Did you miss me? Of course you did. Strap in cause I'm sure this 13K word chapter is my longest yet and the reason this upload took so long. A record I'll have to beat.
Lust the Gunslinger III
When the world reformed around him and his feet sank into the ground, the Guardian found himself enveloped by the strangest memory. It was a small one and one he believed he would not feasibly recall with such clarity, given all that had been happening.
It was about the ground itself upon which he stood. The last time he had, it was soft, fertile, damp from dew or rain.
Now, the land beneath his feet was hard and cracked, burned and scarred. The dark grass from that night had faded. Dead yellow and charred grey had taken its place. He shouldn't remember this, but he did. Every little detail from that night. He doubted that he would ever forget.
"This isn't the best place for you, Guardian," His Ghost said to him, in a voice that was close and felt so far away at once. It wasn't the first time his Ghost had said those words.
Just 'his Ghost'. She had yet to take a name. He had yet to give her one nor take one himself. 'Guardian' or 'Hunter' was all he was, in name and in everything else.
"I'm fine," he replied stiffly and said no more than that. Any more attempts at defense would always ring hollow to a creature who could read his mind.
She spoke of his village, the place where he had been born, likely twice. The charred ruins that haunted his dreams, both sleeping and waking. The Hunter willed his helmet to disappear, pulling back the hood of his cloak and exposing himself to the open air. A gust of wind blew through at the same time, gently lashing his face until his blue skin took on a lavender tinge and the long strands of hair were pushed away from his eyes. The air stank of rotting wood, burnt greenery and something more. He had other memories as well, besides the feel of grass beneath him. Memories of the stench of spilled blood, spent bullets and rotting, burning flesh. But here, in this place and at this moment, he was unsure of how much a simple memory it was.
"Meat," The Guardian forcibly corrected himself, "Not flesh. Meat." It's what he had to tell himself if he wanted to sleep at night.
The Guardian was no longer a stranger to destruction. Given how his Ghost found him, it is unlikely he ever was. In his time as a New Light or kinderguardian, as Jaren annoyingly and affectionately put it, he had heard tales and seen images of scenes like this. Pictures of death and desolation. But those were ransacking sites, the handiwork of the Fallen, a race they were in conflict with. They were enemies, bent on a war that only one would live to see the end of. Loathed as it was, this was expected. Par for the course.
This ruin before him had nothing to do with the Fallen. Indeed, it didn't even look as if they had come and combed through the site for scraps, as they tended to do. As if the brutality exhibited here was too much for even them to stomach. This was the result of brigands, outlaws. Humans. This was the work of humans. Humanity was embroiled in a war of survival or annihilation. Besieged on every side by older, more numerous, more advanced races. Still they found the time, the energy, the stomach to turn this kind of horror onto their own. Onto him. They had killed him.
What stood out more than anything was the lack of weaponry scattered about. His Ghost had once offered an easier explanation; that the brigands simply took what they found, including weapons, which would always be of use. But the Guardian knew otherwise. Bullet shells glinted even in the low light and there weren't as many as there could have been. These people had been unarmed. This wasn't a fight, this had been a massacre. And he wouldn't be here to walk among ghosts and echoes had he not been a casualty.
His first step forward was the most difficult but stopping once he had started would be even more so. From the outer perimeter and into the village proper, dark clouds filled the sky, obscuring the sun and casting a deep grey overcast on the land. Appropriate though it may be, the sight was depressing enough, it needed no help. Small homes dotted the clearing, burned black by flames and doused by rainwater. The wood on them was rotting. Several roofs had already collapsed inward, leaving open holes to the air. Most of them looked unfit for salvage, even less for living in.
The Guardian looked upon the destruction, upon homes and livelihoods gone to seed and thought, "What could I have done, had I been what I was now?" Morbid thoughts he couldn't help but have. The brigands had been well-armed back then but less than adequately armored. He remembered that too. There had been almost nothing in the way of the Guardian's metal pipe and that outlaw's throat. He and his crew hadn't been expecting any sort of challenge. What could Solar Light do to bare human flesh? Burn? More than burn, more than incinerate, it would evaporate. Flesh to ash, ash to dust. From nothing to nothing.
"And that's all they were," the Guardian grumbled darkly to himself. Nothing. They attacked a peaceful settlement of farmers and ranchers because they knew they would not face any sort of true resistance. And indeed, if he had been there, neither would he. He would face no resistance and he would have shown no mercy.
They got what they had wanted that day. The Guardian could see the evidence for it as he and his Ghost moved further and further into the village. The bodies were all still there. Many of them lay where they had fallen, others had been dragged and thrown into small piles. Predators and scavengers had been at a few, given how many had chunks of flesh or entire limbs and organs ripped from place, leaving behind ragged tears.
What animals hadn't gotten to, the fires had. Many of the bodies were burned beyond the point of recognition, even if he would ever be able to remember them. The flames had made them into something just vaguely human; blackened, many hairless. Indeed, it was that vagueness that kept the Guardian's stomach and nerve from giving up on him completely. It allowed him to pretend. He could pretend that these weren't people. Refuse to imagine their lives, their struggles, that final harrowing stab of terror right before that long, long silence. He would, no matter how hard it was.
Everything had been killed. People, their pets, livestock. Murdered and then left to be eaten or simply to fester. Men, women and...those too young to be called either. The Guardian's eyes locked onto one of the piles in front of a house, the bodies burnt as badly as the home they died against and cursed himself for their sharpness. It was a pile of two. One grown, a woman, from the wisps of long hair that still stuck to her desiccated corpse. Her arms were folded over her chest, her body tucked in, wrapped over something. The Guardian could not make it out in its entirety but he could guess and what little he could see told him enough. Enough about just what the woman had died trying and failing to protect.
As his hands began to tremble and his vision started to swim, the Guardian knew his Ghost had been right. Just as well as she, he knew how bad a place this would be for him to be, he knew he would see something that would either have him staring at the ceiling through the night or wake up screaming and setting his bed aflame. "Foolish," he berated himself profusely. But he couldn't look away and as he thought, trying to convince himself to turn around and leave before he made things even worse was harder than anything.
The cracking of a branch behind him sounded out. The Guardian's pistol was out and aimed before he even turned around, quivering but focused. His Ghost had long since returned to him. For just a moment, he acknowledged the wetness pooling in his eyes but quickly, his vision steadied and he took in the two figures behind him.
"Doran?" he said, "Ophis?" The gun only lowered only slightly when he finally did turn.
The former, the unsubtle one who was still righting himself after nearly tripping over a felled tree branch, took sight of the gun and then slowly, raised his hands in mock surrender.
The Guardian growled his irritation but clicked the safety back on and holstered the hand cannon.
Ophis had barely reacted. His Ghost hadn't even bothered to retreat to safety. He stepped forward and gestured to the area around them with a sweep of one black-gloved hand. "Is this the place?" The Warlock asked, helmeted face turning away from him to survey the land.
"You couldn't tell me you two were here?"
Doran lowered his arms and gestured to the Guardian, giving his brother a lop-sided grin. "Now he cares about letting people in the know." Ophis's shoulders twitched just slightly, the clearest show of amusement he would provide.
The Guardian rarely had the patience for japes but he had even less today. "Why did you follow me?" He demanded.
Ophis shrugged. "You ran off," he said simply.
"You're my teammates. Not my handlers."
"One has to multitask with you." Ophis' helmet disappeared. Deep brown hair fell to his shoulders, framing a narrow angular face of olive skin. Cunning green eyes bore into the Guardian and he had to look away."
