Savathûn laughed. She laughed so brightly and truly, her voice thundering like the sound of an avalanche approaching, rippling across space like magma rushing out of a volcano. Outside, the world was ending. The Deep had arrived to state its claim--oh, what a boring development, what a dull and wholly expected turn of events, and what a sorry display of ineptitude the Final God of Pain was making of himself, spluttering and wheezing at her feet. She kicked him in the face for good measure. He grasped weakly at her ankle, gargling out curses through a ruined throat, and tried dragging himself after her when she turned to leave, but the lack of two limbs and several vital organs prevented him from getting very far.
A small, exhilarated, and no doubt owed to growing up alongside Xivu part of her almost regretted the lack of an additional challenge. All of this had been so laughably easy so far, she'd truly expected more of them--Nezarec in particular, I mean really, any measure of deeply-buried respect she'd still had for the man vanished along with the majority of the blood in his system. She shook her head dramatically. And now she was free to go and fetch her prize like a fox in a chicken pen, entirely unhindered? Such a disappointment.
The prize was very badly hidden, at that. Savathûn tutted to herself. Ah, these Human habits, she hadn't quite shaken them yet, but some of them she even liked. They were such a curious species, Humanity, with their soft faces malleable like wet clay and the skin over their teeth so pliant and expressive; they got by well enough for how dull and static their eyes were, she had to admit. Overall she'd enjoyed her little sally to this backwater system. It had been a nice change of pace, the lull before a dramatic climax.
The Veil just sat there, out in plain sight at the back of the pyramid. She could've picked it up and walked with it out the front door, and a part of her--the exhilarated one--was tempted to do so, if only to see the expression it would've contorted the Witness' sullen face in. But this would've been foolish, and she had caused enough of a scene here already. She'd made sure Nezarec wouldn't be much use to anyone in the nearest century or two, but she was under no delusion that he'd been done for for good. She needed to do this quickly and cleanly. The rift between dimensions roared open for barely a second, and when it closed, the Veil was already sinking into the gaseous depths of the furthest suitable hideout in this system.
Savathûn descended along with it. It dropped a long way down, long enough for this to feel a little too familiar for her liking, and finally settled at one of the layers, hovering among dark-azure mists. The parasite curled in her gut in contentment. This scheme would feed it sumptuously, and that thought both relieved and irked her--but at least she would have some respite from its constant whining, and in all honesty she was already looking forward to it.
She did not linger for longer than a fleeting glance. If all came together according to the plan, the Veil would stay hidden well enough to buy her the time she needed, and once it was inevitably discovered... well. That was when the true fun would begin.
She knew the Witness currently had its eyes on a wholly different prize, and the fact it had no reason to be paying her any attention at this particular moment was undoubtedly a good thing -- but as she rose through the blue mists and the frantic scream of the Sky grew louder in her ears, the small part of her wanted so badly to make it see her.
Zavala and Shaxx consider the inevitability of death.
-----
Zavala jerks as Shaxx’s sword clashes hard against his, the clang of metal reverberating through his fist and down his arm as it sings through the room. Not one to pull punches, Shaxx follows the strike immediately, forcing Zavala to shift his sword just in time to meet Shaxx’s blade before he can slice Zavala open. He manages a nick on Zavala’s side instead and Zavala stumbles backward. He catches a blow, aimed down towards his shoulder, then another aiming for his side. He can feel sweat streaking down his body, and blood from the cut on his side. His breath gasps in and out of his lungs.
“Stop.” He gasps out, even as he lifts his sword to receive another strike.
Shaxx halts immediately.
“Are you alright?” He lowers his blade. Zavala is one of few granted the rare privilege of seeing Shaxx’s face, and without his helmet he can watch Shaxx’s gaze drift over him, sizing him up. He eyes Zavala’s wound.
“I’m fine.” Zavala promises. He picks up a cloth from nearby, one he’d intended to use as a sweat rag, and wipes it over the wound, clearing away the blood to see the damage beneath. “It’s alright.” He tells Targe, shaking his head when his Ghost moves to heal him.
“Here.” Shaxx takes his sword from his hand, carrying his and Zavala’s blades to a rack off to the side of the practice space, at the rear of Shaxx’s workshop. Zavala presses the cloth to his cut, looking up when Shaxx returns with two glasses of water, offering one to Zavala.
