and spiced, and it fills his stomach with warmth. The familiarity makes him think back to long winter nights of study, of feasting and storytelling, of debating with his mentors.

He feels as though a weight has left him. He had never had the opportunity to truly grieve them – his duties and position had not afforded him the opportunity to break. There had been so much to organise in the wake of Site 6, and then there had been Twilight Gap, his exile… so much life and yet somehow so little time.

The bottle is shared between them in comfortable silence. It feels like something that is long overdue.

“Why did you come?” Osiris asks eventually. The bottle has run dry, leaving him warm from more than the fire. In his compromised mental state, he had been certain that Saladin would ignore the message. The closeness that had once existed between them had long since twisted to bitter acrimony. It had been far from the only relationship which had ended that way. “You owe me nothing. The bonds between us were severed a long time ago.”

The dying firelight makes Saladin seem more akin to the statues outside than a living man. He is a figure from old legends, cruelly dragged into a time that does not need people like him.

“To contact me after so long,” Saladin says finally, “it spoke of grave necessity. Even you would not have used Felwinter’s codes on a whim. And for better or worse, you are a part of this place as few still living can claim to be.”

“If I cannot overcome this… if there is no solution…” If all Sagira has done is buy him a few more days of clarity before he is lost to that murderous haze…

Saladin reaches out to clasp his arm tightly. “I will ensure that you die well, and with no more blood on your hands. You have my word.”

Osiris closes his eyes and bows his head. “My thanks, Lord Saladin.”

Saladin lets go and stands, then rests a hand briefly on Osiris’ shoulder. “Whatever time you have, do not fill it with regrets, Osiris.”

He leaves before Osiris can respond, and the wolves stir and follow after him, leaving Osiris alone by the fire. He stares into it a while longer, until it is nothing but embers.

He approaches Saint where he sleeps, and watches him for a few moments, trying to commit every detail of him to memory. He does not deserve this man, but he is so very grateful that he had found him. He does not want to leave him. They have so much lost time to make up for, and now that is cut short. If Osiris had only listened to him, agreed to stay with him just a little longer instead of throwing himself onto dark paths…

There was a future that could have been enough.

He crouches, and touches his beloved’s cheek gently. Saint stirs and turns his face against Osiris’ palm.

“Osiris?”

“Yes. Come. I would like to sleep and wake next to you at least once more.”

Saint’s optics narrow at the fatalism, but he doesn’t say anything, just curls his large hand around Geppetto and Sagira, holding them carefully, then pushes himself to his feet. “Ugh, I am too old now to sleep on stone floor. I feel it in my chassis.”

“There are rooms still habitable, old man,” Osiris teases. “I should be well enough until morning.”

Saint takes Osiris’s hand and raises it to his mouth to press a soft kiss to his fingers. “There will be many mornings to come, my love. I am sure of it.”

Chapter Text

You walk through hallways of shadows and flickering lights. Metal creaks beneath your feet, and you hear skittering movement inside the walls. Strange, twisted growths have split the metal, and the glowing tips of the fronds sway in a breeze that you cannot feel.

You are lost. You have always been lost. The layout makes no sense. No logic can map it and you are lost.

—-You have questions.-—

You brush against one of the swaying vines. It explodes into spores that stick to your clothing, to your skin. You reach to wipe it away and-

—-We offer guidance.-—

For a few seconds of blinding clarity, you see the path.

Ahead of you a door shudders open with a screech of metal on metal. Beyond it is a long angular hallway black stone.

You know where you are going. 

Chapter Text

“You were going to kill him! How could you?”

The voice is unmistakably Sagira’s, raised to a near shriek of indignant anger. Osiris pauses outside the hall when he hears her. It is a relief to hear her voice, and he knows that he must speak to her sooner or later, but he does not look forward to being the subject of her ire. Perhaps if he waits until she has spent her anger on Lord Saladin…

“He contacted me.” Saladin sounds impressive calm in the face of her anger. “It is what he wanted.”

“Since when have you ever listened to Osiris?” Sagira snaps, bitterness creeping into her words. “You didn’t listen before he was exiled.”

Osiris winces. Had Sagira learned that deep sarcasm from him, he wonders? Or had he picked it up from her? Most likely it had been a constant feedback loop built up between them over the centuries.

“Mind your words, Ghost,” Saladin says, “you are still a guest here. This is my domain.”

“What are you going to do?” Sagira asks. “Exile me? Kill me? No, you wouldn’t break the Iron Decree even now.”

“These are not normal times. If Osiris becomes corrupted, and you continue to bring him back, I will do what is needed to ensure that he does not become a threat.”

Osiris can feel the tirade that Sagira is readying herself to unleash, and while it might be satisfying, it will not help. One of them needs to be diplomatic at least briefly, and in a strange turn of events, that apparently falls to him.

He braces himself and enters the hall. “That will not be necessary, Lord Saladin.”

With their attention turned to him, he feels pinned and ready for dissection. He has never been averse to attention, but like this… he wonders if they can see every strand of Darkness and Hive magic which work their way through him.

“Osiris,” Saladin greets him. “You seem well today.”

“A night of sleep without dreams mired in blood and death is apparently rather restorative,” Osiris replies. “While I certainly hope to find an alternative, should it become necessary to send me to my final death, then Sagira will not resurrect me. There will be no need to harm her, Lord Saladin.”

He wants her to survive. She deserves to have a life, even if his ends.

“That isn’t your–” Sagira begins.

Osiris holds a hand up to stop her. “Please, Sagira.”

“Fine,” she says. He knows that this conversation is far from over, but he would rather that they have it in private first. Saladin has already seen far more vulnerability from him than he is comfortable with.

“Then we have no quarrel,” Saladin replies, giving a sharp nod. “Do you have a plan yet, Osiris?”

“Not yet,” he says. “Now I am rested, that will be the focus of my thoughts. I will keep you appraised.”

“Very well. I have duties that must be attended to, but I will return later. I presume that you remember your way around.”

“I do.” The Iron Temple could crumble to dust and he thinks he would still be able to mark out every room and doorway and window.

Saladin whistles, and the wolves who have followed him inside stretch, and trot up to take their places beside him. They regard Osiris with mild curiosity, but show him no more interest than they would any other visitor. Part of him had expected them to growl and snarl at him, able to sense the corruption which still runs through him.

Once Saladin is gone, he turns his attention to Sagira. She hovers a few feet away, just out of reach. It makes him ache with grief, but the dark anger and feeling of betrayal is no longer there. “I believe that we should talk.”

The words feel hollow and he detests his inability to convey everything that he means by them. He misses her! She is the better part of him and the rift that has grown between them hurts. His little light…

“You think?” Sagira says, that same dark, angry sarcasm.

“Let us speak in the study,” Osiris says. “I always found it easier to talk there.”

There are many studies in the Iron Temple, but for the two of them, there is only one that he could possibly mean – Felwinter’s study is in one of the deepest parts of the temple, far from the areas that visitors and students would frequent. Osiris does not have to think to remember the route, it is burned into his memory.

The study is dark, the slitted window not allowing in much daylight even if there was much sun to be seen through the clouds. Still, he remembers the room being filled with candlelight, or a fire casting flicking warmth through the room. It had never felt like a dark place to him.

He sets the logs he had brought into the fireplace and lights them with a snap of his fingers. They blaze with Solar flame, and he relishes the sight of it burning cleanly for the first time in weeks.

There is still furniture here, though the shelves have been stripped of books and Felwinter’s other possessions, and the walls are bare stone where they had once been covered with cloth and tapestries. What is left is… impersonal. Items not worth transporting all the way to the Last City, but too steeped in memories and grief to simply destroy.

One of the chairs seems in good enough condition, and Osiris pulls it close to the fire. He settles on it, draws his feet up beneath him, feels the warmth of the fire on his skin. He can almost imagine that it is centuries ago, that he is still a student waiting for Felwinter to arrive.

But the Iron Lords are gone, Felwinter is gone, their story ended. Now he must face his own story.

“Alright, Sagira,” he says.

“What were you thinking?” Sagira wastes no time. She hovers in front of him, radiant in her anger, the pinions of her shell twisting frantically. “You vanished, Osiris! You ran away. You ran away from me and trapped me in a Hive spell and when I finally find you, you’re trying to commit suicide by Iron Lord!”

Her iris flares bright enough to sting his eyes, but he does not look away. She deserves every scrap of his attention, and he deserves her anger.

“I believed it to be the best course of action,” he says.

“Letting Saladin kill you isn’t the best course of action!”

“I did not have any other choice.”

“That’s not true. We would have found something.”

“It wasn’t working, Sagira!” he says, voice raising in desperation for her to understand “None of it was working. I was close to losing myself and becoming a threat to everything I hold dear. A blade pointed at the heart of the City.”

Sagira stares at him for a long moment. “You left me behind, Osiris. We’re meant to be partners. You’re my Guardian.”

“And I could not bear it if I hurt you, Sagira. If I killed you. So I ensured that it could not happen.” And all of that means nothing if they cannot find a better solution soon.

Her iris widens, realisation creeping in. “You did it on purpose. You were trying to drive me away.”

Osiris meets her gaze briefly, and then he stares down at where his hands rest in his lap. He knows it had been the best decision that he could make at the time. That knowledge does not make him feel any less guilty.

“You- How could you? Even for you that’s-”

“Do you want to know what I was truly thinking, Sagira?” he asks, forcing himself to remain calm. He does not want to escalate this to an argument, now when they have spent so much time at each others’ throats recently. “Do you want to hear about how I imagined tearing Saint apart piece by piece and watching his Light die? Should I tell you how my thoughts howled to make a sacrifice of Saladin to dedicate the Iron Temple to a new god?”

Sagira recoils, and a spiteful part of him is glad. He cannot even blame that on Xivu Arath – that is him alone.

“Do you want to know how many times I dreamed about catching you in my hands and crushing you? That I knew if I did, that it would feel good, it would feel like perfect agonising bliss, and I would never be me again.”

He would have been lost, a monster of wrath and ruin, feeding on endless slaughter. Any remnants of ‘Osiris’ would have been snuffed out as easily as a candle, leaving only the weapon behind.

It would have been so easy. It still would be.

Sagira is silent for a long time. Osiris does not prompt her to respond. He stares down at his hands, picks the last flakes of lacquer from his nails. There is blood under them, dried dark from when he’d scratched at the runes as they burned and bled, working to turn his mind to obedience.

He wants to bathe. A frivolous thought, truly, when he should be focused on the problem at hand, but a the moment, letting a shower wash away the blood and grime and pain sounds like the most blissful experience.

“Osiris…” Sagira breaks the silence, her voice gentler than he has heard her in a long time. They have both hardened themselves in order to survive – first Warlords, then the politics of the Last City, the dangers of the Vex… his own mind.

“I could see no way out, Sagira,” he says. “I could not think. But I knew that it was getting worse. Xivu Arath’s voice was nearly loud enough to drown me out.”

“Idiot. You idiot. You always do this. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

“What was I supposed to do?” he asks.

“Talk to me. Or Saint. Or Ikora. Anyone. Let us help you.”

“You were already doing enough. More than enough.” They had been a near constant presence at his side. “And you saw it too. The infusions of Light were losing their effectiveness.”

Sagira looks away, a flicker of guilt showing in the way her shell contracts. “I– I didn’t want to believe it,” she admits. “Everyone was searching so hard. Ikora had Warlocks scouring the Ishtar vaults on Venus. I think she was close to sending Guardians into the Vault of Glass to see if anything could be found.”

“I would not have wanted that,” Osiris replies. “The Vault is treacherous even now, and no-one else has my expertise.”

“And if they got it wrong we wouldn’t even remember they’d existed to go in the first place, I know,” she grumbles.

It brings a small smile to Osiris’ lips. “But there is one thing that has worked. I have not yet had the opportunity to ask how you did it. I regret that I was not in my right mind enough to truly appreciate it at the time.”

Her shell spins for a moment and then she gives the Ghost equivalent of a shrug. “I’m not entirely sure. I felt a fierce warmth, like basking in the Light itself. I knew that I could not let Xivu Arath have you. Would not let her have you. Because you’re mine, and I’m yours. And then the Light was so pure and I think I heard a voice and a… a hawk? It felt like when I first resurrected you, a piece slotting into place.”

A hawk. Why does that feel as though it should be familiar?

“I am grateful,” he says, another inadequacy of spoken works. Gratitude is a shallow thing compared with what he feels.

Sagira snorts. “I suppose that’s just about the highest praise, coming from you.”

“You may enjoy your gloating. You have earned that,” Osiris says dryly.

“I really have,” Sagira agrees. Her voice is bright and things feel normal between them, except for the distance that she still keeps between them. “But we still have to find a way to fix things properly,” she adds. “I’m not giving up, Osiris. We’ve been given this chance and I’m not going to let you decide that things are hopeless before we’ve even tried.”

Another chance. A more superstitious man would see what Sagira had done as… purposeful intervention from something more powerful than them. But the Traveller is no god, and Osiris is no devout follower.

She is not wrong though.

“Then we must work swiftly,” he says. “We do not know how long you have bought me, and I very much suspect that we will only have one chance.”

“Then you’d better get thinking. Come on genius, use those thoughts while you still have them.”

The teasing tone makes him smile. “So much faith in me, even after all of this.”

He knows that he is not the easiest person to get along with, and Sagira has been his companion through the worst of times.

“I know you, Osiris. From the first moment I raised you, you were determined to defend humanity, even when you didn’t like people that much. You’ve never given me a reason to not have faith in you, even when you did some really annoying things.”

“Even when I trapped you and ran away?” he asks.

She droops a little. “Maybe for a little bit,” she admits. “I was so angry. But you weren’t in your right mind. And from what you’ve said, it sounds like it was to protect me. You did the same thing in the Infinite Forest when the Vex could see my Light.”

She had been very displeased with him for that, he remembers. And it had perhaps been impulsive to do so, but keeping her safe and alive had been all that he could think about.

“I probably deserve far more anger from you than I have ever received,” Osiris says.

“There’s time,” Sagira says. “You’re stuck with me.”

She drifts closer to him, closer than she has been in weeks. Osiris holds his breath, not daring to move in case he startles her, or in case that red rage returns. She moves warily and then bumps herself against his shoulder gently.

They both remain still, waiting for something to snap. But it does not come. His mind is quiet, his thoughts his own.

He slowly, painfully slowly, raises his cupped hands, holding them out for her to perch if she wishes. He would not blame her if she didn’t. Sagira eyes him, and then settles on them. He can feel her tension, knows that she is ready to decompile or flee at the first sign of danger, but she is here with him! Her weight is familiar and loved and he has missed her keenly.

He strokes his thumb against one of the points of her shell and she leans into it, and Osiris feels part of himself slot back into place. His throat is tight, eyes hot, and he squeezes them closed against tears. She is, and always has been, the best part of him. His hope, his humanity. His guiding starlight.

They stay like this for longer than he cares to admit, until finally she moves to settle on his shoulder, pressed against his neck in the feathers of his cowl.

“Time to figure out how to snub a Hive god,” she says, and there is a certain amount of glee in the way she says it.

“If anyone can, it’s us,” Osiris agrees, and the feigned confidence is enough like real confidence to make him feel better. He is Osiris, warden of the Infinite Forest, Phoenix of the Dark Age. He has no equal. And he will not allow himself to fall to the Hive.

“The facts of the corruption,” he begins, because giving himself a baseline to work from is useful, and there may be things that he has overlooked in the midst of his condition. “It did not physically transform me as the other Wrathborn were. Any physical changes are wounds and self-inflicted.”

“Correct,” Sagira agrees. “The Wrathborn at their furthest stage of the transformation barely even registered as their original species. The differences were bigger than those between Eliksni and Scorn.”

He shudders at the idea of that sort of transformation. Perhaps he had got off lightly in that case. “A monstrous change. We know that in my case, the Light was able to stave off the corruption for a time. And I retained brief moments of clarity. I was able to surface briefly before she would crush me again.”

Sagira presses against his neck in silent comfort. “The cryptoliths affected me, but even with the ritual, she was unable to completely overwrite me. And I wager that the ritual took a great amount of energy. Which I foolishly provided by enacting violence against the remnants of Crota’s brood.”

Frustrating. He should have known that he was being influenced after that first brush with the cryptolith. If he had just waited…

“Probably,” Sagira says. “The cryptoliths definitely affected Saint and Crow too, and Xivu Arath’s influence was worse in the Dreaming City where you’d created altars. Destroying them weakened her influence. So did being inside Saint’s Ward of Dawn.”

His Saint. Such a brave and stubborn man, and Osiris is so grateful for him.

“More evidence that the Light mitigates her power somewhat.” He looks down at the backs of his hands, the scars of the runes carved into them. They are still inert, thankfully, but knowing that they are present in any form means that he cannot relax. They had acted as conduits, a binding spell, allowing Xivu Arath’s power to flow more freely through him, driving out everything that was not her will.

“It was decided, was it not, that resurrecting me would be too much of a risk?”

“Yes. We thought about it when Saint got you home, but your Light was so distant, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to bring you back.”

“Or what sort of state I would be in if you did,” Osiris says, and Sagira makes a noise of agreement.

He thinks on this for a while, turning the pieces around in his mind. “As far as we are aware, Guardians have a ‘frequency’.” A painfully simplistic way of putting it, but it works for their purposes. “Frequency of Light, or soul, or mind, whatever someone wishes to call it. My frequency is connected to yours.”

“You have a spark. It’s what drew me to you when you were just dust and bone.”

“Over the past few days, as Xivu Arath’s influence over me grew, I felt like your Light was wrong. It grated against me, a piece that no longer fitted correctly. Out of alignment.”

Sagira makes a considering noise. “I felt it too. You put me on edge. And when she first got you, I knew you were alive but I couldn’t find you. It was like trying to tune a radio to the right channel through masses of static. Or like the Taken, the way they’re offset from physical reality.”

Osiris nods, an idea beginning to form. “Her influence the static overwhelming my Light, the ‘channel’. But she wasn’t just blotting it out, she was replacing it with her own aberrant signal bit by bit.”

“Makes sense.”

He picks at a ragged fingernail for a moment as he considers. “I think we should attempt a resurrection. As soon as possible.”

Sagira leaves her perch to float in front of him her iris narrowed. “I thought we were trying to find a way to stop you getting killed!”

“Hear me out, please,” he says, and gives her a pleading look. She huffs but moves back to his shoulder.

“If we had attempted a resurrection earlier, then it would not have worked. Either you would not have been able to resurrect me at all, or…”

“Or you would’ve come back as a Wrathborn,” Sagira says. “New frequency, new you.” She has always been so quick, so clever.

“Precisely. She changed whatever frequency you would use to perform a resurrection, and did it too quickly and completely for you to compensate like you would for gradual changes over time. But after what you did, that Light… I can feel our connection once more and it feels like it belongs.”

Sagira pulls away again and looks him over. She hovers, and scans him like he has seen Ghosts do when they are searching for the person they will resurrect. “I think you’re onto something. The frequency is close enough to how it should be that I think the ‘seed’ of Hive corruption would be treated like a wound, or perhaps radiation damage. Those don’t return when I resurrect you.”

“Assuming I am correct,” Osiris says, because the possibility has to be considered. It is a gamble. Rezyl Azzir had never returned to himself after becoming Dredgen For, but that had been a more conscious corruption. About Vex conversion he knows more – Kabr the Legionless had been subsumed into the collective after drinking from the oracles, but he had lost his Ghost by that point, and had sacrificed his Light to form the aegis. The Ghost os Asher Mir had been as harmed by the Vex as the man.

And in the end, it is not the Vex that they are dealing with.

It is a coin toss upon which he wages his life. No, not just his life, his self.

“We have to do something,” Sagira says, “and we can’t wait in case the frequency changes too much for me to bring you back. Besides… I have faith in you, Osiris. I have faith in us.”

She settles on his palm once more, and the sight of her returns some of his confidence and stubbornness to him. Strange, he hadn’t even realised that they had been taken from him.

He smiles, the expression full of the arrogance that had earned him so many enemies in the Consensus. “You’re right. I am very good.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sagira says, and her tone matches his. “My Guardian.”

Chapter Text

“Are you certain that this will work?”

Osiris wishes that he could say yes. He would do anything to wipe that concern off Saint’s face. No, concern is far too gentle a word for what he sees. Saint’s expression is one of fear.

He considers lying, reassuring Saint that he is certain of the outcome. But Saint deserves better than that from him, and if this plan fails, he does not want Saint’s final memories of him to be the knowledge that he had lied.

“I am not certain of anything,” Osiris says. “But I do believe that it is the best chance that we have. That I have.” He has run what calculations he can, and Sagira has successfully healed a minor wound, but what they are going to try is far from minor.

Once he would have thought nothing of dying to fix some injury that was more trouble than it was worth to have healed. Now… now it is a far more daunting prospect.

Saint rests his large hands on Osiris’ shoulders, holding him firmly as he searches the Warlock’s face. “There must be another way. We could search and–”

“We have spent weeks searching since you brought me back to the City, Saint, and we have turned up nothing. There is a window of opportunity and I cannot afford to waste it.” He hates the look on Saint’s face, the pain, fear, desperation.

“And if it does not work you will be dead! Final death!” Saint says. He shakes Osiris’ shoulders gently.

“If I do not try, then I will be worse than dead,” Osiris replies. He reaches up to touch Saint’s cheek. “Please, my love, I do not want to lose myself again. I do not want to become a weapon for the Hive. This way, while the infection is nearly gone, there is a chance. And if I cannot be resurrected then… at least I will die as myself.”

It is small comfort, if it is any at all, but Osiris prefers it to the alternative.

“And if Sagira resurrects you and the Darkness is still there?” Saint asks. Osiris winces – it is not an option that he wishes to consider, but it is a possibility.

“Then I will ensure that I am not a threat to our people,” Osiris replies. “Or Saladin will if I am incapable of performing that duty myself.”

They would be better off taking him far away from Earth, out of the system, and leaving him to drift in the void of space where he cannot harm anyone. But that would take too much time, and give Xivu Arath more opportunity to strike. It needs to be done while he can make his death a willing sacrifice, a rejection of war, rather than a battle.

“I do not like this, Osiris,” Saint says, and his voice makes Osiris ache. He turns his head to kiss Osiris’ palm. “I did not return from the Infinite Forest and bring you back from Dreaming City just to lose you again.”

Sometimes it seems like all he does is bring Saint pain. How much easier would his exile have been for Saint if they had remained comrades rather than lovers?

Perhaps he should never have left this mountain in the first place.

And yet, he cannot regret it. He refuses to. He would do it all over again for the sake of loving, and being loved by, Saint-14. He is a very selfish man, after all.

He strokes his thumb against the seam of Saint’s cheek, the metal warm from his touch. “I do not like it either,” he admits, giving a wry smile. “But I will not let myself be the catalyst that causes the destruction of everything that we swore to defend, everything that we have worked for.”

Humanity. The Last City. For their people to be able to sleep safely without a wall at their backs and a gun in their hands. There is not a single person who has not sacrificed for this dream. Osiris refuses to be the thing that ends it.

Saint gives a heavy sigh and enfolds him in his arms, drawing him into the orbit of his unflinching solidity. “I do not like it,” he repeats, and Osiris leans against his chest. “I do not like it, but I think in your position, I would make same choice. But I do not want to lose you.”

“I do not wish to be lost,” Osiris replies. He squeezes his eyes closed and wraps his arms around Saint. “But better to lose me to a willing death as myself, than see me become an enemy. Saint, I did not even recognise you in the Dreaming City. Or if I did, such recognition was… crushed.” That time is a haze of hunger and hatred, and it is only now, with his mind clear for the time being, that he has dared to actively look upon them.

He does not like what he has seen.

“I have lived so many lives,” Osiris says quietly, “and faced so many deaths unflinchingly, and yet now, I find that I am afraid to die.”

Isn’t that strange?

When he had come here, the panic, the immediate necessity of it, had been all-consuming. Now though, there is a dread that pools in his belly at the thought of facing his final death. He has only just got Saint back, and he has squandered what time they have had together. He had thought that there would be more time! All of his immortality, and there is still never enough.

Even now, he finds himself probing his thoughts to figure out if they are truly his, or the machinations of Xivu Arath, attempting to sway him from what is necessary.

No matter. He knows what must be done.

“I will not leave your side,” Saint says gently, his voice rumbling through Osiris’ body. “And I know that when Sagira brings you back, you will burn brightly once more, my Phoenix.”

He wishes that he could crystallise the faith that Saint has in him, and wear it as a talisman.

“If I do not–”

“Do not speak that way, Osiris,” Saint says.

Osiris pulls away enough to meet his lover’s eyes. “If I do not return–” he says firmly, because this is important. Some things must be said while there is still time. “Promise me that you will find happiness again. Let yourself love and be loved. I do not wish for you to lose yourself in obsession as I did.” He had poured himself into creating the Sundial, driven himself to madness in the process. He does not regret it, but he does not wish for Saint to repeat it. It had been a lonely, painful road. He gives a rough laugh. “It would be a terrible look for a Titan, and the City needs its heroes.”

Most had already seen him as hopelessly corrupted or mad by the time he had created the Sundial. But Saint? Saint is an icon, a paragon. Someone that they can build hope around. He does not wish them to lose that.

“You cannot tell me not to grieve, Osiris,” Saint replies, his face drawn into a frown.

“I’m not. I am telling you not to become consumed by it. You have a long life ahead of you. You should be get to spend it with your people, and to share it with others. I am sure that your Crow would not rebuff advances if you made them.”

Saint’s optics brighten in surprise, and then guilt. “Osiris I–”

Osiris shakes his head and cups Saint’s cheek gently. “You are fond of him. He obviously holds some affection for you. Even I can see that.”

And he can hardly blame Crow. Saint is easy to love, and he has always had his share of admirers.

Saint shakes his head. “I am not discussing this. You cannot try to set me up with someone from beyond the grave, Osiris.”

“Obviously. That is why I am doing so now.”

“You are impossible!” Saint says, throwing up his hands. “We will discuss this when you are well again.”

“Saint, please,” Osiris says, and something about his tone must catch Saint’s attention. His expression softens into something sad, reluctant. Scared.

Saint sighs and draws Osiris close once more. “I promise,” Saint says softly. “I will find happiness as I can, but I will do it at my own pace, and I will grieve as I see fit. You do not get to decide this for me.”

Osiris wants to object, but he knows that in the end, Saint is right. “I suppose that you are correct,” he says reluctantly. The thought of Saint grieving pains him deeply. He loves him.

He kisses Saint softly, letting it linger against Saint’s mouth. He thinks about drawing it out, just a little longer, surely that cannot hurt?

But no, he must do this before his hand is forced, and before his conviction crumbles.

He takes Saint’s hand. “Come, I have asked Lord Saladin to meet us in the courtyard. The sooner this is done, the better our– my chances.”

It may already be too late. The seed of corruption may already be growing through him once more, warping whatever frequency Sagira uses to resurrect him. She has assured him that he still feels the same, but this is still theoretical. An untested plan.

He had considered doing the deed in Felwinter’s study, getting it over with, but if it had gone wrong, then Saint and Saladin would have been caught unawares.

And Saint deserves honesty from him.

No, enough of this. He is Osiris, Phoenix of the Dark Age, and he has no equal. He will be reborn from the ashes, and Xivu Arath will know her failure.

Saint kisses him again, and again, and then they walk slowly towards the entrance of the Iron Temple. The storm had died down overnight, and the air when they reach the courtyard, is cool and sharp. Drifts of snow have been piled up by the wind, but the braziers are lit. Banners stream on their poles and the bridge supports, and the sight of the observatory in the sunlight makes his chest ache with emotion.

He remembers when the Iron Temple had been full of life. When he had called it home. It had been the first place that he had felt safe in a dying world, after years of wandering the wilds.

In the centre of the courtyard stand Lord Saladin Forge. He cuts an imposing figure, fully armoured and bearing his axe, the sunlight gleaming on the metal. He looks like one of the knights that the Iron Lords had modelled themselves off. Osiris has fought alongside him many times – Twilight Gap, Six Fronts, earlier battles which had not been given names because they had been so frequent in the days before the City. Saladin has always been a fierce combatant, and with Saint at his side…

He must trust that it will be enough should the worst happen.

“Osiris. Saint.” Saladin nods in greeting.

“Lord Saladin,” Osiris replies, bowing his head in return.

“You are prepared?” the Iron Lord asks him. The way he says it gives the words the weight of a ritual, something ancient and solemn. Perhaps it is, in a way. A ritual of purification, though there are no sigils, no incense, no temple dedicates. Just a lonely mountaintop.

“I am,” Osiris says, though he does not know if it is true. His mouth is dry with apprehension.

He had written notes this morning, once he had decided upon this course of action – for Ikora, for Mara, for the few friends that he has left. One for Crow, thanking him for helping Saint to restore him no matter how briefly, asking him to take care of Saint.

One note for Saint. Probably superfluous along with the contents of his private drive which contains more of his thoughts over the years than is wise to keep, but he could not bear the thought of not leaving some final words with his beloved. There is precious little else that he can leave him.

“Then at your leisure, Osiris,” Saladin says.

Osiris takes a breath, steps forward, and then stops. He turns back to look at Saint. The look on the exo’s face fills him with quiet devastation, and he cannot stop the flash of self-loathing for being the reason that Saint is in pain. He has done many incredible things, feats of engineering and science which have advanced the knowledge of humanity, and he is one of the most powerful and accomplished Guardians in existence… and yet he has never been able to stop hurting Saint.

“Saint, my love,” he says, as though he can pour centuries of love and longing into two utterly insufficient words.

He raises a hand to Saint’s cheek, and the Titan draws him into an embrace, enfolding him in warmth and love that he has never deserved, but has never stopped cherishing.

When they part, Saint leans their foreheads together. “You will come back to me, Osiris. I know this. You have never submitted to any authority, and I refuse to believe that this will be an exception.”

Osiris smiles. Saint’s faith is a precious gift and he hopes that he proves worthy of it. “You are the best and most important thing in my life, Saint,” he says. “My heart.”

Saint’s breath hitches, his grip tightening for another long moment before he releases him, and lets Osiris step away.

Osiris descends the steps to Saladin, and Sagira compiles in the air next to him. “I am ready.”

Sagira’s shell spins for a moment, and then she dives in towards him, nuzzling against his neck. He reaches up to touch her, to hold her close, and she does not flinch or pull away. His brave little Light.

“It will work,” she says urgently. “I know it will. I won’t lose you. Don’t lose hope in the Darkness.”

She stares at him and then drifts over to Saladin. Osiris can see the anxious twitches of her shell.

“How do you intend to do this?” Saladin asks. “If you wish I can–”

“I will handle it myself,” Osiris replies. “Sagira will resurrect me, and then… you know what is needed if I do not return as myself.”

A swift ending before he can hurt anyone, and hopefully before he is able to make his death a tithe to Xivu Arath.

“I do,” Saladin replies solemnly. He reaches out and clasps Osiris’ shoulder firmly. “Die with honour, Osiris. The Iron Lords will watch over one of their own.”

Osiris sucks in a shuddering breath at those words, his throat tight with emotion. Being welcomed back here by Saladin… it is a sign of respect that he had thought he would never regain.

“I… I thank you,” he manages to say, though his voice sounds strained even to himself.

He forces himself to take a breath, to clear his mind as Felwinter had taught him all those years ago. He had never been the best at it, but the memory of those days spent under his tutelage bring their own calm.

He calls on the Light and feels its power surge through him. He surrounds himself with Solar Light, the scorching heat of a sun, and then he ignites! The Phoenix rises to burn away the devouring Darkness. His flame burns clean and white-hot, and great wings erupt from his back, bearing him aloft into the clear sky.

He can see so far, across the world that he has dedicated himself to defending. This fragile Earth.

It is beautiful.

He forms his Dawnblade in his hand, and now the blade is not dark, but radiant enough to blind.

He will not be a weapon, or a tool of the Hive. He is the Phoenix. He will die as himself and be reborn.

He grips the hilt firmly with both hands, and screams his defiance to the winds as he plunges the blade through his chest. Searing pain courses through him, burning him to nothing.

And then there is darkness.

Chapter Text

You soar through endless azure skies, wings spread wide against the vastness, and you can see eternity. The sun’s blaze stares out at you, distant, and yet when you listen you think you can hear a lucid melody. Joy builds, and you wheel and climb as though you will reach out to touch its heat. You wish to tell every star that you are here, that you are strong!

Far below, the blue oceans which nurtured first life becomes land, and the land shifts from gold-red sands to lush fields, deep forests and soaring, snow-capped peaks. Even they are not tall enough to reach you, though they may serve as a perch for a time. Always you are seeking a path, a way through. New thermals to buoy you upwards, to grant you greater clarity.

You think that you remember fleeing, pursued by a knife with a million blades. You remember it carving you apart, but memory is difficult to discern from dream. And here you are at peace.

Your keen eyes spot the nest, that glittering construct nestled in the space between mountains, and your heart soars to see it once more. You have been away for far too long. The wolf lies at its centre and it raises its head as you approach, one amber eye and one eye that glows, pulsing steadily like a distant star. You have known the world for as long as you have existed and it welcomes you, though you have been away for so very long.

Black clouds gather around the nest as you approach. They take on strange forms, great angular things, impossible, implacable. Hungry.

Still you wheel closer, mapping a path with sharp eyes, seeking a way through. You will not be denied!

There is a point in the depths of the clouds. You cannot look at it directly, but it calls to you.

You dive, wings drawn back, wind through feathers in fearless freefall, sharp and perfect.

Deeper.

Yourself against the enormity of the sky. Clouds curl around you. Strange thermals tease at your feathers, drawing you ever downwards.

Dive.

There is promise amongst the clouds. Hungry acknowledgement.

A path to be revealed.

Glittering movement. Light on water. Deceptive reflection.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

Water around your wings. Its false-thermals draw you ever downwards, speed your dive, but the water clings to your feathers like oil, pours poison down your throat and you cannot breathe!

There are shifting things below you. Mirror-fragments which twist and glitter, reflecting impossible light. Are you one of them? A fragment? One of thousands, millions, bright sparks reaching ever for the sky.

You are drowning. The enormity beckons, promises a path if you only continue.

A hazy figure looms beneath you.

Dive.

Talons spread, knife-sharp. You are a shape made for finality.

Sink deep into Light-warm flesh. Silver blood hangs in the water. Dissipates in the currents.

The wolf bleeds out across the nest, your talons embedded in its throat, oil seeping from them.

It looks at you, wolf eye dimmed, star eye full of a grief deeper than you can fathom.

The last vestiges of cobalt sky are smothered by the black clouds. Around the nest, dark water rises.

Chapter Text

Osiris gasps in air, the first breath of a new life, the sudden spasm of muscle and sinew. There is an echo of pain like the ache of an old wound as he is reconstructed – the burns from the Dawnblade, the entry and exit wounds knitted together, along with minor abrasions and fractures from the fall when his wings had vanished.

Perhaps performing the act in mid-air had been unnecessary, but if was going to meet his final death, he wanted to ensure that it was, at the very least, memorable. A blaze of glory befitting his namesake.

And now he is… alive, he thinks. The air cold and clean in his lungs. The ground is reassuringly solid beneath him.

“Is he–”

“I don’t know! I’m… sort of afraid to check in case... He hasn’t immediately tried to kill anyone which is a good sign, right?”

Sagira?

Footsteps in snow and then–

Cold metal presses against his throat.

“That is not necessary, surely!”

Saint.

“We need to be certain. Osiris?”

There is a command in that voice, one that he remembers from countless battles. His name shouted over the sound of gunfire and screaming, the scent of blood and scorched flesh.

There are always a few moments after a resurrection when memories feel particularly… visceral. Useful if dies in battle and needs to return to action immediately. Less useful when the resurrection is slow and he has too much time to think.

Osiris opens his eyes, and squints when the sun hits his face. When his vision resolves into more than blocks of shadow and light, he stares up at Saladin, along the haft of his axe. He has no doubt that if he moves too quickly, he will quickly be needing another resurrection.

“I am myself, Lord Saladin,” he says, his voice rasping against dry lips.

The axe does not move. He can feel the blade against his skin when he swallows. He should be gratified that Saladin is heeding his warnings, but it is irritation which pricks at him first.

“Ghost?” Saladin says, and Osiris can easily imagine the roll of Sagira’s iris at that mode of address. She had been very clear from the outset that she expected a name.

Sagira floats into view, hovering just out of reach, her iris narrowed. She begins to scan him, and he can tell that she is being particularly thorough. The time it takes stretches on, second after second, each bringing more apprehension which settles against his chest like a weight. He swears he can feel the blade of the axe pressing further into his skin. What is Sagira seeing? Is that seed of corruption still there, still coiled inside him, waiting to grow once more?

Has he been resurrected only to be struck down again?

Sagira’s scan ends. She doesn’t say anything, and Osiris closes his eyes, bracing himself for that final condemnation and swift execution. This is how things must be, he knows, but he still–

“It’s him,” Sagira says. The relief in her voice is like a physical blow, driving the breath he’d been holding from his lungs. “It’s gone. It’s just– it’s just Osiris.”

“Are you certain?” Saladin asks.

“Yes!” Sagira says. “I’m absolutely certain. I would have told you if I wasn’t. This is too important to lie about.”

Saladin grunts, a noise that sounds unconvinced, but the weight of the axe is removed from his throat.

Osiris breathes deeply, and begins to push himself up, only to quickly find himself wrapped in the arms of a significant weight of exo.

Saint drags him against his chest in a crushing embrace as he draws him to his feet. He presses his face against Osiris’ neck, and Osiris can feel his ragged breath, the heat of vented air. I thought that I would lose you.”

Osiris sucks in a sharp breath, and then, hesitantly, raises his arms to hold Saint in return. Saint’s grip around him tightens and it is the most safe that he has felt in weeks. Xivu Arath herself could descend upon the mountain, and Osiris would not be the one to pull away first.

“I am here, my love,” he says, and presses his lips to Saint’s shoulder, his neck, his chin, anywhere that he can reach. “I’m here.”

Sagira bumps against his shoulder and aggressively inserts herself against the crook of his neck. He forces down a sob, because if he starts now, he does not know if he will be able to stop. He has missed them both so much. He knows that they have both been with him since he was brought back from the Dreaming City, but only now is he starting to realise how deeply the disconnect between them had become. It is as though something had cauterised every emotion save anger and hatred, and now he is feeling for the first time.

It is a long time before Saint pulls away. Even then, he keeps an arm wrapped around Osiris, pressed up against him, hand resting against his side like a brand, and Osiris welcomes it. Perhaps he should feel more embarrassment at Saladin seeing such a display, but he cannot bring himself to care. Saladin has known him for too long for Osiris to care about reputation, especially now.

He turns his attention to the Iron Lord, who has set down his axe and watches them solemnly. It feels as though, with the corruption gone, he can see more clearly – there is a warmth present in Saladin’s face that has not been there for many years. It is the warmth that had greeted him those times when they had taken tea together at the Iron Temple or in the Last City, rather than the bitter recrimination and mistrust which had filled the space between them in the last years before Osiris’ exile.

“Lord Saladin,” he says, “thank you.” The words feel utterly inadequate. There are many things that he should be saying, but for now… it is enough.

Saladin steps towards him and clasps his shoulder. “I am glad to see you restored, Osiris.”
Osiris swallows around the lump in his throat when he hears that. Saladin does not say things that he does not mean. He does not offer false praise. He is in many ways, even more blunt than Osiris himself. Those words are meant wholeheartedly.

Osiris gives a soft, breathless laugh, one that threatens to overwhelm him with the force of a Titan’s shoulder charge. He leans against Saint’s side, weakness flooding him now that the flush of fear and adrenaline that has fuelled him for the past few days is wearing off. Saint supports his weight, and turns to press a kiss against the top of his head.

“What do you need, my love?” Saint asks gently, and oh, how could he have ever believed that Saint wanted to see him come to harm? It is a testament to how badly his thoughts had been warped by Xivu Arath’s corruption. What other aberrant thoughts had been planted?

It is something that he will need to pick apart, but for now he believes that he can take a little time to rest.

“I would very much like to bathe,” Osiris admits. The resurrection has left him technically clean, but he can still feel the echo of blood seeping down his arms, caked beneath his nails. And while he trusts Sagira’s assurance that he is free of the corruption, he would like to see what has become of the runes that he had carved into his own flesh. He needs to be certain.

“And I would like to eat,” he adds, the clenching of his stomach reminding him how little he has eaten for the past few days.

Part of him feels as though he should insist that they return to the Last City immediately – there will be questions to answer, and to ask, so many problems to deal with that are pressing at the edges of his mind. But for now, they are held away by sheer relief and exhaustion.

“Of course,” Saint says, a balm to Osiris’ soul. “If Lord Saladin will permit it of course,” Saint adds, inclining his head towards Saladin.

“You are welcome at the Iron Temple,” Saladin replies solemnly, his gaze fixed on Osiris. “How could I face my siblings if I turned away one of our own at a time of need?”

That lump is back in his throat, making it difficult to breathe around. It is an acceptance that Osiris had never expected to receive again, and had consigned his time here to a life that ended a long time ago. Felwinter is dead, and his mentor never saw what became of his brash and arrogant student, but this… it feels like forgiveness and understanding from one who is long gone.

Irrational of course! He is simply getting sentimental, emotional after everything that has transpired over… how long has it been since he went to Luna? He does not know, and will need to clarify that.

“Come then,” Saint says, and Osiris is grateful for his beloved taking charge right now. His thoughts are scattered, and he does not have the will to focus them. “We will ready bath for you, and decide what we will do next.”

There is so much to be done, so many problems that must be dealt with, and the Darkness growing in the system still seems insurmountable.

But for now he is content to let Saint lead him back towards the Temple and bask in the warmth of his affection.

Chapter Text

The baths at the Iron Temple are large and deep, designed for communal bathing at a time when there had been many people residing here. Where once they would have been full of laughter and conversation, now there are only the groans of the pipes and the boiler.

