Chapter 68: Necessity

Arke waited. She waited. And waited. And waited. The buzzing insect flew close, too close, and her jaws snapped shut. It flew against her teeth, against the roof of her mouth, furiously beating against the confines of her maw. It desired out. Arke laughed and yawned. The fly flew away, leaving a shred of desire-fulfilled behind it.

Another insect approached- no, not insect, but in the eyes of some...?

"We are to join Kiphoris-Veskirisk," Nyreks told her, flanked by other Eliksni warriors. He did not trust her. He did not like her. All he had for her was fear. And fear was a good thing. Fear was a tenet to live by - a way to feed, along with lust, anger, and hope. "Will you fly with us?"

Arke smiled, baring her teeth. Nyreks recoiled. "No. Not with you - but fear not, o caretaker mine, I will not deviate from my oaths. Your Captain will receive me soon."

She took to her feet, turned west and bounded away - through camp and plain and forest.

She stalked Silverwood forest in the form of a lioness, golden of coat and sharp of fang. A hunger called to her - another's hunger, another's hope, another's endeavour. There was a desire for someone beyond the mundane, from far south. Arke traveled south, flitting through the dusk and night as a blur of iridescent treasure on four pawed legs. The night was perfect - by her standards and by those of the doddering creatures who so often declared themselves the owners of the land. There was nary a star to be seen, casting gloom on everything and all.

A flock of bleating woolled beasts panicked and huddled against the dying of the light, having caught a stray scent of abnormality and fearing what it was going to bring. They were cowardly creatures, dim-witted, dreary of wants and needs and never of greeds. Arke had always found them to be tasteless - but fortune smiled upon her, for the animals were not alone. A human rife with the slow process of maturation watched over them, crook in hand and sigh on his lips. He was bored - boredboredbored of the livestock he tended to. He wanted excitement, he wanted to see new sights, he wanted he wanted he wanted and wantedwantedwanted.

Ark picked up the pace, slowing to a halt only at the edge of the field surrounded in rickety, broken fences. She was not the only one. Another shape, snorting and grunting and large and tusked, tore across the grassy earth with anger and a pang for blood and starving intent. The shepherd saw it coming, gawked, and held his crook forward like a spear in shaking hands.

She raced across the field and caught the oncoming beast before it could reach man or sheep, slamming her paws against its thick flanks and sinking her incisors into its windpipe. Lion and boar tumbled across the ground, over and over, and when they stopped Arke pulled away with the animal's throat in her craw.

The shepherd stared, no longer bored but afraid - and the change was enough.

Arke grinned, swept a bladed paw across the boar's belly and tore out a bloodied chunk of wet red flesh. It was sweet and succulent on her tongue, the blood only whetting her appetite. She pushed away, swallowed the mouthful and became a grown human man clad in chainmail and leather. She passed over a proper spear to the watching boy, but the shepherd didn't move to catch it, struck motionless by disbelief, so it fell by his feet. He collapsed backwards, gasping.

"Your father fears for your death," Arke told him, kneeling beside him. "But with this you can convince him otherwise." She became a phantom creature, an ethereal she-elf, and smiled. "King Orin needs you. Surda needs you. The Varden needs you." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against the trembling human's forehead. " Go, o listener mine. Pick up your spear and fulfill your dreams of war."

Arke stood up and retreated into the dark of night, becoming a long-legged ungulate and galloping away. She had ground to cover and little time to dawdle. A-pocket-of cold-space|font-of-dreaded-terror|bastion-of-final-hopes called for her whispers. Who was she to deny the summons?

000

Ikharos paced all night. When he wasn't pacing, he was sitting at the foot of his bed and staring off into space. He did it alone; Xiān was still giving him the silent treatment and Formora had... Ikharos didn't know. Retreated back to her own room or went to meet with the elves they'd pretty much ignored. Either or, really - what mattered was she wasn't there. Safer, probably, though he missed her presence. She had a way of setting him right when philosophical quandaries popped up.

But this wasn't a philosophical quandary. It was existential dread.

Dawn cut through the silk-like blinds cast over the window. Ikharos paused, grasped at what scraps of calming nullscape he could, and drew in a deep breath - then stepped out of his room. Something flashed by - and Ikharos veered to make way for the waist-height thing running past. The elven child skidded to a stop, turned around and stared. A raised voice came from back where the boy had come from, further down the hall, and it was all the convincing the lad needed to hightail it.

Tenivarri, Däthedr's daughter, stepped around the corner, saw Ikharos and slowed. She paused, then brought two fingers to her lips. "Kvetha, Lord-"

Ikharos mirrored the gesture and jutted a thumb down the other end of the corridor. "Your little fugitive went that way."

"He did?" Tenivarri glanced past him and sighed. "I imagine he's going to attempt to speak with the Eliksni."

"Don't blame him," Ikharos murmured. "Fascinating people." When they aren't shooting or eviscerating or otherwise living up to their savage reputation. "Does he do that often?"

"Only since he met with an Eliksni..." Tenivarri hesitated, "child, yes?"

Ikharos raised his eyebrows. "You must be talking about Mezha. He's a hatchling, and he'll be at the Skiff, so..."

"That's good."

"Not many other elven children for Dusan to play with, I take it?"

Tenivarri nodded. "We rear children only rarely in comparison with the other races you may be familiar with... but Dusan is enamoured with our visitors. I do not think it bothers him overly much."

"So I gathered. The children part, not the..." Ikharos cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay?" Tenivarri looked perplexed - with a hint of amusement.

"Sorry, my brain's not fully there. Been a hectic few days. Or weeks. Or... year." Ikharos grimaced and frowned. "Sweet Traveler above, I've actually been here over a year..."

"Not in Ellesméra."

"No, not here - Alagaësia at large, I mean."

"And how have you found it so far?" Tenivarri started walking towards the main body of the manor, gesturing for him to go with her. Ikharos did just that, folding his hands together behind his back.

"Geographically? Beautiful," he said, head bowed. "It's a natural paradise. Culturally? Stunning. It's different to what I'm used to in Sol, with all the humans and neohumans forming their own societies outside the boundaries of the Golden Age conventions, with new mistakes and victories here and there. Strategically? It's a nightmare."

"You are a soldier," Tenivarri acknowledged, "but I wonder - what makes our home so contrary in your eyes?"

"Time," Ikharos said instantly.

"Time?" She looked confused.

"Yes. Time here works the same as it does in Sol and most everywhere else in the universe, but on a hurried scale. A place like this would be the envy of every major paracausal power in the cosmos if they knew about it, if only for the promise of quickly building up strength in comparison with competitors."

"I... don't understand," Tenivarri admitted.

"It's a hefty subject to tackle out of the blue, no worries. Hmmm... think, for a moment, of a vegetable garden. You cultivate crops in it, yes? Now enlarge the scale - those crops are people, they're villages, towns, cities, nations even. You grow them, you rear them, you feed them little scatterings of power and ultimately leave them to do as life does - to grow. Then, when they're good and ripe, you harvest them."

