The Darkness that Brings on the Light
He had survived.
Despite the danger, despite the odds, despite fate’s cruel hand tearing away nearly everyone he’d come to care about, he’d survived.
Keyes.
Johnson.
Miranda.
Even the goddamned Arbiter.
There were too many names, too many voices smothered in the dark. Any other man would have thought himself painfully and dreadfully alone. John was grateful for the fact that he wasn’t.
“We made it through just as it collapsed..”
Cortana’s soothing voice was like an anchor for the storm-tossed boat that was John’s mind.
“Well, some of us made it through.”
The Dawn had been bisected; the cleaved rooms within its shorn edge still glowed cherry-red, a testament to what would likely have happened to the Chief and his artificial companion, should his luck have run out. In a way, it did. The two were undoubtedly far from human-occupied space, perhaps lifetimes away.
Cortana went silent for a while as her human maneuvered himself through the darkness to his singular source of salvation; the cryo-tubes. They were his only hope of survival. The derelict vessel couldn’t support him otherwise, it had been rendered as lifeless as the void that surrounded it. The silence gnawed at his Spartan heart.
Kelly.
Linda.
Fred.
Grace.
Will.
James.
Anton.
Sam.
And John was the last among them. He’d outlived them all. Perhaps luck was his curse rather than his blessing.
“But you did it. Truth, the Covenant, the Flood; it’s finished.”
For the rest of his species, it was worth every drop of sweat and blood to make it this far. Never again would the shadows of star-beasts darken humanity’s door. Never again would children go to bed fearing that the fiery lances from the sky would burn their home next.
“It’s finished.” 117 echoed, almost surprised by the grim tone his voice had taken.
“I’ll drop a beacon, but it’ll be a while before anyone finds us; years even.” John wanted to reassure his companion; however long a rescue took didn’t particularly matter to him.
He might wake in a week or a year. He might not wake at all, remaining here as a relic of a far crueler time. Either way didn’t matter. All that mattered was the silence, the peace that would come with the ice on his armor. He could no longer pretend that he was anything but weary. His nigh-unbreakable bones ached and his flesh cried out for much-needed relief. It comforted John to know that soon his aching bones and aching heart would no longer trouble him.
As he gently lowered himself into the cryo-tube, for the first time in months, John-117 breathed a sigh of relief. Despite being the last living Spartan, he wasn’t alone here and never would be.
“Wake me when you need me.” He informed Cortana.
And he didn’t speak again for another four years.
The silent stellar winds howled and frost coated the Spartan’s armor like fresh paint, yet he slept dreamlessly and peacefully.
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“Wake up, Chief. I need you!”