“Thank you.” He takes it, pulling a deep gulp from the glass. He holds the rag to his side, drinking in the feel of the pain in his body. He and Shaxx train regularly, but it had been his choice to train with swords, something they rarely do. He wanted something that would feel taxing, and worthwhile. Considering his wound, perhaps it wasn’t such a good choice.
“What’s troubling you?” Shaxx asks, his eyes shifting over him again. “I noticed that you seemed distracted.”
“Honestly?” Zavala shakes his head. “I’m not certain.”
He’d been distracted the whole fight. Shaxx had begun slowly, perhaps hoping to catch Zavala’s attention and draw him in after a minute or two of sparring, but when he had not, he’d taken a different tactic, resuming his usual effort and swinging at Zavala full force. Even that hadn’t focused him. If he’d been in the moment, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared for Shaxx’s blows. They’ve been sparring partners for what feels like the past century, after all.
“Perhaps the resurrection of the Ahamkara?” Shaxx offers, a telling note of frustration in his tone. Zavala smiles weakly.
“Yes.” Zavala admits with a nod. “That is a top contender.”
He takes another drink from the water glass, watching as Shaxx sighs heavily. Zavala isn’t certain how to feel about the Ahamkara. Everyone he knows that had been around during the days of the Great Hunt seems to feel similarly to each other, frustrated by this new turn of events. He knows most of them feel their original actions were justified, having experienced too much to not recognize the danger Ahamkara present. Zavala feels similarly, but at the same time, the mass extermination of a species because they were labeled ‘dangerous’ is too authoritarian for Zavala’s comfort.
The commander in Zavala, however, is terrified. Guardians are already being tricked by Riven, even the lingering bones of dead Ahamkara hold influence over them. If the whole host of Riven’s eggs are to survive, Zavala can’t imagine the danger they possess.
“It feels like,” Zavala begins, lifting his head. “No matter what we do, there is always something that is likely to kill us. Our deaths seem inevitable.”
Shaxx nods, tired, resigned. “We were brought back to fight a battle that will never end.”
“Or it will end with our deaths.” Zavala says, and Shaxx sighs again, shaking his head weakly.
“We shouldn’t think that way. We can defeat the Witness, I know you believe that.”
“Do you?”
Shaxx stops, crossing his arms over his chest to fix Zavala with a look that’s almost a glare.
“I think we can defeat the Witness,” Zavala begins, Shaxx’s brows lifting as he waits for him to go on. “But I’m not sure whether I think that because I believe it, or because I have to think that way.”
“We will prepare all that we can,” Shaxx says, “when it comes time to fight, is there really a difference between the two of those?”
“The difference will be if we succeed, or if we die having failed to lead our people through another, better option. Something that might save them.”
“There is no better option, the Witness wants to destroy us, even if we tried to flee, it would follow.”
“The Witness wants the Traveler. It doesn’t need us.”
Zavala watches Shaxx’s face fall, his expression shifting into worry and concern.
“Zavala.” His voice is much softer, no longer like they’re debating, or on the verge of arguing. “I thought you had made peace with this.”
Zavala’s eyes fall shut and he pulls a deep breath into his lungs. His sweat is already cooling on his skin, cold winter air flowing in from the window they’d propped open. Goosebumps are starting to rise on his skin.
“How can I make peace with the decision that may well destroy our entire civilization? The decision I made?”
“You are not alone in this.” Shaxx reminds him. He sets a hand on his shoulder, stepping closer, and Zavala looks away. “Think about it. If the others did not agree with your decision, do you really think they’d be here? The Awoken, the Cabal, the Eliksni? They could all leave if they wanted to, but they haven’t. They’re fighting with us because they want to.”
“Even if we all die?”
“Zavala–”
“You can’t tell me that isn’t a possibility.” Zavala interrupts, and Shaxx lets out his breath, then nods.
“Fine.” He agrees, “even if we die. Even if every one of us dies at the Witness’s hands, we made this decision together.” Shaxx squeezes his shoulder. “The Traveler raised us to protect. Not only itself but everyone around us. We’re going to do that. I believe it.”
He holds Zavala’s shoulder, his eyes lingering on Zavala’s own until finally Zavala nods.