Doran had never bothered with a helmet and the Titan was a near-copy of his twin brother; the same brown hair, though shortened, and olive skin. But Lord Shaxx's training had left him with wider shoulders, larger hands and a more beaten face. More than that, the main difference between the two was Doran's smile. An easy grin that charmed everyone he met and could break through even the Guardian's frosty shell. Ophis rarely smiled at all.
"You never answered me before." Ophis nodded in the direction of the village, "Is this the place?"
The Guardian's jaw tensed as the two men began to approach, to close the distance between them and him. Between them and his nightmares. Weakly, as if he could stop them, he stammered, "Is this what-"
His sad attempt at deflection was silenced with a look. Ophis' gaze blazed like green fire. The Guardian flinched as if he had been burned.
"Yes. This is the place."
Ophis turned his scrutiny back to the ruin before them and his eyes never stopped blazing. Doran had taken the interlude to get his very first solid look at the village. He didn't need to see much before his open, jovial expression had fled. With his now tightened brow and slightly curled lip, he looked even more frightening than Ophis. The rarity with which he took on that expression only made him more so.
"Why would you come back here, Guardian?" Doran asked, tearing his eyes away to look down at him. His own eyes were a roiling picture of rage and grief. He was never so reserved with his emotions.
The Guardian couldn't even give his Ghost a clear answer so he gave Doran the same. "I just had to."
But Doran was never the best at accepting a deflection for what it was. "No! No, you-"
"Doran…" Ophis silenced him as well, this time with a gentle word. He turned his head away. The shaking fist the Titan held, which he didn't seem to know he held, slowly unclenched but never stopped shaking.
There was nothing left to say. Silently, the Guardian turned away from them and continued into the village. Behind him, dried grass and dead leaves crunched underneath the feet of his team as they followed.
Silence went with them as they moved, broken only by Doran's passionate and hushed expletives. The Guardian was growing more and more numb by the minute. Every person contorted into a burnt figure of pain he came across, every person splayed over the bodies of their families, stabbed him in a place he could barely feel. It was as if he was himself and not; here and miles away.
The Guardian stopped. Not entirely willing, his feet had ceased of their own accord. His team had separated from him, the same morbid curiosity that had brought him here had them spreading out around the village. They too seemed miles away.
He was in front of a house. He did not recognize it but he knew it. He knew it from the silver stone wall that rose high above it. He knew it from the stretch of other homes that went further down. He knew it from the line of trees the row of houses ended at. Most of all, he knew it from the sudden churning in his stomach that brought him back from whatever distance his mind had wandered off to. He did not recognize this home but indeed, he knew it.
The Guardian wasn't sure what he was expecting when he opened the door. Some sort of revelation, perhaps. As if the life that had been taken from him would come rushing back when he took in the black, rotting, desolated wreck he had called home until his first final death. Nothing of the sort happened. The house was empty, wood and bricks turned black from fire and ash, no different than the rest of the village.
No memories greeted him. Something else did.
When the Guardian opened the door, the shadows retreated from where the light flooded in. Like a beacon, it focused on the center. A cone drawing his attention to what lay upon the floor. The Guardian's trembling hand released the doorframe and on equally unsteady legs, he stepped forward.
The corpse was in as bad a shape as the rest of the house, only with bits of pink and red streaking slightly across its flesh charred black.
Meat. Not flesh.
It lay prone on its right side, arms still outstretched and hands still spread. Hands that had cradled his face in both his death and life. Its own face was unrecognizable. The Guardian could just barely recall some features, he hadn't had much time to look. A head shaved bare and a shaggy beard that had stretched to the top of his chest. All of that was gone now, lost either to fire or rot. His eyes were gaunt holes, his mouth just barely open. The man who lay dead before him looked no worse than the other bodies that littered the village but he was the sight that nearly broke the Guardian's resolve and upended his stomach.
"Guardian?"
His Ghost's voice registered in his head. From her tone, he wondered how many times she had tried to get his attention. "I already know what you're going to say," he spat as if through clenched teeth, his eyes still on the dead body. "We shouldn't have come here."
"I stand by that, yes," she thought back carefully. She drifted past him and closer to the body. "But I have something to admit."
The Guardian sighed and steadied himself. "Go ahead," he said quietly.
"When I came here, when I found you…" she fixed her eye on the body, "I scanned this one first, believing him to be the one I sought."
"He wasn't."
She turned to him. "No, he wasn't. I tried you and you were but him…" she turned back, "Something about him seemed familiar to me. I knew I had never seen him before but something in him called to me. I didn't have much time to think about it that night, with everything that was happening but I feel it now. Clear as day."
"And what?" he urged, "What is it?"
"I sensed Light, Guardian. Traces of it. Very, very faint."
"Light?" That surprised him enough to begin speaking out loud. The shock tore the Guardian's eyes away, from him to her. Then back to him, dregs of something beginning to bubble within his chest. "You're saying he's a Lightbearer? He could be a Guardian?"
"He could. Or he was. I feel more confident saying the latter."
"But you don't know for certain." The Guardian took two strides forward and fell to his knees, reaching out towards the corpse. He remembered himself before he could touch it and drew back. The stink of ash burned the back of his nose as his breathing deepened. "Can you examine the body? Find out more about him?" The ghost of rough hands traced the sides of his face.
"Not here," a cone of Light was already flowing from her eye and washing over the body, "But give me some time and I can find some genetic information that we can use to identify him back at the Tower. If he was a Lightbearer and he visited the City, they likely have a profile of him."
"And if they don't?" asked the Guardian, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
Despite her doubts, his Ghost gave it. "That would mean he never visited the Tower. That could mean he could still be revived if the right Ghost sought him out." She moved slowly over the length of his body. The man had been tall and broad, "Given the fire and all the time he's been out here, exposed to the elements, there won't be much. It'll take me a while to find even that."
"Go ahead." The Guardian's head turned upwards. Before him was a door, broken off one hinge, thrown wide open.
"Guardian…"
"I'm fine," he lied, more curtly than he wished. He was already on his feet again and walking. "Just find what you need so we can leave."
A quiet sigh and then silence. The Guardian approached the doorway, gripping the frame in hand before he passed through. He was against the mountain, just as before. Memories of the past intermixed with the present and for some moments, he felt as if he were back there, on that night. Cool from the breeze one moment and burning from the heat of the flames the next.
The Guardian moved as if he was a child, walking for the first time; weak, unsure legs, hand braced against the row of houses to his right, unwilling and unable to stop. With every home he passed, his breathing deepened and his neck grew damp with sweat. The visions were becoming stronger now.
When he reached the third house before the treeline, sounds rang within The Guardian's ear. He heard thunderous explosions and shrill screaming. Profuse begging and mocking laughter.
He trudged by the second house and smells assaulted the Lightbearer's nose. The crisp night air stank of fired guns, burned home, searing-
Meat, not flesh. Meat, not flesh. Not flesh, not...
Then the Risen reached the final house. The last bit of cover before the trees, a scattered stack of metal pipes between them. He begged himself to stop, not to take another step. Every other villager that had been killed remained where they had laid that night, this would be no different.
He could not stop. As if he were in a vehicle out of control, all he could do was watch what was coming, powerless to stop it.
Once he was past the last house, his neck stiffly twisted.
All at once, sirens and shrill ringing overpowered his mind. He was truly back there again. As if the world had fallen away and revealed that he had never left the day he was resurrected. The blackened houses blazed bright and new. Weapons were fired, ordnance detonated, people screamed and people laughed at them. Everything he had tried to push away while he made his way under the shadow of the homes towards the jumpship.
