Chapter Eleven, part one:

0921 hours; Command Station Radiant

The Seraph drifted through the bay doors, settling over the decks several feet from the circumventing veranda. Elites stood on the bridge between the one half and the other, and on the veranda- more still hovered nearby on the floor beneath the Seraph, but none ventured near enough to be caught by the vessel's guns. It had come from the Brute-controlled Rampant Generosity, and what it contained was to be seen.

Dial M'akamee watched as the gravity lift plates retracted, and the beam touched the floor beneath the vessel, the faint purple glow it gave reminding him of a certain warrior's eyes. The bird seemed to sit there like that for several unnecessary minutes, but no one moved or spoke. Plasma rifles hovered at the ready, pointed in from all around the room. Dial's own carbine rested in his hands, though for now it was pointed at the floor in front of his left hoof. If there was a Brute inside, he would have enough time to raise it when it appeared at the top of the beam.

The soft hum of the mechanism changed, though slightly, signaling it now had cargo, and an Elite descended the beam, alone. Dial's eyes widened, and he stepped back, recoiling in shock. The look in the warrior's eyes was enough alone to cripple any that looked there, a hollow, resonant well brimming with resentment, pain and hatred. The amount of flak embedded in the warrior's armor was tell enough for what hell he had seen and walked through. His face was likened to made of stone, expressionless and betraying nothing. The damage to it was the sole testament that he was, in fact, just a Sangheili. Dried blood clung to his armor, much of it having once flowed in the veins of a Brute. He scanned the room, taking in the receiving party, then looked at Dial.

The Supreme Commander felt he was being bored into, by those eyes, their cold an equal to that of the open and empty of space. He watched as the warrior placed the items in his hands back on his belt, but only once they were there did he recognize what they were; swords. Or something that looked a lot like a pair of energy swords, but the Elite had not activated them. He took three paces towards Dial, and saluted. "Supreme Commander." The greeting was nothing if not empty. Dial nodded in reply; he had no words for that vacuum to swallow. He knew he would not be heard. Taking a step to one side, he allowed the warrior to pass, and as he did Dial realized how small and young the warrior was; none he had met that young had had those eyes. He was an adult, if just, but something had kept him from getting very big. The fact had been lost on Dial at first due to the commanding, and overwhelming, nature of the warrior within.

Whatever he had done to the Brutes, they had done something far worse to him, and Dial knew without asking that he didn't ever want to know what it was. He signaled the warriors above and around him, and a pair ascended into the Seraph to be sure it was empty, as the rest departed with Dial. The inspection proved the vessel empty, but nothing could explain the nature of what happened aboard the Rampant Generosity. Dial followed the newcomer down the corridors to the sustenance chamber, and watched him walk to a specific table before he sat down. He placed a spread hand on the surface, looking at it as if the place, the object, had some significance. Entering through another door, an Elite he had come to know rather well paused when he spied the youth at the table. Enin 'Lygotee was alone, though, which made Dial wonder what had become of his team- the trio were nigh inseparable.

Hoku Zimivee lifted his eyes, hollow and cold, to follow 'Lygotee as he walked to the table. He stopped shy of seating himself, though, and stared down at the newly arrived warrior.

"Commander." Zimivee said, tonelessly.

"We thought you dead." 'Lygotee mentioned, his voice barely audible at first. "What happened?"

"I destroyed the ship." Zimivee answered, plainly. Looking up at the older warrior, the one who had sent him away the first time, the one who had put him where he needed to be, where Mün had been, where he had performed possibly the most important action of his entire career. "As any in my place would have."

'Lygotee doubted that. But he didn't let it show in his face as he absorbed the news. "Was there anyone else… with you?" He felt something inside stagger as he watched the youth nod his head. Once more 'Lavuree was right. And how had he known? Who had told him? He hadn't been anywhere where he might have spoken to someone who would know. But the fact- just the fact- that 'Lavuree was right, again, made him feel all the more the fool. "Who?"

Zimivee's eyes traced the outline of the table he was sitting in front of. He had gained a great deal of gall to take his gaze from a superior during a conversation, 'Lygotee mused, but the age of his eyes had frozen any protest or retribution where they stood. "His name was Mün Gazenee. He was the reason I was able to escape alive."

"Where is this Mün Gazenee now?"

Zimivee's head snapped up, and his gaze bored hard and deep through 'Lygotee. The Commander took an unconscious step back. "Mün is dead."

This was not the same warrior 'Lygotee had sent on that mission, long before all the mayhem had happened. This was someone else; someone who had seen too many things, had been through too much, and had watched someone die. This was a warrior who was capable of anything, grown cold and bitter for the time lag that allowed it all to sink in. He had found something wonderful, had tried to keep it, make something of it, and been stripped of it before he might have done a single thing. He had been grown, stripped of any and all semblance of adolescence, and pushed too far too fast. 'Lygotee had been through some terrible things, but it had all been gradual, the road most warriors traveled, whereas Zimivee had seen it all at once.

Treading the very razor's edge of life and death, and being the only one to come free of it alive… and alone. But whether he was truly still living was to be seen… and if he was, after all, still warm inside, 'Lygotee knew he would be very surprised.

He looked past the Elite sitting at the same table where he had last seen him, at the station's commanding officer. Dial's expression told him he had gotten the same reception off the kid; there had been something lost on that ship- Zimivee had gone with hope of victory and survival, and to come back the way he was… his zest for life had faded. There was nothing eager anymore about him, nothing allowing for humor. But even with this loss, he had brought back with him much honor for his bloodline, and whoever his companion had been- Mün Gazenee didn't ring any bells for 'Lygotee- as well. The Covenant could have had use for such warriors as like what had become of Zimivee, but the Covenant had died with the first of their number, when the Brutes brought the civil war to their distant doorstep.