“Good.” Shaxx smiles, then claps his shoulder. “You should get some rest, Guardian. You need it.” Zavala smiles weakly, and Shaxx pushes him towards the door lightly. “And see to your wound. We both know pain can center the mind, but don’t rely on it if you don’t have to, Commander.”
Drifter takes care of Eris after a difficult transformation.
------
The pavilion seemed to yawn around Drifter as he hurried into it, up the winding path shadowed by Hive stone and hewn rock, he entered the cavernous space and felt a familiar prickle of unease settle into his bones. It was like standing in the middle of an open meadow surrounded on all sides by dense forest, like he was being watched by a predator he couldn’t see, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. He kept his eyes forward.
At the summoning circle in the center of the pavilion, he could make out Eris’ runes fading out of sight. Hive magic dissipated into the air with an acid tinge that burned Drifter’s nose and lifted the hair on the back of his neck, unease tightening in his shoulders. At the edge of the circle, Ikora looked back at him, his footsteps echoing through the chamber, but she spared him only a glance before she pushed ahead, rushing to the center of the circle where Eris knelt.
She was bare from the waist up, covered in Hive oil and the ripped remnants of her armor. Her back was to Drifter, her skin marred by old scars that had long since become familiar to him. Even in the distance between them he could see how she shook, her breath heaving, her body trembling. Ikora dropped to her knees in front of her, her hand finding Eris’s shoulder. The Drifter could see her lips move, but he couldn’t make out her words. He watched Eris jerk, bowing low over her knees, one hand braced on the stone floor and the other splayed over her chest.
Drifter stopped at the edge of the circle, wheeling to face the other figure present, Immaru hovering at the edge of the ritual circle, watching Eris with scorn. The cold assessment in his eye made an ancient instinct in the Drifter’s mind begin to roar at the perceived threat.
“Get out.” He snapped, and when the Ghost’s shell lifted like he was going to respond, Drifter snarled, Stasis rallying to his fingertips so cold it burned. “I won’t say it twice.”
Immaru glanced between Drifter and Eris, still in the center of the circle. Drifter took a threatening step forward, and the Ghost flitted back, then he left without a word. Drifter hurried into the circle.
Eris’s hand had shifted to grip Ikora’s forearm, so tight her knuckles shone white against her skin, her brow pressed to the cavern floor as she shook, coughs and rattling gasps shaking through her. Her other hand was pressed to the cavern floor, her fingers trembling. Drifter eased himself down to his knees before her, laying his fingers over hers gently.
“Hey, Moondust.” He breathed, his gaze flitting over her. So close, he could see the goosebumps that had risen all over her skin. Hive magic tended to burn hot, the ritual fires in their bowls around the circle put off some heat, but Drifter could already feel the cold from the stone seeping through the layers of his armor, the heat from Eris’s magic already slipping away.
He watched her draw in a sudden deep breath, her head lifting from the cavern floor. Hive eyes blinked at him, half covered by her dark curls. She placed her hands underneath her shoulders and pushed herself upright, her arms almost straight before she coughed hard and wet, doubling forward once more. He set a hand on her back as one cough turned into a fit, each one weaker than the last, her exhaustion clear when she finally dropped her brow to the stone and struggled down deep breaths.
He sensed more than heard the quiet whoosh of his Ghost appearing beside him, their intentions reaching him through the link between them Drifter so often kept shut and barred. His glare was steely when the Ghost lifted its eye off of Eris to meet his gaze, and it shrunk back.
“Ikora,” he nodded to the Warlock, her Ghost already at her side. His lack of trust for his own Traveler-dictated partner didn’t mean he didn’t want Eris looked after, and he watched Ikora share a look with her Ghost before he drifted forward, dropping low to hover eye-level with Eris.
“Eris?” Ophichus asked, his shell tilting to meet her gaze as Eris lifted her head just slightly. “Could I scan you? We want to make sure you’re alright.”
“I’m fine.” She grit out, but still she gave the Ghost a nod as she pushed herself upright on trembling arms. She held still as his beam of light swept over her, Hive eyes shifting shut against the light when it reached her face. Drifter watched her let out her breath in a sigh once the Ghost was done. With her torso still bare, he could see the way her muscles flexed as she began to move and he squeezed her shoulder.