There is nothing you can do. There is nothing you can do.
A body hits him, falls back, releases one short gasp of terror before terrified, glowing amber eyes take in his face and widen in recognition. Recognition and in relief.
There is nothing you can do.
I can help her.
Her hand in his. Their feet beating against the ground as quickly and quietly as possible.
A gentle clink against the stone wall behind him. Her sharp scream-
Cut short. An explosion sent the both of them flying. Him into the metal pipes, her further out into the clearing, into the open. The laughter grew louder.
The brigand grabs her. She resists. She escapes. But he catches her. He breaks her nose with one swift punch. He pulls out his gun, takes aim at one of the eyes that were wide and streaming with abject terror and…
The gunshot sounded so loudly in his ear, the Guardian's knees gave out. He fell, bile filled his throat as he retched violently. Just like that night, his stomach gave him nothing but burning acid, spilling out into a puddle in front of his knees. Still, his belly forced him to heave and heave, as if it would have him spit up his own heart if he could.
Like everyone else, she hadn't been moved. Unlike everyone else, the fires hadn't gotten her. Her body had shrunken, thinned as the rot took her. Her blue skin took on a clammy gray, her hair was shedding from her head.
Her single remaining eye had long since greyed over. It still focused on where he had been standing then. Where he was standing now. As for the other eye and the other half of her face blown to pieces, the rain had washed it away. But he could still see the outline, the stain of dark in a cone emanating from her head.
The Guardian lurched to his feet and turned away, the world twisting violently around him. His shoulders remained hunched, his fists balled, shaking and heating with Solar Light. Wetness dripped from his nostrils, from his eyes and his rasping breath had flecks of spit flying from the corners of his mouth.
There is nothing you can do.
I tried. I tried. I tried. I-
"Guardian?"
The Guardian heard but did not respond. When Doran came jogging out of the shadows and took in the sight of him, the Guardian couldn't even turn to face him. As if he would look and he would see her again. A risk he never wanted to take. His eyes remained wide and affixed to the stony cliff.
"Guardian!" Doran called louder, confusion washing over his features. As he approached, he mumbled, as if to himself, "Yeah, Ghost, I found him but...something's wro-"
Doran's eyes had slipped past him. Then they widened. Every form of horror and disgust rolled over his face in that one moment. The big man, constant and implacable, even staggered back some. "By the fucking Traveler…" he swore, hand covering his face and nose. He regained his footing and began to approach.
"DON'T!"
The Titan froze. It hadn't been so long since the Guardian had last used his voice and yet it sounded as if he hadn't spoken for decades. It was rough and forceful, the word was shrill, screeching and unbendingly final. Enough that Doran refused to argue.
"Don't...touch her," he gasped out, as if afraid to open his mouth. His stomach hurt, his chest hurt, his throat hurt. All the places he had been shot when the brigands saw him. If he had the strength, he would have brought his hand to his throat, just to see if the bullet was still there.
She isn't standing. I am. Fresh tears began to fall. His voice cracked when he repeated his words. "Don't touch her."
"I won't," Doran said gently. He took one last, hesitating, glancing look and then stepped back to the Guardian. "Hey, I won't. I promise."
"Doran? Guardian? I heard shout…." Ophis came from where Doran had and took in the two of them, focusing mostly on the Guardian. "What happened?"
He followed his brother's gaze and found his answer. Ophis said nothing, but the way his eyes widened, his jaw tensed and his fingers twitched told just how much the sight affected the Warlock, the picture of stoicism.
Ophis started to approach. Words were already slipping past the Guardian's lips but Ophis was quicker to it. "I won't touch her," he promised, never taking his eyes off the young woman's body. He squatted down for a closer look but not too close due to his promise as well as the smell.
"Guardian?" he called, "Did you know her?"
"I tried," the Guardian stammered again, "I tried to save her. I tried. I promise, I tried."
Ophis turned to look at him, eyes roving over his frame. Doran then stepped behind him and took in him by the shoulders in firm, gentle hands. "Come on, Guardian. Can you walk for me? Just a bit."
He didn't at first but a gentle push spurred him to take the first step forward. Slowly and patiently, the Guardian was led back to the row of houses. Doran had stepped to the side when they had turned, hiding the girl's body with his own.
A gentle light approached and the Guardian knew it to be his Ghost before she came fully into view. "He-" Doran started.
She stopped him. "I know," she said, her eye only on her Guardian. "Doran, were there any other bodies there?"
"No."
"Guardian?" she asked, her voice just barely above a gentle whisper. She drew in close and under, to where his eyes pointed as he hung his head. "I got everything I need. We can leave this place. Do you want to go back to the ship?"
He mustered the energy to nod, just once, just barely.
Back to Doran, the Ghost said, "Join us when you're ready."
"Take a head start if you wish. Ophis and I know the way," he replied. He squeezed the Guardian's shoulders, "Just get this one home."
Doran lifted his hands. The Guardian and his Ghost promptly faded from sight and Doran returned to the clearing, to his brother and the girl. His scowl deepened. "What's the verdict?"
"The brigands," Ophis said. Even with the Guardian gone, he kept a respectful distance from the body. "Our Hunter tried to save her from one of them and…" he simply gestured to the body, the result of the Guardian's efforts.
"I heard about how he arrived at the Tower," Doran said, "Covered in blood, reeking of ash. A carbine rifle in one hand and sharp, bloodied pipe in the other."
Ophis turned and pointed, directing Doran's attention. "Pipes like those?"
"I assume."
"Alive for mere minutes and he already had to use something like that on another person."
Doran smiled. "You and I just needed to find a boat that could traverse the Atlantic. And I had the nerve to complain about seasickness." Ophis chuckled lightly. His mirth left him when he took in the girl's face again. Even drying out and rotting to pieces, they could tell she had been a young one, barely older than them, at least physically. She must have been so afraid. He had been, his first time.
Ophis rose back to his full height. "Come, we should go."
"I'd rather not leave her-"
A snap of fingers and then a spark. The body erupted into brilliant flames that illuminated the village even in the afternoon sun. The body was obscured in that brightness. Just barely could they make out the outline of the body blackening and fading. "I'd do the whole village if I could," Ophis murmured.
Doran looked back, only seeing more bodies like this one and silently, he agreed.
The Titan turned away from the scene and returned to his ship. Ophis remained now and he did so until the last of the body had withered away to his Light. Only then did he kill the fires. Only then did he depart from this place and leave it as silent as the grave it was.
The lounge was never quiet but the spot the Guardian had found was secluded enough. It was sunset by the time his fireteam had returned home and while his Ghost had left him to submit the information she had gathered for analysis, the Guardian had departed for the lounge, which was filling for the night.
In truth, it was his presence that made the corner secluded. The Guardian who had come to the Tower drenched in blood and his trembling finger on a trigger. The Guardian who still had not taken a name. The Guardian who rarely spoke and smiled even less often. He could hardly blame them. He could hardly care either. Maybe it would be bad for him in the long run but for now, all he craved was a hard, mind-numbing drink and solitude.
In the shadows of moving people, in the flickering lights, he saw his village. In the hum of voices, he heard their screams. He saw her face, both before and after. The drink was like molten earth the way it seared down his throat and it still wasn't enough to block out what he was seeing.
"You're down to two," his Ghost reminded him of his limit.
"I can count."
"For now, at least."
"Just put in the order."