"Harvest... people?" Tenivarri's voice fell.

Ikharos grimly nodded. "Growth-through-murder. That's Sword Logic - the philosophy the Hive worship, the wish their Worms encourage and gorge upon every day of their twisted lives. It's that same philosophy Nezarec and his cult have adopted, using this place to gather power exponentially more quickly than the Hive could ever manage so he can inevitably put himself on a level playing field with them - and then, ultimately, replace them." He paused. "I feel like I'm rambling and have taken this conversation down a dark turn. Apologies."

Tenivarri gave him a long, searching look. Then, after a moment, said, "Formora Láerdhon reported much of the same. It sounds to me like a despicable practice."

"Oh, it is," he agreed. "Hence why I oppose its practitioners at every turn."

"Like now?"

Ikharos pursed his lips. "Yes. Like now." He fell silent for a few moments. "I understand that my... fixation on martial matters is distinctly opposed to the conflict-free practices your culture encourages, but I do the things I do out of pure necessity - for the sake of others more than my own."

Tenivarri didn't reply. They swept around a corner to the wide, open-roofed atrium in the midst of the hall. There were others in the garden - Kida 99-40, Javek, the elven warrior Arahynn, the dwarven ambassador Orik, and little Nireith. The war beast pup worried at an old bone. What animal it belonged to, Ikharos couldn't say - only that he was surprised that the elves let it pass so easily. Maybe they were just more accepting of animals acting savagely than people, though... Ikharos couldn't begrudge them that. People had a duty animals simply did not; peace was the dream all nations should have built towards.

Was he in the wrong, then? Disrupting their nigh-on overbearingly pacifistic regime as he presently had with talk of war and promises of ruin? No, Ikharos decided, though he still felt uneasy with the notion. His part was the sacrifice - the hypocritical cutting away of innocence and guiding others to the higher duty, to building towards peace and striking down those who sought to drag all others right to the dreaded Deep.

All of those gathered were speaking or listening to what was being said, barring the robot and hound - and it was the latter two who spotted Ikharos first. Kida saluted with a stiff mechanical attentiveness. Nireith dropped his bone and bounded over, faster than the pudgy pup had any right to be. Ikharos hunkered down and splayed his hands out as the juvenile war beast skidded to a halt in front of him, yipping and snarling with primal glee. The critter went for his fingers with a snap of its jaws. Ikharos pulled his digits out of the way, gripped under the beast's belly and flipped Nireith over, giving the pup a series of affectionate scratches. Nireith's little legs kicked in the air unthinkingly, paws occasionally glancing across the feathers of Ikharos's bracers with no effect. No Light to agitate - and no Dark to tempt into manifestation. It was as much a relief as it was concerning.

"Hail, Shadeslayer," the dwarf warily greeted. His chest was thrust out and thumbs tucked into his belt, eyes searching Ikharos's own for... what? Hostile intent? Insidious purpose? Dark desire? There was none - at least, none Ikharos consciously humoured.

Ikharos paused for a moment. "Well met, Orik Thrifkz-menthiv."

The dwarf's eyes widened. Orik dipped his head, a small smile appearing within the bushy veil of his sizable beard. "You remember my people's words."

"Some," Ikharos admitted with a shrug. "I can't say I was exposed to much, but I do make a point of at least acknowledging the existence of my traveling companions. We haven't had much opportunity to talk before."

"Aye, we haven't. And I dare say we may not again." Orik's neutral expression fell. "This talk of war... you plan to meet it?"

The Darkblade. The Harmony. Ikharos nodded stiffly, standing up. Nireith mewled with disappointment, rolling back onto his feet. "I have to. The monsters we face... they are the antithesis to me and mine. I must affirm the kinder philosophy as dominant."

"War is not kind," Orik pointed out.

"No, it isn't. But that doesn't mean we can't be, even in the face of adversity."

"Some foes will take your kindness and stab you in the back for it."

"Oh, it's not them I'm offering a hand to," Ikharos corrected. "It's everyone else. Intricacy over reductionism; that there's my war and place in it in three words."

Orik peered up at him with a frown. "I can't say I follow, Hrethcarach."

Ikharos cocked his head to the side. "Hrethcarach?"

"Shadeslayer."

"Ah. Well, I'm harkening back to the age-old debate of Light against Dark, Sky versus Deep, universal compassion as opposed to survival of the fittest. The Hive believe in killing all things so only the strong, the righteous, are left standing. The Harmony want to draw all value in the cosmos into one unified voice, silencing those without any substance so only that of worth - of Nezarec - can be heard. Neither seem to realize that... well, life will only get boring when there's only one person left." Ikharos paused. "I like the universe interesting. I want to keep it that way - and I'd die for just that."

"They call you deathless." Orik crossed his arms. "Mayhaps there's nothing to fear for you."

Ikharos smiled bitterly. "I'm not deathless. That's just a useful misinterpretation. No, I'm... just really lucky. Death can't quite catch me - but it will. One day; another day. Maybe soon."

Orik hmmed. "I still can't admit to understanding. You're going to war, that I understand, but... you expect to die?"

Ikharos shrugged, again. "Dying's the only certainty in my life. What I'm really saying is that there's no confirmation I'll get back up, given what looks likely to knock me down... but this a tangent and I'm running down it. How are your people faring?"

Orik eyed him suspiciously. "They are... well, I believe. Little news trickles in, I'm afraid, even with the borders reopened."

"Anything from Dûrgrimst Quan?"

"... No."

Ikharos raised a curious eyebrow. "You hesitated."

Orik made the exact same expression. "What does it matter? The Quan-"

"-asked you to watch me and report back whatever strange things you've surely learned," Ikharos guessed.

Orik looked momentarily surprised. He recovered quickly. "No. My king did, but not the Quan. Gannel Ormz-Menthiv bade me to listen to your advice, perhaps believing it of the sage kind."

"I'm a teacher," Ikharos said, dipping his head, "and I do what I can to pass on my own learnings to any prospective students, but I fear you're not quite the kind of person fit to enter my tutelage."

"I was not requesting such." Orik frowned again. "But why would I not?"

"I teach languages and I teach culture - often of the alien variety. I teach combat skills, be it with gun or magic or even hand-to-hand. I teach how to summon the single greatest mental defense ever produced in the entirety of the universe. I mean no disrespect, master dwarf, but these are skills befitting a Risen - or perhaps one near in standing."

Orik breathed in deeply. "Is that a jest about my people's height?"

Ikharos's eyes widened. He smiled, despite himself. "No! Goodness no. Honestly, if anything your people stand less likely to get shot, what with the lack of extra body mass, so no. Just thinking, a Risen dwarf would be something spectacular. Particularly a Hunter... I digress - what I mean is this: my students are always those magically-inclined and physically able. You might fit the bill on the latter, but where the former is concerned..."