“Don’t get up.” He told her gently, from how she was still shaking, he knew it wouldn’t end well. Ikora’s hand shifted, dropping down Eris’s arm until she was laying her fingers over Eris’s on the cavern floor. Drifter reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, and he watched the hard chitin pieces around Eris’s eyes shift as she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek into Drifter’s touch. “Just breathe for a minute, Moondust. I’ve got you.”
Eris’s breath sighed out of her again and Drifter held on until a shiver rattled her frame, pulling back to reach for his robes. He stripped his gauntlets and the armored plates at his shoulders with practiced ease, slipping the gun from his belt and undoing the buckle, settling it all aside so that he could draw the robe off his shoulders.
“Germaine–” Eris shook her head at him, her hand held up to show the oily Hive blood covering her skin, but Drifter just smiled as he draped the robe over her shoulders, drawing it around her.
“Don’t worry about it, Moondust.” His hands found her shoulders again as Eris reached up to hold the front of the robes, closing them at her chest. “You know I’ve seen worse.”
“And I’m loath to contribute.” She replied, her voice low and weak. Drifter’s soft smile left his face as her eyes closed again, her head dropping as she braced both hands on the stone floor again, her arms trembling.
“You need rest, Eris.” Ikora reached out to hold her friend’s shoulder, and Drifter nodded. The Warlock had been getting on Eris’s case more than he had since this whole ordeal had begun, he trusted Eris to know her limits and her own capabilities, but he also understood how relentless she could be in pursuit of a goal.
“She’s right, Eris.” He said, his smile returning weakly when Eris aimed a glare at him. “We’ve all gotta rest sometime.” He reminded her, reaching out to guide a lock of her hair away from where it covered her center eye. “Call it a day, Moondust. You can go back to bein’ a Hive god tomorrow.”
Drifter could practically feel Eris’s irritation radiating off of her, but he reached out to hold the back of her neck, running his thumb over the corner of her jaw even as it left Hive oil on his fingers.
“I told you I’d be here.”
“I’m not done, Germaine.” She told him, but he held her gaze until she let out her breath in a slow sigh. “Fine. But I will be back.”
Drifter sent her a grin. “Oh, I’m countin’ on it, Moondust.”
The HELM was thankfully empty when Eris and Drifter entered, not a soul in the common areas as Drifter moved through them, Eris light in his arms. He’d picked her up after she’d stumbled rising from the circle, not a move he’d have made if anyone more than Ikora had been around to see, but from the way Eris was already leaning into him, her head resting against his neck and shoulder, he suspected he’d made the right choice.
The lights were dim to their reserve setting, soft red light in the hallways to offer Drifter something to see by without disturbing the crew trying to rest. He headed straight for the officers quarters, where Eris had been assigned a room, along with the Guardian and Crow. From the hallway, he could make out a soft yellow light from one of the rooms. Through the open door, he could see the Guardian, curled under a blanket pulled up to their ears, their eyes shut. He looked back to the hall at the sound of footsteps, Crow slipping down the hall, a glass of water in his hand.
“Hey,” the Hunter greeted quietly, his eyes drifting over Eris in Drifter’s arms. “Is everything okay?”
“Long day.” Drifter said simply. Eris didn’t shift a muscle in Drifter’s arms. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d fallen asleep. He nodded towards the Guardian, asleep in bed with a light on and their door open. “You too?”
“Yeah.” Crow followed his gaze, then shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “They’re fine, just tired, really.” He set the glass of water on a desk just beyond the Guardian’s door, returning to the doorway as soon as it was out of his hand. “Y’know, Eris’s room is–” he pointed behind Drifter, to a door he’d already passed, but Drifter shook his head.
“I know.” He’d thought the Hunter would’ve seen him aboard the HELM enough times to get that he’d stayed the night in Eris’s room more than once. “Not goin’ there yet.”
He made to turn down the hall again, but Crow spoke up before he could.
“Do you need any help?” Crow asked, color darkening on his cheeks when Drifter regarded him with an unimpressed look. “Hunters, we look after our own–”
“I think I’ve got it.” He headed down the hall, not at all surprised when Crow slipped past him, reaching the door to the communal bathrooms before Drifter could and pushing it open. “Thanks.”
“Let me get the lights.” Crow slipped inside, flipping both switches on the wall as Drifter headed for the counter. Eris made a small noise in his arms, her body tensing as she hid her face in Drifter’s neck.