They could only wonder what had become of their brethren, those trapped on the Ring and in the middle of the Human war. Those issues would need to be addressed later, though, when such time was available as could be spared for it.

'Lygotee looked back down at Zimivee, and drew a breath. "And the vessel is nolonger a threat?"

"Nolonger a threat." Zimivee echoed the words, as if merely wishing to taste them. He didn't appear to have heard 'Lygotee's question.

Taking that as a yes, 'Lygotee turned and left, wishing his skin would stop crawling. Being so near Zimivee in that state of being was beginning to get to him, and when looked upon he felt full of holes, bored into by the youth's cold, ancient eyes. He would be something else to deal with, but later. He could almost see the final number of Brutes gathering in the still for the final conflict. He wanted to hunt them down and kill them while they were scattered, but he didn't have authorization for it, and for now Dial seemed content to think rather than act. Whenever the Brutes turned up again, there was plenty of resources and sufficient numbers of Sangheili to meet them in whatever machinations they set up, and still crush them.

Stepping from the sustenance chamber, 'Lygotee turned left and walked down the corridor with no particular destination in mind. He wanted to be rid of the Jiralhanae problem so he might consider unraveling the enigma that was his friend- the more that happened here the more he realized he had never truly known the warrior at all- but that strange, steadfast loyalty, that unshakeable faith, held- and he wasn't really sure he wanted to know why. The more he learned of 'Lavuree, the more he knew he couldn't think of him the same, and the less he liked his circumstances.

It was the last secret that kept nagging at him- the one 'Lavuree would never, ever let go of, the one that all others had built up from, that one single mystery that would truly reveal all the truths of the warrior beneath the mask. He wasn't sure how he knew it was there, or how he knew that that one was what the rest stemmed from, but he was sure that it was, in fact, the final layer. And what frightening revelation lay behind that final layer was what he feared to see. He wanted to stay friends with 'Lavuree, wanted to preserve that alien faith for as long as he might, but the longer things continued, and the more things came unraveled due to the crumbling of the Holy Covenant, the closer he came to that final layer.

He understood one thing, as much as he might, though; he did not, under any circumstances, need to make an enemy of that Elite. His hooves stopped, and when he realized they had, he looked up, aware he had been too far gone to realize where his hooves had taken him. He relaxed when he saw he hadn't wandered alone into enemy territory, but a new tension came upon him when he spotted 'Lavuree also. 'Pohamee was there, as was Szęnaqee, but all three were looking straight at 'Lygotee like they expected a speech like the one he had given prior to the beginning of this end. His expression changed, telling them where to put it, and he walked on past.

'Lygotee didn't want to be cruel, but he was in no mood to humor 'Lavuree, or 'Pohamee either, and anything Szęnaqee had to say probably wasn't worth his time.

"Enin."

Despite his dour mood, 'Lygotee stopped, though he hesitated a moment before turning to see which of them had dared to call him that. Apart from the other two and closing the gap between them, 'Lavuree stood prominently within view, blocking the way he had just come from. The smaller Elite stopped a respectful distance from the Commander, and rested there.

"If you wish to say something, then get it out. Because if you carry this into battle your head will not be in the fight and you will not be able to perform correctly as the situation demands." 'Lavuree warned. "Get it out. Speak your mind."

"Who are you to say the way things are, Rkwa?" He hissed. "Where do you get this information??" He knew his tone did not need to be so unforgiving, especially when it was he who ought to have been seeking redemption, but he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Who are you, really? And why are you hiding from us? I thought I could trust you."

"Leader, I…"

"I don't even know you, Rkwa."

'Lavuree sighed. "I am not changed from the warrior you have known all these years, 'Lygotee. I do not lead a double life. I am all that you see- oh, perhaps some things you cannot see, but they are few, and vastly insignificant. Who am I, you ask? Do you not know? You have walked with me into the fire, and out again, and seen me within it. What I ask, Commander, is who I am, without you."

'Lygotee gave a start. "…what?"

"As one I am hardly worth notice." 'Lavuree elaborated. "I am nothing without my friends- without my brothers." He gestured at 'Lygotee. "Yourself, 'Pohamee, all the others who's lives I have touched."

"How do you touch them, though? What makes you special in that you can have that strange, alien power that no one else has?"

"You all have it, too, Leader, to a degree. I have only learned how to harness it and make it more than a simple thought. I'm far from special- if you single me out and make me apart from all the rest, am I not isolated? Friendless, lost… scorned, for what it is worth? I am here to help you- not harm you, yet you only think what ill I mean when you lash out at me because you do not understand. I cannot spell it out for you, 'Lygotee, I am not a book, nor have I an index."

The reference forced a wan smile from 'Lygotee. "Alright, you win." He huffed.

'Lavuree straightened, slightly. "Win? Win what?"

"Never mind. Tell me about… tell me about the Brute's Commander."

'Lavuree crossed his arms, and frowned speculatively at the other Elite. "Will it earn me another ill-gotten bruise?"

'Lygotee cringed, knowing that he had had that coming. "No. I will listen this time."

"You had best."