Orik heaved a sigh. "I cannot wield magic, no."

"Insult to injury, most of my pupils are of the mortally-challenged variety too."

"Are there many others like you?" Arahynn asked, sliding into the conversation with an elf's effortless elegance. He smiled pleasantly. "Where you come from?"

"Of we Lightbearers?" Ikharos closed his eyes for a brief few moments. "Hundreds. Thousands. I think... I think we threatened to step into the realms of tens of thousands, before the dual punishments of Twilight Gap and the Great Disaster cut our numbers in twain. We've been bleeding lives ever since.."

"Grave conflicts those must have been," Orik murmured, "to take so many kin from you."

Ikharos nodded. "We won against the Eliksni in the first grand battle, though not without cost, and the latter... broke our numbers as well as our confidence. From eagles flying high on the elation of victory to whimpering hounds, scurrying away to lick our wounds as the real predators came out to play." He smiled bitterly and refocused on the sight before him. "But! We have reaffirmed ourselves in thoughtful tactics and advanced expertise. Ours is the power of the scalpel - slim, meek, and sharp enough to take out an opponent's jugular."

"That is-"

"My pride speaking, I know. Again, I ramble. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Javek raised a primary hand. "Was speaking of when fight," the Splicer said in flawed English, gesturing to both dwarf and elf. He was such a dear. "Me must ask as too, Ikha Riis."

"Today, if we're lucky," Ikharos told them. "Tomorrow if not."

"And what does this luck pertain to?" Arahynn inquired.

"Whether your people will help or not."

Arahynn blinked. Ikharos continued. "Of all the native peoples residing within Alagaësia, the elves are objectively the most powerful martially speaking, even when those ranks of warriors consist solely of the rare volunteer. Your speed and strength of arm is commendable, but your magic... oh, your magic, and your mastery of it, are what count. Dwarves, humans, and urgals suffer the common mortal plight - most everything requires work and toil done by hand, and they live only long enough to master few of the universal elements, if any. Elves, though, stand on the edge of becoming something... bigger. And have been for a long time if your history is anything to judge."

"Elves are... helpful," Orik said carefully, "where common cause is met."

Arahynn glanced at him with a curious expression. "Ah, but our causes are one, dvergr. We stand against Galbatorix together."

"Do we stand against Nezarec together?" Ikharos softly asked. Arahynn looked back at him, eyebrows hanging low over his eyes. A troubled expression crawled its way onto the elf's fair features. "Do we stand against the Hive together? I have to fight both of them, and very, very, soon at that, but I would appreciate having your people assist me. We face magicians and spellcasters of the highest degree, warriors whose blades have slain thousands, creatures the likes of which should only exist in nightmare - and I doubt I can face them all alone."

"They burned Osilon," Arahynn whispered. Tenivarri, who had watched the exchange in silence, winced. "They burned our people's holdings, homes, and brought death down upon our kin. We will not stand against you, Lord Torstil, but... I see why you worry. My people are... wary about investing in a conflict that does not appear to be our own. We have taken scars in the last war we instigated - with the dragons themselves - and are in no hurry to brave those flames again."

Ikharos took a deep breath. "My people never wanted this war either. We were as content with peace as you are. Then the Darkness came. It ate up cities, cracked continents, drowned populations, stretched out moons and let go just to watch them ripple... We didn't want this. Now we fight it, right at the forefront, because we despise the sheer injustice of it all. Don't you?"

"You need not convince me, lord," Arahynn told him. "I am already on the path of retribution. When you march, I will take up my spear and my empowered rings and follow."

Ikharos blinked, taken aback. "Thank you."

"Eia." Javek offered Arahynn a fleeting miurlis salute. "Mine-gratitude. Need much help. Are please."

"We are pleased," Ikharos corrected, then turned back to the elf. "Really, we are."

Arahynn smiled - though the motion was fraught with caution. No one wanted to go to war, Ikharos mused. Except for him, the ravenous hordes thirsting for his soul, and the imperial militants eking out a living-

The imperial militants.

Who so loved war.

Ikharos knew an opportunity when he saw one.

Something on his face must have given away his sudden change in focus, because Javek took a step closer and asked, "Kirzen? Are you well?"

"I've..." Ikharos hesitated. "I've had an idea. A bad one. A really bad one. I... need to clear it with Formora. And you. Definitely you."

"... Kirzen?" Javek cocked his head to the side, curiously shuttering his outer eyes. His four arms curled in front of his body, making himself look smaller and less threatening. Eliksni body language was such a fascinating thing; so... near-primal, but not at the same time. Medieval, maybe.

Medieval applied to a lot of things on Kepler - not least the tactics he found himself forced to employ.

Ikharos tagged along with Arahynn when the elven warrior offered to bring him to Formora. Nireith and Javek in turn stuck with Ikharos, one just happy to be with someone it knew and the other... well, maybe it applied to both. Ikharos, for his part, scooped up the pup when the little thing started to struggle with the pace they kept and felt not a little relief when Nireith only brushed its little snout against his beard instead of tearing at it like the critter usually did his fingers. A part of him tried to drift over the humour of the image in hopes of baiting Xiān out of her speechlessness, but just like little Nireith she didn't bite.

It made him uncomfortable. Or rather, more uncomfortable. Silence was damning - and from her, doubly so.

Arahynn led them to the sparring yards where elves expertly played at an art they sorely lacked in: killing other people until they stopped killing them back. A blue dragon sat by the entrance, turning her head to stare at them as they approached, and moved her tail out of the way. Ikharos studiously ignored the drake's pointed gaze and marched inside. She wasn't a friend and he had no intention of making her one. Dragons were either awful or slightly less awful - and always, always hungry. Neither sat well with him. At least Arke had worn her intentions openly - though it was something of a mixed blessing that she hadn't joined Javek and him during their departure from all things Scar-related. Ikharos reckoned dealing with an Ahamkara was beyond his present state of mind. Javek and Arahynn stopped, though, and engaged the dragon in conversation. Ikharos didn't catch much of what was being said; neither had he any inclination to stick around and find out.

Saphira's partner was inside. Eragon had his sword drawn, but he stood still as Formora walked around him. She whispered something and his stance changed, sword held pointed forward in a prime spot to parry any oncoming attack. His opponent, an elf Ikharos could only recall from before as having been derisive and far from agreeable, watched with detached interest - then saw Ikharos approaching and frowned.

"Dauthné," the young (though it wasn't a certain thing) man murmured just loudly enough for all nearby to hear. "You are-"

"Here and then I won't be," Ikharos said briskly, flashing Eragon and Formora a smile. "Staving off planet-wide extinction-level threats is busy work. I won't be in your hair for long. Hey, Mora, could we... talk?"