Steam rises from the one that Saint had filled, and Osiris sinks into it with a grateful sigh. The water is hot enough to turn his skin red, and he allows the heat to seep into his muscles, soothing away knots of tension that never really leave, even after a resurrection. He is not sure that he remembers a time when they were not there.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the edge of the bath, savouring the quiet. There is no voice screaming in his mind. No surge of hot violence, or slow creep of paranoia. His thoughts are rarely quiet, but at this moment, he finds solace in the knowledge that they are his own.

He soaks for a long time, enjoying the warmth. He flexes his hands, feels the water run over his fingers, and savours the control over his own body. Even though he had washed before he entered the bath, he feels as though weeks worth of grime and sickness is being washed away from where it had clung to his skin.

Eventually though his need for certainty overtakes him. He raises his arm in front of him and begins to inspect it with probing fingers. He presses against spots where Hive runes had been, testing for any twinge of pain or flare of soulfire.

Nothing. The runes have gone and there are no scars to mark their presence, not even the faded white lines of marks long-healed. The tattoos which had become distorted by the violence against his body are whole and unblemished once again.

They are gone.

He marvels at the sight of brown skin where the only marks are those that belong to him. His skin does not split and bleed and burn. He is free.

He… he’s free.

A startled laugh escapes him, then another, deep and gulping and he cannot stop as it carries him through desperate hysteria and into sobs which shake his body and send hot tears running down his face.

He is free.

The water surges and ripples, and through blurred vision, he recognises Saint slipping into the water next to him. Saint rests a hand against his back and rubs it gently, which sends Osiris into another round of painful sobs, as though he can expel the fear and pain of the past few weeks.

“Saint…” he manages to say eventually, when he can breathe once more.
Saint smiles gently. “I hope it is alright that I join you.”

Osiris nods, and lets out a ragged breath. He opens his mouth to say more, but Saint touch his cheek, his thumb traces the path of tears. He does not say more, but pulls Osiris against himself.

Osiris melts against him, allows himself to be held, to be cradled against the solidity of Saint’s body, and it feels like the safest place he has ever been.

For now, this is enough.

Chapter Text

Crow’s heart pounds in his chest like a bird desperately trying to escape the cage of his ribs. He stumbles around a corner, sliding on the polished marble floor, but he can’t stop! He doesn’t dare stop.

The skittering of many feet follows him down the high-arched hallway. From behind closed doors come shrieks and howls, and he cannot tell if they are sounds of pain, or screams of ravenous joy.

His foot sinks into something, sends him sprawling, and they are still chasing him. He twists to pull himself upright, sees the patch of empty static that mottles the stone. He’d stepped into it without noticing.

He drags himself out, and a dark ichor clings to his leg, but there’s no time! He can hear them coming!

He takes off running once more, trying to avoid the places where the stone has vanished, where Taken corruption has devoured the floor and reaches for him with hungry tendrils.

They are chasing him and he doesn’t know why.

The ground becomes uneven, smooth flat marble and pristine halls giving way to crumbling ruins giving way to dislocated pieces of land which only bear a passing resemblance to buildings. He reaches the top of a staircase only to find it leads to another going down to the exact same spot he’d left. A doorway opens onto blank stone. A solid piece of floor begins to rotate beneath him, forcing him to jump down onto an expanse of stone, where the massive carved eyes of a statue stare up at him.

Shadows move in the darkness at the edge of his vision.

fatherfatherfatherfatherfather

His breath hitches. Ice drenches him, tightens around his lungs, but he can’t stop! He has to keep moving.

He forces himself to scale the unblemished face of the statue, up and up, past lines and nose and eyes, the expanse of forehead and he thinks he knows these features though he does not know how, or who.

A shadow in the darkness looms ahead of him. Crow dodges, rolls to his feet, finger on the trigger of his gun.

A hand cannon. White with a black emblem. It is not his. He clings to it anyway and faces the enemy.

A hooded figure, slim and humanoid. Their face is in shadow.

“Who are you?” Crow shouts.

The figure laughs.

The world twists around him, and he is on his back. The figure stands over him, a white hand cannon with a black emblem aimed at Crow’s forehead. They gaze at him, bright amber eyes glowing with hatred and amusement.

“Trying to run, Little Bird? When has that ever worked?”

That voice…

The hood falls back revealing a monster’s face.

His own face.

Chapter Text

“Well, that isn’t good,” Crow mutters.

The mangled remains of a maintenance frame lies there in the corner of an air duct, deactivated, and growing around it, through it, are thick knots of fleshy vines. There’s a bulbous growth at the base, with strange semi-transparent nodules which give off a sickly glow.

He shifts closer and gingerly reaches out to shove some of the plant matter away. The vines give beneath his fingers like decaying flesh, soft and pulpy – the Scorn feel like that if they manage to grab you, he knows from experience, and the thought makes him taste bile at the back of his throat. He pulls some of the fronds away from the frame and grimaces at the way they’ve managed to tear through the metal.

It reminds him of the EDZ, the shells of buildings and vehicles devoured by nature – tree roots cracking concrete and splitting stone, rooftops becoming treacherous gardens. But that has been the work of centuries. How long has the frame been lying here in the air duct to get into such a state?

He pokes around the frame, looking for… Ah! There!

“Glint, can you scan this and see if you can grab the maintenance logs from its memory?”

Glint compiles next to him and recoils at the sight of the plants, his shell spinning dramatically. “Is it safe? What if they try to grab me?”

Crow gathers his Ghost close for a moment, stroking his shell soothingly. “I won’t let it,” he promises. “And if it does try, I have knives and the Light.”

Glint nuzzles against his palm and then floats cautiously towards the frame. He scans it as quickly as he can, and then darts back to huddle against Crow’s shoulder. “It says that the frame last pinged the system… two days ago? That doesn’t seem right.”

“Two days?” Crow stares at the frame. There’s rust starting to form where the vines have grown, and it looks like it must have been here for weeks at the very least. When he’d found it, he’d expected it to be a frame that had broken down months ago and never been recovered. “Maybe its code is corrupted?”

“Maybe,” Glint says doubtfully. “Do you think we should try to rescue it?”

Crow eyes the frame. It feels somehow disrespectful to leave it here, even though he knows its far from the kind of sentience possessed by exos or servitors, or even the Redjacks. He isn’t sure he’d even be able to extract it without destroying it.

Finally he shakes his head. “No. Not yet at least. Can you take some photographs? If we leave it then we can come back in a couple of days and get an idea of how quickly these vines are growing.”

Hopefully the situation is just making him exaggerate things – everyone is on edge right now. Maybe it’s just a normal plant!

A normal plant that they’ve started finding clusters of around the Tower with increasing frequency. Winding through the air ducts, spreading like… like veins, or nerves. They merge with the metal of the frame and Crow remembers the uncovered roots of the Cryptoliths he’d found with Saint, the odd mix of organic and technological.

Crow shudders and edges away from the frame.

Glint returns to him. “I got the pictures. Just having them makes me shudder.”

“Good job. Can you map this cluster onto the map?”

“Of course. I’ll get started and why don’t we uh… go somewhere else?”

“Good plan.” He gives the frame one last look, and then begins manoeuvring himself back towards the vent.

Something brushes against him.

Crow flinches and reaches up to where he’d felt it brush against his hair.

Nothing. He glances over his shoulder, back towards the frame, but it is exactly as he’d left it.

“Crow?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Probably just a cobweb or something.”

It isn’t strange to find cobwebs in places like this, right?

He continues onwards a few feet and–

He thinks he’s imagining it at first. A susurration, like wind or… or distant voices.

That must be what it is! He’s overhearing people speaking and it’s echoing through the air ducts.

He scrubs a hand across his face – his skin is clammy, and there’s a chill creeping through him. He can feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

He feels like he’s being watched.

He gets moving again, significantly more quickly. The vent isn’t that far away, so why does it feel like it’s taking so long to reach?

The sound gets louder, whispers that he can almost but not quite make out, as though if he just listened, just focused on them, he’d be able to tell what they’re saying.

Doesn’t he want to know what they’re saying?

The light of the vent reaches him and he crawls the last metres towards it, and drops down, landing lightly on the floor of the service hallway. He grabs the grate that he’d removed earlier, and quickly scrambles back up to replace it as though it will somehow trap that whisper.

“Are you alright?” Glint asks. He stays very close to Crow.

“I– I think it’s getting to me,” Crow admits. “You’ve heard the reports that Aunor has been collecting. It’s not just outbursts of anger.”

“Hallucinations, paranoia, depression…”

“It’s like… remember when the Cryptoliths first appeared? The way they seemed to lure people in… call to them.” At least that’s what they’d heard from the people who’d stayed far enough away to only distantly hear the call. The ones who’d got much closer for longer…

He shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here. I really need a shower.”

But first he needs to check the new data, see if it adds up. Makes him miss being on Nessus tracking Caiatl’s people – at least then he’d known what he was looking out for and had been in the fresh air. But this? Working on hunches, waiting for things to happen before they can do anything… he doesn’t like it.

He heads quickly towards most populated areas of the Tower, and preferably somewhere there’s a balcony and he can stop feeling like he’s breathing in dust.

father

He goes still, that clammy feeling returning. His hand drops to the gun at his hip (a hand cannon, but not white, not with that card suit design, and why does he use a hand cannon anyway when the sound makes him feel sick?). He needs to move, needs to run, they’re behind him, chasing him, but he can’t move can’t run can’t–

“Message for you!” Glint chimes, turning back to him from where he’d floated ahead. His iris narrows when he sees Crow’s stance. “Crow?”

“I–” He finally manages to look back at the utterly empty hallway, and shakes his head. Paranoia. They weren’t joking. “Put it through.”

Aunor’s voice fills the hallway. For once, it’s a relief to hear her. “Crow.”

“I’m here, Aunor. What is it?”

“We got the results of the analysis that we’ve been doing on the plant infestation.”

“Finally managed to get a sample to last long enough to test huh?” It’s been a problem since they started looking into it – the plant begins to rapidly decay as soon as a piece of it is cut off.

“We had to work in-situ,” Aunor replies, frustration clear in her tone. “It was not a precision operation and we did not get as much data as I would have preferred but… you were right,” she says grudgingly. “There is certainly some relation to the Cryptoliths from the DNA that we were able to obtain, though it is far from a complete match. And the Cryptoliths were partly technological while these are purely organic from what we can tell.”

He lets out a heavy breath and leans back against the wall. It isn’t relief – he could have gone his whole life without hearing about the Cryptoliths again – but it’s an answer. He just wishes that he’d been wrong.

“Sounds like we found the source of what’s affecting people at least,” he says. Even if there’s so many questions they don’t have answers to.

“It would appear so,” Aunor replies.

“Now we just need to figure out how to get rid of them.” Which had been easier said than done with the Cryptoliths. They’d decayed when the High Celebrant had been killed, but as far as he knows, there isn’t some Hive warrior hiding out in the Tower.

“And to find out where they came from,” Aunor says. “This is not coincidence – this is an attack.” And Crow can feel the direction her ire is turning.

Osiris.

He hasn’t heard from Saint since he went searching for Osiris. Maybe Ikora has heard something, but it feels wrong asking her, like he’s prying into Saint’s relationship as though he has any right to it. He just worries.

“I’ll add my data points from today to the collection.”

“I will await your report,” Aunor replies, and then the line goes dead.

“Friendly, isn’t she?” Glint mutters, as close to annoyed as Crow has heard him.

He gives a soft snort of amusement and holds out his hands for Glint to perch. “Maybe it’s just the stress. There’s a lot going on.”

Or maybe it’s just a Praxic thing.

Or maybe it’s him.

“Come on, let’s go. The sooner the reports get done, the sooner I can take a shower.”

And if he casts a wary glance behind himself and walks a bit faster as they head back towards more populated areas of the Tower, then Glint is kind enough not to mention it.

Chapter Text

Crow lets out a heavy sigh of relief when he finally steps into the shower, the steam curling around him. He closes his eyes and lets the water pound over him, beginning the work of loosening muscles stiff from clambering through vents and leaning over a desk filling in paperwork. He’s glad that Saint’s home has its own shower, so he doesn’t have to use the shared facilities in the Tower, or one of the public bathhouses – with the dirty looks that he’s still getting, he doesn’t think it would be particularly relaxing. Plus he can take as long as he wants here, within reason.

It’s one of those little differences that he’d never even considered when he’d been brought here. His showers on the Tangled Shore had always been brief and less frequent than he would have liked, but it had been the same for nearly everyone – water just wasn’t as abundant as it is on Earth.

He runs a hand through his sodden hair, and shoves it out of his face, then reaches for the soap. He’d cleaned up as much as he could after the vents, but he still feels the dust and grime clinging to his skin.

He remembers Aunor’s information about the plants, the Cryptolith DNA, and grabs the soap again once he’s rinsed himself. Can’t be too careful, right?

father

A distant hiss. Crow stills, listens, but there’s nothing but the pattering of the water and his own breath. He exhales slowly, and focuses on the shower. Today has got him jumpy, that’s all.

The creak of a door. Footsteps.

Crow turns sharply, putting his back to the wall. The steam distorts his view of the room, but he can still tell that there’s nothing there.

He keeps his gaze on the door even as he steps back beneath the spray. Spider’s base had been full of strange noises – rattling, groaning pipes, distant conversations, occasional violence. And he knows how sounds can become distorted by architecture. If he had let unnerving sounds keep him from showering, he’d never have got clean.

The water is still hot and pleasant, and when the sound doesn’t repeat, he begins to relax once more. Washes his hair, cleans beneath his nails, erasing every bit of plant gunk that he might have touched.

He ducks his head to rinse his hair, and the water runs grey. Crow frowns. He hadn’t realised he was that filthy. He scrubs at his hair, waiting for the water to run clear, again and again but the water gets darker and darker, black rivulets running over his skin crackling with static like– like–

He stumbles out of the shower, gasping like a drowning man. He stares at his hands, turning them over to check for… They’re clean. No black liquid on them. No dust or grime. Nothing.

He leans against the sink and stares into the mirror above it, searching for– he doesn’t know, but he’s sure that something should be there. Grey skin, amber eyes, dark hair. Him. It’s just him. The same as he always been since he woke up beneath a shroud in the Dreaming City.

The shower is still running, the water crystal clear. Being wasted. It makes him laugh that that’s what comes to mind when his heart is pounding like he’s been chased a mile.

He should tell Ikora about this. That’s he’s seeing things. Hearing things.

And what will that do when everyone in the Tower is probably just as affected. How many reports have there been now? All it would do is make Ikora move him somewhere else. Or decide that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Even Saint’s friendship probably isn’t enough to make the Vanguard let him stay if he becomes too much of a problem.

If Saint is even still alive. Who knows how far Osiris had gone, and what state he was in?

He groans and runs a hand over his face. He is getting nowhere like this. He needs to dry off. That should definitely be his first move. He can panic later.

He turns off the shower and dries himself off quickly, then ties the towel around his waist. He reaches for the door, oddly hesitant to open it in case…

He opens the door. The hallway beyond is the same warm, sandy colour that it has always been, with a colourful rug on the floor, and the living room at end, the early evening sunlight making it glow. It startles a laugh out of him at his own jumpiness. Some Hunter he is, getting scared by odd noises.

He can’t quite bring himself to call the spare bedroom he’s been staring in ‘his’, even if Saint refers to it that way. It’s comfortable and he’s kept it neat, his clothes kept on a chair in the corner, and his very few personal belongings in a duffle bag beneath the bed, ready to be grabbed if he need to leave quickly, or hidden in case– Well, old habits are hard to break.

He should try to find his own place to live soon. Saint has been generous to him, and he doesn’t want to outstay his welcome. The Titan probably wants his space back and if Osiris is…

…either way, Saint will want space.

He he hears the door to the apartment open. He’s memorised that sound since he arrived, and it’s followed by footsteps, whispers. It isn’t real, it can’t be real, and yet dread reaches into his chest and squeezes, dredges up memories of being grabbed and hauled out of his meagre space in Spider’s base, of curling into rock hollows while the Scorn hunt him.

He grabs his sidearm and creeps into the hallway, keeping his back pressed to the wall as he edges towards the living room. He can hear the whispers still – can’t make out the words but he knows they’re there. Something is there.

father
The word hisses in his ear, the promise of ravenous jaws and dead flesh and the sickly scent of dark ether.

Footsteps. Nearby.

He raises the gun before he has time to think. Finger on the trigger. Begins to squeeze it.

“Crow?”

The voice, gentle with concern, breaks through the haze of fear. He shakes his head, blinks as though dispelling a veil from his vision, and sees Saint standing there. He’s armoured, but Crow can tell that he’s keeping his gaze steady of the gun in Crow’s hand.

The gun. The gun! What is he doing?

He lowers the sidearm, fingers clumsy as he removes the magazine. Can’t even holster is because he… he is wearing a towel, dripping water across the floor of Saint’s home, and he had been pointing a gun at the man who had saved him.

His laugh comes out high and hoarse, and trails into a sob of frustration. Humiliation. Shame. How could he have let himself get into this state? Stupid, stupid! He knows better.

“Crow,” Saint repeats.

“I’m sorry. I– I’ll get my things together and find another place to stay. I just–”

“What? No. Crow, what is wrong? What happened?”

Crow shakes his head, the mortified flush spreading across his cheeks. “I– I thought I heard something.”

It sounds pathetic. Hearing voices, seeing things, even though he knows that there is a cause… it still feels like it’s his fault. He should be better.

“Saint?” Another voice, cool, and cultured, and curious. “Saint what is– Oh.”

Osiris joins his partner, his eyes widening above his scarf as he takes in the sight of Crow standing there. In a towel. Is it possible to die from embarrassment? Because he thinks that might be welcome right now

“Go and sit, Osiris,” Saint says. “You are making him nervous.”

Crow wants to object, but Saint isn’t wrong. And if he says anything he’s certain he can only make things worse.

Osiris folds his arms across his chest and looks like he is about to argue, but then he looks at Crow again, and his expression softens. “Very well. I will… begin catching up on everything that I have missed.”

He nods at Crow and heads back into the living room.

“Saint, I–” Crow begins, and then pauses, mind finally catching up with events. “You’re back.”

“I am,” Saint agrees.

“And Osiris…?”

“He is recovering,” Saint says. “It is long story, but perhaps you go and change first, and I will remove armour. Easier to talk when we are all comfortable, yes?”

“That would be good, yeah,” Crow agrees, a pang of painful gratitude running through him. He manages to give Saint a weak smile, and then flees to the bedroom.

He stashes the gun away first, handling it gingerly as though it will go off without warning despite being empty. He finishes drying off, though he’s fairly sure he’s dripped all the remaining water out in the hall, and dresses as quickly as he can.

The knock comes a few moments later, and Crow braces himself. “I’m ready.”

Saint enters. He’s changed from his heavy armour into the clothes that Crow has oddly become more accustomed to seeing him wear.

The exo smiles and offers him a steaming mug. “I brought tea. Something calming. You seemed like you could use it.”

That embarrassed heat returns to his face at the reminder, but he still takes the mug and clasps his hands around it. “I’m sorry. I should have–”

‘Not pointed a gun at you in your own home that you are kindly letting me stay in’? Right, ‘cause that’s going to go over great. He’d hoped that living here would be an end of humiliating himself in front of Saint, but apparently not.

“Did something happen? You looked very shaken up,” Saint asks, and his voice is painfully earnest, not a trace of ire in him. It’s one of the things that had led to Crow trusting him back on the Tangled Shore. It’s very hard not to trust Saint-14.

He focuses on the drink for a moment while he figures out what to say. He knows what happened, and even the cause of it. But ‘I’m hallucinating’ is too blunt and makes him seem like a liability, and giving more details is worse. How does he explain that whisper, the blighted liquid in the shower?

He knows that Saint will accept it even if he doesn’t understand, which should be reassuring but… he doesn’t want to lose his respect. He doesn’t want to be someone that Saint feels pity for. He wants to be seen as an equal.

Saint must catch his hesitation. “You do not need to tell me, but I would like to help, if I can. Perhaps it would be easier if we spoke in kitchen? This is your space where you sleep. It should not be a place of stress and discomfort.”

He bites down the reminder that the places he has slept have never been places free of stress and discomfort. It isn’t fair to Saint. Out of everyone he’d met when he was working for Spider, Saint is one of the few who had treated him well. He deserves better than Crow lashing out.

“Won’t Osiris mind?” he says instead.

Saint snorts. “If he does, then he can go into the study. And if you mind him being there, then he can do the same.”

He gives Saint an incredulous look at the idea of telling Osiris to leave like that, and Saint grins and claps him on the shoulder.

“I will do telling. It is advantage I have,” the exo promises.

“How is he?” Crow asks. He doubts that Saint would be acting so casually if Osiris was still a threat, but he can’t help but be on edge.

Saint’s smile is brighter than Crow has ever seen it. It is a beautiful expression, and his heart beats faster at the sight, his mouth going dry with longing. Foolish, he knows! Foolish to want more when Saint has been so kind to him, and when he has just reunited with his partner. But he aches from the feeling.

“He is better!” Saint says, voice telling a story of joy and relief. “My phoenix has risen from the ashes once more.

Crow’s smile feels like a lie. “I’m happy for you. For both of you.”

“Yes, and now you will get to meet him properly.”

“Are you sure I’ll survive, if the interrogation last time was when he wasn’t at his best?” Crow teases, and it makes Saint laugh. The sound sinks into the pit growing in his stomach. He knew he would have to leave Saint’s home eventually and now that Osiris is back… there’s no reason for Saint to remain close to him.

“I will make sure he is on best behaviour,” Saint says, “as much as I can.”

Saint guides him out to the kitchen, large hand resting casually at the small of his back, a comforting presence. Saint is probably the most real person that he’s ever met, solid in a way that has nothing to do with being an exo.

Osiris looks up when they enter, his gaze taking in everything. Once more Crow gets that feeling that he is being laid bare to his scrutiny. Saint seems unaffected, and steers Crow to sit down at the table where he begins laying out containers of food that they must have brought with them.

He chances another glance at the Warlock. Osiris seems to have lost interest in him, and is engrossed in something on the datapad that rests in his lap. His legs are curled beneath him comfortably, and there is an ease to him that is wholly unfamiliar. Crow’s main impression of him from their previous meetings is one of sharpness – a man of twitchy, anxious motion, always on edge. Is he just more comfortable in Saint’s home, or had it been the influence of Xivu Arath?

Saint sets a plate down in front of Crow. “Eat. It will help. You do not eat enough.”

It smells delicious, and all at once Crow realises how hungry he is. He’d been more interested in finishing his reports so he could get a shower. “Thank you.”

While he eats, Saint takes a plate of food over to Osiris, and sets it on the small table next to him. The man looks startled, then smiles warmly, touches Saint’s hand… Crow looks away quickly, not wishing to intrude upon a moment that seems far too intimate for him to observe.

The food is good – Saint knows his favourites by now – and it does help. It pushes the shadows away enough that when Saint prompts him, he feels more able to talk, even if he doesn’t know how much sense it will make.

“I thought I heard something,” he begins, and then winces at how stupid that sounds, like he’s jumping at shadows. He drags a hand over his face as though he can scrub away his words. Saint doesn’t push, and waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts. “Since you left I’ve been helping Aunor to investigate the violence.”

“I remember,” Saint says.

“We went to where they confronted Osiris,” Crow says, glancing over at the Warlock, whose attention is now firmly on the conversation. “It was overgrown with those strange plants that have been cropping up. I had a hunch and the Praxics confirmed it – the plants are related to the Cryptoliths.”

Saint stands up with a curse, and looks like he’s going to go deal with things himself, before he forces himself to still. “Those vile things in the Tower…”

Crow nods. “Not exactly the same, but any relation is worrying. We think that they’re causing this somehow, the anger, the violence. Bouts of paranoia and depression. Hallucinations…”

He trails off, reluctant to actually admit how much this has been affecting him.

“Go on.” Osiris prompts after a moment.

Crow swallows and nods, his gaze fixed on the table. “I was investigating an infestation today. Found a cleaning frame trapped in the vents. It looked like it had been there months, but when I checked the logs it was active only a couple of days ago. And the close contact… I was in the shower and I thought I heard– I heard sounds. Saw things. Hallucinations. I suppose I’d assumed that because I know the cause and what to expect that it wouldn’t affect me so badly. Apparently I was wrong.”

“Recognising that a thought is aberrant, does not make you immune to the effects of that thought,” Osiris says. “Knowing that some of the thoughts I have had over the past weeks were caused by Xivu Arath’s infection, did not make me any less susceptible to them.” There is a level of intensity in Osiris’ gaze that is new, as though it had been dulled by his condition before. The Warlock tilts his head and gives a rueful smile. “What I mean, is that what happened is not your fault.”

Saint makes a noise of agreement and Crow looks between them. Don’t they get it? Has he not explained properly? “I could have killed one of you!”

Osiris shrugs one shoulder. “Unless things have drastically changed in a few days, that is not something that would have been permanent for any of us.”

“That isn’t the point!” Crow says, frustration making his voice sharp. He could have hurt them! Even knowing that Glint could resurrect him hadn’t made being killed by countless people any less horrific.

Saint reaches out and pats Crow’s hand gently. “We are both old men. We have died more times than we can count, sometimes at each others’ hands. We would have known it was accident, that it was not malice.”

Crow can only stare at him. It can’t be this easy. Surely they can’t dismiss what happened so calmly. “But–”

“Saint is very stubborn. You will get nowhere arguing with him,” Osiris says. There is a small smile on his lips.

Saint throws up his hands. “Bah! You are just as stubborn as I am. You would say same thing.”

“I did not say that you were wrong,” Osiris agrees. His attention turns to Crow once more. “What you have described of your experiences with these plants is of some concern. I do not remember the last few days before I left the City in great detail, but I do remember encountering them when I was trying to leave the Tower. A flash of something, perhaps a vision, of them spreading like nerves.”

Crow shivers. His words have more weight to them than seems possible. “They’ve certainly got a foothold,” Crow says. “We’ve been trying to find the origin points but we have no idea how long it’s been growing.”

Osiris frowns. “What about destroying it?”

He shrugs. “We’ve tried ripping it out and cutting it down. It seems to grow back overnight.”

“Burning it?”

“With the places we’ve found it, trying to burn it could bring down some essential systems. We’re keeping those points clear as much as possible, but setting a fire isn’t an option.”

Osiris hums, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If you can share the data that you have gathered then I–”

“Osiris,” Saint says, a hint of sharp warning to the word. He and Osiris stare at each other, and then Osiris sighs.

“If the Vanguard permits you to share the data, I will look at it and offer what insight I can,” Osiris says. “I should speak to Ikora in any case. She will want details and I should find out how far their grace extends when it comes to me remaining in the City now that they no longer need to be prepared to administer a swift execution.”

“I don’t think–” Crow begins, and Saint shakes his head.

“When you went missing on Luna, it was Vanguard who gave me information to find you,” Saint says. “And with what has happened, they will value your wisdom.” Crow stifles a smile at what is obviously flattery. “Besides,” Saint adds, “I remember time when you considered being in the Last City like being imprisoned.”

“One can long for the freedom to go where he wills, but still find the idea of a perch to return to appealing. And with Mercury gone…” Osiris looks away, so studiously unaffected that Crow knows it must be a sore point.

“And you will always have a perch here, my bird,” Saint says. “Both of you,” he adds, giving Crow a firm look. Crow is amazed that he doesn’t just burst into flame with the way Saint’s gaze makes heat curl through him.

“I… thank you,” Crow says. What else can he say?

“But come, eat. Both of you do not take care of yourselves enough.”

Osiris mutters something under his breath, but comes to join them at the table, and for a while there is only the sound of food being enjoyed. Then Osiris launches into talking about some of his research. Crow has heard him speak before, but there is a lightness and enthusiasm to him now that hadn’t been there before. He seems to be genuinely interested in everything, and it’s easy to be drawn in, listening with rapt attention as the Warlock goes off on a tangent about the Vex constructs on Nessus and how they relate to other Vex collectives within the system.

Crow casts a quick look over at Saint, and finds him watching Osiris just as intently. There’s a soft smile on his face and he is so obviously besotted that it makes Crow ache. He idly wonders what it would be like to have Saint look at him that way, and then sharply breaks away from that train of thought. The important thing is that Osiris has recovered, and he and Saint have been reunited.

The evening sun fades into cool night, and Crow stifles a yawn, the events of the day finally catching up with him. “I think that’s my cue to go and sleep.”

“Of course. It sounds like you have had long day,” Saint says. “Sleep well.”

As he passes, Osiris reaches out to touch his arm lightly, and fixes him with an intent look. “Dreams are not always meaningful,” he says, “but with what has been happening, it would be foolish to ignore them entirely. Try to note down what you remember of them. It may be of value.”

“I can do that,” Crow agrees. It’s not the craziest thing he’s done by a long shot, though he’s not sure how much use they’ll be. ”I’ll take any source of information we can get at this point.”

“If only the Vanguard could be so wise,” Osiris drawls. “Rest well, Crow.”

Glint compiles from the Light when Crow climbs into bed, and cuddles up against his chest, his weight a gentle comfort.

“Osiris isn’t exactly what I’d expected,” Glint says.

“Oh? What did you expect?” Crow asks.

“He was Vanguard Commander, and people have called him the greatest Guardian ever – a scholar and a warrior who fought at Six Fronts!” Crow laughs softly at his Ghost’s enthusiasm. “And then of course he got exiled for heresy, and people called him the mad Warlock prophet. And then we saw him in the Dreaming City and obviously that wasn’t what he’s really like but… I expected him to be more… more austere,” Glint says finally. “Colder, perhaps? Someone with little interest in the City, I suppose.”

“Saint loves him,” Crow replies. “I think that says a lot about him.” He can’t imagine Saint falling in love with someone who cared nothing for the Last City and its people.

“I think so too,” Glint says. “I think I like both of them more than the ones in the legends.”

Crow grasps Glint and presses a kiss to his shell. “I like them better too.”

No matter what happens, he is glad that he got to meet them both.

Chapter Text

Saint wakes up with Osiris in his arms.

He holds his breath, as though releasing it will cause Osiris to vanish, and he will find himself alone, or back in the secure meditation room, the Hive corruption burrowing its way into Osiris’ soul. Or worse, he will look and see the distortions in the fabric of time and reality that the Vex cause, and knows that he is trapped in the Infinite Forest, and everything since his escape has been one more simulation.

But the seconds tick by, and the weight of his beloved in his arms does not vanish, and slowly he releases the held breath. His grip tightens around Osiris and he dares to look.

Osiris looks peaceful as he has not since Saint brought him back from the Dreaming City. Even when he had slept, he had always seemed to be in pain, as though Xivu Arath tormented him even in his dreams.

Perhaps she had. Saint does not know.

He presses a kiss to the top of Osiris’ head, and Osiris stirs briefly, then settles once more.

There have been many times throughout his long life when he has thought that he might lose Osiris – Six Fronts, countless battles during the early days of the City, times when Osiris would be late returning from a mission or expedition leaving Saint to worry that this time, this time Osiris had overextended himself against an enemy, or had simply decided not to return.

He had lost Osiris to his exile, and Saint’s own anger, and the decades inside the Infinite Forest.

Hearing that Osiris had gone missing on Luna.

None of them had felt so terrifyingly final as seeing Osiris fall to the ground, wings of flame burning out, waiting for Sagira to resurrect him and not knowing if it would work, or if what returned would be Osiris at all.

But they are both here, and Saint loves him fiercely.

He could spend hours looking at his beloved, but he eases himself out of bed, careful not to wake him, and heads into his apartment’s small kitchen.

Hah, small! How strange to think of it that way when once a kitchen of his own would have seemed an impossible luxury. An indulgence. Before he had entered the Infinite Forest, most meals had come from the community kitchens shared between many people, or from the stalls in the markets. The kitchens and stalls still exist, but there are the resources to space now to provide people with more of their own space.

It is good, he thinks, a sign of how much the City has grown and prospered desfpitethe hardships, but he cannot deny that he finds it isolating at times. His reputation has also made people more uncertain about approaching him. Having Crow here has helped – seeing the evidence that someone else is here, sharing meals and quiet time with him. It is something that had kept Saint from sending every second at Osiris’ side, driving both of them mad with his worry.

And now Osiris is home, and Crow is here, his birds gathered safely.

He falls into the ritual of making tea for himself and Osiris – setting the kettle to boil, selecting cups and measuring out tea leaves – each step indelibly worn into the engrams of his mind.

When is the last time that he had done this? It seems so long ago, but he thinks it was the morning that Osiris had left for the Tangled Shore. If he had known then… if he had been more insistent that Osiris remain in the City with him, if he had delayed him for even a short time, then perhaps none of this would have happened.

Or perhaps such a delay would have led to worse. Foresight is Osiris’ purview, and Saint has spent enough time in the Infinite Forest, exploring the countless simulations of reality, to know how even the smallest choice can lead to changes in the course of reality.

He wonders if Osiris will stay here now that he is recovered. He would never wish to cage him, but he cannot help but worry. Luck can only last for so long, even for a Guardian.

He hears familiar footsteps as he pours water into the teapot. He recognises them even after so long spent apart. Arms wrap around him from behind, and he feels Osiris press against his back.

“Good morning, my love,” Saint says, and how can he not smile when his bird is here with him once more? “How did you sleep?”

Osiris gives a soft, thoughtful hum. “Well enough. Certainly better than I have for many weeks.”

“That is good. You already do not rest enough.” He never has. Always driven, always following a new problem, a new avenue of research.

“There is always more work to do,” Osiris replies. “With the Dark Fleet in the system, that is more true than ever.”

“You have been through an ordeal, Osiris,” he says. He pours tea into one of the cups and adds a spoon of honey to it. “You should take time to recover.” He turns to hand the cup to Osiris, who takes it and curls both hands around it.

“I have spent weeks doing nothing,” Osiris says. “I have much to catch up on.”

“It was not nothing,” Saint says firmly. “What you were going through…” Being transformed in such a way, having Xivu Arath slowly devouring him… “You were not being idle.”

“And I am better now,” Osiris says. “My mind is my own, more or less.”

“There should be no ‘less’ about it,” Saint says. He knows it is just a turn of phrase, but he cannot help but feel concern. “The Hive god is gone, yes?”

Osiris does not reply immediately, and each second grates against Saint’s nerves. “I believe so,” Osiris says finally. “Sagira cannot feel that Darkness in me, the seed of it has been excised. I will doubtless have to subject myself to interminable testing by Ikora’s people in order to prove it.”

Saint snorts – Osiris’ sour tone is unmarred by malice and so familiar to him. “There is a ‘but’ in there, I can hear it.”

Osiris scowls at him. “You know me too well.”

“You would not change that,” Saint says with a grin.

“Ridiculous,” Osiris says. It is what he says when he knows that Saint is right. “I have been having dreams. They are most likely a result of Xivu Arath’s influence over me, but they… unsettled me.”

Dreams. If it were anyone else, then Saint would most likely dismiss them entirely – after stresses like this, bad dreams are to be expected! But Osiris has never been anyone else. More than once, his visions have proven to be pointing towards truth, and Saint remembers also the dreams that his Father had described to him, those strange dreams of the Traveller. (His Father had spent years looking for someone to take his place as Speaker with no luck. Saint wonders if perhaps he had not looked close enough to home, or if he had just chosen to ignore the possibility considering the animosity between him and Osiris.

It is a thought that he will never mention to Osiris himself.)

“Unsettling dreams are not a surprise” he says, “but you know better than I what dreams to pay attention to.”

“Indeed. And a few days of recovery before I begin attempting to analyse them would not go amiss.”

Saint does not think that this is something that can be healed with a single resurrection and a few days of rest. Their Ghosts are marvellous things, but they cannot mend trauma as they can a physical injury.

“Drink your tea,” he nudges, because Osiris will let it go cold if he become engrossed in something. “You will doubtless be throwing yourself into work again soon. But for now, you will take some time to sit and rest.”

Osiris looks ready to argue, but then he shakes his head and takes a sip. Saint pours his own and draws Osiris to settle on the sofa with him. Osiris draws his feet up and leans against Saint’s side.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains burnishes Osiris’ tawny skin, and oh, he is beautiful, his beloved. Saint wraps his arm around Osiris, feeling the solidity of him, and for a while, there is peace.

“I owe you an apology,” Osiris says eventually.

Saint looks at his beloved, his grip tightening around him. “Why is that?”

Apologies from Osiris are rare. His beloved is proud, and rarely will he admit to being wrong about something.

“When you came to see me before I went to the iron Temple. I told you that I did not want to see you. I was cruel.”

Oh. The memory leaves him breathless. In the tumult of emotions that he has felt over the past few days – terror and elation – he had forgotten how those words had cut into him.

“You were cruel,” Saint agrees, because sometimes these are things that Osiris needs to hear. “But those words were not all your own. Xivu Arath–”

“She was not controlling me, Saint,” Osiris says. “Influencing, yes. Her influence fed the worst parts of me. But those words were my own, drawn from my own thoughts, even if those thoughts come from the past.”

Saint can guess when. The months in the lead up to Osiris’ exile had been a time of anger, recrimination. Saint had seen Osiris as obsessed, neglecting his duties to the Last City. At his lowest point, he had accused Osiris of following in the footsteps of Toland the Shattered.

It is not something that they have discussed since Saint had returned from the Infinite Forest – they had both been caught up in the joy of their reunion, and what was the point of bringing up old pain? But maybe they should have dealt with them earlier. Osiris is a man who is liable to be consumed by his thoughts – sometimes they lead him to great discoveries, but too often they lay a path to self-destruction.

“Are they what you still think now?” he asks carefully.

“No I–” Osiris pauses, and Saint lets him collect his thought. “I do not think that my exile was just,” he says. Saint can tell that he is choosing each word carefully, slotting them into place so that he can express himself without being misunderstood, when so often his thoughts run along disparate paths that are difficult to follow. “But I am no longer angry about it as I once was. And any anger that I felt towards you for it is– I lost you. I killed you. I will never make up for that.”

“It is not a debt, my love,” Saint says. “We hurt each other. But now we have another chance.”

Saint knows that his guilt there is not assuaged, but Osiris continues before he can push further. “There are those who still see me as an agent of the Darkness,” he admits. “And I cannot deny, I have an interest in this power that has been awakened on Europa. But not as a means of accruing power for myself – I see it as a tool that we might use to learn about and defeat our enemies. It still hurts to know that many see me as a traitor in their midst. This will not have helped my standing.”

“The great Osiris, admitting that he cares what other people think of him?” Saint teases gently. He presses a kiss to the top of Osiris’ head.

Osiris gives a soft snort at that. “What I said to you was– I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to hurt everyone. You, Ikora, Sagira. The City. Much of it was being under the influence of the Hive’s war god, but partly I– I thought that perhaps if I hurt you, it would make it easier for you to deal with me, when the time came.”

That confession knocks the breath from his body, makes his chest tight, and for a long moment he can only keep his mouth pressed against the top of Osiris’ head.

“Osiris–” he says, though he has no words to continue with, just his beloved’s name.

“You did not deserve my cruelty,” Osiris continues, “and I am sorry for it.”

He pulls Osiris around to face him, and then draws him into a crushing embrace. Osiris wraps arms around him in turn, and Saint feels him release a shuddering breath.

“I love you,” Saint says, the words a desperate please. “I thought that I would lose you.”

“I thought that I would be lost,” Osiris says, muffled against Saint’s chest.

He thinks that he could gladly hold Osiris like this for the rest of time. They have so many lost years to make up for. But it is not in either of their natures to sit idle, and eventually Osiris pulls away, though he does not leave Saint’s side just yet.

“I am concerned about what Crow told us,” he says.

“It is concerning, yes. I am certain that Vanguard will welcome your insight now that you are well.”

Osiris gives him a look of such deep scepticism that Saint has to stifle a laugh. “With the Praxics involved, I rather doubt that.”

“They have not been immune to effects,” Saint says. “Before I came to find you, Aunor and young Siegfried said they did not know what had prompted them to confront you. And Siegfried was ready to fight me for my defence of you.”

“He is a fool then,” Osiris says with deep distaste.

“He was most horrified when he realised that he was being affected. He is a good man, even if he is a little… overzealous.”

“Aunor believed that I should have been locked up long ago,” Osiris replies. “She was most aggrieved when I created the Sundial. I can only hope that they are able to focus on the actual threat.”

“I hope that for everyone,” Saint agrees. “We have continued running Trials and Crucible to offer an outlet but if things continue to escalate, I do not know how long that will be possible.”

It reminds him more of the Crucible of the Dark Age – a place where Risen tore each other apart over petty grudges or territory. Or for the thrill of violence.

“Hopefully we can find an effective way of keeping the plant contained at the very least, even if it takes longer to learn the source.”

Osiris’ expression has taken on that distant quality that it does when he is turning a problem over in his mind. A surge of fond warmth blossoms in Saint’s chest and he presses a kiss to Osiris’ temple. He is rewarded when Osiris leans in to kiss him in return.

“I missed you, my love,” Osiris says, hand resting against his cheek. “It is as though I am seeing you clearly for the first time since you brought me back from the Dreaming City.”

“You know that I will always come for you, my bright phoenix.” Seeing his beloved be used and harmed in such a way… he swears that if it comes to it, he will tear Xivu Arath apart with his bare hands.

“I know,” Osiris says. “It is so much more than I deserve, and I am so grateful for it.”

He leans in to kiss Saint again, and Saint wishes that he never had to let him go.

Chapter Text

You walk through dark hallways which twist and coil like a labyrinth. Ahead of you, a doorway opens with the screech of tortured metal and you walk through. You know it is the right way. The whisper in the back of your mind, the one that you can almost mistake for your own voice, knows where you are going.

Metal and plasteel gives way to carved black stone, harsh white lights laying out a path before you. Beyond that narrow path, the ground falls away into distant darkness.

—-We can show you the path. All you need to do is walk it.-—

You follow that call, that gentle tug at something in the core of your being. Even when the lights fade, you do not falter. This place has been worn into the grooves of your memory, though you have never been here.

