Too many hands trail forward, coaxing with sinister fingers through the chill air. And the ghost shies away from all of them, trembling and wobbling and hushing, woven impossibly with shadowed starlight.
"Little ghost," Variks sings to it ever so gently, "come out, come out..."
There are so many ghosts dancing around him in the reef, so many voices, Variks thinks to himself. There are so many phantoms brimming with the breath of the Great Machine, exhaling and transfiguring it into eternal prattle and chatter and inquiry for those who are now beloved instead of Eliksni. And the memories waste away within him as he reaches, all of them unspoken, of when the Traveler spoke to House Judgement so long ago. Of when it fell silent within the whirlwind.
Variks sways above the prison, his staff meeting the ground with a thump when he leans forward and reaches out to try again. He would catch a little ghost, the pretty one in front of him in par-ti-cu-lar, but it hides from the Warden who would hollow it out. It hides behind the Guardian who watches him and flits with a twirl and an uncertain whistle through the air behind her. Still his fingers trail toward it, cutting and grazing, with the sing-song voice chasing and searching and petitioning. His hands land on her, without thought, and move immediately beyond.
Oh, he does want it so. He wants to breathe it in.
But The Guardian watches him too well, and he cannot move past her. "You can't have it," she tells him, just as she always has. There is a shadow of a smile beneath her hood each time she denies him.
Variks' thoughts shift at her words, and then he is attention and metal chain and torn fabric veering over her, inclining to breathe her in curiously as she closes her eyes and remains very still. The great machine has spoken to her, still speaks with a voice full and shining. And he contemplates the possibility of that. "We are friends, yes?" he eventually murmurs to her.
"Yes, Variks," she tells him quietly. "We are friends."
Her tone is empty, carefully hiding a secret that he can use for his own purposes. Variks moves a little closer to her, swiftly contemplating and scheming and wanting, but the Guardian who remains so very still for him is too fragrant at her edges, cloying and tearing at Variks' own despite aching with something that would be simple to devour if only the scent were not so unwelcome. It is too sweet. And he recognizes such a scent only because once, so long ago, the Disciple of Osiris gave him a... What was it?
Ah, yes.
It was a... A candy.
Variks shudders and pulls away from the Guardian immediately. His staff slams into the ground, thrusting and hitting and echoing throughout the reef. It was an awful thing, a prank surely, to give him something as terrible as that.
But the ghost...
Oh, the ghost behind her is chattering again, irritably and wonderfully, loud with the machine. And then his staff is thumping with noise that holds interest instead of disgust, returning to her once more; a reverberating sound pushing through her until it escapes only as a rush of air between her lips.
Variks' hands hesitate, close and steady with attention for her instead of what he desires. "Come here. Come quiet with me," he warbles and murmurs, full of sounds he knows and the terrible scent of her. "Give me your ghost. I will help you, and you will help me."
And the Guardian who watches, and who has never laughed, laughs brightly at the thought. "I am only here to repay Skolas for his deeds, for the moment."
All of Variks' hands pull away from her, grasping onto the staff, fingers suddenly deathly still. His eyes close, one by one, a flash of light followed by a flash of light ever peering into the dim haze of the reef. And then he is swaying in anger. He cannot stop moving, must not stop moving.
"Do you stare at my arms, Guardian? Where Skolas cut me long ago?" he mutters, mutters, mutters. How dare she mock the scribe he once was with her gaze and her laugh. Is that why she watches poor Variks? "Look away," he seethes to her through a mask of chains.
The Guardian who watches immediately looks away at his request, surprising him with obedience. "I am only looking toward the prison, Eliksni," she says.
And she speaks the name to the ground, lifting her weapon with a wordless explanation that is apologetic and uncertain. He ceases swaying. Perhaps the ghost is not lost after all.
Perhaps...
But, no, Variks cannot take the Guardian apart to achieve his own ends. The others would be furious with him. The Guardian is not like the little ghost or the hollow servitors down below that listen to only him; it must be done another way. So Variks whispers to her that he will keep her strong, and keep her quick. He will send her to fight in the prison with the others before he gives her the particular hunt that she desires so.