Chapter Eleven, part two:

1014 hours; Command Station Radiant

Doaedemet stood looking over the seemingly cavernous chambers he was within. Along the walls were endless places an Elite might hide, but he was changing that- for as much as it pained him to so deface the Prophets' Proclamation Chamber, it was necessary. Here was where the numerous Prophets came when they had something to say, something for the Covenant to hear. Mercy had been there, recently, at the high end under the window. Some of the most important Jiralhanae he had ever met had been with the Prophet, toting the marks of Honor Guard- a place long coveted by his people.

That they had gotten it meant that things had begun to change, and soon all that had been for so long denied his people would be granted them, and the despicable wretches that had held prestige over them would be soon getting their due. How it riled him to know he had lost, here! Not a single trap laid, not a single mine placed, not a single captive taken, had helped him at all, and he was at his wits' end. Hence the reconstruction happening around him, numerous Kig-yar and Yanime'e loosening pieces of the room's architecture and lowering them to the waiting Brutes below for removal to another site. They would all be returned, of course, but in due time.

Doaedemet let his lip curl in anticipation. He had been careful. He had instructed them to leave the leaders to him, on pain of death and dismissal of existence, so that he might savor their deaths personally as he crushed them under his fist… looking over at the wall where the transparent metal ended in standard violet hull plating, his snarl turned into a hideous grin. Leaning on aforesaid wall was as much of a likeness to the hammer of the leaders of old as he could muster- a non-gravity-enabled Fist of Rukt. He had heard of the death of his predecessor, and then personally witnessed the vessel going up in a ball of white plasma the size of a small sun. It made him angry that the Elites had gotten so much from him so fast, so easily… but things would be different this time. Now he was leading, he was High Chieftain of this Station, and he would claim it with all his might as was his right, upon the passing of his father, Throug.

Curling his paws into fists, he swore a blood-oath against the Elites, promising their utter defeat and destruction, promising once he had the Radiant as his own he would sweep the quadrant clean of the malicious parasites and claim the grounds for the rightful heirs, Jiralhanae all. Running his eyes over the insectoid Yanime'e and the avian-like Kig-yar, his lip curled in disgust.

No, there was no room for those either, even if they were useful at present. Neither species was really a problem, though, and as long as the Prophets decreed it, Doaedemet would permit them to persist. When that changed, though… he would look forward to the day he would again saturate his fur with fresh blood in the names of the Prophets and their Gods. Perhaps he might travel in the Great Journey before needing to bother…? A mocking smile spread across his features, and he hefted the replica of the hammer into his arms, to cradle its feel. Even if it was fake, the Fist was only a symbol in the end, and so was this- symbolic, of his rule.

Doaedemet turned to see the work being done at his behest, and savored the feel of it- he took it in with satisfaction, convinced he would feel more of the same in the years to come in his campaign against the Sangheili. Someday soon, there would be no more of the heretical wretches, even if they only burned to death in the fires of the Great Journey. It pleased him to know none could escape, for that one single fact, and he issued a bellow across the cavernous chamber to express that belief.

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Preparations completed for as much as they could be, most of the warriors rested sufficiently and fed, Dial felt confident he could rise and meet the Brutes without exhaustion playing into the enemy's hands. He had no idea how many truly remained, but he knew he would soon find out, so he had most of the station's compliment ready to move, leaving behind only those too weak from injury or fatigue to fight.

Looking over the rows of faces one more time, the Supreme Commander shook his head. He hated doing this- not the riddance of traitorous Jiralhanae, but the feeding of his Elites into a slaughter he knew all too little about. What had caused the Covenant to break so? They knew it had, and what the repercussions had been, but that was all. He swore silently he would find out, if he survived this final run, not for himself but for them- each and every one deserved to know what and why, as much as the rest.

Unggoy wobbled on their feet, anxious and nervous, some huddling to the floor at the hooves of their team leaders. The numbers looked sufficient, the math appeared sound, but Dial knew something would go wrong, and many would die what didn't need to. It was the law of the universe- something always did. Sighing, he nodded his approval, and the first of the bunch moved out, going past and straight for the Brute's territory. Station sensors had placed the enemy within a certain sector, but where precisely and what they had in store for any assault was to be seen.

Field Commander Enin 'Lygotee had taken position behind the first wave, certain after his last discussion with 'Lavuree that he did not under no uncertain terms want to be in the first wave. His team was with him, and there were six Unggoy at hand, but thankfully no one had tried to patch his team with a fourth member that would have been a fifth wheel- straight into a battle was no way to learn a new member, but with the others outside his team's circle he felt he could handle it- if given responsibility for someone he couldn't direct, he knew disaster would strike. 'Pohamee, for instance, often got given edited orders so when he interpreted them, it came out right.

'Lavuree had his own way of reading things, though, a prime example that everyone was different. He had reapplied the ink, and had garnered new lenses, disappearing back into the crowd from whence he had come, looking like nothing special or unusual, just one more Sangheili warrior amid a thousand. 'Lygotee had to admit he was glad for the return to 'normal', for what that was worth, considering normal had never been real. He could look now at the warrior without starting, without needing to remind himself of who he was really looking at. It had been a startling revelation, how much he relied upon what his eyes told him. 'Pohamee seemed better off for the transition as well, but they seemed to be the only two that still recognized him; everyone else was exchanging tales, often exaggerated, of the white Sangheili that had come and gone within the span of a battle, giving signs and portents before disappearing. It was beginning to become an inside joke within the team, often leaving them breathless trying to hold back the laughter as 'Lavuree heard tales of himself related back to him.

Thinking back on the last time he and his team had been out in the galaxy performing rudimentary duties according to the decree of the Covenant, 'Lygotee wondered if they might again perform so- but this time without that Covenant, without the traitorous members that had broken it… and without 'Obaulee.

