((The fanfic schedule is going to get a little weird this week. I’m posting the first half of this now, and the second half next week. Why? Well, because I have something special cooked up for Friday! Keep your eyes out for it!))
“By order of the Vanguard, you’re forbidden from duty outside the City for one week.”
The words still rang in his ears. Even now, hours later, he remembered how his heart had leapt up his throat so fast, he swore he was going to choke on it. Every little bleak thought he’d shoved to the side had resurfaced, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
How? Reynault turned the conversation over and over in his mind. How did the Commander, a man he assumed untouchable and always busy with something else, learn about any of this? The night terrors? The broken smiles? The stubborn aversion to so many subjects? The clawing, scraping, withering, always there, always….
Instead of an answer, Zavala had given him a heavy hand on his shoulder and a softening expression. “This is no simple battle scar, Titan. This is an enemy. You have to fight it.” And how could he refuse an order from someone he idolized?
How did he find out? Reynault searched the ceiling above his bed in the drafty old warehouse. Who told him? Someone had to have told him, right?
Then he rolled over onto his side and saw his Ghost. Torch was quiet, even more so than usual, and actively avoiding making eye contact, like he was scared of something.
Like he was guilty of something.
The realization twisted in his gut like a knife.
“You…!” Reynault bolted up, eyes wild and voice shaking. “You!! You sold me out, didn’t you?!”
“S-sold out?” Torch echoed, recoiling from the outburst as if struck. It reminded Reynault too much of his first moments as a Guardian, where he actually had struck out at the Ghost. The shame from that memory mingled with the dagger-sharp feeling of betrayal to form a cocktail of deadly self-loathing.
“Why?” He tried to sound angry, but the words came out heartbroken. “Why did you do this to me? I can’t fight, the Commander thinks I’m weak, and you...I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend!” came the predictable protest.
“Then why did you do this to me?”
“I….”
“Look at me, Torch. I’m ruined.”
“But…”
“Why? What did you think would happen? What were you trying to do? Why did you--”
“I’M TIRED OF WATCHING YOU TEAR YOURSELF APART!!” Torch snapped.
Stunned silence. When had Torch ever snapped? Yelled? Raised his voice at all?
“...I was tired of watching you tear yourself apart,” Torch repeated more softly, voice shaking; he’d been startled by his own outburst just as much as Reynault. “I tried to be there. I want to help, but I don’t know what the problem is.”
“It’s not your problem,” Reynault murmured.
“It is my problem!” the Ghost insisted. “You’re my Guardian! You’re the most important person in my life! I’m supposed to be able to heal you, but I...I can’t! Not if you don’t talk to me!”
Reynault’s eyes narrowed; his voice was hollow, a far cry from his usual emotiveness. “So why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because...I….” Torch drooped and suddenly became much quieter. “...I should have. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Silence.
“I thought maybe, if someone you looked up to told you to take care of yourself….”
Silence.
Torch sounded like he would cry, if he could. “I’ve ruined everything….”
And as much as it hurt, if there was one thing Reynault couldn’t stand more than his own mind, it was hearing that from his friend. He felt numb, but he forced the words out his dry throat: “I’m sorry too, Torch. I didn’t think about your feelings. I should’ve said something.”
Now it was Torch’s turn to try and make eye contact, and Reynault’s turn to avoid it. “Talk to me, Reynault,” the Ghost pleaded. “What happened?”
"My first death?" Reynault looked up at the ceiling, careful not to jostle Torch, who was nestled in the crook of his neck. "It's not actually that interesting. I fell over the railing in the Tower plaza in front of Commander Zavala."
There were several snickers around the table. Samsid leaned across to rest his elbow on the dented wooden surface, a glass of whiskey in hand. "You call that not interesting?"
Reynault lowered his gaze to look at his friend. "Not really. I just fell off. I was too green to be embarrassed."
"Pah." Samsid shook his head. "Expected better from you, Nault. Foxy, what've you got?"
An Awoken woman with pale violet skin and hair pursed her lips, then summoned her best deadpan expression. "The first time I heard Reynault's weird Titan prayer, I offed myself."
"Hey!" Reynault folded his arms. "If that actually happened, I would've heard it!"