—-You were always meant to come here.-—

From spaces that you cannot see, you hear movement, the click and scrape of weapons, the shuffle of feet on metal. You are not afraid. They are not here for you.

You reach the base of stairs which lead up and up to a point that you cannot make out. You begin to climb. You do not look back.

As you climb, the edges of the stairs become overgrown with vines the tips glowing faintly. There are shapes beneath the plants, objects engulfed by them. You do not look too closely, and the plants do not touch you.

As you climb, you become aware of a light at the top. An optical illusion at first, perhaps, but it grows as you climb, resolving itself into an osseous white orb. It is pitted and scarred as though something has tried to crack it open.

You pause and reach towards that distant shape as though you could touch it, that point in the darkness.

—-We wait for you, Osiris.-—

Yes. Yes, you’re coming. Soon.

Chapter Text

Osiris grasps one of the fungal vines, finding it soft, spongy, beneath his fingers. He releases it and then looks at marks left on his gloves – spores, he thinks. Mixed in with the dust one would expect to accumulate in any place, and especially prevalent in the less used areas of the Tower. An insidious way to spread, ensuring that no-one would notice until long after the mycelial network had become established.

“And the source of it is still unknown?” he asks.

“Not a clue,” Crow replies, giving a shrug. “It grows quickly and decays almost as soon as it’s ripped up. Hard to figure out how old any give section is. And it doesn’t match any known fungi in Vanguard databases.”

Disappointing, but with what he knows – or suspects – about this plant, he doubts there will be any easy answers. “If we can find the first place it arrived in the Tower, or the method of its ingress, then we may learn something of use about it.”

There is something niggling at him when he tries to think about it, like a word trapped on the tip of his tongue but unable to be spoken. His head is clearer than it has been since before he went to the Reef all those weeks ago, and yet some things still feel… discordant. Disconnected.

“Guardians visit a lot of places,” Crow says. “Could have been brought back from any number of them. I thought they might be from the Tangled Shore but I’ve never seen any plants like these there. I know they’re related to the Cryptoliths, but those were more like Hive tech wrapped in an organic shell. These are just plants.”

“Fungi,” Osiris corrects, “not plants. They are not able to photosynthesise, and instead get the nutrients they require from other organisms. More like animals than plants.”

“That’s… unsettling,” Crow says. “So what are they feeding off here?”

Osiris settles back on his heels, frowning as he regards the fungus. “That is a good question.”

The debris of human existence is omnipresent in the Tower, but he doubts that such large fungal structures would grow from crumbs and dead skin cells. Some fungi can break down inorganic materials for digestion but they would surely have noticed more structural problems if that were the case here.

“If the initial spores were brought in accidentally, I would expect them to have grown first in the hangar, but there’s no sign of them visibly growing there.” Perhaps in the air vents, but a Guardian returning from a mission was unlikely to land and immediately clamber up there to disperse the first spores.

“Higher footfall, eyes on it all the time. Maybe the fungus just couldn’t get established in there and needed a quieter spot.”

A clever comment. Osiris can appreciate that, and Crow is far better company than any of the Praxics. “Possibly, but with how virulently it seems to be growing in vents and elevator shafts, I am not convinced. There are plants that manage to gain purchase in the hangar, so why not this?” There are patches of ivy growing along the walls that have resisted all attempts to clear them. It’s impressive how high its managed to grow and is probably the only thing holding some parts of the walls together.

“What if it wasn’t carried in on clothing, but in a shipment?” Crow suggests. “Guardians pack up some look they found, spores get trapped in a sealed container that gets put into storage. They get released when that crate gets opened.”

“That is possible, but also vastly widens the timeframe that we’re dealing with.”

“But you don’t think that this is an accident, do you?” Crow says.

Osiris gives him a sharp look, and then sighs. “No, I don’t. Do you?”

Paranoia has kept him alive in the past, but being steeped in it for so long makes it difficult at times to tell if he is reading too much into a situation. Crow has seen this situation develop in a way that Osiris has not – his insight may be valuable.

Crow frowns, lips pressed tightly together. He looks very much like Mara in this moment – a glimpse of the man that Uldren Sov had been before he visited the Black Garden.

“The timing of its appearance, the way it seems to have grown in secret and escaped notice repeatedly… it feels purposeful,” Crow says.

The timing especially feels targeted. Growing and starting to affect people just as he returns from the Dreaming City, vulnerable, with Xivu Arath’s contagion burning through him. Would it have been easier to fight it if this fungus had not been here? Impossible to tell, but he has his suspicions.

His mind turns to the images that he had seen of the fall of Torobatl. Umun’arath’s body carved with Hive runes, her death calling down the war god onto the planet.

Many would call him self-centred for that line of thought, for believing himself somehow important in such a way. They are not wrong. But Osiris has known for a long time that the Darkness would return to finish what it began with the Collapse. He has always had a sense that there are parts that must be played in the conflict to come, and he has used that knowledge and his visions to direct things towards more favourable futures when he can. It is difficult at times not to focus overly on his own position on the game board.

Mara would understand that. The proof of it is standing right next to him.

“That is what I fear,” Osiris says. “My condition may have made the most likely tool to open the way for Xivu Arath’s forces to reach Earth, but with the way people are being affected, I believe another plan may be in motion.”

Either to substitute one particularly powerful weapon for a critical mass of violence, or…

—-You seek us.-—

He draws in a sharp breath, eyes widening. That voice. No… no it is supposed to be gone. It was some conjuring of Xivu Arath’s and it should not be there.

He pushes back his sleeve to look at his arm, searching for any sign of Hive runes, but there is nothing, the skin as unblemished as when Sagira had resurrected him for the first time.

“Osiris?”

Crow is looking at him with concern. He bites back a curt dismissal, and shakes his head. “A memory. Nothing more.”

“Do you want me to call Saint?”

“No,” he snaps, attempt to hold back his sharpness failing at the thought of such humiliation. Saint will fuss and worry, and he needs to find his footing again, not be wrapped in fleece to shield him from the world. “I am not some–”

Crow flinches – a split-second motion, a flash of long-ingrained fear, and all of Osiris’ irritation drains away. Saint had told him about Crow, of course, about Spider, but it had not truly sunk in, pushed to the back of his mind and buried beneath Xivu Arath’s onslaught.

What Spider had done was horrific, and no matter what people may think of him, he is not so callous as to ignore such harm.

“My apologies,” he says, carefully and deliberately gentling his voice. “I am not displeased with you, or with Saint. I simply do not take well to being… coddled.”

He does not take well to care in general, taking it too often for condescension, a judgement that he is in some way incapable. It had taken Saint a long time to break through his shell. Few enough others had ever bothered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Crow says, deliberately nonchalant. Even Osiris can tell that isn’t entirely true, but he isn’t about to push and cause further discomfort. “So if it is a deliberate attack then… what now?”

That is a bigger question, and he does not have an answer for it yet. He sorts through memories made dusty by recent events as though an answer will leap out at him. Even now, his thoughts turn first to violence – the destruction of the problem and all that comes with it. The thoughts are not alien in the same way Xivu Arath’s voice had been alien – no, these thoughts are his own, new patterns scored into his mind.

He hates it. And the work to change those patterns will be arduous, he has no doubt.

This fungus is akin to the Cryptoliths, and cause violence and aggression like them, albeit on a more moderate scale. Along with that come hallucinations, auditory and visual, and potentially strange dreams. And visions? Or had that been an effect related to Xivu Arath’s hold on him?

It feels familiar to him, and not just from the Cryptoliths. Reports he has read from Eris regarding…

Oh.

“Sagira.”

His Ghost compiles next to him and nudges against his shoulder. He cannot help but smile at the feeling of her being so close to him once again. He feels whole in a way that he had not for a long time.

“What can I– Ugh. What is this?” She spots the fungus and recoils. “Couldn’t you have waited until we were outside?”

“This is what we’re investigating,” Osiris says, with a touch of reproach. She knows that, but she has as much fondness for the dramatic as he does at times.

“Sure, but we don’t have to stay around it the whole time.”

“Focus,” he says, and she glares at him, then mutters something that he graciously chooses to ignore. “I need you to ask Eris to meet with me. I would like her input on this.”

“Can do. And Ikora? Ophiuchus has been pinging me since you got back. For a quiet guy, he can certainly send a lot of messages. I think I preferred it when he and Ikora weren’t speaking.”

He grimaces at the reminder. He had sent Ikora a very brief explanation from the Iron Temple, corroborated by both Saint and Saladin, and gained her approval for Crow to show him what they have learned, but he has not yet spoken to her in person. One might even say he is avoiding her. He does not particularly wish to speak about what transpired.

“I will speak with her later. This is more important.”

The look he gets from Sagira is pure judgement, and– there is an absence. Strange and freeing. It takes him several seconds to work out what it is – there is no anger at it. None of that monstrous rage or betrayal. It is a look that she has given him many times, and he loves her for it.

“Fine,” she says. “You see what I have to deal with, Crow?”

Crow looks startled. “I– uh–”

“You do not have to answer that, Crow,” Osiris says. “Do not let her put you on the spot.”

“But when you do it it’s okay?” she replies primly. “Just so you know Crow, anything he accuses me of, is something he does himself at least twice as much. Do you know how often he tells me to be patient even though he is the least patient man in the system?”

“I–” Crow gives Osiris a helpless look.

Osiris gives a soft huff of a laugh and holds his hand out towards his Ghost. “Sagira. We’re making him uncomfortable.”

Sagira settles on his hand and rolls her iris. “Spoilsport.”

“If you have finished, could you run some scans on the fungus?” Osiris asks.

“If I must. Don’t you already have a million scans from everyone else?”

Osiris inclines his head in agreement. “I would rather have my own so that I know nothing has been overlooked.”

She will understand what he means – he wants her to do it because he trusts her more than any other Ghost and values her input. She also knows what sort of readings he might find useful. She nudges his fingers briefly, and huffs out a ‘fine’ before she goes to take the scans.

“It’s good to see you talking to her,” Crow says quietly.

Osiris gives him a questioning look. “Oh?”

“You didn’t seem to be getting along the times we spoke before…” He gives a vague hand gesture, but Osiris understands what he means. “She was really worried about you when we were searching the Shore.”

He closes his eyes, an ache building in his chest at the thought of Sagira searching for him, fearing for him. She has always been the best part of him. “She has been dragged to enough dangerous places that you would think she would relish the chance to be free of me for a while,” he says, trying to lighten the grief and the regret. He feels her reproach through their bond. “Still, I am glad that she had you and Saint to rely on.”

He does not like to think about what the other outcomes could have been.

“I have been thinking about this Rite of Proving that you and the Vanguard have been working on,” he continues, because that, at least, is something he can speak about without bringing messy emotion into it.

Crow’s gaze sharpens and he leans in, eyes alight with curiosity. “I’d be glad to hear it. I know that Guardians have been sabotaging the fights, but we can’t keep that up forever. All it takes is for us to miss something and with everything else that’s going on…”

“The longer this goes on, the more damage occurs, and Empress Caiatl will turn her sights to Earth once more, and then there will be a war that neither side wants.”

“Neither side?” is Crow’s indignant response. “She threatened us, expected Zavala to bow to her. They’ve conquered countless planets.”

“That she approached the Vanguard with an offer rather than demanding a complete surrender or beginning an invasion says much,” Osiris points out. “She does not seem to be cut from the same cloth as Ghaul was, and with the fall of Torobatl, her people are refugees, their resources limited. They do not have the strength to strike an immediate crushing blow, and a protracted war would be as disastrous for her people as for the Last City.”

And there is likely dissent within her ranks as well. For all the Empire try to project a united front, there are as many factions within as any other nation.

“She can’t have believed that we’d accept her offer, not after the Red War,” Crow says. ‘We’. Interesting. A good sign, Osiris hopes. The shadow of Uldren Sov hangs over Crow, but hearing him cleave to the City so firmly…

Business for another day. He will have to explain this to Mara eventually, but for now there are other matters to attend to.

“The offer was more generous than most would have received,” Osiris says, and holds up a hand to forestall the objection he can tell that Crow wishes to make. “A seat on the War Council is not offered lightly.”

“You can’t seriously think that we should accept,” Crow says.

“Of course not,” Osiris replies. “Caiatl sees our fight against the Hive and the Darkness as being one with hers and knows that we would bolster her position. With the fall of Torobatl, she cannot afford to leave Sol without gaining something, but she also cannot afford to offer an alliance – it would be viewed by her people as weakness and cowardice. However there may be a way to bring this to a swifter end, and save many lives, though it is not without risk.”

“When is anything?” Crow replies.

“Caiatl seeks to fill her War Council using the Rite of Proving. Rites which we have so far sabotaged. If we were to challenge her directly, under the rules of the Rites, then she would not be able to refuse without losing face. If we win, then we can force negotiations of a true alliance which would benefit both her and humanity.”

“And if we lose?” Crow asks. Osiris can practically see him turning the idea over in his head.

“Then we have still averted a war,” Osiris says. He wishes that he could say with more certainty that this is the correct course of action, but without the Infinite Forest he can rely only upon the strength of Guardians. If he had more time he would be inclined to investigate Nessus further and see if the Vex network there could be leveraged. “I think Caiatl knows enough to realise that even if we lose, Guardians will not take easily to oppression.”

Crow is silent, and Osiris gives him time to think the ideas over. “It could work,” he says eventually. “The Guardians have taken down enough of the Champions vying for that War Council seat. I can bring it up to Commander Zavala.” His moment of confidence dissipates and he gives Osiris an uncertain look. “Unless you want to?”

Osiris sighs. “Zavala and I have a… complicated history,” he says, “and he has his own position to think of when it comes to dealing with the Consensus. And considering that for the past few weeks, I have hardly been in a frame of mind to make useful recommendations, I think that it would be taken better coming from you.”

“Not sure about that. Lord Saladin has been overseeing a lot of the operations. I don’t think he likes me.”

“Lord Saladin is not overly fond of many people,” Osiris says. “And I doubt that he will see this plan in a favourable light, especially if he knows the suggestion was mine.” The steps taken at the Iron Temple have eased tensions between them, but the centuries of hurt between them will not heal over a few days, and he doubts that his interference in vanguard affairs would aid in that.

“Not a fan of him, huh?”

“That is–” Osiris begins, and then hesitates. He does not like explaining himself, but Crow is… perhaps it is better he hear certain things from Osiris himself. There are more than enough people willing to speak poorly of him after all. “It is a complicated matter,” he says finally. “We were close once, but that has not been the case for many years. He carries many burdens and more grief than one man should have to.”

“Oh,” Crow says and shrinks back a little. “I didn’t–”

“He does not always make the best impression,” Osiris says, offering a small smile. “But neither do I. In any case, keep me informed about how Zavala reacts.”

“I’ll do that,” Crow agrees. “Not that I’ve had much chance to focus on anything other than this for the past few days,” he adds, gesturing towards the fungus.

Osiris pushes himself to his feet and stretches, feeling the crack of joints. He may be a Guardian, but kneeling on hard surfaces for long periods of time is still uncomfortable. “I will need to look at the data,” he says, wishing that he could give a concrete answer now, “and I wish to consult with Eris. I believe that her expertise when it comes to matters of the Hive could be invaluable.”

The only person better versed in Hive magics that he can think of would be Toland, and Osiris neither trusts him nor wishes to deal with him, even if he will need to be handled eventually. And Eris’ knowledge of the spectres and pyramid ship on Luna doubtless eclipse Toland’s.

“I uh… I might have an idea actually,” Sagira says. Her iris is narrowed in thought.

“Oh?” Osiris asks.

“What Crow said, about the fungus arriving in a shipment, and how it seems to be sticking to less traversed areas of the Tower… I might know someone who can help.”

She is being unusually cagey. A few days ago, that would have set him on edge, sparked vicious paranoia, and now there is that blessed absence of anything except curiosity.

“Then they are someone worth talking to.”

Chapter Text

“Stay here,” Sagira says firmly, looking between Crow and Osiris. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Sagira, if this is going to be dangerous…” Osiris begins.

“How many times have you dragged me to places where things keep shooting at us?” is Sagira’s pointed reply.

Crow stifles a laugh with his hand, and he can feel Glint’s answering amusement. The situation is not helped by Osiris’ positively petulant expression.

“Point taken,” Osiris says, words clipped, and then, more gently, “be careful.”

Sagira bumps up against his shoulder, and then floats down the hallway. It’s all storage rooms here, and many of them seem like they’d been filled and then never touched again. Perhaps that’s why the fungus has grown so thick here, the fronds of it waving in a breeze which isn’t there. He thinks Sagira might be on the right track – maybe her ‘contact’ really can shed some light on what’s going on.

“I think it would have taken me weeks before I managed to get to this level,” Crow says. “I didn’t even know there were storerooms down here.”

It draws Osiris’ attention, away from the hallway Sagira had gone down, and he fixes Crow with an intent look. “The City grew organically rather than being planned from the outset,” he says. “The walls have been expanded and rebuilt as necessary over the centuries. These are far from the first iteration. And I imagine that following the Red War, the focus was on repairing the defences as quickly as possible.” He tilts his head slightly. “It would not be difficult for rooms to go most ignored after that.”

It makes sense. He’s seen the state of the ruined Tower, poked around in there a few times to get a feel for things. Just going through the rubble to recover whatever was left must have taken months.

“I heard about the Red War. Out on the Shore, the Red Legion soldiers would talk about it, especially if there was a drink in it for them.” As bad as things had been, he has some fond memories of a couple of the bars and nights spent drinking and dancing. Times when he had even felt happy.

“I was investigating messages between the Red Legion and Empress Caiatl when I first encountered the Cryptoliths. She had sent an emissary to one of the bases and I–” Osiris trails off, a flash of pain clouding his face.
He wonders if that’s the base that had been destroyed by Osir– by the thing that Osiris had become. Plasteel and sand melted into black glass by intense heat that no-one should be able to survive. The Red Legion soldiers hadn’t.

Should he offer some sort of... of comfort? Reassurance? ‘Sorry you got corrupted by the Hive War God and slaughtered a whole Red Legion base’ doesn’t seem like the best way to start off.

Glint compiles in front of him, mercifully saving him from having to think of something.

“Sagira is broadcasting to me so you can listen in,” Glint says.

“Thank you,” Osiris says, and steps in closer to listen.

“You’re welcome!” Glint says. Crow can hear the pride in his voice, the flush of it through their bond, at being able to help, especially someone like Osiris.

“Hey, uh– Gilly? Gilgamesh? You’re still hanging out down here, huh?” Sagira’s voice plays through Glint as he broadcasts, the signal strong given how close she must be.

“Sagira? Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“A Ghost?” Crow asks when he hears the voice of Sagira’s contact, recognising the way the sound distorts – it’s different to the way exos sound.

“Apparently so,” Osiris agrees, deep lines of a frown around his mouth and eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t intending to come back down here but…” Sagira trails off.

“Still having trouble with your Guardian?” Gilgamesh replies.

“Something like that. When am I not?” Sagira says flippantly.

“Sounds like you have your fins full. I heard that he attacked someone in the Tower!” Crow tenses. There’s something about the way that the Ghost talks about it, a kind of excitement, that sets him on edge. “I heard that he turned into some kind of monster. Is that true?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Osiris’ gloves hands curl into fists.

“You seem pretty up to date considering you’re apparently spending your time skulking around storerooms.”

“I hear things,” Gilgamesh says. “I hear lots of things.”

“Good for you! So, about these plants… what are they anyway?”

“Katabasis never listened to me, just like Osiris never listens to you,” Gilgamesh continues, ignoring what Sagira had asked. The Ghost’s voice seems distant. “He didn’t listen to the whisper, but I did..”

Whisper? Crow’s eyes narrow, thoughts turning to the hallucinations, the dreams, something whispering, calling him Father.

“Sounds annoying. You didn’t see how the plants got here did you?” Sagira barrels on, her good humour fraying. “Storage crate? Weird portal? Murderous ritua– Wait, whisper?”

Osiris touches Crow’s shoulder lightly, and jerks his head towards the hallway. Crow nods – this sounds like it might be a little more than Sagira had bargained on.

“Yes!” Gilgamesh says vehemently. “The Traveller, our Guardians, they keep us trapped! We’re just– just dying over and over again. You must see that, Sagira! Osiris never listens to you, but it is offering Salvation and Osiris will be part of it! He’ll bring it to pass and–” His voice rises with manic hunger, and Glint’s shiver of discomfort reverberates through his bond with Crow.

A few steps ahead, Osiris is glowing, skin burnished gold with Solar radiance. It is a world away from the last time Crow had seen him use any power – the air does not heat and begin to scorch, and the Light is pure, unblemished with that sickly green-dark Soulfire.

Osiris gives him a sharp nod, and then moves.

The Ghosts turn to face them when they burst into the storeroom, and Gilgamesh’s iris widens. “What is this? You said you weren’t talking to him. You– you lied to me!”

“You assumed,” Sagira replies primly.

Crow steps forward to grab the Ghost before he can decompile.

Osiris is faster, grabbing the Ghost from the air with the speed of a striking serpent. His fingers wrap around the Ghost, squeezing… crushing…

The monster regards the ghost flatly for a moment. Then it lashes out with a sword of black flame and–

Crow drags in a sharp breath, and shakes his head to clear that vision from his eyes. It is Osiris standing there, just Osiris, holding a struggling Ghost in his hand. His lips are drawn into a harsh line, and he is still gilded with radiance, but there is none of that corruption in his Light, and while his grip is secure, it is far from causing damage to the Ghost.

“You– you’re not supposed to–” Gilgamesh begins, flailing as much as he can.

“If you knew me at all, you would understand that I have little interest in doing what I am ‘supposed’ to,” Osiris says imperiously.

“Let me go!” Gilgamesh snarls, but Osiris’ grip remains firm.

The sight makes unease crawl in Crow’s belly, remembering too well the way Spider had grabbed Glint and started to disassemble him to plant the bomb into his shell. The way his clawed hands would caress the Ghost shells he kept as trophies.

He nudges up in front of Osiris and crouches enough to meet the Ghost’s iris.

He steps forward, nudging in front of Osiris so he can see the Ghost. He hears Osiris sigh, but ignores it. “Hey, Gilgamesh, isn’t it? We don’t want to hurt you, okay?”

“What do you care?” Gilgamesh snarls. “You Guardians are all the same!”

“Crow…” Osiris says, impatience colouring his voice.

Crow gives him a look, and the man sighs and gestures for him to continue.

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Crow continues gently, as though he’s speaking to some lost hatchling on the Shore.

“Why would I want to say anything to you?” the Ghost replies.

“Then say it to me,” Sagira says. “You seemed to have a lot of things you wanted to say to me.”

“I was trying to help you,” Gilgamesh says. “You’re like Katabasis. I tried to help him, guided him to every power he needed to survive, brought him back again and again, but it never ends! We’re just… just drowning. Suffering. Always suffering.”

“I’m guessing Katabasis is your Guardian,” Crow says. He isn’t naive enough to believe that every Guardian and Ghost are perfectly matched, or that every Ghost is a font of goodness, but it’s still unsettling hearing Gilgamesh talk like this. There is venom in how he spits the name of his Guardian, and it is utterly alien to Crow.

“Is. Was. I don’t know. Maybe he never was. He never guarded me. Just used me.”

In the back of his head, he can feel Glint searching through Vanguard archives, searching for any reference to a Guardian names Katabasis. He’s sure that Sagira is doing the same.

“That must be difficult,” Crow says. It sounds weak to his own ears, but what else can he say? This isn’t what he’d been expecting when Sagira had mentioned that she had a contact to speak to. “If you tell us what happened, maybe we can help.”

“You don’t understand, but you will,” Gilgamesh says, his voice once more taking on that odd, dreamy tone. “It has promised me Salvation. It will bring Salvation to everyone.”

“And what did ‘it’ demand in return?” Osiris asks, his voice icy.

The Ghost stares at Osiris, and when he speaks again, that manic viciousness is back. “Isn’t it obvious? I thought the great Osiris was supposed to be smart. Maybe you should have embraced what Xivu Arath turned you into.”

Bright hot rage sears Osiris’ expression. His fingers flex around the Ghost, tightening. The echo of that crushing war cry sounds in Crow’s mind – it had tried to blot him out, and how much deeper must it have worked its way into Osiris’ thoughts?

“Go on,” Gilgamesh hisses into the cloying silence. There is something else in his words, like something is speaking through him, discordant voices, making the hairs on the back of Crow’s neck stand on end. “Do it. Release me.”

“Osiris…” Sagira says warily.

Crow lurches forward and touches the other Guardian’s wrist. Osiris flinches, and blinks as though he has only just realised that Crow is there. He holds Crow’s gaze for a long moment, and then slowly, deliberately, loosens his grip on Gilgamesh. It isn’t enough to release the Ghost, but Crow isn’t worried about Gilgamesh being crushed now. He hears a sigh from Sagira, and when he glances over, her spikes droop in relief.

“You are goading me,” Osiris says. “I see no reason to treat your words with any more respect than I would a particularly asinine academic.”

“Do you think it’s ever going to take its claws out of you?” Gilgamesh says. “It’s got you all figured out, playing by its tune.”

“Where is your Guardian now?” Osiris asks, ignoring Gilgamesh’s ominous words. “What did you do, Gilgamesh?”

“Dead,” Gilgamesh spits. “He got to hide in his limbo while I suffered. You think we don’t feel pain? That we don’t feel the weight of each death?” He twists in Osiris’ hands to look at Sagira. “You know, sister! You know the places he’s forced you to go, expecting you to just bring him back after every mistake! Didn’t he get you driven out of the City, away from the Traveller?”

For a long moment, Sagira is silent, the spikes of her shell standing far out from her iris, giving the impression of a cat bristling with anger. Then she laughs, the tension bleeding out of her and she settles on Osiris’ shoulder.

“You’re not very good at this ‘divide and conquer’ stuff are you?” she says. “I chose to go with him because he is my Guardian, my partner, and I believe in him. …and also because if he breaks time when I am around, just think how bad things would be if he was alone.”

“Sagira…” Osiris says, and the annoyance is utterly fond.

Divide and conquer.

Guardians turning on each other, tearing each other apart in the Crucible. Arguments that become violence.

“You brought these plants, didn’t you?” Crow says. “Divide and conquer. Like the Cryptoliths but slower, more subtle. Drive the anger higher until real violence breaks out. Or driven to despair enough to–”

“To call out for Salvation,” Osiris says. The words have a weight that makes Crow shiver even in the warmth of the room. He’d felt the same way when the Scorn on the Shore had called him Father.

“And with the timing of this, while you were… infected,” Crow says.

“The perfect way to ensure my condition would be exacerbated,” Osiris finishes. “And to enact a backup plan for some power that stands behind Xivu Arath.”

“Some power beyond the Hive gods?” Crow asks, the thought leaving him breathless with dread.

“You were not sent here by the Hive were you, Gilgamesh?” Osiris asks. “And Xivu Arath has no interest in ‘Salvation’, only the Sword Logic.”

“You don’t know anything,” Gilgamesh says.

“I think we have our confirmation,” Osiris says. “We should speak to Ikora, report our findings.”

The ease with which Osiris includes him in that ‘we’ makes warmth curl through Crow. He speaks as though they’re a unit, like Crow is a partner in this, not just someone who Osiris is using to gather more information.

Perhaps it’s foolish to feel that way over something Osiris probably barely even thought about, but… it feels good.

“What do we do with him?” Crow asks, gesturing to Gilgamesh. If the Ghost’s expression could be translated to energy, he’s certain that Osiris’ fingers would be on fire.

“You think you can do anything to change this?” the Ghost asks. “It’s crawling through every rotten stone of this place. It grows fast, and with so many Guardians, you’re giving it a feast!”

“The Praxic Order have equipment which can be used to suppress Ghosts,” Osiris says, studiously ignoring Gilgamesh, even when the Ghost goes tense in his grip. “They will know how to handle him. Their dedication to their duty outweighs even their dislike of me.”

Crow can’t say he’s crazy about that idea – it feels heretical somehow, to suppress a Ghost – but they can’t afford to just let Gilgamesh vanish.

Before they can leave, Glint compiles in the air nearby. “I’ve found something!”

His excitement fades when he spots the Ghost held in Osiris’ hand, and his shell spins nervously. Crow offers his palm for Glint to perch on, and then draws him close, giving his shell a soothing stroke.

“What have you found?” Osiris asks.

“I looked up this Guardian, Katabasis,” Glint says. “A Hunter. He was active before the Red War, and for some time afterwards, until he cut off contact with the Tower not too long after the death of the Hunter Vanguard.”

Osiris’ gaze flicks briefly to Crow. It makes something inside him lurch with apprehension.

“There isn’t much more, or if there is, its in files I don’t have clearance for,” Glint continues, “but they say that Katabasis was one of the Guardians who had dealings with Emperor Calus. A lot of them. There are reports of some solo missions unsanctioned by the Vanguard.”

Osiris frowns. “Calus? Curious. The Leviathan went missing a while ago. Sagira, can you find any further information?”

“I’ll take a look.”

“There must be a lot of files that you must get access to that I don’t,” Crow says, and gives a wry smile. He’s still new after all, still proving himself.

“Not at all,” Osiris replies. “All of my accesses were disabled when I was exiled.”

Crow stares at him, brow furrowing. “Then how–”

Even through the scarf, Crow can tell that Osiris is smirking. “I am very good at what I do.”

He turns and sweeps away, leaving nothing for Crow to do except follow him.

Chapter Text

“My thanks for speaking with me,” Osiris says, as he ushers Eris over the threshold and into Saint’s home. She looks around with mild curiosity and then goes to perch on one of the kitchen chairs.

“It is good to see you, my friend. I was concerned when I heard of your disappearance, and witnessed the ritual sites on Luna.” Eris Morn is not given to effusive displays of emotion, and many would consider her words cold. To Osiris it is a balm on edges scraped raw by recent events. She does not question his condition, or his feelings, or try to protect him – to her, he is simply himself.

“I am relieved to be here, and free of that abominable influence,” Osiris replies. He thinks that he has a new respect for Eris and her interactions with the Hive – she has borne much, learned much, and remained strong in the fact of the horrors that she has endured. “I have heard that you are responsible for freeing Sagira from the trap I caught her in,” he adds, and cannot help but let a little of the guilt show.

Eris inclines her head. “It was a simple matter – you had obviously constructed the spell with the intention of her being freed unharmed.”

“I… I cannot say that I had any intention,” Osiris admits. He fills the teapot and carries it to the table along with the cups. “I was barely capable of thought at the time.” He had just known that he could not risk Sagira trying to follow him lest she come to harm at his hands.

“Sometimes our intentions are hidden even from ourselves,” Eris replies. “It says much that even at the height of her power over you, Xivu Arath was unable to snuff out the core of you.” She takes the offered cup when he fills it, but makes no motion to drink yet, her hands clasped around it as though it is the only source of warmth in the world.

Osiris pours his own tea and seats himself. It is strange still to be here in Saint’s home – in some ways it feels as though it is decades ago, before his exile, when they had lived together. But this place is one that solidly belongs to Saint – there are touches of him everywhere, from the mementos and gifts from people he had saved, to the bag of birdseed left on the kitchen counter – and Osiris cannot help but feel like a guest. Most of his belongings are still in storage. Many of them have been there since he was exiled.

“Sagira’s message spoke of this infestation,” Eris says, and Osiris is relieved, as always when speaking with her, that Eris shares his preference for focusing on the matters at hand, rather than delaying with small talk and platitudes. “I too have noticed it. It… unsettles me.”

“The research done by the Praxics say that the fungus is related to the organic component of the Cryptoliths,” Osiris replies.

Eris’ strange gaze fixes intently upon him, and he knows that she grasps the implication. “Go on.”

“The effects of the fungus bear a surface level similarity to the Cryptoliths – violence, outbursts of rage – but as unpleasant as they are, the effects are far easier to shake off, and slower acting. When I encountered the Cryptolith on the Tangled Shore, it was… overwhelming, all-encompassing.” Xivu Arath’s voice wiping out thought leaving only violence, and if he could not withstand it, who could?

Eris nods, encouraging him to continue his thoughts without interruption.

“If Xivu Arath wished to strike at the heart of the Tower, she had ample opportunity. Why not seed Cryptoliths across the City? Why not force her hand with me earlier and enact the slaughter to empower her enough to bring her here?”

The Light infusions had held her off, but with how ineffective they had been becoming… He is stubborn and powerful, but he will not fool himself into believing that his will was strong enough to truly stave her off in that state. And if the Cryptoliths had been in the City, that would have pushed him over the edge far sooner.

He finally takes a sip of his tea as Eris ponders what he has said, and he turns the cup around and around in his hands to keep them occupied.

“It is possible that the death of the High Celebrant has hampered her ability to spread them as easily,” Eris says eventually. “If she had bestowed a large enough portion of her power into it it will take time to regain. It is also possible that the presence of the Traveller hampers her in matters relating to Earth.”

Osiris gives a soft hum of agreement. That is certainly a possibility. Such a concentration of Light might destroy the Cryptoliths before they can grow to their full potential, while a hybrid might have more resistance.

“There is also a Ghost in our custody which claims to be responsible for the infestation,” Osiris replies. “It seems unlikely that the War God would use such a vassal.”

“That is unusual,” Eris agrees. “But come, my friend. Lay your suspicions out plainly. I am not the Vanguard to dismiss your counsel when it is needed.”

He offers her a small smile. There is relief in being understood, a quiet joy that he experiences with very few people.

“The fungus in the Tower has also been reported to induce feelings of apathy, depression. Paranoia. As well as causing hallucinations, and visions.” Though he cannot be certain whether that is simply his own experience – he has always been more prone to visions than the majority of Guardians, and more susceptible to losing himself in them. “I am reminded of the Nightmares of Luna caused by the pyramid ship there.”

The way they had dug into the psyches of those present, drawing on their fears, their doubts, their memories. Drawing even on the memories of the dead.

Eris’s lips twist into a deep frown as she considers his words. “That is of great concern,” she agrees. “I have noted that if one takes the time to observe, the strongest Nightmares can be seen surrounded by ghostly tendrils, as though they are connected to something greater than they. Puppeted by a will that they do not possess.”

A shiver works its way down Osiris’ spine, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He glances over at the door, overtaken by the sudden, unsettling notion that they are being watched. There is no-one there, of course, but the feeling remains.

-–We offer answers. All that has been hidden from you.–-

His grip on the cup tightens, and he lets out a slow, deliberate breath.

That whisper. There is a clarity to it that it had not possessed when he had been under Xivu Arath’s influence. Like a signal finally tuned to the correct channel.

He could tell Eris. She would understand, he thinks but– what if it is simply the lingering effects of what had happened to him? Trauma can manifest in many ways and he is not immune to that, and with this fungus affecting the mental states of so many Guardians… no, no he will give it time. Give himself time. There are more important things to deal with first.

“We have spoken of it before,” Osiris says, voice dropping to a whisper as though something might over hear them. “With Mara. That entity that lies beyond the Hive, that commands the pyramid fleet.”

That had stolen four of the celestial bodies of Sol from the very sky.

“Its influence on Europa speaks to an advancement of its plans,” Eris says. “Perhaps it seeks to cultivate the mental states most likely to make Guardians susceptible to its influence. It would not be the first timeline where it had done so.”

“No, it would not,” he agrees. He had seen enough in the Infinite Forest to be able to grasp at the loose shape of it, and he has no doubt that Elisabeth Bray has a more intimate view of those timelines where this power had taken root. “We have passed a point of escalation It seems.”

“It was always going to,” Eris agrees. “All we can do is navigate as best we can, and hope that our plans have been well laid.”

So many centuries spent preparing for this oncoming battle, and now that it is nearly upon them, he finds himself adrift. He can feel exhaustion creeping in. He has been so tired for so very long.

He pushes the datapad across the table towards her. “This is the information that has been gathered on the fungus by myself and the Praxics.”

Eris takes it and she spends a few moments reading through what he has compiled. If nothing else, the Praxics are thorough in their research, even if he disagree with… well, almost everything about them and their painfully simplistic views of the forces that they face.

“These readings and images, they remind me of something that I have seen,” she says eventually.

“On Luna?’

“No. I do not know its true providence. It is in the possession of a… mutual acquaintance.”

The hesitation in how she says it tells Osiris enough. There are few people that it could be, and even fewer who would warrant such a look of displeasure.

“Then let us go and speak with him,” Osiris says.

Chapter Text

“You have been holding out on us.”

Osiris drops a frond of the fungus onto the console next to Drifter. It is already decaying, leaving a thick, foul residue on his gauntlets. Drifter leans back against the railing, rolling one of those jade coins between his fingers. He projects an air of casual ease, but Osiris has known him for far too long not to notice the pinched look around his eyes, or that his posture is far more tense than he wishes people to recognise.

“No hello? No small talk?” Drifter asks. He glances over at Eris where she haunts the doorway. “I expect that from his high-and-mightiness, but I thought we were getting on better than that, Moondust.”

“This is not the time for your flippancy,” Eris says. “Many things hang in the balance, and I do not believe that you are unaffected.”

Drifter stares at her for a moment and then sighs and turns his attention to Osiris. “You’re a bad influence.”

“So I have heard,” Osiris replies mildly. “Hardly a revelatory statement.”

Drifter scowls at him. “Fine, let’s see what you’ve got for me and–” He looks at the vine, now dripping foetid dark fluid onto the ground, and grimaces. “Really?”

“You know what this is,” Eris says. “I have seen similar plant matter in the Derelict, though I paid it little attention when I first saw it.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas,” Drifter says. He touches the fleshy stem gingerly, and Osiris does not bother to hide his distaste when it bursts, dissolving into more ichor.

“And you did not think to mention this to anyone?” Osiris asks. “You cannot be unaware of the infestation within the Tower.”

“No-one asked,” Drifter replies with an indolent shrug. “Had more on my mind recently anyway, all this business on Europa.”

Osiris cannot really object to such an answer, when he himself has been distracted lately, and he has in the past also stayed out of matters in the City that he could have offered assistance with. It does not mean that it doesn’t frustrate him.

“Have you observed changes in your Gambit arenas?” he asks, forcing down his frustration. “More violence, more… cruelty. Blood-hunger.”

“Noticed a few things,” Drifter replies, “but that’s always been half the point of Gambit, you know that. The Dredgens, all of it, picking out the those who are easily corrupted. But recently… hm…” He gives Osiris a long, appraising look. Osiris is certain that somehow he knows everything that has happened since he went to the Tangled Shore.

Finally Drifter nods. “With the Dredgens, it was hunting down people who wanted power, people making a choice to take that power. But the last few weeks… they ain’t seeking power, just pain, violence. And not in a fun way.”

“Lord Shaxx and Saint have reported the same thing,” Osiris says. “They have been trying to provide an outlet for such impulses, but I fear that if matters are pushed too much further, such violence will become impossible to contain. The Last City will become a battlefield.”

He knows the destruction that he had wrought alone. How much more could an army of Guardians driven to joyful slaughter cause?

Drifter meets his gaze for a long moment, a searching look. They have both seen too many battlefields – and far too many settlements laid to ruin by Warlords. Finally Drifter throws his hands up. “Fine. I’ll show you. Don’t know how much help a bunch of weeds will be though.”

“Then you had best show us quickly so we can determine their use,” Eris replies.

“Already said that I would, Moondust. No need to get testy.” He jerks his thumb towards the back of his workshop area. “I’ll take us up. Don’t touch anything.”

The Derelict is an unsettling space – outwardly a normal jumpship, albeit one which has been fitted out for travel far beyond Sol, but Osiris can feel the influence of the Nine in this place, the way that reality feels less solid here, as though one runs the risk of tearing it with a careless word. It grates against his Light in a way that he doesn’t recall from previous visits, but he does not know if this is because of some outside effect, or because he is more primed to notice it now.

It is a question which he could pick at for centuries without finding an answer. Matters of the Nine never have simple explanations.

Drifter steps up onto the gangway which runs along the back wall, and gestures at the space which is far too large to fit inside the space that would be suggested if one saw his ship from the outside. “Be my guests.”

Eris runs her fingers over the grime-clouded containment glass, behind which the fungus is contained. The long, blue-tipped stalks sway gently in a breeze that does not exist, and the thickest growth glows with a strange red light.

“You’ve had this for years, and never thought to mention it?” Eris asks.

“Wasn’t hidin’ it,” Drifter replies. “No-one cared until now. Hell, both of you’ve walked past it before without even a second glance.”

“What wonders you must have buried in this heap,” Eris breathes, and Osiris can hear her intrigue, the hunger for knowledge and for discovery that haunts Warlocks and Hunters both.

“You seem to have it contained at least,” Osiris says. He rests his hand against the glass, as though proximity will allow him to divine meaning. “That is more than I can say for the rest of the Tower.”

Drifter shrugs. “Surprised the Vanguard haven’t ordered a quarantine, way the stuff is spreading. Been ready to high-tail it out of here at a moment’s notice.”

“I believe they attempted to institute a quarantine a few years ago, when Guardians brought a ‘tech mite’ infestation from the Dust Palace. It… did not go well.” He had heard reports about it and done his own research when the infestation had proven related to SIVA. In not a single simulation he had viewed had the quarantine proven effective. “It proved simpler to restrict travel between the Tower and the City than to try to force all Guardians to remain Earthbound.”

“And with these violent eruptions…” Drifter winces. “Yeah, can see how a quarantine might only stoke the flames.”

“What have you learned about the fungus?” Osiris asks, turning his attention back to it. Beyond the glass, spores swirl in hypnotic patterns.

Drifter sighs and perches on the nearby railing. “I leave the research to people like you two. I’m just here to get paid.”

“Playing at ignorance is unbecoming,” Eris says. “You know more than you let on.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Drifter replies, flashing a grin which Eris studiously ignores.

“You were quite adept at research when you had requests to make of associates that we had in common,” Osiris points out. He had seen some of the files Drifter had put together when he needed ‘favours’ from the Iron Lords – meticulously researched, with a keen eye for detail.

