Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is later, later, that they’re sitting in the H.E.L.M.’s egregore wing, quiet and tired and still smelling of the battle. Crow is playing with Glint, tossing a spinfoil ball in the air for the Ghost to bounce it back into his hand, and Eris is writing a letter in Hive script, meticulously carving it with a stylus onto something that’s not quite parchment and probably only half-material. Ór sits under the Crown and watches its odd shape from the bottom up, fungal spores overgrowing it swaying gently on their own accord. They emit a coldness—not really physical, but her spirit still shivers the closer she moves to them, and she wonders whether this is why it’s always freezing on the Derelict. She pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Zavala and Caiatl are somewhere on the ship too, talking, or tending to their wounds, or maybe tending to each other’s wounds; she is glad for them either way. Caiatl was limping badly when they were leaving the Leviathan, but it must not be so bad, Ór tells herself, if she didn’t want her medics’ help—she only trudged to the H.E.L.M.’s tiny med bay and swayed, leaning against the doorway for support, and when Zavala reached out for her Ór left them to themselves because this vulnerability was not hers to witness.

So now they’re here. The Calus bobbleheads are ticking irritatingly in the silence, broken only by the occasional tck of the spinfoil ball bouncing off of Glint’s shell. Eris has finished her letter and is now sticking it into a narrow flask of tincture of queensfoil, the roll of paper barely fitting through the bottle’s neck.

Ór speaks for the first time in what feels like hours, “You said this was the beginning of the end.”

Eris looks at her, then corks the bottle and puts it down onto the workbench.

“It is,” she says, moving to sit on the floor across from her.

“When the Traveler reformed,” Ór chooses her words carefully, precisely, “I thought the world was ending.”

Eris’ voice is gentle, “It did seem so. But that was only an escalation. The armies moving into battle positions, the first tentative clash of swords.”

“Now, though…”

“We are at a precipice.”

Crow and Glint quit playing and are now both watching Eris intently, the Hunter’s face tense with worry.

“How bad can it get?” He asks, and Glint instantly moves to brush against his cheek gently, “What is the ‘end’?”

Eris looks at Ór again, straight in the eyes. “You’ve faced the Disciple of the Dark. You’ve seen the things it is capable of, the power that shatters suns. Terrifying enough to make the Traveler flee in fear of it, because it will not hesitate to reach for her the first chance it gets.”

Ór’s fingers flex. She has been dreaming more, lately, about waves and fires and giant trees cracking in half. What mural would Rhulk make of Sol, she thinks, had she acted on her hesitation, hadn’t she pushed her spear deep into his gut and twisted?

There are good things, she forces herself to remember. She pictures Zavala and Caiatl, a hand on a shoulder, his widening eyes when he saw her wounded. Safiyah’s words about greenery peeking out amidst the rubble, a world reclaiming itself against all odds.

“For now, the Lunar Pyramid is ours to scour,” Eris adds, her gaze wandering to the Crown and the swaying egregore spores. “I admit the Drifter has been frustratingly ignoring my requests for his expertise. I’m considering contacting the Praxic Order too, uncooperative as they are, they do have a particular keenness when it comes to investigating corruption.”

“That Titan they haul around on missions? I wouldn’t call his methods… investigative,” Crow arches an eyebrow.

“I can patch you through to Drifter,” Ór looks at Eris pointedly, “He said you were… busy.”

Busy as in ‘the Vanguard was around’. Eris nods.

“I do value your input, Guardian,” she says, and it comes off somewhat thoughtfully but sincere nonetheless, “I hope you will keep me company on this mission as well.”

Maybe the egregore truly cools the air around it, Ór thinks, but the warmth that settles in her chest at the words makes it almost unimportant.

Caiatl says through gritted teeth, “I am fine.”

This is after the doors to the med bay have closed and there is no one she needs to pretend in front of, but she still attempts to unclasp her chestplate and grunts in pain when her fingers brush the wound.

