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As he plunged his blades before the hydralisk in front of him, it briefly occurred to Artanis that history was repeating itself. And that if it was, he might not live long enough to see its conclusion.

That he might not live past a battle was a sensation not unfamiliar for him. He had felt it on Dannuth VII, had felt it on Aiur, had felt it on Char, Shakuras, and innumerable other worlds. Death was the end of the road for all Templar, but how long the road went was a question in each warrior's hands. His road had been shorter than many Templar, but far bloodier. Each stone was carved by the flesh of his foes, and the blood of a dozen species had sanctified them. Sometimes, the blood of even his own species. Under Tassadar, he had fought his own on Aiur. By the will of Raszagal, he had dealt with Aldaris's rebels on Shakuras. And now, in this war, this final war, he had spilt the blood of his kindred again on more worlds than he cared to count.

Braken was sparing him that much at least. History was repeating itself, and thankfully, history of years prior, rather than years. He had not been on this world during the Great War. He had seen the devastation the zerg had wrought here, as they had done so across all worlds of the Empire, but he had stayed on Aiur. Defended Aiur. He'd only left his homeworld at the will of the Conclave to bring Tassadar to 'justice,' and upon returning to the planet of his birth, spilt the blood of those who would willingly march to the cliff under the belief that they could still fly. Fighting his own, even the servants of Amon, was enough to open the old wounds of his hearts, and make new ones. Fighting the zerg however…he could live with that. Even die with that.

Stand fast.

The line was holding, if only barely. Over half a decade ago, when the zerg had come here, Braken had fallen quickly. Six years had given the Templar time to fight these beasts. At the base of one of the planet's temples, the line of Templar clustered ever inward, but remained ever linked. Thermal lances burnt the zerg where they stood. The cannon fire of their walkers ever repeated their melody, cutting down the charging creatures with pinpoint precision. Here and there, a storm of psionic energy erupted in the zerg lines, ripping the creatures' minds apart, leaving their bodies to fall in the dust. And when the creatures reached the lines of the Daelaam, blade and spear would cut them down. Psionic energy cut through flesh with every strike, leaving piles of corpses to form a line all of its own.

Stand to!

And it might not be enough. The zerg could afford such losses. Be it under the Overmind, the Queen of Blades, or the Dark God himself, the creatures relied on the same tactics – overwhelming numbers, overwhelming force, overcome the enemy through sheer attrition. And for all the lessons the Templar had learnt, for all the weapons of war the Firstborn had brought to the fold since the fall of their homeworld, he knew them to be crippled in one way – the Khala. The union of emotion and thought, the psychic link that allowed the Templar to fight as one. Now, each and every son and daughter of Aiur fought alone. Fought well, Artanis reflected, but not as effectively as they once had. To another species, the difference would have likely been unnoticeable, but here, having lived within the Khala all his life, he could see the difference. There was a slight clumsiness to his warriors. They would sometimes bump into one another. They might hesitate, wary of hitting one of their own when they struck. The Templar, both old and new, had adapted as best they could, had trained on the Spear of Adun to account for the Khala's loss as best they could, but it was a loss all the same. In a war where every life was precious, where but one Templar's loss was a disaster all of its own, it was a disadvantage that could make all the difference. He-

Hierarch!

…didn't see the hydralisk's scythe coming until it was too late. Didn't hear the cry of Kaldalis until it was too late. Didn't raise his arm to block the blow, or sever the creature's arm, until it was too late. So when the beast's scythe came down, not only did it finally break his shield, but it pierced the armour of his right shoulder blade, and in turn, pierced his flesh.

He screamed. The creature hissed. His left arm hung limply, and his psi-blade gave out. With his right, he tried to bring around the warp blade, but it couldn't reach the creature. It brought its face close to hiss, blazing orange eyes meeting eyes the colour of this world's sky, and the skies of so many others. Both blazing. Both burning. Only one pair belonging to a creature with any consideration for its own survival. The creature which brought its other scythe upwards…

…and screeched as its chest was impaled by Kaldalis's psi-blades. Not enough to kill the monstrosity outright. But enough to give the zealots around them time to plunge their solarite blades into the creature from around it. To send it down into the dirt from whence it came. To remove the creature's head from its body, while others pried the scythe free from their leader's shoulder.