He would never have trusted Drifter to assist with the Sundial if that were not the case.

The man shoots him a sour look. “That was business.”

“Do you at least recall where you found it?” Eris asks, annoyance making her voice sharp.

“Out of system,” Drifter says. “Icy little nothing in the middle of nowhere, and nowhere you want to go.”

“Not that we could even if we wished to. The Black Fleet wait at the edge of the system. I doubt that we would be able to evade them.” Perhaps if the Warmind were still active, instead of gathering dust in Ana’s workshop… A dead end in any case.

“There are many similarities between these samples and those infesting the Tower,” Eris says. “It is possible this fungus was hybridised with the organic makeup of the Cryptoliths.”

“There’s something not right about the stuff growing in the Tower,” Drifter says. “Or less right about it than normal at least. None of it is ‘right’. But this stuff ain’t driven anyone crazy that I know of. Not here anyway.”

“Worth investigation,” Osiris agrees. “We should have the Praxics examine it and see if they can compare the genetic sequences.”

“Hey no, I ain’t letting the Praxics crawl all over the Derelict,” Drifter says. “If you’re nice I’ll let you take a sample to them. But I do know something that might be of interest.”

“Tell us,” Eris says. “You are as much at risk as the rest of us if this infestation continues to spread.”

Drifter sighs, giving in. “The stuff I’ve got, it sings if you burn it just right.”

“Sings?” Osiris asks, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. Weird musical tones. Sub-sonic. Resonates in a funny way with Pyramid tech.”

He cannot help but think back to Mercury, to the tones that Vance had recorded, the way they had resonated with Guardian deaths. To the ringing chime of the place that he had found the Seed of Silver Wings. There is something in the thought, but he does not have time to chase it.

“Is that so?” Eris asks.
“You don’t trust me?” Drifter asks.

Despite everything, Osiris does trust Drifter, and Eris must as well, at least a little, because she nods. “We should gather samples. I believe that Stasis may aid us in preventing the decay that has been observed. Drifter and I will join you in the hangar when we have them.”

“Wait, what?” Drifter asks, looking between them. “I’m not–”

“Your knowledge is invaluable,” Osiris says, unable to contain a smirk. “It would be remiss of us to leave you out of our research trip.”

“Research trip? Where are you lunatics dragging me?”

He thinks that he sees a hint of a matching smile on Eris’ lips. “Europa, of course.”

Chapter Text

The frigid air of Europa assaults Osiris as soon as he emerges from transmat. It pricks at his skin – eyelids, lips, the inside of his nose – even through the thick fabric of his scarf. Sagira shivers and then decompiles into his light, with an admonishment of ‘I’ll be here if you need me, but please try not to need me’.

He thinks longingly of the heat of lost Mercury – sun-warmed sand and stone beneath his bare feet in the Lighthouse, golden waves of grasses in the simulated past, taking shelter beneath one of the great trees, light casting fractal shadows across the ground.

He uses the memory to call the heat of Solar flame to him, and imbues it into his cowl and robes and scarf. It makes him a little more comfortable, although he doubts that there is anything that could truly stop the biting cold. Europa is not a place that wishes to be inhabited.

It is not his first visit to the moon – many years ago, he had visited in search of the Nine – and little seems to have changed in the intervening time. Except, of course, for the looming presence of the pyramid swallowing the horizon, and its ziggurat a blight on the ice plane that lies near the camp in Beyond. Its presence catches the breath in his lungs, makes his heart pound. He remembers standing in the shadow of the pyramid on Luna on that fateful day when Xivu Arath had claimed him, the edge of night invading his mind. He remembers the pyramid that had settled over Mercury, and the gaping wounds in the system left by the disappearance of the celestial bodies.

He shakes his head, and drags his attention away from the pyramid. It does not dispel the unease that crawls down his spine, but it does lessen its potency. He makes himself focus on the camp instead, a snap of his fingers setting light to the fire pit. He settles beside it, leaning in towards the meagre heat that it offers.

He hears footsteps in the snow, feels a distortion, something, someone that does not fit entirely in this timeline.

“Osiris. I wondered if you would make it here.”

He smiles beneath his scarf. “Elisabeth.”

“Elsie,” she says, and for a moment he can hear the similarity to Ana. “Only grandfather calls me Elisabeth.”

She sits next to him, gun held loosely across her lap. When she settles, something emerges from her hood – it floats through the air, iridescence shining on its wings – fins? Osiris gets the impression of multiple eyes and boundless curiosity as it circles him until eventually it nudges his hand, demanding that he pet it. At least he thinks that is what it wants.

Elsie gives a soft laugh. “It’s very interested in people.”

“I can tell,” Osiris replies. It flops down into his lap like a cat. After a moment of observation, Osiris drops his hand to stroke it, and it emits a chirping sound of what he presumes is contentment. “What is it?”

“It’s called a ‘Pouka’. An artificial life form. I think it was someone’s pet.”

Another of Elsie Bray’s mysteries. She has more than enough of them. He had glimpsed some in the Infinite Forest, her pathways through the many branching realities. He wishes at times that he had paid more attention, but that may have done more harm than good.

“Where did it come from?” he asks. It is not from Earth, certainly, and he doubts that it is from the Reef. Perhaps some ancient Golden Age technology given new life? Ah, but then there would be evidence of them, surely.

Elsie considers for a moment and then shakes her head. “A space station at the edge of the system. Perhaps it was an experiment left behind with the Collapse. But what brings you to Europa?” she asks, leaning in. “Have you come seeking stasis?”

He can hear the wariness in her voice when she asks him about this new power of Darkness. Part of him wishes to push, to find out what she has seen of him in other timelines, if she has seen the events of recent weeks play out over and over again. How many times has she seen him fall and become the monster that they fight against?

But no, that way lies only pain and doubt. He trusts her to tell him if there is something that he truly needs to know.

“Information,” Osiris says. “While I confess to some interest in this power, I fear that the pursuit of it would be… unwise at the current time.” That seed of corruption is gone, yes, but he cannot help but be wary. The vestiges of Xivu Arath’s power remain, the memories of what he had done under her influence and he… not until he can trust himself again, no matter how much it galls him to deny the opportunity to throw himself into the study of this new power.

“Something happened,” Elsie says, her optics narrowing as she observes him. “You are very rarely so wary.”

“I made a mistake,” he admits. “I hunted a signal on the Tangled Shore, and was lured into a trap by Xivu Arath.” He has become very good at reading exo expressions, but Elsie’s is utterly blank, giving nothing away. That is probably for the best. “She– she turned me into a puppet. A weapon to enact her will. It is only through Saint’s intervention that I sit here today.”

Elsie remains silent for a long moment and then nods. There is great weariness in her voice when she speaks. “The Hive gods are formidable, no matter the timeline.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, and yet we now face an enemy beyond even them.” The Dark Fleet and whatever force or entity controls them.

“It always comes to this,” Elsie says, and she sounds weary. “No matter what choices are made, we come to ruin, at the mercy of a power we can hardly imagine. I have seen it so many times.”

“Perhaps this one may yet be different,” Osiris says. He cannot give up on this timeline yet. Not while he still has life to give.

“Perhaps,” Elsie says. She sighs and then pushes herself to her feet. The Pouka looks up at her and then reluctantly drifts from Osiris’ lap and back to her side. “I need to go. Good luck with your information gathering.”

“We will need it. Be safe,” he replies.

She strides away, and then is absorbed by the shimmer of a transmat. Wherever she is going, he hopes that what he has told her will be of some small use.

He is not left long to contemplate before there is the hum of transmat and Eris and Drifter join him by the fire.

“She here?” Drifter asks, looking around, then peering into the small building that serves as her home on Europa.

“She left,” Osiris replies. “The samples?”

“I have them,” Eris replies. “The ziggurat awaits.”

Osiris stands, stretches, works his fingers to ward off the cold which has managed to seep into them despite the fire and his Light.
Drifter swings himself onto a sparrow and then looks Osiris up and down. “You uh– you know how to ride, old man?”

“You are at least as old as I am,” Osiris says sourly. He does not have to accept such taunts from the man. “And I do not need to ride.”

Solar flame surrounds him, flaring back into great wings which buoy him aloft. He takes off towards the ziggurat at a speed that would make sparrow racers jealous. The call of ‘show off!’ follows him across the ice.

The movement of his wings through the frigid air is freeing. It feels clean, feels good, like a bird moulting old feathers to reveal new plumage. Maybe if he flies for long enough and hard enough he will be able to slough away the remnants of what had been done to him.

He lands at the base of the ziggurat, and immediately feels the weight of its existence. Despite the distance, the Europan pyramid is a looming presence, wreathed in clouds and haze. It is like a thorn in his mind, impossible to ignore.

He approaches the ziggurat steps, and feels a resistance, like static, and a hum fills the air. He stares up at the impossible architecture, the massive arch which levitates above the plinth, the way they seem too solid to exist here, too real. Through the stone, a golden glow traces a path of alien circuits.

And of course, there are the whispers.

He closes his eyes, ad tries to listen to the distant susurration – it is so close to intelligible, like a radio message he just needs to find the right frequency to hear – but the meaning eludes him. It is familiar though. Has he heard it before? On the moon before Xivu Arath had blotted all thought from his mind? In the ragged wounds left by the disappearance of the planets? In that dark, impossible space where he had found the silver seed?

He thinks he hears–

The sounds of sparrow engines and crunching snow break him from his reverie. He opens his eyes and– when had he begun to climb the steps?

The breath leaves him and he turns sharply to watch as Eris and Drifter emerge from around a snowdrift.

Drifter raises an eyebrow at his position halfway up the stairs. “So eager to get started?”

“Eager not to waste more time,” is Osiris’ acerbic response.

He waits for them to climb past him. Eris pauses and rests a hand upon his arm when she reaches him, and gives him a look of concern. Osiris nods in response – he is fine. This is hardly the most unsettling place that he has visited.

Eris continues upwards without another word, and he is grateful that she accepts his word. He does not wish to pry into his mental state right now.

The flat space at the top of the ziggurat is free of snow and ice despite being open to the elements, and there is no water to suggest that it has melted. The black stone floor is carved with more of those glowing circuits. The static hum is stronger here – Osiris feels it stroke down the back of his neck, raise the hairs on his arms despite his layers of clothing.

“You hear it, right?” Drifter asks, and despite the indolent way he leans against one of the stone supports, there is a current of unease in his voice.

“Osiris is not new to the study of the Darkness,” Eris says. She kneels down in the centre of the platform and from her bag she draws out several stalks of fungus. Those from the Derelict are still intact, but the hybrid from the Tower’s infestation is encased in what looks like ice – a stasis crystal. “Without his studies, we would probably not have reached this point in our understanding.”

Drifter snorts. “You and Saint should start a fan club. Join up with those weirdos calling themselves a cult, what’s left of ‘em anyway.”

“I never asked for them to follow me,” Osiris snaps, old pain flaring. “I do not want followers, only people who will aid me in the fight to come.”

Drifter holds up his hands. “Whoa! Getting a little testy there, hotshot.”

“Then do not speak of matters which you do not understand,” Osiris replies. “And stop using that asinine nickname,” he adds for good measure.

Drifter smirks at him and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You prefer something else? Sunbeam maybe?”

He could kill Drifter so easily, summon his Dawnblade and run it through the man’s heart and watch him bleed out onto the snow and–

He grits his teeth, folds his hands into fists to stave off the wave of violent impulse. Annoyance, even anger he is used to – his temper has always burned hot and bright – but this… the wounds left by Xivu Arath will not heal so quickly or easily as he would like.

“I hear it,” he says finally, choosing to return to the topic of conversation. “Whispers, as if people are speaking behind a closed door, and if I could only open it, I would understand what was being said.”

“Well hold off on opening that door until I’m far away. You broke time last time you used something that whispers,” Drifter says.

“A light, please,” Eris says, a shade away from snapping. In her hand is one of the stalks taken from the Derelict.

Drifter is immediately with her, and Osiris watches as he instructs her in peeling away a little of the outer skin of the fungus, and then has her light it at both ends. Smoke spools from it in winding ashy clouds that quickly envelope them, thick enough that osiris cannot see either of them, despite being merely feet away.

Faint whispers.

The ziggurat reverberates like it has been struck, vibrations filling the air with a clear note which hums against his skin. The whispers swell, a chorus of voices just out of reach. He breathes deeply, the smoke burning his nose and throat, sickly sweet. He sees shadows move in the smoke, steps towards them–

–You stand in a long hallway made from black stone and lit with harsh white light. The walls are lined with sculptures of twisted forms that are almost, but not quite, familiar. Beyond the final archway, the hall opens up, and you can see spheres of banded colour which hang in the air. Do you recognise them? They prick at something in your mind but answers is out of reach.

And then there is the shape.

You still, breath stolen, mind filled with such dread and toxic doubt that you find yourself afraid of the act of thinking, and flight is not an option now. It has never saved you before.–

He jolts back to himself, and tears away from the hand that has landed on his shoulder.

“You alright?”

He blinks the smoke-sting from his eyes, and Drifter leans in, uncharacteristic concern in his expression.

“You seemed distant,” Eris says, her voice giving nothing away.

“I–” He turns to stare out over the snowfield beyond the ziggurat, to the pyramid that commands the horizon. His mouth is dry with unease. It feels closer than it had before.

-–They will not understand.–-

He hears the cries of ‘exile’ and ‘heretic’, feels the walls of the secure chamber close around him once more. No. No, he will not allow himself to be locked up again. “I am fine. Did you discover anything?”

Eris opens her hand, and the stalk crumbles to and is quickly blown away by the cold breeze. “I believe so. As Drifter said, it resonates with the pyramid constructs. Echoes rippling through space, breaking against several points, incorporeal strands of this fungus connecting them. And through the connections they pass signals back and forth to something beyond.”

Something in the Darkness, watching, waiting. He does not want it to see him.

“And these points would be Pyramid ships,” Osiris muses, shaking the thought of whatever lies beyond from his mind to focus on more immediate matters.

“I recognised the Lunar and Europan Pyramids,” Eris continues, “but there were other points, some greater, some weaker. A vast network stretching throughout space.”

“And we don’t have a damn clue what they’re talking to” Drifter says. “Did it connect to the Tower? Whole load of this hybrid variety infesting it after all”

A small frown appears on Eris’ lips. “Perhaps. I would like to try repeating the experiment with the other fungus before I make any claims.”

“That would seem wise,” Osiris agrees. “Knowing if they are part of this network in the same way would be valuable information.” It might guide them towards an origin point.

He folds his arms over his chest to stifle the restless energy growing in him, and the part of him that wishes to perform the experiment himself. The part that wishes to take every problem onto himself because surely only he is capable of fixing them, while others stumble and falter with indecision.

But he trusts Eris, and in this she has more expertise. He trusts Drifter too, to an extent. The three of them, exiles and outcasts. That is a kind of bond.

Eris kneels once more, and lays the stalk out on the floor of the ziggurat. She nods, and this time Drifter calls a snap of flame to set it alight.

And it is a blaze. It burns fast and bright, the flames rising higher and higher more than such a small amount of fuel should permit and in the flames–

YOU BEAR MINE BANNER. YOU ARE MY BLADE.

The breath is knocked out of him and he– he cannot move. His heart beats along with the drums he hears. Why is he here? Why is he here when he should have a blade in his hand and blood on his skin and set his banner across the world!

He claws at his gauntlets, drags them off and lets them fall to the ground, exposing his skin to the frigid air. He drops to his knees and slams his hands down onto the stone of the ziggurat – his Light flows through him, blinding, searing away her voice, her corruption–

“Osiris.”

He falters, the blaze of Light fading from him like a river run dry. He looks up at Eris – her voice had been calm, but there is a tightness to her expression. Drifter looks ashy, pale with nausea, and lines of– of fear etched around his eyes.

Osiris stares down at his own hands. They are stained with ash from the burnt fungus.

“I heard her,” he says quietly, “Xivu Arath.” He smooths his fingers over the spot on the back of his hand where one of the runes had been – there is nothing there, but it feels as though there should be. “Did you hear her voice?”

Drifter shrugs, though his discomfort is clear. “Heard something,” he admits, “like distant screams. Reminded me of–” He locks eyes with Osiris for a moment, and then shakes his head. “It was bad.”

“I felt a swell of rage,” Eris says bluntly, “much as I felt when the Guardian ventured forth against Crota. I wished to destroy the Hive then, and I felt an echo of that all-encompassing desire when I burned the stalk.”

Osiris nods slowly. Her voice stirring memories to stoke rage makes a terrible sort of sense. “Did you feel that sense of connection again?”

Eris is silent for several moments before finally giving a short nod. “It was faint, and nearly drowned out by the call of war. The network stretched out from the Tower towards the other points. Towards one point in particular.”

“Which point?” Osiris asks.

“I do not know,” Eris replies. “It seemed to be reaching for the anomaly where Mars used to be.”

Mars? That, he had not expected. “Perhaps it seeks connection to the pyramid that rested over it.”

Eris inclines her head. “Perhaps. Perhaps it simply feels the ghost of its presence. We will need more information to be certain.”

An answer, but far from a complete answer. Not what he had hoped for. Not when the influence of this infestation is crawling through the Tower, influencing the hearts of Guardians.

He pauses at the top of the steps of the ziggurat and stares out over the ground below. Water has spread around the base of it to form a dark pool, ice melted by his Light.

“We learned one thing at least,” Drifter calls after him, “we really, really don’t want that stuff to get burned.”

Chapter Text

—-We wait for you, Osiris.-—

You climb the black stone steps, following that whisper that tugs at your soul. Those strange fungal growths shift aside as you pass, leaving the path clear beneath your feet. You are not for them. You have greater purpose than sustenance.

You follow that light, that point deep in the darkness, up and up, and still you cannot see a ceiling to this immense space.

After eternity, you reach the top of the stairs, and walk out onto a large platform. The bone-white orb hangs above you, and you can see the pitted surface, the cracks, the marks of violence. The places where the shell is incomplete, fragments torn away in calamity.

Ahead of you is a raised plinth – an altar, perhaps – upon which lies an immense skull, with gaping eye sockets and tusks as long as you are tall. You step closer to it, feel the hum of power against your skin. A new power, not anything of the Light, and yet… it is familiar.

—-It has waited for you. You were always meant to come here.-—

Yes. Yes you think you were. It feels right.

Who are you?

Your voice sounds dull and small against the endless space. Speaking feels like an intrusion. But you must know. You must always know.

—-We are your purpose.—-

Purpose?

—-You are a brave mind. A clever mind. An ambitious mind. We would see you reach your full potential.-—

You have always feared wasted potential.

Chapter Text

There is a deep sense of deja vu to being here, watching the gaping wound of the anomaly where Mars had once been. Phobos and Deimos live up to their namesakes as they orbit the hungry maw which is the space left behind by the missing planet. The dread and terror of a battle yet to come. The dread and terror felt in the midst of battle.

Has it truly only been a matter of weeks since he was last here? Less than half a year, nothing in the reckoning of a life of a Guardian, especially one of his age and experience, and yet it feels like a lifetime. He had been a different man when he had last come here.

He wonders about that time spent as the blade of Xivu Arath – had he been that creature for longer than he knows? Time has little meaning in the Ascendant Realm, and there are other places where that holds true.

Part of him wishes that he could remember more of what had transpired. Most of him is glad that he does not.

“Are we just gonna sit here?” Sagira asks. “It’s isn’t the most thrilling view. And, y’know… last time we came here things didn’t end well.”

“I did not encounter Xivu Arath here,” Osiris reminds her. “If I were to avoid everywhere I visited in the lead up to what transpired, I would have to leave the system itself.”

That had been something that he dreamed of once – a dream of a better world, where the City is safe, and he and Saint could travel the stars, explore the universe beyond the confines of Sol. But with the encroaching Darkness, the Black Fleet at their doorstep, he fears that there may be nothing left but ruined worlds seething with the Taken forms of their former inhabitants.

“We’ve been gone longer than you said we would be. Saint will be wondering where you are.”

The reproach in her voice sparks his guilt. If he had contacted Saint before going to the Tangled Shore… if he had waited for Eris on Luna… And yet here he is, once more seeking knowledge alone.

“We will return as soon as we find what we’re looking for.”

“Eris didn’t give us a lot to go on, Osiris,” Sagira replies. “Tendrils reaching towards the anomaly doesn’t narrow things down as much as you’d think. Space is big.”

He gives her a sour look. “I am aware.”

“And we don’t know what we’re looking for! Burning space fungus doesn’t seem like a reliable guide!”

“Neither do visions and dreams, and yet I have made use of both,” Osiris says. It makes her huff and he offers her a brief smile.

“I just had to go and resurrect a Guardian who has an answer for everything, or thinks he does,” Sagira mutters, not without affection.

“I have a spark,” he replies.

He lean in to the console, widening the frequencies they’re scanning for. Maybe they have missed something. Maybe the only way to detect what they’re looking for is by burning that fungus – not something that he believes it wise to try again. It had been unsettling enough the first time: that shape that he had seen, the draw towards it… and then the crushing force of Xivu Arath’s voice.

“Do you ever regret it,” he asks quietly, glancing at his Ghost.

“Regret what?” Sagira asks.

“Me,” Osiris replies. “You could have chosen a Guardian who would be a paragon of virtue, a respectable and respected scholar who follows the orthodoxy of the consensus. You could have spent your days in the City libraries and archives. Instead you found a Warlock viewed as a dangerous heretic and was exiled for it, and spent too much time being shot at by the Vex.”

She comes to hover in front of him, her iris narrowed. “Not even for a second.”

His chest feels tight. He holds his hands out for her to settle in, and draws her close to his chest. Sagira, his hope, his humanity.

“You’re my Guardian,” she says earnestly. “I knew from the first moment I found you that you were the one. I scanned a lot of dead bodies, and you were the only one who had that spark that I was searching for.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, allowing her words to soothe something deep inside him.

A note sounds, deep and chiming.

Osiris looks up sharply and stares out of the viewport towards the blackness of the anomaly. “Did you hear that?”

“What? I didn’t hear anything.”

He pulls up the scans they’ve been taking. “There, look.”

There it is, a signal. Strong but distorted. It is not coming from the fungus at the Tower though. It’s coming from–

“Osiris…”

Sagira’s voice draws his attention to the anomaly once more, that vast expanse of emptiness.

It is not empty anymore.

Floating there, as though it always had been, is a Red Legion carrier ship. The doors to its main hangar are open, and he cannot shake the feeling that it is welcoming him.

-–We await you, Osiris.—

Chapter Text

“ENOUGH!”

The transmit fires, and then Saint stands within the arena, his light flaring around him.

Before him lays the broken body of a Warlock, the Hunter who had attacked them standing above them, blood on their hands, on their teeth, panting wildly.

A dead Guardian should not sicken him as much as it does. This is Trials! They fight and kill to prove themselves! But this… this is no blade gone astray, no bullet missing a clean kill.

The Warlock is still gasping, crying, they chest carved open, and Saint can see the raw muscles, the shattered bones.

“This is not battle, this is torture!” he roars.

The Hunter – a Trials regular, usually cheerful and friendly, always quick to congratulate opponents who win, and encourage those who lose – flinches. Saint sees his posture change, sees horror and confusion seep into his eyes, his expression, as he looks at the blood on his hands and on his opponent.

“I–” he begins, and he has gone very pale. “I don’t know what happened, I just–”

Saint throws a Ward of Dawn around the injured Warlock, something to shield their Ghost while they heal. With how things have been, Saint does not trust these fighters to leave Ghosts alone.

He turns his attention back to the Hunter, and sees the other fighters crawling out of their hiding spots to see what has happened. One of them retches and turns away, the others just… stand there.

They are not teams, Saint reminds himself. These are individuals who banded together just for one match. They barely know each other.

He hates them suddenly, fiercely, a crawling black emotion that flows through him like radiolaria animates the Vex.

“Cowards,” he snarls, taking in the sight of all of them. “You see this and you do nothing? You allow this brutality to be enacted?” He is being unfair, he knows this. He had jumped in the second he had seen it and given them no time to intervene. He does not care.

He will tear them apart. Show them what happens if they do not help each other. Show them that they cannot match him, that they–

“Saint…”

Geppetto’s voice, soft and sweet.

Suddenly that rage dies to embers and he feels sick. His shield is in his hand and he–

“Go,” he says shortly. “I will take care of things.”

“But I–” the Hunter says, and Saint cuts him off with a sharp look.

“I know what happened. Go home.”

He cannot deal with this reasonably now. He isn’t sure that anyone can. He can provide an outlet for this violence, but he does not know how longer even that will be viable.

He will need to speak to Aunor about this. But for now, he can make sure that the injured are given to heal.

Chapter Text

For all that Ikora’s study is welcoming and comfortable – warm woods, soft lighting, and a scent of books and incense that reminds him very much of Osiris – he cannot help but feel like he has been summoned for an interrogation as he settles down in the seat Ikora had offered him.

The Warlock Vanguard – and she feels more like the Warlock Vanguard now than his friend – sits behind her desk, and watches him for a long moment. Her lips are drawn into a tight line, brow furrowed as though he is a puzzle to be figured out. Her expression is very reminiscent of Osiris when he is displeased. Does she know that?

He thinks that it would be unwise to tell her at this moment.

“If we are simply to sit in silence, I could do this more easily at home.” He is not Vanguard anymore, but there is still work that he could be doing. There is always more preparation to be done for Trials, and he has taken it upon himself to walk the City, to speak to the people and find out how they are faring, especially in these troubled times. It is easy for those in high positions to lose sight of those they are defending. Seeing only the big picture had been one of Osiris’ greatest flaws as Vanguard Commander.

Ikora steeples her fingers. “Where is Osiris?”

A question that he has been asked many times before. For a second he is back before the Infinite Forest, before Osiris’ exile, sitting in front his father as he asks the same question. Some things truly do not change. “He is researching. I believe he was working with young Eris Morn, looking for information about plant infestation.”

Saint has needed to intervene in several Trials matches since he and Osiris returned from the Iron Temple. Guardians tearing each other apart, seeking to cause pain over winning matches. He does not know how long he can be the wall stopping them.

He does not know how much longer he can do this without succumbing to the urge to mete out his own violence.

“Researching?” Ikora says incredulously. “Where?”

“I do not know,” Saint says, frowning “He often forgets to tell me things when he is engrossed. You know this.” They have both known Osiris for a very long time. He had thought that Osiris would have told one of them however.

“We do not know if he is… safe,” Ikora snaps. In her anger, Saint sees an echo of the Ikora who had been a Crucible champion, in the days before Shaxx had brought the arena to heel. “He should not be walking around the Tower unsupervised.”

“Safe?” Saint snarls and leans forward in his seat.

“You know what his condition has been, Saint.”

“And he is better!” Saint says. “He purged this… infection.” He knows that Osiris is better. He can see it in every word that his beloved speaks, every movement, every touch. He can feel Osiris’ Light now, as pure and strong as it has ever been.

Ikora’s frown deepens. “I only have your word on that.”

“And my word is not good enough?” Saint asks, his voice low and dangerous. He can feel the alkahest inside him crackling along with his anger.

“He should have been kept under observation until we could be certain that he was cured.”

He knows that there is sense in what Ikora is saying, but that knowledge is drowned out by his anger. He had nearly lost Osiris, and now they wish to take him away again! Do they think that Saint would endanger the City by bringing a monster back here?

Do they believe that Osiris cares so little for their people that he would lie about his condition? Even in the depths of Xivu Arath’s hold on him, his beloved had fought to take himself away from the City. He had tried to minimise the damage that he could cause, even when he could barely think.

“You would hand him over to the Praxics,” he hisses, “let them lock Osiris up as they have always wanted to.” He remembers Siegfried and Aunor speaking about Osiris as though he was something inhuman, something to be ‘excised’. He remembers the time around Osiris’ exile, how he had been branded a heretic, a monster, how people he had defended had called for his death, and Saint’s father…

He will not allow this to happen again. He will not make that mistake again.

“Maybe Aunor is right,” Ikora says, her words a low, vicious drumbeat.

Heat surges through him – it roars like wildfire, catches in the circuits and wires of his body. He is on his feet and he does not remember standing up. He slams his hands onto the top of Ikora’s desk, feels it buckle beneath his strength, sees the void caught between her fingers and yes… yes…

TEST YOURSELF

Yes. Test himself. His void against Ikora’s.

SHARPEN YOURSELF AGAINST HER BLADE

Prove himself worthy…

The voice, the whisper that is a scream, swells like waves, implacable as the deep ocean until all that is left is violence. He calls for his Void, the abyss of power and he will tith–

Brightness burns his optics, a radiant light that sears away that voice, even as the heat caresses his chassis.

“Saint… Ikora…”
That voice… warm and concerned, and so different from the whisper-scream. Saint wrenches himself from dark ocean to a dry place full of warmth and Light. He is in Ikora’s office, Ikora is his friend!

Across the desk, Ikora herself is blinking as though coming out of a trance. He cannot blink, but he understands the feeling. It feels as though a veil has been lifted that was covering his eyes. And the source of the radiance is–

Osiris’ legend is such that some had claimed that he walked around in a state of permanent Radiance. It is not true of course – rumours and mythology, words spoken by his cult – though Saint has certainly seen him use his skill with the Light to make himself seem less approachable.

Looking at him now, Saint understands how such rumours had begun.

Osiris is a beacon, a lighthouse in that dark ocean, skin gilded with radiance. Saint feels weak at the realisation of how terrible it had been to witness that light crushed beneath Xivu Arath’s infection.

“It is worse than I feared then,” Osiris says.

Ikora lets out a slow breath. Her self-control is admirable as always. She runs as hot and passionate as Osiris in her own way. “Everything we’ve tried seems to make it worse,” she admits. “We destroy one patch of the fungus, and it grows back twice as thick.”

“And the more it spreads, the less people care to destroy it,” Saint points out. “Too angry or distracted or… apathetic. It seems like small thing to care about when the Darkness is at our doorstep.” He knows that he has walked past clumps of the plant and felt only a hot flash of annoyance at seeing it, and no desire to fix it. That should have been more of a warning sign than it has been.

“It’s been getting more difficult to organise anything,” Ikora says. Her frown is deep, and Saint can tell that she is reassessing her memories of events. “Nothing big enough to commit to an investigation, but more… friction than is normal. Patrols delayed because of equipment malfunctions. Strikes pushed back because fireteams collapsed due to in-fighting. Misunderstandings and confusion.”

Yes, Saint has noticed that too. Small delays, small inconveniences, but together they build up. Armour may stay strong through many blows, many cracks, but eventually a breaking point will be reached.
“Divide and conquer,” Osiris murmurs, then his focus snaps back towards them both. “Have you got anything more out of that Ghost that I gave to the Praxics? Gilgamesh.”

“Ghost?” Ikora gives him a questioning look. “Aunor hasn’t told me anything about a Ghost. I’m surprised you would have anything to do with the Praxics.”

“They have their uses,” Osiris says, though his distaste is clear, “but that is… concerning.”

“None of this is good,” Saint says. Though the Praxics not communicating with Ikora is certainly unusual. They are generally extremely dedicated to protocol. “Osiris, your research… you should tell Ikora.” Now that he can think more clearly, has shaken away that haze of red rage, he can see that. He should have pushed Osiris to speak to her earlier but he had been so grateful to have him back, and Osiris has never taken well to being caged.

“I did,” Osiris says, and then frowns when Ikora shakes her head. “I know that I sent a message about my plans.” He pulls out his datapad and flicks through screens, then holds it out towards them.

Saint takes the datapad. Osiris is not wrong. There is a message from before he went to Europa, outlining his intentions, and it confirms that it was sent. While Osiris is more than capable of making a message appear as though it was sent, he would see no point in doing so – if he does not wish to contact people, then he will simply… not do that.

From the look on Ikora’s face as she checks the message, she has come to the same conclusion. “The timing of this is too convenient to be a coincidence,” she says, her eyes narrowed, lips drawn tight. “I’ll need to speak with Zavala. Who knows what else is being hidden from us. Someone is blocking our comms.”

“Or something,” Osiris says.

“You think that the fungus is responsible?” Ikora asks.

“The way it has spread certainly speaks of being guided by a greater will or it would have been noticed more quickly. The fungus is derived in part from the Cryptoliths which were able to corrupt shanks and Servitors. Why should this strain not have similar properties?”

“A greater will…” Saint murmurs, “you believe it is whatever power lies in the Black Fleet.” That calamity which has brought sorrow to the system, stolen Mars and Mercury, Titan and Io. That whispering darkness which spoke to the Guardian on Luna, and now offers this Stasis power on Europa.

“I am certain of it,” Osiris says. “My research with Eris and Drifter has shown as much. By burning samples in proximity to the ziggurat on Europa, Eris was able to discern strands of connection between points in the system. The pyramids on Europa and Luna were the greatest points, but there were others. The Tower was one. All sending communications towards some greater distant point. I would be surprised if the rest of the fleet that the Warmind warned of were not that distant point.”

“You mentioned other points, besides the Tower,” Ikora says.

There is unease in Osiris’ expression. His beloved is normally so confident, but this is an expression that Saint has seen far too often over recent weeks. Longer even, since the Black Fleet had first entered the system.

They have had so little time together spent in peace since Saint had left the Infinite Forest, and he regrets it bitterly.

One day, perhaps… ah, but he is getting ahead of himself.

He touches Osiris’ hand lightly, and his Warlock glances at him, smiles briefly. “The Ghost I mentioned, Gilgamesh, he spoke of his Guardian, a Hunter named Katabasis. Records from before his disappearance from Vanguard service suggest that he had some dealings with Emperor Calus.”

“Quite a few did.” Ikora’s distaste is obvious. “Calus certainly knew how to take advantage of a Guardian’s desire for new weapons and armour.”

“Guardians should know better,” Saint says sourly. “We defend the City. That is more important than loot.” They are protectors, and that should be enough. Although he cannot claim that he is entirely immune to the magpie thrill of finding a new weapon. He sees that same thrill in every Guardian who comes through Trials.

“You’ll find no disagreement from me,” Ikora says, a small smile on her lips, “but not everyone is Saint-14.”

“As it is,” Osiris says, raising his voice to draw attention back to himself, “I followed Eris’ lead to one of the points that she divined. It was around the anomaly where Mars is– was.” His voice cracks, just for a second, and Saint catches his hand again, squeezes his fingers gently. “A ship emerged from the anomaly. It looked like a Red Legion vessel, but the signal I intercepted from it suggests that it went missing from one of their bases over a year ago. The message was from the Guardian Katabasis.”

He takes back his datapad and plays them the message. The voice – Katabasis Saint assumes – sounds… scared. Terrified. Not the adrenaline-fear of open battle. No, this is the kind of terror that is heard only when someone is certain that death is coming, and it will not be an easy death.

“The Vanguard must go to help,” Saint says when the recording is done. “We cannot leave one of our own in such a place.” If they have his Ghost here, then surely they should reunite them!

“I will go,” Osiris says quickly, too quickly for Saint’s comfort, no matter his own instinct to throw himself into this mission. “Whatever is there, it is tied to the infestation running rampant in the Tower, and to the Black Fleet.”

“My love–”

“Osiris,” Ikora says at the same time. “The Vanguard will send someone to investigate.”

Osiris tenses against his side, his fingers curling into a steel grip around Saint’s hand. “I am best placed to go. I know the most about what we are facing and–”

“A few days ago you were under the influence of a Hive God, Osiris,” Ikora says, not unkindly.

“And I have recovered,” Osiris replies. His voice has gone icy, and Saint remembers, with startling clarity, older conversations, older arguments, as though he will blink and see his Father standing there instead of Ikora.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Ikora says. She offers a smile that is supposed to be conciliatory he is sure, but Osiris does not relax a fraction. “You should take some time to rest. Recover.”

Oh no. No, no good can come from this.

“I do not need to–”

“We will,” Saint says quickly. 

“Saint!” Osiris gives him a sharp look, which the exo ignores.

“Thank you Ikora. I trust you will send us more details when you have them?”

“Of course,” Ikora replies. Her voice is steady, but Saint can feel her gratitude.

Osiris seems too stunned to argue when Saint tugs him out of the office, stunned enough that he is silent until they are out of earshot of the Vanguard offices. Then he pulls away and rounds on Saint who can feel heat radiating from him. He is radiant again, but this time with anger.

“I do not need you to speak for me,” Osiris snarls. “Why did you interfere?”

“Osiris,” he begins, but the Warlock continues heedless.

“Do you think I am incapable of investigating one ship?”

“It is not that.”

“Then what?” Osiris asks. He folds his arms over his chest, the feathers of his cowl ruffling and every inch of him utter stubbornness. He searches Saint’s face and then turns away. “I see how it is. You believe that I am corrupted. You do not trust me.”

Ridiculous man!

Saint grabs Osiris’ shoulder and turns the Warlock around to face him. “I do not think that! You know this. But I feel way you go tense, your anger, and I know that nothing good can come from it.” Osiris opens his mouth to speak and Saint leans in to press their foreheads together. “At a time when we are being manipulated to anger to break us apart, I do not think it is good idea for you and Ikora to come to blows.”

Osiris stills, and then Saint feels that awful tension seep out of him. He lets out a huff of breath, unhappy yes, but not murderous. “Yes. Yes, you may be correct.”

“It happens, on occasion,” Saint says. He tugs Osiris’ scarf down and presses his mouth briefly to the other man’s. “You saw what it was like between me and Ikora when you arrived.”

“I did,” Osiris says. “I could feel it – that tension before a battle begins.”

“I felt same thing when I stood near Cryptoliths on the Shore.” The kind that has been spreading so virulently. “I would have hurt her if you had not intervened. And she would have hurt me.”

He does not know who would win were he and Ikora to come to blows. He knows that it would cause more damage than can be repaired.

“You sell yourself short, Saint. I have confidence that the two of you would have fought off that influence.”

“I am not so sure, but moment is over. For now.” He grasps Osiris’ other shoulder. “Did your research find solution to this problem?”

Osiris’ jaw clenches. “No,” he admits, and Saint can tell how unhappy he is about that. “A path to follow, but no actual solution. Not yet. But I know that the path leads to the ship, the Glykon Volatus.”

“Then we will see what Ikora’s people find when they go there,” Saint says.

“I am quite capable of visiting one ship,” Osiris says. “I have visited the Dreadnaught and returned unscathed.”

“And you visited Luna and did not return,” Saint says earnestly. He holds himself back from asking what business Osiris had on the Dreadnaught – he cannot imagine that any answer would make him feel less unhappy about the knowledge. His grip on Osiris’ shoulders tightens. “I cannot lose you again, Osiris. You tell me that safest place for me is in Tower because you fear that time may steal what you bought at great cost, but you throw yourself into danger as though your life does not matter.”

Osiris winces and looks away. Saint cups his cheek gently and his beloved leans into the touch, a gesture that makes Saint ache. “I do not wish to cage you, my fiery phoenix, but I worry that you will chase this back into arms of Xivu Arath, or worse.”

“I have no intention of allowing anything like this to happen again,” Osiris says, “but I cannot ignore this, Saint. The Glykon came out of the anomaly left by Mars’ disappearance. What we could learn from it… I need to go there.”

A chill runs through Saint’s systems at the words. Something about the way Osiris speaks sounds… hungry. His love has always sought knowledge, but this… this is different. Unsettling.

He shakes it off quickly – this whole situation is unsettling – and squeezes Osiris’ shoulder again. “We do not need to ignore it, but we can be cautious,” he says. “See what Ikora’s people say, what the Praxics have found from this Ghost. Learn from their information so that you may better know how to react.”

Osiris looks at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders slump. “I suppose a little longer cannot hurt, as long as someone investigates quickly.”

Saint beams in relief. “Ikora knows what she is doing. You would not have wanted her to be your successor if you did not believe her to be capable.”

“I have always known that she is capable,” Osiris says, “but having the Vanguard throw their weight around is–”

“Mercury is gone,” Saint replies gently, “do not be so quick to remind Consensus of your exile.” Because he is still an exile, albeit one granted temporary passage. Saint does not think that the Vanguard intends to enforce it more stringently, but there are other factions to be considered. There are many people in the Last City who do not think kindly of Osiris.

Osiris huffs, but Saint can see the small smile curling his lips. “My desire to avoid dealing with the Consensus may actually outweigh my desire to defy the Vanguard.”

“Always contrary, my bird,” is Saint’s amused response. “But come, you have delivered your message. I have no doubt you have more work to do, but I would like to spend time with you.” Who can blame him, after so many days spent wondering if he would lose Osiris forever?

“You would not know what to do if I started to be agreeable,” Osiris says wryly. “But I would like to spend time with you too.”

Saint smiles and takes Osiris’ hand. He raises it to his mouth and presses a kiss against the other man’s knuckles. “Then come home with me.”

Chapter Text

There is always a moment when he meets with Aunor, a split-second before her expression returns to studied neutrality – or vague irritation – when Crow can see her mistrust of him.

He thinks about asking her. Maybe he’ll get an answer for why so many Guardians look at him with anger or hatred or… or grief. Why they’d killed him so many times, back before the City, before Saint. Even now that he lives here and works for the Vanguard, he sees it when he visits the hangar or walks through the Bazaar.

And with the infestation, that has only got worse. Bad enough that he’s taken to sticking to less used hallways, service elevators. Condemned to the shadows.

“Since our internal communications are compromised, Ikora has determined that vital data should be couriered personally,” Aunor says brusquely as she leads him towards the area of the Tower that the Praxics call their own. “Your involvement in the investigations has been valuable, and Ikora seems convinced of your reliability, so she recommended you to act as intermediary for sensitive data.”

“Lucky me,” Crow drawls.

She gives him a sharp look of disapproval, but hey, that’s better than outright hostility at least. It would be easy to needle her into more. She thinks she’s so superior to him, that she’s the arbiter of how things should be, defending the ‘purity’ of the Light. But the Praxics had never been there when he was being killed over and over again by Guardians. They hadn’t intervened on the Shore when Spider put a bomb into Glint’s shell and raked in glimmer from people who wanted to torture him. Would Aunor have cared about that brutality? Or would she have condoned it? Would she–

A rush of concern floods his bond with Glint, and Crow gasps. He takes a step back, mouth gone dry.