"Nuh-uh. I did it quietly."
"Samsid's the sneaky one, not you."
"I can't be sneaky, too? Why not?" Her deadpan was cracking, a smirk twitching on her lips.
"I find it telling that he doesn't defend his little pre-battle ritual," murmured a gold and brass Exo woman in Warlock robes.
"It doesn't matter what you think of it," Reynault huffed. "It's just for me."
The Exo tilted her head, then redirected her attention to the other two, seemingly out of respect for his opinion. "Foxfire? Your real story?"
The Awoken woman pursed her lips again. "...Accidentally threw my Golden Gun at a Devils Captain. The good news is, I killed him. He just had lots of backup."
More chuckles around the table. "What made you do that?" Samsid heckled. "It's a gun, not one of those weird returning sticks."
"Boomerang," the Exo corrected.
"Could've been worse," Reynault offered. "Could've been two Golden Guns."
Foxfire grinned. "If I figure out how to pull two consecutive Golden Guns out my ass, I think the Darkness has bigger problems. But hey, enough about me. Scheherazade!"
At her name, the Exo Warlock looked up, then folded her hands on the table. "Very well. I was around four days old and learning my way around the Tower. As I wandered, I spoke extensively with my Ghost--"
"Get to the good bits," Samsid interrupted. Foxfire huffed and Reynault rolled his eyes.
Scheherazade scowled."...Aasimar mentioned Guardians resurrecting upon death. After confirming this via observation of recreational tower-jumpers, I decided to test it for myself. I flung myself over the edge of the plaza."
"That plaza is a Kinderguardian-slayer," Reynault mused.
"Tower-jumping is a right of passage," Foxfire asserted. "Samsid, your turn."
Samsid swished his glass around, eyeing the whiskey within. "Misfire. Didn't put the safety on my hand cannon right. Shot myself in the leg. There's an important artery in there, y'know."
"Your Ghost didn't patch it up?" Scheherazade pried.
"Nah. I'd told Ante to scram so I could shower."
Foxfire leaned in. "So you were fucking around with a gun while butt-naked in your room? Smooth, Samsid. Real smooth."
"Smoother than Scherry's head," Samsid replied with a grin. Scheherazade self-consciously ran a hand over the top of her metal cranium.
Reynault looked up at the ceiling again for a moment, idly petting Torch with one finger. "Alright, those were the first deaths. What about the best deaths?"
"Leaping the Hellmouth," Samsid snapped without hesitation.
"Leaping the Hellmouth," agreed Foxfire.
Reynault nodded. "Definitely when we leapt the Hellmouth."
Scheherazade looked between the three of them like they had grown extra eyes. "...Why would you try to leap the Hellmouth?"
"Because it's there?" Foxfire scoffed. "What else do you do with a giant-ass hole in the moon? It was great. We all piled on one sparrow--"
"It was my sparrow," Reynault cut in. "Mine could take the most weight, since it was built to carry heavy Titan armor. We all piled on, ramped off this rock, right? So then I pushed off the sparrow with my boost, and that pushed them forward."
Samsid leaned over the table and picked up the tale. "Next, I got out my rocket launcher. Jumped off. Hit the sparrow in the back with two good volleys."
“And it didn’t blow up?” Scheherazade asked incredulously.
"But even with all the pushes forward," Foxfire continued, ignoring her question, "the sparrow was juuuuuust shy of the edge! So I took a leap of faith, and just barely touched down on the other side! The only problem was, by that point, I was moving forward so fast, I turned into a smear when I hit the ground."
Scheherazade looked between the three. "Congratulations on your...mastery of Newton's Third Law?"
"Whose law of what?" Reynault asked, immediately before Samsid scrambled onto the table to clap a hand over the Titan's mouth. Whiskey was knocked over, staining the long-suffering wood surface. Torch had to relinquish his perch on his Guardian's shoulder. It was a mess.
"Shhhhh!" Foxfire hissed. "Don't ask the Warlock about physics! We'll be here all night!"
"No, it's quite alright. I'll send him an article later," said Scheherazade with a devious glint in her eye.
Samsid shook his head mournfully. "Alas, poor Nault. We knew him well." He pointedly ignored Reynault's irate glare.