“Maybe just half of ‘em.” He suggested to the Hunter, Crow quickly complying. Drifter pressed his cheek to the top of Eris’s head, reaching a hand up to shield her eyes. “Sorry, Moondust. I know your eyes are better than mine.”
Crow lingered in the doorway when Drifter set Eris down to sit on the counter. Through the mirror in front of him, Drifter could see the Hunter shifting from foot to foot.
“Are you sure she’s–” he broke off, and when Drifter looked back, away from Crow’s reflection, Eris had lifted her head, meeting Crow’s gaze with acolyte’s eyes.
“I’m alright, Crow.” Drifter could hear her exhaustion in her tone, but he watched Crow’s shoulders drop as he let out a relieved sigh of breath, giving Eris a small nod. Eris straightened when he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “My apologies, I’ve forgotten my veil. Does this upset you?” She gestured towards her eyes and Crow’s head jerked up.
“What? No. No, not at all. I just–” Drifter rolled his eyes when the Hunter began to fidget again, a small smile creasing his lips when Eris slapped his arm.
“I just feel like I’m not doing enough.” Crow said, meeting Eris’s eyes at last. “You and the Guardian are out there, dealing with Immaru and gathering tithes, you’re doing these crazy transformations and I’m just…here, writing reports or scouting. I should be helping you.”
“Your work is not insignificant, Crow.” Eris reminded him. Drifter set his hand on her knee, giving it a brief squeeze before he stepped back, retreating from Eris to allow her and Crow to speak while he headed for a set of shelves built into the wall of the bathroom, retrieving a set of towels and washcloths.
“Still,” he could hear Eris continue behind him, Crow’s footsteps soft as he made his way further into the room. “I understand your desire to be closer to the fight. I promise that I’ll call for you when the time comes.”
Crow’s words softened further and Drifter found his way to the showers in the back of the space. He deposited the towels on a nearby bench, then slipped from the room. When he returned from Eris’s room a minute later, a set of her clothes in his hands, he saw Crow give her a nod before he left the room, and Drifter patted his shoulder as he passed.
“Look after our hero, yeah? We’re gonna need ‘em.” They shared a look back towards Eris, and Crow nodded.
“Yeah. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”
Drifter clapped his shoulder in thanks, and he and Crow parted ways in the corridor. Drifter met Eris at the counter, setting her clothes aside to offer her a hand as she eased herself down to the floor on shaky legs.
“Germaine.” She sent him a weak glare and Drifter had to bite his lip to contain his smile.
“Sorry, Moondust. I know you can take care of yourself.” Still, he couldn’t quite pull his offered hand away, and he smiled when Eris took it once she was standing on the bathroom floor, her other hand still holding his robes closed at her chest. He lowered his head towards hers when she looked up at him, feeling his smile soften. “Been a long time since I let anyone in like this.” He murmured. “Guess some part of me is trying to make up for lost time.”
“Vengeance is not a suitable motivator for all of one’s endeavors.” Eris acknowledged, her voice low. She leaned her head into Drifter’s shoulder, stepping forward until her weight was leaned forward, into his chest. His arms came around her naturally. He pressed his nose into her curls, breathing in what he expected to be the familiar scent of her hair only to choke on a cough when the smell of Hive blood flooded his nostrils.
“Sorry,” he rasped when Eris pulled back, covering his mouth and nose with a hand as he fought back another cough. “I just wasn’t expectin—”
“Quiet.” Eris told him. She took him by the hand again and Drifter followed her to the showers.
“You want help, or–?”
“Quiet, Germaine.”
The showers were split between one row of little booths, with curtains and dividers between each shower, and another row of shower heads, exposed along the wall. Drifter could see the utility in both, with large crews, one often couldn’t afford the luxury of privacy in all of one’s movements, but it wasn’t like anyone wanted to catch a glimpse of their commander in the nude. Well, maybe some might.
Eris pulled him towards the exposed row, rather than try to cram the two of them into one of the booths. They’d done it before, when it wasn’t the middle of the night and Drifter wasn’t keen on anyone walking in and seeing him buck naked and kissing Eris like a lovesick fool, but Drifter doubted anyone was likely to come in now, even someone as nosy as Crow. He’d set the towels nearby, on a bench that ran along the outside wall of the first shower stall, and Eris let go of his hand, shrugging his robes off her shoulders and reaching down to untie her armor from where it had settled around her waist after her Hive transformation had torn through it. He turned on two of the showerheads, staying clear of them so that they could pour out the cold water lingering in the pipes, then planted himself on the bench, looking up at Eris with a lazy smile.
