Author's Note: This is a tamed down version of the original story, which is available at a certain adult fan fiction net in its unaltered form. For those of you who are not of legal age to view such content, or who have aesthetic or moral objections to viewing such content, the story here should be complete enough to follow the plotline.
The story still contains the following:
A homosexual relationship
Depictions of sexual harrassment
Mention of rape (not actually depicted, and not described as acceptable/excusable)
Mention of sexual behaviour in groups (not actually depicted)
Depictions of sexuality that parallel the degree found in a Silhouette Nocturne romance novel. Since Nocturnes are sold on the public shelves in Wal Mart (not in "adults-only" venues), I believe that the level of sexuality depicted in them is acceptable for a "M" rating.
If you find any of the above upsetting, distasteful, or just not your style, please do not read this story—you will not enjoy it.
That being said, this story focuses on plot driven by character development, so if you are seeking a smut and violence fest, you will probably not enjoy this story either.
Everyone else, happy reading.
Cross Blades
Chapter the First: Ascetic's Code
Time Setting: midway through Halo 2
The code of the Ascetics was grueling, even for Sangheili. An Ascetic was called upon to be no less than a physical embodiment of the Sangheili ideal—an avatar for the Perfect Warrior, an archetype made flesh. Every word, every deed, every waking choice had to be made as though the eyes of all Sanghelios were upon you, looking up to you for guidance, trusting to you to set an example, preparing to follow in your footsteps.
It was easiest when your thoughts were wholly within the Path, for words and deeds flowed from thoughts. When thoughts were pure, the rest would follow.
Usze 'Tahamee bowed his head and recited the ancient creed.
I surrender my self to the Perfect Warrior.
As I have learned, so shall I do.
As I do, so shall others learn from me.
I speak the wisdom of my ancestors;
I enact the deeds of my heirs.
I take responsibility for my people.
I am Sanghelios made flesh—
Let the battle be joined.
The Ascetic Order was an old society, rumoured to be the pillar of Sangheili culture in the long-lost pre-Covenant days. With the arrival of the Covenant, and the ascension of the Prophets to the head of Sangheili politics and religion, the Ascetic Order went underground. The Order justified secrecy as a weapon, for even Prophets were not immune to corruption and impurity—and San 'Shyuum were not and could never be Sangheili.
But in the current age, the Perfect Warrior was a loyal follower of the Covenant. Usze 'Tahamee was not a heretic, despite the fact that he hid his membership in and loyalty to the Ascetic Order. Just in case his daily devotion might be considered heretical, he added the traditional Vow.
On the blood of my father,
On the blood of my sons,
I vow to uphold the Covenant,
Even to my dying breath.
Satisfied, Usze 'Tahamee put his helmet over his head, sealed it, and stepped out his stateroom door into the corridors of the Covenant flagship Seeker of Truth to commence another day's duties.
*
The official name of Usze 'Tahamee's position was Blademaster Liason to the Sangheili Fleet of Particular Justice. As the Fleet's Blademaster, and it was his duty to oversee the Swordsmen of the fleet, to test their skills, advise their instructors, ensure that minimum standards were met, deliver leadership seminars, and supervise supply and repair issues. He was also frequently attached to combat units who needed specialized assistance for missions. It was not a command rank, but it did carry a certain amount of authority; he was one of the most highly skilled Swordsmen in the Fleet, perhaps the highest since SpecOps Subcommander Kuvosai's untimely death on the Infinite Succor mission. As an Ascetic, 'Tahamee did not value the chance for a promotion to Shipmaster as much as he valued the opportunity to work with the soldiers, setting an example, inspiring them and teaching them. And as a warrior, his rank did not prevent him from seeing active battle on a regular basis.
For the past two years, 'Tahamee had been travelling from ship to ship on the fleet, inspecting the warriors, testing the officers, and observing the weapons maintenance staff. He also led or assisted on combat missions. The position was only partly administrative; the other half of the role involved setting an example for the other Sangheili, both in battle and in shipboard life.
One of the most important parts of setting an example was looking good. There were some officers in the Fleet who were all polish, no performance; 'Tahamee was not one of those. His concern was that, unless you were on a battlefield, nobody took you seriously if you looked like dirt. Seeker of Truth was not a battlefield, so it behooved him to look his best; otherwise he had no grounds on which to criticize poorly dressed Majors and Minors. As an Ascetic, he had to set an example—particularly since he had been touring the Fleet for months and he hadn't done a proper inspection on Seeker of Truth in almost a year. The flagship Elites would be sharp in the presence of their new Supreme Commander. 'Tahamee would have to be sharper to catch them napping.