Aunor pauses, gives him a questioning look.

“It’s getting worse,” he says. He focuses on better things to try to stave off those darker impulses. Glint’s warm affection, the pleasure of being praised for his work by Ikora or Zavala.

The moment when Saint had returned to the Shore and forced Spider to free him.

“It is,” Aunor agrees, her expression tightening. Crow can hear weariness in her voice, and he wonders if she’s been having trouble sleeping too. If her dreams have been as full of blood and anger as his have. “We have had to contain more than one Guardian in the past few days due to violent incidents. The idea of allowing Guardians to use the Crucible as a pressure valve is also becoming untenable. I have had to assist Lord Shaxx and Saint-14 with situations in the past few days.”

“Are they alright?” Crow asks. The people who got hurt, and the ones who hurt them. He’s felt that urge for violence, and he doesn’t want to think about how he’d feel if he actually did harm someone in the ways he’s heard.

“A little time to cool their heels in privacy seems to have helped,” Aunor says. “But with the incidents becoming more frequent, and the lack of solutions being presented…” She draws herself up, shaking off the uncertainty. “Perhaps if there was more discipline, a full quarantine would be tenable, but for now, restricting access to the City is the best that can be hoped for.”

They reach a door, the thick metal, heavy bolts, and camera above it indicate that it is definitely not another office.

“The Ghost that you brought to us – Gilgamesh – has refused to speak much beyond what was reported. It raves about Salvation, about the Traveller betraying us. It is not the first time that we have dealt with corrupted Ghosts. Perhaps Ikora will get more out of him.” She sounds deeply sceptical about the possibility.

“He seemed to like gloating well enough when Osiris and I found him,” Crow says. “Never met a Ghost that seemed to hate their Guardian before.” Theoretically, he knows that some Guardians and Ghosts must not get on, but he can’t imagine ever feeling that way about Glint.

“We do not know why Ghosts choose the Guardians that they do, but some are… mismatched.” Aunor moves to obscure the keypad from Crow’s view as she enters the code. “A word of advice. Your standing amongst Guardians is already… precarious.”

“So I’ve been told. No-one wants to explain why though,” Crow replies, a touch of frustration entering his voice. He’s being punished for a crime he doesn’t remember.

Aunor turns to look at him, her gaze piercing. “I would recommend that you do not further damage your standing by associating with someone like Osiris.”

Crow gives her an incredulous look. “What?”

“The man should have been locked up,” Aunor says. “His blatant disregard for anything but his own pursuit of knowledge is a threat to everyone. The Consensus had good reason to exile him.”

“I know the stories,” Crow says, “but he isn’t like that. He wants to help.” Osiris has been kind to him. Even when he was dealing with Xivu Arath, he treated Crow better than most Guardians have. He’d expected to be asked to leave Saint’s home when Osiris was cured, but the man has given no hint that the thought has crossed his mind.

“His ‘help’ handed the Red Legion the ability to manipulate time and change the result of the war into one more beneficial to them,” Aunor says. “His ‘help’ as Vanguard Commander saw many Guardians throw themselves into obsession with the Darkness when they should have been defending the City and the Light.”

“Saint trusts him,” Crow replies. Saint is a hero isn’t he? He knows everyone, greets everyone as a friend, and people trust him. Why would this be any different?

Aunor sighs and looks away. “Saint-14 is… not capable of impartiality in this matter.”

“Is the Vanguard really in a position to turn down Osiris’ help? He seems to have figured out more about this infestation in a few days than any of the rest of us have in weeks.” Crow doubts that they’d have found Gilgamesh if he’d been working alone, and Zavala had seemed to accept the suggestion Osiris had made about Caiatl.

“I have given you my advice,” Aunor says coolly, “whether you choose to take it or face the consequences is up to you.”

Her tone has his hand edging to the gun at his hip. He forces his fingers to uncurl, to pull away, and it feels like such an effort…

“The information I’m supposed to courier,” he manages to grind out. Focus on the job, not on the spike of temper, on the drumbeat feeling that if he should hurt her, should fight, and every trouble would fall away.

“Of course,” Aunor says. She turns her attention back to the closed door. “I thought I’d–”

She taps in her code again. There’s an electronic beep, but the door remains stubbornly shut.

“Problem?” Crow asks.

Aunor gives him a sour look and tries the code once more. That beep again, and without Aunor standing in front of the keypad, Crow can see the green light that goes along with it flicker wildly and then die. When Aunor tries her code again, it does not switch back on.

She glances at Crow, who nods in response – something has gone wrong, and with everything that’s been happening, the news that their communications are being interfered with, neither of them is willing to assume that this is coincidence.

“Guess we get to try brute force,” Crow says.

He examines the seam of the door – it’s narrow, but there is a gap. Must have started to open before being jammed. He draws a knife and slides it into the gap and pushes it like a lever. The door moves a fraction.

“Well, that’s something.”

They position themselves so they can both get a grip on the edge of the door. “One, two three…”

Crow throws himself into pulling, and with Aunor’s help, the door slowly begins to move with a shriek of metal and a strange, fleshy sound. They pull again, and the gap widens. A foul smell drifts through the gap – the sickly sweet scent of decay which grasps at Crow’s stomach until he has to cover his nose with his sleeve.

“That smell…” Aunor says, looking as disgusted as Crow feels.

“Smells more like a carrion pit than a holding chamber,” Crow agrees. “Glint, could you shine a light in there?”

“Of course!” Glint replies, compiling nearby. He shines a beam through the gap, and Crow edges close enough to peer inside. A mass of fungal matter shifts and writhes in the light.

Crow recoils, and Glint settles at the crook of his neck. He glances up at Aunor. “Were you keeping samples of the fungus in there?”

“No. Any samples that don’t immediately decay are destroyed once we’re finished with them.” She goes to look through the door, and Glint helpfully shines the light for her.

She pulls back sharply. “Bahagari, begin recording. Send everything directly to Ophiuchus, using secure Hidden codes.”

Her Ghost appears and heads through the door. Aunor nods to Crow. “Your Ghost should do the same. I was records of this.”

Crow remembers the frame that he’d found, the fungus growing through it, burrowing through the metal. He draws his hand cannon, though he’s not sure how much use it will be against fungus. “Let’s go.”

He hears Aunor’s hiss of indrawn breath when she slips through the gap and he follows quickly. The smell is stronger inside, and it settles at the back of his throat with a cloying weight.

Tendrils of fungus have swallowed the room, shrinking it into a tiny cell. Crow can barely see the shape of a table at one side, and the sparking remains of what must have been a computer.

“No-one was supposed to be in here,” Aunor says, her voice cracking.

Crow follows her gaze towards the back of the room. The vines have twisted together, forming a bulging pillar of fungal matter. Growing out of the trunk of it are hideous black spikes. The sight of it makes Crow’s breath catch, the reminder of the cryptoliths too potent to ignore.

And between the shifting growths, Crow catches glimpses of other things. A scrap of fabric. The bend of an elbow. A cracked helmet.

A body. Unmoving. Encased in the fungus.

Glint’s light passes over it, and no, no they are not just encased. The fungus is growing through them, burrowing into flesh so cleanly that there is no space even for blood to spill.

He feels clammy with disgust. Fear. Horror.

“Are they… dead?” Dead-dead. Final death dead. He isn’t sure what the better answer would be.

Bahagari warily moves closer to the… the body, and scans it, then quickly retreats to Aunor’s side. “Not dead. But not alive either.”

“What does that mean?” Crow asks. “If they’re alive then we need to get them free.”

“Their body is dead, but there is still a small amount of brain activity,” Bahagari says.

Crow shakes his head and grabs the nearest frond of fungus to try to rip it away from the trapped person. His fingers sink into its flesh, moist and giving, and another wave of pungent rot assaults him. If he can just get them free…

“Crow,” Aunor says, her voice a clear bell, “step away.”

“If we can save them, then I can’t just leave,” he replies. If they’re here, they must be a Guardian. Their Ghost should be able to heal them.

“Crow! They are beyond saving.”

Aunor gestures to the ground where the trapped person’s feet would be. There, almost invisible amongst the fungal growths, are the remains of a Ghost, tendrils drawing through its shattered iris.

Corpses on spikes. The twisted bodies of the Wrathborn. Their hollow rage, eyes empty of any sentience. A ‘who’ become an ‘it’.

He slumps, and steps away, a pit opening in his chest at the… the failure. He turns back to Aunor.

Something touches his leg. It is cool and fleshy and moist.

He staggers back, away, in time to see the tendrils of fungus reaching for him, following him. More of them shift, crossing the floor towards them. There is intent in those movements. Crow cannot help but feel that they waited until he was close to strike.

“Crow!”

Aunor grabs him, and they are surrounded by the golden Light of a Well of Radiance. The tendrils withdraw as though burned. With such a movement, he expects them to scream in pain, but their silence is more unsettling.

Glint and Bahagari decompile, safely tucked away to avoid the fate of the shattered Ghost.

“Get out into the hallway,” Aunor commands.

Already the fungus is moving again, and the edges of the Well that it touches seem to become… ragged. As though the tendrils are gnawing away at the Light itself.

Crow slips into the hallway, followed by Aunor. Crow glances back into the room and sees the Well begin to crumble, dissolving into the darkness of the shifting mass of fungus.

He throws his shoulder against the door, and begins to close slowly. Too slowly.

Aunor presses in next to him, Void light curling around her hand. She forms a grenade and tosses it into the room just before the door closes. She quickly enters a code on the keypad, and they hear the locks engaging.

“I don’t think the door is going to hold it for long,” Crow says. He sounds hoarse, as though he’s been shouting.

“No. But it recoiled from the Light of my well,” Aunor says, “and that gives us something to work with. The Praxic Fire will not be extinguished so easily.”

“The fungus is all over the Tower, not just here.” They can’t stand guard over every bit of it, or pull it up.

“All the more reason to see this ended quickly. Bahagari?”

Her Ghost transmits an engram to her which Aunor presents to him. Crow takes it as though it will burn him.

“Give this to Ikora and tell her that we cannot continue watching and waiting. The corrupted Ghost may have escaped though I cannot be sure. That was not Gilgamesh’s shell that we saw. The Praxics will handle things as best we can but we not unaffected.”

Crow baulks at the idea of leaving her but Aunor gives him a stern look and shakes her head.

“Bahagari has already contacted the rest of the order. This is not the first Darkness that I have faced. Nor will it be the last. We will seal off this area and have watches set at other locations where we know there are significant growths.”

Crow stares at her for a long moment, taking in the determined expression on her face.

“Be careful,” he says. He feels like he had in the Ascendant Plane, being hunted by the High Celebrant and knowing that he might die there. He doesn’t want that for Aunor, no matter their disagreements.

“I will do what is necessary,” Aunor replies, though she offers a brief smile. “Go quickly. I suspect a tipping point is near.”

The last thing Crow sees before he turns away is Aunor plunging a Dawnblade into the ground, her Well of Radiance blindingly bright.

Chapter Text

There is an electric tension in the air – the feeling of dark clouds gathering, approaching, and all you can do is wait for the storm. Crow feels every pair of eyes turn towards him as he heads for Ikora’s office, suspicious, accusing… he finds himself reaching for his gun or a knife unthinkingly, anticipating the need for it.

“Crow?” Glint’s iris is narrowed in concern. “Are you alright?” He looks down, and Crow follows his gaze.

His knife is in his hand, unsheathed, grip white-knuckled.

Cold sweat at the realisation makes him shiver, even in the ambient warmth of the Tower. He takes a deep breath and forces his grip to loosen, one finger at a time, until, with even more effort, he sheathes it.

“No,” he admits.

“It’s the fungus,” Glint says. “You’re covered in spores.”

Glint isn’t wrong – the spores cling to his clothing and his hair. He’d worry about spreading them, but it’s already too late for that when they’re wound into the fabric of the Tower. “We need to get this information to Ikora.”

Would be easier to transmit but with movement restricted between the Tower and the City, and the fungus interfering with communications, the grid is severely restricted right now.

How long can things continue like this?

He reaches Ikora’s office, and takes a moment to stand there and brush off his clothing. The spores drift into the air, sting his eyes and catch in his throat and–

fatherfeetonthegroundbehindhimfatherskitteringfathercryingoutatwistedscreamfatherand

Crow gasps like the first breath after resurrection. He presses back against the wall, heart pounding a terrible beat, and fumbles for his hand cannon. He sees them at the corners of his vision, shifting clouds of ether and decay, rot-pale limbs grasping for him, teeth bared in loving violence.

“Crow!”

A garbled growl nearby. He draws his gun to aim it at the shadow that looms towards him. He can smell the ether, the foetid breath, hear the hisses and snarls as it reaches for him with claws and teeth.

“Crow, look at me.”

“Stay back!” Crow’s finger is on the trigger.

“It is me, Crow.”

A vicious snarl. The monster moves closer. Crow squeezes the trigger.

Void light flares brightly enough to blind him. Hands curl around the gun and his wrist. They squeeze until they force his fingers to loosen and the gun is tugged away from his grip. The grasp on him is firm, unrelenting even when he struggles and–

“Crow?”

The voice filters through his awareness. It is a voice, not a mindless snarl. The grip does not tighten, doesn’t try to crush bone. Teeth do not sink into his flesh.

He looks again at the looming figure. It slowly resolves itself into silver armour, purple ribbons. Powerful, yes, but not a threat. Not to him.

“Saint?”

The Titan’s grip gentles, though he does not let go, and he gives a solemn nod. “It is good that you recognise me now. I was concerned.”

Crow sags, feeling weak as adrenaline crashes as quickly as it had spiked. Saint releases his wrist, and settles a hand on his shoulder instead, as though he’s worried that Crow may pass out without support. Crow isn’t convinced that he’s wrong.

A bubble of Void energy extends around them, and beyond it, Crow can make out the hallway near Ikora’s office. There are no drifting clouds of ether, no rotting creatures with bared fangs. Just him and Saint.

“What happened?” Saint asks. “You looked scared.”

“I–” Crow begins. His mouth is dry, and he swears he can still taste ether. “I thought I saw…”

“More hallucinations,” Saint says.

Crow nods, and shame flushes his cheeks purple. How could he have let this happen again? He could have killed someone, and not everyone in the Tower has the Light.

Saint wraps arms around him, and draws him close into a tight embrace. Crow lets him, leaning against him. It isn’t entirely comfortable with Saint in armour, but Crow appreciates the solidity of him. He is like a wall between Crow and the nightmares.

“It is alright,” Saint says, seeming to read his mind, “you did not hurt me. Or anyone.”

“I should be better than this,” is his frustrated response.

Saint pulls back enough to look at him. “You have been spending too much time with Osiris if you are talking like this.”

“Osiris?” Crow asks. “He’s one of the most confident people I’ve ever met.” Even under the influence of Xivu Arath, he had seemed composed for the most part.

“He has high standards,” Saint replies, “and no-one is held to a higher standard than himself.”

“Aunor warned me against associating with him,” Crow says, clinging onto something as normal as a conversation to distract him from the hallucination.

“He is divisive figure,” Saint agrees. The bubbles begins to dissolve around them slowly. “The Praxic Order especially dislike him. They see him as agent of the Darkness that they exist to fight. He was exiled for many years and process of rebuilding his reputation here will take time. What happened with Xivu Arath… it will not help.”

“Guess we have people hating us in common then,” Crow says, a bitter twist to the words.

“Has someone harmed you here?” Saint asks sharply. Crow gets the impression that if he says yes, then Saint will run off now to make the perpetrators suffer. There is a definite appeal to the idea – he remembers how good it had felt to watch Spider cower without Saint needing to raise a hand. Would Saint do that to other Guardians too? To the ones that had killed him when he had only just been Risen?

He lets the thought slink away, leaving only sour guilt in its wake. It has the same taste as the anger that keeps flooding over him, drawing out the worst parts of him.

“No-one,” he says, resting a hand against Saint’s arm. He imagines that he can feel the synthetic muscles drawn taut with desire for violence. “It’s just nice to know that I’m not unique in this. Maybe it explains why I’ve been getting on well with Osiris.”

Saint searches his face for a moment and then nods. “Perhaps. But if you are feeling well, then I must leave. I need to speak to Ikora.”

There’s an undercurrent to his voice that Crow hadn’t picked up on before. It sounds like worry.

“I need to speak to her too,” Crow says, urgency returning now that the terror has died down.

“Then we will speak to her together.”

There is a long pause when Saint knocks on the door before the Warlock Vanguard responds. “Enter.”

Crow shares a look with Saint before they enter the room. Ikora sounds exhausted.

Ikora looks up at them, fingers steepled in front of her mouth. “Saint. Crow. What can I do for you?”

Saint nudges Crow forward, though Crow can sense his impatience. He sets the engram down on Ikora’s desk. “I went to fetch the Ghost Gilgamesh along with Aunor. When we got there, the door was jammed shut. We had to wrench it open. The room was crawling with fungus. Literally crawling. There was a Guardian there. Dead.”

She closes her eyes briefly, the barest flicker of pain crossing her face. He wonders how many reports she’s read, how much she’s been hoping that a solution would be found before they reached this point. “And Gilgamesh?”

“Gone,” Crow admits. “We had to retreat when the fungus attacked us so we couldn’t make a thorough search, but if he was in there… he isn’t any use to us now.”

“Is Aunor handling things?”

“She contacted the rest of the Order to contain the infestation in that room at least. But she said that we cannot keep watching and waiting.” And he agrees with her. How long before they find another dead Guardian?

Ikora nods slowly. “Good. I’ll contact her as soon as we’re done. Thank you for bringing this to me, Crow. Your work has been invaluable. Saint?”

Saint has removed his helmet, and he looks between them, optics narrowed. “You say this Ghost, this Gilgamesh, he is gone from Vanguard custody?”

“The Praxic order were containing him,” Ikora says. “The information provided by Osiris and Sagira suggests that he might be the source of the fungal infestation. He has been remarkably unwilling to tell us anything useful.”

Saint’s frown deepens. “I– I think I may have idea of how Ghost escaped, and where he might have gone.”

That gets both Crow and Ikora’s attention. Ikora’s lips are thin, and when she speaks, the single word has the weight of centuries behind it.

“No.”

“What?” Crow asks. He feels like there’s a conversation going on that he doesn’t have context for.

“Yes,” Saint says, looking the closest thing to awkward that Crow has ever seen him. “Osiris is gone. Missing. I do not need to use Sundial and Vex technology to know where he went.”

Ikora sighs heavily. “The Glykon Volatus.”

Chapter Text

The Glykon Volatus is a dark shape against the vastness of space, its bulk sketched out in irregular lights along its hull. There is a strange solidity about it, the way it hangs there, seemingly immovable, as though it has always been there, though he knows that it had only appeared in this area of space a few days ago.

Osiris’ research had indicated that it was a Red Legion ship originally, akin to the one that still sits in the EDZ. It had gone missing – stolen – from a shipyard on Nessus. An unremarkable occurrence considering the conflict between the various factions. But then it had vanished utterly – no transmissions, no sightings – only to reappear around the anomaly left in the wake of Mars’ disappearance.

And now it is connected to this network that Eris had uncovered.

“You’re sure about this?” Sagira asks, giving him an uncertain look. “We can probably still get back to the City before anyone gets too worried.”

“I am certain.”

He isn’t. But he knows that he needs to be here. If the solution to the infestation in the Tower is anywhere, then it is here, and he is best placed to find it.

That is what he keeps telling himself.

“No backup?” Sagira says. “After what happened last time…”

Pinned like an insect, the High Celebrant stood over him while Xivu Arath’s will coursed through his veins, scouring away everything that was him. Turning him into that creature.

“I remember,” he replies. “But if others had been there with me, who is to say that they would not have suffered the same fate?”

Perhaps the War God would have claimed more, an army of Wrathborn Guardians serving her will. And now?

Better to go alone than to risk others. The Vanguard is overcautious – they will not send anyone until it is too late, and if he tries to fight them on this… No, this is the right course of action.

“You’re just trying to justify it,” Sagira says.

Osiris gives her a sour look. “Transmat us to the ship, along with our… passenger.” The docking bay is sealed, but the ramp is lowered, and is the one brightly lit area of the ship’s exterior.

“I can’t believe you brought him along,” Sagira grumbles.

“He knows the most about what has happened here,” Osiris says. He clips a visor to his helm and it lowers, sealing him in cool, pressurised air. He raises an eyebrow at his Ghost. “Transmat, Sagira.”

“Ugh, fine. One transmat coming up.”

He drops lightly onto the ramp, and moves quickly towards the docking bay door, taking a moment to adjust to the gait necessary for moving in low gravity.

Sagira scans the door. “Can’t open it. It’s firmly sealed and won’t open from the outside.”

“Frustrating.”

“Oh please,” Sagira snorts. “You searched for years to find the gate to the Infinite Forest. You think I believe you’ll give up when confronted with a sealed door?”

“You were just trying to dissuade me from coming here,” Osiris shoots back.

“True, because someone has to challenge you. But if you’re going to do it anyway… I’d rather see your spark than see you give up so easily like you did when–” She trails off, but Osiris can read her silence.

When Xivu Arath had been devouring him. How certain he had been that he was doomed and that any sort of treatment was futile. He still cannot tell how much of that had been an accurate assessment of the situation, and how much had been her influence over him. Twisting his thoughts until his own mind was speeding the spread of her poison.

It is something that he will probably never know the answer to. It is not an experiment that could be reproduced in any safe or ethical way so there is no sense in chasing that line of thought. All he can do is focus on the matter at hand.

“Carriers like this generally have hatches for maintenance and to vent pipes around the perimeter,” he muses. “They are less easy to reach when the ship is not grounded, but one of them should suit our purpose.”

There, a plan, albeit a rudimentary one. And now that he has one, it is easier to consider a way forward. He heads down the ramp until he can look out at the ship’s exterior, making a mental note of the platforms and ledges which run along it. There are far fewer visible than if the ship were docked for maintenance, but when has that ever proven to be a barrier for a Guardian?

He fixes his sights on the nearest platform and leaps over to it, then continues to work his way around the ship’s exterior, using the smallest dab of Solar Light to keep himself aloft between platforms. Under normal circumstances he would simply fly and bypass the platforms entirely, but wariness holds him back – he fears it might be unwise to display such a burst of power unless absolutely necessary.

He finds an open hatch quickly enough, and lands gently on the small platform beneath it. When he glances back towards the ramp, it seems impossibly distant, though he knows that he has not come any great distance. He peers into the hatch – pipes wind their way into the interior, lit with a ruddy glow. A maintenance hatch, he thinks. They should run through much of the ship.

“There should be a terminal close by,” Sagira says. She compiles at his side and gives the hatch a wary look. “Maybe that’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“Perhaps.” Neither of them believe that it will be so easy.

He hesitates on the threshold, unease a near-physical barrier. He could go back. Return to the Tower, to Saint and–

Ridiculous. Has it only taken a few weeks to make him timid? He has traversed the halls of the Dreadnaught without fear – he will not be cowed by some derelict Red Legion ship.

He enters the hatch to begin the slow crawl through the maintenance shafts in search of a terminal. As he moves further from the hatch, he realises suddenly what the ship reminds him of. The auto of it, darkness upon darkness, the strange silent weight – it brings to mind the Lunar pyramid.

He shudders at the unbidden thought and moves onwards more quickly. The pipes press in around him. Ahead, the red lights give way to harsh, flickering white.

He turns a corner and is confronted with long, spindly tendrils of fungus growing around a grate.

“Sagira, I need you to scan this.” It looks very much like the fungus they have encountered in the Tower and on the Drifter’s ship, but he is unwilling to abandon scientific rigour. He must be certain.

“It’s the same fungus as the stuff Drifter has on his ship,” Sagira says when she’s examined it. “It has the same… resonance. Gives me the creeps honestly. What’s it doing on a Red Legion ship?”

“It is unsettling, certainly,” Osiris agrees. “At least it appears that we are on the right track.”

He squeezes past more pipes and continues until he reaches another grate – this one clear of fungus – that looks to drop down into a hallway. He curls his fingers into the slats of it and pulls.

The ship shudders. A noise echoes around the vent, a groaning rumble, skittering movement. The sound seems to come from everywhere at once, the distortion making it impossible to pinpoint even a general direction.

“The crew are really slacking on clearing out those pipes, huh?” Sagira says, her brightness a balm even though Osiris can hear the strain in her voice.

He pulls at the grate once more, and it comes loose. He sets it aside and then drops down into the hallway, landing lightly enough to make no sound. This must be one of the main maintenance areas – larger pipes, walkways above, and mercifully easier to move around in.

There is a flicker at the corner of his eye, a flash of movement. He turns to get a better looks and finds… nothing.

“Did you see something?” Sagira asks.

“I’m not sure. A shadow most likely.” The way the vines shift and sway even with no breeze to move them.

Another deep rumble shakes the ship. Osiris feels it in his chest, alongside his heartbeat.

It subsides after a few seconds, leaving nothing but the expected background noise of a ship this size. “It must be the engine,” he says. “The lights are working so there is still power being supplied.”

It is a thoroughly reasonable explanation and yet it does nothing to quell the apprehension growing within him, no matter how ridiculous it makes him feel.

“Maybe…” Sagira shakes herself and floats over to the console on a nearby wall. “Let me just take a quick– Oh…”

“What is it?”

“There’s an open patch to the ship’s computers,” she replies.

“Courtesy of our missing Guardian perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Give me a moment and– Got it. Ship schematics, navigation data, manifests. Some encrypted logs too. I’ll work on them.”

“Hopefully they will hold the answers that we seek.” Whatever Calus had been doing here, they need to know. He cannot imagine the reasoning the former Emperor would have to concern himself with engineering a fungus. Assuming this has anything to do with Calus and isn’t another breakaway faction.

“We should head back to the City,” Sagira says, “share this with Ikora.”

“No. We continue onwards,” Osiris says “If we leave now, we do not know if we will get another chance.” What if the ship plunges back into the anomaly and is unrecoverable? The City may be lost if they cannot discover the secrets that it holds. “Besides, we are trying to find this lost Guardian, are we not?”

Sagira glares at him – she knows that the missing Guardian is far from his primary concern, but knows also that they cannot abandon Katabasis if he is still alive. It is callous of him perhaps, to care less for the man than for the knowledge that could be gained here, but the mystery is too compelling for him to ignore.

A noose awaiting a misstep.

A delicate game.

He was meant to come here. It has been waiting for him.

Another flicker at the corner of his eye, A brief flash of gold and static.

“Earth to Osiris!” Sagira says. “Or, weird, creepy, fungus infested spaceship to Osiris, I suppose. Why can we never go anywhere nice?”

“What?” he asks, drawing his attention back to her.

“You went distant,” she says.

“Merely lost in thought,” he replies quickly, and continued just as hurriedly. “Come, let us get out of these vents and tunnels and then we can see if we can find a likely place to investigate.” He is not certain if a vessel like this would have a laboratory, but it must have a medical bay at least. Sensor readings from the anomaly might also be of use.

The maintenance shafts are larger – not quite tall enough for him to stand upright, but far better than crawling. Another grate lets him drop down and he emerges into a room filled with loading rigs. A panel near the large metal door beeps insistently.

“Should open out to where we began,” Sagira says. “I think.”

Her uncertainty is a little surprising, but Osiris pulls the lever to allow the landing bay door to slide open. He stares out over the ramp towards his ship which hangs against the vastness of space. He is unaccountably relieved to see it there. 

Another ridiculous thought. Where else would it be?

There is another door at the back of the loading bay which should lead to the rest of the ship. Osiris presses the button to open it, relieved that he will not have to retreat to another maintenance tunnel.

It opens onto a mass of fungal growth, vines twisting together and emitting a pale, blue phosphorescence. When he takes a step, the matted carpet of organic material squelches beneath his boots.

“This is even worse than the Tower,” Sagira says. She recoils from the plants as though they will reach out to grab her. “This isn’t a storeroom or a vent, this is the main access to the hangar!”

“What is sustaining such growth?” Osiris wonders. He should have interrogated Drifter about the fungus on the Derelict more thoroughly. Or waited for Eris to do more research.

—-You have questions.-—

That voice… He remembers… does he remember? A Whisper at the back of his mind, but his mind has been so little his own over recent weeks. It feels familiar, like a voice that he had heard through static is now becoming clear.

“There’s a concentration of Darkness energy nearby,” Sagira says, oblivious as she investigates. In many ways they are far more alike than either of them would admit. “Huh this is… ow!”

“Sagira?!” He reacts with alarm, grabs her away from whatever had harmed her, and holds her to his chest.

“I’m fine. There’s this… barrier,” she says. “It isn’t Arc energy, it’s… Darkness.”

She gestures with the spikes of her shell, and now that he looks, he can see it – a haze stretched across a frame of fungus, as though it has somehow trapped mist. He 

He can see it now he is looking, a hazy space stretched across a frame of fungus. He reaches out, and feels it spark against his glove. “Curious.”

“Weird, more like,” Sagira grumbles. “We should look for another route.”

Osiris gives a noncommittal hum, unwilling to simply turn away from a puzzle. It is a barrier, but it is not solid like a forcefield. The resistance reminds him a little of Radiolaria, the electric impulses of unnumbered microorganisms communicating.

There is a patch of glowing nodules within a stand of fungus which catches his attention. The shimmer of them seems similar to the barrier. “Sagira, scan those, please.”

“Ugh, fine.” She does so, and then looks at him, her iris half closed in a frown. “They’re spore sacs. And the spores are harmonising with the Darkness of the barrier. It’s like… when vibrations cancel each other out.”

It is impulse, or perhaps instinct, which makes Osiris press his hand against one of the spore sacs and push down against the soft, gelatinous flesh. A cloud erupts from the sac, coating him with sticky spores that cling to his skin and clothing. He grimaces, reaches up to wipe it away and–

—-We can show you the path. All you need to do is walk it.-—

Sudden clarity. Revelation. Not a vision, not the shifting sands of uncertain prophecy.

He knows the path.

“Come, Sagira,” he says, and strides towards the barrier with renewed confidence.

“What are you–” She decompiles quickly, tucked safely away in his Light before she can be left behind.

He steps through the barrier and it is nothing more than whispers in his mind.

Sagira recompiles next to him and gives him a hard look. “How did you know to do that, Osiris?”

“A hunch,” he replies. “You said that the spores were harmonising with the Darkness energy so does it not make sense that they would allow passage through the barrier?”

“There’s a big difference between spores and you,” she says.

“We are through now, and we have learned something, so it hardly matters. It could be useful knowledge should the fungus in the Tower start creating barriers like this.”

“I suppose,” Sagira agrees, much to his relief.

Because he does not know where the idea had come from. He has had hunches before, yes, leaps of logic that have seemed like madness to others. Perhaps it was simply a hunch! He had been thinking over this problem since he left the Iron Temple. It would not be unreasonable to assume that his subconscious has been slotting the pieces together since then.

But the clarity of the idea… the feeling of déjà vu that had come with it…

He must focus on the here and now.

The room that they are in is thick with fungus, even more than the vents had been. Sagira presses close to him, and burrows into the feathers of his ruff. It is an unusual reaction from her, and he strokes one of the spikes of her shell in reassurance. It is as much for him if he is honest, not that he would admit such out loud.

The next set of doors are locked, and the consoles next to them stutter and smit strangled electronic noises when he tries to force them open. He tears the casing away from one of them to see if he can short-circuit the system and get the doors to open.

Instead of wires, he finds a spreading mass of branching, thread-like hyphae.

“An organic network formed by the fungus,” he says, reaching out to touch it and then stopping himself. “It would fit with my suspicions about the missing messages in the City. I had assumed it would simply be interrupting the systems, cutting them off to prevent information being sent but…” He touches the console again, and watches the tendrils shiver amidst the remaining wires. “What if they are instead taking over the system? Or synergising with it?”

“Like the Vex,” Sagira says. She ventures out from his cowl to scan them.

“Indeed. A thought-mesh. Thousands of microscopic minds working as one. Or possibly one mind spread across a great many locations. Even on Earth, there are mycelial colonies which span thousands of acres. We’ve already found that burning a stalk of this fungus revealed connections to points across the system and beyond.”

“To the pyramid fleet,” Sagira says, “and whatever is controlling it.”

-–You have questions. We offer guidance.–-

Osiris’ breath catches, and he forces himself to stay still. He feels suddenly like he is being watched.

Sagira hasn’t noticed his discomfort, or has written it off as the general unease that this place engenders. She gives a soft thoughtful hum, still focused on the fungi. “Lots of electrical impulses running through the hyphae. Communicating.”

“There were reports from Europa of Guardians hearing voices, whispers, which led to them discovering the ability to wield stasis. Not to mention the reports from those who have entered the Pyramid Ships.” Eris had been able to pluck meaning from signals sent by the Pyramid on Io.

He wishes now that he had been able to truly investigate these reports, but he had been too focused on the Hive, on the bigger picture to pay them enough attention, and that had led to ruin. Saint has pointed it out as a weakness of his before – too focused on the war to be able to see the battle. Or perhaps in this case, too focused on one branch of the war to see the whole.

Too focused on an individual mushroom to see how far the mycelia spread.

The ship shakes again. The guttural creak reverberates around the room despite the coating of fungal matter. There is that skittering sound of movement, though what is moving is… unclear.

“We should move on,” Osiris says.

Sagira comes to settle with him again. “There are life signs on board. It may be our missing guardian but…”

“It may not be,” Osiris finishes. Whatever is moving, it does not sound human.

The only way to continue seems to be another ventilation shaft. He manages to balance on some pipes to wrench the cover off, and then climbs inside to begin another interminable crawl.

“Have you managed to decrypt any of the ship’s records?” he asks Sagira as he moves, as a distraction from his increasing sense of unease. These vents are clear of fungus, but the layout is… odd. More than once he takes a turn which seems to double back – wildly inefficient for a ship which is expected to traverse deep space. And Red Legion engineering has always tended towards pragmatism.

“A little, but it’s hard going,” Sagira replies. “Their navigation system says that they weren’t just caught up in the anomaly around Mars, it was their destination.”

“To what end?” Following the same trail as they are now?

“I think… yes, here. One of the documents I found is a journal of Amsot, scribe to Emperor Calus.” Sagira clears her throat, and when she speaks, it is with a particularly dramatic tone. “‘Today, Calus graced the Glykon with his presence and gazed upon the anomaly. His councillors prepare the exhibition chamber with gold from the Castellum. They are confident the crown is ready. The end will lay eyes upon him, and weep at his magnificence.’ He still has a flare for the completely fictional, I see.”

Osiris cannot help but smile. “Such men do not like to have their world views challenged.”

He drops down through a hatch and is confronted with a force-shielded view into open space. He stares out, brow furrowing. This does not seem like the place that the vent should have led to. But there is another doorway nearby and it slides open as he approaches.

“I assume that the crown mentioned is the Crown of Sorrows,” he muses. “Foolish to believe that Calus would cease experimenting after his champion was corrupted. And still drawing Guardians into his delusions of grandeur.”

He does not bother to keep the distaste from his voice. He knows that people view him as arrogant, and he knows the truth of it, but his arrogance is based on skill and work and long years of research! Calus has exploited his position and used the work of people far more insightful than he. As much trouble as the Poison sisters had caused, they had at least been able to understand the workings of the Sundial. He doubts that the same could be said of Calus.

If the Crown of Sorrows is indeed on board then–

A sharp, acrid scent reaches him, and a haze of blue mist begins to coalesce. He knows that smell, has seen it on the Tangled Shore and in the Dreaming City.

“Scorn!”

He snaps his fingers as the first of the foetid creatures arises, incinerating it in seconds, and adding char to the background smell of dark ether. He fills the room with the heat and light of Solar energy, and there is something thrilling, intoxicating, about seeing that fire burn, watching the Scorn be consumed by the conflagration. A righteous violence of his own choosing.

“Osiris. I think they’re dead. Again.”

The concern in Sagira’s voice drags him back to himself. The metal is stained with ash, the less resilient materials melted to warped remains. If there were bodies, they are no more.

“What are the Scorn doing here?” Osiris asks. His heart pounds a drumbeat of anticipation, every nerve alight with sparks.

“Good question. I’ll keep working on these records,” Sagira replies. She hovers in front of his face, her iris narrowed as she looks him over. “Are you alright?”

“Why would I not be? A few Scorn are hardly beyond my capabilities.” Irritation makes his words sharp. Does she not trust him? Does she doubt him after all that he has done, just like all those others who exiled him?

“You just kept throwing grenades, even when they were dead,” Sagira says.

“I–”

That anger, the desire to lash out… Not his words. Not his thoughts. Too close to the way that Xivu Arath had twisted them to her will. Remnants of her influence. Or maybe his experiences have broken something in him that he cannot heal. “I was surprised,” he says, “and the Scorn are tenacious.”

She looks at him for a moment longer before she nods and settles in his cowl once more. “Guess I can’t persuade you to head back to the City yet?”

“We have come too far to turn back now,” Osiris replies.

And something within him, some mote of foresight, makes him suspect that whatever power is here has no intentions of allowing them to leave until whatever purpose it has is fulfilled.

-–You were always meant to come here.–-

Chapter Text

The Gray Pigeon has been detached from the anchors usually in place when all Saint is doing is running Trials. She is a battered old bird, but she has served him well over the centuries. And it is lucky that she has been so well used recently, travelling between the City and the Tangled Shore and the Iron Temple. He needs her faithful service once more in pursuit of Osiris.

Always in pursuit of Osiris.

He feels some of the same apprehension that he had all those years ago, when he had chased Osiris to Mercury. He had feared then that he might unleash the Vex upon them. It had been a cruel thought, petty, when he should have known his beloved’s goodness better than anyone, but he had been angry still, hurting from the arguments which had led to his exile, and exhausted from his fight with Solkis.

Now? He knows that he should trust Osiris more but he had thought that things were getting better! They had talked, Osiris was healing, and now… Waking up to an empty bed and knowing in the core of him what had happened, that Osiris has run once more. And Saint, as ever, will pursue him.

“Ikora has cleared us to leave whenever,” Crow calls as he rounds the flank of the ship. “I think her exact words were ‘as quickly as possible before Osiris breaks time again’,” he adds with a small smile.

Saint inclines his head. “He is a man with little patience. He works quickly it is true. But you, Crow, you do not need to come with me.”

This is his own problem to solve. Crow does not need to be dragged into it as well.

Crow frowns at him. “Why wouldn’t I be coming with you?”

“Well–” He had not expected that response. Is it not obvious? “Because it is not your fight, little Crow. You do not need to chase after Osiris as I do.”

Crow’s stance changes as he folds his arms across his chest – so stubborn, and it is such a change from the man that Saint had first met on the Shore, the one who had simply accepted as fact that he would be hurt, that people would take advantage of him. It is a good change.

“It wasn’t my fight in the Dreaming City either,” Crow says.

“That is differ–”

“And now that I’m here, working for the Vanguard… I think it is my fight. If the solution to this infestation is there, then I need to find it.”

Saint sighs and rests a hand against Crow’s shoulder. “You know that I will bring back whatever I find for you to use. I will scour the place. You do not need to be there.”

The idea of the place fills him with dread. He has no doubt that it will be dangerous, and while Crow is capable… Saint does not want to put him at greater risk, especially not while Osiris is also throwing himself into danger.

“I’m not letting you go alone, Saint,” Crow says. “I know what you’re thinking – you don’t want to put me in danger. But I already am. And it will be dangerous for you too. Let me watch your back. Let me help you, you and Osiris.”

He is so earnest. So certain. And it is true – Saint can hardly argue that the Tower is safe right now – but still… he does not wish Crow to feel that this is something he is required to do.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but is interrupted by heavy footsteps. Armoured footsteps. He turns to face the newcomers – a fireteam he recognises from Trials, though he does not know them well – and is immediately set on edge by their presence. Their weapons are drawn, and there is a focus to them that Saint recognises from their matches. A focus that has no place in the hangar.

Their leader, a Titan, looks Crow up and down, then jerks his head, gesturing for his companions who spread out like a wolf pack. Crow backs up a step, a tension running through him.

“We’ve come to deal with something we should have handled as soon as you set foot in the Tower,” the Titan hisses. Even through the helmet, Saint can read the malice in his words. He moves up to stand level with Crow, facing down the other Titan.

“Trials is over for the week,” Saint says firmly, “and I have business now. You will have to return another day.”

The Titan seems as though he’s only just noticed Saint’s presence, his stance faltering for a moment. In a match, it would be more than long enough for an opponent to take him out if they were prepared. Still, he gathers himself. “Then let us take a burden from you,” he says. “We’ll take this trash out of your sight.”

He can feel Crow’s presence at his back like he belongs there, keeping an eye on the rest of the fireteam.

“I do not know of what you speak,” he says, feigning confusion. Perhaps he can throw them off, make them reconsider whatever they have planned. “Miss Holliday keeps hangar in very good condition, very tidy.”

“You–” the Titan begins, and then shakes his head. He waves his gun towards Crow. “That bastard dares to come to the City as if we wouldn’t notice! We’re going to make him pay for what he did. Like the Vanguard should have done.”

“Saint…” Crow says, a hitch to his voice, a hint of fear. He had told Saint about this, hadn’t he? That from the moment he was resurrected, other Guardians had harmed him. Killed him for a past he couldn’t remember. Done… worse things to him under Spider’s watchful eye.

And now they dare come after him in the Tower.

Saint draws himself up to his full height. He has always been very aware of his size and his strength, of the destruction that he could cause, even by accident. He has learned to make himself smaller over the years while he is in the City – to be approachable, gentle, safe. But his legend had been born of blooded violence, not kindness.

“You will not touch him,” he says, his words low and dark as he stares the other Titan down. “Crow is under my protection.”

He watches his opponent intently for any movement, any twitch of his fingers, any flare of the Light. A thousand sensors sharpen, and he can hear the pounding of the Titan’s heart, the breathing of his companions, imagines wrapping his hands around their throats and showing them why he is a legend, why he is feared by the Fallen and the Vex. He aches for it, for the feeling of flesh beneath his hands, the bright clarity of the battlefield.