And the Guardian who no longer watches him looks much like all the others when she descends into the prison. But she is ice-white light and she is metal when she fights, like Variks' lost and still swaying arms.
Skolas.
Variks could spit the name as she fights with the others, he could hurl ash and gunfire through the servitor that follows her down below in the prison, so uncomfortable is he with his own hate for Skolas that his stomach churns with it. Watching and waiting above the prison of elders, surrounded by ghosts, Variks slams the staff into the ground and the reef shudders beneath his anger. The mines drop.
A Warden's punishment for the ambitious little Guardian's sake, he thinks to himself, if only for mentioning the wolf creature on a day he didn't particularly care to hear of it.
"I wish to fight Skolas," the Guardian who now bleeds yells to him through the servitor, through scorched metal and smoke, surrounded by the explosives down below that wait with dwindling patience.
And the ghost pries and it frets behind her. It warns her too late to be useful.
A trill overflows in Variks' throat when the mines detonate and the reef recoils against the sound with a rumble that reminds him of an avalanche. A melody of disappointment escapes him next, when the Guardian falls beneath his command.
"Do you see," he seethes through the servitor when she opens her eyes again, stronger than before."Do you see how I help you?" he adds, softer and still angry.
Help me, he adds silently.
The ghost revives her fully, worrying and fretting and chasing. It remembers House Judgement.
Prisoner after ether-choked prisoner become her quarry, each with their own warbles and growls of noise, all falling and hungering and grasping for the light that was once theirs. Variks' stomach still churns, unheard through the servitor that spins overfull with his orders in the damp prison. And then the Guardian who fights endlessly is falling and rising and she is hunting, flush and bright with anger and new memories of pain deep within. She is angry and she is surrounded by death, swaying with her own injuries when they grow dire.
And then there is only Skolas who waits, and then there is only oily smoke in the aftermath.
Variks laughs at that, and decides that he does so like it when it is only Skolas. He decides that he likes it better than the defiled and the betrayed and the war-wracked fallen ketch. He likes it better than the mines and the punishment. So he uplifts the fallen wolf captain over and over again, drowning him with life-giving ether and warbling deeply with pleasure whenever he chokes on it. The prisoners beneath Variks feet have never ceased to struggle against the ether in the prison, empty of everything but hate and hopelessness and thrashing motion when they awaken again.
Skolas cries out once more, pierced through with light, and then he is dead.
"Again," Variks hisses.
The Guardian who fights for him is generous with Variks, chased by the ghost at her side and the servitor. She is harsh with sputtering and coughing and poor screeching Skolas, ignoring her own wounds for the Warden's entertainment. She bleeds oil as she fights, challenged in the ways of old as it drips down her sides very sweetly. Only a little is needed, only a little will be permanently spilled. Just enough.
And there is more blood, pooling when her sword runs the wolf captain straight through.
Variks takes a deep breath, amused and satisfied and far less poor than he once was. The memories are weak and they are weighed down beneath the violence. His mind is victorious and made of light.
"Come here, come quiet," Variks calls to her when she returns. He ushers her to him with arms and mirth and his staff dipping down. "I would have your scent."
The Guardian is yielding and she is exhausted, covered in the overwhelming pain of Skolas, and Variks breathes her in. The scent is metallic, acrid with ash and pain and brightness like his own laughter as he gives her small gifts. But she does not know that he is laughing, does not know that the Eliksni call her fierce and have done so for some time.
"You're purring," she tells him instead, surprised by whatever she believes purring must actually be. And she takes the etheric light that pulses and radiates in the dim shadows of the reef when he presses it into her arms.
"Well done, well done," Variks murmurs to himself, memorizing the new scent of her.
Then the staff moves again, cages her against him without a sound. But for a moment Variks has forgotten his own quarry, so enchanted is he by the scent of Skolas choking, choking, choking. And Variks is inspecting and touching and claiming the Guardian who is very still, his staff bowing and thumping. Then she is even closer to him in torn fabric, in the soft fringe of cowl, filling what little air and light between them remains. She gives in.
And his hand, composed of flesh instead of metal, reaches out beyond her.
The breath of the Great Machine shies away. But Variks' fingers brush against it for a moment and he is close, so close to the Light, and he is ever so proud of the Guardian who holds onto him.