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She can’t decide if she likes the quiet.
The air is too still inside of her quarters. Months spent planning their assault on Ghaul and the Red Legion from the Farm had left her spoilt and wanting, missing the cold midnight air as she’d sat atop the roof of the barn, listening to Imen and Jaarhan’s bickering as she went over maps and plans. She used to like silence; it meant that the Speaker wasn’t chasing after her with yet another one of his many lectures that she’d already heard countless times before.
Perhaps it is unworthy of her to say, but she is almost glad that he is gone. She had barely had the patience for him before, and after Ghaul—and everything that had come after—she knows she wouldn’t have the patience for him now.
She can almost still hear him; his muttered hisses as he’d follow her down the long, winding halls of the Tower, as though there was nothing worse than wanting to discover who she’d been before she’d been revived by Than for the first time, as though there weren’t countless other Guardians who wished to know more of their past—to know more of how they’d come to be.
The Courtyard is quiet this late at night, devoid of all signs of life. A few bots linger, sweeping up and tidying the day’s mess, but they barely look up as she passes, though they hesitate when she strays too close, holding their brooms tight to their metal chests.
Still, even out here, it’s quiet. The bustle of the City at night can barely be heard from this high up, and the whispering wind ruffles her midnight blue hair. She settles on the edge of catwalk, feet dangling over the side as she leans her forehead against the cold railing.
Then—
“You’re not as quiet as you think you are, Imen,” Iriah murmurs in a voice barely above a whisper, but still the Hunter steps out from the shadows, toying with her knife. Her younger sister looks more like her than her own twin does, skin the same pale shade of indigo that’s half a step away from being grey, with thin blue brows that are perpetually furrowed, though she shares Jaarhan’s strong jaw, and yellow-orange eyes.
The young Hunter takes a seat beside her, head cocked even as she continues to toy with her knife, passing it from hand to hand. “I think you’re just good at telling where I am,” she says. “Same way I found you.”
The Warlock says nothing, her lips pressed together as she gazes out over the Last City. It’s been almost two years since Ghaul was defeated, and humanity still has yet to recover. Buildings still lie in ruins, yet to be repaired, with a few unfortunate souls having to live amongst the rubble. She’d always hated that—always hated how the Guardians had their shining, gleaming Tower, while those they were meant to be protecting are left to fend for themselves in the dirt.
“Ry,” Imen says, glancing at her sister. “Cayde’s death hit all of us hard. You don’t have to pretend like it didn’t affect you.”
Of their small family, Imen’s always been the childish one, spurred on by Jaarhan’s antics. Iriah had always been the mature one; the cool, collected sister who was the picture-perfect Warlock on the surface, even if she had despised everything the Speaker and his devout followers had stood for beneath. The Iriah she’d been before Than had revived her the first time is almost a stranger, but even she’d been the responsible one. Centuries have passed, but that is how it has always been. Iriah, the respected scholar, and Imen and Jarhaan the dysfunctional messes that still somehow managed to get out of every sticky situation they find themselves in.
Centuries of repeated patterns, and now… with the death of one soul who is, against the rest of the universe, ultimately insignificant, that had all changed. Guardians are immortal. They don’t “grow up.” They don’t change, they don’t mature, and yet…
Imen has. She can see it in her eyes; there is a certain sternness behind those golden irises now, a cruel anger that hadn’t been there before. Cayde’s death had hardened her, somewhat, and Iriah can’t decide if that’s a good thing.
“Work needs to be done,” is all she says, focusing her gaze on the Traveller to avoid meeting her sister’s narrowed eyes. “We don’t have time to focus on what’s already happened.”
“That’s bullshit,” snaps Imen, unable to disguise her anger. “He was our friend!”
“And now he’s gone,” she shoots back. “Like so many others. We don’t have time to mourn them all.”
“I think if there’s one thing we’ve got a lot of, it’s time.”
Iriah grimaces, resting her forehead against the cool railing again. The cold metal helps ground her, helps remind her that she’s real, and alive, even if the latter isn’t in the traditional sense of the word.
“Didn’t think I’d ever say it, Ry, but Jaarhan’s handling this better than you are, and you know how much of a disaster he is.” Imen’s voice softens somewhat as she leans back on her hands, knife resting on the metal grate beside her. “Amazing how he can give someone a headache without saying a word.” The jest is meant to elicit some sort of response from her, but when none comes, Imen continues on without pause. Jaarhan’s got his own reasons for not speaking, Iriah knows that, but she can’t help but think he simply gave all his words to Imen. Traveller only knows that she’s got plenty to share. “Ikora’s been worried sick about you, you know. Says you’ve been leaving your door locked during the day, and that your quarters have been empty at night. Tell me you aren’t sleeping in your office.”
“I’ve spent years training myself—”
“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need sleep. Whatever, I don’t care. My point’s that this isn’t healthy, Ry.”