A pang of guilt struck him, and his features wrinkled in a concentrated effort to suppress the feeling- why did he only ever think of that loss when he least needed to? Arriving just inside the perimeter of the dubbed Brute territory, 'Lygotee and his team slowed their advance, exchanging speed for stealth. Already the scouts and a few guards were down, swift and silent, only their still bodies marking the passage of Elites, invisible all. Slowing so, he paused to count his own, the six Unggoy, and two Sangheili. 'Lavuree nodded to him, but this time he knew - almost instinctually- why the motion erased his clouded thoughts, clearing his mind for the task at hand. He smiled, and looked forward. The issue could be settled later, if he survived this final campaign, but for now he knew he was grateful for the distraction from it.

Slowly, carefully, and minding the psyche to his rear, 'Lygotee moved past the border, down the corridors to one of the smaller chambers surrounding the main open that the Brutes had congregated in. One of the things he had a bad feeling about was how old his intel was- even that number of Jiralhanae could have moved, amassing elsewhere in time to stage a massive crushing trap upon the unsuspecting Sangheili, who thought it was they who were about to do the trapping. The first room was cleared without much of an uproar, and silence settled in on the chamber as the warriors slipped through.

Seeing the last of the first wave moving forth through a corridor closed at intervals by doors, 'Lygotee hesitated to follow. He wasn't sure if 'Lavuree was telling him or not, but he suddenly had the feeling that something wasn't right. Stopping all motion, he turned to find the warrior and saw something that brought his gaze up- up, until he was looking at the domed ceiling of the Proclamation Chamber's antechamber. Hung from the center at the zenith was a turning hologram, which was normal, but holding to the projector of that hologram was a mess of ugly items he knew were not. Dropping his gaze, he hunted for 'Lavuree, a little more urgent now.

You already know. The thought sprang from his mind as if put there. Finally spying the much-sought warrior, herding Grunts, he intercepted them to find out what, if anything, the psyche knew.

Before he could speak, though, 'Lavuree grabbed him and hauled him along. "You do not wish to linger here, Leader, do not make me tell you what you already know."

Hearing those words repeated to him aloud- you already know- sent a chill down his spine, but he nodded in agreement. 'Lavuree was right, after all- he didn't want to linger here, even if this chamber was the last calm before the battle in which he might speak to the warrior. Matching pace, he looked ahead, at where they were going. "What do you know? Something isn't right, but I don't know what."

"Nothing is ever right in concern of Jiralhanae machinations, Commander." 'Lavuree scoffed. "This was a trap. We shouldn't have come- none of us should have come. Do you see the riggings? Do you see the explosives? They took this whole sector apart, and restored it as one large bomb… if it blows, the station will suffer, and possibly even crack in half."

'Lygotee almost swallowed his mandibles- all four of them. "Do we tell them to pull out?"

"No, it is too late. We have gone too deep, they know we are here." 'Lavuree shook his head. "I need to find the detonator, Commander. Someone needs to, and they need to destroy it. They don't know what they have done here… gods… they would kill everyone, us, them, all those in between."

'Lygotee nodded. "I will look for it- I'll let you know if I see anything."

'Lavuree caught him, turning him around to stare straight into his eyes. "Do not, even if you must, go to Doaedemet."

'Lygotee wanted to pull away, but he felt glued to the floor, stiff at the joints and incapable of much protest beyond the imaginings of his mind. He was grateful when the albino let go of him, and by that release he regained motor function. Somewhat off balance at first, he staggered back, bumping 'Pohamee as the warrior sought to go past them. Catching his Commander, 'Pohamee righted him, and left him like that, without a word. 'Lygotee shook his head, in an attempt to clear it, but there was nothing to clear- the world around him felt somehow gummy, but things were still moving with ease around and past. Gathering his wits, he took a deep breath and turned to follow 'Pohamee. Perhaps he needn't stay quite so close to that psyche…

For the duration of the next passageway he kept 'Lavuree in front of him, where he could see him, following at a comfortable distance. Getting that ability out of hiding had caused the warrior to be a little too open with it, he mused, and for as much as he didn't like the way the warnings were conveyed, he knew it had to be strange for 'Lavuree as well- simply for that he had always had to edit and cross-check before saying anything at all, before- now he need only say it, like it was, and to whom it mattered.

Still, it seemed odd that this Brute named Doaedemet would be after specifically him, when they had only ever had the one encounter. So he had denied the animal his desire for 'Lygotee's head. Doubtless this had happened before? 'Lygotee did not feel special for simply having survived an encounter with the Brute, but apparently Doaedemet didn't quite see it the same way.

That 'Lavuree knew this was only more than a little disturbing. From what he had gleaned of the way the warrior's talent worked, this insistent demand that he not allow Doaedemet to get near could only mean that Doaedemet was insistent upon getting to be near- he was telling the world he planned to kill not only a few dozen anonymous Elites, but he wanted specifically to kill 'Lygotee. The concept seemed strange. But then, Brutes were strange, and the slightest wrong would set them off- it was why most of them would revert to animalistic behavior in the midst of a battle, going barreling off into the enemy and going berserk all over them.

The door came into view; 'Lygotee paused. The last time he had laid eyes on that door, there had been a Jiralhanae Honor Guard posted at it. And the last time he had passed them, he had been to speak to the Prophet therein, the night before all hell broke loose and began industriously consuming the Command Station Radiant. This time felt as though it would only be a repeat of events, if sped up some. Terrible things would happen in that room, but then it was not as if the same had not been the norm for all the time since it had been installed. 'Lygotee started for it.