Make way!

Artanis staggered backwards as the zealots escorted him through the line. Others came forward to fill the gap. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a group of Sentries erect force fields in front of the section of the line where whence he'd come. The zerg might loop round to put pressure on other sections of the front, or they might wait. Either way, this section of the line had been given time. Though if not for his failure, it would never have been required.

If only all were so deserving, he reflected. Others had fallen, their bodies either collapsing into the ground below, or disappearing in flashes of light to the Spear of Adun in orbit. If circumstances had allowed for it, the Spear by itself could have cleansed this island of all the zerg here. But just as the Firstborn fought Amon's Swarm on the surface, so too was space a battlefield. For all its might, the Spear could not fight on two fronts at once, without one of them suffering.

Hierarch, you are-

Return to the line. He shoved the zealots escorting him to the temple's base aside. Fight.

Hierarch…

Fight for the healthy, so less may be wounded, or meet their end, lest we all too meet it.

Even without the Khala, he could sense his warriors' unease. Still, they were loyal to Aiur, the Firstborn, and ergo, to him. Not that he would put himself above either of those things, but the protoss had at least one similarity with the zerg – cut off the head, and the body would fall. Maybe with not as much force, but morale was an armour all of its own. And in these times, morale was what his people needed.

So they departed to the sights and sounds of battle, while he came to the temple's base. He had every intention of returning to the front as soon as possible, but with two good arms, not one. At the temple's base, he could see members of the Khalai Caste. Repairing damaged war machines – Dragoons, Immortals, Stalkers, even a Colossus. Similarly, apothecaries tended to the wounded – those not injured so severely as requiring teleportation to the Spear, but injured severely enough that their ability to fight was damaged. For a moment, shame filled Artanis's body, flowing through it as surely as did blood. Many of these warriors had been wounded worse than he. And he had been the one who had ordered them to make a stand here. The one who had sent them to fight and die on this world, just as he had done on Aiur, Korhal, Shakuras, and various others.

Hierarch!

He let the apothecaries approach him. Allowed them to start removing his armour so they might tend to his shoulder. All Khalai, he noticed. Maybe it didn't mean anything, but he'd noticed that even on the Spear, the kindreds still tended to keep to themselves. Battle was where fellowships were forged, but outside it, rust could take them.

Hierarch. A message from above.

He looked at the face of one of the workers, who held in one hand a psychic booster, and in the other, a holo-projector. He nodded, attaching the former to his forehead, and activating the other. Hovering above the ground, it displayed an image of the bridge of the Spear.

"Artanis," she said. Her eyes twinkled and lingered upon his shoulder. "I would ask if you are well, but…"

"Well enough that I can assure you of my wellness," he said – the booster worked its magic, but here, they had to 'speak,' rather than rely on pure thought. "Well enough that soon I shall be able to fight."

"To what end?" Vorazun asked.

His eyes narrowed. "Must you ask?"

"Fortune favours the righteous, but our fortunes up here are mixed, at best," Vorazun said. "As are the fortunes of those below."

He knew what she wanted to ask of him. A few moments later, that belief was vindicated.

"Perhaps it might be wise to-"

"No." He let the healers apply a grey paste to his wound – a cluster of nanites that would expire quickly, but heal the wound in an even shorter amount of time. "Amon wants this temple. If he wants it, we deny it."

"And at what cost?"

"A cost that is paid until victory is achieved or is made prohibitive."

Vorazun said nothing for a moment – behind her, he could see Templar at the consoles. Beyond them, he could see flashes of light in space.

"I am sure you will know when we reach one of those points." She paused, before terminating the feed, leaving Artanis alone with healing flesh, and ever fragmented spirit.

Is this the unity we hoped for? He wondered. His thoughts were his own, and his eyes were directed at the focuser of Zeratul's warp blade. Is this what you died for?

Even now, Khalai and Nerazim were not united. Zeratul had died to save him, in the hope that he might lead their species to salvation. Whether that was achieved was something that only history could answer. And if history was indeed written by the victor, that meant they had to win this war, because otherwise…well, that was a thought he had no desire to entertain. But survival and unity were two very different things.