She did. Off to the side, Ophis turned just slightly to look at him out of the corner of his eye. The Guardian avoided meeting his gaze until he finally turned away again. No doubt his Ghost had run the order by the Warlock, only putting it in when he deemed it okay. He and Doran were situated some distance away, closer to the center of the room with a crowd of other people, Guardians mostly, with the occasional civilian; a Tower worker socializing before leaving for the night or a friend of another Guardian.
The Guardian gave them a wide berth. Predictably, he was never very social and abhorred being the center of attention. Ophis understood and could somewhat sympathize but Doran was the opposite. The man made friends with near everyone he met. Personable, charming and kind-hearted, even to an asocial mess such as his Hunter teammate. Indeed, even while laughing and crowing with the crowd, even with a woman on his lap and his hand too low on her back to be friendly, he would steal looks over at the Guardian, just to check in. Making sure he was alright.
He wasn't, of course, and right now, he didn't care to be. Lucidity was a curse and he wanted nothing to do with it.
The increase in chatter took the Guardian's eyes from the wall and towards the entrance. Over the low din of conversation and clinking glasses, he heard a new voice that stood out from the rest and was familiar enough to garner his attention.
Jaren Ward was a rare sight in the Tower. The veteran Hunter took enough work for the Vanguard that he rarely kept to one place but even outside of his duties, Jaren was never one to keep still.
He was going to see the Guardian sulking in the corner and come over to talk. Some small part of him felt gratitude. Every other part felt dread.
The Guardian pointedly kept his eyes on the wall in front of him. Jaren moved up to the crowd and was greeted with expected enthusiasm. Personality-wise, Jaren struck the Guardian as a mix between the aloof Ophis and personable Doran. Rarely said more than he needed to and smiles were a rarity but still, people flocked to him. Guardians in the main group, young and old, hailed him from the crowd.
A hand to Ophis' shoulder. A word to Doran that had the Titan's face contorting in shock and the girl in his lap guffawing with the crowd.
Then those eyes flicked over to him. Too late, the Guardian looked away, cursing his curiosity.
"Maybe if you cover your eyes, I'll go away faster."
The Guardian sighed.
"'If I can't see him, he can't see me'," Jaren said mockingly, his voice low and quiet but still clear over the rest of the lounge. The Guardian didn't even bother to ask how he had crossed that distance in so little a time.
"I'm not in the mood, Jaren." He peeked back towards the crowd to spot the frame making its way over, two drinks on a tray.
"Shame. Cause I am." In a blink, Jaren's armor disappeared, replaced with dark civilian clothes. He nodded to the frame when it stopped by their table and placed the drinks down. The Guardian didn't even remember him putting in an order. Still, he took up the damp glass, clinked against the Guardian's on the table and then drank half of his in one go.
His eyes remained on the younger man as he did. Again, the Guardian looked away. He could hear Jaren smiling when he spoke. "I'm still not going anywhere, Guardian."
The Guardian turned back to him, kept his eyes on the wall at Jaren's back. "So talk to me. You're more sullen than usual. What's wrong?"
The Guardian scowled but remained silent.
He took another sip. "Your little trip to the past not go as well as you like?"
Now the Guardian's eyes fell onto his. The silence became deafening.
Jaren was unfazed, shrugging. "Ophis told me."
"When?"
"Just now," he answered, "I asked what was wrong. He told the truth."
The Guardian's eyes flicked over to the center of the lounge. The crowd was beginning to dissipate. Ophis was speaking in quieted tones to another Warlock near the entrance. Doran and his companion had already disappeared for someplace more private.
"It didn't," the Guardian finally said, "And I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't need to," Jaren replied, "I remember how you came to us. Whatever was there that made you like that, I doubt leaving it to fester for months made things better."
"No." The Guardian's voice roughened, "No, it didn't."
Jaren's voice softened. He stayed quiet, watching as the Guardian finished his drink in one go and grimaced at the sharp burn. Then he said, "I went to Palamon again."
The Guardian ran his thumb through the layer of water covering his glass. "Trouble again?"
Jaren chuckled. "Ah no," he said, "This was more of a...social visit. You remember the boy I spoke of?"
He had only mentioned him once. They were vague but the Guardian remembered the description. A young boy, golden-haired, slender as a whip and Jaren Ward's most prized possession cradled in his arms.
"I do." The Guardian absent-mindedly pressed one of his fingers to an ice cube. It started to hiss.
"I spent some time in the village. Stayed with him while I helped the town with recovery after that mess with the Magistrate. Him…" The Guardian saw what almost came across as uncertainty on Jaren Ward's face. He assumed it was just the drink getting to him. "Him and his father. Kieran."
The longer the Guardian stared, the more the look of doubt and sheepishness on Jaren's face seemed real. His lips curling up into a sardonic imitation of a smile, the Guardian raised his glass in cheers. "To hooking up with the locals."
"Careful. I like you kid but be careful." Jaren's warning was low and grave but disarmed by the smile that came with it, one that reached all the way up to his glittering brown eyes. Maybe that was how he made friends so easily. Even, the Guardian's own grin, teasing and sarcastic as it was, became a touch less cold.
Days passed by, as they were want to do. The Guardian chose to remain at the Tower rather than disappear again. Part of it was exhaustion, physical and mental. He took on no missions from the Vanguard, no bounties from the board, went on no patrols or self-assigned expeditions, as most Hunters did.
The other part was where he had placed himself during his extended stay, or more accurately, who with. That time away from his duties as a Guardian was spent attached to the hips of his teammates, switching back and forth between them when the mood struck him but never remaining on his own for long.
Jaren had left the City again, likely returning to Palamon to be with his new paramour, something the Guardian was happy to give him all kinds of grief about. But with him gone, he had been forced to occupy his day in other ways. So he did it by watching others occupy their own.
Doran was a mix of nearly every stereotypical thought other Guardians had about Titans and was proud of it. If he wasn't eating, sleeping or chatting away in the lounge, he could be found in the shooting range and more often, the training ring. The Guardian, relegating himself to the sidelines, watched him throw others around and get thrown around in the process. Ophis, predictably and somewhat gratefully, was quieter. The Guardian roamed the Warlock halls, got to watch Ophis make things float, glow or spark both intentionally and not. Even sat in on a lecture or two until he decided he'd be better off sitting outside of them, and falling asleep there instead of where the speaker could see him.
It wasn't lost on the Guardian how much he resembled a lost, starving puppy, the way he followed them around. Degrading and infantilizing as it was, the comparison was apt. His anger at the brigands, like the brigands themselves, had retreated deep into hiding and now, all that was left to him was a coldness, an emptiness he was seeking to either fill or be distracted from.
If his teammates were bothered by his constant presence in their days, they never showed it. Indeed, they seemed to not mind and even go out of their way to accommodate him, showing him more patience than he felt comfortable receiving. Even with a task right in front of them, they would speak to him, ask him how he felt about one thing, get his opinion on another or simply shoot the breeze.
Doran would come to him at the end of each round in the ring, get his opinion on his performance, his advice. If he had won, he'd ask the Guardian how he could improve. Keep his elbows lower so he could block his ribs? Or higher, and keep his arms closer to his head. And he went down, got laid out on his back from a hit that left his nose purple and weeping, he'd ask what he should've done better.
"Feint left instead or right, right?" he asked while he recovered. A sweaty, heaving mess all too happy to assault the Guardian's nostrils with his stench. "Or just take the hit?"
Watching the bits of bone wriggle back into place beneath the skin of his nose, the Guardian glibly answered, "Take the hit. I want to see how many your head can handle before the insides are jelly."