Story: You Must Name Your Character Before Continuing
"Here. We can start with this list." Three columns of names flickered onto the terminal screen. The scrollbar on the far right side was a barely-visible sliver. "You don't have to pick from this, of course. If you think of something you like better, you can use it."
His Guardian sat up on his bed with a groan of protest, blonde hair already a mess from burrowing into the pillows and cocooning himself in the blankets. Not that Torch could blame him. It was his first time out of armor with a safe place to sleep. He had been running around the Tower all day, and the only time he wasn't asking questions was when he was expressing an almost childlike wonder over his first meal, a bowl of minestrone.
Even so, his Guardian shuffled to the terminal, one thick blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. After a few bleary blinks, he looked to Torch. "That's a lot of names."
"There's more. Scroll down."
Torch had to show him how, but once he figured it out, he began scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. His eyes bulged. "Is this every name there is???"
"Oh, no. Not at all. That's just what I picked to start with."
His Guardian turned to gape at him in shock.
"...If you'd rather do this some other time, I understand. There's no rush."
The Guardian closed his mouth and looked back toward the screen. After a moment of consideration, he moved the terminal cursor over one of the names. "How do you pronounce this one? Aiden?"
"That's right."
The cursor moved to another name. "And this?"
"Alain."
They continued through the list for several hours in a similar fashion, pausing every once in a while so the Guardian could ask further questions, sometimes about the names and sometimes about the Tower. He was quiet and subdued, in sharp contrast to his earlier exuberance.
Despite his obvious exhaustion, it took Torch several gentle suggestions to rouse him enough to take the few steps he needed to get to his bed.
"Gauthier?" Torch read off the list.
The Guardian looked up from a stack of armor diagrams. "Hm?"
"For a name. Gauthier."
A thoughtful noise, then a shake of his head. "I don't like that one."
"Alright. What about--"
"Torch, if we go through the 'G' names right now, I might mess up and start calling myself 'Gardbrace'."
Torch laughed. "Do you want to be 'Gardbrace'?"
His Guardian looked him dead in the eye. "Absolutely. I want to be attached to the strong arms of a mighty Titan. I'll just hang out there forever. It's 'hang out', right?"
He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing again.
"But, Torch! You saw all this cool stuff about armor, right?"
"I did." Torch drifted away from the terminal. "You've really taken an interest in armor, haven't you."
"It's cool!" His Guardian pulled one random schematic from the stack. "Here, see? This one is about..." He paused to glance at it. "...Helmets. Look at all the layers in helmets! There's the outer shell, then the impact ab...absorption? I think that's how you pronounce it. Then there's the electronics layer, and that's just full of stuff! Monitors, comms, a camera...."
Torch listened as he went on and on about everything he'd learned about armor in the past week. When his enthusiastic chatter slowed down, the Ghost offered a suggestion: "You know, there are Titans who make armor for other Titans."
The effect was instantaneous; the blue eyes brightened, the excitement returned. "...That's me. I'm going to do that."
When he reported to his training the next day, it was the first question out of his mouth.
Tonight, the Guardian lay on his back, one hand stretched up toward the ceiling as if he was inspecting it. He was tired, but satisfied.
Today was a milestone for him. Today, for the first time, he'd harnessed his inner Light and thrown a ball of lightning from his hand, making it explode in a blinding flash.
"We should celebrate," Torch suggested. The Guardian just grunted in response, lowering his hand and staring at the ceiling.
Once he slowed down for the evening, he didn't want to do much. He was slow to get up most mornings, too. He was anything but lazy, though; once he was up and active, he was in motion nearly all day. A Titan in motion stays in motion, Torch mused, and a Titan at rest stays at rest. Suddenly the predisposition toward the arc lightning of a Striker made a lot more sense.
"Torch?" His Guardian's eyes were on him now. "Can you read off some more names?"
He was surprised by the request, but more than happy to oblige. "That's a good way to celebrate. Let's see...." There were a few mechanical chirps as he pulled the list out of his memory; there wasn't much point in firing up the terminal right now. "We left off on...Michael?"
"Saren."