For the honor of the Sangheili!

Chapter Eleven, part three:

1100 hours; Command Station Radiant

The first explosion staggered him. The second knocked him flat, but there were far more than just two- or three, for that matter. Dial M'akamee clawed at the floor, desperate to regain his footing. Barely had he entered the chamber than the fight had started. It was well that he had not been either directly leading nor taking up the rear, as either would have been bad- if the former, he would have had nil as for backup or support troops, and the latter would have meant every Elite he had would be in that meat grinder the Brutes had prepared for them. As it stood, they were receiving a beating, but things did not look that bad… at least not yet.

Dial grabbed ahold of something that had fallen in front of him, and reclaimed his vertical position, though it did him little good, as though the saturation of the area with high explosives had ebbed, the Brutes had filed in closer to the action. Right as he turned and saw the beast, a Brute with a silver dorsal stripe lashed out at him with a hammer that had a head the size of Dial's chest. The blow would have knocked him back, possibly over several yards, had he not had his back to the same fallen object that he had used to rise. When the Brute withdrew his hammer again, the Elite sank to the floor once more, this time to remain there, crushed utterly and barely short of cleft in half.

Doaedemet roared his approval, thrusting the hammer into the air over his head and splattering himself with the armor-bits and chunks of bone and muscle mixed with copious amounts of blood. He had somehow missed that one Elite he had a hate going for, though- it didn't matter. If they had left that one behind he could always get to it later. Doaedemet had patience… if just a little. Swinging the mock Fist of Rukt again, he smashed another Elite, this time down into the floor. There wasn't much left of the creature when he drew back the hammer, but he hadn't expected there to be. Soaking in the blood of the enemy around him, Doaedemet had never been happier, able at last to do more to his foes than paste them with plasma rounds or shot grenades.

Turning to follow an Elite that had gone past him, the Brute swept away four Unggoy in the process, but he didn't bother to follow those up with much beyond stepping on one as he closed the gap. Engaged with the Brutes standing above it, the Elite didn't see him bring down his hammer, creating another dent in the floor with a mighty whang. The unfortunate Elite's remains squirted out from the crushing blow to the sides and back, spraying several of his comrades. Shards of bone protruded from the textured ends of the hammer's head, but they were hardly any benefit to the effectiveness of the tool; if it had been a lighter hammer, they could have worked as little knives, but by the time any enemy unlucky enough to get hit by him realized, those little bone shards would be the least of the Elite's worries.

His whole left side filled with agony-inducing needles, blowing chunks of his leathery skin away with the following detonation. Cringing, Doaedemet spun about to glare down at the gathering of Unggoy, all pointing at the same target in an attempt to take him down. Roaring mightily, he lunged at them, hammer raised. Grunts were an annoyance, at best, but sometimes, as like now, they could become a bother. Previously unconcerned with the little aliens, Doaedemet had mistakenly allowed them to concentrate their number and then their fire, on him. With his back turned, he had been a ripe target, and he knew it. Elites streamed past him, shooting down the Brutes afore them, the Jackals above them, and the Drones above those. Fire was thick in the air, and it sizzled with the scent of burning oxygen underneath the more potent smell of burning flesh and hair. Directly before he could have crushed the whole group utterly, beneath his bulk if not his hammer, something huge and heavy slammed hard into his side and knocked not only his aim off course but the wind out of him.

Rolling from the group of little Grunts, Doaedemet jumped to his feet, gasping and raging mad, searching for the one that had dared to jump on him. From the piles of strewn bodies around him rose the biggest Elite he had ever seen. It bent, flexing at all the right points to effect either a brace or another hard thrust, whichever the situation demanded, and then growled at him, challenging.

Furious, and angry that a mere Sangheili could have grown to match himself in mass, Doaedemet flung himself at the offending Elite with only one goal in mind- rip it to pieces, and trim it back down to it's rightful size. He quickly found out that he had made a mistake in underestimating the sheer strength of his opponent, having seen an Elite and assumed he could smash it like other, normal Elites. The error in his calculations cost him his balance as he was thrust over backwards, then his mental integrity as the warrior lit off its energy blade.

Fighting not to be dismembered so easily, Doaedemet was able to gain his feet back, and after issuing a kick to the Elite's midsection, he fled the immediate proximity. In his wake he left five Grunts and another Elite, but they were not super powerful like the one he had left behind, nor were they overly large… claws sharp and long enough to dig into his muscle tissue caught him by the deltoid on his shoulder, and pulled hard in reverse. Doaedemet roared as the sizzling energy rammed through his belly from behind, but there was more fight happening around them than either alone might fend from, and this fact sent the Brute forward again as his minions dropped explosives in the area. Suffering but grateful for the respite, Doaedemet turned around, to see if his enemy was dead- he wasn't, but he'd been robbed of his shielding and his footing, and though Doaedemet too was now full of flak, he was still on his feet.

Spotting his discarded hammer, he scooped it up, and biting back the pain that ruled his middle, lifted the weapon to strike the fallen Elite with. He was hit in both elbows at once by a hoof each for his trouble, and he buckled, the pain spiking to beyond his tolerance for long enough to rob him of his balance and his advantage. Rising, the Elite had to turn from him to fight off other Brutes, and in the maelstrom of twisting, bloody bodies, Doaedemet was able to crawl away unseen. He didn't want to fight with that one anymore, anyway. Apart from the main combat, he scraped open a pack on his bandoliers and began to mend his injury. He still had Leaders to kill.

