Major spoilers for Halo: Divine Wind ahead.

Word count:1766


Mark-G313 walked beneath acacia trees, bathed in familiar, dappled sunlight and surrounded by the smell of a recent, heavy rain. A thousand puddles glittered around him on the forest floor. He knew where he was, but couldn't remember how he arrived.

It was wrong.

Camp Currahee, all of Onyx, was gone. He'd never walk its surface again except in his dreams. But dreams. . . weren't like this. Clad in SPI and his helmet at his side, he could feel the sun and wind on his face, smell the wet earth, hear twigs and old leaves beneath his boots. And he wasn't alone—something, or someone, was following him, just out of sight.

Instinct told him it wasn't one of the nameless terrors that had haunted his sleep since Miridem, not this time. Still, he donned his helmet, faded from view, and began to move with the silent, predatory grace that had been drilled into his bones.

Change vector. Avoid snapping sticks, rustling leaves, splashing water. Leave no prints in the mud to show I was ever there. He scaled five meters of acacia without a sound, and waited for his hunter to show themselves. All he had was his wits, his body, and the knife above his shoulder. He could work with that.

He paused, searching for some sign of his pursuer. No noise but the wind through the trees and his own breathing. No movement but shifting leaves. Whoever they were, they were good. He kept his right hand on the still-sheathed knife as he searched; he'd be better.

He heard a faint, familiar scrape of composite on wood, and a whisper in the air.

Damn, he thought, turning, above and behind. Of course.

Mark barely drew the knife before a smaller, armored figure barreled into him and sent them both tumbling out of the tree. He hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, and his attacker punched inside his right elbow, knocking the arm down. The knife flew out of his loosened grip, arcing off into the brush.

His opponent loomed over him, right fist pulled back for a devastating punch. He had enough time to realize they were wearing MK II SPI armor, identical to his own, before he blocked the blow with his left arm, letting it glance off his gauntlet. He used his greater reach to drive a right hook of his own into their less protected left armpit as they set up for another strike, but they weren't phased. They grabbed his upper arm and pulled, bringing the two of them together in a vicious headbutt.

"WHY," they screamed as he was knocked back, and he knew that voice, the young girl it belonged to, all the grief and rage, "ARE YOU HERE?" That was impossible though; he had to be wrong.

And Holly-G003, almost seven years dead, punched him in the head. The blow staggered him, even through his helmet.

"You shouldn't be here," she shrieked at him, voice cracking, "not so soon."

She cocked her fist back to punch him again, only for someone else's spectral gauntlet to grab her wrist. "I think he gets the point," another familiar, long-lost voice told her. Dante-G188, unmutilated now, dead only hours before her.

Mark fell back, eyes to the sky but seeing nothing. He felt, suddenly, a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

"So that's it then," he said numbly, "I died." He remembered now; the Prelate, Ash and Mom in the river, the twist of his neck.

"You came alone," Dante supplied as he helped Holly off Mark, "we'd know if you hadn't. Waited awhile anyway, just to be safe."

That's. . . good. Mostly. Ash and Olivia were probably rescued then. But, if something happened to Mom, would she be here, would I really know?

"I left them." He said as his teammates both offered him a hand.

"Don't imagine you had much choice in the matter." Dante said as he took their hands.

"Not any choice worth making, at least." Holly murmured as they pulled him up.

No, he hadn't. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he stood by and let the Prelate kill Ash and Mom. His life for theirs was an. . .acceptable trade. He wondered if the recovery Pelican found his body, if that would be any closure to his family. . .or if they would know he'd been killed by the enemy and not the rockslide.

But none of that was his concern any longer, whether he liked it or not.

Mark stood, towering over his teammates like he never had in life, and pulled them both into a desperate hug. "We missed you," he croaked, and felt tears begin to well up in his eyes, "so much. You should have lived, should have gotten to meet Mom."

Holly and Dante's deaths had broken the three of them, even if they could never bring themselves to talk about it. Ash couldn't bear to lead as his perceived failures ate away at him; Olivia buried herself in machines it wouldn't hurt to lose; he'd become violently protective of his second family, now that he was old enough to truly understand what it meant to have them taken from him.