Doran frowned. "You suggested that a month ago," he said, "We learned it was twenty-five."
"Do it again, I wanna see you vegetate in real-time."
Doran would laugh at that and then step on the bottom rope, holding the top one above his head, inviting the Guardian to come do it himself. Then he would laugh louder when he was shamelessly declined. His nose would finish healing, Doran would get it shattered again, rinse and repeat so often that the Guardian barely had time to retreat into his own thoughts before being yanked out of them.
Ophis never had need of the Guardian's opinions. Instead, he simply spoke about the work he was doing. The what, how and why, none of it the Guardian was very interested in understanding. Still, he listened, if not for the words, for the noise of his voice. The way he never raised it but within the quiet lab, it demanded the Guardian's attention, keeping him out of his own head. Every day he spent with his team, memories of the past seemed to drift further and further away. Every night was a little less harrowing, every morning was a little less difficult to face. He never said as much, he wasn't brave enough to, but he was grateful for it. For them.
One of those nights, he decided to retire a bit early. Ophis had invited him to a book discussion, claiming he had even roped Doran into the same. When questioned as to just how he managed something like that, the Warlock gave a rare smile.
"Zavala runs the discussion," he said, "And Shaxx is a regular attendant."
Doran worshipped both men but the Guardian knew that couldn't possibly be enough. When Ophis saw the doubt on his face, he shrugged and finished, "He also lost a bet."
"Ah."
The Guardian was alone now, in the dark of his apartment. His Ghost the only light, he made his way to the bathroom by memory and turned on the water, closing the tub so that it would fill. Ever since that first time, taking these baths had become a form of self-care. Sitting in a steaming pool, his Ghost nearby, Jaren's voice coming softly through the door and the rest of the terrifying world sealed away, it had been the first time in his hours of life that he had felt safe.
Stripping while it filled, the Guardian checked the water to ensure it was near scalding and then slipped in. His Ghost dimmed the bathroom lights for him while he shut off the water. From stinging to a stinging pleasure, the Guardian slowly came to a sitting position, his feet stuck half out the other end.
With nothing but the lapping of the water to fill the silence, the Guardian decided to listen to the world around him. With the hum of Arc energy running through the walls, footsteps of passers-by, quiet voices coming from both above and below him, the Guardian's eyes fluttered close. He sunk further into the water, until his mouth was submerged.
"Guardian…"
One eye cracked open. He was unsure how long he had been asleep but the water was beginning to cool around him. He had it steaming again within seconds. He took a handful and rubbed it over his face, sighing. Then he answered, "What is it?"
"It's Ikora. She wants to see you." The Guardian looked at her, orange eyes a beacon in the darkness. "She said it can't wait till morning."
"Guardian." Ikora rose from her chair and waved him inside, "Welcome."
"Master Rey."
"I apologize for the suddenness of my call. I know you were resting."
"It's no trouble," he lied, "I'm sure it's important."
"It is, Guardian. It is," she said. In her hands was a datapad, screen still glowing from recent use. Absently, her thumb rubbed the outer frame. "It concerns the information your Ghost presented for analysis. What you acquired when you and your team went to your village."
Every part of the Guardian felt cold. Beneath the skin of his jaw, the muscle flexed and relaxed, over and over.
Ikora beckoned him to sit. He obliged, as much as he did not want to. Ikora did the same and placed the datapad face-down on the desk between them. "To start, I wanted to touch on your going back to the village."
The Guardian sighed. He should have expected this.
"Guardians, as a collective, frown upon searching out aspects of our past lives. Mainly for fear of what it might bring forth, disrupting our present," Ikora told him, "Sometimes, it turns out in our favor. Tess and Fenchurch, for example. You know them?"
"I know Tess."
"But it doesn't always work out that well, Guardian. Separated families, horrible atrocities committed. A general clash in who they are now and who they used to be. We avoid seeking out our pasts for reasons such as this." Her golden eyes locked onto his own and softened, "But I understand the need for closure. Especially with what you had to go through. Ostensibly, I do not approve but I understand."
The Guardian's thumbs began to rub gently over the cloth of his pants, agitation barely restrained.
"I need you to visit that past again, Guardian," Ikora said, getting to her point, "The painful moments."
The Guardian watched her for a few moments. Then he nodded. If it would find him answers, so be it. He just didn't trust his voice enough to say so.
"The man you retrieved the genetic information from. How did you find him? Ghost, you may add anything you feel needed."
His Ghost came to appear over his shoulder. The Guardian swallowed. "When she woke me for the first time, the house I was in was on fire," he said, pausing to swallow again, "I was on the floor and...the man...he was holding me. My head in his hands. He was already dead when I woke up."
Ikora nodded, giving the Guardian a moment to ground himself. "Did you see anyone else in the house?"
"No."
"Neither did I," his Ghost affirmed.
"And what about outside the house?" Her eyes flicked downwards, seeing the way the Guardian's nails dug into the meat of his legs, "Did you see anyone outside while you tried to escape?"
His Ghost looked between him and Ikora. "No one he might have known-"
"There was a girl," he began, his throat tight. "I was attempting to escape from behind the last line of homes and she ran into me. I didn't know her but she knew me."
Looking at him, seeing his very physical reaction to just the first few words, she could tell how this story was going to end. From the memory of his very public arrival, the conclusion would have been obvious.
"I tried to lead her to the ship. Ghost said she could rig it, take control. Take us to safety." Leave everyone else behind, his mind added. "But then two of the brigands caught us. One threw a grenade at the stone wall behind us. The explosion knocked me into a stack of steel bars and her, out into the clearing. They confronted her. She tried to escape and-"
Her hand came up. "Stop, Guardian. I can guess from there."
A single burning tear ran down from the left side of his face. The side of the girl that had been splattered all over the grass. He was just vaguely aware that he was trembling. "What does this have to do with him?" The Guardian seethed through clenched teeth.
"I just wanted to know...to be sure that there was no one else connected to the body."
"I don't understand…"
"You will," she promised. "My last question…" she picked up the tablet, "Do you remember what the man looked like?"
The Guardian blinked his eyes to clear them, looking down so he could search his memory. "Shaved head," he recalled, "A beard. Shaggy and reaching his chest."
"The beard was dark brown," his Ghost added, "As were his eyes. He had medium brown skin."
Ikora's jaw worked and her eyes lowered. Then with a sigh, she turned the datapad round. The Guardian and Ghost moved in closer to inspect it. It was the image of a man. A bit more hair on his head, fewer wrinkles, more light in his eyes. But it was him. A near-spitting image.
"You know him," the Guardian realized.
"I did," she affirmed. Now it was her voice that was tight. "Your Ghost had the right of it. This man was a Guardian. One of the longest serving. Was revived when this City was barely a camp." She looked out a nearby window. "Helped build the walls. Helped build the Tower. Was everything it meant to be a Guardian before any of us were ever Guardians. He was my friend."
She drew in a long breath and her face hardened into something cool and even. "His name was Rezyl Azzir. A Titan who retired from active service decades ago and full service just a few years before you, after he lost his Ghost."
A million things were running through the Guardian's head at once but one question burned the hottest. "How did he lose his Ghost? A Fallen raid?"
Ikora shook her head. "An earlier attack. The same bandit clan."
The feeling of cold in the Guardian's heart was so visceral, he wondered if he was dead. Slowly, he stood, eyes never leaving Ikora's. "Bandits? Humans?" He asked, hoping against hope he had heard her wrong.
"Yes. A very unfortunate shot, as I heard it."