The Guardian paused between bites of his sandwich. "Nah." Since his revival over a month ago, he was much more comfortable with English.
"Alright, how about...."
"I heard 'Shin' earlier today. That's a nice name." The Guardian punctuated his statement with another bite.
Torch blinked. "I think that name's taken."
"By who?"
"By...Shin."
"Who's Shin?
"Shin Malphur is the renegade Hunter who defeated the notorious Dredgen Yor," Torch explained.
The Guardian paused to swallow another bite. "Mm. Okay."
"Anyway, next on the list...."
"I bet the Commander could take him in a fight," said the Guardian to no one in particular. "The Commander is so cool."
Torch's rear nodes twitched. "Why would they fight???"
"I don't know. That Shaxx guy is always telling people to fight, right?"
Torch tried to make a sound of exasperation, but he couldn't hide his amusement.
Tomorrow, the Guardian would follow a senior Titan into the field on his first patrol. For now, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He was nervous. No, not just nervous. Something was eating at him.
Finally, he peeked out from under the blankets over his head. "Torch?"
Torch drifted over, his lone blue eye bright against the darkness. "Guardian?"
"Do you think I'll do well tomorrow?"
"Yes, Guardian," he replied gently. "I think you will."
The Guardian heaved a sigh and said nothing.
"...Is something wrong?" Torch pried.
"It's nothing."
That was a lie. He could tell that was a lie. "Are you sure? Whatever it is, I'll listen."
The Guardian was quiet for a moment. "...Does it normally take this long to pick a name?"
He genuinely didn't know how to respond to that question. "You're fine, Guardian. Don't worry about it."
"I don't feel fine."
"You are fine! Here, I can pull up the names you really liked. We narrowed it down to just a few, remember?"
His Guardian heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, but he was no closer to sleep.
A new feeling welled up in Torch then, arguably one worse than the pangs of worry he felt while trying to guide his Guardian to the Tower. It was sorrow, frustration, helplessness--his Guardian was suffering, and he didn't know what to do....
"Balian," Torch began. "Bedivere. Gawain. Godfrey." He did his best to keep his voice steady, but it was hard. "Philip. Raynald. Reginald. Tristan. William. See? It's a short list! You almost have it!"
"You pick one."
"I like them all, Guardian! I can't pick!"
His Guardian opened his eyes. "...Go down the list again?"
"That," the Guardian interrupted. "It's not quite...there. But it's close."
Progress. "Raynald? Renauld? Reynold? Renault?"
"I like the 'T' sound," his Guardian mumbled.
Torch drifted a bit closer. "Renault. Raynalt. Reynolt."
"Reynault." A small smile tugged on his lips as he lifted his eyes to meet Torch's. Then it dawned on him that he'd just named himself, and his smile grew. "My name is Reynault. Okay?"
Just like that, the helpless feeling was gone. Torch lowered himself down to his Guardian's eye level. "Okay...Reynault."
"Okay." Reynault reached out a hand from under the blankets and, much to Torch's surprise, affectionately pet one of his nodes with a single finger, as if the Ghost were some small fuzzy animal. "Thanks, Torch."
The loss of the City. The loss of his Light. The loss of his Ghost. The loss of his heroes. The loss of his friends. The loss of no, don’t think about that, don’t think about that--
It left a hole in him. An aching void that nothing could ever hope to fill. And for a time, it seemed like it would turn him inside out, like a star devouring itself.
On a muddy road leading away from the ashes of the City, he found his Ghost. Torch was weak, helpless, shivering as if chilled, but still holding on. As he sobbed into Torch’s shell, he found a reason to hold on, too.
Amid the almost mockingly idyllic fields and forests of the EDZ, he found the Farm. Refugees from the City were huddled together in tents, miserable and destitute, but still holding on. As he joined them around their bonfires, he found a reason to hold on, too.
On the sides of ships that weren’t on the Farm yesterday, he found the Vanguard’s insignia. Commander Zavala himself disembarked from one, as wretched and Lightless as he, but still holding on. As he held his composure long enough to give his Commander a crisp salute, he found a reason to hold on, too.
The void inside could never be filled. The sorrow. The anguish. The mourning. The suffering. The injury. The despair. The grim knowledge that when it mattered, he had failed. It all collapsed inward, into the hungry void, and when he closed his eyes, he could see the event horizon in front of him.