“Saint, let’s just–”

“Monster!”

The yell comes from behind, one of the Titan’s companions, and Saint is already moving. He lashes out, Void coalescing into a shield which he sends flying at the Titan. It strikes him in the chest, and ricochets, giving Saint the chance to grab him. He struggles, but Saint is stronger, Saint is faster. Saint has honed himself against countless enemies, and what is one more? He slams the Titan to the ground, feels bones crack beneath his weight. Slams him down again for good measure. He brings his weight down against one of the Titan’s legs and is rewarded with a howl of pain and the sickening thrilling snap of his tibia.

The Titan still struggles. This is good. Saint does not want this to end quickly. How long has it been since he last fought like this? Against a creature of flesh and blood instead of unfeeling metal and Radiolaria? Against something that can feel pain?

Saint’s hands close around the Titan’s throat, holds him still as he draws back ready to drive his fist into his face and see him bleed shatter his jaw keep punching until he is nothing but debris on Saint’s armour.

“Saint! Saint, stop!”

The voice cuts through the crimson haze, staying his blow.

“They want to hurt you,” Saint says. His voice is more a growl than words.

“I’m fine,” Crow says. “I’m not hurt. Don’t… you know what this is. Don’t let it push you this far, Saint.”

What this is? This is what he needs to do! To sharpen himself against his enemies! Tear them apart until none stand against him!

The Titan he holds makes a soft, desperate noise. It is pathetic. Pitiful.

Painful.

There is blood on his gauntlets – bright red. Human blood.

He is meant to protect people, isn’t he?

“I–”

What is he doing?

He sets the Titan down on the hangar floor as gently as he can, then staggers away as though he can escape what he has done. This is not the Crucible. This is not a battle. This is… monstrous. Cruelty for the sake of causing pain.

If he could throw up, he thinks that he would.

“We should… we must…” What does he do in such a situation? He should turn himself in to Ikora, to the Praxics, he is not safe to be around!

There’s a strangled noise of rage from behind him, and he turns in time to see one of the Titan’s fireteam lunge for him. He raises his hand to summon a shield and–

“Don’t.” Crow is there between them, hand cannon raised towards the Warlock, Solar flame licking around his fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t think you really want to hurt Saint. And me? I don’t think you want to hurt me here. This isn’t the wilds or the Tangled Shore.” A click – Crow disarms the safety. “And I don’t think you want to end up like your friend either. So me and Saint will get on our ship, and when we’re gone, you take your friend and go cool your heels somewhere. Understand?”

The Warlock looks mutinous for a moment, and Saint feels Void begin to coalesce around his hand in anticipation of another fight. They must notice, because they finally nod and step back to their Hunter companion.

Crow does not lower his gun, just jerks his head towards the ship. “Saint, we need to go.”

“But I–” He has harmed someone! He cannot just leave and go chasing Osiris when he has done this terrible thing.

“We can’t help people by being here,” Crow says, an edge of desperation to his words. “Please.”

He does not like it. It feels wrong to leave someone so injured! But the Titan’s Ghost will be able to fix him, and Saint sees the wisdom in leaving. He cannot trust himself, and the longer he remains here, the worse it will become. He staggers to the ship and climbs the steps, but waits to enter the cabin until Crow is also at the steps, just in case. As soon as he is, he begins to raise them, and Crow bolts up into the cabin with him.

Saint throws himself into the pilot’s seat, a numbness spreading through his body. He is lucky that Geppetto knows what to do and can handle taking them out of the hangar.

Crow sinks into the other seat and drops his head back against it. “Fuck.”

Saint snorts softly. “That is understatement.” He stares down at his gauntlets. “I lost control. I am meant to be better than this and now…”

“No-one is dead,” Crow says. “They’ll heal up thanks to their Ghost.”

“That is not the point,” Saint says.

Crow looks at him, a fierce look in his golden eyes. “It isn’t your fault,” he says. “If anything, it’s mine. You were defending me.”

“I was not going to let them hurt you,” Saint replies. Crow deserves better than that. “And it is not your fault. You have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing that anyone will tell me about,” Crow says. “It’s all very well to declare a taboo on finding out about your first life, but when everyone else seems to know about it…” He shakes his head. “Let’s just… bigger things to worry about, right? It’ll be a moot point if everyone’s tearing each other apart or getting eaten by fungus.”

The ship manoeuvres out of the hangar and they begin to ascend, up and up towards the darkness beyond the atmosphere. It is something that Saint has done many times before, but the sight of Earth below him – the vivid green and blue and brown of a living planet – still thrills him. This is what he was given the Light for – to protect this fragile place.

And now something threatens it again, crawls through the Tower, through his home. He will keep it safe, and then… then he will make amends to the person he has hurt.

He reaches out to touch Crow’s shoulder. “I am grateful that you were there to stop me,” he says. “And to protect me.”

Crow gives a small smile. “I told you, I’m going to watch your back, Saint. And not because I think I owe you. Because I want to.”

Saint does not entirely believe him, but there is enough conviction in what he says that he knows it must be partly true at the very least.

“When we are done, when the City is safe again, if you wish to know about your past, I will tell you.” Crow’s eyes widen at the promise. “I do not know everything. I was not here for events that occurred. But if you ask, I will answer.”

He sees Crow swallow, throat bobbing. He ducks his head in a nod. “Thank you. I– let’s get through this first. And then…”

“Then we will see what happens,” Saint agrees.

But for now, they have a Warlock to find.

Chapter Text

Osiris’ ship floats abandoned in the shadow of the Glykon, like the corpse of a bird. Geppetto has confirmed that it is empty, and that her calls for Sagira have gone unanswered.

There is a knot of dread in Saint’s belly. Some of it is the sick feeling of what he had done to the Titan in the hangar, the guilt and disgust still coursing through him. But it is more than that.

He had thought that seeing Osiris turned into that monstrous Wrathborn was the worst that he could feel. He had been wrong. At least then he had known that if he could not save him, then killing him would be what Osiris would have wanted. He would have been releasing him from a fate that would be anathema to him.

But now?

He has looked into Osiris’ eyes since they returned from the Iron Temple, and seen nothing but lucidity, his love’s usual bright cleverness. He has held him, spoken with him, loved him, and felt nothing amiss.

And yet he had slipped away without a word to come to this place. Osiris has always been headstrong and convinced of his rightness. It would not even be the first time he has left without a word. But with everything that has happened, the infestation in the Tower, and Osiris’ experiences still raw…
He worries that he will face a monster once more, and will not be able to tell the difference.

“Saint?”

Saint drags himself out of his dark thoughts and turns his attention to Crow. He offers a brief smile. “Apologies. I was lost in my thoughts. I am still… unsettled by what happened.”

“I’m not surprised. All of it is unsettling,” Crow agrees. He touches Saint’s arm lightly. “I can go in alone if you want to stay here.”

His Crow is a good man. He pats Crow’s hand, and he is very grateful that he is not alone. “No. I will not let you go alone to chase after Osiris. You also need someone to watch your back, yes? And this… this is my responsibility.”

“I think Osiris is responsible for his own choices,” Crow replies. He glances out of the viewscreen towards the Glykon. “This time at least.”

Does it make things better or worse if Osiris has truly chosen to come here of his own will, rather than being manipulated or controlled? Of course he does not wish for Osiris to be compelled somehow, but it hurts to not be trusted, even after all this time.

“It has always been this way between us, that I chase after Osiris,” Saint admits, though not without humour. “I have been told that I am quite hopeless.”

He has never regretted it. Osiris is his bright phoenix. Osiris had broken time and reality to save him!

Except that is not true, is it? There had been dark moments in the Infinite Forest, moments when he had chased reflections only for them to vanish, leaving him even more lost in its shifting pathways. Moments when he had hated Osiris for being the reason he was there. A true relationship cannot be built by ignoring the bad moments and gilding the good. It does a disservice to both of them.

Osiris is arrogant, capricious, often selfish. And Saint will follow him to the ends of the universe because he is also clever, and loving, and more fiercely good than anyone Saint has known.

“Guess we’re chasing him together then. Again,” Crow says, flashing a smile.

“I am glad to have you with me,” Saint says. “I am sorry for once more dragging you into matters that you do not need to be involved in.”

“Being with you on the Shore was the first time I ever felt like I was worth something,” Crow says. “First time I felt like there was a chance I could be more, be a Guardian for real.”

“You are a good one,” Saint says, “one of the best that I have met.” He has met many Guardians, many great people, and he has also seen the horrors that Lightbearers can commit. He saw Warlords and the fall of Rezyl Azzir. Crow has more than earned his place amongst those he respects.

“I–” Crow begins, and there is a flush creeping across Crow’s face. It is an appealing look on him. “We– we should get going.”

Saint reaches for his helmet and slides it on. “Yes, we will find Osiris and bring him home.”

He must believe this. The alternative is intolerable.

They transmat over to the ramp which leads to the wide open doors of a loading bay. Saint glances back at his ship and Osiris’, floating out in the darkness. The sight of it just increases that sense of growing unease.

“They wouldn’t leave bay doors open like this in the middle of space,” Crow says. “Could be an accident I suppose.” He does not sound convinced. Saint isn’t either.

“I do not have much experience with Empire or Red Legion or whatever they wish to call themselves, but many things would have to fail at once for door to open by accident or to be left open. And when so many systems fail at once…”

“It stops being an accident and starts being sabotage,” Crow finishes.

Saint nods in agreement, and heads up to the console so Geppetto can scan it. She gives a soft hum as she does so, and then the fins of her shell pull back in surprise, and her iris widens. “It’s Sagira! Her Light, I can feel it here.”

“Can you track it?” Saint asks, leaning towards the console as though he will be able to feel it too.

Geppetto moves further into the loading bay, scanning her surroundings carefully. “I think so,” she says. “She isn’t usually this obvious with her Light, so I think the trail she’s leaving is deliberate. She wants to be found.”

“Clever Little Light,” Saint says. It is good news, isn’t it? Sagira wants to be found, and knew that people would come after them. But is it because she feels safe enough to do so, or because she is too desperate to not try something?

A twisting mass of fungal growth has spread inside the loading bay, and Saint grimaces at the fleshy give of it beneath his boots. The air is filled with rot-sweet scent and the glint of spores, and at points the fungus emits a sickly blue glow.

“This is different to the fungus in the Tower,” Crow says. He reaches out warily to touch one of the fronds as though it might attack him. It does not move, but Saint cannot blame him for his wariness. “It must be the kind that Osiris mentioned, the one that was hybridised with the organic parts of the Cryptoliths. Wouldn’t have thought a Red Legion ship would want anything to do with Xivu Arath after what happened to Torobatl.”

“Different factions, different priorities,” Saint says. “If this lost Guardian was serving their exiled Emperor, maybe they do not care and seek only a weapon. It would not be first time I have seen factions come into conflict with each other, even if it is detrimental to their people as a whole.” He had lived through the Faction Wars, watched groups cast themselves against each other, seeking power even when it put the survival of the Last City in jeopardy.

“Maybe.” Crow crouches down to examine the rotting carpet of fungal matter near the door. “There are footprints here. Human sized, and Psion footprints don’t look like this.”

Saint strides towards the door. “Then we will go after–”

He recoils at the sudden jolt that feels as though Arc energy has been sent shooting through his circuits. He shakes his arm to dispel the lingering feeling.

“What happened?” Crow asks.

“Electric shock,” Saint says. He reaches out again more slowly – he feels resistance, and then another shock that makes him hiss. He is prepared for it this time, but it is still unpleasant. “I think it is some sort of barrier.”

Now that he is looking, there is a shimmering haze in the air ahead which stretches across the door, blocking their path forward. This is not a type of barrier that he has encountered before, but perhaps there is another route or a control panel. Either way they need to find a way through or around – he can see more footprints in the fungus beyond the barrier.

“This spore sac looks like it’s been torn open,” Crow says. Saint crouches to take a better look. Ah, hunters are good at this! At tracking, finding details that others would miss.

“The spores feel the same as this barrier,” Glint says after a cursory scan. “I think the fungus is generating it somehow. Through electrical impulses perhaps.”

Wonderful. More strangeness from these plants, as though they are not bad enough already.

“Then we should destroy fungus,” Saint says. He will do so with relish. He grabs the nearest fronds and pulls – the flesh of them gives beneath his fingers and he is glad that he has his gauntlets on. He tears a chunk of it away and one of the pods bursts, dousing him in spores which stick to his armour.

“Wait,” Geppetto says before he can rip up another vine, “try touching the barrier again.”

“You wish for me to get jolted again, I see how it is,” Saint teases his Ghost. She rolls her iris at him – he is certain that she had learned that habit from Sagira.

He braces himself and reaches out, ready to feel that numbing spark again.

His hand goes through the barrier as though nothing is there.

He frowns and steps the rest of the way through it with no ill-effects. Geppetto vanishes and then compiles next to his shoulder to scan him. “I thought so!” she says. “The spores resonate at the same frequency as the barrier. It lets you briefly nullify the effects and pass through.”

“Clever little Light,” Saint says fondly, and she nudges against his shoulder. He glances back at Crow. “Perhaps we should have got you proper helmet,” he says. The spores are going to cover him.

Crow grimaces but shoots at another spore sacs. He passes through the barrier quickly. “I’ve been covered in worse,” he says. “Investigating the fungus in the Tower really made me miss doing recon on Nessus.”

“Hopefully we will get you back to the fresh air soon,” Saint replies. Even the coarse air of the Tangled Shore would be preferable to this place. It has a foul atmosphere.

A quick search of the room reveals a discarded grating and the vent that it must have come from. The dust and fungus around it are disturbed, with a couple of broken fronds still drooling a foul liquid. At least they know it is recent. The vent itself is a tight squeeze for Saint in his armour – it feels like a gullet tightening around him, as though the ship is swallowing. It is an unsettling thought.

Crow had gone first, and he’s waiting when Saint drops out of the vent. “There are scorch marks here,” he says, gesturing to a patch of ground where the metal is stained black, “and traces – more than traces – or dark ether.”

“Scorn,” Saint says with distaste. He has no love for the Fallen, but the Scorn repulse him in a way that even the Devils never had. They are twisted creatures born from dragon-magic and Darkness, a mockery of life. He thinks… even the Fallen do not deserve such a fate.

“Don’t know how they got here, but they’re definitely here. I keep hearing them,” Crow adds. He looks around, expression apprehensive. “Sounds like they’re moving around in the walls. Whispering.”

“Whispering?” Saint asks, giving him a sharp look. “Whispers are rarely a good sign.” Dragon bones whisper, and so do the accounts he has heard of the Pyramid ships and of Europa.

“I know,” Crow replies. “Gilgamesh said something here whispered to him, and I don’t think it was the Scorn.”

“I agree,” Saint says. The Scorn are more creatures to scream and howl than to whisper.

“There’s more of Sagira’s Light,” Geppetto says. “They definitely came through here. I’d bet that the scorch marks are from Osiris.”

Saint takes another look around at the burnt areas. Yes, yes that would make sense. If he was attacked then he would defend himself. There are no bloodstains at least, no signs of injury. He hopes that is a good sign.

“Ee should keep moving,” Crow says. “The sooner we find Osiris, and this missing Guardian, the sooner we can leave.”

Saint has faced many threats in his life, and he is not a man who turns away from battle when it is necessary, but in this, he has to agree – he wants to leave this ship. He wants Crow to leave this ship. And the thought of Osiris being here, surrounded by this foul decay… He needs Osiris to leave. They have been through so much, do they not deserve to have a time of peace?

They traverse more vents and hallways, eventually reaching a larger space, much to Saint’s relief. Being able to stand upright is a blessing he has rarely needed to think about.

Or it would be relief, if not for the chasm between them and the next doorway, the vast blackness of space held at bay only by an Arc barrier.

“This is very bad design for ship,” he mutters. It is a baffling layout – why would anyone build platforms like this? And he is certain that some of the doors he can see beyond the Arc barrier are not the bulkheads that are necessary to keep ships pressurised. He is not an expert in the design of ships, let alone Red Legion ships, but it does not seem right.

“It makes no sense,” Crow agrees, staring across the gap. He glances at Saint. “I’ve been studying the designs and layouts of these ships, and this… it looks like it should be the area shielding the propulsion cores, but those are usually in the heart of the ship, not on the outside. I’ve never seen a space like this. I can’t even think of a reason for it.”

“It doesn’t match any of the schematics we pulled from the computers,” Glint says. “Those show a standard carrier layout.”

“The route we came down by also doesn’t exist on the schematics,” Geppetto adds.

“Could it be fake schematics to throw off intruders? Or ship was modified when taken from Red Legion?” Saint asks. He doubts it, but it is the only rational theory he can come up with. Every other idea is much worse.

“The modifications needed to create this layout would be enormous. It would probably be quicker to build an entirely new ship,” Geppetto says, eyeing the gap facing them.

That sense of unease grows.

“Can you tell if Osiris and Sagira passed through here?” he asks. That is their purpose here after all.

“I think… I can feel Sagira’s Light, but it’s distant. They came close to here but I can’t tell where precisely.” She sounds apologetic. Saint holds his hands out for her to land in. She has done good work. She always does.

“Then we–”

A hiss fills the air, like the sound of gas escaping a cracked pipe. The sickly scent of rot and ozone rolls over them.

“Scorn!” Crow is already moving back into the previous room, away from the fall. Saint follows him.

The room is filled with ice-blue vapour, tainted ether. As they enter, it coalesces into the bone-white forms of Scorn Ravagers, and those awful scuttling Scrubs. Saint forms his shield and lets it fly – it ricochets between the walls to strike them. Crow steps forward, firing his hand cannon. He deftly jumps out of the way just before a Screen explodes, spattering the surrounding area with vile ichor.

Saint catches the shield, hurls it again, and draws his shotgun to blow the head off a raider. More vapour, thick and potent in the air. He dashes over to Crow and throws up his Ward around them just in time for a swarm of Screebs to break against it. He feels the impact of each of them as they explode, and grimaces at the feeling of tainted ether against his Light.

Only when the sound of Scorn shrieks has died away to a ringing silence does Saint lower his Ward.

“Are you alright?” he asks, turning to Crow. The Hunter seems a little paler than normal, but he nods.

“I’m fine. They just… unsettle me,” Crow replies.

“They are unsettling creatures,” Saint agrees. “Even for Fallen… this is too much.”

An awful parody of the Fallen, mindless creatures that make him think of the Wrathborn. But the way that they come back to life over and over again… he has heard some of the stories that the Fallen tell about Guardians – in them, Guardians are monsters which can be shot, or stabbed, or burned, torn to pieces, but that will never stop coming. Even death cannot stop them.

It is not a comfortable thought to have.

“Let us keep moving. The ship cannot be so big that Osiris can hide from us forever.” It is not the Infinite Forest with its endless shifting pathways, and they have Sagira leaving breadcrumbs for them to follow.

“At least it’s not the Ascendant Plane, right?” Crow says, offering a weak smile. “Less chance of dropping into an interdimensional void.”

He thinks about the nonsensical layout of the ship, and is not so certain that is true. He shakes his head to clear that dark thought away. “For now, we must only risk falling into Arc barrier and being disintegrated.”

“You talk so casually about it,” Crow says quietly as they head back towards the arc barrier, “dying, I mean.”

Saint gives him a sideways glance. “I am very old. I have died more times than I can count. More than I can remember. I saw the Dark Age and the Iron Lords. I fought in Crucible before Shaxx took over, when it was far more lawless place.”

“I see Guardians in the Crucible getting killed over and over again, and laughing as they do it,” Crow says. “When I see them, I remember Guardians killing me whenever they saw me. Spider using the fact that Glint can resurrect me as an excuse to hurt me. It feels like a punishment for something that I don’t remember.”

Saint’s chest tightens. He wishes that he could go back in time and wrest Crow from that monster’s grip earlier, that he could keep him from being hurt. Even knowing his past, knowing what the Awoken Prince had done does not change that.

He rests a hand gently at the small of Crow’s back, his thumb absently stroking there. “What they did to you was wrong. It does not matter what happened in past lives. When we are raised by our Ghosts, it is meant to be new life, new chances.”

He does not know what his previous lives were like beyond the occasional blurred and distant memory. Perhaps he had been a monster. More likely he had been ordinary man. But it does not matter now because he is Saint-14.

“Would you say that if my first life had done something terrible to you? To Osiris?”

That gives Saint pause. He will not insult Crow by answering without consideration. It is easy to say words of forgiveness when he was not affected. Cayde had been someone he knew but not a close friend, and his death had already occurred by the time Osiris had brought him back from the Infinite Forest. But if Crow had killed someone closer? Shaxx or his father, or Osiris… would he be so calm about it?

Does it even matter?

After a moment he grasps Crow’s elbow and turns the hunter around to face him. “In Infinite Forest, I saw many simulations of reality. Many different ways things could have been. What matters is not ‘what-if’. What matters is what we do in life we have now.” He gives Crow’s arm a gentle squeeze. “If I have learned anything from so much time with Osiris, it is that worrying over what could have been is good way to drive yourself mad.”

Crow is silent for a long moment, and Saint wants to wipe away that look of uncertainty. He wants to see Crow smile. Finally, the Hunter’s shoulders slump as though some awful tension has been released. “I guess you’re right. Can’t change things now. And hey, I could still be trapped on the Shore with Spider so… things are looking up.”

“If he ever tries to touch you again, I will rip his arms off like legs of little bug,” Saint says vehemently. He does not delight in causing pain, but there are those for whom he will make an exception.

Crow snorts with laughter, and there, that is a much better expression for him to have. “I think you scared him enough for a good while. But thank you.” He rests a hand against Saint’s. “I mean it.”

The moment lingers, and then Crow pulls away and stretches. “Now, I guess I should see about getting across that gap.”

“Hunters like getting into odd places, do they not?” Saint say. “It should be very homely for you.”

Crow backs up from the edge of the platform and flashes Saint a grin. “Here goes nothing.”

Chapter Text

“This makes no sense!” Sagira rounds on him, the spikes of her shell spread wide in agitation.

Osiris raises an eyebrow at her in question. “What doesn’t?”

“This! All of this! Nothing connects like it should. I’ve checked the schematics and it just doesn’t work.”  She glares at him for a moment, then spins away, going to scan the room that they’ve taken shelter in again. He can hear her muttering as she checks the space she’s already checked several times. “Kitchens don’t connect to engines. Ship hallways don’t double back on themselves, and this! This is an elevator that runs right up to the hull! It’s like someone split the ship into a jigsaw and put it back together wrong.”

He cannot help but smile a little at her grumbling. It is so familiar, a comfort in this place.

“We should ask our guest about it,” Osiris says. “That is why we brought him along.” They want answers, and they certainly won’t find them staring at the blank wall of the ship. He thinks this room would have been for storage, but it is difficult to tell for sure when the fungus has grown into it, turning what might have been crates into amorphous mounds.

Sagira’s iris narrow sceptically. “Are you sure? I don’t think it was a good idea to bring him here at all.” She hesitates, and then– “You remember what he said. About you.”

Osiris presses his lips together in a tight line. He has not forgotten. He’ll bring it to pass and Do you think it’s ever going to take its claws out of you. The ominous proclamations have been running through his mind since he heard them. They are ridiculous, of course, and yet they stick in his thoughts like thorns.

“We need to understand what happened here,, Sagira,” he says. “It could be vital to stopping the infestation of the Tower, but the logs alone do not give us enough information.” They are mundane for the most part – maintenance reports, crew rotas, inventories. There are vague mentions of some tests being performed, and of course, a glowing, simpering entry about Calus’ arrival, but nothing in depth enough to be useful. And the most recent entries, the ones which had the greatest chance of explaining what had happened here, are sporadic and barely coherent, before they end altogether.

“And Amsot’s journal is a pain to translate,” Sagira says. “It’s all in that very specific dialect of Uluran that Calus favours, all exaggerated descriptions, metaphor and allegory and symbolism. It would be like the Red Legion trying to translate Shakespeare when they’ve only read Vanguard reports.”

“But you can do it,” Osiris says. It is not a question. He has faith in her.

“Of course I can do it,” Sagira replies, “I’m just saying that if this truce with Caiatl’s Ascendancy works out, we should try asking for copies of the last few thousand years of their literature.”

“I will be certain to ask the Empress in person,” is Osiris’ dry response. “Though I confess, I would not refuse more information about the OXA were it offered.” Such knowledge, a repository of history the likes of which he has never seen. How can it not be appealing when so much of Earth’s history was lost in the Collapse?

Sagira makes a noise of agreement. “Amsot did talk about a procession which carried a ‘Hive Crown’ from the Leviathan to the Glykon, so I think you’re correct about it being the Crown of Sorrows.”

“More foolish attempts to commune with the Darkness. Or whatever lies behind it.” But what can one expect from someone like Calus who throws away the lives of his people as easily as breathing?

“Yeah, and it didn’t go well. At least I think so? Amsot says that the Scorn exposed to the anomaly all suffered contiguous neuron death. All but one, who ‘spoke with many dead voices.’”

Osiris suppresses a shiver. The choice of Scorn for these experiments makes a twisted sort of sense – creatures raised from the dead by the Darkness, using the wish of a Taken Ahamkara. Did their state of undeath allow them to avoid the pitfalls that had occurred with Gahlran?

As if in response to his thoughts, another shrill howl runs through the ship. It echoes wildly through the twisted hallways, followed by the skittering sound of movement. Osiris holds himself still until the noise passes.

“Let me talk to him, Sagira,” he says. “You’ve said that the schematics do not match the ship. We could explore for days and find ourselves no closer to what we seek.” He does not think that they have days.

“And what do we seek, Osiris?” Sagira asks, unusually sharp for her. “This lost Guardian? The Crown?”

What does he seek? What had so driven him to come here that it had become a gnawing insatiable thing in his mind? “If it can help us to remove the infestation from the Tower…”

It sounds weak even to his own ears. Perhaps when they had been in the City he had been able to believe that, but now that they are here?

-–You were always meant to come here.–-

His mouth goes dry. Without Xivu Arath’s endless drumbeat running through him it is easier to feel the shape of that Whisper. It is gentler. It does not seek to overwhelm and crush and control. It had helped to drive her off, had it not? It feels like an offered hand, one that he only need take.

“Osiris…”

“Let me speak to him,” Osiris snaps. Sagira pulls back, startled, and he forces down the guilt that fills him with.

A moment later, a cage is set on the ground in front of him, and in the cage is a Ghost. Gilgamesh glares balefully at him. His shell is wrapped in Light suppressing bands that keep him from decompiling. And the cage keeps him from simply flying away.

“Dragged here again,” Gilgamesh says, disgust in his voice. “I’m not surprised. It’s what Guardians do. Drag us into dark places that the Light can’t reach.”

“Well if you’d told the Vanguard anything, we wouldn’t have needed to,” is Sagira’s testy response.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re all ending up in the same place. We all need Salvation.”

“Then it will not hurt if you help us,” Osiris says. He has no time or patience for this nihilism. “What happened to the layout of this ship?”

Not the most pressing question, but a good place to start, and it may give them some insight into what precisely they are dealing with. A neutral question may also prompt Gilgamesh into saying more.

“That’s what you want to know?” Gilgamesh asks, sounding incredulous.

“I would not ask it if I did not wish to know.” And his curiosity is boundless, even in a situation such as this. Perhaps especially then.

Gilgamesh eyes him warily as though expecting Osiris’ question to be some manner of deceit. He probably is, but Osiris has no taste for such things – he is no spy, no master of politics – though the rumours about him often suggest otherwise.

“It was the anomaly,” Gilgamesh says finally, voice low as though he fears he might be overheard by something. “The ship plunged into it and there were pulses… waves… They’d twist the ship, reform it around us. Had to find new routes to escape and hide from the Scorn every time.”

It sounds plausible, and is no worse an explanation than any he can come up with. He has seen the Ascendant Plane – the dark mirror of their own reality, where known places are fractured, split apart, and reconfigured. He remembers too seeking the Seed of Silver Wings out beyond the heliopause. He had entered that devouring twist in space, the way that it had closed around him like a terrible gullet. The way that it had called to him. He cannot remember it clearly – it was not a place that was meant to be conceivable to human minds – but there is something about this ship that feels akin to it.

“Where was this ‘crown’ when last you saw it?” he asks next. It had obviously been a central part of whatever Calus had been attempting. If he can see it, he may be able to find out more information.

“The bridge,” Gilgamesh replies, “wherever that ended up being located. I didn’t go searching before I left.”

“And how did you leave, Gilgamesh?” Osiris asks. A Ghost cannot simply transmat between Mars and the Tower, and Gilgamesh had arrived in the City before the Glycon had emerged from the anomaly. There are perhaps other routes that might be traversed, but they would require knowledge and assistance and power.

Gilgamesh stares at him. “It promised me Salvation. All I had to do was spread the spores. Create the path.”

—-All you need do is walk it.—-

Osiris holds himself still even as his heart races, and he feels a cold sweat on the back of his neck. That whisper… It feels like a promise. It feels like welcome. It is a universe away from the boiling blood of Xivu Arath’s scream. If he had listened to it earlier, if he had been able to hear it, would it have helped him?

There is a flicker at the corner of his eye, a flash of gold and static.

The feeling of inaction prickles beneath his skin and he pushes himself to his feet. Sagira gives him a look of startled wariness.

Wariness! Towards him! Has he not proven himself to her time and time again? Has he not fought for the Light, dedicated himself to it enough over the centuries? Resurrected into a war that he had no choice in joining.

“We need to keep searching,” he says coolly. “The Crown of Sorrow is not to be trifled with, and it is the centre of this problem, I am certain of it.” He snatches up the cage containing Gilgamesh and attaches it to his belt. Gilgamesh makes a noise of protest, but Osiris ignores him and heads towards the ceiling grate that they had used to enter the room.

“Osiris!” Sagira calls.

He glances back at her. “We gain nothing by hiding here, Sagira.”

He boosts himself up to the open grate and climbs inside without waiting for a response.

Chapter Text

Osiris walks through hallways of shadows and flickering lights. The layout makes no sense. No logic can map it. The warped metal skeleton of the ship creaks around him, and his boots sink into the decaying softness of another patch of fungus.

“Guess we know what happened to some of the crew,” Sagira says from over his shoulder, the strain bleeding through the facade of false cheer.

Osiris looks down and grimaces at the sight. This patch of fungus is particularly virulent, the tendrils thick and strong. A blue glow emanates from several large spore sacs. At the base of the mound can still be seen the remains of one of Calus’ unfortunate soldiers. The vines have burrowed through their flesh, armour torn apart by relentless hungry growth. Even their skull has been pierced, and vine winds its way through bone and brain to emerge at the other side.

Blood scores a hot trail down the weapon’s arms, the scent rich and pungent, sweet on its tongue. The Cryptolith calls to it, a sacred drumbeat of death and war and tithe. It is the tool of Xivu Arath. It raises the squirming Red Legion soldier with unnatural strength, and with one fluid motion, impales them on the black spikes which grow from the Cryptolith. The soldier screams pain and worship, sings the hymn to the God of War.

All tithes to Xivu Arath.

It is a weapon and it serves its purpose well.

Osiris staggers back, chest heaving, eyes wide. He blinks furiously to try to dispel that… that awful memory. He thinks that he can taste blood in his mouth.

“Osiris? Osiris are you alright?”

He stares at the Ghost. For a moment, all he can think of is his hands around the shell, crushing it into dust.

“Osiris!”

More urgent now, the voice, and her name is on his tongue, he’s reaching for it, reaching for the strands of his life that he knows exist, but they are just beyond his grasp and–

—-We can show you the path. All you need to do is walk it.-—

“Osiris!”

There is laughter, rough and callous. “Still got her claws in him. I warned you, Sagira. You think that this ends?”

Sagira. Yes. Yes, he knows that name.

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes for a moment. Sagira, his Little Light, his guiding star. He is on the Glykon, not the Tangled Shore. And he is certainly not Xivu Arath’s weapon.

“I…” His voice sounds hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “There is no need to be concerned. I merely remembered something.”

“Yeah, no,” Sagira says, floating closer to hover in front of his face. “All your vitals spiked, went wild. You just stared blankly for several minutes. You’re not okay, Osiris. We need to go back.”

Frustration wells, thick and consuming. “Back to what?” he asks sharply. “The Tower is overrun by this infestation. People will be tearing each other apart given enough time and I–”

What happens then? He remembers facing Aunor and Sigfried when he had been fleeing to the Iron Temple. He would have sent them to their final deaths if he had encountered them any later. Even cured of Xivu Arath’s infection, he is capable of great destruction, and his temper has always been quick, even at the best of times. People are rarely aware of the amount of work that simply learning to control his Light had taken, and how much restraint he still often needs to practise. The flame that offers warmth and light can just as easily be a wildfire as it can a hearth fire.

“We continue,” Osiris says firmly.

“You always do this!” Sagira says, frustration clear in the way the spikes of her shell twist, the wideness of her iris. “This is what happened on the Tangled Shore and on the Moon! And you know where that got you? Massacring a whole Red Legion base as a tithe to the Hive god of War!”

His jaw clenches. Does she think that he does not remember? She has no idea what it was like, feeling his Light break, feeling Xivu Arath’s power hollow him out and fill him up with that horrifying relentless drumbeat until everything that he is was subsumed by it.

She has no idea how much it hurt.

She has no idea how it had felt like freedom.

“This is bigger than me,” he says, pleading with her to understand. “I have to see it through.”

That gold-and-static flashes at the corner of his eye. He turns towards it, and there.. A door. Had that been there before? He brushes past Sagira, and as he approaches the door, it lights up green. He hears the locks disengage, and it opens with a screech of metal. A black maw of an opening, and beyond it a cavernous space of carved black stone, a path picked out in harsh white light. Ahead is a flight of stairs, impossibly long, and at the top? A point of osseous white.

-–We have waited for you for so long.–-

Something moves as he climbs, a figure that is too great and encompassing to be clearly seen. It seems to be part of the Darkness itself. It beckons to you.

You know that it is the source of that Whisper, the one that feels like cool water over the burning brand of Xivu Arath’s malignant influence.

-–You have always sought purpose. We offer it to you, to make right a broken promise.–-

You reach towards that point in the depths, yourself against the vastness.

Delve.

Dive.

Deeper.

“Osiris! Wait!”

Sagira’s voice startles him back to himself. The door is gone, and ahead of him, the windows of the Glykon’s bridge stare out over the vast emptiness of space. Fungus has grown through the room, and the vines wave gently though there is no breeze to move them. Osiris does not need to look closely to tell that hidden beneath the mounds of spore sacs are the corpses of the unfortunate crew, their flesh given over to sustaining another form of life.

In the centre of the room, suspended by tendrils of wire-taut fungus, is a human figure.

Osiris had watched footage taken in the Plaguelands once, the Guardian’s journey through Site 6 to the SIVA replication chamber where the Iron Lords had met their doom at the whim of the Warmind. He had seen the warped and twisted bodies of his friends, his mentor hanging from tendrils of SIVA like grotesque puppets.

Hanging from wires like lures for a fish.

“Katabasis!” Gilgamesh’s cry is one of anguish and anger, the conflict of a wish made reality that one realises they never wanted at all. No Ahamkara could have twisted reality more perfectly.

“This is your Guardian?” Osiris asks. He steps closer, drawn inexorably towards what once had been a human and is now meat and scraps of fabric and metal. He raises the cage of the struggling Ghost so that he can see what has become of his partner.

“Yes! Katabasis. I– He–”

“He’s… oh Traveller, there’s still brain activity.” Sagira recoils, retreating to Osiris’ cowl.

“What?” There can’t be, surely! “He’s alive?”

“No. No I don’t… think so?” Sagira says, more uncertain than he’s ever heard her. “It’s like he’s trapped, caught between life and death but…”

“Like the Scorn,” Gilgamesh says, a horrible flat calm in his voice, “the experiments.”

“Contiguous neuron death, save one that spoke with many dead voices,” Osiris murmurs, thinking back over the journal entries.

“The Scorn are one, rejoice,” Sagira says, reciting from the journals. “They bear the weight of the crown elegantly, rejoice. They whisper anticipations, rejoice. Our emperor hears the Voice of Salvation. Rejoice!”

From the bleakness of her tone, he knows that the same idea has occurred to them both. “The mycelial circuits, the network that it traced between points in the Darkness. And this, sentient beings caught at the moment of prolonged death. The fungus is feeding.”

“What better food than the Scorn?” Sagira adds. “Dead but not. If just burning a stalk connects you to the network, imagine what prolonged exposure to the spores could do.”

“A network of dead minds, all controlled by that Whisper in the Darkness.”

And it is inside the Last City. A more virulent form of it allowed to run rampant. Guardians straddle that same line between death and life. If they are driven to mindless slaughter, individual thought driven out of them, how many more minds could be incorporated into that network? Katabasis had only become fodder, but if whatever Calus had spoken to could take control of Guardians in the same way as it had the Scorn…

Even the Wrathborn’s destructive capabilities would pale in comparison.

“How do we stop it?” Sagira asks.

“You can’t,” Gilgamesh says wretchedly. Osiris can feel him straining towards his fallen Guardian. “We couldn’t. Whatever we did, the Scorn kept coming. Burn them, freeze them, let the Void devour them, they just come back, like this fungus! The Light is rotting and the only way out is–”

-–Salvation—

Gilgamesh’s voice fades into distant, unintelligible static. Osiris catches a glimpse of gold, and turns towards it. For a moment, he sees carved black stone, a staircase, a statue, superimposed over the Glykon’s bridge, that entity observing from just out of sight.

He blinks, and the vision is gone, but the feeling of being watches persists.

A figure stands before him. The golden gilding of Light has worn away to nearly nothing, leaving only the Taken static at the core of it, but it is unmistakable – his own visage looks back at him. An Echo.

He knows with absolute clarity that this is the Echo that he had sent to the Moon. It feels like months ago that he had done so, and his mind had been so ravaged by Xivu Arath that he had not given its disappearance the consideration that he ought. He had not felt it fall as he had those in the Infinite Forest during his lifetimes of searching for Saint. He had not summoned it back to himself. It had stood I the colossal shadow of the Lunar pyramid, and then it had been gone.

Now it stands before him.

It is a blank spot in his mind, like the point in an eye where the optical nerve sits, and the brain conjures an idea to obscure the lack of true vision.

The Echo inclines its head, and then moves in the unsettling manner of the Taken, where they are in one location, and then are… not. He glimpses it dropping down from the level that they stand on, and then it is gone once more.

-–We await you, Osiris. Claim your purpose.–-

He is already moving, following the path of the Echo. The fungus seems to shift away as he approaches, revealing a door which slides open. Distantly, he is aware of someone shouting, but it is faint, as though he is beneath deep water.

And there it is.

The Crown of Sorrow is larger than he had imagined – fashioned to be worn by the largest of Ascendant Hive warriors, or so he imagines. It is surrounded by a nest of cables, swaying fungal tendrils, and the corpses of Scorn. Golden gilding has flaked off it in places to reveal rough white bone.

“Osiris! Osiris what are you– wait, is that–”

“The Crown of Sorrow,” Osiris replies, unable to tear his gaze away from it.

His mind is filled with whispers. He cannot hear them clearly, but they are familiar and they are calling to him. He steps towards the Crown and feels its power hum against his skin, a perfect harmonious note.

—-We have sought you for a long time.-—

He can almost reach that bright point in the depths that he has been reaching for for so long.

—-Take your place and we will grant you Salvation.-—

He can feel the promise of it – an end to suffering, to seeking without guidance, to an uncertain existence. It offers a clear path to be walked.

His fingers brush the surface of the Crown.

—-This is your purpose.-—

Chapter Text

“More Scorn incoming!” Crow hears Saint’s growl of frustration, the click of his shotgun as he reloads.

Crow follows suit and reloads his hand cannon.

How many times has he done this now? How many Scorn has he killed only to have them revive and break against them in wave after wave of dead flesh? He’s heard stories of Guardians from Eliksni perspective – the mad, dead warriors who stand back up when you cut them down – and now he feels like he understands them a little better.

He fires again, again, again, watches the Scorn fall (is that recognition in their glassy eyes?), dodges the heavy flame censer which smashes into the ground where he’d just been, leaving a scorched mark and flame which spreads across the ground. The whine of a swarm grenade as the drones seek out targets, and the devouring pull of the void from Saint’s vortex grenades. The sound of bullets hitting flesh and the crack of bone – what Saint hits does not get back up.

Not yet at least.

The last Scorn falls, and the scent of tainted ether fades. Crow’s shoulders slump, and he reloads once more, with fingers that shake, expecting at any moment to hear more shrieks and skittering footsteps.

“Their numbers do not end,” Saint says. His large hand lands on Crow’s shoulder and squeezes. Crow gives a tight smile.

“They aren’t usually this quick to come back. I dealt with them a lot on the Shore. They made Spider uncomfortable.”

They made all the Eliksni he knew uncomfortable, and he can’t blame them. It can’t be comfortable looking at a dead reflection of yourself. Spider though had mainly seemed to hate their lack of interest in commerce – can’t hold a debt over someone if they don’t care about doing business with you in the first place.

“They do seem more… resilient than those we encountered on the Shore,” Saint agrees. “There were not such things when I went into Infinite Forest. Nor were there Taken. I come back and find many more enemies at our gates.”

“I was told that they appeared on the Shore a few years ago, and started growing in force,” Crow says. “There was some kind of jailbreak of their leaders which sent Spider into hiding for a while, but from what I gather, Guardians took down the leaders and since then they’ve been sort of… mindless.” Like they needed a more powerful force to give them purpose. A bit like the Wrathborn he supposes – controlled by the will of Xivu Arath. If the Hive god died, would they be left as aimless as the Scorn?

“Yes, I have heard of this,” Saint says, an odd note to his voice. “Dangerous people escaped that day, and the Scorn leaders were among them.”

“Lucky us,” Crow says dryly. He checks his hand cannon again and draws himself up. “We should get moving before they rise around us.”