"Why would anyone do this to another person? Why would...?" The Guardian's hands began to tremble. If his Ghost wasn't helping him keep such a tight rein on him, they would have been sparking.
"There's more, Guardian. Please sit."
It wasn't an offer. The Guardian, still burning, did as told.
Ikora waited a bit longer, seemingly giving him some time again to ground himself. She wastes it, he thought and soon, she seemed to recognize that. Ikora leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her desk and locking her fingers. "I...personally took the liberty of analyzing your genetic information. Alongside Rezyl Azzir's."
"What for?"
She hummed in amusement. "Would you believe curiosity?" The humor faded away from her features and they became rife with turmoil. "Guardian, we found a match."
The words took a very long time to register in his mind. He blinked once, twice, a third time for good measure. His eyes turned to the image on the datapad, to Ikora. Then to the image and back to Ikora. All the while feeling his stomach sink and his throat squeeze. "You…" he wheezed, "A...match?"
She said nothing. Only nodded.
"But...I'm...Ikora, I'm Awoken." He looked at the blue of his hands, as if to make sure.
Ikora only blinked. "So was his wife. And child."
He fell back in his chair limply. "Rezyl Azzir….is my...I'm his…."
"It has been decades," Ikora said, "And he had a daughter. I believe and the evidence supports that you are that daughter's son. Rezyl Azzir's grandson."
He imagined how warm they must have been.
Rezyl Azzir's hands. The cold clammy things that held his face in death and his new life.
Every detail of that moment was coming to the forefront, after spending so much time buried under mountains of trauma and guilt.
The hands had been rough, worn, thick with calluses. Hair stretched in a layer from their back down his arms, thick and brawny even in older age.
That was the very first time he had seen his grandfather. Eyes wide and lifeless, the skin of his hands, arms and face mottled red from burning debris. The second time he had seen his grandfather, his eyes had been gone and the red had deepened into black and spread all across his flesh.
Meat, not….
No. He was not meat. None of them were.
When Ikora had offered old pictures and videos of him, things that she had kept all these years, along with the promise to answer any questions he might have had, the Guardian disappeared for days. Doran even thought he had run off again, gone off-base. He couldn't leave the City. He could barely leave his room, not even to eat or see the sun. Every part of his mind was dedicated to trying to reconcile that dark and desiccated corpse he had seen a week prior with this stranger his Ghost was playing back for him.
He watched Rezyl Azzir arm-wrestle Shaxx and win. He saw Rezyl Azzir sitting along low makeshift walls surrounding the early City, talking with a helmetless Saint-14, throwing feed to the birds.
The Guardian heard the smoothness of his voice and wondered if Rezyl ever sang. He took note of the wrinkles around his eyes in more recent pictures. Evidence of a man who smiled big and often. How those wrinkles deepened as he held his wife in his arms for a photo, sparred with New Lights, met with the people of the City, got utterly thrashed in cards by Cayde and Tallulah.
He watched the recording of a memorial service. For those lost in the Battle of Six Fronts.. His face was hard, his expression even and stony. A single tear rolling down his cheek.
The cheek was darkening, as was the entire lower half of his face. Ikora told him that he lost many friends during that fight. Civilians he had sat around fires and told stories to, Guardians he had befriended on their first day of life and trained. He went weeks without shaving in his grief. By the time he had been himself again, he had elected to keep the beard that had grown. As if that moment marked a change for him.
Now it was the Guardian's turn for his cheek to be wet. Not a single one but waves and anytime he tried to stop them, emotion would well-up inside. Rage, grief and an anger that bit him bone-deep, like the cold of the mountains or the far northern winters.
"He was one of humanity's greatest heroes. One of the first Guardians. Those were your words, were they not?" He had practically ranted to Ikora
"And this is how they repay him. They murder his Ghost, destroy his home, kill his family."
"We are at war! Beset on all sides! And this is how we act?!"
"It is how some act, yes." Ikora bore his vitriol in stride. Part of him suspected that if the situation were any different, she wouldn't have had this much patience. That wasn't enough to make him stop.
"It is not right."
"We are agreed."
"And despite it all, he put himself between the Darkness and them. Despite what was taken from me, I'm expected to do the same?"
"We expect nothing, Guardian. We ask."
"Ask?"
"That you look past the bad. That you see the good. That if you mourn the loss of good, then you fight to defend it. Yes, Guardian. We ask."
Jaren would learn, in time. The Guardian had reached out to him while he was off-world, easier than doing it face to face, and told him with so little ceremony, Jaren grew concerned. But soon, he came to accept it, quicker than the Guardian had. Ophis and Doran would be told, weeks after the discovery, when he felt he was ready.
And when he did, when he had cleared his mind of the weight of this revelation, he knew what he needed to do.
He needed to return to the village. He needed to put his grandfather to rest. They all needed to be put to rest.
He had no right to drag Doran and Ophis away from their duties and their lives for such a personal endeavor. They already did, in his opinion, much more for him than he deserved. But he had learned the folly of going to such a vulnerable place alone and despite how far apart from them he had started, things felt different now. Like there was a piece of himself he felt had been taken from him, returned. He needed them there. So he asked and they answered.
"Of course we will."
"You need not even ask, Guardian."
The body was still there when the Guardian pushed his way into his old home. Corpses do not walk, he reminded himself. He was an outlier.
The Guardian looked behind him. Other homes had been opened. Doran and Ophis were going through every single one, searching for additional bodies to move to the village's center. Each one was to be placed atop the large square of wood they had prepared, having spent the entirety of the previous day felling trees that bordered the settlement.
It was horrific work. All bodies were to be gathered, regardless of state. Preserved from the elements, burnt black and unrecognizable, rotting and even bloating, it did not matter. They all were gathered.
Doran vomited six times. The foresight of avoiding a larger meal had been turned against him. By the third, he was just spewing bile, his tanned face red, his eyes the same with tears streaming down them, left to dry into streaks. The rest of them fared no better. The Guardian nearly gave up and returned to the City, his Ghost having to talk him out of it no less than thrice. Ophis, hard and reserved as he was, worked with a tight scowl on his face, moving the bodies with dizzying quickness and brutal efficiency. Sometimes, the Guardian would catch him staring at certain bodies. Older bodies. Smaller bodies. Very small bodies. And the Guardian would see his fist tremble slightly and the pressure of his Light rise just so. But only for a moment. Then it was back to work.
The Guardian let the door close slightly behind him as he stared at Rezyl Azzir's body. It was different from the first and second time he had seen it. It had a name now. Flesh, not meat.
His Ghost manifested over his shoulder and went to the right side of the house. The Guardian took the left, sifting through the remains of the home. There were inside, what the Guardian guessed to be, the living room. Not much was left, either taken by the fires or by the outlaws. But the longer he looked, the more it started to feel like a home that could be lived in.
"Guardian?" He turned to his Ghost, finding her on the other side of the house. A cone of light extended from her eye and was roving over a pile of debris fallen from the ceiling. "There's something past here."
The Guardian was already crossing the room. He felt the splinters dig into his hands as he grabbed the first stack of wood and shoved it aside with a heave. Then the next and the next. He pushed bricks and roof shingles out of his way and whatever could not be moved was broken by his Light.
A door was what he found. Darkened but structurally undamaged. Intact too, he realized when he tried to push it open. A hard Arc fist thrown forward cracked the wooden plank into a clean two and broke the part of the frame that hooked onto the door.
The door opened to a staircase, dark and smelly. Hesitant to create a spark, his Ghost served as his light as the Guardian made his way down weak and creaking stairs.