Epileptic light shows dominated the scene, but the dance was more pushing, shoving and striking than mere motions. Despite these things, 'Lavuree was still starkly aware that the columns above them from the center of the ceiling to the floors of the verandas that circumvented the chamber were loose- or rigged to become loose, as the fact was on the minds of every enemy in the room. They would withdraw soon, and when they did, those columns would come down, each one a four-ton rod ribbed up the lengths with decorative spines. Any who were granted a glancing blow would be hurt as badly as those they landed directly upon- and while these decorations would make the columns easy to pass once they were down, the loss of ground and life to their initial falling would be immense. 'Lavuree had no way to communicate this to his brethren, but the more he thought about it and the more hopeless the situation appeared, the angrier it made him.

Somewhere in the push he had lost all six Grunts, and both teammates- and from the screaming of the wounded and the cries of the dying it was impossible to tell if any were still alive at all. The Elites at his elbows were people he barely knew, only a few having names he could remember. Following a sightline to the other side of the chamber, 'Lavuree caught a glimpse of an energy sword, something he had been withholding, himself, for fear of cutting into his own with it. Having done that once already, he was in no mood to humor the event again. He ducked sideways when another flared to life to his left, unwilling to be the next one to try being in the wrong spot.

Pressing against the back of the shoulder of another Elite, 'Lavuree raked his claws across the face of a Brute that had gotten too close, causing an instinctual recoil that allowed him to fill it's opened maw with plasma from his rifle. This had turned into the worst melee fight he had ever witnessed, bearing more towards an armed barfight than an actual battle. Everything was a mess- friend and foe alike were so badly mixed that 'Lavuree had already witnessed accidental friendly fire on both sides of the conflict.

Carbine rounds zipped off his shields, what remained of them, before a Brute coming over the top of the one 'Lavuree had just felled fired a swath of plasma straight at him, bathing his shields in a brilliant light until they finally finished failing. Ducking into the press of bodies, shoving brutally to get away, 'Lavuree dropped an Elite back that might have otherwise lost his head, staggered a Brute that was about to drive a killing blow, and tripped up another that promptly landed on him. Winded and dazed, he forgot to move when the Brute recovered and rose. Mistaken for dead, he was allowed to lie where he had fallen, but all the same he was being trampled constantly by members of both sides. Battered and bruised from being stomped and kicked so much, 'Lavuree crawled from the scene to one of the partitioned combs under the veranda to gather his wits and regain his breath. Spotting him rising, a Brute from the fight he had left behind rushed him, lifting a grenade launcher to use the crude blade on the back.

'Lavuree met him halfway, sure since he had not fired the weapon first that he was quite possibly out of ammo- but after a strenuous fistfight and struggle for the weapon, he found out it did actually have one last grenade in it, when he pointed it point blank at the Brute and fired. Thrown down by the blast, the pair were separated and flattened at once- but for the small increment of shield 'Lavuree had managed to regain, the Elite survived where the Brute did not. Throwing the beastial weapon aside, he again rolled to his hooves, this time doing so unaccosted for long enough to pick a face from the crowd.

Seeing 'Lygotee get dragged down by a legion of Yanime'e tipped him over, and he charged back into the fray broiling mad, and blowing enemy and ally alike out of his path as he walked it. Arriving where he had seen his Commander fall, he unleashed his sword and lashed out with it, cutting the bugs back until he had unburied the hapless Elite beneath them. Grabbing an arm, 'Lavuree hauled the fortunately unharmed other to his hooves, the only thing lacking being his shield's charge.

He gave the psyche a grateful look, before taking his own sword in hand. All over the chamber the same picture was being repainted, as guns were cast down in favor of the brighter, hotter, more dangerous Sangheili blade. The conflict was simply too tightly packed for much other than that to work. But 'Lygotee was the only one to see the look on 'Lavuree's face as the swords lit up. Looking at the crowd, the albino seemed to know something they did not- and even 'Lygotee understood why when all the Brutes that could suddenly up and fled the fight. A surge of newly admitted Elites poured into the room, chasing them alongside those that had squeezed in first.

'Lygotee was staggered by the blow of the first column striking the floor, smashing into it so hard he was jolted from his footing. It had blocked the door- the next one to fall was the one in front of the rushing wave, stalling their charge. 'Lygotee's face drained of blood as he witnessed the horror unfolding. The whole thing had been a trap, a big grinder for Sangheili meat. The third column broke free, but 'Lygotee's attention suddenly shifted to closer to home when the Elite beside him, though devoid of adversaries, slammed to his knees on the floor. Glancing up after realizing he ought to have heard or felt the next one hit by now, 'Lygotee was frozen by what he saw.

Without tether or support, and without touching anything solid, the third, fourth and fifth columns hung in midair over the chamber's entrance, hovering and trembling after having fallen just enough to have come horizontal. There was no solid reason why they were not crushing masses of Sangheili and dismembering others. The sixth cracked, tipped over, and paused at a forty-degree angle with the base still touching the veranda floor. 'Lygotee looked down again, then, at 'Lavuree, to see the Elite shaking as though cold. The air around him was rippling with heat, however, and the ink on his skin had begun to run, staining in a pool around his knees. 'Lygotee tried to touch his friend, but found out the hard way that that action was ill-advised when the heat-ripples proved a real manifestation, from real heat.