But he did not have to accept failure as the only option. Instead of being claimed by the void, he could hold on. He had reasons to hold on. He had people to hold on for.
When the Light found its way back to him, he knew what he had to do: protect those people, at any cost.
And so he ripped out the Void and turned it into a shield.
Three thirty-two AM. Reynault was sitting up in bed, head in his hands, breathing heavy, forehead beaded with cold sweat. Again.
Ever since they’d reunited on the road out of the City, the Titan had been plagued by nightmares. When the war ended, Torch had hoped they’d let up, that it would get better, that his Guardian could rest. The City was theirs again, he had a home, he had his Light, everything was as it should be. And yet here he was, inconsolable in the middle of the night.
Torch felt that frantic distress welling up, that caged-rat feeling of utter helplessness. This wasn’t right. He should be able to heal his Guardian. But...how?
“Reynault?” The Ghost asked softly as he drifted closer, eye bright against the gloom.
But his Guardian just shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, Torch.” It was the same canned answer he gave every night this happened.
“I’m here if you need me, Reynault.”
“I know.”
Torch floated closer, until he was inches from his Guardian’s hand. “Anything at all.”
“I know, Torch.”
“I don’t care how minor it is, or--”
“Torch.” Reynault looked up, weary and irate. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. I can fight, I can smith. I’m fine.”
Torch silently backed up, not wanting to press it. Not when Reynault said it so firmly. Not tonight. Tonight, he would stare at the shadows, plagued by the things that lurk behind his eyes, while his Ghost watched helplessly.
((Happy Dawning, Guardians! I guess you could call this little fic a “Holiday Special”. Enjoy!))
If Torch was being honest with himself, he was, perhaps, just an eensy weensy, teeny tiny, little itty bit completely and totally panicked.
It all started innocently enough. The Dawning had come to the City, and both Guardian and civilian embraced it with gusto. They had a lot of triumphs to celebrate, and a lot of horrors to forget. And so the snows were allowed to accumulate atop the Tower, lights were hung, decorations were set, lanterns were lifted into the sky.
Days before the celebrations started, Torch was a bundle of nerves for what was ostensibly a very good reason. It was his Guardian’s first Dawning, and he wanted to--no, he HAD to make it a good one.
“The Dawning is a time we look back on what we’re thankful for and welcome a brighter new year,” Torch explained. But he didn’t get much farther than that before Reynault decided to roll in a snowbank like an oversized dog. He probably should have expected as much; the Titan had done this on his very first Cosmodrome patrol, an event that seemed so long passed, despite having been less than a year ago.
Less than a year ago, he was alone. Torch hadn’t even bothered celebrating the last...what, seventeen Dawnings? Now he had a Guardian, he’d watched his Guardian grow by leaps and bounds, he felt like he knew his Guardian better than his own internal file structure. And now he was introducing Reynault to a holiday he hadn’t celebrated in so long, and he had to make it memorable. No pressure, right?
He’d brought Reynault to a frozen pond down in the City. “Ice skating is a popular activity in the wintertime,” he explained.
Reynault cocked his head to the side. “I thought only Titans could skate?”
“What? ...No, no, ice skating! You put on these boots with blades on the bottom, and then you...then you….” Torch trailed off. Of course he didn’t know how to ice skate. He hovered everywhere.
Before he could look up any worthwhile instructional material, Reynault had already taken off, Titan skating across the ice.
And then, when Torch had finally caught up, Reynault asked, “Hey, you think it’s too late to get Ikora something?”
“I...what? Get her something for what?”
“There was that big pile of presents by her in the Tower. I figured it must be her birthday or something.”
Torch momentarily froze up as he realized he forgot all about one of the most important Dawning traditions of all. “Oh, no, those aren’t all for her. They’re for a bunch of different Guardians. Exchanging gifts is part of the Dawning.”
“It is?!” Reynault brought himself to a stop. “Oh la vache, we’ve got to go get gifts!”