"Conspire, I think you mean," she snarked, raising an eyebrow. "Of course."

"Splendid."

Formora turned to Eragon. "Keep your blade aloft. Whether you're exhausted or in pain, it doesn't matter; keep your weapon in hand and at the ready, always."

Eragon nodded vigorously, looking pleased if a little perplexed. "Of course. Thank you, ebrithil."

"Ah." Formora paused. "That would be Oromis-Elda, not I."

"Oh. I-."

"There is nothing to apologize for," Formora amended. "With luck, I will be back shortly..." She shot Ikharos a questioning look. He shrugged and wandered over to a vacant side of the yard, clear of any potential eavesdroppers. The place was sparsely crowded, though it may as well have been bustling considering how many more elves were present compared with when he had last visited, only a couple of weeks prior. Formora strolled after him, arms crossed and expression grave. "Have you gathered your thoughts?"

Ikharos winced. "I don't know. Everything's falling apart: this war, home, our plans... even me."

"You're alive. You're sane. Your eyes aren't red. That's as much as matters to me." Formora gave him a peck on the cheek. She glanced down. "And you've claimed my hound as a hostage. He appears to be quite taken with you."

Nireith struggled half-heartedly against Ikharos's grasp before nuzzling into the front of his ragged robes. The red-scaled beast carried a heat greater than its diminutive size suggested. It was... comforting. A substitute weight for something that wasn't there, that would not talk, that he missed so, so very much.

"On the topic of what matters..." Ikharos muttered. "We need to talk about what's next."

Formora nodded. "I'm already doing what I can. Lord Däthedr has promised to gather the fyrnvard in preparation. Queen Islanzadí wants to commit our warriors to delivering aid to Osilon, and I would otherwise agree, but with the Hive marching..."

Ikharos grimaced. "Will she be difficult?"

"Yes."

"Should I get involved?"

"No. I fear your involvement will only hamper our efforts." Formora offered him an apologetic look. "Outside intervention at this stage would prove... unwise. Particularly yours, given Islanzadí's-"

"Dislike of me."

"That is a mild way to word it." When Nireith struggled, pushing away from Ikharos, Formora took the pup into her arms. "What did you have in mind?"

Ikharos hesitated. "Something else unwise."

"Oh?"

"We've got Neuroc with us."

"The Psion, yes. She was here when Tarrhis..." A shadow crossed Formora's face. "Oh... Tarrhis..."

Ikharos looked away. "She was confined to a tent and prohibited from doing anything other than taking notes on my research where Mida's remains were concerned. I hope it came in use for them, what with the Cabal having been attacked."

"Where are you going with this?"

"The Cabal were attacked - like you, like the Eliksni. Difference is... they're more than likely prepared to retaliate. Your people are too isolationist, the Eliksni are too focused on killing each other, but the Cabal... even as beaten and bruised as they are, they're still a force to be reckoned with."

Formora dipped her head. "Ah. You want to recruit them to our cause?"

"Do I want to? No." Ikharos shook his head. "They're Cabal - as far as I'm concerned, their legions can burn in hell."

"You don't like them."

"No, not really."

"You didn't like the Eliksni," Formora pointed out. "And now look: Javek, Melkris, Raksil, Beraskes and more follow you into exile and possible excommunication."

Ikharos gave a start. "You-"

"Javek and I talked, briefly." Formora's gaze sharpened, became stern. "We will discuss this further, I promise you that - but for now, we plan."

"We plan," Ikharos tiredly agreed. "Yeah, no, I don't like the Cabal. Not their military in any case. My problems with Eliksni is old history. My issues with the Cabal is a little more recent. Mora, the things they did during the Red War... they were as bad as the Devils."

"You told me... that these Cabal, here, were more merciful than those you fought before," Formora said slowly. "That you were surprised they spared Carvahall. That you were surprised they allowed anyone in Ceunon to live."

"They still butchered the Ceunon garrison."

"As we would have done, in time."

Ikharos paused. "Would we have? Slaughter wholesale isn't something I do. Not where humans are concerned. The Cabal just don't care, not even for their own people. They are brutal."

"I'm not making excuses for them," Formora replied. "I'm just... you have this plan already; it seems to be like you're merely airing your grievances before investing effort."

Ikharos shrugged with one shoulder, feigning indifference. It fooled neither of them. "Could be."

"You are so contrary," Formora fondly accused. She sighed. "It's a fair tactic, gathering allies of convenience. I see no fault in it."

"I see every fault," Ikharos grumbled. "But... yeah. At least Cabal have the capacity to use reason. Suppose that's good enough."

"How do you plan to convince Invoctol?"

"I'll see the damage the Harmony dealt, I'll point north, and I'll tell the dogs of war to go fetch. Mayhaps I'll back it up with a couple of choice death threats, I don't know."

"That's... abysmal," Formora deadpanned.

Ikharos tried a smile. "They're only thuggish Cabal; it'll work, trust me."

"I don't know if I should." Formora returned it. "Alas, you know them better than I." She reached out and grasped his arms just below the shoulder. "What happened?"

"The Red War?"

"With you. With your..." Dark, she probably meant to say. Formora trailed off, too concerned to give voice to her concerns.

Ikharos stiffened. "I... I have it. Some sort of... anomaly lodged in my chest. It's Dark."

"A Blight, you called it last night. Blight on what?"

"On existence. On free will. This... this is a shred of what the Tablets offered the King - what the Deep offered the Osmium crown." Ikharos hesitated. His breathing became erratic. "I'm scared. Terrified. This... this isn't a good kind of power. It's tyranny manifested as force. I... hate it. I'm worried it'll overcome me." He paused. "It almost did, fighting Elkhon."

"She drove you to this," Formora lowly muttered.

Ikharos bit his cheek. "She awakened it, but I think... I think it was always there. Always waiting for its chance to break free and take its due."

"You talk about it like it has already defeated you."

"It has. The Dark has its claws in me."

"But you're not dead and still in control. Does that not matter?"

"It makes it so much worse," Ikharos admitted. "I don't know what'll set it off again."

"Faedhír frëma. Vae ach néiat hàvr hridd wiol áheggur." (Fight on. We don't have time for fear.)

"That helps me all too little," Ikharos groaned, "but I suppose I can try. It's the only thing to do at this stage, 'sides curling up and waiting to die..."

"Don't say that." Formora leaned close. "You're not going to die."

"I'm Risen."

"You're not going to die permanently."

"That's reassuring."

Formora pursed her lips. "You are..."

"Contrary?"

"Impossible."

"Yeah." Ikharos nodded sagely. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

Formora rolled her eyes. She smiled with meagre relief. Ikharos envied her. "When will you seek out the Cabal?"

"We're running against the clock as is, so tonight if possible or tomorrow at the latest. Invoctol's a Psion, at least; he'll know a bad decision when he sees one. He won't say no. I think. Probably. What about you?"