"The fires missed this place," he muttered as he looked around the basement. When he reached the bottom, every step further was accompanied by a gentle squelch.
"The rains didn't," his Ghost said. She shined her light onto the walls. "Black mold behind the first layer. This place is rotting from the inside out."
"Do I need a helmet?"
"You're fine," she told him, "I've healed bullet holes in your lungs, I can heal mold spores."
"Comforting."
"Talk less, though."
"Funny."
Again, the two split off. The Guardian conjured a tiny ball of Light, a trick Ophis had taught him, so he could see ahead of him. The light shined on a shelf holding several items, most broken and rusted beyond recognizing. One caught his attention over the others and drew him in.
"Ghost?" He called, his heart quickening as his fingers touched the familiar material. "Ghost!"
"Coming, coming!" His suspicions were further confirmed when her eye went past him and immediately. "What…" she gasped quietly, "What is…"
Light erupted from her eye and rocked over the pieces he had under his fingers. She did not need long. "It's her," she whispered, "His Ghost."
"Kiara," the Guardian murmured her name with reverence, "Can you pull anything from her?"
"Very little. Cessation of function was as Ikora said. Two years before I found you."
"And he kept her here." Out of sight but never far. Kiara had been family. Rezyl's first family, before his wife, his daughter, his grandson.
Only one of them remained now and with no memory of their time together. The conversations they could have had.
"Kiara is a nice name…" he found himself saying. He turned to look at his Ghost, who he found looking back at him. She was silent. Her thoughts were not.
"There's something else I found," she said aloud. She turned and started back to where she had been. "Over here."
He left Kiara behind and followed. His Ghost, her eyes upon the table, moved aside as he approached. A blanket of cloth, covered in dust and ash, shrouded something small and square. The Guardian pulled it aside and revealed a box. Protected all these months, it was the one object within the house that still appeared clean and undamaged.
The Guardian let the shawl drop to the ground. Gingerly, he raised his hands to the cover and after a moment, lifted it away.
A hand cannon. Large in size, it was silvery-white with golden etchings tracing along its long barrel, encircling it. From its frame, above the cylinder, sprouted two horn-like projections. The cylinder itself was plain, with nothing more than the image of a flower; sprouting and painted in gold, untouched by time, darkness or death.
"This was his," The Guardian whispered. When he brought his hand over the weapon, he could feel the Light of it reach out and touch his. It was warm. It was strong. It was... familiar.
"Rose, he had called it," Ghost murmured.
"The Light within. I can still feel it." The Guardian let his hand go lower. At the same time, his gauntlet disappeared. Skin brushed against cool metal, of the barrel, down the length to the rounded cylinder.
He slipped his fingers beneath the body and lifted it, his second hand joining when it was halfway out of its box. For all its size, it was deceptively light. A cone of light poured from the eye of his Ghost, washing over every part of it.
Then it stopped. The eye turns to him, silent, expectant.
"Doran. Ophis."
The Titan was seeing to the wooden base of their pyre. The Warlock was arranging the bodies, stacked together, hands crossed over their chests, mouths and eyes closed as needed. Both turned at the sound of their name.
The Guardian stood on the other side. In his arms was the very last body. His nose rankled at the smell. He refused to call his helmet to his head.
Ophis rose and stepped away. "We're ready, Guardian." Behind him, Doran nodded.
The Guardian stepped forward towards the stack of wood. A space had been left for Rezyl Azzir's body and when the Guardian placed him down, he positioned him the same as the others, arms crossed over his chest. Once settled, the Guardian pulled a small tied pouch from his belt.
He lifted the large hands and placed the pouch underneath. Then he folded the hands, so that Kiara would rest against Rezyl Azzir's heart. Together, they began and together, they end.
The Guardian leaned down and gently, he pressed his forehead to Rezyl Azzir's. He remained for only a moment but in that moment, another tear managed to escape his hooded eyes. Deep down within himself, he knew this had not been the first time they had been in this position and more than anything, he wished he could remember it. Just one more time.
The Guardian stepped away. He looked past the bodies and towards the trees, the sun setting below them. "What happened...should not have happened," he said, his breath beginning to fog in the cooling air. "There was no bravery involved, no sacrifice. It was senseless, cruel and wrong; what happened to all of you."
Another tear escaped. "Only through fortune and the Traveler's grace do I remain. I know only the names of one of you. Your protector, the man who gave everything and everything again for you all. Death may have taken my memories but it cannot keep you from my heart. Whatever love you bore me, I thank you. And by putting you to rest, I give it back."
He turned his head and nodded. Together, Doran and Ophis stepped forward and apart, walking to the head and far sides of the wooden base.
Doran kneeled and pressed his hands to the dry grass bedding. Arc Light sparked from his fingertips and smoke began to rise. More did, as he dragged his hand across the length of the pyre.
Ophis brought up his palm and waited, his eyes on the Guardian. Slowly, he matched Ophis' position and let his Light bubble to the surface. He held. He swallowed.
"Find your way home."
Light poured forward. The sparks Doran had set erupted into a flame that engulfed the grass, the wood and then the bodies. The Guardian fueled it, Ophis bolstered it and the fires grew higher and higher until they almost seemed to reach the clouds.
Watching the blaze, the Guardian was surprised to feel within him no fear, no apprehension, no memories welling up from where he had pushed them away. This flame was not the terror he had been born to. This flame burned that terror away and as he watched it consume the wood and the bodies of the fallen, he could feel every nightmare that plagued him burn along with them. It left him feeling unsteady, but light and free, for the very first time.
With all their power, it would still take time for the bodies to be cremated in their entirety. The fireteam arranged a small camp away from the pyre, building their own fire as the greater one blazed behind them. Ghost had answered a call from Jaren, in Palamon and the older Hunter had joined them from afar, though he did little talking.
"Greece," The Guardian began, breaking what had been a long lull in their conversation. "You were both revived there, weren't you? What's it like?"
"Beautiful. I assume," Doran said, giving a wry smile. He pulled the thin stick he had been poking into the fire to look at the smoldering tip. "Before the Fallen got to it, of course."
He pushed the stick back in. "My situation wasn't as severe as yours," Doran continued, "My Ghost found me in a woody area, near a shack, old and in ruin."
"Was it empty?"
"No other people or bodies, if that's what you mean," he answered, "But it was definitely lived in. Maybe even recently. My Ghost told me that my corpse wasn't even up to a month old when she found me. And I hadn't been alone."
Firelight burned in his eyes as they remained focused on the flames. "Clothing, blankets, a few other things here and there. I even found a picture. Of myself, a woman at my side and two little boys between us." Doran took in a ragged breath. "I don't know how old the picture was. I don't remember who the people in it are. But it didn't take much to guess who they were to me."
"What was worse?" the Guardian thought, "To leave behind a family or to have them all die alongside you?"
"What scares me most is how recent it all looked. How long was I dead? How did I die?" Doran seemed to ask everyone and no one. "My wife. My sons. Where are they now? Who are they now?" The Titan shook his head and smiled again. "I never know how you so casually look into your past like you do, Guardian. Me? I'm terrified. To find out how long it has been, how old they are now. What they had to deal with because of my death…"
"Doran…" Ophis said only his name, low and calm. That was enough to make his shoulders begin to relax and shoot a look of gratitude his way.