The rest of the day was spent in a frantic whirlwind of shopping and shaping steel. Some gifts were crafted or purchased and mailed out the same day; others had yet to be finished. Gifts for friends, acquaintances, and just about all the usual suspects around the Tower; Reynault was particularly concerned with getting a set of steel crochet hooks exactly right, and he’d put a lot of care into shaping a medallion engraved to look like a pizza. He had even sent Torch off to procure some adhesives at one point while he bothered Master Rahool about Traveler-knows-what.
And that brought Torch to the present moment, in the early hours of the morning, where Reynault was finally, mercifully asleep. Reynault was certainly going all-out on the gifts, and Torch had nothing to give him in return. So the Ghost was maybe, just maybe, a little worried, and by a little worried he meant several internal processes were printing nothing but “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”.
Okay. He knew Reynault pretty well by now. What did Reynault like? Armor. Punching things. Working with his hands. Reynault liked him, but Torch hardly considered himself a gift. Commander Zavala. The view from atop the Wall. Electronic dance music. Minestrone, pizza, brioche, and beer. Tactile displays of affection. Absolutely none of this was inspiring any gift ideas--
The view from atop the Wall.
Torch diverted his internal screaming to different memory sectors as he began searching himself for images and recordings. After nearly half an hour of processing, he settled on one still image from his memory: a clear night, the Traveler resplendent with its self-repairs, and the tall City buildings twinkling with all the lights in their windows. All as seen from on top of the southeastern Wall.
It took him a few minutes to gather his courage before he slipped out into the night. Torch made a beeline for a print shop, had the image printed out in a standard poster size, then stowed it and slunk back to the workshop as the sun was rising.
Safe at home, Torch was taking a moment to collect himself and consider his next move, when the unexpected happened: Reynault came in the front door behind him.
“Oh, there you are!” Reynault didn’t sound upset in the least; he still flinched like he expected to be scolded. “I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”
“I’m sorry,” Torch replied on instinct.
“Sorry? What for?”
Torch silently cursed himself; there really wasn’t a reason to apologize, was there. “I was just...picking something up for you.”
“For me? You know I would’ve been happy anyway, right?” Reynault had one of those grins that made the room seem brighter than it really was.
Torch hoped he’d stay that happy. Without any fanfare, he deposited the rolled-up print in front of Reynault.
The Titan picked it up, unrolled it, and a wave of relief washed over Torch when his eyes lit up. “Woah! This is beautiful! Can we hang this somewhere?”
“Anywhere you want.”
“I’m putting this somewhere in my room!” Reynault rushed off toward his single-room apartment, giddy as a young child during, well, during the Dawning. At least the gift had gone over well. That alone brought Torch’s anxiety down several notches.
“Hey, c’mere!” Reynault called from his room. “I got something for you too!”
What?
“...What?” Torch gave voice to his inner thoughts. He should’ve expected it, considering how gifty his Guardian was, but it still caught him off-guard.
He entered the little apartment to find Reynault holding his work tablet and stylus, with a portable external drive plugged into it. “Got this from Rahool,” Reynault explained. “Go ahead. Scan it.”
Torch glided up beside his Guardian and connected to the tablet. As he processed the contents of the external drive, he didn’t quite know what to make of it. They were...games, all games. Farming games, city builder games, sim games, a few survival and adventure games, and all of them together made for a surprisingly tiny archive size. A good percentage of these games were likely pre-Golden Age, Torch hypothesized, as he scanned the files again.
“Soooo?” Reynault looked between Torch and the tablet. “What do you think?”
“Not just any games! I asked for stuff you could run on your own--y’know, when I’m asleep and you’re bored, or something. And you can beat all of ‘em without fighting anything. I know you don’t like fighting unless you’re hiding in my armor.”
His Guardian had thought to get him a gift, and that gift was a collection of games, picked out just for him. He hadn’t expected any gift, much less one chosen with such care. He’d never even dreamed that any Guardian of his would ever….
No, there was a time he did dare. Long ago, amidst tents and campfires huddled in the snow beneath the Traveler, the people who would go on to found the City exchanged gifts, and he dared to dream of receiving some small token from the hypothetical hero he imagined for himself.
But this was real, and this was here, and this was no small token.
“I love it,” Torch managed at last, his voice wavering with emotion. “I love it. I didn’t think...thank you. Thank you so much.”