"We can gather the fynvard, but there still lies the matter of whether the militia will join us or follow Islanzadí's commands. We already have some warriors from Ellesméra and the surrounding regions, but given time maybe we could reach out to the eastern cities."

"We don't have time."

"No," Formora exhaled, "we don't. I'll... speak with Däthedr and Bellaen. We'll gather what spellcasters we can for the morrow."

"Good. Then-"

"What of the Eliksni?"

Ikharos's already dire mood fell further. He scowled. "The Scars aren't in a position to help. Those who're here are all we can expect to receive."

"What about Kiph-"

"He's busy."

"Ikharos." Formora fixed him with a stern look. "What happened?"

"Aroughs," he bit out, averting his eyes. "Aroughs happened."

"That was Krinok's-"

"It was the Scars, Krinok's mob and all the others. I'm not party to that. Not endorsing genocide. Not against humans."

Formora didn't say anything for a short while. When she did, her voice was clipped and terse. "You should speak with Oromis."

"What would that-"

"Take Javek; he already knows of Oromis and Glaedr."

"My quarrel's not with Javek," Ikharos told her. "As far as I'm concerned, he and the others did the right thing - condemning the butchery as they had. They're on the right path."

Formora didn't argue. Just said, "Go. Oromis wants to speak with you."

"When doesn't he?"

"Go."

Ikharos sighed, kissed her, and turned to leave. He left the yard, grabbed a chirping Javek and trudged towards the Crags of Tel'naeír with his shoulders slumped, the weight of the Dark pulling at his core - and bit by bit, it was overcoming his every waking thought.

He was cursed with dragons. He had to be. A golden wyrm awaited them at the bluffs upon which Oromis' hut sat, perched at the edge and oh so close to the table and stools already set out. Oromis sat in Glaedr's shadow and poured fresh tea into two cups as they arrived, then a third as a shadow flashed above and settled nearby. Saphira remained still only long enough for Eragon to disembark, then stalked towards Glaedr and settled down with the tip of her tail flicking to and fro. She scarcely spared Ikharos a second look, quite unlike before. Apparently crippled dragons were cooler than undead Risen. Ikharos shrugged off the thought; the less draconic eyes trained on him, the better.

"Thanks," he breathed as he slumped onto one of the proffered stools. Javek took the one to his left and Eragon, however hesitantly, the one to his right. Oromis sat across from him, perfect eyebrows raised above his perfectly solemn face.

"Ikharos. You sound... tired," the old Rider warily said.

Ikharos tucked his chin against his chest and, just for a few blessed moments, closed his eyes. "Yesterday was hell."

"You fought a battle."

"Correction: I fought a brawl with one of my own kind in the midst of a city-wide battle." Ikharos heaved a sigh. "Aroughs is dead, pretty much. The Scars are tearing themselves to shreds. The Harmony are eating well. I'm having an existential crisis and trying to recover my Light, bit by bit, so that next time that monster shows her face I'll tear her apart properly."

"She...?" Oromis asked. He sounded tired too. Ah, to be old in a universe where most everything died young. "Another of your people is here? Where- Ah. The Shade."

Ikharos nodded, staring past the elf and off into the distance. "Shade. Plucked her heart four times, five, sixseveneight, came back every single fucking time."

"That's-"

"Call it ridiculous. Call it a lie."

"Worrying, I intended to say," Oromis said softly, brow furrowed. "You are upset."

"I'm at the end of my tether. I'm trying so hard, but nothing... and no one... is helping. I tore through the bones of Aroughs with Elkhon. We..." Ikharos shuddered. "We killed each other. Again and again and again. She's the Light and Dark both, and I..." He cut himself off.

Javek understood, though. Oromis and Eragon were waiting for the rest of it, leaning forward with worried expressions, but Javek knew. The Splicer winced, spared Ikharos a meaningful glance... and kept his silence. He really was a star.

"A Shade that doesn't die," Ikharos said, flushing the momentary weakness from his mind with a purging sweep of burning rage and ice-cold purpose. "She's the worst of them, but the others... trained ExSec Exomind Troubleshooters, crazed Ahamkara bound and chained to a god's will, and Harmony wielding pure Darkness. That's what we're up against, and we haven't even covered the sheer nightmare that is the Hive. I need the elves. I need the fyrnvard - even if only in support and reserve, I need them."

"The fyrnvard," Oromis began, "is a voluntary militia. One cannot coerce them into action that does not sit well with them - or with those who command them. Even I do not have that right."

"But you're influential," Ikharos argued. "You could at least try to be sympathetic - or is that too much to ask for?"

"I could, but Ikharos... do you understand why we elves are so hesitant to offer aid towards your cause?"

"Because you're a peaceful people and waging war without provocation doesn't sit well with you. Except Osilon being attacked is pretty damning as provocation. Even Galbatorix never went that far."

"Galbatorix-"

"Isn't even half the threat the Hive pose - let alone the Harmony." Ikharos gestured to Javek. "Look, this eliko here will tell you the exact same thing. His world was razed by the Hive. Razed. Razed. An entire world. By the Hive and their masters. If this brood catches power, they could break Scipio's blockade and send word to their kin scattered across the stars. Traveler knows there's plenty of hordes out there just looking for another meal."

Oromis nodded. Actually nodded. In agreement. "I have scryed the land," he began, "and though I have seen none of these creatures you speak of, I see the devastation they have left in their wake."

Ikharos leaned forward. "Then you understand."

"I do, though... I am still hesitant."

"Why?"

"Because if my people attack them, they may well turn their sights on Du Weldenvarden - and if your arguments hold any credence, we will not be able to stand against them."

"Cities destroyed," a voice growled from within, deep and baritone. Ikharos flinched; it was Glaedr. "Even we dragons cannot do this so thoroughly as they have done. Kuasta, perhaps - it was burned, and we are creatures of fire. Ceunon, maybe - it was abandoned and left scarred, and that is well within our ability. Aroughs has been so thoroughly ravaged I am have tempted to believe Belgabad has risen from his grave as you do, Dauthné, but Osilon?" The dragon growled. "Elven cities are not so easily assailed. These... metal golems did so with disheartening ease. Warrior-mages fell before their long-toothed tools, nary a spell casted between them. This is unnatural."

Ikharos groaned. "The choice is a clear one - risk dying by fighting for the sake of others or wait for a death sure to come. The latter can only be worse - for every and all on this world."

"That does not make it an easy one," Oromis objected, sipping from a porcelain cup. His hand trembled. A slight quiver, but it was there. "Formora pointed you here."

"She did."

"And told me you were.. troubled by a development."

"She talks," Ikharos noted. "I suppose I am."

"Would it trouble you to divulge?"

"It would." Ikharos leaned back, arms folded. "I'm not... okay with what this is, but I'm not okay with talking about it either. Not with people I don't wholly trust."

