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Ghost hovers close, reassuring, as they begin to patch their Guardian’s wounds. It was just bad luck that found them in combat with the Fallen so soon after revival. But the Guardian did so well, was so brave, even if they’re now slumped to their knees with eyes bright and wild. “Sorry. This world is probably a bit more harsh than the first one you were born into. But you’ll take care of me and I’ll take care of you.”
The last gash closes and Ghost reforms the rudimentary armor overtop as well. The Guardian does not speak- a peculiarity Ghost isn’t sure of the reasoning behind- but relief and wonder are evident in their face as they run a hand over the spot that’s now good as new.
“See? We’re ok as long as we’re together.”
*
Cabal are not like Fallen, the duo learns. They do not spook and scatter with a well-placed grenade. They are relentless. And when one manages to corner the Guardian and smash them into the nearest wall, it hurts. A lot.
It takes the Cabal patrol almost an hour to move on. Ghost emerges the second it’s safe to do so and pulls their companion back into one unflattened piece. The Guardian stretches and swings their arms as if shaking off the remnants of the crushing blow. Only when the Guardian finally holds up their thumb and forefinger in a circle does Ghost allow a chuckle.
“That was scary,” Ghost admits before floating down to roost in the space between helmet and collar. “Let’s not do that again.”
The Guardian offers double ‘ok’ signs with an emphatic pulse of agreement.
*
It happens in an instant but they see it coming in agonizingly slow motion. No blink, no roll, no charge could have saved them from the balcony that gave way under Red Legion artillery.
It’s dark in their tomb of concrete with just the occasional flicker of flame.
Even if they could squirm between the gaps in the boulder-sized rubble, the Guardian is trapped- pinned through with twisted rebar at the hip. Life fluid paints concrete and drips from steel. The Guardian still does not speak but they do scream. In pain, in frustration as they try to snap the metal with weak, Lightless hands.
Ghost does their best to sound sure even when they can’t seem to float above the dusty ground. “It's ok. There’s enough left in me to heal you.”
Even as Ghost does so, the Guardian twists and squirms and reopens the wounds as they reach for Ghost several feet away.
“Stop! You’ll bleed to death and I can’t bring you back!”
But the Guardian persists as gloved fingers brush and fumble and finally scoop up the cracked shell with the dim light in the center and cradle Ghost to their chest. It’s hard for Ghost to stay mad when they can feel the relief flooding through their shared mental link.
“It’s alright. I’m still here.” Ghost closes the wound as best they can but the second time is much more difficult, more draining on what little Light they still possess. It only takes moments and the barest hint of movement before dark fluids well up along the entry and exit points again. The Guardian tries to bear it quietly but it’s impossible to hide the pain when they share so much. Shakily, the Guardian offers the circle of finger and thumb.
“Yes, you’re gonna be ok,” Ghost promises.
The Guardian shakes their head and taps gently against Ghost’s battered shell in corrective point.
You mean ‘we’re gonna be ok.’
“Of course,” Ghost lies. “We’re gonna be ok.”
The Guardian holds Ghost tighter. There’s no hiding from each other after all.
Ghost digs deep into the very well of what allows all Ghosts to fly, to heal, to exist and gives to the Guardian. For days, Ghost digs and digs and digs in hopes that one of them will see the Light again.