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There are pieces here. Chunks of time. Chunks of universes, except the word is wrong. It twists in his mind. They're not universes — they are could-have-beens, spaces that do not exist yet but exist in waiting. They're waiting for the Vex. Or they are already there. Or they have never been. Praedyth supposes that to the Vex it must make perfect sense. No questioning their purpose, existing in liminal spaces and between the shattered parts of worlds and underneath entire chronologies. It used to dizzy him — their massive, unfeeling span of violence. The Vex are experts in unraveling realities for countless others. But to them it's nothing. To them it simply is.
That, Praedyth thinks —
It is what scares him the most. It is what would, at least. If his fear had not run out long ago.
The Vex don't hunger like the Hive. They are not fighting for something like the Fallen. There is no stubborn will, like the Cabal. The Vex don't want. The Vex do not tire. The Vex are just
Always
Infinite?
They are always. Just always. In all ways.
It is no longer a matter of trying to measure the time that has passed. He only seeks to measure the time that there is left, the time that must dwindle rather than grow longer. Praedyth knows much of hope. They used to have a lot of it — they did, he and his fireteam, the ones who are gone, they're gone. Or he is gone, and they are not. Or maybe neither of these things are the case. Maybe no one is gone. Maybe a Praedyth lives on, unfalling, somewhere, somehow.
Soon, or later, Praedyth finds that of all things, he misses Pahanin's irritating habits. The way he would speak, just under his breath, even as no one was listening. Praedyth reaches for it, tries to grasp at any memory that may exist in his weary mind, but it's been so long and yesterday all at once and
"Quit your mumbling, Pahanin."
"Give me a moment, I’m writing —"
"And I'm trying to plot us a path through this cave," Praedyth snaps back at him. His Ghost shifts; she's restless. Nothing feels quite right, does it? Or is hindsight reaching through to a then that no longer is? "Your book can wait."
The set of Pahanin's shoulders speaks to his frustrated dismay. Praedyth doesn't feel bad for making him be silent, but he hopes that Pahanin does not put anything of him in his silly writings when they’re finished here. Wei Ning is a much more patient person, to deal with Pahanin's constant insistence to come up with something, anything, to note down. It is all jokes, or all things for amusement. Much of it's Hunter humor. Praedyth is unimpressed.
"Settle," Kabr says, stepping in. He waits at the entrance of the Vault. There is an abyss that drops off almost immediately; he was looking down into it. Careful — no, watchful. He is precise. "You're both hopeless. We have a job to do, don't we? So pull it together. I'm not dealing with your petty arguments the whole time we're down there."
Praedyth takes one last look at Pahanin, who seems to be firmly not looking back at him.
"Caverns like this can get tight," Kabr goes on, walking away again. "Better get friendly now."
Pahanin snorts, and Praedyth watches him write something down before the book is shut again and they’re off.
Later, when they're looking around at Vex architecture, miles and miles below the surface of Venus, Praedyth asks him what it is.
"You mean whatever was inspired by Kabr’s pep talk?" Pahanin says, and Praedyth hears the wavery grin. They're all a little unsettled. It would be a lie if Praedyth said he didn't ask as a distraction. "'Make friends with a Titan,'" recites Pahanin. "'Never know when one will come in handy.'"
Praedyth could almost laugh. But the darkness seems to grow longer here. The cliffs seem to rise higher. And the ground is so far away, and it’s getting closer, and
no,
wait —
there's a window.
And then it's gone. He forgets how to be angry at himself and sighs instead.
Particles of dust-rock-space-stars-light dance away from the puff of air. Praedyth no longer chases them with his eyes. It's not the memories of them, of Kabr, of Pahanin, that are fading from him, he could remember their burning Light even in death, he's sure; it's his own memory that he must doubt. Time frays all things bound by intervals, and it's been a long time and no time at all.
The Vex aren't stopping him from peering behind their curtain. He wonders if it's because they don't think anything of him, while he is alone. Kabr figured something out. Praedyth doesn't know what. But the Vex do not bother him, and he knows that they must be searching. There’s been a bug in their code. An intense, unbending, Titan-shaped bug.
(Pahanin would have laughed at that.)
Praedyth smiles and still, he hopes. Always room for that — hoping. Probably, at least. Pahanin was right, anyway; never know when a Titan might come in handy. For a split-second, he's glad that Pahanin is not here with him, and that he is very alone, and that Pahanin will never know that he just admitted he was right about something, especially something in his stupid book. Praedyth would never hear the end of it. He can imagine it now: Pahanin, scribbling a new quote down. When you least expect it, someone you don't expect might come through unexpectedly.
Or something.
Time passes. No time passes.
The corners of his vision flicker bright and dark and spotty. He blinks it away. There is no need for food, or drink, or sleep here, because time is not ticking past him. He has only been here a moment that's stretched on for many moments. Praedyth thinks that's how it works; he can't be sure, because the only surety to find here is found within the Vex's minds, their mind. The singular governing thing that points, and they go.
But his body is tired. His mind is coming apart. No one is meant to exist here. No one. He feels like he
might
be
Kabr's protecting them, or trying his best to take most of the heat off. Pahanin is good with a gun and knife alike, and when the bullets run out, the knife doesn't. Praedyth takes aim with his rifle. There's only a few more rounds in it. He pulls the trigger and Vex clatter to the ground, one, two, three.
"They never stop," he remarks. There is no fear in his voice, because he makes it so.
"Neither do we," Kabr says. Determined until the end.
Whatever Pahanin is saying to himself is lost with the arrival of the Templar. The sound has Praedyth's grip on his empty sniper tightening, all metal-on-metal, time-breaking, ear-ringing. It sounds like rallying, but there's nothing but silence that follows on the outside of their cover.
None of them dare to make a noise.
And then the stars fall around them. And the oracles sing.
And Praedyth
is
falling.
He looks down.
Another window, he realizes. Static. Then nothing.
He blinks again. No. There was never anything there in the first place. Not yet. But there will be. One day, he will listen, and then he will speak. And maybe someone on the other side, or above, or below, or anywhere at all — will hear him. There is always room in the mind for hope. It's the crack that lets the Light in.