You led us to Ulnar. You led us to the truth. And still our eyes do not meet. He rose to his feet, allowing the Khalai Caste members to refit the armour. Perhaps, in time, we shall be…

He trailed off. Something was happening at the temple. He saw it, all around him saw it, and even as the fighting continued, he had no doubt that protoss and zerg both saw it. A beam of light, shooting up into the sky, as its apex opened. He clenched his fists, taking one step back, while keeping his forward foot planted in the ground. The temples of the xel'naga could be damnation or salvation. The one of Shakuras had twice granted his people the chance to live another day. The one on Bhekar Ro however…that had been a disaster. Disaster as much for the zerg as the Firstborn, but then, the zerg had always been able to absorb losses more readily. And if this was through Amon's machinations, chances were his own zerg would be spared. Clenching his fists ever tighter, he waited to see the visage of damnation…

…instead he saw the visage of something else.

A construct?

Something very different from the energy creatures. But something very familiar as well.

Here, on Braken?

It was a xel'naga construct, at least superficially. He recognised its design from Ulnar. Devices more ancient than the zerg, or even the protoss – guardians of what had become a tomb. Devices that he and Kerrigan had defeated in a fleeting moment of unity. Unity that was now frayed – Kerrigan was fighting her battles, the protoss theirs. But that aside, he could see the differences. The constructs of Ulnar had glowed with a green light, while this was golden – the colour of Braken's sun, had it been higher in the sky, and not a blood red sunset, reflecting the woe of the world. But more importantly, this one was larger. Very, very larger.

And it was hovering over the battlefield.

Hierarch?

He looked at one of the apothecaries. He could see the fear in her eyes, and the doubt in her voice.

What should we…

The knowledge of what this thing was. The knowledge that the xel'naga were both salvation and damnation. That one of their number wished them dead. And that the others, whatever their intentions, could now do nothing to aid them.

I…

He couldn't say. He couldn't speak. The zerg were the primary threat, but if this thing activated behind their lines, even if he could redirect air support, it might be too-

It fired. He shielded his eyes…

And opened them, eyes wide, as he saw the construct drift over the battlefield. Firing blast after blast – a fortress of rock and stone, as if a gift from the gods themselves. Gods that were focusing their ire on only one of their children. The zerg.

"Hand me the booster."

The words were blunt, and simply spoken. The apothecary nonetheless obliged. He took it and watched the construct up above. For now, an ally. If this was what Amon had been after…well, at the least, Amon knew the value of a weapon of war. And yet, as if endowed by destiny itself, it had come on the Firstborn's side.

If you could see this Zeratul, Artanis thought. If you knew how in the end, you were right.

He activated the psychic booster, connecting him with his forces. They would hear his words, if not his thoughts. The tools of the Khala, if not his spirit.

"Warriors…"

It would have to do.

"Advance."

As one always had to do in war.

"Let not one of these creatures survive."

Which could mean victory.

"En taro Tassadar!"

He activated both his blades – green, the colour of the fields. Blue, the colour of the sky. By the coming of night, he knew with all his hearts that red would be the colour that stained the ground of Braken.

"For Aiur!"

As he charged, as all the Templar charged, as the zerg screamed and hissed, as they died in droves through blade, and the fire of the gods, his mind briefly shifted to Zeratul. Wondering what his friend would have said had he seen this sight. An instrument of the gods, aiding their children, who had found their resting place. That in the end, he had been right all along.

Und lara khar, Zeratul.

He would never know. But he could imagine.

And that, as zerg after zerg fell to his blades, as they were incinerated by the fire of the construct, gave him some joy.

A/N

So, similar to Tychus, we've got Zeratul as a co-op commander, repeating an instance of "yeah, they're dead in canon, but Co-op isn't canon, so shadup." Ergo, not something I'm fond of, even if I get why.

On the other hand, unlike Tychus (haven't played him yet admittedly), who strikes me as overlapping with Nova gameplay-wise, I actually really like the idea of the protoss utilizing xel'naga technology, least as a one-off. Makes sense mechanically, and I really love how the xel'naga aesthetic was carried over (actually I've always liked the xel'naga aesthetic, even if we didn't really get much of a sense of it until LotV).

Anyway, drabbled this up.