'Lavuree lifted his head, as though with great effort, and looked out at the eighth column as it too cracked from the base and began to fall. 'Lygotee watched as it tipped, slowly, too slowly to be natural, stalling to a complete halt, before starting again. The sound of teeth grinding brought 'Lygotee's gaze back down to 'Lavuree, as he tried valiantly to hold that eighth column, even though it was sinking steadily floor-ward despite everything he was giving it. Kneeling beside the albino, 'Lygotee looked into his lensed eyes. Right then he thought he finally understood everything the warrior had been trying to tell him, and the last thing 'Lavuree needed was to lose his faith right now.

"You can hold it, Rkwa." 'Lygotee whispered. "You can hold it. I believe in you."

'Lavuree's face contorted, as a small trickle of blood escaped a nostril. "… it's slipping…" His voice was barely audible, but it was there. "…can't… hold them… too many…"

"No, no- you can do it, you can hold them." 'Lygotee insisted, twisting to see the floating weights that really should have long ago done their dirty deeds. One by one, they were sinking towards their victims, but though his grasp was weakening for the immense strain, they fell slowly enough that the Elites they were meant to crush were able to not only escape from beneath them, but some climbed on top of them, so when they finally did settle there was plenty of standing room for all. 'Lygotee heaved a breath of relief, but when he looked again at 'Lavuree, he frowned- there was something else. He was trying to hold something else, and it was what had compromised the first eight columns.

Before he could ask, though, the Sangheili resumed their charge, now flying over the tops of the failed trap's workings. 'Lygotee stepped out from 'Lavuree to try to see what it could possibly be, and what he could do about it, when everything came unglued.

Behind him, 'Lavuree gave a cry and collapsed, and not a heartbeat later, all the rest of the columns exploded from their perches and dropped in realtime upon the Sangheili forces, slamming many hundreds into mush and knocking the rest from their hooves. Still, for the delay, more than half of the number had made it to the Brute's line and had reengaged, tearing into the hirsute behemoths as though vengeful for what had only just happened. 'Lygotee turned back to his friend, aware what time he had bought them, but before he could re-close the gap between himself and the heaped warrior, the air above him thickened with clouds of Yanime'e, raining plasma fury down on all those lucky enough to be between columns and spared that fate. It seemed a hundred broke off to kill 'Lygotee, forcing him to retreat, leaving 'Lavuree far behind.

Like he was, he blended nicely with the dead, and would be missed when the survivors were mopped up- 'Lygotee on the other hand, still vertical and animate, had to run just to keep from being singed right off his hooves.

At the far end of the Proclamation Chamber, Doaedemet despaired. How, by the Rings, had that happened? There existed no scientific explanation why, no explanation period. What strange new technology did the cursed Sangheili have that he did not? He had had them right where he wanted them- and then the master of all plans had failed him utterly, and for no apparent reason at all. Furiously, he paced back and forth, back and forth, back again. He hadn't room to get to the fight, hadn't the munitions for that kind of conflict anyway. He held to his hammer, though, the only thing he had left from his once-glorious reign. Stopping suddenly when he spied something move against the black backdrop flecked with white that the windows afforded, he squinted at what appeared to be a starless area. Stepping in that direction, he saw it move, again, and he recoiled away in surprise and shock. A Sangheili! Realizing it was only one, and apparently alone, his nerves calmed and he grinned at the warrior.

This would be his stress-vent, how he would handle his current inability to think of what to do next. At the peak of his victory, he had gained only a crushing, bitter loss, and what? What then? Stalking towards the lone Elite, he snarled at it. "Come out of your optical shadow, Sangheili pig, and face me if you are a true warrior!"

Fading from the invisible place came quite possibly the smallest adult Elite he had ever seen- and he was not only small, but skinny, too. His face looked like death, partly sunken features showing under the scored helm. He had a couple of grenades at his hip, but he appeared totally unarmed- no sidearm, no sword on his belt, no plasma rifle in his hand. Doaedemet scowled. This would be no fight- he would just butcher this one and find no great satisfaction in the act. Seeing it as such a waste of time, he almost spat in disgust and turned his back, but he didn't- not when he saw both of the Sangheili's arms light up, along the outside from the wrist to the elbow.

"You are not allowed to speak the honored name of my people." The Elite spoke, quietly. "You will pay for your crimes against them with your life. And then the rest of your people shall follow you to the grave." He raised his arms, showing the single-bladed energy-swords in his hands.

"You are no bigger than a half-grown whelp! I shall crush you and spit on your remains!" Doaedemet roared, riled by the insult and the threat. Perhaps he might find some fun in this one's death after all, if he could dance half as well as he spoke. He raised his hammer, and lunged, maw open in anticipation of more blood.

Hoku Zimivee let him come, let him get close, before he even bothered to move. When the Brute was where he wanted him, Zimivee shot from in front of him, moving with such grace and speed that he was likened to a blur, swimming through Doaedemet's vision. He cut the hammer in half first, to open the Brute's arms, then severed them each at the shoulder, turning around the flying silver-striped behemoth and taking his legs off at the knee first, then when he tipped forward in true freefall, cut up with one hand to fully open the belly of the beast.

Slamming to the floor, defenseless, in agony, and fast becoming lightheaded, but alive and as yet coherent, Doaedemet tried to grasp his hammer, tried to jump to his feet, but he had neither arms to hold it nor feet to jump to, and he could only blubber up at the Elite that had done it to him. He could feel his intestines drooling from the massive wound in his middle, but he knew his feces had long past mixed with his blood, and that detail was lost for the insignificance of it. The fact that he lay dying at the hooves of a relatively tiny Sangheili warrior made him mad enough to live just a little longer, though.