Zavala waits patiently until she gives up, and only then says, “May I?”

She sighs, half petulant and half resigned, but draws her hand back.

“Your Hive witch says my father still lives,” words rumble out of her like from a mortar gun, furious and dripping with vitriol. “What was this battle, if not another failure to contain his madness?”

“We didn’t fail,” he peels off layers of her armour delicately, careful not to touch the gash on her right side, but she still flinches every now and then. “He is no longer a direct threat to the system… for now. And his joining with the Witness seems to have been only a matter of time.”

“Lunacy,” she spits.

Zavala’s fingers don’t tremble—he’s patched wounds before. Another thing Safiyah taught him, a half-conscious thought crosses his mind, that he’s happened to carry onto this next life without her, a piece of the past so distant it has ingrown into him like an old splinter. Caiatl’s blood is darker than a human’s, thick and almost purple.

“When we destroy the Witness, this will be the end of Calus, too.”

“Do you really believe that?”

He looks up, finds her staring at him, and from her expression gone is the distant loftiness of an Empress; now he sees only exhaustion, and a tinge of frustration, and something dark and almost fear-shaped creeping in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. He focuses on the smell of antiseptic as he unrolls the bandage and cuts it into pieces with a quick snip.

“Are you alright?” He asks instead.

Caiatl frowns.

“You are the one currently picking at my wound,” she says.

“I mean,” he reaches for pliers and for a split second reconsiders whether this is really a conversation they should be having as he sticks them into her stomach, “Your father has just tried to kill you.”

“Not for the first—” she breaks off when metal touches flesh, tenses up but doesn’t flinch, “—time.”

Zavala hums. The bullet is annoyingly small, and he doesn’t want to cause more pain than she is in already. Caiatl endures it almost without a sound, but when he glances up, her eyes are shut.

“He’s been sending assassins after me for decades,” she continues, voice steady. “Even now, he was scared to face me. These proxies, the sorcery—shields he’s been hiding behind, well aware I would kill him effortlessly if we ever met on a battlefield. Coward.”

The bullet marks the silver tray purple when Zavala fishes it out and puts aside, and Caiatl lets out a held-back sigh. Her pained expression smooths out somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” he says reflexively.

She shakes her head, golden eyes opening and looking down at him, “I’m surprised you Guardians know how to dress a wound.”

“There are things Ghost can’t fix.”

“Is this why Targe hasn’t healed your leg?”

She’s perceptive, he’ll give her that. The throbbing pain in his thigh has dimmed thanks to the painkillers, but he still can’t put his full weight on it. Damn Scorn, he cursed under his breath when the Lurker got him—Hive weapons were bad enough with their Light-blocking tech, but Dark Ether stung even worse and made wounds harder to close. Ghosts could only do so much, and after a certain point it would be up to either a fresh resurrection or a long, painful healing process.

“He’s done what he could,” he echoes his thoughts.

These are not the neatest sutures he’s done, nor the cleanest dressing, but Caiatl only glances at it once and lies down on the cot, a tiny yelp escaping her. Zavala tries not to think about the purple stains of her blood on his armour as he takes off the gloves and scrubs his hands clean.

Only when he’s flopped onto a chair beside her, the wounded leg stretched out and throbbing with newfound fervour, does she speak, “You could have killed me.”

He frowns, “Why?”

A rustle as she turns her head to him, “Why was my father sending assassins after me? Why did Ghaul never have any servants, not even a cook, and lived alone in a guarded wing of the empty palace?”

Zavala thinks again of her burgundy flesh under the metal clippers, the blood on his hands. If he measured the blade right, it wouldn’t have taken more than two strikes. She is fast, and she would fight back, but his Ghost is tucked away out of reach and even if they both died bleeding out on the white tiled floor, only one of them would rise back up. He thinks of how she allowed an armed Guardian to stand beside her, and how she tossed her rifle aside and fell to one knee, and let him come close enough to touch.

