One week later.

Arren opened his eyes. He'd woken up some time ago, after a nightmare had forced him from sleep with visions of a dying child. He swung his feet off the ledge of the bed and slid them into his boots. It wasn't until dawn poked through the holes in his container that Arren realized he'd been sitting there, staring blankly at the opposite wall, for an indefinite period of time. The cold was numbing him, but he hadn't noticed.

He stood, and pulled his coat on.

Pork materialized, and spun his shell once, slower than usual. The little Ghost had been hit hard by what had happened, but was trying to put on his standard happiness. "Good morning, Arren. I'm sorry you didn't sleep well."

Arren didn't reply at first, just zipped up his coat and slung a scarf over his shoulders. His movements were lethargic, but automatic. He didn't bother putting any of his makeshift armor on. He didn't eat, he'd eaten yesterday, and Arren knew it would just taste like ash anyway.

"Pork?"

"Yes, Arren?"

"Can you pick up any radio stations out here?"

"A few, yes. What do you want to listen to?"

Arren slung his gun belt on, sliding the Allegro into its holster smoothly. "I'd like to listen to some music." He had to make some effort to be alive today. After all, today was special.

"Oh! I did not expect that. Let's see what I can reach."

While Pork fiddled with the frequency, Arren opened the door and strode outside. Some distorted sounds came from Porks' speakers, and then music emerged. Arren realized he didn't know what kind of music it was. It didn't have lyrics, but was a lilting coordination of unidentified instruments.

"Is that music ok?" Pork asked.

"What's it called?"

"I believe it's called jazz, Arren."

Arren wondered if Kipo had liked jazz. He clenched his eyes shut as the innocuous thought tore through him like a high-caliber round. Now he'd never know. He shook his head and started walking, the biting morning chill pushing through his clothing.

"It's just fine, Pork." He tried to listen to the jazz, and kept walking, shoving his hands in his pockets, forcing them not to clench into anxious fists. He was in the open air now. This was where he lived, he knew this place.

After the Cabal had retreated, the Eliksni had continued their effort to evacuate. Even if they'd driven their enemies back, the martial race would return to finish what they started, and the Eliksni had to find a new place to hide. They'd hurriedly buried their dead, and Kelsik and the Captain had briefly spoken to Arren.

They had expressed regret at the losses, but had thanked Arren for his and Kipo's help. Cariks, in light of the situation, had no further plans to rescue his sons from the Vex Network, and that Arren was free to go. Not that he could have stopped the despair-driven guardian from leaving. After, Saliska had helped Arren bury Kipo for as long as she could. Arren had never seen an Eliksni cry; they leaked a light blue mist from their eyes. The inscription on the grave had been her idea.

Arren took a deep breath as he walked, forcing his mind back to the present, to the near future. He didn't feel ready for what he was attempting tonight. But he also knew that he'd never think he was. If he didn't make the conscious choice now, he might not ever; he'd just remain in his state of indefinite limbo, living in the wilderness with none but Pork for company.

So tonight, he'd go to a barbeque. Arren hadn't gone last week, of course, but according to Pork this group of hunters had it every week for however long they were all still in the same place, anybody welcome. The idea of being near other people, other guardians, was intimidating to him still. But tonight he'd take it slow, he'd wear something over his eyes and upper face, eat by himself, maybe respond and introduce himself, and nothing else. That was his plan, and it gave him a small modicum of comfort.

It also seemed that now he missed talking to other people. It was a bit of a surprise, Arren thought, but it was the only explanation. Another side effect of having known Kipo Oak. He skidded down the next ridge, steadying himself on a tree once he reached the bottom. And besides, he'd made a promise.

And tonight, he'd try to live like Kipo had asked him.

He reached the end of the clearing. There was a rocky cliff leading up the next ridge, but it was pocked and marred with extreme heat marks and small piles of rubble. This is where he came to practice with the light, and where he'd decided that he preferred solar energy to the others. But a week ago, in the depths of panic, fear, and anger, he'd finally been able to unlock the true power of solar light.

Arren pulled the revolver from its holster, and looked at it sullenly.

"If only I'd figured it out sooner, maybe I could have…" he muttered, then shook his head. That kind of thinking would only push him further back into the darkness. And now he knew what that fire felt like; purifying rage that had consumed him for moments and allowed him to lay waste to those that had killed his friend.

And even now, in the numb cold of depression, it was still there. An ember, a spark, of something dangerous, of something powerful. And he had to control it before it burned something important to him.

His hand clenched on the grip of the gun, and he raised it above his head, allowing the spark to flare within him, igniting his soul and turning the despair and darkness into directed fury. With an explosive CRACK, solar light infused the piece of metal in his hand, and Arren lowered it again, leveling it at a boulder. He narrowed his eyes and pulled the burning trigger, something deep in him rejoicing at the destruction he was unleashing.

Arren would be stronger the next time he had to defend a friend, he'd be sure of it.

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Love to my readers in Ukraine, I'm praying for you all, and wish I could do more. Честь Україні