Long enough to speak. "You will fail, fail and die." Zimivee didn't answer. He just walked away, uncaring that the Brute would die slowly in misery. He deserved it.

Chapter Eleven, part four:

1322 hours; Command Station Radiant

With the last of the fight mopped up and the final few enemy being hunted down to the last corridors in the bottom of the bowels of the station, the survivors of the Battle of the Proclamation Chamber were left in peace- relatively speaking- to mend their wounds if they could.

Enin 'Lygotee understood how lucky he was. Looking over the medical chamber he was in, he saw all kinds of survivable injury, and a few that weren't. The warrior that had been found alive with his arteries cut and gaping was remarkably still holding on, awake even, fighting to stay right where he was- alive. He was the most unruly and feisty of the bunch, as some with lesser injuries had died in surgery. The head-count came up glaringly shy of their original number, though, a stark loss that would leave much of the station empty and unoccupied. The place was full of ghosts, now.

Ghosts, that would haunt the halls forever, 'Lygotee felt, if they didn't deem it acceptable to follow those they used to know around. He still ached for the loss of 'Obaulee, but now there were others he had known who were just as dead, just as gone- among them being Avin Szęnaqee, Dial M'akamee, G'vil 'Döthumee, and others… but the one that hurt the most was Thin 'Pohamee. He sat alone in a reasonably quiet area, the more or less inactive end of the chamber, beside the single warrior on his team he had left- Rkwa 'Lavuree.

Stripped of his armor and covered in little bandages and healing-speeder devices, 'Lygotee had been amongst the least wounded of the warriors to enter that speaker's hall. But looking at the grey-again albino he had worked beside for more than fifty years, he wondered anew how he ever could have thought he knew the warrior beside him. There was too much to take in, all at once, and he had been grateful for the gentle, gradual seepage of knowledge, but the last thing he had learned had been the one to truly stagger him, mentally as well as physically.

Who knew? Who would have thought, after witnessing the warrior fighting? Who could have guessed, even suspected, that that last, final secret, was real? 'Lygotee doubted now that his friend had granted him that suspicion- there were many things 'Lavuree was, but many things too that 'Lavuree was not.

'Lygotee sat staring at the last member of his team, hardly able to wrap his mind around the sheer complexity of it all, around the concept, but he knew what he had seen was true- 'Lavuree had never tried to cover anything that mattered, never tried to keep from him what he needed to know, even if the timing was bad. There was always that counsel, to keep that bad timing from really ever being an issue. 'Lavuree was the one that made things make sense when all others were as clueless as 'Lygotee.

The memory of 'Lavuree's introduction to his command rang in his mind. He had initially dismissed the Elite as merely one more warrior to send and recall, to aid in the machinations of the Prophets, or any number of other deeds. And 'Lavuree had performed those things well enough, but there was that one other detail that allowed him to rise above that dismissal. Why came to mind- why try to impress those that didn't care about you? Why go, and fight, and bleed for those that you needn't bother with? 'Lygotee knew one thing, at least, at last.

Whatever it had been that had driven 'Lavuree to the fleets of the Covenant, it was different from what had kept him there. All along 'Lygotee had been building what he thought was just a band of brothers, next-of-kin to fall back to at the end of the day, when duty was done and the missions were all over. But 'Lavuree, as strange as it seemed to him then, had never once called him that- there had been times when he referred loosely to the other two as such, but not once was 'Lygotee mentioned as a brother- a sibling, an equal elbow-to-elbow with equals. He'd never understood that, because for as much as they shared things, got along well enough, worked well together, he could never get 'Lavuree to tell him why.

Maybe when you're too old to care, 'Lavuree had said. Maybe if I find you at deaths' door… you won't die without knowing, but I can't tell you now.

There had been nothing explaining why. No slip of tongue or accidental action, and that last, final secret had been kept not from 'Lygotee but from everyone- the entire Covenant armada, all the worlds they saw, all the ships and even this station. It was just 'Lavuree, and only 'Lavuree, who knew. And who, it appeared, was the only one allowed to know. But after speaking at length with the medic, there was nothing left to hide anymore, for the final domino had fallen. Whatever happened next would need to wait, though- that final act had driven the warrior into a coma.

Rkwa 'Lavuree had escaped the fate of hundreds of others, only to fall to this in the end. There was nothing anyone could do, but 'Lygotee knew he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to be, and after all was said and done, he owed it all to 'Lavuree. He had been there beside his friend the whole time, waiting. He had carried the albino in, after the fighting was finished, and the din within the Proclamation Chamber had settled to silence. 'Lygotee was going nowhere, he knew, until 'Lavuree either died or awoke.

Either seemed preferable to watching this slow decay. Taking a breath, 'Lygotee looked out over the bustling medical chamber, surveying the humdrum of activity. Dismissing it a moment later, he returned his gaze to the pale, unresponsive Elite lain beside him.

"Of all the secrets you have kept from me…" He began, "for each there was a reason, and for each I understood. But now when your final truth has been revealed, and all now know who and what you really are…" 'Lygotee shook his bandaged head and sighed sadly. With a hand on 'Lavuree's shoulder, he whispered, "You never once betrayed me. You spent everything to keep me alive, and I never knew why. I didn't understand… such faith I did not even find in 'Pohamee. But you… you were trying to tell me something, and I just didn't hear. I often wonder why, Rkwa. Is that even your name? I guessed it was you when I thought of impossible knowledge, I suspected you when I knew beyond a doubt that it was a trap, and I credited you when I lived… survived a thing that should have killed me. But never did I once guess that you were a female."

The End.