But first, he needed a new helmet. He always kept backups of his entire set of armour, and his spare helmet had been misdirected by some stupid Unggoy on the last ship he'd inspected, Scourge of Evil. In two days they still could not trace where it had gone. Fools. Scourge's commander was not happy with his Unggoy, not at all.
Usze 'Tahamee knocked on the door of the Quartermaster's storeroom.
There was a sign on the door reading:
FIL STORAMEE (crossed out)
AJ 'QOROPEE (crossed out)
FIL STORAMEE
Usze frowned.
"C'mon in!" a loud, rough voice bellowed.
Usze opened the door and his mandibles all hung open.
A raucous game was in progress inside. The players appeared to be a pair of Grunts, a Jackal, a blue-armoured Sangheili warrior, a white-robed Sangheili nurse, a third Elite in pilot's rig, and a fourth Sangheili soldier in a mishmash of different armour types, all coloured an outrageous pale lavender. They were clustered around a large table. A black ball was ricocheting wildly around the surface of the table. The pilot, standing at the far end of the table and holding a white ball, threw it at the black ball and missed.
"Condemnation!" the pilot yelled. He scrambled around the table, almost plowing through the blue warrior, trying to catch the ball. He succeeded, ran back to the end, threw at the black ball and hit it.
The two Grunts really were a pair. One stood on the shoulders of the other to grab the white ball and hit the black ball.
The nurse was up next, but despite her best efforts, she missed the black ball repeatedly. Cheers and jeers rose up as the white ball rolled to a stop.
"Kya Pomoraa has a strike!" the Jackal crowed.
The lavendar Sangheili, sitting on a ratty chair held together by rope and tape, chewing on some kind of sausage, put a mark on a whiteboard containing a list of names in one column and a series of hash marks in the other. "Three strikes, you're out. N'tho, your turn to serve." He turned his attention back to a book in his lap.
The blue-armoured warrior placed the black ball on a line on the table, went to the far end, and threw the white ball. He struck the black ball and the game resumed with the Jackal scrambling to catch the white ball.
"Beebee, how's Shipment 419?" the lavender Elite asked.
"Coming in tomorrow," one of the Grunts replied.
"Mibmab, running toilet in the third deck front head?"
"Parts delivered at lunchtime!" the other Grunt answered.
The nurse was sitting on a pile of blankets, chewing on a hunk of dried meat.
Nobody was paying the slightest attention to 'Tahamee.
Usze felt the insanity of the scene building up in his head until he finally bellowed, "STOP!"
Everybody turned as one.
'Tahamee began to second-guess himself. Perfect Warriors did not lose their composure and yell. But Perfect Warriors should not be exposed to such rampant idiocy in their presence, either.
"Where's Chief Quartermaster Fil 'Storamee?" Usze asked, putting the customary glottal stop before the name. "If he knew what you idiots were doing, he would…"
"She," the blue warrior said.
"Excuse me?" Usze said frostily, not happy to be corrected by a Minor. And then the word sunk in. "Excuse me?" he repeated, with confusion this time.
The purple Elite put down its book and approached, flicking him a salute. "Fil Storamee at your service." Its voice was rough but quite possibly feminine. It looked him up and down. "Sir," it added.
"You're Fil. And you're a female. And it's Storamee, not 'Storamee."
"Yes, yes and yes. Sir."
The situation just kept getting odder. He'd never encountered anything like it; the Ascetics had no training, no advice, to help him deal with something so bizarre. "What is…all that?" he asked, gesturing at the table.
"Crud game," Storamee said simply.
"And why are you playing…crud…instead of working?"
"I am working. So's my Unggoy and the Kig-Yar—they give me updates in between turns. The Sangheili are all on breaks—it's dinnertime for the nurse, day off for the SpecOps guy, and I dunno about the pilot, I guess you can have him if you want him."
"I don't want a pilot," 'Tahamee protested weakly. "I want…I require an assault helmet."
She squinted at him. "Looks like you got a pretty good assault helmet on." That pause again. "Sir."
"I require a second."
"Okay." She picked up the book, flipped a few pages forward and made a notation. "I'll get on that."
"And it has to be in this same colour scheme."
She frowned. "How'd you get claret armour? That's a special order."