“You could do more than just watch, you know.” She told him, shelling off the last of her clothes. He tugged off his gloves, then reached up to hold her waist. Opening his legs wide, he guided her to stand between his knees, still smiling up at her.
“I love to watch you.” He ran his thumbs over her hip bones. “You really are a sight to see, Moondust.”
“Even like this?” She looked down at him and he shrugged, his smile knowing. Even now, he couldn’t stop staring at her. She was covered in Hive blood, her skin pale from the cold, red lines of irritation over her skin from the places her armor had torn against her shifting form. Her scars were sharp against her skin and still she was the most beautiful person Drifter had ever looked at, maybe because of it all.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured, unable to bite back his smile. “You always look fantastic, this doesn’t change anything.”
She shook her head, fondly, exasperatedly. He wasn’t sure she could roll her Hive eyes the way a human’s eyes would, but the expression was close and Drifter grinned. She reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it off him.
“Come on, Germaine.” She said, pulling him to his feet after she tossed his shirt aside. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”
She headed for the showers without another word and Drifter hurried to shell off the rest of his clothes, pausing only long enough to watch her step under the spray before he climbed to his feet to join her.
She met him under the heat of the water, the pair of them luxuriating in the feel of it for a long moment. Eventually, Drifter moved Eris so that her head was out of the water and he rubbed shampoo through her dark curls, taking care to wash away all the Hive blood until her hair was soft and clean all over her head. He washed away the rest of the blood, feeling Eris go boneless in his hands, her exhaustion creeping up on her once again. He nudged her back when she reached up to reciprocate.
“Go dry off.” He told her gently, dropping a kiss onto her cheekbone. “I’ll be right there. Promise.”
She slipped from the shower and Drifter followed her only a few minutes later. Once they were clean and dry, and they’d found their way back to Eris’s room, they sank into her bed pressed close to one another. Eris tucked herself under Drifter’s chin, drawing his warmth into her body, and Drifter was happy to supply it. He fell asleep holding Eris close, lulled to sleep knowing she was safe from harm.
The weapon is heavy in Kythra’s hands. It hums with their frustration. Unwieldy. Aggravating.
Rhulk dashes at them again, his own glaive raised high to slice through the air. The blow cuts clean through their form, lethal to any solid opponent. As it is, however, it only serves to irritate Kythra further.
“You think far too much,” says their fellow disciple with a flourish. Smug in the moment’s victory.
The truth in his flippant critique grates against their pride. “I am nothing but thought.”
“Then you are nothing.” He readies his stance, low and mocking. “Again.”
They clash once more. Kythra’s glaive – if a cleaver with all the finesse of a club could be called such a thing – is disarmed to the pyramid’s floor. It skates just outside their grasp as Rhulk drops his entire weight to the knee pressed through their chest.
“I cannot begin to fathom why the Witness chose you.” It is said with such sincere condescension that there is no doubt he finds them no more than a particularly boring puzzle. Beneath him. Unworth his time.
Kythra shoves him off with the strength of all Dari’s decimated suns, their talons shredding through the armored flesh of his abdomen. Their multiplicity crystalizes. Ichor and darkness dripping from fractal claws as their body heaves against itself. It is not meant to be a body, and yet here they stand. Solid. Furious.
They are Kythra. The last of their people because they alone were clever enough to confront the creator of their destruction and strike a deal with it.
Their life for all others.
–- How many did you kill to reach me? –-
As many as I needed to. No less.
They alone carved their place into this thing called salvation.
They alone will stand when everything else has fallen.
They will not be bested by some acolyte handy with the simplest weapon known to time.
They will show him just how they earned their place at the Witness’ side: with blood.
Kythra grasps their blade in those same bloodied hands, feeling the resonance within tune to the frequency of their fury. What had been a dull unresponsive mass shifts into a finely curving point. Working edge honed to a wicked gleam. Both a tool and weapon made to cut the very fabric of reality.
It will cut through Rhulk just as well.