“Yes. I do not wish to be around them more than I have to.”

Every second spent fighting feels like it’s allowing Osiris to get further and further away. Ridiculous when he’s on the ship with them, but Crow can’t shake the feeling that they’re running out of time.

They follow Geppetto’s guidance about where she feels traces of Sagira’s Light. It’s slow going – doors slide shut as they approach and lock down, service shafts double back on themselves or intersect into maze-like grids of blocked passages and flickering lights – and everywhere they go they’re surrounded by fungus and the skittering sounds of Scorn moving somewhere out of sight.

They emerge into a docking bay, the cavernous space more of a relief than Crow had expected. He’s never considered himself claustrophobic – the Tangled Shore is full of tunnels and hidden caves and cramped nooks in the debris – but the service shafts had felt like they were closing in, tightening around them. From the way Saint stretches and rolls his shoulders he’s fairly sure the Titan feels the same. With his size, he’s probably having a worse time of it than Crow.

The docking bay is as run down as the rest of the Glykon seems, with more fungus beginning to carpet the ground and grow over the jumpship tethered there. It must have been a fine vessel originally, albeit somewhat gaudy with its gold and purple decorations. Crow tries to estimate what it would be worth if he tried to sell it on the Shore – probably enough glimmer to be able to leave the Shore for somewhere better.

“I do not like this,” Saint says, as Crow swings himself up onto the strut holding the ship in place, and then onto the jumpship itself. “It feels like we are being… herded.”

“Or kept occupied,” Crow agrees. He climbs over to the cockpit and peers in through the grimy window, but can’t see anything that might be useful. “Or both.”

“Yes. I worry that something is trying to keep us from finding Osiris.”

That’s a disturbing prospect, and yet Crow can’t help but agree. How many times have they followed a clear trail of Sagira’s Light only to end up back where they started? Or standing in front of a locked door with the trail on the other side? It feels intentional.

“Do you think Osiris is trying to throw us off?” he asks, and regrets it immediately when Saint flinches.

“I– I do not know,” Saint admits quietly. “I do not think so – he is talented engineer, but I think even he would struggle to change ship around us – but I cannot be certain. There is something rotten here.”

Crow hops down from the wing of the ship and reaches out to give Saint’s shoulder and awkward pat. “We’ll find him,” he says, hoping that he sounds more confident than he feels. “We managed to find him in the Dreaming City, didn’t we?”

Saint shouldn’t sound like this. He shouldn’t sound so uncertain, so unsure of Osiris.

Saint brushes his fingers against Crow’s and then draws himself up to his full height. “Yes. Yes you are right. Thank you, Crow. I am very glad to have you with me. I must have more fait–”

The Titan breaks off, and stares out towards the back wall of the hangar. Crow can see the tension that runs through him, though he can’t see anything there. “Saint?”

How’s your sister?

The voice is not Saint’s. Saint’s voice does not make him feel like something is dredging up dread from the depths of his soul.

“You heard that?” Saint asks him.

“I heard something. A voice.”

“As did I. It sounded like… like my father.”

“Your father?” Crow asks. Guardians don’t have families except the ones they create themselves. They’re resurrected alone.

“He was the Speaker,” Saint says. Crow recognises the title – Commander Zavala has the mask in his office – but he’d never heard of a connection to Saint. “He was travelling with Geppetto when she found me. He raised me to be a Guardian, and example to others of what we should be. He was killed by Red Legion. I was not there to defend him.”

“That can’t have been easy, returning and finding out that something had gone so wrong,” Crow says gently.

“I have many regrets,” Saint says, then heaves a heavy sigh. “But I have Osiris. And I will not lose him again.”

“I didn’t recognise the voice I heard,” Crow says, frowning at the memory. “It was a man’s voice. He said ‘how’s your sister?’.”

“Perhaps it is someone you knew once in your first life,” Saint says. “Perhaps it is something else lying in wait here. A memory of one of the crew. If we are lucky, it means nothing.”

This doesn’t feel like the sort of place where they can rely on luck.

He calls to Glint who compiles next to him. “Any idea where we need to go next?”

“It’s difficult to tell when the schematics don’t always match up, but I think there should be a maintenance hatch around here somewhere,” Glint says.

“Ugh, more tunnels,” Saint groans. “I am sick of tunnels.”

“You and me both,” Crow agrees, offering a small smile.

They locate the hatch high up on the wall, near a hanging platform that was probably used to move supplies. It takes a bit of scrambling and jumping to reach it, but they make it.

The hatch is open. Almost like it was waiting for them.

He shakes away the thought and turns to Saint. “Guess we’re crawling again.”

Saint curses. “When we are back in City, Osiris owes me. I am exo, yes, but I still feel my shoulders ache from these tight spaces.”

He nudges Crow gently and then pulls himself into the hatch. Crow waits until he’s a little way ahead, and glances back at the room to make sure that nothing is following them.

Empty.

He grabs the edges of the hatch and drags himself up into it.

The line between Light and Dark is so very thin.

Crow’s breath hitches, and he hurries to catch up with Saint.

The voice he had heard had been his own.

Chapter Text

“We are being played with!”

Saint slams his hand against the wall, his Light flaring. The chill of the Void licks at Crow’s senses, and the sheer intensity, enormity of it leaves him breathless. Saint is normally so controlled – it is easy to forget what a terrifying force he can be.

The Titan pulls away from the wall with a grimace, shaking his hand to get rid of the organic matter which has clung to it. His Light draws back into himself, and Crow can breath again.

“I have lived through tricks of the Vex in Infinite Forest, but at least I could fight them. This is…”

The fungus is becoming impossible to avoid the further they head into the ship – whole rooms choked with it, spores thick in the air… and the corpses that sustain them being slowly absorbed.

He grows in frustration and turns to Crow, his shoulders slumping. “I am sorry,” he says more gently. “I do not mean to lose temper and shout.”

“It’s alright,” Crow says, offering a weak smile. The last few weeks have helped ease that fear, at least where Saint is concerned. Saint has had a hundred chances to hurt him, and has taken none of them, even when he was overcome with the influence of the fungus. “I feel like punching the wall too, but I think I’d break my hand and Glint would be unhappy.”

Saint snorts, but some of that tension leaves him. “That would not be good. It is bad to worry our Ghosts when it can be avoided.”

Tucked away in his Light, Glint makes sure that Crow knows he agrees with Saint. 

The hallways become more maze-like as they move, and every room brings a sense of déjà vu – have they really passed through this room before, or is it just a function of military design that makes every hallway look the same?

And those skittering, gibbering sounds inside the walls.

“How long have we been searching, Glint?” Crow asks. It feels like days, but he knows that cannot be the case. Crawling through the tangled mess of vents and hallways has thrown him off, and he would appreciate some kind of certainty right now.

Glint appears, his shell spinning anxiously. “Ah, about that…”

Saint gives Glint a sharp look. “What?”

Glint moves closer to Crow’s side. “It sounds stupid but… I don’t think time is working right.”

“What do you mean?” Crow asks. He reaches up to touch his shell gently, and then lets Glint settle into his cupped palms.

“I know how long it should be, if we were on Earth – just a couple of hours! But my actual internal clock says it’s been much longer.”

That makes no sense. And it makes a lot of sense.

“Geppetto?” Saint asks, holding out his hand. His Ghost compiles over his palm, her iris narrowed in thought.

“Give me a moment,” she says.

“What if something’s happened to me?” Glint looks up at Crow who pulls him closer to his chest. “I can feel the difference, I’m not lying! What if this place has broken me somehow?”

“You aren’t broken, Glint,” Crow says vehemently. “It’s this place.” And even if there is something wrong with Glint, Crow will never think of him as broken. Glint has always been there for him, his most steadfast companion, even when Crow couldn’t protect him.

“He’s right,” Gepptto says. “Time here is moving strangely. I’d need a lot more time to study it to be able to tell for sure what’s happening but I suspect…” She pauses for a moment, and then continues with more confidence. “This ship was pulled into the anomaly left by Mars. I think it’s somehow still being affected by the gravity of the anomaly… or whatever it encountered there. And the gravity is distorting time, like a black hole.”

“I was right!” Glint perks up. “Time is… Oh.” He droops again. “That isn’t good.”

“More trickery,” Saint says. “I wish that I could just blow this place up. It is a blight on the universe.”

“At least I know why I feel so tired now,” Crow says. He tries to keep his tone light, but the words fall flatly against the walls of the ship that suddenly feels even more like a trap.

“We will keep going,” Saint says. “I do not think that we have any other choice.”

Crow can’t help but look back at the door they’d come through at Saint’s words. Is the fungus thicker now than it had been? No, it’s just his imagination. He doesn’t like the implication that if they try to go back, the ship won’t let them.

He stretches to try to work out some of the stiffness he’s feeling, the cramps in his fingers from firing over and over. “Lead the way.”
They venture onwards into another stretch of corridors choked with fungus. The vines catch at Crow’s cloak like fingers trying to pull him into their embrace. Saint’s footsteps are a constant heavy beat, like a metronome made from the material of a neutron star. The hallway feels so much longer than it should be.

Glint, still clutched against his chest, nuzzles close to him. Crow focuses his senses on his Ghost’s Light for a moment, that thread of connection between them. It is a comfort to feel it as strong as ever, no matter the surroundings. 

Ahead of him, Saint pauses. Crow gives him a questioning look. Saint reaches out and takes his hand, grips it firmly. “Better that we stay together this time,” he says. “I do not wish to lose you like I worried I had done in Ascendant Plane.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Crow says, “not alone.”

Never alone. Not anymore.

It takes a few steps to adjust to Saint’s longer stride, but he isn’t about to let go. He can feel Saint’s Light, but more than that, he can feel his affection, his care, a bolstering warmth that makes the shadows feel less all-pervasive.

Their route seems to be taking them slowly downward and in towards the heart of the ship. Normally that would be where they’d find the essential systems, but with how little sense the layout of the Glykon makes, it’s impossible to be certain. They’ve seen engines exposed to the emptiness of space and furnace vents opening into the mess hall.

The fungus grows thicker, forcing them to take certain routes, or spend time tearing a path through it.

And of course, there are the Scorn.

Crow gasps, life flooding back through him, filling lungs with air like he’s never breathed before. Glint nudges him gently, iris narrowed in concern. He always looks like that after he’s resurrected Crow, as though he’s worried that this time it won’t work.

Saint offers him a hand up, and pulls him to his feet. The Titan holds his shoulders and looks him over carefully. “You are alright?”

“I hate Screebs,” Crow deadpans.

Saint’s laughter is loud and bright, and he slaps Crow on the back. Saint’s armour is still stained blue with the remnants of the exploding screebs.

“At least getting resurrected means that I’m clean,” Crow adds. As true as it is though, he still wishes that he could have a shower. The physical evidence of the explosion is gone, but the memory of it lingers as something he wants to scrub off his skin.

“That is true, though I fear you will be just as covered again quickly enough. I am sorry. I should have been faster with barricade.”

“I should have been fast enough to dodge them,” Crow replies. “That’s what Hunters are meant to do, right?”

“This is why you need fireteam,” Saint says. “Even Hunters have their packs, no matter that they try to pretend they are all solitary.”

“I wouldn’t know. They don’t seem to be easy to find around the Tower,” Crow says. Not like he’s been doing any socialising anyway.

“They do not wish to risk being the one who ends up holding the Vanguard Cloak,” Saint says, although he sounds a little disapproving. “Position has been vacant since previous Hunter Vanguard was killed and no-one has taken up his Dare.”

Saint rips the cover off a nearby console to examine the wiring. Or what remains of the wiring. When Crow crouches to get a look, it’s impossible to distinguish wires from the web of fungus which has grown into it. “Is this what happened in the Tower?” he wonders. “Is this how it was interrupting communications?”

Not just by damaging things, but by overtaking them? Corrupting them?

Saint reaches in and grabs a handful of the mycelial network and rips it out. Nearby, the light on the door switches to green. “I think your idea has merit.”

He straightens up and heads to the door. “We should–”

Saint breaks off, jerks away from the door as though burned. Crow opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong.

Then he feels it.

The swell of energy hits him like a physical blow, makes him stagger with the weight of it. It feels like static against his skin, and in it he can feel something calling him. It’s like when Glint calls to him through death, an indistinct song that he never really remembers when he’s living again.

It is Light, a Light more powerful than any he has felt, but there is something tangled in it, like the fungus had been tangled in the wires. A swallowing, angry, hungry thing that screams with many voices.

“Osiris!” Saint grabs his hand and is moving before Crow can respond. All Crow can do is follow after him or risk having his arm wrenched out of the socket. “That is his Light, I can feel it.”

Saint uses his body as a battering ram, shoving aside vines and crates as they head towards where the energy had seemed to come from. Crow remembers the stories he has heard from the Eliksni – the unstoppable Saint, the vengeful monster. How much more rage must he feel when Osiris’ life is at risk?

The vines become a web which drags at them, slowing their progress, choking the hallway ahead. It feels deliberate, hands determined to make them pay for every step. Crow can’t shake the feeling that if they break the skin, taste his blood, it will just spur the fungus on.

They emerge finally at the edge of a chasm. It yawns before them, vast and deep. At the bottom, a forest of beckoning vines sways gently.

It is a dead-end. There is no way across to the platform on the opposite side. Not even a hunter could balance on the seams of the walls, and while Crow could climb higher on this side, the ledges and pipes don’t extend much further than the platform they stand on. Certainly not far enough to help them across.

Saint stares at the space, at the distant platform that is utterly out of reach, and then smashes his fist into the wall, a scream of rage escaping him. “There must be another way!”

There is a ragged edge to his voice, as raw as Crow has ever heard him. Crow turns back to see if there’s some turn-off that they’d missed and–

The door behind them is closed. The red lights on the door indicate that it is locked, and the lights are being quickly obscured by fungal vines. They move far too quickly to be natural, as though Saint’s rage is feeding them. Crow remembers the way they’d moved in the Tower, reached for him and Aunor. He can see the twitching tendrils shifting closer.

“Your Light!” he says sharply. “Aunor’s Well kept the vines at bay.”

He lashes out with a blazing Solar blade. The vines recoil, and Crow pushes the advantage, claiming back space on the platform.

A moment later, and they are engulfed in Saint’s Ward of Dawn. It stills the movements of the vines which had crept close to them, and outside the Ward, the tendrils recoil.

“This is not good,” Saint mutters. “I cannot tear apart door, not before those vines are on us.”

Geppetto compiles at Saint’s shoulder. There is a look of determination in her iris as she looks at Crow. “Get me up to the ceiling.”

“What?”

“I can feel Sagira’s Light there. It’s important. I know it is.”

Crow looks up where she indicates – he can’t see much through the Ward, except for the vines which seem to be searching for a way in. How long can Saint hold the Ward? How long before the vines manage to eat away at the Light as they had at Aunor’s Well?

Saint stares at his Ghost for a long moment, and then nods. He nudges her towards Crow. “I trust you. I trust both of you. Take care of her, yes? And of yourself.”

“Of course,” Crow says solemnly.

He takes Geppetto gently in his hands, and helps her settle securely in the folds of his hood close to his neck. He can spot a couple of handholds higher up, but they’ll have to move quickly.

“Ready?” He feels Geppeto nod.

He takes a breath and jumps.

The vines lash towards him the second he leaves the safety of Saint’s Ward. Crow dodges in mid-air, and grabs onto the edge of a small ledge, and uses it to boost himself higher.

“There!” Geppetto says. She shines a light onto what looks like a control panel on the ceiling. It’s a stupid place for one, but nothing about this ship makes sense.

Crow manoeuvres them onto a narrow stretch of pipe near the panel. He forms a Solar Blade and lets Geppetto dart over to examine the panel. He can see the vines crawling up the wall towards them. He throws his knife at the closest, severing the tendril, but another quickly takes its place.

“Nearly there, nearly…” Geppetto murmurs as she works. “Sister you’ve spent too much time around the Vex.”

He drives more of the vines away with an explosive knife and hurls a grenade down towards the Ward to try to keep them away from Saint.

“Got it!” There’s a screeching sound of metal on metal, then Geppetto dives back into Crow’s hood. He moves immediately, and drops back down to the safety of Saint’s ward.

Saint grabs Geppetto back to him as soon as they land, cradling her against his chest for a moment before she vanishes back into his Light.

“Good work,” Saint says. “I saw what it did. Platform down there. A door opened. Go first, and I will hold the ward until you are safely there.”

Crow wants to argue – he doesn’t like the thought of leaving Saint there, even for a few seconds – but it makes sense. If Saint goes first and the Ward fails, Crow will be left completely exposed.

“Alright.” He backs up as far as possible to take a running jump.

For a moment he freefalls, plummets, can’t see the platform. Then it’s there below him and he jumps once more to land safely, rolling to absorb some of the impact. The heavy door is open and the platform seems mercifully free of fungus. He glances through the door quickly before shouting up to Saint.

The light of the Ward vanishes, and he ducks through the door to give Saint more space to land. There are a few terrible moments of silence, then a heavy thud as Saint lands. Crow sags in relief.

Saint moves closer to him, and takes his hand once more as they step through the door together.

The door closes behind them. Ahead of them is a room illuminated by a ruddy light. Clouds of dark ether begin to coalesce into an enormous figure, far bigger than any Scorn that Crow has seen. A hulking Scorn wrapped in chain and wielding a flame censer. It raises its head and its eyes glow with a horrifying light. Crow has seen many Scorn, has seen vestiges of thought in their dead eyes, but this one… something is looking through it.

“That’s it,” Glint says across their bond. “That scorn the logs talked about. The Locus of Communion.”

Crow draws his hand cannon, reaching for that wellspring of Hunter’s calm. “Just like back on the Shore.”

But this time… this time he is free, and he isn’t alone. He smiles grimly.

Saint straightens up and cracks his knuckles. “Crawling through vents has left me aching. I think this will help me stretch out aching muscles.”

He claps Crow’s shoulder, then dives forward to begin the fray. 

Chapter Text

The world shatters.

Osiris drifts in the Deep. It warps, cradling him, rocks away fear with warm recognition.

In the distance, a point.

An osseous white point.

He stretches out a hand, himself against the enormity.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

Clarity, in the dark space between his hand and the point.

EGGSHELL. EYE. TRUTH. SNARE.

Overwhelming. Concepts, shapes, ideas, thrust into his mind. Engulfed by the possibilities/subtleties/ambiguities. A thesis contained in a single concept contained in a word.

("The Light wields you, Osiris. You are what you make of it. A glorious extension of its majesty, in many directions.")

(A gun does not understand the use it is put to. Does a Guardian? Can they truly comprehend the purpose of their endless deaths and resurrections?)

(The noose tightens.)

EGGSHELL. SWORD. GUARDIAN. DARKNESS.

He is lost. The ideas flow through him, consume him, bind him. Observer and observed. They split him like a prism splits Light into fractal colour.

(A thousand missteps, traps that he could not recognise, missing steps. They see a sharp mind, a honed blade to be put to use. A blade which cuts both ways, makes the wielder bleed.

They do not like that. Blades are not supposed to cut the ones that wield it.)

(The noose tightens.)

EYE. CONVICTION. CITY. TRAP.

Sand dragged from beneath his feet. A thermal transmuted to cold air beneath his wings. Plunging down and down towards the ink-dark ocean depths. He is falling/diving/awakening.

(They stare at him as though he is an enemy. A heretic, sowing division. His questions are unwelcome, his work destroyed.

So many faces of those he knows, those he had called friends, students, loves, turned to him in fear. Disgust. Anger.

He is cast out.

He sees the fear/disgust/anger melt away into… relief.)

(The noose tightens.)

CITY. KNOWLEDGE. KILL. EYE. LOST.

He feels the shape of the ideas now. They wash over him like the tide, unstoppable, implacable. Drag him down and down into the Deep. Fill his mouth and throat and lungs until nothing remains and he is dying/failing/becoming.

(A planet of sand and scorch, circuits written into the core of it. A lonely exile. The machines cannot find bluntness offensive. The heat cannot display frustration at being corrected. The sun will not show relief at his absence.

A lonely refuge.)

—-And yet, it was there that you became truly alive.—-

ALONE. EYE. TAKE. KNOWLEDGE.

There is a point in the depth. It can be directly viewed. An osseous point, cracked and marred like a broken eggshell. Flawed.

(He lies in the shadow of that great angular shape. Sickly fire runs through him, blazing, twisting his Light with Hive corruption. The infection spreads, searing veins and nerves and soul. Osiris screams, desperately reaches for that spark of Light that has always been there, Solar Fire to burn it away, or cauterise some part of himself to protect it.

He is broken.)

-–And now you are unbroken.–-

DARKNESS. GIVE. KNOWLEDGE.

(Hive light flickers and dies and there is Luster. An eclipse which razes the blight, sears away infection. He is… unbroken/changed/reborn.)

What are you?

-–We are purpose.–-

And I am?

EYE. TETHER. EGGSHELL. CUSP. GIFT.

—-You are a brave mind. A clever mind. An ambitious mind.-—

(A wayfaring witness. A reluctant heir. A broken promise made true. A husk to fill a throne of sustenance. A shear to prune the vine. A warden to vacancy. A mind elated and crestfallen. A sojourner of meaning ever seeking.)

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. DRINK. KNOWLEDGE.

Hand outstretched towards that point in the depth. He can almost touch it. His fingers blot it out, that fragile light.

—-You are a brave mind. A clever mind. An ambitious mind.-—

How many times has he wished for guidance? For understanding? For purpose?

For knowledge.

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. DRINK. KNOWLEDGE.

The Luster curls around his hand, warm and somehow familiar. It rocks away uncertainty. There is promise in it. Certainty. A path laid out, straight and clear. He is diving/Taking/rebelling.

—-We can show you the path. All you need do is walk it.-—

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. DRINK. KNOWLEDGE.

The culmination of so many lifetimes spent in study. Seeking truth, knowledge, purpose. What secrets must lie there, along that path?

He takes a step.

[He sits in a great library filled with all of the knowledge in the universe. More than a single life could ever dream of being able to absorb. But he has forever to study it, to unlock the secrets that have been hidden from him for so long.

Through great windows he can see the vastness of the infinite. Galaxies move in their eternal dance, and when he gestures, they shift their patterns, reveal the threads of the weave of reality for him to examine – from the greatest filaments of galactic superclusters to the smallest strands that vibrate in the spaces between atoms.

He reads works that were destroyed billions of years before he was risen. He writes theses that overshadow the work of the greatest thinkers and scientists of any species, of any reality.

He walks the paths of that garden of mathematics which predates existence, sees the flowers grow and bloom and die and learns their patterns.

The workings of the Vex are laid bare to him, their complex web of minds and subminds spanning time and space. Their pattern becomes as familiar as breath.

He sits down to write of what he has discovered and… stops, pen held between his fingers, the nib hovering over the paper.

Who has read what he has written? Who is there to read it? Where is Ikora to point out some assumption that he has made without evidence? Where is Mara to challenge him to see a different point of view? Where even is Toland, or the Praxic Order, or Asher Mir to argue with his findings because that is what they do and that is how he hones himself and refines his thoughts and arguments.

Where is the wonder of it all? The anticipation of uncovering some new facet of a problem that he had not realised? The bittersweet ache at knowing that he can never, never have enough time to learn all that he wants, and that his work will be learned from and refined and improved on by those who come after him?

Who would be helped by what he writes?

He sets the pen down, turns away from this sterile universe, and lets the world collapse around him.]

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

(You have always feared wasted potential.)

That osseous white point grows, draws him closer until it fills his vision. Pale and marred, the legacy of the Collapse, of Ghaul, a dormant god now awoken…

—-And still silent.-—

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. DRINK. KNOWLEDGE.

It has never offered him guidance.

—-Raising you as a veil of protection.-—

As weapons to be wielded in a war that they had not chosen, that they could not understand. How much strife had it brought to Earth? How much pain that had been ignored, wise words dismissed?

[He walks through a city, a place of bustling streets and lush gardens and hushed halls of learning. People whisper as he passes, awed and honoured by the sight of him, a hero, a mind that sits amongst the greatest of history.

Occasionally someone balls up their courage to approach him, to ask a question and learn from his vast knowledge. He answers them, an indulgent tutor to a student. They drink in his words then run back to their fellows to report on the answers that he has bestowed upon them.

He continues on his way, satisfied that he has granted a fraction of his illumination to others.

He enters the halls of knowledge and is greeted by his keen disciples, the students who have travelled from far and wide to study beneath him, in the hopes that they will be able to learn and improve themselves, and perhaps even earn his approval.

When he speaks and lectures they all listen, rapt attention, hanging on his words. The leaders of this City come often to seek his counsel, for he is wise and they are honoured to have him live amongst them. How many other peoples have sought to steal him away? How many other cities have sent emissaries to beg for his wisdom?

He is spoken of with respect and admiration and when he speaks, people listen and–

Worship, reverence, hollow admiration.

They seek his knowledge, but not the source of it. They look at him with respect, but the cost of such respect is that he must always be that flawless figure in their minds. There is no-one who can be permitted to see the man, as flawed as any other.

It is a noose awaiting a misstep and he can feel it tightening around his neck.

He slips away at night, wearing the nondescript clothing of a wanderer. He walks through the city gates, unmarked by those he passes when they do not recognise him for their great scholar. He does not look back as he leaves, and he has left no message.

The world collapses around him.]

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

In the darkness, vast angular shapes move, drifting to surround that orb.

—-That hollow liar.-—

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. DRINK.

The Lustre grows, wraps him in power, in certainty. Such certainty as he has never felt! As though he was always meant to be here, to do this. A word bubbles to the fore of his mind, the only word that could come close to describing it – Aiat!

The pyramid vessels continue their movement, inexorable and unstoppable as the movement of the universe. They gather around the Traveller, turning, light glinting from their bladed edges.

—-Take what you desire, find your purpose, O Disciple Mine.-—

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. TAKE.

The Lustre fills him, surrounds him. He reaches out to touch the orb, to rest his fingers against that shape that has dominated his life from the first breath following resurrection. He will take that knowledge, find the purpose that has been denied him.

[The ship is not large, but they have shared tents before, lived in each others’ space for so long that they know how to move alongside each other without conflict or collision.

Osiris sits in the pilot’s seat, looking out at the expanse of stars. The screens show an array of planets and moons in this system, and he recognises none of them. Out here far beyond the heliopause, beyond the solar system, everything is unfamiliar, alien.

It is exhilarating.

Arms wrap around him from behind, a mouth presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“What are you looking at, my love?”

“The unknown,” Osiris replies. “I never imagined that we would actually get to see the stars.” Not like this, so close that he can see the movement of clouds over the surface of one of the planets on the screen.

Saint laughs softly. “We always promised that we would.”

“Yes,” Osiris agrees. “We waited for so long.”

Why had they waited? They could have been doing this for centuries.

“For too long,” Saint replies. “So much time wasted.”

Wasted?

The word sits oddly in his mind, a discordant note in the middle of a symphony.

“That seems too strong a word,” he says. He takes Saint’s hand, raises it to his lips. “We had responsibilities.”

“And now we do not,” Saint says. “We are free, like we always wished to be.”

Has he not always wanted to be free? Untethered by expectation, by responsibility. His life is truly his own now, for the first time.

“We can go wherever we want,” he says. A whole universe to explore alongside Saint.

“We can,” Saint agrees. “There is nothing to hold us down. We will not be used anymore.”

Another wrong note.

Osiris’ brow furrows. “We stayed to defend our people.”

The Last City, humanity, Sol. They’re safe now… aren’t they? He can feel the shape of the memory, but it is hazy, undefined.

“Coercion,” Saint says. He steps out from behind the chair and for a split second Osiris sees something else, a form that shifts like smoke. Osiris blinks and it is just Saint who settles down in the seat next to him. “We were coerced.”

“How?”

Something is wrong. He cannot pinpoint what, but the knowledge is a knot at the core of him.
Saint takes his hand, squeezes it gently. Osiris squeezes back. “The Traveller used humanity as a shield, and used our love for our people to keep us trapped.”

What? No, no that is not right.

“You have said it yourself, Osiris.”

He has. That is not incorrect but… Saint. Saint has never spoken of the Traveller like that, or seen their people as a burden.

“When did you start taking my words as the unvarnished truth?” Osiris asks. He tries to keep his tone light, teasing.

Saint smiles, strokes his knuckles fondly. “I realised that you were right. We have been manipulated. Why are you so concerned my love? We do not need to worry about this anymore. The whole universe is there in front of us.”

Outside the ship he can see the movements of the stars and planets, the universe that he has dreamed of being able to explore for centuries.

Now that he is here he cannot shake the niggling doubt worming its way through him. And that is usually a feeling worth analysing.

“You are always so stuck in your own head, Osiris,” Saint says. “You know that this is what you have always wanted. Let me help you. You do not need to suffer anymore.”

That wrong note has moved to Saint’s voice. Discordant. Wrong.

This is all wrong.

He meets Saint’s gaze and there is something hollow in those familiar optics. “Saint. What happened to Geppetto?”

There is a flash of rage so deep that it makes Osiris tremble.

The world collapses around him.]

The pyramids spread like petal around the Traveller, like then points of a star.

A star… like that of Ishtar… Inanna who descended to the underworld, shed her veils, and returned bearing knowledge… a myth of katabasis…

A star like the shell of a Ghost… like… like…

“Sagira!”

[He is a blazing warrior with wings of steel and flame. His enemies fall beneath his sword and all tremble at the sight of him.

Those who had wronged him, mocked him, seen him as something aberrant, flee before him. They crawl into dark places in the hopes of hiding, but there is nowhere that his light cannot illuminate. When he finds them, they cower at his feet, beg for mercy, stammer apologies and excuses and pleas until their breath runs out.

He listens, savours the taste of their begging before he cuts them down. They had given him no chance to state his case, offered no forgivene–
ENOUGH.

HE IS NOT YOURS.

The world collapses.]

The howl of a wolf and you are in flight, golden wings spread as you ride the thermals towards the nest. You have been away for far too long. The wolf lies at the centre of the nest, symbiotic companion. You have known it for as long as you have existed. It raises its head as you approach, one amber eye and one eye that glows, pulsing steadily like a distant star.

There is so much grief in that eye. So much pain.

So much understanding, even as your talons drip silver blood that corrodes to black-orange Lustre.

You stand over the wolf. There is a knife in your hand. It is ancient, and the handle feels made for you, but it cuts into your fingers. You know that the wolf cannot fight you. How can it fight a part of itself? But you… you were made to be a blade.

—- ████████████████████████ -—

Silence where a voice – voices – had been.

It is quiet here. You can hear your own thoughts as you have not been able to for… it has been so long.

Peace to your purpose.

—- ████████████████████████ -—

You can think now, without that rot seeping through you, without that Whisper in your ear. You are yourself entire.

A lure set to draw you down to the domain of Xivu Arath, to hang there on a hook, shattered and hollow, until you were pulled back. A spreading corruption to draw you towards actions that are rash even for you.

A new lure… a second katabasis, your own Echo sent as guide and promise, for who have you ever trusted more than yourself?

The promise of knowledge beyond your dreams and all you need do is Take it.

That Whisper… a Whisper which slips in disguised as his own thoughts, the one that promises everything, when you know… you know that the best voices hardly let themselves be heard at all, for to do otherwise would be coercion.

When have you ever allowed yourself to do other than that which you choose?

You look down at the knife in your hand, held in fingers with ragged nails. Hands that have held a blade before, but one of your own making, and you have always preferred the pen to the sword.

You look at the wolf. The way the eye its eye glows and fades like a binary star, and the other eye is… it is your own. The sorrow in its expression, the loss, ancient and unending, resigned and yet still somehow… hopeful.

“I am being manipulated.”

You know it with an unshakable certainty, the same way you know the feeling of Solar Light in your hand.

But what to do about it? There is always choice, and Guardians make their own fate.

You cast the knife away, and it sinks into the endless depths of the dark water, swallowed by the Deep.

You know what your answer is.

You have never responded well to manipulation.

—-Take what you desire, fulfil your purpose, O Disciple Mine.-—

Rushing noise, the Whisper is in his mind. He hears it for what it is now, a cacophony of voices crying out in rage and fear. How had he ever found it alluring? How had he ever missed the way it infects his thoughts like a virus?

COMMUNE. TRAVELLER. TAKE.

The flood of image/thought/meaning threatens to overwhelm. It is a Command now, not an offer, not a promise. An order. Control, carving away parts of him to this one sharp edge pointing at his own heart.

The Lustre surrounds him, sinks through his skin. He reaches out towards the orb, to rest his fingers against that shape that has dominated his life from the first breath following resurrection. The shape of it feels made for him, like a piece of himself slotting into place.

He can feel the will which guides his movements, and it is not his own.

No.

He tries to stop, to pull away, but that will refuses, a hand clamped around his wrist forcing him towards the Traveller.

The pyramids spread like petals around the Traveller, like the points of a star…

No!

It will not stop. The pyramids cage the Traveller, and he is so close now, fingers a whisper away from its surface and that force is still wrapped around him.

—-You cannot escape your purpose. This is what you were always meant to do.-—

“No!”

Scorching Solar heat surges through him, fuelled by the centuries of anger, frustration… devotion. To subvert the rules of the Game in such a way… to ignore and overwrite the choice made of free will…

He has made his choice!

He perceives the shape of things now, at least in part. Sees through the Veil that has been laid over his eyes.

Does this Whisper think that he will be its tool? He has never feared demanding answers, questioning power, even that of the Traveller (even that of his own self)! He will not be beholden to some hidden thing creeping in the Darkness, whispering poisoned promises.

That heat bursts from him, a wildfire, a solar flare, a supernova. The light of suns runs through his veins and he is Radiant.

He is Osiris, the phoenix made flesh.

He will make his own fate.

Chapter Text

Crow jolts upright, alive once more, and drags in a breath like it is the very first. The sound of flesh against armour, the shrieks of the Scorn, the endless repeating din of firing weapons, the sounds flood back, deafening after the calm silence of that place beyond death.

Glint gives him a brief, worried look, before decompiling back into the light where he’ll be safe.

A snap of golden flame. A shot. A shattered Ghost falls. The flame is extinguished.

He gasps, and barely manages to roll out of the way when the Locus of Communion, slams the censer down where Crow had been just a split-second before. It leaves a gouge in the metal floor when it drags the censer back. It makes a guttural growl, angered at the escape of its prey. It stalks towards Crow, who scrambles back, fumbling for his hand cannon. There’s a heavy slam of metal against flesh, and the Scorn howls and rears up, turns to face something behind it.

Crow gets a glimpse of Saint – the Titan catches his Void shield, gives Crow a brief nod, then hurls the shield again, catching the Locus of Communion in the skull. It falls, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings (like a dead Ghost), and the rest of the Scorn that remain alive crumble with it.

The silence rings in Crow’s ears. The rest of the sounds filter back in – his own ragged breathing and the background hum of the ship.

The silence will not last for long.

Crow reloads his gun. He can feel the edge of exhaustion creeping through him, making his fingers tremble. There’s the rush of Glint’s Light pushing it away, and his Ghost nudges at his shoulder.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Glint says, apologetic, as though the state of the Glykon is his fault somehow. “It’s getting more and more difficult to reach the Light.”

“I feel it too,” Geppetto says. “It’s like something is smothering it.”

“Then we do not have much time,” Saint says. There is frustration in his voice, and there is none of the usual grace in his hands as he reloads his shotgun. “Geppetto, do you know where Sagira is?”

“Not yet,” the Ghost replies. “I keep losing track of her Light. It keeps being obscured. And this area of the ship doesn’t match any known schematics that I have access to. It doesn’t match any schematics that I’ve ever seen!”

Saint nods. “We will keep looking.” He sounds exhausted. He turns his attention to Crow and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Crow, you should leave. Get out of here. I will find Osiris. I dragged you into danger in pursuit of him once before. You have already done more than you needed to.”

“Not happening,” Crow says quickly. “I told you that.”

“Crow…”

“I’m a Guardian,” Crow says. “I’m not abandoning my fireteam.” He couldn’t live with himself if he abandoned Saint now. If he abandoned Osiris. It wouldn’t be right. The thought of returning to the City alone, of returning to Saint’s apartment and being reminded of who he had left behind… he can’t do it. “Besides, I don’t think that whatever is controlling this place would let me leave now.”

He’d seen how the fungus had blocked off their path – it’s not going to be as easy as just walking out.

“The best of Guardians,” Saint says, echoing what he had said in the Dreaming City all those weeks ago. He is absolutely sincere, Crow understands now. “It is an honour to have you as my fireteam.”

The praise still brings pleased colour to his cheeks. He rests a hand against Saint’s on his shoulder for a long moment as though he can communicate through touch everything that Saint means to him. If they don’t get out of this…

Are they stuck here? Trapped in this metal tomb fighting and dying until their Light runs out and they’re torn apart by the Scorn.

-–So much suffering.–-

The Darkness weighs down on him, and he can feel the thinness of the Light, how weak it is here in the heart of the Glykon. It’s sapping away from him, abandoning him here, alone, suffering…

-–We offer Salvation.–-

That Whisper… he turns to look even though he knows that nothing is there. What had he been expecting? Who?

He didn’t listen to the whisper, but I did… It has promised me Salvation.

That’s what Gilgamesh had spoken of, wasn’t it? A Whisper in the Darkness that had promised an end to suffering, and all it had asked was to spread this infection to the Tower. He must have spent months like this – running, hiding, watching his Guardian die over and over again and feeling the Light grow thin. Crow and Glint have only been here a few hours.

He understand now why Gilgamesh had been so keen to agree with the Whisper. It would be easy to give up, to let things end…

He can feel Saint’s hand on his shoulder still, the strong but gentle presence. Remembers Saint’s kindness towards him on the Tangled Shore. Remembers the moment when he realised that Saint had come back.

Some people hate him, he knows that, and Spider had… had abused him. But they aren’t everyone. They aren’t Ikora praising his work, or Zavala’s gratitude. They aren’t Osiris setting down a cup of coffee for him unprompted on the first morning they found themselves together in Saint’s apartment, or the Warlock’s enthusiastic lectures over dinner.

“Let me look again,” Crow says, driving away that sense of creeping hopelessness that threatens to engulf him. “There has to be another vent or a door or something.”

Whatever force that is here… if it was certain that it’s won, that there is no escape, then it wouldn’t be playing mind-games. It’s like Spider in that regard.

The two of them circuit the room quickly, searching for some switch or seam that can be manipulated, some crack of light which could indicate a door. Come on, come on…

The scent of Dark Ether fills the air again, the hazy blue clouds forming around the corpses of the Scorn.

“Now I know why the Eliksni complain about us,” he mutters as he moves closer to Saint. They stand back-to-back, waiting for the mist to coalesce into enemies that they can fight. “Enemies that get right back up when you kill them are…frustrating.”

“Then we will see who can keep going longer,” Saint replies.
Saint fires a shot at the first risen Scorn, and then the enemy are upon them.

Fire. Dodge to take out a Scorn coming from the right. Fire. Fire. His grenade splits with a droning shriek as a Scorn gets too close. Fire. Twist to use a knife, his hands stained with ether. Avoid the blast of an exploding Screeb.

Saint is a bulwark at his back, covering his weaknesses as Crow covers his. They move together like it is a dance, reading each other’s actions before they occur.

It cannot last.

Crow is tiring. It takes Saint a second longer to summon a grenade than it should have. Crow’s Golden Gun feels insubstantial between his fingers as he fires at the Locus.

The stench of Dark Ether isn’t dissipating, cloying and sickly and– wait… wait, it’s thicker over there, the Scorn reforming more quickly near one part of the wall.

“Keep moving!” he says, nudging Saint in that direction.

“We should be moving away from their spawn,” Saint protests.

“I have a hunch,” Crow replies. He hopes it’s right. He needs it to be right. They’re out of options and he… he doesn’t want to die here.

Saint growls, but hurls his shield towards the spot where the Scorn are gathered most thickly, thinning them out. They move together, closer and closer to that one corner.

Once there, Saint throws up his barricade to face the room. “Do what you need. I will cover you.”

Crow doesn’t hesitate. He darts towards the wall and begins inspecting it, running his fingers over it in search of anything. There must be a reason why they’re gathering here, like they need to keep him and Saint away from it.

His fingers run over a spot where the metal has been worn smoother than what surrounds it. Crow presses down on that spot, and it depresses with a soft click. At his feet, a panel slides away to reveal a grate in the wall. A quick kick has the grating hall away – Crow hears it clatter somewhere below.

“Saint!” he says. “I’ve found something.”

The Locus of Communion roars.

Crow turns in time to see Saint grab the chain of the censer, and use the momentary confusion to shove the Scorn back. He follows it with a vicious headbutt that sends the creature staggering. Saint fires into its head again and again until it is felled.

It won’t last long, but it will buy them a little breathing room.

Saint turns to inspect what Crow had found. “You have sharp eyes. We–”

A pulse of energy rocks the room, making the hairs at the back of Crow’s neck stand on end. It’s like the one they’d felt earlier – Light but distorted, refracted and split, and something overshadowing it like a veil.

The tang of Ether begins to fill the air once more.

“Go,” Saint says, eying the faint blue vapour. Everything about him is tense, ready to fly into action at the first sign of attack. “Go and find Osiris.”

“I said I’m not leaving you,” Crow replies, readying his hand cannon.

“They will follow if we both go. Even big one will slip into Ether. But if I hold them off…”

“But Osiris…” If he’s hurt, if he’s in danger or… or worse, Saint needs to be there.

“I trust you, Crow,” Saint says, meeting his gaze squarely. “Find him. Help him. If necessary…” He trails off, leaving the worst option unspoken. “I will be the wall. And I will follow when I can.”

He doesn’t like this. It had been Saint who had managed to break through to Osiris in the Dreaming City. The Warlock barely knows Crow. And he doesn’t want Saint to be alone.

“What about you?” he asks, desperation entering his voice.