Oromis absorbed what he said and grimaced. "It was Formora's request that I ease your mind, but without-"

"Oromis-Mrelliks is wise, is he not?" Javek questioned in Low Speak. Ikharos's eyes snapped over to the Splicer. "And well-learned in matters of magic. Is he not worthy of attempting to mend your wound?"

"It's not a simple wound," Ikharos grunted, unimpressed. "It's an infection - and a deep one at that. What I have is unprecedented."

"Nama."

"Sorry?"

"Remember, Kirzen, you told us of mine-kin lost to magic and Maw within the borders of your home-star."

Ikharos frowned. "The Scorn? That's different; they were altered by dragon-magic, not Darkness proper."

"And you by Demon-King curse, eia? The fire you wielded against your Maw-bitten kin, Elkhon Accursed, was that of the Osmium murderer. I remember the tales, Ikha Riis. I remember the stories of noble Chelchis and-"

"Chelchis." Ikharos bowed his head. "If ever there was an Eliksni I'd want to meet, it would have to be him... Where's your spider, by the way?"

"Upon mine-hammock, within Calzan-Skiff."

"Fantastic. That's not going to freak someone out at all."

Javek closed his inner eyes. "You dodge mine-point. I only seek to help."

"I trust you with this information. Not a dragon-touched elf." With that, Ikharos reverted to English. "This burden is mine to bear. I'm not... quick to let anyone else share."

"You fear they may run off with it," Oromis added. Ikharos found himself hard pressed to disagree. "These are... dark secrets, then?"

"The Darkest," Ikharos muttered. "And I mean that literally. The Darkness... it's a plague. It's a horror. You're better off not knowing."

"It's a magic," Eragon said suddenly, "isn't it? Like that Durza had."

"Not... exactly. The Darkness predates magic. It's a philosophy. No, more - it's an integral part of existence. One we wouldn't be here without." Ikharos hesitated. "But only because of moderation. A slip of Darkness - that's all the universe needs to function. Without it? Pure, blinding Light and nothing getting done. Too much, as we have now? I'd implore you to look to the stars to see for yourselves, but there's no need - it's already here, eating up chunks of the country and gouging cruelty into native populations."

"You fight for the Light," Eragon pointed out. "And this Light... it's good? As the Dark is evil?"

Ikharos hesitated again. "I can't answer that."

"Maw is terrible," Javek murmured in flawed English. "Very terrible. Eat Eliksni-home. It eat Harmony-home. It hurt human-home. It here now, will eat elf-home, dwarf-home, next human-home and next Eliksni-home. Must fight. Must fight Maw."

Oromis said nothing. Eragon did much the same. The dragons kept their silence - though they could well have been talking with each other or their Riders and Ikharos would have been none the wiser. He just focused on the cup of tea in front of him and chipped away at it before it cooled off entirely.

"How goes your training?" He asked Eragon after a too-long period of mutual quiet. "Getting closer to... what are you aiming for?"

"Becoming a Rider."

"Aren't you already?"

"Ye-es."

"Huh. So - the training?"

Eragon, though a tad bewildered, looked happy to share. "Since you removed the wound Durza dealt me, everything has become so much easier. I can run, swing a sword, climb, even walk without fear of falling in pain."

"Learning much in terms of magic?" Ikharos inquired.

At that Eragon hesitated. "Some. Of combat-orientated spells... slowly. But I am learning; the true names of animals and plants, how to call on the elements, how to transmute wealth from dirt, and how to operate around and along with the energies guiding our world."

"Like?" Ikharos curiously asked. "Solar? Arc?"

"I... do not believe so. No, simple light, heat, wind and magnetism."

"The basic physics, then." Ikharos nodded. "Along with a helping of biology. Suppose that's as good as magic will get to ammunition, 'longside imagination. That's good." He glanced at Oromis. "Isn't it?"

The elderly elf dipped his chin. "Indeed. Eragon and Saphira are quick learners, though full of unending questions."

"Who wasn't at that age?" Ikharos finished off his tea and stood. "I know I was. Mainly to do with 'what the hell am I?' and 'what the hell-" he gestured to Javek "-are these things?', but it all amounts to the same end - remedying a lack of experience and knowledge. Javek?"

"Hmm?" The Splicer looked up, and seeing Ikharos waiting drained away the last of his own cup and sighed. "Much th-yanks, Oromis-Mrelliks."

"My pleasure," Oromis said with a soft smile, kindly and honest.

Eragon stood too - but not to go with them. "Wait," he said. "Ikharos. I... you said the Cabal were attacked."

"I did," Ikharos replied. "What of it?"

"Was Carvahall...?"

Ikharos's eyes widened. "I don't know. I'll see soon enough, one way or another, and send word back. I promise."

They wandered back to the fledgling camp set up by the exiles set around the silent Skiff. The sparse crew meant a quiet welcome, but it was a warm one all the same. Ikharos actually felt... better for being among a people he understood, as opposed to the bumbling mess his relations with the elves was. The language was clear and the broad intentions of the crew was, for all intents and purposes, aligned with his own: peace and survival. The smell of sweet-ether emanating from the Skiff's open hatches was probably the real reason for his overbuilt stress leaving him bit by bit, but the Eliksni were a nice added touch all the same.

Of course, he had work to do - and that work forced him to climb up into the Skiff's command deck. Neuroc sat to the side, hunched over her datapad, but as he appeared up through the hatch she sat up and switched it off. "Merida-X8," she coolly greeted.

Ikharos took a deep breath. "Have you contact with Invotol?"

"I do."

"What's the bodycount."

She gave him a funny look. Or rather, funnier than usual. The singular eye always threw him off. "That information is classified, human."

"Alright. Get in contact with him."

"Excuse me?"

"Call your Primus."

Neuroc stared at him, not blinking even once. "It is not so simple, human."

"It needs to be. I have a proposition for him."

"And what would that be?"

"Classified," Ikharos evenly replied. "You only need to know that I have to meet with him. In person. Yes, I know, suspicious, but I'll swear an oath not to cause harm or sabotage if need be. Organize a meeting, ASAP."

"ASAP?" Neuroc echoed questioningly. "I haven't encountered this term before."

"As Soon As Possible."

"Ah, following the phonetic structure of your primitive runic language and-"

"Get it done," Ikharos growled. "Now. Time's running short, for my people and yours."

Neuroc's eye flashed, once, and flickered through a myriad of fantastical colours. Had there not been a neurojammer suppressing her psychic abilities on the far side of the cabin, Ikharos suspected he would have been swamped with her oppressive thoughts. After a near minute of glaring, however, she picked up her datapad and scrambled through the different systems. "So be it. Demands will be made, human. Are you prepared to meet them?"

"We'll see," Ikharos mumbled, leaning against the central holodesk and sighing a breath of yet more relief. It wasn't perfect, but... it was a start.