Mom helped them paper over the holes in their hearts, because none of them knew how to heal each other. . .and now they'd have to do it again for him. At least he now knew he'd see them again, one hopefully far-off day.

His teammates returned his embrace, wrapping their arms around him.

"We'd have loved that." Dante whispered hoarsely. Holly nodded, silent save for a barely audible sob.

"None of you should be here," another familiar voice intoned from behind him. Mark felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the sad, smiling face of Commander Ambrose. "I think you can understand," he continued, "when I say I'm not happy to see you, and I'm glad you arrived alone."

"Yes Sir," Mark huffed, "I'm as happy about it as you are."

"Good," the Commander said, something like. . .not happiness, but perhaps acceptance in his eyes, "welcome home, son. There are people here we want you to meet." The Commander made a sweeping wave with his free hand and Mark followed the motion.

It wasn't just the four of them in the acacias' shade. All around them stood somber ranks of armored figures. Some were taller than he was, most were much shorter. A handful wore MJOLNIR, but most were clad in SPI. He recognized more faces than he'd hoped, but not as many as he'd feared.

Alpha, Beta, and too much of Gamma. Finding a peace in the next life that they never could in the first. As one, they snapped to attention, saluting another brother brought to them too soon. He couldn't meet their gazes and looked back to his team.

The Commander squeezed his shoulder. . .sympathetically? Reassuringly? Mark didn't know. "There's one more thing I need to show you," he said softly. "Saber, follow me."

The crowd parted before them; silently, fluidly, each Spartan knowing exactly where they should be and trusting their fellows to know the same. It was a cohesion he couldn't remember a time without, on a scale he hadn't experienced since Onyx. Holly and Dante each took one of his hands in theirs, and he appreciated how their touch anchored him, when part of him wanted nothing more than to be swept away.

The four of them trekked in reluctant silence. He could see the subtle fidgeting of his teammates as they tamped down on a desperate desire to hear more of Ash and Olivia and Mom. The Commander was far less obvious about it, but Mark had received a great deal more training in identifying those cues than most. He had all the time in the universe to tell them everything.

It was only once he caught a glimpse of Camp Currahee through the trees, far off to their side, that he realized he didn't know their destination. Not intellectually, at least—with every step, some instinct told him he was drawing closer to a place he should be. It wasn't a feeling he could ever recall having before.

He wasn't sure he liked it, either. With each step, the instinct urged him on to some unknown end. With each step, a tightness in his chest began to build, a tension between pressing forward and running away. With each step, he saw flashes of his life. Wasn't this supposed to happen before I died? He felt the Prelate seize him; the nervous elation of the first time he'd called Veta "Mom" in earnest. His raw grief in the Shield World, and the quiet pride when Saber clicked. Hot rage in a crowded starship, doused by cryo, and caring hands straightening out his Sunday best even as he squirmed.

The Commander sidestepped a glittering puddle and halted, turning to face them.

Mark was about to ask why they'd stopped, to ask what the pressure in his chest was and why he couldn't decide whether he wanted to laugh or throw up, when he looked back down at the puddle. It wasn't sunlight that lit it up, for it sat deep within the shadow of an acacia, but something inside it. And that something called out to him with the memories of a childhood lost in fire. He knelt down for a closer look, but couldn't bring himself to touch the surface of the pool.

"What. . ." Mark shakily turned to the Commander, "what is this?"

"You already know, don't you?" The older man murmured gently.

Yes. He did. And the feeling in his chest was collapsing toward nausea by the second. "If I go through," he choked out, voice cracking, "will I be able to come back?"

The Commander nodded. "You don't have to go alone," he said, "if you don't want to."

Familiar hands rested on his shoulders, and he looked up at his teammates.

"We're here for you." Dante affirmed.

"As we were always supposed to be." Holly finished.

Mark looked back to the Commander, who shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline," he said softly, "I'd only cause trouble for you."

He nodded in understanding and looked back to the puddle. The portal, the threshold to a life he couldn't remember. He inhaled deeply, expelling the air with a nervous shudder, and steeled himself as his second family braced him.

Mark reached out, and placed his hand in the water.


. . .Mom? . . .Dad?