Their fellow disciple has barely the time to right himself before Kythra descends like a charged meteor storm. Their scythe shrieks as it rends the air to clash against his glaive. The edges lock, grinding like the memory of bone against bone. Kythra can see themself reflected in Rhulk’s eyes. Many once more. A clever twist breaks Rhulk’s hold over their stalemate and their blade fits neatly against his throat. They pin him to the floor with the weight of every soul they carry within themself.
“I was not chosen. I was not gifted anything by your precious Witness,” they snarl with too many teeth. Rhulk struggles under their hold, eyes blazing, but they have more arms than he has strength in this contest of force. “I saw an opportunity and I took it because I am not weak like you.”
Shiro returns to the Iron Temple after a patrol of the Cosmodrome to find someone waiting for him.
------
Shiro lets out a sigh that seems to come from his very bones, cold air whirring through his chassis as he climbs the temple steps. His whole body feels like it's caked in snow and ice, frozen after the long day spent outside. He feels stiff from the cold. His joints ache, his back is tense, his whole body exhausted with the drain put on his systems as he fights to keep his body warm in this cold. He stomps the snow off his boots on the steps, kicking the sides of his feet against the stone to dislodge all the snow he picked up while he was on patrol. Even without it, he feels weighed down.
He crosses the open space at the top of the steps, shouldering his way through the heavy doors and into the central hall of the temple. The great fire keeps the space warm, and Shiro lets out another sigh—this time of relief—as he makes his way towards it. Even with only Shiro and the wolves living in the temple, Shiro keeps the fire lit for Saladin’s sake, as well as his own. He sustains it with kernels of his solar Light, resting among the firewood heaped inside. He can still feel the vestiges of Saladin’s power within the flames. Even gone from the temple, his power will linger within the flames so long as they still breathe, living alongside Shiro’s Light like some piece of him is still here. In many ways, Shiro supposes he still is, in the history of the Iron Lords marked in the temple, the statues, the blades, even the scrapes in stone. Shiro holds his hands over the great fire, letting Saladin’s lingering power drive the heat from his extremities.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the click of nails on stone. One of the wolves, Finnala, emerges from the corridor that leads further into the temple. He kneels down when she crosses the room, towards him, smiling when she licks his face, her tail wagging, clearly pleased to see him. Still, there’s something restrained in her excitement. When Saladin left, the wolves became more attached to Shiro. They follow him more when he leaves, sometimes descending down the mountain with him, following him along his patrol route. When he returns, they whine and cry, even howling sometimes. They descend on him in a fury of tails and slobbery tongues, practically climbing on top of him, but now, Finnala is the only one to greet him, and instead of climbing on top of him, or shoving her head into his legs in a demand for more attention, she just follows at his side when he rises.
He turns away from the living quarters, heading down the corridor opposite the one Finnala emerged from. The hallway leads to old studies and work spaces, rooms where the Iron Lords used to store armor and weapons, areas for sparring when the weather is too cold outside to emerge from the stone fortress.
He follows the corridor to the workspace he made for himself, a large room filled with Vanguard gear. The technology looks at odds with the stone temple, so Shiro made sure the area was tucked away in a corner of the temple. Holoprojectors, data screens, and even a holographic war table depicting the cosmodrome sit on the smooth stone floor, hooked up to a generator in the corner. Finnala follows him inside, then drops herself onto the largest dog bed the Last City had to offer, set beside a desk off to one side of the large room. Shiro can’t help his smile at how she still manages to make the bed look small.
He wanders over to the war table, pulling a small data slate from his pocket as he goes. He sets it onto the surface of the table, watching as both devices light up and all the data Shiro had collected during his patrol transfers onto the holographic table. He taps the slate, navigating to his logs and pressing the button to record.
“Mission log…” he sighs, adjusting the holograms on the table until he can draw up the right dataset. “Two hundred and fifty-seven. House Salvation and House of Dusk Eliksni are fighting for control of the cosmodrome. House of Devils holdouts are still holding the Plaguelands but their numbers are dwindling by the day. Some conflict near the Doomed Sea, House Salvation won a skirmish but I’m not about to count the Devils out of the fight just yet.”
He runs his fingers over the edge of the war table. The holograms on the surface confirm his words, little dots detailing the forces moving against one another in the data Shiro had brought back, with the Devil splicer numbers dropping at the Doomed Sea. He shifts his gaze to the rest of the map.