"Privilege of my office."
"Great." From her voice she clearly thought it was anything but. Her sarcastic tone did not change as she added, "Getting right on that, yessir."
'Tahamee leaned forward. She'd inserted a long order code plus the notation "claret assault helmet" on a page in between "new sign for my storeroom" and "100,000 pair Unggoy slippers." The date at the top of the page was two weeks away.
"Storamee," 'Tahamee said sternly, "that date is not acceptable."
The lavender-armoured Quartermaster turned back to him. "Sir…I just got this stockroom back after a....an unplanned vacation when the new Supreme Commander questioned the ability of a female to do this job. As you can see, I am back, my storeroom is a mess, and I am attempting to eat my dinner, get updates from my staff, organize my orders book, and get my daily half hour of relaxation in all at the same time. If you want your helmet sooner, sir, you're going to have to tell me which of my other jobs I should bump in its favour, so when the Supreme Commander wants to know why his ship's not fighting fit, I'll know who he should blame." She handed him the book.
It was huge, heavy, filled with cryptic notations he didn't even begin to understand, and written in lavender ink.
"I don't care," 'Tahamee retorted, now sounding impatient. "Do all of it. Now."
"And I'm telling you I can't do all of it. Sir. So either you can wait for your fancy hat, or we're going to have a fight. What'll it be?"
It sounded foolish when she put it like that, but Usze wasn't going to back down to a…a female. He nodded.
"Go talk to the Shipmaster. He'll give you a time and venue." With that, she reclaimed her book.
Usze blinked, realizing that the crud game had suddenly gone silent. "Are you suggesting that we will be having a formal duel?"
The blue armoured Sangheili reached out a hand, as if to place it on 'Tahamee's arm, then thought better of it and let his hand drop. "That's what the lady's saying."
Fil was outright ignoring him now, so Usze turned his attention to the warrior. "And the Shipmaster allows this?"
He fidgeted. "I'm relatively new on this ship, sir, but the way I hear it, the Arbiter himself told her to settle things this way." He beckoned for Usze to follow him, and though the aristocrat didn't like the idea of following a Minor around, he was now curious enough to want to know what the warrior was talking about.
The other Sangheili stopped suddenly and pointed upwards. Usze followed his gaze to a hand-lettered sign hanging above the door that let out of Stores and back into the hallway.
We Fight Duels
Duels Have Rules
Usze blinked. "What is that intended to imply?"
The warrior shot him a strange look that might have been concern, worry, or bewilderment. "A formal duel has laws and fouls, a presiding referee, and is designed to settle questions of supremacy with minimal loss of life and limb. Fight to first blood only. Compare to pirate brawl, objective: fuck up the other guy by any means possible, no holds barred."
That's when Usze began to get a sinking feeling. "You are saying that Fil Storamee…"
"Fights so damn dirty that they make her use formal duel structure, for the benefit of her opponents." He shrugged. "Look on the bright side. You're not only more likely to survive, you've probably got a chance at winning."
Usze was glad the helmet hid his expression from the warrior. "She is a female. How good can she be?"
The warrior gave him a look. "Let's put it this way, sir. I'd accept a forfeit victory if one was offered instead of insisting on beating her blade-to-blade."
By the Rings, he had to assert his authority and quickly too, or he'd end up a laughingstock on this ship. "I see. And who might you be?"
"N'tho 'Sraomee, Special Operations, Minor Domo, at your service, sir."
Usze folded his arms. "How long have you been in SpecOps?"
N'tho's eyes finally began to show that he was getting an inkling that he might be in trouble. "Uh, almost a month, sir."
"I see. So, one month into your tour of duty and you're loafing around this crud game?" Yes, the easiest way to get his authority back was cutting this big mouthed rookie down to size.
"Sir, it's my day off."
"Then let me suggest, 'Sraomee, that you put your day off to more productive use—say, practicing your sword forms, or polishing your armour, or reviewing current intel on the Humans. Not hanging around the dubious company of the, ah, Chief Quartermaster and her lackeys." He let his gaze fall on the hilt at 'Sraomee's hip. "Unless you aren't interested in keeping that blade of yours."
'Sraomee's eyes showed real fear. Excellent.
"I am the Blademaster on this vessel, and it will be my decision as to whether or not you are skilled enough to keep that weapon. While you're rethinking your decision to be here, instead of practicing your blade skills, you may also want to rethink who you'd like to bet on in that fight."