Reynault set the tablet on the foot of his bed and sat beside it. “I’m glad. Wanna try them out?”
“Now? Could I?”
“Yeah, now. I wanna get a few more hours of sleep before patrol time.”
Now it was Torch’s turn to feel giddy. He nestled into one of the pillows and booted up one of the city building games in his internal processes. A few minutes later, Reynault flopped down on the bed, pulled the blankets up over them both, and dozed off.
It was a clear and balmy night. The City glittered with millions of lights and the Traveler shone like a pearl. On the other side of the Wall, trees stretched all the way to the mountains, gleaming with moonlight--or, perhaps, the light refracted off the Traveler’s shell. It was beautiful up here at night. Everything was luminous. With his home, safe and sound on one side of the Wall, and the serene, empty wilds on the other, there was a sense of calm, of security, of--
“Ugggggghhhh,” Samsid ugh’d.
Reynault looked back over his pauldron. “You’ve been dragging your feet all night, Sam! Come on!”
“Nothin’s happening, Nault,” the Hunter complained. “You said Wall duty was gonna be nice.”
“It IS nice! Look at all this!” The Titan spread his arms wide. “It’s beautiful!”
“It’s boring! If somethin’ doesn’t happen soon, I’m gonna cry of boredom!”
“What, do you want enemies to attack the City?”
Samsid folded his arms, wisely choosing not to answer.
Patrolling the top of the Wall was something Reynault did often, so often that he was starting to consider one little section homey and comfortable. He had spoken to Samsid about Wall patrol in the past, but his friend never had much opinion on it.
That was until a few days ago, when Reynault was shaping a sabaton in the novice smith’s forge while Samsid curled up on top of a cabinet like an ornery cat.
“I bet you couldn’t do Wall duty,” he’d said.
“Sure I could,” Samsid had replied. “Just don’t wanna.”
“Sure you don’t. Because you couldn’t do it.”
“Those are bettin’ words.”
Reynault had raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Twenty glimmer says you couldn’t make it through a full shift of Wall duty.” And Samsid had sat up straight, puffed out his chest….
And that’s why he was here, now, on top of the Wall with him, as miserable as Reynault thought he’d be. Yet he stayed. He was determined to stay. He was convinced that all this was worth twenty glimmer. Or maybe, he was convinced that he had to stay, or risk losing his reputation as the guy who always makes sure bets.
“You know,” Reynault teased, “you could always just pay me twenty glimmer and run off into your wilds again.”
Samsid’s face was obscured by his helmet, but the dirty look he gave the Titan was palpable.
With an armored shrug, Reynault turned back around and continued his patrol along the top of the Wall. If his friend wanted to be miserable, that’s not his problem. “We’ve got about two more miles to cover up here, then we’ll be done for the day. Want to grab some pizza?”
Silence.
“Sam?” Reynault looked back again, to find he was alone. On his helmet’s dispaly, Torch quietly notified him he’d received a payment of twenty glimmer.
The Ghost quivered midair, barely containing his excitement, as he parsed the results of the last scan. Human, male. Blonde, tall, broad-shouldered, strong jawline. Like a gallant knight, or a paladin from an Old Earth pen-and-paper game. Like a Titan! Oh, the Light hummed in just the right way for it, too!
The scan results also returned less-uplifting data. Died in the early Dark Age, a time of newly-broken scavengers and empty cities that still gleamed in the sunlight. Hunger. Dehydration. Stress. Hypothermia. The sorry scrap of cloth beside the skeleton took on a new significance with that last discovery. Maybe he really was lonely, at the end of it all. The thought tempered the Ghost's enthusiasm, but only momentarily.
Try as he might to give the moment the gravity it deserved, there was a pull on his thoughts and on his Light. It wasn't a hungry malice, though, not like the horror stories he'd heard of Light-eating monstrosities. It was more like desperate, fumbling fingers. Cold, in the same way that drives someone to a fire's side in the dead of winter. New, yet oddly familiar, like some part of him already knew the man, knew he was reaching out, knew he wanted to be ignited.
The Light began to flow.