"My resurrection isn't so…" Ophis spread his hands sardonically, "Touching. Or traumatic. I was found in a landfill, the other side of the country. I was bones, dead for years by the time Doran died. The way my Ghost had to burrow through layers of years old trash before he found me, I doubt my body was ever found. I doubt my next of kin, Doran, his wife and children…" he hesitated and added quietly, "My sister-in-law and nephews. I doubt they were ever alerted. "Makes me wonder what kind of man I was to end up in such a state of disrespect. Run-ins with criminals? Cheated or betrayed the wrong person?"
He turned to the Guardian. "Or was I like you? An innocent? A victim of cruelty."
"Seems to be a thing going around," the Guardian muttered, "Victims of cruelty. Not from Fallen or the Cabal or whoever else but from our own. No Fallen would've just tossed your body in a landfill and been done with it, would they?"
Ophis simply looked at him, eyes betraying neither emotion nor thought.
"You'd prefer it if it was Fallen?" Doran asked.
"It would be expected at least," he argued, "We're at war with the Fallen."
The Guardian shook his head. "But humanity. We're not supposed to be at war with humanity. Those brigands who killed me, my family, razed my village, they could have turned all that...bloodthirst against the creatures who threaten their existence every day."
He burrowed deeper into his cloak, wrapped around his chest and stared deeper into the dancing flames before him. "Rezyl's genetic material was only salvageable due to the lingering traces of his Light. The others were impossible for my Ghost to identify. My father could have been one of them. My mother, Rezyl Azzir's daughter, she could have been one of them."
The more time went on, the more aware he was that he was speaking to himself and the less he found himself caring. "Did she die first?" he murmured, "Did a man like Rezyl Azzir, a good, kind and honorable man, have to watch his daughter die, his son-by-law die and his grandson die just before he did."
His breathing became ragged. His fingers began to shake. "Did I have siblings? The girl. The one who recognized me, who I tried to save. She was Awoken, like me. Was she...was she…" A single tear fell and he furiously wiped it away, cursing under his breath. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand how anyone could do such a thing. It's monstrous. And we deal with monsters every day. Why would we need more?"
For the first time in what felt like hours, Jaren spoke up through Ghost. Loud and clear, for everyone. "I can never understand how you feel about what you've seen, Guardian," he said, "But I know that there is much out there to fight for. Discarding the innocent for the actions of the evil serves no one but the evil. The team you chose proves my point, don't they?"
Doran started at his sudden mention. Ophis huffed, amused.
The Guardian smiled slightly. "I should remember you both were willing to help me with this."
"It was for a good cause," Doran dismissed, twisting a rock he had found.
"You both came after me when I disappeared…"
"Our job," Ophis explained, bolstering the fire.
The Guardian's eyes fell from the fire to his feet, extended outwards. "And both of you have shown more patience with me than one would deserve." The men looked at him. "Never pressured me to find a name. Dealt with my…frankly ridiculous mood swings, my freezing up on the battlefield, my nightmares. Let me follow you around like some sort of lost animal."
"Wouldn't it be more accurate to say we adopted you like some sort of lost animal?"
Ophis drew some wisps of flame towards his fingers. "Potty training could use some work."
Doran's cackle erupted into the cold night air and Jaren's quiet chuckle permeated it. The Guardian kicked dirt onto Ophis' greaves and only received one of those rare smiles for his trouble.
"Abandoning good because of evil is as bad as choosing evil." The Guardian mulled over the words in his head, as if tasting them, testing them. "I tried to save her."
"You did," Ghost replied immediately.
"I tried. And I failed."
"But you tried. That will always be better than not."
The Guardian's eyes turned to the moon, half full and shimmering in the cloudless sky. "Maybe. I just wish it had been enough."
His eyes lowered again, back to his team. The brothers had begun their own conversation, muted tones registering as little more than a gentle hum in the Guardian's ears. He watched them, keeping silent, keeping distance but for the first time in his short life, never once feeling as if he were separate from them.
As the whisper of the wind blew through his hair and blended with the voices, the Guardian's eyes became hooded, his vision darkening. And, almost unwillingly, a small smile grew on his lips.
Come dawn, the pyre was dead and the bodies were ash. Three jumpships descended from the storm clouds gathering overhead. Ophis pat his shoulder before boarding. Doran, a massive bear hug from behind that lifted him off the ground, then he did the same.
The Guardian watched the ash-laden pyre smoke profusely. His finger traced the metal of Rose at his hip. When the first drop of rain fell onto his nose, he knew it was time. His goodbyes had been said. It was time for him to finally move forward.
The Guardian boarded his ship, turned it towards the sky and took off. Behind him, the rain began to fall in earnest, washing the ash of the pyre into the soil of the earth.
Famed for his memory, Banshee still managed to recognize Rose on sight. He had it recalibrated and ready for use within the hour. The gun was powerful and responded well when the Guardian took it to test. "It's surprising how little I had to do," Banshee had said, "As if it recognized you."
The Guardian spent his newly found free time in the Tower, doing things he never had before. He helped other Hunters set up scouting missions, indicated points-of-interests Ophis had alluded to in his own work, even took up Doran's offer to enter the fighting ring with him, earning a twice-broken nose and an apologetic drink for his trouble. His new vigor went uncommented on but not unnoticed. Wary looks softened and became smiles, the occasional laugh. He doesn't remember ever having made anyone laugh before and was surprised at how good it made him feel. No wonder Doran always did it. Soon, people were actively talking to him, greeting him as they passed. One Awoken Titan even bought him drinks, revealing that she had been in the line of Guardians who had confronted him when he first came to the Tower.
Night gathered once again in the City he called home. All this socializing was both welcome and tiring. The Guardian had retreated to the back half of the Plaza, sitting along the railing, his feet dangling over the edge. He watched the mountains that rose along their border; more tranquil than the City, more alive than the Traveler.
A gentle knock against a nearby wall captured his attention, pulling him out of the silent words he shared with his Ghost floating by his side. Jaren smiled warmly. "How're we feeling, kid?" he asked, approaching.
"Better than...ever," he answered honestly. Not the highest bar, given how he first arrived.
Jaren stopped at his side and leaned on the rail. "It was good what you did for Rezyl. I only managed to meet the old man once but he lived up to his reputation. Larger than life and more real than any legend we told of him." Jaren shook his head. "I mourn how he got it but I'm glad he found his peace."
He clapped the Guardian's shoulder. "And here you are, his grandson in the flesh, ready to continue his good work."
The Guardian smiled sheepishly. "Not sure I could live up to the things he's done."
"While I disagree but, honestly, do you need to?" Jaren asked, "Rezyl Azzir wouldn't care. As long as you were the best you could be, he'd be content."
A lump welled in his throat and passed it but never reached his eyes. "I can do that," he said, quietly. "I can do both."
Jaren straightened up and after a second, pat him on the back again. "We'll speak again soon. Sleep well, Guardian."
"Rezyl." The word was out of his mouth before he realized he had said it but not once did he feel the need to take it back.
Jaren War blinked. "Come again?"
"About time I take a name, isn't it?" He asked, more to himself. "I choose Rezyl. Rezyl Azzir the second and..." he shouldered his Ghost, "Kiara the second."
Jaren gaped at him for a few moments before huffing out a laugh. "No points for originality." The older man clapped his shoulder a third time, harder than the last and took his hand in his own, smiling with a warmth that could light up the world. "An honor, Rezyl Azzir. An honor."
"Likewise, Jaren Ward."
He did sleep well that night. A message came in from the brothers, his Ghost alerted him after he had slipped into bed and just before he could close his eyes, congratulating him on his new name.
I'm kidding about the record. Kinda. I will try my best to not wait this long in the future.