'Tahamee turned on his heel and walked out, hoping he looked haughty and imposing from the rear, praying that Fil Storamee was all talk.
Being Blademaster on this flagship wasn't going to be an easy job at all.
The next day, on the Delta Halo, N'tho 'Sraomee crouched behind a tree as plasma sizzled past the end of his snout, wondering how much worse his bad month could possibly get.
As the newest recruit to the Fleet of Particular Justice's SpecOps unit, 'Sraomee had hoped that he'd been on the verge of making a new life for himself. He'd served his first two tours of duty in a different fleet, and then just a few months into his third tour, he'd received notification that he'd been transferred to SpecOps. 'Sraomee considered the transfer to be not one blessing but two: first, he had a chance to start over—a chance he desperately needed—and secondly, it was in a position guaranteed to restore the honour of his family name, if only he didn't screw it up.
So what did he do when he arrived aboard the Sangheili flagship Seeker of Truth?
Promptly start screwing it up.
Upon his arrival, most of the officers were so busy with the assault on Reach that instead of even meeting all his commanders, 'Sraomee had spent the day following a fellow SpecOps soldier, Pti 'Firogee, around the ship. While spending the afternoon at Fil Storamee's crud game was a lot of fun, N'tho felt useless, as though he was simply burdening his new team.
That night, 'Firogee and 'Sraomee had gone to the Sangheili mess hall. After hours, the place turned into a bar and mating meat market for Sangheili troops; 'Firogee had gone off with some female from the kitchens and left 'Sraomee on his own. An older Sangheili had sat down beside him and bought him a drink pouch, then a few more, and the next thing 'Sraomee knew, he was waking up in someone else's quarters.
Which wasn't the first time he'd ever done that, but dammit, he wanted to be famous for his fighting skills, not for being the SpecOps slut. 'Sraomee had tactfully excused himself, returned to his own quarters, showered, armoured up, and reported in to duty...
...only to find that his companion of the night before was the SpecOps Subcommander, Rycl 'Otsedee, who had not only a wife back on Sanghelios but was also currently involved with Seeker of Truth's former executive officer, Epse 'Gamulee…
...and 'Otsedee was now his boss.
'Sraomee guessed that 'Otsedee's indiscretion probably was due to battle strain and too many drinks, but that didn't matter. What mattered was what it would do to 'Sraomee if that word got out. 'Gamulee was not known for being an even-tempered individual…
N'tho would be stewing on that thought right now, except that things had kept right on going downhill.
Reach. The Demon got away. Halo. SpecOps had been assigned to guard the fleet, rather than pursue the Demon—well, looking back, N'tho was glad not to have been on the Halo when it blew, but at the time, he'd been pretty pissed off at being left out a second time.
Then, the SpecOps "A" Squad had gone to investigate an attack on the supply ship Infinite Succor. The theory had been that Humans were attacking the fleet's supply lines. Instead, "A" Squad had found the Flood, and while the Parasite's attempt to expand its reach had been halted, the cost had been enormous. Of all of "A" Squad, only the SpecOps Commander, Rtas 'Vadumee, made it back alive.
With "A" Squad dead, "B" Squad became the senior SpecOps team. It would take time for a whole platoon of SpecOps candidates to be chosen and delivered, and in the meantime, "B" Squad had to do the work of two squads. 'Sraomee had pulled double shifts all across the fleet for days, all the while mourning the loss of battle brothers he'd barely gotten the chance to know.
Then the Supreme Commander became the Arbiter, and Epse 'Gamulee became Shipmaster of Seeker of Truth as various Sangheili were promoted to fill vacancies. N'tho had spent his spare time hiding in his barracks for fear of attracting the attention of either 'Otsedee or 'Gamulee.
When N'tho finally summoned the courage to return to Fil's crud game to relax…well…pissing off that stuck-up Blademaster 'Tahamee had just been icing on his shit cake. N'tho was sure 'Tahamee was just looking for any excuse to deem him unqualified and strip him of his Swordsman status.
What else could go wrong?
Then rumour came down that the Great Journey was beginning, here, now, and SpecOps was detailed to provide security for the Sangheili Councillors when they descended to the surface of the Halo to watch the consecration of the Sacred Icon which the Arbiter and Tartarus had retrieved. SpecOps' job was to ensure that the Humans and their hated Demon did not interrupt the ceremony.
Or so they had been told.