He reaches for her hand and she doesn’t draw back.

“Destroying the Witness,” the words echo in the quiet room. “You asked if I believe we will win. I don’t. I am ready to die trying, but I’m not sure…” he stops when her thumb brushes across his knuckles, draws in a breath, then recenters himself, “I’m not sure if I believe we will win.”

Caiatl’s eyes linger on him, he can feel it as almost physical tingling on his skin. Her warm fingers curl tighter around his.

“Come to my ship tomorrow,” she says; Zavala looks at her and finds her gaze soft, wandering across his face as if she were memorising it, “and I will teach you to celebrate. As you said, this is not a failure, after all.”

Then, even later—Ór is in the Tower, folding clothes on the bed in her little apartment, when Zavala pings her comms. It must be some 10 PM, she figures, late enough for it to be an emergency, so she only grabs a jacket and runs out as she is, untied boots and a cotton shirt and sweatpants. But when she enters his office it is darkened and no one is there except the Commander himself, perched on the edge of the desk. Most of his heavy armour is off, and he keeps his weight shifted onto his good leg noticeably.

“Commander,” she tries to disguise her panting, “Did something…?”

“Oh, no, I just…” he trails off, then clears his throat. “Eris told me you’re planning to conduct an extensive research in the Pyramid, as long as it remains inactive.”

“Yes. This might be the only good moment we’ll ever get.”

“Indeed. Well.” Zavala moves, flinches when his wounded leg touches the ground with too much force, settles again. Ór waits patiently.

“Are you alright, Commander?” She says finally, but he only shakes his head.

“I’ve been worse,” a smile ghosts over his features. “I… wanted to thank you, Guardian. For your quick reaction, for standing beside the Empress when we couldn’t—”

Ór interjects, “I did what I had to.”

“Still,” he looks her in the eye, serious, but with none of his usual sternness. There is some distant sorrow there, too, and a weariness she hadn’t seen him exhibit since his own Severing. “I do wish to thank you. The Empress will also, I’m sure, once she’s rested and taken care of her fleet.”

“How is she?” Ór didn’t catch the moment Caiatl was wounded amidst all the chaos of the battle, but her limping form is the last she’s seen of the Empress.

“Better than Calus’ forces would like her to be,” another smile, this time a little wry. “Today will be remembered as the mark and measure of the strength of our coalition. In no small part thanks to you.”

Ór looks at her boots, the noses still covered in the mix of earth and egregore goo strewing the Leviathan and the untied laces dragging on the floor. The adrenaline rush and initial, apocalyptic panic have settled, and right now she is only pumped out, every muscle seeming to ache from exhaustion, and ambiently sad. Should she feel like a victor, she wonders, staring at the few drops of Cabal blood splattering the leather, was this the successful outcome? Caiatl would say she should. And still Calus got out, and they left behind a pile of bodies on the Pyramid’s floor.

Strength in community. This is what the Light is about, isn’t it? She thinks about Caiatl’s shield fanning out over her, covering them from Calus’ purple fire.

“Thank you,” this comes out weaker than she planned. She rises her eyes back to Zavala. “Thank you, Commander.”

He nods, and she thinks about the bonding ritual as she moves to exit the room. About how he wanted to break the circle but listened when she held him back, hand still outstretched towards Eris as if he feared the magic would break her jn half the moment he stopped trying to reach her. He must’ve noticed Ór brought Cayde’s knife as her offering. She thinks about his form huddled on the floor as the Nightmare yelled at him, about her own Severing and phantom blood sticky on her hands.

“Guardian—” he starts and cuts off when she turns around, something akin to embarrassment passing across his features. “I realised I never asked you your name.”

She breathes out, very softly, just quiet enough that he won’t read it as a gasp of surprise. Then a small smile, tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Ór,” she says, “it’s Ór.”