“Who are you to talk about healthy?”
“You know I do listen to you once in a while—”
“Yeah, when the planets are in perfect alignment,” she scoffs.
Imen blows out a breath. “Are you done?” She’s met with silence. “Look, Ry, do you think that maybe the reason you haven’t moved on from Cayde yet is because you’re not letting yourself think about the fact that he’s gone?”
“You’re starting to sound an awful lot like me.”
She shudders, pulling a face. “I know. Gross, isn’t it?” Imen laughs. “Look, if you’re not gonna talk to me, or your pretty little Vanguard, at least talk to Jaarhan. Maybe he’ll knock some sense into you, and if he can’t… Well, we can always knock him off a cliff. Always makes you feel better.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but that’s why you keep me around,” she says, getting to her feet with a big smile stretched across her face. “Someone’s got to keep the Warlocks from getting too broody.” She claps her sister on the back, bickering with her Ghost as she disappears to whatever it is Imen does when she isn’t supervised.
Something Iriah would disapprove of, without a doubt.
She lingers behind a moment longer, mulling over Imen’s words before eventually dragging herself to her feet. As much as she hates to admit it, Imen’s right, but the reason for all of this “brooding” she’s been doing goes far deeper than even her sister knows. Her feet lead her to the door to Jaarhan’s quarters, and she knocks once, twice, thrice, eyes on the glowing red light above the handle. Two red blinks for “go away,” and green for enter—she’d thought of the system herself, and she couldn’t say that she wasn’t happy with herself when she’d had Holliday install it.
The light turns green, and Iriah lets herself in.
Jaarhan looks more dishevelled than he normally does, and Iriah almost wonders what he’d been up to before he’d let her in. Lilac hair flops over his golden orange eyes, and his pale green skin seems flushed, like he’s been running around for the better part of an hour. There’s a single feather peeking out from beneath his collar.
She raises a brow. “Bad time?”
No, he signs. Perfect time.
Iriah narrows her eyes as the state of his quarters. Vanguard paperwork is scattered everywhere, and chairs are knocked over. There are more feathers on the floor. “Jaarhan—”
It’s fine, he insists with a slight smile. I have it under control.
“Have what under control?”
Something clatters to the floor behind the closed door of his bedroom. Nothing. What can I help you with?
“Imen… suggested talking with you,” she says with a rather dismissive wave of her hand, reaching into a cupboard for a bottle of whiskey she’d stashed in here months ago for occasions such as these. Jaarhan goes to get her a glass, but she doesn’t bother. She grimaces as she takes a rather large swig.
That bad? he asks. He almost looks amused.
“Ikora is looking for me.”
I know. She came by earlier looking for you. She seemed worried.
“I’ve been… avoiding her.”
He frowns. She knows he struggles to understand her when she beats around the bush, particularly when it comes to feelings. Why?
“We’re supposed to be immortal,” she says. “It’s what we do. Guardians can die, I’ve always known that, but it never seemed like something that would happen to anyone we knew personally. Imen would laugh if Death ever came for her, and there’s a reason you took up Cayde’s mantle. The Vanguard are the best of the best. Untouchable, and yet… Losing Cayde only served to remind me that any one of us could die at a moment’s notice.”
You haven’t been avoiding me, says Jaarhan. She’s silent as he is, and then realisation dawns upon him. You’re scared of losing her.
“I’m not scared of anything.”
Liar.
“What do you know of losing people you love, anyway?” she shoots at him without thinking, guilt twisting her stomach when his lopsided smile disappears, and he glances down at his hands. Damn it all. “I… My apologies.”
Sometimes I forget he’s gone too, Jaarhan signs, almost too quick for even her to catch, and she can tell that there are tears pricking at his eyes that he’s furiously fighting back. If you care for her, Iriah, you should tell her.
“If I tell her and she dies, then—”
Then what? She knows how you feel about her? How terrible.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.
Technically, I’m not taking a tone at all.
“You’re as bad as Imen.”
He gives her a long look. Where do you think she got it from? There’s another clatter from behind him, and the distinct sound of glass breaking. He looks to the door and then back to his sister. Do you need anything else?
“No,” she sighs. Jaarhan hadn’t provided information she didn’t already know, but it was nice to hear it confirmed from someone else, she thinks. “Thank you.”
She turns to leave, and then— “Ry,” Jaarhan says aloud, catching her attention. She glances back over her shoulder. His hands move more carefully as he signs his next words. Tell her. What’s the worst that could happen?
“She could not feel the same way.”
So?
Iriah doesn’t have a response for that, shaking her head as she starts towards the door again. “Goodnight, Jaarhan.”