Instead, the Brutes had arrived in force and, without warning, commenced a slaughter of the assembled Sangheili. N'tho counted himself lucky that he had been outside in a stand of trees taking a pee when the Brutes had opened fire. He might almost have considered himself fortunate—except that if he were truly fortunate, he'd be nowhere near the Brutes right now.
The sound of gunfire and Brute-shot grenades had caused N'tho to hurriedly finish his business, draw his plasma rifle and return to the Forerunner structure, only to find Brutes tearing into Elites. He stood there for a moment, confused, unsure what to do.
Then one of the surviving Councilors, energy sword in hand, had called for a Sangheili withdrawl. N'tho's training took over and he covered the retreat, driving the Brutes back with a rain of plasma fire while the other Sangheili fled the structure and took cover in the surrounding forest.
That was when the truth had finally sunk in.
The Brutes were killing his people.
The Prophets had betrayed them.
The Councilors had let it happen.
Now N'tho was sprinting through the woods, dodging enemy fire, trying to stay close to the Councilor with the ornate headdress. Brute Shot grenades were raining down around them, causing the Elites to dodge left and right, while branches raked their faces and rocks tumbled under their feet. N'tho felt a moment of panic when he lost sight of the Councilor and then could not find him again; at least the grenades had stopped.
But if the grenades had stopped…
'Sraomee must have seen a flicker of movement, because his body reacted before he had a chance to think. He realized first that he had instinctively thrown himself to the ground and second that plasma fire was raking over his head. There was a Brute behind the rock ahead of him.
N'tho fired back, but the Brute had good cover. 'Sraomee rolled to his left, putting a tree between himself and the Brute.
Then he noticed another shape a few feet ahead of him. Someone else was pinned down in a gully, exposed, with no good cover anywhere nearby. Once the Brute bothered to aim instead of just blasting away madly, the other Elite was going to get a plasma bolt right in the head. N'tho watched as the other Sangheili rolled anyway, trying to spoil the Brute's aim, and found himself lying right next to the limp corpse of the Councilor.
They couldn't afford to lose any more Sangheili.
N'tho dropped to a crouch, pulling out a plasma grenade, and hurled it with all his might. It soared through the air like a miniature comet and affixed itself to the back of the Brute's helmet. The other Sangheili threw his arms up to shield his head just as the grenade exploded; N'tho did the same.
The Brute, in its dying fury, had blasted at N'tho with its rifle in the instant before the explosion. Klaxons went off in 'Sraomee's ear bud as his shields drained; then the grenade exploded. Shrapnel peppered N'tho's shields until they failed completely. He felt a blow like a slap across his face.
Then it was over. He was still standing. His right eye was blurry, but he was still standing.
A figure in a claret-purple assault harness was climbing to his feet before him—the Sangheili he'd rescued. Even with one good eye, he could recognize the other Elite.
"Blademaster 'Tahamee!"
Every time he thought he'd hit rock bottom…the floor fell out from under him.
"They killed the Councillors, and didn't get you?" Usze asked, his tone dry.
N'tho was not going to tell the aristocrat that pissing saved his life. Instead he did his best to be gracious. "I had to show up in time to save your ass."
'Tahamee stuck his snout up into the air. "It is what any Sangheili worthy of the name would have done."
Yeah, yeah. Just say I'm nothing special. Don't feel you have to be nice about it.
But N'tho kept his bitter thoughts to himself. "Do you know what's going on?"
Usze folded his arms in a gesture that suggested a grim expression under that helmet. "The Brutes boarded Seeker of Truth and tried to kill all the Elites aboard. We could not hold the vessel. I took a Banshee and came here, hoping to warn the Councilors, but..." Was that a sigh escaping his helmet? "I was already too late."
"Somebody's gotta know the situation," N'tho insisted. "Where's Commander 'Vadumee?"
"You're the one in SpecOps." Now Usze sounded amused.
N'tho realized suddenly that all this time he'd been ignoring his radio. It was abuzz with chatter as Sangheili attempted to regroup, locate one another and seek a surviving commander.
And then a voice came over the comm, "This is Zealot Aj 'Qoropee reporting that the Arbiter is alive, I repeat, the Arbiter is alive and present on Delta Halo. All surviving Sangheili personnel, report to this rally point..." Coordinates were given, and then the message repeated.
N'tho and Usze looked at one another, then bounded away through the forest, side-by-side, heading for the rally point.