“Overall, numbers are staying pretty constant. House of Dusk and House of Salvation are bringing reinforcements in from elsewhere and even falling to ruin the House of Devils is still getting turncoats onto their side. The title of ‘Splicer’ still holds a lot of weight for these guys.”
His face falls, his whole being sobering as he remembers the bodies Shaw had picked up near his camp, the ones Shiro had sent back to the City, back to their own Splicer.
“All efforts to convert the Eliksni of the Cosmodrome to the House of Light have failed. Two casualties. I recommend we halt conversion efforts until we can utilize methods that will truly protect our allies.”
His metal lips pinch into a frown and he stares down at the war table, stuck in a loop of replaying data, Eliksni forces marching against one another in an endless cycle.
“Shiro out.”
He presses the data slate to stop the recording, and as he stares down at the war table below him, a familiar ache squeezes his chest so tight he feels like he can’t quite breathe. His eyes meet Finnala’s from across the room and he pushes himself off the war table.
“How about dinner, huh girl?”
The wolf jumps to her feet, eagerly following Shiro out of the study and back towards the living quarters.
“Where is everyone, anyways?” He asks her, not that he expects a response. “Did you kids go hunting today?” There’s no blood on her muzzle, which is usually a sign of a hunt, and the winter makes things harder for the wolves given the lack of game running out and about, but Shiro can’t think of another reason why the wolves wouldn’t come to greet him when he arrived back at the temple. “You’d better not have brought any rabbits inside again.”
After Saladin had left to join Caiatl's ranks, Shiro had built a set of wolf-sized doggy doors into the temple, meant to allow the wolves to move in and out of the temple as they pleased without needing Shiro or Saladin around to open any doors for them. Normally, they’d open the temple doors for the wolves in the mornings and let them back in if they wished to return at night, or during particularly harsh weather, but after Shiro’s schedule had proved too chaotic to stick to the routine, he’d decided he wanted a way to let the wolves in and out on their own. The wolf doors are in the furthest corner of the temple to isolate the cold, and they have to slip first though a weighted flap into what used to be an unused bedroom, then take a ram up to another flap that leads out of a basement window and outside, into the main courtyard. It’s not the most elegant system, but it works. Unfortunately, it also means the wolves can return with whatever they please. Shiro hasn’t quite taught them to leave their carcasses outside.
Finnala just trots at his side, her gaze perfectly innocent as they make their way into the quarters.
They round a corner and Shiro can make out what looks to be the whole pack, spread out on a thick fur in one of the temple common rooms, laying around an old couch. Half of them are asleep, the other half chewing on old bones or antlers, some contesting over their prizes, but Shiro can’t tell if they’re old or new. He hurries forward, looking around for the carcass he suspects will be on the floor, just out of sight.
“You know you’re not supposed to–”
He breaks off as soon as he rounds the couch. There’s no carcass, but instead he spots a familiar Iron Lord, a thick blanket thrown over him, with one of the year old wolves draped over him like they aren’t aware of their size.
Shiro watches as Saladin’s face shifts, his eyes opening with the sluggishness he only allows himself in a place he really trusts, and he waits until Saladin’s eyes focus on his, a soft smile on his lips.
“You’re back.” Saladin observes. Shiro feels himself smile.
“So are you.”
Saladin nudges the wolf off his lap, and when he pulls Shiro down and presses a kiss to his lips, all the cold that had clung to Shiro, the tightness in his chest and the ache in every limb suddenly eases. He leans into Saladin, and at least for a moment, everything is alright.
Our journeys this year have taken us from destroyed pyramids ships to the depths of Titan’s oceans to the far reaches of Savathûn’s throne world- and they promise to take us beyond reality itself. As the year comes to a close, let’s take a look back on everywhere we’ve been, and everywhere we have yet to go. Our chronicle is a long one, but there are blank pages still, and stories yet to be written.
Destcember is a drawing and writing challenge based on the Destiny universe. This year our recollections have revealed 31 prompts (one for each day of December) but remember: we make our own stories. Take inspiration wherever you find it- and at whatever pace you see fit. Write about original or cannon characters, do prompts out of order, skip them where you don’t see that spark- just be sure to have fun!
Please use the #destcember2023 tag and leave a prompt number.