He returned to Däthedr's estate as evening fell. Werelights had been lit outside and shadows moved from within the hall, the door left ajar. Ikharos entered, one hand drifting towards his holstered cannon, but upon reaching the dining room he found it was just because the old elven lord was entertaining a hefty number of guests. Armed guests too. Some looked strange, as elves were wont to, and bore all sorts of genetic alterations upon themselves - and everyone looked fine with it. No one acted like one woman having barbs growing from the back of her forearms or a man having webbed fingers was anything out of the ordinary. It was disconcerting - if fascinating.

Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to drag an elf at random to somewhere secluded and drill them on everything they knew about changing their very forms. The ramifications of how it would have affected Guardians at large, if they had the chance to learn the Harmonic language, was staggering. Beyond the sheer potential boasted by the ancient language, the ability to vastly alter one's very body was a secret weapon so alarming Ikharos found himself worrying over how it would change the war at large.

And if the Cabal Empire learned about the paracausal language? Or worse, the Sisters and the Worm Gods?

He realized right then that Scipio was right. The Warmind, so cold and indifferent to the individual human being, was right. Nezarec was not the only force that threatened to destabilize the fight against the Darkness; if the elves brought their knowledge to the stars, Earth stood to lose it all.

And he wanted to bring them to war against the Hive. He wanted to give them a taste of the universe outside.

What was he doing?

"Ikharos."

He gave a start, heart racing. Formora cocked her head to the side, a warm smile threatening to break out across the cold mask of feigned indifference. "You were thinking too deeply."

"Yeah." Ikharos breathed out, slowly. Who was he to judge the elves when he was the greatest traitor of all? A Taken thing pretending to be free; a demon's catspaw, working to unwittingly enact a Dark King's dying will straight from the grave. He was Oryx's own personal Ahamkara, only he gleaned no sustenance from doing as the Osmium tyrant wished.

Was this Oryx's intent? To square off his slayer with the prince he missed? Or... was it the ploy of someone else? Another player with a vested interest in seeing either or both of them dead - or at least distracted and away from Sol?

"What's your gain?" He asked, nodding towards the bustle that had the manor in its grip.

Formora looked over her shoulder. "More than I expected, to speak plain. Twenty, near thirty warriors and more have expressed an interest in avenging Osilon, defending Alagaësia and seeing our claims of Hive and Harmony through."

"Spellcasters?"

"All."

"That's what I needed to hear." Ikharos fingered his cannon's grip for comfort. "I'm heading out at midnight. Neuroc grabbed me an invitation and a vow of safe conduct, so I think it's a near certainty Invoctol will see me. Will you be coming or staying?"

Formora looked conflicted. "I should stay and assist Däthedr and Bellaen, convince others if I can. But where-"

"I'll leave some Eliksni with you. They'll have communicators. I'll take Raksil and Melkris and Calzan, but you can have Javek and Beraskes and the rest."

"That's sweet of you."

"Just being practical; Beraskes hates Cabal and Javek's just a darling. One'll screw negotiations where I'm going and the other will help you if he stays."

"I suppose he will. Where is he?"

"Praying to Obleker."

Formora inclined her head. "I see. How many warriors-"

"Skeleton crew," Ikharos told her. "Twelve fighters altogether, including the Servitor. Ahlok and Mezha are noncombatants, so I'd feel better if they'd stayed-"

"Mezha-kel?" Formora pressed with sudden urgency. "The Scar king-to-be?"

Ikharos hesitated. "Uh... yeah?"

"You took the Scar heir?!"

"Saved more like. What with Tarrhis gone, odds were one of the other Barons was going to have the babe killed in his cradle. Succession is cloak-and-dagger where the old houses are concerned."

"Still."

"Still, saved a child, so I'm taking points for that."

Formora winced. "Was that the right choice?"

"Wasn't it?"

"Maybe it was, yes, but..."

"Consequences, I know." Ikharos grimaced. "Can't find it in me to care, though. Those Scars... they have a lot to answer for."

"We can't fight with them. I'm not speaking from a moral standpoint alone; Ikharos, we cannot fight the Scars as well as Hive and Harmony."

"You won't. They just have to improve themselves, cut out the rot, and no blood needs to be spilled. Between us and them, that is." He made a face. "But I'm hoping it's not true for them. Someone needs to answer for Aroughs."

Formora exhaled heavily. "Just when I start to believe things will be straightforward..."

"Sorry?"

She waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. Where will we meet you? We have no ships to fly, so-"

"Western edge of Du Weldenvarden. How fast can your people march?"

"Fast," Formora said immediately. "We have little need for steeds and can run for days on end if we must."

"Start tomorrow, head to the western border as fast as you can. We'll meet up and move north from there. Hopefully," Ikharos scowled around the word, "with a Cabal regiment or two to back us up."

"I'll tell-" Formora started to say, but then she saw something behind him and paused. "Arya-Dröttningu."

Ikharos turned, already frowning, but Arya beat him to it.

"Islanzadí is going to banish you from Du Weldenvarden," the elven heiress blurted, eyes wide and meaningful. She was looking directly at Ikharos. "She is coming right this moment."

Ikharos froze. "She... are you fucking kidding me?"

"She believes the attack on Osilon came as a result of your activities."

"But the Harmony... agh, bloody hell."

"Go!" Formora hissed, pushing his shoulder. "If she finds you here and declares it, it will force a confrontation."

"Good! I've a few choice things to say to-"

"She'll oppose our efforts once she discovers what we're doing!"

Ikharos paused. "Oh. Right, fair, but..." He looked around. "Arya."

Arya stared back. "I'm not going to stop you," she said quickly. "I'm here to offer what aid I can."

Ikharos looked into her eyes and found sincerity. Annoyance too, but sincerity. "Fine," he growled. "Right, I'll... be heading off then." He turned around, already in the midst of leaning forward, but Formora caught him first and kissed him, hard - pulling away only after a treasured moment that felt like forever.

"Quick," she told him. "Reach Invoctol as soon as you possibly can, convince him of the threat."

"I will," Ikharos promised her, steeling his nerves and hardening his resolve.

It was only a half-lie.

After rippling through the pinewood city with a series of Blinks and cloaking Void-veils, Ikharos boarded the Skiff with those he had chosen beforehand and bade Calzan to fly then out of Ellesméra. The pilot rushed to obey, pulling the ship out of the clearing with a single boom of its thrusters and guiding it up into the clouds above. Stars twinkled down at them at irregular intervals from the orange-purple sky above. They chased the sun west, found it a losing battle and fell away into the recesses of the night. Onwards yet they soared, west and west again, leaving the sea of rustling green behind them.

It was only a couple of hours out from their departure that the Skiff closed in on Palancar Valley.

"We're nearby," Calzan murmured. "Shall I deactivate cloaking fields?"

"No," Ikharos replied, sitting in to co-pilot's chair. "Keep going."

"Keep... going? Kirzen?"

