They stand facing each other on the edge of a wind-scoured asteroid. In the distance the husks of long dead ships drift past. His robes and her cloak dance in the breeze.
They both wear their helmets, obscuring their faces. Otherwise, they would have seen the longing and sorrow written plainly on each other's faces.
Her thoughts are of soft, tender things. The few brief moments spend together in the safety of their ships, and how hard and unforgiving the rest of the universe is. Soon, she will be trudging across the sands of broken, forgotten worlds, marking the movements of vicious aliens and reporting them to the Vanguard.
His thoughts are of hidden, quiet things, like the secrets he teases out of the cosmos and the bright, warm spark of feeling burning deep in his chest. Soon, he will be plumbing the depths of machine worlds and eldritch tombs, discerning the shapes of thoughts, all for the stern woman who keeps him Hidden.
"Winds carry you with strength," she says. It's a traditional farewell, older than time, but it's not enough. Words are never enough.
He steps up to her and takes her hands in his. This is their last moment together. From here their paths diverge to territory unknown. They were thrown together by a sudden crisis, and it might be years till they cross again.
The Warlock raises her right hand and presses it against his helmet in the imitation of a kiss. The Hunter's heart flutters. So formal.
"I don't know which way the wind will blow," he says, "But I know that this is not goodbye."
And for her, that is enough. She smiles under her mask, then turns away and dissolves in a flash of light. A moment later, her ship is racing away from the barren place.
He stands there for some time, tears silently sliding down his cheeks. Then he tears himself away from the churning vista of wreckage and begins the long trek towards the Vex monolith on the horizon and the secrets waiting inside.