Pick up the bones, stand them upright. Wrap them in meat and muscle, thick and scrappy, as befitting a Titan. Cloak them in skin, to keep them safe. Perforate them with nerves. Let the brain tissue bloom within the skull. Restore the hair, the blue eyes, the blunted fingernails, the calloused hands and feet.
The old scars won't be missed. They don't need to be reproduced. Malnourishment has no place here; erase that, too--and look, now he stands even taller! But this work is not finished, not yet.
Reach into the surrounding matter. Soak up the dust and debris. Twist the atoms, reforge the molecular bonds. Suffuse it all with Light. Carefully fit the Lightmail to the new frame.
And now, the hardest part: to give him space, and let him breathe--
The bright blue glow that had engulfed the room faded as the Ghost pulled his nodes back in. It felt so long and profound, but it took only seconds.
But there he was. There he was, standing upright, back turned, looking down at his hands as if seeing himself for the first time. In a very real sense, he was.
What to say? How to introduce himself? Despite having practiced his introduction for hundreds of years, the Ghost found himself drawing a blank. Was this real? Did he do everything right? What did they do now? What would his Guardian think? Right, he had a Guardian now! What would he be like? A paladin, right? Or was he just projecting?
Seconds dragged by before the Ghost finally resolved to say something. He straightened his nodes, transmatted away some lingering dust, and forced out the first words that came to him: "You're here!"
"Gaaaah!" His Guardian jolted, surprised. Operating on instinct, he pivoted around on the ball of his foot, sending his right hand sailing toward--
Crack!
The Ghost recoiled back, blinking a few times. Something had impacted his front. Damage was negligible, but what happened?
His Guardian was in a stance resembling a cornered animal, fists raised and wide eyes locked on him.
"...Did you just punch me?" He couldn't keep the pain out of his voice.
"Quoi?"
"Why would you punch me?" He understood the French easily (his Guardian speaks French?), but he was too stunned to reply in kind. "Why...?"
His Guardian answered, even more confused than he was: "Qu--what? What ARE you?"
"I'm a Ghost," he offered lamely. "Your Ghost. I'm...here to help you. I thought you wanted to be here, and...."
The new Guardian's eyebrows furrowed as he tilted his head to the side. "Ghost," he echoed, as if trying the word. After mulling it over a moment, he relaxed his stance. "Alright. Ghost, where are we?"
"This is the EDZ...the European Dead Zone, that is," the Ghost replied, fumbling as he tried to recover from the abrupt change in subject. "We're near the western edge, on the eighth floor of an old hotel. This is where I found you."
"Found me? What was I doing?"
The Ghost blinked. "...You were dead."
"Were?" The Guardian paused to parse the word. "...Was. So now I'm not?"
"Right! You were brought back to help the Traveler...well, it's really hurt right now, and it needs all the help it can get! I thought you might help, since you wanted to come back...if you did want to come back...."
The Guardian's eyebrows shot straight up. "I don't know what that is, but okay."
"You don't kn--?!" The Ghost's rear nodes did a full rotation, but he forced himself to calm down before speaking again. "...We really need to get you to the City. There are people there who can explain everything."
"How do we get there?"
"It's a long walk, and there are probably a lot of Fallen between there and here. We might be better off finding a way to contact them and ask for extraction."
"Ex-uh-what?"
"A ride." The Ghost looked toward the lone window in the room. It had been caked in dust previously, but the dust--and the glass underneath--had been sucked up during the Lightmail crafting process, leaving nothing but empty panes. "Once we're there, we can get you a room, some food, training, and answers. It's a good thing you know some English; that makes things easier."
The new Guardian folded his arms and pouted. "My English is fine. You just startled me, that’s all."
The Ghost swiveled around in the air to face him. "I...." He was about to apologize, but something about the way his Guardian's mouth twisted off to the side struck him as less of a real pout and more of a cartoonish approximation of one. "...Eheh." Oh no, now he'd chuckled. He wasn't supposed to find that funny!
Except, he was, if his Guardian's reaction was any indication. The comical pout gave way to a genuine, easy smile. "Sorry for hitting you. I didn't know you were a friend."
Friend. He felt so much lighter at that. "It's okay. I understand." A pause. "...It's nice to meet you."