"You heard me. Keep going. There's still ground to cover."

"But the Cabal-"

"Can wait another few hours. This won't take overly long. Xiān?"

Nothing. It hurt.

Ikharos stiffly glanced back into the hold. "Kida?"

"Sir?" A clanking emanated from behind, ending only when the Frame stepped through the bulkhead and saluted.

"Give us the Exodus Prime's coordinates."

Kida's optic flashed and he spouted off a myriad of numbers that meant almost nothing to Ikharos. Kepler was still too unfamiliar for him to traverse it on his lonesome with any degree of success. He translated the coordinates all the same, leaving it to Calzan to make sense of it; usually Ikharos would have relied on Xiān to do that, but...

She wasn't responding.

It was starting to scare him.

The Skiff slowed to a halt above the rippling waves of the open ocean, rear hatches sliding open. Ikharos stood by the closest one, double-checking that his biosuit was sealed and that his helmet was still in one piece. With Xiān at a distance, grabbing hold of his personal diving equipment was beyond him, but he could make do. Probably.

Raksil, Melkris and Neuroc stood behind him, all puzzled and trying to hide it with varying degrees of success. The resident Flayer was the best of the three, but that was no surprise to anyone. Ikharos weathered their questions as best he could and replied only with, "Just wait. I'll be back shortly - and hopefully with a weapon. Don't go pissing off the local wildlife; there's sea drakes large enough to eat this whole ship up in two bites."

Melkris audibly gulped - and a touch overdramatically at that. There was no helping it. "Sea beasts?"

"You'll be fine," Ikharos assured them, "as long as you don't so something stupid. Like try to follow me. Don't follow me, please." He stepped over the lip of the drop-hatch and plummeted into the dark waters below. The cold hit him all at once, forcing the breath from his lungs out of sheer shock.

He was immediately surrounded by shapes darker yet, shadows of sinew and fluke. The dolphins trilled a wary greeting; they knew something was wrong but they couldn't tell what.

Their words didn't reach him.

Xiān wasn't ferrying their voices to him in semi-comprehensible language.

She wasn't doing anything.

He was alone.

Alone in the dark.

Ikharos drowned the urge to lash out and roared into the confines of his helmet, "SCIPIO!"

The dolphins heard. They understood. They swam faster, a whirling mass of sleek muscled bodies and childish curiosity. They dove. Ikharos dove with them, grabbing hold of a proffered fin and breathing shallowly. His air was limited. He didn't have much time. A few minutes, possibly less.

He started to suffocate just as they reached the SIVA-riddled form of the downed Exodus Prime. Ikharos kicked up into the hanger, tore off his helmet and sucked in oxygen - too fast. His lungs were shredded with too much stale air and shrieked with displeasure. It felt as if a thousand shards of glass were raking against the lining of his diaphragm, slowly and with purpose. He swam to solid ground, found his footing and staggered out of the water washing against his legs.

Even summoning the effort to do that was difficult without her. Without Xiān.

Ikharos stalked through the maze-like interior of the derelict colony ship with drive, ignoring the symbology scrawled in ancient dried blood across the walls as best he could. He marched through section after section, floor after floor, until he reached the grandiose finale, lined in old lacquered mahogany - the room holding the greatest weapon in the entirety of the universe. The doors creaked open in front of him; the Warmind was watching.

"The Hive are here," Ikharos murmured. "They're here. And the... Harmony." He shuddered and exhaled. "Why? You're cruel, you're cold, you're empty, you're a fraud; even with all you are, I still can't understand... why?"

Two Frames of the 55-30 models stepped out of hidden compartments to flank the central SMILE pod, optics flashing orange. "Report, R5 Specialist."

Ikharos narrowed his eyes. "I found out about the Six. You didn't tell me about them. I met Elkhon. You didn't tell me about her. I encountered the Harmony. You didn't tell me they still lived, or that they wielded Darkness. Traveler-damned Darkness!"

A shake ran through the floor, through the walls, through the entirety of the ship. The Frames' optics burned bright. "Alert," they said in unison, "type-i infection detected."

Ikharos scowled. "Yeah, I've got it. It's in me now, because Elkhon-"

Turrets unfolded out of the ceiling. A burst of cannon-fire ripped through Ikharos with pin-point accuracy, hitting a majority of his vitals. He dropped.

"You... are the last hope of the Light? I have taken entire worlds. You are not worthy to face me."

A flash of being - a sudden breath, cool and dreaded. Ikharos opened his eyes and looked around - but she was gone. Out of sight. Out of the way.

The turrets above tracked his movements, following him as he made to stand up. "Because Elkhon did something. She woke something up. I didn't think... This all could have been avoided if you'd fucking told me-"

They fired, again. Ikharos died.

"Come for me, warrior of Light. I will finish what Crota began."

His life seeped back into his mended form, spirit reaffixed to his mortal shackles and physical anchor. Ikharos gasped raggedly, forcing himself to his knees - evidently, the Warmind took offense with him standing tall. "They're here. All of them. All the bad things you feared - that I feared. They're here and they aren't going to go. Not unless we try our damnedest."

Gunfire-

-and gone.

"Your Traveler's Light cannot reach you here."

Ikharos coughed out a globule of phantom blood, shivering with post-resurrection sensitivity. "Trying means working together, whether we like it or not."

Scipio shot him down.

"The Darkness is a gift. Let my will set you free."

On his fourth rez Ikharos dragged himself to his feet and shouted, "I thought you wanted to save humanity! I thought that was your primary directive!"

The turrets held.

They did not fire.

Surprised and thinking he was onto something, Ikharos held out his empty hands. "Look - I'm here unarmed, at the end of my Light, run through with a Dark power I don't want. I'm here because I have to be; because without this war, without enemies to fight and monsters to kill we're nothing. If I don't defeat them, if I don't stop them... then everything is gone. Everything that gives life substance and meaning is gone. Do you hear that? Fucking gone. All your charges, your wards, your entire protectorate - given over to soulfire and ruin."

Still nothing.

"I know what you have," Ikharos said, voice lowering. "I know the weapons you keep - and I'm not talking about guns, not even those IKELOS armaments. I worked with your brother. I worked with the Tyrant."

Something orange flashed in the air. A hologram, diamond shaped. "IRRELEVANT!" a sonorous voice boomed from everywhere at once.

"I helped him kill a god," Ikharos continued, nonplussed. "Xol, Will of Thousands. Lennox-2 and I tracked the Worm's rampage through Hellas Basin. We struck him down - with weapons only your kind can make."

Silence.

"Nezarec is a god. The Hive brood is a Worm-Sect; they could well intend to offer bait to draw their god here. Both will destroy everything here if we give them any more leverage. Do you understand? Everyone is going to die if we don't act." Ikharos clenched his jaw. "Give me the Valkyrie."

AN: Huge thanks as ever to Nomad Blue for the editz!