Saint pulls his helmet off and gives Crow a fierce look. “I am a Titan. This is what I do. I protect my people, and buy time for them to act. I–”

The first Scorn are forming, and there is something in their eyes, something which hates them.

Saint grabs Crow’s chin with his free hand and draws him into a kiss. It’s a press of his cool mouth, far too short, and leaves Crow breathless.

Saint gently bumps their foreheads together, before he pulls back and puts his helmet back on. “Go. I know what I am fighting for.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Crow says, a solemn vow. “Osiris too.”

Saint nods, and nudges him towards the wall. “Fly, little Crow.”

Crow ducks and slides down through the gap where the grate had been. The last thing that he sees of Saint is the Titan hurling his Void shield towards the ravenous Scorn.

“Fuck.”

Saint… No. Saint knows what he is doing. He has to trust him.

Crow will not let him down.

He takes off at a run, then ducks and slides beneath a row of pipes which cross the walkway at baffling angles. No ship would be designed like this.

Another length of hallway and then he drops once more into a large open area with windows that look out onto the blackness of space.

“This is the bridge,” Glint says, compiling next to him. “It shouldn’t be here. It makes no sense.”

“Nothing here makes sense,” Crow replies.

The fungus is here too – it grows like wires strung out between pipes and consoles, reminding Crow of a giant spider’s web. And caught in the middle of them…

“Guess this is our missing Guardian,” he says. He can taste bile at the back of his throat, and he approaches warily, taking in the places where the plants have punctured armour and burrowed into flesh and bone.

Glint scans the figure and then recoils back to the safety of Crow’s cloak. “He… he’s still alive. It’s like the Guardian we found with Aunor. Not dead, but not really alive either.”

“Trapped in-between,” Crow murmurs. He reaches out and grabs one of the vines with the vague idea of trying to free the husk that had once been a person.

“Crow…” Glint says uncertainly, “we can’t help him. And Saint is– We should hurry.”

Right. Crow pulls back from the vines and runs a finger along one of the fins of Glint’s shell gently to reassure him. To reassure them both. “You’re right. Osiris first.”

He’s become very familiar with the layout of ships like this over the past few weeks, and even with as messed up as this one is, it isn’t completely unfamiliar. He drops down from the main platform to the door below, and steps inside.

The room is dominated by a colossal skull, and in front of it, his back turned to Crow, stands Osiris. The fungus has curled vines around him, protective and possessive, and they split into a fractal network of tendrils which glow a malevolent orange-black.

“Osiris!”

He does not stir. Is Crow too late?

“Watch out!”

Sagira’s voice.

Crow turns before he even has time to think about it, and rolls out of the way just as a shadow lashes out at him.

He slides back, drawing his gun as he moves to raise it in a smooth motion towards the attacker and– what is that?

The room is dark, and the figure is darker, difficult to make out. He’d have dismissed it as nothing more than a shadow if not for the warning.

It moves sharply, and then is gone, only to reappear nearby. The static grates against his senses.

He blocks a blow from what looks like a sword, but instead of metal there is a seething negative light that makes up the blade and the wielder both. He’s seen this before, felt it in the twisting pathways of the Ascendant Plane.

Taken.

What are Taken doing here?

He shoves the figure away. The Taken shifts, as though it steps briefly into a place beyond physical reality. Crow backs towards where he’d heard Sagira’s voice, watching the shadows.

And through all of this, Osiris has not stirred.

A flicker of shadow. Crow hurls a knife – the Taken hisses in rage and is on him once more. It is a shifting thing, impossible to get a proper grip on, twisting out of his grasp only to strike again. It forces him to duck and sidestep, doing his best to keep it at a distance with his knife, getting a shot off when he can. He can’t risk hitting Sagira or Osiris.

It doesn’t fight like Taken. The tactics, the way it dodges, the way it wields a sword… He recognises it.

He can work with this. He has to. He’s tiring, the fading Light not able to keep sustaining him, and if he dies here… He needs to end this fast.

He backs off, and waits for that monstrous shadow to come to him. He makes a show of dodging away, makes half-hearted attacks with his knife. Lets it think he’s spent as he lures it closer and closer until finally–

It pounces on him hard enough to knock him back against the wall, leaving him breathless. The Taken leans in, raising the blade for the killing blow.

There are flecks of golden Light running through it, as though gilding has flaked away from the figure beneath. The tendrils which might be feathers, the point of a beaked helm…

The Taken blade is brought down. Crow slams a grenade against the Taken’s chest with a hard shove that sends it reeling backwards. The grenade detonates in a flare of Solar Light that makes Crow cover his eyes.

The Taken is reduced to sterile neutrinos and a lingering static in the air.

“Hey! Crow! Crow!”

Crow drags in a deep breath to steady himself, and then turns to Sagira. It takes a few moments to spot her – the vines have twisted into a cage around her, trapping her away from her Guardian. When Crow gets close enough he can see that the vines have chunks knocked out of them, presumable related to the bits he can see stuck to Sagira’s shell.

He grabs the vines and starts tearing them away from her so that she can slip through. “What’s going on? Osiris–”

“I can’t reach him!” she cries. “Something is cutting me off from him and he can’t hear me!”

Crow glances over at Osiris. He hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still resting on the skull.

“What is he doing?” He draws his knife and lets it burn with the scraps of Solar Light that he can muster. When he hacks at the vines, they begin to smoulder and recoil.

“I don’t know! He seemed drawn to the Crown of Sorrow, almost like he was in a trance.”

“And that Taken?”

“One of his Echoes,” Sagira says, “but I’ve never seen them like that. I don’t– I don’t think it was under his control.”

He wants to ask more questions – what is an Echo and why is it now a Taken? – But it isn’t the time. He hacks a chunk out of one of the thicker vines, and Sagira is able to wiggle through the gap. She heads towards Osiris immediately.

“I tried to get to him but this fungus grew so quickly,” Sagira says. “Something doesn’t want me near him. We have to get to him. To make him stop.”

She sounds more panicked than Crow has heard her before, even when they faced the Wrathborn in the Dreaming City. Crow slashes at the network of tendrils until they retreat, and finally they can get through the web of them around Osiris.

“Osiris! Listen to me!” Sagira throws herself against him, but he doesn’t stir. She does it again and again with no response. Even when Crow grabs the Warlock’s shoulder and shakes it, Osiris doesn’t respond, as though he’s a statue or– No, no Crow isn’t going to think about that. Saint had sent him here to help and he isn’t going to let him down.

“He can’t hear you,” a voice mutters from near the ground. “He might as well already be dead, like Qinziq.”

Crow crouches and sees Gilgamesh’ iris peering out from between vines.

“Qinziq?” he asks.

“A Psion,” Gilgamesh replies. “She was– she was a friend.”

“What happened to her?” He starts cutting the vines away from the Light limiting cage that Gilgamesh is trapped in. He remembers too clearly the Ghost they’d found in the Tower, pierced by the fungus.

“We gathered everyone who was left so she could try to break the connection with the Crown,” Gilgamesh says. He presses away from Crow, eye darting around as though he expects to see Scorn at any moment. Crow can’t blame him for that. “She touched the Crown and it… the black fire… it tore apart reality and devoured her.”

Black fire… Crow shivers and glances at Osiris’ still figure, remembering him wreathed in that rotting flame.

“It hasn’t devoured him yet,” Crow says, though now he’s close enough, he can see the way Osiris’ fingers have gone white from how hard he’s pressing on the Crown.

“It’s going to,” Gilgamesh says viciously. “It wants him. It called to him. The Locus of Communion was a crude experiment. But him? What he is? It won’t let him go.”

Crow cuts the last of the vines away, and finally manages to extract the cage that Gilgamesh occupies. He raises the Ghost to eye-level. “Well, Xivu Arath wanted him too, but he’s still here.”

Xivu Arath…

A snap of golden flame. A shot. A shattered Ghost falls. The Light is extinguished.

When Xivu Arath had controlled Osiris, he’d seemed driven to destroy Sagira. The fungus had caged Sagira to keep her away from her Guardian, and the fungus recoils from the Light. Light can harm it more easily than normal weapons.

What had Saint told him about how Osiris had recovered?

“Sagira!” he calls. She looks at him sharply hovering near Osiris’ shoulder. “At the Iron temple… Saint said that you were able to drive Xivu Arath’s infection out of Osiris. That you glowed with Light.”

Her iris widens. “I– I don’t know what I did! It was like– like something else was moving through me. I felt heat and I think I heard… music.”

“Then focus on that feeling,” Crow says, offering her an encouraging smile. They have to try – they don’t have any other options right now. “You already fought off a Hive God to save him, I know you won’t let Osiris go without a fight.”

Her iris narrows at the challenge in his voice, and then the fins of her shell flare out like a tiny starburst. “Right. Yeah! He is mine. My Guardian. And I’m not going to let anything else take him.”

She drifts over to float in front of Osiris’ face. “Come on, come on… Osiris, you’re better than this. Stronger than this. Whatever is happening… whatever is manipulating us… you’re better than them. You’ve always questioned everyone, even the Traveller, so don’t you dare stop now.”

Her voice rises, an edge of hysteria to her conviction, and Osiris still hasn’t stirred, hasn’t acknowledged her. Crow doesn’t know what to do! If Saint was here, he’d probably know, but he’s still up there, fighting the Scorn, and there were too many of them to burn thoroughly enough to stop them resurrecting and–

“Listen to me for once in your lives, Osiris!” Sagira shrieks and throws herself at his shoulder.

She goes still. Everything goes still. Silent enough that Crow realises how much background noise had filled the ship before. There’s a presence here, but it feels…different, comforting almost.

“Do you hear that?” Sagira asks, her voice hushed like she’s afraid to break the silence.

“Hear what?”

“That sound. Like– like music. It’s–”

At first there’s nothing, just that oddly peaceful silence, but then… faint, distant, like the Light has felt in the Glykon, but definitely there. He feels it more than hears it, like starlight on his skin.

“It’s…” Sagira cries out, everything about her going taut. Crow reaches for her with his free hand, but then she begins to glow. Faint at first, then brighter, brighter, blazing with golden Light and Crow has to close his eyes or risk being blinded.

“ENOUGH.”

It is Sagira’s voice but magnified a hundredfold. It sparks against Crow’s skin, against his Light. He feels Glint take notice, feels his Ghost reach towards it like a flower to the sun. Crow realises that he is doing the same. Even Gilgamesh is staring, wide-eyed, and leaning towards her.

“HE IS NOT YOURS.”

The sudden relief of pressure that he had not realised was building. A weight removed from his shoulders. A Light where there had been Nothing.

Crow opens his eyes. Sagira is there, looking dazed. Around her, the fungal growths have burned away or retreated, leaving only ash in their wake.

“Sagira?” he asks warily. What had she done?

“Oh I– I have got to stop doing that,” she says.

Her iris flickers out, and she falls.

“No!” Crow lunges for her, the memory of flame rushing towards Sagira playing in his mind.

Another hand – gnarled brown skin with ragged nails – beats him to it. She is caught and cradled gently.

Crow looks up and Osiris meets his gaze.

“She is alright,” Osiris says with a calm confidence that seems alien in this place. He raises Sagira to his chest and holds her close. “She is just exhausted, but she will recover. And I think I have work to do.”

Chapter Text

Once, a life became dust.

It is the way of things, to grow and change and end. Even the best remembered will eventually be forgotten, even the hardest rock will be worn away to sand, and the deepest ocean dried.

Once, dust became a life.

A single speck of Light searching for a matching spark, the product of billions of years of random mutations of DNA and collisions of atoms, the chances so infinitesimally small as to be impossible.

Life has been achieving the impossible for as long as it has existed.

Once, a spark was ignited.

It has always been Solar Light which has drawn Osiris’ fascination the most. It is what had sustained him in those earliest days following his first resurrection – without name or memory or purpose – providing him with the warmth to stave off cold desert nights, to light his way through dark places, to defend himself from the many dangers of a dying world. 

It had also been the cause of his first death – a conflagration of his own making, flames wrested free of his then meagre control, and eager to devour even their creator.

It is a flame’s nature to burn, and while it can be guided, coaxed, it can never truly be controlled.

Once, a life said so far and no further.

Here is the secret: the wildfire which razes forests to dust, is the same which causes seeds to grow.

Chapter Text

Osiris cradles Sagira against his chest. He can feel her light, the perfect tessellation to his own, still strong and bright. His hope, his humanity.

“What happened?”

The question draws his attention towards Crow. He can feel Crow’s Light too, and Glint’s, with a startling clarity. He feels connected to it, to all of it. He can feel it running through them, through him, through… everything. It is distracting – he wants to study it, to bask in it. He feels whole in a way that he has never known before.

“I made a choice,” he tells Crow. The words are utterly inadequate – any words would be – and when he tries to grasp for better, he finds them fading at the edges, like guttering candles.

He knows that there is not much time.

“A choice?” Crow asks.

Osiris only hums in agreement as he regards the fungal growths around them. He remembers vaguely feeling them wind around him – they had drawn him down and down into the Deep, into those visions, those lies. They had fuelled his distress, his anger, his fear… He does not like being manipulated.

He calls the Light. It comes eagerly, as naturally as breath and blood move through his body, and fills him with Radiance. The Light flows through him, and he can feel it drive away that lingering Whisper, burn away the infectious doubts which had been plaguing him, and in its wake it leaves…

He is Osiris. That is all that matters.

A flick of his fingers and the fungus is engulfed with that same Light – it spreads through the vines, through the mycelial strands, the spores, the fruits, until nothing is left, not even ash.

Immediately, it becomes easier to think, to breathe. The ship creaks as though it is sighing in relief.

Osiris cocks his head as he regards Crow. “I believe I owe you thanks,” he says. “I was… trapped. You freed Sagira.”

And Sagira had been able to call to him.

“The fungus had her,” Crow replies, and then holds up a second Ghost – Gilgamesh. “Had him too. I had to cut them out.”

Osiris nods slowly. Gilgamesh is staring at him, iris gone wide with shock and fear and… other emotions that Osiris does not care to examine too closely now.

“You…” Gilgamesh says. “What did you do?”

“I made a choice,” Osiris repeats. “There are some rules which cannot be broken.” Of this he is certain, even if he cannot be sure of what the rules are. It feels very much like it had when Sagira had first resurrected him – knowledge unconnected to learning or life-experience. He had just known.

But there are more important matters right now.

“Where is Saint?” he asks. Crow would not have come here alone, but he might have followed Saint, as Saint has always followed him. It has always been the way of their relationship, for Saint to chase after him, as he allows himself to be drawn into the orbit of a new obsession. It was how he had lost Saint in the Infinite Forest – running away, allowing himself to become distracted. He will not permit it to happen again.

Crow sucks in a breath, a look of near-panic appearing on his face, as though the destruction of the fungus has allowed reality to flood back in.

“He’s holding off the Scorn,” he says, and he’s already moving, heading back towards the ship’s bridge. Osiris tucks Sagira safely away, and follows him. He reaches out for Saint’s Light – it is weak now, worn thin and tired, but still there, a pool of soothing Void in the darkness.

“They just kept coming back,” Crow says urgently. “I’m used to the Scorn coming back to life, but they’re doing it much faster than normal, even the big one, the Locus of Communion, the files called it.”

“The Glykon is an area of extremely potent Darkness,” Osiris replies, and allows Crow’s urgency to spur him on, anchor him to this purpose. “It does not surprise me that they are empowered here, under the influence of whatever entity Calus attempted to speak to.”

The entity which had tried to use him.

“Empowered is one way of putting it,” Crow mutters. He glances at Osiris. “He sent me to find you. He said–”

Osiris closes his eyes. “That he would be the wall.”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“He is Saint-14,” Osiris says. “He is the greatest Titan who ever lived, and he cares about you. About us both.” And Saint protects what he cares about.

At other times, the idea of Saint trying to protect him, chasing him here would have rankled, but now with this strange bright clarity to his thoughts, and the fading memories of what he had seen, it makes it easy to understand Saint’s actions as care, as love, rather than an attempt to cage him.

A screeching howl erupts as they duck beneath pipes heading towards an open vent. There’s the sound of impact against flesh, the unmistakable gibbering of the Scorn – so many of them! He Blinks ahead, anything to move faster, and slides through the narrow opening.

The thick scent of Dark Ether catches in his throat and hangs as a haze in the air. An army of Scorn beat against a Ward of Dawn, the Light of it dangerously close to guttering. Saint is there, kneeling in the centre of it, arms outstretched to hold the Ward firm, but even with his back turned, Osiris can see that toll that it is taking on him. There are gashes in his armour that have not been fixed, and his arms tremble.

Standing over him is that enormous Scorn – the Locus of Communion, raising a censer to bring it down against the Ward.

Anger bubbles up within him, clean and bright, and with it is a deep grief. He had seen Saint lain in his tomb, he has seen so many worlds laid waste, so many people killed, so many gardens destroyed… He has travelled so far and now…

No. No! He will not lose Saint again!

This is where he makes his stand. This is where he is strong again.

“Enough!”

Something echoes through him – something greater than him, wiser, and far older. But it does not seek to overwhelm him, it does not try to speak through him, to use him as a mere conduit – it bolsters him, amplifies his own words in his own voice.

The Light surges through him – he is the Light – and the Scorn turn their ravenous attention to him. In their eyes he sees rage, ancient and personal – it is the same rage that he had seen in the vision – but this time he will not flee. He is done running. This is where he makes his stand.

There is a sword in his hand and he plunges it into the ground to anchor his Well of Radiance. It spreads across the room, the rippling Light growing brighter and brighter until Crow has to cover his eyes, but Osiris stares straight into the flame. It bolsters Saint’s Ward, leaving it whole and strong once more.

Then it reaches the Scorn – they combust like the fungus had, seared into atoms with no hope of resurrection. Even the Ether is burned away until there is nothing but the scent of metal in the air.

Silence.

A breath.

Saint’s Ward dissipates. Osiris rushes over to him, Crow just behind him. He kneels next to his love, rests a hand against his back. Crow supports the Titan from the other side.

“Saint.”

His Titan looks up at him. Osiris cannot see his face through the helmet, but he can easily guess the expression that Saint is wearing.

“Osiris… you are safe…” He sounds exhausted.

Osiris nods. “I am. I was not for a while. But the danger has passed.”

Mostly. For now. There will always be more danger.

Saint lunges forward to draw him into a tight embrace, and Osiris welcome’s it. Saint has more than earned this. He wraps his arms around his beloved in return, savouring the solidity of the exo in his arms. Saint’s grip loosens, but only enough to grab Crow and drag him close too.

After a moment, Osiris reaches out more tentatively to extend his embrace to the young Hunter. To make him welcome. Despite still being in this vile ship, it is the safest that Osiris has felt in a long time.

He does not move until Saint does – the Titan finally releases them and pushes himself to his feet. He stretches as though this has merely been some hard sparring session, and then holds out his hands towards them. “We should leave here before Scorn return. I must be out of practice. I am tired.”

“They will not return,” Osiris replies. He is certain of that – the Light that he had used to destroy them had been bright enough to ensure that.

“You’re sure?” Crow asks. “I’ve seen Scorn come back from being blown to pieces by Guardian Light before. They’re relentless on the Tangled Shore.”

Considering their origin, Crow has probably seen more of the Scorn than most. He has no doubt that Spider knew that too. Does Petra know that Crow had been on the Shore? Should he ask?

Matters for another day. Now is not the time.

He holds up his hands which still glow brightly with Radiance. It feels clearer than the Solar Light that he is used to, more pure. Light unbound by the concepts that Guardians use to mould it to their will. It feels familiar, as though it is from a part of himself that he has forgotten.

“I am certain,” he says, gesturing to the blade which anchors the Well. The gestures leaves afterimages in his sight. “My Light is bright enough to burn them away entirely. It is similar to how Sagira cleansed me of Xivu Arath’s influence for a time, albeit more potent.”

Saint takes his hands, and studies them with fascination. The Radiance reflects of his helmet and armour, gilding it gold. “You feel bright, my love. You feel like the moment after defeat of Martyr Mind, when my light was restored to me.”

“Feels almost like when Glint resurrects me,” Crow adds. “I’m dead, and then there’s a Light drawing me back.”

“It is temporary, I believe,” Osiris says, the knowledge clear in his mind though he does not know how he knows. It is a disconcerting feeling. “Though I do not know how long it will last for.”

Long enough, he hopes.

Saint nods. “Geppetto has scoured data of this ship, and I am sure that Sagira has too. We should return to the City with it. This is a place of terrible Darkness and I… I wish to be free of it.”

“I certainly do not wish to linger,” Osiris agrees. The ship has been scarred by what has occurred here, and he remembers too well the rage of that entity which lingers here. “We should–”

He pauses, a thought occurring to him. It is as though a veil has been pulled back and he can see suddenly the connections that he had not been able to make sense of. The infestation of the Tower has its origins here, in Calus’ experiments. The fungus here had been mutated, merged with Cryptolith genetics to subvert the Guardians. He remembers the web that Eris had mentioned when they had burned the fronds of the stuff from Drifter’s ship, and the mycelial network that the fungus was forming here. A vast network of filaments across space, connecting points of Darkness the same way that the Scorn had been merged into a single hive-mind by the Crown of Sorrow.

And himself lured here. A Guardian made a weapon of the Darkness, a Lightbearer who gilds Taken energy in Solar Light. A conduit to allow connection through that network.

“I know what needs to be done,” he says.

He moves without waiting for a response, retracting his path towards the bridge, towards the Crown, buoyed by the delight of a puzzle being solver, and the urgency of a clock ticking down.

He hears Crow and Saint running after him, Saint’s gasp at the body of poor Katabasis, but he doesn’t stop until he stands before the Crown of Sorrow once more.

He can still hear the whispers when he approaches it, but this time, Osiris can hear the malevolence of them, the rage, the poison hidden within sweetness. He will not be so easily deceived again.

A hand grabs his shoulder, turns him around to face Saint. “What are you doing Osiris? We need to leave.” The Titan looks behind him at the Crown. “This is that thing mentioned in ship’s files, is it not?”

“The Crown of Sorrow,” Osiris replies. “I believe I can use it to destroy the infestation in the Tower.”

“Osiris, when I came in here, Sagira was trapped and you were touching the Crown, unresponsive,” Crow adds. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Saint’s head tilts in frustration. “I agree. It is bad idea to use it. We should destroy it.”

“It is necessary,” Osiris says, frustration sparking within him. He takes Saint’s hands in his, and then reaches for Crow’s as well. He is as much as a part of this now as Saint. “I am not throwing myself into this blindly,” he says. “Not this time. I am far more aware of what I face than I was.”

“I do not wish to lose you again, Osiris.” The hurt in Saint’s voice makes him ache to his core.

“You will not,” he promises. He will tear the world apart before he allows that to happen. “But if I do not do this, then we may lose the City and any hope we have against the Darkness.” He squeezes their hands, drawing their attention to his which still glow with that clear Light. “I have been granted this for a purpose. I cannot ignore it.”

Saint studies his face for a long moment, and then, finally, nods. “You are determined. I know when I cannot dissuade you. We all have our purposes.”

One day, Osiris hopes that their only purpose will be each other, but until then, they will walk this road.

He steps towards the Crown, hand outstretched to touch it.

He hesitates.

He tilts his head, listening. There is a sound at the edge of his senses, a held note reverberating. It reminds him of the howl of a wolf heard from a distance. He had heard that sound many times during the years that he had spent at the Iron Temple – had come to recognise the calls of the pack and their meanings. When the calls were made for joy, for reunion, for community.

When they were warning calls.

He had been drawn here for a purpose that was not his own. Had been trapped in vision after vision, his mind scoured as something searched for a way to make him succumb. To break him.
He remembers standing over that wolf with an eye that glowed like a binary star, and there had been a knife in his hand.

It had taken Sagira’s voice calling to him through the Darkness to escape. He had not been able to free himself alone.

Lone wolves, Osiris. We die.

Make sure when your end comes, it's something worth your Light.

Old iron words from the past. Felwinter had always wanted better for him.

It is difficult to take that step away from the crown, to shed the impulse to stand alone as he always has. Even now, the stubborn core of him rages at the notion that he might need assistance in such a matter.

But even the Traveller had known that many voices may sometimes be heard when one cannot, and had split itself into a thousand – a million and more – fragments when the Collapse came, like seeds on the wind hoping to find fertile ground for creation. What is humanity but the result of billions of random chances throughout history compounding into sapience?

He looks at them, his companions. Saint, his beloved, who he had lost and regained, a beacon of everything that he holds dear. Crow, new to him perhaps, but the potential in him is blinding, the chance to be so much more than the results of Uldren Sov’s life. Crow did not have to come here, did not have to fight alongside them, did not have to save Sagira from Osiris’ own choices more than once.

Lone wolves die, Osiris.

Words from the first person that Osiris had ever been able to trust.

“I do not believe that this is something that I can do alone,” he admits, albeit with some reluctance.

Part of him braces for rejection, for mockery – the great Phoenix finally acknowledging that he is fallible.

“Tell us what we can do,” Crow says, determination in his eyes.

Saint nods his agreement. “Anything, my love.”

His chest aches with the force of their words, their trust, their faith in him. He swallows around the tightness in his throat and prepares his words.

“It was Sagira’s voice, her Light, which was able to break through the force that held me captive when I touched the Crown,” he says. “Her Light drove Xivu Arath away from my mind at the Iron Temple. Saint’s Light was able to break the War God’s hold on me in the Dreaming City. My own Light is formidable, but I believe that having some connection… some form of anchor, would be of benefit.”
“There is no better anchor than a Titan,” Saint says, cracking his knuckles as though he is about to step into a Crucible match.

“Use a tether of your Light, similar to how the Thanatonauts draw each other back from death’s brink. And… physical contact may help in this.” Even if it does not help paracausally, the knowledge of it may be beneficial mentally.

“I’ll go keep watch in case we missed anything,” Crow says, looking between them.

Osiris rests a hand against his forearm before he can leave, stopping him in his tracks. “I would like you to stay,” he says, meeting the young Hunter’s eyes. “You freed Sagira, and you destroyed the Echo.”

Crow’s eyes widen. “How did you know?”

“I felt it,” Osiris says. “My Echoes have a connection to me, even if I was not in control of this one. I suspect that it was an element in keeping me trapped in my visions.”

“If you’re sure…” Crow says hesitantly.

“I would not ask if I was not sure,” Osiris replies. He offers a brief smile and steps back towards the Crown. “Place a hand on my shoulder or back or similar, and use it as a guide to create a tether of your Light.”

He is immediately caught up in Saint’s arms, which wrap firmly around him and pull him against the Titan’s broad chest.

“I said shoulder,” Osiris says, barely managing reproach.

“You said back. I am touching your back.”

There’s a stifled laugh from Crow, and Osiris gives a heavy sigh. Now is not the time for an argument, and he does feel safer with Saint holding him this way.

Crow is more hesitant as he rests a hand against Osiris’ shoulder, but he relaxes when Osiris nods at him. A moment later, it is joined by the cool touch of the Void, and when he looks, there is the gleam of Saint’s Light curled around his arm.

“Like this,” Osiris says, holding up his arm to let Crow see the tether. “It does not need to be so… controlled, as long as I can feel your Light.”

“Got it,” Crow says. He closes his eyes in focus, and a moment later, Osiris feels the warmth of Solar Light spread from where Crow’s hand rests. It is familiar, though it carries an essence to it that is Crow’s own.

“Good.”

Osiris takes a breath and releases the hold on his own Light, allowing it to unfurl around them like great wings. He feels that other presence within it, the way it reaches through him, facilitates his connection to a greater whole. It feels right, a completeness that he has never before imagined. The Radiant glow around him intensifies.

He places his hands against the Crown of Sorrow once more.


Chapter Text

Osiris drifts in the Deep.

It cradles him, rocks away fear with warm recognition.

He has been here so many times before.

In the distance, a point.

An osseous white point.

He stretches out a hand, himself against the enormity.

Delve. Dive. Deeper.

Drown.

No!

No. He is not here for that. Focus!

He shifts to find new perspective.

His own perspective.

The Deep spreads out before him, vast and empt- no, not empty. He can pick out points within it, points connected by delicate filaments. Pulses of energy run along those filaments fast as thought.

Within it, he recognises the semi-organic vastness of the Vex network, the mycelia wrapped around the workings of the Glykon.

Within it, he recognises the structure of a mind – neurones and synapses passing electrical currents between them.

But there is something overshadowing that network, settled at its centre like some colossal arachnid in a web. A presence that would see him pinned and dissected.

—-Disciple.-—

That voice… no, it is a million voices speaking as one, layering over each other like the parts of a symphony. It calls to him, offers a hand to him across the vastness. Doesn’t he want answers? Doesn’t he want freedom? Doesn’t he want–

—-Salvation.-—

The Whisper catches him in threads of want, draws him towards it, chasing the drumbeat of purpose, guidance… the promise of his existence given meaning instead of being left to fumble in the shadows of a dying world, watched over by a silent god.

It would be so easy. Have his struggles not been enough? Have the years of pain and grief not earned him some respite?

There is a tug against his Light, a touch of Void which is almost as familiar to him as his own Solar Light. Distantly, he feels the tight curl of Saint’s arms around him, and another hand pressed against his shoulder, Crow, who is becoming familiar to him.

When he had lain in the shadow of the Lunar pyramid, his Light fractured, corruption seething through him, certain that it would be his end, he had looked into his futures. Some had offered knowledge, some triumph, others purpose.

There had only been one where he had found happiness. Only one which had been enough.

What point is there to purpose without peace alongside it?

This is who he is. He is theirs.

He wrenches himself away from that siren call, poison wrapped in a shell of everything it thinks he wants. He feels that rage once more, and flees along the length of the bright tethers that bind him to himself, and to Saint and Crow.

Viewed from here, beyond the realm of the physical, the Glykon is a point of bright infection, a festering wound in the space that Mars had once inhabited. Osiris follows tendrils which emanate from it, traces their passage back towards Earth, to the Tower.

Like this, it is easy to see the virulence of the infection which besieges it. Filaments, the metaphysical counterparts to the physical fungus, have burrowed into the Tower itself, wrapping around it like a shroud. They wrap around the inhabitants, warp thought and emotion and memory and infest them with a dark decaying rage, the better to take succour from the unsuspecting hosts. Discussion becomes disagreement, disagreement becomes argument, argument becomes violence… enough to start a war amongst their own people. An immune response overreacting to become anaphylaxis. 

He recognises this impulse, feels the echoes of it in the influence that Xivu Arath had wielded over him (recognises it in older memories too, in his own pride and stubbornness, in the frequent flare of his temper in the last months and years before his exile).

Sagira had dispelled Xivu Arath’s influence by channelling the Traveller’s Light into him. That same Light imbues him now, at once strange and familiar, and with it he had destroyed the Scorn and the fungus around the Crown.

A simple equation to work with then, albeit on a greater scale.

The method however… he reaches instinctively for some method to clear the fungus from the Tower – surely there must be some ritual, some prescribed set of steps to follow. Some way to promise the most efficient and safest outcome.

Seeking simplicity, seeking sharp-edged purpose once more.

That is not the way, is it? He knows this. It is the core of him. The Traveller does not prescribe, it has no dogma, and Guardians make their own fate. For all that Osiris has studied the Light as a science, it is as much philosophy. It is faith, if not in the Traveller itself, then in his own abilities.

Osiris is very good at what he does.

How then to destroy the physical fungus, and sever that metaphysical connection?
He recalls the first time that he had called upon the Light, the first breath of a new life in his lungs. There had been a shape that he had reached for unthinkingly, one that had formed in his hand, unstable and fragile. It is a shape that he has perfected over the centuries.

It comes to him now, a sword wrought in searing Light, that fits his hand more perfectly than any physical object could. The pommel has the beloved spiked shape of Sagira’s shell, the cross guard bears his own symbol, and the blade is engraved with a pattern of wings.

It is beautiful, a bright counterpoint to the sword logic.

Yes, this will work.

If he is to be a blade, then it will be one of his own making.

He feels his way along the strands that cocoon the Tower to find the tangled heart of the poison. It is hot and tender, an infected wound, one that must be excised.

He begins to cut.

He severs mycelia of that insidious mental influence, as he would use a shear to prune vines were he there in physical form. The fungus recoils from his Light, but he grips firmly, cuts cleanly, and cauterises them like burning away necrotic flesh. Uproots them so that they cannot spread.

The infection begins to subside, the heat lessening in the face of his own flame.

—-Is this chaos truly what you seek? Why turn away from the purpose we offer?-—

The Whisper runs rushes over him like icy water, drags him down and down into the depths, a pressure which surrounds him threatens to crush him.

—-They have never seen you as you should be seen. They will never understand. Heretic… exile… madman…-—

The Deep curls through him sweetly, dredging up memories, visions of his exile, the recriminations and accusations, his works destroyed, even those closest to him turning their backs, when all he had wanted was for people to understand!

Would it not be fitting to finally be seen as he should be? To watch them realise the mistakes they have made before he burns them to ash?

Hadn’t he left rather than allow the Consensus to control him? To define him?

Yes. Yes he had. Following his own path had been more important to him.

So why would he follow whatever path this Whispering liar had laid out for him? It does not offer choice, it offers only a hollow purpose chosen for him, and tries to mould him to fit it.

No. He makes his own fate.

He cuts the final strands, burns the stumps, frees the Tower from that pulsing web of influence. Already the infection is beginning to fade, the seething not-light receding. It should heal cleanly, though the scars may linger. Some scars can be reminders and lessons, as much as they can be a sign of hurt.

He should leave. His work is done and he can feel the weight of reality beginning to reassert itself.

But still, he turns his attention briefly to that awful presence, the edge of night that plays behind his mind. He looks upon that shadow and feels… grief. A pain so deep and ancient that he cannot fathom it. Grief for all that has been lost, for potential unrealised, a flower pruned before it can bloom.

||Purpose is what we make for ourselves. Why would I allow someone else to choose it for me?||

The voice is his own, but not his own. Perhaps it is more his own than it ever has been. He speaks because he is the only voice they have, he is how they understand, how they remember – and oh, how he remembers the hurt of feeling abandoned, of being left without guidance and without purpose. He remembers the pain of loss, of rejection, of being misunderstood.

And he had chosen his own path, had chosen his people, his love, even when it hurt.

||That is all I wanted for you.||

It is an offer, a chance, a full-stop become a comma to allow future possibility.

Futile yes, they know the answer. But to never offer the chance for change is anathema to them.

And so they offer.

There is a ripple in the void, a pulse of rage deeper than the deepest ocean. A rage which has destroyed worlds. It surges through the filaments towards him. It is a poison. Poison like that which had engulfed him before. That unshakable dread which has chased him across galaxies. It will undo him. It will undo everyone… it will…

A tether. A tether formed from Light and love, devotion which had triumphed over death, hope undiminished by hurt.

Saint’s arms are around him. Crow’s hand is tight on his shoulder. This is him. This is his form, his body, his self – flesh and blood not electroweak matter and neutronium.

He is Osiris.

He is himself entire.

That is all, and that is enough.

He drags in a breath and opens his eyes.

The Crown of Sorrow burns beneath his hands, flames licking at bone, the last flecks of golden gilding melted and dripping to the ground.

He pulls away sharply lest he be burned. 

“Osiris?”

A voice which is heard through the vibration of air and bone, and he has to concentrate to be able to respond in the same inefficient way, rather than with pure thought. “I… yes. I believe so.”
Has he always been Osiris? Is Osiris all of him?

He stares at his hands – gnarled brown skin, calloused fingers, so very human. The Radiance is fading, and with it that feeling of being… being something other.

No, that is not correct. It had been the feeling of being more himself than he has ever been, and now… now he draws himself in, a fragment made to fit the mantle that he had made for himself.

“Are you alright?” Crow asks, and his concern warms Osiris. “The Light… it set the crown on fire.”

“I think I will be,” Osiris replies. “I…”

He is tired. Exhausted like he has not been since he had woken up after Saint had rescued him from Xivu Arath. It echoes the exhaustion which had overtaken Sagira after she had driven away the corruption. That power that they had touched, been part of… it is not something meant to be contained within a single physical form. 

Saint touches his cheek, draws his attention with gentle concern. Peace to his purpose. “The City? Is it… did you achieve what you needed to?”

Osiris leans into the touch. When he closes his eyes, he sees the afterimage of the web around the Tower burning. “I believe so. Though we will only be sure when we return.”

“Then we should get going,” Crow says. “The less time we have to spend here, the better.”

“I do not disagree,” Saint replies, “though I worry about leaving that thing unattended.” He jerks his head towards the Crown. Somehow the bone is unburnt, but Osiris can feel no presence to it currently.

“It feels inert,” Osiris says. “I will inform Eris. She will have a better idea of how best to deal with it, and I am certain that Ikora will wish to have her people scour the ship. There is still much that we do not know.” If nothing else, the Glykon will need to be quarantined. He cannot be certain that he removed all traces of the fungus. “And someone should lay Katabasis to rest,” he adds.

“Katabasis…” Gilgamesh emerges from where he’d been sequestered in Crow’s cloak. His iris is wide, haunted, and he speed over towards the ramp which leads to the bridge.

Heavy dread grips Osiris’ heart with the weight of premonition. “Stop him!”

Crow is first to move, But Osiris and Saint are not far after him. They rush after the errant Ghost, up to the bridge where what had been Katabasis still hangs.

Gilgamesh hovers in front of what had been his Guardian, scanning him frantically. He turns when they emerge, wild-eyed.

“You…” His attention fixes on Osiris, expression accusing. “You did this. This is your fault! You abandoned us all… and now its here… it will give us Salvation, it–”

The Ghost goes horribly still, and the dread Osiris feels grows, underpinned with unease at what the Ghost had said. He takes a step towards Gilgamesh, hand outstretched. “Gilgamesh… listen to me…”

—-You live without purpose. Anguish. Bliss. A meaningless cycle... of action and reaction.-—

The voice that emanates from the Ghost is not Gilgamesh.

Osiris recognises it now as he had not when it whispered to him. That thing that hides within the Darkness. The master of the Black Fleet.

—-Your search for purpose leads you to us, again and again.-—

He can feel the tension that runs through Saint, has fought alongside him enough to recognise in him the quiet that comes before the storm, the vast cold of the Void. He hears Crow’s indrawn breath, the fine tremble in his body as he is torn between action and terror.

He feels Sagira stir against his chest, awakening, and he rests a hand protectively against her.

—-We offer an end to your futile exertions. Ascend to your potential. Find your purpose. Be chosen.—

Gilgamesh’s iris begins to warp and glow with a terrible inverse Light which tugs at Osiris, calls to him, a cacophony of voices, overwhelming, overpowering, it seeks to crush him, to force his choice, and he is worn thin from his exertions, his futile struggles, the suffering of worlds which has followed him, and he needs… he wants Salv–

A flare of golden Light and a gunshot. The embrace of cool impartial Void, and a hand on his shoulder where he had been forced to his knees. The warmth of Sagira as she emerges and scans him, concern in her iris.

The presence is gone.

He can breathe.

“It’s gone,” he says. “I am alright.” He looks up at them, his Saint, his Ghost, his Crow. He sees the last vestiges of that pure Light in the Ward that surrounds them, in the gun in Crow’s hand, in the points of Sagira’s shell. “Over. It’s… it’s over.”

For now. There is always a next time.

Sagira makes a soft noise and then dives towards him, lets him catch her and cradle her close. His guiding starlight.

“We are never doing that again,” she says, and he savours the feeling of her shell fluttering against his fingers. “I am so angry at you right now.”

All he can hear in her voice is relief and love, and it echoes within him. “I know.”

Two hands are offered to him. Crow sees Saint’s outstretched, and begins to withdraw, an awkward look on his face, but Osiris reaches out before he can. He takes both of their hands and lets them pull him to his feet.

“One more thing,” he says regretfully, “and then we will be rid of this place.”

Saint makes a noise of concern, but does not stop him as he steps towards the form of Katabasis, and stoops to pick up the fallen Gilgamesh. His shell is scorched where Crow’s Golden Gun had hit it, but his iris flickers weakly.

“I told you,” Gilgamesh says, voice hoarse and faint. “The Light is burning. It never ends, but… but a Final Shape is coming.”

The words flicker unease within him, but right now they are just words and he is too exhausted for more than unease.

“Rest, Gilgamesh,” he says. He cradles the Ghost gently as its iris goes dark for the last time.

He aches at the loss, a candle snuffed out by the encroaching enemy. But perhaps it is for the best – he had heard the anguish in Gilgamesh’s voice when he spoke his Guardian’s name.

He places the Ghost carefully against Katabasis’ chest, amongst the remains of his armour. Let them rest together.

He takes a deep breath. Somehow it feels like the first breath after resurrection.

He turns away, turns back to Saint and Crow and Sagira. “I would like to return to the City,” he says. “I am tired.”

“It’s been a long day,” Crow agrees.

“Indeed. There are better places to rest, and I do not trust ship to not fall apart around us,” Saint says. There is still an edge of worry in his voice behind the cheer, and Osiris has now doubt that there will be questions asked when they return home. “Come, my birds.”

He slings his arms around Osiris and Crow both, and Osiris has to stifle a laugh at the look of surprise on Crow’s face.

“You birds?” Crow asks uncertainly.

“He is very fond of his birds,” Osiris says, giving Crow a wry look. “Best not to question it.”

Another thing to discuss. He can feel this growing closeness and it is something that must be navigated carefully. He has never been the most adept at relationships, at people. But for this, he will try.

There is still the matter of Crow’s past, and Mara will need to know sooner or later and–

It does not need to be now.

For now, he can still feel their Light, the way it brushes against his own, mingles with it. Their Light is his, his Light is theirs, and he can feel the way it pulses in time with his heartbeat.

Beyond it is that greater pulse, all-encompassing Light. The Traveller.

And beyond that? A terrible waiting presence, hungry and hateful. A Whisper which would undermine everything that he is. It will cut him apart with a million blades if he gives it chance.

But for now, the path is set. He will be strong again.

He will plant his intention and say, so far, no further. Here, he proves himself right.

And in this he will not stand alone.

He is not alone.