The layout of the new Tower is still somewhat unfamiliar to her, but she knows the way to Ikora’s quarters better than she knows the way to her own. Her Ghost shimmers into existence, flitting about her head, and his blue ocular light blinking at her. “He’s got a point, you know,” Than says as she lingers before Ikora’s door, fist raised and ready to knock, but unable to bring herself to do it. The gold trim on his white shell glitters in the dim hallway lights. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
A bitter laugh escapes her. “A lot,” she says just as her knuckles meet the steel surface of Ikora’s door.
“Come in.”
Ikora’s quarters are neat, as they always are, but even then, there are touches of her personality scattered throughout the rooms. Books, chapters marked with whatever Ikora had had on hand at the time, sit stacked upon various surfaces, and there are even several engrams tucked away in the corner. However, amidst the tidiness, stands the chaos that is the Warlock Vanguard. She needs almost as little sleep as Iriah does, but the bags beneath her eyes are clear as day, and even if they can’t age, Ikora almost certainly has appeared to have aged a decade in the past few months. Her closely-shaved hair has grown out, individual curls starting to become distinct.
Her Ghost, Ophiuchus, manifests, hovering over her shoulder, his ocular lens somehow managing to watch her suspiciously. “Guardian—” he says, darting towards her, his small body bristling with anger, but Ikora carefully swats him back as she steps forward.
“Iriah.” It feels like she hasn’t heard Ikora’s voice in an age, even if months pass in a mere blink of an eye to a Guardian. Still, time has felt… slower, without her. Every passing day had felt like an eternity. “Where have you been?”
Iriah swallows. “I came to apologise. This wasn’t… personal, but Cayde’s death… Imen and Jaarhan need me to be strong. They need me to be the sensible one, and so do the other Guardians.”
“If you are here to break up with her, then just get it out,” Ophiuchus says, managing to escape from behind Ikora’s hand. If Ghosts could glare, Iriah’s almost certain he’d be glaring right now. “No sense beating around the metaphorical bush.”
“Ophiuchus,” Ikora hisses, but there’s a pain behind her warm brown eyes that says she wants the same thing her Ghost does. A moment passes, and then two. “Is that why you are here, Iriah?”
“No.” The relief that passes over Ikora’s features is unmistakable. “I came here to apologise.”
“So you’ve said,” Ophiuchus mutters.
Than materialises then, hovering protectively over his Warlock’s shoulder. Iriah pays him no mind, though she keeps a watch on him from out of the corner of her eye. “What I realised is… that… I don’t have to choose between you or my duty. It will always be you, and that… frightened me. Cayde was the best of us, and losing him…” There are tears in the back of her throat she fights to swallow. “Guardians die to protect the Light, but I never thought…”
Ikora is silent as Iriah collects herself, though she can’t hide her concern.
“I was scared,” she admits finally, and it’s like a weight’s been lifted off her chest. “I was forced to confront the knowledge that I might lose you, and while losing Cayde hurt, losing you would…” She meets Ikora’s eyes. “Losing you would break me. I thought, perhaps, if I pushed you away, you would leave, and that loss would hurt less—”
“Do you truly think I could walk away from you?” Ikora interrupts, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Ikora…”
“Iriah, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and most of it I spent thinking about you.” She glances away, teeth caught on her inner cheek as she gathers her thoughts. “I am not upset with you, and so you do not need to apologise. This entire time you were gone, I did not care what you thought about me. I only cared that you were safe. I lost Osiris because I failed to voice my true feelings, and did what was expected of me as a Warlock, but I knew that as your…” They still don’t have a word for what they are, but Ikora passes over it with little more than a slight scowl. “If I was the Warlock Vanguard first, and your friend second, I would lose you forever. You needed time, and I knew I had to give it to you. It was only when I discovered that you had not been seen by a single person in some time that I grew concerned.”
“Is that what we are?” she asks softly. “Friends?”
“Would you like that?” Her voice cracks with something Iriah cannot distinguish. “I will always stand by you, no matter what you choose. You are… a formidable woman, who deserves my title far more than I do. You are intelligent, and brave, and… I…”
“You… what?”
“I’m in love with you, Iriah,” Ikora says, stiffening in discomfort. “I have been alive for a very, very, very long time, Iriah, and yet my life before I met you is all but meaningless. Even if I had been alive for an eternity before I met you, none it would matter as much as the few short years I have spent by your side. This life is a lonely one, and it is a little less lonely with you in it.”
Iriah’s feet drive her forward of their own accord, and suddenly her lips are on hers. Ikora stumbles backwards, caught by surprise. As much as she had wanted to, Iriah had never kissed her, but now that she has, she isn’t entirely certain she is capable of refraining from doing so. She had spent almost a century on her own, and had only recently found her family again, but in Ikora’s arms…
In Ikora’s arms, she almost feels like she’s finally home.
Her eyes are brimming with tears when they finally part, and when she speaks, she’s all but breathless, choking on the laughter that’s caught in her own throat. “I love you too.”